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5 mos ago
Current #RIP Harambe
8 mos ago
How much wood WOULD a woodchuck chuck? If a woodchuck could chuck wood? Maybe that dork Sally selling seashells down by the sea shore knows...
1 yr ago
Can everybody do me a huge solid and like this post:…
2 yrs ago
Because asking the mods "gib power" is a much better bid than demonstrating a groundswell of supporters, right? #Wraith4Mod2K19
3 yrs ago


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Most Recent Posts

Lol as for me, school has started and sucked up a lot of my free time, and also my cat broke my computer monitor so I haven't been able to do much of anything.

Also, I've been waiting to hear back from @DocTachyon about collaborating with Charles, and now apparently they are dropping the character? So can I just write a post with Charles in it?

I guess I more mean I'm backing off of Charles as a driving character, but I can still write him as a support for others, if you'd have me. And ofc I'm willing to give baldie up completely if anyone comes forward with a proper X-Men concept
Should make it public that I'm backing off of Charles and the X-Men. I could see picking them up again someday, perhaps in this very game if the circumstances align, but as of now, they're up for grabs. That said, I'd still like to hang on to Wolverine as support for other characters.
Things have been pretty busy for me as well on account of school starting soon -- I'm trying to take plenty of hours at my job and save up before I start classes again. But, if things don't shut down again, I have an hour and 1/2 train commute to and from school to look forward to this year that will become dedicated post writing time.
I wish I had more detail to add to this sheet... But I think it's got all the detail it needs. It's only a couple paragraphs, take it or leave it. Fellow GMs, accept or deny at your peril.


L O G A N S T A B B E R S A L E M C E N T E R , N E W Y O R K /
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"Don't be a buster, bub."

Wolverine is damn hard to kill, as his enemies have had to find out time and time again.

Logan knows he's been alive for a long time. He has memories from as far back as The Great War, but by Xavier's measure he may be even older than that. Logan has lost many memories over time, but what he knows for sure is this: he's lived through wars, he had unbreakable metal fused to his skeleton, he used to live in Japan, he's had a hell of a lot of brain trauma, and he's an X-Man, through and through.

Thanks to Charles Xavier, and the donated memories of fellow X-Men, Logan can at least remember his recent history with some accuracy. He's been an X-Man for some odd fifteen years, running his claws through anyone that'd dare threaten his found family. He's fought the Hellfire Club, been to space (more than once!), beat the absolute tar out of Scott Summers, helped repel the Dominator invasion, and has even ended up as an Avenger at the prodding of Captain America and Charles Xavier.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ):

I like writing fight scenes. I don't know if you've heard, but Wolverine is the best there is in a good scrap. Logan has kind have been the town bicycle in these games, going from player to player in a variety of concepts, but this take is gonna be fairly back to basics, drawing pretty heavily from how he's portrayed in Claremont's UXM run. That is to say: a socially stunted little man with more anger than sense, someone who is the best there is at what he does.

As you can see from the banner subtitling this run "Wolverine Versus", I'd like to have Wolverine run up against all manner of foes to test his mettle against. Ideally, Wolverine's run will be more or less a Sensation & Wonder fight club, whether he's duking it out against or alongside his fellow heroes. To facilitate interaction, Wolverine retains his X-Men membership, but is also an Avenger alongside his war buddy Captain America.

Essentially, Logan is here to hang out with Avengers or other player's that'd conceivably know him, and to stab guys real good.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

This sheet is fairly basic, but I really do intend for this to be a more or less vanilla Wolverine to play off other characters. I do have individual plans for him that I'd like to weave through his supporting arcs, but there's no neat way to explain them in a character concept format without spilling my spoilers. Suffice to say that memory is a hell of a thing.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

WOLVERINE #1 - Make It Right

Salem Center, New York

Whole place smells like grease an’ old sweat, an’ I can tell ‘Sako can’t stand it. Her face is all twisted up into a half-scowl, her nose is scrunched so hard it looks like it’s trying to escape to her forehead. I can smell her sweat through the shimmerin’ psionic armor wrapped around her body, can see the pit stains running all the way down her shirt and the perspiration watercolor all over her face. I’ve been runnin’ her hard, the way she needs.

