udonoodles

Discontinued

in that case, here's my funny little guy, for your review
(apologies if any of the formatting got butchered in translation)

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i sleep 😴

█ SADIE TAYLOR

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▼ PERSONAL DETAILS ► Age - Twenty-four ► Gender - Cisgender male ► Sexuality - Gay ► Nickname - Dee ► Occupation - Barista in a chain coffee shop located in Majestic Plaza ► Qualifications - High school diploma ► Residence - Delton, Maine ▼ PHYSICALITY ► Scars - A callus on his left middle finger, from years of pencils and pens gripped too tightly. ► Tattoos - N/A ► Piercings - Lobes, in which two silver rings are commonly worn. ► Style - Sadie prefers comfy clothing, such as hoodies or sweaters, commonly paired with a crisp dress shirt or button up. He refuses to wear sweatpants in public, instead opting for jeans or slacks. In general, he is well dressed though not particularly eye-catching: With inoffensive colours and no stand-out, flashy articles of clothing, Sadie blends into a crowd with relative ease. The most noteworthy element to his fashion would be his penchant for jewellery, as he never leaves the house without a necklace and multiple rings—though even then, their designs are usually quite simplistic, simple silver bands and chains. Underneath, Sadie possesses a wiry, slim build, the barest hints of muscle definition showing through. He is tall, about 6’4, though his habit of slouching tends to shave off a half inch or two. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

LIFE AT RITMAN A notorious overachiever, Sadie was the model gifted kid: He rarely, if ever, missed a day of school. He engaged with his subjects actively and at an advanced level, grasping most concepts quickly and relentlessly over-studying those he did not. His teachers held him in high regard for his commitment and ruthless work ethic, and those who shared his passion admired his skill in balancing academics with a variety of extracurricular pursuits, such as piano lessons and debate team. His commitment began to waver towards the end of his tenure at Ritman, however: As the pressure mounted, he began to turn in work late, drop grades in tests, and even miss classes or entire days of school for unknown reasons. Sadie was regarded amongst his peers as one of the more intelligent amongst them, though they saw very little of him outside of school: He was incredibly withdrawn, fumbling awkwardly through the few social functions he attended, and he never seemed to have any real ‘friends’—merely vague acquaintances he’d make small talk with when he had to. He received some light teasing for his name—his parents had really, really wanted a girl—but other than that, he mostly coasted through school untouched and unnoticed. PSYCHE Sadie, both in a historical and contemporary context, is not a happy person. Living with parents whose love for him was conditional, and a spiteful older brother jealous of his sibling’s success, Sadie found his accomplishments paradoxically the only source of his self worth and a magnet for envy and disparagement. A deep anxiety was instilled in him from an early age: He was a gifted child, meant to do great things. Though meant as a compliment, Sadie was clever enough to make the connection—if he did not do great things, would he not be wasting his potential? Would those expecting success from him not be disappointed, perhaps even disavow him? A deep fear struck the young Sadie’s heart as became terribly aware of his situation: Like everyone, his life was limited. He had a great potential, and a limited amount of time to realise it. But would everyone treat him as his brother did? If he aimed high, would he only attract spite from others? Terrified of both options, he shut himself off from others and refused to properly trust anyone. Now, years later, Sadie is wistful and morose about his failure to succeed: Like a shooting star he shone brightly, briefly, before crashing to Earth and shattering to dull pieces. Suffering with a classic case of Gifted Kid Burnout Syndrome, Sadie is a cynical and lonely individual. He desperately craves the social life he sacrificed for success in school, yet lacks the skills needed to obtain it for the same reasons. Paralysed by indecision and a fear of commitment, he has stayed in his home town to work a dead-end service job, further fuelling a fire of self-loathing and depression. Despite this, Sadie is not totally miserable: He is a surprisingly empathetic individual, and indeed finds himself listening to his heart far more often than his head. Impulsive and excitable, he is passionate about others, admiring their best qualities—and, perhaps to a detriment, choosing to overlook their worst. The ordeals faced throughout his life and on a daily basis have also instilled within him a strong sense of stoicism: He can face stressful and tough situations and weather them, remaining stalwart and unshaken where most would falter. Still, Sadie finds himself adrift: Still grappling with the aftershock of school, his cataclysmic fall from grace, and the background anxiety of being queer in a less than supportive household, he lacks a place in the world, and a purpose. He possesses the foundation of an identity, but has failed thus far to fully realise it; to find a place and role for which he is the perfect fit. Restless because of this, Sadie would like to always be on the move—though in reality his dearth of energy prevents him from satiating his wanderlust. Usually, an aimless walk around town will be enough to tide him over. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

