The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 29: UNINTELLIGIBLE!

Username: Ixcaliber
Name: “Cammie”
Gender: Female
Species: Unbound Elemental
Colour: variable
Biography: Cammie’s first memory is of the crushing darkness of the elemental plane of gravity; one of the most inhospitable elemental realms, nothing resides in this bleak realm but silence and force strong enough to pull a person apart.

Cammie somehow managed to escape from the elemental plane of gravity, though she did not manage to escape whole. Elementals are made of two parts: their essence; the flames of a fire elemental, the swirling winds of an air elemental etc, and their core; their very heart contained deep within them. Cammie lost her essence; even her core did not escape undamaged; as evidenced from the memory loss and the erraticism she has demonstrated ever since.

Cammie washed up in the elemental plane of water, and in her first few moments there she found herself suddenly infused with the power of water. Her missing essence had replenished itself with the elemental energy of the realm. Her body was a clear blue liquid fashioned into a faintly familiar shape.

As she travelled, directionless, across the planes she found her essence would shift and adapt to whatever plane she was in. She wondered whether this was a natural response for an essence that had been forcibly stripped, or perhaps whether she had taken a little of the plane of gravity into herself. She had no way of knowing the workings of the thing, short of presenting herself to an electric plane scientist for testing, and she had absolutely no desire to put herself through such an ordeal.

So, she travelled. She had a faint goal of perhaps learning who she had once been before the plane of gravity had stolen her past, but held out little hope of doing so. As she travelled she gained a reputation for her unique talent, and whilst drinking in a run-down bar in the elemental plane of poison she was approached by a metal elemental. She was a slender silver lady with corners as sharp as blades and plates of burnished black armour welded to her.

She introduced herself as the Marquisse Platinum; ‘ruler’ of the elemental plane of metal. A once proud realm of fierce warriors who had been conquered by the combined might of the planes of Fire, Earth, Air and Water. The Marquisse stood as their puppet, there to uphold their rule simply because it was better than letting the war continue and seeing more and more of her kinsmen die.

During her travels Cammie had noticed that these four realms, going under the banner of the Classical Realms, had been staking a claim far and wide across the planes. They waged a war right now in the distant elemental plane of shadow.

The Marquisse Platinum had a proposition for Cammie; that she use her unique ability to blend with a realm to infiltrate the Classical Planes and learn as much as she could, so that when the time was right they might move against the Classical Realms with confidence.

Cammie was considering this proposition when she was taken away from that conflict and brought into another.

Description: Cammie looks different in every world she visits but she maintains a consistent shape; slim and short (by elemental standards, probably pretty tall and bulky by human standards), visibly feminine with a handsome face and shining white eyes.

Her personality is at least a little affected by the elemental essence she has taken in; for example becoming brash and hotheaded when she is a fire elemental, etc. Some aspects of her personality are consistent however; she is distant

Items/Abilities: Whenever Cammie enters a new world her essence is filled with the elemental energy of that world and she gains a limited control over that element. In worlds which are not elemental she’d likely draw from whatever energy is native to that world or a nearby energy source.

Yeah okay I just realized I didn't put down a deadline on this thing. So, uh, it's what, 8 PM on the 10th of February?

You have 48 hours, I guess. 8PM (give or take a few hours) on the 12th. For me. Because fuck you, you make me convert time from your timezones.

Seeeecret priiiiizes.

Name: the Axiomatic Tiger

Race: Geometris euclid

Gender: An abstraction.

Color: Twisting, Turning.

Description: “The Axiomatic Tiger is apex predator living in the more tropical-analogous regions of Geometrica. It is imposing, twice as large as a mundane tiger, with a colorful pelt - a felid patchwork of magenta, chartreuse, and bright blue. The colors never seem to be blend, but rather slowly shift from one place to another. Despite its striking appearance, the Axiomatic Tiger is more often heard than seen. It is solitary and naturally wary of strangers, often preferring to blend into its chaotic home with the help of its twisting fractal-like stripes.” (Nemi, 1005)

Weapons/Abilities: “Members of the Geometris genus are characterized by prominent ridges on the maxilla and mandibles, which wildly vary between species to species, depending on their ecological niches. The facial ridges of Geometris euclid are molded into one set of prominent ‘canines’ tipped with blunt, shovel-like ends. The canine-ridges contributes to its unusual method of hunting, where it picks and pares a parcel of ground to the point of impossible even-ness. Anyone stepping in would realize themselves stuck as a spider in a bath-tub and eventually finished by Geometris euclid itself.” (Merlo, 975).

Biography: “Methodical application of magic was once thought to be a uniquely humanoid thing but now we know certain magical beasts have the capacity to do wizardry or at least, wizard-like spells. Case in point, the Axiomatic Tiger’s evening of the ground was much more complex than was once thought. Closer observation of the Axiomatic Tiger markings show subtle – but deliberate – tooth-markings that look remarkably analogous to arcane runes of transmutation. It is not known if the Axiomatic Tiger can produce other sorts of runes and if this characteristic is commonplace among the known subspecies (Geometris euclid euclid, Geometris euclid cartesis, Geometris euclid noneuclid) and perhaps, even among other related species in the Geometris family. Needless to say, the magical use of Axiomatic Tigers proves that magic and order is much more natural than we previously thought” (Sarkis, 1006).

So I went drinking tonight so if you have anything half finished post it before I wake up with a hangover. Nighty night y'all.

music begins, curtains rise

Okay okay so I ended up taking a ton of time on the secret prizes which are honestly not the best thing since sliced bread, but - oh well. Welcome back to the judging for the greatest Eagletime event since Necromancy Night,

The Grand OC

Five brave competitors have come together to produce fine profiles based on our amazing theme, Plane! They've waited grueling weeks to find out which of these amazing awards are going to be given to them in return for their hard work and toil. They've torn their hair out in despair as the fabled secret prizes promised by the Agen failed to appear, but now they need not tear any longer! Your barbers will be pleased!

