ɪɴᴜʏᴀsʜᴀ's ᴄs ᴅᴇᴘᴏᴛ

ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏ ᴜsᴇ
ᴘɪɴɢ ʟɪ
ᴀʟᴠᴀʀ ɢʀᴇʏᴄʟᴏᴀᴋ
ᴡᴇɪ sʜɪɴᴊᴜ
ᴜʀs ᴜʀɪɴɢ
ᴇʀᴏɴᴇᴜs ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʀᴅʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ
ᴘᴀɴᴅᴏʀᴀ sᴏᴛʜ

ᴀʀᴇɴᴀ ᴜsᴇ

ʜᴇᴘʜᴀᴇsᴛᴜs
ᴋɪɴɢᴘɪɴ

NAME:

AGE:

GENDER:

APPEARANCE:

BIO:

PERSONALITY:

POSSESSIONS:

SKILLS / TALENTS:

OTHER:

NAME
Wilson Fisk \\ The Kingpin of Crime

MORAL ALIGNMENT
Villain

AFFILIATION
The real question is who is Fisk not affiliated with? When it comes to the criminal underground, Fisk has made a name for himself uniting a small army of gangs and underground organizations. From the Owl Gang to the Hand to the Russian Mob, many of the crime organization on the eastern shores of the U.S. pay their respects to the unified banner of Fisk's coalition. Whilst Fisk's empire is not as rugged as it once was, his name still buys respect in the criminal underworld, and many gangs would be happy to associate themselves with him. Fisk's illegal misgivings are masked by his legitimate investments in business ventures through Fisk enterprises. Notably, Fisk is also rumored to have ties to Hydra, but the validity of these rumors is in dispute.

ORIGINS / BACKSTORY
Wilson was the son of a New Jersey native, a man who was born and raised in New Jersey by his two Italian parents. It was on a hot and humid New York summer night that Bill Fisk met his soon to be wife in a hazy, smoke-filled hookah bar. Marlena Fisk swore that Bill was a good man when she met him; a genuine sweetheart. But as time passed so did his affection and warmth, with each passing year one another becoming more and more displeased by their entrapment in a marriage in which neither of them felt endearment any longer. Bill was fast becoming a dire alcoholic, and doctors discovered Marlena was slowly becoming schizophrenic, showing primitive stages of the disorder. The only thing that kept them together, the last threads binding them, was their child, Wilson. As Bill Fisk's alcoholism grew, his abuse on his family grew with it; both verbally and physically. Rows plagued the house, and Wilson's father's unpredictable rage and volatility ruled his life. His mother grew more and more schizophrenic as Wilson entered his early and premature teenage years. His father refused her care -- "Do you know how much money that slick shit cost?" -- and her condition grew worse.

It was muggy and sultry August evening when Wilson was 15, when his father came home. He had spent the last of his cash on liquors and gambling it all away at Italian owned casinos. In a spurt of ill-tempered fury, his father began battering his mother with unkempt anger. Fisk attempted to block out the sounds, cowering in his room. However, it was in vain; the screams of his schizophrenic mother, who could no longer make sense of the world around herself, slithered their way into Wilson's head. It was this time, the pre-natal X-Gene, oft said to manifest itself to the beholder of the gene in situations of high stress, emerged within Wilson's body. His muscles swelled, his bones expanded, and his height sprung upward. The gene had mutated him into a giant of a man, seven feet of pure and unadulterated brawn. With anger in his heart for the years spent under the iron fist of his abusive father, he beat him to death with his bare hands, half in act of protecting his defenseless mother and half in act of pent up rage against years of oppression and angst. His mother, no longer recognizing her hulk of a son, cowered in fear from him, any sight of him conjuring up visions of the bloodbath of that fateful August eve. Wilson fled out of state, partly in escape from the law, but also to escape the deep remorse and sorrow he linked with his family home.

Perhaps by chance, after a long series of short stints in other cities, Wilson Fisk found himself in the Bronx at the age of eighteen. He may have been just old enough to grow bare whiskers on his chin, but his freakish size and strength offered the luxury of being able to mask his age. Fisk always believed as a kid that strength and power was the key to affording others' respect. Never had the statement rang as true as it did in the underbelly of the Bronx. Wilson used his gifts of considerable size and strength as a weapon, but also as a universal tool to unite those under him. He began a small gang, after all, all criminal masterminds have humble beginnings. He slowly grew his group, whether it be through large recruitment campaigns or whether it be through the assimilation of other gangs, whose facets would be absorbed into Fisk's gang. Slowly but surely, Fisk was building a criminal empire. Fisk's rise to the king of the criminal underworld was slow and steady; it's like they say, the road to top of the mountain is steep and prolonged, but the way down is a sharp, fast drop.

Fisk was atop his game, entrenched in his prime if you will, when he met his wife Vanessa. She was a foreign woman, and her perfume gave off a slight hint of oak. She had a mysterious aura to her, one that ultimately became Fisk's weak spot, as he met the love of his life. He met her at an art gallery at which she worked, courting her through his gentility and chivalry. There was a time when Wilson Fisk believed he needed no one else to be content; that he was happy alone. His perception changed as his love for his wife Vanessa grew, and he began to know the true depths of the emotions he was capable of. Emotions which he had suppressed since his childhood, which he had locked away, in an attempt to make himself not feel for anyone anymore. It should be no surprise that when his wife grew sick with something the doctors could not diagnose, Fisk's heart was decimated. He left his crime empire in the hands of one of his associates, and devoted his time to his wife. He threw large amounts of assets and sums of money at doctors, in order to figure out what was causing her illness. A doctor named Dr. Zhoria diagnosed and cured his wife almost miraculously, and in return Fisk promised that if Zhoria ever needed anything Fisk would be at his beckon call.

Rival gangs saw this as a moment of weakness. They saw a crown on pedestal, sitting there, beckoning to be taken. Like tide on a beach, Fisk's empire was receding in his absence. But the Kingpin of Crime was back, and ready to take back what was rightfully his.

POWERS / ABILITIES
The X-Gene in Wilson has afforded him tremendous size and strength. He has become 450 lbs of pure muscle. His stature gives off the visual of blubber; however, his body weight is not as it seems. He can lift things from cars, trucks, and buses to things as large as boulders. He is able to hurl such objects, although not without his fair share of strain. Things such as battleships or other large aircrafts are out of Fisk's weight range, and he is incapable of lifting them. Coupled with his enhanced strength, is his enhanced durability and endurance levels. His ability to resist external blows and attacks his heightened, his thick skin and muscle acting as a pseudo-armor of sorts. This mutation affords him some agility, not superhuman agility, but more agility than you would expect from 7 foot 400 pounder. X-Gene aside, Fisk has many skills, attributes and tools which he can put to work. He is a skilled martial artist, trained in the forms of Sumo. Fisk is multilingual as well. He knows English, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, and Mandarin. Fisk often carries a diamond encrusted walking stick which contains a concealed laser beam piece that fires a quick pulse of 300 watts, which, in case you were wondering, is about enough energy to vaporize a handgun into ashes. Fisk's diamond stickpin also contains a small, highly compressed container of sleeping gas which is effective when fired directly into an opponent's face at close range.

But perhaps his most dangerous weapon is his influence in the criminal underworld. His criminal empire is vast, and with it comes an eclectic collection of hitmen, middlemen, thugs, weapons, and allies. Fisk has associates in every alleyway, paid cops in every division, bribed judges in every court, and contacts in every organization. There's a reason they call him the Kingpin of Crime -- it's because New York is his kingdom. Many gangs in New York rally under Fisk's banner, whether it be the fierce Russians or whether it be the noble Japanese, and it's this aspect of the Kingpin that makes him all the more dangerous.

