I do love me a good JoJo and I'm always excited about a bizarre adventure or two. I'd have to do a little research on public school in New York and the city for a character though.
DruSM157
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STATUS: Jokes on everyone I just look like a sad Travis Touchdown who has really really loud shits 2 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 3 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: DruSM157
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
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- VMs: 3
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Jokes on everyone I just look like a sad Travis Touchdown who has really really loud shits
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2 yrs ago
You status bar people sure are a contentious bunch
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2 yrs ago
Adding to that, unless you are exhibiting life threatening symptoms (unable to breathe, etc) go to a rapid test site in your area than going to the ER. Local ERs are swamped and overwhelmed here.
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2 yrs ago
As someone who has been stabbed in the past knives are not kinky
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2 yrs ago
I'd rather just...never take a lewd of myself.
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A Very Bizarre Interest Check! | Jojo's Bizarre Adventure
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5 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Smith's Rest | Public House
January 16th, 2677
“Coffee please. Black’s fine.” The young man shifted in his thick jacket; even in the temperature controlled areas of Smith’s Rest, he still couldn’t find any real warmth. He was used to heat after all; spending years working in the southeast and southwest. He’d braved dust storms, hurricanes, beasts and raiders, but he worried that it would be the cold that would eventually do him in.
“Not used to the cold?” The proprietor of the public house inquired, handing him a steaming metal mug.
“Can’t say I am,” the man muttered, sipping at the mug before recoiling from the heat. “Damn that’s hot! Good though,” he added, attempting another sip.
“You’re not one of those new pilots that have been hired, are you?” The man suddenly seemed a little worried at the young man’s demeanor and attitude.
“Well I’m here for orientation and interview,” he added after another sip. “But it’s not uncommon for pilots to get cut from a job due to lack of information and knowledge. Sometimes you have to build a reputation in an ar-”
“We know about mercs.” The proprietor snapped. “We don’t need mercs. We need pilots.”
The man brought the mug upwards, swallowing the boiling liquid with one gulp, before convulsing slightly due to the heat. He placed the mug on the counter and handed his credit chit over. “That’s good news then, because I am a pilot.”
He stood up, smirking at the man, before stepping outside. It was oddly silent until the sudden howl of the man’s voice sounded through the metal door. “FUCK THAT WAS HOT!”
Alan Fouren stood looking out a thick glass window into what seemed like endless roving snowfields. His mouth still burned, but he felt he’d made his intent clear; at least until he failed to stick the landing with that last attempt to appear tough. He wasn’t here to be a flashy merc, but he wasn't here to be a sniveling yes man either. He’d cut his teeth over the years and had come highly recommended, even though he’d asked his contacts to downplay his achievements. It wasn’t humility he was after, it was insurance.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath, feeling another chill set him on. Was this psychosomatic? Just the sight of ice making him colder than he actually was? He pulled the neck of his jacket tight, and turned from the window, continuing down the hallway. It was almost time to head to the base for this mysterious orientation. It was going to be a short tram ride to the operations base, and he was supposed to meet some suit there. It was all too formal for what he was used to; back in the day it was simple.
Alan walked into the smoky office in Cutter’s Split, somewhere a few hundred klicks north of Vegas. It was a dry climate, rocky with some vegetation here and there. There was a large expanse of nature north of Cutter’s Split, a giant deciduous forest full of all sorts of violent flora and fauna ready for travelers to get too comfortable surrounded by what little greenery was left. He’d done some work there before, but he knew this was different.
“Got some news for ya, kid,” Old Deek, the main contact for any job north of Vegas, had called Alan in as soon as he’d arrived. If Deek called you, you checked in quick: especially if it dealt with a lucrative contract.
“What kind of news? More work out towards the rainy coast?”
“Nah, nothin about fuckin with Red Star or Volkov shit. This is about that little issue you asked me to look into.”
Alan’s face hardened and he placed both palms flat on Deek’s messy desk, pushing credit chits and papers aside. “Did you find it?”
“Just a rumor. Out in Alaska. I got you an in, too. Old Denver soldier, some folks in my network knew him: he’s apparently calling for pilots up there.”
