<Snipped quote by AndyC>
You can borrow my brain if you want I got a bunch of ideas.
But then you also develop sudden Scottishness
Don't they make an ointment for that?
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[OOC] Ultimate One Universe: Emergence Page 10
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AndyC Guardian of the Universe
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10 hrs ago
Don't they make an ointment for that?
coGM
<Snipped quote by Sep>
Don't they make an ointment for that?
Fake tan just makes it look better
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Master Bruce Winged Freak
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5 hrs ago
Be sure to transfer your applications over to the Character tab. Don't be a @Hillan about it.
Supermaxx dumbass
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1 day ago
oh, Hillan's in this?
AndyC Guardian of the Universe
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10 hrs ago
So, y'know how I said I wasn't going to post a second character application until inspiration struck me?
Well....
Well....
But first, a little mood music.....
Stiletta's Bar
Outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
"Get the fuck outta here, ugly," the bartender scowled at the stranger in a long black coat and wide hat who stepped through the front door, drawing the eyes of some twenty or so men. "This here establishment's private property."
The air stank of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, and buzzy, blown-out speakers blared noise that some people called rock music. On a stage toward the back wall, a young lady wearing next to nothing listlessly gyrated, going through the opening acts of a degrading routine she had done a hundred times before.
Stiletta's was a dive bar of the worst kind, once a so-called gentleman's club where lonely and frustrated men could spend a few dollars to have some pretty young thing show some skin and make them forget about their problems for a while. When business began drying up, a crowd of even more unsavory souls had moved into town and claimed Stiletta's as their own.
They called themselves the Road Reapers, a gang of bikers who controlled the stretch of interstate between Albuquerque and El Paso. They were a small outfit compared to most clubs, but the Reapers were known for being especially vicious, using their connections with the southern cartels to run drugs, guns, and people across the border. They had a number of hangouts along their route, and Stiletta's had become a favorite.
"Just here fer a drink," the man said, looking up from under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, giving the bartender a view of how truly hideous his face was, "An' fer a fella by the name a' Falcon Fleischer."
The two dozen bikers inside stared cold death at the stranger. A few even drew their guns on him. He looked back and forth, one good eye in a half-squint, the other lidless one staring wildly.
"Best not do anythin' stupid, boys," he warned them as he approached the bar, several of the bikers moving in behind him like predators circling their prey. "Ah ain't here fer any a' you...not yet, leastaways. Ah'm only here to see this Falcon fella."
"Right here, ugly," called out a man from the pool table in the far corner. The old man was powerfully built, his skin nut-brown and weathered from exposure to the sun and the open road, and covered in tattoos depicting salacious acts and blasphemous symbols. His long white beard was the only hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, his eyes covered by a paid of mirrored sunglasses. Over his bare chest and back he wore a leather vest, on the shoulders of which he'd sewn in patches that looked like the talons of a bird of prey-- a falcon, the stranger reckoned. "Whatever it is you've got to say, you've got about ten seconds to say it 'fore my boys blow your fuckin' head off."
"Jess had one question fer ya 'fore you do that," he said, glancing to the dancer on the stage. As he turned, his long black duster shifted, showing the pistol on his hip. "That little thing up there...she even old enough to be dancin' like that?"
One of the Reapers had approached the stranger from behind, gun drawn, and fired point-blank. The bikers expected a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, then they'd cut the man up and feed his remains to the dogs. Wouldn't have been the first person to walk into Stiletta's and not come out.
Instead, when the man's head cracked open, flames spewed out. The bar began to smell heavy with the stench of brimstone, as from the center of the blaze, the stranger's skull spoke.
"That's what I thought," the stranger said as his pistols came up.
The music swelled, and Stiletta's bar filled with screams.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
G H O S T R I D E R
"Time fer you to bite the ground."
Jonah Hex ♦ Bounty Hunter from Hell ♦ Chihuahuan Desert, USA / Mexico
O R I G I N S:
There's a popular ghost story that makes the rounds in the stretches of desert between Fort Worth and Phoenix, as far north as Santa Fe and as far south as Durango. The story's about an old gunfighter by the name of Jonah, a man so ugly that the half of his face that was burned off by the Apaches was considered his 'pretty' side. A man so ornery that even cultists and child-killers called him a monster. A man that some folks say sold his soul to the Devil himself so his guns would never miss. The truth is, Jonah Hex's soul belonged to the Devil from the day he came into this world.
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah never got his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah never got his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....
S A M P L E P O S T:
Stiletta's Bar
Outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
"Get the fuck outta here, ugly," the bartender scowled at the stranger in a long black coat and wide hat who stepped through the front door, drawing the eyes of some twenty or so men. "This here establishment's private property."
The air stank of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, and buzzy, blown-out speakers blared noise that some people called rock music. On a stage toward the back wall, a young lady wearing next to nothing listlessly gyrated, going through the opening acts of a degrading routine she had done a hundred times before.
Stiletta's was a dive bar of the worst kind, once a so-called gentleman's club where lonely and frustrated men could spend a few dollars to have some pretty young thing show some skin and make them forget about their problems for a while. When business began drying up, a crowd of even more unsavory souls had moved into town and claimed Stiletta's as their own.