SAMPLE ARCS

Return of the King: After spending a year tending to his sick wife, Wilson Fisk is back in the game of crime, and he is not happy to see his kingdom being ransacked by bandits and marauders. Fisk begin's the "hero's quest" to retake his dominion, and reinstate his monopoly on crime. (I'll most likely be using this as my introduction arc)

The King's Men: Fisk amasses a coalition of super villains (whoever is interested) to participate in a crime wave the likes of which New York has never seen. Where there is smoke there is fire, and Fisk uses the distraction of a conglomeration of super villains wrecking down town New York to steal a live Warhead from a military base.

All That Glitters is not Gold: Fisk grooms his prized burglar (The Black Cat) and a group of highly skilled thieves to break into Fort Knox. Oddly enough, it is not the gold that Fisk wants from the government treasury, it is the weapon of mass destruction which the government has tried to stash away inside the fortified walls.

SAMPLE POST

Fisk sat at the refined mahogany oak desk which had been custom made for his height. Behind him, a penthouse view unfolded like a pop-up book through large, pristine glass windows. The city churned below, the sounds of engines, car horns, and people fluttering up, barely gasping it's way to audibility so high above the ground. Fisk twirled a pen between his fore finger and thumb as he stared coldly at the man who sat across from him. The man was wearing pinstripe suit and pants, a red tie, and a midnight black fedora. The man's jet black hair was slicked to his left, and a deep gash ran through his cheek.

"Money is a callous thing, is it not? Mr... Mr. Belcastro was it, yes?" began Fisk, his voice scratchy like gravel on concrete.

"Uh, yes sir-r-r-r," stammered the Italian "businessman" with a heavy accent.

"I find that so often it has so much power. It's rather odd when you think about it, that a scrap of green paper holds so much leverage. It has the leverage to turn a man of principles into a man of lies and deceit. Honor and respect smolder, brotherhood and fellowship are cast aside... and it's all just for something as inconsequential as a slip of paper. You wouldn't happen to know what I am talking about, would you?" said Fisk.

Before the man had a chance to respond, Fisk continued, "No, I thought not."

"Honest, Mr. Fisk, we didn't know! We thought you were gone and -- and, we thought maybe -- "

"You know what they say Mr. Belcastro, life and death are but phases of the same thing, the reverse and obverse of the same coin. Death is as necessary for man's growth as life itself. And boy, do I think you're going to sprout and spring, arms stretched towards the sky like a beanstalk," said Fisk, abruptly standing up, dusting off his trousers.

"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, stepping forward from behind his desk.

"Please Mr. Fisk, please, I'll do anything, you gotta believe us! We didn't mean for this to happen, honest -- " pleaded the Italian mobster.

"James will see you out Mr. Belcastro," he said, nodding at the body guard across the room.

Fisk began to walk out of the room, with the man still yelling after him, begging. He stopped and turned to James and saying in a low tone, "Try not to get any on my carpet this time."

Fisk barely heard the gunshot on his way out, muttering to himself, "The song is ended, but the melody lingers on... I've got work to do."

Name: Alvar Greycloak

Race: Nord

Gender Male

Age: 27

Birthsign: (optional) Warrior

Appearance:
Alvar is a burly man, with muscles lining his arms, bulging. In his hometown he was known for the time he wrestled a cave bear to the ground. Although a bit exaggerated, the story paints his strength fairly well. White scars engrave his knuckles, criss crossing over eachother. These are the most prominent of ones, other scars lining and littering his body. Other details include a tattoo on his left shoulder. The tattoo depicts a wolf, it's fur matted in blood. The wolf's eyes are blood red, and the wolf's snout is raised to the moon. The wolf is howling at the moon. His shaggy and scraggly beard grows in and out, and occasionally he cuts it himself with a hunting knife to keep it from going out of control.

Equipment: (clothing, armor, weapons, etc.)
- Orcish Greatsword tipped in Lethal Frostbite Spider's poison, for which he has coined the name "Fiorella." If this sword merely knicks you, you will feel an agonizing pain. It has an enchantment on it that allows for the poison to be everlasting.
- Full Set of Dwarven Armor (Excluding Helmet)
- Dragon Plate Armor Helmet
- Steel Dagger (hidden in his boot)
- Amulet of Strength
- A small collection of soul gems

Skills: Alvar is not a man of many skills, but those he does possess, he can execute fairly well. For instance, in his many years as a warrior, he can use nearly any weapon perfectly, save archery. Although, he is known for his mastery in the art of bashing people's skulls in with Two-Handed weapons. His extreme strength carries over well to being able to wield a large warhammer or battle axe. But he prefers his greatsword, in the respect that he can swing faster and deal a devastating blow nonetheless. As referenced before, he can also wield one handed weapons such as axes and swords adeptly. But fighting is not his only skill. In his many years as a mercenary, Alvar knows his way around the streets, or under the streets, I might say. He is no stranger when it comes to black market dealings and shady ordeals. He has many contacts and associates that can repay him a "favor." Yet despite his business in the underside of Riften, he is no expert when it comes to lockpicking, pickpocketing, and sneaking.
(To Sum Up: 1 Handed, 2 Handed, Heavy Armor, and kindofmaybe Speech)

Background: Late night in Broken Oar Grotto, a group of bandits were holed up, enjoying a feast celebrating their latest conquests of Haafingar, laughing and drinking mead. With several bandits drunk as can be, they wandered off to their separate allocations for sleeping. But two bandits, a woman and a man, were very much enjoying each others company. A clear romance had sparked between the two bandits, the chemistry evident to all of their kin. And what do two lovers do when they get very drunk on mead? Well lets not delve into details, but let's just say they made love to eachother and leave it at that. About nine months later, this bandit couple had relocated to a quaint little camp that they and their group of bandits had set up called Halted Stream Camp. This camp was not far off from Whiterun. In the wee hours of morning in Halted Stream Camp, a baby was born. This baby came out screaming and kicking, not giving the parents an easy time. As the baby was being pulled out, tragedy struck the bandits. A group of Companions had stormed the camp just as this baby was being born. These bandits were skilled fighters, but no match for the Shieldbrothers watching each others backs, covering each others every move, endorsing organized tactics. The camp was slaughtered. Including this baby's mother. This mother was stabbed in the stomach, as she was giving birth. A tragic story, really. But alas, the Companions could not stand for leaving an orphaned child to die. Off they rode back to Whiterun, carrying our baby boy.

Our baby finds himself traveling from hand to hand. The baby's caretaker was always changing, and they cycled through a merchant, a Whiterun guard, and even the Companions themselves. But, at about age 3, the little boy found himself a permanent home. A blacksmith who owned an arms shop. His father was Ulran Greycloak gave our baby boy his name, Alvar. At around age five, Alvar got a mother too. Her name was Fjor. His father, Greycloak, had married her. For a while, life was normal for Alvar. He took pleasure in little things, like the Dragon Plated Armor Helmet showcased on his father's shelf. He loved the way it glinted, and how flashy and cool it looked. He wanted to own the helmet one day. And alas, everything was normal. For a while. But when Alvar turned 12, his father was sent off to war to fight for the Stormcloaks. Alvar did not like this, and a sickening grief took over him. He was going to miss his father. But for Alvar life went on. Wasn't really much he could do about. He pushed forward, despite the absence of his father. After two years, when Avar was 14, the dreaded news finally reached his household. His father was dead. Alvar could not go on anymore. He would run off into the wilderness for days on end to be alone. After about a month of this, a court official came to their house to read Ulfberth's will. Ulfberth had left Alvar a large some of money, but that was not what caught Alvar's attention. Ulfberth had left the Dragon Bone Plated Helmet to him. At the time, the helmet was much too big for him, but It was possibly the best thing that he could have received.

