Home Forum Wiki The Rules Newbie Guide Roleplay Guide Plot & Setting Wanted Characters Aedolis Teinar Edanith Libra Cancer Thanatos Inc. Contact Us Copyright Affiliates Advertise Us Advertise You Donate! Playing a Leader

Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - nephero

Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 6
1
Aedolis Characters / Connor Remington, Pilot Echo Murder Machine
« on: September 23, 2021, 04:53:17 pm »
___________

art by meee
___________

**

{NAME}
Pilot Echo Connor Remington

{ALIASES}
“Connie”, “Remy”, “Good boy”

{AGE}
Somewhere over 40

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Cisgender male, homosexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Vampiric Human, 2nd generation Edani immigrant

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’, Lithe

{OCCUPATION}
Murders Inc.

{RESIDENCE}
good question

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Young, blonde and cute. Connor usually keeps his hair cropped short and floofy, but it has a tendency to grow whenever his regeneration kicks in. Which, considering his usual occupation, can be pretty often. He’s very pale, with pale blonde hair and light brows and lashes to match. His eyes are also pale, a kind of off-grey color that seem bright even in dark light. His ears are pierced, with two studs in his left ear and two rings in his right around the middle cartilage. He also has a very vibrant thigh tattoo of a bright pink poodle with big anime eyes with “Daddy’s Bitch” written under it. Which is constantly maintained.

{PERSONALITY}

Bright, bubbly, personable, friendly, snarky, fun, and yet surprisingly mature considering his perpetual baby face.

Fun Facts!:
  • Huge boba fiend. Or anything liquid and sugary.
  • Likes going to the equivalent to Dave and Buster’s and winning a ton of stuffed animals.
  • Lapsed Ansgarian.
  • Subby af.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

Vampire; Connor enjoys several perks because of his condition, namely increased strength, stamina and speed. His sense of sight is heavily attuned to movement, and he can see very well in the dark. Extended eye contact can let him hypnotize his target, though this has to be done with purpose on his part. His sense of smell is similarly increased, enough that if needed, he can track a person just by their scent. He also has increased regeneration, and can take severe damage to his physical form but have it look like nothing happened at all some days later. He also has the ability to turn himself into mist, and travel long distances in that way, though a well-placed fan might disorient him quite a bit.

The downside to all of this, of course, is to be expected. He’s allergic to pure silver and will get a nasty, blistering rash wherever the metal contacts his skin. He goes completely unconscious during the daylight hours, regardless of whether he wants to or not, and he cannot be woken no matter what happens. As such, he has to make sure he’s in a safe space before the sun rises, or else he absolutely will fall right over into a gutter and not wake up again until sundown. He’s dependent on human blood to function normally, and has to feed fairly regularly as a result. He’s got several assistants who he pays VERY well to donate their blood to the cause.

Oh, yeah, he’s also psychic, but he’s not usually tapped to use those abilities much.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

Aaron Stohl; Best friend and old war buddy

Joseph B. Tucker; Best friend, old war buddy, and former fling

Adara Stohl; Close friend

Some unknown bastard; Vampiric sire

Wick; <3

{HISTORY}

Now, normally when you graduate from ATC, you get a couple weeks off to party it up before being thrown into the meat grinder. And party Connor did! Except in Connor’s case, he woke up alone in a motel room after having been dead for several hours. Upon arriving in DoSaM, and further treatment, Connor emerged a literal goddamn vampire. Which had its perks during the height of the war with Edanith, but is something that Connor very much wishes was not the case. He doesn’t talk about it much, except when he absolutely has to, and even then he tries to make light of the whole matter and change the subject real damn quick.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

2
The Rest of Aedolis / oh, it's you [Cheesi!]
« on: August 15, 2021, 08:53:35 pm »
   The problem with evening gowns was that they were always absolutely fucking freezing.

   Ren swore there had to have been some kind of conspiracy about it all - there was no way that no one had noticed that most charity balls and fundraising luncheons and premieres tended to be held in venues that seemed to think sixty degrees was a normal functional temperature. There was no way no one had noticed that all the drinks were chilled champagne or cocktails over ice, or that the appetizers very rarely approached anything beyond room-temperature.

   It had to be on purpose. Whether that was to keep makeup from sweating off (they made brands specifically for that, these days), or to keep stench down (god forbid anyone not smell like a delicately perfumed lily), or an excuse to make your date want to huddle under your arm all night (would be nice if you weren't always infinitely taller than anyone else), Ren wasn't sure. But what he was sure of, was that the venue owner for tonight was an absolutely sadistic bastard. Or did corpse storage part time. Either, or.

   Even with fur wrapped around his shoulders, Ren was cold. His fingers hurt from holding his champagne glass, and it took every bit of his willpower not to huddle up in a chair and just shiver. But no, he couldn't do that. Not when this was a state-led function and certainly not when he was the only Starstrider in the room. He just had to suck it up, keep his discomfort as inconspicuous as possible, and drink enough that he forgot what nerve endings even were.

   Which would have been much easier, again, if he could feel his goddamn fingers. He flexed the ones on his free hand under the guise of inspecting his nail decor - a fine silver-metal filigree that hugged each claw and extended upwards onto the fingers themselves. He'd opted for a more 'traditional' outfit for the night, and that unfortunately meant the simplicity of the gown itself was accented by plenty of metal armrings. Which, of course, was absofuckinglutely freezing. Even the fur shrug couldn't do much; it was small, meant only to wrap around his upper back and hook to the front of the gown, leaving the rest of him open to the merciless elements.

   Idly, he wondered how the hell any of his ancestors had dealt with it. Then reminded himself that his ancestors weren't usually so sensitive to the cold. And further reminded himself that was his own doing, thank you very much.

   Nope, no, bad. Self-defeating talk wasn't going to get him through the night any easier. Ren took a breath, drank his champagne in what he hoped was more of a sip than a guzzle, and decided it was time for another leisurely walk around the room. Anything to get his blood working again, and at least if he looked like he was en route somewhere there was less of a chance of being bothered while he tried to get sloshed.

3
The Rest of Aedolis / Session 9 [Goblin!]
« on: August 14, 2021, 08:31:30 pm »
Tucked in a corner, atop polished stone, three sticks of incense burned. The smoke coiled, slow and steady, buffeted only slightly by the continuous flow of cold air from the air conditioning vent set against the ceiling. The living room of the hotel suite was perfumed with the musky odor, as bits of ash fell from the burning sticks to land on the pristine white ash of the sand below. An added measure against any potential fires in case the occupants of the penthouse were otherwise distracted.

Outside, through the balcony window, the sun was just barely beginning to set. Through the dome glass, it seemed almost beautiful, tinged with the reds and pinks of the old world, a stark contrast against the storm colored waters and deep black sands of the in-dome beach. Ren had purposely requested a balcony with a view, and given his rank and his bank account, a view he had received.

As he poured two glasses of wine, he hoped that Pumpernickel wasn't too lonely without him. He rarely left his home these days for very long, ever since his reinstatement. Even the warmth of Ryun's tropical sun couldn't always reach the cold in his fingers and toes, and he felt uncontrollably tired on those days.

It had gotten better with time, of course, more than he'd expected, but still. Some days were easier than others. Ren lifted the pitch black stemless glass to his lips and drank - the wine was just like he liked it, deep red and rich. It was soothing, in its own way. A bit of comfort to start the weekend off right.

Ren glanced to the wall clock, a plain black circle with stark white markings - every bit as monochromatic as the rest of the penthouse - and wondered if it was out of nerves. It wasn't as if this was the first time, or even the second, or even the third. Still, his skin felt like there were ants underneath it, and so he took another swallow of wine.

Session 9, in T-minus five minutes.

4
Aedolis Characters / Yi Zhou, Pilot Echo Inquiry Blackbagger
« on: January 06, 2021, 06:54:28 pm »
___________

___________


**

{NAME}
Yi Zhou

{ALIASES}
[CLASSIFIED]

{AGE}
Somewhere in his 30’s

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, Pansexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Mostly human, Aedolean

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5’10”, slender

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Echo, Inquiry Blackbagger

{RESIDENCE}
Originally Samariel
Currently, who knoooows ask me later

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Build; Zhou is slender but well-muscled from ATC training and constant physical activity. He’s fairly tall but hardly cuts an imposing figure, which suits him because he prefers speed over brute strength anyway.

Color; Very cool toned— Zhou is lightly tanned, with dark ash-brown hair and piercing cold grey eyes.

Alterations; Being mostly human, there’s not much that’s different about him that one would notice on first glance. Repeated study, however, notes the slightest of points to his ears, and that his pupils are closer shaped to slits.

Modifications; Zhou is heavily pierced and tattooed and otherwise modified. He has several piercings in both ears, two eyebrow piercings, mirrored jawline tattoos and several other geometric bands tattooed on his forearms and shins. He also has an ocular implant in each eye, and two other implants set on the insides of his wrists. The ocular implant was voluntary to help with work, providing him an easy read of body signatures and enhanced night vision. The wrist implants function as a heat regulation system, both monitoring his body temperature and providing a cooling function to help keep the temperature constant.

Dress; Most of the time, while on duty, Zhou wears his flight suit. It functions both as a means to regulate his body temperature and also so he can go out into the field at a moment’s notice. He very rarely appears in his dress uniform, unless on very important business. When off duty he prefers to wear as little as possible, usually favoring loose tank tops and capri style pants.

{PERSONALITY}

Calm, collected, observant, aloof, uptight, quiet

Fun Facts!:
  • His headbutts hurt like a bitch.
  • Drinks like a fish and keeps the scariest poker face the whole time. Until he passes out, anyway.
  • TBD.
  • TBD.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

Less an ability and more a condition, Zhou suffers from hyperthermia often if his body temperature isn’t regulated. He puts off a lot of heat and can get heatsick very easily.

Telepathy - Moderate. Decent enough to do a general scan of a room and pick up on details if need be.

Hemokinetic - Moderate-to-high. While not capable of puppeting someone around from across a room, Zhou specializes in disabling his targets by getting close enough to touch them on key pressure points, while focusing his kinesis on those areas at the same time. Used in tandem, he can do anything from paralyze to kill a person, depending on whether Inquiry wants them alive or dead.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

His Inquisitor handler - TBD

The lovely folks at DoSaM who get to see him for checkups on the regular

Some friends he keeps at a distance sometimes

{HISTORY}


_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

5
Edanith Characters / Scorpion, Red Hot Ghost Pepper Bandit
« on: November 22, 2020, 11:04:15 pm »
___________

___________
**

{NAME}
See “aliases”

{ALIASES}
Scorpion

{AGE}
35-ish? He’s honestly not really been able to keep track.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, pansexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolean

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’, strong build

{OCCUPATION}
Former Aedolean infantry, now a member of the Red Hot Ghost Pepper Bandits.

{RESIDENCE}
A room in crashed ship in the Edani frontier

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Build; Boot camp and being thrown into a warzone have done wonderful things for Scorpion’s physique. Well-muscled, lean, and strong.
Color; Scorpion shows his Adelan heritage very strongly, with brown skin and long, black hair. His eyes are a bright cyan.
Alterations; None
Modifications; Scorpion is littered with scars over his body, though his most recognizable one is the burn mark on his left jaw. He has a single line tattoo over his nose, speaking to his heritage.
Dress; He takes what he can get. For a long time, he existed in a heavily patch-worked Aedolean uniform, and he gradually stole or bartered for different clothes over time. Now he runs around in a well-worn grey shirt, a black vest, and torn and patched jeans. He has a dark grey choker necklace lined with animal teeth, and he protects his identity with a combination of a broad black cowboy hat and a bandana over his face.

{PERSONALITY}

Strong, durable, perceptive, silent, shy, disciplined, active, literal-minded, organized, loyal, cooperative, dependable, humorless, blunt, aloof

Fun Facts!:
  • Loves music, and has a collection of music-players in his room depending on format.
  • Can take apart and put weaponry back together in his sleep. The action is actually soothing to him, so when he gets particularly upset or anxious he’ll lock himself in the armory and get to cleaning.
  • Is shy around most people, but isn’t unresponsive. He readily reciprocates if someone is interested in getting physical with him, and is a passionate lover. However, he typically operates under the assumption that these are one-off situations.
  • Despite being the designated muscle of the group, he really dislikes wanton killing.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
None

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Carolina Reaper - Boss
Cayenne - Fellow Pepper and a little too chaotic for his tastes
Habanero - Big and hissy but respects silence so is one of the safer people to sit near

{HISTORY}
Over a decade ago, Aedolis fought a brutal war on Edanith, and many men never made it home. Scorpion is one of these men— however, this was because they forgot him on the planet surface and no one came back for him. He’s been stuck ever since, but he’s made it work. Even if that means he traded his scary Lieutenant for a scary Bandit Boss.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

6
Libra Characters / Zhang Lian
« on: July 14, 2019, 10:48:11 pm »
___________

___________


**

{NAME}
Zhang Lian

{ALIASES}
“dead__air” online, but otherwise will only introduce himself as Lian or Li. He doesn’t often trust anyone with his surname.

