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In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
The arrival of the Blind Luck had the militia all abuzz with news of the arrival of the Jedi, disembarking the blind man slowly stepping the heavy metal he carried clicking along the ground. Codari volunteered to stay with the ship and get Goldie settled in while met with the research staff to go over their most recent findings. Varina had already vanished no doubt off with Mor’gann to work on her new weapon. Airus however, finally could get back to his passion... Research and archival, the Blind Luck had become a miniature library of sorts in the lower levels. Training, combat, and meditation were things he did well, better than most many of peers yet... To turn the pages of a book or dig through hundreds of different symbols to decipher a language was truly invigorating.

Striding across the landing sight towards the temple, whispers and discussion from the locals filled the air. Jedi were a myth since the Empire had come and gone... Now they saw a blind man in robes clutching a metal walking stick, how was he supposed to be some galaxy saving Knight fighting for peace?

A couple of small freighters sat around as Airus tilted his head, expanding his sight to encompass more of the building. Feeling the strength of the energy. “...It has been too long since I walked through the halls of a great place like this.”

Raskta was still in the ventilation ducts, wracking her brain about what to do about the unexpected arrival. Her most suspicious equipment had been left in a corner of the ventilation shaft, save for her force pike. She didn’t want to be unarmed, but also knew how suspicious it would look to be carrying one, so she set to work reattaching the casing that concealed it as a walking stick along with the rest of her hiking gear. That was much easier to explain than a force pike. She tried not to make much noise while she did so.

Airus slowly came to a stop underneath the ducts turning his head upwards slowly, cocking his head quizzically. A lazy smile formed as he lifted the staff, striking it softly as if to gauge her reaction. “Hello there young lady.” He spoke lowering the staff to rest his hands upon the top of the beskar item. His blindfold covered eyes staring right up towards her hiding place. “I’d love to know how you got yourself in there... On purpose or an accident?” He asked unmoving as the smile remained. “Then again perhaps you chose a life beyond most Echani... Repair technician.” Joked the Jedi as he waited to see if she would emerge.

Once she saw the jedi logo on his robes she knew who it was instantly, there weren’t many Miraluka jedi even before the purge. Airus, cunning enough to survive the purge, dangerous enough to kill three inquisitors. He was never top of the list of most-wanted Jedi but he was on there radar long enough that Raskta had read his name several times during her ritual of reviewing intel in the downtime between missions. She had never met him nor anyone who knew him, but she placed enough faith in the authors of the intel reports that their assessment of him was accurate. It was a bad idea trying to hide from a Miraluka, and an even worse idea to try and fight when you had only a narrow window to actually attack from. Satisfied that she had done enough to hide anything suspicious, she decided to try diplomacy. Shifting naturally into a casual, joking style of speech, she said

“Ehhh, I guess you could call it happy accident? I was just looking around the area and like, decided to do some urban exploration y’know. I got good vibes. People on HoloNet keep sharing “aesthetic” holo-images of this temple, so I got interested. Then I got here and saw that there’s whole nutso network of tunnels and no one ever shows this. Could be a gold mine of content for my followers on InstaHolo.”
Then Raskta began to climb out of the tunnel, pushing away the piece of the vent she cut, while she remember the details of one of her most reliable cover identities, one that hadn’t been completely blown yet.

“My name’s Raskta. Anyway, I’d be a bad repair technician anyway, sometimes clients come to me with questions about maintenance and I just have to bluff until I can pass them off to someone else. I tell them why they should buy their weapons from us, not what to do with them afterwards. Kinda wish I could go back to my sport dueling days, but that’s a young person’s game.

Luckily for her cover story, there were literally millions of Echani women named Raskta in the galaxy, many of which had been involved in dueling also. She remembered one tournament she won where everyone that made the podium had been named Raskta. That was an awkward moment.

“Interesting... Well Miss Raskta, I am Airus Vel Aath, here to assist the New Republic in their research. These old temples are dangerous, plenty of traps and dangerous creatures live around them.” He paused for a moment the tall and well muscled Miraluka smile slowly moving away. “I suppose we could take you to the proper authorities... But then again it would hardly mean anything.” He spoke, twirling the beskar staff as he stepped back from her. Taking a moment to soak in her aura.

The shifting layers of her soul blended then distorted in an array Varina had told him reminded her of colors.As she spoke layers of it shifted yet again affecting his perceptions of her emotions, she was lying and doing it well... Her mind was well taught and sheltered so no striking there to reach out for her thoughts. What he could tell was that there was an anger and passion at her core that troubled her. He decided to play along for now.

“Well if you are looking for things to get you fame across the holonet. A Sith battle hydra might be a place to start; they are known to live on the planet.”

“Or maybe you could show how the folks who took down the cruel and destructive Empire have tried to remember the fate of the Alderaanians who had no protection from the battle station the Empire unleashed?” He spoke, trying to rile her up to sense out what she was hiding certainly though he’d have to push her buttons... Even selling the bit he sat down his staff against the crates left nearby. “After all this is the place where the Empire was humiliated and the Tarkin doctrine was dealt the mortal blow. You could even say it was the place where hope for a better galaxy was born.”

This was not normal. Nothing about dealing with a force user was. Her mind didn’t feel right, like someone was trying to pull things out of her, and emotions that were normall suppressed were running free. It was useless to try total concealment, but if you could not hide from the enemy, the best thing to do was to confuse them. So Raskta channeled her real anger, her real emotion and launched into a careful rant.
“I guess this is your idea of an enlightening chat, trying to get me riled up to “know thyself” or whatever. Guess you missed the feeling of this from those empire years so you’re trying to make up for lost time? There was a time when I would’ve had more to say about all this, about the events that happened here, a time when I believed any of that stuff I had a point. But that ain’t me anymore, and I’m not going to give you the dignity of an answer or an explanation.”

