Juno

The Academy: A school for Heroes and Villains (closed)

@Caits I found some spare time to finish up a third character.

Jeff Walters

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GENERAL INFORMATION

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Name: Jeffrey James Walters
Nicknames: JJ, Jeff
Alias: Hulklad ("So far. It's a work in progress!")
Gender: Male
Occupation: Student
Place of Origin: Brooklyn, New York
Age: Seventeen*
Date of Birth: 29th of February, 2000

Appearance: Most of the time, Jeff is a strapping young lad who stands at an average height (5'8"). He has the slight but well-muscled build of an athlete, hidden beneath multiple layers of frumpy green jumpers and button-up shirts. Friends have quipped before that he dresses like a grandfather, which is true, but the 'nerd' label he is struck by is infinitely helpful in being underestimated. People look towards the bright, bubbly people with the coloured hair and the loud voices, not people like him, brown-haired and brown-eyed and displaying mundanity in spades. He doesn't walk with a slouch like his appearance suggests, instead standing straight-backed and proud. He talks like a politician (or, more aptly, a lawyer) without stumbling over any words, despite the lower social status of his thick Brooklyn accent.

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RELATIONSHIP INFORMATION

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Status: Single
Sexuality: Homosexual
Partner: N/A
Father: John Jameson (Man-Wolf)
Mother: Jennifer Susan Walters (She-Hulk)
Siblings: N/A
Pets: Labrat
Other: J. Jonah Jameson (Grandfather);
Bruce Banner (First Cousin Once Removed).

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PERSONAL INFORMATION

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Likes and Dislikes:

✔ Law and order, justice, and so on.
✔ Taking the law into one's own hands; vigilantism.
✔ Musicals and showtunes.
✔ Dumb people, the academically-challenged, idiots.
✔ Underground fighting for fun and profit.
✘ Predictable plot points in books, films, comics – all media.
✘ Germs and people who don't wash their hands (gross!)
✘ Paper jams and other office malfunctions.
✘ Sending important emails even after proofreading them five times over.
✘ Waiting rooms and the terrible selections of magazines.

Hobbies:

- Researching cold cases and 'amateur' detective work.
- Entering underground fighting competitions.
- Collecting old vinyls and cassette tapes.

Strengths:

Jeff is from a long line of intellectuals, whether the scientific-minded (such as Bruce Banner); the smart-talking (his lawyer mother); or just plain old shrewd (his grandfather). Despite his unique talents, brute strength is far from all he has to offer, and after being accepted into gifted school after gifted school and being suspended or expelled from them all due to truancy and bad behaviour, he's widely read on a number of different subjects, but his favourites are Law, History and Politics. Those he can be considered to have precocious knowledge of that will become encyclopedic before too long, but he is a sponge for general knowledge and a straight-A student.

Observations of the criminal sort from his mother's work plus a genetic disposition for the dogged pursuit of the truth (and to hell with journalistic integrity!) contribute to one of Jeff's most useful talents. He can sniff out lies like a bloodhound, picking at holes in stories with an onslaught of questions and intuitively doubting the veracity of someone's claims from minute details that just seem 'off'. He would make a good police detective.

Even without using his talent for metamorphosis, Jeff is a talented combatant, having spent a good deal of his teenage years climbing down drainpipes to enter cage-fights for the thrill of it. His preferred style involves a lot of ground-work, and seems to be mostly based on judo, though he also enjoys boxing. He can take a punch or twenty in his squishy human form and enjoys putting on a show for the audience.

Weaknesses:

Radiation at a level that would kill a normal human can inhibit Jeff's abilities to shift into his Hulk form for a period of time (scaling with dosage) until his regenerative healing factor solves the issue.

One of his favourite pastimes is antagonising others, particularly those who are antagonists themselves. He does not understand the concept of 'don't make waves' and instead opts for making tsunamis, instead, when he could quite easily keep his mouth shut. Jeff is the ultimate anarchist in a hand-knitted sweater; he doesn't follow orders well. Sometimes, it dawns on him that everything he does is futile and that his existence is the creation of a voyeuristic god, and since that's the case, what's the point in it all?

Jeff is an attention-whore, which comes from fighting for sport and the entertainment of the audience. Often he makes risky moves that aren't quite calculated so much as they are chosen simply because they'll be flashy and unique, firing up whoever's watching so he can end up in an grainy video, even if it's one of the ones where people die in them.

Brief Biography:

With both parents divorced but still on speaking terms, Jeffrey James Walters took his mother's maiden name, given that she obtained custody. There was no shortage of super-powered acquaintances and family members looking out for him, including his mother's cousin, Bruce Banner, who carefully monitored him for the inheritance of gamma-irradiated blood from Jennifer.

It was present at birth, but it wasn't until he was thirteen when he first attempted to see if he could follow in the family tradition of becoming big, green, and mean. At least the lycanthropy didn't show up.