Before we continue, let's just take a moment to reflect on the meaning that Grand OC has for us. Building characters and pitting them against each other is an inherent part of our lives and of Grand Battle culture. Creation is our forte and our joy, and we shouldn't let a lack of actual battles prevent us from honing our creative art. Let's just remember what Grand OC stands for: a place where our characters can be tested and grown before they depart into their very first battle. Whenever that may be.

So let us now, without further ado, proceed to the awards that mark the best of these contestants! Please open your first spoiler to find out who won...

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The Thomas Packston Elementalist Award

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SpoilerSCHAZER, for Ortis, Akross and Bird

The Thomas Packston is a hefty award, given to the profile that exhibits the 'best' incorporation of the weekly theme. Ortis and his two geometric familiars managed to encapsulate their awful stealth puns while still managing to take the theme into a direction (no pun intended) I hadn't anticipated. Well done, Schaz.

SECRET PRIZE:

The Glere Award for Kitchen Sinkery

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SpoilerIXCALIBER, for "Cammie"

The Glere award goes to the profile that does the unexpected, leaving the judges breathless with surprise. While Ortis and company definitely had a shot at this one, the worldbuilding and battle-friendliness of Cammie's profile ("Cammie's"?) nudged it over the line. While a very prosaic interpretation of the theme, once again Ix's storytelling talents have made this elemental's world a joy to read. Excellent work, Ix.

Also receives the Arnold Fogge's Actually Practical Award, for being particularly suited towards the Grand Battle format.

SECRET PRIZE:

The GBS2 Award for Gratuitous Worldbuilding

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SpoilerPHARMACY, for the Axiomatic Tiger

The GBS2 Award is given to the profile that indulges in the most gratuitous worldbuilding, often at the expense of the character itself. This time I'm proud to offer the award to Pharmacy's Axiomatic Tiger, who got an entire profile's worth of encyclopedia information (or an entire encyclopedia's worth of profile information?) and managed to leave no room for the specific Tiger itself. Whoops! In any case, the pseudo-academic tone of the profile itself is an integral part of the characterization; it was a joy to read, even if the profile as a whole was a little derivative (and tended to go off on tangents). Jolly good, Pharms.

SECRET PRIZE:

The Lucky VII All-Rounder Award

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SpoilerDRAGONFOGEL, with Jane

Lucky VII is awarded to a solid profile that, alas, doesn't pick up any other prizes. Jane is one of these. While in possession of a decent pun and a interesting backstory, Jane was unfortunately superseded in most categories by other, less ordinary, profiles. I also feel that in lieu of any other profile having it, Jane might also pick up the Convocation Teamfriendliness Cup, if only to watch her freak out at the unordinariness of her competitors. Good job, Fogel.

SECRET PRIZE:

The Kracht Saw it Coming Award

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SpoilerBIGRO, for Victory

Mate. You didn't even try. >_>

SECRET PRIZE:

The First Five Eigthths Sportsball Award

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SpoilerUnawarded

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And that's all the prizes! Sorry for taking so long on these. I hope you've all enjoyed tonights awards ceremony (300% more diverse than the Oscars) and that you'll all consider joining again for the next theme of...

The Grand OC

lowers curtain, end music

Shitdamn, these were nice (sur)prizes Agen, thanks for putting the time in! Mine is perfect.

Ortis is from ortus, a Latin synonym for "origin",and the two better-known of his companions are from an old middle-school mnemonic I learned for labeling axes on charts:

X is a cross, and y's in "the sky"

Damn Agen this is really cool. Definitely worth the wait.

I only just realized looking back at the profile I paused whilst writing the description and never actually finished it. Whoops.

(Just in case it wasn't readily apparent Cammie is short for Chameleon.)

Go to mars, biggles

Alrighty folks, I'm jonesing for some sweet, sweet Original Character action, so prepared to be showered with praise if you can present to me, a profile that fits the theme of...

Harsh.

Is there a deadline for entries? er...entry number quota?

Generally the deadline is a week but actually having entries is preferable to, not that.

Get what you can in, and let us know a week out from my original post if you're anticipating delays but still want to write a thing up.

Name: The Boots of Torment
Species: Footwear
Gender: No stated preference
Text Color: Black as your sins.

Description: The Boots of Torment appear to be a perfectly ordinary pair of jet-black boots, although some people will insist they're the most comfortable-looking boots they've ever seen. They don't seem to have a lot of personality, as they just kind of sit there. Unless, of course, someone is wearing them, in which case they'll be on that person's feet. They're boots, this isn't complicated.

Weapons and abilities: These are clearly perfectly ordinary boots. They do not have the power to entice other beings into putting them on, even beings with nonstandard feet. And despite any rumors you may have heard, they do not immediately haunt the wearer with a mental reckoning of all their sins, including some that they haven't actually committed yet but are thinking about. It would be even more ridiculous to suggest that this hypothetical reckoning of sins is wholly disproportionate to the actual harm caused by said sins, treating such simple transgressions as taking one more cookie from the cookie jar as crimes against the entirety of sentient life.
Where was I? Oh, right, the boots. They're ordinary boots. I guess you could kick someone pretty hard with them. The boots can't really do that on their own, though.

Biography: It's a pair of boots. What kind of life story could they possibly have? They were made in a factory somewhere, now they're here, and some extradimensional entity decided to enter them in a battle to the death for some reason.
Although, huh. I don't see any indication of who the manufacturer is. Maybe they were just made by a local cobbler who didn't label their work. That's a much more reasonable explanation than that they were forged in the depths of Hell by Satan himself, I don't know where anyone would get that idea.