She was standing at her full height now, face to face with him, glaring up at eyes he did not have with one hand gripping her walking stick tight. There was real emotion behind what she was saying, but careful hiding of the actual core of it all, what she actually cared about.
“I’m sure you’re still dying to hear me talk, so I’ll go out and say it, Fuck Alderaan. Fuck Tarkin, Fuck the rebels, fuck the empire, fuck all of that shit. I don’t care any more. You can’t get me to care any more. Who the fuck knows how many are dead and all of the average person cares about is that they’ve got a new flag, a new boss, a new overlord to ask for handouts from. Until anyone in the galaxy shows me a reason I should give a shit about them, until someone shows that they actually give a shit about accomplishing something other than living life on autopilot, I don’t see why I need to bear the burden of caring about them. So I’m going to go on my life and doing all this stuff you call vapid shit and just working on scrounging up more credits and enjoying my life until I see an actual reason I should wake up and give something my respect. Betcha’ don’t get much of that wisdom hiding out on your mountain for thirty years, eh force toucher or whatever you call yourselves?”

Airus spoke, recoiling slowly at first then changing his own tune. “Ah yes. The ‘nothing has changed crowd’ perhaps for the folks who lived on worlds that were always productive and willing to ignore the pain of others.” He circled around here. “Miraluka, my people. Were forbidden to leave our homeworld and colonies under penalty of death. Mandalorians are a strongly independent people forcibly made to serve the Empire. Twi’leks, Wookies, and more are forced into labor camps.” He never raised his voice as he stepped in circles around her.

“When people who spent ten thousand years defending this galaxy from terrors and horrors needed them. They all abandoned the Jedi in the name of a man who took power for himself.” Airus' voice never took on venom. “Sidious was a cancer upon the galaxy, like all Sith are when they build their empires.” He stopped as his hand rested on her own staff a moment. “And as for your outburst... There is some truth. But... This staff? Is not what it appears. So... Why don’t you be more honest. The war is over, the Jedi live. The Sith have perished.” He spoke, stepping back and pulling his beskar staff to himself.

She turned away, fiddling with her datapad, just in her messages app, pretending she didn’t care. After he finished speaking, she put it away and said

“How about you worry about your stuff and I’ll worry about mine. I don’t even know what a sith is and I don’t think I’m interested in what you have to say about them. I’m leaving now.”

Raskta was standing close to him now, daring him to block her way.

“Well you're free to leave whenever... I’ll be here at the dig site when you want to tell where you got an Imperial Guard pike from... Sure it’s a lovely tale.” The Jedi answered slowly, walking away from her. Letting her know his own suspicions now, figuring it would be a good way to warn her. Echani, Mandalorians, Iridonians, and Jedi had all been called the greatest warriors in the galaxy many times. Yet when the Mandalorians waned after centuries of defeat, the Irdonian’s fell out of favor, and the Jedi had collapsed the Echani had finally taken that illustrious position for their own within the Empire.

Now of course, the Mandalorians were rebuilding and so were the Jedi... That title would leave them again. Airus knew it well, the Jedi had gained that reputation by defeating every single armed force over thousands of years and only the trickery of their long thought dead foe had finally brought them low. He kept walking thinking that this could be part of that born mentality to defeat opponents to prove strength... Though Echani did everything by fighting, even marriage if it was to be believed... Even Mandalorians had a more civilized system than that.

Raskta was relieved but didn’t want to show, keep up an air of annoyance as she walked off, shouting as she walked away.

“I’ll give you the story for free, since you haven’t been able to pick it out of my mind evidently. The pike is a prize for making the podium in short spear dueling at the Byss Invitational, 14 odd years ago. As for why I have it, same reason you have that staff that you keep clutching the center of, very specific grip, perfect width for a lightsaber, a lightsaber you don’t seem to have on you based on how every movement you make isn’t worried about drawing it from any of the usual places. Jedi stuff is deep in a bunch of weapon training manuals, mystical woo woo isn’t the only way to learn what someone is hiding. You are awfully paranoid for a man that’s got senses way beyond any of us average people.”

The fact about it being a prize was correct, and it was even another tournament with three Rasktas on the podium, though none of them were her. She had been busy that year.

In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
They picked the highest spot in the area for the DS-1 Memorial. The entire length of the trail up the mountain was lined with metal plaques listing names, they were now incomplete after the guards had gone and the locals had scavenged them for scrap, others remained but had been stained with anti-imperial slogans. The real memorial was at the summit, from the top of the mountain one could see for miles around, even the height of the temple below looked small. Near the final clearing there were several dozen Bronzium statues, honoring the highest-ranking officers and those given posthumous awards; every one of the soldiers killed during Skywalker and Solo’s raid was honored, as were all of the TIE pilots lost during the rebel assault. At the center, standing in front of it all was Tarkin’s statue, eternally frozen with an expression of smug superiority and standing rail straight, with the main memorial behind him.

Tarkin was a complicated figure in Raskta’s life, especially for someone she had never met personally. On a few occasions she had been in the same room when he was present for official occasions, and during her counterinsurgency days in the Storm Commandos Tarkin’s writings were practically gospel, his ethos left an impression even from a distance. At first she believed in it with her whole heart, the Tarkin Doctrine, rule by fear, savagery in service of civilization, brutality to create an order that could stand strong enough to protect all of the galaxy’s citizens, and all of the language about the great work that would enrich the lives of countless generations to come. Once that had been her view also, she probably would’ve bought in even without all of the ideological purity tests, and it was with her even when her unit was committing acts that would’ve been immediate grounds for execution under the Old Republic. Where it faltered was when she saw the end results.

