Recent Statuses

2 yrs ago
Current Could do with a GM-partner for some world-building. Anyone know how to make friends?
2 yrs ago
To every player or game I've ever Ghosted on; sorry! I'm just super bad at procrastinating on my life obligations.


Watch out.

The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?


Most Recent Posts

Popping in to say work is kicking my ass this week as I've just had one of my members of management taken from me due to internal politics at another site and I'm also having to panic prep for my half-year review which was dropped on me at the weekend. Also got a close friend's birthday tomorrow and seeing IT: Chapter One and Two double bill Thursday night. Those aren't work obligations but they are 'keep me sane' obligations.

Girlfriend is away all weekend from Friday morning so if I can get past Thursday and my review I don't have anything in my way and I can get Matt up and hopefully John issue 2.

I don't anticipate work to get easier for at least 4-5 weeks, depending on what some of my peers can offer me for support due to this political situation, so I'm STILL IN but I may need to really use all of the 2 weeks between posts. Sorry wraith and the general public too.

Season One: All The Rest Of Us
Issue One: Departure

John Constantine’s room is a shithole.

Wall-to-wall, the floor is visible only in scraps, littered with garbage that feels like aggressive white noise in its hostile repetitiveness. Beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, scrap of carpet. Foil sheet, emptied of pills. Beer can. Empty plastic bottle of six bob voddy. Beer can. Laundry. Beer can. Beer can. Beer ca-

John wakes up. His neck hurts, and he knows this is because he has no pillow, but he is inwardly angry anyway, resenting his body for being damaged by his own poor caretaking. He rolls over onto his stomach, and the physical exertion makes him feel nauseous, and he reaches for a plastic carrier bag to vomit into. Nothing comes up, but John tastes bile in the back of his throat and spits thick saliva into the bag. He throws the bag away, another movement he immediately regrets, and while it lands atop one of the scarce few bits of carpet left, John tears rapidly through the closest pile of rubbish and fag-butts to find at least one smokeable cigarette. He comes up empty, and now his hangover, a fetid miasma of migraine, nausea and muscle ache, begins to crash in waves against him, and his scorched throat begs for further lashings.

Ignoring both, or at least ignoring the ever-increasing urge to vomit, John sits up on his mattress. His duvet, thin with no sheets, falls off his torso quietly, the change in temperature barely noticeable. He splays his legs out in front of him, kicking aside empty cans and paper wrappers with his heels as he waits for the dizziness to subside. John rubs his eyes. He stands, legs cold and shaking, and then makes a quick trip to the bathroom across the hall, where the nausea overcomes him and he empties his stomach and his bladder in quick succession.

It is while John washes his hands, mouth, and face under the cold tap in the sink that he thinks of his stash. He finishes off, patting himself dry on a stained, ragged old towel that he scoops from the floor and then returns there, and crosses the hall again back to his room. His stash is hidden behind his chest of drawers, and he has to move a pile of laundry before he can move it, but when he does he can see the cracks in the wall almost instantly. He can't remember the last time he used his stash, but to his nicotine starved mind, behind that small section of pull-away wall hides John's earthly salvation: a small white box, adorned with a simple purple square.

John feverishly works his finger into the small hole carved into the wall and pulls at the section. It is stiff but comes loose without much effort, and John quickly pushes his free hand into the compartment. His fingers find no box, but instead touch glossy paper. John seizes the object and pulls it out for inspection.

He barely glances at the old photograph before he drops it reflexively and casts his gaze away, his whole body flinching before going rigid. He is dumbfounded, all thought function seizing up and clattering to a halt. His vision swims and his heart-rate and breathing speed up involuntarily, as his surroundings seem to swell against him and push upon his skin. He places a hand on the chest of drawers to steady himself, and screws his eyes shut tight enough to hurt. His blood pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound, and though John breaths he is asphyxiating, his chest feeling like a clockwork spring with its key being wound; tighter and tighter, twisting his innards into a tense ball that grows smaller withe very turn, every gasp for air a new threat that it would burst and punch a hole clean through John's torso, killing him and letting loose every demon and insecurity, every bad though he'd ever had, for everyone to see and point and judge and laugh and ostracize and -

And then it's over. The coil unwinds, slowly but gently, and John's breath and vision come back to him. He lets go of the drawers, his knuckles brilliant white and his hand aching, and carefully, slowly, picks up the two pill boxes that stand alone atop the unit, pulling a foil rack from each and pop-pop releasing the pills from their containers. John reads the words 'citalopram' and 'clozapine' with glazed-over eyes as he swallows the tablets dry, and then takes some deep, steady breaths as he bends down to retrieve the photograph, holding it with both hands as he stands back up.

The photo is of a young girl, center frame, water behind her and the light of the sun reflected off of it to illuminate the girl from behind, giving her an ethereal golden outline. John is almost moved to tears just looking at the picture.

