Cyberlad
Qia
Half Pint
Festive
mickilennial
AndyC
Sep
Roman
Rockette
Lord Wraith<Snipped quote by Hound55>
It was the on-screen keyboard lol. I had to use the controller to select every single character.
Ah, I see we were in the same boat then.
Hound55 Member
Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
STATUS: A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing 2 yrs ago
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2 yrs ago
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A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing
Bio
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
Most Recent Posts
Ah, I see we were in the same boat then.
<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>
Back in 2013(?)ish. My laptop broke while I was involved in a few different RPs and I had to continue posting using my brother's PS3. I'd write out my posts on paper, then type them out using the PS3 controller and its limited virtual keyboard feature. This was actually when I first played Spider-Man in one of the older Marvel games, and when my posts were pretty bloated. My Spidey app almost reached the character limit. Suffice it to say, my brother is happier now without me spending hours on his PS3.
At least you had a keyboard...
There was a time I was writing posts with a controller.
It is a common misconception people made.
Understandable, to some extent. The crescent darts, a truncheon which he threw.
People thought Marc was a ranged fighter. A marksman.
But I watched him train. I saw his background. He was a boxer with tools. A melee fighter. He wanted to get in close, he breathed perspiration and blood.
And when I say that, I don't mean just a common brawler like today's prize fighters. Hair-trigger meathead punchers where the only science involved was looking to maximise a punch's power in Newton force per body mass index... No. Marc was a technician. A sweet scientist. He may not have had the feet of a Maurice Béjart, to call him a dancer, but he had all of the craft of any prizefighter you could name.
A flutter of crescent darts released from the rear hand, under the fore's elbow to disguise their approach until later. But the darts were not the threat, they merely allowed him to slip in left under the guard and the opponent's heavy right. A truncheon to a nerve cluster. A hard punch just below the heart. Turning an elbow to weaken a counter, recognising and slipping the overly aggressive haymaker of a frustrated powered opponent. Equal punching power and comfort from either hand in myriad situations.
He was Mercel Cerdan in a cape. But with weapons which distracted from his true intent. His true intent was one of malice, and would end with you grounded; on the floor by his hand.
I am not Marc.
Cold rain beats down. I wear a dead man's clothes. But here I perch, and wait, in my own warmth.
This part of town lacks true tall skyscrapers, but its the best I can do, for overlooking the target. 215th Street Station, the quietest in Manhattan. The perfect place for my prey to feed. I hold one of Marc's crescent darts between my fore and middle finger in a hand hidden well within the depths of the cape. I'd inspected its splendid stirling silver in the moonlight earlier, when I had first gotten here, but have since tucked it away. The sniper's training to remove anything reflective coming back to the fore.
Heels clack up the stairs to the station. A woman ascends. A duck call would have been more subtle.
Lights flicker. Common with these, the Hellbent have this effect often. I turn the crescent dart in my hidden hand. I sight my prey.
No.
It's a big one. The dart won't be enough. Heaven help me, the dart won't be enough.
The woman starts to panic, sensing its presence. Possibly OUR presence.
I silently curse myself at the predicament. Lady's in the killbox. I'm not Marc.
But today, I guess I'll have to be enough.
I stow the crescent dart. I'm not Marc, and whilst I've little doubt I'd strike my target true, I think the loss of the element of surprise would be too costly for whatever advantage the damage of the dart could do.
Two steps and I hurl myself across the gap into the night. The cape billows and catches me, then I draw it closed and turn myself into a missile. Driving a shoulder through and tackling the demonic beast off of the platform and onto the tracks. I pull the truncheon and club it into a panic in the moonlight. Then the moonlight brightens and I realise what will happen next. I quickly fire a grapple line from the truncheon, pulling myself away to the far line of the station as the subway barrelled through.
I puff and pant. Close contact. Melee fighting. It's not for me. And then my salvation - the ladder from the Mooncopter whisks me away.
