Polyphemus Member
They/ Them
- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Vulture
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1829 (0.41 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Polyphemus 12 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Well, it's all a matter of perspective.
Wayne said
Accepted. I've got a good impression of you and your character thus far.
Thank you very much! I'm happy to be aboard.
Name: Kenneth Stevenson
Age: 49
Occupation: Congressman (D-KY, Kentucky's 3rd District)
Appearance/Clothing: Ken Stevenson is a classically handsome man who prefers tailored suits or other expensive clothing. A bit snobbish in his tastes. He is fit but not overly muscular, possessing a tone carefully recommended by his advisers.
Equipment: Stevenson has only the clothes on his back and an engraved Louisville Slugger baseball bat, presented to his assistant by the factory in his home district. It seemed handy to carry in times such as these.
From: Louisville, Kentucky
Personality: Stevenson is wholly self-centered, greedy, calculating, vain, and manipulative. However, he is pragmatic- his self interest takes the form of "scratch my back and I'll scratch yours". Accordingly, he'll do favors or services for others, with the expectation he will one day be paid back. In addition, he possesses a certain coarse charm, taking pride in being viewed as a sumbitch, rather than a son of a bitch. He is also patient and hard-working- nothing worth having ever came quickly or easily.
History: Born into a blue collar family in Louisville, Stevenson always looked above trade professions. Scrounging together scholarships and grants for law school, Stevenson was able to pass the bar and practice law at a fairly young age. He married his wife Miranda not for love but for her money, finding her to be as shrewd and calculating as him. She was the one who pushed him into making their first million and running for public office, and Ken is for once completely honest when he credits her with his success. However, out of the public eye, their marriage is not the least bit faithful. Ken was staying over at his personal assistant's apartment when the crisis first began to unfold, and accordingly missed the deadlines for evacuation of government authorities.
Q: What made you want to join this RP?
A: I enjoy zombie/ apocalyptic RPs, and this one seems to be smarter and better written than the usual.
Q: What do you plan on doing with this character in this RP?
A: I hope this character might eventually grow as a person and perhaps lose some of his more vicious traits throughout the RP.
Q: Are you going to be a loner or be in a group?
A: In a group, for sure. A calculating individual like Ken Stevenson sees the advantage of working with others and intends to utilize it fully.
Q: What are your thoughts on the other player characters in the RP?
A: Remains to be seen.
Welcome to Essen, and one of the finest hotels there (at least back in 1956)! A-hunting we will go!
ESSEN
OCTOBER 1956
"Do you know, this stuff is actually rather good," Konstantinos Stavrou remarked as he studied the chilled glass of Riesling. "One doesn't hear much about German wine, not compared to France or Italy. But I've heard there are some excellent whites coming out of Mosel these days, so I had to try. It seems that paid off for me."
To any outside observers, the scene in the quiet lounge of the Hotel Handelshof was the same as that in any other hotel lounge across the world. A few foreigners, bored in a strange city, passing an idle hour with one another's company. The hotel was clean, imperial, miraculously untouched by the war. It was more than could be said for most of the city. Lancasters and Stirlings had pounded the city relentlessly throughout the war, and the Herculean task of clearing rubble was still going on nine years later. For every optimistic construction crew there were three bombed-out shells, glassless windows staring like eyes. In the face of such devastation, it was no wonder men like Hirsch had escaped punishment, Stavrou reflected. Men with his expertise would be desperately needed to rebuild. Not just this one huge city, either- dozens like it.
Stavrou reluctantly set down the glass of wine and looked across the table at his companions. He had barely known them twenty-four hours, but he considered himself a good judge of character, and he was beginning to think Farquharson had chosen well while putting this team together. "Alright, down to business. We received our little package from the dear Captain," he said as he placed a small attache case on the table and opened it. It had been brought to the hotel by a courier service, directly from the airport, not an hour before. They worked fast in London.
"Jean, Astrid, papers for you," he said as he passed two neatly paperclipped sheaves across to them. "Jean, my friend, you must get used to the name Roger Descombes, for that is who you are now. You represent a newly-built clinic in Lille and are shopping for state of the art equipment." With a long, delicate finger, Konstantinos tapped the papers. "I took the liberty of looking through those. You have letters of introduction from the French Embassy, the Robert Koch Institute, the World Health Assembly." The Greek shrugged. "They might even be real. God only knows how long of an arm our employers have."
He turned to the young Danish woman. "Astrid, my dear," he said formally and politely. "You are to be Christine Theiss, originally from Kiel. Any accent you have as a Dane might be reasonably passed off as northern," he said, nodding in approval. "The French consulate hired you as a guide and interpreter for unfortunate Monsieur Descombes, who has not learned a single word of the German in his time on Earth." Stavrou allowed himself a smile and a sip of wine at that. The man had the look of a POW, and the violinist was sure the Canadian had picked up a little in his time as a guest.