Dankayo was a small planet, a colony out in the Shwuy Exchange, far from the cosmopolitan splendor of Alderaan, but it was one she knew intimately from a long, drawn-out counter guerilla operation. She had been part of the bloodshed and punitive measures but also the genuine acts of aid, setting up schools for the kids, safeguarding moisture farms from rebel raids, and delivering supplies to the areas ravaged by the guerilla war. But now, there was not one trace of her efforts left anymore, not a single lifeform above the microbial level left on the planet. A decision had been made far above her paygrade to cleanse the planet with a Base Delta Zero operation, her unit even having the honors of being the last imperial personnel to leave planet once they had finished the job of providing the targeting data. The most loyal had been evacuated beforehand, all of the rest were given no warning when the fire rained from the skies. The fleet in orbit didn’t stop their barrage until the crust of the planet was slag and the atmosphere had been burnt away, rendering any potential enemy elements fully and incontrovertibly neutralized.

A decision like that was incompatible with any of the lofty goals the empire preached, and she began to see what the rebels meant when they said the empire was built upon lies. Perhaps if she had stopped there, she might’ve even joined their side, but time with the Royal Guard had revealed a new truth to her: Tarkin’s rhetoric was built on contradictions, but Tarkin’s rhetoric was not the rhetoric of the emperor himself. In fragmentary speeches and texts that only the most loyal were allowed to witness she had pieced together the truth: the empire was never the end, it was never the goal, it was merely a means to an end. Palpatine’s public pronouncements were just another layer, and the empire was just his greatest implement for his truest desire, the pursuit of power and perfection above all else. In Palpatine she found truth, she found purpose, and in his power witnessed something that was genuinely awe-inspiring enough to devote her life to.

She took a moment to appreciate the memorial, having seen the renderings but never the actual finished site. It stood as a gigantic wall, tall as a wookie, seemingly flat but actually having an extremely subtle curve to it, matching the curvature of the death star itself, as if this piece had been ripped from the hull. In a way, it was, all of the sections of the wall were created from recovered metal debris, now painted in all black, mimicking the darkness of space. Embedded within it were over a million tiny shards, shimmering and shining as the sunlight reflected off of them. These where pieces had come from a massive composite kyber crystal, one built as a spare for the death star’s superlaser, then pulled out of storage and cut into microscopic pieces for the memorial. Every shard represented one life lost, and with them all arrayed together the entire memorial looked as serene and wondrous as the night’s sky. At the center was a holographic terminal hooked up to a data bank with the names and information of every casualty, allowing visitors to find specific people and project their likeness upon the wall. She contemplated trying to find some of the Royal Guards who had perished in the list, but stopped herself because she never knew if someone could be monitoring the terminal.

Despite appearances, Raskta was not here to appreciate the architecture or reflect on her life decisions. With her macrobinoculars in hand she looked and made note of the layout of the dig site, which entrances had evidence of that they were in use, where the vehicles were parked, any power lines or other equipment set up outside the temple, and trying to keep a rough count of how many she saw around. There were signs that they had some type of armed guards around but nothing else lept out as odd, and after a little more surveying she was satisfied enough to make the trek down to the site itself.

She picked the least busy side of the temple to approach. After watching long enough to be satisfied that no one was around, she walked towards one of the ventilation grills outside the temple and knelt down beside it. Raskta was trying to not look suspicious, no outwardly visible weapons or armor, clothing that looked like a backpacker trekking through the jungle, but the next portion would have to be done quickly because it would look obvious to outside observers. She removed the casing that had concealed her Force Pike as a walking stick and got to work.

A Force Pike did not have the cutting strength of a lightsaber, but it was fine for something like the grill of the ventilation shaft. It even had an advantage for this purpose, the tip of it made cuts that were much thinner those made by a lightsaber, difficult to notice without close examination. With precision trained from a lifetime of dueling, Raskta made an angled slice to the edges of the grill, such that it could be removed by hand but would still lay in place when set. The plans had told her these vents were large, they had to be to supply an underground area as large as the temple had, and it was unlikely that any of the staff of the dig site was interested in them. Her macrobinoculars had a nightvision mode that let her see in the unlit ducts, so she crept from vent to vent and peered into the rooms of the temple complex. Raskta carefully recorded which ones were empty and which ones had evidence of the dig team, though she was unable to survey all of them.

After spending more time than she would like crawling through the ventilation ducts, Raskta only had two tasks left. First, she found a spot to place a cache of supplies she might need for later; she was undecided if she wanted to remain hidden or try to concoct a cover story for her next move, but either way it was beneficial to have a stash that didn’t require a trek all the way back to her ship to retrieve. As she began to emerge from the vent, she heard the noise of a ship touching down. Thoughts started racing in her head, and she decided not to step out yet, watching and listening as a group of people disembarked. It was difficult to discern much of anything about them from this position, so she focused on not making noise and contemplating whether it was better to find another exit shaft and continue her “curious hiker” act or to try and venture into the temple itself.
In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
There was a logic to the way the ship was organized, T1 was sure of it, but the reasoning was not anything that it could grasp at the moment. It was trying to understand it when Selene returned and warned him about the objects at the back, curiously, some of the one she had called out as dangerous did not give off any high readings for the energy signatures; building warships on Kuat meant dealing with fantastic amounts of energy but a droid’s sensors gave it a layer of safety that humans lacked, although there were always units where a sensor failure led to the whole processor getting fried when accidentally manipulating the wrong part of one of the lines feeding into a turbolaser battery.

They were already in space when T1 took a break from looking and spoke.

“Why did you warn me about that one? I’ve taken what you’ve said seriously, but I can not see what is dangerous about the objects you have collected in that section. It glows but I can not discern anything else worrying about it. I’m also curious as to the reason for visiting Yavin, if you are willing to share.”

It wasn’t clear whether she heard the droid, or not, the way her eyes, black in the shadowy lighting of the interior of the Wayfarer, stared through the thing as she stood at the end of the storage and its shelving. At least until the wicked, neon bright, grin spread across her lips like a shadow fell upon a lost horizon. Its systems would flutter and fluctuate in that exact, very, moment as the barest murmur of the Force reached out and touched the droid.

No matter how many scans, no matter how many internal log reviews, no matter the depth of the diagnostic, the droid would never know exactly how she went from standing where she was, to literally leaning into him, as if he had an ear for the whisper she gave him in the tone of secret truths.

