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    1. Daglobster 10 yrs ago

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I think I'll join in on this!

Name: Lucan "The Handyman" Gorbachev

Age: 55

Appearance:





Lucan is not a pleasant looking man. He is tall (approximately 6'1) and lithe, and has a constant expression of distaste or disgust on his face. He walks with a slight hunch, making him look like some kind of vulture when he walks. Although he looks frail from the outside, he's actually exceptionally muscled, and can match and even overcome a man twenty years younger than him. Apart from his surprisingly built body, Lucan is also pockmarked with scars from a variety of weapons.

His favorite outfit is a black turtleneck sweater with a leather jacket on top and denim jeans, with leather gloves and work boots. He also tends to wear a pair of black teashade sunglasses, and occasionally a plain black tuque style hat to go with them.

Face wise, Lucan has an eternal grim look about him. His short beard is kept well-cut, but not even that can hide the raggedness of his features. A smoker from a young age, Lucan is almost always seen with a cigarette in his mouth, only stopping when it would be improper to smoke.

Lucan is very visibly Russian, in his accent, features, and mannerisms.

Family: Moriarty

Relation to Godfather: No blood relation, but they're somewhat close friends.

Role in family: Boss Moriarti's favorite Hitman.

Bio: Born on a farm outside the Russian industrial city of Volgograd (later renamed to Stalingrad) on November 5th, 1898, Lucan was very much a simple boy growing up. His mother and father were rather well-off dairy farmers, devout christians, and overallgood people. They donated plenty of money to the poor and their church, saving only what they needed with a little extra for emergencies. This meant that growing up, Lucan not only had very little friends, but he didn't have much to play with. Since he was being raised as a farmhand, Lucan's parents did not send him to school, which left Lucan woefully uneducated and friendless, but it also left him with a distinct lack of empathy, something that would come in handy later in life.

At the age of sixteen, Lucan was pressed into military service to fight in what will later be known as World War 1. It was in his first battle that Lucan killed his first man, running a veteran German combatant through with his bayonet during a trench assault. Intoxicated by the feeling of taking his own life into his hands and killing a man who threatened him and his country, Lucan continued to fight through the entirety of WW1, zealously killing around 100 more men.

Returning to the farm after such bloodshed was not easy. Wracked with PTSD and a mild bloodlust, Lucan became a much more aggressive person. He lived in a state of constant tension, until the Russian Civil War gave him a chance to unwind himself all over again. Taking up the Communist ideals with a burning passion, Lucan fought through his second war being there to personally see Stalin take power. Along the way, he had lost his family and the farm, but to him, all that mattered now was to keep feeding his new addiction.

He participated in some minor conflicts after that, including the conflicts leading up to WW2, and once again joined his countrymen in the defense of the motherland. For Lucan, WW2 was the war to end all wars. Fighting Nazis from the beginning to the end, Lucan quickly racked up kills and honors, including medals awarded for heroic performance during the battles of Stalingrad and Berlin. After WW2, Lucan found himself displaced, and decided moving away from Russia, a country he had spent pretty much his entire life fighting for, was the next step for him.

With around twenty military awards and a staggering 645 kills under his belt, Lucan left for New York, to seek new opportunities there. However, he very quickly found himself doing bloody work again, this time for the Moriarti family.

Personality:

Lucan, despite his age, is an incredibly fierce man. Loyal, unshakeable, and pretty much fearless, he's exactly what a veteran of 41 years of violent bloodshed would be. He treats death as if it was a triviality, finding no qualms with killing just about anyone, no matter who they are. His jaded nature and fierce combat mentality are hidden behind a calm, collected, and even sometimes friendly demeanor that can fall away at any given moment.

Whenever he's in a fight, Lucan is a force of nature. Given his experience on the battlefield, Lucan can just as easily kill a man with a knife, gun, his hands, or any other weapon out there. In hand-to-hand combat, Lucan is ferocious, combing surprising speed with brutal, mercilessly aimed punches and kicks.

