SpoilerSunny tips!
-Work with others! You are here as a group and the goal on the forefront should not be total and complete victory, but making a great story that would be virtually impossible to do alone. Interact with the other characters and contribute to both the main plot and the setting! Don't be afraid to ask someone for help, either for proofreading or to make sure you got the character right.
-Talk to me. If you feel like someone has gone too far with a mis-characterization of your character, or is ignoring plans that you've been laying out, tell me, and we will deal with it. We are all here to have fun and write something great, that doesn't mean that problems won't happen, but when they do, we should be able to deal with it in a calm manner. Don't be afraid to call me out on any bullshit if need-be.
-Don't be afraid to try something abnormal. Break expectations, do silly things, as long as it is in character and isn't too intrusive to other plans, there shouldn't be a reason that you can't walk off the beaten path.
-Challenge yourself! You'll never get better if you don't get out of your comfort zone.

Now, what we've all been waiting for!

Rules!
Firstly, Vendetta is going to be a bit different from normal battles in that there will be a few optional goals set up for you in each round. As the goal of the battle is to find an heir to the obvious mafioso's family, these will be aimed toward having your character proving themselves worthy of such a position. There will be more on that when round 1 starts and the Don himself explains things himself.
Secondly, there is the slight character restriction of "sentient" characters only. Metaphysical concepts, forces-of-nature, and vase's need not apply. You don't have to be a super genius or prince or anything, just keep in mind that you can't place The Convolution at the head of a mafia family and expect things to run very smoothly. However, this does not mean that your character actually has to be competent or Mob Boss material(or even be one single character)! It is a pretty flimsy criteria and you shouldn’t let it stifle your creativity. (If you are unsure, please ask me or just post it, I will alert you via PM if I need more details in order to discern if the character counts as "sentient".)
Beyond that, just write well and write often and keep on trucking! (Also make sure you follow the tips, those are sort of important)
Elimination will be based on, among other things, the writing quality (jordan burnananated the shit out of that asswhole Jake helix!!!!), the contribution to the story (Velobo fought monsters for this post, the next one, and the one after that, SO NOVEL), and the general activity (this isn't just about posts, you've got to interact with your fellow writers out of character too) of the writer.

SpoilerMissiles streaked past overhead as Khagan Toghun Tegüs, lord of the star-crossing Pankhaganate and ironfisted ruler of a thousand worlds, made his way down the muddy path towards the flooded bunkers the Enemy had been deadset on holding just five hours ago. He took a moment to breathe in deep the toxic vapours and ash raised by week-long bombardments, mixed in pleasantly with the evaporating mist. In this heat, water disappeared quickly.

Behind him came trailing an entourage of various officers, bodyguards and sycophants, the last group fingering their breath masks and protective suits nervously. Most of them had never seen a real combat zone before – atleast not from this close up. Only the chance of gaining more influence with their ruler had overcome their cowardice, something the Khagan couldn't have found more funny.

They'd broken the cliffs with shatter-bombs and accelerators and let loose the ocean into the valley these aliens called home. As predicted, they had fled rather than drowned, and their impenetrable defenses now lay deep underwater. The bulk of their army was scattering before them, though – being the cowards they were – the aliens were actually only controlling them from their hiding places deep underground. There was no honour in killing an automaton.

'Great Khan,' came the haggard voice of Temur, one of his naval officers, 'I've just received a dispatch from Teyin Company. They've engaged a superior force of the Enemy below the ridgeline in the upper sector, and are requesting immediate orbital bombardment around their positions. Shall I relay the request to the fleet?'

The Khan placed a hand on his broad jawline and frowned. His ocular implants whirred as they zoomed across the valley. 'Nonsense! There's no need. Tell them the Khan has denied their request.'

Temur nodded and tapped his commbead. Toghun raised a hand to stop him.

'No – tell them that instead, the Khan of Khans will be joining them in person. It is about time I did something in this miserable campaign.' he said, smirking. 'A leader who does not lead by example should not lead at all!'

The last was one of teacher's favorite maxims, but his retinue did not seem to share his enthusiasm. The bootlickers went pale and his officers all raced to be the first to object. Only his bodyguards did not react, standing motionless like the statues many visiting dignitaries assumed they were. The Khagan ignored their pleas and complaints, dismissing them with a single gesture.

'If you insist, Great Khan. I will let the general know you-' Temur started, but was again waved silent.

'There is no time. Prepare the shuttle. We will go alone.' Toghun said. Then, in mock amazement, added; 'What is the problem? All honourable men should be overjoyed at the chance of battle! Are we all not the children of the steppes?'

There was not a man in the group who looked anything like a Mongol of old, but it calmed them regardless. They got to work, barking orders over the comm. In a few more minutes, they were racing up the flooded valley in a battered military transport, headed straight into the heart of the rolling battle raging back-and-forth across the broken ridgeline.



