[hider=Renegade]
[b]Secret ID:[/b] Tallant Ibn al-Ghul

[b]Alias:[/b] Renegade

[b]Age:[/b] 16

[b]Home Location:[/b] Gotham

[b]Powers:[/b] Infused since gestation with the profane power of the Lazarus Pit, as well as a variety of other types of sorcery, alchemy, and genetic engineering, Tallant's metahuman abilities place him in the gray area between human and superhuman. His physical strength, agility, and endurance already far exceed what would be normal for a young man his age, and are likely to continue to improve as he matures. In particular, his senses, reflexes, balance, flexibility, coordination, and spacial awareness border on supernatural in their potency. His injuries heal abnormally fast, and Tallant is more resistant to poison and toxins than average as well. Tallant has a genius intellect and a photographic memory, often capable of replicating skills perfectly after seeing them performed once. Trained practically since he was able to walk in the shadow and killing arts of the League of Assassins, Tallant is a terrifying hand-to-hand combatant, and is proficient with nearly any weapon one can conceive of, but has a particular fondness for knives. Much of this expertise is derived from the accumulated knowledge of the Lazarus Pit, which sits deep in his subconscious until called upon as needed, often to save his life. This unconscious presence also makes Tallant unusually resistant to hypnosis and other mind-altering techniques, including as League of Assassins programming. He knows a little bit of magic; some ninjutsu and similar dark arts passed on by the League of Assassins, but usually prefers to rely on cold steel.

[b]Weaknesses:[/b] The millennia of experience, wisdom, pain, and madness transferred from the pool of the Lazarus Pit to Tallant's DNA has had a destabilizing effect on his psyche. Tallant is prone to dissociative episodes, wherein his own identity becomes indistinct from that of the tormented souls imprinted on him from within the Lazarus Pit.

[b]Equipment:[/b] While he refuses to carry something as demeaning as a "utility belt," Renegade keeps a variety of tools, weapons, and other implements hidden about his person. Lock-picks, smoke bombs, caltrops, gas grenades, and other tools used in the arts of stealth, subterfuge, and sabotage are his typical arsenal. In terms of weapons, he practically carries a different knife for each day of the week: throwing knives, skinning knives, hunting knives, shearing knives, gutting knives... Renegade is a veritable collector of cutlery.

[b]Appearance:[/b] Tallant is tall for his age, well-built, with strong, classically-handsome features inherited from his grandfather, black hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin. His "costume" is a utilitarian, black Kevlar-weave bodysuit, reminiscent of a stripped-down Batsuit. His various tools, blades, and gadgets are all stashed surreptitiously in different places across the suit, so that he can always access a knife or other implement regardless of how he has been bound or contorted. He does not wear a mask, as he does not really have a civilian identity to speak of, and typically has his suit on underneath whatever civilian clothes he happens to be wearing.

[b]Personality:[/b] Cunning, resourceful, tenacious, calculating, grim

[b]BRIEF Bio:[/b] Following the shocking and as-of-yet unsolved murder of Ra's al-Ghul, the League of Assassins was thrown into chaos. Without the iron-handed leadership of the Demon himself, assassins began to break away from the secret cabal, chasing after their own selfish ends and using their powers carelessly. This was only stopped by the Demon's daughter, Talia al-Ghul, who broke off her engagement with a particular Gotham billionaire to assume control of the League. After purging the disloyal, she set about creating the perfect successor to her father's dark legacy.

The world's most expensive and least ethical geneticists were hired by Talia to "father" her child, creating an zygote formed from the DNA of the the most powerful warriors and assassins alive. Once the embryo had been implanted into her, Talia then bathed her unborn child in the rejuvenating power of the Lazarus Pit. This not only infused her son with the Pit's revitalizing power, but also imprinted on his DNA the experience, memories, and insanity of every damned soul ever cast into the Pit. When Tallant was born, the Sudanese Lazarus Pit itself used as his birthing pool, Talia and her League rejoiced. Tallant was not the first "successor" she had created, merely the first to survive birth.

Tallant's training began early, and he was carefully honed into a delicate, powerful weapon. Not merely a blade in the dark, but a force of intellect and personality that would one day fill the shoes of Ra's al-Ghul. By the time Tallant turned 16, his mother's machinations had advanced, and both she and Tallant returned to a Gotham in the throes of anarchy. Originally tasked to decapitate and assume control of both the Robins and Jokerz, uniting them under the League of Assassins, Tallant's first assignment by the League was an abject failure. His observations of both gangs, as well as the wisdom of the ancient ghosts of the Pit, led him to conclude that the League of Assassins was little better than either gang, and having them conquer Gotham would not measurably improve the city nor the world. He defected from his mother, her League, and the only family he's ever known to join forces with Oracle, who he came in contact with during one of her raids on the Robins gang, initially believing him to be one of their members.

