The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

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The Premise:

SpoilerShow

“We can bring him back,” announced Brian Rethrick, slamming a stack of papers on the sprawling round table in the middle of the Paragon’s vast conference room. The bustling room fell silent almost at once, leaving only the clicks and whirs of computer parts strewn across the floor and some chatter on the other end of a few phone calls. Representatives of the Council of First Contact Ambassadors (C.O.F.C.A.) wordlessly shut off their phones and ended calls on the computer screens built seamlessly into their obsidian table.

“We can bring back Envoy.”

“That’s impossible!” said no one, for once.

A few people turned from their Very Important Work for once to look up at the high-definition screens lining the walls and ceiling. A sleek crimson robot in an expensive business suit flew through a blackened sky, trailing brilliant flame behind it. Below it, lost souls wandered through an ancient city carved from stone while green acid boiled in channels dug through the earth by another world’s forgotten gods.

It had cost a hell of a lot of money to build a robot equipped with cameras so sophisticated that they could film themselves from a distance, and that wasn’t even impressive compared to the rest of it. The best of the best of the modern world’s technology, made out of materials that most countries could barely afford into existence, built by the brightest minds on the planet into a robot made out of irreplaceable alien “smart” metal from a space probe that the world’s governments assured their people had never crashed to Earth.

But generally speaking, most people who knew about it agreed that the most impressive part of New Voyager was that it was on a mission to make first contact with the Uae, an alien race that didn’t even know we existed. Building and launching Envoy would be the most important thing anyone had ever done, ever.

Until it had been stolen away by a man called The Charlatan to fight a robot, a demigod, and some people in a van.

“What are these?” asked Megasenator Whittenberg from his spot at what he liked to imagine was the head of the round table. He scooped up the stack of papers Brian Rethrick had slammed dramatically onto the table.

“Those are mine,” muttered Rethrick, taking them back. “I just needed to, you know…” he coughed. “Anyway, our researchers were studying what John Smith had called a temporal shift – the way Charlatan had kept us connected to Envoy even while it was years in our future. Our contacts in Round One managed to get it to work in the opposite direction – sending data from the future back to us – and from there, it was easy enough to figure out the mechanics behind it. Now all we’ve got to do is use our connection to Fort Ayers to anchor a teleporter to Envoy’s position in space and time.”

“Wait,” interrupted the Megasenator. “You can make teleporters?”

“We’ve known the theory behind them for a while. Fort Ayers had the technology to make them just lying around.”

“Wonderful!” cried Whittenberg, clapping Rethrick on the shoulder. COFCA erupted into applause. Shareholders jumped out of their seats, while others called their contacts back to laugh at them. Finally, everything was going to

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“OH MY GOD!” screamed Brian Rethrick through his radiation suit as he and another technician hastily took cover behind a control panel. On the far side of the test chamber, a raging nova of purple light twisted and swirled inside of a towering machine like a giant metal ribcage bristling with cables. Occasionally, the vortex of light belched out a silhouette and threw it against the nearest wall. “What did you do?” Rethrick cried, grabbing the nearest technician, but the roar of the machine drowned him out.

A man across the room pulled a laptop haphazardly down to the floor and began frantically typing on it. “It’s a faulty electromagnetic particle node! I’ve seen this before!” he yelled as the metal scaffolding around the portal twisted and began to cave in. “If I can reroute the power from the main flux coupling to the Paragon’s magnetonic containment accelerator, I should be able to-”

“You’re not making sense!” cried the woman next to him, grabbing him by his radiation suit and shaking him away from the computer.

“I don’t know what to do!” he wailed, bursting into tears.

The emergency sprinklers flicked on, and the red phone on the wall started ringing off its hook. Deciding the a phone call couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse, Rethrick climbed to his feet, yanked off the hood of his protective suit, and picked up the phone. “WHAT,” he demanded. “WHAT THE FU-”

Something clicked, and with a dull, resonating hum, everything around him burst into static, briefly flicked through various color patterns, and settled on the room he’d been standing in, frozen in time. “Please stand by,” said the voice on the other end, and started playing a smooth jazz cover of 4’33”.

“Hello, Brian,” said a man behind him. Rethrick whirled around, lifted the phone to his ear, lowered it, looked at the receiver, raised the phone to his ear again, and muttered “hello” to the man wearing a prison uniform like a business suit, tie and fancy dress shirt and all.



LAST THING STANDING and its various spinoffs were going along swimmingly. Everyone wanted to watch eight men-and-such fight to the death – so much, in fact, that he could basically just broadcast the same show over and over, a million variations on a single premise, and no one was bothered by it. Ratings were higher than ever – and when things started going wrong, they just climbed even higher. It was like reality TV without the script!

And the best part was, no one had ever seen anything like it before.

There was just one problem – in order to gather up a ragtag team of gods who were crazy enough to actually run these things, he had to actually interact with crazy gods. He’d dealt with the embodiment of entropy in a crappy person suit, the head of the multiversal mafia, which was apparently a thing, and worst of all, crazy bitches who were smarter than he was – and he’d been threatened, beaten, and thrown in prison, which, oddly enough, came almost entirely courtesy of the latter.

Actually, maybe it wasn’t that odd.

Anyway, heading a season of Grand Battles sucked almost as much as trying to run a media empire from prison with no budget, no control over his own battle, and technically, no media empire. He was way behind schedule – he still had two battles to start, and in the nine-tenths of the multiverse that still experienced linear time, the season was nearly over.

So when a bunch of stupid humans from some backwater universe accidentally gave him everything he needed to start a seventh one, he jumped on the opportunity like a chance to say he’s not here to make friends.



“And all I need you to do,” he said, “is find a place to put it and film it with those fancy cameras of yours.”

“And you’ll get rid of these – this – ” Rethrick waved his arms helplessly. Out of the corner of his eye, silhouettes kept appearing in the vortex of light, even while time was frozen.

“Yeah, that quantum crane machine you and your men butchered, and everyone it spits out. They’re pretty important.”

Rethrick furrowed his brow. “But isn’t that why we’re here in the first place? This sounds just like the Petty Squab-”

“What? No, no,” Broadcaster quickly interjected, raising his hands defensively. “It’s totally different.”

“No, this works!” said Rethrick, leaning on a lab tech who was frozen in time and basically ignoring the Broadcaster. “We can use this to study how civilizations will react to Envoy and the others appearing out of nowhere. We could even send our people back to the same setting every time!”

“You can’t just - ” the Broadcaster pinched the bridge of his nose. Amateurs. “No one will watch that. Can’t you find some way to add variety?”

“We could… have different people every time.”

“People like patterns, Brian.”

“Well… we could make each round ten years in the future.”

“More.”

“Fifty?”

“Double that.”

“A hundred.”

“Perfect!” exclaimed Broadcaster. “We’ll call it

The BATTLE<font size="6"> of the CENTURY!

</font>

Rethrick groaned darkly, like the pun had caused him actual physical pain. “All right, I walked into that. So, can we change it to –”

“Nope, too late,” interrupted the Broadcaster, and Rethrick snapped back to reality. Broadcaster was gone, the machine disappeared in a flurry of light, and a stack of papers had neatly appeared in his hand where the phone had been.

He rubbed his temples and took a deep breath. Seemed like it was too late to back out now. As the technicians swarmed him and demanded answers, he peeled back the cover and started reading the entries…

The Rules:
Rules format slightly pilfered from Ix and Sanzh.

What:
This is The Battle of the Century, the seventh battle in Season Intermission. It’s one of like a million Grand Battles, which are eight-player collaborative roleplays. Everyone can freely write for the other player characters, and every couple of months or so, the player whose writing or storytelling is the weakest is eliminated, their character dies, and the remaining characters are slingshotted off through time and space to another setting.

Despite appearances, this isn’t really focused on fighting, although the ultimate goal of your character will be being the last person standing. So, your goal isn’t necessarily having the most powerful character you can possibly think of – it would actually benefit you more to come up with an interesting character who you’ll be able to tell a bunch of different stories with, even if they’re comparatively weak.

The Battle of the Century is going to work a little differently from typical Grand Battles; as explained in brief in the introduction, instead of going to a different locale each time, you’ll be in the same setting a hundred years later. So, later rounds will be heavily influenced by the actions of your characters and the world-building you do. Try and keep that in mind when designing a character.

Rules:
Generally speaking there's a lot of rules and such you can read from other battles, but these are a few points I would like to emphasize.

• If you plan on posting something that will affect important characters or the plans of other writers - which will likely be most of your posts – you’ll probably want to make a post ahead of time that just says “reserve.” That way, you won’t have to worry about other players making posts with the characters you’re working with, and the other players won’t have to worry about you doing the same. If you do post a reserve, try to follow up on it as soon as possible. Three days is fine, a week is stretching it.
• Try to keep in contact. Co-operation is pretty essential for a collaborative endeavor like Grand Battles, so don't try to go without interacting with others. You will be expected to write for characters other than your own, and clarifying characterization with other authors helps with that a bit. Don't inflict major injuries or character changes on others without asking, don't plan things out too much that other authors are constricted, and for what plans others set in place don't deliberately go out to ruin them. (That doesn't mean you can't try to get in other people's ways, though.) There's an IRC channel for Grand Battle stuff (#grandbattle at irc.esper.net). Using it isn't necessary, but it does help. There might be a planning page on GoogleDocs at some point.
• Don't be a jerk. This includes killing or maiming other characters when you aren't supposed to (which is most of the time), dominating the plot at the expense of others, and mis-characterization of other contestants—stuff like that. A corollary to this is that should you be having problems - with other authors, their writing, the round location, your character and how they aren't fun to write for anymore, or anything like that - you shouldn't hesitate to let me know. Don't feel like you can't speak up. You have just as much of a right to be here as the other players.

Judging:
Writing ability is important, but what really matters is your storytelling. While your technical ability as a writer is as important as it is anywhere else, it's more important that you're able to create and develop interesting characters, interact with other player characters, carry a story, world-build, and things like that. Your level of activity and your interaction with other writers are decently important, too. Historically speaking, keeping to yourself and not interacting with anyone all round is pretty much a sure-fire way to get eliminated in Round One.

Applications:
Applications are open until the end of the month or so, or up to two weeks if I can negotiate for longer. Applications are not first-come, first-serve. Take your time and come up with a good character. Use the following application as a guide. Feel free to put the sections in different orders if someone else would need to understand your character's backstory to make any sense of their abilities or physical description. If you really have to, you can make a non-profile. Remember, besides proving that you can string words together into coherent sentences, you're trying to do two things: Convince me that your character is interesting enough that I'd want to see more of them, and provide a how-to guide for the other players who are ultimately going to be writing your character.

Username: Your username. Sort of a relic of an older time but still nice to have.
Name: Your character’s name.
Sex: Male, female, or none. Or both, if you want to show off.
Race: Human, ghost, sentient plant, or your very own incredibly specific type of alien. Don’t bother with an intricate description – save it for the description section.
Color: A text color for your character. Backgrounds are allowed, but you’ll probably regret deciding to use them once you meet up with another character and start alternating between text colors every couple of lines. Don’t pick #000000 or white on black, since those are the grandmasters’ colors.

Description: Both the character’s physical appearance and their personality. Remember, other players are going to glance over this section of your profile in particular to get a sense of your character before writing for them, so it’s probably in your best interests to keep this down to a couple of paragraphs.

Items/Abilities: Your character’s abilities, which extends to skills they have, crazy supernatural powers, and whatever weird things their species might be able to do. Also extends to the things that your character just so happened to have on them when they got pulled out of space and time.

Biography: Your character’s backstory. Occasionally, people will substitute this for a short scene featuring their character, which is okay, but only so long as that scene conveys something about their past. This is another part of your profile that other players are going to need to reference. Don’t write a massive essay, but, again, you might want to write a couple of paragraphs to help out the other players.

Other: An optional section. If you wrote an actual backstory but you still want to write that short scene featuring your character, go ahead and put it here. Otherwise, include your character’s theme song.

Actually, do that anyway.

Character Roster:

• Pinary as Michael "Mickey" McMillan
• Lord Paradise as Heironymous Fisher
• Sanzh as Csillag
• Ixcaliber as President Vladimir Roth
• TimeothyHour as A butterfly
• Anthano Zasalla as Oth
• XX as The Ragazza Ridente
• Snowyowl as Quino

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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Name: It does not answer to any name, but for the sake of reference, it could be called Δ⁶, Delta Six, D6, or The Egg
Sex: N/A
Race: Egg(?)
Color: White(#FFFFFF) on pink(#DD6060)
Biography: At the end of a universe, a new one is born. Unfortunately, there is no proof of this as nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever survived after the end of the universe. At least, that is what is assumed.

For a long time, this was true. Nothing survived the end of the universe, physical or otherwise. Nothing except the new universe. The first exception was a simple idea. As the end of the universe was drawing closer and closer, one of the last beings alive looked to the approaching doom and worked endlessly to try to stop it. The beings labor was met by opposition, by people who instinctively knew that this was right, and that trying to stop it was wrong. The being failed to stop the end of their universe, but their idea survived.

