Bork Lazer

WAL-WORLD (Infinite Walmart/SCP 3008-inspired RP) [Closed]

I don't know. I might pass on this one at the moment, chief.

The Hourglass Order

Onarr

Interaction with: @Noxious, @Force and Fury and @SilverPaw

---

Onarr wished he could go back to his dorm, boil a nice cup of fermented Daggen, revise his manuscripts and take a nice, long rest after today’s events.

Instead, he has to ignore the stares from other fashion-blind students towards his glorious helmet, continuing to watch through his home-fashioned periscope. Every now and then, he has to pipe up to make little “Excuse me’s” and “Please don’t step on me” to ensure he isn’t crushed by the crowd of students in the plaza as they scurry like rabid mice to grab empty seats . Eventually, all of them were packed in there like pickled muskfish. It would be almost stifling in his helmet if he hadn’t forced open a small porthole on the upper metallic cone to allow some air through.

Onarr then made a promise to himself that if he ever became the Arch-Zeno of Ersand’Enise in the future, the next thing he would institute was the installation of raised platforms made of oak and castle-forged steel works everywhere to assist the physically diminutive like himself. This wasn’t out of compassion. It was simply because he was tired of seeing the asses of nobles and commoners all the time. Literally and figuratively.

It was an odd medley of mages around him and to Onarr’s relief, for once, not overly crowded by the sick stench of royals and nobles. His mind quickly picked out the few in the bustling crowd that he had spotted in the parade earlier.

He turned the periscope behind him and honed in on a waifish looking Revidian with a splotchy bruise on his eye. Ah, that one. He must have been the one to cause all of that ruckus behind him. Onarr silently bid him a half-hearted Shunic prayer and hoped that a binding healer would see to his injuries. It wasn’t that often where you witnessed worse luck than yours in Constantia but Onarr wasn’t the type to take solace in it. He’d had a taste of that once. It was satisfying at first but it slowly curdled you on the inside.

He then swung the periscope forward to the front of the plaza where all the nobles, royals and merchants congregated, resplendent in their most luxurious clothes that would be worth hundreds of Kizan. Solaire was the one he immediately picked out with his eyes. His initial performance at the parade had seared himself within everyone’s mind. Onarr snorted. What a showboat. He turned slightly to the left and spotted the Eskandish noble……Bjelke, was it? She was the only other remarkable one but all Eskandish were notable, given their political standings in Constantia. There was an ethereal nature about her that made his stomach lurch slightly, her complexion reminding him of the marble statues that stood tall in the Stresian temples his mother brought him to when he first learned to walk. Her countenance was collected and mostly disguised under that silken hood of hers. Onarr remembered a fervent argument between two Stresian historians which he observed whilst eating flatbread in the privacy of a library. One was arguing fervently that one could learn from the Empire of Eskand in Joruban’s future whilst the other argued that extenuating factors for both of the nation’s circumstances would soon lead to divergent futures. He wondered if perhaps, one could gleam the future of Joru in -

He blinked and shook his head, smiling to himself in nostalgia and heartache for those simple times.

When the five kings eventually arrived one by one, the clamor of the crowd around him grew, erratic whoops and hollers added to the melody. Onarr felt contempt rising in his throat as he watched each and every one of them pompously stride by, adulation and adoration in their wake. Next were the various representatives whom Onarr ignored as well. Only the presence of President Yibozo is enough to make him conduct a half-hearted Joru salute out of a habit his father had drilled into him. The lens of the periscope suddenly flared and wobbled just as he looked at the stage. Odd. He was sure he had calibrated it precisely this morning. He yawned, blinking a little, as he kneaded his tired eye with his closed right hand.

Perhaps he drank too much Daggen this morning.

By the time the parade had stopped, the sun bled indigo into the blue skies above. The next phase of the ceremony took place. It was the part that made his hands wring together and the inside of his helmet feel like a Belzagg savannah. His heart beat rapidly as he listened carefully to the syllables every Zeno that walked upstage announced. Everything seemed to pale in comparison to the importance of this small yet profound proceeding that would determine the next several years of his life.

As if some joke were being played to him, it came down to him and 15 other Biros out of the hundred or so that were in the parade. With bated breath, he watched pointedly as a Torragonese Zeno walked up on stage, a smile tilting her cheeks, and read out the four names.

"Anesin of House Bjelke, Penny Pellegrin, Onarr Yidlob, and my countrywoman: Linnah Aranda. It will be my pleasure to serve as your master and mentor."

“ PRESENT!” Onarr breathed out, remaining still for several moments, before collecting himself and waddling off the benched seat. He walked as resolute as he could, the stares of disbelief at his vertically challenged status bouncing off the shimmering steel of his bascinet.

A bead of steel awkwardly rolled down on the inside of his bascinet as he realized three important things about the group he was in.

One, that he was the shortest one in the group by far.

Two, that everyone in his group except him lacked basic common sense in terms of safety apparel.

Finally, the last being that he recognized no names that were distinctly Joru in origin.

There might have been other differences that he might have missed but these were by far the most obvious, worrying ones.

Not bad, not perfect either. Rarely all things were. The Eskandish noble he observed earlier in the parade was somewhat troubling for him and the Torragonese was not of any royal stature or of mercantile background given her state of similar dress to his. His mood darkened over seeing the Perrenchwoman’s crutches, unpleasant memories arising in his mind.

Mechanical diagrams and postulates about disability soon appeared in his mind and he tossed them away. He wasn’t here to change the life of one person and give them hope. Still, his heart skipped a beat as he watched her walk with her crutches on stage.

He wouldn’t be much of a good Streisan if he didn’t make an attempt to talk with her first.

Onarr stopped first in front of his Zeno before crosses his arm, fist clenched, over his chest in the Joru salute, and bowing.

“ I am glad to be your student, Zeno Afraval.” He paused for a moment before speaking what he thought was a Torragon greeting to his teacher. “ May your cattle be well-bred.”

He then turned to Anesin next, deciding whether or not to give a Joru salute. He wasn’t sure if it was an offensive remark in Eskandish culture. A few seconds past before Onarr decided to give a little bow, speaking in both Avinician and adding a little Eskandish at the end for formality. At least, what his father told him was Eskandish.

“ It is an honour to be in your presence, Lady Anesin of House Bjelke. May your ancestors shear sheep for all eternity.”

He turned to Penny next, bowing so low that his helmet nearly collided with her chin. As the Eskandish had worked out well, maybe, Perrench was in order too.

“ I look forward to being your fellow Biro, Miss Pellegrin. May you find safe harbour at a campfire.”

He then swiveled around to Linah, giving a nod to her reply, before bowing the same and replying in Avinician.

“ It is good to see a neighbour of Joru. Pleasure to be with you as well, Miss Aranda.”

He shuffled in line with the ready of the apprentice group and waited for the next batch of Biros to be called.

Well, that hadn’t been as bad as he expected. It looked as though his language skills hadn’t rusted over the years, no matter how many times his father tried to tell him.

As the fireworks turned the evening briefly into day, Onarr wondered briefly about the future and it’s possibilities with his fellow Biros before halting it. He’d been worrying constantly from his journey to Joru to Ersand’Enise. Now, it was time to relax.