“Scrapper job?”
“Nope. They want full-time pilots.”
“What the hell do they have up there to call for that kind of call?”
“No idea. But the guy’s the real deal. No idea why he went all the way out to Alaska from Denver, but don’t try and fuck with him. He’s a trained killer. Company boy for DV.”
“I ever kill any of his friends?”
“Naw.”
“Alright. Get my info out there then. Keep it subdued; don’t put any fancy bullshit about me in there either. I’m just a pilot, that’s all.” It was time to head north.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Alan’s datapad brought him back to reality, and he looked at the time.
He started down the hallway, and towards the tram. He’d arrive just on time, and find a place towards the back of the group, keep his head down and get through it. Graham worried him though. Alan was a scrapper, a waster and a dependable worker. But he wasn’t a soldier. But then again, this wasn’t a City either. He’d have to see exactly what was coming up. He’d improvise if he needed to. He was a survivor, after all.
“Not used to the cold?” The proprietor of the public house inquired, handing him a steaming metal mug.
“Can’t say I am,” the man muttered, sipping at the mug before recoiling from the heat. “Damn that’s hot! Good though,” he added, attempting another sip.
“You’re not one of those new pilots that have been hired, are you?” The man suddenly seemed a little worried at the young man’s demeanor and attitude.
“Well I’m here for orientation and interview,” he added after another sip. “But it’s not uncommon for pilots to get cut from a job due to lack of information and knowledge. Sometimes you have to build a reputation in an ar-”
“We know about mercs.” The proprietor snapped. “We don’t need mercs. We need pilots.”
The man brought the mug upwards, swallowing the boiling liquid with one gulp, before convulsing slightly due to the heat. He placed the mug on the counter and handed his credit chit over. “That’s good news then, because I am a pilot.”
He stood up, smirking at the man, before stepping outside. It was oddly silent until the sudden howl of the man’s voice sounded through the metal door. “FUCK THAT WAS HOT!”
Alan Fouren stood looking out a thick glass window into what seemed like endless roving snowfields. His mouth still burned, but he felt he’d made his intent clear; at least until he failed to stick the landing with that last attempt to appear tough. He wasn’t here to be a flashy merc, but he wasn't here to be a sniveling yes man either. He’d cut his teeth over the years and had come highly recommended, even though he’d asked his contacts to downplay his achievements. It wasn’t humility he was after, it was insurance.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath, feeling another chill set him on. Was this psychosomatic? Just the sight of ice making him colder than he actually was? He pulled the neck of his jacket tight, and turned from the window, continuing down the hallway. It was almost time to head to the base for this mysterious orientation. It was going to be a short tram ride to the operations base, and he was supposed to meet some suit there. It was all too formal for what he was used to; back in the day it was simple.
Alan walked into the smoky office in Cutter’s Split, somewhere a few hundred klicks north of Vegas. It was a dry climate, rocky with some vegetation here and there. There was a large expanse of nature north of Cutter’s Split, a giant deciduous forest full of all sorts of violent flora and fauna ready for travelers to get too comfortable surrounded by what little greenery was left. He’d done some work there before, but he knew this was different.
“Got some news for ya, kid,” Old Deek, the main contact for any job north of Vegas, had called Alan in as soon as he’d arrived. If Deek called you, you checked in quick: especially if it dealt with a lucrative contract.
“What kind of news? More work out towards the rainy coast?”
“Nah, nothin about fuckin with Red Star or Volkov shit. This is about that little issue you asked me to look into.”
Alan’s face hardened and he placed both palms flat on Deek’s messy desk, pushing credit chits and papers aside. “Did you find it?”
“Just a rumor. Out in Alaska. I got you an in, too. Old Denver soldier, some folks in my network knew him: he’s apparently calling for pilots up there.”
“Scrapper job?”
“Nope. They want full-time pilots.”
“What the hell do they have up there to call for that kind of call?”
“No idea. But the guy’s the real deal. No idea why he went all the way out to Alaska from Denver, but don’t try and fuck with him. He’s a trained killer. Company boy for DV.”
