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51,402 | 1,391 | 30 | 256 | 2,259 | The job is rather simple actually. We go to where a certain artifact is kept, we kill anyone trying to take it, then we grab it and run our asses back to our employer before we die on this quest. I'm assuming you're coming along with us?
Stride spit again. This curse was annoying as shit.
"In that case, I'll tell you about the rest of our squad as it currently stands. I'm the squads resident mage and a bit of a summoner on the side, Grox has a giant... quaggoth, I think it's called, as a sort of mount. We have an ogre who is remisque of being a paladin, and that's all I know of so far. Oh, and should I mention one other thing..."
Stride spat one final time in the cup, knocking it over and onto the floor.
"Try to kill me and I will tear off your bloody legs one by one, then forcefully feed them to you from your arsehole, shoving them in 2 at a time."
Westley leaned back in his chair and spoke again.
"With that out of the way, what are you packing in terms of power, my arachnid ally?"
Over at the blacksmiths shop, the UFO began speaking to the short little goblin in the same voice.
>: I AM THE SUMMON OF MY MASTER 'STRIDE'. TO GET IN ON THIS MISSION, FOLLOW THIS OGRE TO THE INN WHERE MY MASTER AND GROX ARE LOCATED. TAKING ME APART WILL ALSO PROVIDE NO PARTS, AS I FADE AWAY AFTER BEING DAMAGED ENOUGH OVER TIME. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,403 | 1,391 | 31 | 1,748 | 279 | Did I ever imply I had a mind to kill you? How tactless of me. By any means, I trust these measures you mentioned will not be necessary, if our task is as simple and lucrative as you describe it. Khri'zhatt nodded, or perhaps flexed his neck a few times. This Stride apparently knew what to expect from someone encountered by chance in a tavern. Then again, he had yet to see whether he was just as experienced at wandering in the open lands without. The orc, who had been strangely quiet for one of his race - those he had encountered during his travels would, by this point, have not only joined the conversation, but probably begun flinging furniture about - was seemingly growing ever more restless. Perhaps this was a "civilised" city orc, who began yelling only after he had begun a brawl.
Ah, here were some details on his prospective companions' prowess. Stride claimed to be a mage; though why would a mage need enough weapons to equip a small army? Either it was an attempt at appearing imposing, or, being unable to perform any actual spells, he would use that load as an excuse for his inactivity. Still, it was worth keeping an eye or two on him, just in case he would actually summon something. The orc apparently disposed of some large beast. In all likelihood, the creature would be slow and clumsy, and less dangerous than its rider. An ogre paladin? That was probably some sort of joke. Well, the ogre could probably be relegated to one and the same threat level with Grox's beast.
"My own skills, you ask?" This was a dilemma. If he were to exaggerate his abilities, his companions might be intimidated enough to be dissuaded from making any attempt agains him, and, by inflating his theoretical usefulness, he could lay claim to a greater share of the reward (after all, it was only near limitless...); then again, by concealing some of his skills, surprise would be on his side in a dire extremity. He resolved to adopt a compromise, blurring his words with vagueness. "There is a respectable umber hulk in yonder stable, and I can put it to good use. I can spit out some magic, as well, in more than one way. Ah, and if you need to make someone, say, a witness, disappear, I am the best you can find for the job." | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,404 | 1,391 | 32 | 2,543 | 175 | This was a first in the Skeleton's unlife. Give up the opportunity to absolutely batter a single person in favor of beating multiple beings, with a reward to boot? The dilemma pissed him off, to say the least. As he stared blankly at his palms, the figurative gears inside his skull spun, cracked, exploded and melted into a white hot steaming metal goo. To noone's surprise, he released another ear-shattering scream before finally falling silent, and raised his head to face the wizard.
YES. FUCK IT.
The Skeleton angrily adjusted his belt with two sudden movements, bringing his tattered kilt higher up, and bashed his knuckle duster slabs together to vent some of his potentially infinite fury. He shook his torso violently, producing a loud clatter, and gave the mage a blank look, awaiting instructions. A faint grinding sound produced by his fingertips scraping against his fist weapons signified that the undead creature's decision to help did not calm him in the least. | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,405 | 1,391 | 33 | 1,816 | 285 | Bob sat there listening to the floating UFO. The thing barely finished speaking and he already had an opinion for the thing. He spoke again, his engine finally going quiet from dying on him again. "Now you hold on a second, I am not following an ogre anywhere. This thing isn't bright and I'm not that patient. How about you just tell me where you are and I just walk there? It would be far faster than waiting for an ogre to point a direction and forget what they were doing few seconds later. I might even call your bluff on that machine. You just want to hoard your scrap." By the end he was nearly shouting. He was so used to being heard over his engine, wait a second.
He had to stop and punch his armor a few times and he waited. After a few seconds it finally revved up again. Maybe a new piece to fix that. He looked at the large ogre. This thing looked dim and just stood there unblinking. This was some team to recruit such a moron. No, ogres are tough, and they just heal most wounds quickly. Perfect meat shield to use in a battle. He turned his head to the pile of scrap. No sense wasting time for the UFO to reply. He was looking for a spare piece, something that might improve his battery, or maybe it just needed a jump start. No matter, he was lost in his own world inspecting pieces of metal for something that looked interesting. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,406 | 1,391 | 34 | 653 | 1,095 | Just as Tugrok handed the blacksmith the letter, a new fellow made his appearance, a goblin to be more precise. "My name is The Grand Royal Doctor Maxwell the Third. I'm sure you have a name, but it probably has stick or rock somewhere in there. Although, if you are here, it seems something is about to happen. Oh, you probably have no clue what I'm saying, let me try again. Ahem, why ogre here?"
Tugrok turned to the goblin, saying "I am Tugrok, I am getting armor for 'Wolfie'" before he turned back to the blacksmith he was talking to.
"To Z.E. by Y, eh? Yashar is planning on a new expedition again? You will want to talk to Zokox Explobomb, another goblin who happens to be an inventor. I seem to be plagued by those, you know? Come here tomorrow and bring your friends with you, and he will get you all some equipment."
Tugrok nodded several times to signal he understood it "Ok, Tugrok understand. Friends, expedition, bomb, plague!" or something like that~
And then Strides' UFO joined them.
>: I HAVE ORDERS FROM MY SUMMONER TO ASSIST YOU IN ANY WAY I CAN, UNTIL WE GET TO THE INN WHERE HE AND GROX ARE CURRENTLY LOCATED.
This was slowly getting a bit of confusing. Tugrok couldn't really understand what the goblin was talking about but he couldn't think about it either, he had to make sure he doesn't forget the message just after he heard it, wouldn't be the first time.
That was until what the goblins reply. "Now you hold on a second, I am not following an ogre anywhere. This thing isn't bright and I'm not that patient. How about you just tell me where you are and I just walk there? It would be far faster than waiting for an ogre to point a direction and forget what they were doing few seconds later. I might even call your bluff on that machine. You just want to hoard your scrap." Offended by the goblin basically saying that hes stupid Tugrok angrily stomped his foot, causing the building to shake a bit. "Tugrok not stupid, Tugrok knows where friends are." He turned around, pouting. "Inn where friends are, is red house next to smithy.". | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,407 | 1,391 | 35 | 15 | 3,140 | After a hefty dozen of beer mugs, Grox was finally calming down. Until Stride, who he didn't notice so far, abruptly interrupted his ale consumage and whispered something to him. The words were jumbled and messy, either he was very drunk or he forgot something. A large amount of spit along with the few words reminded him of his companion's state. So he did forget something. Stride soon faded away again, but he wasn't the only thing fading away. This ale was stronger than the fungal ones back at home and it seemed like the whole bar was moving. He could snap out of it, but he rarely had a lighz mindset like this. So he finished the last mug of ale and looked behind him to see who the self proclaimed mage was talking to. And there it was. A giant spider. Of all thing it was a giant spider. The part of his brain shut down as he entered in shock. His mind was working hard to solve this state of freezing, but from the outside it was more an awkward stare, even for an ork. Then the shock became fear, and fear became anger. Ge clenched his fists and turned back to the bartender anxiously "Ale fo me ye git!"
With another few mugs of ale the fear levuated, leaving only the anger. The more this chat progressed the more he wanted to break every bone of this creature. Not even a proper spider but some weird abomination. Grox shrugged as he thought of that thing. So it came naturally that after one last sip, amd listening to the boasting of this "elaborate" arachnid he grabbed his mug and threw it towards the spider. Then the stool he was sitting on in a rapid succession. "Ye bloody git gun get yo skul smashd! Grox fear no spida! Yu ded! WAAAAAAAAGH!" His alcohol induced battlecry filled the room and echoed out on the street. From the stables he could hear Woggha's battlecry too. He grabbed his axe and began furiously swinging it towards the spider, knocking over tables, glasses and even a few bar patrons. His eyes turned to rage and his muscles grew in size. His rage could not be quelled as the alcohol ate through his reasoning, fogging his already slow thoughts. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,408 | 1,391 | 36 | 256 | 2,259 | Stride stood fast and managed to get in front of the axe, moving the music box into the fire of the Jack-O-Lantern accidentally. Stride managed to get in front of the head of the axe, defending the party's newest ally, but at a cost. One somewhat-clean chop through the neck sent Stride's head rolling onto the floor under the table, an emotionless expression washed over it, blood spurting out of the neck. Stride's body fell forwards onto the table, colliding with the Jack-O-Lantern, and simply drooping off it. Stride's head laid there emotionless, looking around at the last few seconds of life he had, his saucer rushing in and landing on the dead body, and powering off. Hopefully the new party members and Tugrok were outside the inn to go get help. The way the saucer rushed away from the party must have given some sense of urgency to the group by the blacksmith. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,409 | 1,391 | 37 | 1,816 | 285 | Bob found something glittering in the back, but dropped it. The building shook with the rage of an ogre, toppling the mountain Bob was looking at. He got buried in the trash quickly. This ogre was a danger to everyone, and was capable of actual thinking. "Finally, you speak, and the first thing you do is waste time saying you're not stupid. Also, called it. Your name has rock in it, so creative. At least I know where this inn is, so you aren't a complete waste of my time." He had to struggle to get out of the landslide, various scrap hooking on his assorted gear. After a bit of struggling he managed to free himself. "Time to meet the so called team. If they are anything like you, they will need my brains to hold it together."
Bob left the blacksmith's shop, with it the smell and smoke clearing up. It was a good thing the inn was so close to this place, no wonder Tugrok couldn't get lost. The front door was kicked in and there was the most interesting sight in front of Bob. A drunken ogre was swinging a massive blade, next to a headless, elf? There was even a half spider abomination to complete the scene. Was this the team? This is perfect he was the smartest one here and they were likely to kill each other at this rate. "I heard you were looking for more associates to join in your quest. Luckily for you, a famous inventor will grace your day with his help."
The inn was already starting to fill with the rings of gears turning and constant smoke flying off his back. He never gave it a thought, but it had a distinct smell, indescribable to pinpoint. He walked forward, making a point to laugh at the freshly decapitated corpse and took a seat at the table. He already looked like he was ready to take charge as a leader of some sorts. "Hey orc, mind at least cleaning up your dead corpses? It's gonna smell soon and no one wants to be reminded you still smell worse than it. Also, what hole did you crawl out of spider? Wherever it is, I see it wasn't deep enough below cause you crawled out of it still. So, what's this mission? Someone mind speaking before the clumsy ogre comes stumbling in here?" | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,410 | 1,391 | 38 | 15 | 3,140 | Oh shit I just killed the smartest guy in our group! | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,411 | 1,391 | 39 | 1,748 | 279 | All of a sudden, the orc had emerged from his ale-induced torpor, and, bellowing some sort of uncouth war-cry against spiderkind - But Neogi are not really - ah, whatever. No one ever listens, anyway. Khri'zhatt mentally checked himself - had assailed him with whatever came into his hands. Dodging the mug tossed at him with the deftness of the most tenacious of house-pests, Khri'zhatt leapt out of the orc's reach even as Stride heroically intercepted a blow which would have neatly cloven the arachnoid in half, and, having hopped for a few instants over furniture, walls and terrified bystanders, finally came to rest upon the ceiling. There he dangled upside-down at a safe distance from the orc, who seemed to have recovered what little sense he had, and twisted his neck at a hideous angle in order to maintain a view of the scene which did not induce unbearable headaches.
"Oh shit I just killed the smartest guy in our group!"
"That might have been true had all of this happened some minutes ago" Khri'zhatt retorted from above, "However, now that I am part of said group, your statement is quite far from the truth. Then again, had this fellow not sacrificed his neck's integrity for the greater good which is my survival, you would have been perfectly right..." He turned his attention upon the newly arrived goblin. "Ah, I see our numbers recover just as fast as we are able to thin them. Perfect. I can assure you..." Here he skittered to a spot directly above the goblin, disturbingly examined him at close quarters for some moments, then swiftly withdrew to a safe distance from the table. "...that I did not crawl, at least this time, from a hole any deeper than that cellar. Regarding the quest, I understood we are supposed to recover some sort of artifact, but he -" here he pointed at the decapitated corpse, "- was the one who knew the specifics. Unless you have, among that walking scrapyard you have with yourself, some machine which can make him speak, or we can find a necromancer, I seriously doubt we shall ever get any further than this." | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,412 | 1,391 | 40 | 15 | 3,140 | Ye shut yer skivering spida! Grox don't take orda from leggy gits! Grox smashed his now completely blunt axe into the wooden floorbiards and painted it red with Stride's blood. His furious red eyes examined the mayhem he caused seconds ago and his mind filled with brutal thoughts. Blood, murder and gore. His orkish instincts came to rise and he could barely control his temper. He kicked a table with full force and it shattered all over the place. He looked at the goblin laughning at the dead elf and gave gim the blood eyes. "Ye dirty gob hav no place 'ere!" He twitched his head and exhaled air furiously. He was ready to drop the mask and murder every soul here. Only memories kept him sane at this point. His deafened senses told him to get his axe and chop both in half. A sacrifice for the dead. He almost started to not hate the elf. Fucking spider. He looked up and swiftly curled down the chain from his arm and began winding it up, aimin at the spider monster. "Cone 'ere ye git! Yu cauz me trouble, me smash yo head!" For a second he looked at the only other oerson left in the bar still, the goblin in armor. "Yu don' move till I dun wiv ye too!" His attention gazed back at the spider, and the smell of blood gave him the final touch. His skilled hands let loose of the hooked chain, sending it flying towards the spider. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,413 | 1,391 | 41 | 1,748 | 279 | Khri'zhatt leapt aside, and downward, to elude the projectile the orc flung at him, but was not quite swift enough. While he was able to prevent the hook from latching upon his body, it grazed against the side of his bulging abdomen, leaving in its wake a gash seeping with a foul black ichor. The latter's scarcely endurable stench offered a positive reply to the implicit question of whether the tavern's conditions could grow any worse by this point. "Gr-reh! You pile of rotted weed! Do you know how long it takes for fur to grow over scars?" he hissed as he hastily scampered behind an overturned table. Curses, he could not lift one of his central legs properly. This was quite enough. He raised his misshapen head upward and let loose a horrendous, nightmarish, headache-inducing screech which somehow reverberated from the wooden walls and burst out of the demolished door in a blast of sonic offence against anything capable of hearing sounds.
A commotion was heard from the direction of the stable. Horses neighed in fear, something cried out and was abruptly interrupted by a crunching sound, then a section of the wall collapsed as a massive insectoid form unconcernedly lumbered directly through it. The towering monstrosity snapped its frighteningly large mandibles, briefly waved its feelers toward the headless corpse and gazed at its master as interrogatively as it could manage. "Get that one, Thrik, and you can have the elf as well!" Khri'zhatt commanded, pointing at the aggressor; whereupon the beast slowly, yet menacingly began to advance upon the latter, its claws outstretched.
Khri'zhatt meanwhile turned toward the few patrons who had not yet fled the inn precipitously, probably being accustomed to such events. He produced from his pouch a calculatedly small handful of gems, whose glistening, however, concelaed their scarce numbers at a sufficient distance. "See these? They're for whomever brings me the orc in small pieces" he called out, adding "Smash green git and take shiny. Get it?" for the more intoxicated or naturally dim. He then began to wave about his claws sinisterly, preparing to unleash new calamities onto the head of this newfound foe of spiders. | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,414 | 1,391 | 42 | 1,816 | 285 | This was quite the development. The spider abomination actually was making the most sense. When he approached Bob so closely, he probably could feel the electricity in the air. Well, that's what Bob considered it, fear. Now to make it better, he had front row seats to seeing which was tougher, the orc or the spider abomination. Still, the threat that he was next was where he drew the line on not getting involved. With a large burst of smoke, he knew now was the time to fight or flee. There was an orc, they don't like fire much. So he had the right weapon for the job, literal firepower. The spider could probably be fooled that Bob was friendly for now.
His actions were stopped momentarily when the spider unleashed an ear splitting scream. Then in reply, an even larger abomination burst through the side wall that once separated the stables and this inn. Words were not enough to describe this thing. It was huge and it looked dumber than the ogre. Still, it was aimed at the orc and the deal was being sweetened. Shiny gems were offered as a reward for killing the orc. Bob didn't know either of these two but he would gladly kill an orc for gems. Now was as good any opportunity to jump in.
Bob moved quickly, cramming anything on the table that looked burnable into his flamethrower. This orc already started a fight, who would complain if there was one less drunk in the room? Smoke billowed out the sides of his weapon, who needs accuracy when everything is a potential enemy? Bob set it to shooting fireballs and aimed in the general direction of Grok. The furnace roared to life as a a fire ball of assorted trash launched towards Grok. "Gems for killing an orc? Remember to pay me that reward after I'm done burning his mistakes into his flesh." Bob was already cackling with glee. He didn't think he would have an excuse to test if he repaired this thing so soon. Less people on this quest just meant the loot wasn't going to be split as wide. This was a win win situation, and Bob was gonna come out on top. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,415 | 1,391 | 43 | 15 | 3,140 | Grox let out a blood freezing orcish roar as a response to the weird spider's screaming. The high pitched voice made him dizzy, but his blood rage kept him going, his blood filled with amounts of adrenaline lethal to humans. The Umber hulk didn't seem to get upset by his roar and swept away some tables in it's way as it closed in on him. He was getting ready to thrown the cahin again, as he was trained to hunt beast twice this monster's size, when the goblin's weird fireball hit him. The projectile hit his left arm that was still covered in chains, but it still burnt like hell, and burning piece scattered all over him. If that wasn't enough the residents of the Inn decided to take up arms against him. He could take down all of them, but then the Hulk would probably get him. If he went for the Hulk thought, he might get away with a few scratches. He quickly wiped the last piece of burnt trahs from his skin, and began spinning the chain. His arm hurt where the "fireball" hit him, but the adrenaline made it feel less painful.
"WAAAAAGH!" He cried out loud as he threw the chain towards the Hulk. It spun around the beast's right leg, and tightneed as he pulled the chain. Grox pulled the axe out of the floorboard and and began running towards the beast whilst constantly wrapping the chain back around his arm. The Hulk didn't seem to ejoy his ways tho, and pulled the chain, flinging Grox to the wall next to monster. He hit his head hard, and his vision was distorted for a few seconds. He was cornered by the Hulk and the few patrons who were closing in on him. As his head cleared out and he stood up again, he was ready to fight once again, shouting viciously "Ye gun get da smashinz to yer skul bloody gitz!" He readied his axe for a strike and examined the foes. He could win. If he took to the side and stroke down the two gnolls he could possibly get away, even strike the spider again. No money no bounty. Yes, that's it. The muscles on his leg tightened as he was getting ready to jump ont eh enxt enemy. Then he heard the familair laugh of Woggha coming from outside the Inn, accompanied by the crumbling of the wall enxt to him. He covered his face as the rubble flew everywhere and his trusty companion. With a scray smile the Quaggoth peeked inside the Inn with his head.
"Ye git, come 'ere! Smash dem foolz!" Woggha was clearly unimpressed by this statement, and instead grabbed grox and pulled him outta the Inn. "What ya doin ye bloody git! Put me do'" Woggha put the furious Ork into a cart filled with hay bales, and the let out a snickering snoud. He then proceeded to beat the ground with his forelegs and let out a shrieking sound, similar to that of the spider, but a thousand times stronger, stopping anyone inside the Inn in their places. The patrons all fled the Inn at the site of this giganitc Quaggoth and only the spider and goblin were left inside, along with the Umber Hulk who was now standing by his own master. By the time Grox managed to crawl out of the cart, his head was cleared of the raging thoughts and the void was filled by his throbbing arm that hurt like hell. His back was also sore, and he probably broke at least one of his ribs in the fight. "Woghha, sit!" The Quaggoth sat down and Grox stopped right enxt to him. He stopped for a second, thinking about what to say next, as the ogre also seemed to have made his way to the Inn. "I see u haf met me git." He patted the side of Woggha and continued "I want yer blood spida, but ye got 'way today." He beamed a fiery glance at the goblin, and then climbed on top of Woggha, waiting for the others to speak up. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,416 | 1,391 | 44 | 653 | 1,095 | After a while Tugrok realised that while he was giving the goblin the cold-shoulder, said goblin was long gone along with Strides' saucer. He already wondered why he stopped talking. Tugrok had already forgotten what he was supposed to do here, but he figured it would be best to head for the inn.
As Tugrok approached the front door, which was obviously way too small for him, he could hear the commotion that was going on inside accompanied with a loud shriek. To get a better view of the situation he kneeled down and peeked through where the door was supposed to be, seeing the decapitated half elf, the orc, the goblin and a 'Spider' with its companion.
Things were getting out of hand and Tugrok had to think about something, either to help or make them stop fighting. He thinked hard but couldn't think of a solution. Apparently he didn't have to since Woggha pulled the orc out of the inn and let out a louder shrieking sound. "Could everyone stop screaming, Tugroks head is starting hurt." he complained. When the headache eased off he looked through the door again to see what happens next. If worst comes to worst he could still hit the building with his club or smash it on the ground to interrupt them and try to get them to stop, hopefully. | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,417 | 1,391 | 45 | 15 | 3,140 | The dark wooden floor was covered with spilled ale, shattered tables, dead bodies, all kinds of blood, and saliva, which was still freely rolling out of the dead Half-Elf's mouth. The few patroons who were still at the bar at the beggining of the fight had either fled or were froze in terror due to the ear shattering shriek of the giant Quaggoth who just bursted through another wall.
A drunken drow was sitting by the corner, his body resting against a thin wooden pillar. He heard a commotion, but had neither the interest nor the will to turn his head to look at what was happening. People screamed, the clash of metal against metal was heard, the smell of burning wood mixed with a stench that made he vomit a little in his mouth filled the air. Soon after a ear defning shriek, a tremor shook his body out of his drunken stupor. A beast came out of nightmares was standing in front of a huge hole in the wall, it's mandibles snapping as if challenging anyone to approach.
The beast headed towards an orc with a flamming arm. The orc was surrounded by so many oponents that the Drow assumed he was a gonner. But this was before the orc attacked the beast with a chain. That orc was clearly a seasoned warrior, much more dangerous than any of the patroons around. "Now he's gone", the drow thought when the beast pulled the warrior by his own chain. A fallen orc had no chance against this many enemies. He was barely finished with his thoughts when another tremor shook his body. Yet another beast bursted through the frail wooden walls of the inn. This one was even bigger, although more pleasant to the eyes. It shrieked. Against everything the drow believed was possible, this shriek was much louder than the previous one leaving a ringing sound in his ears that refused to go away.
The beast pulled the orc out, possibly saving his life, but this was of no concern anymore. The frail structure of the inn appeared to give away due to the heavy damage to it's structure. Pieces of the roof started to collapse, pillars slowly cracking, subduing to the bigger weight put on them. It wouldn't take long before the whole inn became a big pile of shattered wood and stone on the floor.
Chaos was set in the scene. Patroons at the inn hastly running away, only to be hit by falling debris and be trampled by the others behind. In it's final moments, the inn was having it's revenge on the ones who destroyed it. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,418 | 1,391 | 46 | 1,816 | 285 | Now these morons really did it. One giant hole in the wall from an abomination was one thing. two giant holes in the walls in a clash of the titans was going too far. Add the fact that things were on fire, not Bob's fault. This was looking to be the perfect time, for a tactical retreat from all of this. No gem was shiny enough to make him stay here to be entombed by the very inn itself. Bob took the smartest action possible, ditch all of these poor excuse for teammates and save himself first. Making such a solid choice quickly, he easily got out of the inn. Still, that body could have good loot. It was a good thing, the orc was already grabbing it. No reason to be tempted, the body was still loot able later on.
Standing outside, the smoke of his gadgets mixing with the inn's smoke and fire. He turned around, no sign of the spider or ogre. If they died, just more loot and gems for him. No need to try and save anyone still. No one really looked very important or useful. Still, that spider could be a good fake friend. The gears in his head were already turning, he wasn't going to be sticking around unless he could convince someone he was fine. The spider seemed alright, and it even had a lumbering moron at his beck and call. Probably more work than tricking an ogre, but he was a meat shield more than anything. So, Bob just waited outside the building, seeing if anyone made it out as well. The orc came back out after retrieving Stride's body and head. Was that head drooling? Spit is conductive, he was already coming up with a plan for that if it was loot able.
"Well, that's just perfect. I meet this so called group and you all managed to destroy an entire inn. Yes, I'm sure if that was say, an actual enemy or structure, we might be good at this. Also, I call dibs on the loot if anyone dies in there." Bob gave a smirk, not like the dead can object to it anyways. He wondered who would be bright enough to escape this disaster. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,419 | 1,391 | 47 | 1,748 | 279 | Just as victory seemed near, with the orc cornered by Thrik, a handful of would-be bounty hunters and the newly arrived goblin, the building staggered once again, abd a very, very large beast inserted its head through one of its wall and pulled him out of it, after which, in a strange display, it propped up the collapsing ceiling while its master carried out the headless corpse, as well as the now-separate head, which still had somehow not ceased to drool. Now, critically damaged by the brawl and the ensuing interventions, the inn was instants away from crumbling down in the most literal of senses.
There was not a moment to be lost. "Thrik, out!" Khri'zhatt commanded. The umber hulk, which had been standing by, more mystified than usual by the disappearance of its prey, seized him more rapidly than it might have been thought possible for it and, swinging him over its head, hurled him outside through where the door had once been, past an ogre - if this was the supposed paladin ogre, Khri'zhatt thought, it certainly did not appear as such, being every inch the malodorous brute with a vacuous expression one would expect an ogre to be. Thrik then continued the arcing motion his forearms had begun until they reached the ground, whereupon, using them as levers, he propelled himself with tremendous strength in his master's wake as the inn crashed down behind him.
Now safely out of danger's reach, Khri'zhatt constated that the pile of rubble which had once been the tavern probably concealed him from the other's eyes, which was just as well. He licked his wound, trusting in his poisonous saliva to coagulate over it soon enough, and tried moving his wounded leg. It was not crippled, but it would surely be quite a pain for the next two weeks or thereabouts. Satisfied with his state, which could, judging by Stride's fate, have been far worse, he crawled to rejoin the rest of the party, followed by Thrik. The orc was seemingly no longer an immediate danger, though his beast surely was something any further plans should have to account for, while the goblin, apparently, could be easily bribed with the promise of shiny things to be as reliable as one of his kin could be safely taken for. "As our efforts to change the situation have seemingly not been successful" he addressed what were now supposed to be his "companions", "The previous issue still stands. Does anyone have any ideas on how we can make the elf, or whatever it is, speak without his head?" | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,420 | 1,391 | 48 | 653 | 1,095 | With all the damage, due to the fighting, having the inn collapse was bound to happen. With the structure giving inn, everyone tried to get out of the building. Tugrok thought about helping by stabilizing the roof a bit, but with his big hands he probably would have achieved exactly the opposite. So instead he moved away from the door so he wouldn't block their escape route.
He watched the fleeing patroons and besides them the 'Spider' left the building as well along with the umber hulk or 'Bug' as Tugrok would say. It looked at Tugrok as it passed by, though he barely noticed and didn't think about it at all.
A few moments later there was barely anything left that reminded of an inn. Not everyone could get away but most did, so it was fine Tugrok thought, although it was the groups fault this even happened.
He looked around looking for a familiar face and shortly after he saw Woggha and Grox, though he didn't notice the orc. Tugrok walked over and waved at Woggha with his ever so stupid grin on his face, when their eyes met. In the meantime the others of the group joined as well.
"The previous issue still stands. Does anyone have any ideas on how we can make the elf, or whatever it is, speak without his head?" Elf? Without head? Gears set in motion and when it finally clicked Tugrok realised that this elf was Stride. "Elf was friendly elf, Tugrok liked friendly elf. Now Tugrok feels sad."
He didn't know the answer either, altough he could be one of the solutions to the problem, but he had not the slightest clue of the potential that was locked away inside him. | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,421 | 1,391 | 49 | 2,543 | 175 | Apart from the constant fear of having his head bashed in at any moment, Yashar liked the straightfowardness of his new hireling. No games, no attempts to show off, no useless monologues. Just the sheer will to bash people's heads with two slabs of iron.
"YES. FUCK IT."
That's all Yashar wanted to hear, a simple yes from a simple reanimated skeleton with a never ending bloodlust. With no reasons to futher delay his last visitor, he gave the instructions "Head to the inn behind the market place, the rest of the crew is there waiting for you. Also, take this", a small crystal ball appeared from one of the mage's many pouches in his now extended hand, "It will give you the instructions on what to do and who to kill."
His guest seemed a little aprehensive when shown the crystal ball, or maybe just further angered. It was hard to tell the difference with him. "If you rather keep away from magic objects, you can either hand it to the elf in the inn, or wait for me to send further instructions through a courrier." | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,422 | 1,391 | 50 | 256 | 2,259 | A dark mist covered what appeared to be the village Stride was just a couple minutes ago. It's streets were empty, the Inn still standing had it's doors opened to the elf and an inviting smell was coming from it. It was a smell he loved in his childhood, even though he couldn't remember it yet. Inside the inn sat only a small human, with his pale skin, frail build and dark clothes.
His table was empty, except for a few cards spread across the table and two mugs filled with top notch beer. That man seemed to be expecting someone. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,423 | 1,391 | 51 | 256 | 2,259 | "... what?"
Stride walked forward and casually took a seat, he noticed his clothes were changed to a more formal set of attire, with a futuristic suit covering his torso. He also noticed his neck was split horizontally across, with visible muscle tissue revealing. It looked very gross and probably could make a lot of elves and humans vomit, but it looked badass as hell. The elf noticed the tankard of top-notch beer as he took a sip of it before talking to the pale man at the end of the table.
"... 'ello mate. Who're you?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,424 | 1,391 | 52 | 256 | 2,259 | "Ohh, I go by many names. But they are not important. Call me Tim if you need a name, it will do just as good as any.", the man had a croacky voice, and his tone would go up and down in random points of sentences like the voice of a teenager, "What is important is YOU. Why are you here? What is that on your neck? What do you remember? Do you want to go back? Who do YOU think I am? Those are the important questions!"
The tiny man looked almost confused by the half elf's interest on him. He could sense big events were tied to this elf, but the ropes making the connection were slowly losing it's grips on this one's soul. Maybe his path was a lie? The Old Lady wouldn't have reclaimed this one if it weren't for a good reason. Or maybe she just wanted to go back on her investment.
No matter the answers, this was just too much to think about right now. The small man picked up the mug in front of him and chugged all of it in one big gulp. As he rested the mug back on the table, it was filled to the brim with beer. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,425 | 1,391 | 53 | 256 | 2,259 | "The closest thing I can remember was having a conversation with a spider about going for a contract I had with a man named Yashar... then our local powerhouse of our group tried to... kill... the... spider... and I got in the way..."
Stride felt his neck, and then remembered his past and began retelling it.
"Have you ever been to the Elven-Human region? Down south in that region was my hometown, and it was strictly against the intermingling of races and the babies they made. I had a bad roll and this happened, and I was haunted by everyone for it. Constant plaguing with life about how I was never going to be helpful and how I was just doomed and to be killed..."
Stride's eyes teared up at these thoughts. He wiped his eyes as he gulped a bit of the beer down.
"I went to a college for magical aptitude, and began to excel to the top of my class at it. During this time, I was aloof of a war that caused death to countless humanlike races and monsters alike. I felt like I had to choose a side after this war, and I went to the monsters. It seemed right because of how I was treated like a kid, an abomination, so I imagined I could relate to them about it. My first day in town, I heard a man call for assistance, claiming there were countless riches to be rewarded. I went to his tower in the town, and touched one of his staves he kept in his room where he did business. I was cursed to drool excessively, and I'm glad that didn't carry over here into this place."
Another swig of beer was had, as Stride kept speaking.
"Later, after we settled as a small group on this quest, I tried to recruit a spider for our group, and the resident Orc of our squad was afraid of spider, so he tried killing it with a swift blow of his axe. I got in the way, trying to save the life of the spider. Unfortunately, I think my head was taken off as a result."
Stride put his cards down on the table, and began to look at the man in front of him.
"To answer your final 2 questions, I'd love a second chance to go back and be with this group. Honestly, even though one of them killed me, I'd like to think that's a good trait for him, and I want to think of whoever's on this team as a brother... and that ogre was nice. As for who you are... hm... I'd say you were Death, am I assuming correct?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,426 | 1,391 | 54 | 2,543 | 175 | Upon being handed the strange magical bauble, the Skeleton felt an unspeakable wave of rage wash over him. Judging by his experience on wizards, it was surely a trick to bind him to his will, making him serve as a personal bodyguard till the wizard's death-
"...give you instructions on what to do and who to kill."