Eventually though, Alvar could not take the grief. Walking around the house filled with all the old stuff his father would send him into hysteria fits. So, Alvar gathered his things and left home. For about seven years, Alvar trained in the Reach, building his massive muscles he has today. He trained by running half the length of the Reach, climbing sheer rock walls, and other physical fitness activities. By the age of 21, Alvar had the massive set of muscles he owns today. It was time to revisit society once more. He wanted to put his big muscles to work. He had heard rumors of Riften, and decided it was best for him to shop his skills around there. After walking the distance between Markarth and Riften, he entered the city. As he entered the city, many people muffled whispers as he walked past, probably discussing his Dragon Helmet. It is rumored that that night in an Inn, someone attempted to steal his helmet in the dead of night, but he discovered them. He socked them in the face, breaking their nose. The next day, a man approached him. He had heard of the ordeal the night before, and wanted to discuss business with him. The man wanted to hire him as hired muscle. He offered a stable supply of Septims, a suit of armor, and provisions. He accepted, and thus begun his career as a hired muscle. He went on jobs to protect clients, the most notable of them being the Jarl of Morthal, and also jobs to go rough people up and at times, kill them. He became very good at what he did, and soon he was fabled for his work, and even grew a reputation in the Thieves Guild as a reliable mercenary. Members of the guild began hiring him for escort missions, and he worked his way up the ladder. After two years or so in the business, Maven Blackbriar recruited him as her personal bodyguard. He enjoyed this job for 2 years or so, until Maven released him because she no longer required his services. Alvar knew all too well what this meant, and he fled to Whiterun. Maven attempted to send a member of the Dark Brotherhood to "tie up loose ends," but Alvar bested them.

And so, Alvar spent the years hopping cities quickly, always on the run from Maven's assasins. He didn't know why Maven wanted him dead, but he knew he could not stay in Skryim where her extent reached. He moved on to Cyrodiil. He quickly settled down in Leyawiin, and like before he was attracted to the underbelly of the city. He reverted to his old ways of being a hired thug, and began making a name for himself once again. Then, the Thieves Guild representatives approached them.

Probably chock full with spelling and grammar mistakes, please excuse them. Also thinking about editing the part out where he trained in the forest, and have him attempted to join the Stormcloaks instead. This way he will have built up muscle in training for them, and will have fled when the war ended with Stormcloaks unsuccesful, but idk. I just feel like training in the wilderness is such a cliche' but whateves. Also I hope it was okay that I used some characters that are actually in the game, will change names if needed.

Name:

Age:

Gender:

Appearance:


Skills/Talents:


Brief Backstory:



Power Class:

Power:


Limits:

Weaknesses/Drawbacks:




Family:


Dynamics:
Basically your character's relationship with other characters.




>list][*] Theme? Anyone?

Name: Hephaestus
Tier: Powered
Gender: Male
Height: 8"5
Weight: 950 lbs, pure muscle
Age: Unknown
Occupation: Remorseless, merciless killer -- a hitman if you will, but not the silent kind
Handed: Ambidextrous, both arms blocks of bruising muscle. However, the left arm can hit much harder due to certain, "augmentations" to be described later
Armor: A heavy, thick 3 inch iron chest plate rests on Hephaestus broad chest and two inch shoulder plates made of a mixture of titanium, copper, and diamond rest on his shoulders. He does not even notice the heavy armor due to his immense strength. On his gauntlet which resides on his left arm, the fore-arm portion of the gauntlet is an inch of pure iron. On his right arm, he wears another 1-inch iron arm-guard which extends from his wrist to just under his shoulder. This right armor piece is concealed under his clothing.
Skin color: His skin is a grey-ish pale, looking sickly, likely due to the countless expirements and augmentations that Hephaestus has fallen victim to. No one has seen Hephaestus's face in years, as it is always covered by a bandana and the brim of his hat, likewise most likely due to some horrible disfiguration that the expiriments had on him

History:

INTERVIEWEE: CHIEF DOCTOR JOHN GREEN
INTERVIEWER: WITHHELD FOR SAFETY OF INTERVIEWER
DATE: CLASSIFIED

"Not much is known, nor remembered about the Project Hephaeustus subject's early life. And there sure as hell ain't no records for it, that project was all off the books. I don't know if it's ever going to get declassified as if it is, all involved would probably be imprisoned for years, as what we did there was extremely inhumane. That was the last project I ever worked on at the labratories, I couldn't live with what we had done, what we had created, and I resigned from my position."

*Subject looks to distance, reminiscing, with sadness and regret in his eye*

"Sorry, what was the question? Ah yes, the test subject's origin. I believe, if my memory serves me correctly, it was a child abducted from the slums, or perhaps a homeless one. One that we believed wouldn't be missed if gone missing. The labratory supplied us with the kid, so I knew little of his background. But our test subjects were recieved almost all in that way, so I would be surprised if he wasn't. When we got him, we hooked him up to some tubing and machines and took some of his vitals. What we wanted to do would work on him, he had the right genes. See, what you gotta understand is that if the subject had the wrong genes, our expiriment was ruined. Unpredictable results could occur, sometimes horrible disfigurations or mental lapses. Before we got down what the genes were, we went through a lot of test subjects to figure out what the right combination was, and I saw a lot of them first hand. Terrible stuff, I tell you."

*Interviewee pulls out a pack of cigarettes. After flipping the top of the box, he shoves it in the direction of the interviewer asking him if he would like one. The interviewer politely declines. He lights the cigarette with a lighter from his pocket, and takes a quick drag.*

"Well, this brings us to the juicy stuff, I suppose. We injected the poor soul with something nicknamed "Super-Roids." It's scientifical name is Muscle and Build Enhancement Serum. I'll never forget the screaming that ensued, as the boy's muscles and bones largened to what must have been at least 4 times their normal size. Poor thing couldn't even recognize itself when the proccess was over. His face... his face was awful, let's just leave it at that."

*Subject takes a very long hit of his cigarette before looking off distantly. The interviewer clears his throat, and the subject is snapped back to reality.*

"Sorry, where was I? Then, once we figured everything was right and all, we outfitted him with some gnarly augmentations. This dude could probably tear a human being in half with little to no effort. Plus, we had some new tech stuff brought over from R and D, and we outfitted him with that as well. This thing was going to be a brutal killing machine. I guess that's when my humanity kicked in, and I couldn't look at the thing in it's test tube without feeling immense guilt. I decided to sneak into the lab at night and let the poor thing free. I don't know what I was thinking, I didn't think about any of the repercussions. That was years ago. I have no idea where he is now, but sometimes I see things on the news that make me think I've found him again."