“I ever kill any of his friends?”
“Naw.”
“Alright. Get my info out there then. Keep it subdued; don’t put any fancy bullshit about me in there either. I’m just a pilot, that’s all.” It was time to head north.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Alan’s datapad brought him back to reality, and he looked at the time.
He started down the hallway, and towards the tram. He’d arrive just on time, and find a place towards the back of the group, keep his head down and get through it. Graham worried him though. Alan was a scrapper, a waster and a dependable worker. But he wasn’t a soldier. But then again, this wasn’t a City either. He’d have to see exactly what was coming up. He’d improvise if he needed to. He was a survivor, after all.
Alan Fouren | Wild Wolf | M | 22 | Dead Springs
Personal Dossier
Physical Description
Life as a mercenary has turned a once thin, lanky young Alan into the gnarled man that now pilots the Wild Wolf. His face still denotes some tinge of handsomeness under the usual gleam of oil and dirt, but time and stress have caused early wrinkled to appear on Alan’s forehead. He also has tinges of gray appearing in his dark brown hair now. He stands at an average height of 5’10, and his arms and legs are quite muscular due to the labor that comes with self-maintenance on a NC.
Alan’s usual facial demeanor among strangers is a lackadaisical and goofy attitude. A half-cocked smile, a wry grin, and a gentle chuckle are commonplace for Alan in a canteen or in a meeting room. It’s when he gets to know someone or when things get serious that his demeanor changes into a cold stare; revealing his dark green eyes. He usually has bags under his eyes, both in part to a lack of good rest and due to the mental strain, the Polaris shift has done to his brain. His dark, spotty beard is usually unkempt but thin, and his hair is kept in a messy cut, never long, but always disheveled.
Alan’s usual facial demeanor among strangers is a lackadaisical and goofy attitude. A half-cocked smile, a wry grin, and a gentle chuckle are commonplace for Alan in a canteen or in a meeting room. It’s when he gets to know someone or when things get serious that his demeanor changes into a cold stare; revealing his dark green eyes. He usually has bags under his eyes, both in part to a lack of good rest and due to the mental strain, the Polaris shift has done to his brain. His dark, spotty beard is usually unkempt but thin, and his hair is kept in a messy cut, never long, but always disheveled.
Personality Traits
Jocular
Intelligent
Creative
Insular
Deceptive
Manic
Well-Read
Intelligent
Creative
Insular
Deceptive
Manic
Well-Read
Effects of Polaris Shift
Alan was tested at the age of fifteen in his community of Dead Springs, and while he held a solid synchronization level during his first years as a community pilot in the Atlanta area, it wasn’t until his entire squad and home were destroyed that he experienced his first perfect synchronization, which is partially in line with the fact that he survived such an experience. In the six years since he has undergone perfect synchronization a handful of times, but in recent years he has been suffering from “memory bleeding.” In a sense, he is undergoing extreme mental dementia, where he experiences the memories of someone else. Memories include a pre-war forest in the morning, a sunrise, and snowfall. If left untreated, Alan can become lost in the memories, and become confused and upset when he is brought back to “reality.” He takes a low-dose prescription for now, but it only helps treat the symptoms, as his steady mental degradation is irreversible.
Personal History
Alan grew up in Dead Springs, near the Atlanta Megacity in Fairbanks. Small ruins and tons of junk, it became a frontier trading post between the larger megacities in lower Fairbanks. Still, living in the frontier comes with danger: raiders especially. The test came to Alan’s town later in his life, when he was fifteen. Thinking of a chance to provide for his family and give them a better life than living in a junkyard town, he took his chance with the surgery. Still, a town needs money to pay its pilots. And Dead Springs was no megacity. But when you’re in a junkyard, you can find many wondrous things: including the frame of the Wild Wolf. Found nestled away in a collapsed compound in the ruins, the frame had been stripped of armor and a core, leaving only the skeleton remaining: a remnant of what it could be. But a frame would work: with money raised for a core, and what armor and armaments the money could afford; the WW was rebuilt piecemeal. But it worked.
