Powers: Tell me. Have you ever eaten pineapple pizza? It's an unnatural eldritch paradox, isn't it? The disgusting yet tempting trap of sweet and salty. It is a law that was never meant to be broken. KFC has a sweet and sour sauce for their Mc-nuggets, not an sweet and salty sauce. Combining the elements of melted mozzarella, tomato sauce, yeast crust and tropical fruit in one 16 inch unholy sentient package, the Hawaaian Heathen's true power is not being able to speak in human languages or being mobile as an epileptic slug but the paradoxical demonic taste of his pizza flesh.
The first bite will have you think " Oh, that isn't bad". The second will send you in a state of shock, cursing yourself at your lack of hindsight. The third will give you a seizure, your mouth foaming as you overdose on the traitorous taste of pineapple pizza. The fourth excommunicates you from being a member of the human species.
The fifth sends you to pizza hell where you are forced to eat a mountain of pizza eternally, using only a knife and a fork.
Weaknesses: Cardboard pizza boxes, good pizza and leaving him out in the sun for too long.
Brief BIO: Was it a wizard? A genetic experiment? Some freak accident? The will of Satan or some deity? No ones knows but this pizza. The pizza's age is indeterminate. Some theories propose that it was born out of the first man putting pineapple on his pizza in Ancient Rome. One thing is for certain; this maniacal cuisine tyrant has been hell-bent on violating the norms of pizza consumption, one world-threatening plan at a time. During his time, the Hawaiaan Heathen has been banned from every major villain organization such as The Not-Good Guys and the Black Grey Nietzsche Abyss Followers. For now, he currently inhabits the mind of Papa John's, waiting, watching, planning for his time to reveal himself truly to the world and rid all those who don't eat pineapple pizza.
Potential Storylines:
- Joining forces with Deep Dish and Sushi Pizza against Neapolitan and New York Pizza. - Taking over the world's pizza restaurants and becoming crime boss of underground pizza smuggling. - Creating an offshore PPMC (Private Pizza Military Corporation) to destablize Italy's government.
Taste it! If you don't taste it now, I'll shove this heretical offering down your mouth! If you were trying to poison the mayor, you failed! This slime spittle couldn't even kill a pygmy squirrel. What are you standing there for? Get. OUT, you profligate! Garrakg curse your soul to the bowels of the soup bowl!
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪
ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖: Lak Lok Coalcleave 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕤: The Cleaver Cook 𝔸𝕘𝕖: 59 𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕖𝕤: Kobold 𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣: Male 𝕆𝕔𝕔𝕦𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: Culinary Adventurer, Hunter, Chef For Hire and Cleric Of Garrakg, The Orcish God of Chefs 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥:Chaotic Good
𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖
ℍ𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥:2'9 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕕: Scrawny and of miniscule size like most of his other brethren, time hacking and working in the kitchens has bestowed well-worn cords of muscle on Lak Lok's lizard frame. 𝔼𝕪𝕖𝕤: He possesses beady slitted eyes that are of a gold yellow hue. ℍ𝕒𝕚𝕣: Lak Lok wishes that he had a luxurious mane of blonde locks to adorn his scaly head. Instead, he has to settle for being a hairless reptile. 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕟 𝕋𝕠𝕟𝕖: He has mottled green scales that are slightly tanned and blackened from spending time cooking near the fireplace. 𝕋𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕤/𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕤/ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: During his 50 years of culinary endeavors, Lak Lok has gained numerous scars from mishaps in the kitchen, from fading bruises to a sliced finger on his right hand. In terms of both tattoos, Lak Lok bears the sigil of Garrakg on the back of his right palm. ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕪𝕝𝕖: The kobold prefers to wear simple, rugged and practical clothing which can survive the sweltering heat of the cookery. No matter what he wears, his distinctive bone-white smocked apron is always found on his person.
" My recipes make the better impression than me. It's better that they look at the meal in front of them rather than the Kobold who cooked it. I don't get why no one likes me. Cooking is an art and the lot of them scumbuckets can go drown themselves if they think they can just go ahead and tell me how to pay tribute to my god. I mean, look at these complaints. 'Arrogant'. 'Anger issues'. 'Unreasonable'. Pah. These are obviously the words of backwater heretics.
Every man, woman, orc, centaur, elf, gnome or whatever species leaves with full bellies and a smile whenever they eat my food, that's for sure. "
What are you like in a high stress situation?
High stress? High stress! HIGH STRESS?! My entire life's a high stress situation! You think cooking for every adventurer, hunter, sell-sword and merchant that comes into the tavern simple? Well, you don't have to cook a hundred different dishes all at the same time while making sure you've got enough beer to keep their meals down and clean plates to serve!
But.....when all's said and done, I live for it. Stress is where we cooks thrive after all. Makes your blood pump into your brain. You gotta tenderise the meat if you wanna bring out the best flavors after all.
What are your best and worst qualities?
" My best qualities are my determination and most importantly, my cooking. I've yet to hear someone complain about my food and if they did, I would gut them and turn their intestines into soup stock.
My worst qualities....well, even though I don't like to admit it, I do get a little carried away with my...um...tantrums every now and then.
It's not my fault I begin shouting Kobold swears everytime someone overcooks the Hydra flanks."
What is something about yourself that you would never admit to anyone?
" Believe me. I've got plenty of things that I'd like to keep private. There's not much anyone would want to ask a Kobold like me anyway, but if you must know....
I've....
I've....
I've killed a unicorn. And ate its corpse.
Best damn steak I ever had.
That's all I'll say.
What are your dreams?
" My very own tavern to pay tribute to Garrakg, a temple to his glorious preeminence. I've been saving up enough money to buy a patch of land near some trade route in the southern reaches of this continent. Ah, I can see it now. Two storied, with ebony wood tables, enough ale and wine barrels to drown the Soltude Plains, five course menu selections without those pesky tavern owners interfering in my business and servers that do what they're told. To cook what I want instead of what others want. To achieve the feasts of feasts, banquets of banquets, an eternal cornucopia in his Name.....
Of course, you don't make a dragon egg omelete without breaking a few eggs. I need money. Lots of money. Fast."
How do you want to be seen by others?
" Well, I want to be....recognised by others. Everyone laughs at the idea of a kobold chef but I've made it this far without a single bit of attention. When I finally get a tavern of my own, they'll all see."
How do you see yourself?
" I see myself as a humble follower of the Hungry One, a mere messenger of his flavors and recipes to the masses of this Continent. Life gave me the ingredients for success and I'm gonna make a meal out of it, for me and others. "
Do you tend to make snap judgements, or stop and think about things?
" Do you think a chef can afford to contemplate when there's hungry mouths waiting to be fed? The greatest flavors are born from the soul, never from the brain. Sure, all cooks follow recipes but the best of us use the recipes as guidelines, never as doctrine. If you keep using the same ingredients, your dish will become stale and rotten like moldy bread. Recipes were meant to be changed after all. This is the way of Garrakg. "
What haunts you?
" You see many things that you make the other races throw up their breakfast, lunch and dinner when you're a Kobold. You ever saw a mother Kobold eating their young? You ever saw children bake cookies out of dirt and grass, shoving it into their mouths and pretending they weren't starving.
There was one time, though, when an high elf lord criticized my butter root stew for being too 'salty'. It was the most horrifying moment of my life. I cried myself to sleep that night. "
What is your philosophy on life?
" Everywhere on this continent, I see people surrender, settle for less, say that they have become full. The retired adventurer, the deposed king, appetites that were once big becoming small.
Life and all of its uncertainties can be certainly hard to swallow sometimes but it is a feast that I still hunger for. To push your passions to your limit, to overcome instead of stop, that is the point of life for me. To achieve culinary perfection is my dream and to attain the recipe of the gods, that is something worth dying for. "
ℍ𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕤:
Picking and scavenging herbs off the ground.
Sharpening and oiling his equipment.
Chewing on a snack.
Praying to his Provider Of Plenty, Garrakg
ℍ𝕠𝕓𝕓𝕚𝕖𝕤:
Hunting and Foraging
Cooking
Tavern Food Tours
Ale Brewing
Experimenting with New Dishes
Learning New Cuisine
𝔽𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤:
Making Bad Food
Bad Reviews
Becoming Repetitive
Running Out of Ingredients
Patron Complaints
Food Poisoning
Dying an unknown
𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Eating
Cooking
Learning New Cuisines
New Recipes
Drinking
Hunting for Rare Delicacies
𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Bad Food
Incompetent Cooks
Lack of Organisation
Uncleanliness
Contamination
Disrespecting Fine Cooking
Stupid Patrons
Wasting Food or Opportunities for Food
𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟:
𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Flavor Favors - Providing delicious meals free of charge can get you a lot of good will. And a lot of friends. Lak Lok's cooking has made him multiple allies and acquaintances over the years, who are eager to renege on their debts to him.
Trapsmith - Like all Kobolds, Lak Lok is extremely good at the art of booby trapping, managing to capture and entrap many prey just by using sticks, stones and his own ingenuity.
Taste Palette - Lak Lok possesses an extremely acute sense of smell and taste, able to distinguish between 99 varietals of peppercorns or determine what type of milk was used in his berry meringue.
Ser Swears-A-Lot - Lak Lok is prone to fits of inventive swearing and cursing to humiliate someone, especially if they serve him bad food or desecrate his god.
Culinary Expertise - From Orcish banquets, Minotaur curries and the fare of the Lizardfolk, Lak Lok is quite knowledgeable in the culinary arts, adept in the food cultures of every race and how best to cook their cuisine.
Ambush Master - Kobolds are reviled amongst all races for their despicable, cowardly tactics. Lak Lok is no different from his kin, excelling in surprise attacks and catching someone offguard with his dastardly array of kitchen tools or from the barrel end of his absurdly oversized rifle.
Big Game Hunter - Lak Lok is experienced in using his blunderbuss to its maximum effectiveness, able to compensate for the massive recoil and turn someone or something from not dead to dead in an instant.
𝕄𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝/𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Iron Chef - Lak Lok has dedicated his entire life to the art of cooking culinary dishes and is one of the finest chefs one can expect to encounter. He’s not a chef. He’s THE chef. This proficiency has become almost supernatural, to the point where Lak Lok is able to visualise the magical energy that suffuses each of his ingredients and shape it to make the most delicious foods.
Dark Vision - Having spent most of his childhood living underground, Lak Lok is able to see his surroundings in the most darkest of environments. Due to his Kobold biology, this makes him extremely susceptible to sudden flashes of bright lights.
Divine Spell Specialization: Domain of Life: While Garrghk is a minor god, enough faith can give boons to the most devoted of followers. Lak Lok is able to use spells from the Domain of Life, albeit with one caveat. The effects of his spells only occur when one consumes his food.
𝕀𝕟𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
Cooking Satchel - An artifact granted by Garrakg to Lak Lok that magically preserves the food that the Kobold cooks and the ingredients inside them.
Selection of Mithril Knives - From cleavers to paring knives, the edge of knives is enough to cut through fruit, veg, meat or bone with ease.
Adamantine Frying Pan - Adamantite finds use in being one of the most valuable forge metals in existence but its ability to conduct heat perfectly along with its non-stick surfaces also makes it highly useful as a cooking utensil. It comes in handy as a makeshift shield in a pinch.
Venatio Flintlock Breech Rifle - Somethings, bigger is better. Designed by Venatio Firearms for big game hunting of owlbears, this massive rifle has been sawed down and modified to be used by a Kobold. Whilst this gun is unwieldy and is about the length of Lak Lok's entire body, it more than makes up with it with sheer firepower required to obtain the most tastiest of meats.
Bandolier of Enchanted Seasonings - Lak Lok's selection currently includes: sea shroom salt, twilight ginger, sunset saffron, ivory peppercorn, grounded beach seed spice, ember cloves, ivy seed and many more obscure spices.
Steel Cauldron and Mixing Ladle - The foundation of all good cooking is in a cauldron. Lak Lok usually ties it around his back, using it to carry most of his belongings.
The Sacred Menu of Garrakg - A tome that contains the sacred commandments and recipes of Garrakg and also acts as a means of empowering Lak Lok's divine spells.
ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
“ Yes, yes, what do you want? The rabbit stew with wild slaw? Or today’s special? Spill it out, will you? I don’t have all day. A tale? A bloody story? That’s what you demand of my talents? This is a fucking tavern. Do you take me for some flowery bard? Go on! Get out of here!
Hold on...Wait. Wait. Wait! Don’t leave. Please. Sorry for the outburst. My….temper gets the best of me sometimes. Do sit down. May I interest you in a pint of elderberry ale? Perhaps, some highland tea to soothe both our moods? I normally don’t take unusual requests from strangers but Garrakg has spoken on your behalf. Do you see that? The bacon began to blacken as soon as you took the first steps out of this tavern. Garrakg would have taken my soul to the Oven if I was to deny your request.
Where to begin exactly……….
I was born in a clade of Kobold merchants in Darayeich. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Back then, we Kobolds didn’t exactly live high and mighty like you humans or your elves. When the rest of the world closed their doors on us, we formed our own communities in the underdark. When the Battle of Abbyn began, one of my ancestors had the bright idea of forming a town underneath one of the war-torn areas. The surface had been blasted to bits, every other race was unwilling to touch the place out of respect but not us Kobolds. Ah, what I would dream to see Darayeich again. Tunnels of crystals glimmering in the dark, the scent of cured meat rolls…….
Where was I? Anyway, I was in Darayeich and then, I was kicked out along with my family. Turns out my old man, Garrakg rest his soul, had accidentally offended a Kobold crime boss and was told to get out of town or get his guts streamed across the tunnels by the crime boss’s necromancer for his nephew’s birthday party. So, we packed up our bags and headed north towards the mountain orc settlements as roving traders. My brothers were swindlers. My sisters were thugs. My parents were thieves. I was the first Kobold to break the mold.
