An Outsider

The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)

Just a word to the wise folks, I'm gonna be busy/lacking a steady internet connection for a while, at least until the sixth. I'll try and post, but if I'm holding up proceedings please move on without me and I'll catch up. In any event, if it gets to notable then MrD can take over my characters.

If that's the case then I can hardly wait to see him try and handle Volt's slang.

the Nordland Saga

Why was Faen not surprised that the knuckle-dragging, mono-browed, wannabe raider Audrunar had failed to bring back any firewood yet. Give the simplest of the group the simplest job and he would simply fail. He kept the scorn he felt for cretin from his face though, as it wouldn't do to show the negative thoughts he felt for the man to Alva, especially if he was trying to foster good will with this group. Instead he merely widened his smile and shook his head slightly.

"Well, I hope he returns soon, otherwise this rain will put paid to all of our hopes." It was then that Erika returned, carting a large buck. Looked heavy too, so she was obviously stronger than she looked. The Lokison returned to Alva. "We should return to your husband and get the fire started there. I'll go and help Erika with her trophy." Not that he particularly relished the idea of lugging a dead dear through the forest, but strong or not, Erika looked near done in. Besides, he'd never skinned a deer before, and it could prove to be useful knowledge if he could get her to teach him. His thoughts were disturbed by a low bodied growl, a fearsome sound that froze his blood.

A bear burst from the undergrowth, and a big one too. Easily 500 pounds, if Faen had to guess, all muscle and grit. And look how mean and angry it looks. Reminds me of father. A chuckle burst from Faen's mouth then, a bizarre reaction born from his fear, one that he could barely control. The beast charged Erika then, massive paws swiping at the huntress, before turning towards the Lokison and Alva. Faen chuckled again, louder this time, the sound mingling with the roaring of both bear and thunder. God's, why couldn't he control his laughter. Is this the fate you deemed for me All-Father? Cosumed then shat out by an ill-tempered bear, as helpless as that damned fish. Ha-bloody-ha!

Wait. The fish!

That must have been what attracted the bear, the smell of fish and dear. When it had burst from the undergrowth it had seen the carcasses, and thought to win itself an easy meal. That must be it! Helvi, Ranulf's head huntsman, had once told Faen that bears will rarely willingly attack humans, not if they could help it. Usually only if it was a mother feeling her young were in trouble or one that had poor luck hunting. Other than that it was only the opportunistic ones, those to lazy to hunt for greater game, and those could usually be dissuaded when they discovered how hard it is to kill a man. Yes, that was it, if you were actually attacked by a bear then hit them hard and fast, make them realise you aren't worth the trouble. Look at you, Faen Lokison, actually considering fighting a bear. Like you wouldn't already be running if you didn't know a bear could outrun anyman, even one as adept at retreat as you!

The beast was closing now, close enough for Faen to smell his animal stink. He took a half step forward, falling in place in front of Alva, laughter died in him now to be replaced with a grim determination, and smirk frozen on his face like this was all a joke, but he was the only one clever enough to understand it.

"You want the fish? Be careful what you wish for!" With that he hurled the trout with all his might, the dead thing flipping head over tail as it spun in the air. The Lokison's aim was true, hitting the bear straight in the nose. While it wasn't an exceptionally large fish it was still heavy enough to give the bear a shock, especially considering were it hit him. He took advantage of the confusion, shoving Alva away while dancing to the side, waving his arms and making as much noise as possible, looking to lead the danger away. It took him a second to realise he was no longer afraid, and was in fact laughing again, a great booming sound full of good humour.

What is wrong with me?

Academy 218 - Superhuman School (Always open)

Right, I thought as much, but I wasn't sure that we were allowed to mix and match types like that.

