Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Open to new players!
06-22-2012, 03:53 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Username: Fuck Off
Name: Heironymus Fisher
Race: Tolkien made a point of distinguishing “wizards” and “men,” but it’s probably safe to say human
Sex: Male
Color: #333399
Description: Heironymus Fisher hasn’t left his apartment in five years, and hasn’t kept it properly lit in seven, so it’s difficult to tell exactly what he looks like. His visitors, when ask to report, often find themselves describing the apartment, rather than the man, for the gap between the two is slight, but even that is inconstant. Some days the place will be spotlessly clean and smelling of a fresh layer of paint, and the only bugs crawling around seem to be directly under Fisher’s control, arranging themselves in runic patterns and fetching him food from the fridge. Other days, the line between Fisher’s beard and the cobwebs will be perceptible only as a slight graying.
On any day, just knock and you can find the hermit magician sitting right in the center of the living room, right between the door and the window, right between the floor and the single lightbulb casting light upon the array of books, graffiti and knick-knacks that surround him. If the lightbulb is out, you can usually see by the glint of his eyes alone.
Engage Fisher’s attention and he might crack a smile, pull himself off his feet with a painful splintering sound in the region of his knees, and take you over into the kitchen for a snack. There’s something bout Fisher that might suggest that he’d be a great guy once you get to know him, but don’t be fooled. The wizard’s affection muscles are severely atrophied, and his default states towards everything but magic and (because everyone needs a hobby) ornithology are apathy and a smug, self-aggrandizing hatred. His relationships don’t last long, and only partly because he can’t take a girl anywhere.
Ten years ago, Fisher would have been about the town in a trenchcoat, because of course he’d wear a trenchcoat, but his apartment usually keeps rather warm, so he doesn’t have a use for it anymore. The street urchin he gets to do his laundry is handed a bag of white briefs, white socks, gray t-shirts, and gray shorts every week alongside a single silver coin. No one can remember how old Fisher is—there are certain stories that take place forty years ago that might actually have been about his father—but it’s widely agreed upon that he wouldn’t look good in the sunlight.
Biography: Fisher’s story is no more or less interesting than any other wizard’s. Or rather, it wasn’t until he stopped leaving his apartment. Now it’s a bit on the boring side, but probably still a veritable thrill ride compared to your own miserable existence.
Weapons/Abilities: In a mystical sense (though not for the purposes of this battle), Fisher’s apartment is part of his body, with the single window forming his third eye. When the window is closed, the magician is alone with his thoughts. When it’s open, he gains near-unlimited clairvoyance. In fact, one of his many sources of income is a series of travel books he’s published, their unbridled authenticity just another glob of saliva in the face of his inferiors.
Heironymus is into ritual stuff. If you want something done—no matter how weird or specific or life-altering—he’ll charge the same amount and tell you to come back tomorrow and it’ll be done. That’s if he doesn’t refuse to do it, either for reasons ethical or aesthetic or ineffable. Then he’ll start asking his regular crew of street kids for materials. A pair of handlebars from a bike, a sea otter, a whole bag of multicolored paper clips, stuff like that. You will never see these things again, even if you’re rooting through his trash. Over the night, if you’re standing outside his door, you might hear some things—probably things you wish you hadn’t—and if you’re standing outside his window, you might even see some things. The next morning, ninety percent of the time, whatever you want done will be done. The other ten percent of the time, he’ll give you a refund and an apology and hint that somehow it was your fault that the magic failed.
Owing to the nature of Fisher’s work, the magician frequently makes people angry at him: rivals in the same trade, dissatisfied customers, or the victims of satisfied customers. Most aren’t stupid enough to try and face him on his own territory. If he were to be forcibly removed from his apartment by somebody or something powerful and crafty enough to sneak by his defenses, though, it’d be a different story. Fisher might have a few spells prepared for emergencies, if he can remember them, but it’s been a long time since he’s even considered the notion of leaving.