The Great Khan slammed into the first automaton with enough force to cave in its dull metallic ribcage. Immediately, the heavy guns of the aliens opened up at him from up ahead. He could feel the impacts of the shots as they ricocheted off his back, could smell the sharp chemicals the guns used in their mechanisms, could hear the way the heavy bullets exited the barrels and map a rough shape of the weapon just by it – but he did nothing with this information. Instead, with one smooth movement, Toghun ripped off the head of the construct at his feet and sent it flying at the operator of the nearest alien weapon. He heard it hit and leapt right, rolling on the soft mud.

'Great Khan!' came Temur's worried shout again. Toghun glanced back to see him topple and fall, a stench of burning flesh washing over him. He screamed even as his feet melted away. These aliens had created actually practical energy weapons, something he had to put in their favor. He would need to acquire one for his private collection after they were done.

Another blast from the laser swept across his back, burning straight through his fatigues and singeing his skin. Toghun grinned and hurried back to his feet, rushing up the hillside to get at his foe. For once, his superhuman bulk was a hindrance to him, his feet sinking into the wet ground. The alien and its comrades had plenty of time to fire again and did so with frightening accuracy, until a suppressive volley from the Pankhaganate gunship abovehead drove them to the ground. The Khagan began pushing through the rest of the way, forcing apart the bank of earth to get to the enemy behind it.

'My Khan! Get down!' a voice buzzed in his ear. Toghun had forgotten he even had a commbead.

Toghun laughed and begun to dismiss the very idea when a superaccelerated heavy artillery shell shot across the battlefield and caught him square in the chest.

Usually, the Great Khan was pleased at feeling pain. It meant an opponent was strong or cunning enough to strike through his highly-augmented physique. But then, usually he didn't feel this kind of pain. Flying through the air, he tried to shut out the part of his mind that kept analyzing everything, an unfortunate side effect of an implant. It quickly deducted he had been hit by an anti-armor shell of unknown make at very high speed, causing severe internal damage – though far from fatal. His body was already beginning to sweep away the damage. The full work would take weeks, but the emergency repairs would have to do for now.

He came crashing down onto a pair of his men, crushing them instantly under his bulk. His vision was blurred, a side-effect of his implants telling his mind to ignore the pain and pump up the adrenaline. Shouts came from all around him even through the roar of battle, his faithful officers rushing to his side. Toghun moved his arms and pushed himself into a sitting position. The aliens were regrouping across the battlefield, thinking them crippled by the loss of their leader.

He spat out blood, which hissed and smoked on the ground. The Khan of Khans frowned. 'Maybe I really ought to get myself some armor. Would save me things like these.' he whispered, to no-one in particular. He allowed his men to help him back up and standing.

But not today. There was still a battle to be won.

SpoilerLes Jambes took a deep breath. It was around midday, the time when things became almost unbearably hot. But he had to keep moving on. His brother commanded it. He wasn't one to refuse a command from his brother. Especially not when Les Yeux was already so weak. He really didn't mind helping him out, not at all, but there were times when he wished his brother was maybe more thoughtful about how he must feel. His steps started to slow down just for a bit, as he became lost in thought. Les Yeux was always so cold to him. What's more, he never smiled. Was he really never happy? Was his way of treating him an output of his depression? Somehow, he knew that he wasn't really an evil person, but he really couldn't be sure at times.

Les Jambes, are you feeling alright? You've slowed down quite a bit. Is it possible that your power is failing you even now?
No, brother. I'm feeling as strong as ever. I was just lost in thought, and I got distracted. Sorry.
That's fine. Happens to me a lot. But that isn't all, is it?

Suddenly, his presence became a bit more... evident. He could feel his question probing further than the usual span of communication. Desperately, he attempted to stop it, he didn't want his feelings to be revealed.

...You moron. Have you forgotten that we're twin brothers? And here you are, getting scared of my contact! Listen, you never want to keep secrets. Secrets can only lead to despair. Now out with it!
Oh, I... er... um... Well, it's just that I've noticed that you've been a bit cold to me lately. Like, you only want me to do what you want.
Idiot. You never asked, did you? I've known for a long time now that you want to rest. But you never asked. You just kept quiet and did what you thought I wanted. You shouldn't be so assertive, Les Jambes. People will stomp all over you. Ask for what you want next time.
I... Oh! Can we take a rest?
No.
But... you-
Hahahahaha, loosen up! Of course we can. I'm not even the one in charge here. You're the one walking, aren't you? Les Jambes.
Heh... yeah, you're right.

He sat down and thought some more. He actually wasn't that bad after all. He really did not know what he would have done without him around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That Les Jambes, he's always so foolish. But Les Yeux had got to admire his spirit. No matter which way he pondered his current situation, it was always bleak and desolate. He had never even met another person since the Apocalypse. At this point, he was pretty sure that there were no other people. But his brother kept walking on. He could even smile, these days. He simply did not get it. How could he be so happy, even now? It really is as they say, ignorance is bliss.