[b]Notes:[/b] TBD I guess.

[b]Sample Post:[/b] [hider=Surviving Edged Weapons]
Cigar smoke hung in a heady, gray cloud about the ceiling of the room, a single incandescent bulb in a hanging lamp barely able to cut through the gloom. Heavyset men in jogging suits sat about a folding card table, counting cash. In the corner of the room, a black-and-white wireless TV squawked the 11 O'clock news from tinny speakers. Heat wave, crime wave, nothing new there. Another man entered the room through the only door, barring it behind him, and dumped the contents of a duffel bag onto the table. Dollar bills poured out and scattered over the table like dry leaves.

"Howsabout a little summer salad?" The man laughed, and sat down to join his compatriots with their tallying.

The man next to him sniggered, "Please, the last salad you ate got tossed by Adam and Eve." He elbowed the man on the other side of him. "Hear what I told him? I said 'the last salad you ate was tossed by Adam and Eve.' Heheh."

His fellow gangsters chuckled, but the air of frivolity was quickly shattered by a strange voice permeating the room. "Gotham is a paradise for sinners."

At once, the men jumped to their feet, the more portly among them slightly slower, and their hands went to their firearms. Heads swiveling, they tried to track down the source of the anomalous voice, but could find no one in the room but themselves. Then, from an hidden angle, a knife was cast into the ceiling lamp's single bulb, plunging the room and the men in it into darkness. Panic began to set in, the gangsters sweating bullets as they continued to search the room for the unseen intruder in the strobing light of the tiny TV screen. 

The voice sounded again, "No god will cast you out. I will do it myself."

The darkened room erupted into chaos. Blows were thrown, and men were tossed about the room like dolls. Despite their frenzied panic, none of the men could keep sight of their assailant for more than a moment or two before he disappeared behind someone's back, or vanished from sight completely. If they had been any smarter, they might have known they were being toyed with, being tossed into each other for the amusement of their attacker, who swatted aside their attempts at retaliating the same way one might an unruly child.

Finally, only two of the men remained conscious, standing back to back with their guns at the ready. Their hands shook with nerves, but they knew that from this position, they could not be approached unawares. Or so they thought. With shocking speed, one of them was hoisted up toward the ceiling, attacking unexpectedly from above. The last remaining man discharged his gun wildly, firing blindly into the shadows of the room's ceiling. At first, he heard and saw nothing but the dust falling from where he had shot through the ceiling. Then, like a three-hundred-pound sandbag, his last remaining comrade was dropped on him from above, his torso riddled with the bullets fired a moment before.

Blind with terror, the man screamed for help, trapped under his dead friend. His gun, empty, clicked impotently, before being kicked out of his hand. He looked up, and finally got a decent look at who had disrupted their quiet evening. He thought it might have been the Bat, but the Bat was dead, and wore a mask, so this couldn't have been him.

Before he could say anything, the gangster had a long knife thrust under his chin by his looming assailant, just hard enough that he could feel the tip of the blade biting into the skin over his Adam's apple. It felt so cold and sharp that the sensation was almost electric; it galvanized the man into a panicked babble.

"Money? Is it the money you want! Take it! I ain't got nothin' else! What I ever do to you? I ain't deserve none of this!"

Renegade twitched, at the blade bit a hair's width deeper into the man's throat, which shut him up. "Money goes uphill," Renegade snarled, and he gave a light kick to the limp body of the dead gangster. "Shit rolls downhill. Tell me where the money goes, or I'll send you to where your friend is."

The man seemed to recover some of his nerve, and said, "To hell with that! I'll never talk! I took an oath! Kill me if you want, I ain't afraid of youse!"

As soon as the man said "kill me," a shudder ran through Renegade's body. The faintest tremble of his arm was as subtle as a jackhammer to the man whose throat he was threatening to cut open. Visions flashed through Renegade's mind of how easy it would be to snuff out the pathetic existence before him. Just a flick of his arm and the man would drown in his own blood in seconds. Or if he was feeling merciful, he could drop the blade lower and slip it painlessly between his ribs and into his heart. Renegade felt his control slacken, just for a fraction of a second, as the blade seductively trailed down the man's throat toward his chest. But then, as quickly as it had been lost, his control resumed. No, not yet, he thought, he still didn't have what he needed.

He put the long-bladed knife away, tucking it behind his back in some hidden scabbard, "I don't [i]want[/i] to kill you," He said, savoring the momentary relief that came into the criminal's piggy eyes. Then, with a flick of his wrist, one knife was replaced by eight, one held between each of his fingers, all of varying sizes and shapes. "I have something much more fun in mind." Maybe he couldn't kill him, but perhaps a little bit of skin wouldn't be missed.

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