Tired as I may be, tonight's only just begun.
Understandable, to some extent. The crescent darts, a truncheon which he threw.
People thought Marc was a ranged fighter. A marksman.
But I watched him train. I saw his background. He was a boxer with tools. A melee fighter. He wanted to get in close, he breathed perspiration and blood.
And when I say that, I don't mean just a common brawler like today's prize fighters. Hair-trigger meathead punchers where the only science involved was looking to maximise a punch's power in Newton force per body mass index... No. Marc was a technician. A sweet scientist. He may not have had the feet of a Maurice Béjart, to call him a dancer, but he had all of the craft of any prizefighter you could name.
A flutter of crescent darts released from the rear hand, under the fore's elbow to disguise their approach until later. But the darts were not the threat, they merely allowed him to slip in left under the guard and the opponent's heavy right. A truncheon to a nerve cluster. A hard punch just below the heart. Turning an elbow to weaken a counter, recognising and slipping the overly aggressive haymaker of a frustrated powered opponent. Equal punching power and comfort from either hand in myriad situations.
He was Mercel Cerdan in a cape. But with weapons which distracted from his true intent. His true intent was one of malice, and would end with you grounded; on the floor by his hand.
I am not Marc.
D U C H A M P : M A N T L E O F
T H E M O O N ' S K N I G H T
T H E M O O N ' S K N I G H T
W E S T 2 1 5 T H S T J U N G L E
Present Day | Manhattan, New York Years ago | Country Undisclosed
"Il y a un spectacle plus grand que la mer, c’est le ciel ;
il y a un spectacle plus grand que le ciel, c’est l’intérieur de l’âme."
il y a un spectacle plus grand que le ciel, c’est l’intérieur de l’âme."
"There is one spectacle grander than the sea, that is the sky;
there is one spectacle grander than the sky, that is the interior of the soul." - Victor Hugo
there is one spectacle grander than the sky, that is the interior of the soul." - Victor Hugo
Cold rain beats down. I wear a dead man's clothes. But here I perch, and wait, in my own warmth.
Beating tropical rain. I've awaited the target for hours, my rifle propped and steady. A single trigger's pull can change the fate of an entire nation of people. The paint on my face, my clothes, on this day I serve death.
This part of town lacks true tall skyscrapers, but its the best I can do, for overlooking the target. 215th Street Station, the quietest in Manhattan. The perfect place for my prey to feed. I hold one of Marc's crescent darts between my fore and middle finger in a hand hidden well within the depths of the cape. I'd inspected its splendid stirling silver in the moonlight earlier, when I had first gotten here, but have since tucked it away. The sniper's training to remove anything reflective coming back to the fore.
I lie here, secluded by canopy and brush. Far below, a series of tripwires and claymores should buy me further time to escape, upon the descent of madness which will inevitably come with the trigger's pull. My scope wavers slightly as my attention is drawn by the sound of wheels in the mud.
Heels clack up the stairs to the station. A woman ascends. A duck call would have been more subtle.
A family alights. This wasn't the plan. What warlord brings his family out to his distant getaway? Intel had him here with numerous women who were not his wife on frequent occasions. I wonder to myself if she knew he owned this place all the while, or if she discovered its existence and the family was brought out here to justify its existence as his own private getaway. I wonder if shining a blacklight through the building wouldn't get his wife to do my job for me, before I redouble my focus both mentally and through the scope.
This is far from ideal. To kill a man in front of his family. What if his kids run? I try not to think of the tripwires and claymores that lie between us. What if his kids decide to go for a walk through the surrounding scrub? I feel added pressure to find a clean, clear shot.
Second guesses. Third guesses. These things are killers in the business of a killer.
This is far from ideal. To kill a man in front of his family. What if his kids run? I try not to think of the tripwires and claymores that lie between us. What if his kids decide to go for a walk through the surrounding scrub? I feel added pressure to find a clean, clear shot.
Second guesses. Third guesses. These things are killers in the business of a killer.