To hell with that. The orb would do. Though, his potential outburst was amplified, once the Skeleton processed just what the mage had said. "Rest of the crew." Crew. That means other creatures to work with. Now, one needn't be the brightest tool in the shed to figure out that lovely ol' ARGH wasn't exactly a team player, or that being in the proximity of one or more sentient and nonsentient creatures was enough to drive him into a murderous frenzy, incomprehensible fury, and perhaps even beyond that. Needless to say, the very idea was enough to make him snap. Yet, instead of any chaotic outburst, the undead creature simply stomped the ground with his massive boot, and turned around, beginning to make his way to said tavern. Though he remained silent the entire time, the pulverized pavement in the shape of his boot mark more than testified his mood.
Placing the orb in a pouch hanging from his kilt, the bony beast made his way to the market's fringes. Halting for a few moments, he mentally prepared for what would come next. The bazaar was as filthy, crowded and noisy as before. Perhaps even worse. Monstrous creatures of all sorts swarmed it, creating hideous (and highly obnoxious) waves of bodies. Just the sight the Skeleton needed to see, after learning that he had to cooperate with a group. To say he'd be fuming would be an understatement.
Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he entered the sea of bodies head-on, walking slowly. At first, he did not react to the numerous monstrous denizens bumping into him, but as time went on, and with the help of an ever-constant ruckus, rage-induced twitches turned into violent jerks of the forearms, which turned into elbow strikes, and eventually evolved into a full-on frenzy. Plowing madly though the crowd, all whilst screaming profanity every inch of the way, he began leaving a trail of caved-in skulls and spilled vital juices, that, due to the natural chaos of said market, was barely noticeable from a good few feet away. Finally leaving the swirling mass of idiocy, he seemed to be near his objective. The tavern was just around the corner, and the crowd had finally cleared. Having returned to his normal pace -he had left the bazaar for a minute or so- he heard a gurgling cry, one he had heard before.
"'Ey! That's him! Get 'im boys!"
The ghouls he had pursued earlier. The bone-biters had returned, and in a small pack this time. Finding safety in numbers, they lunged at the Skeleton, who appeared to have frozen in place, unaware of the magnitude of wrath they were about to unleash.
***
When the Skeleton found himself before the inn, there was little to signify that such a structure was ever there. Still holding onto a ghoul, his fingers shoved inside it's eye sockets, and through ichor-seeping holes in its' skull they hand made themselves, he scanned his surroundings. Two strange bugs, one greater than the other, an ogre, a goblin and an orc with a massive beast were somewhat facing each other, while what seemed to be inn-dwellers were fleeing the site. This was apparently the "crew". Infuriated, he swung the ghoul over his head and smashed it against the ground, the sheer force from the impact making it explode in semi-liquefied giblets.
"ARE YOU THE BUNCH OF CUNTS THE WIZARD HIRED?"
It was official, this day could not get any worse. | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,427 | 1,391 | 55 | 1,816 | 285 | Bob was staring at the destruction of the inn, not out of sadness it was gone. He was more focused on all that loot that will not be claimed by anyone now. Still, with everyone here and the spider asking once again what they were supposed to do since the only person with a clue of what to do is dead. Bob was considering asking if it was too much to just go to Yashar and ask him personally. They were hired by him, right? His thoughts were destroyed by distant stomping. Oh great, is that another "group member" or someone mad they burned the inn?
He didn't have to wonder very long as the ground shook with the force of a ghoulish skull shattering upon the ground. Was that a skeleton, and did it kill a ghoul? The time for questions was not now as the skeleton spoke one sentence. He was hired as well by Yashar? This day was about to get a lot worse. Bob still decided that only he was qualified to introduce the supposed group he was a part of. He didn't make any sign of moving towards the towering skeleton that looked like it was about to strangle anything that got to close. Instead, he yelled from a distance he deemed safe.
"Don't tell me, you are also joining this group? I didn't know the standards were so low that even common monsters with even the faintest signs of intelligence were allowed. This is starting to look like the cannon fodder team. My name is Bob, that's Stink the Orc. We also have a giant spider over there. Those two giant beasts are not that important, seeing as they are as bright as the Ogre. Also, the entire inn was destroyed by Stink and the spider. So, we already lost the elf guy. Do you have a name, or should I just call you Rage?"
He grinned at the names he came up with quickly. That should teach them for having the reaction time of an Ogre. Now to back away slightly from Rage before he starts a rampage on everyone here. This mission must have been important if he let the first things that responded to do this. Still, they didn't even start the quest. The elf died already and it looks like more are about to follow suit. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,428 | 1,391 | 56 | 256 | 2,259 | Seeing the dead half elf take his questions that seriously and spill out his entire life story was both boring and amusing to Tim. Mortals never failed to bring a smile to his face. They always took things so literally, even the magic inclined ones. "Death? Me? Hahahaha! Boy, you really need to learn a thing or two about this place. First off, Death? She's a crazy ol--
Before the pale little man could finish his sentence, a door opened itself in the back of the inn. A tanned woman, with brigh white hair came through with and, with her, a comforting cold breeze. As she came closer to the table, Stride was able to see her better. Her hair seemed ethereal and was contantly moving, even when she stoped. Despite her pointy ears, her facial features clearly showed she had no relation to any races known to stride. Her face was long with protrudent bones. Her eyes slightly bigger than the eyes of a human, but they were all white, with grey patterns all across. Despite the unusual features, she was beautiful in a way that was hard to describe.
As she came close enough, Stride was able to notice that her light blue robes were translucid and that, if he focused on it, he'd be able to see her body underneat. Before he could dwelve more into her appearance, she begun to speak "What were you saying, Tim?" Her voice was sweet and melodic, and she sounded almost playful. The emphasis she put on "Tim" clearly showed that she was amused at the name chosen by her assistant.
"I am the one your kind would call Death. Although you can call me Shalana, it's the closest to my real name that your kind can pronounce. What have you guys discussed already?" She asked with a pleasant smile that showed her sharp teeth. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,429 | 1,391 | 57 | 256 | 2,259 | A series of attempted words escaped Stride's mouth as he attempted to speak. So he was dead. That's just a shitty day already, but now he's speaking face-to-face with THE Death. Some necromancers would quiver at the thought of this, hoping they could even see her in person, but most (if not all) never saw her.
And here he was, looking at her himself. Stride finished stumbling over his words as he managed to speak again.
"N-Nothing much aside from a quick summary of my life."
Stride was terrified. Even if he was in complete safety, he was face to face with the one person who decided if he rose back to life or stayed dead. He tried to calm down and show that he was brave enough to ear his life, but he couldn't, as he started to sweat a very small bit.
"Many apologies, miss Shalana. It's just I never thought I would actually be talking to death itself."
Stride took a deep breath and spoke once more, his coat starting to change to a color more suited to him, which was a shade of crimson, unsurprisingly.
"So... why am I here...?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,430 | 1,391 | 58 | 2,543 | 175 | Nervous twitches began to manifest at the Skeleton's right hand as the scrap-clad goblin began what seemed to be an introductory monologue. His rage was growing hotter and hotter by the second, partly from the goblin's voice, which the Skeleton deemed extremely vexing, and partly by it's attitude. Then, it happened. The tinker asked for the Skeleton's name. Perhaps this was a sort of mental tripwire for the reanimated barbarian, since his silent, simmering fury turned into an all-out psychotic frenzy. Clutching his knuckle dusters with excessive force, he began walking at an increasingly fast pace towards Bob, screaming in a barely coherent manner:
"NAME?! NAME?! NAME?!"
Whatever unnameable force surrounded the skeleton began to react along with his mental state. It flared up, swirled and coalesced around his bony form, producing an effect that would surely be highly noticeable to any spiritually-attuned creatures that happened to be around. Slowly gaining more and more speed, he swung his hand back and prepared a punch that would surely send the green git flying backwards if it connected. | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,431 | 1,391 | 59 | 15 | 3,140 | Right after the Inn collapsed and the dust settled, silence befall the group. It was a pretty weird sight consudering all the weirdos gathered around, but for a good minute there was just the bustling of the passer bys, some who were already familiar with such events in the city, and some who took it by surprise. Nevertheless none of them stayed for long, and those who tried soon got scared away by a large skeleton approaching the Inn. Grox let out a painful groan as he stood up to investigate the weird creature. Sure he has seen skeletons before, but not ones this big. Well maybe he seen ones much bigger, but not alive for sure. He stood up as the sjeleton finally introduced himself, and was ready to answer when the irritating gob git decided to speak up. And oh man, it made the mistake of calling him names. Grox put his hand on his axe, ready to chop off the goblin's head any given second, but it seemed like the skeleton had the same idea. "Yu git don call me Stank! Now suffa!" Grox launched forward to grab the goblin by its arm, holding him in place to let the skeleton hit. He felt no guilt in losing another member of the team. Whether he realised it would get him more loot, or his inner hatred for goblins kicked in, he made sure to have a tight grip on the creature until the skeleton would hit him. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,432 | 1,391 | 60 | 1,816 | 285 | Bob's smile was quickly turning to horror. The skeleton seemed to have reached a new level of anger. He took the time to back up, but it was still not far enough. He had one choice at this range to get out of here. Fire the cannon on his back and accept whatever happens next. Given his distance it could give him precious seconds before he would find out how hard the skeleton can punch him. This was a good plan in his head, but he missed one detail...
The large orc didn't like his master level of nicknames, and was grabbing his arm. It was a solid grip and now the skeleton was heading towards him, looking to see if Bob would explode into tiny pieces from just one punch. Still, he had a few backup options. The crackle of electricity told him just what he needed. The battery didn't die out and it was ready. With a thunk on his chest, sparks flew off of him. The entire armor electrified, hopefully enough to make the orc let go. This plan wasn't Bob's only one as he was desperate to not die to such odorous monsters.
The only other plan was just as crazy of an idea. The rather large cannon on his back taunting him. Laughing at him for not using it sooner. If he could have just reached it... Wait a second, he still had a free hand. He fired the cannon on his back. Normally, it was enough to send him flying, but he had no idea what would happen since an orc was also holding him. Best case scenario is they both go airborne, or even force him to let go of the genius goblin inventor. Worst case scenario, they both go boom and that might be enough to get out of there while the smoke was clearing. Today was a good day for testing the power of his jet pack with unaware passengers. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,433 | 1,391 | 61 | 1,748 | 279 | Ah, splendid. Just as it seemed that the destruction of the inn had finally given pause to these assembled savages' murderous tendencies, a new monster, apparently angrier yet than all of the previous ones collectively, had appeared. Not only this, but the goblin had, in a display of suicidal foolhardiness which drove Khri'zhatt to vigorously strike himself upon the snout, to both provoke it and stir the orc's momentarily sedated drunken bloodlust once again. And to say that the goblin had at first seemed to him the comparatively least insane member of the group who still physically had a head over his shoulders... At least the two brutes were, for the moment, focusing on the instigator of this new degeneration, who, it seemed, had not even been prepared for a retaliation to his taunting.
Noticing that the goblin, caught in the orc's grip, had begun to panickedly fiddle with his equipment in a manner which surely betokened no good, and had an overwhelming likelihood of ending in a large explosion of flames, scraps, fried green flesh and bones, Khri'zhatt himself began to grow rather alarmed. Knowing the green pests as he did, it was doubtless a matter of seconds before this one condemned to a fiery death everyone in the immediate vicinity - which happened to include him, Khri'zhatt. This was not at all a satisfactory turn of events; in fact, perishing to a goblin's machinations, however involuntary, was one of the last things he was planning to do that week, or at all, for that matter.
He hurriedly began to look about for some means of protection. Scurrying away swiftly enough was out of the question due to the wound inflicted by the orc's chain-hook (now, seeing him explode would have been far more enjoyable). Ordering Thrik to crouch over him would not do, either, as, besides there being a substantial chance of the lumbering beast crushing him, he was not certain the umber hulk's carapace was strong enough to withstand what would come flying out of the sizzling pile of metal. The only apparent solution was to find something to cover himself with. Pity that the inn's doors had all been either destroyed or buried under the rubble... Just then, his eye fell on the elf's still headless corpse. It might not have been of much use in the case of a large detonation, but it was soft enough for stray shrapnel to embed itself in it, and besides, had the elf not already shown himself willing to take blows for him? "Thrik, fetch!" he commanded. The umber hulk reached over with its horridly long arms and, seizing the corpse, held it as a shield before itself (or as much of itself as the relatively diminutive form could cover, at least) and its master, bracing for the presumedly incoming blast. | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,434 | 1,391 | 62 | 15 | 3,140 | Grox laughed as the puny goblin tried to escape. The tiny guys attempts to get free were pathetic, and Grox was ready to see the guy get beaten by a giant skeleton. However he didn't anticipate that the goblin was some sort of a mechawizurd. An intense shock ran through the arms of teh big orc as the suit got electrified. His hands gripped the armor even harder, bending the alloy it wa samde of. He let out a painfully loud groan jsut before the electricity stopped. Grox's hands were still gripping onto the goblin, more because they were shocked, and he couldn't move them, rather than because he wanted to. This sort of mechanical sorcery was exactly what grox hated and avoided. He considered it unfair TBH. Small things with the power of a battleaxe or something even bigger. He bent forward to look teh goblin closely in the eyes and made sure to shout right in his face. If he was electrocuted, let the bastard go deaf.
But the goblin didn't seem to give up a struggle and in a last dich effort triggered some weird thing on his back. At first it was nothing, a quite sound like something heavy but soft hit the floor. But then with an enormous boom the cannon fired on his back, leavign an explosion behind. Grox still couldn't let go of the goblin, and he pulled himself towards the goblin to avoid damage to his arm. The tiny git launched into the air, until grox's arm couldn't extend more, and then pulled the orc up too, with a less hasty speed. With no Inn to speak of any more, the two could fly uninterrupted without the ceilnig to worry about. However this magical flight lasted for about 2-3 seconds, as the two slowly began to fall down. More like pummeling towards the ground really. As they were already a good 7 meters up in the 7 meters up in the air, the only reasonable and possibly non lethal joice to Grox was Woggha. "Dum git com 'ere"
For teh giant beast it was only a step to take and it was already within arms lenght of Grox and Bob. He held out his hand to catch the two before they fell, making sure to get a thright grip on the gob. Grox jumped down from Woggha's hand, and looked up at Bob who was now hanging by his cannon as Woggha was holding him up, laughing. "Yu git gun mad? Ye crazy thingzies coulda killed us both! Woggha dun let im go till he cries fo mercy!" | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,435 | 1,391 | 63 | 1,816 | 285 | How did it get to this point? Bob was in the not so gentle arms of "Woggha". His plan failed and he had to stop and think what went wrong. Talking to the skeleton was where it started. Stink joined in and wanted to see him get punched. Electricity was counter productive to his escape attempt. The jet pack did exactly as he wanted. The brief moment of being in the sky, and the feeling of joy that they were going to crash into the ground. There was one detail he missed in this great idea. The oversized beast that was Woggha catching them both. Stink got out of it and that lead back to his current predicament.
Now Stink thought this was the point he would beg for mercy. That is not how this works, and he can prove it. Being held again was giving him another idea. If electricity got him in this situation, surely it will get him out of it. He still had the Sword of the Gods with him. No one was expecting a goblin to do something this brilliant. "You think this is good enough to stop me? You forget I am The Grand Royal Doctor Maxwell the Third! All of you shall bow down before the might of my inventions!" He knew where his sword was and he had both arms free. Time to smite the dumb beast holding him. While it would have been just as good of an idea to simply detach the cannon and flee. This thing was worth more than the silly idea of going without it.
The battery was still going and he was mad. Time for round two of his armors true purpose. It sparked and he grabbed his sword. While the idea of a goblin holding a sword while hanging from a beast might have been hilarious. The fact that now the sword was shooting lightning was not. Most of the lightning hit him, being the genius in a full metal armor. The only benefit was that the lightning did a good job recharging his battery in a loop of energy. He had no idea where the bolts would go, but once again assumed this was still the best outcome possible. He cackled with glee at the blatant disregard for his or anyone's safety that was close to him. His suit was electrified, adding to the amount of damage such a small creature was capable of dealing out.
The overcharge on his battery spewed out smoke at an alarming pace. The goblin was quickly being engulfed along with Woggha in a cloud of foul smelling sulfurous smoke. He only had time to swing once blindly at the beast, adding more electricity to the situation. Best case scenario was surely this could kill or stun the dumb beast. Worst case is he just made everything more angry, but with lightning added. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,436 | 1,391 | 64 | 256 | 2,259 | Shalana was amused by how shocked the half elf became. She had followed his movements for most of his life and never saw him speechless like he was now. "Take a deep breath and relax a little. There is no need to be this tense." She waited a couple seconds as the elf recomposed himself. His robes turned into it's regular crimson tonality, which denoted how quickly he was adapting to this place. "Before I explain why are you here, I think you should know where is here. This is not the real afterlife, but rather a waiting room. You are not dead..." She took a look at the red scar on his next, "Well, you body IS dead. Your soul, on the other hand, has some energy left. This place will keep your energy level stable so we can talk as much as you want."
Shalana took a long look at Tim. The little man was drinking non stop since she arrived and would soon be drunk. It would be better to have him away and avoid that he spilled more than beer in his drunken dumbness. "Tim, would you give me and Stride a moment alone? Take your mug and go drink in the back." With her small helper out of the way, she could safely go on "Now lets move on to the why part. You are here because I need you. I've been following you for more time than you'd expect and your destiny is closely tied to something I deeply wish. Unfortunetely, you were stu..." For a split second, her face betrayed some distain "uncautious enough to stay in the way of an orc's axe. You are lucky, however. I've invested quite a lot on you, and I'd like to offer you a second chance. The question is: do you wish to go back?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,437 | 1,391 | 65 | 256 | 2,259 | Stride stood there baffled. From his understanding, he was tied with this woman from the start with his destiny, and that actually surprised him considering that he always figured he'd die in a tragic way and that'd be his end. Now he's receiving a second chance from Shalana, who was Death effectively. He had two options from what he understood. He could go back and attempt to fulfill this woman's wishes, or probably destroyed as he didn't adhere to what she wanted from him. Clearly, he wanted a peaceful afterlife, so he turned around, removed his crimson jacket, and looked at Shalana with determined eyes.
"Keep this jacket safe, it feels amazing. I'm going back to the realm of the living." | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,438 | 1,391 | 66 | 256 | 2,259 | "So, you're indeed going back? Good." Shalana was smiling once again, her bright sharp teeth contrasting against her tanned skin. "I won't directly ressurect you, as this is not how this works." Seeing the confused look on Stride's face, she explained "There is too much at stake for me to show my influence directly over you. Some of my worshipers in the town have already received word of your death and have been given instructions on how to bring you back. Thankfully, time works in funny ways when you're dead, so they should arive before too much damage is done to your body, after all, I work with necromancers, not healers." She talked in a playful manner, her voice vaguely reminding Stride of an excited child.
"Now, when you go back I'm going to need you to fetch that book that Yashar wants. You will be facing a powerful group of human mercenaries when you get there and if you die again, I'm not sure I'll be able to bring you back once more, so be careful. I know for a fact that the book is hidden in the last room of the top floor, but someone or something managed to hide what lies inside that room from me. So, once again, be careful." With fluid movements, she crossed the remaining distance between the two of them and gave Stride a small kiss on his forehead. Her lips felt much warmer than anyone could ever expect from Death.
"I'm going to leave now. When that door opens, it will mean that you are ready to return to your body. Cross the door and you will be back to the world of the living, take too long and your soul will lose it's energy and dissipate into nothing." With those last words, she vanished into the air of the inn, leaving Stride with nothing but his refilling mug.
***
"STOOOOOOP!" A feminine voice echoed through the streets. The air around the fighting party seemed much thicker, making movements much slower. Even the lighting from the goblin's armor was slowed down. "Now calm down." Her voice was much more calm now and yet it held so much power into it that everyone was compelled to obey and look towards the source of it.
Into the street it stood a small group of robbed figures. All of them dressed in light blue clothes with their heads covered, except one. She was a small dark elf, her face uncovered revealing a stone cold expression. Even the ones without any kind of magic affinity could perceive that she had a power much bigger than most mortals could achieve. Her words managed to calm down even the Skeleton, who, for the first time in his unlife, felt something close to peace.
"We are here to save the elf. You are welcome to follow us if you want. We will take whatever is left of him to our quarters." Looking at the destruction caused by the group of misfits and the angry looks on the face of the crowd outside, she quickly concluded that they were the ones to destroy the only place in the city that offered beer. "You won't last long against all of the city. I'd advise you all to follow us. We will protect you from harm."
With not another word she covered herself with her hood while one of the other figures moved to gently take Stride's body from the claws of the umber hulk. Another one of them moved to take the still drooling head, holding it far away from his body to avoid the drool from reaching his robe.
As soon as the hooded group turned their backs, the air went back to normal and the party was free of it's magical hold. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,439 | 1,391 | 67 | 1,816 | 285 | Bob felt time slow down, as a voice rang out over the town. Lightning, the fastest moving force alive, was moving at a snails pace. Whoever this person was, they demanded attention. He felt compelled to look at the group of hooded mages. Of all the things to want, they wanted the dead elf. No one should be worth this much attention, did he miss something? They just calmly walked up and took Stride's body away. The reminder that the town was angry didn't faze Bob. He was more concerned with who these people were. The open invitation to follow was too tempting, it was far better than this group anyways.
Bob was the first to respond, never one to know when to stop talking. He looked at his so called teammates, they were certainly destructive, the only one not reeking of odor or rage was the spider. "Hey spider, you joining or what? You are the only one to not go blindly attacking others. Might want to move before you end up being torn apart by these two. Seeing as you are tolerable, I'll give you that tip." He gave a smirk, now he was getting out of here before someone tried touching his armor again. He gave a small hop, and everything clanked against each other. the poor battery was still trying to keep up, more smoke pouring off his back.
He went to a jog to keep up with the strange mages. Stride didn't matter, just a dumb half elf who challenged an orc. He didn't know the details, nor did he care. Besides, between the two group members and a quickly growing anger from the crowd. Which, he did not destroy, for the record. He would take the strange new people over the current situation right now. He tested his luck more by talking while he walked with the mages. "Hey, who do you think you are to take a dead body? That saliva could be great for science, but you don't see me going out of my way for it. Where are you going anyways? There is nowhere so important you need to slow time just for a retrieval job." | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,440 | 1,391 | 68 | 2,543 | 175 | As the Skeleton's fist came closer, inch by inch, to meet with the goblin's face, a borderline surreal turn of events came to pass. The drunken orc that the troublesome ossuary had paid little to no attention to had lunged at his target and began, for some strange reason the Skeleton was not too concerned about, to grapple with the iron-clad goblin. This was not all, however, since the mechanized git had activated an unknowable to the skeleton contraption. Maybe it was his long absence from anything civilized, or his refusal to care about current events, but the undead creature was left rather perplexed, and twice as enraged at the sight of the machine functioning. He was left with nothing to do but scream and shake his fist at the unlikely duo blasting off, and eventually being caught by the Orc's massive beast.
The monster's frenzy still burning high, he began charging at the direction of both the orc and his mount, as well as as Bob, brandishing both fist weapons in a crazed manner. Leaping high in the air, he extended his right arm backwards, while stretching the digits of his left palm, as if he was preparing to grab on to an opponent during his landing. Yet, that landing was, oddly, taking far too long to come. He was, in fact, stuck right where he was, and so was every other creature around. Watching his right fist move slow enough to miss an ant served only to anger the deathless barbarian even further. Hovering there, he began screaming frantically, but even his jaw refused to open.
Through the cacophony, however echoed a voice. A resonating, soothing, yet somehow strange voice. The moment the Skeleton heard it, its' bellowing died down and ceased. Soon after he fell flat on the ground, once the spell had ended, having somehow lost all momentum from his leap. Still on his knees and palms, it turned its' eyeless skull from left to right, remaining totally silent. It was apparent that the woman's voice had evoked some sort of memory buried deep within the tombs inside the skeleton's mind, forcing him to experience a flashback that would probably be long, droning and somewhat boring to describe and read.
Not a moment after, the lovable assortment of bones violently shook its' head and stood upright, returning to his everyday self, and back to normal levels of anger. Making the usual gesture of bashing his knuckle dusters together, he grunted, growled and grudgingly followed the priestess, paying no heed to anything else in sight, be it friend or foe. Though unwillingly, he was moving dangerously close behind the goblin. | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,441 | 1,391 | 69 | 1,748 | 279 | Just as Khri'zhatt had expected, there was a deafening detonation, followed by a whistling sound, some bellowing and plenty of smoke. However, and this was where his expectations and the turn of events began to diverge, no scraps of metal or smouldering tatters of goblin struck the corpse Thrik was holding. Flashes of unnatural light and an ominous crackling flared and resounded from behind the fleshly barriers, yet, again, no impact ensued. This was mighty odd indeed. Now more curious than alarmed, Khri'zhatt moved to peer from behind the elf's back, twisting his neck in a slightly sickening arch. It was a somewhat uncomfortable position, but he would only have to maintain it for a few moments...
...Or would he? Just as the top of his head emerged from behind the makeshift "shield", and the sight of the goblin, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, being held up by the orc's gigantic beast while being charged by the skeleton became open to him, he discovered with surprise that uncoiling himself was not as easy as he was accustomed to. In fact, he barely seemed able to move at all. Worse yet, his neck, already strained by the effort, was now being compelled by some preternatural force, evoked by someone screaming (for them?) to stop down the street, to twist in the opposite direction - all while being unable to straighten its original posture. The result was, to say the least, unpleasant. Not even the soothing tones of the enchanting voice assuaged it - in fact, Khri'zhatt was fairly irritated by what he perceived was adding insult to injury.
Hooded figures presently approached him and Thrik, releasing the mistreated elf's corpse from the claws of the umber hulk, who was too busy processing the fact he was surprised, or something similar enough, to resist, and leaving the two defenceless, with Khri'zhatt still trapped in his now outright painful position. Thankfully, the other monsters were likewise hampered in their movements, with the skeleton being oddly but safely contained in mid-air suspension. Then, all of a sudden, the spell was lifted, causing his tense muscles to instantaneously spring into concerted action, and thus his head to cartoonishly swivel to and fro before he recovered his bearings. Dizzy, with an aching neck and altogether far from pleased, Khri'zhatt heard the goblin addressing him in what did not appear to be altogether inimical tones.
"That's fairly obvious, isn't it? Bah. I suppose I shall take "tolerable" over what these people" he gestured toward the rest of the party, "have to offer. I'm up." With these words, motioning for Thrik to follow him, he set forth in the wizards' wake, thinking that, whoever they might be, they would probably have a clearer idea of what was supposed to be done than the assembled monsters collectively. | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,442 | 1,391 | 70 | 2,339 | 10,629 | "......aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
A voice, deeper than any humans, screams as it crashes from the heavens. A large, lumpy, blue creature crashes into a near by house, most likely causing a ruckus. A woman yells, an elven woman, and soon the small blue man is seen backed up to a window.
"I am so sorry ma'am, but..you do look ra-" He begins, before a pan clunks him upside the head, causing him to crash down. "..That could of gone much, much better." He grumbles, standing up, and looking around at the group. ".....Well....I've nowhere else better to go. Mind if I follow you all? My name is Horace. I'm an animator. I make stuff animated." The small blue thing declares, smiling, a large lump on his forehead, a goose egg welling up from the walop of the pan. He pushes it down, cartoonishly. "I myself, as well, am very animated!" He chuckles. He gives off a strange aura. A kind one, one that seeks fun, and friends, not the normal won-ton hate, or malice most monstrous creatures most likely give off, if the party was any example. Someone may think he was no monster at all.
"That hurt like hell, I need to make sure my creations angle me better when they throw me..." Horace thinks to himself. He had just escaped a sticky situation involving a dwarven girl's father, a animated hammer, and some hard to rub off lipstick....and lots, and lots, of ale. This had lead him to create a large golem out of kegs, and had it toss him a few towns over. Thanks to his small size, and plot convenience, he landed safely...sorta, and was now free to travel again. | Name: Horace, the Animator.
Race: Abomination.
Abilities:
Bind Soul: Making a pact with a soul from HELL, Horace is able to bind it to an item, to give it temporary respite from its never ending suffering! Or, if a demon wants to do some shit in the real world. Horace isn't picky. When a soul is bound to an item, it animates it, and shifts its form to normally mimic a living creature. It is able to walk, talk, but must obey Horace. If destroyed, the soul/demon is banished back to HELL. This is Horace's bread and butter ability. Attempting to bind demons normally requires some sort of payment, but will yield stronger creatures.
Capture Soul: When a living being is murdered turned into non-living matter near him, Horace can collect their souls in jars, Legend of Zelda style. These souls are normally used for barganing with angels demons. Or for pranks, such as putting them in people's coffee, which normally ends up with them getting possessed by the spirit, or causes another personality to form inside the body, for a split personality disorder.
Average Swordsmanship: Horace is an average sword fighter, but nothing truly special.
Equipment: Rusty Sword: Horace carries a rusty iron longsword. Why? To deter fools from trying to mug him. Or to murder those brave enough.
8 Glass jars.
5 pounds of goblin jerky.
A burlap sack, where he keeps all his junk.
A very rusty iron ring.
Background: Unknown., but some assume he's a force of nature. Some believe he is a devil escaped from hell. Some think he may be an angel, cast from heaven. Only Horace knows, and he isn't telling. What Is known about him, which is little, is he is an oddly kind being. Tending to use his powers to do magic tricks for monster children, he sees himself as a mix of entertainer, and protector. This is why he seeks to destroy humanity, after seeing one to many group of monster children murdered by humans.....
"Mercy? Like what they begged for, before you stomped out that small spark of life they held? I'll give you the best mercy I can offer....."- Horace, before having a construct of bricks crush a human adventurer's skull with its bare hands. |
51,443 | 1,391 | 71 | 15 | 3,140 | Grox just eccepted what happened. The lightning coming from the fog around the goblin, and the weird cult members suddenly appearing to take away stride. He tossed the head to one of the priests and signaled Woggha to follow. He was awfully calm, but that had to do a lot with his brain overloading from what was going on. Even the abomination falling from the sky didn't seem unrealistic at this point. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,444 | 1,391 | 72 | 2,420 | 2,389 | Viccus Verringtail beheld the whole spectacle from a sticking up and slightly smouldering beam from the collapsed inn. It was quite something. In fact it was just too shocking to hide from, and anyone who looked his way would see an aghast rat staring at all the proceedings.
Maybe what this band of misfits needed was a leader, someone to give direction and bash heads to end conflicts. Obviously that leader wasn't Viccus, but from where he stood right now he wished some sort of leader would come along soon | Name: Viccus Verringtail, the Talking Rat
Look at that brutal cunning behind those eyes, I wouldn't put my hand within 5 feet of him!
Often wears light cloths or silks if possible, but right now he is covered only in fur (which he has no problem with)
Race: Rat! Just a run of the mill, common or garden talking rat.
Class: Ha
Equipment: 1 very small backpack containing a weeks worth of cheese and cooked meats, as well as 2 gold which he can just about cram in. He also has a book strapped to his flank written in an arcane language he cannot interpret (yet)
Skills: Mr. Verringtail is extremely fluent in many tongues, and is happy to translate for any who ask. He also shares the talents of his race, like powerful smelling ability and extremely good hearing. Unlike the rest of his race he is also well trained in many different culture's etiquette, and is happy to advise on that too
Background: Viccus Verringtail was born like any other rat, but whereas most rats can only talk Rattese (of course rats can talk to each other), Viccus found himself having an affinity for learning and talking bipedal languages. Realising his studies wouldn't get very far at home, he travelled to a local sorcerer guild where they struck upon an accordance to study his abilities in exchange for teaching him languages. He became somewhat of a mascot there, as they accredited his extra intelligence to their arcane talent to the public. Unfortunately, a talking rat isn't the best image and the guild quickly went bust afterwards (though there certainly was some interested parties when it came to making their animals talk). This was enough time for Viccus to learn a decent amount, but he wants more. So he was back on the street until he happened upon an unlikely band of monsters... |
51,445 | 1,391 | 73 | 1,816 | 285 | From the sky and the very floors more came in. Some blue thing flew from the sky. Bob could respect that, it was his own personal method of quick escapes. What surprised and interested him was the small rat that was brave enough to come out of the rubble of the once proud Inn. Never one to leave the situation alone, he had to assert himself to the new abomination. Bob broke his steady pace with one of the mages, a blessing for the poor soul forced to drown his talking out. The first thing he noticed was the giant skeleton who was far too close for comfort walking less than an arms length behind him. Bob was very thankful he had a reason to look back and correct this before he had more dents in his armor. He walked close to Horace, keeping distance from him and keeping track of how far the mages were getting so he wouldn't be left behind.
"My, what a strange one you are. You wear no gear, nor have any wings. How exactly did you fly through the air? The first thought would be magic, but from how you landed, you would have to be really bad at that. People around here call me Bob, the ingrates. I'm the closest person to a leader around here since the orc over there beheaded what we could call the last smart one. Now you said something about animating objects? Now that is something interesting to me. I would love to hear more about how that works, and more importantly, how I can turn that into a new invention. Where are my manners? We are a group hired to do... Something, of which no one here knows what it is. The only one who knew was the dead half elf. Now that you're filled in, you might want to avoid the skeleton and the orc. Rather angry people, they are."
Bob was talking far too fast and too much as usual. The distance was growing from the mages and that was troubling, so he picked up his pace to catch up with them. His gear rattled and popped with more smoke billowing from his armor. The poor battery has been overworked again, a wonder how it still functions from how much it gets abused. Not even waiting for a reply, the blue thing was interesting, but not as much as the mages who stopped time. He already said his greetings, nothing else to add. | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,446 | 1,391 | 74 | 256 | 2,259 | It was alredy dark when the party finally reached it's destiny. It had been a calm trip. Whenever a member of this newly formed group thought about starting a fight, a soothing hum would come from the mage's leader and as quickly as the an orc could decapitate an elf the violent thoughts would stop. That's not to say that the short journey happened without any problems. ARRRRGH! Decapitated a few ghouls who where gnawing on a auroch's bone. Bob managed to piss off an entire caravan of traders by insinuating that his worse piece of work (as if he had any) was hundreds of times better than their finest products, the situation did not escalated much more due to the intervention of the now familiar hum, bringing a short lasting peace once again.