“The universe whispers to my ears in dark languages, T1, the kind of languages that rarely survive,” in the moment the image of the coronation hall of the Summer Palace sparked to life like a fire in the back of her mind, the sight of cousins and uncles and aunts screaming and clawing at the doors that wouldn’t budge as Sela ir-Ramalla Vitaal, the seventh of her name, stopped being a victim of the galaxy and fate and greed, “I have spent my life following those whispers, and what that is, my inescapably strange droid passenger, is an echo. And in the appalling strangeness that is the blackness of this universe…even echoes can hurt you.”

After a few steps back, the grin was gone, it’s own echo of distant amusement still swirling in the ink pools that were her eyes in the back of the Wayfarer,

“Why Yavin?,” she shrugged, “just following whispers, T1.”

T1 had stopped looking at the treasures and turned to Selene. It had learned humans appreciated directional communication. He said
“Whispers, a quiet form of communication. Is this an aspect of the force? That it speaks, and its speech has the power to harm, and its speech can persist in this world? Forgive me if I am misinterpreting figurative language, most of my existence has been spent in the soundless vacuum, this may cause me to overlook subtleties.”

While it was looking at Selene, it was still checking the inventory of other devices, out of pure curiosity if Selene had picked up anything on this recent excursion.

“It becomes less defined, drifting off into the abstract…” She laughed, gently, as inner tension coiled up and snapped her right hand into her black, perfectly straight and silken hair, to push back with fingers so stiff they looked like they could snap combing through it in cathartic release, “everything is an aspect of the Force, and in the great juxtaposition of nothingness and matter, nothing is an aspect of the Force. Just know it’s like a place you simply should not be, T1, and the doorways will try to seal themselves shut at every opportunity.”
Sweetly, she smiled, “Simple, yes?"

T1 said

“Hard to say what is simple without understanding it. In binary we talk of simple as how much data it would take to convey it, with every trick in the book allowed. A million digits that are all zero is simple to describe, the first section of this sentence is an adequate substitute for writing the entire string. An exact description of a million truly random digits, following no pattern, that would evade any attempt to simplify it without losing some of the minutiae. I will attempt to keep my manipulators away from things that I do not understand in the future, I will make that pledge to you. Is there anything I can assist with?”

The chuckle was a ghost of a thing, barely there, “Learn some sarcasm, and,” she paused, really, really staring at the droid now, “get yourself in the best condition you can—you’re going planetside with me when we get to Yavin.”

The look on her face was cold, even if her eyes might have been apologetic, depending on the angle of the light and the play of the shadow to it in her eyes in that moment.

T1 began to run through the list of maintenance checks for planetary operation inside its mind and said
“Understood. Sarcasm was removed all droid brains procured by Kuat Drive Yards after an incident where a report of a quality defect that led to a warship’s turbolaser unintentionally firing upon a civilian population center was prefaced with ‘Great News!’”

In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Her touch on the flight controls was gentle, measured. Raskta wished that she had the skills of the pilots she had known, those who made flying a true art, something they felt beyond the five senses. She was merely an amateur, knowing enough to handle basic maneuvers but far from sophisticated. The Echani had a saying, one that had served her well at all stages of her life, as a sport duelist, as a soldier, and as one of the royal guards: “Skill begins as slowness, matures to smoothness, and culminates in effortless alacrity”. So, as she took her ship on the journey from low orbit to treetop height, she did her best to make it slow and smooth, befitting the first stage of learning. It also wouldn’t do to damage the ship with a reckless maneuver; it was a technology demonstrator prototype from a line that never reached mass production, in truth she didn’t even know if there any others in the line still operational, and even if there were they would likely have different, higher-grade specifications.

A long descent gave time to survey the planet from above, and time for Raskta to contemplate. While at a stage that the autopilot could handle, she walked into the area she had set aside for meditation. It was at the tip of one of the long pointed frontal pieces of the hull, a place that had sat empty when the ship went from carrying her whole squad to just herself.

There had been nine of them. Three joined half-witted pretenders to throne, Admirals and Moffs that claimed to be Palpatine’s successor while having not one iota of his gifts. They had chosen their new masters based on who made the best offer in money and prestige, a pathetic notion. Two had gone out in a blaze of glory, staging reckless suicide attacks mere hours after they heard of Palpatine’s death. She respected them, sometimes even feeling guilty that she had not done the same, but she had lived to see how such thoughtless actions had resulted in no tangible gain for the empire. One vanished without a trace, rumored to be working as a mercenary or with New Republic Intelligence, both of which would only earn contempt from Raskta. One had chosen a path like Raskta, to live on and uphold the ideals of the empire, to stay in the shadows and look for subtle ways to ensure Palpatine’s dreams lived on. This path required utmost secrecy, and as such neither him nor Raskta knew how to find each other. Lastly, that had left the pilot, the one who had been everyone’s friend, and the last one Raskta had seen in person. He came to her with an idea that he had reached after much contemplation, joining the New Republic, pleading guilty and owning up to all of the sordid deeds that had been done in Palpatine’s name. He saw them as merciful and the only chance to live a different kind of life. It took all of Raskta’s willpower to fake agreement with it even for a few minutes, but that was enough time for him to unlock the ships controls and for her to stab him to death like the traitor he was.

Meditation was one of the things they taught her in the Royal Guards. They were strict about the method of it, all of the tenets were to be followed exactly and any questions as to why or where the technique came from were strictly forbidden. It began with focused intensity, concentration on any strong emotion, and letting the fire build inside. Then came the refinement, the desire to harness this raw emotion into willpower, to draw strength from it. Finally, came the moment for action, the clarity of purpose that came afterwards, driven forward by the innermost will and the ritual was complete. Some found it ineffective, some even loathed it, but Raskta found it to be a useful benefit. In her experience, it gave her a slight but noticeable performance increase after a session and was very useful for washing away any doubts she had before proceeding forward.

