Race: Modified Human
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Temperament: Pleasant to the extreme, he’s also a bit wasteful with regards to his own body
Age: 26 years old
Height: 5' 10"
Weight: 185 lbs.
Hair color: Short dark brown hair
Eye color: Dull gray pupils
Power Level: 4
A man stands before you, leaning on the loose shale of the wall. It is obvious that this man is not ordinary, his even darker-than-usual single-breasted K.N.A.V.E.S. uniform which covers all of his upper body and trails off at his waist only emphasizes this point.
Half-healed scars mar the exposed areas of his body, and the area surrounding his mouth is particularly gruesome. He smiles ruefully, but all sense of comradery is lost when you spot the rows of needles jammed into his gums in every which way. It is now obvious why he has so many scars around his mouth.
Speaks in "DimGray".
If anyone asks I’ll get around to putting it up.
- He’s got a mouth full of needles and has an unlimited supply of them on hand.
- He has no compunctions with losing parts of his own body, he can’t feel a thing anyway.
- He literally has no pain threshold, so sadists beware!
- Upholding his own twisted views of the law through K.N.A.V.E.S.
- Give him a dose of liquid agony, and he's just like a normal guy... with needles perforating his skin
Blue Oyster Cult reference? Never.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Temperament: "Help the damsel in distress, save the king, fight the great evil!"
Age: Aeons, but none the wiser for it
Height: 5' 9"
Weight: 190 lbs.
Hair color: Black
Eye color: One is brown and the other is all a bright white
Equipment: Magical Bow and a quiver of wide-head arrows
Power Level: 5
A relatively average man, wearing thick, steel-toed boots, and a long dark pants. He has no shirt to cover his chest, and it's a wonder that he's not freezing right now. The long swirls of black shadow eddying underneath the surface of his skin might have something to do with it.
A quiver of dark wide-head arrows rests on his back, used for the large and spiky black bow he lugs in his hand. With the other hand he pets the large greyhound which materialized next to him,
He speaks in Dark Blue. Sirius speaks in Sienna.
It's the nexus of the crisis
The origin of storms
Just the place to hopelessly
Encounter time and then came me
Hey, hey, hey, hey
- Dark shadows dance over the right side of his body, perhaps that's something to ask about?
- He has a dog named Sirius
- Finding his bearings to start....
Robert Heinlein would spin in his grave
Alignment and Temperament: Neutral Apathetic.
Age: Late 20's
Height: 6' 6"
Weight: 250 lbs.
Hair color and Length: Bald
Skin color: Caucasian, but pink from boils and warts
Eye color: Faded to the point of being almost white
Equipment: An easily concealable pistol which fires super-heated plasma bolts
Power Level: 3
A tall leprous looking man, covering himself up in a green cloak, walks through the door. After a moment of confusion and then resignation he finds a seat at the bar. There is a slight bulge under his sleeve, presumably for a gun.
He talks in an odd accent, "DarkRed."
- He's diseased.
- He's poor.
Characters on Leave
Alignment: Neutral Good
Temperament: Jovial but a bit gruff, he's quick to help someone in need
Age: in his mid 40s
Height: 5' 10"
Weight: 160 lb..
Hair color: Iron Gray
Eye color: Blue
Power Level: 4
Waldron stands at around average height, and wears a light beige jacket to obscure his futuristic armor and equipment. He wears a futuristic chest plate underneath the jacket, which vaguely resembles webbed mail. A dark, curved blade sticks out from the inside of his jacket, and a gun rests rather obviously in a holster on his clip.
Waldron was born on the distant planet of Amoib. Growing up in a near Utopian society had a rather odd effect on him. He saw the cracks in the world, and, having grown bored with the strict restrictions of his home planet, ventured into one of the frontier planes. He was drafted into the Amoibian Naval Core as a youth, as was dictated by his society. It sated his wanderlust, and Waldron enjoyed rather routine assignments for the next twelve years.
Until one day, when they returned to Amoib, they found their world undone. Civil war had erupted, and, in one of the bloodiest coup ever witnessed, almost every living being on the planet was erradicated. One group, we’ll never be completely sure which, harnessed the high-powered orbital satellites, razing portions of the planet. The other group responded with a nuclear cache, until barely any portion of the planet was inhabitable.
It is unknown what happened to Waldron during this time, but he’s been without a home for over ten years...
- He’s definitely not from around here
- He's a crotchety middle aged man
- A futuristic combination knife-boomerang
- A Sein grade laser pistol
- None at present
Class: Bounty Hunter
Alignment and Temperament: Lawful Blunt, or Lawful Evil if you prefer.
Age: 16 years
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 150 lbs.
Hair color and Length: None
Scale color: Turtelshell brown and green
Eye color: Elongated horizontal pupil surrounded by brown and flecks of orange
Equipment: A heavy revolver and a a rifle, assorted poultices and bindings to stop poison and venom
Vestments: A heavy brown leather duster with many pockets for odds and ends, heavy boots
Power Level: 2
A steady rattling sound echoes for miles around as Zahtem's heavy boots plod onward onto the earth. Panning up from the snakeman's worn gray boots reveals his faded black trousers and the brown leather duster he wears over his white open-necked shirt. A scaly green and brown hand clutches at the revolver crammed into a holster on his belt, and he unconsciously clutches at the rifle slung over his back.
