CaliforniaState

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Y2K

_{Smells Like Teen Spirit}

---

The 90s were finally coming to a head and ending the year in what many believed to be set for disaster in the year 2000. The 90’s had really everything actually, from the trendy trapper keepers’ kids brought to school to the advent of the internet. That wasn’t all though, you had enthralling police chases like that of OJ Simpson in his famous white bronco, you could buy and bid on anything with the creation of ebay, and one of the best gifts of all, grunge music. The idea that there was one more year till they hit the 21st century was nothing less than enticing for Rocco. I mean it was the first time he ever lived through a decade that he could almost perfectly remember. One more year his thought lingering with him like a spirit attached to a house that just won’t quit. The promise of college and girls fashion inspired by the spice girls gave him hope for both future education and art.

Before he could dream anything however, a knock at the door followed by a timely ”Wake up!” that could be heard from the crack in his door. He would miss his mother being his natural alarm, he wasn’t quite used to using such antiquated systems like an alarm clock. The blaring noise interrupted his feng shui or so he claims. The cloyingly sweet aroma rising from the kitchen tugged at his nostrils and lifted him from his sateen sheets and privately escorted him downstairs without missing a beat. Breakfast had been served and nestled in the middle of the table. Cinnamon rolls were only for rare occasions and the last first day of his high school career was something that permitted such an occasion. Scarfing down a few morsels of his frosted delight, Rocco proceeded to get ready ensuring he had sufficient time to meet the bus at the end of the block.

The ride was all the same, trees in the distance with the signature flashing red lights halting traffic. School wasn’t much different; the halls were familiar yet strangers all at once. The bell rang and first period was underway only this time he wasn’t going to stay in class. Instead they were headed out to Museum of Natural History for the day. This would be perfect as his muse, he always appreciated the artistic values carried over millennia before him. There was more of the same droning procedure before they were finally loaded back onto the bus as if they were prisoners. It wasn’t until not even five minutes into the ride did he feel the sudden weight of another human’s head on his shoulder. Unbothered by her lack of sleep the boy simply ensured he’d wipe any drool dripping from her mouth off himself and her face with his handkerchief before she awoke.

The familiar smell of dirty water dogs and roasted peanuts had etched a serene smile on his face as he proceeded forward into the museum. Fossils of the king of the dinosaurs had been meticulously and carefully crafted together, completely innocuous the T-Rex stood but still demanded an heir of fear mixed with respect. He ignored what his other classmates had to say about the museum itself and instead planted himself down at the T-Rex and began to sketch ever so carefully, hoping to really capture the authority this figure had. T-minus five hours and counting before the start of the end or so he imagined.

Winter's Blade: A Fairy Tail RP

What's your blood type?

Guild Membership Card

---

Personality

_{Kvasir is very basic in principle when it boils down to personality. He is almost devoid of any and all learned behavior and nuanced traits. Bare to the bone, the best way to describe Kvasir would be a rabid dog. He has no real concept of what right and wrong is nor the civility between humans in an open setting. Instead Kvasir relies on his basic animal instinct, his gut has never steered him wrong and he has gotten this far without need for anything else. Though near feral and paranoid, he however can become a loyal companion that bends to authority depending on who he becomes subservient to with enough time and compassion.}

Appearance

_{Kvasir is a god among men, both literally and figuratively. His godlike physique can only be attributed to the blood pumping through his body and the sinful inclusion of his god Kvasir. His height is a staggering 6’3 while he weighs an impressive 190 pounds. This amount of mass lends itself to his chiseled physique than can be visually seen from the definition in his arms, chest, and leg muscles. His eyes are a piercing emerald green with waves of lush chestnut colored hair, one strand locked in a braid hanging off to the side of his face. He is naturally adorned in brown and golden robes that allow ease of movement when in combat. A wrapped headband in the same fashion as his robe and pants with the addition of golden jewelry around his neck and fingers.}

---

“Let me go first.”

| N a m e: |

Kvasir

| Alias|Nickames|Titles: |

Bloody Mess

| G e n d e r: |

Male

| A g e: |

20

| R a n k: |

C+

| Guild Membership Status: |

Fresh off the boat

| Guild Seal Location: |

On top of his tongue

| History: |

While most humans’ lives revolved around magic, Kvasir’s world revolved around religion. The recollection of events shy of the first mark of sin on his body have all been repressed and practically purged from his mind. Kvasir wasn’t his birth name nor one chosen by him, instead it was one granted to him by the group at large. You see Kvasir was born into a family that was victim to a cult. The cult wasn’t renown or heard of outside the parcel of land they claimed atop the snowy mountains secluded from the rest of the world and their tales of magic and monsters. Instead they were their own monsters. The cult itself believed in many gods that were dictated by a dichotomous view of the world. These gods eventually organized themselves into two separate tribes that had gotten along until a break down in relations plummeted the two into war.