Alan took up sorties with local combatants, as well as defense jobs in the area; providing for both his home and his family; allowing them more luxuries than a Junker’s life can provide. But more than that, he fought to bring them some semblance of peace. However, a roughshod mech is only as good as its parts and pilot allow; and it was on these sorties that Alan met real terror. A team of outdated and hand-built mechs doesn’t usually fare well against well trained and well-equipped soldiers; especially deserters from Atlanta. Outmatched and outgunned, Alan’s compatriots were slaughtered, and he was left broken and left for dead; a heavy grinder blade digging into his cockpit and tearing the metal apart, giving him his facial scar as a reminder. Alan's final memory of that day was a large custom NC with golden plating, inspecting Alan's damaged frame and simply walking away.
The deserters didn’t simply wipe out the defense party; they came to Dead Springs. The town and its people burned. By the time Alan had made his way to his hometown, he was too late. The sight of his family and friends slaughtered awoke something inside of him: a beast; a wild, rabid dog that fed on all of Alan’s negativity towards his weakness came to life. It consumed him and drove him to fight. He survived, and he kept the Wild Wolf alive using the parts he could salvage from his fallen comrades. Metal scavenged from the destroyed ruins of his town strengthened his armor-and he went hunting.
Surprise attacks. Traps. Decoys and delays. Alan learned to fight his new enemies with his mind to make up for his glaring technological weaknesses and his own lack of combat skills. And when it came to combat, the harder he fought, the higher his synchronization grew with the Wild Wolf. Between perfect synchronization in battle and the tactical advantages Alan created in combat, he’d gotten his revenge at the cost of serious damage to his NC. But the leader, the Golden NC, was nowhere to be found during this time. When Alan returned to the Atlanta burrow with news of the attack and these deserters, he was blacklisted from the job board, removed from the local registry and told that it was simply a raider attack and nothing more. A week later, towns near Dead Springs claimed allegiance to the Atlanta Burrow and most residents were relocated.
The official story was very sanitized, censored and lacked anything about Alan. Alan's own interpretations have been classified or simply ignored by Fairbanks staff at the Atlanta Burrow. With that, Alan left the Atlanta area and made his way across the continent, working for various settlements and cities. Alan began to make a name for himself over six years as an honest mercenary who got jobs done in a professional manner. He grew his own network of other mercenary pilots in the Fairbanks, DV and other areas.
During his tenure working as a mercenary, Alan upgraded the Wild Wolf’s systems and learned how to survive in the harsh wastelands by himself or with a squad. Still, Alan’s travels were always influenced by his one true goal: to find the Golden NC and finish what was started so many years ago. It’s this reason above all for Alan’s journey to New Anchorage.
Alan took up sorties with local combatants, as well as defense jobs in the area; providing for both his home and his family; allowing them more luxuries than a Junker’s life can provide. But more than that, he fought to bring them some semblance of peace. However, a roughshod mech is only as good as its parts and pilot allow; and it was on these sorties that Alan met real terror. A team of outdated and hand-built mechs doesn’t usually fare well against well trained and well-equipped soldiers; especially deserters from Atlanta. Outmatched and outgunned, Alan’s compatriots were slaughtered, and he was left broken and left for dead; a heavy grinder blade digging into his cockpit and tearing the metal apart, giving him his facial scar as a reminder. Alan's final memory of that day was a large custom NC with golden plating, inspecting Alan's damaged frame and simply walking away.
The deserters didn’t simply wipe out the defense party; they came to Dead Springs. The town and its people burned. By the time Alan had made his way to his hometown, he was too late. The sight of his family and friends slaughtered awoke something inside of him: a beast; a wild, rabid dog that fed on all of Alan’s negativity towards his weakness came to life. It consumed him and drove him to fight. He survived, and he kept the Wild Wolf alive using the parts he could salvage from his fallen comrades. Metal scavenged from the destroyed ruins of his town strengthened his armor-and he went hunting.
