Vendetta [S!2 Round 2 ~ Soñaire]

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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“BROUGHT TO YOU BY SEASON INTERMISSION...”



"Gah, turn it off, let's get back to business, what of Timothy?"

"Incarcerated."

"And Joan?"

"Completely M.I.A."

Hmm... what about Frank?

"He was captured in that one raid by the... eccentric hunter. "

"What about Mia, have we found her?"

"Yes... it seems that she was kidnapped and entered into some sort of team based competition."

"Jeez. This is utterly ridiculous."

A man sits in a reasonably decorated black chair. He is dressed in a sleek black suit with grey stripes. His head, covered by the shadow of a fedora hat, only reveals two white eyes, pupils colored black. His voice has a tinge of an accent, one revealing both age and of some odd ethnicity. Standing beside him, holding a stack of papers is a woman. She is dressed in a dark red, suit, a companion to her partners. She similarly has her ebony hair covered by a red fedora. However, of note is that her face is clearly visible, shadow's notwithstanding. Her voice is similar in nature to the man, though it has a tinge of... something else.

The pair continues their conversation, spouting out names and the appropriate person's status. Person after person is shot down until, finally, the man gives up.

"Every eligible heir is gone." He holds his hands in a slight sorrow. "What do I do?"

"Oh... don't worry." The woman says with some doubt, "Surely we can find someone?"

"No. At this point I don't think that there is anyone in the family who could be groomed to take my place."

There is a silence in the room as the woman considers the words just said.

"No one in the family, but could there be someone eligible outside our ranks?"

The man's eyes opened and he smirked at the thought, "That... works perfectly." He stands from his chair and with a swift motion kisses the woman in thanks.

Moving to the center of the room, he raises his hand and snaps.

Eight beings appear, standing across from the man, each bowing.

"My Hitmen, you have served me well all these years, and now I need to serve me one last time. I need you to each find someone, an heir to take my place. Someone capable of running things after I am gone."

He turns, and spreads his arms out, dispersing the men, while calling to the woman, "Hold up everything else, we have a Vendetta to initiate!"

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Welcome to Vendetta everyone!
Now, for those of you not in the know, this is the second Grand Battle in Season Intermission!

Here are some things you should know.
What is this?
-A Grand Battle is a collaborative writing competition in which about eight people (one of which could be you!) each enter a character to be forcefully thrust into a battle to the death across the multiverse.
-There are normally seven rounds, after some time passes and it seems like the round's internal story is coming to a climax, one character will be chosen to die and then the others will be moved on to a new location in a new round, until only one survives.
-Toward the end of each round, before the choice is made, I will request that players and readers send me a PM asking for opinions on how they feel the round has been and who they think should be eliminated. The selected one will then write their characters deathpost, and shortly afterward we will move on the round.
-Despite this format, it should be noted that Grand Battles are not just about fighting and killing. While the choice is there, and you certainly won't be docked for making it your focus, character interaction between players and character development and/or growth should be the primary goal. You need to write with others and, in multiple instances, take control of their characters in order to be successful and to create a great story together.

Show Content

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.

Handy Dandy Links!
Season Intermission Organization Thread
Grand Battle FAQ Thread
Mini-Grand Organization Thread
Grand Battle Fan Art Thread
Grand Battle Wiki
Vendetta Wiki Page
#grandbattle on esper.net

The Player List.
*Digital Hellhound - Khagan Toghun Tegüs #00000 on #A97C2E - Profile
*SteelKomodo -Artemis Holloway and Grendel #663300 and #7C08FF - Profile
*The Deleter - Johnny Raptor #000000 on #FFFF00 - Profile
*Protoman - Rayeln the Scourge #D40707 - Profile
*XX - Exidia Exis #59730B - Profile
*Flummox - [color=#99z8rz]Felgurd #99z8rz[/color] - Profile
*Antarctic Wolf - Altara Elwynn #107804 - Profile
*Yako - Dr. Zenith Grey #BB0000 on #FFFFFF - Profile
*Pharmacy - D-003865 #003865 - Profile
*Palamedes - Miss Rivia Peters #0000FF - Profile

Clean Color Code Sheet

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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LOOK AT ME I HAVE A PROFILE ALREADY


Username: StrangeothyHour

Name: It uh, doesn’t really have a name. There’s a label on the side that says “Miscellaneous.” You can call it that.

Race: It’s a cardboard box.

Gender: None. It’s a cardboard box for crying out loud.

Color: Black on #DAA520

Description: Miscellaneous is an old, dusty cardboard box covered- save for one side- in various labels and tags, varying from the aforementioned “Misc.” to more enigmatic statements, such as, “YOU MUST BELIEVE,” “YES, IT IS FOLLOWING YOU,” or “NO, I DON’T KNOW WHY IT HAS HOOKS FOR HANDS.” There’s even a “THIS SIDE UP,” label on it that points to the bottom of the box. The remaining side has a smiley face seemingly scribbled on by a kindergartener in blue crayon, which, uh, also appears to be oriented so that the bottom should be facing upwards. Hardy but hastily-put-on duct tape seals the alleged top. Someone would have to open it intentionally for it to come undone, however, although it wouldn’t really take all that much effort. There’s an address on there, somewhere, although no one would be able to tell you what it is or if it’s a real place.

Weapons/Abilities: Uh, it doesn’t really have any. It's just a cardboard box. Claiming it was anything else would just be silly.

Backstory: Throughout history, people have sealed things away in boxes, for a variety of reasons. Some people use them to simply store things. Others use them for easier transportation. Other boxes are used to separate things- apples from oranges, artifacts of the gods from those who are not worthy. Maybe they put things in boxes to keep them fresh or stable. Sometimes people even put things inside of boxes for fun or imprisonment.

And sometimes, things are shoved into boxes so that everyone will forget. No one has to find out, if it’s locked away somewhere. Memories will dim, people will die, and people will forget. No one has to remember. It’s better that way, they tell themselves, than if I kept it out there. Just hide it away, and let it disappear.

This? This is one of those boxes.

Originally posted on MSPA by Digital Hellhound.

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Username: Digital Hellhound
Name: Khagan Toghun Tegüs
Gender: Male
Race: Human, though heavily
Color: Lessee how well this is working. Black on #A97C2E.
Weapons/Abilities: A master horseman, riding Ariq, a gene-engineered monster of a horse, with skin thick enough to stop an artillery shell. Highly regenerative by means of advanced nanotechnology.

The Khagan himself is stuck full of implants and aug grafts, his body built from scratch in the womb, designed to be the ultimate warrior leader. Only a quarter of his body is still organic. The sciences of the Pankhaganate are perfected in him - he is stronger, tougher and even just bigger in sheer bulk than even the mightiest old-style human. The Khagan detests weapons, preferring to rely on his impressive physique alone.

Description: As said, the Khagan has a much larger bulk than an average human. He is immensely, almost grotesquely muscled. Toghun looks little like his Mongol ancestors, centuries of interbreeding with conquered peoples dwindling the bloodline to nothing, atleast as far as appearances are concerned. The Khagan has a headful of light brown hair, cut short in a neat military style, and smooth, broad features. His eyes are brown and his skin a dull red. The Khagan is dressed in dusty military fatigues from a recent lenghty military campaign.

Toghun is a cultured man - by the standards of his age - embracing the latest in technology and intrigued by more creative minds. Unfortunately, that is as far as it goes - seeking to emulate his ancestors, he is prone to random acts of pointless cruelty to intimidate his opponents and rivals. Even so, he's rarely angry and indeed infamously difficult to provoke, seeming to take everything as a joke. A spawn of his culture, he enjoys war and combat and has no trouble with killing and does it disturbingly casually.

Biography: In a dull, long-forgotten tale, the great empire of Temujin, the man known as Genghis Khan and the first Khagan, fell apart at his death, fragmenting into khanates that competed and made rivals of their former brethren, the might of the Mongols wasted without a single unifying force. After a long decline, they were no more, their distant offspring a mere fragment of their former glory.

In the true history of our world, these fearless horsemen of the steppe inherited a realm stretching from vast China to the land of the Franks in the heart of Europa and beyond, across the great seas. There were defeats, there were resurgences and periods of both decline and growth. But in the end there was no stopping the Mongol Empire, which defeated every land and people that dared to defy it. It is a history of bloodshed, war and cruelty, but also of relentless progress, and eventually, stability.

Today, the Pankhaganate commands a thousand worlds and countless armies, the horses of the past replaced with starships and the spears and bows with bio-plagues and kinetic accelerators. Khagan Toghun Tegüs rules this ever-expanding realm, battling tirelessly the alien and the insurgent who still resist – but will not for long.

The Khagan has had a surprisingly sheltered upbringing, away from the intrigues of the Mongol court. He's grown to be somewhat naive as a result and has difficulty believing anything can be an actual threat to him. Still, educated like any Mongol ruler, he is a merciless warlord and conqueror and sometimes has a hard time grasping why exactly this is a bad thing. His realm has thus far been blessed with internal stability and he only laughs when warned of dissidents or even outright rebellion.

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Writing Example

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH.

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Username: Garuru
Name: Les Jambes et Les Yeux
Race: Human and Human
Gender: Male and Male
Color: Black on #00d46d and #00d46d on Black, respectively.