A brilliant crimson bloom flushed the night sky pink, catching the attention of Onarr’s analytical mind.

Red colouration….Combination of magnesium? No. Must be tin and a hot oxidising - Ah, can’t think now.

He would figure it out and everything else in due time.

Interesting times were ahead.

WAL-WORLD (Infinite IKEA/SCP 3008 but in Walmart)

My schedule is tight but consider me interested if there's enough players available other than myself.

The Hourglass Order

A Prologue

“ HONK HONK HONK!”

In his first day of arrival at Ersand’Enise, Onarr was expecting to explore the sights and sounds of the famous magical academy that many families had paid pounds of gold and limb for to send their supposedly gifted children to. Perhaps, peruse the Belsarra River. Head over to the Merchants Quarters to buy some sundries. See if he could even manage to trek all the way to the Violet Enclave.

“ HONK HONK HONK.”

What he did not expect, however, was his day to be ruined by an abominable avian . The bird, which had led him now to the Arboretum, was currently berating him with loud, chortling squawks as he continued to run after it. In its orange beak, his bascinet rattled precariously in its grasp, the top of the helmet every so often colliding with the cobblestone pathways. He’d swerved around a tree, knocking past confused students and teachers. His arms were raised up to hide his face whilst his eyes struggled to keep an eye on the tiny white feathered gremlin that had stolen one of his most prized possessions.

His breath quaked as he saw it dive towards the middle of the lake in the Arboretum. Its wings fluttered as it touched down onto the edge of the lake.

It couldn’t be doing what he thought it was going to do. He briefly considered breaking his one rule, imagining the satisfaction he would get from turning the bird into a roast dinner. Charge gathered in his hand and then dissipated, halting the process of drawing magnetic energy in the poles of his fingers.

No. If he had done that, it would let that damn goose win.

The goose, however, had taken advantage of his momentary hesitation, tucking its wings in before swimming gently towards the centre of the lake, beak still grasping his prized bascinet. It then turned around to stare at him tauntingly. A good five seconds passed between the both of them. His heart skipped a beat as the goose’s beak opened and the bascinet dropped into the water. The dark water swallowed it with a burp, bubbles floating to the surface as Aldrr’s gift sunk into the phantom depths.

The goose gave one more satisfied honk before swimming away leisurely.

“ Fuck,” Onarr whispered softly, stepping towards the shore slowly. He could feel his father already shouting in his mind and the countless lessons he gave him on the value of good steel and his brother -

His breath paused as the smell of ozone poured out from his sweating palm.

His brother’s gift.

Onarr clenched his fist, breathing in, before taking a look around to make sure no one was looking. He dipped his finger into the rich blue water, ripples fanning out, before beginning to loosen his tunic with a grimace.

Someone had to have swam here before, right?

---

Two weeks later

Thank Shune he had the foresight to construct a periscope, or otherwise, he would have been the first student of Ersand’Enise to have lived through the most boring induction ceremony. The top of his scope peeked out from the top of the crowd as he watched the proceedings occur. The streets of the academy were currently filled with throngs of Biro initiates who were eagerly waiting for their names to be announced to the world.

Well, multiple names in the case of the nobles and merchants. Nobody heard the sign that was muffled by Onarr’s bascinet as he ground his teeth at this meaningless superfluous exercise. What interested him more, though, was watching the demonstrations of the Five Magics at work. An amateur would marvel at the spectacle but Onarr’s mind raced at the spells, the framework required to pull the displays off. He lowered down the periscope carefully to adjust the lens before looking up again to see the fiery jaws of a canine engulf the air.

Fascinating. A shame he’d never mastered Arcane magic like his father and his grandfather before him.

Onarr briefly tightened the straps that held his cloak to his linen tunic, closing it around his tiny figure. It was cold here in Ersand’ Enise compared to the plains of Joru and Belzagg. He didn’t know whether that would extend to the reception he would get. He heard the applause and cheers noticeably dim as the merchants took their lieu after the nobles and then, the civil servants. It quickly became less of a ceremony and more of a formality as they climbed down the ladder of social hierarchy. Still, most of the artisans and civil servants around him just looked grateful to be even here at all, smiles of relief and pride on their faces. His time in the Joruban Stresian Order made him forget how knowledge and aptitude couldn’t balance the field between those with little in their pockets and overflowing pockets.

It was maddening. It was irrational. But as his tutors always said, the wheels of progress moved slowly and subtly and that moving that faster could prove precarious for Constantia.

He’d managed to huddle his way past people to the front of the crowd that made up the artisans and civil servants. For once, his small size proved his advantage.
His name passed by in a blur. They didn’t even pronounce it properly. Credit to the crier for remembering he was from Belzagg but you didn’t click your r’s for a name of Eskandish origin. Charge briefly curled up in his palm like a coiled spring as he walked under the watching gaze of the Zenos and the crowds who were now chattering with one another instead of focusing on the biros.

Perhaps, he’d ought to give them a performance.

But, it’d been 8 years since he threw lightning and he wasn’t about to have a repeat of the accident again.

He breathed out, charge hissing out into the ground and settled for a little bow to the attending Zenos before joining the procession ahead.

“ Honk!”

His back froze as he heard that damnable noise again. He searched until he saw a white speck on top of one of the brick-red roofs. It was the goose again, staring down directly at him. Instead of looking at him with a mocking gaze, the goose peered his neck to crane to look at him with…what? Curiosity? Pensiveness? Sympathy? He wasn’t an ornithologist nor a Stresian naturalist. He couldn’t decipher the intent behind those beady black eyes.

Then, he felt himself being shoved forward, losing sight of the goose, and turning back to see a dark-skinned Belzaggian.

“ Ay! Waas vyetig, fool!”

“ Jannag,” He coughed out his half-hearted apology, ignoring the glower from his fellow East Severan.

He couldn’t wait to be in the company of a quiet library rather than a loud crowd.

The Hourglass Order

Onarr

Onarr Yidlob

" Knowledge is key, but what have you sods done with it? Hoarded it all to yourselves, treasuring it for generations like the wyrms of yore my father told me about.

So, help me by Shune's light, if I have to hear one of you snobs preaching at me again about the sanctity of magic, I'll shove my bascinet up your arsehole."

15 | Male | Joruman | Artisan | 8

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [Sarcastic]
❖ [Altruistic]
❖ [Visionary]
❖ [Studious]
❖ [Regretful]

Proud, quick with sarcastic barbs and having an almost fetishistic tendency to wear his bascinet no matter the situation, Onarr's witticisms and quirky habits disguise a highly inventive mind that constantly races with countless theories and conjectures about every facet of the natural sciences and the Five Magics. This primarily stems from exposure to a potent combination of Stresian philosophy from his mother and the emerging school of New Rationality which was birthed in the Republic of Joru. It is such that he can find himself entering fugue states for days on end, stuck in his laboratory with little to no human communication.

