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5 mos ago
Current still pretty alive thx
2 yrs ago
mostly not dead
2 yrs ago
i bet defenders would be even better if we just played 90s hip hop over all danny's lines
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2 yrs ago
lol bioware literally when have i ever just gone with one of the presets
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2 yrs ago
ugh dela don't be a fucking martyr it's not cute

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TY @vietmyke for letting me borrow your CS layout!

Also, this image is very much not mine and I take no credit for it, that goes here, to the best of my knowledge.

--


Banou Adiah

A Savage Turned Patriot, Eager to Serve the Land that Saved Her


Age: 18
Height/Weight: 5'4", 125 lbs
Race: Varyan, Ice Piratean - just don't call her Godless

Appearance:
With pale gray eyes called, by turns, 'piercing' and 'unsettling' (or just 'haunting' if the mood is right), Banou is easy to overlook but difficult to forget. Her thick, dark hair is nearly always braided and twisted into a neat, no-nonsense bun, and her armor covers most, but not all, off the tattoos marking her body. The war paint itself was tattooed onto her skin as a young child, a process no doubt as barbaric as the people who birthed her. Fortunately, Banou isn't the type to dwell overmuch on the past, particularly her own, and so does her best to pretend the marks are little more than a sign of how far she's come in her time serving Varya.

Personality: Patriotic | Reserved | Selfless | Loyal
For as long as she can remember (she does not count what little comes from those dark years on the plains), Banou has been happiest when she's working. Granted, it would take a close friend or confidant, of which very few exist, to distinguish a happy Banou from an angry Banou, or a desolate Banou, or a sleeping Banou. She is a soldier first and last, and if she feels she has a greater need to prove her loyalty to the empire than her more blood-worthy countrymen, well, it could only make her stronger -- like near everything else she does.

But.

Woe to those who attempt to draw shady lines between her childhood as one of the godless people on the plains. Banou has abandoned that life and title as cleanly as it abandoned her. Though she is slow to anger in most things, you'll find a quick and dangerous enemy beneath insinuations that Banou would do anything less than die for the Empire who has raised her.

Background:
As far as she's concerned, Banou's life began when she was five years old. On that day, she remembers vividly emerging from a ceaseless dark and cold into the unyielding, unforgiving, and yet ever-steady arms of the Varyan Empire. On that day, an Imperial scouting party met its quarry - a small and vicious band of Ice Pirates - and saw fit to rescue one lone survivor.

Banou's memories of her time before the Empire are few and fragmented, sharp and cold as shattered ice. She speaks very little of it, but in her dreams, she catches glimpses of who was, who her people were -- had been -- before her rescue. She does not speak of these dreams, or of who she was before. She does not remember, and does not want to.

It has been her life's goal ever since to prove her undying loyalty to her rescuing nation. And perhaps also to herself.

Because her earliest memories were of her own freedom at the end of a sword, Banou had never seen anything for her future but becoming a soldier. Her childhood was spent drifting between families and estates, usually as a stablehand, once as a very short-lived kitchen girl. She was conscripted by age ten, two years earlier than most children, if only by virtue of her utterly relentless need to prove her own aptitude for fighting.

And she was talented. Even in her earliest years of training, her strength, speed, and endurance marked her as a future commander, though in truth, she had no real desire to lead. She was perfectly happy working her way through the ranks until she was sixteen and taken to be personal bodyguard of the Sixth Dominion. Banou was skeptical for a time after learning the old woman had ruled over T'sarae, but Banou's former Captain Commander assured her even this could be of service to the Empire, and it was all Banou had needed to pour herself into it.

Her loyalty only redoubled on learning the old woman, a noted historian of sorts, meant to travel to the untamed east. Banou said nothing of it herself, but somewhere deep inside she suddenly understood she had been training her whole life for this moment.

Never again would a fellow soldier, or anyone, assume Banou shared anything more than bad blood with the people who had raised, and just as quickly abandoned her.