Abilities: Both of them are psionics. Les Jambes' power is called Featherlifting. He can turn anything he touches into the weight of a feather, but only to himself. So, if he were to touch a steel girder, it would weight like a feather to him, but when he hits people with it, it hits like a goddamn steel girder. This is why he can easily carry his brother in that huge backpack of his, as well as multiple other things that are needed to survive on the go. His main weapon of choice is a barbell with around 800 lbs packed on one end.

Les Yeux's power is called Sky's Eye. He can project an Eye at whatever he happens to be looking at. That Eye will then act as his eyes, and he will see from that spot. This power is nearly limitless, but it does take time for each Eye to open. Also, he has to close his eyes and completely leave his body behind, leaving an empty shell. This is why Les Jambes has to carry him around, as his body is vegetative pretty much all the time.

The pair of them, due to being twin psionics, have a telepathic connection to the other. This connection is very strong, and they can talk freely up to about a half mile away from each other. This connection was forged by the pair of them spending their whole lives together. Les Yeux can even communicate while using his Sky's Eye, when his body is comatose.

Description: Les Jambes et Les Yeux are twin brothers. Les Jambes has scraggly long light brown hair, a permanent grin, and a big muscular body. He usually wears a camo jacket over a white shirt, and ripped denim pants, as well as a huge backpack. He is rather attractive, and good with people, but he is not particularly gifted in the mental department. Still, he is willing to do whatever people say if only to help them. He is easygoing, and he rarely ever blows up at people, unless they do something inherently malicious in front of him. When this happens, he will get extremely mad and attempt to destroy that person. Those that have seen him like this say that he is a cruel monster without any human limits. He usually doesn't remember what happens afterwards, and he will revert back to his usual self almost instantly. His energy is seemingly boundless, so he is capable of walking around for many days without much sleep.

Les Yeux is Les Jambes' twin brother, but he looks nothing like him. He is very gaunt, with wispy black hair, and a permanent scowl. He is extremely skinny, almost malnourished. He usually wears just a faded black shirt and black pants. He is rather horrible with people, and he has the tendency to be extremely blunt. He does have a concept of what offends others, he just doesn't give a shit if he does. This does not mean that he is an evil person, though. People just aren't his thing. Rather, he is incredibly smart, and he is usually completely absorbed into one of his books. He is physically very weak and fragile, and he cannot walk very far. Also, he is always using his power, because not using it feels like being blind to him. So, he has to be carried by his brother all the time.

Biography: They grew up in a post-apocalyptic alternate Earth, a version where the Manhattan Project went very wrong. In this universe, the scientists at White Sands did not stop at just one atomic bomb. They went even further, believing they could discover the secret to unlimited power. After discovering a new chemical that was thousands times more powerful than the atomic bomb they had, they decided to harness this new form of energy to power up the whole world. At the demonstration, however, the main facility blew up. The chemical was much more destructive than they thought, and shockwaves reverbated throughout the whole planet. All main buildings collapsed, all forms of electronic technology shut down, and everybody died. Well, almost everybody. Those that survived were lucky enough to be born with psychic powers. These psychic powers were always latent throughout humanity, but a few people still had them. Specifically, .000001% of the human population, or around 6 thousand people at the time. The chemical awakened this power, however, resulting in a post-apocalyptic society of psionics.

They were born six years before the incident, in Alamagorda, New Mexico. Their parents were scientists in White Sands. At the time of the incident, they were the closest to Ground Zero, and so they were the only ones to survive. They were naturally traumatized, but life goes on and they decided to start wandering throughout the barren landscape, looking for any survivors. It took them three months to find anybody else. This person lived in Missouri, a long ways from their home. However, he was insane. So they decided to move on. They finally came across a small community of sorts, in Washington, DC, a year after the incident. This community was made up entirely of psionics, and they found out about many strange powers, indeed. They lived there for 3 years. Unfortunately, though, an insanely powerful psionic took over and either killed everybody or made them his slaves. They managed to escape, and they wandered to this day. They've met various people on their journey, but stayed with none. They were 16 when they were abducted.

Writing Sample:

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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!

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Username: Ixcaliber
Name: Steter
Sex: Technically speaking none, but male.
Race: Golem
Colour: #0B72E6
Biography: Did you know in the factories of GolCorp over one thousand golems are minted every single day? The clay golems are the cheapest and most numerous of the golems produced right here on premises. The forge where they are baked is large enough to fit in three hundred golems at a time and is regularly full to capacity. The whittling bays where golems are carved out of only the finest wood or the most luxurious marble are busy twenty four hours a day. Deeper into the factory there are smelting rooms where the some of the best value golems (those constructed from the sturdiest metals) are created. Regardless of construction every golem must at some point pass through the infusion chambers. It is here that a team of dedicated priests channel life energies into the finest GolCorp Golems via a top secret ritual known only to a privileged few. Once infused with life our golems are sent out to golem showrooms across the kingdom.

Industry is thriving, as more and more businesses invest in their own golems to carry out important construction, agriculture or even security work. The only sector of industry in which GolCorp golems do not have a significant role is in the service industry, and we ensure you, the moment those religious zealots let us give our golems a tongue we’ll be releasing the most personable range of golems ever to be seen in the whole of Moiyan. But it isn’t just big business that profits from the golem boom; nowadays even the lowliest peasant can afford one of our inexpensive clay golems and the infrequent inhouse maintenance that is required to keep such a model running at tip top capabilities. Such an investment allows them to put their feet up and watch as the cash comes rolling in. And of course, we at GolCorp are not doing too badly out of the golem business either!

The finest golem ever to be created by GolCorp was a magnificent golden golem named Steter. His body was encrusted with precious gems, and he was given a more detailed physiology than any golem at the time had ever been given. He was manufactured specially as a gift to Lord Emperor Suchan on his thirteenth birthday. Even now, more than seventy years later, Suchan is still the shining pinnacle of GolCorp golemgineering, and on those rare days when the Lord Emperor deigns to leave his palace, he can be seen at his side, just as good as the day he was manufactured; right here. – GolCorp informational pamphlet.

Things were perhaps not as rosy as the picture painted in GolCorp’s corporate literature. Crops were failing and animal populations were beginning to thin and nobody had any idea why this was the case. Many dismissed the phenomena as simple coincidences, bad harvests that would be better the following year or that animals had just gotten better at hiding or something. Few took it as seriously as it really should have been taken and even then they didn’t focus their concerns in the correct directions. The large scale manufacture of golems was draining the world of its life force. As more and more was crammed into metal shells by well-meaning well-paid priests, the supply to pass between the living things of the planet dwindled until there was nothing left. Upon that day golems were still manufactured, though they were infused with something else, something primal; something angry. They were unstoppable. They infected any other golem they came across with the same dark essences that flowed within them, and murdered any living thing they encountered. Whether the goal was murder or simply to return life force to the world, who can say, the end result was the same.

The imperial palace received warning as soon as the darkness infused golems began to rampage. It was promptly locked down and the Lord Emperor and his loyal golem Steter settled in to await the news that the threat had been contained and everything was fine. The Lord Emperor waited for the rest of his life with no word from the outside world beyond the heavy doors. Steter waited even longer. Who could say how long it was before he was pulled away into a grand battle? Years? Decades? Centuries perhaps?

Description: Steter’s body is made from solid gold and decorated with all manner of precious gems. They are arranged in swirls and symbols designed to do little more than make him look fancy. His face unlike most of his kind is not completely blank; it has been carved into the approximate shape of a face complete with a nose and lips and so forth. These features are only decorative and are completely immobile because of a cultural taboo against golems with voices. Where his eyes should be there are a pair of sparkling blue topazes. Unlike most golems created at the time he has fully articulated hands and feet and his body is shaped into a rough approximation of a human body. His design was perhaps the closest that GolCorp ever came to completely mimicking human physiology and as such he appears more than a little uncanny, despite the gold and the gems and all the craftsmanship he is not really visually appealing because of this. He is about eight feet tall.

As a golem he does not really have a personality. He was designed to follow his owner’s orders without hesitation or even thought of complaint and for a long time this is what Steter has done. It has however been a long long time since he really interacted with anyone else, much longer than any golem was ever intended to last, and those binding magics do have a tendency to decay after a while.

Items/Abilities: As a golem Steter is compelled to follow the commands of his owner, due to magical decay coupled with the death of his owner this compulsion has become somewhat arbitrary and unpredictable. More or less anyone can give him commands that he is compelled to follow, though it might not always work because magic is funny like that. He is also very strong and does not tire. He’s not quick but he is pretty relentless.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

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Name: Grotto
Gender: Male
Color: #000099
Race: Unknown

Abilities/Items: Grotto possesses the ability to reshape his body, although it generally retains his physical characteristics regarding coloring and type of skin. He cannot shapeshift, however; he can only rearrange his body, growing new cells or removing them as required. The larger the transformation, the longer it takes, but this is not usually a problem. As a general marker, it would only take a few seconds to grow an extra arm. As a side effect, he has a nearly instant rate of regeneration; anything damaged can be replaced within a few seconds.