‘Sako goes by Armor, an’ the way she tells it, she wants to be an X-Man more than anything, just like damn near all the ankle biters livin’ in an’ around the ol’ X-Mansion. I figure most of ‘em don’t got what it takes -- for every little miss Power Pack there’s some meathead punk who thinks he can be an X-Man ‘cause he can punch good -- but ‘Sako always knew better.

She came in older n’ most kids on campus. In my book, she was the best older kid, the only one with more going on in her life than some cell-phone, and the only one who didn’t get any ideas about “borrowing” my beer. And she always put on one hell of a show in the Danger Room. When the rest were cryin’ over scraped knees and lettin’ everything I taught ‘em about fightin’ fall to the wayside, she was in the meat of it, smashin’ through hardlight constructs and workin’ her tail off to keep herself in tiptop, an’ to keep the rest of the munchkins around her from becomin’ Danger Room chow. She was good as anyone, even better n’ a few o’ the active X-Men at the time. But this was before Chuck got it in his dome that we could even consider young’ns as X-Men, so all she’d get for her efforts was a pat on the back n’ a reminder to study for whatever book learnin’ Charlie had in store for her.

Charlie wanted her to stay at the Institute for college, but me an’ Scotty sat her down ta’ tell her she deserves to see the world before she’s asked to protect it. We sent her off a few years ago, to some big money dump that made me roll my eyes, but made ‘Sako’s glimmer. Never heard much about it from her, though. Mosta’ the time her summers back here amounted to the same four words she’d say every time she walked through those doors: “You. Me. Danger Room.”

This is our third summer at it, an’ she’s really startin’ ta’ give me a run for my money. I leave for an Avengers joint for a week, an’ I come back to find out she’s been out-scorin’ me, on my Danger Room courses. Fer my money, that alone more’n makes her X-Man material, but Scotty, Cyclops, is still wafflin’ about it, in his infinite wisdom as glorious leader of the X-Men. Ol’ one-eye keeps givin’ me some rag about wantin’ her to finish school, or pump up her score in team exercises, but more n’ more I figure what’s botherin’ Cyke is the amount of time she spends with me. Doesn’t help that I started bringin’ her to my personal training room.

Y’see, while ago the Prof installed some fancy Shi’ar alien gizmos to ‘upgrade’ the Danger Room, tore most o’ the old one out. Now instead of cheesy robots, metal armatures, and surprise pits in the floor, it’s all virtual reality. Hardlight trainin’ dummies an’ photorealistic backgrounds, but for all that it never smelled right, never felt right. Gettin’ to slash through real metal, feelin’ the flecks of steel stab into your knuckles, tastin’ iron in the air, is a helluva lot better than wipin’ some dopey construct.

On account o’ that simple fact, me an’ Colossus dragged as much of the old Danger Room’s guts out inna’ woods to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I figure it’s gotta be ten times as dangerous as the one under the mansion now, and ten times the fun.

Cyclops about exploded when he found out I’d been bringin’ her. Bad enough that I trained her, he says, bad enough that that I taught her how to maul her way through Danger Room trials, but God Forbid I get her used to doin’ real damage with her powers. Says if we keep goin’ like this, somebody’s gonna end up dead. I told him to tattle to Xavier if he had a problem, and ta’ remember to apply his asshole ointment. Why shouldn’t I teach her? I’m the best there is at what I do.

‘Sako’s in my Danger Room with me now, throttlin’ a lobster-clawed robot that’s lookin’ for purchase on her armor. My claws are popped an’ I’m making mincemeat out of as many bots as I can get my mitts on, but they’re just keeping me busy so I can’t bail her out. We’re both knee deep in cut ribbons of battle plate an’ oil but they just keep comin’, pourin’ out of the walls like fire ants.