"You two should have no trouble getting an audience with Herr Hirsch with that set of papers. Look over everything at the factory- security, escape routes, all the fun things."
Konstantinos looked over at Nestori. "Now, you and I have no papers. Instead we have the fun part." He pulled a little slip of paper out of the case, as well as a small leather satchel. "This, my good friend, is Sebastien Hirsch's home address," he said, pushing the slip of paper over to the Finn. "Our job is reconnaissance. While these two look over his workplace, we look over his home. I guess that's why the Captain, in his wisdom, sent these," he said as he opened the leather case. Inside was a complete set of stainless steel lockpicks. "I, um, really hope you know how to use these. I never learned."
"Oh, in case you were wondering," Konstanstinos said, taking a furtive look around the lounge, "there are a few extras. What one might call a starter kit." He took another look around the deserted lounge, then emptied the final contents of the case onto the table. "Two feet of piano wire, with a wooden handle at either extremity. A fine garrote," he said, making sure everyone saw the item before putting it back into the attache case. "One cosh, lead shot wrapped in leather. SOE issue," he noted. "Two knives. One a fixed-blade Fairbairn-Sykes fighting dagger, the other a folding navaja knife, the Spanish style. And of course this fellow," he said, sweeping the item in question back into the case before any outsiders might get a clear look. "Unless I am mistaken, the Smith and Wesson Chief's Special. A new lightweight five-shot revolver made in America, intended to be concealed. As well as ten .38 rounds." He looked around the table. "I imagine we can obtain other weapons on request, but this is a fine start. A fine start indeed."
Stavrou took another appreciative sip of his wine, glad his room was being billed to his employers. "Is everyone clear on their tasks?"
OCTOBER 1956
"Do you know, this stuff is actually rather good," Konstantinos Stavrou remarked as he studied the chilled glass of Riesling. "One doesn't hear much about German wine, not compared to France or Italy. But I've heard there are some excellent whites coming out of Mosel these days, so I had to try. It seems that paid off for me."
To any outside observers, the scene in the quiet lounge of the Hotel Handelshof was the same as that in any other hotel lounge across the world. A few foreigners, bored in a strange city, passing an idle hour with one another's company. The hotel was clean, imperial, miraculously untouched by the war. It was more than could be said for most of the city. Lancasters and Stirlings had pounded the city relentlessly throughout the war, and the Herculean task of clearing rubble was still going on nine years later. For every optimistic construction crew there were three bombed-out shells, glassless windows staring like eyes. In the face of such devastation, it was no wonder men like Hirsch had escaped punishment, Stavrou reflected. Men with his expertise would be desperately needed to rebuild. Not just this one huge city, either- dozens like it.
Stavrou reluctantly set down the glass of wine and looked across the table at his companions. He had barely known them twenty-four hours, but he considered himself a good judge of character, and he was beginning to think Farquharson had chosen well while putting this team together. "Alright, down to business. We received our little package from the dear Captain," he said as he placed a small attache case on the table and opened it. It had been brought to the hotel by a courier service, directly from the airport, not an hour before. They worked fast in London.
"Jean, Astrid, papers for you," he said as he passed two neatly paperclipped sheaves across to them. "Jean, my friend, you must get used to the name Roger Descombes, for that is who you are now. You represent a newly-built clinic in Lille and are shopping for state of the art equipment." With a long, delicate finger, Konstantinos tapped the papers. "I took the liberty of looking through those. You have letters of introduction from the French Embassy, the Robert Koch Institute, the World Health Assembly." The Greek shrugged. "They might even be real. God only knows how long of an arm our employers have."
He turned to the young Danish woman. "Astrid, my dear," he said formally and politely. "You are to be Christine Theiss, originally from Kiel. Any accent you have as a Dane might be reasonably passed off as northern," he said, nodding in approval. "The French consulate hired you as a guide and interpreter for unfortunate Monsieur Descombes, who has not learned a single word of the German in his time on Earth." Stavrou allowed himself a smile and a sip of wine at that. The man had the look of a POW, and the violinist was sure the Canadian had picked up a little in his time as a guest.
"You two should have no trouble getting an audience with Herr Hirsch with that set of papers. Look over everything at the factory- security, escape routes, all the fun things."
Konstantinos looked over at Nestori. "Now, you and I have no papers. Instead we have the fun part." He pulled a little slip of paper out of the case, as well as a small leather satchel. "This, my good friend, is Sebastien Hirsch's home address," he said, pushing the slip of paper over to the Finn. "Our job is reconnaissance. While these two look over his workplace, we look over his home. I guess that's why the Captain, in his wisdom, sent these," he said as he opened the leather case. Inside was a complete set of stainless steel lockpicks. "I, um, really hope you know how to use these. I never learned."
