Enarr

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

Roy G Bivolo

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

T H E R A I N B O W
R A I D E R I I

---

^{_{Roy G Bivolo Jr ♦ Male ♦ 16 ♦ Central City}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

^{"What's that look chum? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're looking blue! Right?"}

Born the son of the much maligned colorblind supervillain The Rainbow Rainbow, Roy G Bivolo Jr always fancied himself something of an artist, whether that entailed dragging his finger across the mist on a car window or sketching in a notepad. One day he happened to find himself tagging the side of a building that had an arcane circle splayed onto it. In the process of overtaking the space, he was interrupted by the dastardly dabbler of the dark arts Nick Necro! who informed him that he had been in the process of summoning one of several low dukes of Hell and would have to start over while a menacing kirby krackling of his fiendish aura prompted Roy to beg for his life. With his humanity appealed to, Necro decided that it would only be fashionable to demand penance be paid.

Thenceforth, Roy G Bivolo, lifelong artist extraordinaire, would no longer be able to see colors. If that were to change, he'd have to perform seven herculean labors to earn them back one at a time. Red, Orange, Yellow, and Green have been restored to him after several years of petty swashbuckling and lollygagging tomfoolery. And with each color, his ability to see was widened a little bit further. When the color Red was restored to him, he was tougher than he was before, less vulnerable to physical harm, even moreso with orange, and yellow, and green. Early on, he was tasked with stealing magical paintings from art galleries made by occultist painters, gaining the attention of the small-time investigative journalist Joseph Potato, who was constantly hot on the trail of this "Rainbow Raider".

But as his tasks morphed from "steal this painting" to "bring me the blood of a hollow man", he came to appreciate that Mr. Necro wasn't quite the innocuous hobbyist occultist he made himself out to be. Having done as he was told and successfully extracted a sample of blood from a man without a soul, he had a long train ride back to Central City where he really assessed himself and realized that he wasn't happy with where he stood in life. So instead of regaining the ability to see the color Blue, gave a call to his archnemesis and confessed to everything before being instructed to talk to the Justice League instead.

At that, he took several days of bus rides to the Hall of Justice before timidly volunteering his experience to the probing stare of the Martian Manhunter, who swiftly apprehended the dastardly sorcerer before telling Roy that he could tell that there was "a fire burning in his heart" and that while this sorcery business may leave a red mark on his records, what matters is what you've got on the inside. In the time since, he had been investigating miscellaneous magical ongoings within Central City before volunteering with the occultist inquisitors The Shadowpact, participating in an expedition in which they defeated a revolutionary group intent on summoning a rainbow demon to destabilize the local government. While a portion of it leaked into the physical plane, Roy prevented its escape by entrapping it within his own body with the assistance of Detective Chimp.Now more powerful than he was before, he finds himself a bit insufficient for the Justice League but still wanting for something more grounded than the Shadowpact.

A B I L I T I E S:

He's got superhuman invulnerability more comparable to a Thanagarian than a Kryptonian, with a degree of inbuilt magical resistance courtesy of Nick Necro's blessings. He's got slightly improved strength, dexterity and speed thanks to the Rainbow Demon buffing his physique but has the entirely separate abilities to fly and shoot hard light pretty much exactly like a Green Lantern does without the shape manipulation. Technically it has something to do with the electromagnetic emotional spectrum but he doesn't know anything about that. That said, his power suite does come with a few drawbacks: 1) He can't see the colors blue, indigo, or violet. 2) He might be overtaken by the whims of the rainbow demon within without warning. He hasn't really worked that out yet and frankly no one's paid it the attention it deserves. 3) The evil wizard Nick Necro literally influences what he sees on an ongoing basis to varying degrees. Maybe Necro'll forget. He never really cared about Roy that much to begin with. Maybe not since he did betray him to the Justice League. Kind of a dick move.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I want to play this character because it appeals to me. His purpose is to find a purpose. He's pretty ashamed of his wasted youth and is going through some growing pains. He doesn't really have much in the way of personal relationships outside of his priestlike confessions to Joe Potato and his former "employer" Nick Necro. Really, I see him as being an awkward kid who learns to open up to the people around him and learning to overcome the weight of his own shame. I gave the origin a pretty deep reworking and basically streamlined the fuck out of his powerset into something a little more coherent than random superpowers for random colors. Really the reason he's wearing a costume at all and accepting the name is because he figures the life he leads with the sorcerer neighbors and the superpowered hijinks are an almost complete non sequitur to his life as Roy G Bivolo, so he may as well not have it reflect on his art if he ever recovers from his colorblindness.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S:

