Application for my second character! Been thinking over this one for a few days now hope it's cool! I was thinking of having him have partial memory loss from the centuries of hibernation at the start of the RP.

Chivalry's not dead [+]

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

B L A C K K N I G H T

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^{"A thousand years and still chasing shadows."}

^{_{D U N C A N W H I T M A N ♦ K N I G H T ♦ T R A N S I E N T}}

O R I G I N S:

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Long ago, legends were written about what could be considered one of the first superteams: the legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. One character who is often omitted from these tales of heroism is the Black Knight. Duncan was a close friend and ally of Arthur and his knights, but he struggled endlessly with his past and the curse of the Ebony Blade. He was born in the late 5th century, the son of a bandit in the Scottish Highlands who, through much strife and combat, grew into a knight-errant serving under the grace and command of Arthur.

Merlin bestowed upon him the Ebony Blade—a sword forged from a meteorite and imbued with both immense power and a terrible curse. The blade granted him enhanced strength and unmatched combat prowess but at the cost of a growing bloodlust and insanity that threatened to consume him the more unnecessary blood was spilled using the weapon. The curse only grew after he bested death in a duel of wits and became immortal after falling during battle. After the fall of Camelot and the death of King Arthur at the hands of the villainous Mordred, Duncan became a wandering knight, fighting to uphold the ideals of chivalry even as the world around him descended into chaos. He hunted Mordred across the land, seeking vengeance for his fallen master. Fearing that the curse would eventually turn him into a force of destruction, Merlin placed him into an enchanted sleep after his battle with Mordred, hoping that time would dull the blade’s influence.

Duncan slept for over a millennium until the emergence of new heroes—and the return of his old nemesis, Mordred—awakened him. Now, in the modern era, he must navigate a world that has long forgotten the age of knights and sorcery, all while battling the darkness within him and the evils that have returned to plague humanity.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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The cold moon looked down upon the vast desert, a barren wasteland that seemed to stretch into eternity. Duncan Whitman, the Black Knight, trudged through the endless expanse, his armor dull with dust and battle scars, yet still a symbol of the honor he struggled to cling to. He wished endlessly he had Valinor with him. His steed would have provided much-needed company on the journey and made it far easier on his feet. But Valinor was gone, gone like everything he cared about. The Ebony Blade at his side thrummed with dark energy, its curse growing stronger as it vibrated with the souls it had taken. Duncan felt a million voices in his head telling him to kill. But for now, its hunger was directed toward one man—Mordred.

The traitor had fled across the land, ever since the day he plunged Britain into chaos with the death of King Arthur. Duncan had pursued him tirelessly, driven by a vow to avenge his fallen king and to rid the world of Mordred’s treachery. Now, at last, he had cornered the villain in this forsaken desert, far from the green hills of Camelot.

In the distance, a figure emerged from the swirling sands, clad in dark robes that fluttered in the hot wind. Mordred. His eyes glowed with malevolent power, and a twisted grin spread across his face as he saw Duncan approaching. The two men stared at each other, their shared history palpable in the charged air between them.

“Duncan Whitman,” Mordred called out, his voice echoing across the dunes, “Loyal to the end, I see. Even in this wasteland, you cling to the dead king’s ideals.”

Duncan stopped in his tracks, his hand resting on the hilt of the Ebony Blade, the dark metal cool against his palm. “You took everything from me, Mordred,” he replied, his voice a low, controlled growl. “From all of us. This ends now.”

Mordred laughed, a cold, hollow sound that sent a shiver down Duncan’s spine. “Foolish knight. Do you think a cursed blade will save you? Or have you already succumbed to its darkness?”

With a snarl, Duncan drew the Ebony Blade from its scabbard, the weapon gleaming ominously in the moonlight. It seemed to drip with red energy like blood. As the energy hit the sand below, it sizzled and steamed into the night. The air around them seemed to hum with anticipation, the very land sensing the clash that was about to unfold. “The blade will do what it was forged to do—end your wretched life.”