The Chthon regards the people warily with its slitted brown eyes. Its tongue flickers in and out of the hole in the front of its mouth as its face rhythmically convulses to the beat of the rattling.
The backwater town of Damnation had been plagued by raids from the savage Chthon, or “Snake-people,” for months, and they were fed up. Every able bodied man and boy old or young enough to carry a gun organized and struck back at the vile savages. The Chthon clan Jalix put up a good fight, but they were doomed from the start. The villagers had rifles and pistols and horses, while they had whatever they looted from wayfarers and their fangs. Smashing through the warren one unfortunate man discovered the snake’s breeding pits. Enraged by the “devil-spawn” murdering his son, the father surrounded and destroyed the rest of the Chthon’s children. All but one that is.
Zahtem hatched two days later. Alone and confused he emerged from his dead mother’s body, nourished by the yolk of his egg. He silently watched the townspeople burning the dead of his people in a massive pyre. Vowing revenge the brute bided his time.
When he finally mustered enough strength he snuck into the town at the dead of night.
There were no survivors.
Now armed and possessing a vague sentience the self-dubbed Zahtem (meaning persistence) ventured into the great unknown, looking for a purpose in the vast and uncaring desert frontier.
He speaks in Olive.
- He has a sense of honor, but it is twisted nearly beyond all recognition
- He has a phobia about people touching him
- He has not completely mastered Common yet, so expect some awkward phrased sentences
- Um, reconaissance?
- Every Western character needs a signature instrument, his is the gourd.
Temperament: Gruff, cold, and brutish, he's got a bit of a mouth on him
Age: 32 years old
Height: 6' 4"
Weight: 220 lbs.
Hair color: Brown hair which is in dire need of a haircut
Eye color: Bright Green
Power Level: 5
Standing at four inches over six feet this man is no small-fry. The wide flat-brimmed cowboy hat, the tan trench coat, and the large gun poking out of the holster at his hip all attest to this. Underneath he wears a blue collared shirt, tan pants, and a square piece of metal over his chest. He stares at you with steely green eyes, the smoke he puffs out past his cigarillo makes his appearance a bit more intimidating.
Speaks in "Tan".
NO. Don't ask, cause I ain't telling.
- He speaks softly and carries a big freaking gun
- He's a Trick Shot and a Vaporizer, for those who know what that means, but he's more likely to blast a hole in your hand than shoot the weapon out of it
- His name is a double reference, the last name should be easy to figure out considering....
Alignment: Chaotic Evil, possibly insane but sees himself as a sort of world-saving hero
Temperament: Tactless and full of disdain
Age: 18 years old
Height: 5' 11"
Weight: 175 lbs.
Hair color: Messy black hair
Eye color: Blue
Power Level: 6
A lanky man, his general frame hiden behind the heavy white toga he drapes over his shoulders. His piercing bright blue eyes stand in contrast to the dark and messy mop of hair atop his head.
Born into poverty. His parents struggled to provide for him in their generically Greco-Roman household. But their boy was odd, prone to fighting and delinquency. When they simply had enough of him they sent him to live with his uncle at his bare fields.
The man was strict and abused the boy for his ill behavior. He instilled a strong sense of duty into the boy and this is where he picked up his devotion to the god of wealth and the underworld, Pluton. Years passed and he still worked for the abusive master.
Disaster struck, a great famine swept the land and storms lit up the countryside. Orthus prayed to his god that they would provide and they could still harvest enough to turn a profit. His uncle only turned to more violent beatings because of his frustration and, after he had simply had enough, Orthus took the sickle he had used to harvest the grain, a simple tool for the fields and nothing more, and decapitated him in his sleep.
Now out of house and home Orthus fled to the capital city, hoping to be taken in by the Temple of Pluton. However he received a vision on the way and was told to travel to the outskirts. Sure enough he met with a party of heroic individuals, their leader a great captain who had received the gifts of the gods to stop the monster causing the horrible disasters.
He traveled with them for years and picked up the use of magic on the way. Tragedy struck when his companions awakened a beast in a drinking well. Part insect and part hound the beast tore through their ranks, but not without a fatal wounding which would end its rampage, leaving only Orthus to bear the task.
Armed with the knowledge of what caused the poison in his land and the reclaimed gifts given by the gods Orthus seeks the god king, who he believes is the root of the chaos. But, the gods know the dread hound of the circle was the beast that poisoned their lands and Orthus's quest is a manifestation of his own delusions of purpose, as he was more than a bit unhinged by his companions untimely demise.
- He is moderately competent at spells, especially pertaining to the dead and the underworld
- He especially likes using his sickle to cut off his enemies heads
- He is armed with three relics given by the gods but what they are remains unseen.
- Find the god king. Who doesn't exist. Or does he?