The first and last thing I had ever stolen at the ripe old age of six was a old bound leather cookbook. I don’t remember the title, but oh, that mouldy old piece of parchment was everything to me. My first recipe was a cattail-bark ear pie dressed with sweetgrass cream. That first bite made me hunger for more.When I reached the ripe age of six years old, I set off on my own, leaving my nest and venturing forth into the wilds in search of opportunity.
I went from tavern to tavern, all across the continent, from peasant taverns to high end kitcheneries serving noble lords. I learned how to cook, I learned how to brew, I learned how to butcher, I learned that food was the conduit that united all the races together. I was happy and satisfied where I was. Until one day. Twenty years ago, I was a head chef working in the Howling High in the centaur city of New Mare. Suddenly, word spread that a member of the White Fork Gastronomy Guild was coming in town to visit our little tavern.
I know what you must thinking now. Gastronomy guilds? How important could they be? They would mean nothing to a patron but to tavern owners and amateur chefs, a gastronomy guild testimonial was everything. First pick of the best ingredients in the land. Rights to build your tavern or stalls wherever you wanted. Protection of your rights from authoritarian city guards. If an individual chef could gain recognition in a gastronomy guild, the awards were beyond imagination.
So, when the night came and I served my dish, I awaited patiently for the results. Next morning, on the papers, the Howling High became a certified guild tavern and who got the spotlight? The half elf assistant chef got the credit for the dish while I was merely mentioned on the cover. The idea of a kobold making the best dish in the lands? Absurd. The owner of the tavern threatened to hire assassins after me if I ever piped up about it again. Everyday, I look back towards that moment with doubt. Should I have spoken up about it? Should I have kept my mouth quiet as I did all these years?
All I know was that when I was at my low, I found Garrakg.
One day, I was cleaning out the spice rack in the doldrums of my defeat. I had recently recovered from a nasty bout of scale pox. I'm not sure whether it was the ground jalokka, the mild fever or the combination of the two that did it but I began to see things. It's hard to put in words. I could feel the taste of the floor on my feet. I could see sound. The floor was melting and I began to receive visions of a dish. A recipe with unknown ingredients.
I immedietely set off without forethought, in a hurry to solve the mystery of my visions. I wandered all over New Mare, gathering ingredients for the recipe that my gut felt to be true. Finally, I was just missing one essential ingredient. The meat, but what meat would it come from? Hydra? Owlbear? Chuul? Yeti?
The answer came in the form of a unicorn in the forests. It looked like an oasis in a desert. I hadn't eaten anything for three days and three nights. Flies were buzzing around my head as I took aim at the magical beast's. Whether Klathamuk was laughing at me that day or the wind was blowing in the direction, misfortune struck as its horn was blasted off instead of its head. Needless to say, I learnt that day why angering a unicorn isn't the best of ideas. The unicorn nearly trampled me to death, ignoring the fact that I was stabbing a wooden spork into its neck, grabbing me by the neck and ramming me repeatedly against an oak tree. Before it could gore me with its jagged horn, an orc saved me.
That was how I met Guthrok the Gluttonous, druid and follower of Garrakg, eating medium rare unicorn strip steak in his hut in the twilight of Fall. He told me the truth of Garrakg, how he cooks in mysterious ways and that my visions were a blessing for him, especially as he recognised a chef from outside his race. The truth was revealed to me slowly. Garrakg was slowly losing power compared to the rest of the orc pantheon and needed to regain belief in the Material Plane. Over time, before the druid died from old age, he'd given me the sacred texts of Garrakg and made me promise to uphold his commandments.
Now, I’ve never been happier than before. Garrakg has given me new purpose and I am the messenger of his will. Forsaken is the new frontier of cuisine, a new garden in which to experiment and blossom and where I will build a holy shrine to his Glorious Gluttony, Garrakg. Now, is there anything you would like to eat, instead of listen to? I personally recommend ordering the alligator casse-
Hold on. Excuse me. It’s one of my chefs again…..
I’M GONE FOR A MERE MINUTE AND ALREADY, YOU TWO KNOBHEADS HAVE BLIGHTED IT ALL TO HELL. YOU THERE! ARE YOU SERVING RAW LETTUCE, TROLL?! THIS IS AN TIEFLING SALAD, NOT AN ELVISH PARTY! WERE YOU DROPPED ON THE HEAD AS A BABY?! SAY YES! NOW, CLEAN THIS MESS UP AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!
…….
So, what will you be having? Oh yes, you noticed the hole in the kitchen? Some bloody tosser broke into our stores and stole several of our magical reagents. Oh, no need for worry.
It'll all be taken care of. "
Summary: To make a Lak Lok, all you need is mix together an ancient minor god of cooking, a orcish druid, tavern roadtrips and an outcast family. Bake it in an oven of adversity, and season it with a holy quest.
𝔼𝕩𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕤
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℚ𝕦𝕠𝕥𝕖:A snack soothes one's stomach, a dinner brings families together, feasts unite towns and banquets build kingdoms. Cooking is the true magic of the gods. 𝔸𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔼𝕝𝕤𝕖: N/A
Taste it! If you don't taste it now, I'll shove this heretical offering down your mouth! If you were trying to poison the mayor, you failed! This slime spittle couldn't even kill a pygmy squirrel. What are you standing there for? Get. OUT, you profligate! Garrakg curse your soul to the bowels of the soup bowl!
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪
ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖: Lak Lok Coalcleave 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕤: The Cleaver Cook 𝔸𝕘𝕖: 59 𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕖𝕤: Kobold 𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣: Male 𝕆𝕔𝕔𝕦𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: Culinary Adventurer, Hunter, Chef For Hire and Cleric Of Garrakg, The Orcish God of Chefs 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥:Chaotic Good
𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖
ℍ𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥:2'9 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕕: Scrawny and of miniscule size like most of his other brethren, time hacking and working in the kitchens has bestowed well-worn cords of muscle on Lak Lok's lizard frame. 𝔼𝕪𝕖𝕤: He possesses beady slitted eyes that are of a gold yellow hue. ℍ𝕒𝕚𝕣: Lak Lok wishes that he had a luxurious mane of blonde locks to adorn his scaly head. Instead, he has to settle for being a hairless reptile. 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕟 𝕋𝕠𝕟𝕖: He has mottled green scales that are slightly tanned and blackened from spending time cooking near the fireplace. 𝕋𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕤/𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕤/ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: During his 50 years of culinary endeavors, Lak Lok has gained numerous scars from mishaps in the kitchen, from fading bruises to a sliced finger on his right hand. In terms of both tattoos, Lak Lok bears the sigil of Garrakg on the back of his right palm. ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕪𝕝𝕖: The kobold prefers to wear simple, rugged and practical clothing which can survive the sweltering heat of the cookery. No matter what he wears, his distinctive bone-white smocked apron is always found on his person.
" My recipes make the better impression than me. It's better that they look at the meal in front of them rather than the Kobold who cooked it. I don't get why no one likes me. Cooking is an art and the lot of them scumbuckets can go drown themselves if they think they can just go ahead and tell me how to pay tribute to my god. I mean, look at these complaints. 'Arrogant'. 'Anger issues'. 'Unreasonable'. Pah. These are obviously the words of backwater heretics.
Every man, woman, orc, centaur, elf, gnome or whatever species leaves with full bellies and a smile whenever they eat my food, that's for sure. "
What are you like in a high stress situation?
High stress? High stress! HIGH STRESS?! My entire life's a high stress situation! You think cooking for every adventurer, hunter, sell-sword and merchant that comes into the tavern simple? Well, you don't have to cook a hundred different dishes all at the same time while making sure you've got enough beer to keep their meals down and clean plates to serve!
But.....when all's said and done, I live for it. Stress is where we cooks thrive after all. Makes your blood pump into your brain. You gotta tenderise the meat if you wanna bring out the best flavors after all.
What are your best and worst qualities?
" My best qualities are my determination and most importantly, my cooking. I've yet to hear someone complain about my food and if they did, I would gut them and turn their intestines into soup stock.
My worst qualities....well, even though I don't like to admit it, I do get a little carried away with my...um...tantrums every now and then.
It's not my fault I begin shouting Kobold swears everytime someone overcooks the Hydra flanks."
What is something about yourself that you would never admit to anyone?
" Believe me. I've got plenty of things that I'd like to keep private. There's not much anyone would want to ask a Kobold like me anyway, but if you must know....
I've....
I've....
I've killed a unicorn. And ate its corpse.
Best damn steak I ever had.
That's all I'll say.
What are your dreams?
" My very own tavern to pay tribute to Garrakg, a temple to his glorious preeminence. I've been saving up enough money to buy a patch of land near some trade route in the southern reaches of this continent. Ah, I can see it now. Two storied, with ebony wood tables, enough ale and wine barrels to drown the Soltude Plains, five course menu selections without those pesky tavern owners interfering in my business and servers that do what they're told. To cook what I want instead of what others want. To achieve the feasts of feasts, banquets of banquets, an eternal cornucopia in his Name.....
Of course, you don't make a dragon egg omelete without breaking a few eggs. I need money. Lots of money. Fast."
How do you want to be seen by others?
" Well, I want to be....recognised by others. Everyone laughs at the idea of a kobold chef but I've made it this far without a single bit of attention. When I finally get a tavern of my own, they'll all see."
How do you see yourself?
" I see myself as a humble follower of the Hungry One, a mere messenger of his flavors and recipes to the masses of this Continent. Life gave me the ingredients for success and I'm gonna make a meal out of it, for me and others. "
Do you tend to make snap judgements, or stop and think about things?
" Do you think a chef can afford to contemplate when there's hungry mouths waiting to be fed? The greatest flavors are born from the soul, never from the brain. Sure, all cooks follow recipes but the best of us use the recipes as guidelines, never as doctrine. If you keep using the same ingredients, your dish will become stale and rotten like moldy bread. Recipes were meant to be changed after all. This is the way of Garrakg. "
What haunts you?
" You see many things that you make the other races throw up their breakfast, lunch and dinner when you're a Kobold. You ever saw a mother Kobold eating their young? You ever saw children bake cookies out of dirt and grass, shoving it into their mouths and pretending they weren't starving.
There was one time, though, when an high elf lord criticized my butter root stew for being too 'salty'. It was the most horrifying moment of my life. I cried myself to sleep that night. "
What is your philosophy on life?
" Everywhere on this continent, I see people surrender, settle for less, say that they have become full. The retired adventurer, the deposed king, appetites that were once big becoming small.
Life and all of its uncertainties can be certainly hard to swallow sometimes but it is a feast that I still hunger for. To push your passions to your limit, to overcome instead of stop, that is the point of life for me. To achieve culinary perfection is my dream and to attain the recipe of the gods, that is something worth dying for. "
ℍ𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕤:
Picking and scavenging herbs off the ground.
Sharpening and oiling his equipment.
Chewing on a snack.
Praying to his Provider Of Plenty, Garrakg
ℍ𝕠𝕓𝕓𝕚𝕖𝕤:
Hunting and Foraging
Cooking
Tavern Food Tours
Ale Brewing
Experimenting with New Dishes
Learning New Cuisine
𝔽𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤:
Making Bad Food
Bad Reviews
Becoming Repetitive
Running Out of Ingredients
Patron Complaints
Food Poisoning
Dying an unknown
𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Eating
Cooking
Learning New Cuisines
New Recipes
Drinking
Hunting for Rare Delicacies
𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Bad Food
Incompetent Cooks
Lack of Organisation
Uncleanliness
Contamination
Disrespecting Fine Cooking
Stupid Patrons
Wasting Food or Opportunities for Food
𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟:
𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Flavor Favors - Providing delicious meals free of charge can get you a lot of good will. And a lot of friends. Lak Lok's cooking has made him multiple allies and acquaintances over the years, who are eager to renege on their debts to him.
Trapsmith - Like all Kobolds, Lak Lok is extremely good at the art of booby trapping, managing to capture and entrap many prey just by using sticks, stones and his own ingenuity.
Taste Palette - Lak Lok possesses an extremely acute sense of smell and taste, able to distinguish between 99 varietals of peppercorns or determine what type of milk was used in his berry meringue.
Ser Swears-A-Lot - Lak Lok is prone to fits of inventive swearing and cursing to humiliate someone, especially if they serve him bad food or desecrate his god.
Culinary Expertise - From Orcish banquets, Minotaur curries and the fare of the Lizardfolk, Lak Lok is quite knowledgeable in the culinary arts, adept in the food cultures of every race and how best to cook their cuisine.
Ambush Master - Kobolds are reviled amongst all races for their despicable, cowardly tactics. Lak Lok is no different from his kin, excelling in surprise attacks and catching someone offguard with his dastardly array of kitchen tools or from the barrel end of his absurdly oversized rifle.
Big Game Hunter - Lak Lok is experienced in using his blunderbuss to its maximum effectiveness, able to compensate for the massive recoil and turn someone or something from not dead to dead in an instant.
𝕄𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝/𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Iron Chef - Lak Lok has dedicated his entire life to the art of cooking culinary dishes and is one of the finest chefs one can expect to encounter. He’s not a chef. He’s THE chef. This proficiency has become almost supernatural, to the point where Lak Lok is able to visualise the magical energy that suffuses each of his ingredients and shape it to make the most delicious foods.
Dark Vision - Having spent most of his childhood living underground, Lak Lok is able to see his surroundings in the most darkest of environments. Due to his Kobold biology, this makes him extremely susceptible to sudden flashes of bright lights.