In the second cycle, the universe was the same, but also very different. This time, when the end of the universe approached, the being was still alone, but this time, they knew. They knew the proper procedure, they knew what they had to do, and they worked alone, in secret. It did not work. Everything should have been perfect, but it still failed. This failure survived.

In the third cycle, the being attributed their failure to the instincts of the people. They were content with the end as they knew it. They didn't want anything to survive. To survive the end, the being needed to have allies, others who would share in the belief that survival was possible. This revelation survived.

In the fourth cycle, a small group of beings came together and tried to stop the end together. Slowly, they and many more were won over to the original being's side. However, their belief was not enough. They needed more and they knew how to get it. They almost succeeded when the universe ended once more. This success survived.

In the fifth cycle, they had the time, the resources, the power, and the following. The beings all came together and witnessed the end of the universe together, but they did not survive it.

When the universe started anew, there in the center of the big bang, was a pearl egg, no larger than a beach ball, surrounded by spheres. It had no thought, no aim, no purpose. The egg of the dead universe simply stayed at the center of the universe, orbiting around itself. It was not waiting, it was not moving, it had no thought, no aim. The egg, in all of its time in existence, had only done one thing.

It survived.

Description: Δ⁶ is the name of a long-dead beings attempt to survive the end of their universe. It appears to be a sphere of solid white surrounded by six other color changing spheres. These other spheres are in a constant state of orbit around the center sphere and are of questionable solidity, as the orbit has the spheres intersect within each other and the center sphere without any physical alterations. It is about half a meter all around.

Items/Abilities: Δ⁶ floats off of the ground about two meters and is drawn to other living creatures. It remains stationary until it senses a living thing in the vicinity, at which point it will emphatically scan it. If the creature is "friendly", it will rotate less radically, and prompt the creature to take, care, and protect the egg. If it senses the creature as "aggressive", it will rotate at a higher rate and float towards the aggressive creature. In this higher state of rotation, touching near the sphere will result in both physical and mental pain.

Other: I feel that it should be noted that no, the egg does not have the minds of the beings from the prior universes inside of it actively guiding it, nor does it exhibit having any intelligence of it's own, seemingly acting only on instinct and only in the presence of living things.

SpoilerShow

Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.

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Username: Agentime
Name: Gregory Pope
Gender: Male
Race: Technically Human
Colour: hash tick(505)tock(560)
Description: Gregory is human. He is exactly 181.5 centimeters tall, with a mean increase of .05 millimeter per month. His weight is currently 65 kilograms ± 23.2 gram fluctuation measured over the period of one year. He has hair of color black #000000 and eyes of color brown #251500. He is wearing a white #FFFFFF plain sweater vest with three buttons over a grey #808080 business shirt with six buttons, five on the center seam and one on the breast pocket. Also belonging to his apparel is a pair of grey #A0A0A0 slacks with four pockets across the pelvic area.

Gregory is a man obsessed with precision. That is to say, he is a man who obsesses with precision, operating towards his goals with efficiency and pride. He is obsessed with perfection and exactitude, and it could be said that he is obsessed with obsession itself.

Because of his nature, he strives towards a perfection he cannot reach, which frustrates him greatly. Among some of the greatest objects of his frustration is the fickleness of time – stopped clocks make him nervous and wrong clocks make him wince. It drives him up the wall how strangely and fitfully time seems to be spent by human beings, which is possibly why he has his ability.
Items/Abilities: Gregory is gifted with the ability to locally decrease entropy in an object or mass. In effect, he can ‘reset’ an object to a less entropic state. A good way to think about it is that he returns the object to an earlier state of existence, though no actual time travel is involved. For example, he could take a cake and make its molecules remember a time when they were unbonded and unmixed, and return them to the state of being flour, eggs, milk and sugar.
Another thing to note is that it obviously gets harder to do as an object gets bigger, but even considering that, the complexity of an object is also a factor. A bag of sand weighing as much as a human would be much easier to turn back to a rock than the equivalent human into the accreted biological materials consumed, processed and stored over that individual’s lifetime. Though he could theoretically make people younger or change a building back into cement and mortar and wire, he simply doesn’t have the skill needed.
Biography: “Tell me about your parents, Gregory.”

“I never knew them. I was raised by Birchwell & Coyer.”

“Do you remember anything about your parents, Gregory?”

“I remember Father. He was perfect.”

“Perfect, you say?”

“Absolutely perfect.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There cannot be a reason to a fact.”

“Maybe let’s try a different tack. Gregory, how do you feel about your father?”

“I aspire to be the same. He is everything I wish to be.”

“Then why were you a foundling?”

“He abandoned me because I was not perfect.”

“Oh? Isn’t abandoned a rather strong word for the person you claim to revere?”

“Words are imprecise descriptors. Call it what you like: disowned, disinherited, disavowed. His perfection was tainted by my imperfection.”

“And how does that make you feel?

“I dislike feelings. They are continuous variables. Without, of course, subscribing to the cultural thematic of an emotionless robotic monster, which you are no doubt envisioning, doctor-”

“No, no, Gregory. I’m a psychiatrist, not a sociologist.”

“Such a cultural connotation applies inappropriate simplification to my case. It makes things imprecise and causes erroneous conclusions and diagnosis.”

“Well, surely even you wouldn’t round off some decimal places when doing sums either, eh, Gregory?”

“Lorenz tried that, doctor. His weather model entered divergence within a hundred iterations.”

“Well, for the purposes of the experiment-”

“His experiment failed, doctor. He set out to prove that given sufficient data weather prediction could become deterministic. Instead he proved that there is no such thing as sufficient data, and introduced chaos into the world.”

“Doesn’t it frustrate you, Gregory? The impossibility of discovering perfection?”

“You are trying to trap me, doctor.”

“No tricks, Gregory. No lies. Only truth.”

“The truth is that your statements are forcing me into a quandary. I must either admit that I accept a simplification of the universe as it stands in order to consider perfection a viable aspiration, or abandon the concept of perfection altogether. Most unprofessional, doctor.”

“This is a delusion, Gregory. Possibly with a dose of hero worship into the bargain, and an unhealthy fixation on your father.”

“These are diagnoses made with simplified and limited information.”

“You’re not giving me unsimplified information!”

“There is no such thing as sufficient data.”

“Are you impugning my experience?”

“Doctor, you have no experience.”

“What?!”

“You are not me. You have never been inside my head, so to speak. You try and reduce information to understandable bits but you-”

“-can never have all the information! Ahaha! If you claim I cannot produce a proper diagnosis, yes - then why are we here?!”

“Birchwell & Coyer want their star accountant certified sane.”

“Well I bloody won’t if you don’t cooperate!”

“You are losing your composure, doctor.”

“Who says I need it?”

“Says I, doctor.”

“Are you a professional, Gregory?”

“No. But right now, neither are you.”

“Ahem. Yes. I’m sorry. Gregory - there is a fatal fallacy in your argument. What you are saying, Gregory, is that I cannot produce a diagnosis you will accept?”

“No, doctor.”

“Well, you don’t need to. I am the doctor here.”

“Yes, doctor-”

“And I’m prescribing you...some of everything, really, antidepressants...some antipsychotic medication, something for your delusions...I’m afraid I can’t do anything for your daddy issues, not with drugs anyway. For that, you need solid therapy.”

...

“Gregory? Gregor- Good lord, you’re not hiding, are you? Because I mentioned medications?”

…

“Gregory?”

Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.

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Username: Pinary
Name: Michael "Mickey" McMillan
Gender: Male
Race: Human (Soto Family)
Text Colour: #604010

Description: Mickey's not a big guy, not in height, not in weight, and no matter how hard he tries, there's nothing about him looks intimidating. His face is all angles, and he might look decent if his black hair hung past his ears in a sheet instead of making itself into a curly, inch-deep mass. It might also help if he wasn't stuck with the family's uniform; see, a white tee with dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket might work on a biker or a hitter, but when you share a weight division with a mop, trying to look tough doesn't work so well.

Items/Abilities: As a member of the Soto family, Mickey's got a few advantages over your average John Doe. There's the basic lack of concern for old age or long-term injury, sure, but any Soto has a claim to that. Mickey's speciality is making a duplicate of himself. It takes a minute or two, and it's not exactly the most pleasant procedure, but when it's done, there's two of him standing around, and the only way to tell the two apart is that only one's up to making more. (I mean, yeah, they know the difference, but if they wanted to pull something, you'd be hard pressed to know which one's which.)

Biography: One coffee break. That was it, just one coffee break. If some jackass in an observatory had gotten back to his desk in time, things would've turned out differently. But no, Jackson Asswell had to go and dawdle with the creamer, so he missed his shot to give someone in charge the heads-up about a rock headed on a course for the planet. Thanks to him, the thing hit an illegal subnet satellite before anyone official could notice it, and it ended up cracking into four chunks and catching the attention of some junkie hacker in Seattle instead. From there, it was all downhill: hacker tracks meteorite chunk to the next state over, hacker's dealer agrees to drive him out in exchange for half of whatever they can sell it for, dealer shoots hacker and takes the whole score back to the local gang to pay off a debt, and the gang dissolves when someone gets thrown through a wall and people realize the rock's something special.

No one ever really worked out why it is the rocks did what they did. Some religious nuts went on about how it was meant to raise the worthy to enlightenment or something, and boatloads of nerds online shat themselves talking about alien civilizations, but in the end, it never really made much difference what brought the things down; all that mattered was that physical contact with a rock gave you weird abilities. While no two people got the same specific bag, each chunk of the meteorite passed out its own set of generics on top of an individual's own thing. Every Soto's got some measure of resilience in him, even though it doesn't always come out the same way.

Anyway, within two weeks, the Seattle underworld was being run by a guy named Dmitri and a bunch of bruisers he'd brainwashed into taking orders. By then, Miami and Berlin were in a fit as well, and it didn't take much longer for the three cities to end up as hubs for exploding criminal networks, the Sotos and the Gewitterwolken matching pace with Dmitri's goons and snapping up territory as fast as they could read the map. A fairly constant stream of divers went out to the mid-Atlantic, but as twenty years came and went, it was only extreme optimists thinking they had a shot at finding the last rock, and there weren't loads of optimists left after two decades of gangs running the streets and impotent governments doing jack about it.

Unlike lots of cities, Chicago never really found itself wholly owned by one faction or another. The Sotos got there first, but Dmitri took Milwaukee early on, and as soon as the Gewitterwolken got Detroit, they started poking their noses into the Windy City. The Sotos had to bring a fair bit of manpower to bear on the south end of town to keep the cloudy-assed Germans from encroaching, and when they did, Dimitri tried to take advantage, managing to get himself a foothold just inside the Illinois border before Tony Soto himself came up. Eventually, the conflict went from a full roiling boil to a relatively-calm simmer, and despite things staying the same for more than ten years after that, two weeks couldn't pass without someone trying to push into someone else's territory.

Michael McMillan had been five when the rocks first came down, and his dad's garage ended up burning to the ground twice before the kid was old enough for a driver's license. (Not that not having a license made much of a difference any more.) Unfortunately, the third Molotov stuck, and when Michael was left looking for food and shelter a few months shy of eighteen, he was picked up by Jerry Soto, bona fide cousin of the Miami kingpin himself. The local Sotos eased the kid into things slow, but by the time he turned nineteen, they had him jacking cars and pulling lookout duty like life-long family. Jerry, good friend to the kid that he was, even gave him the generous offer to be on the next road trip down south after his quick thinking got two members of the family clear of a Gewitterwolken ambush.

The rock wasn't all that impressive up close, but getting shot in the leg on the way out of Florida and not even limping by the time he got home made up for it just fine. From then on, he was a Soto through and through, and whether it was planning a getaway, rigging cars, or sending himself on a walkabout in hostile territory, he was in the game.

When he disappeared, though, not many folks got too worked up over it. Losing him was a tactical loss, sure, but there was that one kid fresh from Joliet, he had some skill with a wrench, didn't he?

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

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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.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

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Name: Kart Prente
Gender: Male
Font color: #CC6633
Race: Human
Weapons/Abilities: Kart carries a deck of chance cards, each charged with magical energy using special alchemical equipment. When a card is used, its magical charge is depleted, but it grants an advantage to Kart that will help with whatever problem he needs to solve. However, there is no way to control what advantage is given. If Kart needs to win a duel, the card may give him a weapon, cause the sun to shine or reflect brightly in his opponent's eyes throughout the entire fight, indirectly force the duel to be postponed until Kart has had adequate time to train, etc. However, the cards will never guarantee a success; solving the problem is still left up to Kart.

Description: Kart is fairly tall, and on the verge of fit. He wears a black robe with dark red fringes. The black robe signifies that he doesn't want any spilled alchemical ingredients discoloring his robe, and the red fringes signify that he likes the color red. Around his waist are four satchels; two carry a deck each of chance cards, while the other two are empty.