‘Sako’s claws are popped, too. They’re new this summer, pinkish psychic protrusions comin’ from her armor’s knuckles. They ain’t near as sharp as mine, but I’m dead chuffed to watch ‘em slash through lobster bots like rice paper. She’s a fighter after my own heart. Tenacious, tough as nails, an’ -- she’s dancin’ through the crowd of bots now, gettin’ closer to me. Her claws are a flurry around her, cuttin’ open chest cavities and separatin’ robo heads from bodies with abandon, oil flowin’ over her claws like blood -- now that I reach for it, only word that comes to mind fer’ her is deadly. I’m the best there is at what I do, but I’m reminded that what I do best isn’t very nice.

But these are just robots. Rippin’ an’ tearin’ gears an’ wires don’t make you a killer any more n’ playin’ virtual NHL will make you Wayne Gretsky. I shove one bot aside and spear my claws through another’s eyesockets. Cyclops knows it don’t turn you into what I am… But I know it don’t hurt, neither.

|Logan, your attention is requested.| Chuck’s psychic presence flares in my head, callin’ out to me from beyond.

|What’s the sitch, baldie?| I think, watching ‘Sako leap backwards and slam an elbow drop into robot’s noggin.

|It appears an acquaintance of yours is back in town.| Charlie’s thought comes to me with more n’ just the words, but the feelin’s, the mem’ries. The lead smell o’ bullets minglin’ with the iron of blood, petroleum gun lubricant sticky on calloused fingers, a white symbol emblazoned in the minds of damn near every criminal in the city. Most of all, he touches on a promise in my head, an oath I swore long ago to an old friend, a man as determined as ‘Sako. An’ ‘Sako’s as vicious as him, I think with a shudder. I can’t help myself from sayin’ it as I think it:

”Frank Castle’s back?”
in which Doc posts a shitload of heavily WIP support options

X-MEN #1 - Endorphinmachine

Unknown Region, Northern Atlantic Ocean

The complex’s entrance was belied by a single skiff, bobbing helplessly in the sea. To passersby, it would appear the consequence of high seas and drunken sailors, left to die in the most treacherous waters north of the Bermuda Triangle. Here, where the torrential tides of shore gave way to oceans ruled by the machinations of hurricanes, beyond the purview of even the sea gods of Atlantis. These were Cabal waters.

Sebastian Shaw had heard it called a cabal, anyway. They didn’t know the meaning of the word. By Shaw’s reckoning, his resources and cunning alone represented over half of the group’s measure. The rest were the dregs, nazi scientists, fool magicians. There was even a sallow fellow with a giant head that had not a drop of sense to fill it. All this jammed into a pressurized tub shaped -- infuriatingly -- like their leader’s head. At least the Dominators had gotten the color wrong.

Shaw approached on a vessel of his own, a white wedge of a submersible, sealed from the elements by way of a translucent dome affixed overhead, with a smart white leather and steel interior. Nothing to brag about at the yacht club, but sufficiently traceless and comfortable for Shaw’s purposes.

“Leland, take us down,” Shaw said, spotting the damned marker. Harold Leland was one of the few personal associates Shaw would dare allow near such enterprise. The rest of his entourage were too keen for advancement, and too sharp to miss the opportunity to throw him off balance. To bring them here tonight would be to hand them his Hellfire Club whole, and indeed, the world entire. Leland, by contrast, was as dull as he was rotund. He made a fine second, clever only the ways that were not of true threat to Shaw’s aims, limited in imagination and, against Shaw’s ability, sorely lacking in threat.

Leland gestured and the craft descended, sinking into the brine as if a stone. Wielding his mutancy, Leland could control any object’s mass, as he did now with the ship’s ballast, bringing them face to face with the sea’s grinning skull.

“Into the devil’s gullet, eh Shaw?” Leland said. They approached the base, diving to where the skull’s apparent teeth met the seabed, where Black Manta’s submersibles ferried themselves in and out of the dock.

“Were it so dignified,” said Shaw. Their craft settled in a cylindrical chamber of slick foreign material now covered in barnacles and the vestiges of wild seaweed. The skull around them moaned like a whale as its pneumatic systems worked to purge the water in preference to the oxygen that most of the crew favored. Shaw approached his craft’s airtight entrance as water voided the space.