They called themselves the Road Reapers, a gang of bikers who controlled the stretch of interstate between Albuquerque and El Paso. They were a small outfit compared to most clubs, but the Reapers were known for being especially vicious, using their connections with the southern cartels to run drugs, guns, and people across the border. They had a number of hangouts along their route, and Stiletta's had become a favorite.
"Just here fer a drink," the man said, looking up from under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, giving the bartender a view of how truly hideous his face was, "An' fer a fella by the name a' Falcon Fleischer."
The two dozen bikers inside stared cold death at the stranger. A few even drew their guns on him. He looked back and forth, one good eye in a half-squint, the other lidless one staring wildly.
"Best not do anythin' stupid, boys," he warned them as he approached the bar, several of the bikers moving in behind him like predators circling their prey. "Ah ain't here fer any a' you...not yet, leastaways. Ah'm only here to see this Falcon fella."
"Right here, ugly," called out a man from the pool table in the far corner. The old man was powerfully built, his skin nut-brown and weathered from exposure to the sun and the open road, and covered in tattoos depicting salacious acts and blasphemous symbols. His long white beard was the only hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, his eyes covered by a paid of mirrored sunglasses. Over his bare chest and back he wore a leather vest, on the shoulders of which he'd sewn in patches that looked like the talons of a bird of prey-- a falcon, the stranger reckoned. "Whatever it is you've got to say, you've got about ten seconds to say it 'fore my boys blow your fuckin' head off."
"Jess had one question fer ya 'fore you do that," he said, glancing to the dancer on the stage. As he turned, his long black duster shifted, showing the pistol on his hip. "That little thing up there...she even old enough to be dancin' like that?"
*BLAM!*
One of the Reapers had approached the stranger from behind, gun drawn, and fired point-blank. The bikers expected a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, then they'd cut the man up and feed his remains to the dogs. Wouldn't have been the first person to walk into Stiletta's and not come out.
Instead, when the man's head cracked open, flames spewed out. The bar began to smell heavy with the stench of brimstone, as from the center of the blaze, the stranger's skull spoke.
"That's what I thought," the stranger said as his pistols came up.
The music swelled, and Stiletta's bar filled with screams.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
Coming soon.
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Byrd Man El Hombre Pájaro
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It’s a masterpiece
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Simple Unicycle ?
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2 days ago
So, y'know how I said I wasn't going to post a second character application until inspiration struck me?
Well....But first, a little mood music.....C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A LG H O S T R I D E R"Time fer you to bite the ground."Jonah Hex ♦ Bounty Hunter from Hell ♦ Chihuahuan Desert, USA / MexicoO R I G I N S:There's a popular ghost story that makes the rounds in the stretches of desert between Fort Worth and Phoenix, as far north as Santa Fe and as far south as Durango. The story's about an old gunfighter by the name of Jonah, a man so ugly that the half of his face that was burned off by the Apaches was considered his 'pretty' side. A man so ornery that even cultists and child-killers called him a monster. A man that some folks say sold his soul to the Devil himself so his guns would never miss. The truth is, Jonah Hex's soul belonged to the Devil from the day he came into this world.
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah got never his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....S A M P L E P O S T:
Stiletta's Bar
Outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
"Get the fuck outta here, ugly," the bartender scowled at the stranger in a long black coat and wide hat who stepped through the front door, drawing the eyes of some twenty or so men. "This here establishment's private property."
The air stank of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, and buzzy, blown-out speakers blared noise that some people called rock music. On a stage toward the back wall, a young lady wearing next to nothing listlessly gyrated, going through the opening acts of a degrading routine she had done a hundred times before.
Stiletta's was a dive bar of the worst kind, once a so-called gentleman's club where lonely and frustrated men could spend a few dollars to have some pretty young thing show some skin and make them forget about their problems for a while. When business began drying up, a crowd of even more unsavory souls had moved into town and claimed Stiletta's as their own.
They called themselves the Road Reapers, a gang of bikers who controlled the stretch of interstate between Albuquerque and El Paso. They were a small outfit compared to most clubs, but the Reapers were known for being especially vicious, using their connections with the southern cartels to run drugs, guns, and people across the border. They had a number of hangouts along their route, and Stiletta's had become a favorite.
"Just here fer a drink," the man said, looking up from under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, giving the bartender a view of how truly hideous his face was, "An' fer a fella by the name a' Falcon Fleischer."
The two dozen bikers inside stared cold death at the stranger. A few even drew their guns on him. He looked back and forth, one good eye in a half-squint, the other lidless one staring wildly.
"Best not do anythin' stupid, boys," he warned them as he approached the bar, several of the bikers moving in behind him like predators circling their prey. "Ah ain't here fer any a' you...not yet, leastaways. Ah'm only here to see this Falcon fella."
"Right here, ugly," called out a man from the pool table in the far corner. The old man was powerfully built, his skin nut-brown and weathered from exposure to the sun and the open road, and covered in tattoos depicting salacious acts and blasphemous symbols. His long white beard was the only hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, his eyes covered by a paid of mirrored sunglasses. Over his bare chest and back he wore a leather vest, on the shoulders of which he'd sewn in patches that looked like the talons of a bird of prey-- a falcon, the stranger reckoned. "Whatever it is you've got to say, you've got about ten seconds to say it 'fore my boys blow your fuckin' head off."
