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T H E W E N D I G O


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Elwood Sitala Tahki
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17-10-97 | 20 | Caucasian/Native American
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Single || Heterosexual
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High School Graduate | Local part-time employment
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Physical Profile

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Miscellaneous Items
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Appearance Details
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Elwood's minimalist, monochrome fashion sense is self-tailored to understate (or perhaps underscore) the unique peculiarities of his facial structure afforded to him by his mixed-race heritage - Egyptian on his father's side, and Native American on his father's. His sharp cheekbones and large eyes give him a naturally piercing, inquisitive stare, and many people have felt uncomfortable under his gaze, as if he were silently unearthing all of their secrets or, more accurately, sizing them up for a meal.

Due to his pre-existing condition, Elwood does tend to shy away from much of the social interaction his day-to-day offers him, seceding from others as his anxiety and possession overruns him - as such, his body language and general posture is nearly always reserved and defensive. There are very few people he is open with, and no one he completely relaxes around.

Personality
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An insight to the character's psyche, how they think, feel and process the world around them. This should include their likes and dislikes, examples of how they react to situations and other like elements that attribute to their personality. This should be at least two paragraphs.
Character Synopsis
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Introduction to the character, their history and primarily their motivations for engaging in vigilantism and using their abilities or skills to help the city. This should be no shorter than two paragraphs but can as long beyond that as you wish depending on your style of story telling.

Abilities & Skills
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//Abilities:
◼ WENDIGO POSSESSION | Like his mother before him and his grandfather before her, and on and on, Elwood is possessed by the spirit of the Wendigo, an ancient force from North American legend. While the spirit's full power is locked away by Elwood's resistance to being overrun, its mere inheritance of his body lends certain boons and drawbacks.

◼ Supernatural Durability | The Wendigo's skin can be likened to ancient stone - old, superficially cracked, but immeasurably strong. While Elwood has absolute control, he retains only a small portion of the Wendigo's true invulnerability, as well as its resistance to cold temperature, but as the spirit wrestles more and more control over Elwood's body, the Wendigo's skin is soon able to withstand harder and harder blows, until it cannot be harmed at all.

◼ Supernatural Senses | As the Wendigo gains control, Elwood's senses are enhanced to more befit an apex predator. Eyesight gets more accurate and motion-based, and Elwood's hearing and sense of smell also dramatically improve. Elwood does not experience any of these improvements while he has full control.

◼ Supernatural Agility | As the Wendigo gains control, Elwood is able to utilize incredible bursts of speed to leap great distances, dodge incoming obstacles, or clamber up buildings. The Wendigo often employs this agility to perch in a hidden spot, remaining perfectly still before pouncing on unsuspecting prey. Elwood does not experience this enhanced agility while he has full control.

◼ Supernatural Strength | As the Wendigo gains control, Elwood's strength ramps up, allowing him to lift men single-handedly, stop cars and motorcycles, punch dents into brickwork, and smash through obstacles with frightening ease. Elwood does not experience this enhanced strength while he has full control.

◼ Supernatural Physiology | As the Wendigo gains control, Elwood's body twists and morphs to better suit the predator that is taking over. His mouth splits and enlarges, growing fangs while the jaw unhooks itself in order to open wider, while his pupils dilate and his sclera turns black. Elwood's limbs stretch out, his body becoming emaciated as mass is transferred, and his skin grows white and cold, while talons spring from his hands and feet. The stronger the Wendigo's possession becomes, the further the transformation goes, but these changes are lost as Elwood enforces his will upon the spirit.


◼ WILLPOWER | Long years of suffering under the Wendigo has sharpened the mind of every member of the Tahki family, Elwood included, and honed within them a sharp and powerful force of will, allowing them to resist the Wendigo's possession.

Limitation(s) | Description should be at least a paragraph with three defined limitations

Weakness(es) | Description should be at least a paragraph with exploitable weaknesses.

//Skills:
Example Skill | Description

Supporting Cast
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Any relevant characters you will be playing alongside your primary POV in order to flesh out the world around you. This can include, family, friends, loved ones and antagonists. This is an optional section on the CS and can be deleted entirely, left as a 'To Be Determined' and contributed to as the IC progress or filled out from the get go. Entirely your decision.

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A L I A S

N A M E B I R T H D A T E ( A G E ) G E N D E R
"Witty Quote #1"

▼ A P P E A R A N C E:

"Witty Quote #2"
//STATS:
◼ HEIGHT | How tall is your character? (Imperial preferred, metric accepted.)

◼ WEIGHT | How heavy if your character? (Imperial preferred, metric accepted.)

◼ BUILD | Your character's body shape, this can be a single descriptive word that you can build on in the description section below.

◼ HAIR COLOR | What colour is your character's hair? Note you can elaborate on this in the description if your character changes their hair colour often or if it's a difficult to describe color or combination.

◼ EYE COLOR | What is character's eye color? This can be elaborated on if needed in the description should your character be wearing colored contacts or has changing eye colors due to their abilities.

◼ OTHER | Can be changed/removed depending on if your character has any other noteworthy features. Feel free to add additional stats for piercings, tattoos, scars etc. Sexuality could also be added here if you feel it's worth noting.

//DESCRIPTION:
A written description of the character's appearance. Keep in mind that appearance isn't only limited to their physical make up, but the style of clothes they wear, they're body language and in general how they present themselves.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:

"Witty Quote #3"
This is the story of your character's life, their defining moments nd how they made it from the womb to where they are now. You can include as much other details as you think is necessary but don't go overboard and spell everything out. Sometimes its best to show through the IC than to tell in the CS.

▼ M O T I V A T I O N / O B J E C T I V E:

"Witty Quote #4"
What is driving your character? What makes them tick? Why do they act the way they do.

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:

"Witty Quote #5"
//ABILITIES:
◼ TBD | Test

//SKILLS:
◼ TBD | Test

//LIMITATIONS:
◼ TBD | Test

//WEAKNESSES:
◼ TBD | Test

▼ N O T E S:

//SUPPORTING CAST:
▼ ALLIES
TBD | Test

▼ FRIENDS
TBD | Test

▼ ENEMIES
TBD | Test

//STOMPING GROUNDS
◼ TBD | Test

//PARAPHERNALIA
◼ TBD | Test

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A L I A S

N A M E B I R T H D A T E ( A G E ) G E N D E R
"Witty Quote #1"

▼ A P P E A R A N C E:

"Witty Quote #2"
//STATS:
◼ HEIGHT | How tall is your character? (Imperial preferred, metric accepted.)

◼ WEIGHT | How heavy if your character? (Imperial preferred, metric accepted.)

◼ BUILD | Your character's body shape, this can be a single descriptive word that you can build on in the description section below.

◼ HAIR COLOR | What colour is your character's hair? Note you can elaborate on this in the description if your character changes their hair colour often or if it's a difficult to describe color or combination.

◼ EYE COLOR | What is character's eye color? This can be elaborated on if needed in the description should your character be wearing colored contacts or has changing eye colors due to their abilities.

◼ OTHER | Can be changed/removed depending on if your character has any other noteworthy features. Feel free to add additional stats for piercings, tattoos, scars etc. Sexuality could also be added here if you feel it's worth noting.

//DESCRIPTION:
A written description of the character's appearance. Keep in mind that appearance isn't only limited to their physical make up, but the style of clothes they wear, they're body language and in general how they present themselves.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:

"Witty Quote #3"
This is the story of your character's life, their defining moments nd how they made it from the womb to where they are now. You can include as much other details as you think is necessary but don't go overboard and spell everything out. Sometimes its best to show through the IC than to tell in the CS.

▼ M O T I V A T I O N / O B J E C T I V E:

"Witty Quote #4"
What is driving your character? What makes them tick? Why do they act the way they do.

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:

"Witty Quote #5"
//ABILITIES:
◼ TBD | Test

//SKILLS:
◼ TBD | Test

//LIMITATIONS:
◼ TBD | Test

//WEAKNESSES:
◼ TBD | Test

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Original Worlds & Stories



  • The Blighted Kingdom - a long-standing kingdom suffers under a new horrific plague that is turning people to stone, but not before causing panic, paranoia, and untold myriad of sufferings. Each major city has closed its borders to outsiders as they each suffer their own crises, and the king is at a loss of how to salvage his land and his people.
  • The Black Sarcophagus - the discovery and opening of an obsidian sarcophagus in Egypt unleashes an ancient evil back unto the world, but also brings the return of magic and the wondrous feats it brings. The world plunges into a modern magical fantasy, with the evil in Egypt securing greater and greater armies to take the rest of the planet by force.
  • Simulacrum - in a hyper-future cyberpunk world, digital personas are a massive part of everyone's individual national identity. when a select few go rogue and their real life counterparts become wanted, black-listed fugitives, they must work around and against the system to reclaim their identities and old lives.


Original Characters & Stories



  • 'Cryborg' - escaped subject of a blacklist military project to create android super-soldiers that are both more effective and more expendable than human beings. hunted down by those who wish to see the fruits of their experiments; initially a viciously programmed killing machine with little to no psychology, but her fresh mind begins to learn and form a new personality alongside the fractured memories of her old life.
  • 'The Sherrif' - an out-of-time sheriff from an old frontier town, recently come out of cryogenic stasis after stumbling upon an alien spacecraft while pursuing a bandit that had been plaguing his town. trying to come to terms with his predicament and the loss of everything he knew, as well as the wild changes in the modern world, he is thrown into a strange mix of both eras when his old enemy seems to resurface.
  • 'The Coyote' - an out-of-time bandit from the old frontier, who has survived using recovered alien technology found purely by chance, and who now find a new lease of life when his old enemy resurfaces in modern times.
  • 'Swarm Queen'/'Hornet'/ - Abelle D'Voire, young woman in High School, discovering new abilities of insect manipulation and using them to carve out an identity for herself in her own mind. With mentoring by a new mysterious faculty member who has taken an interest, her own ability ends up overriding her biology and her mind, shredding her humanity as she turns into the monstrous insect/human hybrid dubbed only 'Hornet'.
  • 'The Shrike' - a seemingly-immortal, immensely talented swords-woman who is the last survivor of her race after a horrific war in which she was a fierce and feared warrior and enforcer, now cursed and haunted by the last souls of her kin and desperately searching for a way to undo the destruction of her people.
  • 'The Wendigo' - a young man who is the latest bearer of the Wendigo Spirit that has haunted his family for a century, and who comes into contact with other supernatural beings who see the power of the Wendigo as an enforcer, a bargaining chip, an admired specimen, and a path to power and immortality - all while struggling with the Wendigo itself.