*** END INTERVIEW ***
IMPORTANT NOTE: INTERVIEWEE DECEASED 2 YEARS LATER BY BEING TORN IN HALF, IN WHAT SEEM TO BE STRING OF MURDERS RELATED TO ALL THOSE WHO WORKED ON PROJECT HEPHAESTUS

Augumentations/Abilities

• Extreme Strength - The Super-Roids, Muscle and Build Enhancement Serum, or whatever you want to call it has increasted Hephaestus's strength astronomically, turning him into something of a freak of nature. He can lift upwards of 4,000 lbs (2 metric tons), and easily smash things like concrete or punch right through a sheet of steel. The intense muscles in Hephaestus' legs make it so that he can run and jump 2.5 metres high, only to come land down and causing severe damage to the floor. He is no athlete however, and he is not capable of running fast speeds, but that is not to say he is immobile.
• Tough Skin / Durability - The roids have given him super thick and durable skin. Whilst it it is nothing like being as hard as a rock, the skin takes strong exertions of force to be broken. He is more durable, being able to take several serious wounds that no human could ever survive.
• Augmentation: Eye - In the labratories, they removed Hephaestus' left eye and replaced it with a glowing blue electronic eye. They can see in the dark, detect heat, and magnify things.
• Augumentation: Left Arm - The arm has been wired to even further compound the immense strength Hephaestus has. He can charge the arm up, and release the charge, so to speak which cause an extreme vibration for up to five seconds which vibrates so fast that it is possible to grind bones to dust and to create a bloody mess of a human... literally.

Equipment, Weapons, Etc.

• A giant broadsword, which he has shoddily fashioned out of a truck bumper as the blade, and a large plumbing pipe as the hilt. The blade measures five feet in length, and is too heavy for anyone who is not strong enough to pick up. He generally weilds the sword in his right hand, keep his augumented left hand open to attack. The bumper sword is kept strapped to his back via a leather strap.
• A gauntlet which he dons on his left hand. The gauntlet features a small barrel that protrudes from the top of the gauntlet. This barrel is capable of firing rapid machine gun fire, and being used as a flamethrower of sorts. The controls for the gauntlet are located on the palm of the glove, being a holographic touch screen. Hephaestus usually simply taps the holo screen with his left middle finger, whilst aiming his gun for easy access. (sort of like the spiderman web shooters =P)
• Two very large Luger pistols, made specifically for him. He seldom uses the two, each with only six shots available to fire.

Name: Urs Uring

Color: Light Green

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Description: Urs has shaggy and sandy brown hair with thick eyebrows in width, although they are not necessarily bushy. Parts of his right eyebrow are covered by small tufts of hair which protrude from his shaggy forest which is his hairline. His eyes are a crisp and burning blue, which are fabled for their oft directed daggers, always sent someone by way of someone who is annoying with furious blue passion. Urs' jaw line is defined and sharply chiseled, with high sculpted cheek bones that highlight his cheeks. His teeth are blindingly bright, and when he smiles you can just swear you hear a "Ding!" almost straight out of a cartoon. Plasted accross his facial features is a trademark grin, his teeth glinting, or perhaps when he is feeling stubborn and moodier, a dirty scowl. Moving down his face, his collar bone is accentuated and very visible. Burns and leathery patches from chemical fires or backfiring experiments spot his body. Standing at five feet and ten inches, his body is not muscular perse, but he has a slightly above average build. For present world perspective; he is akin to being able to bench press 145 lbs (slightly above the untrained average of 135).

As far as attire goes, Urs can be seen, when working on chemical productions or traveling, a large and enveloping trench coat which doubles as a cape of sorts, an andonized navy vest under, brown fabric pants, thick leather gloves with adjustable buckles, and leather boots with dried dirt and soot carpeting them. Strapped to his head rests a primitive gas mask capable of filtering out most dangerous gasses and concoctions. Carefully placed atop his head is a wide brimmed classic Fedora, sewn of a rusty colored thread. At his waistline is a an animal-hide belt with various items strapped aboard.

Occupation: Oasis Resident Alchemist / Scientist

Personality/Bio: Urs decided to foray into the field of alchemy not because he had incredible interest in it at first, but rather a lack thereof in other professions. Without a promising future in any other trades, Urs was left a journeyman of many professions for the earlier years of his life. Perhaps by chance, or by fate, whichever you believe in, Urs was given the oppurtunity for apprenticeship at an alchemy shop through a friend of the family. Looking back, Urs always finds comedy in the irony that led to such a fruitful and invariably successful career for him. Much to his surprise, Urs found much appeal and fascination with alchemy, one that would consume him for the rest of his being. Years of extensive research and bestowed knowledge from his old and veteran master, who has since long passed away, have shaped Urs into a master chemist and alchemist. Urs would absorb what little literature the Oasis had on the subject, spending hours at a time invested in research documents written prior to his birth. Long nights would be spent toiling in the Alchemy shop's Labratory, which was furnished with the best equipment that the Oasis had to offer. Urs would be enthralled in the subject, incessantly trying explore new investigations and trials into the chemical properties of his experiments. This hunger and thirst for knowledge would grow to define him as his life went forward. Eventually, at the benefit of his master's passing, Urs was given the keys to the kingdom, and carried on the lineage set before him by inheriting one of the most prominent alchemy shops and research centers in the Oasis.

Urs unearthed many things previously unknown to the field of alchemy in the oasis, and a myriad of possible chemical compounds were uncovered. Urs spent much time hired by nobility and royalty to attempt to find ways to transmute metals and coppers into the elusive and fabled gold ore. Even if all his attempts were unsuccessful, his reputation as an intelligent and sharp-witted scientist and alchemist was growing. Many say that it was Urs' drive for success and his yearning for discovery and knowledge that engendered Urs to become one of the prime alchemists in the field and be considered one of the smartest minds in the Oasis. It was, perhaps, that same drive and desire that led to his volunteering for this hopeless "fool's errand." His desire to discover more, to learn of the deep unknown that extended for as far the eye could see in the desert, was what drove him to volunteer. He has hopes to discover possibly more elements or different vegetation which he may be able to bring back to revolutionize the scientific scene in the Oasis as he had done so many times before with his discoveries. It is on these hopes that he pins his journey.

Possessions: Urs carries an iron dagger strapped to his animal-hide belt at his waist. Although iron and other metals are very rare in the Oasis, Urs' high status as a prominent scientist and alchemist has allowed him access to those types of resources more than once. Although he is not especially adept with the blade, it is there should he ever need cause to use it. Urs also has a myriad vials, a small collection if you will, also fastened to his belt, all of them serving different purposes. He has vials that contain ointments to be applied to be burns or others that disinfect open wounds. Other glass vials can be thrown (parallels are drawn here to modern day grenades) which once the glass is broken and pressure is released various hazardous effects can occur. These effects include things like the effect of a molotov cocktail, poisonous gasses, small explosion on impact, and other chemical defects. And as previously mentioned, Urs carries a basic gas mask capable of filtering out most harmful compounds. Lastly, he carries with him a pair of goggles to keep harmful chemical gasses out of his eyes.

Name: Eroneus
Alias: The Prince of Bel-AIR Birdbrother
Gender: Male
Race: Human Demigod
Appearance:

Godly Forme


Domain (Portfolio): Air (Birds)
Domain (Portfolio) Description/Explanation:

"Air. Waving zephyrs, supple winds, silents wisps... all of it is air. Air is light, yet also heavy; heavy and saturated by people's very own hopes and dreams. It pervades everything on earth. For a long way into the sky, and even in deep caves there is air; it is always there, just hanging on the horizon. Through the hazy sunshine and up to the flawless blue skies, there is air. Like fire, air is difficult to control or to capture. It is always free. It is free to go where it's soul is content to be.