"Jess had one question fer ya 'fore you do that," he said, glancing to the dancer on the stage. As he turned, his long black duster shifted, showing the pistol on his hip. "That little thing up there...she even old enough to be dancin' like that?"*BLAM!*
One of the Reapers had approached the stranger from behind, gun drawn, and fired point-blank. The bikers expected a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, then they'd cut the man up and feed his remains to the dogs. Wouldn't have been the first person to walk into Stiletta's and not come out.
Instead, when the man's head cracked open, flames spewed out. The bar began to smell heavy with the stench of brimstone, as from the center of the blaze, the stranger's skull spoke.
"That's what I thought," the stranger said as his pistols came up.
The music swelled, and Stiletta's bar filled with screams.P O S T C A T A L O G:Coming soon.
GM
Master Bruce Winged Freak
Member
Seen
5 hrs ago
So, y'know how I said I wasn't going to post a second character application until inspiration struck me?
Well....But first, a little mood music.....C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A LG H O S T R I D E R"Time fer you to bite the ground."Jonah Hex ♦ Bounty Hunter from Hell ♦ Chihuahuan Desert, USA / MexicoO R I G I N S:There's a popular ghost story that makes the rounds in the stretches of desert between Fort Worth and Phoenix, as far north as Santa Fe and as far south as Durango. The story's about an old gunfighter by the name of Jonah, a man so ugly that the half of his face that was burned off by the Apaches was considered his 'pretty' side. A man so ornery that even cultists and child-killers called him a monster. A man that some folks say sold his soul to the Devil himself so his guns would never miss. The truth is, Jonah Hex's soul belonged to the Devil from the day he came into this world.
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah got never his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....S A M P L E P O S T:
Stiletta's Bar
Outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
"Get the fuck outta here, ugly," the bartender scowled at the stranger in a long black coat and wide hat who stepped through the front door, drawing the eyes of some twenty or so men. "This here establishment's private property."
The air stank of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, and buzzy, blown-out speakers blared noise that some people called rock music. On a stage toward the back wall, a young lady wearing next to nothing listlessly gyrated, going through the opening acts of a degrading routine she had done a hundred times before.
Stiletta's was a dive bar of the worst kind, once a so-called gentleman's club where lonely and frustrated men could spend a few dollars to have some pretty young thing show some skin and make them forget about their problems for a while. When business began drying up, a crowd of even more unsavory souls had moved into town and claimed Stiletta's as their own.
They called themselves the Road Reapers, a gang of bikers who controlled the stretch of interstate between Albuquerque and El Paso. They were a small outfit compared to most clubs, but the Reapers were known for being especially vicious, using their connections with the southern cartels to run drugs, guns, and people across the border. They had a number of hangouts along their route, and Stiletta's had become a favorite.
"Just here fer a drink," the man said, looking up from under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, giving the bartender a view of how truly hideous his face was, "An' fer a fella by the name a' Falcon Fleischer."
The two dozen bikers inside stared cold death at the stranger. A few even drew their guns on him. He looked back and forth, one good eye in a half-squint, the other lidless one staring wildly.
"Best not do anythin' stupid, boys," he warned them as he approached the bar, several of the bikers moving in behind him like predators circling their prey. "Ah ain't here fer any a' you...not yet, leastaways. Ah'm only here to see this Falcon fella."
"Right here, ugly," called out a man from the pool table in the far corner. The old man was powerfully built, his skin nut-brown and weathered from exposure to the sun and the open road, and covered in tattoos depicting salacious acts and blasphemous symbols. His long white beard was the only hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, his eyes covered by a paid of mirrored sunglasses. Over his bare chest and back he wore a leather vest, on the shoulders of which he'd sewn in patches that looked like the talons of a bird of prey-- a falcon, the stranger reckoned. "Whatever it is you've got to say, you've got about ten seconds to say it 'fore my boys blow your fuckin' head off."
"Jess had one question fer ya 'fore you do that," he said, glancing to the dancer on the stage. As he turned, his long black duster shifted, showing the pistol on his hip. "That little thing up there...she even old enough to be dancin' like that?"*BLAM!*
One of the Reapers had approached the stranger from behind, gun drawn, and fired point-blank. The bikers expected a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, then they'd cut the man up and feed his remains to the dogs. Wouldn't have been the first person to walk into Stiletta's and not come out.
Instead, when the man's head cracked open, flames spewed out. The bar began to smell heavy with the stench of brimstone, as from the center of the blaze, the stranger's skull spoke.
"That's what I thought," the stranger said as his pistols came up.
The music swelled, and Stiletta's bar filled with screams.P O S T C A T A L O G:Coming soon.
I couldn't decide on one, so... you get the damn page.
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
Member
Seen
21 min ago
So, y'know how I said I wasn't going to post a second character application until inspiration struck me?
Well....But first, a little mood music.....C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A LG H O S T R I D E R"Time fer you to bite the ground."Jonah Hex ♦ Bounty Hunter from Hell ♦ Chihuahuan Desert, USA / MexicoO R I G I N S:There's a popular ghost story that makes the rounds in the stretches of desert between Fort Worth and Phoenix, as far north as Santa Fe and as far south as Durango. The story's about an old gunfighter by the name of Jonah, a man so ugly that the half of his face that was burned off by the Apaches was considered his 'pretty' side. A man so ornery that even cultists and child-killers called him a monster. A man that some folks say sold his soul to the Devil himself so his guns would never miss. The truth is, Jonah Hex's soul belonged to the Devil from the day he came into this world.