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POWER In a few seconds, Sadie can enter a coma-like state: Asleep, but still capable of receiving sensory stimulus. In this state, Sadie’s senses are greatly heightened: His hearing and smell are finely honed, and his sense of touch expands to an extrasensory perception about two metres around him and his constructs. It is in this state that he can call upon his ability of dream realisation: Essentially, anything that Sadie imagines, he is capable of projecting out into the real world. These constructs will not be exact: They will be constructed from a translucent, pink substance, and exact fine details will usually be lost unless Sadie makes a concentrated effort to manifest them. As they are figments of his imagination, Sadie can also freely contort and modify their shapes, modify their properties such as elasticity or softness, as well as control their exact positions via psychokinesis. He can even control the tangibility of his constructs, allowing them to phase through cover an enemy may be hiding behind, then solidifying to strike them. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

- ▼ STRENGTHS ► Sadie’s construct ability is incredibly robust, with a variety of applications in and out of combat. For example, by inserting a construct into a keyhole and gradually reshaping it in accordance with the lock, Sadie can create a sort of skeleton key able to eventually open any locked door. He could also manifest a ladder for his allies to climb, or shields they can take cover behind. Though not a construct he can keep manifested for long, he can even create a small fire to illuminate dark areas or ignite surroundings—though this construct in particular is too resource intensive for frequent combat application. By manifesting hands and arms, Sadie can use his constructs to grant himself psychokinesis. Being psychic extensions of himself, these limbs are not bound by traditional human limitations, and can lift heavy objects with ease—with absolute maximum exertion, they could be capable of lifting even vans and trucks, and at the very least knock them around with sufficient blows. An incredibly rudimentary application of this ability is the expulsion of invisible physic energy to propel objects away from Sadie’s position: This is usually how he chooses to reposition or keep enemies away. ► Since Sadie has access to all senses but sight while asleep, his ability can also serve as a tool for eavesdropping: Those unaware of his ability will talk freely around a slumbering Sadie, allowing him to hear everything they say. ► Sadie is asleep while using his ability, which of course means his eyes are shut. Therefore, any abilities that require a conscious target, or any ability that requires observation, will be ineffective on him. Additionally, abilities that can render him unconscious are redundant, and could in fact prove hazardous to use against him. ▼ WEAKNESSES ► Sadie’s constructs are limited by complexity. Though he may be able to mimic the shape of a car with a construct, an actual car has many moving parts and interconnected mechanisms that would be impossible for him to feasibly imagine the full scale of in his head. Thus, he would be unable to create a car that could drive. As a general rule of thumb, this applies to most electronics or mechanical inventions, such as guns and computerised devices. His constructs can also not be alive: He cannot project living creatures or create copies of himself or others. Additionally, there is a limit to the sum total size of Sadie’s constructs, about the size of an 18-wheeler. This means that, with maximum effort, Sadie can manifest one object the same size of an 18-wheeler, or many smaller objects which would together make up the same size. This is the most extreme case, however, and is not something Sadie can do without immense, possibly even dangerous, strain. ► Due to being asleep, Sadie cannot move his body naturally: Instead, he must use his psychokinesis to move himself, a less than ideal situation that means frequent repositioning and dodging can prove difficult. ► Though not physically tiring, Sadie’s ability can be very mentally taxing when used excessively. Additionally, Sadie can be roused from his sleep with sufficient physical stimulus (usually pain), though the threshold for this is of course far higher than regular sleep. Awakening this way will make Sadie incredibly tired, both mentally and physically. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Discontinued

queer micro-brewery my beloved

when we've finished our character sheets, do we post them straight to the characters tab or dm them to the gm/co-gm for review beforehand?

