Horrid

The Sands of Blood (Dead)

Drizzak

---

The smaller goblin sat on the step of the wagon as his mutagen finally wore off. His nice new skull adornment had been stolen right off of his head, rather painfully and now he let out a sigh as his draconic, ogre-like physique faded, looking down as his club-handed arms shrunk down to skinny claws once more, shedding of their scales like bark falling from a tree. Pale and ashen once again, a stark remind of his goblin heritage. His low mood quickly faded as he began to mix up another batch of his vile chemicals. The familiar firelight glowed from the vials as he packed them into his costume once more, as he donned it from where it had been thrown into the wagon when the short gnoll slaughter had finished.

The small goblin scratched at his side, now his chipper draconic self again. For a while he stared at the others in the party, seemingly unfazed by the previous floating sphere that had sailed past them. Was it above his understanding, or was he just too headstrong to care? Did he honestly believe himself able to dominate such an unearthly force? Truly his thoughts were an enigma to even himself. Such a ponderous wonder he was. A beast to be admired. Revered, even.

Drizzak scratched at his behind and let out a loud belch before speaking in the same high-pitched shriek.

"Drizzak wish big ball left dogmans. Drizzak hungry. He burn them good enough for eats. What waste."

Call of Cthulhu: Sea of Nightmares

Odette smiled down at the young woman on the sand, her dress flapping in the light ocean breeze. The spray of the waves washed over her as she smiled down at the girl. Mona. Such a pretty name. Italian, judging by her looks and accent. There were so very few true Europeans around, especially with the general attitude of close-minded bigotry and suspicion.

The girl stuttered and paused, tipping Odette off to her weaker grip of the language. She had to place her hand over her heart, how precious she was. As she edged closer, the corners of her mouth crept up and she spoke softly.

"It's lovely to meet you, dear. Call me Odette."

It didn't take long at all for her to take a seat on the sand not far from the young woman. Her smile was stuck as she looked over at the artwork.

"Oh my, you're rather good. Rather a strange source of inspiration, but I'm not one to judge. I find myself... enraptured by the ocean more than usual, recently." She was using all the high-flown vocabulary she had in an attempt to sound like a cultured intellect, and maybe bridge a connection.

Call of Cthulhu: Sea of Nightmares

Earlier...

"Closing up now. Pack 'em and stack 'em, Odes." The large man in the tight white shirt grumbled at him, a tired smile on his squarish jaw. The soft silhouette of a woman in the kitchens shifted from left to right, stacking dishes as high as her own head. Each one was hand-scrubbed and sparkled so clean that... well, you could eat off it. The full-figured woman in the kitchens untied and hung up her apron quickly, grabbing her purse and keys from the hook. Her shoes hit the tiles with a rhythmic clacking as she jogged out the door and took up her position at the grated security doors. Locking up was routine at the diner, but having a fire clear out all their patronage for the day was not.

"A shame I never got to roll out my pie." Odette said with a pout. "And that the fire damage isn't covered." The man chuckled, shaking his head as he turned the key in the final lock to the diner. "Yeeaaaah. A real shame that some punk came in with lighter fluid and a box of matches." He eyed her with a look of amusement. "Your pastries were lookin' mighty nice. And the pie wasn't half bad either." He chuckled harder as she gave him a playful punch in the arm and walked off in a fake huff, sashaying her hips slightly more than usual. "Do shut up, Joeseph, before I give you another broken arm. I'll see you next week." She waved, as did he, and they went their separate ways.

---

Right now...

The shoreline was beautiful at all times of the day, at least that is what Odette herself felt. She had taken her shoes off, to feel the sand between her toes. The sea rolled in all its majesty, and Odette was enraptured. Everytime she came out here, she found herself staring dumbfounded at the ocean, like a connection was present between her and the vast dark of the water. Though, today she knew there was another reason for her gaze to linger on the horizon. The shadow of the wreck in the distance pulled at her curiosity. Her attentions were held, but she was not without her ears.

"Buonasera, um I mean that is good afternoon," a voice called from the shore.

Odette's head turned fast enough to send her hair into whirling frenzy. Another person, here on the beach. A girl, and an artist. How novel, she must have gained inspiration from the wreck. Morbid, but novel all the same. With a warm smile and a wave, Odette spoke. "Good day, dear. What brings you to the shore, in such a lonesome state?"

The Sands of Blood (Dead)

Or was he a lizardfolk? I can't remember. Offer is open, regardless.

The Sands of Blood (Dead)

Also my runner-up character idea was an orc druid. A real tree-hugger dude. I could play him too if you want more comic relief.

The Sands of Blood (Dead)

Drizzak was exiled partially out of fear that he'd take over the tribe, and partially due to the fact that he believes himself to be an actual real life dragon. The two are linked. I didn't think much further ahead with it.