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah never got his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....S A M P L E P O S T:
Stiletta's Bar
Outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
"Get the fuck outta here, ugly," the bartender scowled at the stranger in a long black coat and wide hat who stepped through the front door, drawing the eyes of some twenty or so men. "This here establishment's private property."
The air stank of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, and buzzy, blown-out speakers blared noise that some people called rock music. On a stage toward the back wall, a young lady wearing next to nothing listlessly gyrated, going through the opening acts of a degrading routine she had done a hundred times before.
Stiletta's was a dive bar of the worst kind, once a so-called gentleman's club where lonely and frustrated men could spend a few dollars to have some pretty young thing show some skin and make them forget about their problems for a while. When business began drying up, a crowd of even more unsavory souls had moved into town and claimed Stiletta's as their own.
They called themselves the Road Reapers, a gang of bikers who controlled the stretch of interstate between Albuquerque and El Paso. They were a small outfit compared to most clubs, but the Reapers were known for being especially vicious, using their connections with the southern cartels to run drugs, guns, and people across the border. They had a number of hangouts along their route, and Stiletta's had become a favorite.
"Just here fer a drink," the man said, looking up from under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, giving the bartender a view of how truly hideous his face was, "An' fer a fella by the name a' Falcon Fleischer."
The two dozen bikers inside stared cold death at the stranger. A few even drew their guns on him. He looked back and forth, one good eye in a half-squint, the other lidless one staring wildly.
"Best not do anythin' stupid, boys," he warned them as he approached the bar, several of the bikers moving in behind him like predators circling their prey. "Ah ain't here fer any a' you...not yet, leastaways. Ah'm only here to see this Falcon fella."
"Right here, ugly," called out a man from the pool table in the far corner. The old man was powerfully built, his skin nut-brown and weathered from exposure to the sun and the open road, and covered in tattoos depicting salacious acts and blasphemous symbols. His long white beard was the only hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, his eyes covered by a paid of mirrored sunglasses. Over his bare chest and back he wore a leather vest, on the shoulders of which he'd sewn in patches that looked like the talons of a bird of prey-- a falcon, the stranger reckoned. "Whatever it is you've got to say, you've got about ten seconds to say it 'fore my boys blow your fuckin' head off."
"Jess had one question fer ya 'fore you do that," he said, glancing to the dancer on the stage. As he turned, his long black duster shifted, showing the pistol on his hip. "That little thing up there...she even old enough to be dancin' like that?"*BLAM!*
One of the Reapers had approached the stranger from behind, gun drawn, and fired point-blank. The bikers expected a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, then they'd cut the man up and feed his remains to the dogs. Wouldn't have been the first person to walk into Stiletta's and not come out.
Instead, when the man's head cracked open, flames spewed out. The bar began to smell heavy with the stench of brimstone, as from the center of the blaze, the stranger's skull spoke.
"That's what I thought," the stranger said as his pistols came up.
The music swelled, and Stiletta's bar filled with screams.P O S T C A T A L O G:Coming soon.
2x Like
coGM
There's a popular ghost story that makes the rounds in the stretches of desert between Fort Worth and Phoenix, as far north as Santa Fe and as far south as Durango. The story's about an old gunfighter by the name of Jonah, a man so ugly that the half of his face that was burned off by the Apaches was considered his 'pretty' side. A man so ornery that even cultists and child-killers called him a monster. A man that some folks say sold his soul to the Devil himself so his guns would never miss. The truth is, Jonah Hex's soul belonged to the Devil from the day he came into this world.
Born to a mother who died giving birth, raised by a drunken bastard with a black heart, sold to the Apaches for whiskey and used as a slave, then riding as a butchering marauder for the Confederates, Jonah's life was one that only knew suffering and sin, taking his share of hurt and learning how to deal some in return. It wasn't until his officers ordered him to burn a church filled with unarmed townsfolk that he'd felt any kind of shame or remorse for what he'd done, and Hex deserted in the wake of the massacre. He prayed for any kind of redemption, anything to clean the stains from his soul, and while Jonah never got his answer from on high, he got one from down below....
The stories say Jonah Hex made a deal with the Devil (or someone on the Devil's dime), to find souls in the world more wretched than his own and drag them down to Hell in order to pay off his debts and earn his salvation. They say he became the Ghost Rider, a spirit of vengeance, a bounty hunter of the damned, doomed forever to ride the length and breadth of the desert to burn away the wicked. And some folks say that for near on 160 years, a string of killings along the Rio Grande have all had a few interesting features in common: a smell of sulfur in the air, bullet holes without bullets, and tracks that look like horseshoes burned into the ground. Some say the wayward soul of Jonah Hex still rides across the West, carrying out his fool's errand, trying to kill his way to Heaven....
My brain read that all in the voice off Sam Elliot.
@SuperMaxx you have been usurped as my favourite sheet.
Honestly Andy really solid sheet, and if you end up dropping him so you can focus on wolverine... You're wrong.
1x Like
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
![]()
S Q U I R R E L G I R L
"Surprise! I like talking to squirrels!"