Cece - Roy sees Cece as a work of art, literally, and can intuitively pick up on the performative and exaggerated nature of her “on personality”. However, he isn’t particularly curious about seeing what she’s like at rest and gets the sense that she doesn’t like him. Her all-speed ahead, attention-binging personality creates a hard counterpoint to his own rudderless, self-indulgence.

Conor – Roy thinks Conor seems like a good fellow and would very much appreciate the opportunity to have a nice long chat with him about how rune casting works and generally bombard him with miscellaneous questions. He really wants to learn how to cast a spell. The idea of graduating from Sorcerer’s Errandboy to Sorcerer’s Apprentice would really make him feel better about the whole Nick Necro affair.

Dandelion – Dandy strikes Roy as something of an oddity. Both adorable and terrifying, not entirely unlike the fear and compassion one might feel looking at a den full of wolf pups. More than any other team member, Dandy is inspiring and sparks his imagination like few other living beings ever has.

Eilidh - When Roy looks at her, he feels nothing. That isn't to say that she doesn't provoke a response. Rather, when he sees her, he feels every nerve across the length of his body flush out, like every fiber of muscle and sinew is snazzied up and fitted anew. He looks at her and he feels like nothing or at least nothing like he's ever felt. It's nice and with her similar interest in the arcane, he reasons, she might be interested in talking over the story about how he almost helped a disciple of the dark arts summon a demon.¹

Gabriella - Of all the Renegades who seem poised, if not destined for greatness, Gabby seems foremost amongst them and Roy, frankly, wants to see her succeed, not just to take it in but also so that he can be the one to pass on her legend.

Johnny - Roy feels like he should like Johnny. They have plenty in common, with their legacy identities being thrust upon them externally and whatnot but the irritating part is that Johnny’s gift elevated his existing personality whereas Roy’s descent into the rainbow of rowdy rambunctions derailed his character arc, as he saw it, and muddled it with a cacophony of non sequiturs. While there’s a tinge of admiration when he looks at Johnny, it’s mostly jealousy.

Julian - While Roy's grades weren't ever anything to write home about (except in the cases where it was advised that he seriously consider getting a tutor), he always took solace in his right-brained nature, in his creativity but Julian's brain may very well be ambidextrous with his crazy alien science powers. Even as smart as he is though, it brings Roy a small measure of comfort to see that Julian's every bit as lost and confused as he is. It's just nice to know that not being anything special isn't anything special.

Kevin - While he sees something of a contentious kindred spirit in Johnny, when he looks at Kevin, he imagines the kind of person he'd probably not initiate contact with. It's true that Roy's afraid that may have done some things that he's not proud of, he's terrified of the things that Kevin would probably be proud of. At the end of the day, he figures that he's just a harder man than he is, so much so that it kinda makes hope that invisibility might be one of his powers.

_Footnotes

¹Small talk is not a strong suit of his.

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

I feel like it'd be really fun for the magic crew to explain exactly what all the things Nick Necro had been using Roy to achieve would be really fun. Or if Selene used her Hellenic sorcery to fuck about with the rainbow demon.

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

Roy G Bivolo

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

T H E R A I N B O W R A I D E R

---

^{_{Roy G Bivolo ♦ Male ♦ 16 ♦ Central City}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

^{"What's that look chum? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're looking blue! Right?"}

Roy G Bivolo always fancied himself something of an artist, whether that entailed dragging his finger across the mist on a car window or sketching in a notepad. One day he happened to find himself tagging the side of a building that had an arcane circle splayed onto it. In the process of overtaking the space, he was interrupted by the dastardly dabbler of the dark arts Nick Necro! who informed him that he had been in the process of summoning one of several low dukes of Hell and would have to start over while a menacing kirby krackling of his fiendish aura prompted Roy to beg for his life. With his humanity appealed to, Necro decided that it would only be fashionable to demand penance be paid.