To save you from the details, Kvasir’s story revolves around one god that the cult worshipped religiously who was known as none other than Kvasir himself. This is important for he did not share the same name as their god until the aftermath that ensued. You see Kvasir was their god of wisdom considered to be the wisest of all beings. There was no question for which he did not have a ready and satisfying answer. He took up the life of a wanderer, dispensing his wisdom to all whom he met along the road. When he came to the house of two dwarves, Fjalar (“Deceiver”) and Galar (“Screamer”), they killed him and drained his blood into three containers. They told the gods that Kvasir had suffocated from an excess of wisdom. The two dwarves then brewed mead by mixing Kvasir’s blood with honey – the Mead of Poetry. In fairness this religious sham of a cult operated in the vein of Fjalar and Galar rather than the god himself; true wisdom falling on deaf ears.

So, in order to obtain this wisdom, the cult need a spring to drink from, one that bore the bountiful fruit of wisdom. But how could they cultivate and allow for something so sacred and rare to grow? Their greed and ambitions turned to the children. You see in order to carefully curate this fruit they needed the wisest of all vessels. Children were often seen as innocent, smart, and quick to learn while adults were past the age of ripeness. The idea that wisdom could be harvested from children became their mantra. And so, with the finest of rituals the cult began to create their vessel for wisdom. This was done in a few steps, first was collecting the first son from every family, followed by carefully examining them medically to ensure they were free from ailments or disease. After that, was an arduous and tedious learning regime spanning from the age of recruitment all the way to their coming of age in what was otherwise known as puberty.

Whomever was to score the highest at the end of their cycle would be nominated as their sacrifice, their cult mentally ruling out any qualms of this barbaric process. Once chosen they would be bled to death over days until there was enough blood to be passed around the cult, those who weren’t chose were integrated back into their families. The yearly ritual was fast approaching and Kvasir being the second son born to his family was safe from being chosen. This however meant his brother would be chosen in his stead. Yet his brother struggled in his studies and was fearing the judgement of his family for not being a front runner in their tradition. Confiding in Kvasir his brother asked for help, safe from the ritual he reluctantly accepted in servitude to his brother. As he began to teach his brother, he learned that the material was easy and quickly absorbed into his mind.

It was almost a day and night change with his brother’s aptitude after a few weeks practice, he would for sure be picked. It wasn’t until a routine medical evaluation that he learned he disqualified due to the growth of a sickness inside him. Instead of waiting for the following years harvest they took Kvasir as tribute instead. At first, he played the idiot and tried to fail through the exams, but he was quickly reminded lying led to pain. His scores blowing his contemporaries out of the way led him to being chosen as this year’s tribute. While everyone had been blindly led to follow their fake gods practice, he had the wisdom to know they were wrong, he protested his god and rejected his teachings. His rebellion was ignored as they tied him up to his fate.

His vision was fading, becoming blurry, his mind slipping away from this ritual sacrifice. He pleaded to any god that could hear him that if they helped him escape, he would become a vessel for them to live through. Only one god answered and that was Kvasir himself, ironic as he rejected him. The blood that pooled out of him retreated inside his body leaving some still outside to coat his hands in the form of blades. Free from his bindings he eviscerated his cult family and drained them, using whatever blood was left to be taken inside his body.

On purely instinct, Kvasir was driven and drawn to the city of white harbor where he collapsed in front of the Winter Blade’s Guild.

| Magic: |

Blood God Slayer Magic (血の滅神魔法Chi no Metsujin Mahō)
Is a rare specialized god slayer magic that deals with the element of blood, that is red and black in color. Kvasir can manipulate his own blood in a multitude of ways but most notably scene in weaponized constructs.