D O R E E N G R E E N ♦ P E N D I N G ♦ M A N H A T T A N , N E W Y O R K
O R I G I N S:
In a world full of caped crusaders just stepping out into the light, it's nice to have fledglings even among the fledglings, and that's where the "Unbeatable" Squirrel Girl squirrels her way in. While I'll be playing her a bit more straight than her proper iteration (not so unbeatable, and not so...Occasionally meta), it's still the Squirrel Girl we all know and love. A goofy, fun-loving gal who doesn't entirely take things seriously, but always has her heart in the right place. Her backstory will be kept mostly the same as well, with her origins as a mystery mutate (though I might tackle this more later) that never really grew up with problems involving her gift, with just two big differences. Firstly is that she starts her heroics much later in her lifetime, and more importantly, we're picking up with her as a high schooler; junior year. For absolutely not spider-related reasons.
Of course, beyond the intent of having her bounce off other heroes who are more veteran and professional, I also plan to show off just how much of a goof she can really be, especially this new into the superhero-ing stuff. She's fresh off the proverbial presses and fumbling around like a blind chipmunk, but that means we'll see her slowly develop into a truly Unbeatable Squirrel Girl.
....Slowly.
Of course, beyond the intent of having her bounce off other heroes who are more veteran and professional, I also plan to show off just how much of a goof she can really be, especially this new into the superhero-ing stuff. She's fresh off the proverbial presses and fumbling around like a blind chipmunk, but that means we'll see her slowly develop into a truly Unbeatable Squirrel Girl.
....Slowly.
S A M P L E P O S T:
"Doreen, how have you not had your secret identity busted?"
"Easy! Because Squirrel Girl has a tail and I don't. I just have a conspicuously big and awesome butt."
It was another day for Doreen Green. She was getting ready to go to school; another day of learning, like any other. After it, maybe she'd go and pick up some more nuts from a corner store. Probably spend some time in Central Park feeding the squirrels. Or, well...That's how she used to spend her time outside of school. Getting dressed, she couldn't help but side-eye her costume hanging ever-so-conspicuously in her closet. That fur-lined bomber jacket, complete with a utility belt...That was full of nuts. Her mom actually made it for her; she couldn't have hid this side of her even if she had wanted to. Her parents had been well aware of what she was since the beginning, given that she came out as a baby with a bushy little squirrel tail. They'd protected her their whole lives, helping to keep her gift safe. She couldn't help but smile thinking about it. It was a nice change of pace for her to protect someone instead. They were super supportive of her, too...Which, well, was pretty obvious when her own mom made a superhero outfit.
"Still, couldn't you wear...A helmet? Domino mask? Something?"
The one questioning Ms. Green was none other than a squirrel themselves, with fine silvery hair and a pretty bow tied around their neck. To anyone else, it was mindless chittering, but for Doreen, it was perfectly legible...If not a little antagonistic. Doreen pouted into the mirror as she stuffed herself into a set of pants, squeezing her massive tail to form her aforementioned 'conspicuously awesome butt'. "Tippy-Toe, it'll be fine! Even if Doreen Green and Squirrel Girl look the same, the tail's the giveaway. No one'd ever guess it was me!" She was confident in her rather poor disguise, though admittedly, she'd been given at least a bit of a reason to think so. It'd held together this long. Plus... "Aaand there's the headband, too! But no one knows it's a headband; all the news and stuff thinks I actually have squirrel ears, which would be awesome," She says, as if to assuage her dear squirrelfriend that the lack of such a feature wasn't something she was pleased about. "but it makes it even more foolproof! What's Doreen Green not have? Squirrel tail, squirrel ears. Simple as that!"
Tippy-Toe seemed wholly unconvinced, but had given up on trying to convince the persistently optimistic young girl. "Alright, if you say so. But I will say I told you so when someone finds out." "Pfft!" Doreen couldn't help the noise that escaped her mouth. "You won't need to! It's foolproof. No tail, no ears, no Squirrel Girl. Though honestly, if anyone paid any real attention, the teeth'd be the giveaway..." She inspected her mouth in the mirrors, dragging it open to a near comically-large extent, showing off her rather incisor-like two front teeth. They even worked like the real deals, too, always growing and growing...It was a lot easier when they used to be able to shorten themselves on wood, but nowadays, her teeth were even punching through steel. Maybe if they got a wheelsaw or something...?
Her impromptu molar inspection was cut short by a pinging noise at her bedside, to which her tail casually slipped its way free from the confines of her pants and scooped up her cellphone. Almost immediately, her rodent friend called it out. "Doreen. Tail." Doreen blinked a few times before she realized what limb had exactly gotten her cell, and she sheepishly scratched the back of her head. "Oh. Oops! Lemme just, uh..." It was another herculean feat from her to shove the rambunctious third arm of hers back into her bottom, but once it was done, she was free to check what the sound had been about. It was a message from Nancy Whitehead. They'd only met recently in her Computer Science classes, but they'd hit it off pretty well, she'd thought. Definitely considered her a friend. Smiling, she opened the text to something that instantly caused her to take a sharp breath through her teeth.
"Are you Squirrel Girl?"
Tippy-Toe, seeing the shell-shocked expression that hit Doreen's face, hopped onto her shoulders to get a better view, and didn't hesitate to speak her mind. "Told you so."
"....Aw, nuts."
"Easy! Because Squirrel Girl has a tail and I don't. I just have a conspicuously big and awesome butt."