Academy 218 - Superhuman School (Always open)

Hey guys, fraid to say I've been lurking for a wee while, and I'm thinking about submitting a cs. It'll still be a time before I do, I like to skim through the IC before joining an in action RP, but I'm wanting to start putting my sheet together now and I've just got one question. I'm wanting to make a guy who basically looks like a Viking Raider, someone you would expect to be a superstrong hulk type, but is actually a cross between an empath/precog. My question is, what sort of power type should that fall under?

The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)

Slowed down here lately.

the Nordland Saga

Tickling fish was an art, not a science, and like most art it took time, patience and repetition to truly call yourself a master. Faen had devoted none of the above to tickling, but he made up for it with his deft hands, a good eye, and a truly inspiring case of beginners luck. He found an underwater ledge in the shallows easily enough, a likely place for a trout to rest on it's journey up stream he figured. As usual he was correct, spotting a tail fin swishing in the water. With infinite care and a glacial lack of speed he crouched into the river, passed his hand with fingers turned up under the ledge, until he was touching the trout's tail. Then, as the merchant had taught him, he began to tickle the creature lightly with just his forefinger.

The fish never swam away in a panic, as you might think it should. Instead it fell into a stupefied like trance, heedless to the peril it was in, allowing the Lokison to slowly trace his finger the length of the creatures belly. Stupid beast, surrendering it's fate for a belly rub. Oblivious to the doom that awaits it, simply because a higher being offers it a modicum of attention. Gods, it's almost like looking into a mirror.

It was a disturbing thought, realising he was just like that fish. Odin had appeared to him, speaking in riddles, and now here he was, wandering aimlessly with a ragtag group of other exiles, scratching out an existence one second to the next, no thought to his own future save that which the All-Father had placed in his head. It irked him to say the very least, to have his much vaunted intelligence and cunning reduced to dust in the face of a God. Hel, he hadn't even really believed in the God's before this, believing the red-haired man who slept with his mother and caused him so much pain being no more than an ill-timed philanderer. Now he wasn't sure of what was true and what was myth, if he was master of his own fate or merely a plaything for bored Æsir, a galling experience for a man who coveted both knowledge and freedom.

His hand had worked it's way to the fishes head now, just under the gills. The trout's time was coming to an end, Faen grasping it tightly and pulling it from the water. The creature tried to struggle free from his grip, but it was far, far too late for that now. The Lokison threw the beast to the bank, were it flip-flopped pathetically. A sharp strike with the butt of his knife stunned the fish, ready for the gutting. A rather inglorious end, all things told. And there, our similarities will end, Trout. I refuse to meet my end at the whims of some other being, higher or otherwise.

There, hands covered in the guts and excrement of a dead fish on its way to the cook fire, Faen resolved to be master of his own fate. He had let others decide his path for too long, but now, at the onset of exile he made himself a promise that no longer would he be a plaything or a puppet for others. Maybe this life was game for higher beings to enjoy, but he was damned if he was going to play by their rules. All he needed was a plan. . .

To start he would need allies. Hardly going to become a force to be reckoned with by man and God alike on his own, and it made sense to start with those wretched creatures most like him, those with nothing to lose, his brothers and sisters in exile. He would have to level his considerable charm at his new compatriots, to convince them to rally to his cause. It would have to be a slow process though, as slow as and inexorable as a coming winter, to worm his way slowly into their trust and confidence. Nothing anyone hated more than a pushy stranger, especially one rumoured to be son of the God of lies.

Arudunar had been shooting him harsh glances all day, making Faen might think if that ship hadn't already set sail then the passengers were probably starting to board. Erika might be an easier nut to crack, but as he had little dealings with her he was still unsure of what her responses would be to him. No, there is an easier path, one that can kill two birds with one stone. He carried his fish, freshly gutted and cleaned, across to Alva, once more whistling a merry tune, this time to gain the blacksmiths wife's attention.

“May I borrow the flint, m'lady? I can feel the promised warmth of a fire and cooked meal calling to me, and I fear we best get it started now if we want the flames to take before the rain sets in.” He gestured to the gathering storm clouds, using the fish as a pointer, a slight grin playing upon his face.

