Ducksworth

Metropolis of Superheroes

Awesome! I'll start rolling up a CS!

Metropolis of Superheroes

Are you still accepting for this RP? :D

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Sorry for the delay, all!

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

They didn’t give him a chance to breathe. One minute Emrys was frozen in the stale, musk-heavy air of his apartment, and the next he was being shoved bodily out the door, his shoulder clipping the shattered frame on the way through. The hallway was a blur, wet concrete and flickering fluorescents rushing past as heavy hands guided, dragged, and manhandled him down the stairs like a stolen suitcase. He barely had time to grab his satchel, the strap slung over his shoulder at the last second, the canvas thudding against his hip with every jarring step.

Outside, the world was soaked in the aftermath of the blast. Sirens howled in the distance, their pitch rising and falling through the rain-slicked streets. The stink of smoke still hung in the air, mingling with ozone and oil and fur. Parked in a rough semicircle outside the building, a pack of Harley Davidsons growled like beasts held on too-short chains, each one painted in some gaudy wolf motif. Flames, snarls, silver eyes. One of them had actual teeth embedded into the fuel tank.

They shoved him toward the bikes, and that was when he saw it. Quill. The familiar's cage was stuffed into a saddlebag, mesh reinforced with hasty copper wards, sloppy ones, twisted too tight and uneven. They wouldn’t hold forever, but they didn’t have to. Just long enough. The little bird was fluffed up in alarm, feathers tight against the bars, watching Emrys with sharp, frantic eyes. Still alive. Still here. Relief hit so hard it almost staggered him.

Jack mounted his bike with a grunt and jerked his head for Emrys to follow. The young mage climbed on with all the grace of a man trying not to throw up, fingers gripping the worn leather behind the werewolf’s back like it might keep him tethered to something solid.

Jack turned slightly, shouting over the idling engines. "Where to, Harry Potter?"

Emrys didn’t answer right away. The rain hit his face, warm and sudden. It plastered his hair to his forehead, streamed down the back of his neck, soaked through the threadbare collar of his shirt. But it was the question that froze him.

Where were they going?

His mind scrambled. Elandros never mentioned a vault. No diagrams, no maps. Not even a whispered hint. For all Emrys knew, the man had kept his secrets buried in a coffee tin behind a diner. And they wanted him to take them there now. Not later. Not after research or prep or divination. Now.

Panic climbed up his spine, clawing for his throat. But he couldn't show it. Not here. Not in front of them. He forced his breathing steady, shoved the fear down deep. Let them see calm. Let them see control. Even if it was a lie.

Then, a flicker of memory. Years ago, Elandros had taken him north of the city. It had been raining then, too. The road had been narrow, trees leaning in from both sides, and they'd stopped by a rusted gate tucked into a hillside. Beyond it stood a decrepit old observatory, half-eaten by ivy and time. Elandros hadn’t explained. He’d just left up to the building leaving Emrys standing with his hand resting on the gate, before they turned around and left. Emrys never thought to ask why. But now? It was the only thread he had.

He swallowed hard and raised his voice, keeping it firm. "Old observatory," he said. "North of the tracks, rusted gate off the tree line. You’ll miss it if you’re not looking." No hesitation. No qualifiers. Make it clean. Make it sound like gospel. "If he kept anything important, it’ll be there."

Emrys stared at the cage one more time, jaw set, heart hammering. He had no idea what waited at that ruin. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But it was a start, and he’d take that over nothing.

Synopsis:

Emrys is forced out of his apartment and onto a waiting bike, bluffing his way into buying time by naming the only possible location he remembers, despite having no idea what truly lies there.

@Penny

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

---

The Mirage Space pressed in around him like a cage. His chest still burned, his arms still shook, and the gauntlets clung to him like iron weights chained to rage itself. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t come down. Not yet. Not when his blood still screamed for more.

And then Wu Shufen stepped into view.

That smug face, that damned staff, still standing, still breathing. The sight alone was enough to tear open every raw nerve inside Griff. His vision tunneled, the edges blurring into nothing but black and red. His heartbeat pounded like war drums. His gauntlets dragged every emotion up to the surface until it all blurred into fury.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t think.

With a roar, Griff launched himself forward, boots slamming against the ground hard enough to rattle the space itself. His fists came up, and then they fell, not in one clean strike, but in a storm. A flurry. Left, right, low, high, again and again, each swing driven by everything boiling inside of him. Every blow was a demand, a punishment, a refusal to stop.