Now they were in front of a huge building, it's stone walls lit by a full moon. All around them, hundreds of small shacks covered the dirty ground, with it's inhabitants peeking through the windows or, in a more common scenario, through fallen pieces of it's walls. The robbed group approached the door, which seemed to magically open.
The party once again followed the group, entering into a well lit hall. Torches covered the walls and a red carpet complemented the warm light coming from the fire. It felt safe, robust, and HOT. Way too hot, actually. As soon as the doors closed, killing the sweet breeze which came from outside, the members who were able to started to sweat. An overwhelming smell of smoke quickly filled the room, alarming the party. The group of mages, seemed indiferent and kept advancing towards a stair.
As the party followed, they noticed many doors spread through the building, all of them closed. As they reached the stairs, they found the source of the smoke. A blue fire was burning in the middle of an empty room, turning the suffocating red aura of the place into a chilling blue one.
The place seemed empty and devoid of life and, as soon as the group reached the bottom of the stairway, the reason became quite apparent. An awful smell of rotten fish, bile, and fruits filled the room. It was horrible, even by this city's standarts. The mages did not cared. A pair of Dark Elves carried the half-elf's body stretching it across the blue flames. His body was not burned. Instead a blue-ish glow was spreading through his body, as if the flames were burning him from inside out. A third mage, much more leaner and smaller, carried Stride's head, and placed it where it should be.
From the corner of the room, a small shadow moved towards the body. It's green body naked and bathed in a black oil. The small body, the big head and the point ears denounced it's race: a goblin. However, the thick black oil covered so much of him, that it was hard to determine it's sex or anything else. The goblin carried a wooden bowl, which contained more of that oil. It was clear by now that the oil was the origin of the putrid smell.
As the goblin moved towards the body, the oil dripped to the ground, revealing his face. It was clearly a male, and an excited one at that. An oversized smile on his face showed the rotten teeth left on his mouth. With every other step, a small spasms would shake his body, making him spill some of the oil to the stone ground.
The goblin approached the mage's circle and stood by the body, looking at the mages, as if expecting his next order. At this point, the party had spread itself through the room, choosing positions that would allow them to view the ritual through the wall formed by the mages' bodies. Those who were not paying attention, felt suddenly drawn to the mages once a harsh chant begun.
Their voices became much harsher than the party remembered. The fire slowly died out, with Stride's body glowing brighter and brighter. At this point, the goblin begun to drop the oil on top of the elf's body. However, instead of sticking to it, as it happened to the goblin, it would turn into a pitch black smoke and dissapear in the air, leaving an even worse smell in the air.
As the chanting turned louder, the room became darker. So dark that one could not see the walls or the ceiling or the floor. The only source of light was Stride's body. The whole thing felt surreal, as if they were stuck in the void, between life and death. Suddenly a loud sound of drums sounded, as if coming from where once were the walls.
The small goblin begun to dance a dance of excitement, ecstasy, and madness. The spasms shaking violently his body at every move, sometimes ruining his joyful steps. At this point, it was clear that the goblin was naked. Partly due to the amount of oil that had dripped from him, revealing his mold green skin, partly due to an easily visible hard on. The goblin jumped and screamed as he danced, using delicate and elegant steps at one moment and right afterwards doing libidinous moves with Stride's dead body.
The chanting went on for a few minutes longer, backed by the the earshattering drums. They sounded as if the God of Thunder were casting lightining in the corner of the room, shaking the ground. With a sudden movement from the tallest mage, everything stopped. The chanting and the drums gone. He moved foward and grabbed the little goblin by it throat, pulling him away from his surreal ecstasy with a single hand. What was in a first moment confusion in the goblin's face, quickly turned into terror as a blade appeared in the mage's other hand. It's cold and bright steel constrasting with a hand covered in dark fur.
"NO! This... You did not told me THIS! NOOOOOOOOOOO--", a quick flash, lit only by the cold blue light coming from the body, and the goblin was silent. It's blood, colored black by the blue light falling over the body. This time, the liquid did not turn into smoke. The room was clear once again and everyone felt as if they had just woken up from a very vivid dream.
The ritual was complete. In the spiritual inn, a door opened. However, instead of showing the street, only a blue light came from it. It was up to Stride's to gather his courage and step through it.
Stride was finally back to the living world, and he came back screaming. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,447 | 1,391 | 75 | 256 | 2,259 | Holy shit. It was there.
Death really did follow through on her request. Stride was able to see into the living world from the blindingly blue light, and it enticed him with the sense of adventure he longed for. He took a final drink from his endless mug and then he took a deep breath before he entered the portal.
"... here we go. It's time to go and get that goddamned book."
Stride took a large step (a 'stride', if you will), and stepped directly into the light."... ... ... aaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" *steel drums*
Stride's body jolted directly up from the laying position, as his hands immediately grabbed onto his neck with terror and just to see if something was still here. Alas, there was nothing, and Stride's head consciously shook beside his body on the table, still speaking. It shook enough to allow him to see his comrades that he knew, including Grox and Spiderman, and a lot of others that he didn't recognize yet. His arms moved around to feel for the misplaced head, and finally grabbed onto the hair of the wizard and placed the severed head onto the stump neck, screwing it on like it was a bolt. The head could still easily be knocked off, but at least it was there and Stride was alive to speak.
Once more, his accent began to come into play as he spoke to the group.
"... heh. Don't get ahead of yourselves, this was Lady Death's doin'." | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,448 | 1,391 | 76 | 1,816 | 285 | The situation was a bizarre one having to follow mages the entire trip. Bob was doing his best to ask them questions, but was stone walled from every answer he was seeking. The stranger thing was how everyone was able to keep calm and collect. Anytime he started something, the felt a blissful peace and instead found himself apologizing for something that he couldn't find was his fault to start with. The mages wielded a powerful magic. Even Rage himself wasn't bellowing out his standard string of curses and tantrums. Granted, it was a better thing that it wasn't trying to squeeze his neck like it wanted last time. This was already going a lot better as they just were forced to keep marching. Bob was never lost being surrounded by his own personal symphony of machines and smoke that surrounded him constantly.
They finally approached a building, the first thing tonotice was the temperature rising far beyond even Bob's standards. He held a furnace in his face constantly, but even this was asking a bit too much. Still, he was used to it pretty quickly,t he only blessing was there was no fire that usually accompanied the intense heat. The only thing of interest was the body in the middle of blue fires. Magic, pheh, always up to something far beyond what Bob was comfortable with. The presence of a naked Goblin also was curious, the sheer amount of oil it was dancing around with. The Goblin was a bit naked, whether it was the lack of clothes or any type of gear. His face constantly washed with intense emotions, was a stark contrast to the mages. Devoid of emotion and refusing even light speech, anything was a better welcome.
The ritual went off without too many things unexpected. The sacrifice of the goblin was not met with anything other than laughter by Bob. The Goblin was a nobody and already lacked anything he wanted. The revival of the Elf was the shocker. His head twisted back on like a doll reassembled. So this was the missing member of the party the Orc decapitated. Even the Elf didn't seem to admit this was magic, just something about Lady Death?
"Well, this was a nice show and all, but now that the Elf is back. What was this freaking mission everyone has been chattering about? Who is Lady Death? Why are you so important you got a group of mages to try and bring you back to life? No one had a clue and I've lost any amount of Patience at this point. I've been shunned by mages, and far too much magic has been thrown in my face. Someone answer any of my questions!" | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,449 | 1,391 | 77 | 1,748 | 279 | By this point, Khri'zhatt had long ceased trying to make any sense of what was happening, and resigned himself to scuttling along with the group in the hope that all of this would eventually veer closer to the promised lucrative course. At least, no more immediate attempts were being made on his life, which was already an improvement over the previous state of affairs; nonetheless, the general situation was far from satisfactory, as the best part of the day had been wasted without any profit and he had been harpooned by an orc. Thrik, on the other hand, did not seem overly concerned with the nonsensical events around him; then again, this was not quite so surprising, as he never understood anything was amiss unless his master explicitly told him so. Seeing as there was no point in overloading his already limited cognitive abilities, this was not the case; and thus it was without a word that the two entered into whatever sanctum the wizards had carried the elf’s body to.
What followed certainly did nothing to improve Khri’zhatt’s opinion on either the wizards or the course of the day’s events. When he had agreed to join the party on its vaguely defined quest, there had been no mention of being boiled in some sort of magical furnace, or watching a nude, malodorous goblin perform an erotic dance around the elf’s corpse. The smell was rather irritating, as well, and he was beginning to seriously consider ordering Thrik to seize the dancing goblin and clobber the wizards with it when the green imp was finally immolated. The elf was thereupon jolted back to life, and immediately began to scream inarticulately before gradually returning to a more intelligible, if equally senseless, mode of speaking. As the former cadaver placed his head in an appropriate, if precarious, position, Khri’zhatt prepared to repeat his now all-too-frequently repeated query concerning what they were supposed to do now, but was preceded in this by Bob the goblin, who had apparently grown equally impatient. Dim as these people were, he was not about to repeat someone else’s words for their benefit, and thus limited his intervention to ”What he said. And are we now finally going to begin this quest, whatever it is? Time isn’t free, you know. Especially not my time.” | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,450 | 1,391 | 78 | 2,543 | 175 | In the journey towards a still unknown destination, the Skeleton had remained, for the lack of a better word, oddly calm, the scraping of his fingertips being the only sign of steadily rising anger. With each wave of relaxing energy affecting the skeleton less and less, it was only a matter of time before he snapped again. And the descent to what seemed to be a moist, damp dungeon most certainly did not serve to delay his impending wrath. Oh, how the Skeleton hated dungeons. Filled with ghouls and all sorts of creepy crawlies that fling themselves at newcomers, not to mention serving as a potential hub for more mages and their temporo-spatial shitery.
As they descended further into the complex, the peculiar dancing midget with it's jumblies wiggling about made the troublesome ossuary glad he could no longer smell, and, well, furious as well. Crudely shaking his hand at the goblin, whatever coil of indifference had wrapped itself around him violently snapped, as he returned to his usual ways. "WHAT THE FLYING FUCK IS THIS? WHY'S IT'S DICK HANGING OUT? WHAT THE FUCK IS IT-"
With the goblin getting murdered and Stride violently coming back to un-life, the skeleton's rage-filled voice gained a tad of confusion as well. He certainly did not expect some corpse they were carrying to spring up and reattach its' head, all while screaming something about some Lady-Death. He had signed up for a book retrieval, not high-powered wizard fuckery. Quickly pacing towards the newly reanimated elf, he attempted to grab it by its' shoulders and violently shake it, all while demanding an explanation for what just happened.
"OKAY, YOU HEADFUCKED PIECE OF GARBAGE. YOU'RE GOING TO TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON OR I'M GOING TO SHOVE YOUR LOOSE-HANGING NOGGIN WHERE THE SUN DON'T SHINE." | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,451 | 1,391 | 79 | 256 | 2,259 | Time to answer some questions I suppose?
Stride shook free and stared at the group in front of him. He didn't blame them for wondering what was going on, as it was kind of confusing at the time. The only real thing he could do right now was explain what was going on.
"Ok, so as Khri'zhatt witnessed, I was brutally decapitated by the orc that's with us in this ragtag group. While I thought I was a surefire goner, I woke up in some sort of purgatory, where I met the actual Death itself and her servant, Tim. There she told me that she had a lot on me for accomplishing this goal, which is retrieving a magical book that may already be pursued by some do-gooders. This must be where you guys met those mages who took my body here to be resurrected allowing me to continue this mission... er... get it started. Anyway, now that I'm here, we can continue this crazed quest for the damnable book."
This would've been rather serious, had Stride's head not rolled off at the end of the explanation and landed on the ground with a thud, quickly followed by "Ow fuck!". It was an interesting sight to behold, a headless half-elf stammering around looking for it's head, followed by it being screwed back on in the same manner of fashion and the elf looking back onto the party with a smirk.
"Who's ready to go fetch a book and get paid?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,452 | 1,392 | 0 | 1,299 | 2,431 | The UNSC Infinity shook as it came out of slip-space near the edge of UNSC controlled space It had managed to escape Cortana for a while but they were running out of places to jump to. Captain Thomas Lasky watched out of a window on the Infinity, a planet somewhat similar to earth was the random destination Roland had brought them too. "Roland, were are we and how long to do we have until we need to jump again." The Captain was becoming severely agitated due to Cortana's attempts to attack the Infinity, every time they got settled Cortana found them and sent the Prometheans to attack them.
"Captain Lasky, we are currently at the Inner Colony know as Ballast. Also you have a call coming in on a Secure transmission. shall i patch it through sir?" Lasky nodded and video displayed on the screen nearby.
"Ah, Captain Lasky I'm glad i could get through to you. I had no other choice but to turn to you. All our other vessels are currently defending Earth and the Major Colonies from Cortana. We've had reports come in from the UNSC units placed on Ballast stating that they are being over run by Insurrectionists. We sent Spartan Fire-team Black in a few weeks ago. We haven't heard from them since. Were asking you to send a unit to find out what happened to that team and retrieve their armour. We also need fire teams dropped around the planet to help deal with insurrectionist forces. Can you do this for us Thomas?" the picture of a grizzled UNSC commander had appeared in-front of him asking for his help. Captain Lasky couldn't help but notice the sounds of battle in the background, where was he? Earth? it didn't matter though, all that mattered was the mission at hand.
Lasky spent a few minutes trying to figure out the best plan for the fire-team to follow, but he knew more than anyone that as soon as they got their boots on the ground it would be a whole different story, they'd be under too much fire to follow the plan. "Roland, assemble Fire-team Quantum in the War room. Tell them to prepare for briefing." the small orange AI disappeared and set about following Lasky's orders.
"Fire-team Quantum, please make your way to the War room for Briefing. That's Fire-team Quantum to the War Room for Briefing" | Ok Chain of Command is as follows
Fireteam Leader: Spartan Boyd
Second in Command: Spartan Jones
Fireteam Medic: Spartan Faraday
Fireteam Sniper: Spartan Reinhardt
Fireteam Lookout: Spartan Bryne
Fireteam Mechanic: Spartan Cash
Fireteam Breacher: Spartan Parker |
51,453 | 1,392 | 1 | 1,808 | 1,380 | "Fire-team Quantum, please make your way to the War room for Briefing. That's Fire-team Quantum to the War Room for Briefing"
Milo was in the hanger already suited up besides his helmet helping the other engineers working on the Pelicans acting as a heavy lifter and hard mover. "Damn, well boys this is your problem now," He said dropping the new engine they were trying to put into the Pelican.
"Come on, it woulda been another 5 seconds Cash!" A mechanic called, angrily after him.
"Sorry mate, got big boy things to do," Milo yelled back as he went to light his cigarette. Grabbing his helmet he started walking towards command. "I wonder what lovely task they got for us today... as long as its not engineering work I guess I'm fine, tired of day in day out work cycles on this ship... maybe there really ain't no rest for the wicked" | Name: Milo Cash, O-420
Age: 22
Weapons: 2 M7/Caseless Submachine Guns, M6H2 Personal Defense Weapon System, Sticky Detonator, Mechanics Kit
Spartan Armour Ability: Invisibility - purely invisible if not moving, any motion and it becomes less effective, drains very quickly, effective for 30 seconds, unless another power source is found.
Bio: Milo was one of the last people you would expect to wind up in a combat unit. While in school he was a "punk thug" slinging grass around the streets and defacing the school and doing major graffiti works all around the city. Even played in a band "Sanghelios" but those days changed. He was accepted to university but that didn't last long because he kept up all his habits, lazy days in school, sleepless nights "working", grades were terrible, danger of flunking out, but his scores on the ASVAB and in engineering were beyond belief. ONI took notice, and when you're offered an easy job with lots of money you don't turn it down. The story of a punk becoming an agent
His job was working on new armour, processing and redefining what we had to fight with. One day though a set of armour came through the shop that Milo couldn't let go of constantly refereed to as the SHINOBI Armour set. After Milo did most of the work to allow Spartan 4 neural access to it, he demanded ONI allow him to be its user. Allowing ONI to track it and see more of it, while allowing him to use it as needed. The battle lasted until finally ONI agreed, he's under strict watch and can't speak of the armours origin. But its his now, so who cares?
Other: Often can be found writing music and playing his guitar when not playing with machines. Absolutely hates being a mechanic, often seen smoking American Spirit Blacks |
51,454 | 1,392 | 2 | 1,530 | 2,432 | Patrick Byrne
The UNSC Infinity's resident Irishman looked up from his coffee as the announcement went out, the presence of his fire-team being requested in the War Room. He sighed audibly and grabbed his helmet, downing the rest of the cup and dropping it into a collection box for dishes that was nearby. He slipped his helmet onto his head and waited for a moment, the seals around his neck hissing as they locked to the armor and the screens within providing him with a visual of the surroundings. The infamous Recluse armor he wore technically didn't exist, meaning that all records regarding a Patrick Byrne were destroyed when he requisitioned the set. For the capabilities granted by the suit, it was a worthy trade off, in his eyes at least. The enigmatic Spartan left the mess hall with the nervous glances of marines and crewmen alike following him.
A short elevator ride and a walk across the ship later, the lookout arrived in the War Room and took a seat towards the end of the large, metallic table in the center of the room. It was a common piece of technology, able to display 3-dimensional maps of battlefields and give full interaction with the ship's AI. He took a slight advantage in being the first one to the meeting location, deciding to chat up Roland to gather what information he could on the ship. "Roland, if you have a moment, could you tell me about the ship and her captain? I wanna know if we're in good hands or not." He sat rigid in his chair, years of being shot at demanding that he be ready to react to anything. | //ACCESSING PROFILE: SERGEANT PARTICK BYRNE H-212//
//ERROR – WRONG USER CREDENTIALS//
//OVERRIDE CODE: STARBREEZER//
//OVERRIDE CODE ACCEPTED//
//ACCESS GRANTED//
NAME:
Sgt. Patrick "Paddy" Byrne H-212
AGE:
34
RANK:
Sergeant
PREFERRED ARMAMENTS:
-Suppressed M395 DMR, Sentinel variant.
-M6H Magnum
-Combat knife
ARMOR ABILITIES:
Active Camouflage – At this point, a near-ancient technology that has proven too useful to do away with. The variant Patrick has acquired tends to function better than standard versions at sprinting speed, and functions for a noticeably longer period.
MILITARY HISTORY:
Sergeant Patrick Byrne signed onto the UNSC at age eighteen for reasons he was very hesitant to disclose. He seemed to struggle early in training, though the matter sorted itself out within weeks. Post-training, he signed with the 105th Shock Troops Division and was assigned to the UNSC In Amber Clad. He survived both the Battle of Earth and the Battle of Installation 05, and received a Medal of Honor for actions that involved the rescue of his entire squadron from a Covenant battalion. He was recommended for the Spartan-IV program and accepted. He was recently assigned to the UNSC Infinity for a series of classified missions. Prior to this, he requisitioned a special-order armor model.
PSYCH PROFILE:
Sgt. Byrne is an unorthodox, loose cannon and is known to make judgement calls that put him at serious risk to protect his squadron. He is, however, extremely loyal his fire team and squadron, and has put his life down for them on several occasions. He has stated that he hopes to one day settle down and start a family, though the very nature of being a Spartan makes this highly unlikely.
OTHER:
-Unwilling to discuss matters involving family members. Close observation is advised.
-Particularly skilled in espionage and infiltration operations.
-Strangely focused on a life after the war. Highly unusual for those in the Spartan programs.
-Defied orders on multiple occasions to assist fellow soldiers. Judgement calls should not be questioned unless another is put at risk.
//WARNING: TERMINATION PROTOCOLS ACTIVATED//
//ERASING FILE...//
//ERASING FILE...//
//FILE ERASED//
//LOGGING OFF// |
51,455 | 1,392 | 3 | 418 | 72 | Charlotte Boyd and Arthur "Bear" Jones
As the UNSC Infinity shook from the slip-space all Charlotte could do was groan as she once again lost her space in the reports she was reading. Of course, they narrowly escaped Cortana which technically meant that they saved her life, but Charlotte risks her life almost every day for these guys, she deserves some time to read some files without being interrupted. So she flipped her hair back and began to read the reports again when she was quickly interrupted by Lasky’s orders:
"Fire-team Quantum, please make your way to the War room for Briefing. That's Fire-team Quantum to the War Room for Briefing"
Charlotte begrudgingly rose from her seat and picked up her helmet from the small table next to her door as she made her way out. As she was making her way down to the War Room as requested, she was passing the armory when she noticed her second in command still sitting down. “Hey Jones, come on we have to get down to the War Room.” She said impatiently waiting by the door.
Arthur was sitting on a bench in the armoury, engraving something into the bullets for his DMR. He sighed as he looked up, seeing Charlotte in the hallway. "Yeah, yeah. I heard..." He grumbled. He put three bullets down on the bench and by luck they rolled perfectly to show what he was spelling. The first bullet said 'Fuck', the second 'You', and the third 'Covey'. The Bear stood up, his
height not lacking compared to Charlotte. "Sidenote: After all these missions, you still call me Jones? C'mon Charlotte..." Bear joked. He picked up his helmet on the way out of the armoury.
Charlotte groaned, “You guys and your nicknames, it is childish. We are fighting a war I prefer to stick with your given names. And please refer to me as Boyd in front of the others, it's stressful enough being the only female on our team, but losing any respect I have earned is not something I am striving to do.”
Bear chuckled on their way to the mission room. "Haha, okay Boyd..." He laughed heartily.
Arthur began to affix his helmet, tucking his beard underneath it. "What do you think we got this time? It's barely been three minutes since we exited slipspace and already command has got a mission for Quantum? Seems strange, even for Infinity..." He commented as the helmet clicked and hissed in place, his voice becoming more echoey as he used the Soldier helmet comms system.
Charlotte looked up at her second in command that towered above her, he was smart and followed her orders out of respect for who they serve. “Well, Jones...” She put an emphasis on Jones to mock him slightly and then continued “My guess is that we didn’t completely escape Cortana, but to be fair I really do not have any idea that is why we are going to the briefing.”
As they entered the War Room she was pleased to see Milo and Patrick already there “Byrne, Cash, nice to see you guys got here so quickly.” She smiled while taking a seat at the large table that Patrick was already sitting at. Now they just needed to wait for the others to arrive.
Bear walked in and separated the other way, sitting opposite from Quantum's leader, awaiting the mission brief. | Name: "Bear" Arthur Jones. A-268
Age: 28
Weapons: Advanced SAW with lower fire rate but projectiles have a proximity-fused high explosive warhead. Commonly known as "The Answer". Custom Paintjob. Secondary weapon is a Sentinel class DMR with sentinel sight and silencer. Also carries a combat knife for CQB and stealth skills.
Spartan Armour Ability: Dome shield- deployable kit that projects a bubble shield, able to withstand a large amount of damage but isn't mobile.
Bio: Arthur Jones, aka the "Bear", is a strong, capable soldier of war, perhaps one of the physically strongest Spartans out there without using any boosters. The Bear used to be a mercenary, shooting for the highest bidder and asking questions later. He was captured by UNSC forces at 17 after a mission gone wrong, and his contractor hired him to steal from a UNSC supply depot. He was caught carrying out ammo cache's with one of his cohorts. After being arrested, the Bear was kept for a year before a deal was struck. Volunteer for the Spartan Programme or be sentenced to death for crimes against the UNSC and carrying out mercenary military contracts. The choice was obvious.
Arthur accelerated at all physical exercises, especially strength focused ones. As boots on the grounds go, Arthur was one of the best. However, his reckless behaviour from being a mercenary carried through, and in simulations, heading straight first into danger was his only plan of attack, much like an ODST drop pod. Sooner or later, the idea of stealth and tactics (as well as a respect for authority) was hammered into him, and through that, he got pretty handy with a combat knife. He also became extremely proficient in heavy weaponry, learning the ins and outs of weapons like Spartan Lasers, chainguns, Hydra Lauchers, Railguns and his favourite, the SAW. The Bear is a true soldier, and is loyal too. He seems to understand the UNSC's purpose and started to come around to the cause. After five years, he truly devoted himself to the UNSC and now calls his mercenary work as "sinful" due to how his and other's mercenary work was detrimental to UNSC's progress.
The Bear is now a true Spartan, and his recklessness only ever comes to play when his teammates are in danger. He will follow orders with maximum efficiency and brutality. When you need siege, demolition and pure strength to punch through, the Bear is your call. |
51,456 | 1,392 | 4 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Parker sat in the barracks alone, sharpening his combat knife as the Infinity came out of slipspace. He started a recording via his helmet.
"ONI Specialist, Spartan 666, Designation 'Parker'. The UNSC Infinity has entered and exited slipspace for the seventh time now. We're running out of places to escape to. The brass back at HQ keep sending info of more and more colonies going dark and noting that a lot are succumbing to insurrection forces. Inner colonies have gone radio silent for a while. Presumably the AI and Promethean uprisings are causing difficulties for the forces back at home..."
"Fire-team Quantum, please make your way to the War room for Briefing. That's Fire-team Quantum to the War Room for Briefing"
"Spartan 666 signing off." Parker stopped the recording as he took his modified ODST helmet with him as he made his way to the war room.
Parker was one of the last to enter the room. His team leader Charlotte Boyd and Second in Command Bear had made their way to the two mos prominent positions at the war room table. Cash and Byrne had placed themselves in the middle of the tables seating, Byrne obviously trying to communicate with Roland. "Spartan Byrne, information on the UNSC Infinity and Captain Lasky can be found on your private terminal and data pad."
As Roland had finished his sentence a message would appear on Patrick's data pad displaying links to the information he had requested.
Parker took a seat at the furthest seat away from the head of the table. "Charlotte, Bear good to see you both getting along." He joked as he leant back in his seat. | Ok Chain of Command is as follows
Fireteam Leader: Spartan Boyd
Second in Command: Spartan Jones
Fireteam Medic: Spartan Faraday
Fireteam Sniper: Spartan Reinhardt
Fireteam Lookout: Spartan Bryne
Fireteam Mechanic: Spartan Cash
Fireteam Breacher: Spartan Parker |
51,457 | 1,392 | 5 | 1,808 | 1,380 | Milo's helmet sat at his side as he continued his cigarette, his feet up on the table leaning back in his chair. He watched as Spook () showed up, and he was business as always, ignoring Milo and talking to Roland getting information. "Another great day on the team" Milo thought to himself
The next two to show up were Mama () and Papa (), "Glad to see you two, ya'll know anymore on this? Or at least an eta on the others?"
Before Milo could even puff his cigarette though, in came the enigma..., Parker(). Him just being here put Milo on a new edge. Something was just off about him, keeping to himself. Sure thats normal for a Spartan, but he didn't even seem to have a full ship duty. And that katana, only special people could carry a weapon like that to battle, everything just stacked on to bother Milo a little bit more. ONI taught him one thing, though... don't ask questions if it bothers you, thats when you learn something you never wanted to know. "Welcome to the party Parker, ready for a new day in hell?" | Name: Milo Cash, O-420
Age: 22
Weapons: 2 M7/Caseless Submachine Guns, M6H2 Personal Defense Weapon System, Sticky Detonator, Mechanics Kit
Spartan Armour Ability: Invisibility - purely invisible if not moving, any motion and it becomes less effective, drains very quickly, effective for 30 seconds, unless another power source is found.
Bio: Milo was one of the last people you would expect to wind up in a combat unit. While in school he was a "punk thug" slinging grass around the streets and defacing the school and doing major graffiti works all around the city. Even played in a band "Sanghelios" but those days changed. He was accepted to university but that didn't last long because he kept up all his habits, lazy days in school, sleepless nights "working", grades were terrible, danger of flunking out, but his scores on the ASVAB and in engineering were beyond belief. ONI took notice, and when you're offered an easy job with lots of money you don't turn it down. The story of a punk becoming an agent
His job was working on new armour, processing and redefining what we had to fight with. One day though a set of armour came through the shop that Milo couldn't let go of constantly refereed to as the SHINOBI Armour set. After Milo did most of the work to allow Spartan 4 neural access to it, he demanded ONI allow him to be its user. Allowing ONI to track it and see more of it, while allowing him to use it as needed. The battle lasted until finally ONI agreed, he's under strict watch and can't speak of the armours origin. But its his now, so who cares?
Other: Often can be found writing music and playing his guitar when not playing with machines. Absolutely hates being a mechanic, often seen smoking American Spirit Blacks |
51,458 | 1,392 | 6 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Parker looked towards Milo under his helmet he grinned."Ready? I've been dropping in feet first since day one mate. Ive never been more ready." Parker looked around the room and wondered where Reinhardt and Faraday were. It was unusual for them to be late to a mission briefing. | Ok Chain of Command is as follows
Fireteam Leader: Spartan Boyd
Second in Command: Spartan Jones
Fireteam Medic: Spartan Faraday
Fireteam Sniper: Spartan Reinhardt
Fireteam Lookout: Spartan Bryne
Fireteam Mechanic: Spartan Cash
Fireteam Breacher: Spartan Parker |
51,459 | 1,392 | 7 | 1,109 | 118 | Charlotte Boyd
Charlotte was putting her hair up in order to fit in in her helmet. She had her helmet placed on the table in front of her facing away from herself. Parker spoke up after taking a seat far from everyone else,
"Charlotte, Bear good to see you both getting along."
Charlotte glared at him, “Parker, please call me Boyd. You should know this by now.” It was a fight she knew she could never win. Almost no one in her squad referred to her as Boyd but she was still going to try and demand respect. Then Milo piped in,
"Glad to see you two, ya'll know anymore on this? Or at least an eta on the others?"
Milo was trouble, though he is good at what he does, but his attitude can be worry-sum to most. “Well Cash, as I said to Jones on our way over here, we do not know anything as of right now but that is why we are in the briefing. Hopefully, it is something quick and easy, I was in the middle of reading over everyone’s reports.” She had a chip on her shoulder for Cash, he was one of the only Spartans that did not have a lengthy military history. Charlotte was also informed from her higher ups to keep a strict watch on him and send in reports specifically about his performance. It was a little odd to give one Spartan so much special attention, but orders are orders. | Name: Charlotte Boyd. P99
Age: 26
Weapons: Her primary is the Battle Rifle for mid ranged firefights and secondary is the Shotgun it has come in handy but only in messy situations.
Spartan Armor Ability: Regeneration Field: Allows users to release a short-range energy field that heals any nearby Spartans.
Bio: Bio: Charlotte was born on earth in a small town, she grew up a military brat having both parents serve in the UNSC. Charlotte mostly spent her childhood moving from base to base or with her Aunt who was a school teacher. It was clear that Charlotte loved to study and was very intelligent so her parents decided to use her intelligence and love to learn for military purposes.
At age 18 Charlotte was placed in a Military college to become an officer, she passed the classes with flying colors and did mediocre in the field combat. She earned the title Officer from school instead of experience, but that did not stop her from taking control of a small UNSC squad. Unfortunately for Charlotte everything went wrong for her first group she was leading, somehow they wandered into Covenant territory and ended up being surrounded by the enemy. It was a large firefight but somehow all of the soldiers made it out alive, they claimed it was due to Charlotte’s fast thinking and surprising strategic rebuttal to the original surprise attack. They were able to wipe out the Convents guard squad while completely unprepared for conflict and only minor injuries.
The story started to spread of the young Officer that put her neck on the line and outsmarted the enemy surprise attack. Charlotte was then booted up to the Spartan Program once her story spread, though she might not be the strongest Spartan she has the heart and brain of a true Spartan. She is immature and expects to be respected though she shows very little. Charlotte is a leader, but still, she is learning as she goes and dealing with people that beat their own drum does not flow well with her.
Other: |
51,460 | 1,392 | 8 | 1,530 | 2,432 | Patrick Byrne
Patrick nodded his thanks to Roland and opened up his data pad, following the link to Captain Laskey first. He leaned forward in his chair as he read, taking in all he could from the captain's public profile and drowning out the world for a moment. It wasn't until Milo spoke to Parker that he looked up from the hologram projecting from his arm. The Irishman bookmarked the line he was on and closed it, now listening to the conversations unfolding. When their commanding officer, a Charlotte Boyd, ordered their resident shock trooper to address her on a last-name basis, the lookout scoffed a bit. While he spoke, his thick accent came through his helmet quite clearly, the electronic distortion only making him harder to hear. "Ma'am, in my own experience, keepin' a distance from your team like that only makes it harder to fight for one-another. Save formalities for the reports, I say." He sat back up in his chair, his armor giving a slight thud as he rested his arms on the table. "Yeah, where are those two anyway?" | //ACCESSING PROFILE: SERGEANT PARTICK BYRNE H-212//
//ERROR – WRONG USER CREDENTIALS//
//OVERRIDE CODE: STARBREEZER//
//OVERRIDE CODE ACCEPTED//
//ACCESS GRANTED//
NAME:
Sgt. Patrick "Paddy" Byrne H-212
AGE:
34
RANK:
Sergeant
PREFERRED ARMAMENTS:
-Suppressed M395 DMR, Sentinel variant.
-M6H Magnum
-Combat knife
ARMOR ABILITIES:
Active Camouflage – At this point, a near-ancient technology that has proven too useful to do away with. The variant Patrick has acquired tends to function better than standard versions at sprinting speed, and functions for a noticeably longer period.
MILITARY HISTORY:
Sergeant Patrick Byrne signed onto the UNSC at age eighteen for reasons he was very hesitant to disclose. He seemed to struggle early in training, though the matter sorted itself out within weeks. Post-training, he signed with the 105th Shock Troops Division and was assigned to the UNSC In Amber Clad. He survived both the Battle of Earth and the Battle of Installation 05, and received a Medal of Honor for actions that involved the rescue of his entire squadron from a Covenant battalion. He was recommended for the Spartan-IV program and accepted. He was recently assigned to the UNSC Infinity for a series of classified missions. Prior to this, he requisitioned a special-order armor model.