{AGE}
27

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, bisexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Libran, ‘nuff said

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5’9”, slender.

{OCCUPATION}
Activist, troublemaker, etc.

{RESIDENCE}
Libra station, closer to the outer edges where the chill from space is more prevalent.

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Build; Lian is slender, but not soft. While he has a graceful kind of stature, it is clear that he does not spend a lot of his time idly. His legs are built strong at the thighs, and his shoulders are more than capable of providing the lifting power necessary to say… climb over a fence in record time. His face is similarly delicately built, with high cheekbones and soft, full lips, which are often pulled into a shit eating smile of one kind or another.

Color; Lian’s skin is somewhat ashen, like a very pale taupe. Had Lian grown up under a natural sun, he might have been a bit darker in complexion, but the void of space doesn’t lend towards much opportunity. There are white spots on his face, one dot on either side of the bridge of his nose, only just visible against his skin. His eyes, angled and full-lashed, are an icy grey-blue, with vertical slitted pupils. When fully contracted, it makes for a very intense stare. His hair is a rich, inky black, long and straight and kept almost pridefully silky.

Alterations; For the most part, Lian looks perfectly human. A few things set him apart from your “standard” Libran, however. The least obvious difference are his ears, which are slightly elongated and finish at a point, similar to an elf’s. The second difference is that Lian grows a set of antlers each year, which he also sheds annually. This only gets really gross when the velvet wants to come off, and Lian tends to stay at home getting the worst of it gone and cleaning up the residual blood rather than go about town looking like he gored someone. Once shed, he looks much like any other human, however. In the center of his chest is an oblong patch of skin, which seems to be translucent when compared with the rest of him, and thus it’s possible to make out the shape and beat of his heart if you’re allowed to stare long enough. The most obvious difference, however, is his feet. Rather than standard human feet, his legs finish off at hooves, similar to those of a deer. The hooves almost seem too delicate to support him, and his step is exceedingly light and quiet as a result. As his legs are shaped more like the forelimbs of a deer, he tends to raise his knees in a way that would look amazing on a catwalk.

Modifications; Lian sports several piercings. He has two studs in each of his earlobes, and several hoops along the underside of his earpoints. He has a few tattoos, such as a cuff of pine trees around his forearm, expanding upwards with interwoven geometric and nature designs. Surrounding the oblong portion of his sternum that shows his heart, Lian has a simple outline of a triangle, with the point facing downwards towards his stomach.

Accessories; Despite the chill of living on a space station, Lian tends to dress very lightly. His shirts are all made of soft, thin material, and he often cuts them to provide a wide neck that shows off his collarbones and parts of his shoulders. He usually favors dark neutrals for shirts, with different screen printed designs or slogans written across them. He wears his jeans dark and skinny, with a few tears in the knees for several pairs. He often has a button down flannel shirt tied around his waist, often in either blue or green plaid patterns. Lian doesn’t wear shoes, and only wears one bracelet made of para-cord, which has several handy tools hidden in the buckle. Like a small razor to cut any restraints, for instance. He also has a collar, though that’s more state-mandated than a fashion statement. The collar has a lead core, surrounded by a waterproof casing and digital lock that cannot be removed except by official state personnel.

{PERSONALITY}
Unapologetic; Lian is a psychic. He is proud to be a psychic. And he certainly will never apologize for who he is. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he has to wear a psionic-dampening collar, and rather prefers to make it as visible as possible. Whether this is more for himself to prove he has nothing to be ashamed of, or more to make those around him “deal with it”, it’s hard to say. He’s rather quick to get defensive if he thinks someone is being a dick about it, though, and is absolutely unafraid to start a very uncomfortable dialogue right there in the middle of the supermarket, BECKY, so maybe watch what comes out of your mouth next time.

Snarky; While quick to pick up arms and fight the good fight against unsuspecting mothers in the cereal aisle, Lian isn’t completely humorless. He has a dry wit, and is prone to sarcasm, and loves running with a joke to the point it becomes almost bizarre. He’s also not above raunchy humor, and will shoot back with a flirty quip without so much as batting an eye. In terms of his consumption of humorous content, let’s just say that “benevolent surrealism” has a loving home in his apartments. He absolutely has a lamp in the shape of an anthropomorphic waffle with a moustache drawn in sharpie.

Once bitten, twice shy; To say that Lian has commitment issues would be like stating that the universe is bigger than a football field— naw, really? You don’t say. Lian avoids long-term romantic entanglements like the plague. He’s quick to hop in bed with someone, but once the deed is done he is just as quick to hop out and get out the front door again. While he’s not against repeat experiences, he doesn’t seem to be willing to trust someone enough to get close, and certainly doesn’t want to get anywhere near a “meet the parents” stage. Too many of those, and you tend to lose your appetite for being the family dinner scandal.

Generous… for now; Lian is a giving sort. He wants desperately to be able to help his fellow Libran out, no matter what’s dragging them down. Fellow psychic in need of a place to crash because this is the third eviction you’ve been served? Lian’s got a couch. Out and about and realize you forgot to brush your teeth before a meet-up? He’s got a backpack full of quick fixes like gum, travel size soaps, hairspray, bandaids, the works. Need to bum a quarter for the vending machine? He’s got you covered. However, as quick as Lian is to help out, he is just as quick to revoke his help if you cross him. Burn him once, and you’ll never see him again. Good luck with that date and a mouthful of garlic shrimp from last night.

Fun Facts!:
  • Loves pizza. Thin crust, cheese, and black olives.
  • Has been arrested several times. He won’t say the exact number or the exact reason, but it’s often related to “being very noisy” and the number is somewhere between 2 and 10 times.
  • Knows an awful lot about running pirate radio.
  • God only knows what he does to achieve income.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Lian is psychic! While he has no telepathy to speak of, he does have above-average cryokinesis. He’s able to manipulate surrounding air molecules and slow them down to produce colder temperatures, and even cause the air to turn to liquid before freezing solid. Or rather, he could do this, if he weren’t made to wear a collar every minute of every day that deadens his psychic abilities.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
A network of acquaintances, coworkers, fellow activists, and other similar supports that keep Lian doing what Lian loves doing. You name what you need, and guaranteed Lian knows a guy. Just keep your mouth shut or else.

Tetra Pak - a fellow psychic and apparent fiend for cheese. Met in a chatroom and subsequently treated Tetra to pizza. Despite getting scared shitless by a small snow leopard dropping from the ceiling, Lian rather likes the hissy kitty.

Travis De Luca - Met in a chatroom, fed him some pizza, rubbed his belly and then got frisky. Not bad for one day.

{HISTORY}
Lian has been in and out of trouble for as long as he can remember. And he’s done it alone for just as long.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

7
Aedolis Characters / Aaron Stohl - Pilot Royal General
« on: April 05, 2019, 12:15:40 am »
___________

___________


*What’s up, Danger?*

{NAME}
General Aaron Julius Stohl, Pilot Royal

{ALIASES}
Sir.

{AGE}
40

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, bisexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’7”, muscular

{OCCUPATION}
General of Adstreia

{RESIDENCE}
Good ol’ Star City — Adstreia, Aedolis

{Misc}
Voice Claim - Jason Isaacs as Field Marshal Zhukov

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

   Regal; Tall, dark, and handsome, Aaron isn’t what you’d call a brick house. He’s proportionately built, with strong thighs and shoulders to match his height. He walks with a noble carriage that hints to his upper caste upbringing and his authority even out of uniform (which is rare.) He walks with confidence, perfectly assured, but just watching him move and talk gives you the impression that his ego is perfectly justified.

   He keeps his inky black hair cropped close to his head, with the top slightly longer than the sides and styled at all times. He does not go in public with a hair out of place— he keeps his scant beard carefully manicured, his uniform pressed, and his boots spectacularly polished. Even out of uniform, he treats his appearance to the same fastidious care. If he’s in a tshirt and jeans, you can be assured there will not be a single wrinkle or stray thread to be seen.

{PERSONALITY}

   Hail to the King; One of the most powerful Pilots in the country, and oh, does Aaron know it. Prideful bordering on egotistical, Aaron is well aware of his capabilities and expects others to know the same. After all, he wasn’t chosen to run a dome on a mere fluke, and while he may be from an upper-crust family, that had nothing to do with his advancement or placement. Everything he is, is everything he earned, and he’s damn proud of it.

   Born Strategist; Aaron is a thinker. He plans, and he maneuvers, and he ponders tactics in every decision he makes. Which is necessary— he’s responsible for the continued function and well-being of an entire dome, in addition to managing the movements of locally stationed Pilots and regular military. But this has a nasty habit of spilling into his personal life as well. Everything is an equation to him, whether he means to make it into one or not, and he’s always looking for the best way through any situation at any given time. Risk must be worth the reward.

   Control freak; Aaron dislikes not being in charge. In his professional life, the concept makes him deeply anxious, and he’ll spend a considerable amount of energy trying to rectify the situation and put himself back on top. He can delegate, as any good commander should, but if his orders aren’t followed to the letter, he’s going to be very, very angry. In his personal life, it just means he’s a very dominant partner, and he especially enjoys bringing ‘spirited’ paramours to their knees. It’s all in good fun, though, as he has issues with romantic and sexual partners who end up being entirely dependent on him. He rapidly dismisses anyone in his life who can’t even manage five minutes without his constant care.

Fun Facts!:
  • Rolls his own cigarettes.
  • Once studied ballet, and still practices it to keep in shape. It’s not something he regularly advertises, though.
  • Eats hot peppers like candy. Often with a dip made from the crushed remains of their fallen brethren.
  • Favorite color is green.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Telepathy - Standard
Telekinesis - Strong

{RELATIONSHIPS}

Adrian and Isolete Stohl - Parents, now separated. Isolete is serving a life sentence and will die in prison.

Adara Stohl - Aaron's twin sister, Pilot Noble and Judge. Affectionately known as "Dara" and affectionately calls him "Ronnie".

Alexander Stohl - Older brother by two years, deceased by age 13. Aaron doesn’t talk about him at all, and he’s only mentioned in deep personal files.

Joseph B. Tucker - Old war buddy, best mate.

Connor Remington - Old war buddy, best mate.

Kielen Derriere - Every star in the sky and three times as bright, the love of Aaron's life.

Banshee - Aaron’s draconic partner. She is, for the most part, completely uninterested in the regular goings-on of her human subservients. However, she does have a soft spot for her ambitious little morsel.

{HISTORY}
To be determined when Aaron decides to be upfront about any of it.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

8
Aedolis Characters / Samson Apollinaire, Inquisitor and Pilot Noble
« on: November 06, 2018, 10:44:41 am »
___________

art by me
___________

**

{NAME}
Samson Apollinaire

{ALIASES}
He absolutely insists you call him “Sam”.

{AGE}
42

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, pansexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, native-born Solartan

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’5”, beefcake

{OCCUPATION}
Inquisitor, Osprey, Pilot Noble

{RESIDENCE}
Solarta, Aedolis

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________

{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
   Quarter Winnebago; Sam is a big guy. The kind of guy where you turn around to look at who just spoke and you go “holy shit what did they feed you as a kid”. He stands tall, and solidly muscled, with broad strong shoulders and biceps to rival some thighs. It makes shopping for shirts a real pain in the ass, because while he’s bulkier up top, his waist remains trim, which he blames on never having a spare minute to stuff his face.

   Solartan sun; Sam was born and raised on one of the rancher grids to the far southern end of the dome, where most of the desert sunlight hit without the surrounding cliff face to shield the worst of it. He still maintains the same deep brown tan he grew up with, which throws the vivid silver of his eyes into sharp relief. Softly angled, with thick lashes and a solid set of crow’s feet, you’d never look into his eyes and think about how his job involves the brutal interrogation and execution of other Pilots.

   Non-regulation; His hair, thick and coffee-brown, Sam keeps about shoulder-length, since he suffers from way too many stubborn cowlicks to cut short and not look a total fool. Besides, considering he often wears a wide-brimmed hat out of doors, it cuts down heavily on hat-hair when all you have to do is shake the mess out and retie your ponytail. He usually knots it into a messy bun at the base of his skull when he needs to keep it out of his face, but when he’s particularly stressed he’ll undo it and start running his hands through his hair over and over.

   His facial hair similarly varies. He tries to keep it trim and neat, but if he’s been working several days straight in a row he’ll forget to shave, resulting in some rather frequent stubble.

{PERSONALITY}
   ONCE A FARM BOY; Samson values hard work, the result of getting in with your bare hands and through your own sweat and effort and coming out successful. When he puts himself to something, it’s with 100% of what he’s got, and he’s not “above” any task. Sometimes it feels like he tries to do everything himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right, but really it’s more that he can say with absolute surety it’s done if he himself saw it done. Nothing gets on his nerves quicker than asking what went wrong and getting an “I don’t know” in response.