Dehumanized

Donatello De Rege

---

August 18th, 2039, 10 AM
A nondescript supermarket, New York City

Cans. Empty. Bottles. Smashed. Packets. Torn. This place was well and truly wiped out. Not a single supply in sight that wasn't dirtied or discarded for faultiness. He had managed to find a single length of bandage that whoever came through here missed. His leg was feeling a little better for it. His nerves, however, certainly were not. If there was nothing here, then how far off could actual survivors be? What if they were mutant hunters? Or more raiders? Another bullet to the leg was an idea that didn't sound attractive to Donnie at all, given how the first one felt. His foot collided with a can and sent it squawking down one of the aisles, into the shelves. Maybe if he went toward the back of the store, he would find a management office of some kind that had been missed? These old supermarkets had older locks, it could be a cinch for him to just let himself in. Yeah, that is what he'd do. One foot in front of the other, he began to limp.

"Hang the fuck on, boyo," Donnie mumbled, stopping in his tracks in the middle of a former snack aisle. He felt that same can from before, the same weight, but on his shoulder this time. It occurred to him that there was an error in his previous thought. Cans didn't squawk. Cans didn't squawk at all. Donnie turned his gaze to the side to find a bird alighting upon his shoulder. A big, nasty-looking grey thing. Like an owl with a bad dye job. It squawked at him and he squealed back, swiping with the butt of his rifle. "Fuck offa me, ya big buzzard shit!"

Donatello was not the smartest when he was afraid. Sometimes he could be pretty brilliant, but when he was afraid, his chances of brilliance went down the drain. He ran, or rather he limped, screaming into a wall at the back of the store. A loud thump sounded out, accompanied by the squawking and flapping of wings, before everything went dark for Donnie. There he lay, hidden behind a large crate, as some sort of mutated owl perched atop his head and watched for signs of motion.

The Metahuman Revolution (Reboot)

Vivian Goodman (Martyr)

---

The scissors sliced through the bandages as if they were ages-old papyrus, ready to crumble into dust. The gauze was stained with red and yellow, dried and crusted over from the deluge of blood and puss from the infected cut upon this patient's shoulder. A laceration from shrapnel in the field. Her best guess was from a crumbling building or an vehicle explosive, judging by the chunk of fiberglass she pulled from the man just a few days prior. She hissed along with him as she peeled back the absorbent dressing in one large chunk. The swelling had gone down, and the wound was beginning to scab normally, which was great. It brought a smile to her face.

"Gotta say Ma'am, you're doin' fine work here. Up, down and around, I've seen ya rush." The man said between soft groans and weak coughs. "How d'ya find time to rest with all the busywork?"

Vivian paused for a moment before rolling up her sleeve. The man took a sideways glance to her before returning his eyes to his feet at the end of the bed. He hissed again as she applied pressure around the laceration and her breathing slowed. "I'll need you to hold still for a sec." She said softly, heat building behind her eyes and deep in her chest, funnelling out through her throat. A few silent seconds passed before the deep cut began to knit itself back together, like paper burning in reverse. Vivian could feel dozens of tiny fingers prying open the flesh and skin of her shoulder as she watched the wound recede on the man's arm. This time she hissed louder than him, but she grit her teeth until the cut had shrunk to half the size and severity before letting go.

"Darlin' are ya alright? Yer lookin' mighty pale alluvuh sudden." Vivian ignored her wobbling step backward, spitting out a slurred, "I'll be aight. Don't worry." From her shoulder down to her elbow was covered with deep red, and flowing slightly still as she sat down beside the bed, next to the window. As soon as the rays hit her, she sighed in relief and closed her eyes.

"Just gimme a minute."

The Sands of Blood (Dead)

Drizzak

---

The small dragon-ogre thing hobbled on its elongated arms, sort of swinging its stunted legs forward, much like a gorilla or ape would. Drizzak chose to follow the wagon, but on foot this time. He wanted to be right there if any action kicked off, right in the thick of it. He was still salivating with excitement, skin smoldering slightly as his Fire Shield formula waned to almost inactivity. As the other gathered their bedrolls and huddled back toward the wagon, he had still been salvaging from the Gnoll's body. He salvaged everything he could use, as he was taught. He didn't have nearly enough time to take its hide or its teeth for jewelery, but he did have enough time to pick up what remained of its head. The blackened canine skull sat atop his head, fixed with more of that same dirty string and a strap of leather, becoming a makeshift helmet. The jaw was fixed below that, to his own jaw. Another measure to keep it from shifting.

"Drizzak loved fight. We do more. Yes. Yes yes yes."

His voice was deeper, more a growl than the nasal shriek it was before. He tumbled into a roll as he moved closer to the magic blade man, Artos. This man was a bit more his speed, not quite as brutal or vicious as he liked, but the magic was a welcome change to the exclusively martial practices of the others. Well, save for the holyman, but Drizzak's opinions were not friendly enough after being called a small-scale. He decided to nudge the withdrawn bookworm, not one to wait for an audience with a mere warmblood. The craggy, scaly texture of his hand scraped against the Magus' lovely armor with a rasping grind.

"You. Tall warmblood. Why you book? Why? There is fights soon! Book get messed!"

The Sands of Blood (Dead)

Work had me bogged down, sorry about that. Will get to working on a post in a bit.