Divine Spell Specialization: Domain of Life: While Garrghk is a minor god, enough faith can give boons to the most devoted of followers. Lak Lok is able to use spells from the Domain of Life, albeit with one caveat. The effects of his spells only occur when one consumes his food.
𝕀𝕟𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
Cooking Satchel - An artifact granted by Garrakg to Lak Lok that magically preserves the food that the Kobold cooks and the ingredients inside them.
Selection of Mithril Knives - From cleavers to paring knives, the edge of knives is enough to cut through fruit, veg, meat or bone with ease.
Adamantine Frying Pan - Adamantite finds use in being one of the most valuable forge metals in existence but its ability to conduct heat perfectly along with its non-stick surfaces also makes it highly useful as a cooking utensil. It comes in handy as a makeshift shield in a pinch.
Venatio Flintlock Breech Rifle - Somethings, bigger is better. Designed by Venatio Firearms for big game hunting of owlbears, this massive rifle has been sawed down and modified to be used by a Kobold. Whilst this gun is unwieldy and is about the length of Lak Lok's entire body, it more than makes up with it with sheer firepower required to obtain the most tastiest of meats.
Bandolier of Enchanted Seasonings - Lak Lok's selection currently includes: sea shroom salt, twilight ginger, sunset saffron, ivory peppercorn, grounded beach seed spice, ember cloves, ivy seed and many more obscure spices.
Steel Cauldron and Mixing Ladle - The foundation of all good cooking is in a cauldron. Lak Lok usually ties it around his back, using it to carry most of his belongings.
The Sacred Menu of Garrakg - A tome that contains the sacred commandments and recipes of Garrakg and also acts as a means of empowering Lak Lok's divine spells.
ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
“ Yes, yes, what do you want? The rabbit stew with wild slaw? Or today’s special? Spill it out, will you? I don’t have all day. A tale? A bloody story? That’s what you demand of my talents? This is a fucking tavern. Do you take me for some flowery bard? Go on! Get out of here!
Hold on...Wait. Wait. Wait! Don’t leave. Please. Sorry for the outburst. My….temper gets the best of me sometimes. Do sit down. May I interest you in a pint of elderberry ale? Perhaps, some highland tea to soothe both our moods? I normally don’t take unusual requests from strangers but Garrakg has spoken on your behalf. Do you see that? The bacon began to blacken as soon as you took the first steps out of this tavern. Garrakg would have taken my soul to the Oven if I was to deny your request.
Where to begin exactly……….
I was born in a clade of Kobold merchants in Darayeich. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Back then, we Kobolds didn’t exactly live high and mighty like you humans or your elves. When the rest of the world closed their doors on us, we formed our own communities in the underdark. When the Battle of Abbyn began, one of my ancestors had the bright idea of forming a town underneath one of the war-torn areas. The surface had been blasted to bits, every other race was unwilling to touch the place out of respect but not us Kobolds. Ah, what I would dream to see Darayeich again. Tunnels of crystals glimmering in the dark, the scent of cured meat rolls…….
Where was I? Anyway, I was in Darayeich and then, I was kicked out along with my family. Turns out my old man, Garrakg rest his soul, had accidentally offended a Kobold crime boss and was told to get out of town or get his guts streamed across the tunnels by the crime boss’s necromancer for his nephew’s birthday party. So, we packed up our bags and headed north towards the mountain orc settlements as roving traders. My brothers were swindlers. My sisters were thugs. My parents were thieves. I was the first Kobold to break the mold.
The first and last thing I had ever stolen at the ripe old age of six was a old bound leather cookbook. I don’t remember the title, but oh, that mouldy old piece of parchment was everything to me. My first recipe was a cattail-bark ear pie dressed with sweetgrass cream. That first bite made me hunger for more.When I reached the ripe age of six years old, I set off on my own, leaving my nest and venturing forth into the wilds in search of opportunity.
I went from tavern to tavern, all across the continent, from peasant taverns to high end kitcheneries serving noble lords. I learned how to cook, I learned how to brew, I learned how to butcher, I learned that food was the conduit that united all the races together. I was happy and satisfied where I was. Until one day. Twenty years ago, I was a head chef working in the Howling High in the centaur city of New Mare. Suddenly, word spread that a member of the White Fork Gastronomy Guild was coming in town to visit our little tavern.
I know what you must thinking now. Gastronomy guilds? How important could they be? They would mean nothing to a patron but to tavern owners and amateur chefs, a gastronomy guild testimonial was everything. First pick of the best ingredients in the land. Rights to build your tavern or stalls wherever you wanted. Protection of your rights from authoritarian city guards. If an individual chef could gain recognition in a gastronomy guild, the awards were beyond imagination.
So, when the night came and I served my dish, I awaited patiently for the results. Next morning, on the papers, the Howling High became a certified guild tavern and who got the spotlight? The half elf assistant chef got the credit for the dish while I was merely mentioned on the cover. The idea of a kobold making the best dish in the lands? Absurd. The owner of the tavern threatened to hire assassins after me if I ever piped up about it again. Everyday, I look back towards that moment with doubt. Should I have spoken up about it? Should I have kept my mouth quiet as I did all these years?
All I know was that when I was at my low, I found Garrakg.
One day, I was cleaning out the spice rack in the doldrums of my defeat. I had recently recovered from a nasty bout of scale pox. I'm not sure whether it was the ground jalokka, the mild fever or the combination of the two that did it but I began to see things. It's hard to put in words. I could feel the taste of the floor on my feet. I could see sound. The floor was melting and I began to receive visions of a dish. A recipe with unknown ingredients.
I immedietely set off without forethought, in a hurry to solve the mystery of my visions. I wandered all over New Mare, gathering ingredients for the recipe that my gut felt to be true. Finally, I was just missing one essential ingredient. The meat, but what meat would it come from? Hydra? Owlbear? Chuul? Yeti?
The answer came in the form of a unicorn in the forests. It looked like an oasis in a desert. I hadn't eaten anything for three days and three nights. Flies were buzzing around my head as I took aim at the magical beast's. Whether Klathamuk was laughing at me that day or the wind was blowing in the direction, misfortune struck as its horn was blasted off instead of its head. Needless to say, I learnt that day why angering a unicorn isn't the best of ideas. The unicorn nearly trampled me to death, ignoring the fact that I was stabbing a wooden spork into its neck, grabbing me by the neck and ramming me repeatedly against an oak tree. Before it could gore me with its jagged horn, an orc saved me.
That was how I met Guthrok the Gluttonous, druid and follower of Garrakg, eating medium rare unicorn strip steak in his hut in the twilight of Fall. He told me the truth of Garrakg, how he cooks in mysterious ways and that my visions were a blessing for him, especially as he recognised a chef from outside his race. The truth was revealed to me slowly. Garrakg was slowly losing power compared to the rest of the orc pantheon and needed to regain belief in the Material Plane. Over time, before the druid died from old age, he'd given me the sacred texts of Garrakg and made me promise to uphold his commandments.
Now, I’ve never been happier than before. Garrakg has given me new purpose and I am the messenger of his will. Forsaken is the new frontier of cuisine, a new garden in which to experiment and blossom and where I will build a holy shrine to his Glorious Gluttony, Garrakg. Now, is there anything you would like to eat, instead of listen to? I personally recommend ordering the alligator casse-
Hold on. Excuse me. It’s one of my chefs again…..
I’M GONE FOR A MERE MINUTE AND ALREADY, YOU TWO KNOBHEADS HAVE BLIGHTED IT ALL TO HELL. YOU THERE! ARE YOU SERVING RAW LETTUCE, TROLL?! THIS IS AN TIEFLING SALAD, NOT AN ELVISH PARTY! WERE YOU DROPPED ON THE HEAD AS A BABY?! SAY YES! NOW, CLEAN THIS MESS UP AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!
…….
So, what will you be having? Oh yes, you noticed the hole in the kitchen? Some bloody tosser broke into our stores and stole several of our magical reagents. Oh, no need for worry.
It'll all be taken care of. "
Summary: To make a Lak Lok, all you need is mix together an ancient minor god of cooking, a orcish druid, tavern roadtrips and an outcast family. Bake it in an oven of adversity, and season it with a holy quest.
𝔼𝕩𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕤
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℚ𝕦𝕠𝕥𝕖:A snack soothes one's stomach, a dinner brings families together, feasts unite towns and banquets build kingdoms. Cooking is the true magic of the gods. 𝔸𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔼𝕝𝕤𝕖: N/A
Taste it! If you don't taste it now, I'll shove this heretical offering down your mouth! If you were trying to poison the mayor, you failed! This slime spittle couldn't even kill a pygmy squirrel. What are you standing there for? Get. OUT, you profligate! Garrakg curse your soul to the bowels of the soup bowl!
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪
ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖: Lak Lok Coalcleave 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕤: The Cleaver Cook 𝔸𝕘𝕖: 59 𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕖𝕤: Kobold 𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣: Male 𝕆𝕔𝕔𝕦𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: Culinary Adventurer, Hunter, Chef For Hire and Cleric Of Garrakg, The Orcish God of Chefs 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥:Chaotic Good
𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖
ℍ𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥:2'9 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕕: Scrawny and of miniscule size like most of his other brethren, time hacking and working in the kitchens has bestowed well-worn cords of muscle on Lak Lok's lizard frame. 𝔼𝕪𝕖𝕤: He possesses beady slitted eyes that are of a gold yellow hue. ℍ𝕒𝕚𝕣: Lak Lok wishes that he had a luxurious mane of blonde locks to adorn his scaly head. Instead, he has to settle for being a hairless reptile. 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕟 𝕋𝕠𝕟𝕖: He has mottled green scales that are slightly tanned and blackened from spending time cooking near the fireplace. 𝕋𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕤/𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕤/ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: During his 50 years of culinary endeavors, Lak Lok has gained numerous scars from mishaps in the kitchen, from fading bruises to a sliced finger on his right hand. In terms of both tattoos, Lak Lok bears the sigil of Garrakg on the back of his right palm. ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕪𝕝𝕖: The kobold prefers to wear simple, rugged and practical clothing which can survive the sweltering heat of the cookery. No matter what he wears, his distinctive bone-white smocked apron is always found on his person.
" My recipes make the better impression than me. It's better that they look at the meal in front of them rather than the Kobold who cooked it. I don't get why no one likes me. Cooking is an art and the lot of them scumbuckets can go drown themselves if they think they can just go ahead and tell me how to pay tribute to my god. I mean, look at these complaints. 'Arrogant'. 'Anger issues'. 'Unreasonable'. Pah. These are obviously the words of backwater heretics.
Every man, woman, orc, centaur, elf, gnome or whatever species leaves with full bellies and a smile whenever they eat my food, that's for sure. "
What are you like in a high stress situation?
High stress? High stress! HIGH STRESS?! My entire life's a high stress situation! You think cooking for every adventurer, hunter, sell-sword and merchant that comes into the tavern simple? Well, you don't have to cook a hundred different dishes all at the same time while making sure you've got enough beer to keep their meals down and clean plates to serve!
But.....when all's said and done, I live for it. Stress is where we cooks thrive after all. Makes your blood pump into your brain. You gotta tenderise the meat if you wanna bring out the best flavors after all.
What are your best and worst qualities?
" My best qualities are my determination and most importantly, my cooking. I've yet to hear someone complain about my food and if they did, I would gut them and turn their intestines into soup stock.
My worst qualities....well, even though I don't like to admit it, I do get a little carried away with my...um...tantrums every now and then.
It's not my fault I begin shouting Kobold swears everytime someone overcooks the Hydra flanks."
What is something about yourself that you would never admit to anyone?
" Believe me. I've got plenty of things that I'd like to keep private. There's not much anyone would want to ask a Kobold like me anyway, but if you must know....
I've....
I've....
I've killed a unicorn. And ate its corpse.
Best damn steak I ever had.
That's all I'll say.
What are your dreams?
" My very own tavern to pay tribute to Garrakg, a temple to his glorious preeminence. I've been saving up enough money to buy a patch of land near some trade route in the southern reaches of this continent. Ah, I can see it now. Two storied, with ebony wood tables, enough ale and wine barrels to drown the Soltude Plains, five course menu selections without those pesky tavern owners interfering in my business and servers that do what they're told. To cook what I want instead of what others want. To achieve the feasts of feasts, banquets of banquets, an eternal cornucopia in his Name.....
Of course, you don't make a dragon egg omelete without breaking a few eggs. I need money. Lots of money. Fast."
How do you want to be seen by others?
" Well, I want to be....recognised by others. Everyone laughs at the idea of a kobold chef but I've made it this far without a single bit of attention. When I finally get a tavern of my own, they'll all see."
How do you see yourself?
" I see myself as a humble follower of the Hungry One, a mere messenger of his flavors and recipes to the masses of this Continent. Life gave me the ingredients for success and I'm gonna make a meal out of it, for me and others. "
Do you tend to make snap judgements, or stop and think about things?
" Do you think a chef can afford to contemplate when there's hungry mouths waiting to be fed? The greatest flavors are born from the soul, never from the brain. Sure, all cooks follow recipes but the best of us use the recipes as guidelines, never as doctrine. If you keep using the same ingredients, your dish will become stale and rotten like moldy bread. Recipes were meant to be changed after all. This is the way of Garrakg. "
What haunts you?
" You see many things that you make the other races throw up their breakfast, lunch and dinner when you're a Kobold. You ever saw a mother Kobold eating their young? You ever saw children bake cookies out of dirt and grass, shoving it into their mouths and pretending they weren't starving.
There was one time, though, when an high elf lord criticized my butter root stew for being too 'salty'. It was the most horrifying moment of my life. I cried myself to sleep that night. "
What is your philosophy on life?