Lights flicker. Common with these, the Hellbent have this effect often. I turn the crescent dart in my hidden hand. I sight my prey.
No.
It's a big one. The dart won't be enough. Heaven help me, the dart won't be enough.
The woman starts to panic, sensing its presence. Possibly OUR presence.
I silently curse myself at the predicament. Lady's in the killbox. I'm not Marc.
But today, I guess I'll have to be enough.
Twenty minutes have passed, and the family have since moved inside and mostly settled.
Far below I hear a door clatter and slam in the wind. My scope angles. He's alone. Breathe. One-two. Pull...
With a rifle crack a life ends. With a child's scream a family is altered permanently. I curse myself for failing my training, as I dispel the casing and take aim a second time.
A rifle crack, a mother screams for her child to get back, and I feel satisfied I've kept the child from charging the brush to his certain death.
I scoop the two empties, and turn and start to make my way towards extraction. A quarter-click back there's a jump-site. Behind me I hear yelling covered quickly by the first claymore's dark call. A gentle jog onwards, then a shot hits a tree just in front of me, spurring me on faster. Guards. Not just outside the building, must have extra sentries surrounding. Another claymore explodes behind. I don't plan on being close enough for when the final one sounds, I sprint through the jungle, foliage whips and occasionally tears at my flesh.
Then nothing.
I tumble through space, I pull the jump chute and I'm away. I guide my chute around into the lee of the clifface away from the gunfire of the pursuing guards.
Far below I hear a door clatter and slam in the wind. My scope angles. He's alone. Breathe. One-two. Pull...
With a rifle crack a life ends. With a child's scream a family is altered permanently. I curse myself for failing my training, as I dispel the casing and take aim a second time.
A rifle crack, a mother screams for her child to get back, and I feel satisfied I've kept the child from charging the brush to his certain death.
I scoop the two empties, and turn and start to make my way towards extraction. A quarter-click back there's a jump-site. Behind me I hear yelling covered quickly by the first claymore's dark call. A gentle jog onwards, then a shot hits a tree just in front of me, spurring me on faster. Guards. Not just outside the building, must have extra sentries surrounding. Another claymore explodes behind. I don't plan on being close enough for when the final one sounds, I sprint through the jungle, foliage whips and occasionally tears at my flesh.
Then nothing.
I tumble through space, I pull the jump chute and I'm away. I guide my chute around into the lee of the clifface away from the gunfire of the pursuing guards.
I stow the crescent dart. I'm not Marc, and whilst I've little doubt I'd strike my target true, I think the loss of the element of surprise would be too costly for whatever advantage the damage of the dart could do.
Two steps and I hurl myself across the gap into the night. The cape billows and catches me, then I draw it closed and turn myself into a missile. Driving a shoulder through and tackling the demonic beast off of the platform and onto the tracks. I pull the truncheon and club it into a panic in the moonlight. Then the moonlight brightens and I realise what will happen next. I quickly fire a grapple line from the truncheon, pulling myself away to the far line of the station as the subway barrelled through.
I puff and pant. Close contact. Melee fighting. It's not for me. And then my salvation - the ladder from the Mooncopter whisks me away.
Tired as I may be, tonight's only just begun.
Trying to get people to do their job close to Christmas... but I don't have THAT much to do myself...
...so hopefully I can get this post done today.
...so hopefully I can get this post done today.
I'll make whatever comes work.
...or if it's not remotely compatible I'll just sit.
...or if it's not remotely compatible I'll just sit.
Gonna get caught up, read everything now... then sleep on it, and should have a post up in the morning.
EDIT: Oooooor my kid will get sick, I'll have to keep her home to look after her, and suddenly have no more time to write before I'm due back at work...
EDIT: Oooooor my kid will get sick, I'll have to keep her home to look after her, and suddenly have no more time to write before I'm due back at work...