Steel met air with the sound of thunder as he threw himself into the Monkey King, gauntlets flashing like the teeth of some rabid beast. His shoulders burned but he didn’t care. All that mattered was breaking the enemy in front of him, beating him until there was nothing left to stand against.

Whether his fists found flesh, bone, or nothing at all, Griff didn’t notice. He didn’t want to notice. He just wanted to swing until the he couldn't anymore.

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

Dante's good with a knife? He could be cook!

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

@Hellion Welcome to Project Genesis! Priority one: Adi needs to keep a keen eye on Dante!

@Zoie Hart

Rude D: what did Dante do to you?!

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

I'm blaming your characters hacking for Dante's success

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

Dante Stroud

	.D-A-N-T-E S-T-R-O-U-D. .D-A-N-T-E S-T-R-O-U-D. Name: Dante Stroud Age: 34 Sex: Male Height: 6'3 Weight: 198lbs Eyes: Clear blue Physique: Sinewy strong Hair: Close cropped fade, spiked top Skin: weathered and worn Colour: FF7518

.B-A-C-K-G-R-O-U-N-D.
.B-A-C-K-G-R-O-U-N-D.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Dante's story doesn't begin in the slums or the clouds, it begins in a cell. By the time Project Genesis was conceived, he had already spent considerable years behind bars, stamped with charges thick enough to bury him for life, and beyond.

Aggravated assault with extreme violence and a deadly weapon.
Kidnapping.
Torture.
Multiple homicides.
Suspected mutilation of remains.
Cannibalism.

The file reads like a warning label, but the truth of it is impossible to pin down. Some say half the charges were fabricated, others that the record doesn't capture the worst of what he's done. Ask ten different people and you'll hear ten different versions of who Dante Stroud really is: a killer, a scapegoat, a survivor, a monster.

Prison did not soften him. It sharpened him. He learned to live wound tight, never the bottom dog, always ready to strike first and harder. Violence became a kind of language, and somewhere along the way he learned to enjoy speaking it. Not sadism, survival. The laugh that breaks from him in the middle of a fight isn't an act, it's the hardwired joy of someone who only feels alive when the blood's pumping and the stakes are survival.

When the lottery for Project Genesis came, Dante should never even been entered. Prisoners weren't candidates. Yet somehow, his name appeared. A glitch, a mistake, a system cracked wide open? However it happened, he won.

To the council, it was a bureaucratic embarrassment. To the settlers, a source of overwhelming unease. No one knows what's true about him, and that uncertainty lingers like smoke. Is he a murderer, or simply a fighter? Maybe even a predator...

Dante doesn't waste time answering questions. He doesn't care if they call him dangerous, psycho, or mistake his grin for madness. He's free, and he intends to survive this world the same wat he survived the last, one fight at a time.

.E-Q-U-I-P-M-E-N-T.
.E-Q-U-I-P-M-E-N-T.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

• Standard prison jumpsuit. (worn, faded)
• prison boots (cheap leather, rubber soled)
• makeshift shiv (confiscated upon search)

.P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y.
.P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Dante lives in survival mode. Years behind bars conditioned him into a man who never relaxes, never yields, and never lets himself be the bottom dog. He's restless, sharp-edged, and quick to escalate if challenged, if someone shoves, he shoves harder. The habit kept him alive in prison, but makes him volatile in the eyes of everyone else.

He is not quiet or cold; he's wired, keyed-up, and prone to bursts of laughter that make people freeze. His enjoyment of violence is real, but it isn't sadism, it's learned. A coping mechanism turned into reflex. Fighting is the one place he feels alive and free. Until now.

To the settlers around him, he's dangerous, a psycho waiting to snap. And yet, beneath the menace, Dante does want to help. He wants to be useful, to be more than the record and the whispers. He just doesn't know how to bridge the gulf of mistrust, and so he leans on the only language he's fluent in anymore: strength, fear, and survival.

OOC Notes - Behind The Record

Every charge against Dante Stroud is a fabrication, all but one.

When he was young, he killed a man. Not for money. Not for power. He did it to protect his younger sister from a different kind of predator. The man he struck down had connections, family in high places, influence that reached far beyond the streets. That single act of defence, a desperate attempt to shield the only person he loved, sealed his fate.

The system made sure he would never see the light of day again. His record swelled with additions: multiple homicides, organised violence, whisper's of cannibalism, incitement. A catalogue of horrors designed to bury him in maximum security, erasing the truth beneath layers of ink and lies.