Username: Ixcaliber
Name: Maesi
Gender: Genderless, typically characterised as female
Species: Ocean Spirit
Colour: #0056F3
Biography: It was a long time ago, back when Isrit was a young and treacherous world. Back then the world was so full of life that the skies, the seas and the very land itself was alive. It was a time when felling a tree, drinking from an unfriendly stream, simply being out at the wrong time could make you the target of a hostile world spirit.

In time the natives of Isrit learned to tame their world. In some cases an unspoken agreement was reached with the world spirits. But in the circumstance that the world spirits that would not cooperate, the humans wouldn’t hesitate to seek out the ‘soul’ of the spirit, digging it from the hostile earth in the case of land spirits or shooting it out the clouds in the case of sky spirits, and obliterating it.

At this time when most of the world spirits had been subdued, ocean spirits still proved troublesome. No human had ever worked out how to obliterate the watery soul of an ocean spirit. No ocean spirit was as violent as Maesi. Those foolish enough to try to sail her were invariably sunk not long into their journey, their bodies pulled down into the deep blackness never to be seen again. On days where she felt particularly vindictive she would send tidal waves to batter any person or dwelling built too close to her self; her domain.

One day she felt a small raft floating out across her, it could have just been some driftwood but for the way it jostled and moved. Maesi brought her focus to the object, ready to drag whatever damn fool had thought themselves above her to their watery grave. She was surprised to discover a young girl, sobbing and shivering.

The girl stutted, averted her eyes to the poorly made raft and announced herself as an offering made to appease the vengeful ocean spirit. Maesi was furious, her waters suddenly tempestuous. The girl hung on for her life as the ocean raged around her, but after a moment this fury passed and she was still safe.

Maesi apologized for scaring the girl, who at Maesi’s behest introduced herself as Kaie, she was not furious at her, but at the men who had seen her as disposable, who had thrown her life away for their own benefit, who had thought that this act would somehow appease her.

Maesi in a rare moment of compassion offered Kaie a home in her depths; a world away from those who had done this to her, a world previously unseen by human eyes. Kaie accepted and for a while things were good; Maesi did her best to keep her waters comfortable for her guest, and to keep her safe and gradually they warmed to one another’s company. They grew closer and closer, more and more intimate until the day when Maesi guided Kaie to her soul. They did private things that are kind of difficult to fully articulate given the mechanics of the relationship.

That night as Maesi slept, Kaie lay awake indecisive. Finally, almost regretfully she forced herself to action, she took Maesi’s soul and dragged it to the surface. She swam all night, through exhaustion until finally she reached the shore and dragged Maesi’s soul out of the ocean she had so long inhabited.

Eventually, after some recuperation, Kaie brought the now helpless soul of Maesi to the nearest town. They tried everything they could think of to obliterate her soul but were unable to do any lasting damage to her. Eventually they decided to seal her up in a waterproof chest and bury her in the dry earth to ensure she could never be a threat again.

Its unclear how long Maesi spent trapped in that chest before being grabbed for a battle, time passes rather slowly when you’re an immobile sphere trapped in darkness. Lets just say it has not improved her temperament.

Items/Abilities: Can control any body of water her soul is present within.

Description: Maesi’s soul is a football sized cerulean sphere made of a sort of gel-like substance. Sometimes she will form a roughly human shaped ‘avatar’ out of whatever body of water she is currently occupying. It’s extremely rough, like think stick figure levels of detail here. Maesi’s kind of pissed off with the entirety of humanity and she’s really good at holding a grudge.

Username: Agenball
Name: Aidan Aynsley, Tomas Arnsdale and Charles Essen (And the Our Lord and Lady Hartley Shanes Orphanage Memorial Football Stadium)
Gender: Male, Male, Male and Genderless
Color: HIKE!

Biography: Maybe it's in the middle of the night. Or maybe it's the dawn hours, when the sky is silver-orange and the sun begins to peek through the skyscrapers, scattering the clouds. In any case, the first thing you see of them is the light: bright, harsh, artificial. Painful stuff, right from the halogen family, the kind that leaves a four-by-eight grid of floodlamp images burned onto your retina.

So you start walking that way, clutching your briefcase (or another implement of choice, and does anyone actually use briefcases anymore?), probably wondering how it is you're going to complain about the lights that go on when decent people are walking the city streets, trying to go home or leave home or whatever it is you're doing. But none of that matters, because pretty soon you hear the strangest cheer you've ever heard. It's your local football anthem, the one that only got taught to seven kids and their mothers, and it's coming from what sounds like a multitude of ragged throats, hoarse from the singing. You're singing, too, by the way, and your song mixes with the other songs, producing new and stranger songs from the harmonics (or lack thereof). It sounds something like this:

"THE"

"HARTLEY SHANES"

"STADIUM"

"ADMINISTRATION"

"APOLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY IN GAME"

"LOST BALL PROVISIONS"

"NECROMANTIC RITES"

The grass is too green, and there are only three linebackers. If you squint and shade your eyes with your briefcase (oh good, you held on to that), you can just make out their names: Aynsley, Arnsdale and Essen. They stand back to back in the center of the pitch; Aynsley facing one crossbarred goalpost, Essen facing the other, Arnsdale between them. They are very pale, and the stained grass around them suggests that one or all of them has lost a lot of blood.

Your throat is really starting to hurt, but you can't seem to stop singing. Your legs hurt, too, from climbing the neverending staircases. You see an empty spot in the bleachers, and you know right away this is your refuge, that this is your place now. Everything hurts, but it feels good to put your briefcase on that cheap plastic seat. It feels good to stand in disharmony with your fellow spectators and to sing your heart out...

Description: All right. Real talk. Football stadiums are all well and good, but when you demolish an orphanage to make room, and when you accidentally demolish the orphanage with the orphans inside, and when you build the stadium over their macerated corpses, and when some marketing coach decides to do half-time entertainment out of some half-assed dance moves he pulled out of an old crumbling leather-bound tome...