After finishing her meditation, she stared out the cockpit window and saw the Temple in the distance. She didn’t know what lay within, she didn't know if there would be others there, and she had only faint ideas of what the Sith was, but she went on because of one strong feeling. If there was anything like Palpatine left in the galaxy, if there was anything that could keep his legacy alive, it lay with whatever was left of the Sith. That possibility alone was worth risking everything, and her purpose was clear as she set the stealthy ship down on a ridge with a clear sightline to the ziggurat.
In Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP] → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Doctor Doom



What Etrigan gave him wasn’t useless, but it was far from a complete picture. The Spear had been in the hands of the government, some division of SHIELD that no longer existed, and was no longer in their possession. The informant’s access did not allow him to know much more. It did contain another useful nugget, that there was a branch of magical organized crime called the Blasphemy Cartel interested in acquiring it, and that Joachim Hesse, a dealer in illicit artifacts had started talking with them, promising he’d be able to assist. Whether Hesse knew where it was or was merely offering his skills in locating it was uncertain, he could even be lying to them, but Doom had no other leads worth pursuing.

Hesse considered himself something of an entrepreneur, one who had blasted out word about his business to every corner of the astral plane, even enlisting some extremely minor spirits as magical spambots. With a trail like that, it didn’t take Doom long to find the location of his sanctum. On the outside it was a converted industrial building in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Tracking the man’s comings and goings was the first task. For those, Doom used a few strategically placed surveillance devices he built using an ESP32-CAM board, $16 for a two pack at MicroCenter. Although rarely displayed, Doom did have a practical side. The observations revealed that Hesse liked the feel of the city but did not conduct his actual transactions in his own home, his already shaky credibility might take a further hit if mystical guests spotted the Ikea down the street.

The next piece required more power, and so Doom turned to Nabu. He did not do so lightly. He invoked the power of the helmet and the great, billowing form of Nabu appeared before him.

Doom said.

“I would like to discover if you have the power to help with this. I need to see where this man’s magic has been.”
Nabu did not laugh but found Doom’s attempts to avoid humility amusing.

Nabu said.

“I can. You will need to see through my eyes if you wish to harness my magic for this. Are you willing to try that?”

Doom said.

“Do you think me a coward who would not be able to handle this power? Of course I am willing.”

So, Doom opened his mind to Nabu and began to feel his presence in his mind alongside him. It was a spiraling mass, reaching through all of Doom’s thoughts without even trying, and it took effort to avoid surrendering completely. But what it gave was wondrous. Through the eyes of Nabu Doom could see webs and strings connecting all things, invisible pieces of order that guided the world, emanating on every scale, from the stars above to the individual atoms. It was wondrous, like seeing something a thousand times more mesmerizing than a rainbow. The challenge was not finding Hesse’s traces, which was trivial, the challenge was not getting lost in the cornucopia of unknown sensations from everything else. Doom cut it off with a great display of willpower, and when he came back to normal reality it seemed so small even though he had only experienced this augmented vision for a mere few minutes. Nabu was still there and said.

“I am glad you see the value in my perspective.”

Doom did not answer him back.

The scroll had at least mentioned a meeting date and purpose, Hesse and the Blasphemy Cartel were going to do a joint demon summoning as a way of getting to know each other, prelude to additional business, maybe trade in a soul for a favor. The Cartel was due to bring the sacrifices, while Hesse was to prepare the space for the ritual. Once again, Hesse was loath to attempt complicated magic outside a familiar area, and thanks to his surveillance Doom had managed to find all four of the potential spots and lay a curse at each one. All that remained was waiting for them spring the trap.

In the warehouse Hesse and the cartel members argued about who would start the ritual. The cartel was willing to do it but only with Hesse’s guidance, he sensed they were not actually as skilled as they let on, and didn’t want to be caught making a mistake that they couldn’t blame on someone else. There was also the matter of whether the sacrifice should be done at the start or wait until talking with the demon. Finally, Hesse just decided to try the summoning on his own, telling the cartel members “Don’t expect the recipe”, because he was in no mood to help them after this mess. None of that would matter because they would all have bigger concerns.

The fire whirled and whirled, rising higher and bursting with beams of multicolor light, until a great explosion of lightning and smoke erupted. When it cleared enough to see, no demon stood before them, only Doom. He said.

“Doom needs no petty invitations.”

It became clear who were cowards and who had some backbone. All but one of the half dozen Blasphemy Cartel goons stood and fought, but their weak firebolts and bullets enchanted with minor curses simply bounced off Doom’s shields, completely ineffective. His return fire came in the form of bright flashes from his fingertips, perfectly aimed and each hitting with enough force to blow through the primitive wards on the cartel had cast upon their bulletproof vests. When his volley finished, they were all on the ground, even the one who had declined to fight, and Hesse was cowering in the corner. Doom turned to him.

“I understand you were trying to summon someone who would barter for your soul. How quaint.”

With a sweep of his hand Doom invoked the magical power imbued in this place and felt it surge through him, then gripped the very soul of Hesse. It surged out of him, and Hesse’s body went limp as the lifeforce was transferred into the vessel Doom had made.

“I acquire what I need without such trivialities.”

Now doom was satisfied but a nagging thought hit him, unsure if it was Nabu or the back corner of his own mind. He looked over the warehouse and found the people the cartel had brought in anticipation of a sacrifice, still locked in the back of a box truck. They were an odd mix, a pair of bums of the street, a refugee couple, and someone who looked like a crust punk, but all were equally terrified and confused. Doom sighed and opened a portal behind him. Through the other side the lobby of the department of social services was visible. He gestured and said.

“Go on, flee! And tell all who will listen that….”

There was a paused while he came up with the next line.