The one murder was real. The rest were not. But by the time Project Genesis opened it's lottery, the distinction no longer mattered. Dante Stroud was already a ghost, a monster on paper. He should never have been chosen, but the glitch pulled him through the cracks.

Now, every suspicious glance, every flinch when he laughs, is a reminder: the others only know the record. and the record is a lie.

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

For your consideration!

Dante Stroud

	.D-A-N-T-E S-T-R-O-U-D. .D-A-N-T-E S-T-R-O-U-D. Name: Dante stroud Age: 34 Sex: Male Height: 6'3 Weight: 198lbs Eyes: Clear blue Physique: Sinewy strong Hair: Close cropped fade, spiked top Skin: weathered and worn Colour: FF7518

.B-A-C-K-G-R-O-U-N-D.
.B-A-C-K-G-R-O-U-N-D.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Dante's story doens't begin in the sums or the clouds, it begins in a cell. By the time Project Genesis was conceived, he had already spent considerable years behind bars, stamped with charges thick enough to bury him for life, and beyond.

Aggravated assault with extreme violence and a deadly weapon.
Kidnapping.
Torture.
Multiple homicides.
Suspected mutilation of remains.
Cannibalism.

The file reads like a warning label, but the truth of it is impossible to pin down. Some say half the charges were fabricated, others that the record doesn't capture the worst of what he's done. Ask ten different people and you'll hear ten different versions of who Dante Stroud really is: a killer, a scapegoat, a survivor, a monster.

Prison did not soften him. It sharpened him. He learned to live wound tight, never the bottom dog, always ready to strike first and harder. Violence became a kind of language, and somewhere along the way he learned to enjoy speaking it. Not sadism, survival. The laugh that breaks from him in the middle of a fight isn't an act, it's the hardwired joy of someone who only feels alive when the blood's pumping and the stakes are survival.

When the lottery for Project Genesis came, Dante should never even been entered. Prisoners weren't candidates. Yet somehow, his name appeared. A glitch, a mistake, a system cracked wide open? However it happened, he won.

To the council, it was a bureaucratic embarrassment. To the settlers, a source of overwhelming unease. No one knows what's true about him, and that uncertainty lingers like smoke. Is he a murderer, or simply a fighter? Maybe even a predator...

Dante doesn't waste time answering questions. He doesn't care if they call him dangerous, psycho, or mistake his grin for madness. He's free, and he intends to survive this world the same wat he survived the last, one fight at a time.

.E-Q-U-I-P-M-E-N-T.
.E-Q-U-I-P-M-E-N-T.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

• Standard prison jumpsuit. (worn, faded)
• prison boots (cheap leather, rubber soled)
• makeshift shiv (confiscated upon search)

.P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y.
.P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Dante lives in survival mode. Years behind bars conditioned him into a man who never relaxes, never yields, and never lets himself be the bottom dog. He's restless, sharp-edged, and quick to escalate if challenged, if someone shoves, he shoves harder. The habit kept him alive in prison, but makes him volatile in the eyes of everyone else.

He is not quiet or cold; he's wired, keyed-up, and prone to bursts of laughter that make people freeze. His enjoyment of violence is real, but it isn't sadism, it's learned. A coping mechanism turned into reflex. Fighting is the one place he feels alive and free. Until now.

To the settlers around him, he's dangerous, a psycho waiting to snap. And yet, beneath the menace, Dante does want to help. He wants to be useful, to be more than the record and the whispers. He just doesn't know how to bridge the gulf of mistrust, and so he leans on the only language he's fluent in anymore: strength, fear, and survival.

OOC Notes - Behind The Record

Every charge against Dante Stroud is a fabrication, all but one.

When he was young, he killed a man. Not for money. Not for power. He did it to protect his younger sister from a different kind of predator. The man he struck down had connections, family in high places, influence that reached far beyond the streets. That single act of defence, a desperate attempt to shield the only person he loved, sealed his fate.

The system made sure he would never see the light of day again. His record swelled with additions: multiple homicides, organised violence, whisper's of cannibalism, incitement. A catalogue of horrors designed to bury him in maximum security, erasing the truth beneath layers of ink and lies.

The one murder was real. The rest were not. But by the time Project Genesis opened it's lottery, the distinction no longer mattered. Dante Stroud was already a ghost, a monster on paper. He should never have been chosen, but the glitch pulled him through the cracks.

Now, every suspicious glance, every flinch when he laughs, is a reminder: the others only know the record. and the record is a lie.