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Nova · 08-09-2011, 10:48 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by 50,000 Unstoppable Watts!.

...Hi. I'm new to this section. And shy.

I'll just put this here. >///>

Username: 50,000 Unstoppable Watts!

Name: Mr. Saturday. Formerly Bo Blackwell.

Gender: None. Formerly male, still functions like a male and answers to male pronouns.

Race: Death, specifically the Death of Men. Formerly human. Functionally and aesthetically identical to a human, but he insists on the differentiation.

Colour: All the Good Reds Were Taken (#C41E3A)

Biography:

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Ok, it was suggested by Schazer (seconded/thirded by Tea/Mirdini) that my original description/abilities were really good but I needed a more clinical, pruned-back version of each. So I put the latter here and you can find the former in the spoilers below. Hope one or both are to your liking.

Description: Tall, about 6'3". Not particularly scrawny, but looks like a stick because of his height. Bowlegged, and long in the arms and legs. Looks to be in his mid-forties. Long red hair in a big braid, down past his lower back. Red goatee. Triangular face, high cheekbones. Golden eyes. Skin is painted black on the right side and white on the left; eye sockets are the opposite, and around the lips is a black-and-white teeth pattern. Speaks with a slight Louisiana drawl, simple yet elegant--and crude, when he feels the need.

Pinstripe suit; the coat and leggings are black on the left, white on the right. Black suit vest and white undershirt beneath. Burgundy trenchcoat over top of the suit. Black top hat with a small skull adornment, six skeletal fingers splayed out from the sides of the skull. Metal cross on a chain necklace, usually tucked under his vest.

Saturday's a man of many vices. He drinks, he smokes, he gambles, he burns and kills and tortures, he loves the company of women (or men), and surprisingly a lot of people enjoy his company too. Because above all else, he's charming. Even if he's a lech, a murderer, and a bastard, he had a devoted fan-base in life and keeps it in like-but-not-quite-death. For all his flaws, he is unfailingly honest and sincere; he's just honest about being a beast of a man. He is peculiarly particular about his friends and associates, but when he takes a liking to someone, he gets a manic look in his eye and he's got to either fight them or befriend them (or both). Feels a borderline obligation (perhaps god-given) to take any contracts he receives having to do with life or death. Takes payment in... unorthodox ways. Also susceptible to gambles. He's no stranger to a fight and doesn't mind getting into one, but if given the choice, he'd really rather talk it out... And he's tried (and succeeded) to talk to some pretty strange things.

Items/Abilities: Lines his coats and belt with weapons: six revolvers in total, and plenty of ammo for each. Also carries a cane with a sword concealed in the shaft. He's no slouch in marksmanship or swordplay, but given the choice he'd rather gun you down.

Has a number of magick abilities falling under the general pretense of "voodoo mysticism and miscellaneous @&%#ery." Though technically his powers are magnified by his opponent's imagination, they also rely on his own, which is limited; he is only sort-of-but-not-quite-human, has the acumen of a real human in the real world, and his usual response to things sufficiently cosmic or horrific is "What the #$%& is that LET'S SEE IF IT'S FLAMMABLE." He adapts quickly, but his creativity is by no means infinite. Among his most favored tactics are pyrokinesis (obviously), voodoo dolls (for the biologically quantifiable adversaries), that sort of "deal with the devil" contract that takes pains to fulfill itself if the contractors run astray, and the illusion of the immediate surroundings becoming a quiet black-and-white room with two nice chairs, a nice table, and a nice big bottle of rum. And shot glasses. Sometimes wine glasses, if he's feeling fancy.

Saturday is immortal, but in a peculiar way; he can only be murdered, cannot die of natural causes. Being thrown into a free-for-all deathmatch is likely to make this a moot point, but for reference here's a few examples: He would live through a car accident, but not someone deliberately ramming into him with a car. Being eaten by a lion would be painful, but not life-threatening; having that same lion set loose on him by a sapient creature who intended his death would prove fatal. Catching a virus would not kill him, but biological warfare of any kind (poison in the food, anthrax bomb, etc.) would do the trick. If you could be arrested and do time for it, even if it took a no-nonsense jerkass detective with a heart of gold to prove you did it, it would probably work just fine. Which also means if you could stop him from dying of natural causes, but chose not to, it would not work. You gotta mean it, baby.

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SpoilerDescription:

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Spoiler

"Mmmm-mm, brother. If I was a lady, I'd ride me like a rodeo."