Biography: When in a profession dealing with magic, there are two ways to view it: as an art, or as a science. Those with innate magical talent tend to fall into the first camp, while those without it tend to fall into the latter.

Those who see it as an art focus on the end product - they shape magic to achieve their purposes without worrying about how they do what they do. The reason most magic users think of magic this way is because when they use magic, there is no calculation or theorizing involved - they simply will something to happen, and if their magic talent is strong enough, it happens.

Those who see it as a science, on the other hand, are constantly trying to understand how magic works and how to control it. Reasons for viewing magic as a science can vary; some are in it for the knowledge, others feel it's the only way they'll ever be able to use magic.

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Kart strode confidently out of the Alchemist Hall. He had just finished his presentation on the chance cards he'd created, and was ready to use one and confront his brother once and for all. He had lived his entire life in his brother's shadow. "Why couldn't you have been a wizard like Pack, Kart?" his parents had moaned. Everything he had ever accomplished had been instantly forgotten when Pack came back from his wizarding school and showed off his new tricks. Truthfully, Pack was the only reason Kart had become an alchemist; he somehow felt that if he could upstage his brother in magic, it would right the childhood he'd spent in his shadow.

The urge was so strong that it had driven him to invent countless numbers of magical items. Well, not really countless, but enough that his back shelves were cluttered with failed experiments. He sometimes set aside a failed invention on a separate rack so that if he had a spare moment he could attempt to fix it, but somehow those spare moments rarely came along.

His waterwalking boots were probably the easiest fix, and so were closest to the edge - the main problem was that they weren't waterproof, so they would weigh themselves down as they got more and more wet, eventually taking up too much of the enchantment's weight-cancellation properties and plunging the wearer below the surface as it failed completely.

He was also hoping to fix his absorption staff, an idea he'd had after he had seen a parlor trick where a magician charged a goblet with magic until it burst. He'd realized that certain metals were excellent for catching and storing magic, and had designed an absorption staff that drew magic toward it and stored it. Although it had led to some critically acclaimed new methods of magic transferal, he was not satisfied with it, as the staff would crack if it absorbed too much magic. But the same research had led to the device he had used to charge the chance cards, so perhaps it had not been a total waste.

He stopped in front of his brother's shop. He had only been there a few times, none of them willingly, so he'd had to carefully memorize the route there. He pulled a card out of one of the satchels on his belt, inspecting both sides to delay the inevitable confrontation. It looked much like a regular playing card, but had a back side on both faces.

Kart steeled his nerve and focused on the card. He had no natural magical talent, but the cards were designed not to need any to be activated. The side facing him glowed bright white for a few moments, until a symbol formed over it; eight shadowy figures in a circle, with a pair of crossed swords between them. Kart peered closer at it, narrowing his eyes. "What the heck does this mean?" But before he could puzzle it any further, the glow faded, and suddenly, he was no longer standing in front of his brother's shop.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.

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Username: Sanzh
Name: Csillag
Sex: Asexual
Race: Progenitor
Color: #731111

Description: Csillag is a fairly representative specimen of the Progenitor strain, both in morphology and in disposition. The central body of it is a large, spherical object, coated in folded-over layers of chitin shards. A thick, intertwined network of tendrils supports the sphere, acting similarly to roots and a trunk. Both the tendrils and body are covered in a mixture of thin, spore-producing stalks, rows of barbed thorns, and gill-like slits that constantly extrude a thin liquid film. Past the body and supporting structure of the Progenitor, a thick mass of weed-like filaments extends, coating the ground and any nearby structures. Progenitors range in size-- Csillag is a medium-sized specimen, approximately seven meters in height.

Progenitors have a single-track mind at the best of times; they are devoted almost entirely the ecologies they spawn and maintaining them, similarly to how a gardener may tend and cultivate an orchard. Threats to their burgeoning ecosystems are to be removed-- however, the method of removal varies with each Progenitor. Many will drive off threats, creating cadres of apex predators to hunt intruders; others may be content to sustain walls and barriers that isolate threats from their groves, others still may take alternate approaches. Despite this, however, Progenitors are arrogant in nearly every encounter, seeing themselves as a pinnacle life-form, with their ability to be host to such momentous change. Csillag is no exception, taking the arrogance common to his kind to levels of megalomania-- it views itself and its ecosystem as the zenith of life, the perfection of genes and evolution.

Items/Abilities: The Progenitor organism, by itself, is remarkably limited in its capabilities. It is wholly sessile life-form, with twisted, root-like hyphal tendrils and filaments firmly fixing its position. The body of the organism has some degree of protection, in the form of thick chitinous plates that encompass its central body; while this protective casing offers some measure of defense, a concentrated assault would be enough to disrupt it. Progenitors have some telepathic capabilities-- enough to communicate with nearby organisms, but not enough to mentally dominate them or commit to any psychic abilities past mental communication.

The main ability Progenitors possess, however, is the capability to produce an ecosystem around themselves. From fruiting bodies embedded within cracks in their hardened crust, a mixture of fast-growing spores, molds, and biological mutagens constantly sloughs off. The spores, once in a location where they are capable of acquiring nutrients, quickly grow to form a diverse range of organisms; the organisms found can range from fungus nodules saturated with nutrients for other parts of the Progenitor ecosystem, to thick mats of mold that blanket the ground, to scuttling, crustacean-like entities. Given sufficient time, larger and more complicated life-forms may arise, past the initial pioneer variations produced-- the extent of the Progenitor ecosystem's speciation is presently unknown. The ecosystem the Progenitor produces is ultimately capable of independent growth, but is limited in the range of variations expressed and in the speed of the expansion, and thus reliant on the core organism in some aspects.

Progenitor-spawned life, at least in terms of morphological characteristics, is most readily similar to fungi. Rather than having flora similar to grasses or trees, sessile life consists of a mixture of structures-- examples include looming stalks, twisted networks of filamentous vines, or domed growths similar to fruiting bodies. Fauna tend to be largely comparable to a cross between crustaceans and mycological life; a common organism may have a hard shell, but have a mass of hyphae used to collect and absorb food and powerful tendrils for locomotion. Nearly all Progenitor life-forms feature sturdy chitinous casings, dusty red in color.

The purpose of the Progenitor's grove is twofold. On one hand, it acts as an extension of itself-- the entirety of the ecosystem acts as one organism. In the same way that an animal has an immune system, it may have vicious predators dedicated to expelling intruders; where an animal has a digestive tract, the Progenitor garden has thick mats of mold that absorb nutrients. The other purpose-- or a side-effect of their presence-- is an eventual alteration of their environment. Planets with Progenitor-spawned ecologies, found after many centuries of growth and expansion, are noticeably divergent from their expected environments.

Biography:

SpoilerShow

TRANSCRIPT OF THIRRIN FACILITY INTERVIEW 05.19.239A
PRESIDING RESEARCHER DURING INTERVIEW: DR. LEWIS AEGER

<DATA FILE CORRUPTED>
<RECONSTRUCTING>
<27%>
<86%>
<COMPLETE>

Dr. Aeger: Right, we're starting for this day-cycle. Psychic amplifier's set up, we should be able to get a solid audio recording of any telepathic impulses that are being broadcast from the specimen. Specimen in question is the anomalous organism recovered from deep-space, designated two-three-nine alpha. Focus of today's experiments will be on replicating conditions that resulted in earlier communication with specimen. Technician Williams, initiate laser pulse-- half-second cycle, intermediate power.

There is the sound of an industrial laser firing, followed by the crackling of disintegrated flesh and cauterized carapace. The psychic amplifier apparatus begins to emit a series of distorted hisses, before changing to that of a deep, guttural voice.

Specimen 239A: You persist in these experiments. You think yourself capable of understanding our chorus of the infinite, the song of a hundred thousand minds as one. Your despair and individuality will never allow you to grasp our magnificence. You will never hear our symphony of life.

Dr. Aeger: Specimen has responded to initial stimulus. Specimen 239A, are you willing to cooperate in this interview, or will we need to inflict additional damage?

Specimen 239A: You think yourself capable of destroying us. You believe you are capable of disrupting our unity, when you are but an ignorant insect, a disunited piece subject to discord and violence. The understanding of what it is to be one part of a whole, to know your purpose-- it is a blessing you will never receive.

Dr. Aeger: Fire the laser again, increase power to high intensity.

The hiss of a laser is heard, similar to the last firing. The telepathy-audio translator begins to play a series of harsh screeches.

Dr. Aeger: I think you underestimate our capabilities, Specimen 239A. At a moment's notice we are capable of utterly sterilizing your chamber, and your lack of cooperation is making me increasing curious as to whether your kind is capable of surviving a bath in thermal plasma. Do I need to act on my threats, Specimen 239A?

The speakers attached to the psychic apparatus proceed to echo with a low, rumbling laughter.

Specimen 239A: I do not know death, only change. Parts of my being, the components of our grove, they live and die but we-- we do not die. Our garden does not cease-- with every second we grow our future, our infinite chorus adds new voices.

Alarms begin to sound, loudly blaring above the normal hum of the facility. There is a loud clicking, as a switch is repeatedly flicked at.

Dr. Aeger: Williams, why isn't the purge system working? Why are we receiving containment breach warnings?

Outside of the observation chamber, the clattering and scuttling of numerous organisms can be heard. The scraping noise can be heard, followed by several loud screams and the rending of flesh from outside.

Dr. Aeger: Oh god, no, no!

Specimen 239A: Did you think that the specimens of us, the constituent parts of our whole-- did you think they were helpless? Did you think our garden could be contained? Soon this place will be cleansed by our garden, our grove will proliferate and cover these sterile walls.

Dr. Aeger: Someone, anyone, stop this--

Specimen 239A: Do not struggle! You cannot delay the inevitable! Our chorus, our song, our thrum of glorious unity, will drown you beneath our perfect--

At this point, Specimen 239A disappeared entirely from the containment chamber. Subsequent searches of the Thirrin facility, while discovering traces of the specimen's progeny and crew, were unable to retrieve the original specimen, and its current location or fate is presently unknown.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Username: Ixcaliber
Name: President Vladimir Roth
Sex: Male
Race: Vampire
Colour: Red
Description: Vladimir is pretty much the image of an archetypal vampire. He has incredibly pale skin, jet black hair and a widow’s peak hairline. He typically wears a loose fitting white shirt with long bishop sleeves, delicate white gloves, black waistcoat and trousers and on top of all this a floor length black cape with an oversized collar. The cape is inlaid with crimson and as he walks it billows out behind him. He has the look of someone who was once attractive and who still could be given a certain light. His features are sharp and only slightly marred by age. There is something striking about him, something that draws you into those steely grey eyes. Also prominent fangs. You can’t miss them.

Vladimir holds an unshakable belief that vampires are just plain better than humans. The best way to describe his attitude towards humans is that he considers them obsolete. He is not the kind of person to be evil for the sake of it, he is someone who wants to make the world better and he thinks he can do it by putting the power into vampiric hands. Or, well, actually he already did that. He is ambitious, resourceful and above all patient. Though he walks the street in the most clichéd vampire outfit anyone has seen he did not always do this, he did not take control of the world by force. He was subtle; he was patient, infecting a person here and there, slowly tipping the balance in the vampires’ favour. Nowadays he is a little arrogant, and he’s kind of let himself go a bit; too much blood and too many bitches, but he figures he’s probably earned it.

Items/Abilities: Vladimir is a vampire. He has the ability to sire further vampires through a process where he ingests some of their blood and they ingest his. This leaves that person painfully incapacitated for a couple of hours and when they wake up they are a vampire. Vampires that he sires are inherently inferior to him, they lack some of the abilities that he has and importantly they lack the ability to sire vampires of their own. Should they try the victim will become a near-mindless slave that is colloquially known as a ghoul.

As a vampire Vladimir has superhuman strength and agility, the ability to recover quickly from any non-fatal injury, limited shapeshifting (either into mist or a small colony of bats), and a weak hypnotic influence over the weak-willed. But there are numerous downsides to being a vampire, the most obvious of which is the need to ingest blood to survive. Other weaknesses include: direct sunlight (it does not cause a vampire to burst into flames but they will get sunburnt very quickly and it will be really uncomfortable/hurt like hell dependant on how bright a day it is), religious symbology (though it is the conviction and the faith with which they are wielded that does the damage not the symbol itself), garlic (a mild inconvenience), holy water (very painful though rarely deadly), an inability to enter someone’s home unless invited, a wooden stake through the heart (not permanently fatal, the vampire in question will be rendered unconscious up until such time as some foolish kids remove the stake from his corpse), fire and decapitation. Out of all of these decapitation and fire are the only ways to kill a vampire permanently.

Vampires lack both reflections and shadows. They do not show up in photographs or video footage (though any sounds they make or things they say are perfectly audible). They lack a heartbeat and do not need to breathe, though they generally do so out of habit. They have no body heat and are generally at room temperature or perhaps slightly colder though they don’t really feel the heat. Vampires age at a much slower rate than humans.