“Leland,” he said, turning the door’s handle, “wait, and be prepared to beat a hasty retreat. The locals may object to our current interests.”

Leland nodded simply, and Shaw stepped out to seize his destiny.


The facility of today’s interest was one of the labs of Professor Ivo, a reed thin man in his sixth or seventh decade with an uncanny knack for being in two places at once, on account of his small army of robot duplicates. By this Ivo’s ten pound eye bags, and the orange scruff erupting from his chin, Shaw assumed this one was the genuine article.

Ivo worked at a gutted cyborg of an office desk, covered in oil and screws and other machine viscera. The room it inhabited had to be as large as Grand Central Station, ceiling swooping up and back down again in a flourish of alien architecture, but Ivo’s desk was almost imperceptible against the production line that whirred around it. The line was of decidedly human construction, with flat metal angles and rubberized conveyors carrying the parts of robotic homunculi that gleamed in the low light.

“Ivo,” Shaw greeted him.

“Sebastian,” he responded, his soldering iron flashed in the dimness, “come to finally stand amongst the rest of the freaks and geeks, have you?”

“I haven’t time for chit-chat, little man,” Shaw said, “I’ve come for a data core.”

“Select one at your leisure. Though I’m afraid you will find it quite useless without the entirety of the associated android.” Ivo held his work up to the light, a squat green motherboard speckled with gold flecks of computer intelligence, dioded in accordance with Zola’s research. The corners of his mouth turned down, dissatisfied.

“It was flagged for retrieval in your system hours ago,” the edge of Shaw’s voice slipped into annoyance.

Aah, Ivo said, bemusement in his tone, that data core. The computer could hardly distinguish it from the others. A production error.”

Ivo turned to face him, with a crooked smile returned to his face. “What use has a mutant businessman in such a thing?” The question was surely a trap. Shaw thought for only a moment,

“It will make a suitable basis for the Hellfire Club’s supercomputer,” he lied, “once we’ve stripped it of your... quirks.” Ivo laughed, a cruel tutting sound that quickly gave way to a pained wheeze. From the insult, or his paltry lie, Shaw could not tell.

“There,” Ivo gestured with his chin at the other side of the lab, “you’ll keep me abreast of any developments, I’m sure. Computers are my speciality.” His smile was coy.

“Mmm,” Shaw grunted in half-response, content that Ivo wouldn’t get in his way for the time being. He walked across the lab, stepping over a section of belt that converged in an ‘x’ at the room’s center, passing robotic heads and torsos between one another. The opposite bench that Ivo indicated was relatively clear, spare a splotch of machine grease and a broken socket wrench laying impotent across it. But the core was nowhere to be found.

“Cold.” A voice out of the darkness. Shaw started. He craned his neck back at Ivo, who still toiled at his desk.

“Colder,” the voice said. Shaw whirled to it, his mind reaching out for his mutant power.

“Hot,” it said, and Shaw’s eyes settled on its holder. Out of the dark was Felix Faust, another of their cabal, dressed head to toe in dream colored robes that obscured everything but the malignant ‘v’ of his brow and the poison emeralds of his eyes beneath. In a gloved hand, he held Shaw’s core. It was a tight metallic framework wreathed about an imperceptibly detailed crystal lattice. It was the only medium that could sustain the amount of data they required, and the only thing durable enough to be expected to survive in an android’s core.

“The core is of no use to you, sorcerer,” Shaw growled.

“Perhaps,” said Faust, “and perhaps not. Don’t think the significance of it is lost on me, Shaw.”

Shaw rankled. Faust already knew it was no ordinary core. Ivo described it as a production error; this was true, if only partially. Shaw turned his hand over, presenting his palm to Faust.

“Give it. I won’t ask twice,” he said.

“Were it in your power to take,” said Faust. He turned the core in his hands, “need I underscore its significance?”