However, beneath his thirst for invention and progress, Onarr is primarily an individual who seeks knowledge for the sake of benefiting the many, most notably his family and his younger siblings. As such, he has a notable distaste for nobles and those of higher stature, looking down upon them as anti-intellectuals that have purposefully obstructed the teaching of the Gift to the vast majority of the lower classes. His observation of the strife between the Republic of Joru and the Empire of Belgazzir have also made him extremely suspicious of any matter involving military affairs, believing that the Gift should be used for the benefit of study instead of being used to erect mass graves across Constantina.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

With the assistance of his heirloom pig-steel bascinet, Onarr easily reaches the shoulders of the tallest adolescent bachelors in the Ersand'Enise. Without his bascinet, however, Onarr is liable to drown himself at the shallow end of any pond if he is not cautious enough. He compliments his most emblematic fashion accessory with a yellow-dyed leather cloak, a linen shirt and rawhide leather boots. When he's not in his mage apparel, Onarr typically wears simple practical vestments made of cloth, camel leather and roughspun flax

Underneath his helm, Onarr believes he looks likes the spawn of a fishmonger and an emaciated moose. However, the reality is far less horrifying for this adolescent than he truly believes. Onarr's dark skin is pocketed with burn scars and raised welts from his childhood misadventures involving the unlimited power of lightning. His left eyebrow has been completely singed off alongside his right sideburns and most of his hair, leaving a solitary chestnut mop in place. His dimpled smile and mischievous grin still remain, however.

L A N G U A G E S

His time spent under the tutelage of the local Stresian order in Joru and operating his father's smithy has bequeathed him with the budding talents of an multi-linguistic. He is fluent and well-versed in his local dialects of Joruban alongside two or three common dialects of Belzaggic. No matter his attempts at trying, Mezogolese has escaped his grasp, only having managed a rudimentary intermediate level consisting of a creole of several dialects. Additionally, he has academic understanding of various Avinician dialects, although he prefers to use the most common form used throughout Constantina.

Onarr doesn't prefer to admit this to anyone but he also knows various swear words, slang, insults, innuendos and profanity picked up from his father's customers in over a dozen languages from Yasoi to Rettanese.

T H E G I F T

Onarr's talents lie in the school of magnet magic, being considerably more versed and creative in its use than other students of his age, thanks to his blessed Thunderchild lineage from his mother and a decade of practice underneath the tutors of the Stresian Order and a six moon apprenticeship under Dioha, the Magnet Master of the local Joru Mage Guild. He prefers drawing on chemical and arcane sources to perform his magnetic magic and can draw on ambient environmental charge in a pinch if he needs to.

His most accomplished recorded feats in the Joru Stresian Order are his ability to mimic other schools of magic through ingenuity and application of scientific theory. His most famous (and often destructive) discovery which earned him entry into Ersand'Enise is what he refers to as "The Phlogiston Pummel". His other, less memorable (but no less academically important to the annals of Stresian journals) feats include increasing the temperature of objects by focusing current through them, managing to levitate 1 feet in the air courtesy of his helmet and manipulation of his own skeletal muscle neurons via conduction of bio-electricity.

However, in spite of his aptitude in magnet magic, no one has ever seen Onarr throw a visible bolt of lightning or channel any lightning spells since he was 8. The excuses provided by Onarr are always changing and always performed with a stretched smile that nobody can see.

Onarr's other preferred school of magic is the art of Chemical Magic. He does not possess a natural talent for it but thanks to countless drills enforced by him in Dioha and endless nights of sifting through dusty tomes, he is what many in the art would consider an excellent user. he mainly focuses on applying it in a utilitarian manner in most of his experiments and for his own cooking. He is woefully out of practice, much to his embarassment, when it comes to the art of applying chemical magic in combat.

His father has also attempted to impart some of his talents in Arcane magic to Onarr, much to both of their frustration. He has only managed to learn several basic cantrips which were rudimentary enough to assist his father in the smithy.

B A C K G R O U N D

Somnes the 24th, Dami-Zept 53

Finally, I have some time to myself to reflect in peace. Dahoi always told me that a good mage always writes at the end of the day, but, alas steady decks are impossible to find when you embark on the Constantin seas. Being on land is far more preferable to suffering from sea-sickness.

The road to Revedia is a long one but perchance, I found a yam farmer willing to ferry me to the border of where Ersand'Enise is supposedly located. There were many reasons that factored into my decision: namely, the sturdy breed of famed albino Revidian steeds that he has tamed, the excellent craftsmanship of his ride and miraculously, his recipe for baked sliver yams that I must try again on the morrow once I finish writing.

I find myself in recent times reflecting on where it all began. It is important that I retrace my steps now, lest, I lose sight of my past at Ersand'Enise. I reckon too many mages forget where they came from and how they became who they were now.

Father tries to deny it but the blood business of war bade him to travel from Eskand to the ports of the Republic of Joru. He gambled his savings and I suppose it paid off. Lucky him. Most people of his station would have died had they attempted that endeavor. Volu, a principality of Jeru, had fallen to a combination of Belzaggic economic pressure and hired sell-sword companies. The carrion fields, rich with steel and sliver, were ripe to be reforged by blacksmiths and were in demand by the various principalities of Joru. Joru was not the Joru it is now. It was untamed, feral with new ideas that blossomed into the embers of the revolution, rich and stoked by the aggression of the Belzaggic neighbours. This flame, wild and intoxicating, attracted various groups like moths to candle-light.

It was how my father met my mother. She was a Stresian philosipher from East Constantina and was part of a missionary group to Joru. My father won't tell me much of the details but their first encounter, if I remember correctly, was a theological argument over the existence of Shune. What followed after that were more vigorous arguments in the privacy of their bed-chambers.

And that was how I and eventually, Aldrr, were born.

I scarcely remembered when I first manifested the Gift. Mother says it was on the midseason of Stresia, on a rainy day, that I cried and a lightning bolt split the willow tree in front of our house in twain. Father says it was when he tried to spank me for being a little shit for trying to touch the coals and I sent him to the apothecary with a headache.

Needless to say, I was attracted to the art of magnetry. I wouldn't discover why until I visited a sanctioned body chemist mage in the Stresian guild but it was the primacy of it, the chaotic energy flowing and ebbing all around me. I moved my first nail when I was five and eventually graduated to anvils at the seven. Father wanted me to be enrolled at the Iluran Public Academy in Joru whilst Mother wanted me to study under the Stresian Philosiphers. One was worried I was going to end up becoming a preacher whilst the other was worried that I was going to be lost in a tide of other gifted children like me.

So, I chose both.

Past that decision, I remember little but cherished memories that I have. I can't tell which ones were my favorite. When I wrote my first disassertion of Kurtz's theories of ferrous magnetism at nine? When I won my local Ziggurtal spitting competition? When I kissed an apple farmer's daughter and was chased out of her father's orchards? If I were to write them all, it would take several days.

I wish Aldrr

Ersand'Enise took immediate notice of my publications when I was 13. They sent one of their Zenos to observe me and within a year, I received my invitation to study at the academy.

The rest is history and that is how I am currently stranded halfway across Revedia with the present company of yam farmers.

Supper awaits me now. I wonder how they make those baked yams so chewy.....

M O T I V A T I O N

Onarr's motivation is the progression of science underneath the auspices of the Five Magics and using its developments to assist and enlighten the people of Constantina, no matter the cost to himself. He believes that the hallowed halls of Ersand'Enisem, its parties, its ancient tomes and the local Zigguretal spitting scene will help him in his endeavor to help both his family and humanity as a whole.