Mr. Saturday was born in his mid-forties--with rumors circulating that he was much, much older--but he had aged quite well. In his first life he kept fit, trim, and most importantly happy. He was tall, about 6'3", and while he wasn't scrawny at all, his height made him look like a stick. Not to mention he was a bit lanky. He had long, scarlet hair, size XL; it hung down to his flat arse in a comically large braid. His goatee was as bright a red as his hair, and he so loved to twirl it while scheming, plotting, charming, wooing, sitting on the john, or really anytime. He had a triangular face, with high cheekbones. His eyes were a dull affair, a sick sort of greenish-brown you might've seen on your bread once when you let it sit out for too long. Strange enough, his nose always looked as if you'd just punched it, the whole thing a bright, blushing red. And not that you'd care, but he'd insist on telling you his tongue is long and flexible. His skin was a plain old pink, but thanks to his nose he always looked a bit redder in the face. Oh, and he was a little bowlegged, and a lot sensitive about it. He had a faint Louisiana drawl, the sort you'd expect from an actor playing a Cajun, not a real native. He spoke slowly and deliberately, with a simple elegance and home-grown charm... well, until he got mad. Then he'd just growl and sputter, same as any other ornery old man.

"I dress to impress. A suit 'n' tie isn't an occasion, it's a lifestyle."

When it came to fashion, the former man formerly known as Bo Blackwell demanded nothing of others and everything of himself. He'd never be seen in public without a black, pinstriped suit coat and pants, as if he needed to look any thinner, with a black vest and white undershirt beneath. He'd also rarely go without his top hat. But the one thing from which he was most inseparable was a little metal cross on a plain chain necklace. No one knew what it meant to him, but he kept it safe, and he'd make a mess of you if you scratched it.

"I'm a devil, ma'am. Some of us jes' got to be."

You could've said a lot of things about old Bo Charmer: "He's a lech, he's a sicko, he's a prideful, greedy, twisted sinner and he'll burn something fierce when the devil comes to take him." And there wouldn't be a lie in the bunch. He had a vice for every finger you had, his favorites being smoking, drinking, gambling and diddling. Killing held a distant rank, but it was there, and he'd be sure to remind you if ever you forgot. But really, his nickname gave you the very best word for him: He was charming above all else. Somehow, for being a virtual sociopath, he had quite a devoted fan-base in life, and not just for empty smooth-talking either; if you spent enough time with him, you'd find he was really a very honest, sincere man. He was just honest about being downright beastly, and loving every second of it. And you know what else, he really did like people. Women either loved or hated him, and either way the men tended to disagree with their women--or with their men, depending on which team they played for. Bo wasn't picky, he'd play whichever field had the prettiest faces at the time. When he really got excited, he'd get a manic look in his eyes and a frightening grin on his face. He'd usually only get excited for some fresh-faced new lady, but every now and then someone would strike him just so; he'd "like the cut of their jib," as he'd say. And that with that person he'd immediately get into a fight or make life-long friends. Usually both. No one bothered to figure out what sorts of people Bo really liked, as it varied too much to see a pattern, but there just might have been one.

"I'm a new man, m'dear. Hell, I'm hardly a man anymore. Got a #$@& like a horse, for starters. Hah! Naw, just pullin' your leg. Y' should've seen your face, though... Well, I mean... If you're into that, I could work somethin' out..."

But that was then. In the now, old Bo has finally hit the end of the line... and the start of a brand new one. So let's talk present tense. Mr. Saturday shares more than a little with his estranged something-or-other, but there's a few things that need updating. Now, his eyes are a brilliant gold. His face is one half black, one half white--not the skin colors, but the skunk colors. His eye sockets are the opposite color, and around his lips is a black-and-white pattern of teeth. His suit coat is also half-and-half, but the halves are reversed. His vest is black and his undershirt is white, same as before. He's got a burgundy trenchcoat now, too. If he had an ass to sweat off, it's a wonder he wouldn't be. His hat is still plain black, but now it's adorned with a miniature skull with six finger bones splayed out from its sides. Scattered in Saturday's hair is an assortment of beads, jewels, and mini-skulls, and all his fingers have golden rings on them, again with an assortment of jewels and skulls on them. Finally, his cross stays tucked in his vest.

As for personality changes, there are a few to note. Killing is now up there with the big four as far as vices go; pyromania is working its way up, too. Greed takes a new form, with material goods offering little satisfaction... unless they are prized by someone else. Old Saturday still likes people, but now less in the "friendly neighborhood psychiatrist" way and more in the "psychological mad scientist oh God hide your children" way. Generally, Mr. Saturday is fascinated with death, as he should be, since he now governs it. He's also sadistic as can be, and has trouble remembering that not everyone likes it rough. Now, when he meets someone he likes, his excitement is all the more striking, all the more horrifying: His grin is wider and his eyes madder than ever. Saturday is willing, even obligated, to rent out his "services" to anyone who needs them; life and death are his occupation. He takes payment in strange ways. He's still a lean, mean gambler with the devil's luck, but it's been known to bite him every now and then.

