Logan heard the clanking of pots a good distance away. It seemed all his faculties were about him again. He took the shot glass with him as he exited the empty tavern and went to find out the source of the racket--it had begun to give him a headache. Some miles of walking and he began to notice just how empty the streets were. Was this place that desolate? He hadn't seen this few people since Earth-807128. At least he wasn't some old bastard this time. As the clanging continued, Logan roused a growl from his lips. Whoever was making that racket would pay for it! He found the culprit and was ready to give her a mouthful!
"CUT OUT THAT DAMN--" it was a child. Logan huffed, his anger rebuffed by the small girl's joyous face. A smile almost creeped upon his face--then he killed it. He had seen adorable things before, and none of them made him smile. He sure wasn't going to let some small, adorable, innocent girl in a kimono break him. Not after all these years.
"Ey, let me have whatever the hell she's talking about." Logan grizzled.
Soft lipstick decorated full lips. On her lap was the Remmington shotgun she had been cleaning and loading, there were compartments, straps, and containers for all of her weapons that were currently lying on the table in front of her. A conglomerate of candles made up all the light in the room and painted her small studio apartment's living room a lush, dim, and deep red. She slid both of her primary handguns into their respective holsters beneath her brown cashmere coat. Her two secondary handguns, the C275 automatics, found their home in a second set of crossed holsters angled on her back. She finished cleaning the shotgun and slung it into the strap on her back. She took four clips, two each for all of her guns--including a hefty amount of shot for the shotgun--and stowed it in the slit seam of her coat. She wouldn't need more than this. Her katana was fit into its sheathe. She was prepared to head out of the door to fulfill the contract she had undertaken.
Then she vanished!
A courtyard? Did Zara's eyes deceive her? How did she get here? A quick surveillance of her surroundings told her nothing other than she really hoped someone was going to compensate her for the work she was about to miss. There were eight others already present, but only three she could give proper distinction--a small child, someone resembling an angel (or perhaps an actual Angel, interesting) and one donned in all black. Somebody better have an explanation or some money, otherwise some heads were getting blown off.
Name: Zara Jade Gender: Female Age: Unknown Species: Demigoddess Appearance:
Personality: Loves a good fight, will not back down from a challenge, will sometimes put herself above others, will not let anyone harm her pet. She will initiate conflict, and can be hyper-aggressive where it is not necessary.
Bio: She was born from Ares--Greek God of War--and an earthly woman. While she did not acquire the extensive powers of her father, she did gain much of his personality and she one of his more refined capabilities--she always hits her target. Her younger years were filled with strife as she wrestled with her identity as a demi-goddess and her affinity for other kinds of magic. To earn her father's trust, she underwent rigorous military training and studied various martial arts styles and different schools of technique. Yet, the same differences that set her apart also made her appreciate those who are lonely and who do suffer. When called upon to fulfill a duty, she will answer the call no matter what is at stake--she may be a little selfish, but she is sacrificial and will give life and limb to save another.
Power: Supernatural Marksmanship - she never misses a shot.
Clairvoyance - She can see supernatural beings, auras, alignments (good or evil).
Bottomless bag - She never runs out of the items she needs.
Mystical bullets - Her bullets can wound most kinds of deity, and are indiscriminate of type. They are less effective against holy beings and beings who have superior magic capabilities.
A map with undecipherable lines and directions. This place resembled Earth, sure, but Jorvis wasn't so sure the inhabitants of this alternate universe had a respectable grasp of their own geography. Wainwright's confusion surmounted his more rational sentiments. His legs carried him without aim, he followed the intricate curves and contours on the map to the aptly titled 'lodge' scrawled near the edge of the map where it conveniently ended. Was there nothing beyond this place? Did it lead to some unexplored extra-terrestrial dimension? Intrigue struck Jorvis. On the horizon he saw a consortium of browns and mocha, all finished with a rustic wooden overlay: a lodge. This must be the place.
He had no other possessions in hand--interuniversal travel is not what he expected to come out of a faulty experiment. Alas, he was stuck and he had to make the most out of the ordeal. Was anyone else at this lodge? He thought he saw a van of some sort in the distance, and perhaps another traveler some paces ahead of him. Whomever and whatever is at this place must have some kind of importance. Something struck him about the environment, though--whatever sort of lodge it is, it didn't spell "tourist attraction" to his better judgement. The nature of its seclusion seemed intentional, manufactured even. It could be that he's overthinking things again, something he did often.