Canon Re-Interpretations



  • Dani Ketch/Ghost Rider - a younger Ghost Rider, maybe a few weeks after her 'gift' of the Ghost Rider from Mephistopheles, on the run after torching her hometown in her first transformation and seeking asylum in the care of SHIELD, fleeing religious zealots, state authorities, and the agents of Hell itself while grappling with her new abilities.
  • John Constantine - a younger but no less traumatized Constantine, living in self-imposed exile in America after losing his sister in Hell. based on new information he begins to put together a new search party for an expedition into the afterlife to rescue Astra, his first failure, and thereby jump-start some kind of redemption; but as ever, he runs into obstacles.
  • Matt Murdock/DareDevil - a DareDevil a few years into his career but still just slowly starting to make a dent in Fisk's underworld. He quickly gets caught up in Fisk's wrath and begins to unravel circumstances that have been silently built up to remove him.
  • Harvey Dent - a pre-villain Harvey who is about to suffer a great tragedy and channel the resulting rage into a vicious vigilante known as 'The Hangman' as he struggles to maintain a grip on his own sanity.
  • The Joker - an old Joker who has been underground for over a decade, thought of by many as gone for good, who resurfaces when he believes Batman is becoming weak for a final gambit to kill them both and have his last laugh on Gotham and the Bat.


Misc. Unconnected Characters



  • 'Double-Down' - young male teen with the ability to create a perfect copy of himself that can learn, think, and act independently before being re-absorbed by the original.
  • 'Lock & Load' - twin girls with separate but complementary forms of technopathy - 'Lock' can use scavenged resources from around her to intuitively create crude tools and weaponry quickly and on the fly. 'Load' can remain in contact with a tool or weapon to passive 'upgrade' it as long as it is in her possession, allowing it to perform its function more efficiently and to a higher degree.
  • 'Helios' - young woman with the ability to condense heat at a point to ignite a miniature sun-like orb of heat, which she can then manipulate.
  • 'Penny Dreadful' - young female teen in high school who is slowly learning of a new bodily awakening - the ability to change her own biology in a monstrous manner.
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C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
H E L L B L A Z E R


J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E O C C U L T D E T E C T I V E C H I C A G O / G O T H A M A N T I - H E L L
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"S'just the way of it, son. We all sell our souls sooner or later."

My Constantine is younger, brasher, bolder, but still tormented and scarred, with some aspects edited and shaken up to allow him personal quirks that will serve to mark him as my own interpretation of his character. I also hope to Emphasise more of the 'detective' half of 'Occult Detective', and​ bring back some of John's roots in solving mysteries and crimes in ways as necessary as they are morally gray. Some major events of John's canon history have occurred - the loss of Astra, John's incarceration at Ravenscar - but many more haven't, if indeed they ever will.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

John Constantine is one of the most morally-gray characters in DC without being a true anti-hero, and it's this unwavering willingness to do nasty things to people who trusted him in the name of the greater good that makes John so compelling. Despite his considerable magical prowess he's a conman first and more often than not uses guile more than force. A man as lonely and traumatised as John has no business being as noble and virtuous as he is - and yet he manages it anyway. And everyone hates him for it.

Personally I want to dive into the 'Detective' side of 'Occult Detective' and write some real twisty murder mysteries for myself and everyone else to explore and brainstorm about. I'd also like to use John in Crossovers and Crises to build his notoriety and reputation and forge future alliances.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:





S A M P L E P O S T:

"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed:

Such place Eternal Justice had prepared
For those rebellious, here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of Heav'n
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole."

- John Milton, Paradise Lost.


"It's not always like it is in the books."
- John Constantine



Fire. Oh god, fire. Licking flames marred the horizon like the ridges of mountains, burning nothing and everything. It seemed to absorb light rather than emanate it, exuding a thick blackness that, nonetheless, still illuminated the twisted landscape in a way that made John feel nauseous. Far below him, pinpricks of agony went on in their suffering, skewered and crushed and lashed, their torture brazen and subtle and unending. Stronger souls put on airs of resistance, stifling their own screams, while in the distance the more wretched spirits simply writhed in dirt and scum, the pain and torment of this place etched into their very being by the eons. Others had been twisted into obscene parodies of Man, a mocking affront to God through the perversion of His most beloved creation. All was curated by devils, convicts of this prison who had made their cells their kingdoms, and overseen by their demonic generals. John conjured their names to mind, each flitting in and out of his consciousness like nymphs through the glen, their eagerness to be known and dreaded imprinted behind his eyes: Mammon, King of Worms and Wealth, eyes searching ever downwards for gold; Belial, the Impure Lord, destroying all that lies before and behind; Moloch, the False Idol, who feasts upon children; Mulciber, Mockery of the Creator, great architect of sorrows and sin; and Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, devourer of carcasses and mouthpiece of Satan. Ah, Satan, the Most Unclean, the Son of Perdition, the Father of Lies, the Dragon, the Beast, the Adversary; Lucifer, King of the Bottomless Pit. A story old as anything, and John had done his research in Ravenscar. He was here - he was always here - but John would escape his gaze for now.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a light blinked into life among the flames, a burning point of pure white that outshone the oozing darkness of the fire surrounding, piercing through all of Hell's great disgust to focus John's attention completely. He felt himself moving, no longer transfixed by the cavern's horror, and stumbled forwards, legs battling against the mire of dark, sickly discharge that seemed to ebb from the ground itself and coat the earth. His feet were drenched, and as he advanced - somehow passing over the void of agony that lay beneath him, apparently existing on a separate plane - the mire clung to him ever more tightly, climbing past his ankles to lap at his shins, then his knees, each step requiring twice the effort of the one preceding, until John was dragged onto his hands, crawling and dragging his body toward the white light that beckoned him, his journey taking him millenia, but the light never moving, never getting closer, but always reaching out to him, as if to say keep going, John. Keep crawling. Come for me. Just a little bit further...

He slumped into the mire, the mud overtaking him as exhaustion took hold. The ground enveloped him, swallowed John whole, and he could feel himself suffocating, drowning in the viscous, foul liquid for centuries before he was spat out below, the pinpricks he had looked upon so long ago growing larger and larger as he fell to join them. He craned his neck upwards, hoping for any sign of that light, the beautiful, pure shining star that had goaded him forth.
There was nothing but inky blackness.
Not even the flames.
But still, the voice echoed around him.

Save me, John. Come for me. Save me. You put me here, John Constantine. You put me here. Save me, John.
Save me, John.

Save me, John.

Save me, John.


"S A V E M E J O H N ."



"I CAN'T." He yelled back, startling himself awake with the forcefulness of his reply. There was a bubble of silence, and then John drew the first ragged, stale breath of the day, and it was broken; the sounds of traffic and the city filtered in through his window, and he could hear the creaking of floorboards above him, the faint sounds of strong, angry words floating down through his ceiling. The sun shone harshly outside, spilling onto his bed, and John threw off his covers, propping himself up as he wiped his face of sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the fourth night of the same dream, and it had always played out the same way. Failure, accusation, and tortured pleading. John sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as shaky hands fumbled around in the drawer of his bedside table to find the lighter and the nearly-empty pack of Silk Cut cigarettes that dwelled within, a fag quickly finding its way to his mouth in one hand as the other flipped the lighter open and lit the wick. He held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply as it caught alight, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and pushing it out in one motion. His heart began to calm itself, though his mind still raced. These were not mere nightmares, imagined illusions of horror born of external stress. These were deeper, more vivid - John would say premonitions were he not a cynic. But a cynic he was, and he was quite content to endure these dreams for as long as they would persist, a subconscious desire to be punished eager to inflict such lucid terror when John's waking mind was not there to suppress his inner demons.

"I am in his kingdom, John."
John flinched, ducking sharply as he reacted to the vicious whisper that came from just behind his shoulder. He stood from his bed, cold air stinging his naked torso as the duvet fell from around his shoulders. Smoke from the lit cigarette drifted lazily upwards, ash falling to the ground and pooling around John's feet. The room was empty save for him, but the voice had been so clear and direct that even the deepest cynicism John could muster failed to dispell the belief that something - someone - had just spoken to him.
"Find the house of Nergal, John."

"Fuck off." John said loudly, and then he heard a stomp on his ceiling as the 88-year-old lady above disapproved of his vulgarity. The room was still again, and John poised himself for a third intrusion, carefully sucking on his cigarette as he moved across the bedroom to his closet, fishing out a shirt and a pair of slacks, pulling the trousers over his legs and buttoning his collar as the keen silence of his apartment remained steadfastly unbroken. He didn't want to think about who was talking to him, delivering ominous, cryptic messages and pleading commands. Instead, he pushed his tie up to the top of his collar and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his dreams and spectral visitor behind him. In the kitchen, he stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray that sat in the center of the small round table and snatched his coat from where it hung on the door, slinging it over his form while his free hand snatched the flask from the inside pocket, feverishly pulling and twisting at the cap before he swung it to his mouth, taking a large gulp. He stowed the flask again, and held a hand out, parallel to the ground. It twitched slightly, and Constantine drew it into a fist until his knuckles were white and his fingers ached with the pressure. Smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers and he opened them, fire bursting from his palm and smoldering painlessly. He watched the flames dance across his skin, lashing at his wrinkles and hopping the callouses at the base of each finger. The voice from his dream echoed in his head as the flames span round and round. The house of Nergal...

John's cigarette burnt to its last end in the ashtray as the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, another already lit and hanging from his lips as he took the stairs two at a time down towards the building's lobby.


C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
D A R E D E V I L


M A T T H E W M U R D O C K A S S I S T A N T D I S T R I C T A T T O R N E Y H E L L ' S K I T C H E N V I G I L A N T E
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"How do you know the Devil and the Angel inside me aren't the same thing?"

This is a Matthew Murdock who, instead of helping bleeding hearts and the unfortunate, still has dreams of being a big city lawyer. He's high profile and works high class cases, directly taking on the mob on both his civilian guise and during the night when he dons the horns to become Daredevil. It is more important than ever to keep his dual life secret, as he becomes a bright target to the underworld on both sides of the law. He's New York's ADA coming out of Harvard Law, working for DA Katherine Spencer, moonlighting as the Vigilante DareDevil. It's not a Year One DareDevil, but he's still in the midst of his campaign against Kingpin, working to dismantle the crime-lord's empire on both sides of the law.

This DareDevil is one I've played before but didn't finish his story, and I'd like the opportunity to rectify this error, and push him towards bigger and better things and explore all the twists and turns along the way.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

My Murdock's characterization draws a lot from the Netflix Marvel Series, the very same series that enveloped me in DareDevil's character in the first place. Far from 'Marvel's Batman', DareDevil is a complicated, conflicted individual, with important roles on both sides of his life, and an internal struggle to stay level within himself while doling out his retribution without giving in to his darker impulses.

My Murdock is entirely obssessed with deposing Wilson 'Kingpin' Fish from his throne at the peak of New York's criminal underworld, and unbeknownst to him, this singular fixation will impart deeper risks and tragedies upon both himself and those he loves, changing everybody's lives irrevocably. It'll be fun.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

Matthew's allies currently include Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson, a close friend and working attorney at a private firm, Karen Page, Katherine's PA, Katherine Spencer, New York's DA, and Elektra Natchios,
his long-term romantic partner. Stick, his old mentor, has been out of contact for many years.

Matthew only has the singular nemesis so far - Kingpin himself - but Fisk's near-universal influence is enough to keep him plenty busy.