Description: No one knows Grotto’s original form. Those who did are long dead, and it’s impossible to tell if he ever takes it again, and if so, to recognize it when he does. However, his general appearance is that of a long and undulating snake, complete with scaly skin, a forked tongue, and lidless eyes. However, he also possesses arms and legs (as many as he requires), and usually stands upright.

Grotto is cold and calculating, rarely taking the route of direct attack. Despite his reformative abilities, he isn’t very strong, and killing a powerful foe in combat is beyond him…physically, that is. He is skilled at predicting an opponent’s next moves and countering them the instant they are taken, both in a fight and in a battle of wits.

Biography: Grotto was “born” in a lab. Genetically engineered from inception, he is a completely unique creature, like no other in the universe. It’s not known what the scientists were trying to achieve with his creation; all that is known is that they only reached an early grave. Predictably enough, Grotto broke out, slaughtering all the faculty on his way out. He receded from all knowledge for years, only coming out of hiding to make precision strikes on seemingly random targets. Finally, he vanished into the shadows, and was never seen again, probably because he was grabbed at about that point.

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by Protractor Ninja.

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Username: Protractor Ninja
Name: James “Mighty” Henway
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Color: A rusty reddish brown color.
Description:

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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.

Items/Abilities:
James can yell really, really loudly.

Biography:

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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.

Writing Sample:

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by SteelKomodo.

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Username: SteelKomodo

Name: Artemis Holloway and Grendel

Gender: Male/Genderless but prefers male pronouns.

Race: Human/Demon Spirit

Colour: Brown (663300) for Artemis, Dark Purple (7c08ff) for Grendel.

Description: Artemis is a 15 year old boy, slim and wiry in appearance and dressed mostly in old, dirty clothes – a gray t-shirt and a pair of jeans – that have been ripped in multiple places. He wears no shoes or socks, his feet having become hard and calloused through years of walking barefoot. His brown hair is a messy, uncut mop that reaches to his shoulders, and he has green eyes. Grendel is a lower-class demon from the Second Circle of Hell, and has no physical form save for the transformations he can become, mostly residing as a voice in Artemis’s head.

Artemis is a generally timid character who seeks only to survive every day with the least amount of damage or trouble. He has a strong conscience which often plagues him, as he knows that in order to survive he has to steal from others, and yet when he sets his sights on anything that might help him he goes after it with determination, not giving up until he has obtained it. Knowing his own position in life, Artemis often does his best to help others in distress, his reasoning being that “at least they’re not me” – he’d rather that people not sink to his squalid lifestyle.

Grendel, by comparison, is crude and selfish, caring little about the situation that others find themselves as long as his desires are fulfilled. His desire to earn a promotion, coupled with the knowledge that his existence and future depend on Artemis’s survival, means that he will go to any lengths to obtain what he wants, even committing acts which shock and horrify the soft-hearted boy. He is actually very well educated and knowledgeable, but prefers not to show it for the sake of his reputation as a demon, using it merely to crack lewd jokes.

Equipment/Abilities: Artemis is not the most physically fit in the universe – all of his skills merely come from his lifetime on the streets. He can run quite fast for a 15-year-old boy, and is also competent in climbing up various structures and hiding in dark corners. These skills, coupled with an excellent sense of direction, have aided him in his life as a street urchin and a pickpocket. When not transformed, Grendel exists as a subconscious voice in the back of Artemis’s mind, advising him on what to do or where to go, or even just poking fun at him. Artemis converses with him via his own thoughts, which Grendel can hear as though they are spoken words – while he can hear Artemis if he speaks normally, they prefer to” talk” in this silent manner to avoid unwanted attention. No-one else can hear Grendel speaking – only by coming into physical contact with another person can Artemis allow Grendel to speak to them as well.

Grendel is a shape-shifting demon, able to take on a variety of forms. As a low-ranking demon, he is unable to exist in his true form outside of Artemis’s subconscious mind, but can exist in physical form by taking on the appearance and properties of different objects that Artemis can use. Whatever the objects are, they always manifest with spiky details or eldritch carvings, hinting at their demonic nature. Grendel’s portfolio of transformations includes various blades, bludgeons and other weapons, but he has also become objects such as lock picks or wooden rafts in the past.

However, there is a limit to the forms Grendel can take. While he is able to mimic organic life-forms such as animals and people, he finds it incredibly taxing, and would rather not do so unless the need to was incredibly pressing. Moreover, he finds mechanical and electronic objects too complex to transform into, as is any sort of firearm or explosive weapon – this means he could not become, say, a car or pistol. He also cannot take the form of anything beyond the technology of the current time period, preventing him from becoming a spaceship or similar, nor can he become multiples of objects – he can only transform into one boot, for example, and not a pair of them.

Grendel has, on occasion, taken complete control of Artemis’s body via possession. When he does this, Grendel has full control over what Artemis says or does, with Artemis himself a silent witness locked away thought magical subconscious nonsense that’s difficult even for Grendel to explain. This only usually occurs when Grendel has an overwhelming need to fulfill his own agendas and the circumstances do not suit anything else, or when he wants to play a prank on Artemis. Needless to say, the results are never pretty.

Biography: Hailing from the outskirts of Portsheath City, Artemis was abandoned at the doorstep of a religious orphanage by his parents, their fate unknown. He was raised throughout the earlier years of his childhood by an elderly priest named Father John, who taught him to the standards the orphanage practiced. Although he was happy living and playing with the other children who frequented the orphanage, Artemis never truly felt as if he fit in with the strict lifestyle and religious fundamentalism that surrounded him, and longed to be a part of something bigger.

Grendel, by contrast, worked on the Second Circle of Hell, maintaining the machine that created the tornadoes that blow the lustful sinners back and forth. Unsatisfied with the boring menial work he put up with as a lower-class demon, he sought to find a way to move up the corporate ladder and join the big league demons. His superiors, however, merely laughed at his idealism and brashness, and constantly reminded him that he could never manage the more hellish and difficult tasks of the Lower Circles. Determined to prove them wrong, Grendel sought for a transfer to a higher station, and was quite pleased when he received an offer for a twenty-year trial on the Possession ring. Should his final report turn out good (as in, chaotically destructive), then he would be considered for a promotion to the Fourth Circle – a difficult job, but one that the demon relished to take on.

One of the rumors on the orphanage playground, circulated by the children, was that no-one should visit the old yew tree in the grounds, for it was said that a witch was burnt there. Children often dared one another to spend the night under the tree, but none yet found the courage to do so. Needless to say, the ever-curious Artemis (now nine years old by this point) took the challenge and visited the place one night. By sheer coincidence, Grendel happened to be passing on his first day on his new job, and took possession of Artemis, hoping to re-enact The Exorcist for laughs. The strong-willed Artemis fought back, however, and the resulting chaos destroyed the orphanage's sacred relic, the arm of a saint who had once (according to legend) slain a dragon that had plagued the village.

For this act of sacrilege, Father John banished Artemis from the orphanage, leaving him to fend for himself. Feeling guilty for the boy’s situation, Grendel revealed his true name - Clarence - and offered to help the child survive on the streets. Artemis accepted, and for six years now the duo has stalked the streets, surviving against anything the world threw at them. Grendel, however, is not satisfied, and wants to obtain that promotion by any means...

Writing Sample (Click Spoiler to View):

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by The Deleter.

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Username: The Deleter
Name: Johnny Raptor, the Greatest Man Alive (aka John Spencer)
Gender: Overwhelmingly Male
Race: Human
Color: Black on #FFFF00
Description: John Spencer is 32 years old, about 5’ 7” tall with brown, cropped hair, the squarest jaw known to biology, a thin yet manly moustahce and blue eyes. His frame, which isn’t as athletic or muscled as his various adventures would suggest, is clad in whatever his mind deems appropriate at the moment – the only consistent item of clothing he wears is a wide-brimmed Stetson hat. He is mostly seen wearing tight jeans, black boots with steel toecaps and fingerless gloves in addition to the hat, as he spends most of his time in the persona of Johnny Raptor.

John Spencer’s personality, due to unknown traumatic events in his past, has retreated into his mind and replaced itself with the character of a childhood comic hero – Johnny Raptor, the Greatest Man Alive. Johnny Raptor is a generic overblown hero persona – brash, arrogant, a womaniser (or woman lover, depending on who you ask), brave, strong, and various other adjectives that would describe a James Bond-esque figure. Johnny considers whatever objective he currently has as his overriding goal, to the exclusion of all else (apart from wooing the women). He is also incapable of thinking outside the box – his usual strategy is to punch things until the right thing is punched. Whilst his morality is usually on the side of “good,” his methods are questionable. In addition, he views attempts to take attention away from him as aggressive or downright rude.

Items/Abilities: John Spencer is an immensely powerful being, able to alter reality around him as he sees fit. Unfortunately, he is not aware of these powers or how to control them due to his mentally damaged state. This is probably for the best. Instead, Johnny Raptor uses these powers to subconsciously alter the world around him, portraying him as the star of a series of explosive, high-octane adventures. Women swoon and grow several cup sizes upon seeing him. Children ask for autographs. Men reverently wish they were him. His mind also creates various hazards and enemies for him to combat, including the notorious Viper terrorist group, and wild animals attack him if he isn’t doing anything exciting at the moment. Johnny is not aware of his powers being active and assumes that this is part of his exceedingly awesome day-to-day life. Whilst the effects vanish if Johnny is incapacitated, the damage they can do is very real – thankfully for Johnny, since he’s the hero of these adventures, he mostly walks away unscathed and with a minimum of civilian casualties.