Surprise attacks. Traps. Decoys and delays. Alan learned to fight his new enemies with his mind to make up for his glaring technological weaknesses and his own lack of combat skills. And when it came to combat, the harder he fought, the higher his synchronization grew with the Wild Wolf. Between perfect synchronization in battle and the tactical advantages Alan created in combat, he’d gotten his revenge at the cost of serious damage to his NC. But the leader, the Golden NC, was nowhere to be found during this time. When Alan returned to the Atlanta burrow with news of the attack and these deserters, he was blacklisted from the job board, removed from the local registry and told that it was simply a raider attack and nothing more. A week later, towns near Dead Springs claimed allegiance to the Atlanta Burrow and most residents were relocated.
The official story was very sanitized, censored and lacked anything about Alan. Alan's own interpretations have been classified or simply ignored by Fairbanks staff at the Atlanta Burrow. With that, Alan left the Atlanta area and made his way across the continent, working for various settlements and cities. Alan began to make a name for himself over six years as an honest mercenary who got jobs done in a professional manner. He grew his own network of other mercenary pilots in the Fairbanks, DV and other areas.
During his tenure working as a mercenary, Alan upgraded the Wild Wolf’s systems and learned how to survive in the harsh wastelands by himself or with a squad. Still, Alan’s travels were always influenced by his one true goal: to find the Golden NC and finish what was started so many years ago. It’s this reason above all for Alan’s journey to New Anchorage.
Tactical Preferences and Skills
Junkyard Mechanic: Unlike his counterparts who had access to proper materials during their combat stays, Alan grew up in the frontier where clean, shiny new supplies were few and far between. This meant that he had to scrounge and repurpose outdated, damaged or scavenged parts to keep his unit in workable condition. While he has to leave it to the professionals for proper upkeep of the WW, Alan can perform emergency repairs in the field if push comes to shove, and that ingenuity comes in handy when things go to shit.
Unshakable Will: In serious situations, the average pilot would lose their cool and give in to negative emotions, shaking them and breaking their morale. Alan, due to both his insane drive for destruction when fully “in the zone” as well as his own nature of do-or-die, is not easily shaken in combat. It would take extreme duress to make him break his usual façade; though a break would be disastrous.
Adaptive: Alan’s past has forced him to make do with supplies and weapons he could scrounge either in the junkyard, the frontier or after the battle. Alan lacks any sheer expertise with weapons, but he makes up for that in his ability to pick up and use a weapon with gradual skill. If he can find a half-working FMR or a Powered Spike, Alan can find a way to perform maximum damage with it.
Well-Read: If Alan has one indulgence it's literature. At a young age, collecting bits of archaic literature became a past time for Alan, especially exploring the databanks of ruined libraries. Alan's datapad has to date over 800 novels, short stories and poetry ranging from the seventeenth century to the twenty-third century. Alan prefers the classics over the later literature, enjoying chivalric romances, gothic horror, and transcendental poetry. Alan's favorite stories include Le Morte d'Arthur, The Once and Future King, Frankenstein, T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, and The Hound of the Baskervilles.
Tactical Awareness: Alan’s greatest strength is using the environment and information to his advantage against his enemies. He’s used dust storms for cover, set off explosions to avoid thermal detection and isn’t afraid to attack from behind if it increases his chance at victory.
Unshakable Will: In serious situations, the average pilot would lose their cool and give in to negative emotions, shaking them and breaking their morale. Alan, due to both his insane drive for destruction when fully “in the zone” as well as his own nature of do-or-die, is not easily shaken in combat. It would take extreme duress to make him break his usual façade; though a break would be disastrous.
Adaptive: Alan’s past has forced him to make do with supplies and weapons he could scrounge either in the junkyard, the frontier or after the battle. Alan lacks any sheer expertise with weapons, but he makes up for that in his ability to pick up and use a weapon with gradual skill. If he can find a half-working FMR or a Powered Spike, Alan can find a way to perform maximum damage with it.
