Cyberlad
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AndyC@Hound55 Blue Beetle and Question played by Hound? Accepted.
Nah. You're getting ALL of the Charlton heroes. Crammed right down your throat. They're a package deal. Take 'em or leave 'em...
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
Nah. You're getting ALL of the Charlton heroes. Crammed right down your throat. They're a package deal. Take 'em or leave 'em...
<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>
It was a one-shot.
Couldn't even be helped by Gallons of Rubbing Alcohol Running Through the Strip...
<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.
<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...
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