Without another word, Duncan charged forward, his boots kicking up sand as he closed the distance between them. Mordred responded with a wave of his hand, summoning a surge of dark magic that crackled through the air like lightning. Duncan raised the Ebony Blade, its cursed power absorbing the magic, deflecting the energy away as he pressed his attack. Mordred’s hands drew back and shot forward once more as more dark energy shot out at Duncan. The sword was doing its best, but sparks of lightning began arcing around the blade and burning his face. All he could smell was blood and burnt hair as the unkempt beard he hadn't bothered to shave in his pursuit began burning.

He closed in on Mordred, the evil son of a good king, drawing his own blade and blocking a downward swing from Duncan at the last moment. Duncan's eyes glanced down at the blade, and a mixture of shock and anger tore through his body as he shouted,
"You would desecrate your own father's corpse? Steal Excalibur? Thieving pilferer, have you no shame?"

Mordred's lips curled into a sneer "Shame is for the weak and the foolish, Whitman. I have claimed my birthright."

They pulled their blades away and swung again, locking them against each other. The darkness of the desert was only illuminated by the stars and the pure light of Excalibur clashing against the dark aura of the Ebony Blade, creating a spectacle of sparks. The air around them sizzled with energy, the very ground trembling beneath their feet.

Mordred laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "And what of your own blade, Black Knight? A cursed weapon that feeds on blood. Are you so different from me?"

Duncan's jaw tightened. The whispers of the Ebony Blade grew louder, urging him to unleash its full potential, to end Mordred once and for all. But he knew the cost. He pulled his blade back again, sending a kick to Mordred's midsection that sent him stumbling back. Duncan regained a high guard, holding his blade along his left forearm with his right hand as he and Mordred stalked in circles around each other like two lions. Duncan felt the weight of exhaustion pressing upon him. The long journey through the desert, combined with the draining effects of the Ebony Blade, had sapped his strength. Yet, he couldn't falter. Not now.

Mordred charged him, and Duncan parried, thrusting his sword forward and plunging it into Mordred's shoulder. His success was marked with a painful yelp from Mordred, but also a vicious downward swing from Excalibur. Duncan reacted quickly; the sword was firmly lodged in his opponent’s shoulder and wouldn't budge. He held his hand up to block the path of the holy blade, and it embedded itself into his hand, causing Duncan to shout in equal parts anger and pain.

His eyes met Mordred's with a fury the dark wizard had never seen before. Duncan allowed the voices to overcome him. Arthur was dead. Lancelot was dead. Guinivere was dead. All that was left was himself and Merlin who had gone into a self imposed exile. Why did this treacherous knave deserve to live. Why did any of them deserve to live.

Duncan let go of the Ebony Blade and sent a brutal punch to Mordred’s jaw with his metal gauntlet, sending him tumbling to the ground, blood splattering across the sand. Excalibur was released from his grasp and landed point down into the sand. For once, Mordred looked frightened as the Black Knight approached him, his hand dripping with blood and his aura glowing with an overwhelming, black flame.

The Black Knight approached Mordred, tearing his Ebony Blade from the man’s shoulder. He could faintly hear him calling for mercy, but all was numb and deaf as he drove the cursed sword through his chest. He could barely think, his mind racing as he struggled to keep hold of his sanity. He watched as what remained of Mordred crumbled to dust and his robe whipped away into the desert air.

Pulling the Ebony Blade from the sand, he left a trail of blood as he stumbled forward into the desert. He fell to his knees and tore his helmet off, throwing it as far as he could away from him as he stared upwards into infinity. He began mumbling to himself.
"Merlin....Merlin....I'm so exhausted."

Duncan's voice wavered as he called out into the desolate expanse, his strength nearly spent, his spirit battered by the weight of the curse and the horrors he had just committed. The desert winds howled in response, carrying his desperate plea across the dunes.