OBLIVION— interest check

assuming this is still open, i've been considering a sort of psychokinesis "dream" based power: essentially, the character is asleep and unconscious while using their power, and can project their dreams and imagination into psychic constructs (though with restrictions—no projecting nukes or war machines or anything), while the character would hover around and engage in combat with a sort of sixth sense.

would this be alright as a base to expand upon?

OBLIVION— interest check

is this still open? if so, i'm definitely interested.

~ Welcome to Sanctuary ~

hey, i've been really caught up with a lot of personal/health related goings-on irl, but if this is still going you can count me in! i've admittedly been a little unsure on when to hop in, but if an opportunity arises i'll take it.

~ Welcome to Sanctuary ~

super sorry about the delay again, january has not been my month OTL

hope to have a post out for fran soon!

~ Welcome to Sanctuary ~

Francis Markovich

Name: Francis “Fran” Markovich


Birthday:
December 2nd, 2000

Age: 21


Appearance:

Standing tall at 6’3 even without his boots, Francis cuts a lanky, slender figure—what muscle he has is lean, the product of a once regimental but now very on again-off again exercise routine.

From his unusual style, one could easily mistake Francis for a newcomer to Sanctuary: His eclectic style of variously coloured denim jackets, chunky combat boots and all manner of flashy graphic t-shirts—most often accompanied by a pair of plain jeans, for some mundanity—conveys a distinct inability to properly assimilate, rather jarringly melding traditional Coloradoan attire with urban street fashion.

Occupation: Begrudging bartender at the Bandits’ Bar: it’s money, and that’s all Francis really cares about—something he reminds himself of whenever the local rabble get so drunk they start calling him a girl and stop actually aiming the spout of their beer bottles at their mouths.

Short Bio:
The illegitimate son of a Jewish German man and a Protestant Georgian woman, raised secular in a Colorado household, it should be of little surprise that Francis has struggled with identity since he was old enough to comprehend it.

His childhood was a troubled one: Despite his booksmarts, he was reckless and immature and often ended up in trouble with teachers for tardiness or missing homework. Like his mother when she was young, he showed a great aptitude for mathematics and science—however he rarely, if ever, applied these skills in class.
Spending much of his time in detention to make up on work incompleted, Fran had little time to connect with his peers and make friends: There were a few distant acquaintances in class, but he was seldom afforded the time to socialise further during recess. In an attempt to compensate for this, Francis quickly became the ‘class clown’, often butting heads with those in authority simply to be contrarian—and though it succeeded in garnering him attention from his peers, it simply meant he was punished more often, and ultimately kept further away from them.

At home, his relationship with his parents was strained: His mother was frequently tired and emotionally fraught for seemingly no reason, and often withdrew herself away from her husband and child. On the opposite end, Fran’s father was a constant presence in his life—though very rarely a positive one. He pressured Francis into more traditional masculinity, shunning his interests in technology and music pushing sports and working with his hands.
This, of course, had the opposite effect that Fran’s father had hoped for: The child became further atomised from his family, distrusting them and withdrawing into introversion. Alone, and bearing witness to the far more functional families of his peers, a resentment stewed in Francis: For his parents moving away from the bright lights of the city to some dying hick town and shutting him out, and for himself—after all, no one just decides to block a person out like that. What if it was his fault? The flames of misanthropy scorched his self-esteem, further damaging his ability to socialise: It was difficult to make friends when he thought so lowly of himself, and expected others to strike for his perceived imperfections.

Now a young teenager, Fran frequently snuck out of the house to entertain himself—and not always through legal means, as his parents would learn when he was escorted home by a police officer after being suspected of shoplifting. He had been hanging around with local gangs of rabble, from home more broken than his own—sons and daughters of ex-convicts reluctant to change. In the moment, he didn’t care what they were doing: He just belonged somewhere, for once, and that was enough.
Until he was caught, and they sold him out to save their own skin.