He continued his trek to the lodge and observed the immediate surroundings as he drew close. His earlier suspicions about the surrounding land being unnatural were snuffed. It was the one of the most beautiful sights he laid his eyes on. Everything was intricate, mountains laid in the right place and fit the right sized crevices, natural cliffs hung high beyond the tips of the trees and almost kissed the sun. Lush greens swirled with warm oranges and cherry reds. When Jorvis looked skyward, his breath left him, it was stolen by the endless expanse of a setting sky whose harsh grey had usurped the soft, inviting mid-day blue. He nearly shed a tear.
Jorvin got his senses about him, this was no time for poetic muse! His venture to the cabin came to an abrupt end once he reached the walkway that led up to the wooden building itself. There was someone to meet his approach, a whimsical looking female with glasses that bespoke a scholar; one versed in a field which required extensive deciphering of smaller items of study: numbers, strings of code. Mathematics was never an area of study he had real interest in, it always came as a byproduct of his chemistry and so he knew enough about algebra and some calculus to work with chemical bases and mixtures but nothing beyond. Jorvin spoke flat, no expression on his face,
Mazone followed in tow. He was still eerie of their destnation and what he might behold once the group arrived. He kept his guard up, his eyes always on the lookout for any troublemakers of any sort. He found Quinn, the newest arrival, more of an oddity than himself. How did he get those legs? A bad bet? A fight? They looked real, but something about them still spoke 'artificial.' He took a moment to observe the entire group--a mysterious sweetheart, a talking cat, a servant-boy-robot-courier, and himself. Could the universe bring together a more misfit bunch? Probably.
He just hoped he could survive long enough to make a little money and win a few Waltzing contests.
Walter was confused by the whole matter after the operation was explained to him. He'd stick out so egregiously, there's no way he'd be able to infiltrate without being signaled as some kind of foreigner. He rather agreed with Belsy's suggestion that some of the group lay in wait while those more suited toward espionage handle the delicate matters. Walter sat in the middle, his attention fixed on the projector for the most part. He didn't quite care for the politics of it all, and none of the names of these "important" people resonated with him in the slightest. They were all cons in suits to him, it didn't matter who leaned what way.
All he knew is that there'd better be some type of reward for all of this. Better food at mess hall, softer bunks, something. His back was starting to ache from those rusted springs. Everyone started speaking and voicing their concerns--Walter wasn't as inclined, though he thought they all had valid points. Kaneda affirmed his own sentiments, and as he spoke Walter nodded along. An occasional "mhm, yep." combination slipped from his tongue. He barely knew any of these people--sure they were nice to him, nicer than folks were back home--but none of them had the skill to carry out such a task. Granted, Walter had never seen any of them in action, but he was sure his assumptions stood on solid ground.
He had no intelligent strategies to offer when he finally spoke,
"I'm not gettin' my black ass shot up over no politician who ain't never done a lick of good for me nor none of my folks. Let me hang back. Y'all can bother wit' that spyin' shi--stuff."
He resigned to listening to things others had to offer during the briefing session. Waves of sleep danced in the back of his mind--boredom was near.
The tips of his fingers kept a steady rhythm's tap against the head of the basketball. Its round surface thundered against blacktop concrete and expanded out into the lonely midnight air. A quick switch from his right hand to his left and Hassan accelerated past the defender he had left frozen in place from the quick shift in speed. A second victim approached, this one far larger than the last and blessed with superior wingspan. Fathead was what the other kids called him for, as one may guess, his unfortunate cranium construction. But just like before, Fathead fell before Hassan's lightning quick ball control; one move through the legs and a single transition behind his back put Fathead on his behind. Hassan had free passage to the rim and this was game point.
He missed.
"You some ass, boy." Fathead scolded from the blacktop pavement. Hassan thought he should worry about lugging himself and his gargantuan noggin up from the ground and deal with the fact that he got dropped by a kid half his size first. But no worries, Hassan harbored no bitter feelings.
"Whatever, fool." Hassan returned, "Ball up!" he continued. A sacred mandate among his group of friends. One always had to honor this unspoken tradition; if you missed, no matter how bad or how embarrassing, the other team always got the ball next. These were the rules, and may God bless any soul who thought it acceptable to break them. Fathead chest passed the ball to Hassan, it was forceful exchange; an extension of Fathead's embarrassment for sure. Hassan's phone rang; he waved a finger at Fathead to signal a respite from the game.
"Yoooo?" he began, unguarded and unaware of the caller since he didn't bother to check the number.
"'Yo'? Is that how you answer the phone, Hassan?" it was his mother!
"Oom" Hassan almost choked.