ᚶ Rune Magic ᚶ (文字の魔法 Moji no Mahō)
Native to only Kvasir as of now, Rune magic is a form of combination magic from enchantment magic and letter magic. The blood used from either himself, his magic, or a foreign blood source will act as the ink to the start of his magic. Once he draws a nordic rune on his body he can activate a magic relating to the meaning of his mark depending on whether it is Elder or Younger Futhark.

| Strengths and Weakness: |

Strengths:
Excels in close range combat
Fearless
Tenacious
Athletic in and out of combat (Running, jumping, swimming)

Weaknesses:
Can become frenzied and lose himself in battle
Has a hard time being social
Can’t replenish his reserves from long range
Rash

| Miscs : |

When in combat he adorns what can be seen as gauntlets which house two hooked hidden blades, blood drawn from these feed into a tube that goes directly into Kvasir's skin.

Winter's Blade: A Fairy Tail RP

Let's try this again shall we

What's your blood type?

Guild Membership Card

---

Personality

_{Kvasir is very basic in principle when it boils down to personality. He is almost devoid of any and all learned behavior and nuanced traits. Bare to the bone, the best way to describe Kvasir would be a rabid dog. He has no real concept of what right and wrong is nor the civility between humans in an open setting. Instead Kvasir relies on his basic animal instinct, his gut has never steered him wrong and he has gotten this far without need for anything else. Though near feral and paranoid, he however can become a loyal companion that bends to authority depending on who he becomes subservient to with enough time and compassion.}

Appearance

_{Kvasir is a god among men, both literally and figuratively. His godlike physique can only be attributed to the blood pumping through his body and the sinful inclusion of his god Kvasir. His height is a staggering 6’3 while he weighs an impressive 190 pounds. This amount of mass lends itself to his chiseled physique than can be visually seen from the definition in his arms, chest, and leg muscles. His eyes are a piercing emerald green with waves of lush chestnut colored hair, one strand locked in a braid hanging off to the side of his face. He is naturally adorned in brown and golden robes that allow ease of movement when in combat. A wrapped headband in the same fashion as his robe and pants with the addition of golden jewelry around his neck and fingers.}

---

“Let me go first.”

| N a m e: |

Kvasir

| Alias|Nickames|Titles: |

Bloody Mess

| G e n d e r: |

Male

| A g e: |

20

| R a n k: |

C+

| Guild Membership Status: |

Fresh off the boat

| Guild Seal Location: |

On top of his tongue

| History: |

While most humans’ lives revolved around magic, Kvasir’s world revolved around religion. The recollection of events shy of the first mark of sin on his body have all been repressed and practically purged from his mind. Kvasir wasn’t his birth name nor one chosen by him, instead it was one granted to him by the group at large. You see Kvasir was born into a family that was victim to a cult. The cult wasn’t renown or heard of outside the parcel of land they claimed atop the snowy mountains secluded from the rest of the world and their tales of magic and monsters. Instead they were their own monsters. The cult itself believed in many gods that were dictated by a dichotomous view of the world. These gods eventually organized themselves into two separate tribes that had gotten along until a break down in relations plummeted the two into war.

To save you from the details, Kvasir’s story revolves around one god that the cult worshipped religiously who was known as none other than Kvasir himself. This is important for he did not share the same name as their god until the aftermath that ensued. You see Kvasir was their god of wisdom considered to be the wisest of all beings. There was no question for which he did not have a ready and satisfying answer. He took up the life of a wanderer, dispensing his wisdom to all whom he met along the road. When he came to the house of two dwarves, Fjalar (“Deceiver”) and Galar (“Screamer”), they killed him and drained his blood into three containers. They told the gods that Kvasir had suffocated from an excess of wisdom. The two dwarves then brewed mead by mixing Kvasir’s blood with honey – the Mead of Poetry. In fairness this religious sham of a cult operated in the vein of Fjalar and Galar rather than the god himself; true wisdom falling on deaf ears.

So, in order to obtain this wisdom, the cult need a spring to drink from, one that bore the bountiful fruit of wisdom. But how could they cultivate and allow for something so sacred and rare to grow? Their greed and ambitions turned to the children. You see in order to carefully curate this fruit they needed the wisest of all vessels. Children were often seen as innocent, smart, and quick to learn while adults were past the age of ripeness. The idea that wisdom could be harvested from children became their mantra. And so, with the finest of rituals the cult began to create their vessel for wisdom. This was done in a few steps, first was collecting the first son from every family, followed by carefully examining them medically to ensure they were free from ailments or disease. After that, was an arduous and tedious learning regime spanning from the age of recruitment all the way to their coming of age in what was otherwise known as puberty.