" Everywhere on this continent, I see people surrender, settle for less, say that they have become full. The retired adventurer, the deposed king, appetites that were once big becoming small.
Life and all of its uncertainties can be certainly hard to swallow sometimes but it is a feast that I still hunger for. To push your passions to your limit, to overcome instead of stop, that is the point of life for me. To achieve culinary perfection is my dream and to attain the recipe of the gods, that is something worth dying for. "
ℍ𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕤:
Picking and scavenging herbs off the ground.
Sharpening and oiling his equipment.
Chewing on a snack.
Praying to his Provider Of Plenty, Garrakg
ℍ𝕠𝕓𝕓𝕚𝕖𝕤:
Hunting and Foraging
Cooking
Tavern Food Tours
Ale Brewing
Experimenting with New Dishes
Learning New Cuisine
𝔽𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤:
Making Bad Food
Bad Reviews
Becoming Repetitive
Running Out of Ingredients
Patron Complaints
Food Poisoning
Dying an unknown
𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Eating
Cooking
Learning New Cuisines
New Recipes
Drinking
Hunting for Rare Delicacies
𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕤:
Bad Food
Incompetent Cooks
Lack of Organisation
Uncleanliness
Contamination
Disrespecting Fine Cooking
Stupid Patrons
Wasting Food or Opportunities for Food
𝕀𝕟𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟:
𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Flavor Favors - Providing delicious meals free of charge can get you a lot of good will. And a lot of friends. Lak Lok's cooking has made him multiple allies and acquaintances over the years, who are eager to renege on their debts to him.
Trapsmith - Like all Kobolds, Lak Lok is extremely good at the art of booby trapping, managing to capture and entrap many prey just by using sticks, stones and his own ingenuity.
Taste Palette - Lak Lok possesses an extremely acute sense of smell and taste, able to distinguish between 99 varietals of peppercorns or determine what type of milk was used in his berry meringue.
Ser Swears-A-Lot - Lak Lok is prone to fits of inventive swearing and cursing to humiliate someone, especially if they serve him bad food or desecrate his god.
Culinary Expertise - From Orcish banquets, Minotaur curries and the fare of the Lizardfolk, Lak Lok is quite knowledgeable in the culinary arts, adept in the food cultures of every race and how best to cook their cuisine.
Ambush Master - Kobolds are reviled amongst all races for their despicable, cowardly tactics. Lak Lok is no different from his kin, excelling in surprise attacks and catching someone offguard with his dastardly array of kitchen tools or from the barrel end of his absurdly oversized rifle.
Big Game Hunter - Lak Lok is experienced in using his blunderbuss to its maximum effectiveness, able to compensate for the massive recoil and turn someone or something from not dead to dead in an instant.
𝕄𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝/𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
Iron Chef - Lak Lok has dedicated his entire life to the art of cooking culinary dishes and is one of the finest chefs one can expect to encounter. He’s not a chef. He’s THE chef. This proficiency has become almost supernatural, to the point where Lak Lok is able to visualise the magical energy that suffuses each of his ingredients and shape it to make the most delicious foods.
Dark Vision - Having spent most of his childhood living underground, Lak Lok is able to see his surroundings in the most darkest of environments. Due to his Kobold biology, this makes him extremely susceptible to sudden flashes of bright lights.
Divine Spell Specialization: Domain of Life: While Garrghk is a minor god, enough faith can give boons to the most devoted of followers. Lak Lok is able to use spells from the Domain of Life, albeit with one caveat. The effects of his spells only occur when one consumes his food.
𝕀𝕟𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
Cooking Satchel - An artifact granted by Garrakg to Lak Lok that magically preserves the food that the Kobold cooks and the ingredients inside them.
Selection of Mithril Knives - From cleavers to paring knives, the edge of knives is enough to cut through fruit, veg, meat or bone with ease.
Adamantine Frying Pan - Adamantite finds use in being one of the most valuable forge metals in existence but its ability to conduct heat perfectly along with its non-stick surfaces also makes it highly useful as a cooking utensil. It comes in handy as a makeshift shield in a pinch.
Venatio Flintlock Breech Rifle - Somethings, bigger is better. Designed by Venatio Firearms for big game hunting of owlbears, this massive rifle has been sawed down and modified to be used by a Kobold. Whilst this gun is unwieldy and is about the length of Lak Lok's entire body, it more than makes up with it with sheer firepower required to obtain the most tastiest of meats.
Bandolier of Enchanted Seasonings - Lak Lok's selection currently includes: sea shroom salt, twilight ginger, sunset saffron, ivory peppercorn, grounded beach seed spice, ember cloves, ivy seed and many more obscure spices.
Steel Cauldron and Mixing Ladle - The foundation of all good cooking is in a cauldron. Lak Lok usually ties it around his back, using it to carry most of his belongings.
The Sacred Menu of Garrakg - A tome that contains the sacred commandments and recipes of Garrakg and also acts as a means of empowering Lak Lok's divine spells.
ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪:
“ Yes, yes, what do you want? The rabbit stew with wild slaw? Or today’s special? Spill it out, will you? I don’t have all day. A tale? A bloody story? That’s what you demand of my talents? This is a fucking tavern. Do you take me for some flowery bard? Go on! Get out of here!
Hold on...Wait. Wait. Wait! Don’t leave. Please. Sorry for the outburst. My….temper gets the best of me sometimes. Do sit down. May I interest you in a pint of elderberry ale? Perhaps, some highland tea to soothe both our moods? I normally don’t take unusual requests from strangers but Garrakg has spoken on your behalf. Do you see that? The bacon began to blacken as soon as you took the first steps out of this tavern. Garrakg would have taken my soul to the Oven if I was to deny your request.
Where to begin exactly……….
I was born in a clade of Kobold merchants in Darayeich. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Back then, we Kobolds didn’t exactly live high and mighty like you humans or your elves. When the rest of the world closed their doors on us, we formed our own communities in the underdark. When the Battle of Abbyn began, one of my ancestors had the bright idea of forming a town underneath one of the war-torn areas. The surface had been blasted to bits, every other race was unwilling to touch the place out of respect but not us Kobolds. Ah, what I would dream to see Darayeich again. Tunnels of crystals glimmering in the dark, the scent of cured meat rolls…….
Where was I? Anyway, I was in Darayeich and then, I was kicked out along with my family. Turns out my old man, Garrakg rest his soul, had accidentally offended a Kobold crime boss and was told to get out of town or get his guts streamed across the tunnels by the crime boss’s necromancer for his nephew’s birthday party. So, we packed up our bags and headed north towards the mountain orc settlements as roving traders. My brothers were swindlers. My sisters were thugs. My parents were thieves. I was the first Kobold to break the mold.
The first and last thing I had ever stolen at the ripe old age of six was a old bound leather cookbook. I don’t remember the title, but oh, that mouldy old piece of parchment was everything to me. My first recipe was a cattail-bark ear pie dressed with sweetgrass cream. That first bite made me hunger for more.When I reached the ripe age of six years old, I set off on my own, leaving my nest and venturing forth into the wilds in search of opportunity. I went from tavern to tavern, all across the continent, from peasant taverns to high end kitcheneries serving noble lords. Oh, those were the good years.
I began to find myself in a state of ennui, though. I was cooking but for what purpose? For profit? For glory? For fame? No one cared about a kobold cook.
One day, I received strange visions of a kitchen, a massive figure standing above me and telling me a strange recipe.
Now, I’ve never been happier than before. Garrakg has given me new purpose and I am the messenger of his will. Forsaken is the new frontier of cuisine, a new garden in which to experiment and blossom and where I will build a holy shrine to his Glorious Gluttony, Garrakg. Now, is there anything you would like to eat, instead of listen to? I personally recommend ordering the alligator casse-
Hold on. Excuse me. It’s one of my chefs again…..
I’M GONE FOR A MERE MINUTE AND ALREADY, YOU TWO KNOBHEADS HAVE BLIGHTED IT ALL TO HELL. YOU THERE! ARE YOU GRILLING LETTUCE, TROLL?! THIS IS AN ELVISH SALAD, NOT A TIEFLING CHAR FEST! WERE YOU DROPPED ON THE HEAD AS A BABY?! SAY YES! NOW, CLEAN THIS MESS UP AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!
…….
So, what will you be having?"
Summary: To make a Lak Lok, all you need is mix together an ancient minor god of cooking, a orcish druid, tavern roadtrips and an outcast family. Bake it in an oven of adversity, and season it with a holy quest.
𝔼𝕩𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕤
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℚ𝕦𝕠𝕥𝕖:A snack soothes one's stomach, a dinner brings families together, feasts unite towns and banquets build kingdoms. Cooking is the true magic of the gods. 𝔸𝕟𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔼𝕝𝕤𝕖: N/A
" Shit, I'm zoning out of here to Vegas before he notices - "
" You saw his race in 55' with the OverDriver?-"
Turn on the taps. Wash the whispers away with water.
3. 2. 1. GO!
The neon scream. The knocking of ethyl gas in the carburetor. The pounding in your head, a war dance of high speed collisions and illegal stunts. The edge of death that he craves for, yet, he knows he has to avoid.
3. 2. 1. GO!
He closes off the taps and stares back haggardly as if he's been holding his breath underwater for several hours. Blood, sweat and dead skin swirl down in the bone-white porcelain basin. Hands, of both flesh and chrome, grip the side of the sink steadiy as he stares back at his broken reflection. He's careful not to let water spill on the biweave jacket hanging on the lip of the basin. He dips his head back into the basin and gurgles out his anxiety in slow spits.
The tap-water between his fingers still feel like molasses. It's unbearable to him how slow the world outside of an 1500 HP engine is. To feel the syn-crete on your feet instead of asphalt on poly-plas tires. To see a frozen world with your corneas instead of the blurry, high-speed dream. To walk instead of drive. He splashes a few more droplets on his face, trying to rinse off the smell of stewed sweat in his hair. The jitters of race-fueled adrenaline in his fingers are long gone now, its absence making his hairs feel clammy like old snake skin. He grabs the hood of his jacket before pushing open the door only to be met with a blast of coppery air.
A single street light barely manages to illuminate the contours of his ride's bulk. Just as he's a few meters away, the automatic doors peel open like an butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. He checks his gloves, tightening the straps, whilst checking the horizon. Him, the gas station attendant and a couple of no ones lazing about underneath the roof. Just how he liked it. The less busier the crowd, the more free the roads would be for him.
500 feet above the teeming masses, a tri-copter drone slowly takes pictures of the lonely figure with its hyperspectral cameras, the lenses shuttering and opening with minute clicks. It flutters mid-air for a while before disappearing in the dead of the night. >CONNECTING TO LABYRINTH VPN...... >SCRAMBLING IDENTITY SIGNATURES >GENERATING SECURITY KEYS >CONNECTED TO ROUTERS
>LOGIN >ENTER PASSWORD
*****************
>ENGAGING BIO-VOC CONFIRMATION. >USER 45-239-#9050 CLEARED TO ENTER THE LABYRINTH >OPENING DATA SIFTER..... >ENTER QUERY >:THE DRIFT DEMON >PROCESSING............
Alright. Let's see whose dirty little secret you are, Drift Demon.....
://DRIFT_D3MON.EXE
Put the pedal to the mettle and pedal to the metal
TOP SPEED OF 29 KPH| MALE MODEL | 5'8 HP ENGINE| RATED B FOR BURNING RUBBER
PROVIDING GENERAL INFORMATION
He’s encountered plenty of strange Zoners over the years from Bangkok techno-pilgrims to Johannesberg mercenaries. This one's new, though.
“ Card please.”
Another quarter hour on his paycheck meets him dressed in a striped thermoweave 2020 bomber and plated slacks. Connie, for a moment, curses Gatch for defunding the regional borders of South City and reducing regulations. Being the only booth in 100 klicks means that every nobody and no ones wanting to go into the Reclaim Zone needs to go through him. He stares at the clock. 30 more minutes. Half an hour. Just a little while longer. He stares back up at the silent statue of a man and repeats his request again. " Card please." Connie wonders or not he needs to repeat his question but the stranger seems to read his mind. A aramid-plated fingerless glove slides a smudged NID over on the countertop. , Slotting in the NID, the monitor begins to whirr, carbon-silicate processors fishing out data from the depths of the Labyrinth.
“ Had to come at midnight, didn’t you?” Connie muses as he extends an Engitech stylus, doing standard calibration procedures that have become habit by now. “ You’re lucky that you caught my last shift.”
“ Not luck.” The mysterious rider says. “ Speed.”
You're not just some upstart, are you? No, this stranger's a racer. As he waited for the data retrieval to complete, Connie looked at the new arrival to South City more closely. His eyes were hardened and wizened beyond his years like old tarmac. His mud-brown hair was pepper gray at the fringes. The pungent aroma of micro-lubricant cloyed on his skin. So, you're a greasemonkey too, eh? The only chrome on him was a jack-port growing out of his collarbone along with a maze of circuits and surgery scars criss-crossing up the right side of his neck. The beeping from his monitor forced him to pay attention to it as the data records scrolled up line by line on the LED screen.
NAME: Keah Kaito
ALIASES//TITLES: N/A
CURRENT AGE: 26
SEX: Male
PAST OCCUPATIONS
- Professional Combat Racer (APEX Incorporated) - Assistant Automotive Technician (The Drive-Through)
CURRENT OCCUPATIONS
- Delivery Man (Suraiboshen Standard)
Suraiboshen Standard….Isn’t it that fancy omakase place down near the corporate districts?