PSYCH PROFILE:
Sgt. Byrne is an unorthodox, loose cannon and is known to make judgement calls that put him at serious risk to protect his squadron. He is, however, extremely loyal his fire team and squadron, and has put his life down for them on several occasions. He has stated that he hopes to one day settle down and start a family, though the very nature of being a Spartan makes this highly unlikely.
OTHER:
-Unwilling to discuss matters involving family members. Close observation is advised.
-Particularly skilled in espionage and infiltration operations.
-Strangely focused on a life after the war. Highly unusual for those in the Spartan programs.
-Defied orders on multiple occasions to assist fellow soldiers. Judgement calls should not be questioned unless another is put at risk.
//WARNING: TERMINATION PROTOCOLS ACTIVATED//
//ERASING FILE...//
//ERASING FILE...//
//FILE ERASED//
//LOGGING OFF// |
51,461 | 1,392 | 9 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Captain Lasky strode into the room with Spartan Palmer at his heels. "Im going to be brief spartans. We dont have a lot of time on our hands. Roland, show the projection" a projection of the planet they were orbiting. "This is Ballast, recently this is one of colonies to have gone dark after reports of insurrectionists, Spartan team Black was deployed there a few days ago and we have lost all communication with them. Your job is to get down there and find that team. destroy the armour if you find them dead. clear out the insurrectionist forces around that area as a secondary objective. Any Questions?" | Ok Chain of Command is as follows
Fireteam Leader: Spartan Boyd
Second in Command: Spartan Jones
Fireteam Medic: Spartan Faraday
Fireteam Sniper: Spartan Reinhardt
Fireteam Lookout: Spartan Bryne
Fireteam Mechanic: Spartan Cash
Fireteam Breacher: Spartan Parker |
51,462 | 1,392 | 10 | 1,530 | 2,432 | Patrick Byrne
Patrick's hand raised to about shoulder height as he spoke, a habit that had never died since his schooling days. "Sir, is recovery an option? We could stand to learn a lot from damage to the armor n' on-board AIs. That, n' we can give the men n' women a proper burial." His hand dropped back to the table when he finished. He looked up at the hologram of the planet, his eyes darting between the continents and oceans, mountains and man-made structures... for one reason or another, this planet reminded him of Reach, a place that used to be as important to humanity as Earth. The Irishman's hand rose once again, noticeably slower than the first time. "Sir, what's the name o' this planet?" The appendage dropped once again and he fell silent. | //ACCESSING PROFILE: SERGEANT PARTICK BYRNE H-212//
//ERROR – WRONG USER CREDENTIALS//
//OVERRIDE CODE: STARBREEZER//
//OVERRIDE CODE ACCEPTED//
//ACCESS GRANTED//
NAME:
Sgt. Patrick "Paddy" Byrne H-212
AGE:
34
RANK:
Sergeant
PREFERRED ARMAMENTS:
-Suppressed M395 DMR, Sentinel variant.
-M6H Magnum
-Combat knife
ARMOR ABILITIES:
Active Camouflage – At this point, a near-ancient technology that has proven too useful to do away with. The variant Patrick has acquired tends to function better than standard versions at sprinting speed, and functions for a noticeably longer period.
MILITARY HISTORY:
Sergeant Patrick Byrne signed onto the UNSC at age eighteen for reasons he was very hesitant to disclose. He seemed to struggle early in training, though the matter sorted itself out within weeks. Post-training, he signed with the 105th Shock Troops Division and was assigned to the UNSC In Amber Clad. He survived both the Battle of Earth and the Battle of Installation 05, and received a Medal of Honor for actions that involved the rescue of his entire squadron from a Covenant battalion. He was recommended for the Spartan-IV program and accepted. He was recently assigned to the UNSC Infinity for a series of classified missions. Prior to this, he requisitioned a special-order armor model.
PSYCH PROFILE:
Sgt. Byrne is an unorthodox, loose cannon and is known to make judgement calls that put him at serious risk to protect his squadron. He is, however, extremely loyal his fire team and squadron, and has put his life down for them on several occasions. He has stated that he hopes to one day settle down and start a family, though the very nature of being a Spartan makes this highly unlikely.
OTHER:
-Unwilling to discuss matters involving family members. Close observation is advised.
-Particularly skilled in espionage and infiltration operations.
-Strangely focused on a life after the war. Highly unusual for those in the Spartan programs.
-Defied orders on multiple occasions to assist fellow soldiers. Judgement calls should not be questioned unless another is put at risk.
//WARNING: TERMINATION PROTOCOLS ACTIVATED//
//ERASING FILE...//
//ERASING FILE...//
//FILE ERASED//
//LOGGING OFF// |
51,463 | 1,392 | 11 | 1,109 | 118 | Charlotte Boyd
Charlotte listened intently to the instructions given by Captain Lasky, as he spoke she watched his lips, to make sure that she stayed completely focused. When Roland showed the projection of the planet, Charlotte started to study the planet intently making a note of each notable landmark for recognition once on the planet. Once Captain Lasky was done he asked if everyone had any questions, of course, normally Charlotte would be the first one to ask but Patrick beat her to the punch with a very sensible question. Obviously to Charlotte, carrying the extra dead weight (literally) would slow the squad down greatly, but it was a good idea so she would let Lasky decide instead of putting her opinion in the mix. After a few more seconds Patrick’s had once risen again:
"Sir, what's the name o' this planet?"
Charlotte did not care much about the planets name, so she quickly piped up with the question “How will we locate Spartan team Black, once we are down there?” | Name: Charlotte Boyd. P99
Age: 26
Weapons: Her primary is the Battle Rifle for mid ranged firefights and secondary is the Shotgun it has come in handy but only in messy situations.
Spartan Armor Ability: Regeneration Field: Allows users to release a short-range energy field that heals any nearby Spartans.
Bio: Bio: Charlotte was born on earth in a small town, she grew up a military brat having both parents serve in the UNSC. Charlotte mostly spent her childhood moving from base to base or with her Aunt who was a school teacher. It was clear that Charlotte loved to study and was very intelligent so her parents decided to use her intelligence and love to learn for military purposes.
At age 18 Charlotte was placed in a Military college to become an officer, she passed the classes with flying colors and did mediocre in the field combat. She earned the title Officer from school instead of experience, but that did not stop her from taking control of a small UNSC squad. Unfortunately for Charlotte everything went wrong for her first group she was leading, somehow they wandered into Covenant territory and ended up being surrounded by the enemy. It was a large firefight but somehow all of the soldiers made it out alive, they claimed it was due to Charlotte’s fast thinking and surprising strategic rebuttal to the original surprise attack. They were able to wipe out the Convents guard squad while completely unprepared for conflict and only minor injuries.
The story started to spread of the young Officer that put her neck on the line and outsmarted the enemy surprise attack. Charlotte was then booted up to the Spartan Program once her story spread, though she might not be the strongest Spartan she has the heart and brain of a true Spartan. She is immature and expects to be respected though she shows very little. Charlotte is a leader, but still, she is learning as she goes and dealing with people that beat their own drum does not flow well with her.
Other: |
51,464 | 1,392 | 12 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Lasky hung his head for a moment. "Unfortunately spartan, retrieval is not an option this time. The extra weight will slow your team down and i cant risk losing anymore fireteams. if your concerned about a burial bring back their tags if that will help put your mind at rest." He waited for a moment before moving onto Charlotte's question. "While we don't have an exact location at this point in time we can however get one relatively easily. Roland if you'd care to explain."
The hologram that was previously displaying a planet changed into a Mark V variant of the spartan armour. "Each set of Mark V armour is equipped with an emergency tracking device in the neck were usually an AI implant would be located. Should a spartan be killed or should a ship suspect them of going rogue the emergency tracker can be enabled from the Infinity or any other ship of its class. The first objective once you hit the ground will be to clear an LZ for UNSC troops to land, from there you'll be creating a base of operations in one the buildings. The second objective will be to find Fireteam black. Once the tracker is active its beacon will appear on your heads up display. I advise caution however as you'll not be the only ones able to see its beacon."
Lasky stepped back into view. "That being said, id be on your way spartans. deploy by pelican to get groundside as fast as possible" | Ok Chain of Command is as follows
Fireteam Leader: Spartan Boyd
Second in Command: Spartan Jones
Fireteam Medic: Spartan Faraday
Fireteam Sniper: Spartan Reinhardt
Fireteam Lookout: Spartan Bryne
Fireteam Mechanic: Spartan Cash
Fireteam Breacher: Spartan Parker |
51,465 | 1,392 | 13 | 1,808 | 1,380 | "That being said, id be on your way spartans. deploy by pelican to get groundside as fast as possible"
"Well, you heard the man," Milo said taking one last puff of his cigarette before putting it out on his forearm. Finally a change of pace from the ship work. Getting up and walking off," Mama, Papa, Spook, Enigma, and Milo the merry band of fellows, off to who knows what and where, what danger, what joy, what new world awaits, I guess our other two are no where, Lazy sleepers, lazy days, lets get moving," with that Milo locked his helmet on. Heading right back to where he came from, the hanger.
"Milo, you bastard, come back to finish the job?" the same mechanic from earlier
"Not my problem, Laskey has other plans for me mate. I know you're gonna miss me, but try to hold it in. I'll be back eventually." The blatant smart ass tones coming out as he grabbed his gear from the locker by the bay.
On the Pelican he took his normal seat, co-pilot. He could fly, but then who would bring it back? | Name: Milo Cash, O-420
Age: 22
Weapons: 2 M7/Caseless Submachine Guns, M6H2 Personal Defense Weapon System, Sticky Detonator, Mechanics Kit
Spartan Armour Ability: Invisibility - purely invisible if not moving, any motion and it becomes less effective, drains very quickly, effective for 30 seconds, unless another power source is found.
Bio: Milo was one of the last people you would expect to wind up in a combat unit. While in school he was a "punk thug" slinging grass around the streets and defacing the school and doing major graffiti works all around the city. Even played in a band "Sanghelios" but those days changed. He was accepted to university but that didn't last long because he kept up all his habits, lazy days in school, sleepless nights "working", grades were terrible, danger of flunking out, but his scores on the ASVAB and in engineering were beyond belief. ONI took notice, and when you're offered an easy job with lots of money you don't turn it down. The story of a punk becoming an agent
His job was working on new armour, processing and redefining what we had to fight with. One day though a set of armour came through the shop that Milo couldn't let go of constantly refereed to as the SHINOBI Armour set. After Milo did most of the work to allow Spartan 4 neural access to it, he demanded ONI allow him to be its user. Allowing ONI to track it and see more of it, while allowing him to use it as needed. The battle lasted until finally ONI agreed, he's under strict watch and can't speak of the armours origin. But its his now, so who cares?
Other: Often can be found writing music and playing his guitar when not playing with machines. Absolutely hates being a mechanic, often seen smoking American Spirit Blacks |
51,466 | 1,393 | 0 | 668 | 1,474 | In the coastal metropolis of Modern City, Georgia, a ship transporting a cargo of chemicals explodes just off the coast and sinks into the bay. This tragic disaster will give rise to a variety of people developing superhuman abilities. They are Meta-Humans, the first of their kind. But are they friend or foe? Hero... or villain?
It was morning, well, the tail of end of the morning hours anyway. At almost 11:30 AM, Modern City was well into its busy day, citizens traversing to all manner of places for all manner of reasons. Some were taking an early lunch break, others perhaps were heading into work late that day for one reason or another. Either way, it was sunny and the city was bustling with its usual daily activity.
At city hall, the mayor's office to be exact, Mr. Rick Wellington sat at his desk with an exasperated expression. The incident a few months back had given rise to certain individuals with unusual abilities, Meta-Humans, he believed they'd been dubbed. Well, those Meta-Humans were causing all sorts of headaches for his office, what with the political controversy that had sprang up with their appearance. Not only that, but the ones who apparently decided to either take the law into their own hands or use their power for crime were also being rather irritating thorns in the Mayor's side, mostly because of the collateral damage they had a tendency to cause whenever they decided butt heads with each other. And all it ever meant was even more paperwork for his office and even more of the city's budget getting spent to keep these things in check.
"Ms. Andrews to see you, sir." the receptionist's voice on the intercom snapped Wellington out of his thoughts.
"Send her in." he responded in kind. A moment later his office door opened, and in walked his Deputy Mayor, Claire Andrews. Ms. Andrews was lovely, but sharp young woman with blond hair she almost always kept tied up in some form of ponytail or the like. She wore a slim pair of glasses and a woman's business suit. As usual, her tablet stayed in her hand, in fact she was inputting something on it as she entered, "Let me guess, more paperwork?" he asked in an incredulous. Honestly that seemed to be all he ever did anymore.
"Actually, sir, you asked me to remind you about your 12 o' clock meeting? It's close to that time." Claire said, her voice even and her eyes never leaving the tablet's screen.
"Oh, right..." Wellington checked his watch and stood up, "...thank you, Claire. Be a dear and look after the office for an hour or so 'til I get back?" he asked, then walked out the door without awaiting a response.
When he was gone, Claire briefly put down the tablet and rubbed her temples, "Sure, Mr. Mayor, I'm already practically running the city for you, may as well make it official and sit at your desk while I'm at it." she muttered to herself under her breath. She wasn't exactly exaggerating, either. Wellington was charismatic and his family-man persona earned him popularity, but the man was terrible at management and so it ended up falling to her to take care of that, while he essentially just made speeches and signed papers.
"Gretta, please have all calls to my office redirected to Mr. Wellington's, please. Looks like I'm gonna be in here a while." she spoke to the intercom, then sat in Wellington's chair. Once again she picked up her tablet, only now she was not only working on it but also simultaneously on Wellington's computer as well. Quite the multi-tasker, Claire, always was. Before she could get too wrapped up in work, she remembered something and paused her work in order to use her cell phone. Finding the number she needed to dial, she pressed the call button and waited for an answer.
In a newly refurbished office in the downtown area, a man sat at his rather empty desk. He could see the sign of his office on the window though he letters were backwards in order to be read from the outside. They read 'Andrews Detective Agency', and Carter sighed to himself. He sometimes wondered if perhaps he should change the name of the office to something a little more exciting, but no ideas ever came to him. He sure as hell wasn't gonna call it "Condor Detective Agency" since that would have made his secret identity way too obvious. He wondered if maybe he should ask someone for suggestions, like Eli maybe.
Elliot Sinclair, Eli to her friends, was a young woman Carter met on a previous case. Actually, it was his first real case since opening the office, now that he thought about it. Anyway, the case had him investigating a college student that was said to be able to shoot lasers from his eyes and was apparently using that to hold up convenient stores. Well, as it so happened Eli was investigating the same Meta-Human, and so Carter had bumped into her while looking into the student. They seemed to hit it off pretty well, or at least Carter thought so, and they ended up working together to find the guy. That was how Carter learned about Eli's little talent, her ability to see visions of an object's history. It made finding the Meta-Human a complete walk in the park, and once they did it was just a matter of taking him down as Condor. Funnily enough, Eli discovered Carter's secret by happenstance, essentially her ability kicked in when she came into contact with Condor, and she saw the history of the suit and that it was made by Carter. In the end, Carter told her that he could definitely use a talent like hers in his cases if she was ever interested, though he had a feeling she probably wouldn't be.
The sound of his cell phone snapped Carter back into reality. He fumbled around with it until he clicked the answer button, "Hello? Andrews Detective Office, you got mysteries, I got answers." he said, greeting the caller with his office's slogan. It wasn't exactly the greatest slogan in the world, in fact it was kinda corny.
"I thought you said you would change that stupid slogan?" asked the voice of his sister, Claire.
"Huh? Oh, hey, sis! Uh yeah... I, uh... I'm working on it," he answered, feeling a bit embarrassed, "So what's up, anyway?"
"It's about lunch. Doesn't look like I can make it today." Claire answered bluntly.
"Aw, too bad. You sure you can't skip out on the office for a break?" asked Carter nonchalantly.
""Skip out"? What are you, 16, Carter? We're not in school, you know. And no, I can't get out of the office, Wellington's at a meeting and decided to leave his office in my care."
"Oh, playing office sitter again, huh?" asked Carter, knowing how much she hated when Wellington did that, "Okay well, another day I guess. Is tomorrow open?"
"We'll see." she answered.
"'Kay. Talk to ya later, sis." Carter said, and then they hung up, "Well, crap." Carter said to himself, leaning his chair back and even lazily propping his feet on the desk, "There goes my afternoon." | Name: Carter Andrews
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Appearance
Alias: Condor
Costume
Meta-Human Power: Apart having developed a pair of bird-like wings from his arms/shoulders, Carter also seems able to focus his eyes into a sort of binocular vision, similar to that of a hawk or other bird of prey.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Well for one thing the wings themselves have proven difficult to hide when he's not in costume. On a more severe note, his vision is sometimes difficult to control, at times even painful for his eyes.
Personality: Carter is, for the most part, a nice enough guy but with a bit of a devil-may-care attitude thrown into the mix. Strangely, he took to the whole superhero thing rather quickly, though that may have just been a way for him not to have to think about the severity of the explosion incident, choosing instead to devote his energy into beating up bad guys since according to him that is much less stressful. Don't let his attitude fool you, though, underneath his lazy and carefree expression is a surprisingly keen eye and sharp instinct that he only rarely shows off.
Background: Carter's a born-and-raised Modern City Georgian. He was the second child of his family, the first being his sister Claire. The brother and sister were pretty close growing up, probably the reason why she's so willing to put up with his shenanigans despite him supposedly driving her up the wall. Both of their parents worked as public servants, their mother Alice being the current Director of Modern City General Hospital and their father Joe (or Joseph as he's known professionally) a judge, and a pretty well-known one at that.
Carter, like his dad, decided early on to pursue a career in law. Though unlike Joe, Carter's interest was instead firmly in law enforcement, and so rather than a legal career, he instead became a cop. Claire was a bit of an odd duck, pursuing neither law nor medicine and instead gained a career in politics, hence her current position as Deputy Mayor under Mayor Wellington. As for Carter, he was a good enough cop, though his work was never particularly outstanding.
In fact, Carter was on duty on the day of the explosion, patrolling at the docks with his partner, James. Naturally, the two responded immediately and went to investigate closer. Though that might have been their undoing in the end. As they moved in closer to the beach, they came across people that were horribly effected by the chemicals, some mutating before their very eyes. One of the mutated people, likely driven mad by the chemical exposure, lashed out at them. Carter instinctively pulled his gun to shoot, but the bullets did nothing to the creature. It lunged for Carter, but James shoved him out of the way, taking the attack instead. Carter lost consciousness, awakening some time later in a hospital room with his parents and sister gathered around him.
He went through the reports and discovered that James was among the casualties. From there things just... spiraled for Carter. He ended up quitting the force and started drinking more. His mysterious wings started growing from his shoulder blades and that certainly didn't help matters. He had to move out of his place and into a cheaper apartment, but in that process he was going through his old stuff and found something. They were some old comic books he used to read as a kid, he remembered them being what inspired him to become a cop in the first place, to catch bad guys and put them away like the heroes in the masks. Then he was struck with an idea. Using inspiration from some of the characters in his old comic book collection, he managed to put together a costume, then all he needed was a name. Remembering that birds of prey were a commonly used motif for naming things in Modern City, he decided to do the same for himself, soon settling on the name Condor.
Whatever depression he'd once had seemed to vanish after this. He was back to being the carefree guy he used to be. Realizing that he needed a day job, he decided to put his police training to a new use by opening up a small private eye agency, even advertizing that cases involving Meta-Humans were his specialty in order to attract clients as well as leads on other Meta-Humans like himself.
Other: Nothing in particular at this time. |
51,467 | 1,393 | 1 | 2,031 | 6,493 | No man, please. I don't know shut about what you're lookin' for. the gangster pleaded as he tried to escape the monster in front of him.
Average height, and black haired the meta human was almost normal, except until he took off his sunglasses. The same gaping maws of teeth had greeted the gang in their hideout. They were part of the sudden influx of criminals that had immigrated into the city after the explosion. They primarily focused on the burgeoning drug trade in the now abandoned port area.
"Sorry buddy, but you and your chucklefuck pals have caught the interest of the police department," the meta human replied, surrounded by the broken corpses the criminals comrades, "'sides, it's your fault for getting involved the drug trade." Then, stopping low, the monstrous man retrieved his knife from the neck of one of the gangsters, and began prowling towards the man on the ground, who was attempting to crawl away. He immediately began wetting himsel in fear.
"Relax," the bloodied T-shirt clad man knelt to eye level to the gangster, and brought the knife down on, "It's for a good cause." Slitting the man's neck, the man began his grisly.collection of the dead men's eyes. Popping them leaders eye into his socket, and learned that there was going.to be a drug deal that evening. Quickly, the survivor called a special number, and reported his findings.!? | Name: Elliot Sinclair
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Cherokee
Appearance
Alias: Retro
Costume: Black neoprene suit with black utility belt with 6 pouches a full hood and gloves
Front right pouch 8 filter masks
Right hip pouch night vision goggles
Right rear pouch Evidence bags and vials
Front left pouch UV flashlight and first aid kit
Left hip pouch Burner cell phone
Left rear pouch 24 Caltrops
Meta-Human Power:
Omnilingualism Elli can speak, write, understand and communicate in any language including computer codes, languages that have never been heard before, sign language (even lip-reading), illegible words, and backwards speech and writing:
Psychometry Elli obtains historical memories or sensations concerning beings and objects by touching them. With objects she gains the knowledge including the makers, users, and even those who have on passing used the object, and what has been done with it. With living beings or parts of the body she learns their general life-history, but doesn't gain anything of what they were thinking or feeling.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
Eli has trouble sometimes connecting with what she calls present time. When this happens her perception of the world isn't based on what is happening in real time but on what might have happened an hour, a day or a week ago. This usually only happens after prolonged use of her Psychometry ability.
Personality: Eli is a very friendly person who enjoys helping people in need. She is driven by a sense of justice that means she'll go the distance to see that those who commit injustice are brought to their due.
Background: Eli was born on Strange Island in the Okefenokee Swamp in the cabin her parents live in even now. Frank Sinclair her father is a game warden and her mother Elizabeth a herpetologist who specializes in taxonomy and physiology of the reptiles that live in the southeast of the United States.
It was from her parents that Eli learned her dedication to scholastic pursuits and right and wrong.
An excellent student Eli graduated from High School with a 4.0 average and a scholarship.
Shortly after graduation Eli began attending Modern Tech studying oceanology and marine science. It was while working on a project within the bay of Modern City that Eli was exposed to the chemicals of the event that caused the Meta Mutations. Her boat was swamped and she and her lab partner were dumped into the toxic waters.
She survived for five hours even being swept partly out the sea where she was found by a Coast Guard Rescue boat that was searching the area; her lab partner's body was never found.
Close to the epicenter of the event Eli wasn't affected as serverly as others who were as exposed. She is still a student at Modern Tech and has shifted her focus to Marine Genetics and Micro biology.
Other: Eli has always been an athletic girl competing in Gymnastics and Distance running so her physical condition flexibility and endurance are better than average.
She supplemented her scholarship before the accident working as a museum guide where she still works on her free days when not performing her school work. |
51,468 | 1,393 | 2 | 991 | 1,987 | Four men sat at a circular table at the back of a small restaurant in the quieter part of Modern City. A fifth empty chair at the table, cold from waiting for its occupant. The joint itself was closed to the public, these men having reserved it all to themselves for their meeting. One of them also 'convincing' the owner to not have any of the employees go to work when the meeting took place. The four figures were similarly dressed, suits of varying expensiveness. One of the men had a cigarette in his hand which he took a smoke of as unbeknownst to the group the fifth man entered the building through the side kitchen door flanked by two accomplices. Truthfully the two were nothing more than grunts, but reliable and trustworthy ones, the kind you'd like to have with you if the meeting went to hell.
The fifth player appeared in the dining room, his eyes scanning the room for moment until he found the table in the back. His two grunts flanking off to another table in which more of their type that had accompanied the other men were playing cards. As the man approached the table he felt the eyes of the four already seated glance up at him, one of them moving his lips to speak.
"Rocco, what took you so long? We've been sitting here twiddling our thumbs." One of them said, an older man, his hair gray, eyes honest.
"Traffic." The one the others figured to be Rocco replied as he took his seat in the empty chair, all five men at the table now, the meeting ready to commence.
"So, between the cops and the super freaks business has gotten a lot harder of late. Ever since that tanker sank those punks have been a thorn in our side. Getting involved in our deals, dragging people to the pigs. It's a mess." The cigarette smoking man at the table said, a pair of sunglasses over his face, he capped the words by putting out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
"What do they think they are? They've been reading too many of those comics, real life ain't anything like that stuff." Another man at the table replied, the youngest looking one there, his arms folded, a glass of whiskey in front of him.
"At least you can pay off the cops. Haven't been able to pay off the supermen, they're acting all heroic out of boredom I think." Another added.
"Now you all know that I have a shipment of guns coming into the port, but it's at risk with those freaks running around," The man who addressed Rocco pitched in, then glanced over at Rocco. "They've been giving you trouble too?"
"Yeah, but I think I have a plan for them." He said, his voice unusually calm like the topic of their conversation wasn't even an issue to him or his dealings.
"It's not that easy, Rocco, they're freaks, you can't just shoot them, some of them are so fast they dodge bullets, others don't even get hurt by them." The man who poised the question said, almost lecturing Rocco.
"Oh I know."
"What does that mean?" The sunglasses wearing man asked, one eyebrow raised. Now was the time for Rocco to disappear.
"Experience of the personal type." Rocco said, then rose from his seat and changed form before the criminal's eyes, turning from a shorter, middle aged man with a thick goatee to a clean cut, almost pretty man of impeccable style. The four men all reacted in different ways, all forms of surprise at the act they had witnessed, one of which had rose to his feet, pointing a pistol at the shapeshifter.
"You're one of them! You're not Rocco, he's not one of those things. What the hell is going on? What did you do with him?" The man said as the shapeshifter gave him a glance, the others not yet having made a move, though another at the table had his hand on the revolver tucked inside of his jacket. The display had also drawn the attention of the other men in the room, their eyes set firmly on the table, some of them too clenching firearms, waiting for the signal from their bosses.
"Oh don't worry, he's fine, well, not dead, let's put it that way. You are right though, I am one of those things, but a more refined breed who sees the potential for my gifts. I wouldn't have let you bask in my presence if I didn't, you might have heard of me. The name's Melion." The shapeshifter said, having raised both arms to show he was not a threat.
"I say we put a bullet right in this guy's head, he can't possibly survive that." Another man at the table said, his gun drawn, he now out of his seat.
"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." Melion said, his facial expression a straight one.
"The hell does that mean?"
"Those 'freaks' you were having a chat about? They know all about you all, maybe not me, I hope not me, but many of them want to stomp you out, see you in chains. I do not want that, I can help each of you, my powers allow me to become anyone I want, I could turn myself into the mayor and run the town in his place, the President and run the country, the possibilities are endless." Melion said, a smirk forming on his face.
"Why do you want to help us? What's in it for you?" One of them asked, one of them men still seated.
"Well, we share the same interests, I too do not like the others like me, they don't realize what they can accomplish. We can work something out, if not then I'll quietly leave and release Rocco back into your hands, you'll never hear a peep from my beautiful mouth again." Melion said, taking a seat once more, one of the men still with his gun pointed at the meta-human.
"I don't like it, what if he's working with the cops?" The man in shades asked the others.
"Would I have exposed myself if I was?" Melion asked back.
"He's not wrong. I never liked Rocco anyway, guy was an asshole." One of them said as two of the others nodded in agreement.
"We'll give it a shot, but you'll be watched like a fox. One bad move and you'll be 100 feet underwater with cinderblocks tied to your ankles."
"I assure you, I will be of the greatest assistance." Melion said with a smile, hiding more complicated intentions, unbeknownst to the gangsters. | Name: Felix Dale
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Appearance
Alias: Melion
Costume: Due to his powers he does not really wear a costume. In his default form he tends to stick to finely made clothing that is most often a dark colored suit.
Meta-Human Power: Felix's power is Shapeshifting which allows him to transform his own form into that of another person's. He is able to imitate a person's voice and even the appearance of clothing. His body mass is not fixed due to his powers and he is able to imitate a wide range of people as long as they are human beings. The catch being that he has to have actually seen the person, he can't shapeshift into someone he's never seen.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: He automatically reverts back to his original form if he is asleep or unconscious. While he is able to imitate appearances and voices personalities are a different thing. If he were to encounter someone who knows the real person he was shifted as then he would be outed quickly. If he ever shapeshifts into a well known person than he makes sure to prepare ahead of time by studying the person extensively, this however is not perfect.
The shapeshifting process itself is also incredibly painful for him. If he is hit hard enough while in another form then the power of the attack will cause him to forcefully revert back to his original form. Due in part to this he strongly avoids close range combat while in another's form.
Personality: Felix is quite the narcissist, boasting delusions of grandeur, an incredibly high sense of self importance and a near total lack of empathy. He is selfish and always puts himself first, rarely even considering other people unless he has to use them in order to advance his own goals. He's manipulative, ruthless but intelligent, often creating plans ahead of time.
He's a flirt who can't resist a pretty face and will vigorously try to hit on the target of his affections until they give him an answer. Felix will sometimes crack jokes, often in the most improper situations. He enjoys explosions and creating chaos, but only if they involve him getting what he wants. He also enjoys playing tricks on people. He can't stand when he doesn't and just despises the thought of losing.
Background:
Felix very rarely talks about his past, especially his life before he gained his powers, but he did in fact have a life before becoming a shapeshifter. He was born into a middle class family, the only child of a plumber and high school teacher. He also wasn't born in Modern City, actually hailing from Brooklyn, New York. He had a boring, typical childhood, finishing high school as a solid student, having a girlfriend, occasionally partying, nothing odd.
It was after graduating college that he moved to Modern City, accepting a job offer for an accounting firm in the area. He was a different person before he powers, much kinder and far less of a narcissist. His life changed permanently when the accident occured, Felix jogging on the beach when the accident occurred and he like many others was overcome by the chemicals.
He was overcome by extreme pain as he felt his skin literally crawling, feeling his form changing rapidly into a multitude of people. The incident was incredibly traumatic and put him down the path which lead to his personality change, after he began to coup with his powers and realize that he could do whatever he wanted, his power allowing him to commit all kinds of acts.
He started off small, pick-pocketing, shoplifting, getting a small thrill from the criminal deeds, as well as a profit, his powers allowing him to escape any suspicion. Eventually he got into larger crimes, most notably a bank robbery. That lead him to get involved with other criminals, which would lead him to establish a reputation, this in part created from his newly minted person, Melion, a name taken from an old Breton lai in which a knight named Melion who served King Arthur transformed into a wolf after a promise to his wife who left him for his squire. He felt it was a fitting alias to take.
Other:
- He's a fan of old literature, poetry and fairy tales. Particularly the work of William Shakespeare.
- Is a capable marksman and a decent brawler, though he prefers to use guns. |
51,469 | 1,393 | 3 | 2,375 | 345 | Afternoon!, the old man greeted, almost excitedly, reacting to all the daily salutations he'd receive from the townspeople when up for his scheduled morning jog. Taking a hike around the Modern City park, paying a visit to some of the city's famous landmarks and then stopping in front of the nursing home where his Mother, and his only family as of yet, was facilitated. Such a prolonged trip would totally destroy a lesser man, however Lance had previously inhaled a healthy dose of chemicals which increased his stamina and physical strength. As a matter of fact, the only thing preventing him from completing his itinerary in about 10 minutes was the fact that it would arouse suspicion, and that's the last thing he wanted. Plus, he enjoyed the small talk he'd squeeze out of some of his acquaintances.
Pausing in front of the nursing home, barely sweating, he ran his fingers through his graying hair and made sure that he wouldn't appear before his Mum looking like a slouch. Even at the considerable age of 57, he still saw himself as a Momma's boy. Confidently making his way into the living room which, as expected, was crowded with old people, his eyes moved around until he singled out an old woman seated on an armchair and knitting. She was your standard urban Mom; short gray hair, glasses and rocking a pair of white, silk pajamas. Putting on a smirk, he grabbed a stool to his right then approached her, maintaining the same pace. It was not only 'till he placed the stool near her that she actually noticed the scruffy man standing above. Shifting her sight back at her garment, seemingly unimpressed, she exclaimed "You know, you don't have to visit me every day."
"It's not big deal. I'm just checking up on you", Lance responded, already used to her bickering. She had gotten grumpy after reaching her 70s, but still maintained the adorableness.
"Well, you shouldn't.", she rapidly came back, a noticeable voice crack occurring as she did. She then proceeded, her tone getting calmer while she simultaneously resumed knitting. "It's not like there's going to be a robbery in a nursing home.", her last sentence made it obvious that she was well aware of his secret identity.
Unfazed, Lance chortled at Francis' grumpiness, putting his hand on her shoulder before adding "I'd pity the robber who would choose you as a victim. I don't think anyone deserves to be subjected to your wrath."
Lance's last sentence got his Mom lightened up too, as she smiled at his little joke. It wasn't a lasting smile - more like a blink and you'll miss it moment, but Lance caught it and knew that he finally cracked her shell. She remained serious for the duration of their daily conversation, then it was time for old man Furlong to change his attire and get down to attending real business. His escapades as the vigilante "Shepherd" got the mayor worried. and he had to do something about it. He needed to assert that he wouldn't pose a threat in the future. But how? | Name: Lance Furlong
Age: 57
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Canadian, Caucasian.
Stands at around 5'9 and weighs 195 pounds, his body being mostly muscles with the exception of a few sagging wrinkles around his abdomen. Nevertheless pretty impressive for a man who is close to retirement.
Alias: Shepherd
Costume: As one would expect from 50 + year old man, Lance isn't so much about theatrics as he is about functionality. That's why his vigilante attire mostly consists of a ballistic face mask and a tactical operation suit, courtesy of his friends over at CIA.