   P’s AND Q’s; Samson is very polite. He toes the line between familiar warmth and due propriety, and his mannerisms follow suit. He will always remove his hat if he goes indoors, he will always address a person by an honorific or similarly acceptable terms regardless of their civilian or military status, and he certainly will always wait for an invitation before walking into someone’s space (no matter how many times the other person might insist he just waltz in).
   Still, this doesn’t tend to come off as overly formal, rather it’s so natural to him that anything less would be supremely bizarre even to his closest friends and family. It’s just how he was raised, and he doesn’t expect to get anything out of his manners than the satisfaction of having manners.
   
   COLD KILLER; Still, sunshine smiles and “yes ma’am”s aside, there is no doubting who or what Samson is. He is a highly trained Inquisitorial agent, and he does not hesitate in the slightest when it comes to hunting down and executing traitors, or punishing those who step out of line and do both their fellow soldiers and their country a disservice. He goes into his job with the kind of ruthless tenacity that will hear no pleas for mercy or excuses, and certainly no quick easy ways out.
   “You only need to hang mean bastards, but mean bastards you need to hang.”

Fun Facts!:
  • Writes poetry in his spare time, and has several collections of poetry in both physical book format (for the more special cases) as well as digitally in his comm. He’s usually reading in his downtime.
  • Gave up smoking years ago rather than either let it interfere with his running speed or go through the process of getting robotic lungs. But certain habits are there, and so he tends to keep a toothpick in his mouth, or chew pieces of grass if he’s out in the rural grid.
  • Goes bonkers for robot fighting matches. The more whirling blades of death the better.
  • Crochets.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Telepath - Standard, better at shielding his thoughts to evade detection than he is at probing.
Telekinesis - His main talent, as he often uses it to manipulate his surroundings in the pursuit of his quarry. Often psychics a literal lasso like the old-timey bumpkin he is.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
TBD, probably a fairly sized family who still run a farm or ranch or what have you.

{HISTORY}
Also TBD because lazybones.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

9
Aedolis Characters / Tobias Harmin - Stage 2 Candidate
« on: November 05, 2018, 10:46:31 am »
___________
Art coming sooon
___________

**

{NAME}
Tobias Harmin

{ALIASES}


{AGE}
18

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, who knows!

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’, a bit lanky

{OCCUPATION}
Stage 2 Pilot Candidate

{RESIDENCE}
The ATC for the next four years~

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
   Tobias is reminiscent of a puppy growing into his paws. He stands tall, a bit on the gangly side, with the promise that he still has a few more inches to grow before he settles into his height. He came into the program on the reedy side, but in the half a year or so he’s rapidly begun putting on muscle, especially around his shoulders and arms. Part of this is due to the exhausting training regimen all Candidates are put through. The other part is because his response to standard ATC bullying is usually “right hook, left hook.”

   As such, his tanned skin is usually scattered with some old and new bruising, though nothing too severe as to land him in medical. But it certainly has put him more on guard, his face typically pulled into a stern frown whenever he’s at rest. Though with full lips, sometimes this has a nasty habit of looking too much like a pout.

   His eyes are a deep hazel blue, surrounded by long ash-blonde lashes. His hair, similarly light, grows into long, thin twists on the top of his head that he usually keeps tied neatly back. The underside he keeps in a tight undercut, and it’s only in the safety of his room that he lets his hair down both figuratively and literally.

   Being an older candidate means he’s had a chance to live a little bit before being drafted into the Program, and several tattoos grace his collarbones and shoulders, though these remain largely invisible while he’s in uniform. He especially mourns his piercings, though, and there’s no doubt that by the time he graduates he’ll have to redo all the closed-off ones he’d previously had.

{PERSONALITY}
   JUSTICE; Tobias originally went into the military because he wanted to be a cop like his dad. He has a strong sense of right and wrong, though sometimes you have to wonder if he puts the same emphasis on the letter of the law as he does the spirit of it. Instead of simply taking his licks and enduring early-Stage hazing, he actively combats it. Both for himself and whenever he sees a younger Candidate having a particularly bad time of it.

   NO BULLSHIT; Tobias was raised in a military household. His dad was police, and very stern though not unloving. As such, “excuses” were never really a part of his childhood. If something was too hard, it became a goal. If something was impossible, it became a challenge. Both his parents encouraged him to be the absolute best he could be, an example to those around him and a true Aedolian through and through.

   BUT BULLHEADED; Because of this upbringing, though, Tobias really has trouble knowing when to quit while he’s ahead. He’s stubborn, often digging in his heels when the better option might be to compromise, and once he’s made his first impression it’s really difficult to get him to change his mind without some hard proof.

Fun Facts!:
  • Is trans! Thanks to his dad’s military rank he was able to get started on hormone therapy fairly early. Being drafted into Candidacy has also made it difficult to keep up with his shots, which makes him super grumpy once a month.
  • Is very well aware that his dad isn’t his biological father, but is very insistent that that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Family is who was around.
  • Lowkey a bit of a dweeb. Will totally do the peace sign in photos and selfies.
  • Has a habit of chewing on his lips, a bit of a nervous tic from having gone without smoking in a while.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Telepathic - Passable, but needs some concentration. He’s not hit the “walk and chew gum” part yet.

Empathic - Instinctual, and hard to tell it’s happening just yet. But it definitely lets him make a guess as to who’s having a hard time of it in the ATC and puts him on guard for what might be the source of that hard time.

Psychometric - More of a gut feeling than anything vivid just yet, largely because of lack of proper practice. Certain objects “vibrate” to him though, catching and holding his interest for longer than others if there’s enough emotion tied to them.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
His mom and dad, who he has a great relationship with and who are quite proud to have a potential Pilot for a son. His mother is definitely less surprised by it though.
A baby half-sister, only four years old. He has photos of her all over his desk so he doesn’t miss everything while he’s training.

{HISTORY}
His mom met a newly graduated Pilot one day when she was younger, and Tobias was the result. He’s never known his biological father, just that he’d gone by “Toby” in the short time his parents knew each other.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

10
The Rest of Aedolis / Descent [Solo]
« on: October 21, 2018, 10:12:17 am »
part one

   // WARNING … //

   // CONTAINMENT BREACH … //


   There was a flash of red, before it bloomed outwards like a thousand orange wildflowers, the flare of fire and shrapnel mingling with the dust of the bloodied earth.

   Drop team, disengage.

   The command was sharp, full of bite and fury, a bear’s roar against the backdrop of the world ending. Even through the shielding of his helmet, the roar of the wind was a cacophony, pierced by the shotgun-loud sound of the locks disengaging.

   Svanhvit rolled to the side, and gravity pulled him from the safety and sanctity of his saddle and out into the booming maw of the open air. There had been no time to practice this maneuver, not in the dead heat of conflict. It was do or die, entirely up to him whichever route he ended up choosing.

   Valkyries choose the slain. Never the other way around.


   
   //TOXIN LEVELS UNKNOWN … //

   // O2 RESERVES 12% … //

   There was another flash of red, and for a blinding moment Yavul genuinely believed a grenade had gone off near his head. All the symptoms were present— excruciating pain and the inability to understand which way was up. The only symptom lacking was that he wasn’t completely dead.

   The red flashed again, and Yavul groaned at the searing agony that ripped across his skull from stem to stern. He blinked, once, twice, and slowly the flashing came into focus.

   The words were split, beginning up about his brow and ending across a wide cracking divide, a few letters lost forever to the aether in between. But Yavul had seen them too many times to not know what his suit was trying to tell him.

   Signal lost, oxygen depleted, and the yawning divide in his helmet was from where the armored glass had cracked in two, the jagged edge of a rock mere centimeters from having drilled between his eyes and taken the rest of his skull with it.

   Sighing tasted like dirt, and licking his lips only proved his point. Moving his fingers and feet was an effort, though as the world came back into focus, he was relieved to note that his difficulty moving was not entirely due to lack of personal ability. Rocks and dirt and debris were piled high above him, which also explained the long stretches of blackness in between steady red warning flashes.

   “Helmet lights,” he whispered, but the words fizzled and popped, lips making the motion and mouth filling with dirt for his efforts. Yavul shut his eyes tight against a sudden wave of nausea, fighting back the initial animal panic of being buried alive and unable to move. He breathed through his nose until he could count further than “three” in between gasps, and slowly started to move his hands again.

   O2 at 10%. He needed to get out. He needed to get out. He needed to get out or he was going to die like this, he was going to suffocate and die like this, trapped like an animal in a cage and slowly rotting until they dug him back up again—

   Stand up and meet your fate.

   Yavul took another long, shaky breath, pulled his arms close to himself, and slowly wormed them upwards under the tight shielding of the rocks that had come dangerously close to smashing him to pieces. As he went, he pushed the dirt that fell down towards his feet, granting himself more and more pockets to move within.

   The real challenge was his helmet. He huffed quiet as he considered the rock that pinned him there, and inched his fingertips around the bulk of it, with the sinking realization that bringing his kids all into a singular hold would be a far more physically possible thing than trying to move this earthy behemoth off himself.

   Yavul tried to turn his head to the side, only to flinch his eyes closed as glass crunched and sprinkled sharp dust into his face. Another quick burst of breath, and he wiggled his hands up to the sides of his head, pressing in to disengage the locks just enough for him to get out from beneath the reinforced metal armor and let it continue to hold the boulder at bay.

   For as long as that would last.

   It was three way race, between Yavul’s barking panic, the fragility of the earth above him, and his need to breathe. Eons passed by, tumbling along with every handful of dirt he shoved towards his feet, scrabbling blindly with his eyes shut and praying to Vebeset that he hadn’t chosen the wrong direction in which to dig.

   He tried not to think about what it would mean if he had chosen wrong. Yavul focused on digging, bit by bit, shallow breath by shallow breath, and had to bite back a cry of victory as his hand finally pushed through and out into open void. He moved quicker— quick as he dared— until his head was similarly freed, and took long, gasping gulps of free, if subtly stagnant, air. He shook his head, and carefully blinked his eyes open, only to find that wherever he was was as pitch dark as it was underneath the rubble.

   Yavul wriggled a little more, freeing his shoulders enough to reach into his armor, pulling out a small torch and clicking it on. The white light shot out like a laser beam, making him flinch against the resurgent throb of his headache, and it took another several minutes of squinting and blinking before he could figure out what he was seeing.

   For a moment, it seemed like the world was only made up of his mountainous would-be tomb and the inky black of the void. But then the subtle pressure became less subtle as Yavul looked up, and he realized with no small amount of gut-wrenching that he had dug himself out at an angle.

   Fuck, he was at an angle—

   As if rejecting his attempts to scuttle back into his little tunnel, the earth shuddered and gave way, sending Yavul backwards against the side of the rubble. He managed to tuck himself into a curl to control his fall, each harsh thud against the ground robbing him of any breath he had and thus preventing the long stream of curses that would have blistered the ear off of the saltiest Cancer port guard.

   Eventually gravity stopped being such an asshole, and Yavul rolled to a stop at the base. He lay there for what felt like another eternity, stomach rolling and head splitting and absolutely expecting this to be the point where his body demanded a divorce due to constant battery. He took another breath, letting it all out in a silent huff as he reached to retrieve his torch, flicking it around to gauge his surroundings.

   No immediate danger he could see. Plenty of time to just lay there and make sure he hadn’t broken anything important. Deep breaths, gentle flexes. Extensions, curls, rotations. The worst pain remained in his head, but even that was clearing up now that he wasn’t being bombarded by warning signals from his helmet. Yavul eased himself up, slow and steady, eyes shut against the nausea that followed his sudden change in equilibrium. Bruised but whole.

   And a little embarrassed. Of all the things to happen, he had to fall down a gods-damned hole in the ground. Though, after a quick flick of the torch upwards, Yavul noted that it was not such a terribly tiny hole, the beam of light not bright enough to even begin to see the ceiling of whatever cavern he had landed himself in. All things considered, it was kind of impressive that the worst thing to happen was a killer headache.

   Snorting quietly, he moved from the base of the rubble and along it, finding the closest wall and starting around the perimeter.

   At first, it seemed like just one giant pocket in the earth. It explained the stillness of the air, the almost ethereal liminality of a space that had not been touched by the light of day for millenia, if it had ever been touched at all. As he got further along the wall, however, Yavul felt it— the telltale caress of moving air against his grime-caked face, the tickle of sweat-soaked hair moving along his temple. There was an air current nearby, and like a man greedy for the smell of dinner cooking in the next room, Yavul followed it with quickened steps to the beginning of what looked to be a large tunnel.