Brother, there are going to be others, right?
...Of course.
I just know it. We can't be the only survivors, can we? That would be almost impossible. Besides, we still have so much to explore. We can't even have left the state yet, right?
Les Jambes... you are absolutely right. The odds of us being the only survivors are astronomically low. Furthermore, we still have so much to explore. The world is not doomed yet.
Of course not! We aren't so weak as to be squashed out like that. We've survived thus far, we shouldn't have any difficulty with what comes up.
...Thank you. Are you ready to move on?
Yep, just a quick break was all I needed.
Let's go, then.
Alright!

SpoilerIf you want to see the kind of writing I can do with Grotto, you can look at the dead non-canon battle The Grand Scheme. I pulled a Lazarus because I liked him enough.

SpoilerJames Henway is not the type of person that stands out in a crowd. His hair, the most prominent part of his appearance, is a deep shade of brown about halfway between black and blonde, and its thick, wavy curls fall just below his ears. Muscular, but not blatantly so, the majority of Henway’s fighting prowess lies in his agility and vocal intimidation skills, allowing him to disrupt an enemy’s thought process (if any) and quickly strike.

As a regular user of the lighter breeds of armor, Henway generally wears a leather cuirass over a cotton shirt and pants, complemented by slightly reinforced boots and studded fingerless gloves for lending a bit of an edge to his physical attacks.

When not engaged in battle, James is generally amiable towards trusted friends, but sightly dim-witted and quick to see danger where none exists. He is especially willing to run into anything that looks like an opportunity to beat something to a bloody pulp.

SpoilerMighty Henway is currently the last in a long line of adventurers who have somehow managed to bear children before getting themselves killed. James’ father, Beauregard Henway, was once a rambunctious explorer but later settled down with his wife, Rosie Henway, in order to better raise his son. When James came of age,* he inherited the patriarchal nickname passed down through the family and became Mighty Henway.

* The Henway Coming of Age ritual is presented to a male heir to the Henway name every year following his second birthday, and a child is considered a man once he has been successfully able to down a bowl of strained peas. Francis Henway, James’ great-great-grandfather, celebrated his completion of the ritual at the age of 46.

Since his youth, Mighty Henway has proven himself many times over to be of the Henway heritage. He is quick to rush into danger without considering the potential consequences of his actions (though he is not totally ignorant of what may or may not be a trap), and he favors getting his point across very loudly. His strategy has proven to be ineffective on any being that is not intimidated easily, but he has resolved to circumvent that detail by training himself to yell louder than anything else can. His crowning achievement in this field was during the Great Cretaceous Time Schism, in which he successfully reduced a swarm of Velociraptors to a shivering pile of quantum phlegm.

SpoilerPeas are very envious vegetables.

A particular troupe of these disgustingly unsalted monstrosities had, upon being ignored in favor of a smugly buttered ear of corn by a rather forgetful wizard (who couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d left a life serum on the table right next to the salad dressing), became so angry that they knocked over a bowl of cinnamon-pecan sweet potatoes, took the salt shaker hostage, and declared that they intended to render the entire kitchen useless until they were allowed to go be eaten at some “high-end, respectable place” where they would “finally be recognized as constructive to a meal.”

The wizard refused, claiming that the peas themselves were entitled to nothing more than a salt and buttering. As a stalemate emerged, spectators began to arrive, taking both sides and generally making the whole ordeal more troublesome for everybody. Lawyers were brought in and compromises were made, albeit not without considerable argument from both sides. The peas wanted appreciation, the civil rights enthusiasts wanted justice, the wizard wanted everyone out of his house, and the vegetarians wanted a snack.

Soon, however, the issue was resolved as a giant, most likely having just woken up from years of hibernation, lost his balance as he was putting on his trousers, fell, and crushed the house along with its occupants.

Mighty Henway woke up amidst anger, confusion, and a broken table.

“Urgh,” he said, and spat a shard of porcelain out of his bleeding mouth. “What happened?” He wondered why he felt like blaming whatever was happening on the overturned bowl of peas that lay next to him.

“You ruined dinner, you fool!” screeched a voice as Henway rubbed a globule of mashed potato out of his eye. A woman, dressed in red and covered with what looked like onion soup, leaned down and glared at him. “I told you we were going to have company today! And now you’ve destroyed my last set of fine china, too!”

Henway picked himself up and brushed more of the foodstuff that was covering his clothing. “Sorry, Lady Saturday. I’m certain I had a good reason for barging in like this, but I really can’t remember it at the moment. Something to do with soggy chestnuts.”

He snapped his fingers. “Oh, right! Water chestnuts! I thought I should warn you about the water chestnuts! They’ve been poisoned by the new chef, you know.”