He didn’t need to. The core, this core, was a one-in-a-trillion chance, if the odds were even so favorable. The core was not a simple error, but a mutant. The Dominators, these Dominators, this ship, were themselves mutants from the core line of their species, hailing from an outworld conquered by their race long ago. As they mutated, so did their technology, as production errors were accepted over years as a part of their baseline. Then, with Ivo’s mutant intelligence in command of the ship’s facilities, he had the fortune to produce this: a mutant among mutants. It would be useless in Ivo’s hands, simply a broken datacore, useful for only the raw data inside. In Faust’s it was but a mystic trinket, but in Shaw’s?

“Name your price,” Shaw relented, folding his arms. A vulture’s grin spread across Faust’s face. He opened his opposite hand and starched parchment paper materialized from the ether.

“A contract,” Faust said, “one you will find quite unbreakable. It ensures my safety against your ends, whatever they may be.”

“And?” Shaw didn’t need to read the fine print to know there was a catch. Faust knew his way around a treacherous bargain.

“It entitles me to a favor, of whatever kind I desire. An… ‘IOU’, if you will.” A quill materialized in the air as Faust spoke. Shaw had always avoided ‘favors’, especially those that go undefined. It was an implicit upperhand, for the holder to use the cudgel of responsibility to hammer those that owe him into whatever shape he so desires. And with Faust, such a claim would be enforced by magic, that Shaw’s Hellfire Club had no way of countering… But Shaw wasn’t spoiled for choice. He signed and the contract disappeared in a hellish ‘BAMF’ of sulfur and brimstone.

“Chosen smartly, mortal,” Faust commented. His fingers waggled and the core took to the air, listing end over end as it wheeled lazily to Shaw’s grasp.

Snatching it from the air, the magical sheathe Faust used Shaw send it to him was dispelled and he held the raw weight of the object’s awesome might in his hands. Free of the sorcerer’s influence, the core melted to boiling, liquid metal, forever destroying the data within but unlocking the power inside. A mutant among mutants among mutants, a twist of fate daring to produce mutant destiny in a single object. The liquid took shape, drawing up and to a point, then fanning out as though a long arrowhead.

It resolved to the head of a broken spear in Shaw’s hands, its former texture of grayed steel replaced with gleaming gold. Shaw’s hands were upon its edge immediately, running his fingers along it until they ran red with blood and his mind erupted in newfound power.

It struck him instantly, lifting his soul out of his body and at once forcing it back inside, his new ability already burgeoning within his veins. He knew his new capabilities intuitively, the spear’s voice whispering in his ear. Spear or no, Shaw had become invincible. He allowed himself a thin smile, sealing his fingers about the spear’s shaft.

Terror was plain on Faust’s face. He had miscalculated just what Shaw would gain from interface with the thing. He had expected Shaw to grow more powerful, but he could not reconcile the man before him as a simple mutant, he had become a god.

“You cannot harm me,” Faust said, scurrying backward like the cockroach he was. So easily squashed.

“Aye, sorcerer,” Shaw said, “as you cannot stop me,” he turned on his heel, “as no one can.” It was not a boast, but a statement of simple fact.

“A new world approaches, Faust. Make ready for your new Black King.”
The first death in Barry’s life was his mother, killed in contempt by the Reverse Flash. It was quick, brutal. Barry would always remember the way the Reverse Flash looked just after, not looking at Barry, but just past him, lips twisted into a cruel smile.

Barry saw death for the first time as a young man, as a sear of black scarcely visible through the lightning storm that crackled between his and Pietro’s footsteps. Both boys thought it a trick at the time -- surely it was only a madcap Mirror Master illusion, or some obscure machination of the Reverse Flash. Only a clue to a grander scheme, not a threat in itself.

The next was watching it approach and then fade into impossible distance, faster than Barry could hope. Death was a man, a black racer, unbound by his speed from the limitations of space or time, able to snatch Barry’s mentor’s soul and be gone, almost before he could notice.

