Bork Lazer

Young Justice Avenger (A Next Generation Amalgamverse)

Name:Ronald King Sanders

Hero Name: Sauce Boss

Known Alias: Condiment Prince, The Michelin Massacrer

Age: 19

Powers: Possesses an extremely complex palette, capable to individually distinguishing over 100 flavo-molecules in every type of sauce, ragu and reduction possible.

Equipment: An oversized spandex suit from his villanous father alongside two hydraulic spray guns attached to the Flavor-Town, a piece of equipment strapped to his back that chemically synthesizes over 1000 kinds of sauce. Also has an emergency codpiece sauce cannon attached to his belt in case of emergencies that is loaded with enriched mayo and mustard.

Skills:

In his CV, Ronald Sanders has been a shift manager at Big Belly Burger for over 3 years and has acquired the astronomical ability to deal with unsatisfied customers and angry co-workers. This is by far the most important aspect of his skill-set which overshadows his training in HEMA wrestling, marksmanship and inhuman acrobatics.

Ronald King Sanders is also a nutritionist of an inhuman calibre, capable of determining an individual's flavor standards, allergy profile and the amount of calories that a human being is capable of consuming before incapacitation or death.

Appearance:

60 kilograms of heart-pumping cholesterol and illegal preservatives stored in a plump belly and topped with blonde hair. His suit often gets wedgies.

Known Associates:

Frank Castle/The Punisher - Has threatened to kill Ronald if he acts out of line.

Codpiece - Drinking buddy and personal provider of genital gear.

Known Adversaries:

Eye-Scream - Engaged in a familial feud over whether ice-cream is considered sauce or not.

Egg-Fu - Vows vengeance against Ronald for using his relatives as ingredients in mayonaise.

Flaming Carrot - A Lord of Order on par with Doctor Fate who is determined to set the bar straight on the American diet.

Canon Basis:

Through this RP, I intend to explore a question that has haunted me for a solid chunk of my lifetime.

What is sauce? What are its boundaries? Are we just sauce solidified or sauce transcended to a higher plane of existence, of sapience whereby we are free to enact on what we assume? Is sauce our end or our beginning? Are all things sauce?

The Sauce Boss will act as the instrument for which I will solve this conundrum with.

Bio:

After Condiment King's issues of inadequacy led to a psychotic break whereby he held the U.S President hostage with radioactive sriracha bombs, he was accidentally killed by the Justice League when they gave him an anaphylactic attack by forcing him to swallow coleslaw dressing. His son was orphaned and left to fend for himself.The systemic issues of the US adoption system and the inheritance of Condiment's King obsession with sauce led him to adopting the name of the Condiment Lord whereby his first act was to flood the shores of South and North Rhlesia with mustard in an attempt to start a sauce-fest.

Unfortunately, Frank Castle, otherwise known as the Punisher, shot him in the heart before he could commit the act and landed him a six-week stay in the hospital.

This near brush with death led to a crisis of epiphany, a re-evaluation of his obsession with sauce and thus, the Sauce Boss was born.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Bloodletting 1.3.1

Moonlight skittered over Manhattan and behind it, the night followed. The smell of gutter water and mouldy newspapers infested the Lower Bronx and flooded the lower boroughs with its stench. Erlich could taste the rich coppery scent of livestock huddling together in the cold night air, fading and rich with succor.

However, he wasn’t in the mood for that tonight. He was in need of another type of warmth, the kind that would have made his superiors sneer in disgust. It was only here, away from the prying eyes of the other clan members, that he could have a joint in peace. Erlich scoffed. He parted open the lapel of his jacket and slid out a dainty little cigarette from a half bent cardboard box. It was a second later that he realised he was out of matches.

A scabbed hand intruded in his vision, and with it, a matchbox. Uriah had decided to accompany him on his last day in the Bronx before he would take the MRT down south and hop a bus to Florida. They’d been on a day and night of bar-hopping, finding a good drink to share between the both of them. It’d been half an hour since they left their last bar and the buzz from the eight shots he took was beginning to wear off He would have stayed longer but Deacon, that asshole, decided to hold a meeting all of a sudden.

“ Thanks,” Erlich murmured, cracking the head of the match against the strip and raising the soft yellow flame to the cigar. He took a deep drag, blood rushing pleasantly in his forehead in a nicotine fueled haze. Uriaih meanwhile watched, taking a solitary look towards the stars. They were both on top of a roof now, overseeing the warehouse that Deacon had called both of them to.

