Prophet can hire you. He needs people anyway
Thaddeus Dron Member
The Nubbiest
STATUS: Making an amazing character concept for a game that never starts is like dressing up for Halloween and remembering you have no kids and no parties to go to. -.- 11 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 10 yrs ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 119 (0.03 / day)
- VMs: 1
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Username history
- Thaddeus Dron 11 yrs ago
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11 yrs ago
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Making an amazing character concept for a game that never starts is like dressing up for Halloween and remembering you have no kids and no parties to go to. -.-
5
likes
11 yrs ago
Dear Earth in Kansas and Oaklahoma, Stop quaking. Thanks,
1
like
11 yrs ago
"Your Friends You have no friends" How does this site know me so well?
2
likes
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User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
-314
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In
Some sort of Cyberpunk-Noir (welcome to help developing this idea)
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11 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
I am not a GM or Co-GM, but if this does get settled I'd like to join.
This
I am really hoping so. looking forward to this
NAME: Darin Causway
AGE: 27
GENDER:Male
APPEARANCE: Height 5'4, 110 pounds
TYPE/TYPES OF ILLNESS: Bipolar type 2 with antisocial traits, Schitzoaffective disorder NOS, Mood Disorder NOS,
BIO: Darin was abandoned in the foster care system by the age of 2. He was diagnosed with RAD (reactive attachment disorder) which basically meant he destroyed anything that could provide him emotional attachment. this came from a deep-rooted fear of further abandonment, so his therapists said, but to him, the truth was always clear: Abandonment wasn't a fear, it was a way of life. The world gives up on you. The closer you get to it, the more you care about it, and the people in it, the more it hurts you, the more it makes you vulnerable. Inside foster care, he was abused by a few of his brothers and sisters, being smaller than the average child.
But he would always get even.
What earned his reputation in that world was his seemingly inhuman taste for revenge. If he was slighted, he would wait for the perfect time, often planning for months to bring revenge on his persecutor. Many children were kicked out of homes, arrested, and even physically maimed because Darius' justice. Most of the time they could never tell just who was responsible for it. There was one time.. however..
HOW YOU ENDED UP IN THE HOSPITAL: On his 18th birthday, his latest foster home caught fire (his case manager was on the way to pick him up and bring him to the homeless shelter). He was found with the articles to create and sustain fire spread out around him, knelt down speaking to himself, clearly responding to internal stimuli. He whispered to himself and laughed until the police came. At that point he poured gasoline on himself and attempted to light himself on fire. He was tackled before he could jump into the burning home. Since that day, he's been in the hospital, and he hasn't said a word.
RELATIONS: The Foster care system has not released any of his records.
OTHER:None.
AGE: 27
GENDER:Male
APPEARANCE: Height 5'4, 110 pounds
TYPE/TYPES OF ILLNESS: Bipolar type 2 with antisocial traits, Schitzoaffective disorder NOS, Mood Disorder NOS,
BIO: Darin was abandoned in the foster care system by the age of 2. He was diagnosed with RAD (reactive attachment disorder) which basically meant he destroyed anything that could provide him emotional attachment. this came from a deep-rooted fear of further abandonment, so his therapists said, but to him, the truth was always clear: Abandonment wasn't a fear, it was a way of life. The world gives up on you. The closer you get to it, the more you care about it, and the people in it, the more it hurts you, the more it makes you vulnerable. Inside foster care, he was abused by a few of his brothers and sisters, being smaller than the average child.
But he would always get even.
What earned his reputation in that world was his seemingly inhuman taste for revenge. If he was slighted, he would wait for the perfect time, often planning for months to bring revenge on his persecutor. Many children were kicked out of homes, arrested, and even physically maimed because Darius' justice. Most of the time they could never tell just who was responsible for it. There was one time.. however..
HOW YOU ENDED UP IN THE HOSPITAL: On his 18th birthday, his latest foster home caught fire (his case manager was on the way to pick him up and bring him to the homeless shelter). He was found with the articles to create and sustain fire spread out around him, knelt down speaking to himself, clearly responding to internal stimuli. He whispered to himself and laughed until the police came. At that point he poured gasoline on himself and attempted to light himself on fire. He was tackled before he could jump into the burning home. Since that day, he's been in the hospital, and he hasn't said a word.
RELATIONS: The Foster care system has not released any of his records.
OTHER:None.
got something up for you
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The nightclub was simply electric. Music bombarded undulating shapes that appeared grotesque in the changing lights- dancing an ancient forbidden ritual to the gods of sex and greed. Colors of the rainbow beamed about the dance floor as the dj commanded the crowd like a priest in the pulpit. They prayed, they worshiped, they sinned. Their tithes were passed to drug dealers for little miracles that came in white packages, miracles they snorted and placed under their tongues. Their moans were pure rapture, and in the midst of it all they lived more than they ever could trapped in their office cages during the day, or in their shabby personas constructed for the amusement or the benefit of meaningless, faceless social constructs. They lived and died on the floor, in the euphoria that Prophet provided.