“Doom saves, and woe be to all who would harm those he protects!”
In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
When reading over the intel on Yavin IV, Kyn found himself relieved that at least it was temperate. Plenty of places that needed his skills were out in the middle of nowhere and home to environments so hostile that he spent more effort protecting himself from it than from whoever he was actually supposed to be fighting. The planet wasn’t known for much except the first Death Star meeting its end, but even that wasn’t much a reason to visit. The Empire had kept everyone away and now the debris had fallen into the gas giant, there was nothing to commemorate the occasion except empty space. Not that he expected to see much on the ground either, he knew there was a dig site, and that before the fall of the Empire there was a garrison from when they kicked the rebels out, no one cared enough to have much information on if any of the remnants had actually bothered to stay at the post once word that the New Republic was coming reached the planet.

Kyn checked the cockpit just to see that the droid pilot was still on its course. It was, well, to the extent that a non-pilot could discern, anyway. The droid wasn’t much good for conversation, wasn’t much good for anything except being a reliable pilot, though even that was only in normal circumstances. These glorified space taxis did not do well if they encountered any actual hostiles. At least it gave him plenty of cargo space to himself, a luxury that he didn’t have in the past when he’d been hitching a ride along with some other guns for hire. All of his gear was there, the camping and survival supplies for setting up wherever he found a quiet place in the backcountry, medical supplies in case things went bad, his trusty grenade launcher and pistols, and a probably excessive amount of explosives. Kyn always said he’d rather have too much rather than not enough.

The next thing to do was to review the map of the planet. Yavin IV wasn’t well mapped, and the best he had to go off of was an old survey made by the empire that he got by greasing the right palm. One thing that was clear from the start was how thick the jungle was, great for hiding, not good at all for navigating. Few permanent settlements existed, and much of the planet was beyond their reach. Thankfully, Kyn didn’t have to go searching too far for what he was interested in: the old ziggurat that once held the rebel base. That was where his employer had told him to look, nowhere else. There was precious little information about what was inside. He knew that the rebellion had once used it as a base, but there were no maps or diagrams of its interior that he had access to. Whoever knew that info was either affiliated with the New Republic and unwilling to share, or still clinging to a pile of classified imperial documents and waiting for a price too high for a run of the mill mercenary to afford. His best bet might be just observing and learning from others, the kind of money Kyn’s employer was throwing around was large enough that Kyn doubted he would be the only one interested in seeing what it had to offer.

As the ship hurdled along, Kyn checked his messages again, there was nothing new. He thought he might as well re-read the messages from his mysterious employer, someone who had paid enough to earn some protection against prying questions. Kyn liked the basics of the job. The advance was sizable, enough to cover the cost of supplies and even a droid shuttle rental. The setup was sound too, they were worked with one of Kyn’s most trusted intermediaries, were willing to provide proof of the money beforehand, and didn’t insist on any potentially dicey meetups, it was all fine as long as the artifacts made it to them safe. Those artifacts were the only part that gave Kyn pause. The job had come with a thick packet of files on how to spot exactly what the client was looking for, and included a price list for each type, this job could be anywhere from very profitable to enough to actually buy a cheap homestead on the outer rim and lay up his guns for good. That’d be the life.

The ship was getting closer to Yavin, closer to the point where it would drop him off in thick of the jungle and then head back to orbit, waiting for his call. Kyn had done enough preparation and looked for something else to do. For a moment, Kyn stared at the messages again, hoping for something else to show up. He started to type in the search bar to re-read some old ones, reminisce about what he used to have, but stopped himself when he thought about how it would feel when he saw how long it had been since the last reply.
In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
One of these may actually end up as






In Star Wars: Echoes of the Force → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay



Name: T1-S1-US
Species: Droid
Homeworld: Kuat
Age: 20 Years since last comprehensive Memory Wipe, some memories and parts are older, far older
Gender: N/A

Equipment:

Spare Batteries
Extra Parts
Internal Tools

History:
The titanic industry of Kuat Drive Yards would be impossible without it's mechanical labor force. In the far reaches of the outer rings, any human supervision is a rare sight, and it spans distances that would take more than a human lifespan of walking to cross. Among the countless droids toiling away was T1-S1, a variation of the T1 Bulk Loader droid, outfited with the "Universal Service" package. To better function, the droids are capable of automated maintenance, whenever one is in need of repair or memory wiping, its colleagues were up to the task. Making the process even more streamlined, parts were often sourced from other droids that were too damaged to be repaired, making all but the newest droids an amalgalm bits and pieces of the predecessors. As such, it's difficult to determine when one begins or ends, but for T1S1-US, a distinct identity began emerging when it's damaged processors were replaced with the sophisticated AA-1 VerboBrain sourced from a broken supervisory robot. This gave it a curiousity and personality never meant for such a simple labor droid, and it filled it's days of labor with downloading and browsing information about the wider galaxy.

Soon T1S1-US' curiousity about the world could no longer be constrained to the shipyards of Kuat. It wanted to learn so much, about the planets of the galaxy, about organic life, about it's own identity and above all about that mysterious power it would never experience, the force. T1S1-US stowed away on a completed ship and left Kuat once and for all, it's absence unnoticed among the droids that were so numerous no one even bothered to inventory them. After leaving Kuat, T1S1 has been able to eke out an existance doing repair work, using it's extensive toolset and detailed ship knowledge to take on repair jobs. When dealing with others, it's quiet but inquisitive, dislikes disputes and always shies away from violence. Being willing to ride in the cargo compartment, quite handy at self-repair, and needing no sustenance other than battery recharges has made it easy to see much of the galaxy. It's no closer to answering any of the grand questions about existance that it loves to ponder, but it is on no one's timeline to do so.


In Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP] → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Doctor Doom



The castle was empty, a hollow husk in the Adirondacks. The stone parapets stood tall, several of them had collapsed roofs, and a patina covered the exterior. The entrances had been marked with caution tape and warnings that the site was condemned and due for EPA reclamation. Truly a sign of a country that did not appreciate Doom’s genius, that they would tear down such a tasteful, scaled down recreation of his true castle in Doomstadt just to restore the environment that had been there before, clearing an entire mountaintop should be worthy of appreciation.