There's tempting fate and then there's this, if you get my drift.

Items/Abilities: Wherever Hartley Shanes goes, it will continue to gather people - singers - fans. Only a full house will do. Aynsley, Arnsdale and Essen are its hands in the world; every so often they go out into the world and hooks more people in, adds them to the choir. They are very strong, and they cannot be killed by any conventional means.

When it has all the singers, the last song shall begin. And then... well. Then the big game can start again.

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SpoilerI have no idea what I was doing when I wrote this.

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SpoilerI bet you're wondering where the pun is.

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SpoilerThere's actually no pun.

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SpoilerWell, I mean, I had one in mind, but honestly it's too flimsy to count at this point

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SpoilerBut I'm still posting this anyway, so I guess tough titties?

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SpoilerDo we even still give out the Confusing Me award?

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SpoilerI would check but I need to sleep.

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SpoilerAnyway, here's the bloody joke, if you're really keen to know:

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SpoilerH ARS H

(the Hs are the goalposts, with (Ay)nsley, (Ar)nsdale and (Es)sen) between them. Also, their first names (Ai)dan, (T)omas and (Ch)arles make up "aitch", which at this point is me being stupid. Also, (Har)tley (Sh)anes, which wasn't too hard to do.

Username: darksol
Name: The-Ever-Oppressive-Feeling-Of-Your-Soul-Being-Crushed-And-Ground-Into-Nothingness or nott for short
Species: Demonic Spirit
Gender: N/A
Color: this is actually brown not red but whatever
Description: The-Ever-Oppressive-Feeling-Of-Your-Soul-Being-Crushed-And-Ground-Into-Nothingness aka nott (all lower case for maximum effect) is a mostly intangible being that takes shape in the corner of your eye when you aren't looking. While details are fuzzy, there's horns, a tail, and various splotches of black and grey.

nott is not malicious, but simply thorough in doing what nott must, by the very nature of notts existence. Whatever nott may do to someone, it is not with the intention of doing harm or causing pain, though both will frequently occur in notts presence, it is simply the reality of interacting with nott. Those who can more easily turn aware of the demonic spirits existence have tried to convince nott to leave, go somewhere where no one can come under the feeling that notts very presence exudes, but they all eventually come to realize that if there is no one to feel the influence of nott, notts namesake only gets more powerful.
Weapons/Abilities: The-Ever-Oppressive-Feeling-Of-Your-Soul-Being-Crushed-And-Ground-Into-Nothingness does as the name implies, emit a field that clears your head in the worst ways, taking away hopes and dreams and good times and leaving you alone, in the dark, thinking only about that which makes you twitch and breathe heavily, shaking in your sleep, feeling like at any point in time whatever darkness you are keeping tightly inside will burst out and bleed a vile blakness all over you.

nott puts a lot of effort in ensuring that this field is spread in such a distance that it effects as many people as little as possible in the ratio that does the least damage.

Biography: Scratching. Scritching and scratching and scritching and screaming but not in any way that can be heard because that would be even worse. An open mouth sobbing and screaming but without any sound, other than the scratches and clenchings and thrashings on mattress and pillows. Heat, sweat, fluff, the ever oppressive feeling of death and like you should cry but crying won't help and there aren't any tears left anyway.

Maybe tonight you should play some of your music, anything to focus on other than everything you'll ever do wrong, every mistake you have ever made, every person who has suffered through your utterly despicable presence.

And as the notes hit your ears a weight is lifted, and sleep follows. All in a flash.

Name: Muske Brackwater

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Color: swimp swamp

Description: Muske would rather be left alone but finds it too rude to say it out loud. So she makes it up with her appearance. She is of average height, but gives an illusion of being even shorter due to her vulture-like posture. This is all complemented by her stringy-black hair and eerie-green eyes. She wears an itchy hair-shirt, obscured by a ratty cloak she found on the way-side. She takes great pains to obscure her hands beneath her cloak for a multitude of reasons; she gets pretty cold easily, and because her hands are completely devoid of skin and covered in sickly-green mushrooms.

The horrid state of her hands is the indicator of the fell forces she constantly interacts with and her subsequent exile by those who feared them. So it is quite understandable that Muske has a bit of contempt for society – or really any institution with a set of rules that people are obligated to follow. As such, she is brusque and curt with words, and preferring to talk to frogs instead of untrustworthy humans.

Weapons/Abilities: Muske is the caretaker of Slaugh the Sickle-Clawed, a wetlands nature spirit who has potent powers over life and death. In return for her service, Muske receives a fraction of her patron powers – which allows her to do things like befouling water to the point of sheer acidity and rapidly decompose organic detritus. Theoretically, she could do freaky shit with these divine-granted powers but the concept of skeletonizing a live person - even a person she hated - never really sat well with her.

Biography: Slaugh the Sickle-Clawed sat down – the immense astral sea barely even covering one-fourth of her crocodilian body. This, unfortunately, blatantly displayed the bad news for everyone. Bits of scales had been falling out. Gaping holes, like the reverse of stars, pock-marked her once shining body, eliciting an instinctual shudder of revulsion from the horrified Muske. Slaugh noticed her reaction and gave her a humorous glance with her slitted eye to levitate the mood, an immense effort considering the horrific state of her spiritual health.

But of course, the air of the conversation was as aerodynamic as a turtle glued onto a brick. The news was bad and clear as spring ring. The chemicals from the factories wore away at her. Her mangroves had been tore down. The water drained and made into more aesthetically pleasing lawns. The number of her followers slowly whittled down, the survivors retiring or, more horrifyingly going into religions that was more accepted by the ruling state. Slaugh was slowly starved of her divinity. Without material relics, there was no respect. Without followers, there was no memory. Slaugh the Sickle-Clawed, First Daughter of the Forest, was going to die. She knew it. But Muske didn’t.