Whomever was to score the highest at the end of their cycle would be nominated as their sacrifice, their cult mentally ruling out any qualms of this barbaric process. Once chosen they would be bled to death over days until there was enough blood to be passed around the cult, those who weren’t chose were integrated back into their families. The yearly ritual was fast approaching and Kvasir being the second son born to his family was safe from being chosen. This however meant his brother would be chosen in his stead. Yet his brother struggled in his studies and was fearing the judgement of his family for not being a front runner in their tradition. Confiding in Kvasir his brother asked for help, safe from the ritual he reluctantly accepted in servitude to his brother. As he began to teach his brother, he learned that the material was easy and quickly absorbed into his mind.

It was almost a day and night change with his brother’s aptitude after a few weeks practice, he would for sure be picked. It wasn’t until a routine medical evaluation that he learned he disqualified due to the growth of a sickness inside him. Instead of waiting for the following years harvest they took Kvasir as tribute instead. At first, he played the idiot and tried to fail through the exams, but he was quickly reminded lying led to pain. His scores blowing his contemporaries out of the way led him to being chosen as this year’s tribute. While everyone had been blindly led to follow their fake gods practice, he had the wisdom to know they were wrong, he protested his god and rejected his teachings. His rebellion was ignored as they tied him up to his fate.

His vision was fading, becoming blurry, his mind slipping away from this ritual sacrifice. He pleaded to any god that could hear him that if they helped him escape, he would become a vessel for them to live through. Only one god answered and that was Kvasir himself, ironic as he rejected him. The blood that pooled out of him retreated inside his body leaving some still outside to coat his hands in the form of blades. Free from his bindings he eviscerated his cult family and drained them, using whatever blood was left to be taken inside his body.

On purely instinct, Kvasir was driven and drawn to the city of white harbor where he collapsed in front of the Winter Blade’s Guild.

| Magic: |

Blood God Slayer Magic (血の滅神魔法Chi no Metsujin Mahō)
Is a rare specialized god slayer magic that deals with the element of blood, that is red and black in color. Kvasir can manipulate his own blood in a multitude of ways but most notably scene in weaponized constructs.

ᚶ Rune Magic ᚶ (文字の魔法 Moji no Mahō)
Native to only Kvasir as of now, Rune magic is a form of combination magic from enchantment magic and letter magic. The blood used from either himself, his magic, or a foreign blood source will act as the ink to the start of his magic. Once he draws a nordic rune on his body he can activate a magic relating to the meaning of his mark depending on whether it is Elder or Younger Futhark.

| Strengths and Weakness: |

Strengths:
Excels in close range combat
Fearless
Tenacious
Athletic in and out of combat (Running, jumping, swimming)

Weaknesses:
Can become frenzied and lose himself in battle
Has a hard time being social
Can’t replenish his reserves from long range
Rash

| Miscs : |

When in combat he adorns what can be seen as gauntlets which house two hooked hidden blades, blood drawn from these feed into a tube that goes directly into Kvasir's skin.

Winter's Blade: A Fairy Tail RP

Pls no bully

Winter's Blade: A Fairy Tail RP

What's your blood type?

Guild Membership Card

Personality

_{Kvasir is very basic in principle when it boils down to personality. He is almost devoid of any and all learned behavior and nuanced traits. Bare to the bone, the best way to describe Kvasir would be a rabid dog. He has no real concept of what right and wrong is nor the civility between humans in an open setting. Instead Kvasir relies on his basic animal instinct, his gut has never steered him wrong and he has gotten this far without need for anything else. Though near feral and paranoid, he however can become a loyal companion that bends to authority depending on who he becomes subservient to with enough time and compassion.}

Appearance

_{Due to his age, Kvasir hasn’t fully completed his growth cycle. With his late growth spurt he’s currently stunted at a height of 5’6 which makes him amongst the shortest in the guild by nearly a few inches. This doesn’t lend itself to a napoleon complex, but instead gives way to a more acrobatic frame and method of attack. Besides his short stature his body is rather small too. He only weighs around a 120 pounds, but he has some meat on his bones to match his scrappy nature. His body is covered in ink and marks in random striations and designs that represent the sins and blood of man. Most of his appearance is pure skin aside from a red bandanna that matches a tattered red waist cloth and bandages that line his forearms and shins.}

---

“Let me go first.”