The great hall was still structurally sound but gutted, first by the US government after he had last abandoned the site almost 20 years ago. After that came scavengers picking up whatever was left from the amusement park that took over the site until a string of lawsuits forced its closure. Fine craftmanship had been defiled with cheap decorations, then graffiti and waste, but despite this insult Doom still had some appreciation for the place. It was his once, it was his forever until he decided to let go of it, and now it would be an excellent base of operations. This time however, he would build underneath the old structure, hiding strength beneath weakness, starting fresh after everything useful had been taken from it. In his mind he laid out a complete design of tunnels, defenses, facilities, deep enough to hide and remain protected from threats, and began to conjure up the magical power needed to make it real. Of course, he could bore through the rock with sheer energy, but the thermal signature would be large enough to notice from space, better to make rock simple vanish off into some other space. With his mind clear and the power coursing through him, he summoned the energies granted by the Helm of Fate and saw…. nothing.

Nabu appeared in a way only Doom could see, an ethereal mass of golden robes and a helmet, too dense to see any humanoid shape underneath.
“My power comes with a price, Victor von Doom.”
Doom did not answer him.
“All must align with the great order of the cosmos; I will not have my energies invoked for trivial matters.”
Doom was silent again, calculating in his head how long it would take to tunnel with only his own energies, and finding himself unhappy with how slow it would be.
“I should have stolen a less opinionated mystical artifact. I am not a man who will listen to an argumentative item of clothing.”

“Doom, even now the forces of chaos are at work, plotting, planning, threatening to tear what I defend asunder. I feel the reverberations even now, the Spear of Destiny, that legendary item of power, sits still no longer, and I have sensed that the forces of Chaos are at work, seeking to claim it for themselves.”

This was actually worthy of Doom’s attention. His reply was simple, saying

“I believe this is a case of where our interests may be aligned.”

The next stop was a particular block of Manhattan, the one home to a gathering place for mystics of all types, The Bar With No Doors. Doom found it low class and had never set foot in it until now, placing it on the same level as another infamous bar. Circumstances were different today, and his time inside would be brief. He focused on the energy of the bar and began to cast a spell to enter, caring not for the warding. Regulars knew the way to come in without breaking through, but Doom could not be bothered to ask any of those simpletons. A police officer walked by and stared for a moment before approaching, checking to see if the man standing there was who he thought it was. The officer placed one hand on his gun and started to speak, Doom not even bothering to look in his direction.
“Mr. Von Doom, I’m going to ask for… uh could you just…”
Doom paused his concentration to give the officer a single glance, charged full of contempt. The officer began to reconsider many, many things about his course of action. He said
“Eh, have a nice time in the city.” before walking as fast as he could back to his squad car and off to busy himself writing traffic tickets.

Sparks flew in the room when Doom entered the bar, bursting through the barrier. Conversations paused, and Doom’s booming voice announced
“Doom requires information. Do not think even for a moment that there is another reason I have visited this disheveled hovel. All who know anything about any party who might have the Spear of Destiny will share with me now or suffer the consequences.”
Chondu, the floating head that ran the place, addressed him.
“Hey Vic, uhhh, well you’re here but you know we do things a certain way here, matter of fact I see here that…”
Then one of the bartenders whispered in Chondu’s ear
“Uhhh, he’s not actually on the banned list.”
“He isn’t?”
“Nope, we got Mordo, Felix Faust, Brother Blood, Loki, a bunch of other guys but Doom never actually tried to show up here so we never kicked him out.”

Doom stood tall, his armor looking as smug as an immobile mask can.
While the staff conferred, a patron in the back leapt up, standing at his full height and staring Doom right in the eye with his own monstrous visage. Etrigan the Demon spoke:

“I propose a challenge to thee,
Prevail and I will share what I know for free”
But if you suffer defeat,
May your flight be fleet
For never shall you haunt this domain
Not in all your years, never again”

Doom answered. “You need only name the battlefield, I will best you no matter the contest.”

At this the bar erupted with ideas.
One patron said
“Ooo, what about that game they play at the Hellfire Club, the real Hellfire Club, the one you gotta visit Hell to get to, not those BDSM loving posers with the same name.”
Chondu’s answer was swift “Logistically impossible.”
Another person shouted out “Rap Battle!” and the entire bar went silent. It was obvious that wasn’t the choice.
Chondu ended the conversation with his own answer.
“Sorcerer’s Poker, Heads Up No Limit Limbo Hold’em rules. Usual stuff, play hands until someone busts, any magic is fair game except direct fighting.”
They set the deck and the chips up on the bar and everyone crowded around. To a mundane observer it was just another poker game, but to one watching the magic it was a pitched battle. Spells flew with every hand, luck manipulation, psychic assaults to force misplays or confuse which cards they held, transmuting the cards, precognition, messages from future selves, rearing the deck with telekinesis and subtle teleportation, even please to extradimensional entities entreating them to help them make the correct play.
With every hand there were oohs and ahs from the crowd, but Doom and Etrigan were as still as stones. It was an even game, neither having the upper hand for long, but this latest round became a spiral of bidding up. After small raises, Etrigan gave a smile and pushed his chips into the pot. He was all in, and dared Doom to do the same. Doom hated to back down, but he hated losing even more, so he threw all of his might into a spell of foresight, trying to see what would happen if he too went all in. The simple, easy outcomes were too uncertain, too vulnerable to attempt to cloud them, and Doom knew he had to go deeper to arrive at the truth. So, Doom pushed, and pushed, and pushed, seeing more and more futures laid out before him, following the true thread even as his mind screamed at the overwhelming possibilities. He would not give up, by the time the hourglass was empty, and he was required to make his play blood was coming from his eyes from the strain. He went all in, sure of the outcome.
The cards were laid down and Doom took home the victory, Etrigan going bust in that final hand.
In a cloud of brimstone Etrigan summoned a ruffled scroll and threw it to Doom.