Biography: The original character of Johnny Raptor doesn’t have a history, beyond what was created for him in Action Kid Comics, the series that introduced him and made him famous. The character’s past was kept vague by the writers of the strip, as no kid would be interested in it, but it concerns a great betrayal by his greatest nemesis, Viper Commander. Likewise, John Spencer’s own past is shrouded in mystery. Various scraps of files concerning a “John Spencer” were recovered from the ruins of Redwood Sanatorium, where he was supposedly being treated for his delusions, but the full picture is unknown. The cause of the hospital’s destruction is unknown to most and classified by a few, who aren’t really quite sure what happened either.

The individual calling himself Johnny Raptor has appeared in numerous locales around the world since then, but with no pattern or explanation to his appearances. Usually they involve something exploding, a notorious terrorist mastermind being dragged before authorities, or a flustered but happy woman being left at a coffee shop whilst the man pursues various ne’er do wells. The amount of collateral damage Johnny Raptor has created, however, is enough to earn him a spot on the FBI’s Most Wanted, simply due to the fact that one man should not be causing such a ruckus.

Ironically, Johnny Raptor also appears to be on the FBI’s employee list as an agent. No-one knows how that got there.

Writing Sample:
Robert Randall, generic businessman and better known to his fellow suits as Bob, was not having a good night.

As a man of the world (or at least the part concerning triplicate forms), he’d been to many motels and inns across the world. As a result, sometimes he ended up in a room next to an enthusiastic young couple. It couldn’t be helped. He dealt with it the same way business dealt with everything – in a stoic, cold manner that had seen him through many meetings and paperwork marathons. He’d happily slept through the bumps in the night for several years now, no matter the country, hotel or state of emergency. He’d slept through gunfire.

So what the hell was going on up there? It sounded like someone was fighting a bear up there. Honestly, he might have to go and complain. He’d never complained before. Which desk did you complain at? Maybe it wouldn’t be op-

Suddenly, the ceiling caved in. When the dust cleared, Bob found a very attractive, naked woman on his lap and a large man fighting a bear in his room. He began, not unreasonably, to wonder if he was dreaming. Not a bad dream, so far.

The large man paused in his tussle and looked up at him. Bob noticed that he appeared to be dressed for Australia, or Texas. One of the two. Stetson hat, fingerless gloves, shorts, boots. And a grin that a shark might give a remora, or a mob boss to his underlings. Hey, we’re friends, said the grin. You know we’re friends. Because the alternative isn’t very nice.

“Hello there!” The voice was a boom, the handshake (taken, not proffered) bone crunching. “Sorry about the mess, but Gretel does keep intruding when I’m busy, you know. It’s very awkward.”

“G- Gretel,” Bob managed.

“My bear. She doesn’t seem to understand a man’s needs, you know. Doesn’t appreciate candles either, except eating them. No sense of romance, that ursine!”

Gretel grunted. The bear was pinned to the floor with a heroic boot, and didn’t seem keen on getting up again. Bob, for his part, was torn between wanting the dream to end now and wanting it to go on for some time. The woman was very attractive. She was probably Russian, although to be fair he wasn't paying much attention to her face.

“Anyway,” continued the huge man, rolling his shoulders so that the muscles in his chest writhed like eels, “name’s Johnny Raptor. Secret Service.”

“Oh,” said Bob. “Which one?”

Johnny flashed a ten-carat smile.

“All of them.”

There was an explosion outside. Johnny’s head snapped around, like a golden eagle sensing prey. Bob tore his gaze away from the unnamed woman and followed his gaze out of the window, where a group of men dressed in green spandex and carrying machine guns appeared to be shooting at everything except people, animals, or indeed anything alive. The amount of times they hit a hostile wall or shrubbery was astounding. It was like the gunmen were blind. Which, considering their helmets, shaped like snake heads with tiny eye slits, wasn’t too bad a metaphor.

Johnny shook his fist at the invaders.

“Viper!” he roared. “The cowards! Attacking a defenceless motel! Curse you, Viper Commander! I’ll have my revenge yet!”

And with a scream of “JOHNNYYYYYY RAPTOOOOOOOOORRRRRR!!” he swan-dived out of the window with a smash of glass –

And vanished.

So did the soldiers outside. So did the bear. Oddly, the woman didn’t. This caused a lot of concern for Bob later on, when he’d managed to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming.

Originally posted on MSPA by gloomyMoron.

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I doth proclaim this spot to be reserved'eth.

Originally posted on MSPA by Protoman.

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Username: Protoman.

Character: Rayeln the Scourge

Race: Human.

Color: #F00404.

Description: A strong man with a large beard, a furry hat, a sword in his belt, and a rifle strapped to his back. He often carries a flask of vodka in one of his many pockets.

He is a man of passion, often soaring into great speeches about honor during casual conversation, his eyes filling with a fiery light. He is a man who values honor and camaraderie above all things, hating liars and cheats. He has been known to burst into great bouts of hearty laughter, especially when drunk.

He is quick to fight if he feels his honor is drawn into question, and will not hesitate to draw his laser sword.

He is prone to old Rultzvenian superstition, and will often take time to note omens, both bad and good, that cross his path.

Abilities/Items: Rayel has exhibited great skill in the field of laser-swordplay. The one he carries is a family heirloom, a sword known as the Khan. He is hearty in size and strength, capable of wrestling a fully grown bear in the middle of winter while completely naked if need be. He is a great orator, using simple words and a passionate voice to encourage his comrades and strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. Lastly, he is quite a marksman, carrying an old-fashioned hunting rifle on his back at all times.

Biography: Some men are seen as heroes, fighting valiantly for all that is good and righteous. Others are seen as villains, taking only for themselves and oppressing the kind and the innocent. Others are not seen so clearly through society's lens of black and white, lying instead somewhere right on the border.

Such was the case for Rayeln the Scourge. Born and raised on the planet of Rultzven, a veritable wasteland filled with nothing but snow, young Rayeln was taught by his father from a young age that they were exiled royalty, the true, rightful rulers of the planet. It is unclear whether or not his father's words were true, but Rayeln took them to heart.

Many years later, into his adulthood, Rayeln started a revolution amongst the peasantry to regain his birthright. He spoke to them in simple, strong, concrete language, promising them great things, great freedoms, should they fight by his side.

But he was not a great and pure revolutionary hero. He and his men fought the nobility with a vengeance, burning down the estates of many an aristocrat without regard for the white flag the nobleman of the house waved. He saw the nobility as imposters who had taken his glorious family's throne away, and he had no mercy on their old, nor their children.

The revolution was a long and bloody one. Thousands on both sides lost their lives, but neither gave up. The old guard fought with all its might, believing Rayeln to be a true monster, as rumors circled around of his armies and their brutal ways. Likewise, the peasantry fought valiantly, seeing the Bloody Prince as a Messiah of War, a true hero of the people.

In time, the greater weapons of the old guard beat out the greater numbers of the peasantry, and they were forced back into the muck and mire of their daily lives. Rayeln fled to the stars within his trusty ship, the Volga, knowing that not even he in all his glory could fight the Tsar's army. In the sea of stars he became a space bandit, gaining a hefty bounty on his head and drawing the attention of many a headhunter.

It was during an especially spectacular heist on a grand luxury star-cruiser that he was called to the vendetta.

"Let us fight together, Comrade! The justice of our cause shall not be soiled! To arms! To honor! To life or to death! To victory or defeat! To glory!"

Show Content

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

Originally posted on MSPA by Drakenforge.

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Name: Sara Hargrave
Gender: Female
Race: Human (Deceased)
Text Colour: sienna #8E6B23


Small Pharms-made artwork:

Description: Sara is a 23 year old woman from the old west, though the west was readily becoming the new west at the time. She has short dirty blond hair, with a slight orange tint to it. She wears a leather vest, open down the middle, a large blue bandanna around her neck that reaches down to the bottom of her ribcage. Underneath her vest is a white shirt, and she has a buckled belt keeping up her practical leather trousers. She has spurs on her boots and a holster around her hip. A strap covered in bullets wraps around her waist, connected to the holster. She dons a sharp cowboy hat that sticks down to eye level, and has a feather sticking out the side of it, neatly tucked in by a blue silk band.

Sara is constantly reflecting on her troubled past, so would take care before tackling risky situations. She likes to think positive, but is always expecting the worst to happen just in case. She has drank way her troubles for the last several years, and so has quite the taste for alcohol, but never gets so drunk to do anything she’d regret.
She can look out for herself, and has been paid on more than one occasion to protect other people or their cargo, and so takes to being a peacekeeper or, failing that, a law bringer.




Weapons: Sara has her own 2nd Generation Colt Single Action Army revolver, a 45. six shooter, otherwise known as the Peacemaker. It’s a long barrel revolver that has to be cocked back before each shot can be fired. She keeps the holster for it by her left hip. The gun has been intricately engraved, and modified with an extended barrel.
She also has a Winchester Model 1894, loaded with .30-30 Winchester bullets. An expensive but reliable repeater rifle.