S A M P L E P O S T:

The sound of screeching tires and startled screams filled Matt's world with cascading images of pavements, buildings, letterboxes, every noise flowing out from its source and splashing the environment around it. A runaway truck with hazardous cargo barrelled down the street - Matt could hear the driver pumping the failed brakes desperately, could smell the sweat that had flooded out with the outpouring of fear. The horn blared and the noise of it erupted from the front of the vehicle and lit up the road ahead - and then bounced off a frozen figure, paralyzed in fear, waiting for the demise that came screaming towards him. The driver wrenched the steering wheel, the man dived to the side. Truck overturned. Hazardous material blowing its containment. This wasn't right. Matthew watching everything erupt through sound and air pressure. This wasn't right. His father holding his hand, squeezing it tightly as everything unfolded around them. It's okay, Matthew, it's okay. It's not okay, dad. I wasn't blind yet. I can't see. I can't see.
"Dad...dad, I can't see. I can't see! Dad! I can't see! DAD!"

Matt woke up with a gasp and the world lit up before fading back out. He lay still, pushing out against the black; the ambient sounds of the city drifted in through his window; the early sun already laying down a thin layer of heat that rested just above the surface of everything, a silken web that only Matthew could sense. The heat emanated further still from Matthew himself - and also the body that lay next to him in bed, a smooth and pleasant curve that traced down her side to where the sheets lay across her waist. Matthew let the sounds of the city paint a picture of his apartment and softly, carefully, sat up and swiveled himself off the bed, feeling the currents his movements created and the alternating air pressures he'd affected. The wood grain floor under his bare feet felt rough and mountainous with the rises and falls that he could map out beneath his toes, and that microscopic moutainrange served to ground Matthew as equally literally as metaphorical. From this floorboard he knew it was 3 steps forward to the bedroom door and the living room beyond it; 2 and a half to the left to get to the bathroom. Behind him was the bed and its second occupant and beyond the bed was a metre-and-a-half of open space with a window facing onto the opposite building. He'd left it slightly open last night after arriving back late, ever-so-carefully sliding in so as not to awake his guest; now, the breeze flowed through the gap in the window, winding around his bedroom and taking the heat from the bodies within, carrying it out into the living room and through the draught in his apartment's front door. Matthew shivered, and told himself it wasn't, in no small part, the lingering dream that had woken him. He stood, and reached out to his right, groping for the small chest of drawers he knew was there; his fingers met the top handle of the drawer and he moved his arm down to find the third, sliding the drawer open to find the soft cotton underwear and vests within. Slipping out of the bedroom quietly, Matthew made his way into the main room and found his shirt and slacks across the back of the sofa, dressing himself quickly as he attempted to shake off the lingering dread from his nightmare. I can't see. Dad, I can't see...

"Need a hand with that tie, Mr. Murdock?"
The low, husky tones of his lover's voice erupted from the bedroom doorway towards him, the dulcet sounds of her voice spilling out from her and lighting up the room in golden-red waves as they passed silkily over the room and furniture towards him, knocking Matthew out of his memory-filled stupour. He smiled as she walked towards him, and held out the two ends of the tie he had inadvertantly paused with to her, which she gracefully took into her own hands to tie an elegant and professional knot, pausing to do up the top button on his shirt before returning to the tie to tighten it up to the collar. She sighed satisfactorily through her nose and Matthew felt the air hit her top lip and curve towards him; she was smiling too, he knew, by the angle of her breath alone. Her heat moved closer to him and suddenly they were kissing, only for her to pull away just as suddenly and leave her warmth lingering on his lips. She stepped away towards the kitchen and pulled two mugs from the rack beneath the island-counter, filling both from the pot she'd apparently started the evening before. Matt hadn't noticed that.

"Making yourself feel at home, El?" He asked, with a whimsical smirk and an edge of teasing. She drank from her mug, pushing the other one across the countertop towards Matthew as he stepped to join her.
"Oh, you know me, Matthew. I like to be comfortable." She replied. "At the very least, I promise not to disrupt your flow."
"I learned a long time ago how to adapt to...changing circumstances. Just let me know if you create a risk of stubbed toes." He drained his mug. Damn good coffee. "Or I might have to sue you for grievous injury."
"Oh, is that right? Think you'd win that case?"
"I'm blind, El. The jury would love me."
They both chuckled, and the vibrations of the air around her body as she laughed, and then walked around the counter to hug him, forced Matthew to suddenly notice that she was naked, made ever-more abundantly clear as she embraced him tightly. He cleared his throat and felt his own body growing hotter, and even blind he knew his face was red like beetroot. She giggled and pecked him on the cheek before leaving his side to walk back to the bedroom.
"Will you be out all day? I thought we might go for dinner should your trial go well."
"You know how these things can go, El. I have confidence that this is open-and-shut - but defense lawyers are often stubborn bastards." He walked across the main space towards the hallway that led to his front door, finding his blazer hanging on the wall next to his sight-stick as he did so. He could feel her heat pushing towards him from the bedroom as she dressed, and the breeze from the window carried lingering drops of her perfume mixed with her shampoo from yesterday's shower and a natural light sweat from the night, a sweet-and-savoury combination Matthew enjoyed very much. It was all he focused on when she was near. "I'll call you when I can. Will you be alright today?"
"I'll keep myself busy, Matthew. Good luck. I love you."
Matthew smiled, a different kind of heat swelling inside him now. He turned to look at her, and while they both knew he was blind, they were both aware that he saw her in a way no other man ever could. She smiled back.
"I love you too, Elektra. I'll see you tonight."

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C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E L A U G H I N G M A G I C I A N


J O H N A T H AN C O N S T A N T I N E U N E M P L O Y E D N E W C A S T L E I N D E P E N D E N T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"We are who we are. Eventually."

Every time I've tried playing Constantine in the past, I've started slap-bang in the middle of his career as an occultist, exorcist, detective, magician, etc etc, and often include nearly every major event of his canon in the biography. And I usually end up directionless after 2/3 posts with no real plan or solid character development to pursue. No more!

This Constantine is young. He's just been released from Ravenscar after an eighteen-month incarceration, with no home, family, friends or life to return to. His sister is still disappeared; his mother is still dead; his father still may as well be. He's a blank slate to carve scars and stories into, and there's a clear vision to begin setting him up as the equally legendary and infamous mage we know from DC today.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I want to play Constantine because I fucking love the character. I love the morality (or lack thereof), I love the occultism, I love the magic, I love the mystery. I love the psychological horror that John brings to the genre. I want to do all of this with a blank Constantine, I want to inflict my own traumas onto John. I'll immediately start this by dealing with the mystery around John's sister and his unknown heritage, and then work on building Constantine's ability and reputation as a mage befitting his inherited title. Slowly John will build a network of allies and enemies and mixes of both, but I'll always try to keep it grounded in the occult crime-mystery roots I've always adored.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:




S A M P L E P O S T:

"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed:

Such place Eternal Justice had prepared
For those rebellious, here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of Heav'n
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole."

- John Milton, Paradise Lost.


"It's not always like it is in the books."
- John Constantine



Fire. Oh god, fire. Licking flames marred the horizon like the ridges of mountains, burning nothing and everything. It seemed to absorb light rather than emanate it, exuding a thick blackness that, nonetheless, still illuminated the twisted landscape in a way that made John feel nauseous. Far below him, pinpricks of agony went on in their suffering, skewered and crushed and lashed, their torture brazen and subtle and unending. Stronger souls put on airs of resistance, stifling their own screams, while in the distance the more wretched spirits simply writhed in dirt and scum, the pain and torment of this place etched into their very being by the eons. Others had been twisted into obscene parodies of Man, a mocking affront to God through the perversion of His most beloved creation. All was curated by devils, convicts of this prison who had made their cells their kingdoms, and overseen by their demonic generals. John conjured their names to mind, each flitting in and out of his consciousness like nymphs through the glen, their eagerness to be known and dreaded imprinted behind his eyes: Mammon, King of Worms and Wealth, eyes searching ever downwards for gold; Belial, the Impure Lord, destroying all that lies before and behind; Moloch, the False Idol, who feasts upon children; Mulciber, Mockery of the Creator, great architect of sorrows and sin; and Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, devourer of carcasses and mouthpiece of Satan. Ah, Satan, the Most Unclean, the Son of Perdition, the Father of Lies, the Dragon, the Beast, the Adversary; Lucifer, King of the Bottomless Pit. A story old as anything, and John had done his research in Ravenscar. He was here - he was always here - but John would escape his gaze for now.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a light blinked into life among the flames, a burning point of pure white that outshone the oozing darkness of the fire surrounding, piercing through all of Hell's great disgust to focus John's attention completely. He felt himself moving, no longer transfixed by the cavern's horror, and stumbled forwards, legs battling against the mire of dark, sickly discharge that seemed to ebb from the ground itself and coat the earth. His feet were drenched, and as he advanced - somehow passing over the void of agony that lay beneath him, apparently existing on a separate plane - the mire clung to him ever more tightly, climbing past his ankles to lap at his shins, then his knees, each step requiring twice the effort of the one preceding, until John was dragged onto his hands, crawling and dragging his body toward the white light that beckoned him, his journey taking him millenia, but the light never moving, never getting closer, but always reaching out to him, as if to say keep going, John. Keep crawling. Come for me. Just a little bit further...

He slumped into the mire, the mud overtaking him as exhaustion took hold. The ground enveloped him, swallowed John whole, and he could feel himself suffocating, drowning in the viscous, foul liquid for centuries before he was spat out below, the pinpricks he had looked upon so long ago growing larger and larger as he fell to join them. He craned his neck upwards, hoping for any sign of that light, the beautiful, pure shining star that had goaded him forth.
There was nothing but inky blackness.
Not even the flames.
But still, the voice echoed around him.

Save me, John. Come for me. Save me. You put me here, John Constantine. You put me here. Save me, John.
Save me, John.

Save me, John.

Save me, John.


"S A V E M E J O H N ."



"I CAN'T." He yelled back, startling himself awake with the forcefulness of his reply. There was a bubble of silence, and then John drew the first ragged, stale breath of the day, and it was broken; the sounds of traffic and the city filtered in through his window, and he could hear the creaking of floorboards above him, the faint sounds of strong, angry words floating down through his ceiling. The sun shone harshly outside, spilling onto his bed, and John threw off his covers, propping himself up as he wiped his face of sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the fourth night of the same dream, and it had always played out the same way. Failure, accusation, and tortured pleading. John sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as shaky hands fumbled around in the drawer of his bedside table to find the lighter and the nearly-empty pack of Silk Cut cigarettes that dwelled within, a fag quickly finding its way to his mouth in one hand as the other flipped the lighter open and lit the wick. He held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply as it caught alight, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and pushing it out in one motion. His heart began to calm itself, though his mind still raced. These were not mere nightmares, imagined illusions of horror born of external stress. These were deeper, more vivid - John would say premonitions were he not a cynic. But a cynic he was, and he was quite content to endure these dreams for as long as they would persist, a subconscious desire to be punished eager to inflict such lucid terror when John's waking mind was not there to suppress his inner demons.

"I am in his kingdom, John."
John flinched, ducking sharply as he reacted to the vicious whisper that came from just behind his shoulder. He stood from his bed, cold air stinging his naked torso as the duvet fell from around his shoulders. Smoke from the lit cigarette drifted lazily upwards, ash falling to the ground and pooling around John's feet. The room was empty save for him, but the voice had been so clear and direct that even the deepest cynicism John could muster failed to dispell the belief that something - someone - had just spoken to him.
"Find the house of Nergal, John."