Prophet hated them all.
He sat on a couch with three women laid across him. Body parts at odd angles like a jigsaw puzzle, the man simply could not look even the slightest bit amused at his success. His sour demeanor was not like him- even the women currently dedicated to pleasing him shared nervous smiles with each other when they looked up from caressing him to his thunderheaded face. "Jazz." He spoke at a normal volume and his voice seemed to cut through the din of the club.
Immediately a tall, buxom black woman with obviously fake blond extensions was at his side. "Baby?" Her voice was honey, as was her skin tone. She was the type of beautiful painters tried to capture when thinking of the female form. The type of beautiful designers call "plus size" because her curves don't fit easily in expensive dresses. Everything about the woman, from her long luxurious lashes, to her tight green catsuit was calculated. Meant to drive a man wild. Meant to eat at the hearts of the weak-willed. Crafted and calculated to make men her pawns. All men except Prophet.
"I don't like the news today. Send word to Jim. The Conduit coming into the picture wasn't a mistake. He needed to flex his muscles. So, your job is to know why. I want to meet. The wheels turned over and over in the man's mind- why would the most powerful man in the city dispatch a ragtag gang himself? Was it to remind everyone of his power? If that was the case, he must have seen a reason to do so, which means he is in some way threatened, needing to show force to remind someone he still has it. Who would be that stupid?
The woman nodded to him and waited. She knew the man almost as well as he knew himself. The three women writhing about his body paid them no mind. Sure enough, after a few seconds of contemplation, he continued speaking: The bank robber wasn't a gang. You know that, not many others do. Find him. If the rumors are true, we can use a man of such talents. Chances are he's not involved with the late Sabre. If he is, we'll make the appropriate apologies ourselves. Get his description from.."
"He ain't no robber." She might have been the only woman in the world who could interrupt him in his own nightclub without repercussion. But it was because when she did it, it was valuable.
Confusion flashed across the man's face. "Say that shit again?" He shifted slightly and the women all got up in unison, and promptly went to find something else to do. "Nevermind. So he doesn't want money. That's even better. He wants to send a message, but left no calling card. Either he's an idiot or a genius. That means the man's got balls. I like it. Send him an invitation to a club." There were more things to talk about, but he was bored now. Leaning backward he watched a couple of women dancing from across the room he hadn't seen and shook his head. For a second, he missed his dog. Life would be much easier sitting at home, earning some stupid paycheck stamped with someone else's signature on it. Then again, death would be easier too, and Prophet was alive.
Prophet hated them all.
He sat on a couch with three women laid across him. Body parts at odd angles like a jigsaw puzzle, the man simply could not look even the slightest bit amused at his success. His sour demeanor was not like him- even the women currently dedicated to pleasing him shared nervous smiles with each other when they looked up from caressing him to his thunderheaded face. "Jazz." He spoke at a normal volume and his voice seemed to cut through the din of the club.
Immediately a tall, buxom black woman with obviously fake blond extensions was at his side. "Baby?" Her voice was honey, as was her skin tone. She was the type of beautiful painters tried to capture when thinking of the female form. The type of beautiful designers call "plus size" because her curves don't fit easily in expensive dresses. Everything about the woman, from her long luxurious lashes, to her tight green catsuit was calculated. Meant to drive a man wild. Meant to eat at the hearts of the weak-willed. Crafted and calculated to make men her pawns. All men except Prophet.
"I don't like the news today. Send word to Jim. The Conduit coming into the picture wasn't a mistake. He needed to flex his muscles. So, your job is to know why. I want to meet. The wheels turned over and over in the man's mind- why would the most powerful man in the city dispatch a ragtag gang himself? Was it to remind everyone of his power? If that was the case, he must have seen a reason to do so, which means he is in some way threatened, needing to show force to remind someone he still has it. Who would be that stupid?
The woman nodded to him and waited. She knew the man almost as well as he knew himself. The three women writhing about his body paid them no mind. Sure enough, after a few seconds of contemplation, he continued speaking: The bank robber wasn't a gang. You know that, not many others do. Find him. If the rumors are true, we can use a man of such talents. Chances are he's not involved with the late Sabre. If he is, we'll make the appropriate apologies ourselves. Get his description from.."
"He ain't no robber." She might have been the only woman in the world who could interrupt him in his own nightclub without repercussion. But it was because when she did it, it was valuable.
Confusion flashed across the man's face. "Say that shit again?" He shifted slightly and the women all got up in unison, and promptly went to find something else to do. "Nevermind. So he doesn't want money. That's even better. He wants to send a message, but left no calling card. Either he's an idiot or a genius. That means the man's got balls. I like it. Send him an invitation to a club." There were more things to talk about, but he was bored now. Leaning backward he watched a couple of women dancing from across the room he hadn't seen and shook his head. For a second, he missed his dog. Life would be much easier sitting at home, earning some stupid paycheck stamped with someone else's signature on it. Then again, death would be easier too, and Prophet was alive.
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