Abilities: Being dead has changed a few things about Sara. First of all, she has no internal organs. Her “body” is actually just a phantasm type shell that is corporeal; her real body was abandoned after she died. Acting as a shell, the inside is filled with the essence of whatever she has bound herself to. Binding is what she does to exist, for instance, the first object near her fresh corpse was a burnt log. It automatically bound herself to it, breaking the object itself down into simple matter, and creating a shell with it.

She then had to bind herself to something else, to have reserve matter inside the shell in case she was damaged. If Sara is hurt, the shell will crack or break, leaving her to stop and allow the matter to reform and fix herself. If she were to run out of spare matter, she would need to find something else to break down, a lengthy process and definitely something she cannot do under fire, not for long anyway.

The plus side of this is that she doesn’t really feel pain, but getting injured does leave her feeling very uncomfortable and stiffens her shell around that area, to stop cracks spreading further. She also cannot lose any items she died with, which are her clothes and guns. All the ammo she spends winds up being remade, same with her weapons. The downside to this is that anything she doesn’t die with cannot be brought between multiverses. She will be reset at the start of a battle, and once again at every new round.



Biography: Sara was born the third child of a ranching family. She had two elder brothers, Rick, the eldest, and Martin, the second eldest. Her father owned a small ranch of up to 30 cattle at a time, and was the beef producer of the nearby town. They weren’t rich, but they got by. However, ranching was a dangerous job. They were constantly under risk of being targeted by cattle rustlers. Her father and brothers had to carry guns, but she herself was not. Her father didn’t want her to become a violent woman and that she should take on the safer jobs at the ranch. She complied, not too unappreciatively. She wasn’t even a teenager at that point, and had yet to develop the urge to rebel against her father.

Besides, she didn’t need a weapon, the thought of taking a mans life scared her. Her brothers always said that without the ranch they’d probably have ended up as law enforcers. They understood what they could and couldn’t do law wise, and her father was very proud of them. But tragedy struck when the family was in the neighbouring town. They were just picketing the horses when three black clad men, guns drawn, burst from the bank. They were carrying sacks of money and yelling, and spotting the Hargrave’s proceeded to point their weapons at them. They wanted the horses. Sara’s father whispered to let them do it, to not do anything stupid. They slowly handed over the reins of each horse, but Rick was taking too long. As their leader pointed a gun at his face, he reached for his weapon. Rick was a fast draw, and managed to fire a single shot from his hip. The bullet tore through the leader, and he shot Rick between the eyes. The other two men smacked both Martin and Sara’s father over the head with their weapons, and threw their leader over a horse. As they tried to make their escape, a Marshal arrived, Winchester in his hands. With his men in tow, they gunned down the mounted men, and dragged the leader off of the horse, throwing him to the ground. Sara and her mother were left crying over the body of Rick. Several days later, the murderer was hung for his crimes. But Sara had lost her eldest brother. She hated that she didn’t have the power to help him, not even to fight back as he had done. Against her fathers concerns, stating that she had to pick up his slack now, Sara learned how to use a gun. She took on the more masculine jobs Rick had done, constantly trying to prove herself.


The first time she ever had to use a gun was when cattle rustlers arrived, guns blazing over a hill, while she was getting the cattle to graze. Her father was injured in the fight as they wrangled several cattle, but Sara wasn’t letting them. She drew her pistol from horseback and shot, hitting one of them in the chest. They returned fire, injuring the horse she was riding and causing it to collapse, throwing her to the ground. She hurt her leg in the fall and couldn’t stand as the remaining men stole almost half of the cattle. She managed to get her father into town on his horse, and his life was luckily spared. But as they returned home, they were devastated to find their home and ranch in flames. The rustlers had stolen all they could and torched their home. Her mother and brother were killed in the blaze, and several weeks later, her father succumbed to infection and exhaustion.

She was just seventeen. Left without anything but the clothes on her back, her fathers horse and her sidearm, Sara attended her family’s joined funeral. She would have inherited the land her father owned, but there was nothing left there. The money they owned in a bank account was used to pay for the funeral. Feeling distraught Sara had no way to live her life. However, the Marshal that had brought her brothers killer to justice offered her a job as a deputy. Sara had no alternative, and after proving herself capable, spent two years in law enforcement, to the jeers of the townsfolk. The Marshal wasn’t a sexist man and appreciated her hard work, but other people weren’t so understanding. Sara got into more than her fair share of fights because of her gender. She worked hard bringing justice to the county, but after a while she just had to leave. The town became too quiet, the only people being brought in were drunks and domestic disputes. Sara wasn’t able to earn much under the circumstances and left her badge behind. She managed to find a caravan to sign up with as a bodyguard. The pay wasn’t great, but it let her leave behind her troubled past and travel to new places. For a few years she was a vagabond, hiring herself and her gun out to other people. She also became quite the alcoholic to deal with the haunted nightmares she would receive. Of course, there were plenty of men around to hit on a drunken woman, but her fist usually sorted them out. She wasn’t at all interested in men or sex, her childish dreams of getting married had burned to ashes just as her home had done. She made friends with the law enforcement in plenty of towns, sometimes taking on bounty hunter work. She preferred not to kill the criminals, although she didn’t mind shooting them to incapacitate them. She didn’t care if they died from their injuries, so long as she took them into justice alive she was happy. She earned herself a reputation as a gunslinger, eventually earning the nickname “Viper”.

This was both to reference how fast she could draw, and the poison like attitude she had towards men. However, the Viper met her match on a Caravan job. It was supposed to be simple, a trade route that was usually safe, normal cargo that wouldn’t fetch much or feed many, and only one bodyguard, herself. Nothing was out of the ordinary, yet they were attacked all the same. There were at least ten bandits, each heavily armed. Even Sara couldn’t match them, even with both her Peacemaker and rifle, her luck ran out. She took seven bullets before she finally let her rifle drop, and collapsed by the fire they had set up to rest by. As they looted the wagon, she managed to shoot the neared man in the back with her sidearm. For that, she was shot in the head, and she died.

But that was not, as she had been expecting, the end. Several hours later, with the wagon long emptied, her employer murdered and the fire long burnt out, Sara Hargrave returned to existence. She just suddenly was, again, as a spirit looking down on her own corpse. She wondered if this was what death is like, when she was slowly dragged onto the fire. A log moved, seemingly of its own accord; into the centre of her spiritual chest. It then began to turn into this multicoloured dust, flowing around the area her ghost inhabited, and began creating a shell that was an exact copy of her living form. After each log had gone through this process, she had a corporeal shell as a body. She was confused, afraid, and lying on a hot campfire. Her clothes began to burn, and yet when she removed herself from the rocks, her clothes began repairing themselves. She was dead, she could still see her bloodied corpse, and yet here she was, standing over it. Nothing made sense to her; everything she knew was being turned upside down. Death didn’t work like this she told herself, no religion or book told of this kind of thing. Perhaps this was just some sort of last nightmare she was having in death. Perhaps this was Damnation. With nothing to do, she closed the eyelids of her corpse, and buried it without a grave marker. With no horse, she had to walk back to town. In that time, she found that she could still hunger and get thirsty, but it wasn’t required for her to survive. Even after roughly six hours of walking, her skin hadn’t dried out, her feet didn’t hurt and she hadn’t needed to take a break. She did however feel the need to consume something, but it wasn’t a stomach telling her to. Sara managed to figure out that she could break down matter, and tried so on a cactus. It was a lot different that the burnt out log. Living matter gave out a lot better matter than dead matter.

When she reached town, she proceeded to buy a whole bottle of scotch at the bar and drink it. She could still taste, yet the liquor was simply broken down inside her. Her money also just got recreated back. So everything she was when she died got replaced, she thought. After staying the night, having a restless sleep, and walking out of the bar in the morning, she found a wanted poster. If in death she could still do justice, then that was what she chose to do. However, the man in the poster was familiar to her. What she remembered shocked her.

The man in the poster was her brother’s murderer, long since hung publicly. She had seen him die with her own two eyes. She grabbed the poster and asked the local Sheriff about it. He told her that he had been robbing banks in the area, as well as random wagons. He was a vicious murderer who deserved to die, he said, so feel free to bring him in dead if she wanted to. Deciding to see for herself just who this man was, she pulled a favour from the Sheriff and borrowed a shotgun. Her reputation was still good for something at least. She then bought a horse from a passerby on the street, handing him all the money she had on her. She rode off to where the poster had said the criminal’s hideout was, an old ranch by the bottom of some tall cliffs. The trail there had long since been lost to the land, but she rode over the plains and managed to locate it.

Letting her horse go, she snuck up to the ranch. It was old, broken, and several lamps were burning inside. Steeling herself, she kicked open the front door and jammed the barrel of her shotgun into the face of the nearest person. He was drunk, ugly, and smelled terrible. She smacked him over the head before he could yell out, but his body let out a loud thump when it crashed to the ground. She was then in the middle of a fire fight inside the old decrepit. Feeling nothing towards them, she let loose a blade from her shotgun, killing the first of them. It wasn’t the leader, so she began going through the rest. A bullet tore through her right shoulder, leaving out through her back, leaving a hole the size of a cup’s rim through it. The drunken bandits were confused, so Sara killed them while they stared dumbfounded. She hid around a wall as her arm repaired itself.