Many regrettable things were said that night, and many breaking points reached—chiefly among them was Francis learning that his father was, in reality, his stepfather: He was conceived illegitimately by his mother and another man who abandoned her. Coming from a locally famous conservative Christian household in Georgia, she had no choice but to flee when her parents found out—running off with someone she could trust—that being Fran’s stepfather—to a quiet town where she wouldn’t be recognised.

The morning after, Francis’ parents realised their mistake: Over the coming weeks, they attempted to mend their relationships with him, and over the coming months, they realised they had been neglecting his emotional needs. Their efforts were first in vain, though showed some tenuous success as he got older—but Fran had made his decision: He was going to stop sitting around and wasting his potential, and start learning. He was going to seize the opportunity his parents never could, and get the hell out of Colorado—a city, he thought, like California or Minneapolis, or even New York—the city his parents had left behind.
Part of it was anger at them. Part of it was an inability to face the guilt being a burden on them brought, ruining their lives over his mere existence—but Francis chose not to think about that, and began working.

Now in his early 20’s, Fran (barely) holds down a job to make some money on the side while he pursues his passions—computer science and engineering—at home, hoping to break out of Sanctuary and head off to university. But something’s holding him back: A part of him is missing, and though he longs for it, he can’t quite bring himself to leave the town that has been his home for so long.

Despite appearances, or preconceived notions those in Sanctuary might have of the ruffian Francis was (and, in little ways, is), he is surprisingly affable: Residents around his age may remember him being particularly easy to talk to in school, and that certainly hasn’t changed. Ever the charmer, he revels in entertaining and making others laugh, but can also prove an excellent listener when someone—usually a customer at Bandits’—needs to vent or complain.
Beyond simple social interactions, however, it can be difficult to get Francis to trust you: Though he may not be open about it, he tends to prepare for the worst and thus struggles with unintentionally putting up walls around himself. Paradoxically, he simultaneously craves attention yet retreats when too much is applied in the wrong places: A gentle, slow moving relationship is the best way to reach past Fran’s barriers, though the process of gaining his trust can be expedited through common experience or shared interests and hobbies.

Misc:
Family Background:
Francis was born to what seemed—on the outside—to be an ordinary happy couple, in Sanctuary, Colorado. The reality, however, wasn’t so simple.

Francis’ mother, Lydia Hansen, came from affluence: Her family was heavily involved in big business in Georgia, and so she enjoyed a comfortable home life. Still, she attended public school and was taught humility and gratitude by her father—a candidate for the Georgia state senate, and thus a man who understood the value of appealing to the proles of his fastly urbanising district. Appearance was of the utmost importance to the family: To defy the image of an honest Christian clan with patriotism in their hearts and the holy book in their hands would be to demand disowning. Though the guiding hand of Lydia’s father kept her on the ‘straight and narrow’, it would not be a presence in her life forever.

Lydia showed great promise as a student: Her skill in science and mathematics was unmatched by her classmates, and she managed to keep pace in the arts and languages despite initial difficulties. It was clear she had a bright future ahead of her, and her father was acutely aware of this—and of the good press he’d get among the moderate niche for being a bipartisan believer in both God and science. A few short months after graduation, Lydia was shipped off to Pratt Institute, New York, ready to start her degree in engineering.

It was here that she would be exposed to the world her family had sheltered her from for so long: The real world, a secular world and a working class world. She was young, and initially outraged that she had missed so much—and ultimately, her hastiness to explore all she had been forbidden to in Georgia would lead to her downfall.
Finding the foreign world of a liberal city like New York positively fascinating, Lydia’s inquisitive mind pushed her from her usual social circles and into the beating heart of her college community: She met with artists, feminists, progressive political activists and people from all walks of life—sexual, religious, cultural, ethnic—in her efforts to learn more. The majority of these people were decent, like any other—however, just like any group, there were a few bad apples lurking in the batch.