Biography: Vladimir remembers little of his time spent as a human and he’s perfectly fine with that. Unlike most vampires his transformation was not the result of being sired but of drinking from a powerful blood magic ritual known as the Font of Sin. This fountain is the well from which all vampiric power springs, and the further removed a vampire is from it, the less powerful they are. Vladimir stumbled across it by accident. It was a stupid dare gone wrong; he did not seriously believe that this book of magic spells he had got from his local library held any truth, not did he believe that the ritual he performed would do anything more than make him nauseous and win him the respect of his friends. It did that but of course it did so much more.

A more mature man might have seen what he had become and despaired for he had become a monster. Vladimir was still a teenager and he thought being a vampire was cool. He convinced his friends to drink from the Font of Sin and they formed their own little vampire clan. They used their powers to do cool, if not very practical things and things seemed to be going okay for a while. Everything went wrong when one of his friends was caught drinking the blood of stray animals (slightly more ethical than drinking the blood of innocent people?) and they were hunted down. Though Vladimir tried to save his friends, he was unsuccessful. In the end he was forced to flee his hometown by himself, the only survivor of his ‘clan’.

The experience of losing his friends (no, they were more than his friends. They were his brothers, they had been more of a family to him than his actual family who had turned upon him when they found out what he was) matured Vladimir. It made him bitter and it made him wary. He saw the world in a new cruel light. Though part of him wanted to return to his hometown and get vengeance, he knew, even back then, that this would not accomplish anything save for putting himself in more danger. It was at this point in his life he began to see how the world really was and how it should be. It seemed obvious to him that vampires were so much better than the humans who had persecuted and killed his clan just because they were different. It was as though the world was out of balance and only he could see it; that the strong would have to hide their strength from the weak, it was preposterous. He decided then that this imbalance would have to be corrected.

To put his kind in their rightful place above the humans he knew that he would have to bide his time. He knew that he would have to be clever, that to try to take the world by force would be a foolish endeavour. He would not try to seize power in a day or a month or even a year. He would be slow and subtle; siring those in positions of power, until eventually one day they would be in charge and the masquerade could be dropped and finally humans would be put in their place.

And so he did. It took him the better part of several centuries to do so but eventually he managed to ingratiate vampires into governments across the world, into militaries and police forces and any other positions of power that he deemed necessary. Finally the vampires revealed themselves and Vladimir named himself President. It was not an easy transition. Those humans were so stubborn in their insistence not to become cattle; slaves of their vampire lords, but what could they do. There was conflict, there was blood spilled but it was too little and too late. He had prepared well and the vampires’ grip was too strong to be broken. The humans were eventually forced to accept their new position in life and Vladimir was able to relax having achieved everything he had ever wanted. Still, upon occasion he would find himself listless, wishing that perhaps there was some new goal for him to reach for, but knowing that there was not.

SpoilerShow

Other:

Originally posted on MSPA by ThunderJolt.

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Expression of extreme interest! Didn't make it into S!5 or S!6 so maybe I have a better chance this time...

This post will definitely be filled with an awesome character soon-ish.

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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Username: TimeothyHour

Name: Nobody’s taken enough time to name her yet, so I guess the opportunity is up for grabs.

Gender: Female

Race: Butterfly

Colour: #6495ED on black.

Weapons/Abilities: Well, you know, she can fly, and stuff, pollinate flowers and so on, and at this point I’m pretty sure she’s going to want to lay some eggs, as she does every year, year after year after hundreds of years, because, you know, I forgot to mention that she’s also entropy-resistant and therefore effectively immortal. It’s sort of unclear as to her intelligence, but she does have a certain cunning and charisma about her, but that probably comes with the territory of being many millions of years old.

She’s also very pretty, like most butterflies.

Description: Really, really tiny compared to most contestants. Her wings are mostly a brilliant light blue with black swirls patterned on the edges. Her antennae are long and healthy. She has all of her legs and pretty much looks like, you know, a freaking butterfly.

Biography: Sometimes, life has its mysteries.

It would be impossible to connect a single butterfly to any event that could have provided this creature with immortality. Nobody even knows if her immortality prevents her from dying outright, or is simply just the never-aging kind. Really, nobody even knows she exists, let alone the details of her life, her experiences, the millions of offspring she has or hasn't mothered. It's unknowable, entirely lost in the everything of everything.

It’s funny though, you know? Mysteries have a certain way with each other—an impossible attraction, a compounding of fates.

SpoilerShow

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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BLING

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

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Name: The 24-7 Gang: Bobby Banks, Robyn Banks, Robespierre Banks, Roberta Banks, Rupert Banks (No relation)
Gender: Male, Female, Male, Female, Male
Race: Human, the whole lot of them
Text Color: 009900, dollar-bill green
Description: The 24-7 Gang are a family of thrill-seeking gangsters who have dedicated their lives to robbing banks, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If this means hopping on a bankplane to another continent, and robbing it in the process, then so be it!
The Banks family wear their masks at all times, at least when they're on the job - rumor has it they wear them in private, too, but this rumor has no basis in reality.
Bobby is a somewhat bulky man in his late thirties wearing a purple ski mask. Most news stories on the gang identify him as the leader, but in all honesty, he's not very bright and is well aware of this. He does enjoy the publicity, though. He's very protective of his family, though you'd have a hard time getting him to admit this in public - or in private, for that matter.
Robyn is a slim woman, slightly older than Bobby, wearing a red mask. She's the true leader of the gang, and Bobby's wife; she admires him mostly because he's very good at doing what she says. She tends to constantly issue orders to the family even during downtime.
Robespierre is a thin, even scrawny, teenage boy in a light blue ski mask. He loves pulling pranks, and it doesn't matter to him whether he pulls them on bank security guards or on his own family.
Roberta, the youngest, is an eight-year old girl wearing a pink ski mask and a frilly pink dress instead of the black jackets and pants the rest of the family wear. She always talks in a very cutesy voice, and is usually holding a doll or stuffed animal of some kind; she's gathered a rather large collection, but every week or so she picks a different one as her "favorite" and will never be seen without it, until next week when she tosses it back with the others.
Rupert is the only member of the gang not to wear a mask; he wears formal attire and is a man in his fifties or sixties with grey hair and an immaculately-trimmed mustache. He is always polite and has a slight British accent - at least, when he's not posing as someone on a job. He is very loyal to the family, and acts as something of a butler to them, as well as a tutor to the children.
Weapons/Abilities: Each member of the gang has their own specialty.
The main advantages Bobby brings to the team are his imposing build, and his ability to yell in a loud and booming voice. He tends to act as the muscle and/or a distraction, depending on what the heist calls for.
Robyn specializes in planning out the gang's heists, and she's an excellent shot with a gun. In addition, she's an expert at breaking into and hotwiring vehicles whenever the current one gets too hot to handle; past thefts include motorcycles, armored trucks, police cars, tanks, ocean liners, and a space shuttle that one time.
Robespierre's light build makes him good at sneaking around unnoticed, and he has a grappling hook, infrared goggles, and a harness to help him make use of this to get into hard-to-access areas unseen. In addition, he's the family pickpocket, and usually the one called on when they need to get a keycard or somebody's ID in a hurry. He also loves pulling pranks, as mentioned before, and can never resist pulling at least one trick while he's on a stealth mission. He has a few props for this purpose, such as sneezing powder and whoopee cushions, but he's also not afraid to improvise.
Roberta is the family's tech expert, and also has a knack for picking locks. She's remarkably adept at hacking, although she tends to give her stuffed-animal-of-the-week credit for that.
Finally, Rupert is a master of disguise, which may explain his willingness to go without a mask the rest of the time - it's not as if it would help security to recognize him. He's also something of a jack-of-all-trades, having previously shown an affinity for such diverse tasks as demolitions, safecracking, martial arts, cooking, laundry, vehicle repair, software engineering, and skydiving.
In addition, at the time of abduction, the family had stolen an armored van and loaded their most valuable belongings into it, among them changes of clothes, various gear for heists (including weapons), Roberta's doll and stuffed animal collection, and Robespierre's props.
Biography:
WANTED
For various counts of bank robbery, grand theft auto, grand theft vehicles in general, hacking, pickpocketing, con games, and jaywalking

The first major sighting of the criminals known as the 24-7 Gang happened about sixteen years ago. Their first recorded heist was a raid on the First Church of Mammon National Bank, conducted by a man and woman in their mid-twenties and an older man posing as a priest. Over the course of the evening, the trio stole $400,000 in cash and an armored car, as well as an estimated $15,000 in "gifts" from bystanders forced into acting as "guests" for a wedding between the younger thieves.

The only clue left behind was a marriage certificate in the names Bobby Banks and Robyn Banks; authorities believe these to be assumed names. A few witnesses reported that the older man was referred to as "Rupert"; it is currently unknown what connection he has to the younger couple, but there are reports of an identity thief using the name Rupert Banks 30 years ago. Digital imaging suggests the older criminal could be the same man, but this remains unconfirmed.

The Gang has acquired their nickname by engaging in a constant string of robberies since then; they immediately move across the globe from one bank to the next without a break. Furthermore, approximately nine months after that heist, the young couple was observed with a baby. It is unknown whether this boy was kidnapped or is the biological child of the "Banks" family, but in the intervening years this "Robespierre Banks" has grown up and assisted the 24-7 Gang with their heists, usually through stealthy maneuvers.

Approximately eight years ago, the Gang grew by another member; once again, this was a child. Again, it is unknown whether she was kidnapped by the Gang or born to them. She is known to the public only as "Roberta Banks". She appears to be quite talented with computer systems, and appears to have conducted a number of successful hacking attempts, but we have little knowledge of any other crimes she has conducted under the guidance of her criminal parents.

Please contact the local authorities if you have any knowledge that could lead to the arrest of these dangerous criminals...

Bobby Banks put the poster down.
"Dang!" he said to his wife. "The bounty's up to eight digits. Almost temptin' to turn somebody in." He turned to Robespierre in the backseat. "I hope you keep that in mind when you think about skippin' on your homework, son. It might be a few days before we can get you out otherwise."
"Aw, Dad!" Robespierre sighed. "I only forgot to research the security systems once, can't you let it go already?"
"Maybe when the laser burn stops feelin' so sore," Bobby grumbled.
"Shut up, Bobby!" Robyn growled at him. "We ain't turnin' the kids in. Now make yourself useful help me find a good landin' spot."
"Sorry, dear," Bobby sighed, turning back. He looked carefully at the Tower of Banking ahead. "Don't see a helipad... But I don't see any guards, either."
"I would imagine not, sir," said a voice in the back seat. "There is little air at this elevation, and thanks to an error in the shipping company's records, the new air tanks they were supposed to receive yesterday were diverted to the Sixty-Third National Bank."
Rupert smiled at Roberta, who sat beside him.
"I must say, it was highly convenient for us, wasn't it? Security here lacks proper breathing equipment for the upper levels, and we were able to pick it up at our last stop."
"You can thank Sir Toothingsburg for that," Roberta said, holding up a stuffed alligator. "He's the best!"
"Quit yappin', everyone," Robyn said. "I gotta be careful landin' this thing. You all remember what happened last time we came by copter."
Everyone was quiet as Robyn landed on the roof. They climbed out and Rupert handed out the air tanks.
"Right. Listen up, everyone!" Robyn shouted, as she adjusted her breathing mask. "This here's the tallest bank in the world. And we're gonna clean it out from top to bottom! Everyone remembers the plan, right?"
"Yes, madam."
"Yeah, mom, geez..."
"I do, Mommy! I do!"
"Uh... could you run it by me again, honey?"
Robyn glared at her husband.
"All you gotta do is head to the elevator, go down to the first floor, and cause a ruckus," she sighed. "We'll pick you up when it's over. Just don't do anything too stupid and you'll be fine. Nothing's gonna go wrong here."

"Tonight's top story: The 24-7 Gang has struck again! This morning, they conducted a daring raid on the recently-erected Tower of Banking, in which they reportedly stole cash and valuables from every single floor and commandeered an armored car for their escape. And then something strange happened: once all five members of the gang entered the vehicle, it disappeared in a flash of light.
"Police had no comment on this development, nor on the fact that the Gang has not conducted any robberies in the six hours following the incident - a rare occurrence. We'll have more details as the story develops."

Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH.

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Username: Garuru
Name: Happy Sparkles Gumdrop
Race: Fairy
Gender: Male
Color: Slate Blue

Items/Abilities: Happy is a Fairy, a cherubic race of creatures that govern a specific abstract concept. Happy's concept happens to be Success. He can imbibe his target with a heightened amount of potential Success. For ease of definition, you can think of Success as a parallel to energy. So, when Happy gives his target potential Success, the target can then utilize the essence of Success in whichever way he wishes, as kinetic success (Note the capital letters, they're an important distinction here). Naturally, the definition of success varies from person to person, and Happy has no control over how that person chooses to be successful, but that's okay, because it's more fun that way! What Happy does not know, however, is that Success has a further parallel to energy, in that it cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred. So, when Happy makes someone Successful, he inadvertently makes someone else proportionally as Unsuccessful. Additionally, Success has the curious property of being passable down through generations, providing the original user had enough to pass on. This is never a problem, as Happy tends to give away huge amounts of Success to those that he thinks deserve it. Unfortunately, this property also applies to Unsuccess. Other, more mundane, powers include: levitation, teleportation, invisibility, and an annoyingly high-pitched voice. He is actually pretty talented in a wide variety of fields, such as singing or playing the piano, but his skill goes down every time he blesses someone with success. This can be attributed to an equivalent of entropy, and running out of their respective abilities is how every fairy dies.