| N a m e: |

Kvasir

| Alias|Nickames|Titles: |

Bloody Mess

| G e n d e r: |

Male

| A g e: |

16

| R a n k: |

C

| Guild Membership Status: |

Fresh off the boat

| Guild Seal Location: |

On top of his tongue

| History: |

While most humans’ lives revolved around magic, Kvasir’s world revolved around religion. The recollection of events shy of the first mark of sin on his body have all been repressed and practically purged from his mind. Kvasir wasn’t his birth name nor one chosen by him, instead it was one granted to him by the group at large. You see Kvasir was born into a family that was victim to a cult. The cult wasn’t renown or heard of outside the parcel of land they claimed atop the snowy mountains secluded from the rest of the world and their world of magic and monsters. Instead they were their own monsters. The cult itself believed in many gods that were dictated by a dichotomous view of the world. These gods eventually organized themselves into two separate tribes that had gotten along until a break down in relations plummeted the two into war.

To save you from the details, Kvasir’s story revolves around one god that the cult worshipped religiously who was known as none other than Kvasir himself. This is important for he did not share the same name as their god until the aftermath that ensued. Like many other children in the cult he grew up quite normal with the exception of being subject to being homeschooled. The practices and teaching were of course skewed and bias and not what most other kids are taught in traditional schools. The village was led by one male figure head who harbored multiple wives and dictated rules that became law. While such close-minded fanaticism usually gave way to benighted individuals, Kvasir was different. Instead he chose to challenge the knowledge being instilled by wandering off from his village and experience the outside world. This brought him to white harbor many times.

Through his curiosity he learned from those around him who were both handy with an ax and that of magic. The older he became the more he began to conceptualize and develop. When he was old enough Kvasir began to spout out and correct all the information that was being taught to them, not solely on his word alone but through demonstrations. Eventually the cult began to see him as one of the wisest of beings despite only being a child. His childlike ignorance didn’t alarm him to becoming a Self-fulfilling prophecy. Kvasir was their god and the god of wisdom and it was foretold if he were to be killed and drained of his blood to be mixed with honey, they would be able to drink in his wisdom.

Thus, one night in the stillness of the moonlit sky, Kvasir was restrained and taken as sacrifice. Bound and gagged he was bled upside down like a pig. His vision was fading, becoming blurry, his mind slipping away from this ritual sacrifice. He pleaded to any god that could hear him that if they helped him escape, he would become a vessel for them to live through. Only one god answered and that was Kvasir himself. The blood that pooled out of him retreated inside his body leaving some still outside to coat his hands in the form of blades. Free from his bindings he eviscerated his cult family and drained them, using whatever blood was left to carve their names and sins into his skin as a reminder of the ritual he performed to obtain his power.

On purely instinct, Kvasir was driven and drawn to the city of white harbor where he collapsed in front of the Winter Blade’s Guild.

| Magic: |

Blood God Slayer Magic (血の滅神魔法Chi no Metsujin Mahō)
Is a rare specialized god slayer magic that deals with the element of blood, that is red and black in color. Kvasir can manipulate his own blood in a multitude of ways but most notably scene in weaponized constructs.

| Strengths and Weakness: |

Strengths:
Excels in close range combat
Fearless
Tenacious
Acrobatic in and out of combat

Weaknesses:
Can become frenzied and lose himself in battle
Has a hard time being social
Can’t replenish his reserves from long range
Rash

| Miscs : |

Attached to his bandages are gauntlets which house two hooked hidden blades, blood drawn from these feed into a tube that goes directly into Kvasir's skin.

Winter's Blade: A Fairy Tail RP

Will have an app up today quote me on that.

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Y2K

Zip Zoop Zeppeli

"Anyway here’s Wonderwall"

---

Name: Rocco Zeppeli

Alias: Broccoli (A mash up of his two names)

Namesake: Led Zeppelin

Age: 18

Gender: Male

Birthday: August 5th, 1981

Zodiac: Leo

Chinese Zodiac: Rooster

Appearance: Rocco is a pretty boy, there’s really no way around it. Any possible change he could make in both his style and appearance would just make him seem that more attractive. It isn’t intentional, but his presence draws admirers like a moth to a flame which certainly has boosted his ego somewhat, but not enough to make him an ass. Rocco isn’t particularly too tall either, his build is quite modest in all seriousness. He stands at a nice 6 foot 1 inches and weighs around a buck sixty soaking wet. Despite being an art fanatic, he has a similar physique to that of a swimmer or even a gymnast, perhaps its because he sees himself as a canvas or a work of art. And to that point he ensures all his artwork is perfect so that lends itself to his appearance both physically and stylistically. His eyes are a plum purple color hidden behind his square glasses and strips of loose blonde hair. Speaking of which his hair is generally messy but in a way that looks purposefully styled which suits his otherwise clean and aesthetic attire. Besides that, his skin is rather fair not treading on the side of too white that you risk burning in the sun within seconds of tanning thankfully to his Italian heritage.