Talents/Ethereal Abilities:
  • Combat - If Banou wasn't the strongest or fastest soldier in her class, she was undoubtedly the most resilient. She is far from fearless, but nonetheless exudes unflappable calm on the battlefield, and is generally able to think a few steps ahead of her opponent. She's skilled with a number of weapons, both ranged and close combat, but her ice spear is her favorite, and she is deadly with a bow.
  • Ether'd Combat - She's no inquisitor, but years of practice and an indomitable will have made Banou slightly more gifted than the average soldier in manipulating her shallow store of ether. When in battle, she is somewhat stronger, and significantly faster, than her stature would have you believe. She also once staved off what would have been a killing blow with a paling that left her unconscious for two days. When she is not in battle, she practices smuggled secrets from the Seminary itself (or so she's been told) to keep her ether abilities sharp.
  • Cold-Blooded - Banou maintains a stubborn, and not entirely unsubstantiated, belief that she can handle cold better than the average Varyan. Whether this is true, or she's just stoic and willful enough to make herself and everyone around her believe it is yet unclear.
  • Luck - Alright, so it's hardly a talent, but Banou does have an uncanny way of just...knowing things. She considers herself competent, intuitive, 'not fucking blind', and sometimes, yes, even lucky.

Personal Seal:
A crescent moon over two hounds. Or something like this.

Character Relationships: [WIP]
- Mother Yonah, Sixth Dominion of the Divine Order
- Mother Yonah's handmaid, probably
@DotCom Btw! One of the old players of The Red Scarf Hymnal actually cataloged a lot of our writing, and thankfully it's still online. The old thread was a victim of the forum wipe a few years ago, so good thing she saved all our posts.

Here's a link to it. I sometimes go back and read it. :p

wattpad.com/5552288-the-red-scarf-hymnal


Everything about this is amazing.
Oh, wow, everything about this just made me so outrageously happy. And old. But mostly happy. Tonight, I think I need to hunt down your old work, but oh my goodness even just based on that, I’d have to think I’d be in. En route to Discord. What a turn of events!
Hi @Lovejoy - that name is familiar enough I’ll have to go digging, but fond-tinted memories, I think.

Is this still-still accepting? I’ve a good bit of catching up to do but also a rainy Saturday and a pot of coffee so it seems feasible if you all are still
looking...
B A T G I R L
MARV'S PIZZA

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


It took all of a few minutes for her to mentally retrace everything she'd seen upon entering Marv's a little under an hour ago. The kitchen was in the northwestern corner, opposite the front door and the mounting chaos outside. She'd seen the street entrance to the basement had been on the true western side of the building where the streets were narrower. Shitty for traffic, but the best bet if she was going to keep people - kids - off the street and away from the action.

Outside, a geyser of water erupted and the windows shook in their sills again.

Babs hesitated only a moment before tugging the hood of her sweatshirt up (hardly Bat-approved, but if anyone came away from the day their four-year-old's pizza party was ruined by what or whoever the hell had blown up Midtown with a perfect recall of her face, well...they probably deserved her job more than she did), surreptitiously reaching into her pocket and making a sudden motion at the wall opposite her. Careful eyes might have discerned a purple blur in the air, gone again as quickly as it had appeared. A moment later, every light but those in the kitchen flickered out.

Someone near her screamed and Babs quickly, gently(ish), ushered the woman through the kitchen doors, away from the windows.

"This way!"

Almost immediately, the crowd turned and surged toward the double doors. Babs watched a moment, wondering if there was a way for her to disconnect said doors from their hinges without drawing too much attention, but no. The bigger issue was making sure the path from kitchen to basement and back to street level was clear before all she caused was a sweaty, bloated pizza crush.

Suddenly, a large glass pane near the far side of the restaurant exploded inward, showering a group of girls not much older than herself in glass. Babs saw one, a pretty brunette she'd overheard talking about her shitty boyfriend, drop to the ground. Green eyes flickered between the growing kitchen crowd, to the girls at the window, and back.

"Oh, fuck me," she muttered. Reaching behind her, she slapped a hand against the wall, leaving a thing purple disk against the plaster, flashing red at anyone who cared to stoop to hip-height in the face of imminent death. A moment later, she was launching herself across booths and tables again to crouch at the corner where the girls were screaming over their bleeding friend.

"Hi, sorry, ladies, can I just - " She planted a single tennis shoe against the jagged edge of the sill and boosted herself up in a single fluid motion before grabbing the roll-down grate from the outside and tugging down. She paused only for a second, staring in mingled amusement and curiousity at the scene in the streets before her.