Meta-Human Power:
Enhanced Strength; Due to his exposure to the chemicals, Lance underwent through a significant change in agility and strength. His fading natural strength got amplified about four or five times more, giving him the ability to effortlessly lift a dining table with only one of his hands. His agility upgraded to the point he could give the world's fastest gymnast a run for his money, and he has now enough stamina to wrestle two bears at the same time. If you need a concrete example, think MCU Captain America, only less tolerant to falling from high heights.
Keen Intellect and Eidetic Memory; While not even certain if it's a superpower, the blast may have also affected Lance's then already decent intellect and may have stretched his memory storage. He can now learn new languages in a couple of weeks, remember trivial things after being subjected to them for the first time, things that your average human wouldn't be able to notice that fast. He is also pretty much able to recreate in painstaking detail any area that he has visited after he got his superpowers.
Lance is also renowned to be a thinker, capable of devising strategies and uncovering enemy weaknesses in a short amount of time.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: While he made it out of the blast injury-free and with no third leg or some similar mutation, the blast triggered his PTSDs and enhanced their influence. Now, whenever he has a bad dream, a flashback to a terrible experience or something of the like, he gets a terrible headache which might distract him and result in his demise, depending on how heated the situation is.
Personality: For a man who has been to hell and back, you'd expect Lance to be some sort of a grumpy, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-lawn type of guy, but surprisingly he is quite the opposite. Probably regarded as his greatest natural ability, Old man Furlong is mostly notable for his eccentric and somewhat charming behavior, choosing to face all the obstacles coming his way with a smile. He also cherishes fighting other metahumans that equal or surpass him in terms of battle capabilities, and never refuses spars. However, once he deducts that a certain person is capable of great inconvenience, he won't kid around and will do his utmost to remove said person out of the equation. That's when his cold and calculating persona surfaces. He also suffers a great deal from the horrors of his past, but makes an effort to hide his disturbances most of the time.
As a former spy, he doesn't follow any code of conduct and shows antipathy to those who do, arguing that there's no place for rules in a war zone. Also, due to mostly being the person with the most experience, he feels somewhat inclined to give advice to his young colleagues when he notices they're straying away, something which happens a lot in his line of work. He also possesses a strong sense of humor to correlate with his unusual attitude.
Background: Born in Vancouver, Canada in 5 March of 1958, to a family of butchers, Lance had a life expectancy of about four years. His family faced constant harassment from a local gang which were running an extortion ring. One thing led to another, and fast forward to 6 months old Lance moving to Louisiana with his mother, shortly after his father's murder by the hands of one of those gang members. Their first house was a small, abandoned farm which her mother restored with the help of a couple of friends she had made on the way. After giving the farm it's previous glory, they managed to sell it and bought a small house in Modern City, Georgia. Adoring the place's peaceful nature, Lance became attached to it, participating in several pro-environment movements and shooting down his Mom's suggestions to move to another place.
At the age of 18, Lance was told the truth about his father. Up until then, he was fed a bittersweet lie; that his father had died in an unfortunate car accident. Upon being told the truth, young Lance worked double jobs just so that he could collect enough money to go to Vancouver and visit his father's grave, and also perhaps interview people close to his father about his death. While there, he found out that his father's killer was alive, but had turned into a hermit due to suffering from a bad case of Parkinson's. Lance, much to the others' chagrin, decided to confront his father's killer and make him suffer for his sins, but managed to hold himself back after witnessing the man had become impotent and was suffering enough. He decided to end his stint and make his way back to Georgia.
Following his return in the United States of America, Furlong's potential and his shenanigans in Canada piqued the attention of a CIA handler who was willing to turn Furlong into a killing machine and incorporate him within the ranks of the Special Activities Division. While he underwent through grueling training, his frequent meet-ups with his single mother kept him from falling apart and helped him maintain a rather sweet disposition, for a man specialized at doing wet work. At the age of 35, he had accomplished over twelve missions out of a total twelve, giving him the unofficial title of 'master assassin' and making him a legend in the world of espionage. He retired at the age of 45.
While enjoying his retirement one day, he witnessed the chemical explosion and was subjected to them, although he was reasonably far away, managing to make it out without any injuries but a heart scare. He was pleasantly surprised upon discovering that his strength was enhanced, but was displeased at the way how a relatively peaceful city was tearing itself apart. So, he decided to take measure, donning his old CIA costume and using the callsign "Shepherd".
Other:
He possesses a H&K P30 which he sometimes fits with a suppresor.
A tactical SOG blade for close combat.
A customized FN SCAR Assault Rifle.
In terms of travel, he rides a 1975 Honda CB400F.
He has yet to fight a metahuman who matches his heightened senses.
His mother, Francis, lives in a nursing home in Modern City, aged 75 years old. |
51,470 | 1,393 | 4 | 1,585 | 1,028 | The white haired girl was the only one in the lab at the moment which was a rare moment of quiet. The girl was examining fish samples from before the accident and after the accident and had found something interesting in some of the tested fishes DNA and chemical make ups. Some of the fish seemed to have been altered to the point were they may look the same on the outside but could not even be called fish anymore if looked at their DNA. The results showed almost the same thing that as the tests that she had done on herself, that the chemical had altered the DNA and RNA of the meta-humans allowing them to get their powers. "If only there were more meta-humans willing to let me take blood samples from."
Angel wrapped up her experiments and stuck them back into preservation before hanging up her lab coat and leaving the room just as a group of undergrads came into the room. As she walked down the hallway she pulled out her phone and shot a text to Elliot who was working on some similar work.
Found some interesting results. Might need a second opinion on meta-human gene experiments.
Angel was trying to prove how the chemical explosion created the meta-humans and if there was a way to reverse the changes that had been done to them. All she wanted to do right now was go to the beach and relax but you never knew what was going to happen these days and that meant she ran the risk of being exposed as a meta-human as well. She just decided to go back to her dorms and relax for the moment, it was still early with the rest of the day ahead of her might as well get a quick nap in. | Name: Angel Aarandin
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Appearance
Alias: N/A
Costume: N/A
Meta-Human Power: Her entire body is made out of water. Angel is able to revert her entire body or just parts of her body into water at will. She is able to manipulate the water in her body to create weapons for example she can change her arm into a sword or shield and can even launch concentrated water in projectile form.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Since Angel's body is made of water she is vulnerable to extreme heat and extreme cold as the heat will cause her to start evaporating and cold will turn her into ice. She can sometimes become unstable and is not able to maintain her body causing her to become a puddle of water. A downside to turning into water is that she cannot change her clothes into water as well.
Personality: Angel is a kind person who likes to always make friends and does not like to be mean to anyone even if they are mean to her, which is why she can almost always be seen with a smile on her face. People would always describe her as a very down to earth person who would rather just relax with friends then work. After getting her powers she become a little more quiet and started to keep away from people because she feared that they would figure out what she was. She thought that they would judge her if they found out that her body was made out of water.
Background: Angel was raised in Long Beach, California and was raised with a love for the ocean and everything about it. She grew up with a normal childhood consisting of a lot of time at the beach and just going around town with her friends during her time in high school. Around her junior year she decided that she wanted to pursue a career with marine biology and started to look into Modern City Tech as a school for interest which would end up being the school that she would be attending.
On the day of the accident, she had been on the coast taking water samples and testing for contamination ironically. For a full week after she gained her powers she stayed holed up in her room as she struggled to get herself from liquefying every time she tried to walk. All she wants to do is live a normal life and make lots of friends in the process, but that dream seems to be getting farther away as more people with powers start to show up.
Other: |
51,471 | 1,393 | 5 | 1,966 | 2,618 | Dru
The park was oddly lonely. Though the sun shined through the dense leaves, giving the world a emerald hue, it still felt very much dull to him. Amidst the burning of his right side and the tight squeeze of his left, he could only wince occasionally from the pain that now consumed him. To distract himself, he leaned his head back on the black iron bench and gazed at the clouds.
There was three in his line of vision. All of them wispy and almost transparent. He felt like that should have been him for a moment, all transparent and invisible. How lucky was a cloud to be considered so mundane. One look up was all it took to be able to ignore them for the rest of the day. He leaned back up minutes later when the pain would tolerate no distractions.
He gritted his teeth before holding his arms, the few kids that were around seemed to not notice.
"Dammit! What the hell am I suppose to do about this?" | Name: Drust "Dru" Royle
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: African-American
Appearance
Drust is a tall and lean young man of African descent. Due to this, his skin is dark or rather light in color. He has a sharp nose, large brown eyes, and full lips. Ontop of his head is soft, black hair, edged and cut close. He has a rather short face with semi-angular features and round cheeks. A unique trait of his is his eyebrows, as they are thick and wild. He always has a teardrop pendant around his necklace, tied with a pink, thick, string.
Alias: King Thermal
Costume: None for now.
Meta-Human Power: As his name suggests, he has control over the two extremes of nature itself. In his right arm he holds the power of flames, red and terrible. In his left, he holds the power of ice, both cool and un-moving. In other words, Thermal Manipulation.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: A mutation has taken root in him due to these powers, his entire right arm becomes charred over black in very suffocating black plates. On the other side, his left arm becomes black and near frozen when his powers are in affect. No one side is capable of being used without the other. Too much of his right side and he starts to burn up, too much of his left and he begins to freeze. This two powers in extended uses could very well lead to his death.
Personality: Not so dependable or trustworthy, Drust, like any other teen was content with living second to second. Though his mind was constantly plagued with the dreads of the future, he was always too complacent to deal with his immediate problems. He does however, carry a very free air about himself. Unrestrained and rather reckless, he's always felt a need to be in the center of the spotlight. A very dangerous trait when living in Modern City, Georgia.
Background: Besides the disappearance of his father, Drust had a rather average life. Living on the fringes of middle class America, he's been well for most of his life. However, around the age of 17, he rebelled against his strict mother and live-in uncle. The two of them was quick to toss him out onto the street. Normally, this would have been a terrifying experience. Which it was for the first two days but something, rather unremarkable happened on the third.
He saw a helpless kitten trapped in a metal trash can on a rainy night, its cries for help drew him from out a glass bus stop he took refuge in. When he reached it, he found himself capable of, without any lectures or hindrances, of saving the kitten. The following weak he spent his time tending for it and despite his best efforts of saving it, watched it die one night.
In his numbness he realized that he had the freedom or was unchained enough to save that kitten. To give it another week of life. Since, he's valued his freedom. And though he sought understanding from his mother and uncle, he respected them from then on.
Years later he found himself strolling along the streets to honor his freedom. One night, he took a cab near the docks, just to appreciate the scenery. But instead he was met with a horrific sight and scary outcome. A explosion that blinded him and sent him to the hospital for several days. It was bad, because though he was warned to not be so close, he took in hand his own freedom, and made a foolish mistake.
When he awoke from the explosion, the vista of his right arm being on fire and his left one, as cold and pale as ice sent him frantically into the streets. A car exploded soon afterwards. When he awoke again he was in the hospital. He spent several days there before being released. He was dodging school the day his powers emerged again. He still has yet to decide what to do with them.
Other: None for now |
51,472 | 1,393 | 6 | 2,613 | 541 | No lollygagging. A fat cop called out.
In downtown Modern City, a relatively tall, broad-shouldered, and masculine figure boredly walked past the traffic officer, hands resting in his pockets, every step unhurried, and yet concise and brisk. His appearance was incredibly shady, but only due to the literal lack of any skin showing. Otherwise, he only got a small glance from the drivers and passerbys, before they went on their way. The man in question wore a black hoodie, with the hood up, in a color that was so black, it seemed to absorb the light from around his body. Along with this was a simple pair of the same midnight-colored jeans, and regular sneakers that broke the all-black monotony. It was black, but with white completing the ensemble. Otherwise known as Chuck Taylors. Over the hoodie, he wore an open collared jacket - the exact same color as the rest of his clothing. If he had anything on his hands, it wasn't evident, due to the fact that said hands were currently hiding in his jacket.
Not to mention, his face was completely shaded by darkness - probably from the hood. You could see absolutely nothing.
As he walked by a parent-child combo, on the sidewalk, the man finally took his right hand out of his pocket, revealing that yes - his hands were gloved as well. In his grip, was a plain white note, with neat, yet scrawling black letters scribbled through the middle. "...Pick up some milk, flour, and taco shells. I would do it, but I'm...crippled." He read slowly. His voice was...odd, as well. It seemed almost muffled, and it didn't have any specific tone or pitch. It was just low, and rather disembodied, as if he was speaking through a veil of pitch-lowered speakers. It had an almost inhuman feel to it, but not quite. The figure snorted, pocketing the note, and looking up at the sun. Curiously enough, even as he looked straight up, physics did not come into play. His hood stayed completely still, and his face was still completely shadowed. Odd.
"Dick." He hated going out during the bright, sunny days.
Jason pocketed his hands once more, heading for the local supermarket. | Name: Gordon Fenway
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: American, Caucasian
Alias: Nightmare
Costume: White tank top, blue jeans, sunglasses
Meta-Human Power:
Limited Clairvoyance: Can consume the eyeballs of others using his eye mouths to see their memories
Super Human physicality:
Super human strength, endurance, toughness, and senses
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
Blind, severely weakened in intense light, his clairvoyance works on the recently deceased (recently killed is best, 1-2 days can see most memories, 3-4 loses oldest memories, longer than that he can't see anything).
Personality:
Gordon straddles the thin line between a hero and a villain, due to his unique power being dependent on having fresh corpses on hand. He places his freedom above all else, and anyone who attempts to control him are his enemies. He is both highly mercenary and strictly professional, offering his services to the highest bidder, and giving the requested goods as fast as possible.
Background:
Born to a family of acrobats, Gordon was always a free-spirit. He was home-schooled until college, where he attended the Modern City community college to pursue a degree in the arts. He dropped out shortly afterwards and attained a dead end job as a menial laborer at the pier. He had stowed away on a ship that was leaving the harbor the same time the ship carrying the chemicals was coming in. When the ship exploded, he was thrown overboard by the force, and barely dragged himself to shore, only to find that his he was blind. When he had gone underwater, he had opened his eyes by accident, triggering his transformation. Now he works as an information broker, hiring himself out to find information by hunting down, and consuming the eyes of the sources.
Other:
Currently homeless and declared dead, Gordon lives in the now vacanted area around ground zero of the explosion. He has offered his services to the authorities in exchange for immunity for his actions, but the city is still debating as the crime rate in the city grows. |
51,473 | 1,393 | 7 | 2,097 | 1,847 | Being up high was her favorite part of the whole day. Shadow took a deep, calming breath, sucking in the fumes of old books and dust, two of her favorite smells. She smiled at the dusty books in front of her and she heard a small mew on her shoulder. She turned her head to the side and looked at her young kitten. The little white kitten mewed at her again, yawning to show it's bright pink tongue and teeny, sharp white teeth. Shadow smiled and murmured to the kitten, "Don't worry, young one. I am almost done." Pushing herself off the bookshelf, the rolling ladder rolled down the aisle, heading to the next bookshelf. She grabbed onto where she wanted to be and pulled herself up a little ways. She then shifted some books around and placed her final book in the empty space the rested.
She then hurried down the ladder and meandered through the hallways and aisles, smiling at people. She noticed, as she went into darker rooms, that a small golden glow appeared around her bare skin. She cringed slightly and shrugged on her jacket, hoping to cover up the glow. Moon mewed at her again and Shadow gently placed the small kitten in her side pocket.
Someone then rang the bell at the desk and she sighed. She hurried up to the front and found a young man standing there, looking over the card catalog. He smiled up at her as she approached and asked for a specific book, one that was almost in the very back because no one really read books like it anymore. She raised an eyebrow, curious as to why he wanted it, but she didn't push. She wasn't that type of person. Instead, she hurried to the back, whistling for Pooch as she went. The small beagle ran to her, panting and grinning as the basket on his back wobbled slightly. She pulled Moon out of her pocket and gently placed her in the basket attached to the back of Pooch's collar.
"Now you be careful with her," Shadow scolded, looking down at the year old beagle. "Remember what happened last time you tried to go fast?" The beagle nodded, smiling up at her before starting off a gentle trot down the hallway, heading toward the children's reading area. He probably wanted to play with some kids. Shadow smiled and hurried off to find the book in the back.
She reached the back book cases and climbed up onto her ladder. She pushed off and zoomed down the bookshelves, scanning for the point system. She saw it immediately and paused, looking for the correct book. She raised an eyebrow when she spotted it and she pulled it out of its place. "Memories: Tales of Our Past," she murmured. Yeah, this was the right book. Shadow slid down the ladder quickly and headed toward the front once again. Children laughed and stroked Pooch as she walked by. He was happy. She laughed under her breath and hurried back up front.
The man was still there, but there was something off about him. He was talking furious into his phone, almost angrily. He looked up as she approached and snatched the book from her hands. He tossed his library card at her and began flipping through the book. She narrowed her eyes at him, but checked the book out to him. As soon as it was done, he took off, still talking furiously on the phone. He made sure to shout thanks of his shoulder though. That was slightly odd... | Name:Jack Williams
Age:23
Gender:Male
Ethnicity:Caucasian
Appearance
Alias:The Living Weapon
Costume: Jack wears normal clothes for his suit. He wears a black tank top and black jeans since he can move easier in them. He has to keep his arms free to use his powers. He wears a mask to hide most of his face.
Meta-Human Power: Organic Constructs. As his name suggests, he can manipulate his own body to make weapons. In particular he can turn his right arm into a long sword. His entire arm turns into the sword. He is faster and stronger than the average person but he cannot lift a car or something like that. His other offensive weapon is that he can turn his hands into claws to fight. He can move by turning his arm into something like a whip. It can go a few feet in front of him (eight feet). He uses it to move quickly through the city.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Salt water is his main physical weakness. Since he uses his powers to manipulate his flesh the salt hurts him enough to stop him. That is not his only issue. His powers has created a side personality that Jack calls the Whisper. It causes him to not understand what else is going on around him. It can affect a lot more and makes Jack seem more of a monster than he is.
Personality: Jack is quite a nice guy when he is not using his powers. He is always joking and smiling. Jack is bisexual and will hit on anyone unless he is trying to say someone. He believes He has to save as many people as he can.
Background:Jack was born in Modern City and grew up there. So he has managed to get a rather thick Georgia accent.Jack went to the Modern City University for a degree in genetics. His parents both had similar degrees and so Jack had to get the degree. He was lucky to get a job at Wells Laboratory in the city. He was researching chimera bacteria the day of the explosion. He was walking in the park when the chemicals went through. He was near the middle of the group so he was not mutated as badly. Now he patrols the city as the Living Weapon. He seems to focus on righting wrongs that he deems wrong. Gangster, drug dealers, thugs, and rapists all are being placed in front of the police districts all over the city. All of them telling tales of a man with claws beating them. The police just seem to not care about the clawed man who only appears at night. They just let the man or whatever he is so what he does.
Other: |
51,474 | 1,393 | 8 | 1,602 | 2,499 | A week previous
Mundy sat in the darkened alley, rain pouring down onto the top of his mask like a waterfall from the heavens. His breathing was slow and heavy, each breath sucking in and gradually blowing out as he stared at the wall in front of him with his piercing, crystal blue eyes. He quickly got up, a machete in his gloved hands. He stared at the brick wall ahead of him, he'd planned this for weeks, he couldn't let it go to waste now. He shoved his face against the wall, slowly merging through it until his entire body was in the mostly empty storage room, save for a few brooms and such. He rose to his feet, a machete at his side. Mundy opened the door in front of him, checking left and right as he exited. Mostly everyone was asleep or too tired to notice Mundy in the dark, the only light coming from the tv's that were left on throughout the night.
Mundy's eyes narrowed, he stalked over to one of the more awake guards before quickly slashing his throat and sending him to the ground. He repeated the process with the rest of the guards before butchering the gangsters who had been asleep or almost asleep, leaving only the kingpin and the 'innocent' prostitutes alive. He let the prostitutes go, but kept the kingpin awake for what he was about to do next. He grabbed him by the hair, dragging him halfway through a wall before letting him go, trapping him in between rooms. Mundy then proceeded to cut off just about every limb the kingpin had before cauterizing the wound with a handy blowtorch he had found in a maintenance cabinet. He left the kingpin alive to warn his friends about what had happened that night. Mundy's blood lust was satisfied, for now. He took off his mask a few blocks away before heading home.
Present day
Mundy woke up. His bed was messy and the sheet that covered his mattress had been pulled from its tightly tucked position and was now halfway up the bed. Mundy never was a still sleeper. He got out of bed, had a shower and got dressed before having a breakfast of toast and butter and coming to the realization that it was actually his day off from work. He had practically forgotten what day of the week it was, let alone if he was working that day. He usually didn't have much to do in his free time other than watch TV or read, and TV was boring recently. He loved to watch nature documentaries and the like, but the channels he regularly watched them on often ran repeats throughout the day and the good, new stuff only really started at around dinner time. He decided to check the local library, he had a book to return anyway.
Mundy entered the library with eyes like a snake on the hunt. He moved over to the crime section, scanning for any new novels that had reached the shelves. Disappointed, he almost reached for the packet of cigarettes sticking out of his jackets upper front pocket, only to remember the time he actually had done that in the library and had received one hell of a scolding for it. He instead resorted to biting the nail of his thumb to bide him over, one habit replacing another. He eventually decided on some sort of fictional history novel, set in the wild west. He moved to the front desk, placing the two books on the desk along with his library card on top of the two.
"Hi, just returning this and checking this one out" He mumbled, still chewing his thumb. | Name: Edmund 'Mundy' Conagher
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian - Australian
Appearance
Mundy stands at a tall 6 foot 2 and weighs around 185lbs. He has an athletic physique and keeps this physique up by visitng the gym almost every day.
Alias: None as of yet
Costume:
Meta-Human Power:
Mundy is able to phase through any solid object in the world. He also has slight super strength.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
He is essentially human other than his powers. Which means bullets and the like can still be fatal to him and if he phased through a wall in a skyscraper and there was nothing on the other side, he would surely fall to his death.
Personality:
Mundy is essentially what you'd call a psychopath. He finds it extremely hard to maintain any relationships and is incredibly antisocial. That being said, he can maintain a few friendships for extended periods of time depending on the person. He lacks a moral responsibility on what is good and what is bad, but he has learned from experience and generally can do the right thing most of the time. That being said, his methods are less than ethical. He is very vain and cares greatly about his appearance.
Background:
Edmund 'Mundy' Conagher was born in Adelaide, Australia. As a young boy, his father would often take Mundy into the outback to go hunting, often to sell the hides and such for a little extra cash. Mundy didn't do great in school and would often skip school to go and play football with other children who had also skipped school. As a teenager he began to take greater care for his body and essentially became much vainer than he ever had been. He also began to pay more attention in school as the looming threat of the real world and the potential to be put into some shitty office job. He passed his first exams and barely passed his highers but failed his advanced highers. He managed to get a job as a tour guide until he had raised enough money to pick up and leave Adelaide.
He moved to America in his early 20s, specifically Modern City, Georgia. He bought an apartment there and got a job as a technician for Modern Stadium. He mostly just fiddles about with the lights and fixes any technical errors, but it pays well and he can't complain. Around his mid 20s he began to feel far different than he ever had before. Like he needed to hunt again, it started with him going hunting deer and the like, but grew and grew until the only thing he can think of to hunt now are people. Of course, not any civilians or anything, but gangsters and the like are fair play. On the day of the explosion, Mundy was out picking up supplies for a fishing trip he had planned to go on in the recent future, of course, things didn't go to plan.
Other: |
51,475 | 1,393 | 9 | 1,602 | 2,499 | Gordon hated going into the main city. There weren't enough places to set an ambush, It was too bright, and above all, it was do DAMNED noisy and smelled to much like cleaning chemicals. But here he was, wearing his wrap around shades that covered his eyes from all angles and carrying a white walking stick, walking to a library to meet with his police contact/handler to exchange information. Gordon scowled down at the bag on his back, which carried a safe and a laptop he took from the dead gangster's hideout. He already knew the information in them, but the police needed hard evidence to carry out their raids.
He thought back to the first time he had used his powers. He had just washed up on shore, and a gangbanger was looting his body. Next to his hand he felt a fragment of a metal pole, and grabbing it he shoved into the thugs leg. With his leg broken and pierced, the thug fell down and began crying in fear and pain. Finally opening his eyes, he found that he couldn't see, but he knew where the gangster was, and by some unnatural instinct, he grabbed the man's face and crushed it. When his eyeballs popped out, Gordon unconsciously put them into his eye sockets, and he felt his eye sockets moving like jaws, tearing and mashing the eye into a gooey pulp. As his eyes continued to chew, Gordon fell on his knees and began hurling his stomach's contents on the beach, and hurled again after he brought his bloodied hand to his face and got the sticky substance in his mouth. He didn't know how long he was their, but eventually his eye sockets stopped moving and he saw. he saw every memory of the man's life, all his secrets and all his goals. He saw his triumphs and failures, and how he was a low ranking member of a gang who was sent shortly after the explosion to scout out a landing spot for the spread of their gang. He saw how he was a family man who wanted to keep his children out of the business he was in, and how he was a well-liked and respected member of his group. Gordon nearly hurled as he delved through the man's memories, but eventually he made it to the now deceased man's car and opened it.
Going by the man's memories, there was a gun in the glove compartment, and Gordon fumbled slightly as he followed the acrid scent of propellant. Eventually finding it, he pulled out the gun and placed it to his temple, when suddenly a radio crackled to life. "Hey Thompson, ya there?" a voice called over the device, "Get your ass over here, we need more help unloading the gear." The memories helped him identify the voice as Franklin, a high ranked member of the man's gang. putting down the gun, Gordon began mimicking Thompson's voice, "Yeah man, I'll be over there soon, had to wait out a few cops but I made sure they didn't follow me." Franklin, satisfied by the answer shut off the radio, and Gordon began searching for a phone. he eventually found one, and called the police station. He gave the operator the run down of the situation. At first, the man was skeptical, until Gordon began going over the details of each member's life. Hanging up, Gordon drove the car a few blocks away from the hideout, and waited for the police. As he was waiting, he sneaked to the parking lot where the gang had parked their vehicles and began slashing the tires with a knife after the gang members were drunk celebrating.
Eventually he heard the sirens of the police force, and the loud crashes as the gang members attempted to escape to the vehicles. Hiding in the shadows, Gordon pounced into the center of the group and began knocking them out. And that was how he was found, surrounded by unconscious gangsters, with blood streaks from his eyes, and a bloody hand. He was incarcerated and interrogated as one of the first official meta-humans. He told them what his powers were, and after weeks of meetings and debates, they decided to hire him as a "specialist". Of course that meant he was effectively exiled to the now burgeoning crime scene of the pier.
Reaching his destination, he was pulled from his thoughts when he almost ran into a person exiting. Catching his scent, which was a smell-les, ephemeral breeze that tickled his sinuses, he quickly identified the figure as a super, but decided to leave it. He was even more shocked to scent another one behind him, a myriad of smells that nearly overwhlmed him. Walking in, he smiled to himself, "Well this is certainly interesting." He thought, as he scanned for his contact. | Name: Edmund 'Mundy' Conagher
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian - Australian
Appearance
Mundy stands at a tall 6 foot 2 and weighs around 185lbs. He has an athletic physique and keeps this physique up by visitng the gym almost every day.
Alias: None as of yet
Costume:
Meta-Human Power:
Mundy is able to phase through any solid object in the world. He also has slight super strength.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
He is essentially human other than his powers. Which means bullets and the like can still be fatal to him and if he phased through a wall in a skyscraper and there was nothing on the other side, he would surely fall to his death.
Personality:
Mundy is essentially what you'd call a psychopath. He finds it extremely hard to maintain any relationships and is incredibly antisocial. That being said, he can maintain a few friendships for extended periods of time depending on the person. He lacks a moral responsibility on what is good and what is bad, but he has learned from experience and generally can do the right thing most of the time. That being said, his methods are less than ethical. He is very vain and cares greatly about his appearance.
Background:
Edmund 'Mundy' Conagher was born in Adelaide, Australia. As a young boy, his father would often take Mundy into the outback to go hunting, often to sell the hides and such for a little extra cash. Mundy didn't do great in school and would often skip school to go and play football with other children who had also skipped school. As a teenager he began to take greater care for his body and essentially became much vainer than he ever had been. He also began to pay more attention in school as the looming threat of the real world and the potential to be put into some shitty office job. He passed his first exams and barely passed his highers but failed his advanced highers. He managed to get a job as a tour guide until he had raised enough money to pick up and leave Adelaide.
He moved to America in his early 20s, specifically Modern City, Georgia. He bought an apartment there and got a job as a technician for Modern Stadium. He mostly just fiddles about with the lights and fixes any technical errors, but it pays well and he can't complain. Around his mid 20s he began to feel far different than he ever had before. Like he needed to hunt again, it started with him going hunting deer and the like, but grew and grew until the only thing he can think of to hunt now are people. Of course, not any civilians or anything, but gangsters and the like are fair play. On the day of the explosion, Mundy was out picking up supplies for a fishing trip he had planned to go on in the recent future, of course, things didn't go to plan.
Other: |
51,476 | 1,393 | 10 | 351 | 2,377 | Most comic book heroes had to worry about protecting their secret identities from friends, family, normal people and in theory their enemies as well to various degrees of success. This was often an exercise that cost time and money while causing the hero or heroine in question to undergo great stress and possibly lose friendships and relationships. It was meant to show how hard it would be to be a hero by showing how difficult it was to maintain a social life/cover up the secret identity at the same time.
In this regard, Andrew considered himself quite lucky. Since he was an anti-social hermit who never hang out with people in public and was on the computer all day (Unless he had to go to work/shop) before he gained his new found abilities, no one cared enough about Andrew or what he did on a day to day basis to require the need for secret identity ruses or covers. Hell, on the off chance that one of his enemies actually got a picture of him in order to track him down when he wasn't wearing the mask it would be the first picture taken of him in almost... four or five years now? They would know what he looked like, but they would have no idea who he was or where to begin looking for him...
Shoving his Farseer costume into a duffel bag for safe keeping, he turned his head towards the TV for a moment to make sure he had the address right. "The police have managed to set up a two block perimeter. While the identity of the gunman or his demands are currently unknown, our most recent reports suggest that there are currently nine hostages in there with him. We will keep you all updated as the situation develops here at Luther Street. Back to you Tom."
Destination confirmed and equipment at the ready, Andrew walked out his front door. It was time for Farseer to make an appearance... | Name:
Andrew Macdonald
Age:
23
Gender:
Male
Ethnicity:
Caucasian
Appearance
Alias:
Farseer
Costume:
Meta-Human Power:
Those who go up against the Farseer will quickly discover and spread word of his claim that he can see the future and thus everything that they are about to do, often telling them in great detail about what is about to happen; Shortly after which he will prove himself right.
In truth however, this is a facade. The Farseer's true ability is a voice that has a rather hypnotic effect on people; While he cannot outright control someone, the Farseer can influence them to various degrees from invoking an emotional response to outright implanting suggestions, impulses and ideas into their minds, often without them knowing. The whole 'I can see the future' act is merely a way for him to influence those he goes up against so that events will play out as he 'predicts' without them guessing what his true powers are.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
Farseer must be able to speak freely for his powers to have any effect at all. The target of his powers must also be able to hear/understand what he is saying in order to be influenced by it; Someone who can't understand english or doesn't understand what the words Farseer is using actually mean are just likely to get confused rather then actually influenced in any way shape or form.
Personality:
For the most part Andrew is a quiet, socially awkward man that normally stays at home on his computer unless work or shopping finally drags him outside. Legally diagnosed with high functioning aspergers and working a low skilled job because he hates the education system with a passion, Andrew tries to be as polite as good as he can despite his difficultly with most social situations. He has a few close friends from his school days that he talks to occasionally online but otherwise it is rare for him to actively seek social company.
As Farseer, Andrew is almost a completely different person. Confident, cool headed and (At least seemingly) always in control of the situation, Farseer is largely the kind of person Andrew wishes he could be but isn't. It's amazing the difference a mask can make.
Since getting the ability to influence others with his voice, Andrew has started to grow much more confident in himself.
Background:
Andrew was born and raised in Modern City, the youngest (And only male) child of the Macdonald family. If pressed, he would say that he had a fairly lucky upbringing; He grew up with a loving, middle class family. Seemingly fewer and fewer people could claim such a thing.
If there was one thing that Andrew hated, it was school. He was surrounded by people he hated, learning things from teachers that had stopped caring a long time ago in a system that had been screwing them all from the start. Still, he managed to finish high school even if he never properly sort out higher education.
Andrew's 'career' if it can be called that was being limited to 12 hours a week working at a supermarket, a job he got largely due to the connections of his older sisters. Still living at home with his parents when the bay accident happened, Andrew didn't notice his new found 'gift' for a while due to his somewhat anti social behavior. However, as he noticed that more and more things were going his way and the appearance of 'Supers', Andrew started to test some theories and was pleasantly surprised to learn that he was effectively a mutant.
With the money he had saved up combined with some cash his parents had put aside for him, Andrew moved out after securing a surprisingly good deal with a friendly landlord (*Wink Wink*) and joined up with the local Socialist political party.
Andrew created the 'Farseer' out of a desire to do good and help his home city while also giving himself ample chance to practice and possibly strength his new found gifts.
Other: Andrew is a member of Modern City's Socialist Party. While currently he is one of the party people that works behind the scenes to make sure things happen, he seems to have caught the notice of the current local candidate as someone to keep close. |
51,477 | 1,393 | 11 | 2,097 | 1,847 | Shadow looked up at the young man who walked over and set two books and a card down on the table. She smiled at him gently and set down Moon, who began butting her head against Shadow's hand. The guy looked slightly nervous. It was curious, the characters that came into the library, but Shadow never pried. Instead, she scanned the cards and the books, pulling in the one that he said he was returning and handing him the book he was checking out and his library card.