He has considerably mixed feelings towards the institutions of the Quentic Faith, viewing those of Shune in a fairer light than those of the others. In his own words, most Quentic religious institutions are "barmy cults of the Old Gods made anew who only serve to pilfer gold from those who have little and prop up the satchels of the unfaithful".

I N V E N T O R Y

On his person, Onarr's always wears his triple-forged fabulous steel cone bascinet which acts as the primary focus of his magnetic magicks. Many attempts have been made by his tutors and his family to replace the helmet with a traditional rod of castle-forged steel or brass that magnet mages use but Onar stubbornly refuses, claiming that the dimensions of his helmet help in the conduction of ambient currents (Or whatever excuse he wants to make). Other foci that he uses are a oil wick lantern for the Arcane School of Magic and a elm spoon for the Chemical School of Magic.

Onarr's other belongings include.....

- A bag of Zigurattal seeds, freshly harvested and cured.
- A set of smithing tools
- A poultice of whale oil
- A pickled salmon wrapped in clam cloth
- A Shune phycaletery necklace given to him by his Mother
- A personal journal with charcoal
- Various tomes about the natural sciences and the Five Magics
- A pouch of sea salt, red pepper and dried Joru root
- A set of magnifying glasses

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ Skilled smith under the tutelage of his father. Has the calluses to prove it.
❖ Stressian junior philosopher and scholar. Recognized as an aspirant of the School of Magnetism.
❖ Versed in cooking Joru and Constantin cuisine.
❖ Ziggurtal Spitting Afficionado*
❖ Fleet-footed from time playing tag with Aldrr in Joru's forests.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ High Strung Temperament
❖ Zealot of Science/Extremely Suspicious Of Religion In General
❖ Stubborn
❖ Highly recalcitrant towards usage of spells on living beings
❖ Phobia of Great Gulls
❖ Issues With Being Vertically Challenged

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

*THE RULES OF ZIGURATTAL SPITTING ABRIDGED

Zigurattal Spitting is a sport originating from the ancient tribes that originally formed Belzagg and has since been modernized, changed and has split into various sub-types across the continent of Severa. The gambling scene on Zigurattal Spitting rivals that of ostrich jousting and the Alchemist's Award. Several prominent Belzaggic nobles have promoted the sport and have engaged in it. The Republic of Joru has attempted to ban the sport on more than one occasion but after the appearance of illegal zigurattal spitting scenes, numerous protests and various letters of concerns from apothecaries about exposure to toxic crops of zigurattal, the republic has since legalized it.

Zigurattal spitting revolves around the Zigarattal bean which is grown in the south of East Severa. It is notoriously fickle to grow and can only be harvested once a year. The bean is heated to remove the outer shell and a striped green seed is removed from the core. This is the Zigurattal, the core of Zigurattal spitting, and has several properties which distinguish it from other seeds. Of note by scholars, Zigurattal seeds possess a mixture of elasticity and brittleness, having parallel capabilities to that of a rubber ball. However, upon reaching a certain number of bounces, Zigurattal seeds lose this property and become extremely fragile, breaking upon impact. It has been the subject of scholar's debate for centuries over what causes this to occur. Due to its small size, the only way to achieve locomotion with the Zigurattal seed is to use one's mouth to launch the seed.

Zigurattal Spitting is typically operated with a total of 3 competitors standing 20 paces away from a series of 50 differently colored wooden posts. Different colors correlate to different amounts of points, with red being the lowest and gold being the highest. Players must take turns spitting and hitting these posts to collect the most amount of points. Skilled players are able to bounce their seeds between multiple posts. However this runs the risk of breaking the Zigurattal, leading to what is known as a "crack". Therefore, players must manage the durability of their chosen Zigurattal and how many points they want to accumulate.

The Hourglass Order

@Force and Fury Yeah, you have my permission.

The Hourglass Order

Onarr

Onarr Yidlob

" Knowledge is key, but what have you sods done with it? Hoarded it all to yourselves, treasuring it for generations like the wyrms of yore my father told me about.

So, help me by Shune's light, if I have to hear one of you snobs preaching at me again about the sanctity of magic, I'll shove my bascinet up your arsehole."

15 | Male | Joruman | Artisan | 8

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [Sarcastic]
❖ [Altruistic]
❖ [Visionary]
❖ [Studious]
❖ [Regretful]

Proud, quick with sarcastic barbs and having an almost fetishistic tendency to wear his bascinet no matter the situation, Onarr's witticisms and quirky habits disguise a highly inventive mind that constantly races with countless theories and conjectures about every facet of the natural sciences and the Five Magics. This primarily stems from exposure to a potent combination of Stresian philosophy from his mother and the emerging school of New Rationality which was birthed in the Republic of Joru. It is such that he can find himself entering fugue states for days on end, stuck in his laboratory with little to no human communication.

However, beneath his thirst for invention and progress, Onarr is primarily an individual who seeks knowledge for the sake of benefiting the many, most notably his family and his younger siblings. As such, he has a notable distaste for nobles and those of higher stature, looking down upon them as anti-intellectuals that have purposefully obstructed the teaching of the Gift to the vast majority of the lower classes. His observation of the strife between the Republic of Joru and the Empire of Belgazzir have also made him extremely suspicious of any matter involving military affairs, believing that the Gift should be used for the benefit of study instead of being used to erect mass graves across Constantina.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

With the assistance of his heirloom pig-steel bascinet, Onarr easily reaches the shoulders of the tallest adolescent bachelors in the Ersand'Enise. Without his bascinet, however, Onarr is liable to drown himself at the shallow end of any pond if he is not cautious enough. He compliments his most emblematic fashion accessory with a yellow-dyed leather cloak, a linen shirt and rawhide leather boots. When he's not in his mage apparel, Onarr typically wears simple practical vestments made of cloth, camel leather and roughspun flax

Underneath his helm, Onarr believes he looks likes the spawn of a fishmonger and an emaciated moose. However, the reality is far less horrifying for this adolescent than he truly believes. Onarr's dark skin is pocketed with burn scars and raised welts from his childhood misadventures involving the unlimited power of lightning. His left eyebrow has been completely singed off alongside his right sideburns and most of his hair, leaving a solitary chestnut mop in place. His dimpled smile and mischievous grin still remain, however.

L A N G U A G E S

His time spent under the tutelage of the local Stresian order in Joru and operating his father's smithy has bequeathed him with the budding talents of an multi-linguistic. He is fluent and well-versed in his local dialects of Joruban alongside two or three common dialects of Belzaggic. No matter his attempts at trying, Mezogolese has escaped his grasp, only having managed a rudimentary intermediate level consisting of a creole of several dialects. Additionally, he has academic understanding of various Avinician dialects, although he prefers to use the most common form used throughout Constantina.

Onarr doesn't prefer to admit this to anyone but he also knows various swear words, slang, insults, innuendos and profanity picked up from his father's customers in over a dozen languages from Yasoi to Rettanese.