Description: Happy sizes up to a considerably underwhelming 8 inches tall, but he has large transparent angelic wings as big as his body. He doesn't actually need them to fly, they just look good on him. His body is rather baby-like in proportion, in that the head is bigger than average. He does have a more knowledgeable spark in his eyes that makes him appear older, but not by much, as he is still rather childish. He has a light green fuzz of hair and a crown made out of leaves. It does not appear to be removable. He is dressed in a toga and his body exudes a gentle glow. Personality-wise, he is extremely goofy and childish, and is constantly getting in trouble with other people. However, he does take his job seriously, and honestly has a desire to see people succeed. He, like all fairies, enjoy seeing the world being made into a better place. He is also extremely naive, to the point where he might bless evil people with Success, not knowing that they are evil. He is accident-prone, but not prone to learning from his mistakes at all. His personality can be rather obnoxious to most people, but he is genuinely a kind person, deep down. He thrives off of making friends, and his worst fear is being alone. He is actually 350 years old, but in fairy years, that's like 30.

Biography: In this world, fairies have long been the guardians of various abstract concepts, such as Hope, Truth, and Love. Humans far outnumber fairies, so fairies have a subservient role to humans, serving only to modify and maintain their world. However, their position is also one of superiority, as the humans know the fairies can really mess their world up if they are allowed to. There is but one school for fairies, and that is the clearly-named Fairy School. Fairies attend this school for 6 years, hoping to secure a high-up position in their specific Craft. Each fairy is born with a Craft, the abstract concept they have control over. However, Happy is one of the few Success Fairies in the school. This has made him too valuable to lose, but the problem is that he isn't the best student. He has the tendency to only pay attention to what he deigns to be important. He ended up barely passing the final exam, and he was let loose in the real world. He barely managed to keep the Success part of the world running, but he did end up being indirectly responsible for the rise of capitalism, so he was hailed as a hero nevertheless.

Originally posted on MSPA by Anthano Zasalla.

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Username: Anthano Zasalla
Name: Oth
Gender: N/A
Race: Android
Text Colour: #006080

Description:

EDIT:

SpoilerShow

Oth is a sentient android with a simple yet elegant design. His limbs are thin and not especially strong even by human standards, but he possesses the singular ability to weaponize nearly anything, and can perform many mathematical calculations instantly. At the same time he has an extremely romantic mindset, and with it, a sense of knightly honor. Although, only "knightly" in that he will not betray those who consider him a friend. He is perfectly willing to fight dirty and abhors authority. He also abhors conceited muscular men, for reasons only partially understood.

Oth was created by a group of researchers, robotics experts and programming experts, with the ultimate goal of creating limited artificial sentience. When he was first built, Oth remained entirely unaware, only able to run specific processes as each corresponding command or stimulus presented itself. However, some year and a half after the project's beginning, Oth woke up.

Somewhat.

Evidently, as an unforseen side-effect of being an android imbued with a soul, he occasionally lapses into a walking lucid-dream state. In this state, he has heightened senses and athletic abilities, but a severely distorted vision of the world-- to the point that his mind replaces what is actually said with other words. It's usually best to keep quiet and leave him be for a while if he begins talking to rocks.

Bio:

SpoilerShow

>C:/memory>bitsearch.exe "Astral"

>Searching...
>Search yielded 4 hits.

SpoilerShow

EXCERPT FROM VAETENCYCLOPAEDIA

Allegedly a simple Roskvian clockmaker, Remus Algerna is reputedly the first to have built a working android. He first began work on it a short time after mentioning in one journal "A brilliant idea... with ramifications which may well condemn me to become a Great Man."

His initial design in 1190e4, which he named "Isul", was capable of completing only rudimentary tasks such as pushing, holding, and lifting. However, if his currently known writings, logs, and corresponding sketches are to be believed, he gradually made improvements to his initial model, likely with the intention of developing a final blueprint. Said writings seem to indicate that this blueprint was never completed, though it is fairly obvious that several of his logs and sketches have been lost or destroyed. It is known that the entire android was built using only scrap metal plating and clock parts and was thus extremely complex.

Although many of the exact dates are unknown since many of his papers were not dated, it is apparent that he eventually managed to make this first model able to follow complex sequences of orders, to understand object permanence and several other abstract concepts, and to speak, albeit with an extremely simple vocabulary. It is uncertain how exactly Algerna managed to accomplish this with the materials and knowledge he had. Robotics was a highly obscure science at the time, due to its infancy as an idea and its perceived lack of utility. His designs are for the most part consistent with the functions he described. Yet occasionally he included incredibly specific directions which seem unnecessary and even inconvenient in terms of functionality.

However, within his writings Algerna repeatedly cites what he calls "the Astral Side of the World" or simply "the Other World" as key to his progress. It is unclear what purpose it served in terms of building Isul. This is in part because of absent logs yet also because Algerna seems to have gradually lost mental stability as his project progressed, until his untimely death sometime during 1211, Fourth Season. Regardless, due to the superstitious implications of "the Astral Side" it has largely been passed off as the fantasy of a diseased, yet brilliant mind...

SpoilerShow

UNTITLED
(Author unknown)

what we've left behind doesn't deserve
to grovel at our heels and cry.
it wasn't our astral cord
we cut and lay to die.
because when we left
it never then
wanted a
second
chance.

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PROJECT ASTRAL EXPERIMENT LOG
AS KEPT BY DR. WARREN GERRIAD

<WARNING: FILE CORRUPTED>
<ONLY DISPLAYING INTACT INFORMATION>

1632e1w1:
Suppose will have to keep log from now on. Usually not good about routine reports, but will have to get used to it. For now, will fill in on details of Project.
Have few details at present, but general idea is to create intellig
[DATA CORRUPTED]
ications, but does not worry me. New knowledge much more valuable than ancient superstition.
Have managed to hire old friends. Need more minds. Diligent minds. Get work done. Not enough hands, either. But always excercise discretion.
Have made inquiries into certain "Remus Algerna" and his pioneering robotics work. Exciting stuff. Odd mentions of "Astral Realm" crop up often. will look into it.

1632e1w2:
Have decided to name this mission "Project Astral". Have also decided on ultimate goal of project. Unclear in beginning. No longer unclear. Will need more discretion in hiring aid.
If impressions of "Astral Realm" are correct, will requi
[DATA CORRUPTED]

1632e1w3:
[DATA CORRUPTED]
New researcher, Professor Ada Hanmarian, joined the team. Has excellent background in teaching robotics and programming. Noted to frequently use crude language. As long as reports are written satisfactorily, should not be a problem. As always with new researchers, however, best to excercise discretion concerning true goals of Project.
Other researchers somewhat w
[DATA CORRUPTED]
eed to exploit that often.
Progress not promising, but underlying problems fairly easy to see. Just to weed them out.

[DATA CORRUPTED]

1632e2w1:
Professor Hanmarian far too inquisitive. Research associates trusted with retrieving materials painfully inept. May take matters into my own hands. Must establish full authority, however. Hanmarian considers herself equal or above others. True for most associates, but need to make sure I am established leader. Must be me. No one else worth trusting.

[DATA CORRUPTED]

1632e4w4:
Hanmarian confirmed to be (excuse uncivilized language) "bitch". Will continue regardless, many other researchers now. May need to remove her. Not worrying now.
Project progress astonishing. Unprecedented amount of progress in previously unknown scientific territory. Project assembled already, every bit as expected. Only last part required is Astral half. "Soul". Just a matter of finding one.
Have many at my disposal.

[DATA CORRUPTED]

1633e3w2:
Have been forgetting to fill log recently. Too much going on. Promise to be more diligent in future. Think it may be excitement.
To think, yesterday, subject was inept, lifeless husk. Now, on cusp of accomplishing impossible; will animate the inanimate, give life to lifeless. After many tests, have reached final step. Have found all variables and constants, all calculations finished. Where territory unknown, went to Remus Algerna. What genius! Seemed to provide every answer when progress seemed hopeless. Know now we need only provide suitable capsule, soul will provide itself. Know it will.
Would love to see Hanmarian's face. At same time, wonder about subconscious focus on her as rival. Will be certain to keep it from hinderi
[DATA CORRUPT]
et to permanently name subject. Some names going around among associates. Disapprove of most. Have decided on "Oth
[DATA CORRUPT]

1633e3w2:
SHE HAS HAND IN THIS SOMEHOW DONT CARE HOW WILL SEE HER DEAD
[DATA CORRUPT]
[DATA CORRUPT]

LOG ENDED IN 1633, SEASON 3 DISEPDI

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EXCERPT FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PROFESSOR ADA HANMARIAN

Dear King Wordfucker, also known as Journal,

This is my last journal entry before I ship my self off to fucking tropical condo party central. I'll probably change my name, too. Never figured I'd want to change my name. I don't have to. I guess I just don't want to linked to this pile of bullshit. Well no, not bullshit. Not bullshit so much as a bull that buried itself in its own shit. I guess they were all snorting and stomping and what-the-fuck-ever and they weren't wearing diapers, or something. Something insulting. I don't know, I'm not a fucking writer, I'm not good with metaphors. But I know that Gerriad asshole was the biggest fucking bull out of them all.

Where did it all go wrong? I've been rereading this journal recently, trying to find that out. I can barely believe how blindsided I was. "Let's test this sheet metal!" "We may need these wires if we ever need to repair some hardware!" "Let's bring in these spare fucking android parts! We totally need those!" I don't know, I guess I thought they were a bunch of kids who thought robotics and engineering was the coolest thing since fucking canned soup. Turns out they were going to build an android. How early could I have figured that out? A year ago, maybe? What an idiot I was. What an idiot.

Well, at least I figured it out by 2 seasons ago. An android? Not so bad. It's just a fucking robot. But that was also when I dicovered what they were going to do with it. So I got out. As soon as I could. Like a real science-fiction thriller. Though I don't think they're chasing me or anything. I signed all the paperwork. Now I'm sitting in some budget motel writing this fucking journal halfway across the world from those dipshits. What a riot.
Who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to give a soul to a robot, anyway? First off, Gerriad has them kill rookies for some kind of crazy spirit power that will make their toy smarter? They've had to have seen science-fiction movies if they thought robots are so cool, so they should have known better. Never, EVER make an intelligent robot because he it will screw you over before you have a cha

The journal entry ends here. Professor Hanmarian appears to have disappeared from her apartment at about the time the entry was written in 1633e3w1, with no trace but a single drop of blood on the page. Blood identification pending.

SpoilerShow

He was standing in a dark room surrounded by steel walls and one-way windows. He was getting the impression that it was not a room anyone ought to be living in, because the lights were too dim, the mirrors too oppressive, and the nails in the walls were too hastily hammered in.

He was feeling somewhat tired. He was feeling. He was.

After a bit of time one of the walls fell into the floor to reveal a huge man in a lab coat two sizes too small squashed into the doorway. The man was grinning. It was a triumphant grin. It was also an astonished grin. It brought to his mind a caveman hunching over the first manmade fire. He wondered if the man knew fire could burn him.

"Greetings," said the man. "I am Doctor Warren Gerriad. And you, my friend, are the culmination of all of my year's work." The doctor ducked into the room, much taller now that the ceiling was more accomodating. Still grinning, the man made gestures as if speaking to a crowd.

The android was still tired. He thought he felt tired, anyhow. What he actually felt was an odd sensation he did not recognize which seemed to blur his vision and make him dizzy, but he called it being tired. If he weren't what he is, he'd have been right.

"Ahh," the man sighed. "To think you would come together so soon! Never, I tell you, has progress been so simple to achieve..."

The android wasn't listening anymore. A buzzing noise had overwritten all the caveman's words. It was more a sensation than a sound. The room seemed to vibrate-- the android wondered if you could see sounds as well as hear them-- although the doctor took no notice. Slowly, the room shook off its rigid walls and windows and crumbled into a bright field of cyan grass. Above, the sky was white and blinding and beautiful. The man before him stood now as a strange dark silhouette. The buzzing stopped.

"And still, you stand." The shadow croaked. It turned what must have been its head. As the android stared, a featureless face with three green pinpoints of light for eyes stared back.

"You'll be leaving soon. I just thought you might want to see the other side at least once."

"What are you?"

The android found himself speaking. It was an odd, yet comforting sound. He decided he rather liked his own voice. The figure did not seem to care. It laughed a rough and harsh laugh.

"What am I? What am I! A better question. What are you?" It laughed again.

The android did not know. He only knew he was alive. As far as he could tell, he still was.