"Where are you? It's late, you were supposed to be home TWO HOURS AGO!" Hassan almost felt the spit flying through the phone as his mother went on her tirade.
"I know you're coming! Get. Your. Ass. Here. NOW!" Bibi capped. The phone went dead.
No amount of antagonizing from his questionable friend group could halt him from sprinting at what felt like mach 2 speed (he was only running at about five miles an hour) toward home. Wind cut by him as a knife through butter. In just under thirty minutes Hassan was home. Jubilee welled inside him, his mother's ire had roused her to sleep. Sleep seeped into Hassan much the same and he made his way to his room where he was prompt in unveiling his red, white, and blue covers away from his bed sheets. It took all of ten minutes for him to fade into REM sleep.
Character you have created: Hassan Amim Alias: Pantheon Speech Color: Yellow. Character Alignment: Walking the Line Identity: Secret Character Personality: He does what is necessary to achieve whatever his goal may be at the time. Ethics and morals tend not to have a bearing on how he acts insofar as they will not restrict an act he deems necessary. If anything, the only thing that drives him is autonomy.
Uniform/costume:
Origin Info/Details: Magic’s true depths are dark and unknown. Hassan was always one for destroying limits—his disdain for them born out of the legalism of his religious sentiments. It was not that he did not believe, but he often questioned the necessity of such restrictions. Part of him even wondered if they were arbitrary. Regardless of his personal thoughts, he saw results. Religion kept people in line, and kept them from hurting one another (for the most part). Magic? Magic was entirely different; it had limits, sure, but those could be tested at one’s own risk.
He was a natural, literally. A born magician, formally called a homo-magi. He already understood mystical boundaries, but he cared not for upholding them. To this end, he employed his sister—fellow homo magus—to teach him. He learned quick, and soon he was fully immersed in mystical rituals, rites, histories, and lore. There was not a morsel of knowledge Hassan didn’t know—or so he thought. Many before him had tried, but to his knowledge all had failed; and where they failed, Hassan would succeed. He would be the first to become a God.
Hero Type: Brick/Mystic Power Level: City (as normal homo magi) World (when transformed).
Powers: Avatar of the Gods: Hassan gains his powers from several gods. So long as he carries out their wishes, they will grant him the following abilities.
As Hassan
Astral Projection: Hassan can enter the astral plane and travel through it—this is his primary means of travelling to the various mystical realms (Olympus, Asgard, etc) within the universe. If his body is killed while his soul is in the astral plane, he will be in limbo until he can find a new body (or is given one by the Gods who bless him).
Wards: He can cast various defensive spells around himself and others.
Illusions: He can cast powerful illusions for varying effects. Whether these illusions simply warp the space around a victim or whether these illusions have a direct effect on the victim’s mind are random.
As Pantheon
Mystical Knowledge: Even without the powers of his transformation, Hassan is a practiced wizard and has extensive knowledge of a wide range of spells from incantations, runes, tomes, enchantments, the like. When transformed, this mystical knowledge is enhanced several times over and grants Hassan an almost inexhaustible grasp on higher levels of magic.
Supernatural Strength: As Pantheon, Hassan gains strength leagues beyond that of a normal human and even superior to enhanced humans in some respects. The upper limits of his strength are unknown as of right now. Lifting trucks, bulldozers, semi-trucks, large buildings, and most other natural objects are no issue for him.
Supernatural Speed: When transformed, Hassan is a blur. He can keep up with some low tier speedsters, and while not quite fast enough to break the speed of light, his ability to transverse a given space in a matter of seconds is impressive.
Supernatural Durability: Pantheon can take hits form the mightiest of foes. He can survive falls from several thousand feet, his dense muscles make him nigh-immovable even if acted upon by a substantial natural force (a speeding car hitting him.) He can trade blows with world-class heroes and villains without issue and can even hold out against low-tier cosmic-level people as well. He can withstand extreme explosions and still get back up with little harm done.
Supernatural Healing: Pantheon regenerates lost limbs, heals small, major, and minor wounds in seconds, and if he so happens to be blown to bits, let us say, then he can heal his entire body back together in several days.
Energy Conversion: Bestowed with the power to harness magical energy in many forms, Pantheon can convert said magical energies into natural energies for an assortment of purposes—he can also convert natural energies into magical energies.
Nigh-Invulnerability: Conventional weapons do not harm him. Toxins, diseases, resins, poisons, none of these have an effect on him. He has strong mystical defenses against mental intrusion and other psionic attacks. Life-force draining is an effective measure against him, but even this requires a powerful retainer of such an ability for it to cause great harm to him. He is not invincible, however. Anyone with sufficient ability in any given area can bypass his invulnerability as it is not total immunity.