And whilst we're talking about motivations... I'm looking to make some comics concepts which I hate right to the core of my very soul - such as Frenchie's "Bloodline"/Knight's Templar plotline work in a way that is satisfactory to me.
Challenge accepted...
Challenge accepted...
Some general lore that all Earth-bound or knowledgeable characters would be aware of:
<Snipped quote>
I'm not sure how I want to organize this kind of general lore, but placing it on the timeline felt superfluous.
*Cut to the Silver Surfer and Galactus orbiting the Earth around-and-around 'looking for a place to park'*
<Snipped quote by Sep>
Doom survived his world's destruction by escaping into the OOC thread.
"DOOM does not 'escape' as if some thief in the night... DOOM bends this anarchic OOC to DOOM's will and rules over it, as is DOOM's right!"
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
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D U C H A M P : M A N T L E O F
T H E M O O N ' S K N I G H T
T H E M O O N ' S K N I G H T
J E A N - P A U L D U C H A M P ♦ R E S T A U R A T E U R
♦ N E W Y O R K ♦ U N A F F I L I A T E D / F O R M E R L Y L . E & D . G . S . E
♦ N E W Y O R K ♦ U N A F F I L I A T E D / F O R M E R L Y L . E & D . G . S . E
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
"Marc told me death was boring. The man had no taste, but in this case I'll trust his review."
Jean-Paul DuChamp joined the French Foreign Legion as part of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment as a sniper, rising to the Section de Tireurs d'Elite (STE). He found himself having a whirlwind romance, first with a young pilot named Phillippe, actually on loan with the 62nd Air Force Escadre for Helicopters with no transport escadre pilots available to spare, and then with the nature of flight itself, where Duchamp discovered that his steady hands worked just as well behind the helm as they did behind a rifle and that he far preferred flying aircraft than jumping out of them.
Over the following months he was able to log enough hours to get his pilot's licenses both in standard fixed wing aircraft and helicopters, in addition to his other intense training. It was a labour of love.
Phillippe would be recalled back to active duty and Jean-Paul would never speak to him again. He would receive only a package with his Air Force pilot's cap, and a letter explaining that his family would never understand their love.
His unique set of combined skills saw him fall into the interest of the DGSE, who had been called upon to provide EXFILT for an allied mission in South America. In preperation he was taught a number of espionage and counter-espionage techniques.
The mission saw the extraction of one Raoul Bushman, a hyper-violent mercenary from the African nation of Burundi who was being used to foment dissent and train locals against a dictator against Western interests. The mission was written off when Bushman went AWOL, tiring of training villagers and assassinated and decapitated the dictator himself, his head found prominently mounted on a flagpole. Orders were to remove Bushman and sever all potential involvement. This could be done more easily with a bullet, but instead with the aid of a former U.S Marine with C.I.A ties by the name of Marc Spector, the pair was able to remove Bushman from the field with minimal bloodshed.
The pair would soon find the bullet would have been simpler and better all around.
Bushman had a line on a revenue-stream robbing, pillaging and "offering protection" to local archaeologists, Western journalists and aid workers out-of-their-depth in Southern Egypt and Northern Sudan. Wanting to pay the pair back, and always looking for able bodied warriors, he invited them to tag along and take a cut of this month's take.
This once again went FUBAR when Raoul Bushman once again showed his barely controlled violent streak. He murdered archaeologist Dr Peter Alraune which immediately soured the mood. Duchamp and Spector could not abide the unnecesary murder, Spector confronted Bushman only to get himself stabbed, Duchamp fled as did the daughter of Dr Alraune, Marlene.
What happened next is not entirely clear. Spector himself claimed that he died, and was restored by the Ancient Egyptian god Khonshu - claiming that he did so to make him the Moon's newest avatar of vengeance.
Marlene claimed she found him at the foot of the statue shrouded in a white cloth of some kind which seemed to have aided in clotting his most severe wound, and that he'd lost quite a lot of blood.