Instead, he tears his eyes away from the smiling face of the girl and sets the photo down next to his pills. He looks around his room, allowing the true scope and meaning of the filth to sink in, and then dresses himself in the least-smelly pair of jeans and top with the fewest stains. He pockets his pills, and then carefully folds and pockets the photo as well.

Downstairs, John pads quietly from the hallway to the kitchen in search of water and food. He drinks from the tap and takes a half-empty packet of digestives from the cupboard, and then makes his way to the front door. Behind him, through the hallway into the living room, he can see Thomas Constantine - a father to the letter of the law and no further - sound asleep on his worn and rotted old armchair. A can of lager has fallen from his hand and spilled across his lap and the floor. From here John can smell piss as well. He nervously eyes the small mound of empty cans beside Thomas, and can't help but picture the cans on his bedroom floor upstairs.

John turns around. Thomas' jacket is hung beside the door and John does not hesitate to pilfer the wallet from the inside pocket and empty it of the cash within. He turns, putting a hand on the handle of the door, and hesitates only long enough for his other hand to touch a finger to the photograph of his sister in his pocket - and then he leaves.


John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. Summer in Liverpool, as much as Liverpool could allow, and the sky was covered by a pallid shroud of grey clouds. They were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, on abandoned tables, in phoneboxes and ticket machines. John's pockets rattled melodically with coins as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise. Cheryl downplayed her amusement but could not stifle a chuckle here and there.

At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.

Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.

John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.


John sits on his arse on the kerb outside of Leicester central station, staring at the creased photo of Cheryl he holds out in front of him. The cash in his father's wallet got him from Liverpool to Nottingham, and dodging the ticket man had gotten him from Nottingham to Leicester, and here he had been caught and summarily ejected when he was found unable to pay the fine.

The sun he sits in is suddenly blocked by an approaching figure, who casts a large shadow across John as he stands watching. John looks up, squinting against the sun that shines behind the man.
"What do you want." John demands, his back bristling on habit alone. Liverpool didn't teach him to be friendly.
"You look lost."
"What's it to you, geez? Shove off."
The man chuckles, and this both irritates and disarms John.
"Thought you might need a hand."

John pauses, hesitant. This stranger's forward nature unsettles him. He is not used to kindness.
"I'm fine. Shove off." The man does not move. This annoys John. "You bored?"
"What's that photo?"
John stands up, and pockets the photo. The man is taller than John, and wider, and John is cold and hungry, but John has anger and a wild, nervous energy building inside him. John thinks he could take the man if he had to.
"None of your business." He responds, looking the stranger directly in the eyes and locking his jaw. He waits.

The man steps back, and without the sun behind his head John can see him clearly. He has a friendly face, and in his eyes is a look of genuine concern and empathy. The man holds both his hands up before putting them back in his jacket.
"Fair enough. Bad start.” He steps forward, only slightly, and extends a hand to shake. John does not take it. “Francis Chandler.”
John does not offer his name. Instead, he sits back down. Francis stays standing. After a long pause, John explains.
“I’ve come from Liverpool. Trying to get to London to visit an old friend. Cash ran out at Nottingham. Narcs caught me here. Now I’m stuck.”

Francis rubs the messy stubble of his chin and sits down next to John, taking off his flat cap.
“Well, that’s a fair bit of luck to get from Nottingham to here.” He days after a moment of deliberation. John murmurs an unenthusiastic agreement. “And I reckon you got chucked just in time too.”
John frowns and looks at Francis. He smiles, a wry little smirk that forces John to like him a little. “I’m leaving back to London today. Just escaped a visit to my ogre of a ma. Car’s parked at the station. Saw you first, though. Lucky bugger, don’t you think?”

John stares at Francis, his face conveying all manner of emotion: incredulity; confusion; distrust; disbelief; hope. He doesn’t know how to respond, or whether he should. Most of him thinks Francis is playing a cruel joke.
“If you get your jollies being a cunt I reckon you’re done for the day with this one.” He finally says, and Francis laughs. John waits for a response, but Francis doesn’t reply. “Why?”

Francis shrugs.
“You look like you could use some help.”
“I could be about to take you for all you’re worth.”
Francis laughs again. “You’re welcome to, got fuck all anyway. I’d let you drive away with me in the boot if it got me away from my mother.”
“Why do you want to help me so bad?”

Francis stands up, John does the same. Francis stands across from John, regarding his skinny frame in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a nose for good hearts. Good people. You got an aura about you. I can tell. You just need a break.”
John could cry. Francis has compassion he hasn’t felt since...that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He clears his throat.
“I think you’re full of shit.” He pauses as Francis chuckles. “But I could do with a break.”
John extends his hand to shake. Francis takes it firmly.
“John Constantine. Nice to meet ya, Francis.”
Who even IS 'Luke'?!

Either I’m Not funny or I’m wasted on you people and on god I’m not admitting to the former
No sub-tweeting please.
As I mentioned to Wraith privately I’m currently AFK and out of the country tomorrow until Friday. I have my notebook however and mobile access to my google docs so working on stuff in my downtime. Hopefully have something up this weekend.
Finally got my S2 updated Daredevil sheet finished, Jesus I put that off so much.