Personality: Rocco is the definition of carefree, there is almost nothing that will ever get under his skin. Many in the past have tried to test and jostle his patience only to fail and thus further their own rage. Rocco has one simple belief and that is obtaining emotional zen no matter what, like that of the teachings of Siddhārtha Gautama. With this unshakable belief he knows there’s more to life than giving meaningless infuriation’s to things outside of his own control. This proves invaluable in some facets in life, but not all of them. With this sense of serene divination, he can tackle overwhelming situations calmly and collectedly where others could not and read things with a degree of unbiased opinion.

This is mimicked in his artwork which is also mimicked to his personality as if they mirrored each other or were direct parallels. He’s careful with his art, focusing on both the big picture and the little striations and marks to achieve that goal. He pays close attention and applies the utmost care and precision to any and all his art pieces even if they’re quick doodles. He wants to breathe life into art just as he breathes life into himself every day.

It does come with its cons however, he can seem quite detached to everyone and everything which can further antagonize people. Some say he drifts off into his own world and shuts out everyone else when he’s attempting to reach nirvana. Others might call it a phase since he’s just a senior of high school, so his traits are discounted by a lot of people. This does manifest as not taking his opponents very seriously which generally causes him to misstep and underestimate his enemy which costs him sometimes, but other times excites him more. While he does manage to not appear to have any weaknesses or triggers there is one thing that does set him off. Fake art snobs who critique his work or bash it to seem more popular and enlightened than he. This often sets him off into a tirade of anger that overflows like a storm with no end in sight.

Short Biography: There’s not much to Rocco’s history that you can’t emulate from dozens of other first-generation students. Both his parents were Italian born and raised natives who only emigrated from Italy to the United States to seek better opportunities for their son like any other parent would. Except this wasn’t the only cause, but the one they chose to use as the main reason. This was because Rocco ever since a child due to his behavior always ended up on the outside of the crowd in school, this seclusion always garnered ill looks from other parents and students alike. It only got worse as he grew up since physical abuse was learned by the bullies that grew along side him. At first it was under control since Rocco never spoke of it nor fought back, but after awhile his drawings would be sent to his parents by teachers that depicted Rocco with an imaginary friend that would periodically grow in size and become more protective of Rocco until the images started to turn violent. It was more of a precursory advisement from the teachers to his parents, but they could never believe their son would take action and they were right, technically he didn’t.

And so, time went on like sand in the hourglass and the bullies became more tenacious in their abuse, only to be encouraged by their so-called parents. It wasn’t until one day one of the bullies made fun of his art and his imaginary friend that Rocco finally gave into his primal instincts and Wonderwall was born free from his paper prison. His imaginary friend made short work of the bullies and to any spectators all they could see was some invisible force knocking kids away. With the press and police hot on their heels the Zeppeli’s could no longer stay in their local home. They became nomadic in a sense where they migrated up the Italian peninsula into the rest of the European Union, desperately looking for somewhere to settle down. However, like a black cloud looming over their heads it seemed trouble was always around the corner ready to rear its ugly head. It was always the same, Rocco would enroll into a school, things would go well for a time, his personality was harbored throughout his school, bullies attempted to take advantage of him, bullies were met with hospital beds, expulsion, moving once more.

At wits end, the couple decided to move across an entire continent and the vast sea to settle into a different country with no connection to theirs. They settled down like most immigrant parents in the lovely city of New York where they enrolled Rocco into Linden High School. Scared of what kind of adversity they might have met they encouraged Rocco’s artistic and spiritualistic expression allowing him to join any and all clubs or associations that would allow him to exhibit his freedom of expression without fear of abuse. After four years the black cloud seemingly had faded away and Rocco was a healthy Senior boy that had a new girlfriend everyday and a good standing at his High School. Unfortunately for them Y2K aka the year of the apocalypse was hot on their heels and who knows what it had in store for the young brimming youth that was known as Rocco Zeppli.

Quirk: Rocco's only quirk is that when he's bored of his art books he often scribbles and tattoos his body with varying pieces with permanent marker and the sorts.

Other: Can't eat pasta without meat sauce.