Regardless of what really happened then and there, Spector claimed he had found new purpose, the three returned back to his American home to find that the mercenary life had agreed with Marc. He had amassed great wealth, and requested that Jean-Paul fly for him. Like Noah, he spoke of his God asking him to create a great vessel which would carry the pair of them.
Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was infatuation... but Jean-Paul did just that. And Marc Spector would indeed become the Moon's Knight. A violent force of nature, dispatching vengeance on behalf of a beaming god, to protect those who would travel by night.
Over time Jean-Paul would find himself deeper in the darkness and madness. With his own heritage and ancestry as the "Bloodline" of the Knight's Templar, and attached his own responsibility to beating back the types of darkness they would face.
And one by one... strange foes would descend upon them from that darkness and fall. The Black Spectre, Morpheus the demon of dream, even Raoul Bushman would come back into their lives.
And all would crumble, all would fall. For who could stand against a god and a true believer?
The answer would come six years later. Another god, another true believer.
A brutish figure wearing a goat-like war mask, representing his South American god Hachezma, brutalised and murdered Marc Spector with an axe.
And just like that, the edifice fell. Jean-Paul, Marlene, Crawley, would drift apart on the winds. Until the will reading of Steven Grant would once again bind them.
Another package from a loved one who he would never speak to again.
A mask, a handgun, a truncheon and the unblemished C.I.A file of Jean-Paul Duchamp. Unredacted meant Marc had done legwork and unearthed it himself, rather than requested it by regular channels.
With it, 'Frenchie' saw how their lives intertwined, their missions one. And Jean-Paul Duchamp would don the mask, the cowl, the vestments of Khonshu's Moon Knight, even if it were for his own reasons.
The Moon's Knight is back at work, once more.
At this point, the Moon Knight has been public knowledge for a half dozen years, even if they don't know who is behind the cowl.
Jean-Paul DuChamp is using the mantle for his own purposes, to target dark and demonic forces known as the Hellbent, monsters on earth that he's seen with increasing prevalance over the past two or three years. He also fights street level crime, as it appears, but it's not his primary purpose.
Jean-Paul DuChamp has never seen nor spoken to Khonshu, the god Marc Spector believed drove him to his calling and whose bidding he felt he was doing.
Marc Spector is dead... but he's died before.
Other backstory/origin details will be added here as revealed.
Over the following months he was able to log enough hours to get his pilot's licenses both in standard fixed wing aircraft and helicopters, in addition to his other intense training. It was a labour of love.
Phillippe would be recalled back to active duty and Jean-Paul would never speak to him again. He would receive only a package with his Air Force pilot's cap, and a letter explaining that his family would never understand their love.
His unique set of combined skills saw him fall into the interest of the DGSE, who had been called upon to provide EXFILT for an allied mission in South America. In preperation he was taught a number of espionage and counter-espionage techniques.
The mission saw the extraction of one Raoul Bushman, a hyper-violent mercenary from the African nation of Burundi who was being used to foment dissent and train locals against a dictator against Western interests. The mission was written off when Bushman went AWOL, tiring of training villagers and assassinated and decapitated the dictator himself, his head found prominently mounted on a flagpole. Orders were to remove Bushman and sever all potential involvement. This could be done more easily with a bullet, but instead with the aid of a former U.S Marine with C.I.A ties by the name of Marc Spector, the pair was able to remove Bushman from the field with minimal bloodshed.
The pair would soon find the bullet would have been simpler and better all around.
Bushman had a line on a revenue-stream robbing, pillaging and "offering protection" to local archaeologists, Western journalists and aid workers out-of-their-depth in Southern Egypt and Northern Sudan. Wanting to pay the pair back, and always looking for able bodied warriors, he invited them to tag along and take a cut of this month's take.
This once again went FUBAR when Raoul Bushman once again showed his barely controlled violent streak. He murdered archaeologist Dr Peter Alraune which immediately soured the mood. Duchamp and Spector could not abide the unnecesary murder, Spector confronted Bushman only to get himself stabbed, Duchamp fled as did the daughter of Dr Alraune, Marlene.