   It wasn’t like he was any real expert in the matter, but the tunnel itself looked big enough to drive a railcar through. Which was disconcerting enough as Yavul remembered his reason for being down in a hole in the ground in the first place. It was doubly disconcerting as his footsteps took on the texture of someone walking across a floor where soda had recently been spilled, and a look downwards confirmed the fine filigree of translucent threading carpeting the ground before the tunnel entrance.

   Yavul reached for his hip, unclipped the holster there, and drew his side-arm, resting it over the wrist that held the torch. He stepped backwards, onto solid earth, and took much slower, steadier steps around the edge of the tunnel mouth. At the very least, the adrenaline made him forget entirely about his headache, his heartbeat picking up as he moved from one tunnel… to the next… and to the next… and to the next. Only the fifth was smaller than the rest, and only the fifth wasn’t surrounded by a nest of webbing, though that did nothing for Yavul’s peace of mind.

   Twelve rounds loaded. Two magazines in his belt. Arm at 100% capacity, but for a target as big as a Trapdoor, that would be depleted almost immediately. Not even counting what kind of chaos unleashing his kinesis in these tunnels would cause. Six flashbangs, far more effective against creatures used to the dark, but without his helmet he was just as susceptible. He needed backup. He needed his rifle, but gods both only knew where in the rubble that was.

   But most of all, as the telltale sounds of rapidfire movement became louder and louder, Yavul needed to not be in the open. He ducked into the fifth, smallest tunnel just as the first Trapdoor scuttled out into the cavern, and didn’t stop moving until the thunder of their steps was a distant memory.

11
The Rest of Aedolis / Tremors [Blink!]
« on: October 17, 2018, 11:39:33 pm »
   If you were to go back in time, and tell a young Candidate named Yavul Hyakinthos that one day his job description would include “large varmint control”, you might have gotten the special privilege of crushing a young man’s dreams. There might have even been long melodramatic cries of it being not true, of such a thing being impossible.

   And yet, there he was, standing at the gate of a spranger ranch in full gear, the autumn sun bearing down on them in what was a comparatively gentle fashion considering the record heat waves of the recently passed summer. It still made a man sweat, of course, but Yavul had the benefit of his climate controlled flight suit. More than could have been said about the other regular military that were accompanying himself and Mia to this particular patch of Solartan dirt.

   Under normal circumstances, Yavul would never have just two Pilots out to deal with a Trapdoor infestation. Which wasn’t to say he had little faith in either his own or Mia’s abilities— rather, something in the spiders’ evolution had sparked some particularly nasty habits. The cooperative hunting kind of habits. The kind of habits that had you thinking twice as to whether or not the spiders were just the dumb animals you thought.

   The problem was the spread. After Mia’s encounter over the previous weekend, it became a scramble to find where the breech had come from. For a week solid there were official personnel combing every last inch of the domes— from the vents to the shields to the thick concrete base of the fortifications right down to the railway tracks leading out of the city.

   A few unlucky bastards even had the joyful job of going deeper into those tunnels, and the trains had faced some rather aggravating delays as a result. But each search had come up with nothing, and so they’d had to widen it to include the less-than-usual suspects.

   Trapdoors were getting scarily clever as the years went on, but they were still animals at the end of the day. Really grotesque, really big animals. Animals that needed to eat, and eat a lot. And in Solarta, the best source of free range protein was out here in the rural zones.

   Plus side was the ranchers tended to notice if their stock went missing overnight. Downside was there was a fuck ton of ranchers to sift through, and even if there hadn’t been an incident yet didn’t mean there wouldn’t be. So Yavul had divided his squadron into teams, two Pilots and an entire platoon of regular military, each with a responsibility to check a grid of ranches top to bottom for any signs of their unwanted scuttling guests.

   This was the fourth ranch of the day, with sixteen more still to go. Yavul pulled off his helmet to run a gloved hand through his hair, before scratching idly at his chin in thought. Off in the distance, the regular uniforms were jogging back and forth, setting up sensors to try and detect any unusual tremors below. It was tricky doing on this side of the zone. The in-dome rail wasn’t far off, and with regular looping passages, the vibrations tended to throw off the readings and make an already tedious task take even longer.

   Yavul also wasn’t ashamed to say that half of his impatience was rooted in the fact that it was Friday. He wanted to get this all done as soon as possible, get a quick wash, and get his ass up north to Amristah and a blissful weekend of lasagna, teasing pranks, and waking up next to the only person Yavul could ever picture himself waking up next to.

   Soon to be on a very permanent, officially-documented basis. Stifling a wide grin— he was gonna be married. Married.— Yavul did his best to pay attention to the subject at hand. A Trapdoor breech was phenomenally dangerous and a disaster just waiting to happen, and the fact that they still had no idea where the initial scuttly-fucker had come from was worrisome. He could spend his trainride home daydreaming about his fiancee. Right now required him to work.

   Helmet tucked under his arm, Yavul walked across the dust to where Mia stood overseeing the placement of sensory probes, her back rather unusually straight for a task that Yavul himself was having trouble paying attention to. As much as he loved the young Pilot, Mia had a rather famous attention span, and this seriousness had lasted the entire week since the first spider had been found.

   Yavul had a feeling he knew why, and tried not to dwell too much on how reading those chat logs had made him feel. For Mia to be pulling the "serious face" for a week solid, her feelings were a much more pressing matter. Nothing a little mischief couldn't fix. Yavul rubbed his gloved hands together, generating just enough static to where a gentle poke to her shoulder would have her hair standing on end.

   “Don’t look now, but I think your hair’s tryna fly th’ coop.”

12
Aedolis Characters / Rocco Cyprio Renato da Travica, Pilot Echo
« on: October 07, 2018, 12:45:32 am »
___________

art by meeee
___________


*Come as you are, as you were
As I want you to be
As a friend, as a friend
As a known enemy*

{NAME}
Pilot Echo Rocco Cyprio Renato da Travica

{ALIASES}
Rocco

{AGE}
62, about his thirties for his people

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, homosexual for the most part

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Ashman, Copperblooded, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5'1”, strong build

{OCCUPATION}
Energy Administrator for the Department of Ministry. Pilot Echo rank.

{RESIDENCE}
Travica, Aedolis

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________




{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

  • Low center of gravity; As with the rest of his kind, Rocco is not tall. Boasting a compact but strong build, it takes quite a bit to knock him over or honestly even to get him to lose his balance. Standing at just a bit over five feet tall, it's easy at first to not quite realize he's there. At first.
  • Copper blooded; Born of the highest caste in Ashman society, like his forebears, Rocco has vibrant copper eyes that seem like molten fire. They're especially vibrant against his pale grey skin and jet black hair, and the twisting metallic inlay that winds around his neck and shoulders is equally vivid.
  • Clean cut but not clean shaven; Rocco skirts the line between acceptable military grooming and more traditional Ashman style. He used to keep his hair relatively close-cropped, with the top of his hair dyed a deep maroon. However, more and more recently he's been "getting back to basics" and letting the dye slowly grow out more and more. Now it's long enough on top to pull back and braid in several places, though the sides and back he keeps shaved short just to avoid a heat stroke or worse.
  • Muscles for days; Despite his rather science oriented, “cushy” specialization, Rocco spends an extraordinary amount of time at the gym maintaining his physical fitness. His hard work has paid off with a trim waist, strong chest, and thick, sturdy biceps. His legs are similarly built, though there's a bit more muscle there, and as much as it looks like it'd hurt to get punched by the guy, it would hurt worse to get kicked.
  • Islander; While his people haven't lived on their native Ashman islands for millenia, their culture has held strong, and this is no more obvious than when Rocco speaks. He has a strong Islander accent, and tends to gesture emphatically with his hands as he speaks. For us real worlders, he's more Brooklyn than Brooklyn when he talks.
  • Marble; Rocco is what is known amongst his people as a Marble. In the olden days, an Ashman born with marbling on his person was meant to fill a specialized role within their caste. Depending on blood caste, these were courtesans, trained speakers, entertainers, escorts, quasi-therapists and masters of interpersonal mediation should the need arise. Nowadays there's less of a strict demand that marbling translate to this sort of career path, though for some older families there is a more "traditional" mindset. ...Rocco is not following tradition in the slightest, in this regard.

{PERSONALITY}

  • He's a douche. Full stop.; Rocco is not cuddly. He's not here to hold your hand, or do anything passively. When he sees behavior he thinks needs correcting, his first instinct is to insult you into shame before addressing the “proper” way to do things. He's also prone to giving horribly embarrassing nicknames if he thinks someone is doing something particularly foolish, like “Pisspot” or “Pizza Girl” or “Psycho Noodle Murderer”. Any protest to your nickname almost guarantees he'll keep calling you it until you're dead.
  • Honorable; That being said, while he can be an abrasive loudmouth at any given moment, he is not shy about doling it out twice as hard if someone's behaving in a particularly bad way. This attitude is especially potent if the person on the receiving end of scuzzy behavior is a woman, and due to Ashman cultural norms, he's prone to explosive bouts of temper if a female of any species is being mistreated. He does tend to overdo it in places, though.
  • Party boy; Rocco likes to have a good time, full stop.
  • An amazing dweeb; Rocco has a nerdy side that's most obvious if he's talking science, chemistry, physics, math puzzles, or puzzles in general. He loves ordering puzzle boxes off the net just to see how long it takes him to solve them.

Fun Facts!:
  • His Nonno taught him how to cook, and he is very proud of the food he makes. Get out of here with your subpar bs.
  • Anyone who isn't an Ashman is little more than a barbarian, as is apparent custom amongst the Islanders. The only ones that get an automatic pass are Kulshedra, who Rocco will affectionately call cuz or cousin during light banter.
  • However, growing up around Aedolians most of his life has tempered his cultural distaste by a wide margin. So he usually waits until you do something dumb before he comments about how “Mainlanders” raise their goddamn kids.
  • Being amongst Aedolian standards of beauty has also left him with a bit of a napoleonic complex. He's at constant war with his inate pride in his father's work, and a mild embarrassment about not being just a little bit taller.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Telepathic - He's talented enough to focus his thoughts over a block if he knows a specific person is there. He's also talented enough to be capable of bringing up shields to block most surface thoughts or light probes.

Pyrokinetic - Much to his family's pride, Rocco has a special understanding and control of heat and fire. He can track heat patterns by “feeling out”, and uses this ability the most while he's working surveying geothermal activities. He can direct fire and heat to a degree, pushing it to a safe distance if he and his survey team happen to be caught unawares by a burst.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
His father, Renato, and his Nonno, Adamo. Both are incredibly important to him, and he does everything he can to make them proud.

Bishop, his bffsie for life, and one hell of a singer both before and after their third pub of the evening.

{HISTORY}
He's been a bit fucked up, going into candidacy extremely young for his kind. But the needs of Aedolis outweigh the needs of your emotional development, so… you get an angry rock boy every now and again.

As a copperblood, however, becoming one of the highest social classes in Aedolean culture is a huge honor. The fact that Rocco was a Pilot, the tip-top of the world, should have written his ticket amongst his kind. ...However, his personal habits have gotten in the way, leading to a very strained relationship with his father, who disapproves of his lifestyle and cavorting with barbarians as much as Rocco does.

The fact Rocco works as a low-level scientist for the Energy department is likewise a huge disappointment, especially with Rocco being a high-caste Marble-- Renato would have much more rather seen Rocco working PR, or climbing the ranks on his way to Pilot Royal. Rocco struggles with this quite a bit, and can't decide what's worth keeping more: his identity or his family.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________


13
Cancer Characters / Dajirin - Your friendly neighborhood murderbot
« on: September 29, 2018, 11:30:47 am »
___________

art coming soooon
___________

*Life is a test but I confess
I like this mess I've made so far
Grade on a curve and you'll observe
I'm right below the horizon*

{NAME}
Dajirin

{ALIASES}
Daj, Daji, probably a thousand terrible epithets, but he doesn’t respond to those very kindly.

{AGE}
He’s probably about… 10 years old from point of production? But if we're talking mentality he's designed to be on par with a typical late 20-something.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, and his sexuality is being treated like a person.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Android

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’2”, shaped to have the classic lean “superhero” build.

{OCCUPATION}
Hitman \o/

{RESIDENCE}
A former warehouse and dock on Cancer Station

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
   Dajirin is held together by duct tape and a prayer. He has a very solid endoskeleton made of a durable alloy, which makes him rather physically heavy. His outer casing is a mishmash of synthetic flesh— his was a model meant to pass as human, and has very delicate receptors and animatronics surrounding his facial region to go along with it. He’s capable of the full spectrum of displayed emotion, though his default setting seems to be “jovially not giving a fuck.”

   There are a few places where repairs simply have not been feasible. He only has one pale grey eye remaining— the other was knocked out in an altercation and couldn’t be retrieved. So he wears an eyepatch over the gaping hole in his metal skull. His right arm, similarly, has lost all of his synthetic flesh, leaving only the bare bones of his metallic skeleton from shoulder to fingers. It’s still fully functional, but not at all friendly to the touch. He keeps it well oiled to prevent the metal pieces from making too much noise as they move.