“ I don’t suppose you have any aliases, do you?” The racer pauses. Connie takes it as a signal to continue on. “ I mean, it’s optional but you know, not asking for a fingerprint- “
The answer nearly made him drop his stylus. He tries to fill in the empty field but he balks at the first letter already. He slides the nid over back towards him in a hurry and tries to keep his composure until the fucking - why? - goes out. He sits back and processes what he just saw before shaking his head. Nope. Nope. He didn't see anything. Absolutely nothing at all.
It’s probably about time that he took early leave too. He taps a button, the neon sign outside the booth switching from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED' before checking whether or not there's any good tour deals this season.
Why did South City have to attract the fucking Drift Demon of all people?
://open message Y/N?
>Y
://opening private file .....
Congratulations on making it to South City. I hope the drive through the wastes wasn't too inconvenient for you. You probably knew this already but you've made the position. It took a lot of convincing but you're now the personal driver of the Pirate Party's campaign.
Your personal responsibilities are as follows.
- Transportation and transfer of all members involved in Serena Petrukov's council campaign, from locations within and out of South City. - To consult on and advise on possible transport schedules and routes - To maintain, modify and change your transport vehicle of choice in order to ensure that all journeys will be as smooth as possible. - To evacuate Serena Petrukov and all relevant personnel in the Pirate Party away from danger.
Confirmation and discussion of your payment and benefits will come in later meetings. For now....
KZZZZZTTTTT - Another delivery today. Two servings of chutoro to some cushy corporate woman living up near Hostel 13. Rent's going up. Mohan's joking that they'll be making tuna an extinct species if business like this keeps going up.
Look at me. Going from the Drift Demon of the Death Derby to Deliveryman of South City. What would you think of me, OverDriver?
You once told me that drivers like us get to have quick deaths or live quick dreams. That you'd prefer a quick death. A quick death was my dream. Once. I don't know how you can bear it. Being lost. Believing that you've got only one road in life and disregarding all the other routes you could have taken.
That's where we're different, OverDriver. I came here for a dream. The dream to free the Islanders. To free the Sunken. To free my people from their chains of those filthy corporate omoomo ule. Even if they don't want me to.
No more driving away from my problems. I'm going to drive towards my problems now.
- KZZZZZTTTTTTT
CAMPAIGN GOAL
Chado,
I need three assurances if the Party wants me as their driver.
- Give all remaining documented and undocumented Pacific Islanders living within South City official citizenship and legal personhood.
- Section off a block for us to live in safely.
- To open investigations into Amalgamation's conduct and charge them with corruption and corporate misconduct.
If the Pirate Party isn't willing to gut Amalgamation for me and my people, then, you're not the fixer you claim to be.
Do this for me and I'll drive whoever you need. Whenever you need me. Wherever you need me.
>READY TO SEND MESSAGE Y/N >Y >SENDING..... >PRIVATE MESSAGE SUCCESSFULLY SENT
PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY:
I want to be free. We all deserve to be free. It's in our natural states to be freed, not to be tied down and neutered by the whims and wishes of those living in their ivory towers. I'm not gonna be a passenger and wait for someone to drive me to my next destination. The only way to achieve freedom is to live life fast and on the move. To live life between the ticks of the tachometer. To feel the engine thrumming between your fingers. To slow down is to surrender. There is only one way to move and that's forward.
I'm a driver. I drive wherever I go, whenever I want and whoever I want in my car.
POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY:
The Luddites. Hyperhumans. The Transhumans. The Central Party. I only have one question to ask them.
Where were you?
When our islands sank to the ground, when our councils sat on their asses and shrugged their shoulders, when no aid was sent, when our people died from dehydration by the thousands, what did the world do? Nothing. What did years of bureaucratic bargaining and corporate deals do for the Islanders? Nothing. We were an political inconvenience to them.
We got our food supplies when fixers set us up with underground hydroponic smugglers from the East. We got our work visas from Cuban hackers who got in touch through fixers. Our corporate taxes got filed and burned by a Thai slicer. We got access to the Labyrinth from black-hat hackers. If my time in the Ark has taught me, it's better to deal with those who get their hands dirty rather than the ones who have clean hands. That's why the Pirate Party's got my support in this election.
SECRETS:
If word was to get out that I was a Pacific Islander, the Enforcers would come after me and send me back to wherever they've got the rest of them holed up now. Given that I'm also a member of the Ark, well, I don't think life imprisonment is something that I want to risk at the moment.
The Drift Demon isn't my personal secret anymore. It's a secret shared among a group of individuals and I'm not keen on shouting out who I am unlike some other racers. Let's just say I didn't make a lot of friends back in the Death Derby. Word goes out that the Drift Demon is around and they're going to greet with open guns instead of open arms.
FEARS:
For most of us Islanders, it's the sea. It's not the storms that kill you. It's the thirst and then, the madness. People adding caff sweeteners to salt water to rid them of their throats. I'll never go on a boat as long as I live. Never again.
But, that's not what I fear most. Or rather, who I fear most.
I fear myself. Of losing myself to the race and becoming a slave to my own desires. To forget those closest to me and favor the wheel. The Drift Demon. I didn't earn it from some hungry media journalist. I earned it through a road paved on blood, bones and treachery. If I lose control, if I give myself over to the car, what becomes of me?
To be the Drift Demon is my greatest nightmare of all.
REPUTATION:
Yeah? Like I said before, better luck for Yialla next season. If she was a little more confident on her turns, I could see-
What? The Drift Demon? I thought this interview was about me?
Who’s the Drift Demon? I’ll tell you who he isn’t.
He’s not my buddy. He’s not my cousin or brother. He’s not some experimental full-body aug Android like those conspiracy types like to say nor is he some genetic freak of experiment from Gaea Naturae. Don’t believe everything from the Labyrinth is.
He’s a racer. Back in 53', he arrived on the scene with a beat up Toreador that looked like it came straight out of the scrapyards. Everyone was laughing at him until he made third place. A fresh rookie who rejected every sponsorship from APEX to Engitech. Six months ago, he tied with me. Who knows what will happen during the next season finals? No, I'm not going to say it.
So, who is he to me? I’m the OverDriver and he’s the Drift Demon. That’s who he is. He’s the yin to my yang, the north to my south, whatever feng shui Buddhist crap comes from Tokyo. It’s me and him going for first place and everyone else gunning for last.
So. Who are you, then?
LIKES: - Racing No - Fresh Sushi - More Racing Stop it - Automobile Modification - Did we mention Racing? Definitely not. - Being on the Move
DISLIKES - Pre-Pack - Racing Are you sure? - Gaudy Cars - The Sea - Racing I don't think so. - Oppression of The Deprived - Corporate Scum - Racing You're lying to yourself - Bosozoku Bastards
QUIRKS: - Tapping his foot, his finger, snapping, to move and fidget when he's staying still. - Commenting and criticizing on vehicles he encounters whenever he gets a chance. - Flipping off bosozoku.
Background Information
" Gah, don't stop movin' that arc-cutter before ya burn yourself, boy!" Gasket's growl interrupts him from his focus as the plasma welder nearly falls out of his hand. " Jeez, these islanders.....telling you Rob....never shoulda allowed them here."
Don't stop moving. It's the last words that his dad ever told him. The memory of his parents, his brothers, his sisters may have rotted and decayed from the tides of time but he keeps their last words closely like a treasure.
He remembers the Great Pacific Exodus. Unstable climatic conditions and rising water levels were an annoyance to the rich nations of the world but for his people, it was an existential crisis.A Category 3 hurricane first took Kiribati. Then, the flooding made Samoa uninhabitable. The rest of Polynesia and Micronesia followed. The corpo execs and employees were evacuated first, along with all of the tourists. The rest of them were forced to fend for themselves in that boiling sea. All he remembers is of it is the journey, his ship waterlogged, the hull sinking to the ground 10 miles from shore. How Amalgamation offered them resettlement programs that offered them safe harbor in South City.
The dissapearances began 4 months after they arrived. Rumours that Amalgamation were forcibly kidnapping people to test new augs spread around their little neighborhood. He was young and foolish, trapped in naveity, content to believe the sweet patronisations of corporate figureheads. That was until the remaining leaders of their little bloc didn’t take their mutiny well. He wondered if it was right that day to join on the side of the rebels, to lick the sewer water of the streets instead of corporate boots.
Whilst the rest of the Islanders stayed behind, content to stay imprisoned and chained to Amalgmation's whims, the Ark formed; a group of exiles who decided that they weren't going to stay under Amalgmation's They moved north to Portland and spread out to shake their trail as Enforcers began trailing them. The strategy by their leader, Noah, was simple. Spread out, decentralize and integrate into their communities. Every member of the group had to chip in as well. Some chose a life of crime whilst others chose honest work. Like him.
" What are ya doin' just standin' there, boy!" Gasket shouts out towards him. " Keep moving!"
He picks up the titanium gyro-mallet and begins hammering out the bent and buckled chassis of the 2030 Courier with solid strikes.
Don't stop moving.
Can't stop moving.
Won't stop moving.
A climate refugee. An exile from a group of exiles. His nation underwater. His family gone. Every race fan and driver would be shocked to learn that the Drift Demon, the Dock Devil himself, would come from such a rough and tumble background. Keah’s young and impressionable mind, needless to say, wasn’t in the most stable of states when he signed up for Portland’s local Death Derby at the ripe age of 15. When rumours started spreading among the regular racers that they would be facing a guy who had made a car entirely by himself. The absurdity of the situation only increased when they realised that the racer was a greasemonkey.
All of it was worth it, though. In his first race, Keah took third place. Local commentators immediately wrote him off as a fluke. Then, he took second. Then, first. People woke up and began to pay attention. After twenty underground races, the entire international community began paying attention, from Toge racers in Japan to mat rempits in South East Asia. His name was birthed on his twentieth birthday, originating from the roaring sounds of the TrailBlazer engine whenever it made a turn. One commentator aptly put it as "sounding like a demon from Hell itself". Noah Falders, the leader of the Ark, was pleased with how Keah had rebranded and reforged himself, becoming an idol to the members of the Ark for how Islanders like them could gain attention and a platform. The prize money from every match was nothing to scoff at either.
All of that came to a head when Keah took an offer from APEX industries for a full time sponsorship to drive for them at the Metro Prix, the highest level of racing in the country. His mission? To topple the OverDriver who was currently sponsored by EngiTech. Keah accepted the offer but with certain caveats. It would only be a limited time sponsorship, a one time deal. He would deign himself to wear their sticker on his ass but he would never drive one of their cars for them. The contract was struck and the rest is history. The Trailblazer faced Monica. The Drift Demon faced the OverDriver on 2055, September 9th, on the eve of Fall, in Chicago. Two unstoppable forces.
The first tie in Metro Prix history occurred. It was simply unbelievable.
From that match, the Drift Demon and the OverDriver became steady rivals, growing a odd respect for one another as kings of the road. Things began taking a turn, though, apart from the usual list of jealous racers who'd put hits on him and street gangs that he'd infuriated. On the beginning of the new season, Keah witnessed the famous crash of the OverDriver in 57’ was a wake up call for Keah. To further compound it, APEX industries was displeased about how Keah was unable to beat the OverDriver and how he'd changed certain terms of their agreement. Some would say it was disproportionate retribution when APEX hired ScrapHead mercenaries to burn down and destroy all Ark presence in Portland. Realising that he’d been driving away from his responsibilities and the fate that his desires would eventually land him in, Keah took an early retirement, much to the chagrin of every race fan and rival. A racer retiring in his prime was equivalent to a predator hibernating in the middle of a kill.
Keah fled east towards the New York Seaboard, both out of fear and wandering towards another place, lost amidst the ash of his failures. He hooked up and connected with an Ark cell who had heard word about his fame through the Labyrinth. His prodigious skill set eventually landed him the job of a sushi delivery man at Suraiboshen Standard, which outsourced Michelin three star grade omakase meals to anyone. At the right price. To anyone else, landing a cushy job would have been a dream come through but for Keah, it was maddeningly safe. Driving at 100 kph was a snail's pace compared to the intensity and blood pumping adrenaline of the Death Derby and the Metro Prix. Yet, he knew the risks if he were to go back. He began to grow dissatisfied with himself, longing for a chance to prove himself, with the guilt of leaving the population of Islanders in South City to fend for themselves, entrapped in the arms of the corps, grew like a fungus.
Eventually, the New York branch of the Ark contacted him. Jorek Chado, an obscure fixer, was offering him an opportunity to free the Islanders from under the grip of Amalgmation, to stop them from being their guinea pigs.
Participate in one last race.
Drive for the Pirate Party.
First place prize? Free their people.
How couldn't he accept it?
Operative Information
AUGMENTATIONS:
//Custom Vinci Dynamics Octo-Dactyl CyberHand 5.5
Vinci Dynamics. A New Renaissance for a New Age.
After losing most of his right hand in a grievous post-race feud with the Car Czar, Keah agreed to be the primary test bed for a start-up Italian tech corporation known as Vinci Dynamics. Whilst Vinci Dynamics no longer lives on due to becoming a subsidiary of Amalgamation, their augmentations and products have become valued keepsake items in America. Vinci Dynamic's augmentations notably differ from the rest of the market by pushing the envelope of design and pursuing a more avant-Garde approach towards cybernetic physiology.
Composed out of a mixture of carbo-aramid fiber and a specialised composite metallic foam alloy, this eight digited cybernetic hand comes with miniaturized rotary joints that allow a high degree of inhuman flexibility and reinforced myolon systems strong to crush concrete. Each digit can move independently of one another, thanks to an inbuilt intuitive artificial redundant neural system linked up to Keah's brain.
Aside from this, the index finger contains an inbuilt manual ignition key for the TrailBlazer as part of a two-step security protocol.