Well-Read: If Alan has one indulgence it's literature. At a young age, collecting bits of archaic literature became a past time for Alan, especially exploring the databanks of ruined libraries. Alan's datapad has to date over 800 novels, short stories and poetry ranging from the seventeenth century to the twenty-third century. Alan prefers the classics over the later literature, enjoying chivalric romances, gothic horror, and transcendental poetry. Alan's favorite stories include Le Morte d'Arthur, The Once and Future King, Frankenstein, T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, and The Hound of the Baskervilles.
Tactical Awareness: Alan’s greatest strength is using the environment and information to his advantage against his enemies. He’s used dust storms for cover, set off explosions to avoid thermal detection and isn’t afraid to attack from behind if it increases his chance at victory.
Notes
Alan’s facade may appear to be two-faced, but in actuality, Alan keeps his comrades at an arm’s length as a defense mechanism. His fears of growing close to others have led to issues with other pilots in his past, notably Ryn.
Neural Combatant
Codename
Type
Bipedal, Mid-Range
Squad Role
Assault
NC Description
At first some believe the Wild Wolf to be a raider’s mech due to its patchwork customization and scrap aesthetic. But Alan’s fine-tuning over the years has allowed him to make Wolf’s awkward platform work for him, and he has made the Wild Wolf into a dangerous machine. Areas around important joints are more thickly armored, and other areas have been stripped to the bare necessities, allowing for maximum maneuverability and mech survivability. The colors are a mix of rust-browns and dark greens over the mech, and where a corporation logo would go, Alan has his own custom stencil of Wolf’s head.
Weapons and Armaments
Leg and Lower Back Thrusters
These give strong bursts of speed and sustained air boosts for a limited time for extra mobility
Heavily Used LFR (Light Frame Rifle)
30 round magazine rifle with anti-armor ordinance, short-to-mid range.
Underbarrel HFG Launcher
A 3 round grenade launcher attached to the LFR. Equipped with standard fragmentary grenades.
Scavenged Light Grinder Blade
A heavy blade meant to pierce and then tear pieces of a mech apart.
Electrical Discharge Cannon
Emits high powered electrical bursts at close range. Can temporarily disable an unshielded NC or cause damage to the pilot in the cockpit.
Grapple Tether
Arm mounted grapple launcher with an industrial NC winch system. An odd armament for a combat NC, but it’s varied uses have saved Alan multiple times in the past.
These give strong bursts of speed and sustained air boosts for a limited time for extra mobility
Heavily Used LFR (Light Frame Rifle)
30 round magazine rifle with anti-armor ordinance, short-to-mid range.
Underbarrel HFG Launcher
A 3 round grenade launcher attached to the LFR. Equipped with standard fragmentary grenades.
Scavenged Light Grinder Blade
A heavy blade meant to pierce and then tear pieces of a mech apart.
Electrical Discharge Cannon
Emits high powered electrical bursts at close range. Can temporarily disable an unshielded NC or cause damage to the pilot in the cockpit.
Grapple Tether
Arm mounted grapple launcher with an industrial NC winch system. An odd armament for a combat NC, but it’s varied uses have saved Alan multiple times in the past.
Logged back in just to be excited again. Huzzah
Posting this here for those who aren't in the server.
Whoops. Totally forgot about the discord
@Inkarnate yeah I know you love me. You sort of have to love people that you're practically common-law married to in friendship.
@Ladypug You're one of the coolest people I've met through my weird times here. Thanks for being a neverending fountain of positivity.
@McMolly one day I am gonna eat one of your fancy pizzas and there's nothing you can do about it. I will fly out to the middle of nowhere. Just for pizza. Nah, you're also a great friend. I will smash spiders for you any day. Thanks for getting me through Bloodborne.
@NuttsnBolts if there ever was an Aussie with a bird that I could be good friends with, it was always you. Love you bud. Thanks for putting me in my place when I needed it, and also going ham in Bloodborne with me.
@Sloth you are a good friend, a good memer, and an okay person. Thank you for being you.
@Mara you have been there for me as a friend when I was in some dark places. Thank you, you sassy child you.