   There is a massive gash at the front of his throat, which he’s partially stitched and sealed as best he can. Typically, he just wraps a white gauze bandage around the wound to keep it free of dust and grime, but the damage is similarly irreversible. His vocal processor is gone, rendering him utterly voiceless.

   Typically, Daji wears whatever scrap of clothing catches his eye— “hobo-dumpster-chic” as he calls his personal style, he favors the purposefully worn look, with patches and stitches and rips and tears, and he’ll even modify sleeves to be rolled up and held in place by safety pins.

   His hair is a soft chestnut brown, long and luxurious and meant to be touched. He usually just yanks it back into a messy bun most days, leaving free wires hanging down for quick interfacing as necessary.

{PERSONALITY}
   “Jovially not giving a fuck” - Daji does not care what your opinions are, be they about his profession, his appearance, or his existence. He’ll be the first to tell you, with a thousand smiley faces attached, that you can sit and spin.

   He’s fiercely independent, and shudders at the concept of being owned by anyone in any fashion. He handles everything by himself, for himself, and if anyone happens to work with him, it’s because that was his decision. No if’s and’s or but’s about it— he refuses to be beholden to anyone, and tends to treat social interactions as transactions as a result. If you do him a solid, you are getting paid back for it, whether you like it or not.

   That being said, he is, at the core of his programming, made for social interaction. He’s not an introvert in any sense of the word; he likes going out, he likes being around other people, he wants to feel like he’s a part of society rather than just existing on the fringes of it.

   He doesn’t take anti-droid sentiments very well (or even pro-droid sentiments if it’s fetishized), as a result, because he both craves to be seen as his own individual person, but refuses to be seen as anything but who he is at his heart. He’s an android, he’s not going to pretend to be anything but an android. And he simply will not abide anything less.

   His moral compass is firmly skewed, however. He sees nothing wrong with his profession, and he’s not above breaking into someone’s business or home or what have you in order to get at supplies to staunch catastrophic coolant leakage at three in the morning.

Fun Facts!:
  • Because of his missing vocal processor, he uses a TTS app on his phone. Because of his less than put-together skin, his phone is old school to have a sliding keyboard. Utterly Ancient.
  • Is all about that Industrial Grunge aesthetic— but will splurge to pay for some seriously cushy digs. Or a vintage motorbike to get around the station on.
  • Has a fondness for third wave ska. I know.
  • Smokes about a pack of cigarettes a day, even though it does nothing for him. I think he just likes the smell, which is also why he drinks Darjeeling tea.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
He’s an android. He’s really good at processing information fast, can interface with computer systems given the right connection, and has scary fast reflexes. Also, punching him hurts.

He’s a hitman. He’s very good at making money off of shooting people.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
His cat, Gremlin.

Judah, the guy who runs the local hardware store that doubles as a front for Daji’s particular services.

Sadie, the girl who runs a “locksmithing” service and makes a good chunk of her income off of Daji’s break-ins. Or scouting for him.

{HISTORY}
Daji was meant to be a socialite droid. The kind of pretty thing to be dressed up and programmed for high society shindigs, with a wealthy owner and expectations as an expensive piece of property.

Now he isn’t.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

14
   Content warning for (technically) involuntary drugging, intense hallucinations, gross bug imagery, PTSD and Jonesy’s tendency to drop F bombs.

   —

   There was a point, once, where Jonah Cole commanded some measure of respect. It was, perhaps, not the kind of respect that other commanding officers and squad leaders might consider “good” respect, but it had always worked for him. After all, Jonesy wasn’t really capable of achieving the other kind of respect— the kind that had an entire city in mourning when they thought their Commander lost to the perils of the void.

   Someone, somewhere in history, once asked if it was better to be loved or to be feared. A kind of shitty question, if half the options weren’t available to you. Such was Jonesy’s dilemma, because he was already hamstrung as it was, and now he had these new recruits who adamantly refused to fall in line to the only option their Squad Lead had left.

   One was physically incapable of feeling fear. No manner of intimidation, of Jonesy’s natural aura, of threatening swarms of spiders could shake the guy. Ellis was like trying to scare one of those wild, wiggly noodle men one sometimes found outside of a grand opening of some shop or another. Utterly fruitless, and it never dampened that damn smile.

   The other, Joan, Jonesy knew was capable of feeling fear. She just seemed to prefer challenging it. Which wasn’t unheard of. Some people, when pressed far enough, turned violent rather than into a gibbering mess. Fought back. Got tougher. It was a good trait to have, being able to stare fear in the face and tell it to sit down and shut the fuck up. It did, however, make her remarkably difficult to handle. At least Darzi had the decency to pretend to obey him half the time, simpering for Jack’s benefit and digging her heels in all other hours of the day. Joan just dug her heels in. Twenty four hours. Seven days a week. Three hundred and fucking sixty five days a year.

   It was such that Jonesy had found himself acquiescing more than he would have ever done so at any point in his career before now. Where before he could stonewall and glare his way into victory, stonewalling and glaring got him nothing but worse and worse results. So, it took a few compromises. Giving into the little things to keep the big things from becoming a big problem.

   Like the big problem of Ellis dragging every last dingy, dirty piece of equipment into his office to scrape the filth out over his floor. Like the big problem of Joan let loose with neon paint cans, spraying over their helmets and probably the furniture while she was at it.

   So desperate for his company. Which was the most bizarre twist of it all— so his fear tactics didn’t work on them, fine. But he never made himself pleasant to be around. He wasn’t fun. He was allergic to the mere concept of it, if Joan’s implications were anything to go by. And yet she— and Ellis, even more so— absolutely insisted in haranguing him at every spare minute either of them had. Others would have gotten the hint, cut their losses, and given up on a lost cause.

   These two had Jonesy carting his laptop down three levels of the Scorpions HQ, to the equipment room, so he could work on next week’s simulations in one corner while the two young Cardinals did their chores. He could only imagine that, somehow, this made them happy. It didn’t make sense, but it made even less sense without this explanation.

   Sighing as he got settled on a far bench, Jonesy looked over the thin screen at the other Pilots in the room, watching as they began the standard and, admittedly, utterly BORING task of scraping old, faded paint off of helmets, and the grime of buildup off of the gas dispensers. The crust was harmless in this ancient state, of course, but it tended to get into the more delicate portions of the dispensers, and could potentially compromise shutoff valves with very dangerous consequences.

   Jonesy tried to remember who had had this task last, thought it might have been Vijaya, and tried to remember if Jack had been around when he’d given the order or not.

   Ah well. Didn’t matter. What mattered was it got done now, and he got the next drills programmed, and this day ended so he could go home, light up, get high and watch something stupid and brightly colored on television the whole weekend.

   Petulant though they could both be about following orders, Joan and Ellis weren’t idiots. So Jonesy sat back and focused on the coding in front of him, brows knit and a deep scowl on his face as he placed trap after trap. Maybe some live Teinari targets this time, the sooner they all got used to screaming, the better. Simulated screams always had a kind of comforting falseness to them— you couldn’t feel sympathy for a computer program like you could for a person. Nothing ever quite measured the same thing.

   Jonesy typed in a quick allocations request, and continued formatting the rest of the first room.

   "Make sure you scrape with the grain, Archer. You chip those helmets and you're explaining to Distribution why we need a whole new set."

15
Teinar Characters / Shest' Grey, the man with the collar
« on: May 13, 2018, 03:16:27 pm »

___________



___________



**


{NAME}

Shest’ Grey


{ALIASES}

GRY-026


{AGE}

An adult of some variety.


{GENDER, SEXUALITY}

Male, some really fucked up shit.


{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}

Human, Wastelander of some kind


{HEIGHT/BUILD}

6’, lean, could probably use a sandwich or twenty.


{OCCUPATION}

Ex-gopher, now scavenger.


{RESIDENCE}

Wherever he can hunker down and not get eaten in the Wasteland



___________

IN DEPTH STUFF

___________




{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Hungry but sturdy; Shest’ is not a small man, and quite often has to duck to enter half-decayed bunkers. He would be right at home with tools in another country or another life, with broad shoulders and strong, calloused hands.

GRY; Despite being still young underneath all the dust and dirt and suntan, Shest’ has grey hair and has since he was a teenager. His natural hair was once an ashy blonde, but soon turned prematurely grey to match steely grey eyes.

The collar; Shest’ doesn't keep much for personal decoration, preferring to keep things simple: close-fitting clothes that won't get caught on anything and won't draw too much attention. All except the collar-- a heavy metal thing that given a touch of the right trigger, would explode and take his jugular with it.


{PERSONALITY}

Bad karma; Shest’ is not a moral man. He's not purposely vicious, but nor is he altruistic. If it means he'll survive another day, he'll rob you blind and leave you with nothing. He has some measure of mercy, though, in that he doesn't aim to make anyone suffer. If there's no chance of survival, he'll do you the favor of killing you quick. But don't expect him to go out of his way to help you if there's no gain for him.

Deceptively clever; However much he seems to understand, know that he understands far more than he lets on. He is a master of observing targets and seeing what he can use to his advantage, and has done so many, many times.

Chipper as the devil; Shest’ buries everything under cheer. He smiles when he's angry, he smiles when he's sad, when he's scared or furious or vengeful or heartsick. The last bit of him there is, the one thing that is his and his only, is something he will never let himself show anyone else. That's his, and he's not the sharing sort.


Fun Facts!:

  • Visual learner. Watching someone do a thing a few times is enough for him to at least start to mimic it.
  • Knifey. He doesn't keep or carry guns, mostly because they're too loud and need reloading.
  • Bilingual. He knows Common and another dialect, probably from wherever his “home" once was. He doesn't often use it unless it's a tactical advantage.
  • Singer. Hard to tell if it's because he likes music or if it's to cut the silence or what.


{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

He's a people-reader; he’s got a talent for watching folks, their mannerisms and how they carry themselves, and he uses that to know how to handle them.


{RELATIONSHIPS}

GRY-022; Mother. Deceased.

BLU-023; Father. Deceased.

GRY-024; Older brother. Deceased.

GRY-025; Older sister. Deceased.


{HISTORY}

The Wasteland is full of people who will kick down your door, take everything you have and more. The Wasteland is full of people who will roll over, belly up, and let it happen because it's easier than fighting. The Wasteland is full of monsters who will make a profit off them both, locking up the latter to sell to the former, and creating an entire settlement off the backs of other humans.

And then there's the people who will do whatever they need to to see these settlements burn. That's easy. It's what to do after that's hard.


_________________

TIMELINE:

x



_________________


16
INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL
MARGAD CELL ALPHA-ROUM


CLEARANCE REQUIRED: CLASSIFIED INFORMATION DISCUSSED WITHIN THIS CHANNEL DOES NOT LEAVE HERE UNDER PENALTY OF PROSECUTION TO THE FULLEST EXTENT UP TO AND INCLUDING TERMINATION
——

Case file 8x430-MPI-003
Commanding Officer:
Inquisitor Talbot Henning-Rook, Pilot Noble



SUBJECTS: updated as of 19:22 0503

Pilot Cardinal Wyatt Ontario. STATUS: MISSING
Pilot Cardinal Aspen Brookes. STATUS: MISSING
Pilot Cardinal Heather Bannister. STATUS: MISSING
Pilot Cardinal Liselotte Hestersen. STATUS: MISSING
Pilot Cardinal Sashi Enu. STATUS: UNKNOWN



INCIDENT LOG:

* Unknown Incident 001 - Further investigation required, Tech Specialist Assessment inbound. Concerning disappearance of Pilot Cardinal Wyatt Ontario, previously considered AWOL.

* 43018:20:08 - Pilot Cardinals Aspen Brookes and Heather Bannister lose comms connection. Further investigation by Tech reports tampering with nearby surveillance cameras minutes prior to incident.
Evidence retrieved: One shoe, one beanie, confirmed to belong to Pilots Brookes and Bannister.
Official warrant released at 2100 hours.

* Tech reports indicate several incidents of surveillance malfunction or tampering. Evidence collected: sampling of Fleurivale paints, bouquets.

* 5318:11:31 - Submission of official request for bulletin concerning Pilot Cardinal Liselotte Hestersen. Subject was reported AWOL by senior officer Pilot Nayden Kiers. Tracking placed comm at the Nightbloom Hotel. Further investigation pending. Subject still at large.
Official warrant released at 1200 hours.

...


---
ALL MARGAD-BASED INQUIRY AND SEEKER MEMBERS ARE TO REPORT TO HQ IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN DISCIPLINARY ACTION
.

17
[Warning for violence, blood, dismemberment and general gross things involving killing a buncha guys.]

   “—for too long! For too long those bastards have lived above us, poisoned everything they could get their stinking, filthy mitts on. For too long have they come out of their precious bubbles of mindless consumption to get their kicks, slaughtering whoever they feel like and experimenting on the rest!”