"...Clark?" she muttered before she could help herself. Only, no. That was almost immediately apparent. Clark was older, bigger, stronger...and a hell of a lot less prone to anything beyond Boy Scout language.

"Who the shit -?" was as far as she got before something collided with a streetlight at the corner. Babs watched, speechless for once, as the thing - a girl - started to roll to her feet, only for another thing (most definitely a thing this time) to follow after.

Babs took a breath to...what, warn the girl, maybe? But before she could say anything, the girl had quite taken care of herself, dragging herself to her feet as the ethereal light around her faded in the wake of her admittedly impressive attack.

Babs blinked. "Well, fuck me."

At her feet, one of the girls still in the restaurant screamed, and Babs shook herself, tugging the grate down the rest of the way. Right. First things first.

She dropped back to the floor, wrangled an arm around the waist of the fallen girl before tugging one of the girl's arms over her own shoulder.

"Hi," she said plainly. "Can you walk? We gotta go."
B A T G I R L
MARV'S PIZZA

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Even with the dulcet tones of a world-renowned, five-time SOCAN award-winning group of musicians in her head, Babs could see things were going nowhere fast. Extraterrestrial street battle or no, she was still all but sitting on a diner full of civilians getting fuller by the minute, with a blown gas line imminent and closing - and, if she had to guess from the geyser of water she could only just see out the crowded windows, their nearest source of water was perhaps not to be counted on.

So, okay, Babs, think. Get the people out of the kitchen and away from the fucking action. The fun part happens later, assuming Wally leaves any leftovers, and when does he ever?

Exhaling, Babs shut her eyes, retracing the whole of the restaurant before her in a matter of seconds, drawing as much on what she'd seen just sitting with her friends as she did the imagined layout of the kitchen, the bank next door, the open storage underneath -

Green eyes flew open again. Breaking into the freezers under the restaurant wouldn't hold a panicked crowd for long, but it'd get them off the streets, out of the way, and away from a gas leak long enough for the others to clean up.

Pulling herself up over tabletops again, Babs skirted the crowd in a series of quick movements until her Converse found the sticky floor again just outside the kitchen where the smell of gas was strong enough to make her head ache. With a furtive glance around her, she dipped a hand in her pocket and pulled out a small, black and purple case no larger than a compact mirror. She didn't travel her her gear wrapped around a finger like some did, but she'd been with Bruce too long not to be at least a little prepared.
B A T G I R L
MARV'S PIZZA

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Even before the explosion rattled the tiny pizza joint, Babs knew from the way Wally’s expression flashed from cautiously amused to vaguely alarmed confusion something bad was going to happen. But Wally was Wally, so even seeing his reaction didn’t give her much time to prep hers.

Fortunately, she’d never needed much.

Her ears were still ringing when Wally disappeared, though she could guess what he’d said. Barbara rolled her eyes and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. “Show off,” she muttered to herself before turning again to puzzle over the remainder of her friends. Well. Friend, plus a new guest she was going to assume was more indestructible than he looked. Most of her friends were.

“You good, kid?” she said. "What - ?" And then he was gone, and giving her a distinctly amphibian vibe at that. So, okay. She could hope he could take care of himself. And she knew Donna could. That just left -

Something else intruded on her senses, already going half a dozen miles a minute as she maneuvered herself away from their table and onto a counter stop sticky with beer.

Gas.

Her eyes darted to the kitchen. The brassy doors were still swinging on their hinges, but she’d caught a glimpse or two every time a server had walked out in the last thirty minutes, and it was enough she could have redecorated the kitchen from a snapshot if she'd wanted to.

A six-range stove, three grates burning. Two towering pizza ovens on the opposite wall, shouldering the gas line running along the backside of the building, nearest the explosion. And the steady flow of civvies seeking a safe harbor that was maybe minutes from inferno.

Barbara dropped gracefully back to the floor, just avoiding a screaming toddler as she did. Grimacing, she grabbed the kid, shoved him back into the waiting arms of the woman she'd seen feeding him when they'd walked in, and made a beeline for her table again.

"D," she said tonelessly. "Could use a hand real quick, if we can get these tables up against those windows before - "

Whatever else she might have said was cut off by another voice, and while Babs was more than used to being talked over at the proverbial dinner table, it usually wasn't quite so intimate.