Thenceforth, Roy G Bivolo, lifelong artist extraordinaire, would no longer be able to see colors. If that were to change, he'd have to perform seven herculean labors to earn them back one at a time. Red, Orange, Yellow, and Green have been restored to him after several years of petty swashbuckling and lollygagging tomfoolery. And with each color, his ability to see was widened a little bit further. When the color Red was restored to him, he was tougher than he was before, less vulnerable to physical harm, even moreso with orange, and yellow, and green. Early on, he was tasked with stealing magical paintings from art galleries made by occultist painters, gaining the attention of the small-time investigative journalist Joseph Potato, who was constantly hot on the trail of this "Rainbow Raider".

But as his tasks morphed from "steal this painting" to "bring me the blood of a hollow man", he came to appreciate that Mr. Necro wasn't quite the innocuous hobbyist occultist he made himself out to be. Having done as he was told and successfully extracted a sample of blood from a man without a soul, he had a long train ride back to Central City where he really assessed himself and realized that he wasn't happy with where he stood in life. So instead of regaining the ability to see the color Blue, gave a call to his archnemesis and confessed to everything before being instructed to talk to the Justice League instead.

At that, he took several days of bus rides to the Hall of Justice before timidly volunteering his experience to the probing stare of the Martian Manhunter, who swiftly apprehended the dastardly sorcerer before telling Roy that he could tell that there was "a fire burning in his heart" and that while this sorcery business may leave a red mark on his records, what matters is what you've got on the inside. In the time since, he had been investigating miscellaneous magical ongoings within Central City before volunteering with the occultist inquisitors The Shadowpact, participating in an expedition in which they defeated a revolutionary group intent on summoning a rainbow demon to destabilize the local government. While a portion of it leaked into the physical plane, Roy prevented its escape by entrapping it within his own body with the assistance of Detective Chimp.Now more powerful than he was before, he finds himself a bit insufficient for the Justice League but still wanting for something more grounded than the Shadowpact.

A B I L I T I E S:

He's got superhuman invulnerability more comparable to a Thanagarian than a Kryptonian, with a degree of inbuilt magical resistance courtesy of Nick Necro's blessings. He's got slightly improved strength, dexterity and speed thanks to the Rainbow Demon buffing his physique but has the entirely separate abilities to fly and shoot hard light pretty much exactly like a Green Lantern does without the shape manipulation. Technically it has something to do with the electromagnetic emotional spectrum but he doesn't know anything about that. That said, his power suite does come with a few drawbacks: 1) He can't see the colors blue, indigo, or violet. 2) He might be overtaken by the whims of the rainbow demon within without warning. He hasn't really worked that out yet and frankly no one's paid it the attention it deserves. 3) The evil wizard Nick Necro literally influences what he sees on an ongoing basis to varying degrees. Maybe Necro'll forget. He never really cared about Roy that much to begin with. Maybe not since he did betray him to the Justice League. Kind of a dick move.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I want to play this character because it appeals to me. His purpose is to find a purpose. He's pretty ashamed of his wasted youth and is going through some growing pains. He doesn't really have much in the way of personal relationships outside of his priestlike confessions to Joe Potato and his former "employer" Nick Necro. Really, I see him as being an awkward kid who learns to open up to the people around him and learning to overcome the weight of his own shame. I gave the origin a pretty deep reworking and basically streamlined the fuck out of his powerset into something a little more coherent than random superpowers for random colors. Really the reason he's wearing a costume at all and accepting the name is because he figures the life he leads with the sorcerer neighbors and the superpowered hijinks are an almost complete non sequitur to his life as Roy G Bivolo, so he may as well not have it reflect on his art if he ever recovers from his colorblindness.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S:

Short summary of your characters thoughts, feelings and regards for the rest of the cast. Optional and can be added to whenever.