Username: Fuck Off
Name: Heironymus Fisher
Race: Tolkien made a point of distinguishing “wizards” and “men,” but it’s probably safe to say human
Sex: Male
Color: #333399
Description: Heironymus Fisher hasn’t left his apartment in five years, and hasn’t kept it properly lit in seven, so it’s difficult to tell exactly what he looks like. His visitors, when ask to report, often find themselves describing the apartment, rather than the man, for the gap between the two is slight, but even that is inconstant. Some days the place will be spotlessly clean and smelling of a fresh layer of paint, and the only bugs crawling around seem to be directly under Fisher’s control, arranging themselves in runic patterns and fetching him food from the fridge. Other days, the line between Fisher’s beard and the cobwebs will be perceptible only as a slight graying.
On any day, just knock and you can find the hermit magician sitting right in the center of the living room, right between the door and the window, right between the floor and the single lightbulb casting light upon the array of books, graffiti and knick-knacks that surround him. If the lightbulb is out, you can usually see by the glint of his eyes alone.
Engage Fisher’s attention and he might crack a smile, pull himself off his feet with a painful splintering sound in the region of his knees, and take you over into the kitchen for a snack. There’s something bout Fisher that might suggest that he’d be a great guy once you get to know him, but don’t be fooled. The wizard’s affection muscles are severely atrophied, and his default states towards everything but magic and (because everyone needs a hobby) ornithology are apathy and a smug, self-aggrandizing hatred. His relationships don’t last long, and only partly because he can’t take a girl anywhere.
Ten years ago, Fisher would have been about the town in a trenchcoat, because of course he’d wear a trenchcoat, but his apartment usually keeps rather warm, so he doesn’t have a use for it anymore. The street urchin he gets to do his laundry is handed a bag of white briefs, white socks, gray t-shirts, and gray shorts every week alongside a single silver coin. No one can remember how old Fisher is—there are certain stories that take place forty years ago that might actually have been about his father—but it’s widely agreed upon that he wouldn’t look good in the sunlight.
Biography: Fisher’s story is no more or less interesting than any other wizard’s. Or rather, it wasn’t until he stopped leaving his apartment. Now it’s a bit on the boring side, but probably still a veritable thrill ride compared to your own miserable existence.
Weapons/Abilities: In a mystical sense (though not for the purposes of this battle), Fisher’s apartment is part of his body, with the single window forming his third eye. When the window is closed, the magician is alone with his thoughts. When it’s open, he gains near-unlimited clairvoyance. In fact, one of his many sources of income is a series of travel books he’s published, their unbridled authenticity just another glob of saliva in the face of his inferiors.
Heironymus is into ritual stuff. If you want something done—no matter how weird or specific or life-altering—he’ll charge the same amount and tell you to come back tomorrow and it’ll be done. That’s if he doesn’t refuse to do it, either for reasons ethical or aesthetic or ineffable. Then he’ll start asking his regular crew of street kids for materials. A pair of handlebars from a bike, a sea otter, a whole bag of multicolored paper clips, stuff like that. You will never see these things again, even if you’re rooting through his trash. Over the night, if you’re standing outside his door, you might hear some things—probably things you wish you hadn’t—and if you’re standing outside his window, you might even see some things. The next morning, ninety percent of the time, whatever you want done will be done. The other ten percent of the time, he’ll give you a refund and an apology and hint that somehow it was your fault that the magic failed.
Owing to the nature of Fisher’s work, the magician frequently makes people angry at him: rivals in the same trade, dissatisfied customers, or the victims of satisfied customers. Most aren’t stupid enough to try and face him on his own territory. If he were to be forcibly removed from his apartment by somebody or something powerful and crafty enough to sneak by his defenses, though, it’d be a different story. Fisher might have a few spells prepared for emergencies, if he can remember them, but it’s been a long time since he’s even considered the notion of leaving.