“My Lady!” Muske prostrated herself, tears rolling down her eyes. “What shall we do to cure your woes?”

Slaugh thought long and hard. She was not stupid, being one of last surviving demigods from the Age of Folly granted her plenty of time and so plenty of wisdom. She knew she was going to die – and while she didn’t really want to die, she readily accept there was no other option. There was no way to cure a nature spirit, especially one at her age, but Muske was one of her favorite followers. Slaugh couldn’t really say the truth of her inevitable demise...

“MUSKE,” Slaugh boomed. “IN ORDER TO CURE MY WOES…”

And so Slaugh spun a story about how Muske needs to get the Tears of the Mist-Queens – although she highly doubted that the veracity of the Mist-Queens. As Muske steered herself, gather her equipment, and set on a quest for a thing that likely never existed in the first place, Slaugh chastised herself for doing such a grandiose lie, but she couldn’t really bring herself to tell the entire truth. Muske for her entire life, since she arrived at the doorstesps of Slaugh’s Head Priestess, utterly devoted herself to the religious sect to the point of near-fanaticism. She was still fiery and full of exuberance. To shatter such hopeful determination, that would be incredibly…harsh.

Username: The Common Colb
Name: Adam Ashby, better known as "Smoke"
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Color: Purple haze, brothah

Description: Smoke is not your average eighteen-year old stoner, he's poured his whole life into the art of getting high. He wears a hoodie and a brimmed beanie, almost perpetually like some sort of distortion of charlie brown. He's not a great person but he'll go to any lengths for the sake of his friends. Smoke is just looking for adventure in a world that doesn't seem to have any left and will hold onto his childhood for as long as he can in the midst of a world of adults. If anything he's simply a product of his environment, as the harsh bud provides the only solace a person can indulge themselves in, because even weeds keep growing after everything else is gone.

Weapons/Abilities: Smoke is a smokeomancer, a brand of magician trained in the art of manipulating smoke. Specifically he can cause hallucinations to anyone who enters the cloud he almost perpetually exudes from his lungs. He can also manipulate the shape and density of the clouds, creating dragons and other creatures to fight with, as long as he is inside the cloud itself. With bong in hand, smoke can fight off any creature that may come his way.

Biography: Smoke was born at the end of the universe, on a dying earth that had been recreated as a nature preserve for "natural" humans. This society almost totally relied on off-world economies to support itself, and when the great collapse happened and all the stars and other planets dissipated, earth was entirely cut off by a field of static. One unfortunate side effect of the universe essentially ending (sans earth) was that no new lives could be created and only those born before the collapse were those who ended up populating it. Smoke was frozen in cryostasis just prior to the collapse, and when he emerged into the world, he found himself as the last child, nearly ten years after the previous generation had come of age, his father and brother gone.

Smoke was raised by the Hoodlums, a band of trash creatures who were taught the arts of a secret society known as the Hooded, Not aware of human child-rearing, they taught him smokeomancy, not realizing that teaching a child smoking powers was probably not the best thing for his health or development. Regardless, the Hoodlums loved young smoke and he learned the true meaning of fraternity from them.

Smoke spent his time attempting to go adventuring with the hoodlums and causing trouble in the ruins of a dystopian society apparently established by his father, who had died attempting to establish order for his children before he retrieved them from cryostasis, He would spray paint walls and cause trouble for the corrupt law enforcement (who were literal humanoid pigs), all the while hiding out in his treehouse located deep in the swamp beyond the edge of society. He always held out that one day he might get to go on a real adventure, perhaps the last adventure anyone anywhere would ever have.

Okey dokey, get yourselves ready for some brutal-as rulings as to who wins what.

The All-Rounder is awarded to Pharmacy's Muske Brackwater, for being a generally great profile. Solid contender for Worldbuilding and Actually Practical, with a strong sense of being an Actual Grand Battle character who I can see interacting with other characters.

Worldbuilding is lovingly conferred upon Smoke, or Adam Ashby, though the profile hits many of the right notes that Muske's did. Really believable to see in a battle, I want to follow their character arc, see them get utterly wrecked, all that good shit. The background setting is easily my favourite out of the bunch offered though, so Worldbuilding it wins.

Maesi takes away the Elementalist award, for their harsh mistress Maesi. Their entire profile is testament to callousness of all kinds.

Synergy is jointly awarded to lott and the Boots of Torment, as with their forces combined they could comprehensively ruin anyone's day. They also win the Kitchen Sinkery award by dint of me going like this at both of them, albeit for completely different reasons.

Finally, I award the Arnold Fogge to The Football Stadium and Friends, because you just know the entire cast is going to be trapped in there for at least two rounds mid-game until they can slay or play the damnable thing out. It also wins the First Five-Eighths, not because the first part of the profile especially stood out but because puns.

Nobody wins Kracht Saw It Coming. I figured that'd be too harsh.

Thanks for playing!

I feel like judging. If I stepped on the toes of anyone hoping to go next, speak up so we can wait for you next week.

Your theme is Puzzle.

Username: Schazer
Name: Cursive Herbalism - An Inkwiree's Impressioned Guide to Florae Calligustrada, by Peripatus Plex
Species: Book(wurm)
Gender: Nope
Color: Inkstain

Description: A quarter-tonne of translucent gel in the shape of a snake, or maybe it's a millipede with a disproportionately wide snake's head. Like many Pages of the message-goddess Inkwire, it's open to interpretation. Embedded in its head is a large, hardcover book - the pages within are askew and mismatched in places, like a not-quite-cleaned-up stack of field notes. Whispers of ink sometimes drip out of the book and leak out to the wurm's surface, sprouting into ink-black plants. These are sparsely distributed all over its body, but are predominatly found atop its head and along its spine.