Items/Abilities:

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Spoiler

"This ain't a cane, it's a whackin' stick. Everybody needs a whackin' stick."

Bo had a cane, but didn't need it to walk. He'd keep a revolver in either side of his coat, and as much ammo as he could carry without making it too obvious he was armed. He'd often be seen with large sacks containing Lord-knows-what. Mr. Saturday's cane has a little skull top, and it conceals a bastard sword which he brandishes in a pinch, though he still prefers firearms. He's more conspicuous and more plentiful in his gun capacity now; he keeps two in the trenchcoat, two in the suit coat, and two on belts at his sides, with plenty of ammo for each. He never carries sacks anymore, doesn't need them.

"Ooh, you wanna see a trick, huh? I'll show y' a trick."

It turns out those sacks were used for magick. Bo did plenty of it. But in life it was dependent on materials, on deception, sleight-of-hand, and on his charms. There was the sort of plain old voodoo magick of which you've no doubt heard, the "torturing people with dolls made of their hair and blood" variety; and there was the subtler sort, the magick of wordplay and enchantment, the casting of curses and the enticing of fragile hearts. Other things were rumored to be within his reach, such as shapeshifting into various animals. Bo was even said, albeit in hushed whispers, to have power over life and death. As Mr. Saturday, his powers are as real as they've ever been... which is to say many, many things, and mean who knows how many of them. The thing is, sometimes it's just a question of what you believe, what you think is possible. In the ordinary old world, people honestly believe a man can turn into a cat or a snake, or light their pants on fire, or seduce their women and condemn their children with wicked hexes. Bo proved it time and time again. Can you imagine what people believe in a world where such feats are not restricted to the underbelly of society, where they're done in broad daylight and no one bats an eyelash? What, at that point, is the new threshold of plausibility? Can you imagine the beliefs of a being to whom the sum of human success and achievement is naught but a little anthill? What marvels it would take to scratch the very edge of such a being's perception of what is real and what is permitted? Saturday is a mimic in that sense; he might find himself capable of rising to any challenge, dazzling any foe... were he not, alas, tragically human. Despite his new form, his acumen is limited to realistic human expectations. In layman's terms, the biggest thing he's seen is a tornado and the scariest is an angry Cossack, and if anything particularly cosmic or horrific comes along his train of thought is likely to boil down to "What the $#&% is that LET'S SEE IF IT'S FLAMMABLE." He is by no means uncreative, but he is not an otherworldly wellspring of morbid delight and terrible whimsy. (He's working on that bit.)

Still, through all this, Mr. Saturday's cornerstone, his greatest and most favored weapon, the force that in life kept him kicking upwards of fifty years and in death makes him so bloody terrifying, is his charm. His mouth has conquered more foes than any gun or sword or bolt of lightning, and he has been known to talk down things to which people didn't think could be talked. If he can resolve a fight over an intimate evening, scintillating conversation, or bottle of straight rum (or, of course, all three at once), he'll try it every time, and he'll succeed as often as his fickle god permits.

"I'm... kinda immortal. Not entirely, s'important t' note. Y'see, seems the powers that be didn't conceive of folk killin' folk, so they don't know quite what to make of it yet. Still, I been offed once, I can be offed again; t'ain't pleasant though, no sir."

Mr. Saturday's immortality is borne of an ancient tradition, so ancient that it predates murder. Thus, it does not cover murder; that is the only way to kill him. What it means is that chance, old age, and the wiles of nature will never be his end--nor will neglecting his biological needs, though he will begin to wither--but the only thing stopping him from being killed is what he himself brings to bear. To name some specific examples for clarification: A car accident wouldn't kill him, but someone driving a car into him would. Being eaten by a wild animal would be painful, but survivable; that same animal being loosed on him by a sapient creature with intent to kill would prove lethal. Catching a virus wouldn't even slow him down, but someone giving him a virus through a bomb, poisoned food, or other forms of biological warfare would work just fine. On top of all this, he'll come back eventually... but it could take years. In summary, if you want him dead and you kill him dead, he'll be dead and out of your hair for a long, long time; but don't expect the universe to take care of it for you, and pray he forgets your face when next he wakes up.

(I left the very last bit out of the shorter profile because it will not be important in the context; if Mr. Saturday dies, he will stay dead for well longer than the duration of this battle.)