Several of the guests turned green.

“I guess I should go find a doctor, then. I’ll be back soon!”

A smashed window later, Henway was gone, leaving a scene just short of complete pandemonium in his wake. Lady Saturday was trying to figure out whether she should break down in tears or try to find out how much it would cost to repair the brand new hole in the roof, and a good number of people in the room were either panicking or deciding if they should trust the seemingly deranged man who had just informed them that they were probably going to either die or become very ill very soon.

In short, it was the best dinner party Henway had ever been to.

SpoilerAll villages/towns/whatever have homeless people. This is an immutable fact of life that cannot be changed one way or another. On any planet, in any dimension, every inhabited city that you could imagine will have a proportion of the populace that sleep under bridges and feed on the freshest scraps they can scavenge from bins and round the backs of restaurants. It forms a nice contrast with the innumerable fat cats who lounge around in their hot tubs and sip champagne from a martini glass for the sake of wasting their money, well-earned or otherwise, on something other than helping out the aforementioned homeless.

Few cities, however, could be said to have a homeless boy who talked to himself on a regular basis.
Which is exactly what the city of Portsheath had.

“Never again,” Artemis was saying as he hauled himself down the side of a block of flats, feet scrabbling for purchase on the rain-slickened drainpipe. “Not for any amount of money or food would I go through that experience.”

Anyone observing the wiry lad from below, listening to this strange monologue that was directed seemingly at no-one in particular, would be wholly justified in thinking that the poor boy had gone mad from spending most of his life on the streets and rooftops of the city. Portsheath was not the sort of place for anyone who fell under that nebulous class known simply as “homeless” to make a living in – careful planning on the mayor’s part ensured this by placing several miles of chaotic, twisting, car-filled death between all the major shops that a scavenger might be tempted to raid. When faced with a choice of either becoming a bloodied smear on the tarmac or joining the grimy, ill-funded shelters that dotted the suburbs of the city, many agreed that throwing themselves off a skyscraper was a perfect alternative.

That, or it could have been the demon who wouldn’t shut up.

“Look, kid,” grated the voice of Grendel in the teenager’s head, “you wanted that damned coat, didn’t you? Just be thankful you got it in the first place.”

“Easy for you to say,” Artemis grunted as landed, none too gracefully, and sprinted across the concrete walkway. “You’re not the one who has to live with the guilt of robbing the trendiest clothes store in the city.” He increased his pace as a flash of lightning revealed what could have been mistaken for a ramshackle collection of rubbish and plastic, but was in fact, a ramshackle collection of random objects, stacked against a cardboard box.

“Think of it as an achievement,” was the curt response. “No other kid could say they pulled off a heist like that. Scarface himself would be proud of ya.”

“But Scarface didn’t steal coats,” Artemis protested.

“It’s the fucking principle of the thing, okay?!”

“And don’t swear,” snapped the boy as he ducked underneath the box to avoid the torrential rain.

“Whatever.”

Once sure that he was alone and safe, Artemis unwound the thick, heavy coat from his lanky frame and pushed it into a corner, where it joined the growing mound of other clothes and knick-knacks that lay underneath a concrete overhang, out of the rain. The sight of these objects brought another pang of guilt to the teen – all of these items had been pilfered, one way or another, from whomever originally owned them, all ranging from little old ladies in simple cottages to department stores like the one he’d been sprinting away from a mere hour ago. It shamed him to even look at these objects, the knowledge that he’d be looking at a very long jail sentence if found out hanging over him like that storm cloud you can see coming just over the hill.

But then again, it was that or starve to death.

With a sigh, Artemis reached into another small cardboard box that stood by the side of the one he hid under, pushing the flaps aside and taking out a chunk of… well, the icing and cheery colors indicated it had once been a birthday cake. Time and a lack of proper packaging, however, had rendered the object hard and tasteless, the cream and jam mixing into a congealed mush that did nothing to improve the stale flavor. As if expecting this event, the air in front of the boy suddenly shimmered, turned red for a moment, and then became a spike-ringed circle of reddish-gray metal, which clattered into his lap in a rather sullen manner. Artemis had long learned to accept that Grendel often did things out of a sense of rituality, rather than any well-being he might have had, and transforming into a dinner plate fit for a H.P. Lovecraft story was one of them.

As the boy gave his jaws a workout, a car rushed by on the road outside, briefly illuminating the alleyway with its headlights before disappearing. For a few moments, there was no speech. Only the rain, beating relentlessly on the concrete, and the occasional rumble of thunder as the storm moved over the city, clearly in no hurry to leave. It would be nice to think that Artemis was reflecting on the moments in his life where he had been happy – playing with the children in the orphanage, learning his ABC’s with Father John, reading Peter Rabbit at bedtime, all that stuff. But memories are not food or shelter, and those were things the boy needed if he was going to live. So he merely concentrated on trying to make the cake not taste like week-old sandpaper, a task which was proving more and more difficult.