"Fuck off." John said loudly, and then he heard a stomp on his ceiling as the 88-year-old lady above disapproved of his vulgarity. The room was still again, and John poised himself for a third intrusion, carefully sucking on his cigarette as he moved across the bedroom to his closet, fishing out a shirt and a pair of slacks, pulling the trousers over his legs and buttoning his collar as the keen silence of his apartment remained steadfastly unbroken. He didn't want to think about who was talking to him, delivering ominous, cryptic messages and pleading commands. Instead, he pushed his tie up to the top of his collar and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his dreams and spectral visitor behind him. In the kitchen, he stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray that sat in the center of the small round table and snatched his coat from where it hung on the door, slinging it over his form while his free hand snatched the flask from the inside pocket, feverishly pulling and twisting at the cap before he swung it to his mouth, taking a large gulp. He stowed the flask again, and held a hand out, parallel to the ground. It twitched slightly, and Constantine drew it into a fist until his knuckles were white and his fingers ached with the pressure. Smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers and he opened them, fire bursting from his palm and smoldering painlessly. He watched the flames dance across his skin, lashing at his wrinkles and hopping the callouses at the base of each finger. The voice from his dream echoed in his head as the flames span round and round. The house of Nergal...

John's cigarette burnt to its last end in the ashtray as the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, another already lit and hanging from his lips as he took the stairs two at a time down towards the building's lobby.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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RETURNING CHARACTER


M A T T H E W M U R D O C K V I G I L A N T E H E L L ' S K I T C H E N
C O N T I N U I N G C O N C E P T:


"I am what I do in the dark now."

Matthew has crossed into uncharted territory, edging closer to his inner demons than he ever has done before. He killed Wilson Fisk in cold blood, pushed beyond limits he didn't even know he had by his archnemesis. His identity is out and making waves both locally and world-wide, and he has become a polarizing figure to his personal friends and the wider public, and even to himself. He is shaken by this new, vicious side to himself, but determined not to let it rule him. He is more careful than ever to become the trusted, heroic protector of Hell's Kitchen, but knows that the Devil steps with heavier treads than ever before.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

Matthew Murdock is a fugitive and a murderer, who killed Fisk in a brutal moment of cold blood. Public opinion flits back and forth - no one misses Fisk, but many fear what will succeed him. DareDevil is all Matt has left; his civilian identity has been ruined, another disastrous consequence of his recklessness. Matt is ashamed and in fear of his soul, seeking recompense and redemption. And now, with Fisk's dam shattered, a multitude of threats invade the city, threatening to pose a danger to Matt's city far more destructive than Kingpin.

Matt's going to be busy.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

Matthew's allies include Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson and Karen Page - both seeking shelter from Fisk's crumbling empire out-of-state - and Stick and his organisation known as The Chaste, although Stick has insisted that DareDevil's refusal to join their clan has cut him off from their support. Katherine Spencer, New York's District Attorney and Matthew's ex-colleague, has also disavowed herself from Matthew after his public reveal as DareDevil.

Wilson Fisk, AKA Kingpin, DareDevil's archnemesis, is dead, but a new organisation known as The Hand seems to be capitalizing on the power vacuum left in his wake, and there are free agents and mercs pouring in now that Fisk is gone and no longer able to keep them out.

S E A S O N O N E S Y N O P S I S:

Murdock's one-man assault on Fisk's kingdom ended in bittersweet, perhaps even pyrrhic, victory against the Kingpin. Elektra, Matthew's lover, had been an agent of The Hand, and had sold Matthew's civilian identity to Fisk, who used it to frame Murdock, then Assistant District Attorney, for bribery and drug trafficking. Murdock was forced to resign, as well as send his only friends and allies - Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson and Karen Page - out of the state to escape Fisk. Murdock launched a rampage on Fisk's operations until he was lured into a trap, beaten and poisoned by Elektra, and then kidnapped to Times Square by Fisk for a public showdown and execution - but DareDevil turned the tables, and killed Kingpin - but not before his true identity was revealed to the world, changing Matthew's life forever. He blacked out, thinking this was the end, but was somehow rescued by Stick and the Chaste. Stick attempted to recruit Matthew into the Chaste - but DareDevil refused, choosing instead to walk the path he had carved out for himself.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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Roman Grumpy Toad, King of Dirt

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| NAME: |
Rustin Wolfe

| ALIAS(ES): |
Rust; Detective Wolfe

| PLACE OF BIRTH: |
New Lillith, East City

| SPECIES: |
Homo-Sapien

| D.O.B.: |
September 12th, 1982

| AGE: |
32

| SEX: |
Male

| SEXUALITY: |
Heterosexual

| APPEARANCE: |
Often scruffy, Rust's staple clothes are cloth blazers, tight shirts, and skinny ties. He owns a coat for rough - or cold - weather, and it's been seeing a lot of use lately, but Rust dislikes the restriction of movement. His hair is wavy and unkempt, brushed up and out of his face with a grubby palm. Rust scowls a lot - an occupational hazard - and his skin is rough, collecting grime in its creases. Rust dresses pragmatic and light, with a revolver on his hip and a badge in his pocket.


| SKILLS: |
Despite Rustin's lack of 'superpowers', he does possess several notable talents that make him a valuable - if zealous - asset to the CCPD, as well as a dangerous individual. Most obvious is Rust's zeal: his sheer passion in the pursuit of justice, and the determination that allows him to succeed where many of his colleagues simply abandon a case to the cold locker. This persistence allows him to pour over what he knows and what he has in the hopes of finding something new, and more often than not, he does just that, using quick and wily intelligence to make previously unnoticed connections. In the field Rust is light on his feet and quick to analyse his surroundings, keeping himself on his toes and ready to react however is necessary - skills the city taught him through sheer necessity during his time as a beat cop.

Rust has also spent time at the HQ's range, honing his aim and learning how to remain calm and in control under pressure and in the middle of an intense situation. While he's not formally trained in any hand-to-hand combat, he is well-learned on how thugs prefer to fight, and he's thrown more than a few punches in his time on patrol.

| LIMITATIONS: |
As Rustin doesn't possess any powers, his limitations come only in the varieties that restrict him in his line of duty. While Rustin is usually unimpeded in the apprehension of the killers he pursues case-to-case, occasionally the corruption of the system he works in, or the sheer power wielded by the various gangs and crime families of Crescent City, prevents him from moving further with a particular case, or interferes with one of the many processes of criminal justice - usually preventing arrest, detainment, or sentencing.

However, there are times when the law itself gets in the way of Rustin's ability to administer due justice, and there are times when he feels his job as phantom shackles chained around his wrists - due diligence is necessary in enforcing judicial law, but more often than not, it only combines with the state of Crescent City as a corrupt institute to pervert the course of true, natural justice - and frustrates Rustin to all ends.

| WEAKNESSES: |
Rustin's notable weaknesses are best summed up as thus: he is Human, and fragile. With no supernatural endurance, no kind of precognition, no extraordinary combative talents, Rustin is as vulnerable to the common fist as any other Homo-Sapien, to say nothing of weapons, whether they be blunt, sharp, or projectile. His defenses do nothing against the criminal affairs that plague his city, and he survives in Crescent City by sheer luck and guile alone.


| WEAPONS: |
Rustin's only weapon is his force-issued firearm: an H&K USP .40 cal. While Rustin is not SWAT trained, due to his time on the HQ Range he is capable of effectively firing both a Remington Model 7615 Semi-Auto Rifle, and an M4 Carbine Automatic Rifle.

| TOOLS: |
As a plain-clothes detective, Rustin carries little in the way of police equipment or accessories - the most he keeps on his person are a pair of handcuffs attached to his belt in case of needing to make a quick and clean arrest and restraint. In terms of personal items, he only carries his wallet, which contains a few cards, his driving licence, and some cash bills, and his smartphone.

| ATTIRE: |
As a detective, Rust has plain-clothes privileges, provided he wear something appropriate. As a result, both on the job and off, Rust wears light cloth blazers with small shirts, dark ties, and pants to match, usually rumpled and unkempt. He occasionally dons a thick peacoat for warmth against the weather, but dislikes the weight of it. He has been known to wear a true suit - even a tux - for the odd rare special event, but these wild sightings are few and far between.


| BACKSTORY: |
Rustin's father, Paul Wolfe, led an unremarkable childhood. Paul's own father was a long-serving and loyal military man, and his various stations kept his family mobile and never settled; Paul and his two brothers quickly grew used to the lifestyle, and the daily regimens of life on a military base or encampment - even to civilians - quickly became ingrained in them. When the three men came of age to enlist, they did so immediately; in part to follow their father and to gain his approval, and in part because military life was all they really knew.

Paul and his brothers were all enlisted and serving in time to be stationed in Vietnam during the US occupation of the country; Paul's service in those hot jungles lasted from 1967 to 1972, during which time he fought, killed, wept, and lost both of his brothers as well as several squadmates, friends he'd forged in the fire of war and violence. He came back a shell of a man, suffering PTSD and disillusioned with the military institution as a whole, unable to shake the horrors he'd both seen and committed. Regardless, Paul still felt the desire to serve and protect, but in a way he knew was for the good of the people, rather than a way that the state only told him was good. To this end, he volunteered for an ex-soldier rehabilitation program that landed him a job as a beat cop in the Crescent City Police Force. The work was hard, and jarring to Paul - but slowly and surely, he regained control over his life.

Paul's new independence couldn't have come at a better time. A squadmate who had survived the war alongside him suddenly sied due to complications from an old war wound, and Paul attended the funeral - a sad day indeed, but a day he would always remember as the beginning of his new life, and the day he met Andrea. Andrea was the widow, and the pair bonded in their loss and their grief and comforted each other in the coming weeks and months, eventually starting a new relationship. Two years in, they married, and sold their individual estates and pooled their funds to buy a new house in East City, using the property and their new home as a chance to start afresh, free from their old lives and attachments. They were happy.

In 1983, at 35, Paul and Andrea had Rustin, a wiry child who grew quickly and displayed a keen cleverness that his father quickly picked up on. Paul guided Rustin's mind, feeding it knowledge and allowing him to devour information from any and all subjects - but also focusing on Rustin's natural guile and sharp wit, ensuring he'd be smart in more ways that academically. He involved Rustin in his work with the CCPD, encouraging Rustin to be inquisitive and molding him to follow his father into the police force; this molding worked. Rustin grew up with a strong sense of justice and right and wrong, and after graduating high school with high grades quickly joined the force at the bottom of the ladder.

Rustin quickly proved himself a capable cop, fierce in the chase and unrelenting in the apprehension and charge. He became a problem for the gangs and crime families of Crescent City, his sharpness becoming an issue as he began patrolling known centres of gang activity. In an effort to deal with the problem in a new, intelligent, non-violent manner, strings were pulled and Rustin's smarts were recognized by the higher authorities of the police department: Rustin was promoted to a plain-clothes detective and tucked away in Homicide, investigating cases where the crime families had already gone through with their business, and were able to set up a patsy to keep Rustin at bay.