Extreme Magical Resistance: Lower forms of magic, and even well practiced magic from low-tier magicians have no effect on him. Higher levels of magic (those done by cosmic entities or mages with decades of experience) are able to damage him to great effect. His resistance can be fully overcome by one who possesses absolute magical abilities/reality warping powers or one with supreme magical ability/focus. His resistance also falters against natural-born magic beings (fairies, gnomes, trolls, etc.)
Flight: Standard. Pantheon can fly up to several hundred miles an hour—he flies much faster than he runs.
Teleportation: Using the mystical energies bestowed upon him, Pantheon can transverse himself near-instantly across a single plane. The limit to which he can teleport has not yet been determined. He cannot teleport anywhere outside of Earth, at present. He does suffer from the usual drawbacks of teleportation (nausea, disorientation, vomiting).
Magical Element Control: Pantheon has been gifted a portion of some of the Gods’ control over parts of nature. His primary control is constrained to mystic fire, and his secondary is thunder. That is, hellfire (the fires of hell, able to incinerate and destroy objects completely—extremely effective against the undead.) His control over thunder is insofar as the mystical thunder acts as the conduit that initiates his change from Hassan to Pantheon.
Attributes
Height: 5’10 (normal); 6’7 (transformed) Weight: 196 (normal) Unknown (transformed) Strength Level: Normal Human (as human), 100+ - Unknown (transformed) Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal human, 100+ Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human, 5 hours. Agility: Normal Human, x20. Intelligence: Genius, Super-Genius. Fighting Skill: Trained, Mastered.
Resources: Large, Extreme
Weaknesses: Still a normal human when not transformed. His trans-formative powers can be taken away from him if he does not adhere to what the Gods wish of him. As a homo-magi, he can be beaten by a more skilled mage. Can be killed while in Astral form.
Supporting Characters:
Bibi Amim – mother (with whom he lives, does the cooking and cleaning and assuring of her son’s mental health) Shati Amim - cousin (also lives with him, high school teenager over whom Hassan watches) Rahna Amim - sister; (older than Hassan by a half decade, Hassan confides in her and it is from her that he gets his magi traits.)
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:
Sample Post:
A silence crushed the desert air. He had travelled in sweltering heat for two days. There was no food in sight; his grey cloak shrouded every inch of his being. There was no cane to complete the telling garb, unfortunately. A person is inclined to renounce all belief and curse any deities he believes in should he be without food and water long enough. He begins to wonder if anything is real. Hope sprang! A well. Before him was freedom from this torture, at least it would be if this was not an arbitrary mystical quest to achieve some arbitrary mystical item for a group of angry and forgotten Old Gods.
A mirage, of course. There was no way he was going to survive long in this climate. The heat soared and did not stop until the animals themselves were nowhere to be found. Heatwaves lashed against his sand-olden skin. That’s when he saw it; his sister called it an ‘apparition’ not a magical entity per se, but a vision of one’s hopes and dreams. They were not ‘beacons’ of hope, they had no moral leanings whatever—they were simply there to deliver a message. What message? That all depends on what one envisions. He had never seen an apparition and so he also had never heard one speak until now:
“Hassan, they have a new task for you.” ”Now?” “Yes, now. I advise you brace yourself.” ”What do y—“
Hassan was struck with a bolt of lightning and found himself in an abandoned shack. A circle of hooded figures surrounded him. A bearded one spoke,
“We’ve watched you for some time.” His voice was deep, a sage. Of the circle of beings, the voice that resonated from this hood had a stern cadence—the ends of his sentences punctuated with superiority. It helped that his robes had tints of white imprinted on the cloth, he stood out above others. Then a lady spoke.
“Here is your task. You will take this— “what looked to be a golden ring with black trim “—and keep it with you at all times. Through it, you will call on us and we will answer you.”
Call on them? Why would he need to call on them? And why was he ‘chosen’ by these. . . people to carry out tasks for them? It must be some sort of joke. A faulty projection? He closed his eyes and opened them again in hopes that all of this would be some kind of mystic rouse. It wasn’t—he really was trapped in an abandoned warehouse with some knock off Illuminati figures. Then it clicked. These were the Old Gods. They were bestowing him with the last vestiges of their power.
Then he threw up in the bathroom toilet. He and Jack Daniels never worked together well, he should have just stuck with orange juice like he planned—and why wouldn’t they turn that music down? By Allah, he hated house parties.