"Have a nice day," she said sweetly. Her sweatshirt pulled up slightly as she handed him the book and she gasped a little bit, shoving the sleeve back down. Her glow had gotten brighter. She flushed a dark pink and set the book and card down on the desk for him to pick up. Luckily for her, right then another customer came up and asked for a specific kind of book. She nodded with relief, stating, "We do have that in stock, but it is in the basement, so I will have to go down and get it." The customer nodded, stating that she was in no hurry.
Moving quickly to get down there, she hurried into the office, heading toward the basement door. The old wooden thing creaked as she pushed it open and began walking down the many steps to get to the basement. Unfortunately, the woman had asked for a book on Alchemy, so it would be in the very back, almost against the back wall. Her feet hit the solid cement floor floor and she looked around. It was pitch black down there. She took a deep breath and looked behind her, making sure that there was no one there. There is a specific reason as to why there are no lights in the basement. There was almost no need to come down there every day, so they figured they didn't need lights.
Also, they had Shadow. Shadow held out her hand, palm up, and suddenly a bright yellow orb appeared in her hand. She smiled at the beauty of the light and she tossed it up into the air. It sailed up and bump against the ceiling, but filled the room with a bright yellow light as it did so. She grinned again and headed toward the back. Unfortunately, the little orb did not give off much light, so she created a beam with her hand, guiding her way to the back. She found the book with ease and with a snap of her fingers, both lights were gone and she made her way back up from the basement.
She walked over to the woman and handed her her book. The woman checked it out before hurrying off. Man, people just seemed to be in a hurry today. She waited at the desk for the next customer, whoever it may be. | Name:Jack Williams
Age:23
Gender:Male
Ethnicity:Caucasian
Appearance
Alias:The Living Weapon
Costume: Jack wears normal clothes for his suit. He wears a black tank top and black jeans since he can move easier in them. He has to keep his arms free to use his powers. He wears a mask to hide most of his face.
Meta-Human Power: Organic Constructs. As his name suggests, he can manipulate his own body to make weapons. In particular he can turn his right arm into a long sword. His entire arm turns into the sword. He is faster and stronger than the average person but he cannot lift a car or something like that. His other offensive weapon is that he can turn his hands into claws to fight. He can move by turning his arm into something like a whip. It can go a few feet in front of him (eight feet). He uses it to move quickly through the city.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Salt water is his main physical weakness. Since he uses his powers to manipulate his flesh the salt hurts him enough to stop him. That is not his only issue. His powers has created a side personality that Jack calls the Whisper. It causes him to not understand what else is going on around him. It can affect a lot more and makes Jack seem more of a monster than he is.
Personality: Jack is quite a nice guy when he is not using his powers. He is always joking and smiling. Jack is bisexual and will hit on anyone unless he is trying to say someone. He believes He has to save as many people as he can.
Background:Jack was born in Modern City and grew up there. So he has managed to get a rather thick Georgia accent.Jack went to the Modern City University for a degree in genetics. His parents both had similar degrees and so Jack had to get the degree. He was lucky to get a job at Wells Laboratory in the city. He was researching chimera bacteria the day of the explosion. He was walking in the park when the chemicals went through. He was near the middle of the group so he was not mutated as badly. Now he patrols the city as the Living Weapon. He seems to focus on righting wrongs that he deems wrong. Gangster, drug dealers, thugs, and rapists all are being placed in front of the police districts all over the city. All of them telling tales of a man with claws beating them. The police just seem to not care about the clawed man who only appears at night. They just let the man or whatever he is so what he does.
Other: |
51,478 | 1,393 | 12 | 2,031 | 6,493 | Eli heard her phone chirp announcing a text message so she pulled it off her hip and looked at the screen.
"Found some interesting results. Might need a second opinion on meta-human gene experiments."
It was from Angel a platinum haired girl who she knew from school and worked here at the lab. Eli smiled then thought about it for a moment before returning the text.
"No problem, glad to lend a hand, are you still in the lab?"
Eli had been thinking about revealing to Angel what she was and that she'd seen what Angel was when her powers had briefly failed and she'd become a puddle of water. Eli was worried that Angel might think she'd spied on her just to be nosy when in fact it had been because her own ability had gone wonky sending her mind backwards in time. The same trouble had revealed Carter's identity to her as well and lucky for Eli he'd actually proved understanding.
It was while pondering the trouble her ability could cause that Elliot decided to send Carter a message.
"Hi Carter, I've been thinking about your offer to mentor me in investigation and decided it wouldn't be a bad idea..If you're still up for it let me know an we can set up a meet..Elliot" | Name: Elliot Sinclair
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Cherokee
Appearance
Alias: Retro
Costume: Black neoprene suit with black utility belt with 6 pouches a full hood and gloves
Front right pouch 8 filter masks
Right hip pouch night vision goggles
Right rear pouch Evidence bags and vials
Front left pouch UV flashlight and first aid kit
Left hip pouch Burner cell phone
Left rear pouch 24 Caltrops
Meta-Human Power:
Omnilingualism Elli can speak, write, understand and communicate in any language including computer codes, languages that have never been heard before, sign language (even lip-reading), illegible words, and backwards speech and writing:
Psychometry Elli obtains historical memories or sensations concerning beings and objects by touching them. With objects she gains the knowledge including the makers, users, and even those who have on passing used the object, and what has been done with it. With living beings or parts of the body she learns their general life-history, but doesn't gain anything of what they were thinking or feeling.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
Eli has trouble sometimes connecting with what she calls present time. When this happens her perception of the world isn't based on what is happening in real time but on what might have happened an hour, a day or a week ago. This usually only happens after prolonged use of her Psychometry ability.
Personality: Eli is a very friendly person who enjoys helping people in need. She is driven by a sense of justice that means she'll go the distance to see that those who commit injustice are brought to their due.
Background: Eli was born on Strange Island in the Okefenokee Swamp in the cabin her parents live in even now. Frank Sinclair her father is a game warden and her mother Elizabeth a herpetologist who specializes in taxonomy and physiology of the reptiles that live in the southeast of the United States.
It was from her parents that Eli learned her dedication to scholastic pursuits and right and wrong.
An excellent student Eli graduated from High School with a 4.0 average and a scholarship.
Shortly after graduation Eli began attending Modern Tech studying oceanology and marine science. It was while working on a project within the bay of Modern City that Eli was exposed to the chemicals of the event that caused the Meta Mutations. Her boat was swamped and she and her lab partner were dumped into the toxic waters.
She survived for five hours even being swept partly out the sea where she was found by a Coast Guard Rescue boat that was searching the area; her lab partner's body was never found.
Close to the epicenter of the event Eli wasn't affected as serverly as others who were as exposed. She is still a student at Modern Tech and has shifted her focus to Marine Genetics and Micro biology.
Other: Eli has always been an athletic girl competing in Gymnastics and Distance running so her physical condition flexibility and endurance are better than average.
She supplemented her scholarship before the accident working as a museum guide where she still works on her free days when not performing her school work. |
51,479 | 1,393 | 13 | 2,375 | 345 | Following the conclusion of his daily visit, Lance jogged back to his place, his place being a small apartment pretty close to the bay where the chemical incident occurred. While he wasn't conducting any sort of investigation related to the happening, he was always on the look for any sort of government sanctioned operation that would further shed light on the case. That was also why he rented the apartment; so that he could be closer to the site.
Quietly slinking up the stairs, making sure that he wouldn't disturb his unemployed, lazy young neighbor next door, he unlocked the door to his apartment and made his way in, making sure to lock the door afterwards. The apartment was very neat and tidy, a habit that passed onto Lance from the disciplinary training he received during his time as a spook. Back then, not fixing your bed before 6:30 a.m led to a severe 10 minute beatdown in a basement several feet down a farm. Putting the keys on the dining table, Furlong took off his shirt and walked to his bedroom, opening a wooden closet and selecting one of the towels that were carefully stacked in there. He always took a shower after the jog, but never used soap, shampoo, or anything that might release a scent. He made that mistake during his first week as Shepherd, and got into a fierce battle with a mutant dog. Needless to say that while he managed to crawl out alive, another scar was added to his large collection. Bullet wounds, shrapnel, knife wounds, shattered bones, burn scars, you name it, he has 'em. His most noticeable scars are the ones passing through both of his eyes, which he obtained during a botched operation in St. Petersburg where he was serving as support for a NAVY Seals team.
After taking a hot shower, Lance made sure that his feet were dry before moving back to the living room, the towel wrapped around waist. He fetched the remote control from one of the couches and turned on the TV, skipping through the many ridiculous infomercials, talk shows and reality TV channels. Whenever he turned the TV on, he either did so to watch a movie or, most likely, the news. And, in a twist of fate, it turned out at that very moment, there was something rather interesting happening over down at Luther Street.
"...our most recent reports suggest that there are currently nine hostages in there with him. We will keep you all updated as the situation develops here at Luther Street. Back to you Tom."
"A hostage situation? In the middle of the day?", Lance thought, scratching his temple in almost childlike manner. It was then that an idea popped up into his head. He pranced all the way to his bedroom again and opened his closet, this time revealing a hidden compartment within the closet where a single, black briefcase was located. The briefcase was locked and there was a code needed to bypass it. Paranoia - another thing that passed onto Furlong from the CIA. The briefcase was revealed to contain his suit and both of his weapons. After some brief pondering, Lance picked up his suppressed handgun and suited up, deciding to wear the mask only once he got out of sight. His bike was parked in the back and covered by a brown blanket. If he could actually manage his way in and disarm the criminals, he could gain recognition by the Mayor and perhaps strike a deal with the people in charge. That way, he could avoid prosecution AND gather intel on enemies or potential enemies. The tricky part of his master plan was avoiding suspicion by the public eye.
Mounting his vehicle of choice, he drove a few feet away from his apartment, put on his mask and rode away to the crime scene. | Name: Lance Furlong
Age: 57
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Canadian, Caucasian.
Stands at around 5'9 and weighs 195 pounds, his body being mostly muscles with the exception of a few sagging wrinkles around his abdomen. Nevertheless pretty impressive for a man who is close to retirement.
Alias: Shepherd
Costume: As one would expect from 50 + year old man, Lance isn't so much about theatrics as he is about functionality. That's why his vigilante attire mostly consists of a ballistic face mask and a tactical operation suit, courtesy of his friends over at CIA.
Meta-Human Power:
Enhanced Strength; Due to his exposure to the chemicals, Lance underwent through a significant change in agility and strength. His fading natural strength got amplified about four or five times more, giving him the ability to effortlessly lift a dining table with only one of his hands. His agility upgraded to the point he could give the world's fastest gymnast a run for his money, and he has now enough stamina to wrestle two bears at the same time. If you need a concrete example, think MCU Captain America, only less tolerant to falling from high heights.
Keen Intellect and Eidetic Memory; While not even certain if it's a superpower, the blast may have also affected Lance's then already decent intellect and may have stretched his memory storage. He can now learn new languages in a couple of weeks, remember trivial things after being subjected to them for the first time, things that your average human wouldn't be able to notice that fast. He is also pretty much able to recreate in painstaking detail any area that he has visited after he got his superpowers.
Lance is also renowned to be a thinker, capable of devising strategies and uncovering enemy weaknesses in a short amount of time.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: While he made it out of the blast injury-free and with no third leg or some similar mutation, the blast triggered his PTSDs and enhanced their influence. Now, whenever he has a bad dream, a flashback to a terrible experience or something of the like, he gets a terrible headache which might distract him and result in his demise, depending on how heated the situation is.
Personality: For a man who has been to hell and back, you'd expect Lance to be some sort of a grumpy, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-lawn type of guy, but surprisingly he is quite the opposite. Probably regarded as his greatest natural ability, Old man Furlong is mostly notable for his eccentric and somewhat charming behavior, choosing to face all the obstacles coming his way with a smile. He also cherishes fighting other metahumans that equal or surpass him in terms of battle capabilities, and never refuses spars. However, once he deducts that a certain person is capable of great inconvenience, he won't kid around and will do his utmost to remove said person out of the equation. That's when his cold and calculating persona surfaces. He also suffers a great deal from the horrors of his past, but makes an effort to hide his disturbances most of the time.
As a former spy, he doesn't follow any code of conduct and shows antipathy to those who do, arguing that there's no place for rules in a war zone. Also, due to mostly being the person with the most experience, he feels somewhat inclined to give advice to his young colleagues when he notices they're straying away, something which happens a lot in his line of work. He also possesses a strong sense of humor to correlate with his unusual attitude.
Background: Born in Vancouver, Canada in 5 March of 1958, to a family of butchers, Lance had a life expectancy of about four years. His family faced constant harassment from a local gang which were running an extortion ring. One thing led to another, and fast forward to 6 months old Lance moving to Louisiana with his mother, shortly after his father's murder by the hands of one of those gang members. Their first house was a small, abandoned farm which her mother restored with the help of a couple of friends she had made on the way. After giving the farm it's previous glory, they managed to sell it and bought a small house in Modern City, Georgia. Adoring the place's peaceful nature, Lance became attached to it, participating in several pro-environment movements and shooting down his Mom's suggestions to move to another place.
At the age of 18, Lance was told the truth about his father. Up until then, he was fed a bittersweet lie; that his father had died in an unfortunate car accident. Upon being told the truth, young Lance worked double jobs just so that he could collect enough money to go to Vancouver and visit his father's grave, and also perhaps interview people close to his father about his death. While there, he found out that his father's killer was alive, but had turned into a hermit due to suffering from a bad case of Parkinson's. Lance, much to the others' chagrin, decided to confront his father's killer and make him suffer for his sins, but managed to hold himself back after witnessing the man had become impotent and was suffering enough. He decided to end his stint and make his way back to Georgia.
Following his return in the United States of America, Furlong's potential and his shenanigans in Canada piqued the attention of a CIA handler who was willing to turn Furlong into a killing machine and incorporate him within the ranks of the Special Activities Division. While he underwent through grueling training, his frequent meet-ups with his single mother kept him from falling apart and helped him maintain a rather sweet disposition, for a man specialized at doing wet work. At the age of 35, he had accomplished over twelve missions out of a total twelve, giving him the unofficial title of 'master assassin' and making him a legend in the world of espionage. He retired at the age of 45.
While enjoying his retirement one day, he witnessed the chemical explosion and was subjected to them, although he was reasonably far away, managing to make it out without any injuries but a heart scare. He was pleasantly surprised upon discovering that his strength was enhanced, but was displeased at the way how a relatively peaceful city was tearing itself apart. So, he decided to take measure, donning his old CIA costume and using the callsign "Shepherd".
Other:
He possesses a H&K P30 which he sometimes fits with a suppresor.
A tactical SOG blade for close combat.
A customized FN SCAR Assault Rifle.
In terms of travel, he rides a 1975 Honda CB400F.
He has yet to fight a metahuman who matches his heightened senses.
His mother, Francis, lives in a nursing home in Modern City, aged 75 years old. |
51,480 | 1,393 | 14 | 2,097 | 1,847 | Seeing the women run off into the back of the library made Gordon a little uneasy, as he didn't know if she knew what he was. Shrugging, he finally scented his handler a female going by the signal perfume she was wearing. She was a young thing, probably fresh out of training and given the short end of the stick. He could smell her fear in waves, and he heard her plain clothes rustling as she fidgeted in her seat attempting to blend in. Walking over silently, he knew that the girl's attention was lax when he smelled the sudden spike of adrenaline when he popped in the seat in front of her. Deciding to keep get the deal over with, he began speaking.
"You know Heather, it's dangerous for a young women to walk around alone. You never know who would be eyeing you." He whispered to the policewomen, who paled at the statement. He began pulling out the laptop as he continued, "Our friends on the water are planning a wedding, and they want us to look at locations for the afterparty" He booted up the computer and began bringing up the details of the gun deal he had found. "Now there are three places they are looking at; a waterside spot," he said pointing at a dock on near the explosion, "a ballroom," he continued moving the digit to an abandoned warehouse 2 miles away from the dock, "or a mansion." He finished, pointing at an apartment complex on the edge of the former port and the city proper. As he finished, the police women managed to find her voice again, "Yeah b-b-but why would they ask us for help?" she laughed awkwardly. Gordon sighed, and was about to rub the bridge of his nose, when his hand bumped into his glasses. Turning around, he made sure that no one was watching and that the other meta was still gone, he then turned back to face the woman.
"Look," he said, "you probably think i'm a monster. I couldn't agree with you more, but the force and me have a deal. So give me the cash, and i give you the rest of the information. After that, we don't see each other till you have another job, or I find something" Nodding vigorously, the woman pulled out a small, opaque plastic box from her hand bag, and passed it to him. Gordon placed the laptop back into the bag and held it up to the women. "Careful," he said as she gripped it, "it's heavy." The women let out another squeak of surprise as he let go of the heavy bag, but she managed to catch it in both hands before it dropped. He ignored her as she slowly dragged/carried the bag to her car, pushing past a women who was waiting at the desk. Sliding the box into his pocket, he walked into the maze of shelves as the meta-woman returned from where she disappeared. | Name:Jack Williams
Age:23
Gender:Male
Ethnicity:Caucasian
Appearance
Alias:The Living Weapon
Costume: Jack wears normal clothes for his suit. He wears a black tank top and black jeans since he can move easier in them. He has to keep his arms free to use his powers. He wears a mask to hide most of his face.
Meta-Human Power: Organic Constructs. As his name suggests, he can manipulate his own body to make weapons. In particular he can turn his right arm into a long sword. His entire arm turns into the sword. He is faster and stronger than the average person but he cannot lift a car or something like that. His other offensive weapon is that he can turn his hands into claws to fight. He can move by turning his arm into something like a whip. It can go a few feet in front of him (eight feet). He uses it to move quickly through the city.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Salt water is his main physical weakness. Since he uses his powers to manipulate his flesh the salt hurts him enough to stop him. That is not his only issue. His powers has created a side personality that Jack calls the Whisper. It causes him to not understand what else is going on around him. It can affect a lot more and makes Jack seem more of a monster than he is.
Personality: Jack is quite a nice guy when he is not using his powers. He is always joking and smiling. Jack is bisexual and will hit on anyone unless he is trying to say someone. He believes He has to save as many people as he can.
Background:Jack was born in Modern City and grew up there. So he has managed to get a rather thick Georgia accent.Jack went to the Modern City University for a degree in genetics. His parents both had similar degrees and so Jack had to get the degree. He was lucky to get a job at Wells Laboratory in the city. He was researching chimera bacteria the day of the explosion. He was walking in the park when the chemicals went through. He was near the middle of the group so he was not mutated as badly. Now he patrols the city as the Living Weapon. He seems to focus on righting wrongs that he deems wrong. Gangster, drug dealers, thugs, and rapists all are being placed in front of the police districts all over the city. All of them telling tales of a man with claws beating them. The police just seem to not care about the clawed man who only appears at night. They just let the man or whatever he is so what he does.
Other: |
51,481 | 1,393 | 15 | 2,613 | 541 | Music for this epic post.
Jason boredly slunk into the Modern Man's Super Market, shaded face glancing around the store with a gaze that seemingly took in everything around it, despite the gaze itself being lazy and half-lidded. No one spared the teenager a second glance - and that was completely alright with him. Matter of a fact, he quite preferred it this way. "Milk, milk, milk..." He whispered, his disembodied voice many tones too quite for anyone to even catch. He took his hands out of his pockets, grabbing a shopping cart as he passed by the 'stolen-item-detector'. Swinging the cart around, Jason began leading it towards the 'dairy' section of the market.
MM Super Market was a place he knew quite well, due to the fact that his crippled roommate often made him go out and get groceries for their consumption. Surprisingly, his roommate was quite the excellent cook...surprising, since Jason couldn't really remember the other teen taking any cooking lessons back in highschool. Then again, he didn't really check all that much. Regardless, judging by the ingredients he was buying, they were going to be eating enchiladas tonight...which he really, really loved. Sadly, it gave him gas...which he could catch inside of a darkness bubble, and use as projectiles against annoying people, so everything worked out quite lovely.
Sometime during his thoughts, he had made it to the dairy aisle, and was currently heading straight towards the iced milks. Full, or skim...? He thought to himself, eyes narrowing from beneath the darkness of his hood. Opening up the display, Jason reached towards the full milk, before pausing and twitching his hands towards the skim milk. After a second of this, he growled lowly, grabbing both gallons and setting them in the cart. It didn't matter; they needed more milk, anyways. The dilemma avoided, Jason closed the display case, and began heading towards the foreign food aisle.
All the while, the Super Market music played softly over the intercom. | Name: Gordon Fenway
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: American, Caucasian
Alias: Nightmare
Costume: White tank top, blue jeans, sunglasses
Meta-Human Power:
Limited Clairvoyance: Can consume the eyeballs of others using his eye mouths to see their memories
Super Human physicality:
Super human strength, endurance, toughness, and senses
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
Blind, severely weakened in intense light, his clairvoyance works on the recently deceased (recently killed is best, 1-2 days can see most memories, 3-4 loses oldest memories, longer than that he can't see anything).
Personality:
Gordon straddles the thin line between a hero and a villain, due to his unique power being dependent on having fresh corpses on hand. He places his freedom above all else, and anyone who attempts to control him are his enemies. He is both highly mercenary and strictly professional, offering his services to the highest bidder, and giving the requested goods as fast as possible.
Background:
Born to a family of acrobats, Gordon was always a free-spirit. He was home-schooled until college, where he attended the Modern City community college to pursue a degree in the arts. He dropped out shortly afterwards and attained a dead end job as a menial laborer at the pier. He had stowed away on a ship that was leaving the harbor the same time the ship carrying the chemicals was coming in. When the ship exploded, he was thrown overboard by the force, and barely dragged himself to shore, only to find that his he was blind. When he had gone underwater, he had opened his eyes by accident, triggering his transformation. Now he works as an information broker, hiring himself out to find information by hunting down, and consuming the eyes of the sources.
Other:
Currently homeless and declared dead, Gordon lives in the now vacanted area around ground zero of the explosion. He has offered his services to the authorities in exchange for immunity for his actions, but the city is still debating as the crime rate in the city grows. |
51,482 | 1,393 | 16 | 1,602 | 2,499 | Mundy nodded to the girl at the counter, taking his book and his card and stuffing them both into the almost empty backpack he was carrying over his shoulder. He looked around his area as he exited the library, the streets were filled with people rushing in both directions. But what could he expect? Modern City wasn't exactly the rural backwater villages of the far south. A rather rude, lanky man shoved past Mundy as he shouted down his phone to a business partner. Mundy's eyes followed the man, narrowing as he got further and further away.
He soon brushed his bleach blonde hair back into the style he regularly kept it in, before making his way down the street. He was moving at a fairly slow pace and got a few dirty looks from those having to manoeuvre around him to get to their destination. He looked in a few shop windows whilst moving through the crowds, he rarely ever saw anything he wanted to buy though and this seemed like another time where he'd go home empty handed, par the book of course. He passed an electronics store and glanced at a news report on one of the tvs in the window before diverting his full attention to it. Apparently a hostage situation was going down less than a block away from where Mundy was now. Well, he had nothing else to do today, might as well check it out. He made his way there and blended with the crowd, the only thing seperating him being the bright colour of his hair. He watched on as the situation unfolded. | Name: Edmund 'Mundy' Conagher
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian - Australian
Appearance
Mundy stands at a tall 6 foot 2 and weighs around 185lbs. He has an athletic physique and keeps this physique up by visitng the gym almost every day.
Alias: None as of yet
Costume:
Meta-Human Power:
Mundy is able to phase through any solid object in the world. He also has slight super strength.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
He is essentially human other than his powers. Which means bullets and the like can still be fatal to him and if he phased through a wall in a skyscraper and there was nothing on the other side, he would surely fall to his death.
Personality:
Mundy is essentially what you'd call a psychopath. He finds it extremely hard to maintain any relationships and is incredibly antisocial. That being said, he can maintain a few friendships for extended periods of time depending on the person. He lacks a moral responsibility on what is good and what is bad, but he has learned from experience and generally can do the right thing most of the time. That being said, his methods are less than ethical. He is very vain and cares greatly about his appearance.
Background:
Edmund 'Mundy' Conagher was born in Adelaide, Australia. As a young boy, his father would often take Mundy into the outback to go hunting, often to sell the hides and such for a little extra cash. Mundy didn't do great in school and would often skip school to go and play football with other children who had also skipped school. As a teenager he began to take greater care for his body and essentially became much vainer than he ever had been. He also began to pay more attention in school as the looming threat of the real world and the potential to be put into some shitty office job. He passed his first exams and barely passed his highers but failed his advanced highers. He managed to get a job as a tour guide until he had raised enough money to pick up and leave Adelaide.
He moved to America in his early 20s, specifically Modern City, Georgia. He bought an apartment there and got a job as a technician for Modern Stadium. He mostly just fiddles about with the lights and fixes any technical errors, but it pays well and he can't complain. Around his mid 20s he began to feel far different than he ever had before. Like he needed to hunt again, it started with him going hunting deer and the like, but grew and grew until the only thing he can think of to hunt now are people. Of course, not any civilians or anything, but gangsters and the like are fair play. On the day of the explosion, Mundy was out picking up supplies for a fishing trip he had planned to go on in the recent future, of course, things didn't go to plan.
Other: |
51,483 | 1,393 | 17 | 1,585 | 1,028 | Angel had just reached her room and laid down on her when her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
"No problem, glad to lend a hand, are you still in the lab?"
"Not anymore, if your not near the lab we could meet for coffee off campus if that is better."
She sent the text with an address for the cafe located near Luther street and wondered if Eli wanted to even meet up. Some of their work was overlapping, but for the majority of the time they didn't work with each other. There was also the problem of what kind of meta-human would allow her to draw blood from them and run tests on it to find a way to cure the genetic alterations. With these thoughts running through her head she face planted into the pillow and drifted off into a light nap with her phone still in her hand. | Name: Angel Aarandin
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Appearance
Alias: N/A
Costume: N/A
Meta-Human Power: Her entire body is made out of water. Angel is able to revert her entire body or just parts of her body into water at will. She is able to manipulate the water in her body to create weapons for example she can change her arm into a sword or shield and can even launch concentrated water in projectile form.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Since Angel's body is made of water she is vulnerable to extreme heat and extreme cold as the heat will cause her to start evaporating and cold will turn her into ice. She can sometimes become unstable and is not able to maintain her body causing her to become a puddle of water. A downside to turning into water is that she cannot change her clothes into water as well.
Personality: Angel is a kind person who likes to always make friends and does not like to be mean to anyone even if they are mean to her, which is why she can almost always be seen with a smile on her face. People would always describe her as a very down to earth person who would rather just relax with friends then work. After getting her powers she become a little more quiet and started to keep away from people because she feared that they would figure out what she was. She thought that they would judge her if they found out that her body was made out of water.
Background: Angel was raised in Long Beach, California and was raised with a love for the ocean and everything about it. She grew up with a normal childhood consisting of a lot of time at the beach and just going around town with her friends during her time in high school. Around her junior year she decided that she wanted to pursue a career with marine biology and started to look into Modern City Tech as a school for interest which would end up being the school that she would be attending.
On the day of the accident, she had been on the coast taking water samples and testing for contamination ironically. For a full week after she gained her powers she stayed holed up in her room as she struggled to get herself from liquefying every time she tried to walk. All she wants to do is live a normal life and make lots of friends in the process, but that dream seems to be getting farther away as more people with powers start to show up.
Other: |
51,484 | 1,393 | 18 | 1,440 | 384 | Last night,
Somewhere in Modern City Downtown,
01:13 AM
A black guy was running away from God knows what as he was looking behind him and breathing fast. Then all of a sudden he makes a right and heads into an alley where he stops as he puts his hands on his knees and starts catching his breath. "Oh God! I think I lost him. For a second thee i thought..." The guy didn't get to finish his sentence as Vince grabs him from behind and slams him against a wall, pulling out a stainless SIG P220 and pressing it against his left cheek. "Hello Dale! You have no idea how much i've been looking for you. It's not nice to run away from me, you know." Said Vince. "What the fuck do you want man? Leave me alone! You want money? I can give you money. Yeah!" Said Dale trying to weasel his way out of the situation. Angry, Vince kicks him in the testicules as Dale falls on the ground in pain. "You think I need your drug money huh? I don't need anything from you. All I want is for you to do die? You and all other drug dealers in this city?" Said Vince as he loaded his P220 and shot Dale straight in the head, killing him instantly. Then he put a picture of a Phoenix under his hand and left the scene imidieatly, putting his gun in his right leg holster and running away to his bike, a black Yamaha FZ-09 that he bought only recenty. Vince was using this bike only for his nights out, when he was "hunting" drug dealers.
Next morning,
Sarah's apartment,
09:30 AM
Vince woke up next to Sarah, who was still sleeping, as he gently wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. Sarah although with her eyes closed smiled. "Where were you last night? Dinner got cold and I got tired of waiting!" She said with a sleepy tone. Vince didn't respond imidieatly as he was thinking what to say. "Does it really matter? As long as i'm still here with you?" He responded kissing her again on the cheek. "I guess not!" She replied. "Stay in bed. I'm going to the gym. See you later." Said Vince as he got out of the bed, put some clothes on then quickly made some coffee in the kitchen, and grabbed a bite to eat from some of the food that Sarah made last night for them. After finishing his coffee, Vince took his car keys and left the apartment, heading to the gym. Once outside, he got in his car, a light blue 1967 Pontiac GTO, started the car and left, heading to the gym. | Name: Vincent Harris
Age: 31
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: American-canadian
Appearance
Alias: Phoenix
Costume:
Something like this, except that the balaclava is fully black, without those white lines on it.
Meta-Human Power: Regenerative healing factor - Vince can can rapidly regenerate, in other words, recreate lost or damaged tissues, organs and limbs. He is generally in very good physical shape as his body is constantly reverting to a healthy state. External wounds, including fractured bones and deeper burns, can heal pretty fast depending on how severe they are. Cellular and genetic damage is reduced, greatly extending Vince's lifespan. Lost limbs can also regenerate but that happends in a matter of days. Minor damaged internal organs may heal, but more severity can be beyond repair and may take more time to heal.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
- Vince's regeneration does not include disease immunity therefore he can still get sick;
- Although brain cells can be repaired, if the brain is damaged in any way then it will stop sending signals to the body to regenerate and Vince will become vulnerable or even die;
- He is still vulnerable to suffocation or asphyxiation because he is dependent on oxygen for breathing, just like any other human;
- Drugs/toxins at large quantities and/or constant/continuous rate may overwhelm/hold back regeneration.
Personality: Overall Vince is a nice guy but he has times when he is too serious and can even get angry if he is pissed off enough. In the past he has shown weakness and desire to give in to temptations but that is not the case anymore. He is open-minded and tries to be helpful as much as he can. He absolutely hates drugs and anyone that deals them.
Background: Vince dosen't enjoy talking about his past, mostly because he's ashamed of everything he's done and only recently he tried changing his life. He is not a native of Modern City, Vince was born in Seattle, Washington. His mother was a canadian imigrant and his father a local narcotics detective. Up until the age of 15, Vince had a normal and plain childhood with nothing worth being mentioned, aside from the fact that since the age of 12 he trained to become an MMA fighter. After the age of 15, his life became a living hell as a result of his father's death in the hands of a drug dealer that he was trying to arrest. His mother developed a drinking habit and no longer had any control of herself or her life. Seeing that he can't count on her anymore Vince started doing everything by himself. He started taking drugs. Marijuana and alcohol were ever present in his daily life. Because of that, his grades at school began to slip and his behavior was becoming more and more worse. A couple of months later he was convinced by his trainer to enter rehab seeing that Vince's future career was in jeopardy.
Vince got out of rehab and started fighting as an amateur. Although he was still living with his mother the two of them were like strangers. Vince's trainer was now like a father to him, taking care of him and making sure that he kept walking a straight line without any slip-up's. After spending a couple of years as an amateur and winning fight after fight, the 22 year old Vince signed a contract with the UFC and finally became a pro. After his first fights Vince became very popular and also was nicknamed Machine-Gun because of his aggresive fighting style, combined with speed and strength. Four years later Vince "Machine-Gun" Harris was one of UFC's most successful young fighters with 11 matches fought, all won and no losses. He was also the UFC Light Heavyweight champion. But Vince was yet to recieve another blow from life that was yet to test him. His mother died after she was ran over by a car and three days later his trainer, the man that was like a father to him, died as well, after he battled cancer for many years.
Not being able to take so many blows at once Vince slipped and stared taking drugs again. This time he resorted to cocaine. His illustrious career as an MMA fighter fell apart after he was caught by the UFC. He was stripped of his Light Heavyweight title and his contract was forfeited. And since no other MMA promotion wanted to hire a junkie, that basically signaled that his career was oficially over. Aged 26, Vince found himself in desperate need to find a job or something to do, but what else could he do? Fighting was all he knew, all he was good at. So to that extent, he started participating in illegal, underground fights. There nobody cared about rules or how many drugs was somebody taking. Vince continued earning a living from underground fights and pouring cocaine in himself up until one night, two years later, Vince was rushed to a hospital after he took a cocaine overdose and nearly died from it. After successfully cheating death Vince once again entered rehab, attempting to cure his addiction.
After getting out of rehab, Vince felt like he needed a change of space so he moved away from Seattle and into Modern City, Georgia. The location was chosen absolutely random, he just took a map of the United States, closed his eyes and put his thumb on it. Although he didn't hit any city, his thumb was closest to Modern City so that was the destination in which his life restart would take place. Once in the city, Vince bought an abandoned training gym and reopened it. Now that gym is his home and his business, it's everything for him. He also managed to make some friends and acquaitances. All and all his life restart plan was going on very well. All until one night. Vince was at the beach, in a secluded location, not very frecquented by people. He liked to go there at night and watch the ocean, feel the breeze and just sit around doing nothing. It was so relaxing to him. When the tanker blew up Vince was affected too by the chemicals. The next morning he woke up and realised that he wasn't normal again. So he made up an outfit, dubbed himself Phoenix and started to use his skills combined with his newfound powers to start a war against the drug dealers and drug lords of Modern City. Although he had no business with them personally, he just wanted to make sure that no other person would ever suffer because of drugs like he did in the past.