Of ponderous and mostly-affable disposition, this wurm loves attention being lavished on it but is reticient - stubborn, even - when folks are impatient to extract information from its book. Gaining its favour is easiest with an offering of fresh vegetation, the harder-to-acquire the better. Its language is pictorial and often necessitates a fair bit of creativity when communicating complicated ideas; its handwriting is atrocious.

Bookwurms are named after their tome of possession - this particular specimen as known as "Cursive Herbalism, living edition", "Cursive" to those who work with it, and occasionally "The Cursewurm (of The Shrine of Articles)".

Biography: Wurm egg glue is the preferred binding agent of bookmakers, thanks to wurms' affinity for written text - slather a hard cover's inner spine with it and you've got the perfect note-collater for folks on the go. Curing the eggs into the right kind of inert state is a time-consuming process, making Guild-issue bookcovers prohibitively expensive for some - like one travelling priest-artist of Inkwire, who spent his early adulthood illustrating various plants found on his travels.

Peripatus shelved his illustrated guidebook when he founded the Shrine of Articles, giving a still-living egg in the cheap binding plenty of time alone to subsume its book and comfortably fill out the storeroom it was stashed in. Bookwurms are considered pests, mostly. Cursive's host book wasn't the typical wurm-fodder, with its text in barely-decipherable shorthand and its contents predominantly pictures, Cursive's poor comprehension of non-pictorial alphabets reflects its upbringing.

Any other denomination might've killed the wurm, but newspriest Plex adopted the thing as a symbol of Inkwire, and let it protect the Shrine's archives after moving the collection of picture books elsewhere.

Weapons/Abilities: Cursive's gelatinous body recovers rapidly from most injuries - bodily cavities quickly fill with a mesh of saliva-like strands. This happens to its mouth as well when it leaves it open too long, which would be inconvenient if it actually ate. Glows in the absence of other light sources, and attracts small insects.

It absorbs and digests any organic matter which sticks to it and can't struggle itself free - plants and sessile creatures are easiest, large and many-limbed animals the toughest for it. Whatever it digests, it faithfully records in its mawbook.

Anything noted down in the book this way can be "printed" later, composed of a black ink which stains every damn thing it touches. It won't print things which aren't plants unless specifically requested, which is great because ink-animals are just as mobile as their originals, and several orders of magnitude messier.

Username: Agenbox
Name: ERNO
Species: Cyborg
Gender: None
Color: RGBWOY
Description: ERNO is... well, ERNO was a man at one point. Now the description is a little less apt. If you squint and tilt your head at him just the right way, you can make out his face through the armor: a craggy visage, but frozen in terrified, bewildered horror. His limbs are grossly mismatched in places: his right arm meets his shoulder backwards, and is pathetically undersized considering his torso's general bulk. The skin on one leg does not match the skin on the other. A single, pendulous breast hangs at an odd angle off his chest, held in place with the multicolored electronic mesh that serves for ERNO's clothing. The mesh witters when he moves, and shifts crazily in between various colors in the spectrum.

His mind is almost completely gone, in between the pain and the botched programming and the malfunctioning everything, but he can still vaguely remember the last question he wanted to answer before getting out:

"Who am I?"

Items/Abilities: ERNO has a limited camouflage ability, thanks to his mesh-suit, but his primary ability is much more esoteric: every part of his body is in fact interchangeable with another body part suspended in a nu-space fold, just a wrinkle of dimensions away. This allows him to go from lithe acrobat to heavy-hitting tank in seconds, should the situation demand it...

...or at least that's how he's supposed to work. Upon escaping his previous owners (the military), a self-destruct subroutine automatically purged most of his spare parts. His shambling countenance now is built from what surviving pieces remained, with very little in the way of options. Now he wanders the wastelands in between the titanic city-states, killing for food and for parts to use.

Biography: The sandstorm raged on as ERNO clawed painfully at the rusted hulk half-buried in the dune. Sensors flashed on the inside of his eye, indicating a still-usable power cell deep inside the wreck. Pickings were slim out here in the wastelands, and this bird was a veritable goldmine of unlooted treasure.

"...round 'ere..."

ERNO froze, the colors on his mesh-suit frantically adjusting to the swirling sands around him. The voice had been almost drowned out by the howling wind, but it was close enough for him to hear.

"...just sighted it yesterday, mate. Checkin' it out. Good loot, worth bearin' the storm for, yeah?"

A buggy came trundling out from behind a dune. Motionless, the cyborg watched as a pair of looters, clad in sandsuits, hopped out into the shelter of the hulk's massive keel, a jagged spire tearing at the furious sky.

"The whole dune shifted yesterday, looks like. What do you think?"

"I think you're an idiot. Dontcha know there're bandits around?"

"Well, we're also bandits, technically..."

"I mean like the real scary kind, mate. Been leaving people behind dead and dismembered."

ERNO's fingers were beginning to itch, and unconsciously he moved one, slowly... but not slow enough. His suit wittered again, sending a wave of bright green static licking up his form. As the looters raised their weapons in alarm, he was already pushing off on his good foot, the sprinter's one. She had been a powerful woman, and the combined force of the cyborg's momentum and the gnarled fist of a construction worker punched clean through both the looters' chests.

ERNO ate well that day.

Name: Asterion
Species: Horned Humanoid
Gender: Male
Colors: Knowledge is power and apparently Blue

Definition:
Asterion is not having a great day. Once a wizard’s apprentice too curious for his good, he is now an horrific mishmash of animalistic parts. (Un)Fortunately, he still fit the barest definition of humanoid – top heavy, proportionally longer limbs, and the spark of intelligence in his deep-set eyes. Of course, none was more imposing like his crown-like horns; glided and forked, it is the titular physical embodiment of the word enormous and probably the only appealing thing Asterion can muster confidence in during the duration of his transformation.