Among these people were Adrian and Otto, two men who would one day call Francis Markovich their son. He was a descendant of a group of Ashkenazi Jewish families who, in the early 19th century, emigrated from Germany amidst a hostile political climate and whispers of a return to economic normalcy in America. They were working men from working class families; Otto was attending a nearby college while Adrian kept the precise details about himself vague. This was something Lydia found refreshing: Far too often had her father tried to introduce her to some snobby well-to-do trust fund son of his associate. Even more exciting to Lydia was that both men were romantically interested in her—at least, that was what it seemed at first.

It was at a party—without Otto around—that Adrian finally made a move on Lydia, and the two began to date. When Lydia informed Adrian that she had missed her period that month, however, he was quick to vanish.
Lydia was petrified: What was she going to do? The only person she could confide in was Otto—while that may have calmed her for a while, she knew the news would have to be broken eventually. Under great stress, she made a final phone call to her father, informing him of the development: She was pregnant, out of wedlock.

Her father swore and shouted down the receiver, absconding her as a lecher and damning her to hell if she did not immediately return come the end of the semester and repent—lest he cast her out from the family and officially disown her.
It was a difficult few weeks for Lydia, but with Otto’s support, she made good on her father’s threat: If he was going to disown her for not obeying, then she’d cut to the chase and estrange herself. She’d take what money she had been given, pool it with Otto, and leave her life behind—she owed a clean slate to her son. Otto was happy to come: His devoutly Jewish parents would have dropped dead at the thought of him going off with some rich Christian girl, and the insular way of thinking amongst both his family and the community they were a part of was poisoning him, slowly.

Sanctuary, Colorado was the town Lydia and Otto Markovich arrived in: A dying town untouched by the modern world at that time, property was dirt cheap, and being so far from their homes of Georgia and New York was a comfort to them both.
On December 2nd, 2000, Lydia and Otto had a healthy baby boy they named Francis: A name meaning ‘free’, fitting for the child who had—though unexpectedly—freed them from walking a path others had chosen for them.
In the coming years, it would prove itself a very apt title indeed.

Mildly Interesting Facts:
-Growing up, Francis was taught German by his father at the behest of his mother—and later completed his education himself, via the internet. Additionally, he also possesses a very rough knowledge of Spanish from school days—about enough to introduce himself and ask where the bathroom is, and a paltry sum of Yiddish phrases passed down from his father—who, like himself, never really got on with his family enough to put much effort into actually learning it.
-To keep him company, Francis owns an energetic little leopard gecko he affectionately dubbed Ike. If the lizard trusts you, Fran trusts you.
-Born left handed, Francis taught—or forced, depending on your perspective—himself into gaining that same dexterity in his right hand. Ultimately, of course, he didn’t achieve a perfect result, but he isn’t entirely hopeless with his right side either.
-Fran can also play the piano/keyboard at a skill level that can be best described as “well, at least he’s having fun”—though his skill with complex melodies and bass lines is impressive, due to the control he exerts with both hands.
-Francis is gay, though no one except for Ike knows. It almost slipped out during his big argument with his parents, but he held his tongue—he was still young and wasn’t sure if it was just confusion or something more. Considering his parents’ backgrounds and previous reception to Fran expressing himself, he isn’t overly keen on letting them know any time soon.

ArcRift

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ArcRift

“Haven’t you ever heard the phrase about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?”
This man had curious eyes, Gyro had to admit: Had he merely cast a glance over Cole, he would have noted them as blue and nothing more—but to find the Golden Rectangle, he had to look closer. The perfect ratio he needed indeed lay in between brow and cheek—and behind those irises, an unmistakable weight of experience, and of power. He had seen that look in another’s eyes before: President Valentine, as he stood over him. The weight of the war, and the power of the Holy Corpse—not a reveling in strength, nor a weariness from the past. Just a confident resolution of duty.
He could only hope Cole's duty was more noble than the President’s.