   Say what you will about the barbaric nature of the underlanders, when they created an orator, they created an orator. The crowd was worked up to a near frenzy, shouting back with every point made by the man standing on an ad hoc stage of several crates marked ‘danger’. It was rather ironic, really— being too busy opening your mouth to really pay attention to where you stepped.

   Brynjarr the Bear Paw was a passionate man. Big, broad, and holding all the fire of a miscreant who felt he was owed entirely more than he was given, he was just smart enough to know what to say to get people to go along with him, and just stupid enough to keep from saying the wrong things to the wrong people. Anyone could host a little anti-Aedolian hate rally down here below the surface of the earth, but Brynjarr the Bear Paw was not interested in being just anyone.

   And nor was he.

   He was careful, so very careful, to keep a leather cuff bound around both of his wrists, a series of mystical runes burned into the surface and kept stark against the wear and tear of time. It was the only viable way to hide the garish scar of some very slapshod home surgery, after all. The assumption was, whenever someone was stupid enough to go digging around in their arm, remove the chip and gain your absolute freedom.

   As if that was all there was to it. As if that was the utter extent to the arm of Aedolis, and once you broke out of the domes and left your chip behind, that was it! Nothing left but open skies and boundless opportunities!

   Ungrateful bastards. They wanted so much; food, shelter, safety, comfort, health, escape, entertainment, purpose, order, security— their every wish fulfilled and still the right to throw it all in your face the second you gave it over to them. And then, somehow, shocked to find that such behavior was not to be tolerated. Like Brynjarr himself, who had had a comfortable life in the domes. A wife, a family, a well paying job in the infrastructure of the city. Military pay. High level housing. The chance to seek out and grab whatever opportunity would pass him and his by, and the very real possibility to make it all his own.

   But of course, this wasn’t enough. His child had been psychic, a trait picked up during routine bioscans, and been drafted at fifteen. That had been several years ago, of course, and whatever the ultimate fate of the Bear Paw’s child, it apparently had been enough to seize Brynjarr himself with the sudden, inexplicable urge to rebel.

   As if he’d been the only one to have a child go through Candidacy. As if he’d been the only one who had to put aside ideas of futures and do their duty. As if it was such a steep price to pay for the continuation of life as they knew it. As if they didn’t owe so much more than one potential member of the military elite. As if only now, because it directly affected him, it was all suddenly so bad and terrible and wrong. And the worst of it all, still, was that Brynjarr believed himself to be in the right. To be safe. To be so far from anyone who could possibly discipline him, he could say or do anything he so pleased.

   Spare the rod, spoil the child.

   Hypocrite that Brynjarr was, he was happy to take everything he could from Aedolis, refuse to pay up, and then throw it all back as if he’d never wanted it in the first place. The military training had been a great asset, of course. One didn’t typically organize a group of saboteurs without knowing a thing or two about mission parameters and munitions expertise. It was such a waste, all that ability and all that promise flushed down the toilet because someone didn’t like the idea of their child not being wholly theirs.

   Erenys Dei was almost tempted to find out the Candidate and send them a fruit basket or some other kind of care package. His own birthgiver was not the “sharing” sort, and while they’d never had a fantastic relationship, it had decidedly cooled post Ren’s graduation. Greedy— as if Ren was somehow less for being part of so much more. But Reitrael didn’t like not being able to bark orders quite the same way as he’d grown accustomed to, and Ren had relished in that fact too much to really put their relationship on the mend.

   Yes, a care package was genuinely in order. “Sorry you have such a garbage sire, here’s a few treats to help ease the shame.”

   Assuming the kid had even made it that far. For all Ren knew, the spoiled attitude had spilled over to the next generation, and the would-be Candidate was long gone. That wasn’t what mattered, though. What mattered was right here, and what mattered was the right message was sent.

   ‘Don’t poke the dragon, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.’ Ren smiled at that one, his own thoughts passing against that constant line between himself and his partner of the past two hundred years.

   ‘Come now, don’t spoil your appetite on junk food.’ he telegraphed back, touching at the massive consciousness he’d been tethered to since he was young and only ninety-nine. Massive. Something bigger than himself. Something much more important than anything else he might have tried to do with his lifespan. A steady reminder that he still had much left to offer.

   Which was the whole idea behind the exercise, really. Some low level idiot like Brynjarr wouldn’t be a threat for more than a short while— eventually someone would get to him. But it had been decided that a two-birds-one-stone narrative better suited this particular problem. Brynjarr needed to be dealt with, of course, but the better plan was to make sure no one dared attempt to martyr the traitor after the fact. The fact that this particular mission would decide whether Erenys Dei was still a viable tool was an added bonus.

   His medical leave had been something of an odd issue. Pilots didn’t just “retire” without very good reason to do so, and even then, they never completely left the chain of command. There had been a right terror of a young girl, some decades ago… what had been her name? Nivera? Nevana? Nevena, that was right. The Bloody Baroness, a scourge to behold, and she’d retired to hand raise two more bloody heirs to her particular throne. Ren had the pleasure of working with her once, and if he remembered correctly the woman now spent much of her time devising training regimens for the ATC.

   Ren’s own absence from duty hadn’t been so easily explained. He didn’t have any two for one deals, but rather a failing of genetics. Two hundred years of service, and it all caught up with him in the span of a few short months, despair eating away at him no matter how much he’d tried to shut it out. It was the curse of his kind, and for a time Ren preferred that. Surviving resonance was a tricky game, and the only one tricky enough to live beyond the bond of resonance had been Ren’s birthgiver, and… and if surviving this meant he was like Reitrael Dei, well. Ren would have rather died with some integrity intact.

   That particular view had been skewed, of course. Plenty of people fell in love and existed outside of it, and it didn’t make them terrible people for not wasting away. Jain, sweet Jain, had been crucial to this realization. She was living testimonial, after all, and there was no universe under any star or sun that would make him lump Jain in with Reitrael. It was… an impossibility. Nonsensical to the highest degree, the kind of eldritch nightmare people loved to couch in vague language to better grasp the sheer madness of it all. It was thanks to Jain that Ren had gotten the courage to branch out again, to try and hold on again, to let fate be fate and let…

   Well. Let the coins fall where they would. Hah.

   Progress reports filed each week had shown an incline, and Ren had finally reached the point where it was time to test just how extensive the degradation to his abilities was. And so, he found himself here: on the outskirts of some lesser used tunnel of Teinar’s, tracking a traitor to his hideout where they sought to stockpile weapons and bombs and other such laughable ideas of overthrowing Aedolis with less than fifty men.

   As if Aedolis was that weak. Even with soldiers like Ren, Aedolis would never be that weak. Because even soldiers like Ren were leagues ahead of anyone else. And it was high time someone reminded Brynjarr the Bear Paw of exactly that.

   
   The mission was a delicate one. Eliminate the targets— Brynjarr and his associates, a thin lad aptly named Twig and a psychotic sonofabitch named Meino. The stipulation being that none of it could be traced back to Aedolis itself. There was the armistice to consider, after all, and any misstep on Ren’s account could bear the weight of an international crisis. It was why Arcturus wasn’t with him (aside from the fact that Arcturus was way too big to fit in the tunnels), it was why Ren’s flight suit had been exchanged for a void suit more common amongst interplanetary hitmen. It was why, instead of staring down the barrel of a rifle and waiting for the opportune moment to pull the trigger, Ren was at the back of the crowd, calling out “here, here”s in time with the rest of the crowd.

   The mission was a delicate one, and required a delicate touch. The rally had gathered quite the audience, just enough for there to be plenty on the sidelines looking suitably pensive about being quite so loud about their opinions of the country aboveground. Ren cast a sidelong glance at one such individual, a reedy old man with wide eyes and enough scars to know his life had not been an easy one.

   Touching his surface thoughts was almost too easy. A veteran of the war, he remembered what it was like with the full brunt of Aedolian hostility raining down on the daily. He remembered to fear blackened skies, rife with cover for silent wings and sudden death, the crackle of lightning or the slow, agonizing sensation of having your very blood boiled inside of you. He remembered the dragons, great and powerful and spewing torrents of fire from mechanical maws, titanium plated claws raking at the earth and taking enemy soldiers skywards before dropping them like one might brush flour from their hands after baking.

   It was only too easy to pull on those surface memories, to bring up the old fear, the deep, rattling unsettling knowledge that if this all were to succeed, if Brynjarr got his way, if this group was allowed to leave this little cave in the middle of nowhere—

   W͙͔̱e̝̺’̷͕l̮̘͕̙̣l̛̪̮̼ ̱͎͈̭̫̥͖͠ḓ́i̲͇̙͔͖e̶̠,̱͈̹̩ ͎͕̞ọ̖͙h͙̰͍͉ ̷͈̲͓̤̮g̛̞̙͍̤̞̤o̱̪̤͍̟d̩̻͎͝ w̴͕e̦̻͡’̷̯l̸̳̞̺͎̬͙l͈̝̲͖͓̕ ͖̥̯̰á̼̪͙ͅl͔̼̼̭̻l̘͓̘̞ ͟d̴͍i̩e͖̩̮͎͙̲,̝̤͖̞̟͍̮ ȩ̜͈̩̬̻v͎̠͓̞̥e̞͓r̼̹̮̞͎y̷̘̣͍o̱̖͍͠n̨̯̗̤͖͖ẹ̠͎̤ ̪̖ẖ̲̲̫e̩̱͍͉̻r͈͡e̞̻͝ ̹͍͖̹̼̗i̗̥̺̖͎̱͈͞s̨̙̫ g̗͙̝ͅo̴i҉̝n҉̲͇̥̤̰ͅg̝̳͟ͅ ̢̜̼̱͇̹ͅt̶o̬̖͚̜͎̻̭ ̲̻̀d̗̮̭̳͍͈̲͡i̮e҉̹,̜͉̟̤ ͟ṭ̡͎̪̼͉ͅh̺̙̬̭͜e̡̝̰̣̹y͙̟͚̝ͅ’̭r̘e̟ ̕g͖̜̤͖̼͈͞o͇̺̺̬̝̳i̮̘̭̬n͎͇̰͍g̱̟̜̹̬̘͙͝ ͕͓̣̜̝̲ṭ̗̬͓͓͓o̤̗̩ ̜̠̼̟̗͔̪k̜̣̭̟i̪l̟͉͕l̙̹̯̮̣ ͙͖͙͇̕u̝͕̞̩͉̭s҉̘̖̪̻͓̳ ̷͖̙͉̯̰̠̖a̶̗͓͚͖l̲̖̙̗ͅl̠̳̦͇̤ͅ,̰͕̤̤̀ͅ ̠̙t̻̤͈̙͙͓̞h̻̦͈̤e͔͙̦̥̕y̻̫̖̼ͅ’̞̘̠̼r̭͖͈̭̣̺̯͢ḙ̖̯͔͍̰͔ ͓͕̹g̷̫͎̗̮̜͓̖o͙̤̖̯̫̘͠iͅn̰̫̠̦g͓̘̱̼̝ ͈͇̟̖͜t͙̥̦̺o͕͉̦̲̬ ͍̠m͇̻u̝̗̺̰̩͘ŗ̭̻̻͚d҉͈̱̥ȩ͚͇̙͓̦r̻ ̫͈͚͘u͍͍̰̹s͠ ͙͕̦͓̼̟a̲̹͖̼̟̹l̺̰̻̲l̘ ̢a̜̣̯̹͞ͅn͏͖d͖̤ ̨̬͎̗̠̣t͙̠͖͉ͅh͎̺̱̻e̜̣̗̺̳y̮̝’͕̫̪̟̟r͏͇̬̙e̶̥̬̼͎̥̲ ͉̖̜͚̜̪̯g͓͍͍o͕̥̣̮͔̣i̪̮̯ng̼̭̼̱̯̰̝ ̶͎̖̮t̫̝̼o҉̯̣ ͏̱̰̜d̝o̦̖̖̺̼̕ ì̞͖̻̻t̴̗͉̟̯͈ ͏͎̯̤ş̫̣̹͍͎͈̜l̰̻̼̮o̮w,̶̘̯̘̰̤̤ t͕̩̲̖̀h̰̺̗͍̤̯͓́e͖͎̺̘y̱̤̮͝’̳͓̹͝r̢é̦ ̺͇̦͘ͅg̱o̩̯͈í͕ng̹̹ ̹͓̜̱t͚o͖͇͚̟͇̝͎ ͎̱͍d͍̗̱o̬͙̩ ̸i̟̦͖̗t̷̮̠͓͈ ̵̮͈͕̫s̥̰ơ̪̹̦̙̳̭ ͖̳we̳͇̣͚̥̞’͔̲͖r̰̻̮͎e̪͕̰͉̣͜ͅͅ ̲̦͎͖̬͎ͅs͙̲̞̭̜c̩̩͔̀r̭̬e̳̲̹̜̦̫ͅa̺m̱̯̫̫̝͉i҉̲̝̞̺̖̫̼n̦̬͓̞̩̟ͅg͏͔̮̝̲,̼́ ̹̖͔͓͠ạ̢̖̟͔͉l̸̝̣l̴̪̟̗̰̘̤̱ s͚̣̱̼̕ͅc̻̫͖̭̦͢r͏̫e̶̫̤a̦̻͎mi҉̜̼̖͚ͅͅn͚̼̣͕̞̣g̟͉̙̩͓̰̕,͙͔͜ ̰̮̞̖́e̯͚̗̞̙ͅv̤̪͉̟̘̭͘e̳̘̺͔͢r̷y̨̯̯͔o̲̗̻̬n͚̰͓͚͓e͖ ̦̩̼s͍̖̞̻͕͘c̻̲͇̟̬̮r̲̫̪͞e͙͇̗ͅa͉͖̟͈͎̯̙m̪̰͔i͕̺͇̣̯͓͜ng̺̥̹