Other:
- Vince loves to listen to music. He likes rock & metal and his favorite bands are Alice in Chains and Limp Bizkit.
- He also likes tattoos and has quite a few of them on his body. It's useless to start mentioning all of them, the most important one however is the chinese dragon that covers his back.
- Has a girlfriend, Sarah, two years younger then him. Just like Vince, she also had drug issues in the past, but they weren't as serious as those of Vince. The two of them live together in an apartment that belongs to Sarah. Vince loves her very much and tries his best to keep her away from his new life and identity that might get her in trouble. |
51,485 | 1,393 | 19 | 1,329 | 2,344 | Jack kept running. He was not in the mood to get involved with anything. He was not the type to go hunting to help for any reason. His powers were not designed to help people. It was only designed to hurt and he used it for that reason. Even the Whisper thought so but he did not try to help anyone. So he kept going on his run.
"So what is your plan, boy? You still need to figure out how to fight for real. The claws will only do so much." The Whisper said in his head trying to bother Jack. He had no idea what to do right now but he did have a plan. He ran towards a different part of the city trying to still figure out what the heck he was going to do. After a bit he noticed a gym as he ran. He had to admit he was curious. It seemed to be some sort of MMA gym. He had never done anything like that but he was desperate so he stood in front of the place looking around at the place waiting for anyone with any information. | Name: Thomas Chandler
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian American
Thomas appears frail and sickly due to his condition, with pale, short-length blond hair and green eyes. His somewhat scrawny frame makes him look younger than he really is. Thomas feels a total lack of apathy towards choosing what he wears, he just throws on whatever's there - which is usually casual clothes, such as sweatpants, jeans or plain t-shirts.
Poltergeist manifests as a male, wraith-like humanoid, wearing what seems to be a white gas mask along with a tattered jumpsuit, with a total absence of skin pigment and green glowing eyes. Not even Thomas knows what lies beneath Poltergeist's mask...
Alias: N/A
Costume: N/A
Meta-Human Power: Materialized Protector - Thomas can manifest a guardian that is capable of defending and fighting for Thomas, which he calls Poltergeist. Poltergeist is a part of Thomas, and damage is reflected between the two. For example, if Poltergeist's arm is cut off, Thomas will lose their arm as well.
Invisibility - Poltergeist is capable of rendering itself and Thomas invisible to the naked eye, allowing both of them to accomplish tasks unseen.
Healing - Poltergeist can accelerate the healing time for cuts and broken bones on itself/Thomas and other people. It cannot heal missing limbs or mental damage. Using this ability accelerates the amount of time Thomas can bring Poltergeist out.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Thomas cannot walk far on his own without assistance as he is partially disabled. Thomas' power can cause severe optical hemorrhaging if Poltergeist is brought out for too long. The further away Poltergeist is from Thomas, the weaker it becomes.
Personality: Thomas could only be described as inhumanly tenacious, and persistent; once he is committed to something, he will not back down until the deed is done. Though courageous and willing to help at times, this is easily dispersed when Thomas' worth is put into question. When the need arises though, he can be driven by a dark determination, which is attributed to his stubborn and strong-willed nature.
Although his stubbornness might be described as a good thing by some, others might say it's a hindrance as his pride might prevent him from accepting help, even when he clearly needs it.
Background: At the very moment the cargo ship exploded, Thomas was in the passenger seat of his friend's car, driving somewhere near the coast. The blinding flash of light caused the car to spin out of control, crashing into a wall at high speeds and killing his friend, while Thomas suffered paralysis. Thomas woke up in a hospital a day later, now permanently paralyzed from the waist down.
That night when he went to sleep, he was woken by the eerie glow of two bright green lights attached to a bone-white figure hovering over his hospital bed. Understandably, Thomas was terrified, his heart rate spiking, causing the nurse to check in on him. By the time she had arrived the apparition had vanished. Thomas made some excuse about a nightmare, which seemed to assure the nurse that he was fine. Thomas never slept that night, fearful that the specter would reappear. A stream of questions ran through his mind. Most of them involved him questioning his own sanity. Was the apparition really there? Was it actually a hallucination brought on by the painkillers Thomas was taking?
The next day, Thomas attempted to reach for a glass of water, only for the phantom to materialise again and gently handed him the glass. It was then that he realised that he wasn't hallucinating, that the mysterious wraith was actually somehow under his command. Thomas spent the rest of the day practicing his new found abilities, commanding it to do minor tasks out of view until he became competent in using it. Eventually he learned how to use his Guardian's other powers in that hospital room, including healing - which is currently slowly healing his legs, now allowing him to barely walk a couple of steps - and nicknamed it Poltergeist after its appearance and abilities.
Thomas was eventually discharged from the hospital, along with Poltergeist, following close behind. Thomas then moved in with his old high-school friend, who offered to let Thomas to stay with him.
Other: Thomas is slowly regaining the use of his legs and is currently able to walk a few steps unaided. |
51,486 | 1,393 | 20 | 2,097 | 1,847 | Shadow noticed the young man disappear into the back. She narrowed her eyes as he began to maneuver his way through the bookshelves, as if he were avoiding her. Placing Moon in her pocket once more, she abandoned her post at the front desk and began to follow the man into the bookshelves. In the background, she could here the hum of a radio, talking about a hostage situation not very far from the library. That was quite worrying, but she was more worried about the young man who seemed to be creeping around her library.
Moving swiftly between bookshelves, she began casting small orbs of light above each of the bookshelves, illuminating them more. This would allow her to see the man's shadow without tipping him or anyone else off to her powers. She watched underneath the bookshelves and around corners, watching for his shoulder. She noticed it after the eighth orb she threw up and she hurried after him. He disappeared into the next bookshelf, but she quickly made her way to the opposite end of it, positioning herself at the end of it so he couldn't get out unless he went the other way.
Placing two arms on either side of the bookshelves, she made a human blockade with herself. "What the hell are you doing creeping around my library?" she snaps quietly, hoping to not disturb the people reading nearby. "You could at least state what you're looking for before creepily walking off as soon as I come up from the basement!" Her rising excited/terrified tone caused the light above them to shatter, sending the bookshelf into ill-lit darkness. She gasped as she suddenly began to glow and she quickly used that extra energy in herself and shot it up into the shattered light bulb, creating more light. She then played it off like nothing happened. "Are you the hostage holder and are just hanging out here so you can kill more people?!" | Name:Jack Williams
Age:23
Gender:Male
Ethnicity:Caucasian
Appearance
Alias:The Living Weapon
Costume: Jack wears normal clothes for his suit. He wears a black tank top and black jeans since he can move easier in them. He has to keep his arms free to use his powers. He wears a mask to hide most of his face.
Meta-Human Power: Organic Constructs. As his name suggests, he can manipulate his own body to make weapons. In particular he can turn his right arm into a long sword. His entire arm turns into the sword. He is faster and stronger than the average person but he cannot lift a car or something like that. His other offensive weapon is that he can turn his hands into claws to fight. He can move by turning his arm into something like a whip. It can go a few feet in front of him (eight feet). He uses it to move quickly through the city.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Salt water is his main physical weakness. Since he uses his powers to manipulate his flesh the salt hurts him enough to stop him. That is not his only issue. His powers has created a side personality that Jack calls the Whisper. It causes him to not understand what else is going on around him. It can affect a lot more and makes Jack seem more of a monster than he is.
Personality: Jack is quite a nice guy when he is not using his powers. He is always joking and smiling. Jack is bisexual and will hit on anyone unless he is trying to say someone. He believes He has to save as many people as he can.
Background:Jack was born in Modern City and grew up there. So he has managed to get a rather thick Georgia accent.Jack went to the Modern City University for a degree in genetics. His parents both had similar degrees and so Jack had to get the degree. He was lucky to get a job at Wells Laboratory in the city. He was researching chimera bacteria the day of the explosion. He was walking in the park when the chemicals went through. He was near the middle of the group so he was not mutated as badly. Now he patrols the city as the Living Weapon. He seems to focus on righting wrongs that he deems wrong. Gangster, drug dealers, thugs, and rapists all are being placed in front of the police districts all over the city. All of them telling tales of a man with claws beating them. The police just seem to not care about the clawed man who only appears at night. They just let the man or whatever he is so what he does.
Other: |
51,487 | 1,393 | 21 | 2,097 | 1,847 | Gordon could feel the heat radiating from the meta in front of him, and he was glad that hes was blind at that moment. He could smell the moment of fear, then confusion of the patrons in the library, and he could hear the whispering of the same people behind the meta. Smiling as charmingly as he could, Gordon whispered, "If i was a hostage taker, why would I hide out near a meta? I just came here to get paid for my services." before he pulled out his wallet and showed his license to the librarian. it was a simple police ID card, but it had a picture of him without his glasses, mouth somber and literally smiling eyes. "I'm one of you, and I'm working for the city, now let me through. The police are gonna want me at the scene soon." Gordon finished as he placed his wallet away.
Gordon was honestly hoping that the confrontation wouldn't become violent, and that the meta had enough common sense not to go nova in such a public area. He was also cursing himself silently as he leaned on his cane and adjusted hi.s glasses. While he wasn't unconfident in his ability to survive, he didn't want any innocents getting hurt. "Yeah right," the damned voice in his head began speaking, "We both know that you don't want anyone killed is because it's a waste of information that will get you in trouble with the police. Face it you selfish bastard, if you had the choice, you'd have killed them all." the Voice purred in the back of Gordon's mind. Gordon grimaced slightly and replied in his thoughts, "Your wrong, and leave me the fuck alone you sick bastard, you know nothing about me. | Name:Jack Williams
Age:23
Gender:Male
Ethnicity:Caucasian
Appearance
Alias:The Living Weapon
Costume: Jack wears normal clothes for his suit. He wears a black tank top and black jeans since he can move easier in them. He has to keep his arms free to use his powers. He wears a mask to hide most of his face.
Meta-Human Power: Organic Constructs. As his name suggests, he can manipulate his own body to make weapons. In particular he can turn his right arm into a long sword. His entire arm turns into the sword. He is faster and stronger than the average person but he cannot lift a car or something like that. His other offensive weapon is that he can turn his hands into claws to fight. He can move by turning his arm into something like a whip. It can go a few feet in front of him (eight feet). He uses it to move quickly through the city.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Salt water is his main physical weakness. Since he uses his powers to manipulate his flesh the salt hurts him enough to stop him. That is not his only issue. His powers has created a side personality that Jack calls the Whisper. It causes him to not understand what else is going on around him. It can affect a lot more and makes Jack seem more of a monster than he is.
Personality: Jack is quite a nice guy when he is not using his powers. He is always joking and smiling. Jack is bisexual and will hit on anyone unless he is trying to say someone. He believes He has to save as many people as he can.
Background:Jack was born in Modern City and grew up there. So he has managed to get a rather thick Georgia accent.Jack went to the Modern City University for a degree in genetics. His parents both had similar degrees and so Jack had to get the degree. He was lucky to get a job at Wells Laboratory in the city. He was researching chimera bacteria the day of the explosion. He was walking in the park when the chemicals went through. He was near the middle of the group so he was not mutated as badly. Now he patrols the city as the Living Weapon. He seems to focus on righting wrongs that he deems wrong. Gangster, drug dealers, thugs, and rapists all are being placed in front of the police districts all over the city. All of them telling tales of a man with claws beating them. The police just seem to not care about the clawed man who only appears at night. They just let the man or whatever he is so what he does.
Other: |
51,488 | 1,393 | 22 | 2,031 | 6,493 | Eli saw Angel's text and then answered back "I'd love to join you for Coffee Later baring any unforeseen event intruding"
Yes she had to think of bringing Angel in on her secret even if for no other reason than that she knew her secret and it only seemed fair. First though she needed to clear it with Carter because even if she tried to keep their connection secret it still might be traced back to him.
She went outside and climbed into her old beat up 3/4 ton truck and cranked it's diesel engine and headed over to the campus to do a bit of research in the library; she might be a gifted meta but she still needed to complete her degree | Name: Elliot Sinclair
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Cherokee
Appearance
Alias: Retro
Costume: Black neoprene suit with black utility belt with 6 pouches a full hood and gloves
Front right pouch 8 filter masks
Right hip pouch night vision goggles
Right rear pouch Evidence bags and vials
Front left pouch UV flashlight and first aid kit
Left hip pouch Burner cell phone
Left rear pouch 24 Caltrops
Meta-Human Power:
Omnilingualism Elli can speak, write, understand and communicate in any language including computer codes, languages that have never been heard before, sign language (even lip-reading), illegible words, and backwards speech and writing:
Psychometry Elli obtains historical memories or sensations concerning beings and objects by touching them. With objects she gains the knowledge including the makers, users, and even those who have on passing used the object, and what has been done with it. With living beings or parts of the body she learns their general life-history, but doesn't gain anything of what they were thinking or feeling.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
Eli has trouble sometimes connecting with what she calls present time. When this happens her perception of the world isn't based on what is happening in real time but on what might have happened an hour, a day or a week ago. This usually only happens after prolonged use of her Psychometry ability.
Personality: Eli is a very friendly person who enjoys helping people in need. She is driven by a sense of justice that means she'll go the distance to see that those who commit injustice are brought to their due.
Background: Eli was born on Strange Island in the Okefenokee Swamp in the cabin her parents live in even now. Frank Sinclair her father is a game warden and her mother Elizabeth a herpetologist who specializes in taxonomy and physiology of the reptiles that live in the southeast of the United States.
It was from her parents that Eli learned her dedication to scholastic pursuits and right and wrong.
An excellent student Eli graduated from High School with a 4.0 average and a scholarship.
Shortly after graduation Eli began attending Modern Tech studying oceanology and marine science. It was while working on a project within the bay of Modern City that Eli was exposed to the chemicals of the event that caused the Meta Mutations. Her boat was swamped and she and her lab partner were dumped into the toxic waters.
She survived for five hours even being swept partly out the sea where she was found by a Coast Guard Rescue boat that was searching the area; her lab partner's body was never found.
Close to the epicenter of the event Eli wasn't affected as serverly as others who were as exposed. She is still a student at Modern Tech and has shifted her focus to Marine Genetics and Micro biology.
Other: Eli has always been an athletic girl competing in Gymnastics and Distance running so her physical condition flexibility and endurance are better than average.
She supplemented her scholarship before the accident working as a museum guide where she still works on her free days when not performing her school work. |
51,489 | 1,393 | 23 | 668 | 1,474 | It was amazing how small everything looked from above. He flew above city, staring down on it in wonder. It reminded him of watching a colony of ants scurrying about their business. And the feeling? Completely and utterly indescribable. It was a lot like hang-gliding, only so much more. The sensation of the wind, the comfy feeling of warm thermals keeping him aloft thanks to his wings. It was incredible, all of it. Sure, people could fly using machines like airplanes or experience a similar feeling through hang-gliding, para-sailing, and the like. But to actually genuinely fly, on one's own, with no devices or outside help? That was on a completely different level. It ended abruptly, as Carter suddenly felt something missing... his wings! And suddenly he was free-falling to what he was sure would be his death.
With a sudden jerk, Carter jolted awake, still reclined on his chair in his office. He'd dosed off, and was dreaming. It wasn't the first time he had that dream either, he had it several times since the incident, and he often wondered if there was some subconscious fear connected to it. Regardless, he noticed his cell phone sitting on the desk, it's backlight blinking as an indication that he either missed a call or had an unread text. He picked it up and, sure enough, there was a text from Eli.
"Hi Carter, I've been thinking about your offer to mentor me in investigation and decided it wouldn't be a bad idea..If you're still up for it let me know an we can set up a meet..Elliot"
"Hmm, well, I wasn't expecting that..." he said to himself, at the time she didn't seem all that interested in his line of work. He shrugged, supposing that she simply changed her mind, as women were often notorious for doing. He opened the text menu and wrote a quick response.
Yep, of course I am. Still in the office, but it doesn't like I'm getting any clients today so drop on by if you feel like it."
He pressed send and set the phone back down. He stood up, deciding to stretch his legs a bit. He walked toward the front window, using his fingers to push apart the blinds slightly and then peered outside. Across the street was a gym, looked like it was for boxers or fighters or something, Carter wasn't too sure. Although, come to think of it, since quitting the force he didn't really plan any way for him to keep in shape, and that at least would be kind of necessary for the type of work he intended to do, "Note to self: look into getting a membership there later." he said to himself in a low voice before turning toward his desk.
The quiet in the office was becoming unbearable, so he reached for the radio on his desk and switched it on. As he was looking for a good station, he found something interesting, "...there are nine hostages total. We'll report more as the situation on Luther Street develops." he left it on that station and kept listening. Hostage situation, but the actual details were unclear. He thought about going, but remembered that he should probably wait for Eli. And besides, it didn't sound like there were any metas involved so surely the police could handle this... right? | Name: Carter Andrews
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Appearance
Alias: Condor
Costume
Meta-Human Power: Apart having developed a pair of bird-like wings from his arms/shoulders, Carter also seems able to focus his eyes into a sort of binocular vision, similar to that of a hawk or other bird of prey.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects: Well for one thing the wings themselves have proven difficult to hide when he's not in costume. On a more severe note, his vision is sometimes difficult to control, at times even painful for his eyes.
Personality: Carter is, for the most part, a nice enough guy but with a bit of a devil-may-care attitude thrown into the mix. Strangely, he took to the whole superhero thing rather quickly, though that may have just been a way for him not to have to think about the severity of the explosion incident, choosing instead to devote his energy into beating up bad guys since according to him that is much less stressful. Don't let his attitude fool you, though, underneath his lazy and carefree expression is a surprisingly keen eye and sharp instinct that he only rarely shows off.
Background: Carter's a born-and-raised Modern City Georgian. He was the second child of his family, the first being his sister Claire. The brother and sister were pretty close growing up, probably the reason why she's so willing to put up with his shenanigans despite him supposedly driving her up the wall. Both of their parents worked as public servants, their mother Alice being the current Director of Modern City General Hospital and their father Joe (or Joseph as he's known professionally) a judge, and a pretty well-known one at that.
Carter, like his dad, decided early on to pursue a career in law. Though unlike Joe, Carter's interest was instead firmly in law enforcement, and so rather than a legal career, he instead became a cop. Claire was a bit of an odd duck, pursuing neither law nor medicine and instead gained a career in politics, hence her current position as Deputy Mayor under Mayor Wellington. As for Carter, he was a good enough cop, though his work was never particularly outstanding.
In fact, Carter was on duty on the day of the explosion, patrolling at the docks with his partner, James. Naturally, the two responded immediately and went to investigate closer. Though that might have been their undoing in the end. As they moved in closer to the beach, they came across people that were horribly effected by the chemicals, some mutating before their very eyes. One of the mutated people, likely driven mad by the chemical exposure, lashed out at them. Carter instinctively pulled his gun to shoot, but the bullets did nothing to the creature. It lunged for Carter, but James shoved him out of the way, taking the attack instead. Carter lost consciousness, awakening some time later in a hospital room with his parents and sister gathered around him.
He went through the reports and discovered that James was among the casualties. From there things just... spiraled for Carter. He ended up quitting the force and started drinking more. His mysterious wings started growing from his shoulder blades and that certainly didn't help matters. He had to move out of his place and into a cheaper apartment, but in that process he was going through his old stuff and found something. They were some old comic books he used to read as a kid, he remembered them being what inspired him to become a cop in the first place, to catch bad guys and put them away like the heroes in the masks. Then he was struck with an idea. Using inspiration from some of the characters in his old comic book collection, he managed to put together a costume, then all he needed was a name. Remembering that birds of prey were a commonly used motif for naming things in Modern City, he decided to do the same for himself, soon settling on the name Condor.
Whatever depression he'd once had seemed to vanish after this. He was back to being the carefree guy he used to be. Realizing that he needed a day job, he decided to put his police training to a new use by opening up a small private eye agency, even advertizing that cases involving Meta-Humans were his specialty in order to attract clients as well as leads on other Meta-Humans like himself.
Other: Nothing in particular at this time. |
51,490 | 1,393 | 24 | 1,440 | 384 | As Vince was driving towards the gym he recieves a phone call on an unknown number, but nontheless, he knew who the caller was. It was detective Andrews. A narcotics detective who became Vince's accomplice. He was the one helping Vince in his war against the city's drug dealers by providing him with information and details regarding various drug dealers in the city. Vince takes out the cellphone from his pocket and answers. "Hello!? Detective. What can I do for you?" Asked Vince with his eyes on the road. "I just wanted to congratulate you on a job well done. You really showed Dale Smith last night. I guess that's one less death dealer to worry about." Said the detective. "Thank you very much detective. But let's be honest here. You're the one who deserves the credit. Without you and all your info my job would have been 5 times harder." Responded Vince.
At the other end of the line detective Andrews smiled and paused for a few seconds. "Don't sweat it Phoenix. I had enough of seeing these bastards get away with it. If the law is not willing to punish them and keeps surrendering to their money and influence then other more extreme measuures need to be taken. That's why I agreed to help you. Now I gotta go. You'll hear from me again." Said the detective as he hanged up. Vince put his cellphone back in his pocket and continued driving, making a left and reaching the gym as the tires of his Pontiac GTO were screeching and the engine was revving upset. Vince stops the car and gets out as he sees someone standing outside his gym. "Hello! What can I help you with?" Said Vince as he took the keys to the gym from a pocket as he opened up the place and got inside. | Name: Vincent Harris
Age: 31
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: American-canadian
Appearance
Alias: Phoenix
Costume:
Something like this, except that the balaclava is fully black, without those white lines on it.
Meta-Human Power: Regenerative healing factor - Vince can can rapidly regenerate, in other words, recreate lost or damaged tissues, organs and limbs. He is generally in very good physical shape as his body is constantly reverting to a healthy state. External wounds, including fractured bones and deeper burns, can heal pretty fast depending on how severe they are. Cellular and genetic damage is reduced, greatly extending Vince's lifespan. Lost limbs can also regenerate but that happends in a matter of days. Minor damaged internal organs may heal, but more severity can be beyond repair and may take more time to heal.
Weaknesses or Side-Effects:
- Vince's regeneration does not include disease immunity therefore he can still get sick;
- Although brain cells can be repaired, if the brain is damaged in any way then it will stop sending signals to the body to regenerate and Vince will become vulnerable or even die;
- He is still vulnerable to suffocation or asphyxiation because he is dependent on oxygen for breathing, just like any other human;
- Drugs/toxins at large quantities and/or constant/continuous rate may overwhelm/hold back regeneration.
Personality: Overall Vince is a nice guy but he has times when he is too serious and can even get angry if he is pissed off enough. In the past he has shown weakness and desire to give in to temptations but that is not the case anymore. He is open-minded and tries to be helpful as much as he can. He absolutely hates drugs and anyone that deals them.
Background: Vince dosen't enjoy talking about his past, mostly because he's ashamed of everything he's done and only recently he tried changing his life. He is not a native of Modern City, Vince was born in Seattle, Washington. His mother was a canadian imigrant and his father a local narcotics detective. Up until the age of 15, Vince had a normal and plain childhood with nothing worth being mentioned, aside from the fact that since the age of 12 he trained to become an MMA fighter. After the age of 15, his life became a living hell as a result of his father's death in the hands of a drug dealer that he was trying to arrest. His mother developed a drinking habit and no longer had any control of herself or her life. Seeing that he can't count on her anymore Vince started doing everything by himself. He started taking drugs. Marijuana and alcohol were ever present in his daily life. Because of that, his grades at school began to slip and his behavior was becoming more and more worse. A couple of months later he was convinced by his trainer to enter rehab seeing that Vince's future career was in jeopardy.
Vince got out of rehab and started fighting as an amateur. Although he was still living with his mother the two of them were like strangers. Vince's trainer was now like a father to him, taking care of him and making sure that he kept walking a straight line without any slip-up's. After spending a couple of years as an amateur and winning fight after fight, the 22 year old Vince signed a contract with the UFC and finally became a pro. After his first fights Vince became very popular and also was nicknamed Machine-Gun because of his aggresive fighting style, combined with speed and strength. Four years later Vince "Machine-Gun" Harris was one of UFC's most successful young fighters with 11 matches fought, all won and no losses. He was also the UFC Light Heavyweight champion. But Vince was yet to recieve another blow from life that was yet to test him. His mother died after she was ran over by a car and three days later his trainer, the man that was like a father to him, died as well, after he battled cancer for many years.
Not being able to take so many blows at once Vince slipped and stared taking drugs again. This time he resorted to cocaine. His illustrious career as an MMA fighter fell apart after he was caught by the UFC. He was stripped of his Light Heavyweight title and his contract was forfeited. And since no other MMA promotion wanted to hire a junkie, that basically signaled that his career was oficially over. Aged 26, Vince found himself in desperate need to find a job or something to do, but what else could he do? Fighting was all he knew, all he was good at. So to that extent, he started participating in illegal, underground fights. There nobody cared about rules or how many drugs was somebody taking. Vince continued earning a living from underground fights and pouring cocaine in himself up until one night, two years later, Vince was rushed to a hospital after he took a cocaine overdose and nearly died from it. After successfully cheating death Vince once again entered rehab, attempting to cure his addiction.
After getting out of rehab, Vince felt like he needed a change of space so he moved away from Seattle and into Modern City, Georgia. The location was chosen absolutely random, he just took a map of the United States, closed his eyes and put his thumb on it. Although he didn't hit any city, his thumb was closest to Modern City so that was the destination in which his life restart would take place. Once in the city, Vince bought an abandoned training gym and reopened it. Now that gym is his home and his business, it's everything for him. He also managed to make some friends and acquaitances. All and all his life restart plan was going on very well. All until one night. Vince was at the beach, in a secluded location, not very frecquented by people. He liked to go there at night and watch the ocean, feel the breeze and just sit around doing nothing. It was so relaxing to him. When the tanker blew up Vince was affected too by the chemicals. The next morning he woke up and realised that he wasn't normal again. So he made up an outfit, dubbed himself Phoenix and started to use his skills combined with his newfound powers to start a war against the drug dealers and drug lords of Modern City. Although he had no business with them personally, he just wanted to make sure that no other person would ever suffer because of drugs like he did in the past.
Other:
- Vince loves to listen to music. He likes rock & metal and his favorite bands are Alice in Chains and Limp Bizkit.
- He also likes tattoos and has quite a few of them on his body. It's useless to start mentioning all of them, the most important one however is the chinese dragon that covers his back.
- Has a girlfriend, Sarah, two years younger then him. Just like Vince, she also had drug issues in the past, but they weren't as serious as those of Vince. The two of them live together in an apartment that belongs to Sarah. Vince loves her very much and tries his best to keep her away from his new life and identity that might get her in trouble. |
51,491 | 1,394 | 0 | 2,498 | 675 | I begin tucking him in and he tells me with a smile, 'Mommy check for monsters under my bed.' I look underneath for his amusement and see him, another him, under the bed, staring back at me quivering and whispering, 'Mommy there's a monster in my bed.'
Beaverton Oregon, USA. ██ / ██ / 20██
A potential phenomena was detected by Foundation automated media/communication monitoring systems at 05:37:20 when a local radio news station reported a story on several missing persons (review attached document.) Report contains details indicative with that of an anomalous event. Probability of specimen: 78.5%. An acquisition order was approved by Hyperion at 09:20:57. A dispatch team consisting of level ⓵, ⓸, and ⓹ personnel is to be deployed to investigate the anomaly and any person(s) associated with it. In the event of specimen confirmation, a report is to be made to Foundation HQ via telecommunication and immediate containment and quarantine procedures are to be enacted if possible. Additional personnel may volunteer with approval of an on site Admin. The deployment of one(1) Boeing VC-25 passenger transportation aircraft has been approved for this mission. Any additional transportation is available on location upon request.
BEAVERTON FAMILY VANISHES WITHOUT A TRACE
Authorities say a family of three disappeared on Saturday ██ / ██ / 20██. Jesica Reed, 30, her 7-year-old son Jaidon Hillford, and her husband, 34-year-old William Jones Hillford. Beaverton County Sheriff Harold James told the Marriot Clarence-Ledger; Their house was found to be empty with no signs of forced entry. All the doors and windows on the premises were found to be sealed and locked from the inside.
According to the station, a neighbor, Hughes Robertson, called in and said he called them on Friday to invite them over for a barbeque but received no answer. Seeing their car still parked in the driveway and the lights in the house still on, Hughes became worried and decided to visit. It was when nobody answered the door despite all the lights and televisions being on, that the concerned neighbor decided to inform local police.
Upon arrival, Authorities gained entry into the house by breaking the door down. Strangely, officers found no evidence of the family or any signs of a break in or relocation. One of the upstairs showers were even discovered to still be running. Authorities have released no further information on the family or any suspects at this time.
If you have any information on this case, you're asked to call the Beaverton County Sheriff's Department at (██) ██-███.
---
The sun had just begun to rise over the hills in the distance, filling the dim sky with a brilliant sea of light and warmth. A beautiful sight to behold for anyone lucky enough to gaze upon it. This was not the case for agent Miles Gatsworth, administrator for the personnel dispatch department within Foundation HQ. Instead, sitting within the dank confines of a small white office, he meagerly enjoyed the warmth of the mug of coffee in his hand as he sat at his deck, reviewing field reports on the last specimen that was obtained, still awaiting declassification. The entity had hastily been shipped off to the research department before he had a chance to get a look at it so he wanted to read up on it a bit. Miles always enjoyed knowing about specimen before the other staff. But before he could get to the specimens description, an order from the higher ups came down through the mailing tubes. Letting off a dull sigh, Miles grabbed the mail canister and popped it open, pulling out the approved acquisition order with an attached document.
A few moments passed as the Admin sipped his coffee and read over the pieces of paper. An eye brow raised as he read the news report. To some, it may seem dismissible, but Miles had been with the foundation long enough to know a specimen when he see's one. Rather, reads about it. "Feh...seventy eight percent my arse. Everybody knows the bloody monitor doesn't even bother piping up unless it's an actual specimen. The damn thing should should just say one hundred percent every time." All the time in this quiet office drove Miles to conversing with himself on many occasions. Today was no different. Despite being a little bothered by having to move from his cushy chair, Miles was actually somewhat relieved to be getting a chance at leaving that lonesome office.
Leaving through an automated motion detecting door, Miles made his way down the chrome plated halls toward the announcement room where he kept a few personnel records on hand for easy deployment. He wasn't supposed to organize teams before a mission was announced. However with all the free time he had, being an expert bureaucrat, he couldn't help but organize teams in advance when he knew he would have to do it anyway. It's not like there's suddenly going to be no more specimen to contain. Even if that day did exist, it would be beyond his time. This was at least what Miles believed. Sliding his access card through a auto lock, another door slid open, revealing a room filled with file cabinets, television screens, and a telephone wired to the PA system. | Name - Phoebe Sophie Jones
Age - 30
Gender - Female. (Sex is female too.)
Class - Researcher
Appearance - link ((Yes, that's the chick from Adventures in Babysitting.))
Information - Phoebe Jones was a devout atheist (for lack of a better term) before taking this job. She's greatly interested in legends and myths, from ancient legends and folklore to modern religion. She attributes human's many superstitions to our nature: we are afraid of the unknown, so he invented stories to fill in the gaps. Science manages to do this, so science slowly replaces our legends. Why does the sun rise and set? Not because of a fiery chariot, or the steady push of a scarab beetle, but rather because the Earth moves. Her interest in the mind inspired her to obtain a Master's in Evolutionary Psychology. She wrote a book on the psychology of superstition, which one of the top researchers in the Foundation read. Of course, many of her theories were wrong, but her process was sound, and she wasn't a bad writer. That researcher approached her with a job. At first, she thought the man was joking. She played along with the "joke" and accepted. He gave her the location of the headquarters, and she arrived to find a legitimate business. She didn't believe until she saw "the bump in the night" pacing around in its cell. |
51,492 | 1,394 | 1 | 331 | 55 | Thousands of miles to the North east is a Wrangell Island,a small island near the "North Pole" On this map was a large foundation base, one of the only ones currently expanding for new specimens. Any new specimens would most likely be transferred here. Wrangel Island has a severe polar climate. The region is blanketed by dry and cold Arctic air masses for most of the year. Warmer and more humid air can reach the island from the south-east during summer. Dry and heated air from Siberia comes to the island periodically. Wrangel Island consists of folded, faulted, and metamorphosed volcanic, intrusive, and sedimentary rocks ranging in age from Upper Precambrian to Lower Mesozoic.
Wrangel Island was due for a new specimen, one should have arrived a week ago according to how specimens are usually brought, but there were simply no specimens to send to Wrangel that week. A phone nearby started to ring,and Polyester let out a dull sigh. He hated listening to other people, but he would do it if he had to. It was most likely the research team or a foundation head coming to tell him about a new specimen shipment anyway. He picked up the phone and was greeted to someone of a lower class that a new anomaly has surfaced, and they are checking if it will be a good specimen. Polyester hung up the phone soon after responding quickly from the news.