“I don’t believe in coincidences. In my experience, there’s a ‘flow’ that all things follow, trying to put them on the ‘right path’: It wasn’t by chance I saw your flying machine fall. It’s the flow of things, leading me here…And maybe, to my path.”
He tilted his head, cocking his brow.
“Besides, it’s dark out now. Even an experienced explorer wouldn’t risk going out into the night in an unfamiliar land like this.”

At Sanford’s inquiries, Gyro chuckled. “You’re correct. This ‘Steel Ball’ is my weapon. If I was reckless, I could destroy my ear completely, or my shoulder, or cheek—just like how a fool with a gun may give himself a smack if he forgets about the recoil. But I am no fool: I’ve learnt to use the Steel Balls from a young age. I’ve spun it with the technique of a master—so long as I’m careful not to bump into it, it won’t budge or veer off course into me.” Slowly, Gyro rose up from his prone position, raising one knee and putting the other back. He steadied himself with both hands down onto the ground, casting his gaze across the rubble.

“The energy inside the Ball is being dispersed through the ground, echoing out as vibrations: When those vibrations bounce off of something, it comes back as an echo.” His expression hardened, his focus clearly elsewhere—his voice sounded more as if he was repeating what he had heard than explaining it in his own words. “I can tell if something is there, how big it is, how far away it is…Then, it’s just a matter of identifying it from that information.”
He raised a hand towards Cole, beckoning him back over. His gaze refocused, shooting a steely stare back at Sanford.

“There’s someone under that rubble,” he spoke low, pointing towards it but shielding his finger from the crowd with his cape. “It’s a person, definitely. They’re smaller than me: Either a woman, or a really scrawny kid. We’ve gotta get them out of there…But if we make a big fuss about it, everyone will just rush in and make a mess of it all, trying to be the hero—and they’ll probably spook Valkyrie, too. But if you get into position…I’ll use my Steel Balls to clear you a path, and you should be able to free them.”
The Ball at Gyro’s foot stopped spinning. What was that he had before, about coincidences?

Reaching down for it, Gyro took the Steel Ball into his hand. He stood up straight, tipping back his hat. He had a clear shot from here.
He looked to the side, again looking at—not in—Cole’s eye. The Golden Rectangle: A perfectly pleasing ratio, easily found in the human eye. The perfect angle at which to use the Spin.



He inhaled, relaxing and releasing tension where it wasn’t needed. He held himself there, waiting for Cole and Sanford to get into position by the rubble.

“Be ready. I’m letting it loose…”
One quick glance between his newfound allies. Then he reared back, twisted his arm low, and flicked his wrist forward.
“Now! See for yourselves the power of the Spin!”
In an instant, the Steel Ball rocketed forward like a great big bullet from Gyro’s hand. It whistled through the air, a mere green blur even to those with heightened perceptions—and just as quickly as it had taken flight, it collided with the surface of the rubble with a great crash. Yet, despite the tremendous speed at which it travelled, the debris did not crack. They did not even shift in place—instead, the Steel Ball kept spinning. It spun faster than the human eye could comprehend, scraping all along the stone surface and sending bits and flecks flying back. Dust began to rise and cloud around as the Ball spun, obscuring it from view—save for a faint golden glow shining through.
Finally, it stopped. Tiny particles of rubble were scattered all about, shattered free by the Steel Ball—which shot back through the dust and boomeranged right back into Gyro’s hand, fitting perfectly into his palm. The rubble covering the woman had been ground up into fine little grains—easily sifted through by Cole and Sanford to pull free whomever was within.

Gyro cast a glance towards the crowd, watching for reactions. Then, back to his allies.
“Eheh, nyo-ho~”



He seemed to be enjoying himself.
@FactionGuerilla@Yamperzzz

~ Welcome to Sanctuary ~

Incredibly sorry about the delay on my character — My schedule's been very erratic and I found myself unsatisfied with what I'd written when I did get the chance to sit down and work on it. Fortunately, I'm just about finished, and just need to give it a look over to see what could be improved: I should be able to submit him Sunday, or Monday at the latest!