Shelter

Location: Teacher's Lounge -- Group Discussion

---

The heat was lifted from his skin having heard that one of the students thought his suggestion was a good idea. It was nice to be heard for once, but not just be heard but to be seen and known that you were right instead of holding it in and regretting it down the line. Although his suggestion was helpful the materials he carried in bag were not. After all what does a bug loving art kid bring to the table besides weird facts and a pair of tweezers most would just use to pluck their unruly hairs with? Nothing or well that’s what he thought at least. Emotions were obviously very high and the number of hormones and urge for both power and safety made it inevitable that personalities would clash, and ideas would turn to competition on who was the most correct. So, with the materials he had at hand he took a different approach, he did what he knew best, and he drew.

There was a purpose to his drawing, it’s not like he was drawing nothing or just another insect. Rather he was being to sketch early blueprints of the school from memory. He couldn’t count how many times he traversed the school halls, how many twists and turns you had to take to reach your class across campus in under five minutes before the bell rang. The numerous levels and empty rooms that laid idle after everyone was gone and it was just the after-school programs. And so, as people argued and offered advice whether it was helpful or not, he constantly closed his eyes and squinted trying to remember every last detail that could possibly help aid in their escape. Eventually the black lines along the white canvas sprung to life and illustrated the architecture of the school or at least in the best imitation a senior high schooler could provide. Despite everything he could recall from the years he’s been there he knew he had to ask around for help.

The athletic kids definitely would have more intimate knowledge of the track and field or the locker rooms he never set foot in. The only issue was slipping back into the lime light and commanding their attention once more. His realization soon began to trigger his social anxiety knowing his social battery had just recharged only to be depleted once more. Not having taken notice of the new arrivals he saw several more familiar and unfamiliar faces enter the fray, there was strength in numbers, right? Right? Who knows, maybe that was just made up dialogue saved for only horror movies with the same setting just as this. One of the students wondered if they were injured beyond psychologically and that made him chuckle. Another spoke in the same facet of Maslow’s hierarchical needs in regards to needing food, water and shelter only with the caveat of needing weapons structured from basic school supplies.

It was ironically nice to see the comradery between strangers in the hallways come together and synergize for a means to escape. That girl Elliot was confident, knowledgeable, and a leader; all things he was not but admired in this sort of scenario and she was funny too which always helped. Mounting enough courage to speak again he rehearsed over and over in his head ensuring he wouldn’t fuck up and look like an idiot, but he needed a Segway into the conversation. God or whichever deity you believed in must have heard his prayers as Bill pressed pause on the pandemonium and backtracked to something much simpler, names. A perfect way to interject, of course after Fitz had gone and introduced herself it was only natural for him to go next.

Clearing his throat, he spoke once more both clearly and concisely, “My name is Alexander, but you can call me Xan for short.” Knowing full well there was another Alexander in their ranks and he always asked his teachers to call him Xan anyways.

“And I uh kind of have been drawing the layout of the whole school. After we find some weapons maybe we can escape onto the roof or underground. If there’s anything I left out, you can see for yourselves and I’ll draw it in” his heart was beating a mile a minute more so now than when he saw the living dead feasting in the halls. Hopefully they would heed his plan of action.

Steel Ball Run | Jojo's Bizarre Adventure

_Mention: 「 [@Everyone] 」

---

The blonde boy was knocked out cold and unlike the other two that had gotten into some dangerous skirmish, this one wasn’t his doing. Even Jules attempt to wake him and impart some sage advice on him was wasted. Joseppi pressed two fingers against the artery in his neck to see if he was still alive at least. Blood was still pumping, hot air was still exhaling from his nose and mouth, and his faculties were still in order. Joseppi knew this precarious position all too well, well on the off chance that he did manage to drink enough to get drunk. This son of a bitch would have one mean hangover by the time he woke up and it was up to JoJo to make sure he could live through it. This wasn’t some altruistic vein that was part of Joseppi’s true character, but instead insurance to allow Joseppi the opportunity to reclaim his wanted poster and put the fear of god into this scoundrel, making it known that Jules was his bounty and his alone to claim.

And with that Joseppi much like a caring mother or a sociopathic doctor (whichever you decided) he tossed Donny around like a ragdoll visually, however his touch and use of air made his maneuvers delicate and gentle. First his arms draped around his neck for support as Joseppi lifted him from his chair in a traditional bridal carry. Making his way to the exit he suddenly realized that once he left there would be no one in charge of running the bar since he was on his way and he sent the original owner on his way home for the day. With a neck turn so fast the sound of a whip cracking could be heard cutting through the air he glared at every last degenerate in the room (including the only mirror reflecting himself) and warned them if anyone even so much as entertained the idea of stealing a bottle without paying he would know and as soon as they tried he would be back to crush them into ash.