Polyester opened a small cabnit dedicated to missing anomalies and specimens that have escaped. He pulled one out from the bottom right row and skimmed through it. This specimen was smart and charismatic, however the specimen was rather weak. It was considered a specimen because of it's fabric like skin that weaved itself over time, repairing it's own injuries. This is why it has gone missing for so long, the suspects were simply unable to be cut due to multiple, complicated reasons. | Name: Polyester Homes
Age:35
Gender: Male
Class: 7, Department administrator of the ECS
Appearance:
Information: He joined the foundation at 25 years of age. He has proven to be a intelligent recourse and has proven to be efficient at multitasking. He seems very disinterested in women and seems to prefer to work alone if possible. His skin is unusually pale. |
51,493 | 1,394 | 2 | 2,246 | 3,527 | 'Another medical check' Flint thought to himself as he was asked to step off the treadmill. The monitors showing his performance and heart rate. The vile of blood and urine he filled before where taken away to be analysed "Ok that's everything. See you next month" The doctor said as he left the medical bay. 'I know why we need them but I wish they weren't such a hassle' Flint thought as he began to walk to the security changing rooms. He removed his sports wear and began to strap into his body armour. It was thick and made the occupant able to take a few bullets to the chest without dying. Flint tied his laces then went to the armoury to get his guns. He swiped his Id card at every doorway which separated each corridor and room until he got to the armoury. He gave his card to the man behind the metal fencing and the man went off to retrieve Flint's gun. He returned moments later with a large box which slid through a small slot in the metal fencing. "Standard issue L85 IW Rifle , Standard issue M1911 Handgun, 3, 30 round STANAG Magazines, with 90 5.56x45mm NATO Rounds, 2 7-round standard detachable box magazines with 14 .45ACP Rounds." The attendant behind the mesh said in a dreary tone as Flint holstered the handgun and pocketed the ammunition into the correct pouches. Finally slinging the rifle on his shoulder. The numbers 117 Where engraved on both guns signifying them as Flints. "Don't lose them" The man behind the metal fencing sarcastically remarked as Flint left waiting for the usual call on his two way radio to signify what doorway or corridor he was guarding today. | Name: Flint white - SecurityCode:117
Age:27
Gender: Male
Class: (3) Security Officer
Appearance:
Information: He has only been in the foundation for about 2 years now. He takes his job very seriously and is always ready to keep the peace within the organization. Flint was part of his police forces armed response before joining The Foundation and so has had extensive firearm and hand to hand combat training. He also understands that to keep with the interest of The Foundation sacrifices have to be made including human lives. He will take orders very seriously and will do anything The Foundation needs him to accomplish. |
51,494 | 1,394 | 3 | 1,629 | 491 | Lakeport City - Lake County, California, USA
He had been walking north for only a few minutes before he finally came upon it. His next clue. A smirk lined his lips. Before him, encircled by a square of yellow tape, a corpse debauched under the warmth of the evening sun. Its entirety dwindling as its stench thickened, staining the immediate air around it as coagulated blood did the concrete. Overhead, a single crow, black-feathered and sleek, sat perched upon a nearby ledge. Eyes trained upon the corpse as it waited patiently for those below to take their leave.
It was gruesome, even worst than the others. What had once been a human body was now only a bloody mound of charred flesh, weakly held together by the shattered pieces of bone protruding from it's exterior. Standing behind the yellow tape, Chris continued to look on. Watching a single member of the Lakeport Police Department in particular as the dumbfounded lot continued to take pictures and whisper back and forth. Two of which were clearly on the verge of hurling up the contents of their stomachs. Turning to his left, he watched intently, almost mineciously, as a short yet stocky male officer shimmied under the crime tape and barked orders at the group.
"Nothing right?" Christian's eyes softened as they locked upon the face of the brunette walking towards him. Barely managing to refrain a glance at her rear as she walked by, the man sighed. Dutifully, he then followed.
"I'm really not in the mood today, Cross. This shit is getting out of hand." Despite her confident posture and strides, he could tell by the dip of her head she was on the verge of breaking down. Thus, he remained quiet until they had reached the black mustang which had served as the detective's cruiser.
"It's not them." He walked to the passenger side of the car, holding the door open as she entered the vehicle. Her cobalt eyes following him as he leapt over the hood and without contacting the ground, threw himself into the driver's seat via window. Silently justifying his train of thought. 'They don't completely dismantle their targets... it's all wrong.' The car then roared to life, drowning out the churning of the woman's stomach as she buried her head within her hands. Sobbing softly as Chris maneuvered the vehicle through traffic and took a sharp left. Entering a side road as he gradually increased the pressure he placed upon the gas, easing off every so often as to maintain a speed of sixty km/h.
"It was Trina, Chris. That thing, was Trina's friggin' body!" As she raised her head to scream at him, the tears upon her face became visible. The sight of them pained him, but upon his grimed face, it didn't show.
"Em..." His voice faded. Leaving only silence over their heads for the remainder of the drive. Slowing the car to crawl, then stop, he starred blankly at the dashboard before him.
For a few straineous and rather awkward moments, neither of the pair moved to exit the car. Both instead choosing to blank out as if reminiscing about some far away land. Finally, she pushed open the door. Stepping out and wiping her face prior to entering the eatery to which they had just pulled up at. Snapping back to his senses, Christian followed with due haste. His hands digging into his pockets as he followed the detective into the building. As she made her way to the bar, he simply stood at the entrance. His brown eyes observing the elegant paintings and luxurious mood lighting curiously as he scanned the entirety of the room, almost as if expecting them to leap off of the walls towards him. Once satisfied, he caught up.
Now leaning over the bar next to the obviously distraught woman, Chris watched as she reached into her back pocket, pulling free a thin leather wallet as her pale breasts threatened to fall from her v-neck shirt. Indifferent, Cross continued to eye her intently. Inwardly debating whether the body - or bodies, as this was the fourth, was indicative of an anomaly or not.
"The usual, Mikael. I'm having a rough day." The bruenette placed her wallet down on the black marbled counter, leaving her twelve twenty dollar bills, her I.D. and her badge in plain sight as she adjusted her self upon the bar. Placing her left hand to her jaw as she leaned upon her elbow. Having glanced at it, Chris silently read over her name in his head. Emily Elizabeth Rhodes.
"Milk." Christian's voice was unusually lifeless, void of it's natural playfulness as he sat next to the detective and shot a heated glance towards the bar keep. Leaning closer to the long haired haired woman, he attempted to touch her shoulder. She instantly made a big deal of moving away. Looking up only to show Mikael an empty smile. If only for a moment, Cross stiffened, relaxing only after an exhale.
"They'll know we're on their trail Em. These men i'm after." Naturally, Chris hadn't told her the truth. After all, she wasn't ready for, nor needed to be aware of it. Hence, he had spent the last month posing as an member of the FBI. Claiming that he was in pursuit of a pair of serial killers whom we're believed to be hiding out in Lakeport as of recent. Of coarse, it didn't help that Cross actually had no idea for what he was really searching for.
Annoyed, he turned in his seat, moving as to place his back to the platinum haired bar keep. After looking between the two, Mikael quickly turned and walked away, leaving only the two of them around the eatery's bar. Chris then let his gaze fall back onto her, admiring the cuteness in her face as he continued to talk. "Look, i'm sorry it was her love, I really am. But you and I both know that that's just how the story goes.." Before he could utter another word; a strong, albeit soft, hand struck him square across the jaw, causing a thunder 'clap' to resound throughout the high-ended eatery. Mikael, who had only just returned with their orders, as well as the rest of the patrons, all shot Christian a brief yet disappointed glance.
"You fucker..." While her words were not loud enough to be carried over the collective chattering and music, it was enough to once again cause a now frowning Mikael to draw himself away from his post. "I never wanted a part in this you know, any of it." She paused, fighting some tears to no avail before downing her drink in a single yet large gulp. "You dragged me into it."
The words caused Cross to grow still, as if he himself had become frozen. Had stung at his chest as if an arrow itself had pierced it. As a result, a growl formed in his throat, only to be briefly expelled when he too downed the beverage of which he had just now taken hold. For a few minutes, that was how the two remained. As silent and still as stone. Feeling the slightest buzz of vibration, Chris then quickly whipped out his phone. Immediately, his gaze was met by that of Rhodes'.
While the two did not exchange words, their conjoined glances spoke volumes as he listened to a soft voice speak through the phone. After a moments silence, a clear "Affirmative." from Christian could be heard prior to him glancing at it's screen. The action was inevitably followed by the pocketing of the silver touch screen phone.
Resisting the urge to say anything more, the man clenched a fist, sighed, then relaxed with an exhale. Raising from his seat, he then reached into his side pocket and pulled free a single twenty dollar bill. Placing it squarely upon the top of the milk glass, Chris then continued to turn towards the exit. As he did, something seemed to change in Emily, who sprung up from her seat. Cutting off his "Keep the Change" as she clung to the back of his right sleeve, almost as if begging him not to leave. Her face, which had turned red the instant his sleeve and her hand had touched, now glowed a dim blue under the light as she dragged Christian around as to once again face the bar. Remaining silent as she pulled him back down into his seat, he simply looked back up at the barkeep who shook his head.
"Another perhaps?" Mikael's voice held an air of complacency, giving his words a snide and rather hostile tone as they rolled from his lips.
Responding with a dry "No, thanks." Christian let a sly grin line his face. While it seemed sinister in nature, it added an aura of grandeur to his face. Upon seeing it, Emily could only sigh as she scooped up her wallet and badge, leaving the money owed on the counter top. Having silently accepted a second drink, she then took a sip, a brief smile forming on her lips as she swallowed a bit of the white liquid. Remonstrantly, Christian offered his hand to the barkeep. Softening his grin into a smug smile, he then parted his lips once more.
"Cross." He let his gaze slip from the barkeep's face to that of Emily's for an instant, observing the way she took to the drink before refocusing on the man before him. His tanned skin now holding a green hue under the light. Having noticed both his glance and his gesture, Emily tilted her head slightly. Unsure of what what to make of either as she placed the now half empty glass of Tom Collins back upon the counter.
\°\¤/°/
Once again seated within the black Chevrolet Impala the Foundation had issued him as a means of solidifying his cover, Christian intently studied an petite map book of the US he had obtained from a local travel agent. Despite the fact that he was familiar with the states, and that his Chevy had been equipped with the latest GPS technology, he still preferred to plan out his routes the 'old fashioned' way. Though he did so more to cover his tracks, as opposed to personal preference. Especially since his latest contact had clearly grown attached. He tried to dismiss the fact that he had as well.
Once satisfied, and confident that he had located the shortest route to Oregan, home of his next assignment, Cross quickly folded the map away. Throwing his keys into the ignition, he then sighed as the Impala's modified engine roared to life. As he at last begun his estimated ten and a half hour drive, inwardly grateful that he was at least rid of the headache that Lakeport City had recently become, Christian then reviewed the audio file he had received from HQ. The likes of which contained an apparently relative news report. | Name - Christian Aulurien Cross - #3653
Age - 34
Gender - Male
Class - 4, Field Agent
Appearance -
Information -
Born within the Olympia Medical Center on March 30th to civilian Mary-Ann Bastion and Sergeant Carl Bastion of the U.S. Marine Corps, Christian was raised primarily by his father following his mother's death during his birth. As part of the third generation of the military family that was the Bastions, Christian was raised on an tedious military-esque regime. He attended Emerson Middle School in his early youth, from which he was suspended six times. Thrice for fighting, Twice for Destruction of property, and Once for assaulting a member of faculty.
Following his graduation, Christian then attended University Highschool. There, he was also suspended twice for fighting, as well as once for an incident involving the exposure of his genitals to an female classmate. Despite his behavior, his grades remained at an constant high, and he was recognized several times for his sport related talents. Football being his primary sport.
At eighteen years of age, Chris joined the United States Air Force, serving as a pilot and marksman. In addition to flying fighter planes, he demonstrated outstanding firearms handling, was trained rigorously in hand-to-hand and knife combat, and took part in numerous missions overseas. Leading Chris to eventually become fluent in Spanish in addition to English. He has been described by his commanding officers as "uncompromising", "possessing unwavering dedication" and having a "high level of adaptability". However, Chris was constantly coming into direct conflict with his superiors. Unable to settle these disputes, he chose the path of early retirement at around twenty-four years of age.
After leaving the Air Force, Chris spent two years drifting across the U.S. before eventually settling in New York City; where he was involved in an incident related to an active plot of terrorism. During the incident, which came to be publicly known as the 'Vanishing of flight 113'; an US Airways jet destined to arrive in Los Angeles out of LaGuardia Airport, was hijacked by a group of terrorists. Having appeared to have suddenly, and utterly, vanished from all sources of radar. Chris, whom was a passenger of said flight, was given special notice by the air martial aboard the flight as 'a key contributor' to the 'nullification' of the terrorist plot. Public records have him listed as deceased, alongside twelve other casualties.
According to the testimony of Senior CIA operative, Isaiah Haynes, Chris was primarily responsible for the safe repossession of flight 113 after Haynes suffered several shots to an leg. Chris, with some aid from Air Martial Kyle Smith, Single-handedly subdued or eliminated all hostile forces, and performed an emergency landing. Allowing for the safe return of the nearly two hundred hostages, as well as the aversion of the planned kamikaze bombing of the white house.
Following these events, Chris, whose legal name was changed to Cross in wake of his 'death', was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency at age twenty-seven. Where he served as an clandestine asset. During his five years with the CIA, Chris has been noted as an 'invaluable asset', whom is 'exceptionally efficient' as well as 'remarkably perceptive'. Chris has also become fluent in Arabic, Russian and French during his time with the agency. In addition to earning a Bachelor of Science in Aerospace Technology. According to Current CIA records, Chris is listed as MIA. Unofficially though, he is presumed to have been killed in action.
At the age of thirty-two, Chris was recruited into The Foundation. Having all record of his previous life, if only for the second time, erased. During the two years he has served as an Field Agent, Chris has been noted to have become exceedingly prone to reclusiveness. There seems to be only a select few individuals within the foundation with which he maintains in contact with, and fewer still whom know him as anything other than 'Agent 3653'. |
51,495 | 1,394 | 4 | 1,589 | 1,925 | You know that feeling you get when there's an itch you just can't scratch? Like, when you get it, it starts out a small easily negligible thing, something that you feel doesn't require much focus. Then that itch begins to grow worse as time goes on, eventually progressing until it reaches the point of burning excruciation that can only be relieved through a good solid scratch, which now when you need to do it the most, can't be done because you're either in public, or lack the means to scratch it. John Charles Alexander was experiencing that sort of itch right now, however the itch that ailed him wasn't a physical one, but a mental one. It had been two weeks since he'd gotten a new specimen in for study, and in that time not only had John completed every assignment thrown his way, but he'd even managed to complete the side projects that he had self imposed. Needless to say, John was stressed, and it showed on his person; His long red hair was unkept, even more so than how it usually looked after a long period of research, sticking out wildly in several places, his lab coat was wrinkled and sported stains on the sleeves and body, thankfully it was only from food and not from some ghastly chemical or entity, there were dark rings under his somewhat bloodshot eyes, a sign that he wasn't getting enough sleep, he chalked this off as too much brain activity with not enough fulfillment.
John tapped his foot rapidly as he sat in front of his computer monitor, the air was filled with brief but rapid intervals of tik-taking sounds as John's fingers flew across the keyboard. He was typing out a request to the Department Administrator for permission to start work on a new entity, preferably a parasite or virus, though after two weeks of inactivity, he'd happily take whatever he could get. As he typed, John couldn't help but find something funny; he'd been given medicine to help him focus, to keep him on track when it came to completing the assignments given as opposed to working on his own agendas, and it worked like a dream, allowing John to finish his research with near record timing. Now however, that exact same medicine was making him focus on a complete LACK of assignments, bringing the word irony to mind. "Come on Homes, come through for me this time man, i'm dying here..." John muttered as he clicked send and exited out of the window. The researcher spun around in his chair, got up, and exited his lab, he'd done his part, now he could only hope that the Dept.Admin would give him something to occupy his mind. | Given the fact that no one else seems interested in this Rp in the free roleplay section, I guess that i'll have to suck it up and post my CS here seeing as you accepted it already.
Name - John Charles Alexander
Age - 19
Gender - Male
Class - ⓶ Researcher
Appearance - Here. (My laptop never seems to let me post pictures, only the links. Sorry)
Information - John is an extremely intelligent individual, he was first noticed by the organization when he entered college at the extremely early age of fifteen where he proceeded to outclass nearly every other student in the scientific field. Be it chemistry, biology, anatomy, or forensics, John excelled, and continued to excel for the next three years until graduating with a Bachelor's degree in microbiology. Having entered the preferred age bracket, John was quickly approached by the Foundation and offered a job as a researcher. He's been with the Foundation for a bit under a year now, and seems to thoroughly enjoy the work he does, even if he can't tell anyone about it.
Additional notes: Despite his genius John can become easily sidetracked if he finds something interesting during his research, resulting in him completely forgetting the original purpose of his research and focusing on the new development, sometimes for days on end. He's been given medication to help him focus on his actual assignments rather than what he finds interesting, though he often makes complaints that 'the meds make it harder to think freely'. His specialty within the foundation is working with anomalies of a viral or parasitic nature. |
51,496 | 1,394 | 5 | 1,596 | 430 | Things were rather dull. It had been a couple weeks now since Markus's qualification papers went through and he had expected something to happen by now. So far, he has spent the last couple weeks hold up in one of the Foundations many level 1 habitation units. To the foundation, it was a habitation unit. But to Markus, it seemed more like a white collar prison cell. There was two doors and no windows. Instead, the walls were a dull white as well as the majority of the furniture. There was a bathroom behind the door that wasn't the entrance, though it was rather cramped. He had a bed, a small low quality sofa chair, and a small desk littered with papers covered in drawings. Sitting next to a small TV set at the back of the room was an old acoustic guitar. Scattered about the room were dozens of beer cans.
Sitting in the sofa chair with his leg kicked up over the armrest, Mark flipped through the channels on the television. Thankfully, the tv was one of the few things that weren't censored or provided by the Foundation. That would probably be absurd. A bunch of personnel fumbling about, attempting to film something that could be considered interesting. Knowing the research department, it would likely be a bunch of techno babble and informative shows with a warning here and there about obeying foundation rules. The later, they actually managed to apply, as Mark found himself unable to flick the channel for one of the foundations incoming safety messages!
'All information regarding the Foundation is classified beyond the perimeter of the Foundation. Any personnel attempting to transfer intelligence off the property without clearance will be neutralized immediately. Adhere to the safety protocols and have a nice day!' Markus sighed as regular programming came back on. The first couple days, the messages were a bit intimidating but he was used to them now. At this point, he didn't even think there was any intelligence to steal anyway. All he had seen was the walls of his cell, the reruns on tv, the food delivered when he requested it, and the occasional security officer who would come to check on him.
In spite of it all, there wasn't any turning back now. They let Markus know in the briefing that once he had entered the facility, he was sworn to a vow of silence and by being there, he had already been exposed to valuable information...and it seemed pretty obvious what they would do to someone who broke that vow. So instead, he waited, bored but patient, for someone to give him an assignment. In the meantime, he simply enjoyed an episode of warehouse 13 and nursed the dull beer in his hand. | Name - Markus Geist #9341
Age - 27
Gender - Male
Class - ⓵Test Subject
Appearance
-
-
- 6'4" tall, 180.5 lbs, brown eyes, dark shaggy hair, caucasian/native american with a tribal tiger tattoo running up the length of his back and around his bicep.
Information - Leading a rather unremarkable life, Mark spent most of his childhood sleeping through classes and getting into fights. Attending a prestigious academy for boys, Mark constantly found himself being the target for bullies. He didn't get into the school through good grades, but rather through his wealthy parents. His father was the co-owner of a global marketing firm and his mother was lead designer on a top fashion company. Though with all their money and busy lifestyles, they never thought to pay any real attention to their child. Instead, Mark was raised by the various nanny's that were hired to take care of him. As time went on, he developed a disinterest in the world and stopped being productive, spending most of his time scribbling random doodles and drawings onto the pages of countless notebooks and school books. Despite his increasingly detached behavior, nothing ever changed.
At the age of 18, Markus decided to leave and find a place where everything didn't seem so monotonous. Taking a chunk of money, the clothes on his back, a guitar he never learned how to play, and a motorcycle he got for his 16th birthday. After a few years of roaming the US northern countryside, Markus found himself low on funds and in need of a place to stay. It hadn't helped that he spent most of the time partying, drinking, smoking, and staying at hotels every night. So he decided to make some change by selling his random scribbles on the beach to tourists. They would already buy anything, but his drawing were unique. They almost seemed to tell a story, somewhere in the splotches and spirals that littered his artworks. If that didn't work, he could always just draw them a picture of themselves as it usually wasn't hard...and people love to see themselves. With his free time, Markus learned to play the guitar, and was able to earn more money. Soon he had everything he needed but a home.
It was about a year after this that Markus was approached by one of the Foundation recruiters. They didn't say much and were gone as fast as they came. But in their wake, managed to leave a pamphlet that peaked his interest. It promised money, food, shelter, and a whole bunch of other mumbo jumbo. Among it all was the promise of science and adventure. It was a very vague read, not telling much about who it was that was offering these jobs or what it was that they did. All that was listed was a location. After being picked up with a group of other recruits, Markus soon found himself being reigned in and debriefed as a level 1 test subject class personnel. The experience was new and unknown and for the first time in many years, he felt excited.
Now, with all documents finalized and background checks done, Mark now awaits his first assignment at the new strange place. Unsure of what to expect, he maintains a "Bring it on" attitude. |
51,497 | 1,394 | 6 | 2,498 | 675 | The sound of gunfire rung in her ear. Flashes of light and muffled yelling and screams rose to her. Sanja was there again. But just as quickly as the dream and memories had come, they vanished like a morning mist. Tiny glimpses remained, but it soon dissipated into obscurity. The morning was dark. Her room was dim as the only light was her alarm clock. It glowed a pessimistic red and glared at her. It was still early morning. Sanja rose herself from her bed with a quick sigh. Her shirt had gotten balled up to her chest in her sleep. She never slept well. She could never forget the wars and battles she was in. But she didn't let them effect her while awake. She simply pushed them to the back of her mind and out of thought. Fixing her shirt, she turned off the analog clocks alarm. Set to military time as always. Sanja began her morning routine, simple and quick as always. Being as efficient as possible.
How Sanja dressed was her only show of personality. She had nothing fancy, but she did wear a tan buttoned coat with a blue embroidered over coat. Normally it would don all her medals and show her rank, but it didn't matter here what rank she was. She was an officer, more specifically, a Emergency Containment Specialist. Knee high leather boots was something that she also enjoyed wearing. But that was the limit to how much she expressed herself.
This morning she went down to the mess hall and scarfed down a meal quickly. Just as she had for years. Many of the other staff avoided her, not wanting to be shunned by her ice cold gaze and her stone dead tone. She was deadly in presence, an icy aura surrounded her. She didn't mind, she didn't even think about it, because it wasn't something she deemed not worthy of being bothered with. With a hasty meal finished, she checked her daily schedule.
This morning she was very mildly surprised to see an order for her. She was instructed to be apart of the investigation team that was investigating a possible appearance of an entity. She would receive more briefing once she met with the Admin. Sanja closed her log book and began en route to the office. She had memorized the base and the surrounding area. She quickly arrived at the Administrative offices, her clearance badge allowing her to near any place in the facility. She waited in the empty waiting room for a request for her to enter the briefing room. | Name - Phoebe Sophie Jones
Age - 30
Gender - Female. (Sex is female too.)
Class - Researcher
Appearance - link ((Yes, that's the chick from Adventures in Babysitting.))
Information - Phoebe Jones was a devout atheist (for lack of a better term) before taking this job. She's greatly interested in legends and myths, from ancient legends and folklore to modern religion. She attributes human's many superstitions to our nature: we are afraid of the unknown, so he invented stories to fill in the gaps. Science manages to do this, so science slowly replaces our legends. Why does the sun rise and set? Not because of a fiery chariot, or the steady push of a scarab beetle, but rather because the Earth moves. Her interest in the mind inspired her to obtain a Master's in Evolutionary Psychology. She wrote a book on the psychology of superstition, which one of the top researchers in the Foundation read. Of course, many of her theories were wrong, but her process was sound, and she wasn't a bad writer. That researcher approached her with a job. At first, she thought the man was joking. She played along with the "joke" and accepted. He gave her the location of the headquarters, and she arrived to find a legitimate business. She didn't believe until she saw "the bump in the night" pacing around in its cell. |
51,498 | 1,394 | 7 | 331 | 55 | It was time to head to the HQ in order to pick up a new specimen, if there was one. Polyester stood up from his chair and grabbed his key card and a suitcase. Sliding his key card to open his own office, he stepped out into the hallway. Polyester's office was relatively close to any exits of the facility, as was the norm. Polyester took a left from his office and walked down the stairs. He was greeted by 2 members of the ECS, which were bickering to each other. "Do you have any idea how long he's been here? The chances of him being the miss-." The fell dead silent when Polyester came within sight. Polyester stood there for a moment to stare at them. Polyester walked passed them into a small room where foundation personal would go to other bases. A man approached him. "There is going to be a specimen contained at Beaverton. Someone higher in command want's you to be there." Polyester nodded his head and assigned a flight to Foundation HQ and stepped onto the plane. The plane took off, and he was on his way. | Name: Polyester Homes
Age:35
Gender: Male
Class: 7, Department administrator of the ECS
Appearance:
Information: He joined the foundation at 25 years of age. He has proven to be a intelligent recourse and has proven to be efficient at multitasking. He seems very disinterested in women and seems to prefer to work alone if possible. His skin is unusually pale. |
51,499 | 1,394 | 8 | 2,246 | 3,527 | Flint looked to the speaker on the wall and stopped leaning against the door frame "Well at least its not patrol duty" He mumbled to himself as he placed his rifle into one of his hands. Resting it on his shoulder whenever he needed to use his key card. Which was every few minutes as he was quite far away from the briefing room. As he got to the room he slung his rifle back onto his shoulder and knocked before scanning his card and walking in. Slowly approaching one of the seats and sitting down ready to be given his orders adjusting the strap on his helmet to itch at his chin. | Name: Flint white - SecurityCode:117
Age:27
Gender: Male
Class: (3) Security Officer
Appearance:
Information: He has only been in the foundation for about 2 years now. He takes his job very seriously and is always ready to keep the peace within the organization. Flint was part of his police forces armed response before joining The Foundation and so has had extensive firearm and hand to hand combat training. He also understands that to keep with the interest of The Foundation sacrifices have to be made including human lives. He will take orders very seriously and will do anything The Foundation needs him to accomplish. |
51,500 | 1,394 | 9 | 1,589 | 1,925 | Sanja was slightly glad she didn't have to wait long. She received orders on her pad. Contain Specimen 007. She quickly opened its file and read about it as she made her way to the doctor. She would be assisting Dr. Bill Gyles with the containment of the specimen and its transfer. She wondered why they had not simply sent it to the ECS to deal with the containment or a better facility. Sure they could not completely research it in the containment zone, but atleast it was safe from breaching the outside world. Bringing it hear would mean that the Admins believed it was safe enough to be secured in a research facility or there was something already known about this specimen that was needed as soon as possible. Sanja didn't question the order of command. She simply did what she was ordered to do. As an ECS officer, she was allowed to carry weapons on her at all times incase of any containment breach.
At her side she holstered a custom made desert eagle that could fire with much less recoil than standard issue. It was loaded with armor piercing rounds that could shred infantry kevlar and bust through 2 inches of reinforced steel. Then at her side she also carried a state of the art enhanced rapier. It was made with heating templates that could reach over 3600 degrees Fahrenheit and melt steel. Basically a plasma blade. She wielded both with deadly intention. Though only as a last resort to kill a specimen to save lives or stop an escape. The facility was completely capable of stopping much worse than specimen 007. Though Sanja was credited on her caution than her courage.
Sanja passed other staff and officers. Each of the security personnel giving her a quick salute as she passed. Sanja had made it her duty to be known as an officer. She established a chain of command. Taking it as her fully duty to lead the security team and make sure they worked as efficiently as possible. Though she wasn't truly allowed to do this, she did the best she could to make sure her job was as easy as possible.
Sanja soon reached the research department. It was in full swing as people were walking about and talking about the new specimen. There wasn't clear order here, but it wasn't her duty to apply it here. Nothing was out of the ordinary yet. So Sanja quickly spotted the contained specimen and the researcher. She went up to him and saluted as a greeting.
"Emergency Containment Specialist Officer Sanja Grimaldi reporting for duty. Is that box where the specimen contained?"
Sanja indicated the box with bolts. She observed the doctor. Analyzing his body movement and his speech. He was frazzled and distracted. A problem for receiving a new specimen. It led to failed attention to detail and here, that could cost lives. Before the doctor could respond, Sanja cut him off.
"Is everything well doctor?" She asked with a questioning eye. | Given the fact that no one else seems interested in this Rp in the free roleplay section, I guess that i'll have to suck it up and post my CS here seeing as you accepted it already.
Name - John Charles Alexander
Age - 19
Gender - Male
Class - ⓶ Researcher
Appearance - Here. (My laptop never seems to let me post pictures, only the links. Sorry)
Information - John is an extremely intelligent individual, he was first noticed by the organization when he entered college at the extremely early age of fifteen where he proceeded to outclass nearly every other student in the scientific field. Be it chemistry, biology, anatomy, or forensics, John excelled, and continued to excel for the next three years until graduating with a Bachelor's degree in microbiology. Having entered the preferred age bracket, John was quickly approached by the Foundation and offered a job as a researcher. He's been with the Foundation for a bit under a year now, and seems to thoroughly enjoy the work he does, even if he can't tell anyone about it.
Additional notes: Despite his genius John can become easily sidetracked if he finds something interesting during his research, resulting in him completely forgetting the original purpose of his research and focusing on the new development, sometimes for days on end. He's been given medication to help him focus on his actual assignments rather than what he finds interesting, though he often makes complaints that 'the meds make it harder to think freely'. His specialty within the foundation is working with anomalies of a viral or parasitic nature. |
51,501 | 1,394 | 10 | 2,498 | 675 | Researchers bustled throughout the research department, each perusing their own tasks and assignments. Most of the activity revolved around specimen research lab 3, where the new specimen had been moved. Behind a set of reinforced glass quarantine doors, two researchers prepared a sanitized experiment room. The room was filled with various machines ans mechanisms all built for the purpose of analyzing specimens and the data pertaining to them. Across the far side wall of the experiment room was a large pane of thick reflective glass. On the other side was an observation room filled with audio and video recording devices that captured all angles of experiments being performed as well as several computers and cabinets for documenting information.
Outside of the research lab's doors was a corridor leading back to the main offices where Dr.Gyles waited in his own room, fiddling through documents and pacing through his room. As always, there was much work to be done and the biggest portion of it ended up on his desk. Being the head administrator of the research department at HQ tended to be a rigorous and thankless job. Today was no exception, especially with a new specimen to figure out. Dr.Gyles was completely lost in his work and thoughts as the containment specialist stepped into his office. He hadn't even noticed her, shuffling through papers in one of his many file cabinets as she announced herself and greeting him. Eventually, Dr.Gyles managed to catch officer Grimaldi in his sight when he turned to reach another cabinet behind her. A brief moment of surprise managed it's way across his face before he snapped back to reality. "Oh...Ah, you must be from ECS. Officer Sanja Grimaldi...Alright um..." He paused for a moment, looking around and tapping his right temple, trying to knock the correct thought into his mind. "I need you too...uh...Dammit! Where is that blasted-" It was at this point the officer cut him off, showing a bit of concern.
Sliding his hand down the length of his face, pausing briefly to wipe his eyes, Dr.Gyles composed himself and gave a faint sigh. "Excuse me officer. I've just had yet another eventful evening is all...But not to worry. It'll take much more then this to break me." Turning to his desk, the now steady doctor reached down and pulled up a small document, handing it over to Sanja. The document itself was simply a written affidavit acknowledging the officers assistance on any tasks involving the specimen, including those that wouldn't normally be permitted to personnel of her level as long as clearance is given by the doctor himself. "In that box over there is specimen 007. We're about to perform several scans and take some samples from the specimen's body for analysis. The higher ups specifically want a sample of it's neurotoxin. Why do we need it so urgently? I don't know. But since it so urgent, I need you to be on stand by in case of any unforeseen issues. While the tests are being performed, you'll be working off the data provided by the researchers to create a sufficient containment that is confirmed to work. I'm sorry we won't be able to do this in the ECS department but...as you know...orders are orders, no matter how ludicrous they may be."
---
It wasn't very long at all after the announcement before personnel began to arrive briefing room-C17. The first to enter were the security officers Flint white and Matt Lewis, brandishing impressive load outs across their Foundation standard combat uniforms. "Oh good!" Exclaimed administrator Gatsworth who was waiting at the front of the room, going over the briefing. "Officers White and Lewis! I need you two to go escort test subject 93-" Suddenly, an excited researcher came rushing through the door, cutting the Admin off. Miles watched and waited silently with a raised eyebrow as John Charles Alexander seemed to lose himself for a few moments before finding his composure and apologizing, taking his seat quietly. After several empty moments and one long deriding glare, Miles finally looked back at the officers in front of him, clearing his throat before picking up where he left off. "...to go escort test subject 9341 Markus Geist back here. By the time you get back, everyone should be here. Officer White, you take point. The subject is located in the Habitations Department in cell-F12." Officer Lewis saluted and waited by the door for Flint to lead. | Name - Phoebe Sophie Jones
Age - 30
Gender - Female. (Sex is female too.)
Class - Researcher
Appearance - link ((Yes, that's the chick from Adventures in Babysitting.))
Information - Phoebe Jones was a devout atheist (for lack of a better term) before taking this job. She's greatly interested in legends and myths, from ancient legends and folklore to modern religion. She attributes human's many superstitions to our nature: we are afraid of the unknown, so he invented stories to fill in the gaps. Science manages to do this, so science slowly replaces our legends. Why does the sun rise and set? Not because of a fiery chariot, or the steady push of a scarab beetle, but rather because the Earth moves. Her interest in the mind inspired her to obtain a Master's in Evolutionary Psychology. She wrote a book on the psychology of superstition, which one of the top researchers in the Foundation read. Of course, many of her theories were wrong, but her process was sound, and she wasn't a bad writer. That researcher approached her with a job. At first, she thought the man was joking. She played along with the "joke" and accepted. He gave her the location of the headquarters, and she arrived to find a legitimate business. She didn't believe until she saw "the bump in the night" pacing around in its cell. |
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