“ So, I heard you got a new assignment. “

“ Mhm.” Erlich signed “ Not a pleasant one.”

“ So, where are you headed? Jean told me you were headed to Alaska.”

“ Wrong. I’m headed down to Orleans. Frost wants me to make first contact with the southern clans. We’ve been letting them frolic around there too long.”

“ Think they’ll recognise his authority?”

“ They’d better.” Erlich narrowed his eyes. “ Otherwise, he’d be sending me for a suicide mission. That’d be pretty goddamn stupid of him to do that. Frost has been expanding his operations and right now, the only territory that he hasn’t got a hold of are those mongoloid southerners. They’re more laissez-faire with feeding and fucking with the livestock. I swear, if it wasn’t for the fact the hunters have us on the run, we would have exterminated them.”

He took a drag and breathed out in the cold wind.

“ I was thinking…” He flicked the ash off his cigar and turned around. “.....I think you and I need a heart to heart about your habits. Especially…..”

Erlich’s expression became one of shock as Uriah’s jaw was slack in shock and pain, pawing at the wriggling hand that was protruding out of his chest. Within its bright red grip was a stake with what remained of Uriah’s heart smeared all over the end. Rivulets of blood oozed out, dribbling all over his jacket. Over Uriah’s shoulder were a pair of glimmering red shades that twinkled like jewels in a mine shaft.

The dhampir.

“ You son of a bitch- “ Erlich hissed, pulling out his Colt revolver, cocking the hammer and aiming the barrel towards the dhampir’s heart -

Then, his hand disappeared.

And before he could scream, his head came next.

---

Damn, he hasn’t missed a step, hasn’t he?

It only took two blinks and the bloodsucker was already headless and one handed. It was still standing, arm pointed towards Blade, before Stick kicked it over. There was a long winded whimper that rattled from the bloodsucker his hand was currently punctured through. Eric gripped the stake tight before pulling it out in one swift stroke. The bloodsucker then flopped onto the ground, the contents of his chest vacated by the large hole he’d put through his heart.

“ You could have been more quiet.” Stick commented as he hobbled over towards Eric, even though the dhampir knew that he could run a block in 30 seconds. Guess every assassin had to keep up appearances.

“ You could have been less messy.” Eric fired back, stepping over the vampire’s shriveled corpse. He looked over towards the warehouse. “ So, this is the place? “

“ It’s the place.” Stick pointed towards the entrance, a dark gaping maw peeled out of corrugated iron. “The amount of dark chi this place was giving off was like Chernobyl.”

“ Right….” Eric drawled sarcastically while ripping out the stake from the vampire’s torso. “ Sure you haven’t been doing any drugs while you were meditating- OW!”

Eric rubbed the back of his head, red hot from the slap Stick had given him with his cane. Stick stowed it away, grumbling under his breath before sheathing his katana with a click.

“ C’mon, kid. Those immortal vampire ninjas aren’t going to kill themselves.”

“ Do I count as one of those?”

“ You can if you don’t stop yapping off at me.”

An Antique Land

Still looking for any and all players!

An Antique Land

Still looking for more players!

An Antique Land

CHARACTER SHEET

" My words are the wind."

" My sentences are the chirps of the sand striders."

" My screams are silent."

//SELF

Name: Samtim Xan Vivoce

Age: 42

Ancestry: True Kin

Appearance: Slabs of thick sand-pitted plas-alloy wrap around a thin figure, more bone than muscle with skin taut over flesh like borrowed clothes. Palladium diodes peek out of the skull and scar a visage that harkens back to the fierce countenance of the great Autarchs. A speckle of whorled tattoos, a facsimile of the clouds that once dwelled in the sky, covers his left shoulder. Yet, his body is not whole for a great gaping pit of pale mottled flesh is what remains of his throat and sprouting from it like a weed, a tongue of quicksilver. Can a man be still called a man without a voice?

//SOUL

PERSONAL GOAL: To find and kill the Last Titan of Fárahad

LIKES:

A’lasish smoking
Reading manuscripts
Stellar cryptography
Deciphering languages

DISLIKES:

Deciphering languages
Violence
Cacogen, particularly of the Cacklemaw persuasion.
Mad technomancers
Experimentation

PERSONALITY QUIRKS:

- Throwing obscene gestures behind people’s backs, combined with rapid passionate Occian poetic verse in signage.
- Whistling in inaudible frequencies
- Brushing hands with sand for hygiene.