The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)

Hi-Voltage

The Lightning-Slinger came too with a jolt, aptly enough. His mind was blank as he shot up into a sitting position, a sharp pain careening through his chest. He was near panicked for a heartbeat, unsure of where he was or how he had got there. Ever since the Awakening Tommy had been unable to sleep, he wasn't sure why but Clara reckoned it had something to do with the uniqueness of the electrical impulses in his brain.

Regardless to the cause, it meant for the best part of five years he had been completely conscious, so those times he had been knocked out in his heroing career – more than he'd care to admit – were a novelty with a terrifying undercurrents. Imagine never sleeping, never surrendering control of your awareness of the environment, never having to let your guard down in such a total and encapsulating way as closing your eyes and letting go of consciousness. Now imagine having that state forced on you.

This was what Volt was dealing with, and it's fair to say he wasn't taking it well. In his moment of panic he flailed wildly, kicking and swinging his arms wildly, shaking the guerny he was placed upon so fiercely that he whole thing began to tip, gravity stepping in to calm him by way of a short drop into hard ground.

He hit the floor with a pained [b']Whoof!'[/b] air rushing from his lungs as his body was given a sharp reminder of the beating he'd already taken. Painful way tae find oot yer still alive. He began to recognise the place as the League headquarters, the constant beeping and whirring of medical machinery and the slight tang of antiseptic in the air making him guess the med bay. Thats reassuring.

The slap-slap-slapping of approaching feet roused him enough to push himself to his feet, still a little unsteady truth be told, but he'd rather be standing than sat on his arse like a bairn that can't get up. An orderly appeared in front of him, and started clucking at him, stating that he shouldn't be out of bed.

"Haud yer wheesht mun, ah'm nae guannae die." Ah hope nae, anyway. "Tell us, how'd tha riot gae?" What he really wanted to know was how were his friends, Hot-Rod, Flashbolt, Apogee and most importantly Sonja, but he didn't have the courage to frame the words, to afraid to find out the answers. He was a despicable sort of coward, and no mistake. Still, reckon he'd find out soon enough.

Morningstar

Stalker was fast and agile, a bitch of a combination in the middle of a fight like this, dropping away from the path of the bullets and only taking a graze in the process. Still, Morningstar was fast too, as fast as a regular person could get, and she'd trained for these sort of situatuations morning, noon and night, Pariah and her own obsessions insisting on it. She backed off a step, no more than she needed to to avoid Stalker's kick, while swaying aside from the thrown knife with an ease so practiced that it was more sub-conscious reaction than active thought. As she dodged she fired another couple of shots Stalker's way, hoping for more luck than last time, while her free hand dropped behind her belt to grasp at a small flashbang grenade. If Stalker avoided the shots again Morningstar would toss the flashbang between them, trusting to her visored mask to protect her from the explosion then going in to take down her foe in the confusion.

Mr Joe Black

Well this was a predicament he had never pictured himself ever getting into. Then again, being strangled by a woman with super hair in the middle of a roof top gunfight involving a rock monster, fishman and zombie, probably wasn't a situation most folks figured themselves to get stuck in. Hippy-Chick had wrapped her hair around his neck, unaware of how useless a move like that was against someone who neither felt pain nor the need to breath. She pulled him in close, showing how fucking stupid she was. What was she wanting, to see the light fade from his eyes as he died, or something equally stupidly poetic? Hadn't she watched the movies, never toy with the good guy when he's in your power!

Then again, he wasn't much of a good guy.

"Oh toots, you got no idea who I am, do you?" He chuckled. He was near now, near enough to kiss her, to lick her, to bite her. She should never have brought him so close, and he aimed to show her why in a way that meshed with his own particular idiom, namely by kicking her. In the crotch. Hard.