"Oh, in case you were wondering," Konstanstinos said, taking a furtive look around the lounge, "there are a few extras. What one might call a starter kit." He took another look around the deserted lounge, then emptied the final contents of the case onto the table. "Two feet of piano wire, with a wooden handle at either extremity. A fine garrote," he said, making sure everyone saw the item before putting it back into the attache case. "One cosh, lead shot wrapped in leather. SOE issue," he noted. "Two knives. One a fixed-blade Fairbairn-Sykes fighting dagger, the other a folding navaja knife, the Spanish style. And of course this fellow," he said, sweeping the item in question back into the case before any outsiders might get a clear look. "Unless I am mistaken, the Smith and Wesson Chief's Special. A new lightweight five-shot revolver made in America, intended to be concealed. As well as ten .38 rounds." He looked around the table. "I imagine we can obtain other weapons on request, but this is a fine start. A fine start indeed."
Stavrou took another appreciative sip of his wine, glad his room was being billed to his employers. "Is everyone clear on their tasks?"
Yog Sothoth said
so what would George's opinion on Gabriel be? He is a devout Catholic but he is part Irish and American.
He'd probably consider him a weak-kneed liberal and a Plastic Paddy.
I'm still here, sorry that I've been quiet lately. I can see about whipping up a post to help move things along.
I'm a big fan of alternate histories and I'm really digging this scenario. Am I to take it that the game will be set during the actual shooting war between the Soviets and everyone else?
Sonja, still more than a little surprised that her scheme for Sarin had paid off, saw Shank and Bouncer go down and grinned in satisfaction. "That's the ball game!" she had said excitedly, before the sound of the explosion had reverberated in the enclosed space. She reflexively threw herself down behind the teller's counter, for what scant protection it would provide, before taking a cautious peep over to take in the situation.
She grimaced at what she saw. She had foolishly assumed that Boomer and Burnout were both down for the count, yet here they were, hurling blasts and fireballs at the other heroes. The henchmen, armed with various automatic weapons, seemed to have rallied around their superpowered backup and were continuing to pour it on. Volt was drawing most of their ire, and it was clear to her the young man had deliberately drawn their attention. The lanky Scot was brave, he was smart, and now that she saw him out of costume he was also kinda cute. No way in hell was she going to leave him high and dry.
The Spirit of St. Louis assessed the two foes, hastily threw together a plan. It would be a strain on her magical ability, but if it worked it would buy them enough time to regroup. She took a deep breath, ducked back behind the counter, hopefully unnoticed.
A flick of the wrist, and a fireball of her own rested in her palm. Hopefully it wouldn't singe her cuff, but she could worry about that later. She lifted herself out of cover just long enough to ascertain that Boomer's back was turned, then heaved the fist-sized fireball directly at the small of his back. If it hurt him, great, but it was more important just that it was noticed. Sonja immediately ducked back behind the counter, her heart racing, then concentrated as hard as she could. Mentalism, when done on stage in her old profession, relied on intuition, memory, and body language in order to influence the way an audience thought. Sonja, however, with her abilities, could do the next best thing: place thoughts directly into the head.
Boomer wasn't very bright, she remembered Olympia saying. And now that he had received a fireball to the back when he wasn't looking, there was a nagging voice in his head that was certain Burnout had done that on purpose.
She grimaced at what she saw. She had foolishly assumed that Boomer and Burnout were both down for the count, yet here they were, hurling blasts and fireballs at the other heroes. The henchmen, armed with various automatic weapons, seemed to have rallied around their superpowered backup and were continuing to pour it on. Volt was drawing most of their ire, and it was clear to her the young man had deliberately drawn their attention. The lanky Scot was brave, he was smart, and now that she saw him out of costume he was also kinda cute. No way in hell was she going to leave him high and dry.
The Spirit of St. Louis assessed the two foes, hastily threw together a plan. It would be a strain on her magical ability, but if it worked it would buy them enough time to regroup. She took a deep breath, ducked back behind the counter, hopefully unnoticed.
A flick of the wrist, and a fireball of her own rested in her palm. Hopefully it wouldn't singe her cuff, but she could worry about that later. She lifted herself out of cover just long enough to ascertain that Boomer's back was turned, then heaved the fist-sized fireball directly at the small of his back. If it hurt him, great, but it was more important just that it was noticed. Sonja immediately ducked back behind the counter, her heart racing, then concentrated as hard as she could. Mentalism, when done on stage in her old profession, relied on intuition, memory, and body language in order to influence the way an audience thought. Sonja, however, with her abilities, could do the next best thing: place thoughts directly into the head.
Boomer wasn't very bright, she remembered Olympia saying. And now that he had received a fireball to the back when he wasn't looking, there was a nagging voice in his head that was certain Burnout had done that on purpose.
We're always open! You couldn't have picked a better time, either- we're just about to go after the first mark.
© 2007-2026