It was another day for Doreen Green. She was getting ready to go to school; another day of learning, like any other. After it, maybe she'd go and pick up some more nuts from a corner store. Probably spend some time in Central Park feeding the squirrels. Or, well...That's how she used to spend her time outside of school. Getting dressed, she couldn't help but side-eye her costume hanging ever-so-conspicuously in her closet. That fur-lined bomber jacket, complete with a utility belt...That was full of nuts. Her mom actually made it for her; she couldn't have hid this side of her even if she had wanted to. Her parents had been well aware of what she was since the beginning, given that she came out as a baby with a bushy little squirrel tail. They'd protected her their whole lives, helping to keep her gift safe. She couldn't help but smile thinking about it. It was a nice change of pace for her to protect someone instead. They were super supportive of her, too...Which, well, was pretty obvious when her own mom made a superhero outfit.
"Still, couldn't you wear...A helmet? Domino mask? Something?"
The one questioning Ms. Green was none other than a squirrel themselves, with fine silvery hair and a pretty bow tied around their neck. To anyone else, it was mindless chittering, but for Doreen, it was perfectly legible...If not a little antagonistic. Doreen pouted into the mirror as she stuffed herself into a set of pants, squeezing her massive tail to form her aforementioned 'conspicuously awesome butt'. "Tippy-Toe, it'll be fine! Even if Doreen Green and Squirrel Girl look the same, the tail's the giveaway. No one'd ever guess it was me!" She was confident in her rather poor disguise, though admittedly, she'd been given at least a bit of a reason to think so. It'd held together this long. Plus... "Aaand there's the headband, too! But no one knows it's a headband; all the news and stuff thinks I actually have squirrel ears, which would be awesome," She says, as if to assuage her dear squirrelfriend that the lack of such a feature wasn't something she was pleased about. "but it makes it even more foolproof! What's Doreen Green not have? Squirrel tail, squirrel ears. Simple as that!"
Tippy-Toe seemed wholly unconvinced, but had given up on trying to convince the persistently optimistic young girl. "Alright, if you say so. But I will say I told you so when someone finds out." "Pfft!" Doreen couldn't help the noise that escaped her mouth. "You won't need to! It's foolproof. No tail, no ears, no Squirrel Girl. Though honestly, if anyone paid any real attention, the teeth'd be the giveaway..." She inspected her mouth in the mirrors, dragging it open to a near comically-large extent, showing off her rather incisor-like two front teeth. They even worked like the real deals, too, always growing and growing...It was a lot easier when they used to be able to shorten themselves on wood, but nowadays, her teeth were even punching through steel. Maybe if they got a wheelsaw or something...?
Her impromptu molar inspection was cut short by a pinging noise at her bedside, to which her tail casually slipped its way free from the confines of her pants and scooped up her cellphone. Almost immediately, her rodent friend called it out. "Doreen. Tail." Doreen blinked a few times before she realized what limb had exactly gotten her cell, and she sheepishly scratched the back of her head. "Oh. Oops! Lemme just, uh..." It was another herculean feat from her to shove the rambunctious third arm of hers back into her bottom, but once it was done, she was free to check what the sound had been about. It was a message from Nancy Whitehead. They'd only met recently in her Computer Science classes, but they'd hit it off pretty well, she'd thought. Definitely considered her a friend. Smiling, she opened the text to something that instantly caused her to take a sharp breath through her teeth.
"Are you Squirrel Girl?"
Tippy-Toe, seeing the shell-shocked expression that hit Doreen's face, hopped onto her shoulders to get a better view, and didn't hesitate to speak her mind. "Told you so."
"....Aw, nuts."
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
coGM
@Sep
I'm glad someone can appreciate my comedic genius...And Doreen's conspicuously large and awesome butt.
I'm glad someone can appreciate my comedic genius...And Doreen's conspicuously large and awesome butt.
coGM
@Sep
I'm glad someone can appreciate my comedic genius...And Doreen's conspicuously large and awesome butt.
I mean she's a teenager so I shan't comment on her butt, but yeah we'll definitely need a girl power team up in future
Simple Unicycle ?
Member
Seen
2 days ago
With the approval of our esteemed GM team, I've decided to rework my Question concept in order to continue telling a story I wanted to tell like three games ago. Here's the revised character sheet.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E Q U E S T I O N
"My face? Looked too far into a bowling ball returner."
C H A R L E S V I C T O R S Z A S Z ♦ J O U R N A L I S T ♦ H U B C I T Y , I L L I N O I S
O R I G I N S:
"What an asshole."
That was something a lot of people muttered under their breath after a close encounter with Vic Sage; "rough around the edges" was putting it lightly when it came to him. His whole life he's been fighting, maybe not for the right reasons in the eyes of many, but in his eyes he was always in the right. Fighting is what you have to do to survive in Hub City. The only good influences he had ever had were his mentor, former chemist Aristotle "Tot" Rodor, and his ex-girlfriend Myra Fermin, an up and coming politician. They tried their best to soften his sharp edges, but it seemed like nothing would ever dull Vic's aggressive persona.