"Interesting." It seemed pensive, staring off into the white expanse above. "A lucid visitor, then? And from what I can tell, this will not be your last visit."

"Why?"

But the figure did not hear. It seemed to look about, as if something was happening. Nothing was. The bright blue plain still swayed and whispered softly beneath them. Then the silhouette peered at him again.

"Fight well," it said. Everything vanished. Then everything came back.

"What are you, I ask?" said the doctor.

The android knew the answer now. "I am my own."

The doctor seemed surprised, although the grin sill had yet to leave his block of a face. "No. You are mine, I think you shall find. But you still possess your mind." The doctor rubbed his cleft chin. The android swiftly came to the conclusion that he hated Dr. Gerriad's face. "And that," the doctor continued, "Is precisely what I need you for. Your mind. Your beautiful mind..." he trailed off.

"But, first, You need a name." he finished.

A name? The android didn't feel as if he needed identity. It simply was. But the doctor was already speaking.

"Yes... I think I shall call you--"

There, on the edge of the senses, from the farthest reaches of the back of the mind, there was a sudden pull. An invitation, from another place. Anywhere other than here. The android accepted.

"--Oth--"

And with a burst of light, he vanished. He would not be there to hear the doctor scream.

"Oth". It would have to do.

Originally posted on MSPA by XX.

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Name: The Ragazza Ridente

Sex: Bluff in the bow, round in the counter -- and costs a fortune to keep in powder and paint.

Race: Airborne caravel, not quite an airship but you’re on the right track

Color: Before me money was all gone, or spent on some old whore, I made up me mind and was well inclined to go to sea no more.

Description:

SpoilerShow

An old and obviously finely crafted sailing ship, now fallen on hard times. Wine red from bow to stern, the Ragazza features a pair of eyes painted prominently on either side of the bow, still strikingly visible despite the peeling paint on the rest of the vessel. Roughly 20 meters from end to end. A huge, ragged gap is visible on the port bow, exposing the ship’s ribs and the remnants of a luxuriously furnished cabin. . Knotted ropes hang aimlessly from the splinters that mark where the three masts once stood, now little more than nubs worn down by years of lobster mating seasons. The deck is warped and twisted from years under the water and is infested with all manner of irritatingly undying sealife. The only part of the ship that remains whole is the figurehead: a beautiful young girl cast in gilded iron, smiling and holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Her eyes are two massive rubies set into the metal. Painted next to her is the inscription Raga; all else is illegible.

Items/Abilities: Although largely intended as a pleasure vessel, the ship was designed with the possibility of more interesting situations and holds eight incendiary cannons hidden in its belly as well as a small but thorough armory (variously rusted), several weeks’ worth of basic supplies (largely unusable), and a very distinguished wine cabinet (immaculate). Most of these are tucked behind false walls, though with the ship’s deterioration the disguise is rather pointless.

The Ragazza Ridente was supposed to have been sunk a significant amount of years ago, but no one bothered to tell it that. Its keel floats about the ground at a steady two to three meters, though it has been observed sailing much higher under certain circumstances. Its means of levitation are unclear, as is the reason for the brilliant amber glow beaming through its portholes, though they are presumably related and almost certainly highly relevant to its status as a zombie boat. Its time underwater has not diminished the ship’s speed or maneuvering capabilities; it moves as nimbly as any vessel ever made, with the added advantage that it doesn’t need to bother with pesky things like water.

Biography: As with any ghost story, there are multiple iterations of how the Ragazza Ridente came to be and no real proof to prop up one or the other. Most accounts seem to agree that a witch was involved with its making, or possibly several witches, or maybe a very drunk gypsy, and cursed the newly-christened ship with general well-wishings and a particularly ominous clause against all theoretical disasters, which even the most amateur of storytellers can see was a very bad idea. Thus damned, the ship was delivered to its recipient, who is almost always the daughter of a famous pirate lord or some other lady of nobly ill-bred stock. It was a wedding present: this is unanimous. What happened at the wedding is not.

A freak storm, an accidental kraken, an attack by the Royal Armada of some despicable monarch, an ambush by a rival pirate or simply a very elaborate and confusing suicide by the bride are all contenders for the cause of the Ragazza’s sinking, and in the end it matters very little which of them is true. It may be the case that none of them are, which would still leave the ship at this point in the story very much sunk and porthole-deep in the muck of a certain cape, from that point onward known rather uncreatively as the Ruddy Bay, or Bloody Bay, or really anything the storyteller in question feels like throwing in at this point to avoid sounding like they don’t know anything at all about Mediterranean geography. After that a number of years passed, generally either five or ten or fifty or one hundred, and one day the ship rose again from the dark depths to take its revenge.

Whether it succeeded is, once again, pointless, because it was around that time that the Ragazza Ridente gained the distinction of being the most common and infamous ghost ship sighting for nearly a thousand miles in any direction, favorably rated by four out of five mediums and gleefully proclaimed as the cause of more or less any weather pattern more extreme than a light summer rain. In truth its sightings were rather formulaic: a gradual darkening of the sky and water, a feeling of brooding dread amongst the crew up the three days before the event, and finally an apparition of a crimson shipwreck cruising towards the unlucky vessel at top speed and vanishing at the last moment just before the onset of dawn. Very occasionally the Ragazza’s appearance would be tied to the disappearance of a sailor or two from a particularly well-crewed ship, but taking into consideration the source these reports may less than completely reliable.

I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you, though.

Theme Song: Empire of the Sun- Half Mast

Originally posted on MSPA by Jacquerel.

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Name: Lexicon
Sex: Demons tend to pick between the two to fit whatever's appropriate, as this one is shaped like a box it's largely irrelevant. Usually projects a scholarly male voice.
Race: Demon
Color: Pretty stereotypical, really.

Biography:

SpoilerShow

As a demon Lexicon's main occupation was bartering with humans in exchange for their souls, used as currency, manual labour workers and supernatural fuel in the underworld. Demonic spell casting requires the consumption of souls and thus displays of power are the domain of the wealthy, only a demon who already has spirits to spare would dare use magic to impress a mortal and even then they would tend to focus on targets that rake in more metaphysical profit than they had to consume to get it. Some souls are more valuable than others; those that live most sinfully or had their own magical power becoming the most valuable and nourishing in the afterlife, those that were close to saints (though saints rarely trade their souls to demons) aren't worth much at all.

Lexicon's targets of choice were scholars, researchers and the occasional reckless wizard's apprentice, disguising his lack of much actual infernal power by bartering rare or forbidden knowledge where others might offer to grant wishes or provide carnal pleasure. It wasn't the quickest or most profitable racket in the world and Lexicon never became powerful or particularly well-respected by his peers, but by virtue of living forever he never really needed to be hasty about it. It was a fairly safe position with very little competition that raked in enough to keep him ticking over fairly comfortably, which left him basically content with his lot.

That all changed one evening when he found an apprentice mage he had been working on suddenly agreeing to deals with suspiciously little resistance, and he was forced to employ his wiles to discover why.
The consortium of elder magi, tired of their kind being driven into the clutches of darkness by the lure of power, had ceased their endless traditional bickering to work a joint spell the likes of which had never seen before; Sealing the whole of the underworld away behind an unbreakable metaphysical gate such that they could no longer interfere with the mortal world. Such a feat was beyond a single man, but the twelve most powerful mages working in confluence on a night of celestial alignment that occured only once a millennium might just scrape enough power to lock Lexicon and his brothers away forever!

Stepping easily out of the improperly scrawled pentacle he scuttled up the outer walls of the tower to the pinnacle, too late to stop the spell entirely but with enough seconds spare to tinker with it a little. Striking down the wizard (too caught up in chanting to notice until too late, the apprentice that was supposed to have been maintaining defensive wards preoccupied with instead busy trying to un-summon the monster he had unleashed) he stepped into the vacant spot in the inscriptions upon the floor and redirected the spell's focus point from a desolate rock far off in the ether to that very tower.
It was still a harsh blow for evil everywhere to be sure but Lexicon would make a far less stable and invincible prison than the one the wizards had chosen; It would take another thousand years for the same confluence of stars to roll around again, plenty of time for the tiny demon to blast the way back open and loose his masters to exact terrible vengeance before the wizard council could enact a repeat performance.

Returning to his infernal study and delving into the strangest of tomes in his collection, Lexicon devised a counter spell that would be enough to break open the gates and repopulate the cavernous depths that now felt so empty. However, removing such a potent enchantment would take an equally impressive amount of power. He was going to need a lot of souls.
Armed only with his encyclopaedic knowledge, a deep hatred for magicians and the voices of all the inhabitants of the nine hells ringing in his metaphorical ears he set out to amass the largest cult the world had ever seen.

Description:

SpoilerShow

SpoilerShow

When summoned to the plane of mortals, Lexicon manifests as a 15x15x15 centimetre cube carved from some mysterious grey mineral. Each face is carved with a star pattern, marked with a dome at each point and one in the centre.
Despite having no visible seams each dome can split itself open in the manner of an eyelid to reveal either a shining red eye or a long chain made of the same material, extending for up to three meters in length. These chains can be tipped with a single sharp spike or a three-fingered grasping hand with razor tips on the end of each "finger". These chains can be moved about by magical means and are used as legs, arms or other limbs as the circumstance demands.
Whether one of the apertures previously opened to reveal an eye or a limb does not seem to have any bearing on what it will contain when it opens next, an eye could blink closed to immediately become a hand or vice versa (the only limitation being that the chain has to have fully retracted first).

As he was never able to grant people's wishes or impress them with pyroclastic displays of magical power, Lexicon relies mostly on charisma and manipulation to accomplish his goals. As a demon he is physically incapable of lying and is equally unable to break the terms of any formal deal that he has made, though he gets around this with a lawyer's mastery of half-truths and implication. If he never explicitly states that what he's offering is part of a contract or a promise, he won't feel bound by it.

Lexicon is ultimately self-serving and though his goal seems a little noble (in that he is trying to free his relations from magical imprisonment) it is more out of the comfort that the rigid demonic hierarchy provided. With no other demons around, there's nobody to actually trade his amassed collection of souls with and very little to do. That said, it never helps to demonstrate the fact that you are ultimately evil to those you wish to devote themselves to your cause. When speaking to others Lexicon is always polite and subservient right up until he is absolutely certain that they are in his power, at which point they are usually beneath his notice.
He will do much to bring others within his power, but will offer almost nothing to anyone for free. While he will accompany people on errands with apparent enthusiasm in order to worm his way into their affections his ultimate devotion is always to the greater mission.

Items/Abilities:

SpoilerShow

While he had already amassed a staggering amount of history, geography, secrets and hidden lore as relating to the world from which he came (stored with a limitless and photographic memory, Lexicon has never forgotten anything), almost none of it is any use in an entirely new environment. Fortunately, one of Lexicon's few magical traits (it initially cost him a small fortune but has earned him back what he paid more than a hundred times over) allows him to physically drain knowledge from any non-living medium he comes into contact with. Simply touching a book and concentrating will allow him to memorise every word within it in seconds... and turn the book in question into a useless block of rust. He has never encountered computers before but it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that they would fit the same criteria, you should probably hope that he never does.

Ownership of a soul does not actually impart any immediate benefit to the owner or detriment to the person who it used to belong to (they might not even notice it missing). Lexicon is only able to "cash in" upon the debtors death, at which point instead of ascending to whatever afterlife they were destined they instead pass into his own metaphysical plane as his servants, utterly unable to disobey his command (but also utterly incapable of influencing the planes of the living in any way).
Lexicon has an immortal's patience, but is also on a time limit. Once he has ownership of someone's soul and has blackened it as much as he thinks he can manage it is in his best interests to get them killed fairly quickly.

Lexicon is both unable to break any promise he makes and unable to force anyone who has made a promise to him to break that promise, however this compulsion does not extend to anyone who promises him anything. Fortunately, if a person intentionally refuses to fulfil their side of a deal with the devil, the demon who brokered it earns possession of their soul anyway even if that wasn't what they had originally offered as their side of the exchange.
Someone who breaks their promise by exploiting a loophole in the agreed terms of the bargain can of course get out of it scott free. They should probably aim for this, as it's exactly what he'll be trying to do.

Originally posted on MSPA by TribulatoryTerminator.

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Username: Decrepit soldier

Name: Siwhang Zhanshi

Sex: Male (or used to be, at least)

Race: Undead Human

Color: #006633

Description: If one simply glances at Siwhang, one will only see what appears to be a soldier from one's own home. But if one happens to clearly look at him, they will see a human skeleton, plated in solid gold, and engraved on with hundreds, if not thousands; of ancient hexes, spells and curses. He is wearing ancient orichalcum armor, also engraved with various words of power. He is missing his jaw, although it was removed in a burial wright. He carries it around as the hilt of his nigh-undefeatable claymore, yet another of his ancient objects covered with words of power. He himself retains memories from his several past lives. He has had around ten, and all of them were famous soldiers. He was Achilles, Romulus, and other great generals. He hardly speaks, but when he does it is from a golden necklace he wears to allow him speech.