A free bird leaps and grabs hold of the coat tails of the wind, a caged bird can seldom see through his bars of rage." - Eroneus to his disciples

Eroneus is fascinated with the wind, the air, and oh yes, the birds. He loves their free spirit, free to go wherever they please, to just leave and go wherever they see fit. Eroneus can always be seen with a random flock of birds encircling overhead, random albatrosses, doves, egrets, or whatever else perched beside him, and his favorite hawk perched on his shoulder. He can communicate with the birds, and as a result he can garner a wealth of information from his network of birds all over the world, giving a whole new meaning to the expression, "a little birdie told me." He also possesses control over the air in the world, meaning he can control up winds, fly, manipulate the air around someone to make something like "the Force", et cetera.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Personality:

Perhaps the best way to describe Eroneus' personality is to describe the antihero; a hero who lacks conventional heroic qualities like morality, courage, and idealism. It's not like Eroneus has ever been one to save the day -- or who knows maybe if he feels like it, or maybe you give him something in return -- though he's never been one to do unneeded harm -- or who knows, maybe he feels like it. That's the thing with Eroneus: he's like a box of choclates in that you never know what you're going to get out of him. He's a mixed bag of parlor tricks, an erratic assortment of feelings. Always smug, and wanting to be in control, Eroneus loves to be the puppet master, and pull the strings as he sees fit -- for better, or for worse.

History:

Eroneus was a simple grain farmer, with his only abnormality being his affinity for birds. He kept all kinds of species of birds in the woods behind his farm as a young child, from Woodpeckers to the out of place Seagulls. Birds seemed to be attracted to him, always feeding from his hand. It was here, in his childhood, he earned the nickname Birdbrother, which he carried with him to godhood. As he grew up, and inherited the farm from his father, he began recieving visions of a god named Escre. It wasn't long before it became apperant that Eroneus was Escre's chosen one: destined to become a demigod.

Escre intended for Eroneus to spread air throughout this plane of existence, spreading the sustenance, the building block, of life. The relationship was mutually beneficial between Escre and Eroneus, Eroneus being able to learn what humanity has that it and its creations don't, as well as potentially getting a creative spark, and Eroneus could come to understand the greater things, growing more powerful in the process.

Name; Pandora Soth

Age; 24

Archtype; Explorer

Specialization: Scavenger

Appearance; Pandora is seldom seen without her garb which shields others from her true looks. The clothing that covers every inch of her body allows Pandora the ultimate deception -- the veiling of her gender. Many, when judging her body type and muscle tone almost instinctively jump to the imprudent conclusion that she is a male. She sports a simple, brown cloth hood, which hangs low over her head, and a thin rag swathed around her visage, covering her chin, nose, and scalp. She wears a thick, grey viewfinder to conceal her eyes. The three of these combined make for an effect where Pandora's face is completely masked and indiscernible. On her body, she wears a tunic-like article, which is both adequate for fast or sudden movement, but also loose enough to conceal any gender defining features or her body shape. Long, brown sleeves extend from the chest, which cover her arms, and continue into gloves, which in turn are wrapped with gauze. Pandora chose neutral and drab colors as to divert as much attention as possible away from her, however, her efforts are in vain, as her covering garb in itself tends to draw a lot of eyes.

Under her mask, however, she has cut her brown hair short, in order to keep it from snagging on things or getting in her way. Her eyes are a pristine, clear cut azure. They are sharp, and many people find themselves on the receiving end of a piercing glare. Her teeth are perfectly straight and white, and when she smiles you swear you can hear a "Ding!" like it's straight out of a cartoon. She has a defined jaw line coupled with very indented and high cheek bones. These features, joined with her smooth cheeks and delicate collarbone, give off an effect of a fragile, but beautiful woman. Ironically, this could not be further from the truth; she is as hard as a rock. Moving down her body, she is rather muscular for a woman. This combined with her, to be quite frank, flat assets, is often the feature that betrays others when trying to judge her gender through her covering combat regalia.

Personality; Pandora is solemn and unforgiving, her personality cold and unwelcoming. She has distanced herself from others, detaching herself in all relationships, never letting herself get hooked. She is more than content with the loneliness of her mind -- something that would drive many others crazy. Her habit of being alone often has led to her being quite introspective, always pondering the day's events, or in a broader scope, the way her life has unfolded and her purpose. She frequently tells herself that distancing herself from others is necessary for her survival, that one cannot get emotionally attached in a world like this one -- however, on numerous occasions she has become unsure of her once sound philosophy. She is young and naive, not quite sure of her chosen path and still trying to find herself and her emotions, her unpleasant and unsmiling attitude towards others a bipartisan of that. TL;DR: Pandora finds herself often trying to isolate herself from others, but sometimes she is not sure that is the correct choice.

Biography; Pandora's mother was a strong, independent woman named Zara, and she was a tad "eccentric" to put it lightly. She got knocked up by a man who decided that he was not going to father the child, perhaps it was the era of the apocalypse which left him feeling far less responsible, and the man left Zara, never to be seen again. This abandonment left a profoundly deep impact on Zara's life, as it was one of the latest of a series of incidents of abuse and mistreatment towards her, and she swore she would never be dependent on any one else, whether it be a man or not, again. Zara took the child which she had borne and "fell off the grid" so to speak. She shunned civilization, in attempt to prove to the world at large, but also to herself, that she depended only on herself, leaving the settlement of Ambrosia to make her own in the dangerous wilderness.

Zara and her now growing child, Pandora, did not survive the menaces of the wilderness, amidst the perilous fauna and unpredictable raiders, by being brash or bold. The mother, recognizing their strengths and their obvious weaknesses, got by on stealth, and stealth alone. Zara and Pandora would hide in ditches and caves, constantly avoiding potential threats. Zara would track migration and movement of fauna, or the patrols of raiders, and when the time was right would sneak out of whatever makeshift habitat they had made for themselves and proceed to gather food from nearby vegetation. Meanwhile, she would scavenge old world ruins for whatever items they could use; weapons, munitions, any possible first aid, et cetera et cetera. It was a treacherous life style; at any moment, danger could be lurking around the corner, hiding in the shadows, raring to pounce on you. However, Zara had become accustomed to the adrenaline and dangers of the largely uncharted frontier over time, and she had begun to master scavenging and supply runs whilst simultaneously avoiding danger.

Slowly, as Pandora began to grow old enough, Zara began to periodically have her accompany her on some of her runs. She would have Pandora cautiously tail her, in order to see how it was done. As time passed by, Pandora's roles in these supply runs would grow with her experience. Slowly, Zara would give Pandora more responsibility. It started with simply watching Zara's back from afar to make sure that someone or something didn't sneak up on her, and slowly progressed to actually participating in some excursions. Steadily, her experience grew, and she became more accustomed to lurking in the shadows, and being as quiet as possible. Eventually, Zara trusted Pandora to run her own scavenging outings, and Pandora independently went looking for food, water, and other supplies.

As Pandora began to mature, she began discovering loot and other contraband in old world ruins. At one point, she discovered a crystal shard on a scavenging trip, whose imbued glow and power seemed apparent to her. She eagerly rushed back to their camp, excited to show her mother what she had found, expecting her to be proud and content with the surprising discovery Pandora had found. Instead, her mother greeted her with coldness and contempt. She snatched the crystal from Pandora, and tossed it as far as she could into the wilderness, warning her of their effects, "Careful of these shards, Pandora, we have no use for them." Although her mother had good intentions, attempting to warn her daughter of the dangerous addiction the shards could bring, it angered Pandora that her mother threw away what she had found just like that. In the future, when she found things she thought could be valuable, she ultimately decided to keep them away from her mother, and keep them for herself.