Vic's rise to vigilantism was sparked by Tot, whose former colleague Arby Twain was trying to illegally sell one of their inventions: pseudoderm, an artificial skin designed to be used as a bandage. It would've been a miracle, were it not for the fact that the gas used to bond pseudoderm to the skin was toxic when exposed to open wounds, negating the entire point of it. Rodor designed a mask for Vic using the pseudoderm and had Vic topple Twain's operation, with Vic leaving Twain and his cronies bound in pseudoderm in their warehouse before calling in an anonymous tip to the police.
A week later, he submitted what would be his final article for the Hub City Gazette, a piece slamming Mayor Wesley Fermin as incompetent and corrupt and accusing him of having ties to the Gospel of Sinners, Hub City's own crime syndicate. The next day, he and Myra broke up. Three days later, he was fired. Blacklisted from every major news network in the city, Vic was hired by Sam Starr of Starrstruck Media Inc. specifically because of the article. Vic continued his vigilante activities, though there were no major arrests, much as he tried to expose the politicians and public figures embroiled in the Sinners' activities. It was two months into his career that he finally caught his big break: a meeting between Mayor Fermin and the head of the Sinners at the dockside warehouses on Hupert River. He donned his mask, buttoned up his winter coat, and set off into the night in the hopes that he would finally take Fermin down for good.
Vic Sage didn't show up for work the next day.
Seven months passed with no sightings of the faceless freak stalking Hub City's streets.
Until tonight.
That was something a lot of people muttered under their breath after a close encounter with Vic Sage; "rough around the edges" was putting it lightly when it came to him. His whole life he's been fighting, maybe not for the right reasons in the eyes of many, but in his eyes he was always in the right. Fighting is what you have to do to survive in Hub City. The only good influences he had ever had were his mentor, former chemist Aristotle "Tot" Rodor, and his ex-girlfriend Myra Fermin, an up and coming politician. They tried their best to soften his sharp edges, but it seemed like nothing would ever dull Vic's aggressive persona.
Vic's rise to vigilantism was sparked by Tot, whose former colleague Arby Twain was trying to illegally sell one of their inventions: pseudoderm, an artificial skin designed to be used as a bandage. It would've been a miracle, were it not for the fact that the gas used to bond pseudoderm to the skin was toxic when exposed to open wounds, negating the entire point of it. Rodor designed a mask for Vic using the pseudoderm and had Vic topple Twain's operation, with Vic leaving Twain and his cronies bound in pseudoderm in their warehouse before calling in an anonymous tip to the police.
A week later, he submitted what would be his final article for the Hub City Gazette, a piece slamming Mayor Wesley Fermin as incompetent and corrupt and accusing him of having ties to the Gospel of Sinners, Hub City's own crime syndicate. The next day, he and Myra broke up. Three days later, he was fired. Blacklisted from every major news network in the city, Vic was hired by Sam Starr of Starrstruck Media Inc. specifically because of the article. Vic continued his vigilante activities, though there were no major arrests, much as he tried to expose the politicians and public figures embroiled in the Sinners' activities. It was two months into his career that he finally caught his big break: a meeting between Mayor Fermin and the head of the Sinners at the dockside warehouses on Hupert River. He donned his mask, buttoned up his winter coat, and set off into the night in the hopes that he would finally take Fermin down for good.
Vic Sage didn't show up for work the next day.
Seven months passed with no sightings of the faceless freak stalking Hub City's streets.
Until tonight.
S A M P L E P O S T:
2:44 AM. The sky above is the color of a television tuned to a dead channel, grey clouds rolling in and thick drops of rain drenching the pavement. I hear the sound of footsteps behind me and turn away from the window to look at Tot, who sets two double shot glasses and a bottle of brandy down on the table between our chairs. He sits down in his chair and uncorks the bottle, pouring two shots.
"A drink," he says, lifting his glass. "To Twain and his cronies rotting in jail."
I lift mine as well. "To douchebags getting what they deserve." With that toast, we take our drinks and set the glasses back down on the table. I reach a hand into my coat pocket and pull out the rubbery mask that Tot had designed for me. "... Think I can keep this?" I ask.
"Of course. It'd serve as a nice memento."
A memento. That's all it'll be after tonight. Something to remind me that I did something important, and I'll never do that again. No. It won't just gather dust in a closet for the rest of my life. "Actually, Tot, I was thinking of using it some more."
"... What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Wear it and go out and beat up some bad guys. Like The Phantom or Green Hornet or something."
"... Are you sure that's wise? This wasn't the mob, Charlie, it was some scientists looking to make some quick money."
"Okay, so I don't start off going after the mob. I go after thieves and street gangs, start small."
"And take a bullet to the head for it?"
"At least I'd die doing something good."
"You'd die doing something stupid for the sake of your own ego."
I glare at Tot with a scoff. "And there it is. What, you think I helped you out because I wanted to feel cool?"
"Charlie, you helped me because you wanted to do something that mattered. And it did matter. But there are better ways to fight against injustice than throwing yourself right into a fight with it." Tot reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. "You'd just be getting yourself killed."
I shrug off his hand and stand from my chair. "Whatever you say, Tot. I'm going home."
He doesn't say a word as I walk out of the house and get into my car. The rain beats down upon the roof of the old Beetle, a rhythmic thumping that does nothing to soothe my frustration. I clench my eyes shut and take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I reach into my pocket to grab my keys when I feel the mask again, rubbing my thumb along its smooth surface.
Tonight won't be the last time.
"A drink," he says, lifting his glass. "To Twain and his cronies rotting in jail."