   Once the flame was lit, it spread quickly. The reedy man jerked forward, trying to shout over the collective din of the crowd, and every time he caught someone’s attention, Ren pushed his influence just a little further. Let them feel what the old man was feeling, let them feel the cold grip against their heart at the idea that what they were doing, what was happening right this second, all of it spelled nothing but their doom. It was enough to set several into a panic, and as people tended to do when in a panic, they ran for any exit they could find, wild eyed and yet completely unseeing. It was crucial none of them saw it, the way several of those ‘danger’ crates had been pushed just close enough to nearby lamps, the way those lamps had just the right precarious positioning, the way there was just the right coil of rope at just the right height to be tripped up…

   Ren’s back was turned when the explosion hit, eyes fixed instead on where Brynjarr and his lackeys stood, dumbfounded as the initial shock wore off and the cloud of dust and dirt faded. Several bodies were piled up with the rubble of the main tunnel, and as people screamed and turned from the cut off exit, they were pressed back towards the secondary, smaller one. The one that led out into unsafe, unused tunnels. The one that Brynjarr and his were standing right in front of.

   No amount of shouting could be heard over the crowd, so desperate they were to get away from where the explosion had struck and the rock had cracked. Lamps swung wildly from their ropes, setting shadows moving against walls in sharp, threatening gestures. Gestures that soon twisted in every mind to be predatory faces, like any minute now would see each individual shade twist forms to reveal a Pilot there, armed and grinning and ready to take their revenge on those who dared to speak so many ills of paradise. The fear was frothing now; no one in the assembled group wasn’t dripping with it, and with every spike of terror and panic, Ren had all the more ammunition to use.

   T̲̞̝̠h̩̖e̫͙̺y̖̲̞'̦̙̟̬̰͖ͅr̬̙e̩͕̤͇͙͖̳ ͔̞̺͚̳h͓̱̥̫͔͈e̖͍̠̣̠r̫̺e̩͕̟̫̱̗͙̮ ̤͉t̺ͅh͓͓̹e̟̩̱̤ͅy̬̭͕͙͎̖'͔̣̯̝̘̦̺̗ṟ̯͖e͓͖̤̗ ̦h͕̘̰̭̮e̼͎̰̜̼͖͚̼r̝͔̞͔͕͈͙e̘͎̲̺̼̱͇̰̘ ͚̼t̤̙̺̠͚̺̜͇h̼e̼̯͉y̲̦'̭͓͈͕̠ͅr̤̥e̹̳̹̟͉̯̬̟̮ ̝͎̳͙H̻̤̦̺̺͍͖͚E̱̩͉̥̘Ṟ̙͓͉E̲͉̻̱̞͖͕̪̮ ̱̗̻Ṭ͔̟͓̗̞̦̟H͇E͕̩̣̬̰̰Y̪͇̣̺̖͇̳̥'̰̩͇̳̣R̫̳̖E̬͈̲̥͚͓̭ ̲̳͉̦H̫̥̭̬E̙̟̝R̺̠͔͉̗E̦̟͓͕ ̩̤͖̟͚̦͓ͅT͕̤͚H̗̩͈̘̤̭̪E͈̲̫Y̜̟͔̦̩'̻̮͍̘̰̳̗R̞̫͚͖̝͚E̮͖̻͙̣̦ ̲̗̠H̳̦̯̗̼̠̣͉E̘̲̰R͔̬̩̲E̥̙͚̭̺̲͙͓


   Nothing could have kept them from running. The stampede was inevitable, and it was all Brynjarr could do to get out of the way as the entirety of the camp spilled out into the darkened unknown tunnels, into the pitch black where the only thing they could feel was the scrape of rock against their hands and the pounding screams in their ears. Meino wasn’t nearly so lucky— he was caught in the flood of bodies before he could make it clear, yanked from where he had stood and pushed along into the tunnels, caught underfoot and then trampled in the crowd’s sheer desperation to ESCAPE.

   And then it was just Brynjarr and Twig left. The echoing shrieks still carried down the tunnel, spilling out into the little cave where the two humans and Ren still stood. At first it didn’t seem as if either had noticed him just yet, so far back against the wall as Ren was and them still in shock as to what had just happened. The lamps continued to flicker and sway, and it was only after one agonizingly long moment that Brynjarr turned and spotted him.

   It had only been a couple years, after all, since Brynjarr had last been a part of Aedolian culture and all the publicity it involved. And a couple years back had seen quite a number of squadron stunts following the games. And Ren was not exactly the sort you’d ever forget seeing.

   Twig was the first to recognize Ren, or at least he was the first to react, grabbing for his gun and spraying bullets wildly across the cave without really taking the care to aim. A rookie mistake from someone far too young and under-trained to know how to keep his cool, and a rookie mistake that cost both humans their benefit of sight as the lamps were hit and summarily extinguished.

   Ren hadn’t been expecting the sudden hailstorm of fire, however, and had ducked down to avoid catching lead in several vital points. The sudden blackness was jarring, but a forceful blink and Ren opened his eyes to the barest hint of vision— a black and white frame of reference with the brightness turned all the way down. Not detailed in any fashion, but certainly functional, and more than enough to catch sight of his targets in the gathered gloom.

   Brynjarr was fighting with Twig now, cussing wildly in the dark as he wrestled for the gun, trying to rip it from itchy trigger fingers and finding Twig was utterly unwilling to part with his only line of defense. Trapped in a dark cave with a monster, Ren could hardly blame the kid. And certainly not when Ren pulled at those deep dark fears that every human being possessed, the fear of the dark and the unknown, the fear of being unable to see a threat that you knew was there, and as Ren pulled the kid fought all the harder for control of the rifle, until Brynjarr lost his temper and slammed the butt of it into Twig’s head. The blow itself might not have killed him, but the crack from his landing spoke volumes, and Ren saw the much slighter body go limp even from where he crouched in the shadows.

   And then there was one.

   Brynjarr took deep, gulping breaths, and slowly began to ease back towards the far cave wall, and every step he took had Ren following at a slow, silent pace. The human’s breathing was ragged, harsh, full of adrenaline and sweat and hammering heartbeats as he struggled to reload while blind. But even a trained soldier like Brynjarr the Bear Paw couldn’t do it perfectly, not with zero light to be his guide and the edges of his own panic catching up to him. It made for clumsy mistakes, and those clumsy mistakes were all it took for Ren to cross over the ad hoc stage, over the prone body of little Twig, right up into Brynjarr’s face to deliver the blade of his combat knife to the human man’s throat.

   It wasn’t a quick death, nor a quiet one. The shock had Brynjarr gasping around the blood that was waterfalling in and out of his throat, choking and bubbling at the mouth as little air pockets fought to escape. The gun was dropped, clattering to the stony ground along with the magazine Brynjarr had been trying to load, both the human’s hands at his neck as if somehow that would keep him from suffocating on his own blood. But it didn’t, and after a few agonizing moments, he did, Brynjarr the Bear Paw passing with one final rattling gasp to a world that would never hear it.

   Ren let out a sigh, then, rolling his shoulders as he knelt down to collect his proof; Twig and Meino didn’t really require confirmation, but Brynjarr did, and fingerbones took quite a bit to get through even with specialized tools for the job. Ren plucked each one and settled them into a large plastic bag, rolling that all up and tucking it safely in his pack for easy transport back to the dome. He couldn’t wait for that— even this had left him feeling drained, the strain of twisting so many minds to their darkest thoughts catching up quick now that it was over. Besides that, he really needed to get out of here before the cave collapsed. He could hear the rattle of smaller rocks falling from where they had settled, more dust and dirt kicked up as the pebbles skittered across the ground and—

   In the completely wrong direction. Ren hissed, teeth bared just as something cracked and the cave was filled with a sudden blinding light, the flare thrown right into his face and stunning him for the barest moment. It was all the moment Twig needed, because next thing Ren knew, he was on his back, sharpened rock digging into his spine through his suit as the kid tackled him to the ground, another sharpened rock in his hand and eyes wide through a torrent of bright red blood. Ren brought his arms up just in time to catch Twig’s wrist before it got to finish the strike and cave Ren’s skull in, the impact shaking the rock from Twig’s grip and sending it slamming just shy of its mark.

   Ren howled as searing pain shot across his cheekbone, black blood welling up faster than he could manage while pinned down as he was. He struck upwards, hard and fast into Twig’s ribcage, striking at weakpoints to lessen Twig’s ability to keep him down. Finally, the kid seemed to cave, and Ren twisted his hips, hooking one long leg around Twig’s neck and snapping it hard towards the ground, rolling both men with it until Ren was on top. Using his height to his advantage, Ren put his hands around Twig’s throat and squeezed, wheezing hard through the kicked up dust and the blood that dripped into his mouth. Twig, like any animal caught in a predator’s grip, fought like hell. He scratched and hit and clawed at Ren’s face, and Ren bit down hard on one such offending hand even as the other found its mark, thumb hooking against the curve of Ren’s eyesocket and digging in hard.

   Both of them shrieked in agony, both of them muffled from their respective positions, but in the end there was no real contest. A man could live with his eye pulled out. A man could not live with his larynx crushed. Twig gave a pathetic little squeak beneath Ren’s hands, before a soft crunch finally ended it. Panting hard and clutching at his right eyesocket, Ren sat back in the inky blackness, fighting to get enough air into his own lungs as his hearts struggled to keep up with the sudden wash of activity. It took several minutes before he could even fathom looking around again, his one socket squeezed shut as he searched the dust for a telltale orb. Gently, so very gently, Ren retrieved his own eyeball, before staggering to his feet and making his way out the remaining tunnel.

   The screaming had died down somewhat, but the terrain was tricky— even without the trampled bodies underfoot, the passageway had only ever meant to be a means of emergency escape. Not that it mattered any, because there was simply no scenario imagined where at the other end of that emergency escape tunnel, a dragon’s maw stood open and waiting. Ren might not have been able to see so great, but he could smell it just fine— the tangy odor of burnt fat and seared flesh, the thick oiliness to the air as he grew closer to the surface.

   ‘Arcturus,’ Ren telegraphed, weariness sinking into every syllable of thought, ‘mission accomplished. I’m coming up.

   ‘All parties confirmed neutralized?

   ‘Affirmative. Targets down, Bear Paw collected.

   The open air was a relief, even polluted and disgusting air as it was. Ren moved to where Arcturus stood waiting, and after a quick patch job for his eye, the elf pulled his flight helmet on over his head and hoisted himself into the saddle.

   ‘I take it from your general demeanour that medical attention is required.’ came a dry sort of comment, and Ren couldn’t help but laugh at the not so subtle quip.

   “Nah, I thought I’d just sleep it off, you know,” he said, lifting out a secondary bag and carefully scooping his vagrant eyeball into it. That nestled in with Brynjarr’s fingers, Ren took hold of the saddle, and braced for the takeoff that would get them home.

   And braced for whatever getting home would mean.


FINAL ASSESSMENT:

MEDICAL LEAVE SUSPENDED.

REINSTATEMENT INTO ACTIVE DUTY PERSONNEL SUBMITTED, REINSTATEMENT GRANTED.

ORDERS AS FOLLOWS:

PILOT NOBLE ERENYS DEI REPORT TO NEVERMORE HEADQUARTERS IN RYUN FOLLOWING MEDICAL TREATMENT FOR INJURIES SUSTAINED NO LATER THAN SEVEN (7) DAYS TIME. WILL REJOIN RYUN RAVENS SQUADRON IN PERMANENT PLACEMENT AS TACTICAL ADVISER AND MISSIONS SPECIALIST DIRECTLY UNDER PILOT ROYAL KEIKO ZOMU.