Asterion does not have confidence, or self-bolstering emotions that could be mustered in the face of what he viewed as cosmic punishment. This is frequently mistaken as dark self-introspection and Asterion knows. And exploits on that fact with adjustments to his behavior - reciting his admittedly extensive knowledge, his wardrobe – adjusting his rags into a more warlock-like state, and his inflection – speaking from his chest. This adds up to an intimidating presence, but it is ultimately flimsy defense against the fact he doesn’t easily deal with pressure. And also, he has never dated before.

Weapons/Abilities:
Asterion is first and foremost a scholar, and not much of a fighter. Now if he really need to deal with an offending person, he simply banishes them into the Maze of Miracles, an alternate dimension that is the ultimate source of knowledge - and his woes. The Maze is spiritually keyed to him, meaning only he has the ultimate say of what comes in and what comes out. Which means he could theoretically leave that person there – forever in its twisty, fractal-y dimensions. Fortunately, there is a way out, but one must find it…before until the starvation and the native terrors set in.

Biography:

Show Content

Spoiler
The bull-man unceremoniously gurgled. It fought valiantly, evident in the arduous expression on its face and the way its muscles bulged as it struggled to keep a grip on its mighty halberd. But ultimately the injuries did it in. Its left knee gave away and its right knee – busted and ragged – missed the purchase on the marble floor. It collapsed like a mighty tree and laid there. The pooling darkness beneath it reinforced its defeat and the fact that it had not long in this world as its lifeblood permitted it.

It looked up at the one who defeated it. A lanky young man, dressed in a set of standard wizard robes that had seen better days. He is short of height - mousy-haired, freckled, and fresh-faced, qualities that lent him a personal air of naïve innocence. The bull-man felt an immense sorrow for the victor as it knew the fate that would come to him; the same as it and other predecessors that came before it, but that was the way of magic as omnipresent as life, as unyielding as death. It was only important to tell the man what lies before him and what he needed to face.

“Human…you finally got what you wanted and that is commendable. You are smart – you know the reason why Maze of Miracles was created, but you must know; there is a reason for why this dimension was locked away and all traces evident to its existence scrubbed away. The knowledge – this knowledge - is infinite and the infinity gives it power, but also makes it alien. To put shortly, this knowledge is not of this world and unfortunately, for all its potential use, it has a malign intelligence of its own...”

The bull-man winced as a jolt of pain wracked its shoulder. It saw that the young man also sympathetically winced, the magic sword in his hand clattered to the ground as it convulsed. He quickly grabbed his arm, looking at it with a veneer of suspicion.

“…and the capacity to multiply. It spawned many abominable beings, sharp-toothed and bloody-clawed. Their sheer numbers and their apparent lack of vulnerabilities laid waste to the world, the final toll-bell for the Age of Miracles. The survivors tried to seal it up, but they had already learned and used of this knowledge. Forgetting it was just as easy as un-shattering a broken ceramic cup. So they sealed the accursed maze into its own dimension and sealed it with the greatest curse and the most costly of sacrifices…a being must undergo a rigorous transformation in order to become a suitable guardian of the place. And if that guardian is killed--”

The bull-man’s vision went dark for a moment. When it came to its senses, the man was bent over as if doubled in pain. He uncurled, revealing a disproportionately larger hand, festooned with claws, and a terrified expression. The bull-man chastised itself for mincing words as it did not had long before its death.

“—the closest being would have to take its place.”

“WHAT.”

The bull-man sadly gazed at him. “…Now you are obviously the one chosen by the curse and I am dying, but before I go. I must deplore you, there is a mote of hope within the accursed state. There is a way to seal the knowledge – but not by yourself, but with entities beyond our world as outside evils can only be fought with outside powers. Find a way to gain their help. And if the knowledge is sealed, then the curse will have no purpose to exist anymore, liberating you from a state that had cursed me and the others. Good luck! Stay safe! And…goodbye.”

And so, the bull-man finally died. Its corpse started to boil and sizzle, breaking down to smoke and magic. Its consciousness mercifully faded away before it could witness the painful, prolonged metamorphosis of its successor. Its last thoughts only hoped what it claimed was true and encouraged the man to find a solution. The one thing that was worse than fell-knowledge was stagnation. After all, what brought the Maze of Miracles was progress and only further progress could undo these mistakes.

It has been 50 years. Asterion, the man-transmuted-animal, self-taught himself into a powerful mage. But with time, he still doubted his predecessor’s words.

Trigger warning or whatever. Violent Content Involving Children

Username: Colbplay
Name: Maxwell Harley AKA: The Charleston Cutter (Skinface, The Boogeyman, The Tanner, Potentially many other aliases)
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Color: Blood

Description:
As a skinhead covered from head to toes in tattoos, one might think they understood Maxwell Harley at first glance. He however defies all attempts at profiling, which is cited as the primary reason to how he remained at large for so long. Harley first and foremost is no racist, and instead self identifies as a S.H.A.R.P. (Skinhead Against Racial Prejudice) even going so far to have this tattooed on his upper left forearm. His mother disappeared at a young age, and he was left to be raised by his stepfather. He nearly flunked out of school, though all current evidence points to a genius level IQ.

His alias “Skinface” gained media notoriety for numerous killing children across the country, severing their faces post-mortem. His brutal crimes, while methodical, were seemingly random and without type. Men, women, all races, creeds, and body types fell victim to his heinous actions. While his calling card of removing faces is well known because of media sensationalism, this ritual only ever occurred in less than 20 instances, which is a fraction of the murders he is suspected of committing.