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

Sup. I'm Nightrunner. I like the idea of playing a chilled out version of our usual thing. I like YJ, maybe too much, so color me interested

Enthralling

When the young lady spoke, he felt disarmed, having poured days of labor into looking like someone you wouldn’t have time to talk to. With effort, he unstuck his tongue from the alarmingly dry roof of his mouth and reached for words. He was planning on playing the role of a complete nobody, a disposable extra. He felt his eyeballs roll like pinwheels as his brain buffered and lagged before picking a stock character to impersonate.

“Yeah. I d’know why they call it that, but I’ve been at ‘em since before I could shave. My old man used to tell me that if you wanna get anywhere you gotta toughen up. Mind you, I was a scrawny thing. Y’gotta eat nails for breakfast, he tells me. Then that’s about when ma’ went, so that’s how we toughened up. By now I figure I drank enough of the damn things to be as tough as a whole hardware store. Patroned by a kindly demon in the bottle, we are,” he says, slurring his words a bit to lean into his inner lush.

Seeing the sparkle in her youthful eyes, he felt the muscle under his tongue crouch like it wanted to pounce, to scream get away from me but that didn’t really seem like the right approach. Maybe it’d be in character to lash out but it’d also be a super effective way to get a fuckton of attention and a swift escort off the grounds, maybe even a police escort if he was particularly unlucky, which he figured he was, any time that it actually mattered.

“Gonna be honest with you: I haven’t read a book in fifteen years and I don’t know what that word means. I’m here to look at the pretty girls in pretty colors. Nice,” he paused to cough into his rolled fist, “dress, by the way. But the closest I ever really been to an art show before was the bathroom stall down by the 7-11. To be totally honest with you, I think I should probably just go but maybe a few more nails will keep me here,” he said finishing his drink off before slipping it down the length of the bar like a hockey puck and triple-patting the table to call for another, being as intentionally obnoxious as possible before checking around to see if the professor had arrived. Seeing nothing, he turned his attention back to the girl.

“So how about you? Are you a part of the show or do you just really like museums?”

Enthralling

In life, Matthias Van Aarde had been a restless soul. No doubt, he could've finished a marathon without ever setting a single foot on the pavement with the way he ran his mouth. The way things were looking though, that silver tongue would be staying in its holster. After all, it's a fine line to walk when your objective is to be invisible by merit of your own pitiable, repugnant appearance.

His ruddy, golden locks had been key to this particular penetration. He'd spent days flitting his fingers through his follicles, fastidiously fastening extensions in an effort to convincingly discolor his bangs into a grungy peanut butter chocolate cocktail, obscuring his face behind the carefully curated mop. He didn't mind saying that his efforts to disfigure his hair-do made the stylists who'd prettied him up for the billboards downtown look downright incompetent. He was pretty sure he actually saw some of them in the crowd, actually.

Dozens of perfectly posh people had sloshed through the backside of the Heritage Museum, dizzying and disgusting him, taxing his patience. He'd done little more than spinning his wheels, biding his time from the comfort of his sturdy wheelchair. Everywhere he went, the pretty people gave him a wide berth and looked away, turning up his nose as though his disability were either contagious, repugnant, or some combination thereof. That wasn't a surprise, in fact, that was the point, but never before had he so desperately wanted to see an ugly face. If he could just spot the slightest hint of Branwell's garish getup, he'd be elated.

He had no such luck.

Had one of the others gotten to him first? He wondered, as he rolled up to the bar, deciding that the smell of whiskey on his breath could really sell the illusion of being an invisible, burnt out onlooker. As he approached, he noticed a young girl, just as stylish as the rest of them, choking on a shot of something. A surge of empathy flowed through him as he felt her sandpaper throat attempt to hack up the very drink that had dried it out. It was kinda gross.

He suppressed the urge to throw up himself. After all, that would draw attention. After she was recovered from her drink, her eyes took a tour of the vicinity, a portion of the room that unfortunately included him. Their eyes met.

Was the repulsion he felt visible on his face? He stiffened his cheeks just in case, pretending not-to-care even harder than usual. There would be no talk of it so why would it matter? And so he finished rolling up to the bar, in sync with his rolling eyes, before tossing his hair back with a hedonistic hurrah and triple-patting his palm on the bar, making his wishes known: "I'll have a rusty nail if you got one."