T H E G I F T

Onarr's talents lie in the school of magnet magic, being considerably more versed and creative in its use than other students of his age, thanks to his blessed Thunderchild lineage from his mother and a decade of practice underneath the tutors of the Stresian Order and a six moon apprenticeship under Dioha, the Magnet Master of the local Joru Mage Guild. He prefers drawing on chemical and arcane sources to perform his magnetic magic and can draw on ambient environmental charge in a pinch if he needs to.

His most accomplished recorded feats in the Joru Stresian Order are his ability to mimic other schools of magic through ingenuity and application of scientific theory. His most famous (and often destructive) discovery which earned him entry into Ersand'Enise is what he refers to as "The Phlogiston Pummel". His other, less memorable (but no less academically important to the annals of Stresian journals) feats include increasing the temperature of objects by focusing current through them, managing to levitate 1 feet in the air courtesy of his helmet and manipulation of his own skeletal muscle neurons via conduction of bio-electricity.

However, in spite of his aptitude in magnet magic, no one has ever seen Onarr throw a visible bolt of lightning or channel any lightning spells since he was 8. The excuses provided by Onarr are always changing and always performed with a stretched smile that nobody can see.

Onarr's other preferred school of magic is the art of Chemical Magic. He does not possess a natural talent for it but thanks to countless drills enforced by him in Dioha and endless nights of sifting through dusty tomes, he is what many in the art would consider an excellent user. he mainly focuses on applying it in a utilitarian manner in most of his experiments and for his own cooking. He is woefully out of practice, much to his embarassment, when it comes to the art of applying chemical magic in combat.

His father has also attempted to impart some of his talents in Arcane magic to Onarr, much to both of their frustration. He has only managed to learn several basic cantrips which were rudimentary enough to assist his father in the smithy.

B A C K G R O U N D

Somnes the 24th, Dami-Zept 53

Finally, I have some time to myself to reflect in peace. Dahoi always told me that a good mage always writes at the end of the day, but, alas steady decks are impossible to find when you embark on the Constantin seas. Being on land is far more preferable to suffering from sea-sickness.

The road to Revedia is a long one but perchance, I found a yam farmer willing to ferry me to the border of where Ersand'Enise is supposedly located. There were many reasons that factored into my decision: namely, the sturdy breed of famed albino Revidian steeds that he has tamed, the excellent craftsmanship of his ride and miraculously, his recipe for baked sliver yams that I must try again on the morrow once I finish writing.

I find myself in recent times reflecting on where it all began. It is important that I retrace my steps now, lest, I lose sight of my past at Ersand'Enise. I reckon too many mages forget where they came from and how they became who they were now.

Father tries to deny it but the blood business of war bade him to travel from Eskand to the ports of the Republic of Joru. He gambled his savings and I suppose it paid off. Lucky him. Most people of his station would have died had they attempted that endeavor. Volu, a principality of Jeru, had fallen to a combination of Belzaggic economic pressure and hired sell-sword companies. The carrion fields, rich with steel and sliver, were ripe to be reforged by blacksmiths and were in demand by the various principalities of Joru. Joru was not the Joru it is now. It was untamed, feral with new ideas that blossomed into the embers of the revolution, rich and stoked by the aggression of the Belzaggic neighbours. This flame, wild and intoxicating, attracted various groups like moths to candle-light.

It was how my father met my mother. She was a Stresian philosipher from East Constantina and was part of a missionary group to Joru. My father won't tell me much of the details but their first encounter, if I remember correctly, was a theological argument over the existence of Shune. What followed after that were more vigorous arguments in the privacy of their bed-chambers.

And that was how I and eventually, Aldrr, were born.

I scarcely remembered when I first manifested the Gift. Mother says it was on the midseason of Stresia, on a rainy day, that I cried and a lightning bolt split the willow tree in front of our house in twain. Father says it was when he tried to spank me for being a little shit for trying to touch the coals and I sent him to the apothecary with a headache.

Needless to say, I was attracted to the art of magnetry. I wouldn't discover why until I visited a sanctioned body chemist mage in the Stresian guild but it was the primacy of it, the chaotic energy flowing and ebbing all around me. I moved my first nail when I was five and eventually graduated to anvils at the seven. Father wanted me to be enrolled at the Iluran Public Academy in Joru whilst Mother wanted me to study under the Stresian Philosiphers. One was worried I was going to end up becoming a preacher whilst the other was worried that I was going to be lost in a tide of other gifted children like me.

So, I chose both.

Past that decision, I remember little but cherished memories that I have. I can't tell which ones were my favorite. When I wrote my first disassertion of Kurtz's theories of ferrous magnetism at nine? When I won my local Ziggurtal spitting competition? When I kissed an apple farmer's daughter and was chased out of her father's orchards? If I were to write them all, it would take several days.

I wish Aldrr

Ersand'Enise took immediate notice of my publications when I was 13. They sent one of their Zenos to observe me and within a year, I received my invitation to study at the academy.

The rest is history and that is how I am currently stranded halfway across Revedia with the present company of yam farmers.

Supper awaits me now. I wonder how they make those baked yams so chewy.....

M O T I V A T I O N

Onarr's motivation is the progression of science underneath the auspices of the Five Magics and using its developments to assist and enlighten the people of Constantina, no matter the cost to himself. He believes that the hallowed halls of Ersand'Enisem, its parties, its ancient tomes and the local Zigguretal spitting scene will help him in his endeavor to help both his family and humanity as a whole.

He has considerably mixed feelings towards the institutions of the Quentic Faith, viewing those of Shune in a fairer light than those of the others. In his own words, most Quentic religious institutions are "barmy cults of the Old Gods made anew who only serve to pilfer gold from those who have little and prop up the satchels of the unfaithful".

I N V E N T O R Y

On his person, Onarr's always wears his triple-forged fabulous steel cone bascinet which acts as the primary focus of his magnetic magicks. Many attempts have been made by his tutors and his family to replace the helmet with a traditional rod of castle-forged steel or brass that magnet mages use but Onar stubbornly refuses, claiming that the dimensions of his helmet help in the conduction of ambient currents (Or whatever excuse he wants to make). Other foci that he uses are a oil wick lantern for the Arcane School of Magic and a elm spoon for the Chemical School of Magic.

Onarr's other belongings include.....

- A bag of Zigurattal seeds, freshly harvested and cured.
- A set of smithing tools
- A poultice of whale oil
- A pickled salmon wrapped in clam cloth
- A Shune phycaletery necklace given to him by his Mother
- A personal journal with charcoal
- Various tomes about the natural sciences and the Five Magics
- A pouch of sea salt, red pepper and dried Joru root
- A set of magnifying glasses

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ Skilled smith under the tutelage of his father. Has the calluses to prove it.
❖ Stressian junior philosopher and scholar. Recognized as an aspirant of the School of Magnetism.
❖ Versed in cooking Joru and Constantin cuisine.
❖ Ziggurtal Spitting Afficionado*
❖ Fleet-footed from time playing tag with Aldrr in Joru's forests.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ High Strung Temperament
❖ Zealot of Science/Extremely Suspicious Of Religion In General
❖ Stubborn
❖ Highly recalcitrant towards usage of spells on living beings
❖ Phobia of Great Gulls
❖ Issues With Being Vertically Challenged

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

*THE RULES OF ZIGURATTAL SPITTING ABRIDGED

Zigurattal Spitting is a sport originating from the ancient tribes that originally formed Belzagg and has since been modernized, changed and has split into various sub-types across the continent of Severa. The gambling scene on Zigurattal Spitting rivals that of ostrich jousting and the Alchemist's Award. Several prominent Belzaggic nobles have promoted the sport and have engaged in it. The Republic of Joru has attempted to ban the sport on more than one occasion but after the appearance of illegal zigurattal spitting scenes, numerous protests and various letters of concerns from apothecaries about exposure to toxic crops of zigurattal, the republic has since legalized it.