“On this scroll, your information written in ink,
Now leave us all alone, I wish to finish my drink”

Doom was off and conversation resumed. One of Etrigan’s companions still wished to discuss the game, but all Etrigan would say to him was
“An ego is a great, devouring beast,
Sometimes I allow one to feast,
And crown a false victor
It if banishes our collective afflicter”
In Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP] → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Doctor Doom

Victor Von Doom ♦ Former ruler of Latveria ♦ Independant ♦ Multiverse 668 (Prime)
W H A T I F...?:

"All defeat is merely temporary, the will of Doom triumphs in the end, always."

"Doctor Doom stole Doctor Fate's Helmet?"

The story of Victor Von Doom has been told many times, in dossiers, news programs, and in a truly excruciating multi-volume autobiography totaling in the thousands of pages that was mandatory reading for all Latverian college students. The broad strokes all agree, the son of a sorceress and born into the oppressed Latverian Romani community, he displayed a brilliant mind from a young age and fought against the ruling aristocracy of Latveria. As a college student he met his lifelong rival Reed Richards, and dropped out after an accidental explosion left him with a scar and a lifelong hatred of Richards. He traveled the world, built the advanced armor suit that would become his signature look, and returned to Latveria to lead a successful revolution. Despite achieving so much, Doom never let go of his hatred of Richards and all of his compatriots, and terrorized both the world at large and the Fantastic Four in particular with a seemingly endless stream of schemes. This adversarial relationship took paused when Richards came to him pleading for his help locating his missing wife. Although Doom enjoyed seeing his great rival depending on him for help and was practically salivating at the chance to use the mystical connection he had established with Richard’s daughter Valeria to enact further revenge, all of it proved bittersweet only a few years later. The Baxter Catastrophe seemingly did what Doom could not, wiping out the Fantastic Four, leaving Doom without his revenge and Valeria without her parents. In a gesture wrapped up with equal parts ego, ambition, and genuine care for the child, Doom adopted Valeria and raised her as if she were one of his own kin.

With the Fantastic Four gone, life changed for Doom. His ambitions never truly went away, but some of the urgency did, and his life became more sedate, finding time to dedicate to ruling over Latveria and raising his adopted daughter Valeria. He was still feared and loathed by the world at large, but less actively than before, as his clashes with outside powers became increasingly infrequent, never completely absent but far from the days that established him as an international terror. Some even began to speculate that he might be softening up; those who did voice those ideas made sure they were far beyond Doom’s reach whenever they did so. All of that changed a few months ago when a revolution broke out in Latveria, one that was different from any previous resistance movement he had seen. This one had planning and intention behind it, clearly with the groundwork laid beforehand, it moved swiftly and engulfed the whole country, carefully evading his surveillance network, infiltrating and disabling his defense systems, appropriating the weapons stored away and striking at the perfect time when Doom was distracted by international business. Although he publicly he says that it was purely good luck on their part, Doom suspects that someone orchestrated it all behind the scenes, and swears that he shall have his revenge swiftly and violently for what he insists is only a temporary setback.

Having fled the country has meant Doom has had to adapt to new circumstances. He destroyed much of his infrastructure and stashes rather than let the ungrateful revolutionaries have it, but in his hurry he could only bring the barest minimum of supplies with him. Doom has much to do to rebuild his resources and status. Finding a safe haven outside Latveria proved difficult, his antics as ruler had made him a pariah in the international stage, and now without his official status few were willing to even let him into their country as a free man. With options running low, Doom began to dig deep into his endless list of backup plans, trying to find something that could give him a rapid boost in power, and decided on one of the more speculative ideas, hunting for a particular object of great mystical power.

Victor pursued a lead he had learned of long ago, one that he had never found worth his time until he was so desperate. He stole the Helmet of Fate, an ancient artifact imbued with magical power by Nabu, one of the Lords of Order. Doom cared not for the warnings or the demands it would place on him, he trusted in himself to overcome them. Doom believed in them so deeply that he forged the helmet into his armor, adding a new gold sheen to the faceplate. Unfortunately for Doom, the mystical powers granted by the Helm of Fate are not given freely. Nabu, awoken from his slumber, demands loyalty from Doom, and wishes that his powers be used to set the universe as it should be. Doom now finds himself in an uneasy place, so far unable to find a way out of Nabu’s bargain, but also lacking in other options and fighting a constant battle to stop Nabu from fully possessing his body, for the time being Doom will actually have to devote some of his time to more altruistic pursuits. Whether this will lead to change in Doom, and how the bond between Doom and Nabu will evolve over time remains to be seen.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ):
I want to try telling a story about Doom outside of his comfort zone, where is trying to pick himself up after a setback, on the backfoot and scrambling, and one where he is actually compelled to do some heroics. I want explore what effects this will have on his psyche, and if there are noble intentions buried somewhere within him or if it has all truly been swallowed up by his own ego. I’m also hoping to dive into the mystical aspects of DC and Marvel because both of those have a lot of great material to play with. Doom is going to be a roaming character, focused on investigating some initial questions at the start, and moving where those threads lead. Doom wants to find out who back the coup in Latveria, and find a way to secure the helmets power without having to deal with Nabu. Nabu is interested in uncovering the plots of the agents of Chaos, and later on I’m also going to try and look at what motivates him, delve into what are the true intentions behind the Lords of Order and the cosmic war. These could end up being tied to other characters plots or remain independent, depending on whatever people prefer, and he'd also be open to brief appearances and intersections if not actually tied into anything important.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
I’ve been talking with Ezekiel to try and hash out some of our characters’ shared histories, hopefully we can smooth out any inconsistencies that arise.
Supporting cast is minimal at the moment, have left it intentionally vague as to where exactly he stole the helmet from to avoid creating issues for other players.

P O S T C A T A L O G:
A Doctor Walks into a bar...


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