It was only natural, after spending her whole life in the wilderness, that she would grow intrigued with what normal civilization was like. In time, her curiosity got the best of her, and she began making plans to sneak into the nearby settlement of Ambrosia. She would tell her mother she was going on a supply run, but she would find her way to the nearby settlement and sneak in. She would sit in the shadows, intently watching the people of the settlement, taking note of the way they spoke, their mannerisms, and the way they talked. She grew fascinated with life inside the settlement, and her secret excursions to Ambrosia became more and more frequent. However, she still maintained her distance, wary of people because of the seeds of mistrust her mother had planted in her head. She worried that people would attempt to take advantage of her do to her gender, this sentiment could be attributed to her mothers misgivings. In order to keep her gender and herself hidden, she fastened herself an outfit with materials she salvaged, which would cover her entire body.

She began bringing the things she had been collecting from her scavenging trips into town, and proceeded to sell them at the marketplaces, all of this behind her mother's back. She had learned from her countless days spent lurking and watching the men and women at the marketplaces how a basic trade and barter system worked. By and by, with every passing transaction she made with the men at the market, she began to look forward to her trips into Ambrosia, seeing the trading system as a game. The idea that she could get food and water for simple trinkets or little rocks intrigued her, and she began to learn what items got the most and what didn't fetch a high price -- in other words, with time she became rather consummate at bartering with the men at the market stalls.

However, after a year or two of making trips back and forth between Ambrosia, her mother grew suspicious. With time she became more and more sure her daughter was doing something behind her back. This, however, did not discourage Pandora from making her trips to Ambrosia, and she continued to do exactly what she had done before. But finally, her mother caught her by following her on one of her trips, and when she discovered what Pandora had been doing behind her back she was furious. When Pandora admitted to her that this had been occurring for a couple of years, she grew even more enraged. The life of isolation had ebbed Zara's psyche more than she was willing to let on, and it had left her emotionally unstable. It was for this reason perhaps, that this "betrayal" of her principles by the person she held most dear, drove her over the edge. She decidedly abandoned her daughter, swearing that she would never see her again.

Whilst Zara, in her wildly unstable state, felt betrayed, it was Pandora who ultimately suffered the bigger betrayal. The woman that had brought her into this world, the one who had looked after her her whole life, and the one who she had trusted so much, left her in a flurry. This left her trusting of others broken and unresponsive to those who attempted to befriend her. The sadness eventually passed away, and was replaced by anger. She continued to make trips into Ambrosia, bartering her scavenged goods, almost in an act of continued defiance. Little by little, she spent more and more time in Ambrosia, and became more integrated into the society. It eventually became that she was spending most of her time in Ambrosia, and spending the rest of her time scavenging, rather than the vice versa.

Skills;
◦ Stealth or sneaking
◦ Ability to pick locks
◦ Agility and/or speed
◦ New World Geography
◦ Gunplay (to an extent)
◦ Knowledge on smuggle routes
◦ Bartering or trading goods

Weapons;




Equipment and Gear; Pandora's most prominent and utilized gear is her clothing. Her outfit, as described earlier, is utilized to conceal her gender and identity. Coupled with this to further the effect, is a voice changer which she salvaged from a scavenging site some time ago. The voice changer is a small microphone taped near her mouth, which then emits the sound through a small but powerful speaker located on her neck. The voice comes out robotic and metallic, impossible to discern her true voice from the changer's effect. Along with this is a viewfinder she wears on her eyes. It is capable of zooming in and magnifying objects in the distance, along with the ability of night vision and thermal vision. However, when she goes on scavenging trips, she carries a larger assortment of items with her in her backpack. She brings a bedroll to sleep in, a water canteen, a pouch of dried animal skins and salted meats, self inscribed crudely drawn maps of the new world, a first aid kit, and a fire starting kit.

Name: Darius Abd-al-Hakim

Nobility: Son of the Duke of Tripoli

Sex: Male

Race: Mixed, African & Syrian

Age: 25

Physical Description:

Rank: Cornet

Magic-Rank: None

Goals/Aspirations: By virtue of his father's treatment towards him, Darius has a subconscious psuedo-inferiority complex which is constantly fueling a limitless desire for power and success. He wants nothing more than to ride the coattails of affluence, almost in defiance of his father's cold, unwavering indifference towards him. Anything that serves as a materialistic currency of success is square under Darius' iron sights; the size of his estate, the wealthiness of his friends, the gaudiness of his armaments, et cetera et cetera. Darius will use any symbol of prosperity to fill his bottomless heart, and his greed for affluence is unbounded. However, above all, Darius aspires for accolades and recognition in his post. He wants nothing more than to hold higher office in the battlefield of the Imperial Tagmata; he is a cardboard cutout of a man propagated by his lust to command respect and wield the force of the Dragoons.

Personality: Darius is a well spoken individual, having been afforded the rare luxury of a complete education offered by his nobility. He is personable and kind, however places the utmost stock in his post as Cornet. He values achieving the task presented before him by the Tagmata above all else, and all other upshots are inconsequential. All he has ever known is a loyalty to his state, and this is what fills much of his shallow personality. Darius prefers to think tactically of a situation first, rather than charge headlong without properly assessing all the variables. Weighing all decisions, and considering everything a tactical choice is ingrained deeply into who he is.

Backstory: Darius' father was a French-African noble, something of an uncommon sight. His father, a diamond tycoonist, made his fortune on the backs of the manual labor and slavery of his own race. Incredulously, his father partook in the slave trade during the early 1700s, buying Africans to put them to work tirelessly in his mines. His father was not a self made man himself, his fortunes coming from his father before him. He had also inherited the oligarchy of wealth and autocracy that strangled the province of Tripoli for generations. His father was simply the next to bear the torch of nobility in a region of poverty and exploitation.

Born to a Syrian handmaiden of his father's, Darius and his father had a cordial, businesslike relationship from birth. His father showed no affection towards him, viewing him solely as a tool that needed to be sharpened. He did not believe Darius was fit to inherit his colossal economic empire, due to what he had said was his "sickly character." Instead, he deemed Darius best suited for a life in the military, claiming Darius was as brash as a Trojan. Darius was sent across the Mediterranean to a boarding school in the Arabian Peninsula in order to train to become an officer in the Tagmata. His father seldom wrote to him, and when he did it was a letter drafted by a butler or a servant informing him of how much was left of his studies. This had never seemed out of the ordinary to Darius; that is, he never truly stopped to consider it. That had just always been the nature of his and his father's relationship, and he never truly stopped to question it.

The school was not a state-sponsored affair, rather it was a private school ran for the children of the wealthy with aspirations to become decorated soldiers. Darius would spend the months practicing swordplay, studying advanced tactics theory, horseback riding, and listening to lectures on how to properly and effectively lead a unit. In the off months, a servant would come by ship to Darius' school and take him through Mosul to Baghdad in order to stay with one of Darius' uncles for the summer. Darius' uncle was a wealthy Arabian farmer, one who had little time to be preoccupied with a relative's child. This afforded Darius great personal freedom, and he spent much time exploring the crowded and teeming narrow streets of the city. Summers in Baghdad were hot and fast, and the days seemed to bleed together; it always ended too soon, and it was back to the schoolyard for Darius.

At his graduation from the Academy, his father was not able to come to congratulate him. A servant was sent as an envoy of his father's in order to congratulate him in his perseverance through his studies. After returning home by ship to little fanfare, his father paid his commission to join the Tagmamta as an officer. All that was left was to await his assignment, and to go through formal training. Darius was not worried however; he had prepared his whole life for this, dedicated his entire livelihood to this sole cause.