Zigurattal spitting revolves around the Zigarattal bean which is grown in the south of East Severa. It is notoriously fickle to grow and can only be harvested once a year. The bean is heated to remove the outer shell and a striped green seed is removed from the core. This is the Zigurattal, the core of Zigurattal spitting, and has several properties which distinguish it from other seeds. Of note by scholars, Zigurattal seeds possess a mixture of elasticity and brittleness, having parallel capabilities to that of a rubber ball. However, upon reaching a certain number of bounces, Zigurattal seeds lose this property and become extremely fragile, breaking upon impact. It has been the subject of scholar's debate for centuries over what causes this to occur. Due to its small size, the only way to achieve locomotion with the Zigurattal seed is to use one's mouth to launch the seed.

Zigurattal Spitting is typically operated with a total of 3 competitors standing 20 paces away from a series of 50 differently colored wooden posts. Different colors correlate to different amounts of points, with red being the lowest and gold being the highest. Players must take turns spitting and hitting these posts to collect the most amount of points. Skilled players are able to bounce their seeds between multiple posts. However this runs the risk of breaking the Zigurattal, leading to what is known as a "crack". Therefore, players must manage the durability of their chosen Zigurattal and how many points they want to accumulate.

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

Onarr ee Yidlob

" Knowledge is key, but what have you sods done with it? Hoarded it all to yourselves, treasuring it for generations like the wyrms of yore my father told me about.

So, help me by Shune's light, if I have to hear one of you snobs preaching at me again about the sanctity of magic, I'll shove my bascinet up your arsehole."

15 | Male | Joruman | Artisan | 8

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ [Sarcastic]
❖ [Altruistic]
❖ [Visionary]
❖ [Studious]
❖ [Regretful]

Proud, quick with sarcastic barbs and having an almost fetishistic tendency to wear his bascinet no matter the situation, Onarr's witticisms and quirky habits disguise a highly inventive mind that constantly races with countless theories and conjectures about every facet of the natural sciences and the Five Magics. This primarily stems from exposure to a potent combination of Stresian philosophy from his mother and the emerging school of New Rationality which was birthed in the Republic of Joru. It is such that he can find himself entering fugue states for days on end, stuck in his laboratory with little to no human communication.

However, beneath his thirst for invention and progress, Onarr is primarily an individual who seeks knowledge for the sake of benefiting the many, most notably his family and his younger siblings. As such, he has a notable distaste for nobles and those of higher stature, looking down upon them as anti-intellectuals that have purposefully obstructed the teaching of the Gift to the vast majority of the lower classes. His observation of the strife between the Republic of Joru and the Empire of Belgazzir have also made him extremely suspicious of any matter involving military affairs, believing that the Gift should be used for the benefit of study instead of being used to erect mass graves across Constantina.

C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E

With the assistance of his heirloom pig-steel bascinet, Onarr easily reaches the shoulders of the tallest adolescent bachelors in the Ersand'Enise. Without his bascinet, however, Onarr is liable to drown himself at the shallow end of any pond if he is not cautious enough. He compliments his most emblematic fashion accessory with a yellow-dyed leather cloak, a linen shirt and rawhide leather boots. When he's not in his mage apparel, Onarr typically wears simple practical vestments made of cloth, camel leather and roughspun flax

Underneath his helm, Onarr believes he looks likes the spawn of a fishmonger and an emaciated moose. However, the reality is far less horrifying for this adolescent than he truly believes. Onarr's dark skin is pocketed with burn scars and raised welts from his childhood misadventures involving the unlimited power of lightning. His left eyebrow has been completely singed off alongside his right sideburns and most of his hair, leaving a solitary chestnut mop in place. His dimpled smile and mischievous grin still remain, however.

L A N G U A G E S

His time spent under the tutelage of the local Stresian order in Joru and operating his father's smithy has bequeathed him with the budding talents of an multi-linguistic. He is fluent and well-versed in his local dialects of Joruban alongside two or three common dialects of Belzaggic. No matter his attempts at trying, Mezogolese has escaped his grasp, only having managed a rudimentary intermediate level consisting of a creole of several dialects. Additionally, he has academic understanding of various Avinician dialects, although he prefers to use the most common form used throughout Constantina.

Onarr doesn't prefer to admit this to anyone but he also knows various swear words, slang, insults, innuendos and profanity picked up from his father's customers in over a dozen languages from Yasoi to Rettanese.

T H E G I F T

Onarr's talents lie in the school of magnet magic, being considerably more versed and creative in its use than other students of his age, thanks to his blessed Thunderchild lineage from his mother and a decade of practice underneath the tutors of the Stresian Order and a six moon apprenticeship under Dioha, the Magnet Master of the local Joru Mage Guild. He prefers drawing on chemical and arcane sources to perform his magnetic magic and can draw on ambient environmental charge in a pinch if he needs to.

His most accomplished recorded feats in the Joru Stresian Order are his ability to mimic other schools of magic through ingenuity and application of scientific theory. His most famous (and often destructive) discovery which earned him entry into Ersand'Enise is what he refers to as "The Phlogiston Pummel". His other, less memorable (but no less academically important to the annals of Stresian journals) feats include increasing the temperature of objects by focusing current through them, managing to levitate 1 feet in the air courtesy of his helmet and manipulation of his own skeletal muscle neurons via conduction of bio-electricity.

However, in spite of his aptitude in magnet magic, no one has ever seen Onarr throw a visible bolt of lightning or channel any lightning spells since he was 8. The excuses provided by Onarr are always changing and always performed with a stretched smile that nobody can see.

Onarr's other preferred school of magic is the art of Chemical Magic. He does not possess a natural talent for it but thanks to countless drills enforced by him in Dioha and endless nights of sifting through dusty tomes, he is what many in the art would consider an excellent user. he mainly focuses on applying it in a utilitarian manner in most of his experiments and for his own cooking. He is woefully out of practice, much to his embarassment, when it comes to the art of applying chemical magic in combat.

His father has also attempted to impart some of his talents in Arcane magic to Onarr, much to both of their frustration. He has only managed to learn several basic cantrips which were rudimentary enough to assist his father in the smithy.

B A C K G R O U N D

Somnes the 24th, Dami-Zept 53

Finally, I have some time to myself to reflect in peace. Dahoi always told me that a good mage always writes at the end of the day, but, alas steady decks are impossible to find when you embark on the Constantin seas. Being on land is far more preferable to suffering from sea-sickness.