“This isn’t going anywhere,” muttered the plate, suddenly.

Artemis paused, the remains of the cake halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“You bloody well heard me,” snapped Grendel. “This isn’t what we should be doing – stealing coats and eating week-old cake from a box! This isn’t any fucking way for a kid to live!”

“Clarence,” Artemis began.

“Grendel.”

“Grendel, then,” the homeless boy sighed. “We’ve been over this. How am I supposed to better myself in the situation I’m in now? If you’re thinking of hijacking the lifestyle of some rich aristocrat on the coast, then think again, because subjecting someone to my daily life as it is right now is about as heartless as anyone can get.” And coming from a boy whose only education came from a religiously-inclined nutcase, he thought to himself as let crumbs spill off his chin, that’s saying a lot.

“Think, lad, think,” the plate retorted, shimmering. “Would you rather be spending the rest of your life in some shitty cardboard box, eating the scum off the edge of a pond and having security guards chase you with stun batons and handcuffs? Or would you rather try and find a lifestyle that doesn’t carry a long community service sentence in juvenile delinquency? Which of these options sounds more promising to you, eh?”

Artemis mulled this over through another mouthful of stone-hard cake. Grendel had been talking a lot like this lately – suggesting that the boy had better find a way to improve his situation, get out of the alleyways and find a calling in life that would eventually lead up the road of fortune to the big grand motel of stardom. Mind you, how he got there seemed to be another matter entirely, and one that the boy would prefer a spell over a pit of scorpions to. Nothing from forging birth certificates to raiding charities buildings for their donation boxes seemed to be below the demon’s consideration, and every one of his long-winded, convoluted plans carried the looming threat of jail and the electric chair the same way a holiday to Tokyo carried the looming threat of a Godzilla rampage.

Of course, like everything the demon suggested, the idea was tempting. To not have to live on the streets anymore, to have a warm bed and properly-cooked food and a roof that was not made of flimsy cardboard… it would be a huge improvement over what he was living like now. Of course, Grendel would embellish the boy’s daydreams with pictures of ridiculously-fast cars and semi-naked women, the last one of which Artemis had not been entirely that comfortable with, but the idea remained the same – get off the ground and find a way to a well-paid job and a secure, stress-free lifestyle that promised a longer life and (probably) happiness. And there would be shoes, Grendel had promised. Artemis had never worn shoes before.

But it seemed to Artemis that his demon companion wasn’t really interested in all that stuff…

“Well, where do we-?” he began to say to the plate-shaped Grendel.

And then, quite suddenly, they both vanished. One minute, there had been a conversation, the next, the only clue that someone had been there before was a small lump of half-eaten sponge cake on the concrete.

The rain beat down, ignorant of what had transpired. Another rumble of thunder rolled through the city.

And then a scraggly black cat, who had been lurking in the bins for some time now, leapt out of the bin and approached the scene warily, staring with that aloof suspicion that all cats have. When sniffing the lump of cake produced no result, it merely wandered into the box and began to clean itself, content with no explanation other than it had been imagining things.

SpoilerIf you need to see an example of the kind of writing i do, check Minigrand 5106, found here.

Spoiler“Motion to expel Exida Exis from the Disastrous Seven will now come to a vote. Six presiding.”

The stag glared at the gathered entities from the head of an ancient mahogany table, the surface slicked to a dull gleam by decades of greased palms. Wisps of noxious smoke billowed from its nostrils as it shifted the cigarette clamped between its lips, glaring at the smugly slumped forms of the remaining members. The closest were just barely visible under the dim glow of the gaslights.

“It’s really only a formality, Five,” Six purred to him, breaking the increasingly uncomfortable silence. She was seated to his left in a cloud of furs and blood diamonds, flaunting the official powdered wig. Behind her mask a pair of silvery eyes glittered like old money. “It’s just that we need to rethink things a bit now that you’ve… changed.”

“I shudder to think that my presence would be unwelcome,” Exida said. If any of the beings gathered at the table were surprised to hear a man’s baritone coming from the animal’s mouth, they made no sign of it. “But I seem to recall that when Four suffered his misfortune no such measure was taken.”

Six sighed. “You don’t have to be difficult, F- Exida. The fact of the matter is Four wasn’t… afflicted, such as you have been. He- ”

“He stayed human, is that it?” The stag’s empty black eyes moved to one of the chairs on the far end of the table. A towering column of some dark substance roiled silently; a limp figure was faintly visible within. “Not conscious, not sentient, but human. Human and presentable.”

A fan presented itself from nowhere in particular and began to flap lazily in the hand of Six. “Well yes, if you must be blatant about it.”

The stag gave a snort and placed its gilded hooves on the table. “I have served on this council for fifteen years and not once have I ever heard of any restrictions on such a trivial matter as species. Where exactly would that leave Seven?”