What happened next is not entirely clear. Spector himself claimed that he died, and was restored by the Ancient Egyptian god Khonshu - claiming that he did so to make him the Moon's newest avatar of vengeance.
Marlene claimed she found him at the foot of the statue shrouded in a white cloth of some kind which seemed to have aided in clotting his most severe wound, and that he'd lost quite a lot of blood.
Regardless of what really happened then and there, Spector claimed he had found new purpose, the three returned back to his American home to find that the mercenary life had agreed with Marc. He had amassed great wealth, and requested that Jean-Paul fly for him. Like Noah, he spoke of his God asking him to create a great vessel which would carry the pair of them.
Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was infatuation... but Jean-Paul did just that. And Marc Spector would indeed become the Moon's Knight. A violent force of nature, dispatching vengeance on behalf of a beaming god, to protect those who would travel by night.
Over time Jean-Paul would find himself deeper in the darkness and madness. With his own heritage and ancestry as the "Bloodline" of the Knight's Templar, and attached his own responsibility to beating back the types of darkness they would face.
And one by one... strange foes would descend upon them from that darkness and fall. The Black Spectre, Morpheus the demon of dream, even Raoul Bushman would come back into their lives.
And all would crumble, all would fall. For who could stand against a god and a true believer?
The answer would come six years later. Another god, another true believer.
A brutish figure wearing a goat-like war mask, representing his South American god Hachezma, brutalised and murdered Marc Spector with an axe.
And just like that, the edifice fell. Jean-Paul, Marlene, Crawley, would drift apart on the winds. Until the will reading of Steven Grant would once again bind them.
Another package from a loved one who he would never speak to again.
A mask, a handgun, a truncheon and the unblemished C.I.A file of Jean-Paul Duchamp. Unredacted meant Marc had done legwork and unearthed it himself, rather than requested it by regular channels.
With it, 'Frenchie' saw how their lives intertwined, their missions one. And Jean-Paul Duchamp would don the mask, the cowl, the vestments of Khonshu's Moon Knight, even if it were for his own reasons.
The Moon's Knight is back at work, once more.
At this point, the Moon Knight has been public knowledge for a half dozen years, even if they don't know who is behind the cowl.
Jean-Paul DuChamp is using the mantle for his own purposes, to target dark and demonic forces known as the Hellbent, monsters on earth that he's seen with increasing prevalance over the past two or three years. He also fights street level crime, as it appears, but it's not his primary purpose.
Jean-Paul DuChamp has never seen nor spoken to Khonshu, the god Marc Spector believed drove him to his calling and whose bidding he felt he was doing.
Marc Spector is dead... but he's died before.
Other backstory/origin details will be added here as revealed.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
Skills and powers:
* Expert Pilot
* Elite level marksman/sniper
* Trained in hand-to-hand combat
* Trained Paratrooper
* Trained in Espionage/Counter-espionage techniques
* Expert wine connoisseur
* Capable of seeing the Hellbent - Dark forces unleashed upon our world
* Is of "The Bloodline" from the Knights Templar. Once honed it would enable him to fully take the form of any of his ancestors in their ancient unending task of eliminating the Hellbent. Presently, it takes great focus for him to merely access their memories, knowledge and on very rare occasions, skills.
NPCs:
* Marlene Alraune - A friend. Former lover of Marc/Steven's.
* Bertrand Crawley - A friend of Marc's Jake Lockley persona. Somewhat mysterious homeless man of New York's streets. Keeps contact with Duchamp mainly out of connection to his friend and the legacy of the Moon Knight.
* Rob Silverman - Jean-Paul's lover. Physical therapist and business partner in their restaurant.
* Gina - Diner operator, who owns and works at the diner that Crawley frequents. Well aware of the exploits of the Moon Knight, and tries to keep her two kids out of that nonsense.