EQUIPMENT:
EngiTech Auto-Division RedLine III
EngiTech's new RedLine is a reliable favourite of racers who compete in both the underground Death Derbies and the nationally beloved Metro Prix. Whilst aesthetically less sleek and modern than most of its other competitiors such as the FuryTech Prism, it makes up for it with reliability and protection. The carbo-plast titanium dipped bi-weave affords the user an incredible amount of trauma protection with the polarised uni-aperture visor shielding the user's eyes from distractions.
As with most modern racing helmets, the RedLine HUD can be interconnected to the sub-systems of the user's vehicle, allowing the user to view details such as the condition of their vehicle, the level of charge left remaining in the users batteries and mileage. Similar to the ubiquitous Tele-Links, the RedLine provides an option for the user to control their car through voice commands whilst being outside of the vehicle. However, the user must maintain proximity within a 200 m radius of the car.
//The TrailBlazer
I'm not gonna ride on the backs of giants. I'm gonna make one from their corpses.
The personal vehicle of the Drift Demon, having gone extensive modifications over the years since Keah first received it. Unlike most other drivers who stick to one brand and one brand only, Keah's car is entirely jury-rigged from a collection of other cars, collecting the best parts of each to fuse into one Frankenstein monstrosity. The only distinguishing trait that marks it out from other cars is the distinctive striped '666' painted on the front hood. The rear compartments contain toolboxes and spare parts in which Keah can perform quick fixes when he's not at his own personal garage.
CURRENT SPECS
Plate: CA 6117
Color: Two Tone Vanta Obsidian/Hot Rod Crimson
Engine: Rear-Mounted Turbo-Charged 10.00 L 1200 HP XLRH99 Fusor
Transmission: Digital Assisted Manual Sequential AWD
Body: Carbon-Boron Oly-Laminate Sheeting With Reinforced Titanium-Ceramic Plating
Chassis: SLS Manufactured Composite Alloy
PERFORMANCE
- 0-60 in 0.9 seconds - Top Speed of 580 MPH
OTHER PARTS - Takahashi-Avica Conqueror VERGE Front Bumper - Toreador Motorworks Nimbus Dual-Nitro Injection System - Engi-Tech Axle-Back Integrated Sifter Exhaust System - Tamago MG-LV WindRose Model R Smart Tires - APEX Auto-Division Gull-Wing Steering Wheel - Engi-Tech Auto-Division Orbital Memory Foam Cushioning
SKILLS
//Death’s Chaffeur - He's not that Driver. He's the Driver. Keah's driving skills are unparalleled and seemingly supernatural, even amongst the veteran racers of the Death Derby or the Iron Rally 500. To survive and thrive in the deadly, high-stakes environment of Combat Racing and earn the name of Drift Demon takes not only talent and technique but the ability to adapt to any situation at hand, which Keah has in spades, able to switch on fly from a careful, rule-abiding citizen of the Zone to a law-breaking turboblazer. This experience also allows him to act as a capable getaway driver and instinctively predict the mannerisms and actions of other drivers on the road without a single mistake. One thing's for certain. You don't get publically announced as an official 'rival' by the OverDriver without something to back up your reputation.
So, when you decide to challenge the Drift Demon in his territory, you better be prepared for him to take you to deep water and drown you in asphalt.
//P.H.D in Auto Physiology - What distinguishes Keah from most other racers on the streets is that he doesn't rely on a Keah doesn't merely know how to drive a car; he knows a car from inside to out. Whilst he's not a talented Ripper Doc or a HyperHuman augmentation specialist, Keah possesses adaquate knowledge on how to repair, maintain, modify and ,yes, manufacture automobiles to suit his needs or the needs of anyone else. This also extends to a keen understanding of being able to intuitively pick up and assess the advantages and weaknesses of every car possible, just based on the sound of the engine.
//5-Star Delivery - Keah is singlehandidly responsible for why Suraiboshen delivery services are so valued among those who can shell out enough dollars for it. Years of experience driving within South City has bestowed upon Keah a encyclopediac GPS within his own brain of every possible journey, tour, route and detour within the vast arcology. Keah has also become a meticulous indivdual when it comes to planning journeys and routes, scouting out roads and thoroughly researching potential hazards and secret routes in order to reduce his boredom on the mind-numbing amount of sushi deliveries he has to make.
FLAWS
//Speed Samurai, Not Street Samurai
- Driving skills do not translate to an ability in combat situations outside of vehicles. Whilst Keah isn't completely blind to the art of spilling blood with your own bare hands, he can't be counted to do much in combat situations other than running people over with his car.
//Turbo'Blazin Blood - All those who follow the path of the High Way are known to have high-octane blood that reeks of ferocity and unbridled rage. This same blood boils within the Drift Demon's veins, making him extremely reckless in pulse-pounding situations and always resorting to violent responses when he is emotionally compromised or agitated. This may be harmless outside of a car but when he's inside a car, good luck getting him out. Keah's refusal to take Neurosynth to reduce the mental degredation caused by his cybernetics also excaberates his blood thirsty tendencies.
//The Price of a Name - You don't get called Drift Demon without breaking a few eggs and bodies along the way. Keah's reputation as well as his past actions have attracted unsavory individuals, including riled gang members, uppity street racers and disgruntled bosozoku, itching to challenge him in his territory. Whilst going to South City has turned the heat off his back, Keah's involvement in the elections may prove to bring back familiar faces.
I'll give Adamantia Steele this. She's more bearable than the other corpos that I come across on my drives.
Having been forced to work closely with Lott during the 2055 MetroPrix, his experience with this, in his own words, a corporate tailgater, was not memorable or positive in any way possible. He finds her best when she's silent and doesn't keep yapping on about procedure, the importance of corporate image or the terms of his contract. Keah has only accidentally encountered her once after 2055 during a delivery of synthetic egg rolls to her apartment. Needless to say, Keah is not interested in meeting Lott again or ever.
Sister Violet
The Ripper Doc. She's got the soul of a turboblazer in her. One road, one direction. Hope she doesn't die at her destination. Out of all the racers and drivers that the Drift Demon has encountered over the years, there are only a handful of people he respects. That includes this aspirant of the HyperHuman party. The two first met after Keah won a close race against a Triad driver by the name of Chrome Wind whose reaction to his loss was quite extreme. After that, the lone driver was dragged bloody and unconcious to her clinic. After awakening in a haze of anesthetic, a glass of tea was offered to him by none other than Sister Violet herself. The two have then since maintained a quiet yet amicable relationship, Keah coming back to her for repairs to his own augmentations whilst politely refusing her suggestions for ....improvements. He also sympathises with her own political perspectives, in spite of how strange they might seem.
The Detergent was splitting in two along the prow, splinters raining on top of Scat as spill water flowed into the boat, eroding and widening the gaping holes. The mighty vessel was now a pitiful shadow of its former self with its attendants no longer trying to fight but flee its dwindling bulk. For many sailors, it was a tragedy that what they would have once considered their home was now turning into nothing more than a lost legend resting at the bottom of the Spillway. For Scat, it now had become a death trap.
The Pet-Master wordlessly wrapped his arms around Paw’s furry neck. There was no need for further commands as his Pet dragged towards the lifeboat. The pay didn’t matter anymore. No pay was worth his own body. He looked at the card still clenched in his hand, the edge biting against his skin. The strange symbols on it twinkled eerily in the dark. All of this for a plastic trinket. Then, he remembered the damned Cleaner pirate’s enigmatic words.
If any of you realised what your friend’s got there, you’d kill him for it.”
Kill him? The Mister had already sealed his fate the moment he put those Q-Tips into his spine. The thought of being put down when he returned back to Pets and Animals scared him more than dying to insane Cleaner pirates. He stared back at the card in his hand. Completing the PetMaster Pedigree was a fool’s dream now. Paw wouldn’t have to suffer anymore by carrying dead weight.
He whistled a low two-note trill, enough to catch Paw’s attention. The overgrown rabbit looked back towards him and stopped moving, confused as to why his master gave the command.
“ What’re you doing, Pet-Master?” The sailor captain on the life floatie shouted out.
“ Change of plans.” Scats grunted, taking out spare shoestring out of his pocket before taking out the card and lifting it in front of Paw’s eye. “ Keep. Safe.” For anyone else, it might have been foolish to trust a valuable item in the hands of a rabbit, but a rabbit of Pets and Animals was no ordinary rabbit. Paw simply sneezed in response before thumping his right foot. Scat began tying the card to Paw’s neck, taking care not to knot it too tightly.
Suddenly, there was a loud squeak above him and a crack that sounded like a popped balloon. He pushed Paw out of the way just as the rotting beam fell upon his torso, smashing him through the hull and sending him into the cold depths of the SpillWay. His arm flailed wildly underwater, trying to swim upwards but his broken legs pulled him downwards like an anchor. The miasma of toliet water creeped into his skin as the rotting stench tried to claw his way into his lungs.
Forgive me, Paw. I wasn’t the master you needed.
Out in the corner of his eye, orange light sparkles softly. Ah, perhaps, he was dying already.
The light then shifted. No, it wasn’t a hallucination. The glimmering mass whipped wildly underwater, becoming larger and larger in size. It was moving towards him. Screams bubbled out of his mouth as a current of stink-ridden garbage pushed Scat upwards to the surface. He took deep draughts of a precious air, sputtering and coughing out bitter spillwater. His hand latched onto one of the many floating pieces of driftwood falling off the wreck of the Detergent. Meanwhile, the water bubbled like rice krispies in milk underneath him.
Sea Monkeys weren’t the only thing living in the Spillway.
As the Mister ship continued to pillage and reap upon the leaking remnants of the Detergent, something strange was happening in the raging tides that surrounded the battlefield. The Spillway itself was bulging, something emerging out from the murky abyss. A temporary truce formed between the Cleaners and sailors, born out of shock rather than of peace. When the waters cleared and receded, every Cleaner became dumbfounded by the seemingly mystical sight.
It was a goldfish. Likely the most largest goldfish the Wal had ever seen.The biggest gold fishes were known to be bred in the wild pens of Pets and Animals, big enough to swallow a man whole and armoured in a coat of brilliant scales.
This goldfish made the rest look like small fry guppies. Its cavernous mouth looked as if it could eat twenty shoppers in a single gulp. Its mantle of golden scales shimmered like sunshine, albeit pocketed and marred by the ravages of conflict and violence. is simply and inexcusably, without over exaggeration or understatement, big. The rest of its massive body is cloaked by the SpillWay. If one look closed enough, you could see the hints of a fish ohooks stuck in its gums before its mouth snaps close like a gate guarding a fortress.
On top of this majestic fish rode a Sea Monkey larger than most of its brethren. It dressed in a soaked regalia of plastic bottles with a cracked fish bowl for its crown. A cloak stitched from zipper bags shrouded half of its muscular body. Everyone waited with bated breath as it took out a seaweed crusted Speak and Spell and began typing on it.
“ What of it, you uncleansed pest?” Everyone turned to look at the one Mister who’d spoken out with the frenzied tone of a believer.
The sea monkey king scythe like mandibles clacked, opening and closing slowly. It’s right hand began typing on the Speak and Spell again whilst the other pulled out a trident made of plastic straw.
“ SO. BE. IT. FEEDING. TIME. BEGINS. “
He pointed the trident towards the two boats. The great fish reared back its knobbled head, giving out a throaty screech. It rose out of the water, balancing its mountainous body on its back fin before diving back in. The resulting splash pushed both ships back and knocked the life floaties away like bowing pins.
For a moment, all was silent.
Then, a life floatie disappeared in one thunderous snap followed by half-cut screams and a gulp. A mister pirate standing too close to the Detergent’s rails was next followed by a massive chunk torn from the underside of the Mister vessel.
“ ALL MISTERS-“ A naked cleaner pirate with acid burnt tattoos shouted from the top of the sails. “- FIRE ON THAT FISH!”
Scats watched the devastation unfold, holding onto the floating piece of driftwood for dear life. Once he got ahold of his surroundings, things began to clear. He was only a short swim away from the Detergent’s storage hold. He began to paddle at a slug’s pace back towards the Detergent.The captain of the life floatie spotted him, barking out loud towards Blue. “ Tron, drag the Pet-Master’s beast onto the floatie. Rest of you, help that shopper onboard!”
Once he was close enough, the sailors hauled his wet form onto the lifeboat. The captain grunted. “ You look like you went through a blender, son. Sponge. Prep the oars. It’s time we got out of here.”
“ No.” Scats shook his head. “ Wait for pack.”
“ Are you insane?” The captain looked disbelieving at Scats and pointed towards the giant goldfish currently devouring sailors and Misters alike. “ Look at that, Lifter! The Flushed Leviathan is out there and you want to wait?! Whatever the reward of your contract be, it ain’t worth our li-“
The sharp point of Scat’s frisbee rang shut the captain up.
I am officially withdrawing from my post as Static. This was not a rash decision. I’ve hit a point in my life right now where I’m glutted with superhero fiction and I just need a break from this type of RP posting. I’ve hit a massive writer’s block in terms of how I want to continue the character of Virgil and due to extenuating circumstances such as limited time, Absolute is becoming more of an obligation to me rather than a place where I enjoy writing. As of right now, the position to claim Dakota City and all characters mentioned are now in @Moskau Spieluhr hands.
I’d like to thank all GMs for allowing me the opportunity to rediscover and put my spin on the character of Static. As for every other roleplayer in Absolute, I wish them all the best luck in their future endeavours.
I may return to Absolute Comics or one of its other iterations again in the future, but for now,
CS completed. Please review and criticise, @Opposition
3. 2. 1. GO!