From the other end of the table came a rumbling bellow that shook the dust from the extinguished chandeliers. A skinned-looking bird skull chattered from a heaving tangle of mismatched limbs in Exida’s direction, who ignored it. “You, Three, and Four are the only ones here excluding myself who have any claim to humanity,” the deer said, shaking its antlers. “And of those Four is catatonic, Three is borderline mechanical, and you yourself have had so much ‘work’ done that one wonders if the people you’re made from might be considered to be in a healthier state than you. There is no basis for this decision!”

“How dare-!”

“Jusssst. Tell him already,” Three’s pneumatics hissed. The heaps of machinery keeping her alive rattled with irritation. “I have had. Enoughhh. Of these theatricssss.”

Six’s furs bristled with indignation, but she turned to the irate deer and patted its foremost hoof consolingly. “It’s just that we have a sort of standard to uphold, you know- Four still looks respectable and Seven is at least intimidating-”

“You look ridiculous,” Four said abruptly. His slackened body twitched. “You’re a deer.”

Silence fell over the table. Machinery whirred and hissed.

“Ridiculous?”

“Well, that’s not how I would put it-”

“Ridiculous?” The deer screamed, slamming a hoof on the table and cracking the wood. It swung its head, narrowly avoiding impaling Six’s skull on its antlers. “Ridiculous? Look at me! Look at yourselves! Ridicbwip”

Exida vanished. All that remained were a few wisps of smoke dissipating under the table.

“He handled that well,” Two said, and tore another mouthful from One’s corpse.

SpoilerFelgurd is a mask. But you wouldn't be able to tell that from a distance.

You would see a gaunt, almost ten-foot tall man in a suit jacket and slacks that are a little small on him, wearing a loosely tied red necktie.

If you observed him for a while you might notice that his walk is quite awkward and clumsy, almost as if he doesn't have any knees. Which, he doesn't. But we'll get to that later.

Felgurd wears a wide-brimmed hat to cast shadows over his face so no one can tell he doesn't actually have a face. Now obviously this doesn't work all the time, so he tries to hide his face whenever possible, with his hands or simply facing the wall.

The mask itself is a slightly off-white, plaster-like cast of a human face with a single, circular, central eye. Most of the detailed features seem rubbed out -- the nose is close to nonexistent and the mouth is almost a gash in the otherwise unbroken skin. Black marks form a sort of spiraling pattern across the entirety of the mask.

Felgurd's humanoid body is composed of severed human hands. Every time he takes a life, he steals their hands and makes himself a bit taller. Each hand is linked at the wrist to another hand, and grips another hand, which is how he holds himself together.

His consciousness is centered in the mask, however, and the only way he can control his hands is if they are linked to another hand which is linked to yet another hand and thus creates a channel for his mind to connect to it.

He can remotely control one or two hands at a time, but holding himself together takes most of his intellectual willpower and thus when he is doing this, he is even more vulnerable to falling apart than he usually is.

He speaks in a deep, grating voice that seems to come from deep behind the mask.

Picture by Pharmacy:
Picture by Flummox:

SpoilerApart from being a tall man made of severed hands, Felgurd possesses incredible strength.

He feels pain, but it does not affect his ability to make clear and rational decisions.

Since he has no bodily functions to speak of, and his consciousness is stored within his mask, it follows that the only way to kill him is to destroy the mask.

He is fond of bludgeoning people to death with various blunt objects he finds around. He tries as hard as possible not to damage people’s hands while he is killing them; it only makes him weaker in the long term.

Since he is in individual control of each hand, he can shapeshift accordingly. But since he has a suit, he usually assumes a form that it fits on. Occasionally he steals clothes so he can take other shapes.

SpoilerFelgurd has lost his purpose. He originally had a partner, Tolgurd. They were created by a god in the final moments of its universe for a purpose only it knew. Just seconds before the dimension winked out of existence, the god pushed Felgurd and Tolgurd through a dimensional portal into our own universe.

They spend the next few centuries wandering throughout the galaxy, both having silicon-based gel bodies, searching for their purpose. Eventually they found Earth. Being the only planet with the capability to sustain life, Felgurd convinced Tolgurd that their purpose must be somewhere on Earth, somewhere among the humans and the animals.

Entering the atmosphere was a painful and difficult process. The heat burnt through their bodies and gave Felgurd the black burn marks across his mask. Tolgurd’s injuries were worse – nearly his entire face was scorched.

Felgurd landed in Russia and was the cause of the famous Tunguska Explosion. Tolgurd landed in the ocean on nearly the other side of the planet. The resulting splash was noticed by a nearby ship captain, but was never reported. Tolgurd wandered the ocean floor, Felgurd wandered the Siberian tundra.They spent nearly another century searching the planet for each other, becoming increasingly desperate with the passing of every year.