* Numerous villains who'll be added as revealed.
* Expert Pilot
* Elite level marksman/sniper
* Trained in hand-to-hand combat
* Trained Paratrooper
* Trained in Espionage/Counter-espionage techniques
* Expert wine connoisseur
* Capable of seeing the Hellbent - Dark forces unleashed upon our world
* Is of "The Bloodline" from the Knights Templar. Once honed it would enable him to fully take the form of any of his ancestors in their ancient unending task of eliminating the Hellbent. Presently, it takes great focus for him to merely access their memories, knowledge and on very rare occasions, skills.
NPCs:
* Marlene Alraune - A friend. Former lover of Marc/Steven's.
* Bertrand Crawley - A friend of Marc's Jake Lockley persona. Somewhat mysterious homeless man of New York's streets. Keeps contact with Duchamp mainly out of connection to his friend and the legacy of the Moon Knight.
* Rob Silverman - Jean-Paul's lover. Physical therapist and business partner in their restaurant.
* Gina - Diner operator, who owns and works at the diner that Crawley frequents. Well aware of the exploits of the Moon Knight, and tries to keep her two kids out of that nonsense.
* Numerous villains who'll be added as revealed.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Heels clack up the stairs to the 215th Street Station.
Linda's friends had long been telling her they couldn't believe she still took the subway at nights. "It's out in the open. It's well lit." She would reply, about the least used station in Manhattan.
Tonight, as her fingers curled around the keys in her purse, she began to have second and third thoughts on the matter.
Lights flicker and she felt a harsh wind coursing northbound, but there was no train there yet.
She felt... a presence.
In no particular sequence, the lights flickered and failed. The station gave way to the night.
Linda's breath quickened, as she desperately tried to adjust her vision to what light there was. Light cast by the full moon, standing vigil overhead.
Then, a streak of movement. A flash of silver darted across in front of her and dove, tumbling down across the subway tracks, with a thud that suggested more weight than merely a person. With a small gasp, she edged slowly across the line to peek down at the commotion on the tracks below. A white figure was throwing repeated heavy blows with some kind of silver club, before raising its head, and firing a line from somewhere within the metal club device and quickly grappling away. The subway came barrelling through and she heard a blood curdling shriek, as if from something unhuman, and a splatter of viscous liquid across the front of the train, before she stepped back away from the tracks.
She looked the silver figure but it was gone. The open subway carriage standing in brightly lit mundanity to the scene that just took place in front of her.
She quickly got onto the carriage and found herself a quiet spot to sit and contemplate everything t
she'd just seen, or thought she'd seen.
Linda's friends had long been telling her they couldn't believe she still took the subway at nights. "It's out in the open. It's well lit." She would reply, about the least used station in Manhattan.
Tonight, as her fingers curled around the keys in her purse, she began to have second and third thoughts on the matter.
Lights flicker and she felt a harsh wind coursing northbound, but there was no train there yet.
She felt... a presence.
In no particular sequence, the lights flickered and failed. The station gave way to the night.
Linda's breath quickened, as she desperately tried to adjust her vision to what light there was. Light cast by the full moon, standing vigil overhead.
Then, a streak of movement. A flash of silver darted across in front of her and dove, tumbling down across the subway tracks, with a thud that suggested more weight than merely a person. With a small gasp, she edged slowly across the line to peek down at the commotion on the tracks below. A white figure was throwing repeated heavy blows with some kind of silver club, before raising its head, and firing a line from somewhere within the metal club device and quickly grappling away. The subway came barrelling through and she heard a blood curdling shriek, as if from something unhuman, and a splatter of viscous liquid across the front of the train, before she stepped back away from the tracks.
She looked the silver figure but it was gone. The open subway carriage standing in brightly lit mundanity to the scene that just took place in front of her.
She quickly got onto the carriage and found herself a quiet spot to sit and contemplate everything t
she'd just seen, or thought she'd seen.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
Pending.
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