The road to Revedia is a long one but perchance, I found a yam farmer willing to ferry me to the border of where Ersand'Enise is supposedly located. There were many reasons that factored into my decision: namely, the sturdy breed of famed albino Revidian steeds that he has tamed, the excellent craftsmanship of his ride and miraculously, his recipe for baked sliver yams that I must try again on the morrow once I finish writing.

I find myself in recent times reflecting on where it all began. It is important that I retrace my steps now, lest, I lose sight of my past at Ersand'Enise. I reckon too many mages forget where they came from and how they became who they were now.

Father tries to deny it but the blood business of war bade him to travel from Eskand to the ports of the Republic of Joru. He gambled his savings and I suppose it paid off. Lucky him. Most people of his station would have died had they attempted that endeavor. Volu, a principality of Jeru, had fallen to a combination of Belzaggic economic pressure and hired sell-sword companies. The carrion fields, rich with steel and sliver, were ripe to be reforged by blacksmiths and were in demand by the various principalities of Joru. Joru was not the Joru it is now. It was untamed, feral with new ideas that blossomed into the embers of the revolution, rich and stoked by the aggression of the Belzaggic neighbours. This flame, wild and intoxicating, attracted various groups like moths to candle-light.

It was how my father met my mother. She was a Stresian philosipher from East Constantina and was part of a missionary group to Joru. My father won't tell me much of the details but their first encounter, if I remember correctly, was a theological argument over the existence of Shune. What followed after that were more vigorous arguments in the privacy of their bed-chambers.

And that was how I and eventually, Aldrr, were born.

I scarcely remembered when I first manifested the Gift. Mother says it was on the midseason of Stresia, on a rainy day, that I cried and a lightning bolt split the willow tree in front of our house in twain. Father says it was when he tried to spank me for being a little shit for trying to touch the coals and I sent him to the apothecary with a headache.

Needless to say, I was attracted to the art of magnetry. I wouldn't discover why until I visited a sanctioned body chemist mage in the Stresian guild but it was the primacy of it, the chaotic energy flowing and ebbing all around me. I moved my first nail when I was five and eventually graduated to anvils at the seven. Father wanted me to be enrolled at the Iluran Public Academy in Joru whilst Mother wanted me to study under the Stresian Philosiphers. One was worried I was going to end up becoming a preacher whilst the other was worried that I was going to be lost in a tide of other gifted children like me.

So, I chose both.

Past that decision, I remember little but cherished memories that I have. I can't tell which ones were my favorite. When I wrote my first disassertion of Kurtz's theories of ferrous magnetism at nine? When I won my local Ziggurtal spitting competition? When I kissed an apple farmer's daughter and was chased out of her father's orchards? If I were to write them all, it would take several days.

I wish Aldrr

Ersand'Enise took immediate notice of my publications when I was 13. They sent one of their Zenos to observe me and within a year, I received my invitation to study at the academy.

The rest is history and that is how I am currently stranded halfway across Revedia with the present company of yam farmers.

Supper awaits me now. I wonder how they make those baked yams so chewy.....

M O T I V A T I O N

Onarr's motivation is the progression of science underneath the auspices of the Five Magics and using its developments to assist and enlighten the people of Constantina, no matter the cost to himself. He believes that the hallowed halls of Ersand'Enisem, its parties, its ancient tomes and the local Zigguretal spitting scene will help him in his endeavor to help both his family and humanity as a whole.

He has considerably mixed feelings towards the institutions of the Quentic Faith, viewing those of Shune in a fairer light than those of the others. In his own words, most Quentic religious institutions are "barmy cults of the Old Gods made anew who only serve to pilfer gold from those who have little and prop up the satchels of the unfaithful".

I N V E N T O R Y

On his person, Onarr's always wears his triple-forged fabulous steel cone bascinet which acts as the primary focus of his magnetic magicks. Many attempts have been made by his tutors and his family to replace the helmet with a traditional rod of castle-forged steel or brass that magnet mages use but Onar stubbornly refuses, claiming that the dimensions of his helmet help in the conduction of ambient currents (Or whatever excuse he wants to make). Other foci that he uses are a oil wick lantern for the Arcane School of Magic and a elm spoon for the Chemical School of Magic.

Onarr's other belongings include.....

- A bag of Zigurattal seeds, freshly harvested and cured.
- A set of smithing tools
- A poultice of whale oil
- A pickled salmon wrapped in clam cloth
- A Shune phycaletery necklace given to him by his Mother
- A personal journal with charcoal
- Various tomes about the natural sciences and the Five Magics
- A pouch of sea salt, red pepper and dried Joru root
- A set of magnifying glasses

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S

❖ Skilled smith under the tutelage of his father. Has the calluses to prove it.
❖ Stressian junior philosopher and scholar. Recognized as an aspirant of the School of Magnetism.
❖ Versed in cooking Joru and Constantin cuisine.
❖ Ziggurtal Spitting Afficionado*
❖ Fleet-footed from time playing tag with Aldrr in Joru's forests.

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S

❖ High Strung Temperament
❖ Zealot of Science/Extremely Suspicious Of Religion In General
❖ Stubborn
❖ Highly recalcitrant towards usage of spells on living beings
❖ Phobia of Great Gulls
❖ Issues With Being Vertically Challenged

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

*THE RULES OF ZIGURATTAL SPITTING ABRIDGED

Zigurattal Spitting is a sport originating from the ancient tribes that originally formed Belzagg and has since been modernized, changed and has split into various sub-types across the continent of Severa. The gambling scene on Zigurattal Spitting rivals that of ostrich jousting and the Alchemist's Award. Several prominent Belzaggic nobles have promoted the sport and have engaged in it. The Republic of Joru has attempted to ban the sport on more than one occasion but after the appearance of illegal zigurattal spitting scenes, numerous protests and various letters of concerns from apothecaries about exposure to toxic crops of zigurattal, the republic has since legalized it.

Zigurattal spitting revolves around the Zigarattal bean which is grown in the south of East Severa. It is notoriously fickle to grow and can only be harvested once a year. The bean is heated to remove the outer shell and a striped green seed is removed from the core. This is the Zigurattal, the core of Zigurattal spitting, and has several properties which distinguish it from other seeds. Of note by scholars, Zigurattal seeds possess a mixture of elasticity and brittleness, having parallel capabilities to that of a rubber ball. However, upon reaching a certain number of bounces, Zigurattal seeds lose this property and become extremely fragile, breaking upon impact. It has been the subject of scholar's debate for centuries over what causes this to occur. Due to its small size, the only way to achieve locomotion with the Zigurattal seed is to use one's mouth to launch the seed.

Zigurattal Spitting is typically operated with a total of 3 competitors standing 20 paces away from a series of 50 differently colored wooden posts. Different colors correlate to different amounts of points, with red being the lowest and gold being the highest. Players must take turns spitting and hitting these posts to collect the most amount of points. Skilled players are able to bounce their seeds between multiple posts. However this runs the risk of breaking the Zigurattal, leading to what is known as a "crack". Therefore, players must manage the durability of their chosen Zigurattal and how many points they want to accumulate.

Young Justice Avenger (A Next Generation Amalgamverse)

Name:Ronald King Sanders

Hero Name: Sauce Boss

Known Alias: Condiment Prince, The Michelin Massacrer

Age: 19

Powers: Possesses an extremely complex palette, capable to individually distinguishing over 100 flavo-molecules in every type of sauce, ragu and reduction possible.