Relationship?: none outside of his "work" relationships.
Bump
Wow, I didn't think you'd be available for a collab tonight, so I just sort of did the first post without you. Is there anything you want to add to it?
We've heard tales of hobbits, tales of men and dwarves. Tales of bravery, courage, and skill at arms to save all of Middle Earth from the evil of Mordor and dragons...

...But what of Mordor? We hear no tales from that place, save for legends of great battles where good has prevailed over evil, where the armies of the Dark Lord himself were defeated by an alliance of men and elves. We hear not of great Orc and Uruk heroes, of greenskins who gallantly rise to the top to lead their people to a new age or save them from defeat...

...because these Uruks don't exist.

Krom Peak, The Udun Foothills

2 months after the attack on The Black Gate

Episode 1: Welcome to Mordor, Where "Feeding The Rats" Is A Valid Career Choice


As it has for the all the days past, the sun peeked over the horizon, its light slowly washing over the land of Mordor like a fearful mother slowly taking a blanket off of her child. Somewhere in the grand expanse of Udun, a collective screech could be heard as ghuls returned to their subterranean dwellings, awaiting the coming night.

Nestled against the base of a mountain and in a small valley (sort of like the fortress of Helm's Deep) was Krom Peak, jutting out and taking up space like a massive, cobblestone and iron wart. Krom Peak (named after the mountain it rests against) is a rather large fortress. It's organized into a thick, iron and stone outer wall (behind which is housed the nearly immesurable amounts of tightly packer Uruk barracks and slave quarters). The outer wall has three large towers placed more or less symetrically along its length (around eighty meters from one end to the other), and a myriad of other, smaller towers sprinkled irregularly between the larger ones.

The inner wall contains the warcheif's massive tent, a moderately sized and well maintained training field, and the area where all the captains live.

This particular morning, all of our PCs are asleep in the barracks. They all share a single room (along with forty other Uruks). Luckily for them, neither Pug nor Gothmog had to watch the walls last night.

Suddenly, the door to the barracks bursts open, violently waking everyone inside.

At the wide doorway (wide enough that four Uruks could stand in it comfortably) stands Nazrak The Scarred, one of the many captains and the "boss" of the PCs and the Uruks in the barracks with them.

Nazrak is a tall, lithe Uruk, with skin whiter than snow and extremely visible black veins. His head, neck, and arms are absolutely covered with scars, and he is presumed to have more under his armor. His armor is a relatively decent quality suit of leather armor, without sleeves. On his shoulders are small pauldrons of iron, and at his hip is nothing short of a masterpiece; a longsword taken from a ranger from The Black Gate. With Nazrak is a gang of around eight followers, each with some pretty impressive scars of their own.

Usually a quiet sort of Uruk, he motions to one of his many gang members, a giant, almost impossibly large brute of an Uruk with an iron plate bolted over one half of his face, known all around Krom Peak as Hork The Mountain, and Hork smiles.

"ALL RIGHT, LITTLE URUKS! ON FEET. BOSS WANT TRAINING TODAY!" Hork bellows, and Nazrak crosses his arms.
Bump, and announcement that the IC will be going up soon. I'm starting the post as of posting this.
FourSev had just about finished getting comfortable in his own little home-brew recon post (Well, as comfortable as someone who's 80% machine can get on a ruined balcony with no furniture). He had found a position that put minimal strain on his bionic joints, and as he calibrated his shoulder mounted blaster cannon, a transmission came in. Begrudgingly, FourSev answered his communicator, not at all surprised to hear Loretta's voice come in, with yet another errand for him. These were assignments for a scout trooper, or a messenger droid, not a several million credit super-soldier.

Sighing to himself, he deactivated his blaster cannon, the weapon lowering and the barrel collapsing into the hard-point on his left shoulder so it wouldn't burden him as much. From a loop on his belt, he attached a line of mono-wire, and mantled the balcony, falling a couple of stories before grabbing the edge of the building. He repeated this fall/stop/fall process until he reached the ground, and he retracted the wire. With that, he was on his way.