A mirage appeared on the horizon, a figure emerging from nowhere, cloaked in robes that seemed to blend with the sands themselves. Merlin, the ancient wizard, approached with a grave expression, his eyes full of sorrow as he took in the sight of his once-noble knight, now reduced to a man on the brink of madness. His visage was shimmering, transparent. Merlin was a thousand miles away, somewhere Duncan would never know, appearing to him in one last favour to his plea.

"Duncan," Merlin’s voice was soft, yet it carried the authority of ages. He knelt beside the fallen knight, his hand gently resting on Duncan’s shoulder. "You have fought valiantly, but the curse of the Ebony Blade has taken its toll."

Duncan’s eyes were wild, his breathing ragged as he clutched the hilt of the sword, his knuckles white beneath the metal of his gauntlet. "I couldn’t stop it, Merlin. The blade… it’s consuming me. I killed him, but at what cost? I’m losing myself."

Merlin nodded solemnly, his gaze turning to the Ebony Blade, which pulsed with a dark, malevolent energy. "The blade was forged from the stars, imbued with power beyond mortal understanding. But with that power comes a terrible price. You are not the first to fall victim to its curse, but you are among the strongest to have resisted it for so long."

Duncan looked up at Merlin, desperation in his eyes. "I cannot control it anymore. Please, Merlin, end this… end me."

The wizard’s expression softened with compassion, though his heart weighed heavy with the decision before him. "No, Duncan. There is still hope for you, but not in this time. The world is not yet ready for what you have become, and you are not ready to face the darkness alone."

Merlin raised his hand, his fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air as he whispered ancient incantations. The air around them began to shimmer, a soft light enveloping Duncan as the magic took hold. Duncan felt a strange calm wash over him, the voices of the blade fading into the distance, replaced by a soothing silence.

"I will place you into a deep slumber," Merlin continued, his voice gentle but firm. "You will sleep for centuries, perhaps millenia, until a time when the world has changed and you are needed once more. Perhaps then, you will find a way to break the curse, to wield the blade without losing yourself to it."

Duncan’s eyelids grew heavy, his exhaustion overwhelming him as the enchantment began to take effect. He struggled to keep his gaze on Merlin, to hold onto the last vestiges of consciousness. "And what of the world, Merlin? What will become of it?"

Merlin smiled sadly, his eyes filled with a wisdom that spanned the ages. "The world will endure, as it always has. New heroes will rise, and the old will fade into legend. But when the time is right, you will awaken, and your story will continue."

With those final words, Duncan’s eyes closed, his body sinking into the soft sand as the spell took full hold. The dark flames that had surrounded him flickered out, leaving only the peaceful rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply in his enchanted sleep.

Merlin watched over him for a moment longer, his heart heavy with the burden of what he had done. But he knew it was necessary. The Black Knight’s time would come again, and perhaps then, he would find redemption.

With a final wave of his hand, Merlin summoned a gentle breeze that covered Duncan in a blanket of sand, concealing him from the world until the day he would awaken. The wizard turned and began to walk away, his figure gradually disappearing into the shimmering heat of the desert, leaving only the silent dunes behind.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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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.

@DocTachyon Wow! Thanks so much for this it's amazing!

<Snipped quote by Half Pint>

He's gotta do something when he's not working on a post

@Sep over here bullying his co-GMs when he's got a second app to write...

We're nothing if not equal opportunity when it comes to shaking eachother down.

I don't have to have a second character. It's not mandatory.

<Snipped quote by Sep>

I figured that'd be more fair to mention than those fi... sorry, six Condiment King posts you owe me, now.

Here @Master Bruce have this

Krypto the Superdog [+]

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

H Y P E R I O N

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^{"For the American way, truth, liberty and justice."}

^{_{C A R L K E N T ♦ P H O T O G R A P H E R ♦ S E A T T L E}}

O R I G I N S:

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Carl came to Earth in an escape pod from a destroyed planet, taken in by two farmers in the middle of nowhere called Mark and Joan Kent. His powers started to become obvious as he got older, his parents instilled in him a strong sense of purpose and community. When a rogue tornado tore through the town, Joan refused to let him save her. He swore it was the last time he would ever see someone die when he could stop it.