Equipment: An oversized spandex suit from his villanous father alongside two hydraulic spray guns attached to the Flavor-Town, a piece of equipment strapped to his back that chemically synthesizes over 1000 kinds of sauce. Also has an emergency codpiece sauce cannon attached to his belt in case of emergencies that is loaded with enriched mayo and mustard.

Skills:

In his CV, Ronald Sanders has been a shift manager at Big Belly Burger for over 3 years and has acquired the astronomical ability to deal with unsatisfied customers and angry co-workers. This is by far the most important aspect of his skill-set which overshadows his training in HEMA wrestling, marksmanship and inhuman acrobatics.

Ronald King Sanders is also a nutritionist of an inhuman calibre, capable of determining an individual's flavor standards, allergy profile and the amount of calories that a human being is capable of consuming before incapacitation or death.

Appearance:

60 kilograms of heart-pumping cholesterol and illegal preservatives stored in a plump belly and topped with blonde hair. His suit often gets wedgies.

Known Associates:

Frank Castle/The Punisher - Has threatened to kill Ronald if he acts out of line.

Codpiece - Drinking buddy and personal provider of genital gear.

Known Adversaries:

Eye-Scream - Engaged in a familial feud over whether ice-cream is considered sauce or not.

Egg-Fu - Vows vengeance against Ronald for using his relatives as ingredients in mayonaise.

Flaming Carrot - A Lord of Order on par with Doctor Fate who is determined to set the bar straight on the American diet.

Canon Basis:

Through this RP, I intend to explore a question that has haunted me for a solid chunk of my lifetime.

What is sauce? What are its boundaries? Are we just sauce solidified or sauce transcended to a higher plane of existence, of sapience whereby we are free to enact on what we assume? Is sauce our end or our beginning? Are all things sauce?

The Sauce Boss will act as the instrument for which I will solve this conundrum with.

Bio:

After Condiment King's issues of inadequacy led to a psychotic break whereby he held the U.S President hostage with radioactive sriracha bombs, he was accidentally killed by the Justice League when they gave him an anaphylactic attack by forcing him to swallow coleslaw dressing. His son was orphaned and left to fend for himself.The systemic issues of the US adoption system and the inheritance of Condiment's King obsession with sauce led him to adopting the name of the Condiment Lord whereby his first act was to flood the shores of South and North Rhlesia with mustard in an attempt to start a sauce-fest.

Unfortunately, Frank Castle, otherwise known as the Punisher, shot him in the heart before he could commit the act and landed him a six-week stay in the hospital.

This near brush with death led to a crisis of epiphany, a re-evaluation of his obsession with sauce and thus, the Sauce Boss was born.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Bloodletting 1.3.1

Moonlight skittered over Manhattan and behind it, the night followed. The smell of gutter water and mouldy newspapers infested the Lower Bronx and flooded the lower boroughs with its stench. Erlich could taste the rich coppery scent of livestock huddling together in the cold night air, fading and rich with succor.

However, he wasn’t in the mood for that tonight. He was in need of another type of warmth, the kind that would have made his superiors sneer in disgust. It was only here, away from the prying eyes of the other clan members, that he could have a joint in peace. Erlich scoffed. He parted open the lapel of his jacket and slid out a dainty little cigarette from a half bent cardboard box. It was a second later that he realised he was out of matches.

A scabbed hand intruded in his vision, and with it, a matchbox. Uriah had decided to accompany him on his last day in the Bronx before he would take the MRT down south and hop a bus to Florida. They’d been on a day and night of bar-hopping, finding a good drink to share between the both of them. It’d been half an hour since they left their last bar and the buzz from the eight shots he took was beginning to wear off He would have stayed longer but Deacon, that asshole, decided to hold a meeting all of a sudden.

“ Thanks,” Erlich murmured, cracking the head of the match against the strip and raising the soft yellow flame to the cigar. He took a deep drag, blood rushing pleasantly in his forehead in a nicotine fueled haze. Uriaih meanwhile watched, taking a solitary look towards the stars. They were both on top of a roof now, overseeing the warehouse that Deacon had called both of them to.

“ So, I heard you got a new assignment. “

“ Mhm.” Erlich signed “ Not a pleasant one.”

“ So, where are you headed? Jean told me you were headed to Alaska.”

“ Wrong. I’m headed down to Orleans. Frost wants me to make first contact with the southern clans. We’ve been letting them frolic around there too long.”

“ Think they’ll recognise his authority?”

“ They’d better.” Erlich narrowed his eyes. “ Otherwise, he’d be sending me for a suicide mission. That’d be pretty goddamn stupid of him to do that. Frost has been expanding his operations and right now, the only territory that he hasn’t got a hold of are those mongoloid southerners. They’re more laissez-faire with feeding and fucking with the livestock. I swear, if it wasn’t for the fact the hunters have us on the run, we would have exterminated them.”

He took a drag and breathed out in the cold wind.

“ I was thinking…” He flicked the ash off his cigar and turned around. “.....I think you and I need a heart to heart about your habits. Especially…..”

Erlich’s expression became one of shock as Uriah’s jaw was slack in shock and pain, pawing at the wriggling hand that was protruding out of his chest. Within its bright red grip was a stake with what remained of Uriah’s heart smeared all over the end. Rivulets of blood oozed out, dribbling all over his jacket. Over Uriah’s shoulder were a pair of glimmering red shades that twinkled like jewels in a mine shaft.

The dhampir.

“ You son of a bitch- “ Erlich hissed, pulling out his Colt revolver, cocking the hammer and aiming the barrel towards the dhampir’s heart -

Then, his hand disappeared.

And before he could scream, his head came next.

---

Damn, he hasn’t missed a step, hasn’t he?

It only took two blinks and the bloodsucker was already headless and one handed. It was still standing, arm pointed towards Blade, before Stick kicked it over. There was a long winded whimper that rattled from the bloodsucker his hand was currently punctured through. Eric gripped the stake tight before pulling it out in one swift stroke. The bloodsucker then flopped onto the ground, the contents of his chest vacated by the large hole he’d put through his heart.

“ You could have been more quiet.” Stick commented as he hobbled over towards Eric, even though the dhampir knew that he could run a block in 30 seconds. Guess every assassin had to keep up appearances.

“ You could have been less messy.” Eric fired back, stepping over the vampire’s shriveled corpse. He looked over towards the warehouse. “ So, this is the place? “

“ It’s the place.” Stick pointed towards the entrance, a dark gaping maw peeled out of corrugated iron. “The amount of dark chi this place was giving off was like Chernobyl.”

“ Right….” Eric drawled sarcastically while ripping out the stake from the vampire’s torso. “ Sure you haven’t been doing any drugs while you were meditating- OW!”

Eric rubbed the back of his head, red hot from the slap Stick had given him with his cane. Stick stowed it away, grumbling under his breath before sheathing his katana with a click.

“ C’mon, kid. Those immortal vampire ninjas aren’t going to kill themselves.”

“ Do I count as one of those?”

“ You can if you don’t stop yapping off at me.”