A flicker of something that wasn't smug amusement or indifference flickered across her face - a flash of something genuine and just a little ugly. It was gone as soon as it had come.

Oh, for fuck's - Yeah, hey, kiddo. Cute party trick, but this headspace is strictly PG13, cool? Or is intellectual property not so much a thing where you're from?

And with that, she shut him out hard. Or tried to, anyway, shifting focus again to split her attention between the increasingly panicked diners and the unabridged drone of Nickelback's full discography. She worked better on her own, anyway.


| Character You're Applying For |
Barbara "Babs" Gordon // Batgirl

| Age |
14

| Powers And Abilities |
Acrobatics:
As a kid with a lot of energy, a knack for finding high places and tiny spaces, and a whole lot to prove, Babs made herself something of a name about town with her gymnastic ability. AKA hardcore parkour. If only it weren't for that tendency to skip classes, she might be an Olympic shoe-in in a few years.


Martial Artistry:
When it turned out gymnastics wasn't quite enough to curb the attitude, Gordon signed his kid up for martial arts, too. Figured it couldn't hurt, and any daughter of his was damn sure going to know how to protect herself. Mostly karate and tae kwon do, but her favorite is boxing.

This got dialed up to 11 after The Incident.


Eidetic Memory:
Not that Babs isn't smart, she's just...not Oracle, or not yet. She's quick on her feet, pragmatic, intuitive. But mostly, she's got crazy good recall. Any moment she's experienced she can essentially re-experience at a whim. It's got its pros and cons.


GADGETS [she's rich]:
We all saw the Justice League movie with Gal Gadot (and others, I guess?), right? And there's that kind of smarmy exchange between Ben Affleck and KF or whatever is name is?

Same same. Not rich, maybe, but she's got a solid good line of Batarangs and more, and she knows how to use 'em.


| Origin And Backstory |
Perhaps more of an amalgamation of Babs and Kate than originally intended. This Babs still lives with Commissioner Gordon, a divorced former semi-official Green Beret and vague "Special Forces" vet.

Let's say she was visiting a distant cousin abroad at age 12, and instead of being kidnapped and ransomed with her mother and twin sister, a lá Kate, she was kidnapped and ransomed with the daughter of Gordon's friend and former squadmate. The daughter was lost, and Kate Barbara was determined never to put herself, or anyone else in that position again.

Fast forward a few years, Babs sees an easy way to get around Gordon's otherwise super strict curfew. She'd been hearing about the Bat and other costumed do-gooders (her dad still insisted on calling them vigilantes...though that word had shifted in the last year or so) for sometime when his little sidekick showed up. And hell, if all it took to do something other than sit around and wait to be old enough to join a GPD she knew Gordon only just managed not to bitch about was an aerial walk or two...well, why not try her hand at it? Babs had always had a rebellious streak and now she had a grudge to match.

And goddamn did the one they called Batwoman look good in a skin-tight suit.

It was lucky Bruce found her first, probably. He didn't turn her into her dad, so that was something. Still, though. The guy made 'straight-laced' sound like a heroine bender.

And what was the point of wearing a mask if you were just gonna go by the rules anyway?

| Summary of Version Differences |
Crafted after an era of my late teenage years (and most of my 20s, tbh) spent lusting after Kate Kane. The Barbara Gordon who was smart, quick, and restless enough to play vigilante to an overbearing father figure while her actual father publicly decried her actions (for a time). OR the Barbara Gordon who looked up to Batwoman instead of Batman.

Down with the patriarchy.



Jay's Pawn Shop
Midtown East, Manhattan


It'd taken an agonizing 43 minutes to reach the store - already a miracle by late-night, Queens-to-Midtown standards, but still not quite as miraculous as Kamala could have pulled off. It would have been faster, better to run there. But if Jersey City was still adjusting to the occasional twenty-foot teen sighting, well...Manhattan wasn't going to stand for it anytime soon.

Kamala was half hoping, half terrified it'd all be done and over in the worst way by the time she reached her destination. And maybe it would be better that way. Maybe she'd heard the name wrong, or the address. Maybe none of this had anything to do with her anyway, and she was paranoid and bored and restless after too long spend at home, hero-ing in the boring, RA way, instead of...well, the alternative.