And everyone else I missed because I haven't talked to you all as much, thank you for being a friend and stuff. I don't really hate anyone on the guild, but it helps that I have stayed out of most of the shit and don't really do anything but RP every now and then. So we all cool, you weird nerds you. Unless we aren't cool. Which I guess would make us spicy.
@Ladypug You're one of the coolest people I've met through my weird times here. Thanks for being a neverending fountain of positivity.
@McMolly one day I am gonna eat one of your fancy pizzas and there's nothing you can do about it. I will fly out to the middle of nowhere. Just for pizza. Nah, you're also a great friend. I will smash spiders for you any day. Thanks for getting me through Bloodborne.
@NuttsnBolts if there ever was an Aussie with a bird that I could be good friends with, it was always you. Love you bud. Thanks for putting me in my place when I needed it, and also going ham in Bloodborne with me.
@Sloth you are a good friend, a good memer, and an okay person. Thank you for being you.
@Mara you have been there for me as a friend when I was in some dark places. Thank you, you sassy child you.
And everyone else I missed because I haven't talked to you all as much, thank you for being a friend and stuff. I don't really hate anyone on the guild, but it helps that I have stayed out of most of the shit and don't really do anything but RP every now and then. So we all cool, you weird nerds you. Unless we aren't cool. Which I guess would make us spicy.
There's nothing spookier than trees and rain and hipsters in the hills.
The apartment’s curtains remained drawn, and whatever light came from the morning sun was blocked by the artificial night created by blackout curtains and poor living conditions. In the near pitch-blackness of the room, a figure moved, shuffling with meticulous awkwardness towards a shadowy bookstand. Hands raised up to gain balance, and a low utterance of a grunt came out of the man’s chest as he fumbled with a light switch, creating dim light in the room.
The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, contorting his skin as he groaned against the light, trying to find something in the mess of his room. Finally, he sat on an old sagging loveseat, covered in old blankets. The flashing red light of an answering machine begged to be checked, and he seemed to agonize for a long time before finally groaning again, making his way towards it, and pressing the “play button.”
“Daaavid!” The prolonged “a” with the almost insufferable nebbish voice made it quite clear who was trying to contact him. “How’s my favorite master of horror? Are you missing Seattle yet? Because I have some grreeat news for you!” more extended vowels and the promise of good news? It was Eddie Howell’s signature pitch; dress up the shitty deal and hope that David was too fucked up on his meds to say no. “A very cute little company out of Vancouver want to adapt The Screamers for a tv mini series! This could really do well on paperback sales of-” Click.
“Message deleted.” The answering machine voice droned on as David Marlowe slumped into a wooden chair at his small kitchen table. Eddie had spent the past two years tryting to get David out of Baltham and back to the “real world”. He always said that hiding out wasn’t the manly thing to do; and that he needed to get back into the public and get another big book published. Besides, the whole “scandal” deal was long forgotten. But he knew it had been forgotten because he had been forgotten. The moment his name was out there again, the faster the shit would hit the fan all over again. The gurgle of the coffee maker caught his ear; that must mean it was almost noon if it was boiling another pot. That meant he needed to start working for today.
“Sorry Eddie,” David muttered to no one in particular, “but there’s no way i’m going back to Seattle. Ever.” He finally forced himself up with a hearty groan, and poured himself a black cup of cheap coffee. He sipped at it, contorting his face with distaste, then carried the steaming mug to a dark writing desk in the corner of the living room. There he looked over the old IBM Lexmark his father had given him when he published his first novel. Still queued up on the page were a few...scribbles and musings, but nothing was solid. David replaced the paper, centered it; and prepared to write.
Fifteen minutes later he stood up, his hands shaking. This had been a common occurrence for the past six months: he would start a paragraph, and suddenly in the middle of it all; simply freeze. But this time had been different: it had been worse. David began to struggle to breathe as he tried to bring his fingers down onto the mechanical keys of the typewriter, and he found himself unable to think at all for a solid minute. Was this it? Was he coming to the end of his career as a writer? Would he die, here in this shitty hovel unable to even finish a goddamn paragraph?