Samson, the leader, fired several shots from one of his companion’s fallen weapon. Sara waited for the weapon to click empty, then rounded the corner, shotgun ready to blast. She hesitated, his own weapon was pointing right at her. A Mexican stand-off. He taunted her, saying she can shoot all she wanted, he’d have fun killing her afterwards. But Sara didn’t question him about his confidence. She said she knew about his power, pulling a bluff. He gawked in awe and spat out an important question.

“You know about the fragment?”

That was all she needed to know. The facts finally connected in her mind. Although she was missing the beginning, she could now figure out the end. There must have been a small piece of something within the mass inside of her, something that if broken would sever her existence. She aimed for the centre of his chest and fired a slug. The shot blew off most of his chest, his arms were knocked away, and with his entire chest seizing up he couldn’t get a chance to shoot her. She strode up to him, butted him in the chin with her gun, and peered into his shell when he hit the floor. A small object, it looked like a couple of coins, was floating around in the rainbow-like dust. She pulled back on her gun, forcing a new slug into the chamber, and slowly brought the shotgun into contact with the coins. Samson began to beg for mercy just as Sara wondered about not being able to bring back a body to get her reward. She pulled the trigger, feeling the recoil shudder through her arm, as the coins were ripped into shrapnel from the buckshot. Samson’s body burst apart, seeming to dissolve into nothingness, leaving a quiet, bloody scene. Sara’s mind remained blank, and there was no weakness in the knees, no tiredness and no sense of running out of adrenaline. Everything that used to summarise a gunfight, all the horrible things that made you glad to still be alive were missing. There wasn’t even any pity for the criminals she just brought to justice. She dropped the shotgun on the floor, no longer intending to give it back, as she strode out of the bullet-ridden building. Justice didn’t make her feel better anymore, the only solace she could take was in that crime would be lessened with their parting. She wouldn’t be able to stop crime in the country, and if her existence was made public then there was no telling the kind of problems she would have. She leaned against a wall, wishing that she had taken up smoking when she had the chance, when her world suddenly wasn’t what her eyes were seeing.

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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This post holds the profiles of two players entered after the end of Round 1.

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Username: Pharmacy

Name: D-003865

Gender: Ladytype

Race: AHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHHAHuman

Colour: "...I go through life with an impassive expression, from time to time permitting myself a gentle smile, and I often wonder whether I have ever laughed..."

Biography:

Born between the union of controversial science and a single oocyte of some unlucky intern, D-003865 ("Dee-Oh" for the scientifically impatient) always felt she had lived a life of nothing, but that was okay. Nothing was exciting when your existence is under the thumbs of a corporation that dithers between semi-legal charity and an absolute disregard for basic ethics.

But something always comes out of nothing and pretty soon, D-0 found herself running away from screaming personnel and just as equally loud alarms. Admittedly, her grand escape was pretty dang easy; the amount of security they had was as just as much as the amount of empathy that kept employees from being accused as robots. The bigger question was why did she escaped. She kept on asking herself that question to herself.

Too bad she never found an answer.

Description:

Bowed stature. Baleful blue eyes. Black hair. Black blood. Equally black tears constantly streaming from her eyes - could be mistaken for eyeliner, but those are real real tears. Also cries constantly no matter how good or bad she feels - it's a side effect of being the experiment she is. Super pale. Fairly androgynous but not enough. Basically looks about what you expect from a young-ish woman genetically engineered to ensure maximum depression. It's a sucky life, I know.

Incredibly nervous gal - kind of swings back and forth between hermetic avoidance and half-hearted attempts towards friendliness. It's like she wants to be social (being locked up nigh-constantly usually makes you desperate of some human interaction) but she does not want to get hurt - especially from anything. All in all, fairly harmless - and maybe places a little too much trust in others. She kind of stutters and slurs occasionally. The stuttering is from her socially-deprived shyness. The slurring is from her drugs.

She is full of drugs - that's why her insides are black, why she cries - and probably explain the forlorn and vacant look on her face. The (un)needed drugs are fed into her veins from the contraption she wears. It looks like a vaguely high-tech straightjacket and like all vaguely high-tech straightjackets, it tightly binds her arms and prevents them from breaking free - at least by her lonesome, of course.

The purpose of these drugs was to stabilize her body and to render her catatonic at the slightest chemical imbalance. Unfortunately, for her supervisors, she built a resistance to them. And never told them.

Which was why she managed to escape.

Items/Abilities:

Pitykinesis. With enough straining and grunting, she has the psychic ability to internally generate a negative sort of emotion and place them into objects. She can control where the pity goes. Who is the focus and what not. Usually, she uses it as a shitty form of telekinesis because she essentially makes the object feels so sorry that they move for her but usually they become too depressed and just stop half-way in the middle.

Yes, the objects include people. It's not exactly mind control. It's more she shoves pity into the person's psyche and waits. She has no control over how people reacts to the foreign feels that blossomed in their depraved hearts. No word on those with lack of empathy.

She never used this power effectively on a sentient being before. Probably because there is a small staple in her spine that discourages her almost nigh-constantly. No wonder she's so twitchy.

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Username: Palamedes
Name: Miss Rivia Peters
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Color: Blueeee (#0000FF)

Weapons/Abilities: Rivia relies on the old tools of her trade: whatever she can find around her capable of hurting others. She prefers guns and other long-range weapons, due to how far they keep the enemy away from her, but currently she doesn’t have one at her disposal.

She also carries on her, at all times, a large stash of various addictive drugs (or ‘medicine’, as she calls it), and isn’t particularly capable of functioning when off them. Rivia’s primary ability comes to her thanks to one of these drugs, Argus. Argus gives its partakers, as a side effect, the ability to psychically project things to the human eye - a crude but effective form of illusion. This drug is only available to extremely shady billionaires and crime lords, as well as their minions, hence Rivia’s ability to get her hands on some.

Unfortunately, Rivia’s various other addictions have significant effects on her Argus-given ability. For some reason she is unable to make people envision things that aren’t real, instead preventing them from seeing things that actually are. So it’s really more of a sort of invisibility power, though she’ll never admit it.

Description: Rivia is an attractive girl at a quick glance, tall, thin, with short cut blonde hair. While makeup and minor cosmetic surgeries have managed to cover up the worst of the physical imperfections caused by her drug dependency, on a closer observation she carries many of the signs of someone who is on about four too many kinds of illegal chemicals. The great amounts of money her bosses can afford for one of their higher up enforcers helps to pay to cover up more severe deformities as well, but one can only get so many nose jobs, anti-aging formulas, or stain removal treatments before you start to look funny.

Personality wise she’s no particular treat either – while friendly, she’s not exactly anyone’s friend unless they remind her of herself in some way, and even then she’s liable to betray them should the reasons be good enough (and her skewed sense of priorities mean that far too many reasons could be ‘good’ reasons). Past that she’s snarky, aggressive, and whatever else you want her to be if she needs something from you.

Biography: Rivia is from your stereotypical dystopia – gangs rule whatever parts of the world the oppressive governments and corporations don’t, everyone is terrible in some way, and it’s in the future, though not so much that it’d be unrecognizable to people in the present. Rivia herself was born to an unpleasant family in an even less pleasant neighbourhood. Her parents were both addicts, and when they died due to issues with the local mafia she ‘inherited’ their stash… and their debt.

She started off pretty small in both cases, with cigarettes, alcohol, and prostitution for the gang’s lackeys, and eventually moved up in her world to heroin, acid, and prostitution for the gang’s higher ups. Eventually she had paid off her debt and gotten into the worst kinds of chemicals, and decided that the life of whoring and crime she had grown up around was the best way to obtain the ‘medicine’ she now needed.

It was through this work that she was eventually introduced to Argus – an important guest from a more prominent organization convinced her to take the new, experimental drug instead of a regular payment. It changed her life, gave her powers and abilities she couldn’t ever dream of before and couldn’t live without now, and when she was promised more in exchange for backstabbing her gang she took the opportunity without a second thought.

Turns out that gangs like to employ treacherous but drug dependant goons, especially when they suffer from certain side effects of the only drug on the market they can’t aquire on their own.

Now, working for the most powerful criminal syndicate in the continent she finally found her niche. She worked mostly as an illusionary enforcer now, supporting the more combat oriented members to confuse and destroy any enemies to their organization. In exchange, she got all the free Argus she could want, and enough money to fund the rest of her habits. She was happy, well, as happy as anyone in the shithole of a planet could be, and ready to just live out the rest of her life in the luxury afforded by walking all over the backs of the oppressed.

Too bad something else had different plans for her.

Originally posted on MSPA by XX.

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You poor soul, solaris.

Name: Exida Exis

Gender: Dude

Race: Once a man(?), now a deer. More specifically a white Dama dama.

Color: That deer means murder, boys.