18
The Rest of Aedolis / le vide [Marak!]
« on: May 02, 2018, 12:28:20 pm »

   Time had this funny, bipolar little habit— it turned five minutes into five years, and then turned a whole week into a single day. Not that Yavul was counting. It felt more like a continuous loop than anything else, a push to wake up, a moment to bite back his tears and then onto putting on some manner of human suit to face the day and get the job done. Even that wasn’t anything new— he’d been here before, in the day that never ended, but it felt more a struggle this time around than it ever had in all thirty five years of his life.

   Wait. No. He’d turned thirty six last year. Hadn’t he? Yes, he had, that had been his thirty sixth birthday and Dyna—

   Yavul tossed an empty beer can into the recycling bin, and ignored when it bounced right out from lack of space. He was too busy cracking open a new can, anyway.

   Thirty five or thirty six, the sensation remained. Get up, shower, uniform, office, equipment checks, inspection, drill, drill, drill, all the way until quitting time and then… and then that’s when time switched tactics again and made the whole thing drag until Yavul was sure he’d been pranked and someone had just installed tinted windows to make it seem like it was still evening.

   Harley helped. The little kulshedra Pilot had practically moved into Yavul’s living room floor. There were little bowls stacked up on the coffee table, empty save for the small pools of water from melted leftover ice. It wasn’t like there was anything in them, and so Yavul felt less pressed to get his shit in order and wash the bowls out. The last time he’d used a fork that wasn’t disposable it’d taken him ten minutes just to get it clean for how much he spaced out with the sink running.

   Takeout boxes were a saving grace, honestly. Bowl and a plate all in one and the only utensils needed were a set of chopsticks. Plus this way he could honestly say he hadn’t eaten at JJ’s in a week— and he really hadn’t. By the time he got home every day there was so little left. He couldn’t muster the same quick energy like usual, but he had to be there for his team. His duty. They all had a duty, he to his squad and his squad to Aedolis’ security and Grisham had a duty, has a duty, has not had

   Yavul crushed the newly empty beer can in his hand and tried again to toss it to the top of the recycling bin, and gave a little fist-pump when it actually stuck the landing.

   “Ten points,” H said from somewhere over on the couch, picking at his own takeout box and yet, somehow, avoiding actually taking a bite. None that Yavul had seen, anyway. Which was way worse than his own, totally-having-eaten-at-least-a-quarter-of-it, box. But beer was filling, so at least he had an excuse. Yavul opened his mouth to say something equally snide, but was interrupted by a sudden dizzying sensation and the sound of his recycling bin cascading across the floor.

   “Fuckin’ shit,” Yavul grumbled, setting down his own takeout in order to deal with the sudden sea of beer cans that was formerly his kitchen. That’s what he got for holding off this long, he guessed, setting the bin back upright and scooping the cans into it with both arms. Only to have the bin fall over again as another, much more solid rumble hit. One enough to make Yavul reach out to the kitchen island to keep from toppling sideways and cracking his skull open.

   Even if it would be terribly beneficial. Maybe then he’d stop going into a panic every time his comm went off. Can’t freak out over standard memos and alerts if you’re in a coma! Even H flinched a bit when the rumble passed and Yavul’s comm gave an insistant, loud ding.

   “It’s just telling us it was a minor earthquake,” Harley said, too quickly for the assurance to be natural. Yavul’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the beer, took a deep breath and pulled the comm close, flicking through notifications and alerts, none of which had to do with the rumble in the building. But, much to Yavul’s continual relief, it also had nothing telling him that a skiff had burned up on reentry, or had crashed, or, or, or—

   Taking a deep breath to steady himself and steer away from that particular black hole of a thought, Yavul pulled up the Pilot chat to see if it was just Solarta or if that had been a multidome occurrence. But it didn’t seem like anyone had felt anything at all. Or at least, that wasn’t the current stressor of the evening. Yavul furrowed his brows hard, thumbing up and down the conversation from where two other Pilots lost connection and then…
   
Quote
Havanah: It better be a fucking glitch
Cinna: Wasn't when mine did that.
Raz: Not helping.
Soba: I have tech running through surveillance. If it is, we'll have coding to comb through and you all get a shiny new update to your software.
Cinna: I'm not trying to help keep anyone calm. We're Pilots. We should be able to do that on our own.
Raz: I know that. Just....yeah. I'll be back, have some pacing to do. Later.
   

   Razzle Dazzle. That Heather Bannister had been his Candidate, hadn’t she? He was pretty sure. Or had that been someone else? Either way, it was clear Razican was upset as hell, and if Razican was upset as hell, and the only ones getting shook up was one very specific section of Pilot housing, well. Yavul might not have been the smartest bean in the barrel, but he was capable of putting basic puzzles together. He set his comm down onto the island again, and gave a nod towards H.

   “I’ll be back in a bit. Gonna check out what th’ shakin’s all about.” If it was what he was thinking, Yavul wasn’t terribly concerned, and aside from a few beer cans it wasn’t like any real damage had been done. “Actually eat some a’ that while I’m gone, how’s that sound?”

   “I have been eating it. See? There’s pieces missing.” H retorted, showing off how much the food had been mixed up as if that actually proved anything.

   “Eat.” Yavul said again, pointing at him even as he strode out the front door and headed for the elevators. Harley probably would just stir the box up again, Yavul was pretty sure, but right now he had a bigger meltdown to deal with and limited “Deal With” left to dole out. And if he couldn’t hold it together enough for his squad, then what fucking use was he?

   Yavul jammed at the elevator buttons for the floor he was sure he needed to get to (pretty sure), and tried not to think of just how much Grisham would be disappointed in this crap. They were soldiers, they needed to carry on no matter what, and if one soldier going off course— not missing not dead just off course, Dyna could fix off course— was enough to send Yavul in a spiral then what kind of commander was he? Certainly not one worth the title, and certainly not the sort of thing Dyna would be doing in his place.

   Yavul’s stomach twisted, and for the few seconds he was in the elevator, he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. Commander. Commander. Act like a commander. Another deep breath, and he straightened his back just as the elevator doors opened. It didn’t matter that he was still in his casual wear, flip flops slapping with every step, the point was body language, and at least pretending like he still had his life together. Especially when it seemed like one of his own didn’t. Adding his own weakness to this was a disaster waiting to happen.

   He reached the door he distantly remembered as belonging to Dazzle, and rapped his metal fist against the surface in a solid knock, before pushing the wall comm and speaking into it.

   “Open up, Pilot.”

19
Aedolis Characters / Dietrich Brandt, musician!
« on: May 01, 2018, 03:07:04 am »
___________

___________


**

{NAME}
Dietrich Brandt

{ALIASES}
“Dieter”, “dieVerbrannten”

{AGE}
31

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, Demisexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’, sturdy

{OCCUPATION}
Musician, bassist for Mortal Coil, formerly bassist for Hierophant

{RESIDENCE}
He stays places. He can’t tell you when he last lived places.

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

  • Tall and broad; it’ll take more than a strong breeze to knock Dieter over. Pretty much Captain America shaped.
  • Old Edani roots; Dieter is pale, with long, silky blonde hair and light brown eyes, showing a bloodline that most likely originated in Connlaoth.
  • Is really shitty at being his own hairdresser; he tried to die his hair black once, and did not buy nearly enough to cover his whole head. Hence the shoddy dye job.
  • Ain’t going to any interviews soon; Dieter tends to dress casually, with torn and patched jeans and dark tshirts. He has a good few pieces of jewelry, including two helix piercings in his ear.
  • Unintelligible; The poor guy was graced with a heavy accent and a speech impediment. He doesn’t usually try to do much talking.

{PERSONALITY}

  • Reserved; due to it usually taking several repetitions for people to understand him, Dieter’s understandably a little shy about speaking aloud. He’s much more animated in text form, no longer embarrassed about how he speaks. He really doesn’t like to talk face to face unless he’s gotten to know the person.
  • Rough around the edges; He’s not a warm and fuzzy kind of guy. His guard is way up ninety percent of the time, and the other ten percent of the time he’s busy playing. As such, he’s not the person you’d really go to for a hug and hot cocoa, but he IS the type of person you’d go to to help you kick some ass.
  • Steadfast; A man of his word, when Dieter puts himself to something, he sticks to it. It doesn’t matter if it’s casual lunch plans with a friend, or a sworn oath, if Dieter’s given his word, he’s given his word. Half-assing it won’t cut it, either, if he’s going to put himself into anything, he’s going to do it 100%.
  • A bit of a dumbass; Dieter is not a clever man, and some things tend to go way over his head unless he takes a few minutes to process them. He’s not great at puzzles either, but that doesn’t stop him from scowling at sudoku for hours.

Fun Facts!:
  • Puts steak sauce on everything. Meat, mashed potatoes, broccoli, corn, it genuinely does not matter, it’s getting doused in sauce.
  • Can be bribed with Rinkies Brand Snowball Fites. Seriously, he’ll eat a billion of those.
  • Is like, crazy ticklish.
  • Sleeps in the buff! Pajamas are a conundrum to him.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
He’s really good at playing bass. Thaaat’s about it.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Parents who he doesn’t really talk to. He’s pretty sure he’s the family disappointment at this stage, and he doesn’t know where to begin to set it right.

A younger sister, Engel. Only a year and change apart, they don’t have the ‘overprotective older sibling’ sort of dynamic, but he does find it easier to open up to her more than anyone else. They share a common interest in art, though Engel’s focus is mainly painting.

Hierophant, his former band. Known for being a kind of grunge rock band, it was popular enough to make it out of obscurity for a time before interpersonal and life issues saw it break up officially. There was some attempt by the former frontman to keep the band going after Dieter and their drummer left, but it never got where it was again.

The Ex - it’s really, really better not to mention the Ex. I mean unless you want to watch a man pace and rant and rave until, even if he didn’t have a speech problem, you probably wouldn’t understand him.

{HISTORY}
Boy meets bass, boy loves bass, boy makes a career out of bass.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

20
Wanderers and Independents / XV. Xande Reid Veyn
« on: April 30, 2018, 12:08:54 am »
Xande Reid Veyn
The Devil, The Fifteenth Scion, The Pirate Prince
"He who lives in those who would break their own chains"


«···»

«Aspects»...
Addiction; bondage; true freedom; animal nature; obsession

«Age»...
Always and Never

«Gender, sexuality»...
Male, All Day

«Species, Ethnicity»...
Eldritch extradimensional demigod. But he looks mostly human.

«Build»...
Tall, with lean muscle

«Occupation»...
Self-proclaimed Pirate King

«Residence»...
The Hybris, a large and incredibly ornate pirate battleship he plunders the galaxy with, scooping up enslaved crew as he goes.

«···»
IN DEPTH STUFF
«···»

«Physical Description»...
Tall and trim; XV is long and lean, and mostly leg. He has a good bit of musculature, but the kind of agile lean sort that makes for much easier close-quarters combat.

The life aquatic; Even for someone who spends 130% of his time out of direct sunlight, Xande is intensely pale. His skin is a light porcelain, to where you would almost swear it starts to turn gray-blue. Two darker grey dots sit beneath each eye, which are a vivid jade-teal. His hair is similarly oddly colored, a pale grey-green mass that moves as if suspended in water. He usually keeps it in a low tail to cut down on muss.

Suitably edgy; Everything Xande does is in black and in leather. His typical outfit consists of black leather pants tucked into tall boots modified with magnetic locks for zero gravity. He wears his tight black shirts tucked in and with a padded leather vest overtop. Any jewelry he wears is usually simple, like a series of silver rings and thick leather cuffs.

His standard equipment is a laser pistol he keeps in a thigh holster, and a sword made of a strange, jade-colored material.

«Personality»...
Analytical; Xande does not let things go idly. Everything he encounters he puts to the same scrutiny as anything else, and he relishes in picking apart puzzles to get to the base components behind every action.

Hedonistic; He is not a shy man about what he wants. He consumes everything he can get his hands on with an animal vigor, hard drugs, hard drinks, hard lays. He wants everything life has to offer, and he wants it all now.

Chaotic Good; At the end of the day, he wants everyone to reach their full potential. There is no higher vocation than pushing people to the limits of their self-imposed chains, and watching them finally break free of their tethers. But you have to do it for yourself, and if that means he has to play villain for you to achieve it, well. He can play villain.


Fun Facts!:
  • Is high like, 24/7. The man is a high functioning junkie.
  • If he’s not on his ship, he’s probably in a strip club. It’s the safest bet you’ll ever make.
  • Rivals Rajah in sheer number of progeny produced. Sometimes they try to take a tally of it and see who’s winning but get distracted before they can finish.
  • Plays the violin with a vengeance.

«Special Abilities»...
Can transport instantly from shadow to shadow, or water to water, and can move other objects through the same. He can also manipulate the shadows around him into rudimentary “crew” for his pirate ship to help keep the place running.

«Relationships»...
...His mother, the outer goddess Cade Hest Eratia and 21 other siblings.
...Whatever crew he’s happened to press-gang into service this century.

«Cosmology»...
TBD

Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 6
SimplePortal 2.3.5 © 2008-2012, SimplePortal