With his tab paid out and his loose ends cut he was finally able to continue on with the race. Joseppi mounted Donny on his horse before he inevitably slouched over. Unhitching his reigns, he tied them to the back of his own saddle to ensure Donny didn’t get lost, it wouldn’t be too long now before the start of the next leg of the race. Hopefully by that time Donny would be awake otherwise Joseppi would have to force him awake and like the other two before him, no one would want that.

---

The sun was beating down him like a magnifying glass was being pressed over him as if he were some ant waiting to be burnt to a crisp. Luckily, he had his marshals’ hat that blocked out most of the sun and then there was his goggles that fit snuggly on his face to prohibit any sand or other flying debris to catch in his eyes. He removed as much clothing as he could without crossing boundaries which left him with nothing but his button up on with the top two buttons unattached exposing his muscular pectoral muscles and the start of some chest chair. He kept his gun holsters attached to his belt along with his lasso in toe. His slacks stayed on as best they could only be slightly rolled up above the ankle. And lastly his boots with the spurs still spinning with the occasionally dry breeze that made the dessert all the more intense and unsatisfying to be in. It would be too soon for him to be back in the heart of NYC with a cool glass of water by his night stand, the mid-west was no good for him.

In between the occasional sweat wipe and lap of water from his canteen, Joseppi would forage into his bag and trace his finger along the direction of where his map was taking them. It would be a few more days before they found themselves out of the dessert and taking the shortcut, he suggested they had more than enough time on the other races to place in the top five once more. For now, though, they set up camp as requested by the unruly blonde in the back who just about complained about every god damn thing. The sun was either making him go mad or maybe it was just the numerous amounts of mirages he kept seeing off in the distance produced by the sun and his dehydration. Either way as much as she complained they all deserved reprieve from the sun.

The sun finally rested on a darkening evening allowing the temperatures to drop well below the average, the exasperated change between night and day was almost inconceivable. Regardless he would have taken cold over heat any day of the week, at least with the cold they could cuddle for warmth…. Joseppi retrieved from his own supply a large black pot to which he threw onto the fireplace and began chopping up vegetables to toss into the pot to start a stew going. If surviving in New York with every kind of immigrant taught him anything, it was how to cook with the bare minimum. Chopping and seasoning he looked around to the quiet crowd, wanting to break the air of uncomfortable silence. “I’m not the only one who’s been following this here girl. I saw someone else at the start of the race who had her in her sights.”

Saisei: The Crimson Dawn

Location: Somewhere between the training grounds and academy

---

The look on his face was very telling, either Enma didn’t stand out to him as much as he thought he did during the academy or Kiku was just more focused on bosoms and buttocks to focus on anything that lacked those two things. Perhaps his sister was the polar opposite to him otherwise he couldn’t possibly fathom how his brother would have married into that family. Those ideations were negative, and assumptions of character based on preconceived notions. So instead, Enma pushed them out from the back of his mind to make room for a fresh first impression. It wasn’t his fault that they hadn’t crossed paths until now, but if this were the first time it was just as good as any.

Enma laughed bashfully, “Yeah well it’s okay I’m sure my brother doesn’t speak to highly of me or me at all now that I think about it.” The shift in his personality was quite uplifting if he did say so himself, he appreciated Kiku’s efforts to correct his behavior prior to this whole spectacle. “Don’t worry, we’ll have all the time in the world to pay attention from here on out.” He wanted to end his sentence with calling Kiku his brother, yet the words couldn’t find their way out of his mouth. They had just met, and he didn’t want to scare kiku off so suddenly with the utterance of such intimate words when they had only just started to mince their own.

The skin on his cheeks lifted, hoisting his lips into a wide grin in response to Kiku’s talk of bonds, “Yeah you’re right! We’ll absolutely have the better bond and synergy than the rest of these teams. We can only go up from here.” The young boy quickly followed behind hoping to catch up to Ria before it was too late, who knows, she could have already been knocked unconscious by their sensei already. After a few moments the band of brothers had finally managed to catch up to Ria before their sensei had arrived. “You know what they say, before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves” Enma said resting his hand on Ria’s exposed shoulder. “Just show her you’re better than that, kay?” he was with a warm decisive smile.