Character: John Eden

Alias: Locomotive

Color: Goldenrod

Alignment: Hero

Identity: Secret

Uniform: Locomotive

Personality: By effect of the super steroids that are constantly supplied into his blood stream, John has become somewhat short tempered and oft angered. There are many perils of being a superhero -- sworn to protect the innocent -- when you have anger issues. It is something that John had attempted to weed out, in order to make himself a more pure hero. However, it has stuck to him like a fly on honey, and rather than challenge it and cause inner turmoil amidst himself, he has accepted it and taken it one step further by allowing it to help him be what he wants to be -- a hero. As often as he can, John is a man of principles. He will not kill unnecessarily, and the like; however, at times his anger can get the best of him, and he slips up from his moral code. In the same vein, he can be stubborn and butt heads with others, unwilling to budge on his viewpoint. The super steroids make him quite a disagreeable person, often angered by even the slightest of things. In spite of this, he is altruistic at heart, always wanting to help others in any way he can. He may have his flaws, but he has a good heart and good intentions, which, to him, is what matters in the end; right?

Outside of his jacked up, 'roid pumping hero state, John is generally friendly, always looking out for his friends and just others in general. He's the type of guy you would bump into on a side walk and walk away thinking to yourself, "Well that guy was awfully nice." He likes to joke around and make sure everyone is satisfied and having fun; in other words, he's pretty much just an all around nice dude.

Origin: John's family roots stretch all the way back to the 1800s; his Great Great Grandfather Carter Eden was an Irish immigrant who, desperate for money, was a railway worker. By some stroke of luck, or perhaps destiny, Carter Eden's circumstances had allowed to take control of the railway company for which he had worked for (the details of the transaction are murky to this day), and renamed the budding company Eden Railways and Locomotives, often simply referred to as Eden Railways. The railway company expanded slowly but surely, steadily becoming one of the premier locomotive and railway companies on the eastern side of the Mississippi. John's Great Grandfather, Joseph Eden, took after him, becoming the new head of Eden Railways after his father's passing. Then after Joseph Eden followed his son, and so forth, following down the long lineage of Edens, until the railway company reached the hands of John's father; Henry Eden.

With the era that the Eden railway company had economically dominated, the age of the steam locomotive, disappearing fast in the rear view mirror, Henry Eden recognized that the company needed to scale back. Henry's plans for the company called for them to become more focused and centralized, serving a more niche audience, seeing as the company did not have the economical reserves to serve such a mass customer base any more. Thus, the company became solely based out of Henry's home state; Maine. Soon Eden Railways became an easily recognizable name in Maine, instating almost a monopoly on the railways and subways from city to city. Henry built a main station in Lost Haven, a central point for trains going all over, from the other side of the state, to the other side of the city. Chances were if you were riding a train in Maine, you were probably riding an Eden Railways train.

As did the many men before him in his lineage, Henry Eden left ownership of the company to his son John Eden. John, at 24, who had been working at the Haven station and working on and and around trains his entire life, was more than qualified to run the business. He became one of the youngest millionaires in Lost Haven, due to his unique inheritance. Despite his new found influence and money, Henry remained a people's man; still taking time out of his day to conduct a few trains a day (didn't want to lose touch with his company!) and often would make small talk with the myriad of passengers that would board the trains; little did they know, the kind young man they had just met owned the subways and trains they used to get to work everyday.

The day that the violent hero Locomotive was born from such a kind and gentle young man -- "Oh, he would never even hurt a fly!" -- on a muggy and humid August day. After a brutal crime wave in Lost Haven, John was doing as he always does, operating one of the trains, chatting with passengers, and the like. On this train, however, a man attempted to kidnap a woman's daughter at one of the stops. John, horrified that something of the sort would happen on his train, under his watch, attempted to go after the crook. However, for whatever reason, he wasn't strong enough or perhaps John wasn't fast enough, the man managed to get away. The daughter who he had made off with had been found dead with three stab wounds two weeks later. This news was crushing to John, knowing he could have done something but he fell just short of being able to stop him.

These events spurned John to find a way to become better, stronger, faster, in order that next time, he would be able to stop the criminal before they got away. This idea that a train full of people saw this man kidnap a child in broad daylight and he still never faced justice irritated John to no end. And thus, John began researching ways he could better himself, and in effect become a vigilante (although, at the time he did not think of it in such a way). He used his vast deposits of money to research possibilities, and after months of meticulously combing archives and record repositories, he finally found what he needed. He had found a research document in the main Lost Haven library's archives, a mention of an old scrapped government project that was nicknamed Super Steroids. Supposedly, the super steroids would allow super strength in the user, however the project was scrapped due to the fact that the drug had severe personality affects while one was under the drug. John dipped into his private funds to figure out how to make the supposed steroid serum, and once he had the recipe began to make his own batch.

Due to John's fidelity and consummate mechanical ability from his years with working with trains, John was able to construct a suit which would periodically distribute the super steroids through out his body whenever necessary through a series of tubings that stemmed from a large, thick copper pack that he would carry on his back (which would hold the steroids). Along with this, he fashioned a pair of iron-tech boots, which would aid him in speed and jumping. Lastly, he crafted a giant, extremely thick copper shield in the shape of a train, which, in theory would block bullets and cause them to ricochet back at the enemies. And thus, the Locomotive was born.

Hero Type: Brick \\ Muscle

Power Level: City

Powers:

• Super Strength; As glaringly obvious as it may sound, John's diesel suit/pack, which is constantly pumping his body with a special mixture of adrenaline and a variation of super steroids, gives him the luxury of heightened strength. He can comfortably lift upwards of 70 metric tons (about the weight of a Boeing 787), and to take it even further he can in fact lift around 75 tons, however it is very taxing and comes with a great strain on him to do so. This is facilitated through the use of the pack and the various tubing throughout John's body, which are pumping the Super Steroids into his veins and capillaries, along with a healthy mixture of adrenaline to help boost his reaction speeds slightly. Without his suit constantly feeding him Super Steroids, John is still at peak human strength (700 lbs-800 lb range), due to the fact that the 'roids are still in his system despite the lack of the suit.
  
  
  • Super Jumps; By extension of his super strength, John has the ability to jump extraneous heights; upwards of sixty stories high. This is facilitated not only through his exorbitant physical strength but also compounded by the iron-tech boots he wears on his feet. They, in theory, possess the strength of a train and aid his jumps to allow him to jump such tall heights.
  • Enhanced Speed; As a result of his strength, stemming from his suit and pack, John is capable of running fast, his apex speed being up to 40 miles per hour. Adrenaline is pumped into his legs, which is then furthered by both his extremely strong muscles and his iron-tech boots which aid in his running to give extra strength to his legs and calves.

• Locomotive Mode; When in a pinch, as a last resort John can activate his "locomotive mode" by turning a dial on his shoulder strap. Once activated, his body is pumped with unreasonably excessive amounts of super 'roids and adrenaline, leading to the side effect that his eyes begin to burn a ferocious orange. He is measurably stronger, being able to run clean through buildings, no sweat, and lift 100+ tons of weight. He is capable of reaching speeds of a locomotive train (65 MPH), hence the name. Due to the sheer amounts of adrenaline and steroids consumed by this mode, it is not sustainable for more than 10 minutes, and as a result, it leaves John dazed and weakened, possibly even unconscious. Thus, it is only used as a last ditch effort when John's back is to the wall.

Attributes:

Strength Level: 70-75 Metric Tons
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: 40 Miles Per Hour
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: 3 Hours
Character's Agility: Normal
Intelligence: Average
Fighting Skill: Trained

Resources: High, he is the owner of Eden Railways, the largest train company in New Jersey, and as a result is rife with money, transportation, and influence.