Contrary to popular belief a kick to the groin will hurt a woman just as much as it will a man, probably more in fact, you just have to know were to hit. Sister Katy Gamble, the karate kicking nun who had effectively killed Joe the first time around, and currently his spiritual adviser, had given Joe a few pointers on close combat when she discovered he was going to be joining the League, pointers that would play to Joe's strengths, namely his penchant for dirty tactics.

Long story short, Joe knows where to hit to make it hurt. . . And it was a nun who taught him how to do it.

the Nordland Saga

Rain. . . Of course it would rain.

the Nordland Saga

Exile. . . The thought of it still seemed foreign to him. To never again return to his village, or the hall of his Ranulf, the man he had called father for so long. Never see the waves gently lapping at the villages docks, or the longships bobbing upon the evening waters. Never smell the distinctive seeded flatbread Olga used to bake him for his breakfast, or hear the wheezing cough of Old Hakon, the village elder who had taught him so much. Exile was something he had never considered was in his future.

And yet, the more he considered it the more the concept seemed to fit him like a glove. He had never been the son his father had wanted, heir to the Jarl in name only, a constant reminder of a wife's possible infidelity. He had never been the warrior the village had desired him to be, that was certain after recent events. His home had felt like a prison at times, a grim cage, the bars formed by his supposed destiny and responsibilities to the village. Exile was a freedom he realised, a peculiar type of freedom perhaps, but a freedom nonetheless. Now the only destiny he had to concern himself with was the one he made for himself. That, and the one Odin had foretold, though the All-Fathers words were still a mystery to him, so he felt the less time he dwelt on them the better. There were more pressing concerns at the moment. Like survival. . . and dinner.

The long trek had but an edge to Faen's hunger, one liable to cut him if he didn't do something about it soon. Hunger was no stranger to him, strange some might think as he was the son of a wealthy Jarl and they would think he would want for little, but that assumption couldn't be further from the truth. Ranulf had starved Faen often, hoping that hunger and hardship would make him a fiercer warrior, but in truth all it did was heat the flames of the boys hatred for him a little more. Besides, just because he'd been hungry before didn't mean he enjoyed being hungry now. His stomach rumbled as the group assembled, and he was glad to see Erika set off to hunt. A little fresh meat would do him a world of good. He didn't know the woman well- truth be told he didn't know anyone here well as he had ran in different circles to the rest- but he had come to respect Erika's abilities as a huntress in the last few weeks. Without her and her bow it was likely they would all starve.

Now he just had to find a way to make himself useful. It was painfully obvious that as the group went, he was the weak link. Erika could hunt, Aevar and Audrunar were both muscled warriors, while Jonrik and his wife were both skilled tradesmen. He had to stand out early, or they may start to remember his suspect lineage, and blame the Lokison for their recent bad fortune. He was just about to head into the trees to gather some fire wood when his odd coloured eyes wandered along the horizon, his tired mind being lifted by the prettiness of the spot. The running water provided a gentle music, and there was nothing he wanted more than to lay his head and sleep, to dream of better things than exile, spiteful Jarls and divine parentage.

"Probably fish in that river." He mused out loud. Maybe if there was he could use the occasion to show off a little in front of the group, to show them he wasn't completely useless. A travelling merchant had once taught him how to 'tickle fish', a trick that Faen had found to be both interesting and enjoyable. There'd been hell to pay when his father had discovered how his son had spent the afternoon knee deep in river water, making a tit of himself in front of the village folk, but maybe those lessons would pay off now.

"If you get a fire ready Erika and I shall delve the earth and seas for such a banquet to make those feasting in Valhalla green with envy!" He called to Audrunar.

He pulled his boots off and rolled his trews up to the knee before pushing himself to his feet and ambling to the river, before paddling into the shallows. He crouched a little with his hands dipped into the water, waiting for a fish to swim his way. He began to whistle to himself, soft and low.

He was going to enjoy this freedom while he could, as knowing his luck it would all turn to shit soon enough.

the Nordland Saga

I'm a renegade Partisan, I don't have time for rules!

Renegade for Life!