Rustin continues to work as a Homicide Detective to this day, solving murders efficiently and refusing to let a case go cold, even taking unsolved folders out of the records office to pour over at home. He is perfectly aware of the why of his position; but he refuses the corrupt forces of Crescent City to tuck him out of the way of their business - and the gangs and families are well aware of how Rustin continues to be a thorn in their side. Rustin plays a dangerous game; but he is recognized, and respected, as a dangerous man - by all sides.
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| NAME: |
Taro, Child of Ash

| ALIAS(ES): |
N/A

| PLACE OF BIRTH: |
Planet VJDE-4J54-JH, Sector 37D

| SPECIES: |
Martrax

| D.O.B.: |
Summer

| AGE: |
Five Cycles

| SEX: |
Male

| APPEARANCE: |
Taro is a young Martrax in the prime state of his lifespan, a lean and ruthless predator. Taro, like all Martrax, is a quadruped, walking on four legs. His biology is similar to that of Earth felines, although much larger (reaching over six feet in length) and with distinct fur - short-haired, but light gray with a silver sheen, with a longer, darker mane. However, a Martrax's most distinctive feature is their tail - segmented, carapaced, and highly mobile, it ends in a vicious stinger.


| ABILITIES: |
Taro possesses two extraordinary attributes that, while standard to his species, allow him to become something far greater than a simple feline predator on the strange planet of Earth - his psychic abilities, and his tail.

Taro's psychic abilities arise from his race's method of communication between both each other and themselves and other species. Incapable of verbal communication beyond basic, animalistic sounds, Martraxi instead 'talk' via implanting images, emotions, and intents into the minds of others, their 'speech' often abstract in nature but clear in message. This psychic is, by default, 'always-on', allowing quick response to threats to the pack or to a pack-member in danger - but on Earth, it allows Taro to feel the mind-states of those around him, allowing him to pinpoint those in trouble, those looking to cause trouble, and feel out the current emotional state of his surroundings.

Taro is also able to emit a powerful psychic 'shout'. Due to the innate lack of psychic talent in the average Homo Sapien, the human brain has not needed to learn the necessary abilities to filter, or outright block, psychic signals and messages in order to protect the psyche. Taro can use his own natural psychic nature to take advantage of this by emitting a sudden burst of a particular emotion or feeling, causing this broadcast to overwhelm any humans in the area and override their current mind-state for a few minutes.

Taro's tail, meanwhile, is strictly physical, and strictly offensive. Tough, strong, and mobile, it makes for a hefty club, and its stinger tip allows for many laceration- and/or impaling-related injuries to be suffered upon his opponents when Taro finds himself in the midst of combat - however, the stinger is also loaded with a potent, naturally-produced toxin that, upon injection, can cause severe paralysis and an intense, burning pain within minutes, if not seconds.

| SKILLS: |
Taro's own notable skills are, foremost, his talents for hunting, tracking, and surviving, as well as his physical aptitude - all necessities learnt during his years as part of his pack. A natural predator, Taro possesses keen hearing and night-vision (a result of eons of Martrax adaptation to their planet's long nights), as well as a considerable sense of smell. He's also brimming with trim, toned muscle, built for purpose and practicality entirely. Taro is agile, and smart in combat, not afraid to swipe at weaker targets first or to wear down a tougher opponent, and he holds no anxieties about using his claws, teeth, and tail all to the best of his ability.

| LIMITATIONS: |
While Taro is naturally a deadly predator thanks to the great tuning centuries or evolution provides, he is neither perfect, nor in his natural habitat. This is most obvious in how uncomfortable Taro finds him in the colder climate of Earth - his home planet, with its twin stars, is a constant bath of heat, causing the fur of the Martraxi to grow short and sleek. Earth, being further away from its sun, and having both a steady day/night cycle and more cold months than warm, is unsuited to Martrax life - and Taro finds his residence uncomfortable, his body often too cold to perform to its best standards.

Further unsuited to Taro's biology is Earth's own atmosphere - thinner in oxygen than his homeworld, Taro's muscles are partially starved of oxygen, putting his body under unusual strain to keep up in performance. As a result, Taro's strength and stamina are not true to their proper potential.

| WEAKNESSES: |
Taro's most potent enemy in his new life on planet Earth is, right now, the terrestrial microbial life - bacteria, viruses, fungi; anything alive that can enter Taro's bloodstream poses a major threat as his immune system encounters a completely new and completely alien attacker, with no existing way to defend itself - after Taro's first meal on Earth, he spent the next day weak and vomiting as his body rejected the foreign substances that naturally resided within the meat he'd consumed. Taro's body is slowly building resistances and creating antibodies, but right now, any microbes can cause serious illness.

Additionally, Taro's psychic abilities do not offer him solely boons - whilst a Human does not naturally possess any psychic powers and therefore no refinement or control of their incoming signals, they have also never had to refine their broadcasts, and as a result, are 'always-on' to Taro, who, still not familiar enough with this new pattern of psychic brain-waves, is unable to successfully and completely block them from his own mind. While this is manageable in a situation where numbers remain low or distance remains high, Taro can still be overwhelmed, causing a 'short' in his own psychic abilities, a debilitating migraine, and robbing him of his ability to focus on anything but ridding his mind of the invading signals.| ABILITIES: |
Taro possesses two extraordinary attributes that, while standard to his species, allow him to become something far greater than a simple feline predator on the strange planet of Earth - his psychic abilities, and his tail.

Taro's psychic abilities arise from his race's method of communication between both each other and themselves and other species. Incapable of verbal communication beyond basic, animalistic sounds, Martraxi instead 'talk' via implanting images, emotions, and intents into the minds of others, their 'speech' often abstract in nature but clear in message. This psychic is, by default, 'always-on', allowing quick response to threats to the pack or to a pack-member in danger - but on Earth, it allows Taro to feel the mind-states of those around him, allowing him to pinpoint those in trouble, those looking to cause trouble, and feel out the current emotional state of his surroundings.

Taro is also able to emit a powerful psychic 'shout'. Due to the innate lack of psychic talent in the average Homo Sapien, the human brain has not needed to learn the necessary abilities to filter, or outright block, psychic signals and messages in order to protect the psyche. Taro can use his own natural psychic nature to take advantage of this by emitting a sudden burst of a particular emotion or feeling, causing this broadcast to overwhelm any humans in the area and override their current mind-state for a few minutes.

Taro's tail, meanwhile, is strictly physical, and strictly offensive. Tough, strong, and mobile, it makes for a hefty club, and its stinger tip allows for many laceration- and/or impaling-related injuries to be suffered upon his opponents when Taro finds himself in the midst of combat - however, the stinger is also loaded with a potent, naturally-produced toxin that, upon injection, can cause severe paralysis and an intense, burning pain within minutes, if not seconds.

| SKILLS: |
Taro's own notable skills are, foremost, his talents for hunting, tracking, and surviving, as well as his physical aptitude - all necessities learnt during his years as part of his pack. A natural predator, Taro possesses keen hearing and night-vision (a result of eons of Martrax adaptation to their planet's long nights), as well as a considerable sense of smell. He's also brimming with trim, toned muscle, built for purpose and practicality entirely. Taro is agile, and smart in combat, not afraid to swipe at weaker targets first or to wear down a tougher opponent, and he holds no anxieties about using his claws, teeth, and tail all to the best of his ability.

| LIMITATIONS: |
While Taro is naturally a deadly predator thanks to the great tuning centuries or evolution provides, he is neither perfect, nor in his natural habitat. This is most obvious in how uncomfortable Taro finds him in the colder climate of Earth - his home planet, with its twin stars, is a constant bath of heat, causing the fur of the Martraxi to grow short and sleek. Earth, being further away from its sun, and having both a steady day/night cycle and more cold months than warm, is unsuited to Martrax life - and Taro finds his residence uncomfortable, his body often too cold to perform to its best standards.

Further unsuited to Taro's biology is Earth's own atmosphere - thinner in oxygen than his homeworld, Taro's muscles are partially starved of oxygen, putting his body under unusual strain to keep up in performance. As a result, Taro's strength and stamina are not true to their proper potential.

| WEAKNESSES: |
Taro's most potent enemy in his new life on planet Earth is, right now, the terrestrial microbial life - bacteria, viruses, fungi; anything alive that can enter Taro's bloodstream poses a major threat as his immune system encounters a completely new and completely alien attacker, with no existing way to defend itself - after Taro's first meal on Earth, he spent the next day weak and vomiting as his body rejected the foreign substances that naturally resided within the meat he'd consumed. Taro's body is slowly building resistances and creating antibodies, but right now, any microbes can cause serious illness.

Additionally, Taro's psychic abilities do not offer him solely boons - whilst a Human does not naturally possess any psychic powers and therefore no refinement or control of their incoming signals, they have also never had to refine their broadcasts, and as a result, are 'always-on' to Taro, who, still not familiar enough with this new pattern of psychic brain-waves, is unable to successfully and completely block them from his own mind. While this is manageable in a situation where numbers remain low or distance remains high, Taro can still be overwhelmed, causing a 'short' in his own psychic abilities, a debilitating migraine, and robbing him of his ability to focus on anything but ridding his mind of the invading signals.


| WEAPONS: |
While Taro possesses no objects, his tail, teeth, and claws make ample weapons enough to allow him to hold his own in any close-quarters situation he cares to picture.

| TOOLS: |
N/A

| ATTIRE: |
Taro wears the fur he grows and nothing else - although, with the colder climate of Earth, he is beginning to understand the need for the various odd coverings Humans tend to throw over their bodies.


| BACKSTORY: |
Taro was born as the Summer of his planet began its terrible peak, and the first leaves of the treetops began to catch the fire of the twin suns; Taro's first memory, clear in his mind, was that of great flames bursting from the branches of the trees around him and above him, his mother seizing him by his scruff in her jaw, his parents rushing towards the caves where the rest of their pack waited, the caves that would offer shelter from the fire that would soon engulf their world. The light was great, and the heat intense, but the caves held cooler air and soft shadows, and it was in those caves that Taro grew, suckling at his mother as the pack hibernated, surviving another summer cycle.

When his pack emerged, Taro was a young cub, a mewling infant no longer, instead growing larger and stronger, with the energy and rambunctious nature of a mischievous child. His first sight of his planet was that of an ash desert, the burnt remains of the jungle he was born in, vast swathes of speckled grays with shrubs and weeds still surviving, seeds from the great trees destroyed beginning to sprout and begin a new cycle. Taro was entranced, and in his play he stained his fur the colour of the ash; as he grew, his fur eventually mellowed from its newborn brown into the gray of how his planet had welcomed him, and thus Taro was dubbed a Child of Ash, like his father before him.

~

Taro aged for three cycles before the first sign of his Martrax maturity began to manifest - his tail's first secretions. A Martrax was never born with their venom, and only a rare few with a stinger at all; most had their barbs form as they tail grew, the chitinous carapace forming the distinctive wicked point as a Martrax reached two or three cycles, and only then would the glands, growing along with the cub, begin to manufacture the venom that would become their most potent weapon. Taro was excited when his secretions began, eager to enter the new phase of his life and become a true member of his pack - and his pack wasted no time in putting the newly mature Martrax to use.