Weaknesses: For one, without his suit, John is not nearly as strong as he was. Whilst yes, he is at peak human strength without it, he is not capable of the colossal feats and gargantuan objects he can lift whilst wearing his suit. As well as this, one could possibly target his suit and pack in an attempt to debilitate his strength (although it would take finesse and proper timing to actually cut his tubings \ pack). In the same school of thought, one could activate the Locomotive Mode on his chest strap against his will -- which although would give him a boost for a few minutes, they would be able to take care of him when he is suffering from the after effects of the mode. TL;DR -- John is too reliant on his suit.

Supporting Characters:
Henry Eden // His father, who has since deceased, and left his train company to John in his will.
Tabitha Eden // John's mother, married to Henry Eden, who has tragically passed long ago to sickness

---

Sample Post:

John stood outside the brick wall of the building, in a dark alleyway, the concoction of steroids and adrenaline pulsing through every vein and every capillary in his body. The building had a rusted sign above it, which stood proud amidst the midnight sky, big block stencil letters reading, "JOE'S MEATPACKING." Henry knew it to be a front, the reality of which was that this building was a Mexican cartel hotbed -- he had followed one of their members earlier that day, as hard as it had been not to stop the grimy scoundrel where he stood and pound him to a bloody pulp, to hit him again, and again, and again, and again, and agai -- John quickly shook his head, to clear his conscience.

"You can't be letting that stuff get in your head," he muttered to himself, trying to dismiss the angry feelings he knew the steroids would bring on. It had been something he was working on, but it did not show any signs of subsiding.

John turned his attention back to the task at hand, pressing his ear to the brick wall. He heard the faint sound of music, barely penetrating the nigh impregnable thickness of the brick wall. He backed up, a few paces away from the wall, set his feet in preparation for what he was about to do. He raised his shield high, and charge directly into the brick wall, sending shards of brick flying and dust and mortar dust sailing as he broke clean through the wall and into the meat packing plant.

A disco ball was glistening about what had become a dancefloor, and rave music was screaming throughout the warehouse. The place reeked of alcohol, and towards the back of the room, John could make out what seemed to be quite a few kilos of cocaine. As he crashed through the brick wall, countless cartel members looked towards him stunned, frozen in disbelief.

"Sweet," he mumbled under his breath, and almost as if in response, the room erupted into complete and total chaos.

Cartel members, left and right, began grabbing whatever weapons they could find, whilst simultaneously yelling things in Spanish that John could not quite comprehend. Quickly, gang members began firing their sidearms at him, and in response, John lifted his shield high to deflect the bullets. He could really feel the adrenaline pumping through his blood now, and he was thankful that he had it to aid him in deflecting the bullets. He distinctly remembered a bullet ricochet off of his shield and pierce an attacker in his foot, leaving him down on the ground in agony. John deflected a bullet into one cartel member's leg, and another one into another attacker's shoulder, which gave him a little more room to work with. He lunged at a cartel member with his right arm, whilst simultaneously shielding his face from a hail of bullets with his left, shield holding, arm. He gripped the cartel member and violently threw him into the wall, leaving a head shaped valley in the wall, with his frustration clearly building.

He punched another cartel member in his gut, leaving him out for the count. He turned to the three remaining cartel members, all the while blocking their bullets. They crouched behind leaned over couches and tables, firing at him. John raised his shield high, and approached them ever so slowly, deflecting their bullets with his brass shield one at a time. As he approached the table they sat behind, they began to try and run away, clearly horrified by his brutish strength. He quickly bashed one over the head with his heavy shield, whilst grabbing another one by the arm and twisting it back wards. He managed to break the man's arm, however he was careful not to exert too much strength, and accidentally rip the entire arm off. He turned to the last one, who now simply dropped his weapons and was on his knees begging for mercy.

As he looked down upon this criminal, hate and loathing surged through his body, and anger quashed any hopes for mercy. His head began swimming in red as he thought of all that this criminal had done, and gotten away with; this gang was responsible for countless rapes and robberies in the neighborhood. He socked the man square in the nose, and blood began gushing out of it. He saw red as he began to beat the man, hitting him again, and again, and again, and again, and aga--

"-- STOP!" he yelled to himself, and the unconscious man who lay at his feet. He panted desperately, realizing that he had let the steroids' emotions get the better of him once more. This was becoming a real problem.

As he began walking out of the hole in the wall that he created just five minutes earlier, a voice croaked from one of the men he had taken out earlier, who lay still on the ground. If John remembered correctly, it was the man who had gotten one of his bullets deflected into his foot.

"Who are you...?" the man weakly croaked.

"The Locomotive. And don't you forget that name," he said, before briskly walking off.

The ship's mast-head, a great, snarling golden lion, rolled through the waves, with the hull of the ship cutting the ocean's currents, skiffs rolling off of it. Sir Duncan Goldenheir stood at the bow of the ship, his squire Alistair at his side, gazing off into the distance at the once inscrutable land mass that was beginning to crystallize and clarify itself as it drew closer into the ship's view. The Tower of Oculus' smooth marble was becoming perfectly visible by now, and it's unparalleled height was unmistakable, even at this distance. The Tower of Oculus' grandeur, to Duncan, was unmatched in all of Aerion, and he believed that no man could have ever created such a display of power. He believed it was some divine show of force, one that the people of the lands had long forgotten who had delivered it, and could not fathom the possibility that any man had created such an obelisk.

"By the Great Lord Andal..." Sir Duncan muttered to himself, in awe of the Tower.

"I've always heard the stories of it, but to see it, with my own two eyes..." said Alistair, trailing off in thought, "... Well, to actually see it, that's an entirely different thing."

Sir Duncan nodded in concordance, his eyes roving all the way up the pillar, trying desperately to see where it ended, but to no avail.

"Sir Duncan?"

"Yes, Alistair."

"Be careful," Alistair said, his eyes filled with all the naivety and compassion that Sir Duncan remembered from his own youth, "You know, when you're in there with them. I shudder to think about what sort of sorcerery lies within such a structure."

Sir Duncan gave the boy a smile of understanding. He liked Alistair, he was a good lad, one that reminded him of himself—always concerned with the wellbeing of others. It was for this reason Sir Duncan had chosen to squire the boy, even though others had shown much more potential with the sword than Alistair. Alistair had a big heart, and Sir Duncan had taken to liking him over the boy's cohorts for this reason.

"Not to worry lad. The Monks of Ekilore are some of the most esteemed that Aerion has ever seen. They are noble in their own way, always looking out for the good of the realm. Besides," he continued, giving him a reassuring smile, "I've got the Great Lord Andal as my guide."

---

The path up the tower had been breathtaking. Sir Duncan had heard tales of the view from the Tower of Occulus, but seeing it... as Alistair had put it, was an entirely different thing. The sunlight glittered through its great glass panes, and the sea that surrounded them and its' waves raged on, like a torturous beauty. He stood in the company of two others, one who he recognized as Sir Roland Grey, and the other whomst he did not yet know. Sir Roland, if he was not mistaken, was a member of the Lionsguard and he had heard much of his deeds, or rather his boasting of his deeds. It was one of the worst kept secrets in the realm that Sir Roland was a man whose ego eclipsed all others, but Sir Duncan was not one to let the talk of others sully a man's reputation before he even met him.

"Greetings, friends. I am Sir Duncan Goldenheir, Knight of the Knights of Andal, Andal's Chosen. May Andal's Blessings be upon the both of you," he said, using his usual customary greeting. He turned to Sir Roland, "Ah, Sir Roland. I have heard much of your bravery in the Lionsguard. I trust you are doing well."