“Fuck it,” He muttered to himself, walking over to his couch. He grabbed the remote to his television, letting the hum of the LCD screen tv flash bright vibrant light into the room. The news was on.
“-horrible accident today as several police officers were involved in a shooting-”
The channel suddenly changed to daytime soaps, then to crappy game shows, and finally to infomercials, until finally David hit the power button again, stood up and made a shocking announcement: “I have to get out of this fucking room.”
He washed, brushed his teeth, fixed his hair and threw on a jacket. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime; David Marlowe was going outside. At lunchtime.
From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. H.P. Lovecraft.
The Whisper From the Dark. The Sudden Drop. Bloodcurled. You’d be hard-pressed not to find some of these kitschy horror novels in every bookstore in the northwest for good reason: David Marlowe was a hot commodity. Whilst ever-combatting the local art critics on what is “literature” and what is “trash”, David Marlowe was simply quite happy to exist as a relatively popular horror novelist; never hitting the high heights like Stephen King or Dean Koontz, but also never fading into obscurity. He lived a comfortable, albeit lonely life.
Growing up in suburban Seattle, David settled into writing during college, being published in magazines and in short story collections until his first breakthrough novel, The Screamchasers, hit the bestseller lists. He found himself doing book tours, working on C-Movie Hollywood hack deals and making enough money to live comfortably without working a “real” job. Shortly after his third novel, The Whisper From the Dark was published, David found himself in the middle of both a scandal involving a local politician's wife and death threats from overzealous fans. The stress nearly led to him having a complete nervous breakdown, and he sold his house, his car and most of his belongings making his way to a small apartment complex near the Sweet Bay Hotel. There, amidst heavy medications for his newly developed night terrors, David began an existence of quiet obscurity, still writing, but now keeping hidden from the public view.
Several locals claim that they know that THE David Marlowe lives in town, but most would be hard-pressed to even find the man. Now only leaving home at night, and keeping a few local contacts, David is more of a hermit with a typewriter than your average citizen. Even now every few years another book is published to moderate acclaim; even to keep paying rent and to keep himself fed, but never enough to truly be regarded as one of horror’s all-time greats.
Physical Traits
David is tall enough, standing at around 5’10, but due to his lifestyle change and thanks to the drugs he takes, he’s begun to grow a slight paunch in the stomach region. Still, David is broad-shouldered enough to still be considered “strong”, however the past few years have led to his once youthful strength to become diminished. He can lift and run, but his stamina has greatly been reduced. His hair is cut short, black with grey tinges forming on the edges. His hair has also begun to thin.
David’s clothes can be considered “bookish”. Glasses, tweed coats or all-weather jackets, slacks and nice shoes are his usual clothing when he has to leave. His once clean-shaven face is now considerably bearded, and whilst he does trim weekly, it has a habit of becoming wild and stringy, especially if he goes a day or two without washing.
David’s clothes can be considered “bookish”. Glasses, tweed coats or all-weather jackets, slacks and nice shoes are his usual clothing when he has to leave. His once clean-shaven face is now considerably bearded, and whilst he does trim weekly, it has a habit of becoming wild and stringy, especially if he goes a day or two without washing.
Full Name
David Harrison Marlowe
Gender
Male
Ethnicity
Caucasion
Sexuality
Heterosexual
Age
34
Motives
David is continually chasing that one great story; the one that will cement him into the horror anthologies for the rest of his life. His books sell well enough and he has a fairly sizeable fan community, but beyond two books making the bestseller list, he’s never had “true” success like the industry giants. He constantly tries to find new ways to pull out the horror from his mind, but in recent months, he has constantly hit wall after wall.
He’s found various things to blame: and the latest has been his medication. He will occasionally try to come off his medication, only to be plagued with nightmares and anxieties that leave him almost catatonic, until he is forced to take them again to be normal again. Not that he ever feels normal anymore.
He’s found various things to blame: and the latest has been his medication. He will occasionally try to come off his medication, only to be plagued with nightmares and anxieties that leave him almost catatonic, until he is forced to take them again to be normal again. Not that he ever feels normal anymore.
Occupation
Published Author
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