After a few hours of sustained jogging, he reached the spaceport, finding the shuttle and quickly taking command of it. Sitting down in the cockpit, he did some pre-flight checks before plugging himself into the shuttle's interface and taking it off. He flew from the spaceport using standard procedures and military protocols, and once he was in space, he entered an approach trajectory to the strike cruiser, awaiting for them to hail him.
Actually, sickles are quite blockable, mostly because sickles, despite being small, it would seem sickle users tend to want to keep their opponent as far away as they can, since they can't get the sickle around hips or shoulders if their opponent's in their face. Although, I must admit that someone who's a master with the sickle can most definitely get around any defenses placed by the opponent.

Also, in Priroda's particular case, the sickle might be the death of her. The sickle, since it's pretty much only capable of cutting skin and maybe stabbing someone (it is in no way designed to hack, since it's designed to just cut through wheat), depends on a particular mix of grappling with the free hand and pulling down with the sickle once you get it around a shoulder or someone's neck. Unless Priroda's somehow much stronger (physically) than Herriman (I'm dead sure she isn't), she's definitely going to have trouble (if it's even possible for her) with the grappling bit. Also, Herriman definitely has the height advantage, which means if Priroda wants to get her sickle into its "kill spots" (Neck, head, upper shoulders) She'll have to leave herself gravely exposed as she reaches up there.

I'm not saying sickles are bad (because they're really frickin' awesome), but in this particular case, I'm not sure.
Herriman pulled his other foot out with relate ease, noting that Priroda was leaving behind her hammer and preparing to advance on him. He still had some of the sizzling energy around him, not yet having expended all of the energy from the spell. The remaining energy jumped to Setrak, and Herriman slowly walked out of the quicksand zone, eyeing priroda. It seemed the games were finally going to stop, and he'd be able to see just how powerful one of these twins were. It was the whole reason he'd challenged them individually, because it would be nigh suicidal to fight two foes at once whose power levels were a mystery to him.

The sickle was an interesting weapon indeed. With a style based on grappling and pulling your opponent, Herriman wondered how Priroda would even fathom she could drag him down. Still, it would seem that if there was any one specific time not to underestimate her, it would seem this was it. The small wink she gave to her sister gave Herriman something to think about. Was she about to use some kind of special technique, or a unique sickle fighting style?

Regardless, his shield arm wouldn't do him much good here, at least not in it's current state. With some sickening cracking and squelching noises, his shield arm returned to more or less the shape of an arm, except from the flesh (and the flesh on the rest of his body, as a matter of fact) sprouted hooks of chitinous material of random lengths and directions. The fingers on the ex-sheild arm's hand split off from each other, and Herriman ended up with a fleshy, five-tendriled whip of sorts at the end of that arm, covered in barbs and blades.

Raising his axe to the air, he charged at Priroda once more, except this time, he expected not to make it there, and prepared to phase shift again just in case.
Guys, I'm sorry about this, but I don't think I can get the first IC up this week. Things have become unexpectedly turbulent in my life, but I can assure you all with confidence that this will happen soon.

Also, spreading the word about this would help greatly, Razqua. Shameless promotion works wonders.
Herriman tried to move out of the way of the coming magical attack, but the arc was so wide, he couldn't help but to be caught in it at the edge. He stopped dead in his tracks, and immediately, his weight started to slowly drag him down. Normally, he wouldn't be in such a rush, but it looked like Priroda was growing some type of plant that the beginning of the arc, so he couldn't exactly waste any time. Pushing himself to his limit, he was wreathed in an aura of blue fire which baked the quicksand around him to a solid enough state for him to pull out one of his legs. The eye tendrils retreated back into his helmet. Whether this was a glimpse of his true form or just another mutation would remain a mystery.

As he pulled out a leg, the fire jumped from his body to Setrak, and with a mighty bellow, he slung a crackling ball of that same warping energy towards Priroda, aiming at the ground towards her feet. Upon impact, it would explode, with a radius of about ten feet.
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