Taro was quickly taught how to hunt; how to find prey and select a target, how to stalk the potential meal, how to get so close that you could hear its heartbeat, and how to remain so invisible that you wore the dark on your fur - and it was then and only then that Taro was taught how to strike. A silent whip, the slight sound of puncture and a whimper from the prey and then the toxin took hold, seizing up the meal's joints and stopping their heart, and then Taro would pounce and tear out the throat, blood dripping from his maw. His first kill was eaten heartily, sampled by the Alpha as per Martrax mandate, and only then shared with the rest of the pack.

~​

At four cycles, Taro did something no Martrax at his young age had ever done: he challenged his Alpha.

Bovay, Child of Fire, was an aging Martrax, old and ungraceful, alive for 26 cycles with seemingly only a few more to come; he had challenged his Alpha at ten cycles, and won a decisive victory, securing himself as new Alpha. His leadership had been fair and just, and as he aged, his decisions grew wiser and more tempered - but now Bovay grew too old, and his choices for his pack were becoming scattered and unnecessary. Taro saw the need for a new mind in his place, a Martrax stronger and less burdened by the decline of years, an Alpha that could lead his pack into its new generation, Taro's generation. Taro saw himself as that Alpha, and challenged Bovay.

The two fought for hours, and above them their planet's parent body floated across the sky like a watchful god. Eventually, Taro's claws found Bovay's already battered legs and Bovay yielded, surrendering the position of Alpha over to Taro. Taro was excited, but suddenly anxious; the pack waited on him, and he was now the one they looked to for guidance - and so began the rule of Taro, Child of Ash, Alpha of his pack.

His leadership was not unsatisfactory, but Taro was young, and it was plain to his pack. They did not question him, for he was Alpha, and Taro sought advice from the deposed Bovay, who told him that a firm leader was better than a liked one. Taro found this troubling, as he felt insecure in his hold as Alpha, but acted regardless - he moved his pack from their erstwhile home, setting up a new home some distance away, closer to one of his planet's coasts; while his pack was displeased with the unfamiliar territory, they were now further from a rival pack who they had been contesting hunting grounds with, and slowly Taro's pack began to realize that their new home was a positive change - with easy access to water to cool them, they could hunt longer into the Summer before delving below to hibernate in the coastal cave systems, and the oceanic life gave them a new source of food that no other pack could contest. Taro was accepted unanimously as Alpha, and all his worries of being challenged dissipated as his pack began a new, better life.

~​

Then Taro was abducted. A highly-advanced species from a neighbouring system had been observing the semi-sentient Martraxi for many cycles, and Taro's recent movements had interested them: such a young Martrax challenging the Alpha, winning, and then moving his entire pack to new territory - activity like this was unheard of by those who were aware of the Martrax, and the Martraxi themselves. An amoral sect desired further study of the Martrax and their culture, and devised an awful method of research.

They waited until the peak of the next Summer, when Taro led his pack into the coastal cave systems for their hibernation, and then enacted their plot, sending a ship down to brave the fire and the heat to abduct Taro as he and his pack slept and survived. Taro was placed into a research pod and put into stasis, and the abductors watched as his pack woke after the Fire with no Alpha, no leader. At first there was chaos - the stronger, older Martraxi of the pack immediately brawling for the position, before Bovay, still alive but dangerously weak, instated himself once again. In his final act, Bovay lead the pack to another, and entreated the Alpha that Bovay's pack merged with his, explaining his circumstances, the Alpha that was missing, his pack's past and his own. The Alpha accepted, and just like that, Taro's pack, Taro's family and legacy, was gone.

~

Stasis is a peculiar state of being. The body is frozen in time but still very much alive, heart beating and blood pumping and organs functioning but nothing aging, nothing dead. The mind dreams. A Martrax doesn't dream. A Martrax rarely sleeps, staying awake for most of the period they're not hibernating, taking perhaps five or six rests a cycle. Hibernation forces a shut-down, closes off even the Martraxi psychic waves. But stasis isn't hibernation, and Taro dreamed, psychic waves still active, still searching for another Martrax to connect to, searching for companionship and comfort. Taro's mind didn't find anything, but it still felt the activity of its pack from the planet below, however faintly. Taro dreamed of his pack spilling its own blood, of the return of the past, of a great movement - and then Taro dreamed of his pack fading away into nothing, enveloped and swallowed up by another, something similar but fundamentally different.

Taro woke up.

Alarms went off immediately. Stasis was not supposed to be breached from the inside. The ship went into security mode and Taro burst from his pod, angry and frightened and confused, lashing out at those who had taken him from his family and delivered him such dark dreams.

Somewhere in the fracas the ship sustained major damage, causing an overheat and subsequent malfunction in its hyperdrive systems. The ship flung itself furiously through space, ending up in a galaxy known to its local intelligent species as the 'Milky Way'. Taro, bathed in both his blood and his assailant's, tail dripping toxin from rapid, repeated use, had little time to brace himself for the impact as the ship's engines and hyperdrive failed completely, dropping the ship directly into the atmosphere of the planet 'Earth'. The ship crashed, and Taro spent the first three days on his new home wounded and unconscious amid rubble and debris, what was left of the ship resting in a smoking crater.​

~

Since Taro's destructive relocation, he's survived, hunting lesser life-forms alone, living on the side of Old Stone Mountain and avoiding being spotted by the local residents, odd two-legged creatures that he has seen in mighty abundance, and assumes to be the planet's dominant lifeform. While his lessons in early cycles about the value of silence and shadows have not gone unheeded, he has still be unable to completely escape notice - but, thankfully, he has been mistaken more than once for a similar beast that shares the territory of the mountain, and even when noticed as something rather more peculiar than the local wildlife, stories of 'manticores on the mountain' are rarely listened to.

The recent rain has interested Taro though, as has the psychic response from the mass population that lives below his mountain home. The wreckage of the ship he came in on is still there and still undiscovered, and Taro still wishes to return to his planet and restart his pack. Taro is still the Alpha, and he still holds his responsibilities.


| HOME PLANET: |

Planet VJDE-4J54-JH, Sector 37D, is home to the Martrax race, who are the 'dominant species' of the planet, but with no real structured society, they are really little more than alpha predator.

VJDE is a satellite planet, its parent body a far larger planetary mass, scorched and dead. Its most distinctive feature is its twin stars, which it orbits in a figure-of-eight pattern along with its parent body. The near-constant light has given way to thick and verdant plant-life that covers most of VJDE's landmass, which, combined with the eternal heat, creates a lush rainforest. This light is only broken twice for each complete cycle of its orbit, when VJDE reaches one of the two farthest lateral points of its path, and its parent body comes between it and its two suns, causing a planet-wide period of darkness that lasts for 4-5 months before the eclipse is broken as VJDE continues its orbit.

While dark, and the closest VJDE gets to a 'winter', the planet still remains relatively warm. This heat ramps up as VJDE reaches the first of its two 'summers', the point in its orbit where it comes between both of its suns. The sheer heat of both stars combined causes mass bushfires planet-wide that burn away most of the larger plant-life, leaving only smaller weeds, shrubs, and the seeds of the larger trees left alive. Because of the danger of the fires, and the danger of the heat itself, most of the wildlife, including the dominant Martraxi, hibernate for the summer period, burrowing underground or delving into cave systems that offer shelter from the direct sunlight and slightly cooler temperatures, re-emerging when VJDE begins to pull away from one of the suns and temperatures fall again, allowing the plants to spring back to life and flourish through the ash-desert to create new forests, beginning another cycle.

~​

Martraxi are a quadrupedal feline race, similar in shape to terrestrial lions and tigers, but usually far larger, the smallest adult Martrax still reaching six feet in length and coming up to a human male's waist at least in height (from ground to foreleg shoulder). Their fur is often colourless, coming in varying shades of white, grey, and black, with long, sleek manes that are distinct in colour from the main coat.

All Martraxi have long, segmented, prehensile tails covered in a tough carapace that extends partially up the spine and back of the Martrax, which ends in a vicious stinger - sometimes split into two or three separate tips - that is loaded with a dose of highly toxic venom that can paralyze an unfortunate victim within minutes, if not seconds.

While Martraxi are not capable of speech, and any verbal communication is in the form of purrs, growls, roars, or chuffing, they are capable of psychic communication. Mostly achieved through imagery and emotion imprinted into another's mind, 'speech' in this manner is often abstract, and while there are no words 'broadcast', the intent of the message is clear. Martraxi are, by default, 'always on' to psychic communication, which allows quick response to threats or danger as well as ease of communication, but they are capable of blocking out psychic signals.

~​

While intelligent, and capable of communication (both inter- and intra-species), the Martrax do not live in a 'structured' society like the Homo Sapiens of Earth, or other celestial sentient beings. Instead, they live wild in the rainforests of their planet, in pack structures similar to those of terrestrial canines, despite their feline-like biology. A Martrax pack will consist of four or five 'bloodlines', families of Martraxi that fall into line under an 'Alpha'.

An 'Alpha' is defined by power alone - male or female, a Martrax only becomes Alpha of his or her pack when they challenge and depose the current Alpha. While challenges are a serious affair, they are not common, and Alphas can rule their 'pack' for several decades until challenged, at which point they will engage in a fair fight to defend their place - however, never to the death. A challenged Alpha will fight until one party yields: if deposed, an Alpha will be respected for his or her time as leader of the pack until their death by natural causes, and will be cared for by the new Alpha; if the challenger is defeated, they will be commended for their efforts, and welcomed to challenge once more when they grow stronger. Due to the 'no-kill' nature of an Alpha challenge, Martraxi will not use their tails in this kind of combat - indeed, to kill the challenger is to be deposed by default, and to kill the Alpha is to be ostracized by the rest of the pack.

The strict rules of combat in challenging an Alpha are mostly due to the long life-span and low birth-rate of a Martrax - a Martrax is a powerful predator late into their cycles, and a pack is stronger the more members it has. If a member were to be killed every challenge, a pack's number would dwindle quickly, and be forced into extinction shortly after. Martraxi mate for life, and produce perhaps only one or two offspring in their lives. Males and females share the burden of childcare equally until the cub is capable of sustaining themselves, and as hunting for food for the pack is often regarded as as much leisure as it is necessity, those who go is often rotated each hunt.

A pack will always fall respectfully in line beneath an Alpha who has proven themselves, and an Alpha needs only do it once to remain Alpha until challenged again - however, many Alphas rule fairly, concerned with the wellbeing of the pack as a whole, as a Martrax survives only as well as his or her pack does, and challengers rarely take on an Alpha unless they are prepared to shoulder the responsibilities.

Martraxi possess 'second names' in the form of descriptors that intend to mark their belonging to a particular generation, mostly decided by the general time of their birth but also influenced by the colour of their fur - for example, a Martrax born during one of their planet's nights will often grow to have darker fur, and will be dubbed a 'Child of Dark'. These second names are as close are Martraxi get to different races within their species, and packs usually consist of one or two families all from similar generations - it is rare to find a Child of Dark residing within the same pack as a Child of Fire.