//SPIRIT

MAJOR SKILLS: Serving as a reliquary armitate in the Occian Legios, Samtim knows exactly eleven ways to kill a man or mutant and is a neophyte in the art of the Faa Wander, an ancient Vaarnish martial art used by the Faa Clans that takes advantage of their desert surroundings. Samtim is also an accomplished linguist and a scribe, knowing a thousand and one tongues but is cursed with being unable to speak any of them with the exception of one.

MINOR SKILLS:

Bone carving
Sandsoothing
Cryo-surgery
Holo-rhetoric

GIFT: Many call it a gift. Samtim views it as a gilded cage wrapped around his throat. Samtim is one of the very few who can manage to understand and speak TitanCreed without being self-afflicted with the various mimetic viruses and language plagues that inhabit every syllable of the archaic language.

SOURCE OF GIFT: To resurrect and craft a key means reforging a lock. For Samtim, it meant losing his voice to decipher the key of the past. His brain and pharyngeal organs were permanently altered through mysterious cybernetic augmentation by the works of an insane technomancer. The scars still swell red to this day after the forced procedure he was drafted into.

//STORY

The night is never young in Vaarn. It is old and tired, the black of the sky faded like old paint. Pollo shudders as he unclasps his gas mask, jets of hydraulic pressure releasing as he releases a valve on the right side of his cheek. He takes a deep breath of the frigid desert air and takes a look at the surroundings. They have camped in the middle of dune, sand kraken territory all around them. The plains are bare and somewhat resemble the look of the sea he heard so much in tales from his ancestors. His hydrae coil and shrivel unto themselves in the cold. He huddles towards the campfire and sits on a piece of chrome artifice that his other companion is sitting on. The True Kin shifts away from him slightly when he sits near him but Pollo makes no mind of it. If he were to rage at every slight injustice, then, he’d have suffered an aneurysm at this point.

For a while, they stand silent and then, Pollo attempts to make parley with the mute.

“ We’re going to be here a long while, my friend.”

No response.

“ Where are you from?”

The mute True Kin pauses before pointing upwards towards the star-studded ceiling of space. His bony finger directs Pollo’s attention downwards on the sky, towards a series of stars that are shaped like a serpent. Pollo nods sympathetically.

“ Brumag, then. Terrible place. How’d a surface dweller like you end up as a mercenary. Could have been a pretty cushy life in the Hegemony for you. Better than Vaarn.

The True Kin locks both of his palms together and waggles his fingers in a skittish motion before pressing both hands towards his mouth. He then points towards an old faded badge on his chest, the iconography of an ivory spire on blue yarn. Pollo knows that it’s New Hegemonic but he can barely read it, much less understand the damn language.

“ You learnt on the streets, from a rat newbeast?”The True Kin turns his head slowly. “ No, sorry, you ate the rats. It must have been hard, living life out there on your own.” He then coughs before continuing. “ And how did you get all the way out here in this little sahra?”

Pollo watches as the True Kin places two fingers on the palm of his left and moves them both slowly like a drawing compass before then, pointing south-east to a place that Pollo knows all to well. Gnomon. He can still see the tall peaks of its salt-scrapers, shaped like a sun dial, glow bright in the night sky.

“ Why are you here now?”

The mute southlander froze, looking away from Pollo towards the fire, the contours of his face illuminated by the flickering embers. His index thumb then flicked upwards towards the sky before clapping both of his hands together in a praying stance that Pollo once saw a ornery cultist of ATLAS use.

To kill a god.

//SUPPLIES

EQUIPMENT:

Calcichette Cannon - A white, ooblong tube intricately etched with profane images of slumbering giants. The barrel of the gun stinks of cordite and the pull of its triggers sounds like cracked knuckles.

Aerovest Suit - A Autarch suit from a bygone age that was used to explore the outer limits of Urth. Preserves the wearer’s moisture and nutrition whilst limiting their exposure to the elements.

Low Spectrum Nanotector - A miniature handheld metallic screen mounted onto a woolen stick that displays a broad spectrum of high and low frequency signals.