Eventually, nine and a half years later, they met at a bridge in the Aleutian Islands, each having put together a makeshift body of various things tied together or attached in miscellaneous ways.
However, seeing two massive and incredibly clumsy people rush at each other can be fairly disconcerting, and the police were called. Confused and frightened, Felgurd and Tolgurd lashed back at the cops and killed a fair few. Tolgurd was shot through the mask in the resulting firefight, and a freak accident happened when a patrol car was thrown against a house; the car snapped a natural gas pipe which ignited because of the incredible friction. Both Felgurd and Tolgurd were lit on fire by the explosion, and Felgurd stumbled off the bridge into the frigid waters below, luckily putting out the fire. Tolgurd was not so lucky. Felgurd later returned to find the charred remains of Tolgurd’s mask. He was dead. Utterly distraught, Felgurd went on a rampage through the city.

Imagine his position. He doesn’t know why he was created, but he was created as a pair. And half the pair is gone. Half of himself is dead. Worse yet, he blames himself for Tolgurd’s death. If he hadn’t fallen off the bridge and been there to help Tolgurd. If he had found him sooner, someplace else. If he hadn’t decided to come to Earth. Simply put, he went insane from the guilt.

His body, soggy from the river and charred from the fire, was discarded. He began to put together his new body, piece by piece. He is now a psychotic madman wandering the city streets, looking for some meaning to his life. He doesn’t know his purpose, and he might never know. So he goes around and finds people. People to follow. People to kill, their hands to steal. People to ask, “Do you know my purpose?”

SpoilerIt was a sunny day.

Days like these have their bonuses and their downsides.

On the plus side, people let their guard down. Sunshine has that effect on the human psyche; it makes them cheerful, unsuspecting. It’s hot out. People open their doors and their windows. Easier to get in, easier to get out.

On the bad side, there aren’t as many shadows to sneak into. Not as many places to hide. Things are more visible – and that’s partly the reason why people aren’t as afraid.

Felgurd pressed himself to the wall of the alley, folded into a crouching pose as the fabric of his shirt stretched tightly across his stolen skin.

He searched the crowd moving past the entrance to the alley. Feet tramped, heads nodded, arms swung. The elderly aren’t any good; their hands are old, weak, and brittle. Children’s hands are too small to grasp anything. No, what he is looking for is one in their prime, their late twenties or early thirties. That’s why he came here, to the busy Chicago streets, where the young and old stay home and let the more fit specimens walk the roads.

There. A young woman, maybe twenty-nine, dressed sharply in a grey suit jacket. She walked briskly, her briefcase swinging by her side.

Felgurd unfolded himself to his full height, about ten feet, and stretched his long arms across the wall, towards the roof. He grabbed hold of a gutter and the exposed hands of his body searched the surface of the wall for cracks to use as handholds. Hauling himself onto the roof of the building, he perched on the tiled edge of the roof and spotted his quarry walking quickly, weaving through the crowd. She will not be let out of his vision.

He reached out and grasped the next roof over, did a back flip only performable for someone without a spine, and landed on the roof with his feet (which were also hands). Performing this same maneuver each time he moved from house to house, he tracked his victim through the Chicago back alleys and side streets to a small, but well-to-do, apartment building.

The woman stepped through the threshold, her actions confident, her manner self-assured. The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped through, pulling a key from her purse while she walked. The elevator closed, the quarry disappeared. But hope was not lost.

Felgurd looked around the street. No one was in sight. He slipped down the side of the building and slunk over to the apartment. Hands scrabbled across the cracked concrete, again seeking handholds. Like a spider Felgurd crawled over the walls of the apartment, peering through windows, making sure not to be caught.

He found his victim on the fifth floor, a neat and organized room, with a desk in one corner and a bed in the other. She seemed to be writing something frantically, the details of which did not concern or interest Felgurd in the least. He waited patiently, very patiently, for her to leave the room. He had to block off the doorway or else she could escape and notify the authorities, which is something he wished to avoid.

Eventually she went off to another room, assumedly the bathroom, and Felgurd slipped one of his more slender hands under the window and unlatched it. Creeping slowly inside, his boneless body making it near effortless, he contorted himself into various shapes until he stood, his head stooped, inside the room.

He moved to stand in front of the bathroom door, and could hear the faint sound of water running. She was probably taking a shower. Years of experience among humans had taught Felgurd about their habits and their hygiene. He knew what they liked to do around certain times, and what certain sights and sounds and smells meant.

Detaching one of his hands from his body, deciding to control it remotely, he moved it through the crack under the door, then crawling upwards, blindly, but feeling, feeling – ah! The hand found the doorknob, and with a swift motion, unlocked the door. A clicking sound could be heard; it was faint, but all Felgurd could do was hope that the sound of the running water had drowned out the noise.
Felgurd turned the doorknob. Slowly, so it made no noise. Slowly… no. There was no escape for her now. No need to be secretive.