" Dios mios. Esta el Diablo!"
" Shit, I'm zoning out of here to Vegas before he notices - "
" You saw his race in 55' with the OverDriver?-"
Turn on the taps. Wash the whispers away with water.
3. 2. 1. GO!
The neon scream. The knocking of ethyl gas in the carburetor. The pounding in your head, a war dance of high speed collisions and illegal stunts. The edge of death that he craves for, yet, he knows he has to avoid.
3. 2. 1. GO!
He closes off the taps and stares back haggardly as if he's been holding his breath underwater for several hours. Blood, sweat and dead skin swirl down in the bone-white porcelain basin. Hands, of both flesh and chrome, grip the side of the sink steadiy as he stares back at his broken reflection. He's careful not to let water spill on the biweave jacket hanging on the lip of the basin. He dips his head back into the basin and gurgles out his anxiety in slow spits.
The tap-water between his fingers still feel like molasses. It's unbearable to him how slow the world outside of an 1500 HP engine is. To feel the syn-crete on your feet instead of asphalt on poly-plas tires. To see a frozen world with your corneas instead of the blurry, high-speed dream. To walk instead of drive. He splashes a few more droplets on his face, trying to rinse off the smell of stewed sweat in his hair. The jitters of race-fueled adrenaline in his fingers are long gone now, its absence making his hairs feel clammy like old snake skin. He grabs the hood of his jacket before pushing open the door only to be met with a blast of coppery air.
A single street light barely manages to illuminate the contours of his ride's bulk. Just as he's a few meters away, the automatic doors peel open like an butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. He checks his gloves, tightening the straps, whilst checking the horizon. Him, the gas station attendant and a couple of no ones lazing about underneath the roof. Just how he liked it. The less busier the crowd, the more free the roads would be for him.
500 feet above the teeming masses, a tri-copter drone slowly takes pictures of the lonely figure with its hyperspectral cameras, the lenses shuttering and opening with minute clicks. It flutters mid-air for a while before disappearing in the dead of the night. >CONNECTING TO LABYRINTH VPN...... >SCRAMBLING IDENTITY SIGNATURES >GENERATING SECURITY KEYS >CONNECTED TO ROUTERS
>LOGIN >ENTER PASSWORD
*****************
>ENGAGING BIO-VOC CONFIRMATION. >USER 45-239-#9050 CLEARED TO ENTER THE LABYRINTH >OPENING DATA SIFTER..... >ENTER QUERY >:THE DRIFT DEMON >PROCESSING............
Alright. Let's see whose dirty little secret you are, Drift Demon.....
://DRIFT_D3MON.EXE
Put the pedal to the mettle and pedal to the metal
TOP SPEED OF 29 KPH| MALE MODEL | 5'8 HP ENGINE| RATED B FOR BURNING RUBBER
PROVIDING GENERAL INFORMATION
He’s encountered plenty of strange Zoners over the years from Bangkok techno-pilgrims to Johannesberg mercenaries. This one's new, though.
“ Card please.”
Another quarter hour on his paycheck meets him dressed in a striped thermoweave 2020 bomber and plated slacks. Connie, for a moment, curses Gatch for defunding the regional borders of South City and reducing regulations. Being the only booth in 100 klicks means that every nobody and no ones wanting to go into the Reclaim Zone needs to go through him. He stares at the clock. 30 more minutes. Half an hour. Just a little while longer. He stares back up at the silent statue of a man and repeats his request again. " Card please." Connie wonders or not he needs to repeat his question but the stranger seems to read his mind. A aramid-plated fingerless glove slides a smudged NID over on the countertop. , Slotting in the NID, the monitor begins to whirr, carbon-silicate processors fishing out data from the depths of the Labyrinth.
“ Had to come at midnight, didn’t you?” Connie muses as he extends an Engitech stylus, doing standard calibration procedures that have become habit by now. “ You’re lucky that you caught my last shift.”
“ Not luck.” The mysterious rider says. “ Speed.”
You're not just some upstart, are you? No, this stranger's a racer. As he waited for the data retrieval to complete, Connie looked at the new arrival to South City more closely. His eyes were hardened and wizened beyond his years like old tarmac. His mud-brown hair was pepper gray at the fringes. The pungent aroma of micro-lubricant cloyed on his skin. So, you're a greasemonkey too, eh? The only chrome on him was a jack-port growing out of his collarbone along with a maze of circuits and surgery scars criss-crossing up the right side of his neck. The beeping from his monitor forced him to pay attention to it as the data records scrolled up line by line on the LED screen.
NAME: Keah Kaito
ALIASES//TITLES: N/A
CURRENT AGE: 26
SEX: Male
PAST OCCUPATIONS
- Professional Combat Racer (APEX Incorporated) - Assistant Automotive Technician (The Drive-Through)
CURRENT OCCUPATIONS
- Delivery Man (Suraiboshen Standard)
Suraiboshen Standard….Isn’t it that fancy omakase place down near the corporate districts?
“ I don’t suppose you have any aliases, do you?” The racer pauses. Connie takes it as a signal to continue on. “ I mean, it’s optional but you know, not asking for a fingerprint- “
The answer nearly made him drop his stylus. He tries to fill in the empty field but he balks at the first letter already. He slides the nid over back towards him in a hurry and tries to keep his composure until the fucking - why? - goes out. He sits back and processes what he just saw before shaking his head. Nope. Nope. He didn't see anything. Absolutely nothing at all.
It’s probably about time that he took early leave too. He taps a button, the neon sign outside the booth switching from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED' before checking whether or not there's any good tour deals this season.
Why did South City have to attract the fucking Drift Demon of all people?
://open message Y/N?
>Y
://opening private file .....
Congratulations on making it to South City. I hope the drive through the wastes wasn't too inconvenient for you. You probably knew this already but you've made the position. It took a lot of convincing but you're now the personal driver of the Pirate Party's campaign.
Your personal responsibilities are as follows.
- Transportation and transfer of all members involved in Serena Petrukov's council campaign, from locations within and out of South City. - To consult on and advise on possible transport schedules and routes - To maintain, modify and change your transport vehicle of choice in order to ensure that all journeys will be as smooth as possible. - To evacuate Serena Petrukov and all relevant personnel in the Pirate Party away from danger.
Confirmation and discussion of your payment and benefits will come in later meetings. For now....
KZZZZZTTTTT - Another delivery today. Two servings of chutoro to some cushy corporate woman living up near Hostel 13. Rent's going up. Mohan's joking that they'll be making tuna an extinct species if business like this keeps going up.
Look at me. Going from the Drift Demon of the Death Derby to Deliveryman of South City. What would you think of me, OverDriver?
You once told me that drivers like us get to have quick deaths or live quick dreams. That you'd prefer a quick death. A quick death was my dream. Once. I don't know how you can bear it. Being lost. Believing that you've got only one road in life and disregarding all the other routes you could have taken.
That's where we're different, OverDriver. I came here for a dream. The dream to free the Islanders. To free the Sunken. To free my people from their chains of those filthy corporate omoomo ule. Even if they don't want me to.
No more driving away from my problems. I'm going to drive towards my problems now.
- KZZZZZTTTTTTT
CAMPAIGN GOAL
Chado,
I need three assurances if the Party wants me as their driver.
- Give all remaining documented and undocumented Pacific Islanders living within South City official citizenship and legal personhood.
- Section off a block for us to live in safely.
- To open investigations into Amalgamation's conduct and charge them with corruption and corporate misconduct.
If the Pirate Party isn't willing to gut Amalgamation for me and my people, then, you're not the fixer you claim to be.
Do this for me and I'll drive whoever you need. Whenever you need me. Wherever you need me.
>READY TO SEND MESSAGE Y/N >Y >SENDING..... >PRIVATE MESSAGE SUCCESSFULLY SENT
PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY:
I want to be free. We all deserve to be free. It's in our natural states to be freed, not to be tied down and neutered by the whims and wishes of those living in their ivory towers. I'm not gonna be a passenger and wait for someone to drive me to my next destination. The only way to achieve freedom is to live life fast and on the move. To live life between the ticks of the tachometer. To feel the engine thrumming between your fingers. To slow down is to surrender. There is only one way to move and that's forward.
I'm a driver. I drive wherever I go, whenever I want and whoever I want in my car.
POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY:
The Luddites. Hyperhumans. The Transhumans. The Central Party. I only have one question to ask them.
Where were you?
When our islands sank to the ground, when our councils sat on their asses and shrugged their shoulders, when no aid was sent, when our people died from dehydration by the thousands, what did the world do? Nothing. What did years of bureaucratic bargaining and corporate deals do for the Islanders? Nothing. We were an political inconvenience to them.
We got our food supplies when fixers set us up with underground hydroponic smugglers from the East. We got our work visas from Cuban hackers who got in touch through fixers. Our corporate taxes got filed and burned by a Thai slicer. We got access to the Labyrinth from black-hat hackers. If my time in the Ark has taught me, it's better to deal with those who get their hands dirty rather than the ones who have clean hands. That's why the Pirate Party's got my support in this election.
SECRETS:
If word was to get out that I was a Pacific Islander, the Enforcers would come after me and send me back to wherever they've got the rest of them holed up now. Given that I'm also a member of the Ark, well, I don't think life imprisonment is something that I want to risk at the moment.
The Drift Demon isn't my personal secret anymore. It's a secret shared among a group of individuals and I'm not keen on shouting out who I am unlike some other racers. Let's just say I didn't make a lot of friends back in the Death Derby. Word goes out that the Drift Demon is around and they're going to greet with open guns instead of open arms.
FEARS:
For most of us Islanders, it's the sea. It's not the storms that kill you. It's the thirst and then, the madness. People adding caff sweeteners to salt water to rid them of their throats. I'll never go on a boat as long as I live. Never again.
But, that's not what I fear most. Or rather, who I fear most.
I fear myself. Of losing myself to the race and becoming a slave to my own desires. To forget those closest to me and favor the wheel. The Drift Demon. I didn't earn it from some hungry media journalist. I earned it through a road paved on blood, bones and treachery. If I lose control, if I give myself over to the car, what becomes of me?
To be the Drift Demon is my greatest nightmare of all.
REPUTATION:
Yeah? Like I said before, better luck for Yialla next season. If she was a little more confident on her turns, I could see-
What? The Drift Demon? I thought this interview was about me?
Who’s the Drift Demon? I’ll tell you who he isn’t.
He’s not my buddy. He’s not my cousin or brother. He’s not some experimental full-body aug Android like those conspiracy types like to say nor is he some genetic freak of experiment from Gaea Naturae. Don’t believe everything from the Labyrinth is.
He’s a racer. Back in 53', he arrived on the scene with a beat up Toreador that looked like it came straight out of the scrapyards. Everyone was laughing at him until he made third place. A fresh rookie who rejected every sponsorship from APEX to Engitech. Six months ago, he tied with me. Who knows what will happen during the next season finals? No, I'm not going to say it.
So, who is he to me? I’m the OverDriver and he’s the Drift Demon. That’s who he is. He’s the yin to my yang, the north to my south, whatever feng shui Buddhist crap comes from Tokyo. It’s me and him going for first place and everyone else gunning for last.
So. Who are you, then?
LIKES: - Racing No - Fresh Sushi - More Racing Stop it - Automobile Modification - Did we mention Racing? Definitely not. - Being on the Move
DISLIKES - Pre-Pack - Racing Are you sure? - Gaudy Cars - The Sea - Racing I don't think so. - Oppression of The Deprived - Corporate Scum - Racing You're lying to yourself - Bosozoku Bastards
QUIRKS: - Tapping his foot, his finger, snapping, to move and fidget when he's staying still. - Commenting and criticizing on vehicles he encounters whenever he gets a chance. - Flipping off bosozoku.
Background Information
" Gah, don't stop movin' that arc-cutter before ya burn yourself, boy!" Gasket's growl interrupts him from his focus as the plasma welder nearly falls out of his hand. " Jeez, these islanders.....telling you Rob....never shoulda allowed them here."
Don't stop moving. It's the last words that his dad ever told him. The memory of his parents, his brothers, his sisters may have rotted and decayed from the tides of time but he keeps their last words closely like a treasure.
He remembers the Great Pacific Exodus. Unstable climatic conditions and rising water levels were an annoyance to the rich nations of the world but for his people, it was an existential crisis.A Category 3 hurricane first took Kiribati. Then, the flooding made Samoa uninhabitable. The rest of Polynesia and Micronesia followed. The corpo execs and employees were evacuated first, along with all of the tourists. The rest of them were forced to fend for themselves in that boiling sea. All he remembers is of it is the journey, his ship waterlogged, the hull sinking to the ground 10 miles from shore. How Amalgamation offered them resettlement programs that offered them safe harbor in South City.
The dissapearances began 4 months after they arrived. Rumours that Amalgamation were forcibly kidnapping people to test new augs spread around their little neighborhood. He was young and foolish, trapped in naveity, content to believe the sweet patronisations of corporate figureheads. That was until the remaining leaders of their little bloc didn’t take their mutiny well. He wondered if it was right that day to join on the side of the rebels, to lick the sewer water of the streets instead of corporate boots.
Whilst the rest of the Islanders stayed behind, content to stay imprisoned and chained to Amalgmation's whims, the Ark formed; a group of exiles who decided that they weren't going to stay under Amalgmation's They moved north to Portland and spread out to shake their trail as Enforcers began trailing them. The strategy by their leader, Noah, was simple. Spread out, decentralize and integrate into their communities. Every member of the group had to chip in as well. Some chose a life of crime whilst others chose honest work. Like him.
" What are ya doin' just standin' there, boy!" Gasket shouts out towards him. " Keep moving!"