Items/Abilities: He wields a claymore, passed through more rites of different races and civilizations than can be named. It was forged from orichalcum by the first humans, and is covered with words that give it strength. It can cut any physical object, and if enough energy is expended can open a wormhole to deep space for an extremely short period of time. He replaced the hilt with his jawbone later on.

He wears armor made of orichalcum, and plated in enchanted gold, from the same ancient era as his sword.

His bones had been plated in a ritual, covered in nearly every strong metal imaginable, and then plated with gold, and enchanted using demonic hexes and words of power from nearly ten different civilizations. That makes him nigh indestructible.

He has been forced to memorize nearly 20,000 different curses to use to his advantage during his life-and-deathtimes. These range from simple ignitions and healing spells to summoning a meteor, or god/goddess.

Biography: Siwhang Zhanshi is a servant of the deepest, darkest entities known to the universe. They chose his soul, and arranged for it to go through lifetimes where it would be preened into doing their bidding. The lifetimes that were chosen were those of warriors, Achilles, Romulus, Yue Fei, Amenhotep, Sun Tsu, William Kingston. Many more were also the lives he was destined to live. After they all died, the ancient entities took the corpses and conglomerated them, and sent them back to the earliest human history. There the tribes passed him through rites to make him nearly indestructible, and a prison for his soul.

They plated his body in every hard metal, and covered them in gold. After, they carved symbols, curses, and hexes into him, giving him strength. Then they left him, and gave their descendants throughout human history the task of adding more and more, making him the most powerful thing in the world. His new body was put to the test when it was found in hiroshima during the bombing. The nuclear explosion got absorbed into his body, sealing his powers. Then the elder ones waited until humanity died, and put his soul into the conglomerated body, which could survive anything. They sealed it in,thereby giving him new life and immortality; and proceeded to teach him of their ways.

His fate thus thrice sealed, he learned the ancients ways of time travel, and thereby did the bidding of his dark masters, being found only in the darkest annals of human history. He is wherever plagues strike, whenever natural disasters occur. He is the four horsemen, he is the apocalypse, he is the grim reaper. He is Death.

Fun fact: Siwhang Zhanshi is roughly three times the age of the entirety of human history, past, present, and future.

Other:

SpoilerShow

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gx02KOGhjes

SpoilerShow

So

They wanted him here again.

This was one of his favorite places in human history. World War two. He had been sent here several times by his masters. They relished the destruction caused, and he was sent here for one purpose.

They wanted more.

He was standing in the middle of a battlefield, gunfire blasts in the background. They were music to him. He looked around. The ground was littered with corpses. Blood flowed. He knelt down and dipped his fingers in. It ran off his gold plated glove. He got back up.

One of the soldiers on a machine gun platform had noticed him. At first, he looked relieved; under the impression that the thing in front of him was a friendly soldier. He saw him draw his sword, but to him it was a rifle. He looked more intently; his eyes grew wide and he started firing madly at the thing walking slowly toward him. The bullets ricochet'd off of the mystical armor, and the thing inside continued up toward the gunsman.

The gunsman stared into the deep sockets. Empty, yet more malicious than anything he had ever seen. He screamed, and was then cut off forever.

...

'Is that enough for you?'

'Yesssssss'

His masters were pleased. They always were.

He faded out of existence, into a different plane of existence, one which cannot be fathomed.

The pile of corpses he left behind stayed put.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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Username: Schwaaaaaaaaaaaaaz
Name: "Malrone"
Sex: N/A
Race: Human on the eyes, wraith on the books
Color: -

Biography:

SpoilerShow

Amnesty wasn't always one city, though what was the man what woke up in a marsh with a thousand pieces of a hundred faces (none of them his) didn't know that. None of the people he'd tricked or conned or borrowed little pieces of to make into new people had known the fact neither, which might've made sense to the man (let's call him Malrone) if he wasn't lain drowning in a river most everyone had forgotten about.

Once upon a time, a time far back enough that work like Malrone's grew redundant in favour of fantastical libel (dead men, as they say, tell no tales), Amnesty wasn't a city. It was two filthy villages which sprawled their way out over history into two grimy towns, separated by a wide, black river that the horses wouldn't drink from and too many generations of mutual dislike. They were simple folk, farmers of the fertile plain the river bisected, with nothing to fear but the satanic harlot sinner lepers on the other bank. So hateful were they of their neighbours, the riverbanks were lined with the inevitable slums of the growing towns, anyone with money enough building far off its shores.

Of course, hatred like that begets only more hatred, and the townspeople-villagers-hamleteers couldn't find much to celebrate save for the fact they didn't live on the other side, where your children starved or died of assorted diseases before they were old enough to earn any of their keep on the farms. This sort of thinking could drive a man (or a woman) to distraction, to the point where you might ask dangerous questions. Like:

"Is it really as bad as they say?"

Until:

One dead of night, the only time a desperate soul could sneak to the river's edge and have no-one (at either bank) throw rocks at you or remember your face, the better to shame you some more. The skies were clear and the moon was bright, else they'd stand there all night shivering with a makeshift raft and hear watery mutterings coming from places they couldn't see. The river still did that, in the day or in the light of the moon (which might've gone some of the other way to explain why good folk steered clear). But you could see in the places you couldn't by darkest night, and that was comfort enough.

So, the desperate soul waded into the water, and even in the dead of winter it never slipped below pleasantly cool. Much to his or her surprise, they found gravel underfoot across the river's inscrutable breadth, and no matter how distant the lights on the other shore the escape seemed far less suicidal.

But then:

A sudden chill chased the current, caught your breath, left no change but for an aching, stinging cold in one little piece of you
And you took your eyes off the distant lights for just a moment, glanced downriver, like it was your heart been ripped out and you expected to see it hot and bright and red against the river's black, still close enough to grab it
And there was nothing
But you knew some part of you was missing
And you had a moment's indecision to abandon it, as tribute to the river, or in its absence know you could never live without it

At that point, a choice. See it as a test - everyone always spoke superstitions of the river, stands to reason strange things might happen - or turn to the swamps and hope you could still catch it.

All in all, it can't have been that uncommon an occurrence. At least one person figured out the wraiths which crawled out of the swamp and came hunting (or scavenging) for your sight or your voice or your swordsmanship or whimsy, they were the ones who hadn't made it. Those people had all crossed the river in their time, though, so kept their damn mouths shut (because, as it turned out, though the other side wasn't as bad as they said, it was basically the same old shit.) Those wraiths, if nothing else, kept the townspeople occupied enough of the time that someone being from the other side became more common than they'd like to think.

At some point, someone built a bridge which, with the commerce and the culture and the eventually-forgotten stupid superstitions about how everyone across the river had sex with goats on the Lord's day, meant the wraiths stopped skulking out of the swamp. They called the city Amnesty, and for convenience and progress built bridges up and down the river, until the channel was more a mere sewer lying forgotten beneath the trendiest houses (for who wouldn't live upon or in view of the Arc Bridge Road, and the swamp was drained for farmland.

---

Which, as Malrone would like to remind you (if he weren't drowning) is a whole lot of nothing he gives a flying fuck about.

Malrone was on the Boulevard, which was what they called the Bridges around the time he was still whoever he used to be. The cops were after him, and he didn't know or care too much why. He'd lived his years outside bars, thieving and scamming people out of what they didn't miss all the while, and had no intention of letting those pigs tie the cumulative crimes of seven fabricated men to him.

The Boulevard was a shitty place to which a larcener may flee, but Malrone had been expecting a crowd leaving a show or something to hide amongst. No such luck. A back alley yielded only a dead end, but at that dead end (behind the abandoned scenery) was a gap in the floor.

Malrone flicked a torch on, saw something glittering underneath. Dropped a rock. Heard a splash. Turned, saw a cop run past the sliver of the rest of the world the end of the alley accorded a span over. He'd never heard any stories of a river under Amnesty, but he'd cheated death and unmasking of his thousand lies before.

He pushed aside a plywood rocket, and jumped right in.

And just like all of its greatest stories never told, Amnesty forgot him.

Description:
Malrone stands at average height, average weight, in unremarkable clothing with a vague/common hair colour, a slight accent you can't place, and a posture that doesn't speak of anything in particular. He'll occasionally don a more distinctive set of attributes when a client requires it, but for the most part drifts through life exuding an aura of mundanity. If he's being affable to a group (which'd be a rare occurrence), people's memories tend to fill in the gaps on his appearance based on their own preconceptions. This is great for obfuscation, although sometimes it's a pain when someone's trying to refer a potential client to him.

Since he fell in the river and stumbled his way back into Amnesty, the man's been at something of a loss. He still makes a living with identity theft and the like, but doesn't get any kind of kick out of it like he used to. He's distant, humourless, and exceptionally difficult to make reveal even the smallest aspect of himself. Mostly because he doesn't have any, which from a professional standpoint suits him just fine. Nonetheless, part of him feels hollow even as he goes through the motions. The name Malrone holds no real signficance for him, and when he does muster up enough self-interest to think about things he concedes even his old real name wouldn't mean shit to him either.


Items/Abilities:
Malrone lost his identity to the river, and losing something abstract apparently gives you the power to handle it concretely. Unlike other wraiths, what Malrone lost was never of great personal value, no matter what the river thought. Thus, he doesn't devour victims' identities, rather operating much like he did in life - taking various pieces of information and identification, and stitching them together into convincing identities. Perhaps because the river didn't think to take his occupation, Malrone still mostly saves his identities to sell to assorted interested parties (though he'll save a few for personal monikers, as is his custom).

One quirk of his identity theft gaining the powers of the malevolent spirit variety is his ability to actually steal what he misappropriates - though it's never deliberate, identification and attributes "borrowed" off someone else will, with use by another (including Malrone), "unstick" from the original owner over time. For digital information, this is something of an accidental advantage - databases Malrone has no idea how to infilitrate will rewrite themselves to reflect new owners of stolen identities - but victims losing more concrete attributes over time is more attention than the wraith wants.

Another power of Malrone's is to construct entire people out of nothing but stolen information - though these will often be created at the expense of the victims, Malrone can (with effort) create very sophisticated simulacra. For the most part, though, they're crude spaces that only look good on paper. Such a creature will lack any personality, and only fit vague descriptors when you try to recall what it looks like. Different observers may disagree on the construct's appearance, based on how they interpreted its actions.

Malrone currently has information for about five separate and full identities that would hold up were he detained by a police officer. Unwilling as always to full-out steal identities, he cycles through them, mixing and matching physical attributes and ID as necessary.

Originally posted on MSPA by ThunderJolt.

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Username: ThunderJolt
Character name(s): Zavan and Evian
Sex/Gender: Male, both of 'em
Race: Humanoid (known as Gem Spirits, but they are practically human)
Color: #006400 and #000080 respectively (can be changed if these are too close to any other colors in use of course)

Description: These two are brothers, but extraordinarily these two inhabit the same body. While both of them are in one body, their form changes to accommodate whoever is currently in control, which is usually Zavan. One is crystal, the other is darkness.

Both of their forms are those of kids, appearing about 9 years old, and both have human appearances. Zavan has unruly brown hair, which sort of makes it look like he's just gotten out of bed, and has green eyes. Wears a dark blue headband, a white shirt with dark green shorts, a dark green jacket which looks a little big on him, and sandals. There are two greenish crystals embedded in his hands between his knuckles and wrist, one for each hand. Zavan is definitely the friendlier of the two, and more talkative. Takes charge (or at least tries to), and also usually handles negotiations. Also the more intelligent of the two. Always believes he's ready to handle anything, but usually panics right away at the first sign of danger.

Evian has medium-length black hair, with an all-black outfit similar to Zavan's, minus the jacket and headband, and has gray eyes. Instead of crystals on his hands, there are instead black triangular markings. Where Zavan is friendly, Evian is pretty much the exact opposite. He is much more dark minded. While Zavan is afraid of danger, Evian loves, and even welcomes it. His expression is always dull and stoic with little emotion, and his expression rarely changes. He would rather fight than talk. Chances are, he probably already hates you before you even do or say anything.

The two of them argue often and disagree on most things, but they still look out for each other. Though at times, their arguments with each other can get pretty heated.

Items/Abilities: Zavan has the power of crystal. He can create crystals and form them into weapons for attacking, or use them to create shields or barriers, and has full control over any crystals he is using, as long as he isn't getting hit or losing concentration. Has the ability to create special crystalline portals that allow him to pass through things like walls, though if something is too thick, it probably won't work. He doesn't use the portals very often though.

Evian has the power of dark energy on his side. His dark energy powers work similarly to Zavan's crystal powers. He's usually much more aggressive than Zavan with his attacks. Although their powers work similarly, Evian is arguably stronger than Zavan. Firing dark energy balls at you is normally his favorite method. Also has the ability to teleport very short distances.