And, really, was this even her business? JC was one thing, at least people sort of knew her there. She had neighbors, she had a neighborhood to look out for. Here...it was like every block with a Starbucks or bodega had a caped crusader or six marking his or her territory, and if that was the case, Kamala was way, way out of bounds.

But.

But even if this wasn't Jersey City, this was Jay's. This was Vince. This was Bruno.

She hadn't spoken to her best friend almost since Josh had died -- the night he'd told her he was leaving notwithstanding -- but it didn't mean she'd ever stopped thinking about him. They'd always been close, and even closer after she'd become Ms. Marvel, and subsequently gotten his little brother Vince out of some seriously weird trouble.

She hated to think he might have found himself back in a mess, but more than that...she hated to think what Bruno would say if she let someone else he loved die.

So. Queens to Manhattan, and now...now to find a way into the pawn shop. Kamala thought it was weird that there could be so many police cars with so little noise, but maybe no one really worried about stuff like this so far from the UES.

In any case, crashing a heist was a hell of a lot easier than crossing the bridge. Being unrecognizable, even in a cowl and mask, had its bonuses. Being two inches tall, though, was even better. Dodging flashes of red and blue light for the safety of the shadows, Kamala skirted the outside of the building, pushed in through the conjoined (though now vacated) bodega cat door, and ducked behind the counter of the pawn shop for as long as it took her to get her bearings.

It took her about that long to realize why everything seemed way quieter than it should have been.

---

The hostage situation...wasn't. Or at least not in anyway she could tell. Definitely a situation, but hostage? Not so much. Outside, she could hear police sirens and vague, occasional mutterings through a bullhorn. Inside, the radio had been turned down just enough to hear the latest mumble-rap crackling under Vince's voice.

Any relief she might have felt that he was alive, though, was short-lived.

Vince didn't sound scared, or even all that concerned. He was bargaining, yeah, sure. Any good pawn shop employee was always doing that, but given what she'd seen, heard on the news, in the grisly scenes she'd been replaying in her head for the last hour, she'd have guessed bargaining with his life, and whatever was left in the cash box before the shop closed for the night.

This? This was not that. Without a sound, Kamala felt herself stretch back into something closer to normal seventeen-year-old size, though she didn't leave her place crouched behind the glass cases of bowie knives and gold watches just yet.

"C'mon, dude, you don't even know what it fucking is, just give it to me."

That was Vince, and then in response to him, a laugh Kamala thought sounded sort of slurred, if that was a thing.

"Don' need to know what it is to know't matters to you." The second voice was unfamiliar...mostly. She couldn't have named the speaker if she'd tried, and yet for some reason, she couldn't help but feel she ought to know him. "Somethin' big, too, or you'd'a let the p'lice in by now."

"Still time," Vince fired back, though he sounded uncertain. "They got guns, man, and your face is on cameras. They could shoot you. They could kill you."

"Faster'n I could kill you?"

Kamala moved without thinking. Again. It was a bad habit her new reflexes were making much worse. She was lucky her newfound flexibility came with built-in damage repair.

Two injured, one dead, the news had reported. And Vince's...customer, as it were, was right -- if the police hadn't stormed the building yet, there was probably a reason why.

But for now, there was only Vince, the the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest.

"Vince, move!" Kamala demand-shrieked as she lurched bodily from her hiding space.

Later, she wasn't quite sure what happened after that, only that it had happened impossibly fast.

At the same time her club of a malformed hand wrapped around the gun's muzzle, Kamala saw a new figure, pale, hulking, crouched by the door, shaking, suddenly straighten to an impressive height, even by her standards.

In front of her, both Vince and his friend turned to look at her, equal parts surprised and confused. The friend recovered faster, whipped a shadowy something behind his back, and fired his gun with his other hand.

And somewhere behind her, one of the glass display cases exploded, throwing a shower of glittering, crystalline shards into the air, each catching in a halo of flashing police lights to paint purple diamonds on the walls between new drops of blood.
<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

I don't work that way, m8.


*pointing finger emoji* seconded

---> TO THAT END next post is also a WIP, but en route. I don't think anyone had mentioned a regimented posting order, but if someone's waiting for me, you should not do that.
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