Since, Death had lingered in Barry’s perception; a streak skating through those disasters he wasn’t quite fast enough to reach, even dogged on Death’s heels, blowing his lungs out with the effort. Over time, Barry could get closer, no longer a dozen meters behind, but half that. A quarter. An eighth. Soon he was close enough to see Death was not cloaked in ethereal robes, but a costume, like Barry’s. It was black and sleek and seemed to stretch on forever, encircling everything Barry loved.

Eventually, Barry grew to outpace even Death, able to grab Batman and run from his grasp until the caped crusader could be returned to proper life. For a time, Barry thought he could outrun Death altogether. At the height of his speed, he could stay one step ahead of the racer, maneuvering everyone and everything out of his reach, keeping Death just at bay. If he pushed himself, maybe there would be no death, not ever again.

Mojoworld proved otherwise. When Batman died, the other Batman, Barry hadn’t even gotten a chance to see the racer claim Batman’s soul, he could only feel the racer’s presence worming into the back of his mind as Batman lay dying.

It was like that here, too. He couldn’t see the death, but he could feel it, footprints burned into his mind. The Black Racer was near. Had he already collected? No: had he come for them?

He juggled the questions in his mind as he zoomed through the facility. Whatever had happened here, it started fast. Several rooms had shattered coffee pots, glass exploding from too much time on the burner unattended. Computer terminals, awoken from their slumber by lightning-fast inputs, showed an array of half-written research reports and emails. Some had stopped mid word. He would’ve stopped to read them, tried to get a greater understanding of the facility, if it wasn’t for the blood.

He had excused the first few droplets he saw. Maybe someone had slashed their thumb with a papercut, or let a drop of their bloody nose loose onto their desk. The deeper he drew in the facility, the deeper the blood became -- in one hallway, reinforced at either side with haphazardly lain office equipment, the blood stood in a pool just up past the soles of Flash’s boots. Its deep red stained his bright costume darker as he ran.

There had been a battle here, he could tell from the desperate, slipshod construction of each barricade he encountered, but there were almost no signs of a real fight. Just officeware stained crimson. He had searched easily hundreds of meters of facility, winding halls and all, but beyond the blood, he only had two signs of what had happened here.

The first was the cuts. In a whirlwind glance as he dashed past, he thought it was the trace of an attack, a wild slash by someone endowed with claws like Wolverine’s. There were four cuts, each so deep in the walls that they consigned themselves to darkness before Barry could see their ends. They were too accurateto have come from Wolverine, maybe too pristine to have been made by a man at all. They appeared to be of equal volume, each carefully inches apart. Too far for a clawed hand, too perfect for the random variation of biology. There bore inside was smooth to Barry’s touch, sanded down to precise, flat features. The concrete that should have been in the wall, be it dust, rubble, or thick slices of it simply removed, were nowhere to be found.

Then, deeper, there were the shell casings. Four, exactly, with matching bullet holes that traced up the facility’s walls and onto the ceiling. The shooter was unconfident, or injured, firing at a target larger than them. Much larger, if Barry had to guess. The cases laid in a puddle of blood, at least as big around as Cap’s shield. Maybe the gunman hit his target, shots blasting through whatever it was and leaving their marks in the walls… But the blood spatter didn’t support it. There would be clean arcs of blood slashed against the walls from the bullets exit, but instead the patterns seemed almost random. Like, all at once, the blood had been evacuated from the shooter’s body.

Odder still, the shots were the only sign of a fight. He expected a discarded magazine, a torn scrap of armor or clothing. He’d have settled for a post-it note that read “oh, no”, but there was nothing. Whatever was here, whatever presence Six sensed, it had covered its tracks well… Too well for them to see it coming if it came back.

“M’gann?” Barry tried to project his thoughts as he ran, feet pounding down the corridors to the security room, “I’m almost back to Steve and the others. I think we’re in trouble...”

Barry rounded the last corner before his destination and stopped flat in his tracks. Where he expected the familiar steel door, laying crumpled beside the entrance, was a featureless steel wall. Had he gotten turned around? He was The Flash! He could run circles around a facility like this… He used to run circles around facilities like this. He gulped, and thought again.

“... I might be in trouble.”
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