M A T T H E W M U R D O C K V I G I L A N T E H E L L ' S K I T C H E N
C O N T I N U I N G C O N C E P T:

"I am what I do in the dark now."

Matthew has crossed into uncharted territory, edging closer to his inner demons than he ever has done before. He killed Wilson Fisk in cold blood, pushed beyond limits he didn't even know he had by his archnemesis. His identity is out and making waves both locally and world-wide, and he has become a polarizing figure to his personal friends and the wider public, and even to himself. He is shaken by this new, vicious side to himself, but determined not to let it rule him. He is more careful than ever to become the trusted, heroic protector of Hell's Kitchen, but knows that the Devil steps with heavier treads than ever before.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

Matthew Murdock is a fugitive and a murderer, who killed Fisk in a brutal moment of cold blood. Public opinion flits back and forth - no one misses Fisk, but many fear what will succeed him. DareDevil is all Matt has left; his civilian identity has been ruined, another disastrous consequence of his recklessness. Matt is ashamed and in fear of his soul, seeking recompense and redemption. And now, with Fisk's dam shattered, a multitude of threats invade the city, threatening to pose a danger to Matt's city far more destructive than Kingpin.

Matt's going to be busy.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

Matthew's allies include Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson and Karen Page - both seeking shelter from Fisk's crumbling empire out-of-state - and Stick and his organisation known as The Chaste, although Stick has insisted that DareDevil's refusal to join their clan has cut him off from their support. Katherine Spencer, New York's District Attorney and Matthew's ex-colleague, has also disavowed herself from Matthew after his public reveal as DareDevil.

Wilson Fisk, AKA Kingpin, DareDevil's archnemesis, is dead, but a new organisation known as The Hand seems to be capitalizing on the power vacuum left in his wake, and there are free agents and mercs pouring in now that Fisk is gone and no longer able to keep them out.

S E A S O N O N E S Y N O P S I S:

Murdock's one-man assault on Fisk's kingdom ended in bittersweet, perhaps even pyrrhic, victory against the Kingpin. Elektra, Matthew's lover, had been an agent of The Hand, and had sold Matthew's civilian identity to Fisk, who used it to frame Murdock, then Assistant District Attorney, for bribery and drug trafficking. Murdock was forced to resign, as well as send his only friends and allies - Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson and Karen Page - out of the state to escape Fisk. Murdock launched a rampage on Fisk's operations until he was lured into a trap, beaten and poisoned by Elektra, and then kidnapped to Times Square by Fisk for a public showdown and execution - but DareDevil turned the tables, and killed Kingpin - but not before his true identity was revealed to the world, changing Matthew's life forever. He blacked out, thinking this was the end, but was somehow rescued by Stick and the Chaste. Stick attempted to recruit Matthew into the Chaste - but DareDevil refused, choosing instead to walk the path he had carved out for himself.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

@Hillan, as promised.

-A few minor grammatical errors, mostly around the use of apostrophes, and the sentences can feel a little awkward and stilted at times. Watch your repetition and your syntax; break up your dialogue with a new line for each speaker. The storytelling is sound but there is an occasional stumble that pulls the reader out of it. Of course, this may very well be due to english not being your native language.

-Eobard’s characterization is exceptional. I especially enjoy how well you portray a man who knows the future yet plays along with the story. It’s an interesting meta-narrative of sorts, and it’s entertaining. It isn’t often the audience shares their dramatic irony with the characters in the story.

-Post 4/5, ‘Blur’, look up Vantablack. Thank me later. The villain is interesting. I don’t have much knowledge about Flash’s rogues beyond the obvious and what the show utilized, so it’s fun having you present someone/something I have zero preconceptions about as your first antagonist.

-While I enjoy the use of the wider rogues and their ability to surprise Thawne - Thawne’s hubris, by the way, is riveting to read and thoroughly enjoyable - the pacing feels too fast, even for a Flash story. We go from Thawne defeating his first rogue, which was an anomaly in itself that’s never really addressed, to being accosted by arguably Flash’s 4 biggest rogues in one night and offing one of them in the process. It feels off putting somewhat.

-Thawne’s motivation pivot from ‘I’m better than Barry’ to ‘I love Nora’ is the start of a beautiful redemption story and maybe the first time we can feel sympathy for this man who is otherwise violent, arrogant, sociopathic, and fuelled by hatred. It’s a lovely turning point in Thawne’s development, and it’s such a shame that there were zero hints or nods or vague foreshadowing or brief exploration of the depth of Thawne’s character before this entrapment. It’s clear there’s an internal battle between the man who survived on hatred and the man who wanted to love, and I really, really want to see more of it.

-All in all it’s an entertaining story that sometimes can be difficult to read with a few out-of-the-blue character turns. Fun, but missing finesse. Feels like perhaps you’re flying by the seat of your pants a tad? If you haven’t already, try a skeleton for your plot direction and use that as a reference tool.
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