He picks up the titanium gyro-mallet and begins hammering out the bent and buckled chassis of the 2030 Courier with solid strikes.
Don't stop moving.
Can't stop moving.
Won't stop moving.
A climate refugee. An exile from a group of exiles. His nation underwater. His family gone. Every race fan and driver would be shocked to learn that the Drift Demon, the Dock Devil himself, would come from such a rough and tumble background. Keah’s young and impressionable mind, needless to say, wasn’t in the most stable of states when he signed up for Portland’s local Death Derby at the ripe age of 15. When rumours started spreading among the regular racers that they would be facing a guy who had made a car entirely by himself. The absurdity of the situation only increased when they realised that the racer was a greasemonkey.
All of it was worth it, though. In his first race, Keah took third place. Local commentators immediately wrote him off as a fluke. Then, he took second. Then, first. People woke up and began to pay attention. After twenty underground races, the entire international community began paying attention, from Toge racers in Japan to mat rempits in South East Asia. His name was birthed on his twentieth birthday, originating from the roaring sounds of the TrailBlazer engine whenever it made a turn. One commentator aptly put it as "sounding like a demon from Hell itself". Noah Falders, the leader of the Ark, was pleased with how Keah had rebranded and reforged himself, becoming an idol to the members of the Ark for how Islanders like them could gain attention and a platform. The prize money from every match was nothing to scoff at either.
All of that came to a head when Keah took an offer from APEX industries for a full time sponsorship to drive for them at the Metro Prix, the highest level of racing in the country. His mission? To topple the OverDriver who was currently sponsored by EngiTech. Keah accepted the offer but with certain caveats. It would only be a limited time sponsorship, a one time deal. He would deign himself to wear their sticker on his ass but he would never drive one of their cars for them. The contract was struck and the rest is history. The Trailblazer faced Monica. The Drift Demon faced the OverDriver on 2055, September 9th, on the eve of Fall, in Chicago. Two unstoppable forces.
The first tie in Metro Prix history occurred. It was simply unbelievable.
From that match, the Drift Demon and the OverDriver became steady rivals, growing a odd respect for one another as kings of the road. Things began taking a turn, though, apart from the usual list of jealous racers who'd put hits on him and street gangs that he'd infuriated. On the beginning of the new season, Keah witnessed the famous crash of the OverDriver in 57’ was a wake up call for Keah. To further compound it, APEX industries was displeased about how Keah was unable to beat the OverDriver and how he'd changed certain terms of their agreement. Some would say it was disproportionate retribution when APEX hired ScrapHead mercenaries to burn down and destroy all Ark presence in Portland. Realising that he’d been driving away from his responsibilities and the fate that his desires would eventually land him in, Keah took an early retirement, much to the chagrin of every race fan and rival. A racer retiring in his prime was equivalent to a predator hibernating in the middle of a kill.
Keah fled east towards the New York Seaboard, both out of fear and wandering towards another place, lost amidst the ash of his failures. He hooked up and connected with an Ark cell who had heard word about his fame through the Labyrinth. His prodigious skill set eventually landed him the job of a sushi delivery man at Suraiboshen Standard, which outsourced Michelin three star grade omakase meals to anyone. At the right price. To anyone else, landing a cushy job would have been a dream come through but for Keah, it was maddeningly safe. Driving at 100 kph was a snail's pace compared to the intensity and blood pumping adrenaline of the Death Derby and the Metro Prix. Yet, he knew the risks if he were to go back. He began to grow dissatisfied with himself, longing for a chance to prove himself, with the guilt of leaving the population of Islanders in South City to fend for themselves, entrapped in the arms of the corps, grew like a fungus.
Eventually, the New York branch of the Ark contacted him. Jorek Chado, an obscure fixer, was offering him an opportunity to free the Islanders from under the grip of Amalgmation, to stop them from being their guinea pigs.
Participate in one last race.
Drive for the Pirate Party.
First place prize? Free their people.
How couldn't he accept it?
Operative Information
AUGMENTATIONS:
//Custom Vinci Dynamics Octo-Dactyl CyberHand 5.5
Vinci Dynamics. A New Renaissance for a New Age.
After losing most of his right hand in a grievous post-race feud with the Car Czar, Keah agreed to be the primary test bed for a start-up Italian tech corporation known as Vinci Dynamics. Whilst Vinci Dynamics no longer lives on due to becoming a subsidiary of Amalgamation, their augmentations and products have become valued keepsake items in America. Vinci Dynamic's augmentations notably differ from the rest of the market by pushing the envelope of design and pursuing a more avant-Garde approach towards cybernetic physiology.
Composed out of a mixture of carbo-aramid fiber and a specialised composite metallic foam alloy, this eight digited cybernetic hand comes with miniaturized rotary joints that allow a high degree of inhuman flexibility and reinforced myolon systems strong to crush concrete. Each digit can move independently of one another, thanks to an inbuilt intuitive artificial redundant neural system linked up to Keah's brain.
Aside from this, the index finger contains an inbuilt manual ignition key for the TrailBlazer as part of a two-step security protocol.
EQUIPMENT:
EngiTech Auto-Division RedLine III
EngiTech's new RedLine is a reliable favourite of racers who compete in both the underground Death Derbies and the nationally beloved Metro Prix. Whilst aesthetically less sleek and modern than most of its other competitiors such as the FuryTech Prism, it makes up for it with reliability and protection. The carbo-plast titanium dipped bi-weave affords the user an incredible amount of trauma protection with the polarised uni-aperture visor shielding the user's eyes from distractions.
As with most modern racing helmets, the RedLine HUD can be interconnected to the sub-systems of the user's vehicle, allowing the user to view details such as the condition of their vehicle, the level of charge left remaining in the users batteries and mileage. Similar to the ubiquitous Tele-Links, the RedLine provides an option for the user to control their car through voice commands whilst being outside of the vehicle. However, the user must maintain proximity within a 200 m radius of the car.
//The TrailBlazer
I'm not gonna ride on the backs of giants. I'm gonna make one from their corpses.
The personal vehicle of the Drift Demon, having gone extensive modifications over the years since Keah first received it. Unlike most other drivers who stick to one brand and one brand only, Keah's car is entirely jury-rigged from a collection of other cars, collecting the best parts of each to fuse into one Frankenstein monstrosity. The only distinguishing trait that marks it out from other cars is the distinctive striped '666' painted on the front hood. The rear compartments contain toolboxes and spare parts in which Keah can perform quick fixes when he's not at his own personal garage.
CURRENT SPECS
Plate: CA 6117
Color: Two Tone Vanta Obsidian/Hot Rod Crimson
Engine: Rear-Mounted Turbo-Charged 10.00 L 1200 HP XLRH99 Fusor
Transmission: Digital Assisted Manual Sequential AWD
Body: Carbon-Boron Oly-Laminate Sheeting With Reinforced Titanium-Ceramic Plating
Chassis: SLS Manufactured Composite Alloy
PERFORMANCE
- 0-60 in 0.9 seconds - Top Speed of 580 MPH
OTHER PARTS - Takahashi-Avica Conqueror VERGE Front Bumper - Toreador Motorworks Nimbus Dual-Nitro Injection System - Engi-Tech Axle-Back Integrated Sifter Exhaust System - Tamago MG-LV WindRose Model R Smart Tires - APEX Auto-Division Gull-Wing Steering Wheel - Engi-Tech Auto-Division Orbital Memory Foam Cushioning
SKILLS
//Death’s Chaffeur - He's not that Driver. He's the Driver. Keah's driving skills are unparalleled and seemingly supernatural, even amongst the veteran racers of the Death Derby or the Iron Rally 500. To survive and thrive in the deadly, high-stakes environment of Combat Racing and earn the name of Drift Demon takes not only talent and technique but the ability to adapt to any situation at hand, which Keah has in spades, able to switch on fly from a careful, rule-abiding citizen of the Zone to a law-breaking turboblazer. This experience also allows him to act as a capable getaway driver and instinctively predict the mannerisms and actions of other drivers on the road without a single mistake. One thing's for certain. You don't get publically announced as an official 'rival' by the OverDriver without something to back up your reputation.
So, when you decide to challenge the Drift Demon in his territory, you better be prepared for him to take you to deep water and drown you in asphalt.
//P.H.D in Auto Physiology - What distinguishes Keah from most other racers on the streets is that he doesn't rely on a Keah doesn't merely know how to drive a car; he knows a car from inside to out. Whilst he's not a talented Ripper Doc or a HyperHuman augmentation specialist, Keah possesses adaquate knowledge on how to repair, maintain, modify and ,yes, manufacture automobiles to suit his needs or the needs of anyone else. This also extends to a keen understanding of being able to intuitively pick up and assess the advantages and weaknesses of every car possible, just based on the sound of the engine.
//5-Star Delivery - Keah is singlehandidly responsible for why Suraiboshen delivery services are so valued among those who can shell out enough dollars for it. Years of experience driving within South City has bestowed upon Keah a encyclopediac GPS within his own brain of every possible journey, tour, route and detour within the vast arcology. Keah has also become a meticulous indivdual when it comes to planning journeys and routes, scouting out roads and thoroughly researching potential hazards and secret routes in order to reduce his boredom on the mind-numbing amount of sushi deliveries he has to make.
FLAWS
//Speed Samurai, Not Street Samurai
- Driving skills do not translate to an ability in combat situations outside of vehicles. Whilst Keah isn't completely blind to the art of spilling blood with your own bare hands, he can't be counted to do much in combat situations other than running people over with his car.
//Turbo'Blazin Blood - All those who follow the path of the High Way are known to have high-octane blood that reeks of ferocity and unbridled rage. This same blood boils within the Drift Demon's veins, making him extremely reckless in pulse-pounding situations and always resorting to violent responses when he is emotionally compromised or agitated. This may be harmless outside of a car but when he's inside a car, good luck getting him out. Keah's refusal to take Neurosynth to reduce the mental degredation caused by his cybernetics also excaberates his blood thirsty tendencies.
//The Price of a Name - You don't get called Drift Demon without breaking a few eggs and bodies along the way. Keah's reputation as well as his past actions have attracted unsavory individuals, including riled gang members, uppity street racers and disgruntled bosozoku, itching to challenge him in his territory. Whilst going to South City has turned the heat off his back, Keah's involvement in the elections may prove to bring back familiar faces.
Everyone in the department could feel that Clearance was overstaying its welcome, especially as Black Fryeday approached with its shivering air-conditioned gales. From the top of a Shelf, he sipped a CapriSun red through a curly straw, the burning sweetness burning a hole through his gums and down his throat. The Bin was a mountain of forgotten relics of past Departments and brands. The Curator of the Books Department had requested multiple times to do an archeological survey into its unscoured depths and he’d rejected them all the same. Aside from the risk of enraging the Stockers and awakening some malfunctioning automaton, the Cashier Of Bargain Bin felt that perhaps some items were meant to be discounted forever.
The tin-can phone rattled, the string running through the front wall vibrating like a violin string. He picked it up and immediately regretted it.
“ Sir, it’s him.” The normally svelte voice of his secretary was distorted into an monotone warble of two people speaking together in tune.
“ Send him in.”
Diplomacy and deal-making were an unfortunate part of his responsibilities as Cashier that he’d learned to deal with since the expiry of the last Cashier. Sending out squads of Lifters couldn’t be done on a whim. You had to sign paperwork. You had to discuss details of payment. You had to talk with angry or idiot clients.
This particular client, though, he wanted to exile from his Department. He wanted to trap him inside one of the Fridges Of Groceries or drop him inside the misty lands of Baby Goods, let his corpse rot until the Janitors processed his body and send him off to the Land Beyond the Lots.
The door clicked open and a man strode in, his face covered by a over-cast hood that made his face seemed like an endless chasm. He walked over towards the Cashier and simply stood instead of sitting on the pastel-coloured plastic play stool on the floor. Clever bastard.
" I’ve been considering your offer for some time now.”
“ And?” The hooded man replied.
“ Convince me why I shouldn’t have Casio here nail your head to the floor.” On cue, the aforementioned bodyguard on his right brings out a hefty looking staple gun. , He points towards his guest accusatorily. “ Do you even know what position you’ve put me in?!”
It’s not a question meant to be answered and his client knows that. He continues forth, his answer slowly transforming into a rant simmering on the edge of rage.
“ An envoy of the Gucci Guard rode him to my office and said that the Glamagesh would like a private meeting with me. As if his Highness would deign to roam around with us out-of-fashions. Rumours spreads that the Rafters are mounting yet another assault on our territory. Amboluceti have been spotted in our northern borders, even though we haven’t seen them for several seasonals.” He takes another draught of the Caprisun and glares at the arrogant smile sitting across his coffee table. “ You should have never brought that cursed thing at all.”
“ Are the claims I’ve heard about the Bargain Bin unfounded? I thought you would take in any item, no matter the condition.”
“ It’s not the condition of the item, it’s the conditions of the contract! This contract is easily worth a thousand Pachinko tickets yet the price you’re giving for this is barely enough for a Wal-Cart.” The Cashier signs. “ I’m entrusting an artifact of the Great Sam to a naive dorf, a disgraced penja, a Pet-Master and his rabid runt, a Tron Girl who talks to obscure idols, some silk-clothed noble from Clothing and a half-mannequin brat.” His temper is rising. He snaps his fingers, vein pulsing on his head, as one of his attendants pours out a fresh lick of vintage Mountain Dew for him to sample. “ You’re playing a foolish game, Greeter.”
“ Foolish?” The Greeter simply smiled a Cheshire grin. “ The fool is the one who plays by the rules of the Wal. I’m merely changing them.”
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