Prior to arrest, Harley was in the navy seals, serving in various classified missions. What we do know, is that during this time he earned the medal of honor. Sometime after returning from active duty, Harley became known as an active member of Steel Riders, an outlaw motorcycle club. From what we know at this time, he worked as an enforcer. At the same time, in his home-state of Texas, he ran his late father’s tanning store. It is suspected that during this time period Harley would set out to find victims and then return any trophies he took back to his store.

When he was finally detained and questioned after the tragic events of the Charleston Massacre, he freely admitted the murders which law enforcement suspected may be his work, though never volunteered this or any other information until questioned about a specific investigation. Unlike most cases of serial murder, the perpetrator was proven to be remarkably sane, and seemingly took no pride in his actions. When asked to explain his motives behind what may be the largest accumulation of homicide going by sheer numbers Harley’s only response was “I did it for America. No, I did it for the world.”

Weapons/Abilities:
Terrifyingly he was found with a suit/coat made from the severed faces of children. What ritual this necessitates or what rationality drove Harley to this is unclear, and honestly doesn't really need to be expounded upon.

However perhaps the most terrifying part of the Charleston Cutter is that he seemingly requires no weapons or powers to be a completely lethal force. His choice of murder weapon was the twin cleavers found at the site of the Charleston Massacre, however he is extremely proficient with any weapon, as well as unarmed combat. Since his arrest, while incarcerated there have been numerous attempts at his life, all devastatingly unsuccessful for any assailants.

This paired with his exceptional intellect, intimidation factor, and sheer charisma have made him something of a kingpin in prison. The fact that he is in general population seems like an extreme oversight if not evidence of outright corruption of prison officials. If there was any evidence that he was using this position to enact criminal affairs for the Steel Rider organization, he would be transferred to 24 hour lock-up, however he seems to be content in running musical theater performances put on by inmates. (His favorite is the Phantom of the Opera, how absurd!) Note, that while this final accusation can not be proven, there is a strong possibility that he has escaped on multiple occasions to commit more murders, returning to his cell before anyone can find evidence of these disappearances. This is corroborated by a string murders matching Harley’s MO, many details of which have never been released to the press.

Biography:

Show Content

Spoiler
I was ten when I saw my mother taken. My stepfather saw it too, though we never spoke about that night.

After that I think I was always a cruel person, but I never wanted to be. I did everything I could to subvert the desires to hurt animals or those so weak they couldn’t defend themselves, and I think for the most part I succeeded. I turned my attention to hurting bullies instead, and for a while that made me feel better. When I graduated high school, my grades were in the shitter, so the when the Navy recruiter said I had a future as a seal, it all seemingly fell into place for the first time in my life.

I was drafted into an elite unit. The other men became my brothers. We fought together, we killed together. We toppled regimes together. Never in that time, did I ever kill a child.

We would tell stories at night in the desert. There wasn't anything else to do but talk. When I first brought up what I had seen the night my mother disappeared, nobody believed me. If it weren't for that damn mission in the mountains outside Rakaposhi they probably never would have. But we all saw those fucking kids with the jet black eyes get into a disk that shot off at mach 3. We lost good men to those monsters. Nobody could refute it to me anymore. Now it was our collective truth.

One of the men in my unit started to do some digging into the subject. He wound up dead. I’d done enough cover-ups to know what that meant.

The others didn’t care the way I did. They didn’t see their mother pulled into the fucking sky at ten years old. I could never wipe that memory from my mind even if I had tried. I never tried.

In Rakaposhi I had taken a trophy off one of those things, something my stepfather had me do when we went hunting. I took it's finger. This finger was an obsession for me. I carried it everywhere. And so one day I was walking by this rich business guy and it started to vibrate. For some reason I couldn’t let it go, I followed this man around for weeks as he did the most mundane shit. I started to get a gut feeling that this guy’s life was too... normal. And then, I saw it, the fuckin mask came off, and it was one of those things.

So I killed it.

I knew there had to be more out there. And I started to find them, It wasn't so hard once you knew where to look. Not all of them were easy kills. Some of them fought back. Those little fuckers who looked like kids were the worst.

I figured out that this vibration function in their skin was so the things could find each-other. So I used it against them. I took their faces, which vibrated the most, and made a suit. The fuckers never got the jump on me again.

I did it for America. No, I did it for the world.

Okay. So I judged all of these and then I previewed the post, and then I went back in my browser without posting it.

Fortunately I remember my judgements. So let's do this again!

To begin with, we have a four-way tie for the Glere Award For Kitchen Sinkery. Congratulations, all of you, for leaving me confused in your own special ways. Or puzzled, one might say.

The Thomas Packston Elementalist Award goes to Asterion, mostly for applying the theme in a more straightforward way than the rest. A maze may be baffling to navigate, but it's clearly a puzzle.

Next up, the GBS2 Award For Gratuitous Worldbuilding goes to Maxwell Harley. Again, has a lot to do with the relative straightforwardness in this category; I can grasp a world where mysterious aliens lurk around every corner, even if I don't know why, and it's something I can get my head into from just what's in the profile. The other worlds presented might well be interesting, but I feel like I don't have a basic understanding of them just from what's here.

Arnold Fogge's Actually Practical Award goes to ERNO, though this is admittedly more for mechanical reasons than storytelling. (Though, hey, mechanics can always lead into storytelling.) A battle goes to all sort of exotic locales, and the inhabitants of those many dimensions have a variety of unusual body parts ERNO could use. Not to mention the other contestants...

Finally, the Lucky VII All-Rounder Award goes to Cursive Herbalism - An Inkwiree's Impressioned Guide to Florae Calligustrada, by Peripatus Plex for just a generally intriguing character. It also wins the First Five Eigthths Sportsball Award as a bonus, largely on the basis of that magnificent name.

Apologies for messing up the first time, and thanks to everyone who participated.

New theme is "Thrall"

Contest is open until June 8th.