Felgurd threw open the door so violently it hit the wall behind and made a loud cracking noise. Felgurd burst into the room and tore the shower curtain off its rod. A misplaced foot shattered the toilet, spraying water from broken pipes. The woman stood there, her mouth open like sound should be coming out, but none was. Water leaked from the broken toilet and the running shower spewed it over the wall.

Felgurd grabbed her by the shoulders.

“What is my purpose?!” he said, in a low voice like the sound of two cinder blocks grating against each other.

The woman began gibbering, utter nonsense. She didn’t know.

“Why do I exist??!!”

More gibbering. Felgurd threw her against the wall, hard. Her skull cracked, blood stained the wall, swirling red in the growing pool of water. Her hands were his. Not hers anymore, only his. The hands became part of him, joined the crowd.

Felgurd crawled out the way he came.

SpoilerAn eery sensation surrounded Daniel as he exited the rubble of his apartment building, was it fear? No, it was something more then just fear, tension, it was the collective tension of the few people still alive that was echoing through the empty streets, as if there was anxiety about what was out there in the ruins of society, but no one was able to combat the anxiety with actual actions.

People needed a hero, somebody to guide them from the darkness of panic. People needed something that didn't exist. It is rare to find people who won't run away when they sense something dangerous, fleeing is the natural reaction for humans in dangerous scenarios, they are nothing more then intelligent animals, after all.

He was no different, he was just a man, a lucky man to live so far, yes, but still a man. Threats are always brought down by their own flaws, no amount of outside forces can change this fact, victory only means somebody succeeded at finding flaws, the threat he was facing now was a truly great one because it had no flaws that a normal man could understand.

A cold breeze ran down Daniel's back, he shouldn't have been outside for so long unarmed, he picked up his stuff and looked for new shelter to hide in, all he could do now was stall his death for as long as possible, even though it would inevitably come sooner or later. The world had turned into nothing more then a high stakes game of hide and seek.

SpoilerThe sparrows were jovial in their morning chatter, their peaceful song lightening the heavy mood of the mercenary band. An edge had crept into movements of the men, every rustling of leaves capturing their full attention, as if they expected a threat to jump out at any moment. Over the past few nights, the eerie howls of wolves had become unnaturally numerous and now, coupled with the fact that Elyssa, their scout, had not returned, they felt justified in their wariness. Stretching in his saddle, Renaldo yawned widely as he surveyed the caravan of loggers they were escorting. Unlike his tall, sleek, bold warhorse, the horses pulling the carts were stout, chunky and enduring, content under a light load consisting only of a couple weeks worth of rations as well as the logging equipment. At the head of the caravan sat the gruff irritable leader of the loggers. Renaldo was just about to intrude upon the man’s no doubt grim thoughts when he his peripherals caught sight of movement in the forest. His men, trained by years of practice and battle mirrored Renaldo’s movements, falling into formation as he reined his mare to a halt and, sword in hand, turned to face the disturbance.
Snarling and thrashing, it burst out from the undergrowth, hurling abuse. “Put that damn sword away you impertinent fool!” her words were followed by a string of curses, no-more friendly and infinitely more colourful. Eyes still wide with surprise, Renaldo’s face split into a broad grin “By the four divines! What happened to you Elyssa, did you get into a brawl with a bush?” Violet eyes blazing with fury met his gaze whilst the men around him remained tensed; they knew better than to let down their guard in the presence of such an obvious danger. Her piercing stare became meaningful as she proceeded to remove sticks from her once silky jet black hair, throwing them deliberately at Renaldo’s head. “A bear actually and if you’re not careful, I might just choose to slay another one.” Acutely aware of the danger, Renaldo’s men were wise enough to discreetly shift the position of their horses, so that they might preoccupy themselves and avoid a scalding confrontation. Chin thrust upward, Elyssa’s small figure folded her arms, in an attempt to resume an air of dignity-- an air which was somewhat skewed by the unnoticed twigs which still adorned her hair and the mud flecked over her cheeks. “Well?” she demanded “I’m not about to stand around here all day, hurry up and let me take your horse. It’s about time that a buffoon like you got some exercise.” Not wanting to fan the flames of her anger too much, Renaldo gave his response in careful, measured tones. Only the mischievous glint deep in his eyes belied his amusement. “Dear Elyssa, as much as I would love to lend you Swiftblade, she has a temperament much like your own: haughty and unable to bear the...” he paused and smiled sweetly, “...inexperienced.” Filled with the boastful energy of her master, Swiftblade snorted and flicked her head almost in emphasis, whilst allowing Renaldo to give her an affectionate pat to the neck. No longer able to put up with what Renaldo regarded as genius, the scout gave a sharp huff and flounced towards the carts, refusing to so much as look at a mercenary.

Spoilerbecause haha fuck you profiles