TRINKETS:

A bio-luminscent izurite necklace from an Occian fishmonger.
A pressed dried desert rose
A plas-bound journal inserted with palm papyrus
A syringe ring from a Faa Nomad assassin. Its toxic payload is now empty.
An ink-scrawl print of his days as a novice armitate in the Legio 5th.

An Antique Land

Will there be a discord server for this rp?

@jdh97

I’ll consider it but right now, no.

An Antique Land (Science Fantasy RP)

I'm still looking for more players to enter!

An Antique Land

CHARACTER SHEET

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

I had a post in the middle of the works and uni was a freak that just honestly demotivated me to continue. I might try and finish that post up if I can find the time this weekend but otherwise, I might drop.

An Antique Land

Only trinkets left to fill in but otherwise done.

CHARACTER SHEET

//SELF

Name: Tripeace

Tripeace has been given many names. Three-Faced-Fuck was his least favourite. The three Lithlings called him Bra More. They explained that it was a joke, but Tripeace did not get it. His name now is a pun, his own. Three meanings for three faces. He is quite proud of it.

Age: 38

Ancestry: Cacogen

Appearance: Five dark, liquid eyes shared among three faces: left, centre, right. Dark hair, dark beard, dark skin. Long moustaches. Four arms, two approaching normal, two like lumps of slag, ending in fused hands of two and three digits.

He wears Bags For Carrying His Things and a robe that is Old But Comfortable.

//SOUL

PERSONAL GOAL:
Tripeace is a being of humble goals. Finding the Eighteen Lost Arts, for instance, and thereby achieving immortality or enlightenment (or both, it’s unclear on that matter). They may be hidden within the vaults, or within memories, or custom. So Tripeace searches, as much driven by the promise of eternal life or understanding as by simply wanting to know what the eighteen arts are.

Tripeace also harbours other such humble goals as World Peace and Saving Urth from Dying.

LIKES:
Music and languages
The sound of sand, particularly the noise made when two handfuls are spilled onto the ground through spread fingers
Living things
Riddles

DISLIKES:
Violence
The colour red
The dark
Long silences in his head that make him feel alone
Riddles

PERSONALITY QUIRKS:
Belief in reincarnation: he will not harm what he believes to be alive, due to the karmic burden and because he is not a Mean Person.
Voices speak inside his head; he believes these are his past lives. They keep him company when Others are not around.
Naive.

//SPIRIT

MAJOR SKILLS:
Cartography and mathematics
Music
Literate
Violence

MINOR SKILLS:
Understands Lithling
Memory for stories and song
Can field dress most humanoids

GIFT:
Skimming surface thoughts and emotions

SOURCE OF GIFT:
It is a hazy memory, like a dream just remembered. There was a buzzing. If bees still lived, it might be compared to a swarm of them, big enough to block out the sky. Fitting, because darkness also comes with that memory. A long, darkness, and pain. Tripeace cannot remember if he could Skim before that noisome darkness. This is because Tripeace cannot remember anything before it.

//STORY

A glass dome, stretching high overhead, a second sky. A woman’s face. The memories of a past reincarnation, surely. Whoever she was, she must have meant a lot, for when her face floats into his head, he finds tears sneaking down his cheeks.

The buzzing darkness.

Others. Mutants, all around. His tribe. They do things and…

Three rolling prisms of greens and blues. The Lithlings. He went with them, drawn. It was they who gave Tripeace his one and only exotica, so he might speak with them in their native manner, and to the universe. Music. They teach him. They are the only beings to have shown him kindness. They impart much wisdom, set him on his searching path, explain the virtues of peace. Rescue him from something…

Leaving, have to leave, for A Great And Many Reasons. The Broad Miasma is one, and the Lithlings must travel through it. Tripeace cannot follow. He would die and be reborn and might forget he has to search. This would be bad. He sings their names for them with his exotica long after he loses sight of them. They are sad songs.

Tripeace continues to search. He used to get lost, but then remembered he knew how to avoid that. He does not know from which past life this knowledge came.

//SUPPLIES

EQUIPMENT:
Exotica: A Turquoise Lithling Flute. It resonates and pulses with light, and so using it, one skilled in the ways may speak Lithling. Music is not too dissimilar.
Things By Which To Calculate Position Using The Sun And Stars
Papers loosely bound together, on which there are words

TRINKETS:
TBC

@jdh97

Yeah, this man gets it. I like the tone of this CS and don't feel rushed. I don't have an exact date for when I'll be accepting character sheets.