When he grew up and moved away to the big city he decided it was time to don the tights and capes and come out to the world as HYPERION, the SUPERMAN!

S A M P L E P O S T:

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I fly, I am the Superman.

I punch all the bad guy.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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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.

<Snipped quote by Sep>

That's not a dog at all.

Captain Australia [+]

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 T E V E R O G E R S

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^{"I've knocked out Adolf Hitler over 200 times, but I should have aimed for Stalin."}

^{_{S T E V E R O G E R S ♦ P R I S O N E R O F W A R ♦ U N K N O W N}}

O R I G I N S:

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Steve was a sickly child, had he been livestock he would have been considered a runt. Despite his small stature, growing up in Brooklyn the values that his parents instilled in him always had him trying to stand up to the bullies, which often resulted in him being beaten up. His best friend, Bucky Barnes, always saved him at the last minute.

This tradition continued into adulthood, until the outbreak of the Second World War... but you know this story. Ineligible, Bucky is in the army. Eventually, he gets chosen by Erskine becoming a Super Soldier and later Captain America.

The Justice Society of America were the propaganda piece, the Invaders were the boots on the ground. The Howling Commandos got the real work done, even members of their forces saw them to be little but myth. The war in Europe was winding down by 1945. As Captain America faced the Red Skull aboard his flying fortress, he was forced to bring the plane to the ground to prevent annihilation and a very different world. The Americans and their allies rallied to find the craft, but they never did. The Russians got there first and stripped the plane for all that it had, including the incapacitated Steve Rogers.

Ever since Steve has been living in a Russian Prison. The Super Soldier serum slowed his aging, and he was routinely beaten. Tortured, and experimented on. The Russians using him to fuel their Red Guardian project. A super serum that, less effective as Erskines but still potent nonetheless.

He has long since given hope of rescue.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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You would have to be completely ignorant not to pick up a foreign language after nearly eighty years of hearing it spoken. No, Steve Rogers didn't understand it enough to translate directly to english but when he heard boots approaching outside his cell he sighed as he sat himself up on his bed, swinging his legs down over the side. Rolling up the sleeves of his prison jumpsuit, wrists up. He knew the drill, looking over at the wall and all the various tally marks he had made over the years.

He had started it as a way to give himself hope, it soon became a way to track the time. Nowadays he just did it because that was something he did every morning. That was the routine. When you had nothing else to do, routine was all you had. The testing was part of the routine. There was a clunk as the cell door was unlocked. The Doctor entered the room. His accent heavy. "Captain Rogers. Organised as ever."

"Well, you're always on time." The man's hands were cold as he grabbed onto his wrist, tapping it rhythmically. Twice, in the same spot. There was a strange, comfort, in the routine. That was likely the point of it, the repetition. He hadn't attempted escape in over a decade now. That didn't mean he hadn't considered it, just the failed attempts had only made their defences stronger. Their responses quicker, their men better trained. Steve hadn't seen a crack in the armour in a long time. It would come, even the smallest stream could bore through a mountain given time.

The Doctor handed the vials of Steves blood to a nurse who placed them in a cooled suitcase before leaving the room. As she left the cell he could see the guards waiting outside. There only used to be one, that was the first lesson they had learned. To have as many guards in Steves proximity as possible at any one time, especially when doors were open. "Shostakov has taken to the serum well. His physical attributes-" The Doctor whistled to himself.

"-he is the most impressive yet."

"I'd be willing to help him practice." Steve kept his tone flat, and neutral.

The Doctor paused at the door, looking back at Steve with a soft smile on his face.

"That would be very informative, yes. Thankyou Captain." As the Doctor walked out the room there was a clunk as the door was locked behind him.

Steve just smiled, there it was. A crack.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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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.