Enthralling

Overview

The Enthralling is a collective of necromancers founded centuries ago, some even say millennia. Their number is unknown, but their methods are well understood. Under the eye of their most senior, most powerful members, The Lords of The Dead, they swagger through the world, stacking the fallen like dominoes. By and large, exceptionally few people are aware of their existence because of their uniquely treacherous discipline.

When The Enthralling kill someone, they are enthralled. If that sounds like a vague description, it’s because it’s extraordinarily versatile. The amateur and unskilled often kill someone before ordering the rotting husk to perform a task but the more creative of their number took a trick from the modern world and wholeheartedly adopted the practice of automation. By creating comprehensive sets of rules that can range anywhere from labor to preventing their own decay on a cellular level, the forward-thinking Enthralling can make a reasonable imitation of a living, albeit quirky automaton. After all, it’s fairly hard to test if a shambling passerby is, in fact, dead inside or has simply been defeated by life.

Due to the daunting workload of designing scripts capable of imitating human behavior, the Enthralling generally keep relatively few thralls in the routine of engaging with the associates they’d known intimately in life. If carefully instructed, however, thralls can make for excellent spies. In fact, many thralls hold positions of great influence.

On the other hand, the more abstract thinkers among The Enthralling can command the flesh, bone, and sinew to reassemble itself in an entirely distinct shape, even incorporating the remains of multiple thralls, assuming the designer in question has the creative capacity to work out the new anatomy and physiology of their aberrations. More practically, some opt to retrofit their thralls into living tools, such as a scalpel made of muscle and sharpened bone, taken out of a thrall that had once been a surgeon, or even a leather jacket that protects its owner.

Much subtler is the fact that the Enthralling are in possession of the very souls of their victims. While the default destination for the souls of a thrall is the very headspace of their master, from there they can be dropped off to any point of their choosing, including The Library of Souls, an archival storage facility maintained by The Lords of The Dead, from which souls can be borrowed for a time in exchange for the service of maintaining them, much like a bank.

When a soul is within the headspace of one of The Enthralling, they can engage in a dialogue that only their keeper can hear, while they, in turn, see through the eyes and hear through the ears of their master, if allowed to do so. A keeper may choose to consciously allow one of the souls sharing their headspace to seize the reigns of their body, as is sometimes the case if they possess a special sort of skill or body of knowledge, while a particularly dedicated soul may, in some instances, non-voluntarily overtake control of their keeper’s body. If a soul is bound to an inanimate object, the object may slowly take on increasingly human characteristics, such as a car that smiles or behaves erratically. Avoiding inadvertent hauntings is a primary reason why The Library of Souls is generally seen as such a bargain.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

I gotta say, it's nice to be here

[1x1] Request for Broacien: a medieval, realistic universe.

Alcott III

A young noble by the name of Alcott the third had hardly had a hair on his chest when he first bore witness to the efficiency of a wild, northern Berserkir in action. He’d lived in comfort in a village along the coast, a day’s journey from Northpass proper, so far removed from Stags’ Rest he hardly expected he’d meet a merchant, let alone an attacker. All the same, he did. He splayed his innards, in fact, with a cowardly, quivering ambush sprung from around a shady corner with a dainty dagger through the throat. The northerner had already liquidated his kin of strong men in a matter of minutes, leaving his mother and sisters intact only by merit of the fact they’d been in even deeper hiding.

Hours later, when he was removing the corpse from his grounds, he looted the berserkirs belongings and sought comfort in what he mistakenly assumed was a flask of mead. Instead, he had a vision, felt the wind raise him to the heavens as a chorus of passages from The Book offered him praise. He ordered the sun to bow before him and watched as it did just so. He found strength he’d not had previously, freeing the very stones of his path from their place with not more than his own fingers, equating it to the might that The Monarch himself must wield. And as he felt his divinity give way to responsibility, he forfeited his station in exchange for a position within the church of The Monarch, gaining a foothold as one of the prince-priests, desperate to find his way back to godhood.