I lift mine as well. "To douchebags getting what they deserve." With that toast, we take our drinks and set the glasses back down on the table. I reach a hand into my coat pocket and pull out the rubbery mask that Tot had designed for me. "... Think I can keep this?" I ask.
"Of course. It'd serve as a nice memento."
A memento. That's all it'll be after tonight. Something to remind me that I did something important, and I'll never do that again. No. It won't just gather dust in a closet for the rest of my life. "Actually, Tot, I was thinking of using it some more."
"... What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Wear it and go out and beat up some bad guys. Like The Phantom or Green Hornet or something."
"... Are you sure that's wise? This wasn't the mob, Charlie, it was some scientists looking to make some quick money."
"Okay, so I don't start off going after the mob. I go after thieves and street gangs, start small."
"And take a bullet to the head for it?"
"At least I'd die doing something good."
"You'd die doing something stupid for the sake of your own ego."
I glare at Tot with a scoff. "And there it is. What, you think I helped you out because I wanted to feel cool?"
"Charlie, you helped me because you wanted to do something that mattered. And it did matter. But there are better ways to fight against injustice than throwing yourself right into a fight with it." Tot reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. "You'd just be getting yourself killed."
I shrug off his hand and stand from my chair. "Whatever you say, Tot. I'm going home."
He doesn't say a word as I walk out of the house and get into my car. The rain beats down upon the roof of the old Beetle, a rhythmic thumping that does nothing to soothe my frustration. I clench my eyes shut and take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I reach into my pocket to grab my keys when I feel the mask again, rubbing my thumb along its smooth surface.
Tonight won't be the last time.
S U P P O R T I N G C A S T:
Aristotle Rodor - Vic's mentor and oldest friend.
Albert "Al" Kert - Vic's editor at Starrstruck.
Samuel "Sam" Starr - Founder, owner, and editor-in-chief of Starrstruck.
Myra Fermin - Vic's ex-girlfriend and sister of mayor Wesley Fermin.
Wesley Fermin - Mayor of Hub City and brother of Myra Fermin. Vic fucking hates this guy.
Richard Dragon - Vic's other mentor.
Albert "Al" Kert - Vic's editor at Starrstruck.
Samuel "Sam" Starr - Founder, owner, and editor-in-chief of Starrstruck.
Myra Fermin - Vic's ex-girlfriend and sister of mayor Wesley Fermin.
Wesley Fermin - Mayor of Hub City and brother of Myra Fermin. Vic fucking hates this guy.
Richard Dragon - Vic's other mentor.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
coGM
@Simple Unicycle denied noice
As the time of our lord and saviour @Master Bruce approaches with the IC... Other than your own, what concepts/characters are you most excited to see realised?
I mean we got a bunch of really cool sheets here
As the time of our lord and saviour @Master Bruce approaches with the IC... Other than your own, what concepts/characters are you most excited to see realised?
I mean we got a bunch of really cool sheets here
1x Thank
Simple Unicycle ?
Member
Seen
2 days ago
@Simple Unicycle denied noice
As the time of our lord and saviour @Master Bruce approaches with the IC... Other than your own, what concepts/characters are you most excited to see realised?
I mean we got a bunch of really cool sheets here
Really excited to see Doc's Heroes For Hire in action, everybody was kung fu fighting and shit. And of course, Andy's Hex Rider is gonna fucking kick ass.
2x Thank
@Simple Unicycle denied noice
As the time of our lord and saviour @Master Bruce approaches with the IC... Other than your own, what concepts/characters are you most excited to see realised?
I mean we got a bunch of really cool sheets here
Have to agree with Unicycle there on Hex Rider, like...So goddamn rad. Beyond that though, I'll admit, I'm always a sucker for Spider-Man, so there's that lmao. The Titans concept from Pacifista also looks really cool; hoping to see that one play out!
coGM
I think one of the interesting concepts I'm looking forward to is @Lord Wraith and his run as the Invincible Iron Monger Man.
I know he's not entirely sure what direction Starks going to go in, whether he's going to double down and become someone our heroes need to watch out for and possibly have to go against, or if he's going to get that character/movie change of heart and become someone we can rely on to help us out in a pinch. There's just so many different ways he can go with it.
I'm also really excited to see @Master Bruce and @Byrd Man take on their respective peeps, just because they're different from what we usually see them doing.
I know he's not entirely sure what direction Starks going to go in, whether he's going to double down and become someone our heroes need to watch out for and possibly have to go against, or if he's going to get that character/movie change of heart and become someone we can rely on to help us out in a pinch. There's just so many different ways he can go with it.
I'm also really excited to see @Master Bruce and @Byrd Man take on their respective peeps, just because they're different from what we usually see them doing.
Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat
Member
Seen
2 hrs ago
I think one of the interesting concepts I'm looking forward to is @Lord Wraith and his run as the Invincible Iron Monger Man.
I know he's not entirely sure what direction Starks going to go in, whether he's going to double down and become someone our heroes need to watch out for and possibly have to go against, or if he's going to get that character/movie change of heart and become someone we can rely on to help us out in a pinch. There's just so many different ways he can go with it.
I'm also really excited to see @Master Bruce and @Byrd Man take on their respective peeps, just because they're different from what we usually see them doing.
Don't put this pressure on me to actually write full character arcs. Geez.
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