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| NAME: |
Minavita Ripole​

| ALIAS(ES): |
'Minnie Ripper'
H.E.L.P. Agent Fieldname: Not yet given​

| PLACE OF BIRTH: |
Portland, Oregon​

| NATIONALITY: |
American, Caucasian/African American. Possesses duel citizenship with Canada.​

| D.O.B. |
5th April, 1992​

| AGE: |
22​

| SEX: |
Female​

| SEXUALITY: |
Bisexual​

| HEIGHT: |
5'5"​

| BUILD: |
Slim​

| WEIGHT: |
105lbs​

| EYES: |
Brown​

| HAIR: |
Brunette​

| H-CLASS: |
Juno​


| ABILITIES: |
Minnie possesses the ability to manipulate the biology of certain animals - at this point, dogs and some birds - and induce mutation, forcing them to become larger, more monstrous, and allowing their aggressiveness to surge. This mutation is temporary, but with concentration, also allows Minnie to have complete psychic control over their actions and behavior.​

| LIMITATIONS: |
Minnie needs extended, uninterrupted contact with the animal she has chosen to induce, and inducing multiple Monsters requires more time and harder concentration - attempting to induce too many animals too quickly will exhaust Minnie, and can cause collapse or even coma. Her psychic command over Monsters also grows weaker and more difficult to maintain the more Monsters she is attempting to control. The inducement of a Monster only lasts for a certain time, directly related to the amount of concentration and effort put into both the inducement and the psychic link.​

| WEAKNESSES: |
Obviously, Minnie's ability has little use outside of a combat scenario, and Minnie herself has little self-defense capabilities without her Monsters - and having her Monsters further depends on animal presence. If Minnie has her Monsters, she still requires concentration and strength to make and maintain the psychic command - and a sufficient distraction will loose the Monsters on friend, foe, and Minnie alike until their inducement wears off.​

| APPLICATIONS: |
Minnie's most obvious application of her ability is the sheer combat power it affords her, allowing her to savage her enemies with Monsters and beasts. However, her psychic command allows Minnie to use her Monsters for more than just aggression - smaller Monsters can scout a building through vents or cracked walls, while others can use their mutations to form cover or smash through obstacles to gain access to restricted areas. As Minnie's command grows stronger, her Monsters will also allow her to have multiple self-presence over large areas, fetching objects, people, lending aid, and performing recon.


| HISTORY |
"Just be glad 'boogeyman' isn't a classifier."

Born in the beginning of April, 1992, to Martha and Joseph Ripole, the unfortunately named (in her opinion) Minavita Ripole came into the world screaming but burning with passion, arriving in Portland, Oregon, just south of the Canadian border - and, unknown to both her parents the child herself, a member of an emerging new species: Homo Viruim, or Hyperhuman. It wouldn't be until Minavita grew to 19 years old that anyone would know what she really was.

Martha Ripole died in 1997, when Minnie was 5. The family - Mother, Father, Daughter - were in the family car, heading to the beach on a warm and lazy June weekend, when they were caught in a head-on collision caused by a Hype incident. Martha, who had been unbuckled, turned around in her seat to entertain Minnie with silly faces, was thrown against the windshield, smashing her head and causing internal bleeding in the brain. She died three days later in hospital, and Joe became a single dad.

Minnie's father was good to her. He loved her and supported her, and though they lived in a small house with little luxuries - Joe's job as a tradesman offered little in the way of exorbitant wealth - they lived happily. Minnie missed her mother and Joe missed his wife but they were content with each other. Joe put Minnie through school, and she made friends easily, keeping herself upbeat and friendly, not allowing the maternal gulf in her life to define her. Instead, she became a maternal figure herself, taking on a sense of responsibility far beyond her years - she looked after her friends, and the animals that she found herself increasingly drawn to.

Minnie graduated high school at 18, a punk girl for the last three years - she'd fallen for the sound and the aesthetic, appreciating that both were things even she could comfortably afford, and she was drawn to the core concepts that Punk stood for - acceptance and freedom, regardless of creed, race, or in Minnie's case, financial situation. She lost herself in the gritty, dirty riffs, the chaotic drum beats. There was something near-natural about the music to hear, animalistic and instinctual. She sang along where she could, and wrote her own lyrics, filling up notepads - pads she shared with her friends, who immediately span dreams of bands and stardom. A punk-band pipe-dream, but one the group held on to throughout their adolescence nonetheless.

After graduation she quickly moved out to a shared apartment with several of the friends she'd made in high school. Her father let her go with his blessing, both anxious about her stepping out into the world, but both happy that she'd made it. She found a job and paid her rent, enjoying her new life, her new home, and her new housemates. They drank, and joked, and jammed, and one night, when the two were done in unison, formed the punk band they'd always talked about but never acted on, hoping to spur the dying music into a second life. They called themselves Calling Jupiter, and began to write and play.

Calling Jupiter didn't allow the resurrection they'd hoped for, but it did give them freedom, and paved Minnie's path. They didn't tour, but played in grimy pubs and bars and small halls, making small amounts of money. They had fun, and were happy with that - after all, fun, not monetary gain, was the point of Punk. And then it all collapsed.

Minnie was the band's frontman, the lead vocals and personality of Calling Jupiter, strutting about the stage and belting words with ferocity and power. She had her own stage name, 'Minnie Ripper', and she wore it like a badge, transforming into an idealistic version of herself, becoming on-stage who she could never be off it. She was attractive and filled with passion and attitude, suggestive and aloof, a wry smirk and a cocked eyebrow. She was admired. She was desired. And when the guitarist's advances were first ignored and then rejected, Minnie was nearly raped. That was when she performed her first inducement, a stray dog mutating into a fanged, spiked-skinned Monster and tearing her attempted-rapist's throat out. That was when she found out she was a Hype. That was when she fled to Canada.

Canada didn't seem like the obvious choice, but it was Canada that was known best for its tolerant attitude toward Hypes, Canada that had a fledgling academy dedicated to the shelter and education of Hypes, Canada that was close enough to use to flee from murder charges. Minnie was found by a SHIFT strike team, and given safe harbour and enrollment in PRCU. She fought off the charges levied against her with self-defense as her main case, and secondary manslaughter as her back up - thankfully, the first stuck. No longer needing the safety of a border between her and the law, Minnie's father invited her home - but, as much to her own surprise as her fathers, she elected to stay at PRCU, studying and training. They had been a home to her to a time of crisis, and she felt safe - something she was in desperate need of now.

Now, Minnie is 22, the punk aesthetic gone but not forgotten, shed in favour of something that doesn't remind her of that night. She exchanges letters with her father and practices her abilities, accepting of her inclusion in this new, emergent species, but a little less pleased with her status as a monster maker. Right now, there are staff that are eager to push her into SHIFT, as her abilities make her a serious contender as a SHIFT enforcer if harnessed properly - but frankly, she's fine with not using them. Doesn't mean she doesn't practice, though. She does see something cute in her creations.​


SUPPORTING CAST:
Joseph Ripole:​

Minnie's father, a kind and aging soul, ever-grieving for the loss of his wife but dipping in such immense joy for the life of his daughter. Despite a Hype incident causing Martha's death, he strives not to harbour resentment or hatred, and his efforts towards tolerance were only bolstered by his daughter's public entrance into the Homo Virium species. Joe Ripole is a simple man with a simple job, but he is warm, open-minded, and enjoys a cold can of beer after a hard day's work.

Martha Ripole:

Minnie's mother, sadly torn from the world after being caught in a pile-up that was caused by an unfortunate Hype incident. Her death left an irreparable hole in the lives of Minnie and Joseph, but neither allowed their grief to consume them; Joseph allowed his love of his daughter to save him, while Minnie herself became the maternal figure she would have otherwise missed.

Rudy Foster:

Drummer of Calling Jupiter, Minnie's post-high school punk band. Tall, strong, and well aware of both, he was nonetheless friendly, and almost gentle, if a tad clumsy. He drinks a lot but rarely feels it, and smokes a lot and always feels it. He's been a good confidant to Minnie, although there are some secrets she likes to keep.

Henry Jones:

Guitarist of Calling Jupiter. An arrogant, short-tempered man, but with an absorbing confidence and an aura of fun that made him engaging and approachable. He was Minnie's go-to-guy for a good time, and often the life of what little 'after-party' there was after a Calling Jupiter pseudo-gig - but his illusion was brought down after his romantic intentions upon Minnie were ultimately rejected, and he sought to force his desires upon her. Fortunately for Minnie and Earth at large, her Hype status awakened, and Henry was soon de-throated by a monstrous was-dog. He was Minnie's traumatic entry into her true heritage, and the nightmarish beginning of her new life.

Poggles:

A pug assigned to Minnie after her initial arrival at PRCU as a therapy dog during her follow-up treatment after being targeted in an attempted rape. Greatly adored by Minnie, he soon seized a fast loyalty to her, helped no end by multiple inducements and psychic connections due to Minnie's innate abilities. Despite her therapy being two years behind her, Poggles remains distinctly Minnie's dog, and stands steadfast beside her, protecting her, comforting her, and becoming a vicious, six-legged, many-fanged monster when Minnie needs slight more protection.​




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Roman Grumpy Toad, King of Dirt

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C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
H E L L B L A Z E R


J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E U N E M P L O Y E D E N G L A N D I N D E P E N D E N T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"S'just the way of it. We all sell our souls sooner or later."

Every time I've tried playing Constantine in the past, I've started slap-bang in the middle of his career as an occultist, exorcist, detective, magician, etc etc, and often include nearly every major event of his canon in the biography. And I usually end up directionless after 2/3 posts with no real plan or solid character development to pursue. No more!

This Constantine is young. He's just been released from Ravenscar after an eighteen-month incarceration, with no home, family, friends or life to return to. His sister is still disappeared; his mother is still dead; his father still may as well be. He's a blank slate to carve scars and stories into, and there's a clear vision to begin setting him up as the equally legendary and infamous mage we know from DC today.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I've had a lot of ideas for John over the years, varying from continuing the canon to retelling an old story to redirecting existing character goals. This is none of them; this is a new origin story, this is taking the themes and story notes of the character that I love and running them through my personal lens, and developing a brand new Constantine that can be definitively mine while avoiding a complete departure from the source material.

John is young; 20-something, still several years before 30. His sister disappeared over a year ago, and he suffered a nervous breakdown that got him sectioned; he has only just been released from mental care at Ravenscar. He's done a lot of introspection and reflection during his incarceration and has come out of it seeking to repair the damage he's done to his minimal existing relationships and at least come to terms with, if not solve, his sister's disappearance. Unfortunately, he is yet unaware of the supernatural brush his life is about to be stained by, and the events shortly about to unfold that will change John’s life forever, and force him down terrible, grievous paths for a greater good he will never live to see.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:




S A M P L E P O S T:

Leeds. June. 2006. John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. Summer in Liverpool, as much as Liverpool could allow, and the sky was covered by a pallid shroud of grey clouds. They were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, on abandoned tables, in phoneboxes and ticket machines. John's pockets rattled melodically with coins as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise. Cheryl downplayed her amusement but could not stifle a chuckle here and there.

At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.

Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.

John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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Punisher as group of anon citizens in crime ridden town taking back control. Potentially human purists in wake of stryfe. Opposed by local mob and a reactionary group.