Equipment/Abilities: Twofold: the Laurels of Vivembre and a Virgina Slim cigarette. One is a necessity, the other is vanity. The Laurels are the hallmark of a hero, or at least they should be. Made of solid gold or something like it, they weigh more than you’d expect and cost more than you as an individual are worth by any reasonable market standard. Not that you’d sell them. They’re antiques. The Laurels give the wearer what’s been described as a “commanding aura”: most beings find it not exactly difficult to refuse an order under it, but certainly highly disagreeable. Roughly akin to disappointing someone for whom one holds a great deal of respect. It also has a tendency to make the wearer look more impressive than they would otherwise, which helps when your antlers barely scrape five feet.

The true purpose of the Laurels, however, is to inspire heroism in all those unfortunate souls that behold them. “Hero” is, however, a vaguely defined term, and what this really tends to boil down to is amplifying certain qualities: strength, courage, altruism, a sense of justice, a swollen ego and being a goddamn showoff, among others. Given Exida’s less than noble intentions, these can be skewed in more or less any way he wants to a virtually unlimited degree. The only restriction is that the Laurels cannot manipulate what isn’t already there, which is why he is capable of wearing them without doing something idiotic. But why should you have to worry about that happening to you? You’re a hero. You’re invincible.

There is nothing special about the cigarette except that no one knows how it was lit.

Description:

asdjaksdh schazer [img]images/smilies/icon_heartbeat.gif[/img] [img]images/smilies/icon_heartbeat.gif[/img]

A young fallow stag, slightly over three feet at the shoulder and pearly white in color. Slender hooves, liquid eyes, an ethereal grace to its step. No record of rabies vaccination, likewise ownership. Genetic profiling would reveal further details but you should never trust a doctor, now should you? Exida wears a golden crown of laurels around his neck like a collar due to them being too large and heavy for the head of a smallish deer; other than them and the cigarette there isn’t much to distinguish him from a normal animal except for the disgusted look on his cervine face and the golden polish on his hooves.

He has a mind like a bear trap in the sense that once it’s set on something it’s unlikely to come loose, and also in the sense that he might give you tetanus. Exida is a nasty personality with few redeeming qualities to speak of other than what in a better man might be called dedication and charisma. He tends to speak bluntly and cruelly, wasting little time on dealing with those he sees as weak and deserving of suffering; this leads to some people underestimating his intelligence, which while not exceedingly bright has a bitter sort of cunning to it. He can be charming at times, especially with the Laurel’s aura, but this is in no way a reflection of the truth. Exida hates you. You, personally, from the moment you were born, because you exist. There is nothing he wants more than to be the cause of the last flicker of hope fading from your eyes as you die in the wreckage of everything you hold dear. Exida wants to watch you suffer. Exida wants to boil your children alive and beatbox to their screams. That’s the kind of deer he is.

Biography:

Show Content

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.

Originally posted on MSPA by Flummox.

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Username: Flummox
Name: Felgurd
Gender: Neither, but it wears a men's suit, so we can use masculine pronouns.
Race: Mask
Color: [color=#99z8rz]This, #99z8rz[/color]
Description:

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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:

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Picture by Flummox:

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Items/Abilities:

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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.

Biography:

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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?”

Writing Sample:

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by piester.

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Username: Piester
Name: Chris Marrow
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Color: This one, I find it appetizing for some bizarre reason.
Description: Chris is an extremely boring person, he is a nineteen year old british man attending a community college in hopes of getting a music major. Sure, some people might describe him as a rather tall individual, and he is extremely aggressive, but he is still boring when compared to everybody else in this fiasco. A healthy head of brown hair, blue eyes and a fondness for wearing hoodies, what is there to shake a stick at?

Heck, the only reason he is stuck in this entire fiasco is because he was born with a genetic disorder, which, as a matter of fact, brings us to our next section.

Items/Abilities: Chris was born with an extremely rare genetic disorder that makes him get signs of various illnesses, diseases and other abnormalities without actually having any of the serious symptoms, for example, if he "had" a stomach flu he might feel dehydradrated and get a high temperature, but he would never barf or get diarrhea. You might call it a sick prank played on him by god, if you are a religious person. You would probably be correct, because if him being selected for this contest is any constellation, he also displays signs of possessing supernatural abnormalities.

On the plus side, having this gives him a strong biological immunity to most of the stuff he can gets signs of having, not all of them, but a shockingly large amount of them.

Biography: Chris was born into a low income family that resided in a rough neighbourhood, for most of his childhood, crime ran rampant all around him, the police kept on showing up around the town and he was pretty sure that the house to the left of his was a meth lab. While all of this did cause him to grow a need to fight for himself, it was far from being his biggest concern. Chris spent most of his childhood stuck in his room, laying in his bed due to sicknesses he didn't actually have.

When Chris was born, he kept on getting diagnosed with bizarre series of illnesses that ranged from colds to a case of tuberculosis, causing him to stay in a children's hospital to get treated for the majority of his first year on Earth. Eventually, when he kept recovering from the uncurable illnesses he supposedly had, the medical staff at the hospital dismissed him as an anomaly and allowed him to leave, not knowing that he was one of the only known cases in history of a rare genetic disorder called "Scott's Disease" Which gave him these signs of illness during his time at the hospital.

He grew up to become an extremely paranoid individual due to carrying the weight of never knowing when he actually had a serious illness or if was just his body playing tricks on him again, he tried to avoid direct contact with people as much as possible, in case he actually had an infectious illness, because of his lack of social contact, he turned to the art of songwriting to share his bottled up emotions with the world, which he eventually proved he had a talent for, and decided to major in when he got to college.

The rest of his life had been pretty uneventful after that point, he had been doing well in his classes, he was failing to uphold a love life with his girlfriend and he produced a slightly subpar rock ep in his closet under the musical alias "Walkman", which is only remembered by the hippest of hipsters. Standard stuff for people his age.

Writing Sample:

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by Antarctic Wolf.

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Username: Antarctic Wolf

Name: Altara Elwynn

Gender: Female

Race: Druid/Ancient Spirit

Color: #107804

Description: Altara appears as a humanoid 22 year old female of tan, honey colouring. Her eyes are almond in shape yet mismatched in colour. Her left iris is green, representing her close kinship with nature and life whereas her right iris flares crimson reflecting her attunement to the destructive power of the elements. Her hair tumbles down to her waist in a jet black cascade of curls and her clothing consists of a simple white woolen robe which is fastened at the waist by a black, silk sash. The hem is tattered and snagged with brambles as she is rather heedless of her appearance, and prefers to walk barefoot to stay in touch with the earth.

She has an intense curiosity and a bold personality yet always carefully reasons out her actions, often calling upon her abilities in order to determine the best course of action. Due to a lack of memories, she is quite innocent and is easily fascinated by new people or unnatural objects. Old instincts from her previous life have a powerful influence over her but, although they often save her from harm, they also ignite and inkling of fear within her regarding who she used to be... and what she might become.

Items/Abilities:

• She has the ability to repossess living things, regardless of whether the original occupant is still alive. The difficulty and preparation necessary for her to manage this is less the lower the self-awareness of the body/form is.
• She can alter the body she occupies in minor ways, often choosing to change its appearance to better match her own, or to slightly increase the natural abilities of her “host”.
• Her druidic heritage allows her access to elemental magic although difficult or complex weavings require time and preparation or physical ingredients.
• The bodies she possesses can also augment her druidic abilities; possessing a tree might allow her a greater well of power due to the roots in the earth, yet occurs at the sacrifice of her mobility.

Biography:
She remembers little of her past, but maintains a full recollection of druidic rituals and the art of divine meditation. She was accidentally revived by group of youths when she repossessed the body of a fatally wounded young woman whose blood broke the seal of her tomb. At first she took over the typical life of her host body but increasingly felt unsettled until she realised that the body and life she had assumed were not originally hers. Her strong and uncommon powers were unexplained and people had noticed a distinct change in her personality. In an effort to recover her past, she chose to tap into source of her druidic power, the aether, through a deep meditation. In doing so her soul was once again ripped out of her body and flung far out of her world and time…

Writing Sample:

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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Name: Elisir
Color: Gold

Imagine sorcery. Any spell. It starts out as a spark, an intention set ablaze or athunder. It arcs from there in a myriad directions, capable hands steering its every point and turn. It grows like a neverending tempest, storm after storm, it tears up the floor and the walls until it's left to face the earth itself, and even uproots the earth and grass, and like a monster in our world, or us as an alien in another, wrecks what it fears. Then multiply that by a million, then a million more. This is magic.

Magic is often proclaimed as a source from a world perpendicular to our own. In the strictest sense this is false. It is a world as much as you would call any place, like a cupboard or cave, a world of its own. Nothing lives in this realm anymore. Bereft of that force which spun it.

It took a sect to realise this. Nuclear magi, they called themselves. Like hermits they locked themselves away, using magic only when strictly necessary regardless of their profession in the field. They focused their studies on finding a way to revert the magic world to its former glory, a kingdom of beings so powerful the air would melt around them, yet graceful enough to respect those who caused their revival.

They built Elisir. A hulking mound of metal, lodged in a netherworldy cavern, laced with puce oils and dry blood as to preserve it a sanctuary. Tubes and wires all over, a capsule in its center which could fit exactly one person. A robot suit, it appears. It would have had hands, but got not farther than steaming pillars for limbs, specified in direction nor purpose.