They also have the ability to split. Not split as in cloning or anything, they can split energy between each other and seperate themselves, meaning both Zavan and Evian will exist on the physical plane with seperate bodies. They're not really sure how this works or even how to do it really. It's rarely intentional that this happens. Usually if their arguing/fighting gets heated enough within their mind, this can possibly happen, but it's not exactly common or anything. Also, any injuries they receive don't carry over to the other if they change form.

They don't carry around anything in particular. The only thing they have with them at all times is a set of necklaces. Zavan has one with the symbol of a sun, while Evian has one with a moon. They usually have these tucked away under their shirt/jacket though.

Bio:

SpoilerShow

How they were created is a mystery, even to them. They've tried to recall exactly where they came from, or how they even came to be inhabitants on the planet they've known their whole life, but they just can't remember. They don't age and never show signs of aging, another mystery.

They grew up on the streets in a successful and bustling city on the planet Volinsef, a planet with an almost entirely rocky surface with little vegetation or water. One day they just woke up among the outskirts of a city, not knowing how they got there. The only thing they could remember was their names... and the fact that they knew each other, and also that they had these strange powers... After being treated like outcasts by many citizens of the city, they turned to living on the street since they really had nowhere else to go. Life was hard, especially getting food, which Evian found perfectly easy to steal, much to Zavan's dismay. Evian would always tell Zavan to toughen up. The two of them kept their form-swapping a secret at first, but quickly found out that it wasn't necessary, as the other street-living outcasts were pretty strange themselves, seeing as many of them had some odd ability or another. Others that Evian would always start trouble with. As much as Zavan hated it, fights were almost always unavoidable, no matter how much he tried to (nervously) talk his way out of them; Evian was okay with this of course. The lawless streets were full of adversaries who either hated Evian or just really didn't like trespassers setting so much as a toe in their territory. One of them was a young teenager named Vairn who was skilled in pyrokinesis, someone whom the two of them seemed to cross paths with quite often...

Still, as time went on, the two of them still looked out for each other, no matter how much they fought/argued. The constant brawling on the streets grew on them after some time (even though Zavan still preferred talking their way out), and they pretty much got used to it. It's not to say life still wasn't hard or anything. Zavan still had to do his best to keep Evian out of trouble, which was quite a difficult task, believe it or not!

Evian loved messing with Vairn and his gang of thugs. But one day, Evian got in a little over his head... He found himself outnumbered and outmatched, and Vairn's thugs managed to knock him out, and of course Zavan too when he switched the body to his own form. The little bastards had been enough trouble for Vairn for quite some time, so he decided to keep them locked up in his gang's hideout. When Evian woke up, he plotted an escape, and was actually putting his plan into action when he disappeared suddenly, and the two of them became contestants in the Battle of the Century...

Other:

SpoilerShow

A vent cover is torn from its once immobile location on the wall, and tossed away, uncared for, landing with a clang. A space is revealed; it is nearly out of reach, and barely large enough to fit into.

The guard outside already taken care of; a little taunting was all that was needed to drag him away from his post, just long enough to get nailed - a direct hit to the face, sending him across the corridor headfirst into the wall, leaving him no less than unconscious. A camera fixed on the ceiling is ignored, even as it monitors every movement, every action, and keeps track of every second that passes within the cell.

A few tries, and a hand finally grasps the edge of a vent shaft. A few more tries, and a climb into the vent system is successfully made, with a bit of a tight fit. A young boy begins a foolproof escape plan, clambering through a gradually widening air duct. A split in the path quickly causes a bit of indecisiveness, which way to go - left, or right? Knowing he is a bit short on time, he chooses left, and continues on his way. Some angry shouts are heard from back at the cell, Vairn and his accomplices are infuriated to discover the escape of their most dreaded and hated body-sharing duo they have ever come into contact with. They scramble about check each and every inch of this place, with orders to capture on sight. Heehee... Evian knows it will take them quite a bit of time to find him. He turns a corner, and continues on down the shaft. He shifts past another vent cover, and then backtracks, and turns to get a good view of the room below.

Well what do you know, it's the hideout's storage room. Evian stops and considers for a moment. No doubt they'll have some good loot stashed around in there. He supposes it wouldn't hurt to pop in and grab up a few supplies and things before heading back to his original escape route. The vent shaft is kicked in, well technically kicked out in this case. Evian dangles from the edge for a few seconds, and then drops in. He snatches a discarded sack off the floor, and takes a look into Crate #1 to see what fabulous prize he has won today. It's a wonderful assortment of canned foods! Yes, this was perfect, he knew they definitely needed more food. As he grabbed up a can of fruit, he could almost taste it in his mouth as he tossed it into the sack. And what do you know, Zavan's not awake to pester him about stealing this stuff! Oh yes, things were enjoyably quiet for a change. He moves on to more crates until the sack has its fill. As he is about to flee back to the vent shaft, an annoyed shouting of "Stop right there!" gains his attention.

And around the same time, an annoying brother wakes up within.

Mhhh... hey, wait, I told you not to do anything!
"Oh shut up stupid! You really expect me to stay in this place?"
You're just going to get us into more trouble! And you even had to sidetrack and steal from them too?!
"Hey, we need this stuff!"
Idiot, we're just going to get caught again, and it will be your fault!
"Will you shut it for a second and let me deal with this!" Evian shouts, enraged that now of all times Zavan decided to wake up and yell at him. Especially since he was a little busy dealing with one of Vairn's guards. A tall man with sunglasses stands across the room and raises his arms, and immediately a bunch of bright purple blobs begin to form in the air. With a small flick of his finger, the man sends the barrage sailing toward Evian.

"Crap, it's the acid guy," Evian grumbles. Several blobs slam into nearby crates, instantly melting them and turning them into smoldering remains. He fires off a sphere of dark energy to finish off the remaining incoming blobs. He raises up a wall of dark energy in front of him and begins to shape it. He turns it into a giant fist, which he launches at the guard. It slams into him and sends him sliding all the way back out the door he entered from. Picking up where he left off in his escape plan, he quickly jumps across a few unsturdy stacks of crates, and lunges for the vent. He struggles to lift himself in. Just as he pulls himself up over the ledge, he unsurprisingly gets another unwelcome interruption.

Evian was just going to cause more unnecessary trouble for the two of them. Zavan would step in and finish the escape for him.

That's it, I'm taking control!
"Oh no you're not," Evian growls.
Yes I am!
"No way, you're just going to screw everything up, just like always!"
Come on, just let me help-
"Nope, not gonna happen-"
Then-
"Don't do it-"

Eventually, after a few more minutes of arguing, Zavan finally won out, and Evian conceded defeat to allow Zavan's form to take control. In a matter of seconds, the young boy with black hair and gray eyes became the young boy with messy brown hair and green eyes; the shift in form nearly unnoticeable, nearly undetectable.

"Ha! There, now we can-" he began to say, but the sentence was cut off, sliced halfway, when the body-sharing duo suddenly vanished. Vanished without a sound, without a trace. Vairn's guards would never understand how they could have possibly escaped, how they could have slipped right through his fingers. They would never know that a grand being - a being of much higher power, a near immortal master, snatched them from their world to make them a piece of a much bigger, a much more grand game, a battle - the Battle of the Century.

Originally posted on MSPA by eberron.

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Is char entry still open?

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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Still got till tomorrow, broski.

You and.... Wojjan are on a race against the clock to submit something or another.
GO FER IT.

Originally posted on MSPA by eberron.

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Username: Eberron
Name: Ironjaw
Sex: Male
Race: Human/Shark genetic hybrid
Color: [color=#32438]#32438[/color]

Description: Ironjaw is a human who genetics were mixed with shark DNA, causing him to develop a large muscle mass in his arms and legs as well as many shark features including a large tail, a dorsal fin and a very large, razor toothed lined mouth. He has been left bitter and rage filled towards other living creatures while holding normal humans with extreme hatred.


Items/Abilities: Ironjaw perfers the use of his muscles over anything involving technology. If a foe is proving to be strong enough to withstand his powerful punches, he will resort to using his massive jaw to rip apart his prey.

While he rarely uses it, Ironjaw does carry a plasma rifle he claimed off a lab guard who got in his way. He only resorts to using the rifle when facing someone who he either cannot punch out or eat.

Biography: Ironjaw's real name was long forgotten but he still remembers the day of his "birth". As a slave in his island nation, Ironjaw was among the many forced into a genetic experiment called for to create super soldiers for the nations many wars. Ironjaw could only watch as his fellow slaves were injected with various syrums, some dieing on the spot, others becoming true horrors as the DNA mixure combined poorly with the human DNA and still others becoming hybrids of man and animal.

Ironjaw's fear grew as he too was injected, then felt his fear turn to pure pain as the shark DNA bonded with his own and caused his body to rapidly sprout a tail and fin while widening his mouth to fit the dozens of new teeth he was growing. As the scientist moved in to attach a control collar to him, Ironjaw felt something beyond his pain and anger. He felt a sudden burst of intelect. The scientist, he realized, had failed to account for the shark natural intelect.

Thinking fast, Ironjaw bit off the scientist head and tossed the body into a nearby computer bank. The resulting explosion was enough for the remaining slaves and uncollared hybrid to rally under Ironjaw and overtake the lab. The ragtag group managed to hold the lab for nearly a week before the army, armed with the hybrid soldiers from other labs, stormed the building and captured or killed every rebel they found.

Except for one. When the main lab was finally reached, it was empty. Not a trace of Ironjaw could be found. He had simply disappered.

Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl.

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Username: Snowyowl
Name: Quino
Sex: N/A
Race: Sigil
Color: Look again. The colour is now #50B000

Description: Quino is a design of moderate complexity, too intricate to take in the entire thing in a glance or two but not so ludicrous that it cannot be drawn from memory by human hands. As is typical of magical sigils, most if not all of his constituent symbols will be recognisable to experienced magicians; in particular, his name is written near the centre of his design albeit in a language which has not been much used these last 300 years.

"Marain Ancient" font by Daniel Solis

Quino is the design itself, not a particular instance of it. Whether he is drawn in ballpoint pen on a notepad, carved on a wall by a piece of sharp rock, or even shaped out of gold wire and worn as a brooch, he will be present and in full control of his powers.

Biography: A little more than a millenium ago, a freshly minted wizard by the name of Dyra Vicster started work, just to see if it could be done, on a sigil that would be able to create other sigils. Quino was his first success: a sigil that had the ability to draw and cast a copy of itself.

As magical items tend to do, Quino was born with a basic capacity for sentience and intelligence, which has refined itself to roughly human levels over the years. Also as magical items tend to do, Quino escaped from his master's control, and when Dyra was found dead two months later his cause of death was (correctly) reported as "Meddling in forces beyond his ken".

In the time since, Quino has been around the world, adopted as a gang symbol, been the centre of three short-lived cults, stuck at the bottom of the ocean in a waterproof chest for two hundred years, and has collected tidbits of knowledge from the arcane to the forbidden to the absolutely worthless.

For the last few decades, his last surviving copy has been written in nonmagical ink on nonmagical paper, clamped between two lead sheets and placed in a chest with seven locks on it (only one of which is visible to the unaided eye), itself in a section of a magical library specifically designed for containing dangerous but not especially powerful entities, again surrounded with a large number of general-purpose wards to prevent anything from escaping. The chest itself is marked with a pretty standard warning against opening it lest you value your life.

When some foolhardy wizard (coincidentally a descendant of Dyra Vicster) eventually opens the chest and removes the lead clamps, he will find that the paper has mysteriously vanished. The library's keeper will be briefly puzzled, but he will know from experience not to investigate magical oddities too closely, and the chest will eventually be used to store a sword that sucks out people's souls.

Items/Abilities: Whatever medium Quino is currently written in, he can read and manipulate that medium within a short range. If he is printed in a book, he can alter the words in the book, or erase them, or write new ones on nearby blank pages. The main use of this ability is to move himself around or copy himself, though it can also be used to communicate with others and to self-destruct any instances of himself that he no longer needs.

The most ominous and dangerous use of this ability is this: if anyone examines Quino in such detail and at such length that they memorise his entire design, then Quino exists in their mind. He can then theoretically manipulate his victim's mind as he wishes. This takes some time, not least because everyone's mind is different and Quino always has to learn how to orient himself within a new mind, or he could turn his victim into a gibbering vegetable when all he wanted to do was say "hello" (and vice-versa). Quino usually transfers himself from one medium to another by getting one of these victims to transcribe him. At any time, he can choose to destroy an instance of himself he no longer needs, freeing his victim from his control. Obviously, this ability has made it impossible for anyone to study him or his powers in any detail.

Quino's powers and intelligence diminish rapidly the more instances of him there are at once (which is why he usually prefers to maintain as few separate instances as he can manage), and the further apart these instances are. All his instances share a single mind, so he can be used to send messages if he is so inclined. He can perceive light and sound from any of his instances, so you can talk to him.

He's spent a long time locked in a box and never really understood the existence of different dialects, so his vocabulary is something of a medley of styles from the last few centuries.

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

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All right, last call for signups. Anyone who's still working on a profile has 24 hours to finish, starting now.

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

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Signups are closed.