Opposing group’s motive?
Ringleaders of each?
Should there even be a definitive leader?
Shifting POV or follow one member?


C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
A L I A S


B I R T H N A M E O C C U P A T I O N L O C A T I O N A F F I L I A T I O N
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"Witty Quote"

This is where you outline your vision for the character including any notable changes or differences from the regularly accepted canon. This should be a short summary that provides insight into where the character is in terms of their overall progress and development.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go?

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

Any additional notes you want to put either for yourself, the GM's or other players to help clarify your vision or continuity.

S A M P L E P O S T:

A sample post that can be used in the IC if you so desire upon acceptance. This post should provide an example of your vision for the desired character. This sample post should meet all standards outline in the rules and additionally include dialogue, mannerisms and other actions representative of your intended portrayal.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.
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‘Working class’ Batman. Basically just non-billionaire bats. Identity unknown - just a man who grew tired of the oppression of the 99% and the impotency of ‘protests’ and ‘movements’ and decided to take a far more head-on approach. His concern isn’t particularly the petty crime that riddles Gotham’s seedier neighbourhoods, but more the punishment of the men responsible for the systemic oppression that has created neighbourhoods such as these in order to line their already grossly fattened wallets. Sort of a Robin Hood take on batman but far less charming and far more violent.

His main ‘villain’ for the first arc will be one particular Fortune 500 CEO who will find his life and luxuries torn down around him as The Batman - emphasis on The, as this bays is more a force of nature than a singular individual - tears his assets asunder and redistributes his wealth among those who have actually earned it. The CEO should have a semi-sympathetic angle but still portrayed as an ultimately callous, compassionless, and pseudo-sociopathic man who would rather see the masses starve and suffer than risk losing the extra ‘0’ from the end of his annual octuple-figure bonus.


C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
' T H E B A T M A N '


? ? ? V I G I L A N T E G O T H A M F O R T H E P E O P L E
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"Witty Quote"

This is a Batman who decidedly does not come from the immeasurable fortune at Bruce's disposal, and had to come about his tools and skills in a far more realistic way; hard work and luck. He didn't train with the League of Assassins; he didn't fund his arsenal through a global industry company's R&D department; he can't house his lair in a spacious cavern beneath his castle-like property and outfit it with the most complex and intelligent computational equipment. He doesn't even have a car.

This is a Batman devoid of the origin that has been plastered upon the collective public psyche; indeed, this is a Batman devoid of any concrete origin whatsoever. This Batman feels more like a force of nature, the result of a terrible imbalance finally righting itself, an incorrect equation breaking its own shackles to produce its own solution. Batman has always been a protector, but never one who has taken up war against the systemic roots of the crime wave he rails against night after night. Bruce always felt to me like he came from the top and worked at the bottom level to build a better city from the foundations; my Batman will come from the bottom, and strike at the top, to collapse a corrupt ruling class and set the dominos falling.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I want to play a Batman who feels like a mythical figure or an urban legend rather than a costumed superhero. In the era of late stage capitalism becoming increasingly dystopian and the public awareness/conversation of societal conditions growing and morphing into righteous anger, I felt like the timing was appropriate for a Batman who was less iconic comic-book superhero, and more walking avatar for the coming class revolt. The infallible and incorruptible sense of Justice that is so core to the character remains intact, as does the concept of protecting the city he loves to rekindle the flame of Gotham’s heart, but the well-trodden origin story is gone to afford an extra dose of mystique, and the mission at hand is one that takes aim at a far wider-scope problem.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
















S A M P L E P O S T:

A sample post that can be used in the IC if you so desire upon acceptance. This post should provide an example of your vision for the desired character. This sample post should meet all standards outline in the rules and additionally include dialogue, mannerisms and other actions representative of your intended portrayal.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.
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Roman Grumpy Toad, King of Dirt

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MALCOM BLYTHE, CAPTAIN OF THE KINGSGUARD
MALCOM BLYTHE


CARA BRUME, SORCERESS OF THE PALACE
CARA BRUME


LOGAN STONE-SHATTER, ELDEST OF THE MOUNTAIN-BRAVE
LOGAN STONE-SHATTER


RUFUS DAURIAN, COMMANDER OF THE WARDENS
RUFUS DAURIAN


COUNT SYLQUEN, OF HOUSE KARNEL
SYLQUEN


ORAMIR, HOUSECARL OF HOUSE KARNEL
ORAMIR


GIDEON BHURKE, IRON CHANCELLOR
GIDEON BHURKE
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Powers
-Materialise any known weapon
-Survive extreme damage
-Self-Duplication
-Smoke Generation & Manipulation
-‘Bogeyman’ Form
-Salvage tech creation
-Passive tool upgrading
-Auto-biokinesis
-Insect communication & control
-Ferrokinesis
-Thermokinesis/Sun Generation
-Psionic Oppression
-Localised time reversal
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J E N N Y V E N O M


_______________________________________________
Jennifer Amber Vandermeyer
_______________________________________________
31-10-71 | | Caucasian
_______________________________________________
Single | ‍♀️ | Heterosexual
_______________________________________________
Mather's Memorial Student | Defiant to the end

_______________________________________________
Physical Profile

___________________________________

• Height | 5'3"

• Weight | 111lbs

• Build | Lean

• Hair Colour | Jet black

• Eye Colour | Deep brown
Appearance Details
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
Jennifer expresses rebellion in every way she can sink her claws into; her stubborn and bullheaded nature bleeds into her demeanor, walking around with a puffed chest and locked shoulders, a defiant frown plastered permanently across her face. Her long black hair, wild and unkempt, flows back and down her back, the most thought given to it a rough brushing every other day; it breaks a stark contrasting line across her ghost-pale skin. Her fashion sense further cements the image she seeks to cultivate: embedded in punk culture, she wears blacks with provocative slogans and imagery, chained jeans cuffed above heavy boots and always, always, a ragged leather jacket that is a wearable example of the Ship of Theseus, at this point more hap-hazard threading and safety pins than the original garment.

Character Synopsis
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
Jennifer was born Halloween '71 to Micheal and Barbara Vandermeyer. Micheal, her father, worked in a bank, and her mother made a good home for her husband and new daughter. The family diligently attended church every Sunday, and many other days besides, and had a simple, satisfactory life, if somewhat humdrum. Micheal was able to adequately provide any material needs, and Barbara wanted little besides; they were a simple couple, devout in their beliefs.

Jennifer first met Vanessa at 3 years old after the Vandermeyers moved to Crestwood following her father receiving a promotion, sent to the city to run the new branch the bank had just opened there. The Bordeaux's were their new neighbours, and little Jennifer was delighted to have a new friend so quickly after what little life she'd gotten a grip on had been so rapidly uprooted. Vanessa and Jennifer quickly became the firmest of friends in the way only growing little girls can manage, and their bond blossomed further as they entered education, being the two best friends either girl had had in their short lives thusfar.

As they grew, so did their parents; while the Bordeaux's were a well-respected family in Crestwood, Jennifer's parents picked up a reputation for being overly preachy and judgmental; while Jennifer herself had stopped attending church since she turned 10, her parents were still devout, perhaps even zealous believers at times, and in their deepening age relied more and more on their faith as a cornerstone of their values, and their daughter as the cornerstone of their future. Jennifer began to slowly realize her life was being planned and curated for her, and the seed of resentment found root in her core.

Jennifer turned to music, as did so many young girls and boys; the world around her was alive with all kinds of new sounds, but where Vanessa, her best friend, fell in love with Disco and the elating, motivating sounds found therein, Jennifer was drawn to the messy, defiant catharsis of the still-young Punk Rock movement. Punk reveled in sticking two fingers up and damn the consequences, a philosophy Jennifer adopted with frightening speed and ease; everything became about rebellion. Jennifer forged a new identity in punk: Vandermeyer no longer, she was Jenny Venom, and she used this persona to divorce herself from her family's reputation, and her parent's plans for her.

As Jennifer and Vanessa approached high school, they had drifted apart significantly; Jennifer had fallen in with her new spiky-haired, leather-wearing clique, and had derided Vanessa's love of Disco, spurning Vanessa's attempts to reconnect and rekindle the friendship. Vanessa kept herself graceful enough to never retaliate, allowing Jennifer the space to explore this new self she had constructed.

Vanessa's death shattered Jenny's world, despite the distance she had deliberately made between her and her once-closest friend. The tragedy cast into harsh light exactly what life is and can be, and what it means when it is taken away; but these revelations have only triggered a further retreat into the persona. Jennifer was a little girl, her life being lived for her, path forcibly laid out ahead of her, naive and foolish. Jenny Venom is fearless, and tough, and survives everything.

Hyper-Human Abilities
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Jennifer's hype-gene has mutated specifically alongside her immune system and fight-or-flight response. When presented with physical trauma or sudden terror, before adrenaline floods her blood supply, a unique secondary 'hype-hormone' is secreted from her adrenal glands that blocks the receptors at her nerve endings, completely shutting down the nervous system pain response and instead replacing any incoming trauma signals with a direct signal to the endocrine system to produce further and further adrenaline. The mutated hype-adrenaline then bonds with her muscles and completely replaces the aerobic/anaerobic respiration function, eliminating lactic acid buildup and allowing indefinite function without exhaustion. Finally, the bonded 'hype-hormone' and adrenaline floods her skull cavity and passes through the pia mater into the blood vessels of the brain, and signals the activation of an extremely intense, subconscious form of auto-biokinesis, allowing her low-level brain functions to take over the immune system response and rewire muscles, organs, blood supply systems and bones on-the-fly to adapt to endure any and all incoming trauma without ceasing function.

Once trauma has ceased or has been escaped, the 'hype-hormone' stops signalling, and the mutated adrenaline floods the immune system entirely, expediting recovery of injury, the body drawing adrenaline from its various appendages and organs working from the bodily extremes inward in order to necessitate quickened recovery while allowing maximum up-time of the unconscious biokinesis to aid natural physical recovery, before the adrenaline is drawn from the meninges entirely and disseminated as the final healing 'booster'.

All these processes combined result in Jennifer being able to sustain intense physical trauma well above and beyond what would be typically fatal for a human, without feeling pain, losing motor or organ function, or slowing or shutting down - and then being able to recover from the trauma to full-functioning capacity at an increased rate after-the-fact.
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V A N E S S A B O R D E A U X


_______________________________________________
Vanessa Patricia Bordeaux
_______________________________________________
DOB | | Caucasian
_______________________________________________
Female | ‍Pansexual | Deceased
_______________________________________________
Sister, Daughter, Friend, Companion | Gone, but not forgotten

_______________________________________________
Physical Profile

___________________________________

• Height | 5'2"

• Weight | 115lbs

• Build | Thin

• Hair Colour | Brunette

• Eye Colour | Brown
Hyper-Human Abilities
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
power description here
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Whiskey, grits, and demon spittle
Tossed into my iron griddle
With the tannin’ of our hides
Somethin’ Wicked This Way Rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R


J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:


S A M P L E P O S T:


P O S T C A T A L O G:

TBC, partner.
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The Return Of The West
A Man Came Walking...
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