Elisir lives its winter in intent. It was supposed to revive the very origin of magic, a demoness of whom the lent its name. Silk grace of an ominous wind howling along the razed fields, beauty of a single butterfly obliviously dancing over a burning earth, power of an untamed solar wind, lashing across the surface.

Elisir never appeared, with dubious explanation. The nuclear sect could have been right: no man could muster up the surge of magical force required to awaken the machine and send the queen through. The sect could have been wrong: no such realm ever existed, or at least no such queen existed to be transported.

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Spoilerbecause haha fuck you profiles

Originally posted on MSPA by Yako.

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Username: Yako

Name: Dr. Zenith Grey

Gender: Hermaphroditic. Doesn't care what pronouns others use for him. I tend to default to masculine.

Race: Vella Kehn

Color: #BB0000 on white

Description:
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Zenith stands at roughly four and a half feet. His frame is humanoid, though his head is proportionately much larger and his frame slighter than any human's, and his skin is grey. His eyes are large, taking up a third of his face, and almost entirely dark red. When he blinks, both his lower and upper lids move to close. He is rarely seen out of ceremonial surgeon's dress: a spotless, perfectly tailored white labcoat, an armband showing his fleet and rank, gloves and shoes that match his rank color. To everyone's puzzlement, he also wears a pair of goggles at all times.

In the personality department: Smart, skilled, and cocky about it. Though he's quick to deny any exaggeration of his skills, he parades his true exploits and escapades around until everyone has heard them at least twice. He's aware that his attitude may annoy others, and he's inexplicably proud of that, too-- he calls himself an alien word meaning "peak" just to taunt them. He's also not shy about using his societal standing to pull a few strings. He often tries bringing radical and questionably ethical ideas to his colleagues. If they turn him down, he'll just find the first person who admires his skill enough to listen and agree with his every word.

At heart, however, he is a dreamer. The lives of all Vella Kehn are cold and bleak; dreaming is the best escape. Like most of his people, he hopes to see the Assimilation in his lifetime. He is not quite sure what he'd do with a stable home, but it doesn't really matter does it? It just sounds like a better existence. That's enough. Zenith has one more dream, one not harbored by many of his species: to create a fully accurate anatomical catalogue of all sentient species in the universe. Though he fully realizes this number is probably infinitely expanding, thereby impossible to finish, he'll be happy as long as he dies still adding new pages to his pet project.

Abilities/Items:
Zenith's race is naturally small and slight: in short, annoyingly agile. Even one with little athletic training can avoid slow blows. Zenith has a slight advantage over the average kehn in that his reflexes are very good-- they have to be to perform the intense operations he handles almost weekly. His manual dexterity also deserves a mention-- give him any sort of manual tool that requires precision and he'll be able to wield it with competence in an hour.

On his person at all times is a strange robotic gauntlet: reclaimed and reengineered technology scavenged from a desolate planet. Specifically, it's been hooked up to the fleet's communication net. It keeps him in touch with others on the ship without him having to run everywhere.

On the other side of the gauntlet: a direct line to a pocket dimension of infinite storage space... so long as any object inserted is no wider and no thicker than Zenith's forearm. When he first received this, he often attempted to cram everything he owned into it, but by now he's given up. He only carries surgical tools, a few useful medicines, and a beat-up bodice ripper to only be used in emergencies of boredom.

Biography:
Vella Rhos was once the most powerful planet in its galaxy. This was a long, long time ago.

No one knows why the homeworld had to be abandoned, not anymore. Some tales speak of the Vella Kehn exhausting their resources; others, of a devastating war between the kehn and a powerful, maleficent force. Whatever the case may be, the former inhabitants created fleets of migrant vessels and set out to search for a new home.

They say that the art and entertainment of the Vella Kehn was the richest of all creatures. After several generations on a fleet, however, this began to die. More and more civilians and artists were drafted into servicing the vessels. The society moved from one of free thought to one of a collective. Soon, only two things mattered in the life of a kehn: to service their fleet and to learn all they could about other cultures so they may one day assimilate with another species and once again live in an organic environment.

A few fleets have found a new home. Others found some intelligent life, but are still looking for something better. But no matter how much material from other cultures or how many deceased, possibly sentient lifeforms Fleet Zexiphet salvages, it has never even found a radio signal to lead it to hospice.

It was this lonely fleet into which Z-008101 was born to low-ranking mechanics. His childhood was unremarkable; he studied alien cultures and professions, he ate, he slept. No one expected very much of him. Though he showed talent and interest in the field of medicine, he remained in obscurity until adolescence, when medicine became his official job. He learned his field quickly and surpassed most of his peers in a short span of time. His talents managed to break through the hive mentality of the hive. They talked about an individual. They wanted to give him a name.

He called himself Zenith. Zenith Grey.

Writing Sample:

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Spoiler"So... Zenith. That's what they call you now?"

"Yes."

Father hadn't looked up at Zenith yet. Too busy with whatever he had on his desk. Identification documents? Incriminating evidence? Ancient toys? Whatever it was, the neural center of Zexiphet-- the single grey with the greatest authority to keep the fleet running smoothly-- considered it far more important than the lowly surgeon.

Had he been invited to sit down yet? Not that he could remember. Why wasn't Father speaking? The both of them surely had more important things to do--

A loud sigh interrupted Zenith's thoughts. As he focused on the real world, Father stood up, making a show out of shoving his chair away.

"It means 'peak' or 'aperture' in the languages of one of the cultures we've found." He still wouldn't look at Zenith.

"I know."

"It's rather... haughty, wouldn't you agree?" A pause, too short to explain himself, but long enough for Zenith to know he should not have had to think about it. "Especially considering rules for names."

Yes, yes. The rules for names. Zenith had heard them hundreds of times before: names were special, sacred, reserved only for the most powerful of the Vella Kehn. It was a privilege to have a name before the Assimilation; until that happened, a kehn was only to be a statistic.

"I think it sounds nice," Zenith replied. "...Pronounceable in Vella Rhos tongue, at the very least."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it. 'Father' was a difficult word for most kehn. And Father understood the dig perfectly well.

"Don't be so certain of your position on this ship, doctor." His voice shook, straining to maintain his calm demeanor. "You disturb our balance. Balance is how this ship runs. If we don't--"

"Our ship needs heroes--to look up to, can't you see?" Zenith mad a sweeping gesture. "You, me-- kehn like us. We give them morale."

Father looked unconvinced.

"I mean-- can't you feel how lifeless this ship is? We may never touch down on land. I know, I know. But haven't you ever felt... you know, a need to look up to someone? Something to believe in."

Only the sound of Zenith's breathing filled the room for a long moment.

"Not... particularly."

Zenith sighed. "Yeah, yeah, that was bad! What I mean is-- we are the heroes they're looking up to. We keep the people hopeful. And when they're hopeful, they work better." He smiled. "And when they're hopeful, they'll work harder. Your job gets done, the people trust you more. We can be heroes together."

More silence. Finally, a grumble. "We will be resuming this discussion later. Continue on as usual."

"Heh. I knew you'd understand, Father." He bowed and turned.

"Doctor."

His hand froze right in front of the door.

"I'm letting you act right now out of your promise of heroism. Don't betray my trust."

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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TONIGHT...
Sign-Ups will close unless you are almost done and you tell me this in which case you will have until I wake up tomorrow and stuff.

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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More fanfare later.
In no particular order,

Antarctic Wolf/Altara Elwynn,
Digital Hellhound/Khagan Toghun Tegüs,
XX/Exidia Exis,
Flummox/Felgurd,
Protoman/Rayeln the Scourge,
SteelKomodo/Artemis Holloway and Grendel,
The Deleter/Johnny Raptor,
Yako/Dr. Zenith Grey.


50% rejection rate is a bitch!

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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Things of Note:
First and most importantly is that I will do my best to get the Round 1 Post up before 8 o'clock, in less than an hour and a half.
Secondly, I have edited in the names and colors of the characters intot he above post, the opening post, and the dropbox .txt document to refect on my choices.
Third, if anyone wants to know why they were or were not chosen, send me a PM and I will reply to the best of my ability.
Fourth, there are two Big Things I need to note with those of you in this thaaaaaang, the first is reserves and the second is communicating. Reserves are placeholder posts! You post saying "reserve" or something and then the battle is on pause while we wait for you to post. These should not take any longer than a week, and then only in extreme cases. You don't need to reserve, though, especially if you can just talk to the others on IRC and say "im gunna post soonish guys". Please talk to each other! Communication is important and the very best way to do this is via PM's on the forum or by going on #grandbattle on irc.esper.net (that is a link to it on mibbit, but use whatever)! I am really looking forward to this guys! I can't wait.


Oh yea one last thing!
Wolf and Komodo, you guys have less than 15 posts! The MSPA Forums have a spam filter and it is likely that your first posts are going to be caught by it for being long and having formatting. I suggest to get up that post count a little, you post suggestions in new forum adventures!

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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Sheboom shebang

Originally posted on MSPA by XX.

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50% rejection rate is a bitch!

Originally posted on MSPA by XX.

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