Assigned a conflict-ridden region of the southern border, he took the liberty of beginning a habit of experimentation, instructing the peasantry to ingest various permutations of an alchemical cocktail of his own design in his best attempt to recreate the godmaking brew of the berserker. And so he spends his days, scheming and scribbling his findings, dreaming of godhood of one fashion or another. He lavishes in the authority he wields over the paupers in his purview, as he orders them to die day by day at the hands of the Haris Alkhalyfa, taking their knowledge of his experiments to their graves. As he inches closer to the formula for divinity, he is filled with glee. In anticipation of his coming ascension, he intends to seize the throne for himself, and therefore takes every opportunity to swear his unerring allegiance to the Young Stag, demonstrating his false devotion with empty reassurances as he races to finish his task before Harold the second can properly seize power.

TL;DR: this dude named Alcott drinks a berserkirs hallucinogens that put him in his berserkir state, assumes that it provided godhood on par with The Monarch's and, not satisfied with a mere taste of power, proceeds to abuse his station as a prince-priest to experiment on the impoverished soldiers in his care with ambitions of seizing the throne himself. It'd possibly result in something like a primitive version of nazi meth.

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Nicholas

---

Nic slipped into the elevator with the rest of the crew, lamenting the loss of life by biting his lower hard as if he were trying to cut a steel cable with his teeth. Seeing the puddle of person that had so recently been one of his own kind compelled him to start holding his breath, locking his lungs tight and throwing away the key, just in case he'd inhale their remains on accident. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Archie, diagonol to Lynn luminescent skull, as they were joined by a couple of beta male Spire employees. Making himself as large as possible, he finally gave a yawn, raising his arms and shuddering violently as the shock of fresh air flash-froze his waterlogged brain, stretching out until the workers settled in, staring at the door.

ATTENTION. PARAHUMAN PSYCHIATRIC WARD CONTAINMENT BREACH. ALL PERSONELLE RETURN TO NEAREST SHELTER AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION

"That'll wake you up!" the first Spire worker shouted.

"Just another day in paradise, eh," the closer drone huffed, elbowing Nic in the ribs. "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

Nic felt a navy blue surge through his nerves as his entire intestinal tract reared up on it's hind legs and whinnied. He felt every muscle in his body tense while his fingers rolled tighter than the newspapers his father used to beat his mother with.

ATTENTION. PARAHUMAN PSYCHIATRIC WARD CONTAINMENT BREACH. ALL PERSONELLE RETURN TO NEAREST SHELTER AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION

It suddenly became apparent exactly how inconspicuous he wasn't, as he tasted a bead of sweat slump into his mouth. He felt the tang of gasoline torching his taste buds as the sweet stink of napalm wafted into his nostrils, down from his sticky, flaky, upright, inch-long einstein hair. Underneath the labcoat, he felt the plastic residue and breadcrumbs itch like his arms were overrun with roaches.

ATTENTION. PARAHUMAN PSYCHIATRIC WARD CONTAINMENT BREACH. ALL PERSONELLE RETURN TO NEAREST SHELTER AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION

He took a gander at the Spire worker to his left and got to work dissecting the man as if his eyes were scalpels. Bad posture. Hasn't shaven in days. The subject must've mistakenly thought that maybe if he used enough Axe body spray nobody would be able to smell the bourbon on his collar. He was wrong. Based on a cursory glance, the man had spilled more on his own labcoat than Nic could hope to have ingested off of an entire platter of the Jell-O shots at the bonfire.

What a shame, he thought as the doors slid open with a ding, and the worker drones haggardly skittered down the hall to who-knows-where. Actually, Nic knew exactly where they were going: the floor's safe room, right next to their lounge.

Right after that, the crew casually power walked down the hall to their own destination, where they were faced with a locked door. Taking a quick look at it, he recognized that its manufacturer matched the very same doors he'd helped his father install in the militia compound's armory back in Nebraska.

"Lynn, Natalie, do you think you could break it down?"

"She should be able to if she gets two inches deep right here," Nic said, producing a Sharpie and waving a faint black circle onto the steel, "and doesn't sever the wire here," he said, laying an X an inch to the right. "That'll keep it locked."