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POWERS AND ABILITIES

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The Hulk

Jeff's unique talent is more like his mother's than Bruce Banner's in that he keeps his mind when transforming from a human into a scary green monster. In this form he stands at just under 7'0" tall and is made of condensed, grotesque muscle, only a few inches taller and a tad bulkier than She-Hulk. He possesses the powers of superhuman speed, strength, endurance and durability in this form, and while these do appear in far lesser doses when he's not the Hulk, they are nothing compared to his power as his alter-ego.

Telepathic Immunity

One of the traits present in Jeff in both his human and Hulk forms is his resistance to mind-reading and mind-control effects. In his Hulk form, it is impenetrable just as his body is, while in human form this only bleeds through to provide a strong resistance to surface-level sweeps,

Superhuman Senses

It was always up in the air as to what Jeff would inherit from his father's genetic code – not so much if he would have his cheekbones or eye colour, but more along the lines of, 'Will he suffer from pseudo-lycanthropy?' The answer is no, but it was a close thing: Jennifer Walter's gamma-irradiated blood took priority, but Jeff still has all of his senses amplified in human form. Hearing, smell, sight (including night-vision) all enhanced to supernatural levels. Other than that, he also likes his meat rare.

Regenerative Healing Factor

In both forms, Jeff can shrug off wounds that would kill a normal human being due to the constant regeneration of the cells used in growth and repair. It will still hurt, but a certain level of pain tolerance is learned from the metamorphasis – nothing could hurt more than that.

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THEME SONG

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The Destined (Soulmate RP)

I'm in, boys. =]

The Destined (Soulmate RP)

Faolán Black

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Name

^_________

Faolán Black

Age

^______

Twenty-Four

Gender

^__________

Male

Relationship Status

^{____________________________}

Single

Job

^______

Faolán is a guardsman who protects and serves the Royal City. At least one son in each generation of his family has served in the guard faithfully, and as a good, respectable profession, pressure usually falls on the eldest son to do so. In the hierarchy, he is in the strange middle ground between nobility and peasantry: high enough to receive a decent education, but low enough to still be considered 'commonfolk'.

Element/Abilities

^{__________________________}

Light

• Faolán doesn't use his powers often, preferring to live as average a life as possible. Occasionally, he'll conjure a light to read by (when he goes without candles in his house) or heal a shallow wound. He received less than a year of mentoring for his Elemental abilities in his youth before quitting, so while he knows the theory – it didn't all go in one ear and out the other – he's more than rusty. At the very least, his control will always be impeccable. He spends so much time concentrating on not accidentally creating a flash of light that his powers are always locked down and under his control.

In-Depth Appearance

^{______________________________}

Faolán would be a handsome man, if only he took a comb to his hair once in a while, and shaved away his messy stubble that creeps in whenever there's not any pageantry required for his duties. He is wealthy enough that he is never unclean, although it is not surprising to see black marks on him from the charcoal he uses to sketch with. Instead, Faolán is unkempt only as a result of his permanent state of distraction; his eyes on the sky and his head in the clouds too often to worry about looking sharp.

As a guardsman, Faolán is physically fit, boasting an athletic build improved over time through drills and the daily challenges he faces. It suits him well. He might not be the tallest of men (5'10" is short compared to his siblings) but he has an imposing presence about him – he takes up space, commands attention. Some things aren't masked by general scruffiness. Pale blue eyes are made brighter by the dark circles under them, remnants of long nights spent awake, squinting at the pages of a book by candlelight.

His Mark rests on his right wrist, same as everyone else who has one, but he covers it up. It is hidden under crisp white bandages or leather wristguards when he is on duty; otherwise, it can be found underneath fashionable beaded bracelets. Repeated observation would betray that Faolán holds said arm close to his chest or behind his back, and has at some point made the decision to switch to using his non-dominant hand for every task from writing to sword-fighting.

Likes

^________

• Drawing and figure-sketching.
• Late night patrols; the city at night.
• Visiting his family out of town.
• Cheap wine imported from overseas.
• Chasing down troublemakers.

Dislikes

^___________

• Heights, even when they're not too far off the ground.
• Receiving praise or criticism in public.
• Wealth and those who don't give charitably or live austerely.
• Being so far away from his family.
• The Mark.

Greatest Fear

^{___________________}

Faolán doesn't fear many tangible things with a physical presence to be scared of. As he grows older, what wakes him up in a cold sweat is the product of too long spent alone, away from his remaining family. He worries constantly that something might happen to his brothers and sisters when he's only present in the financial sense. Anything could happen to them while he's guarding other people's families in the Royal City – sickness, bandits, freak accidents. His greatest fear is that the next time he sees them will be the last, whether it's because of their inevitable drifting apart or something more sinister.

Personality

^{________________}

In his formative years, Faolán was told that the just thing to do – if he was in a position of power over others – was to be merciful. He considers it the burden of responsibility: to do good, even if it costs a piece of oneself. Charity comes easy to him. He's someone who lets the unfortunate kids on the street get away with stealing to survive (much to the chagrin of his superiors); someone who feeds the stray cats in the neighborhood until they're loitering outside his front door every morning (and he doesn't have a rat problem anymore); and someone who could easily afford a better place in a better part of the city if he didn't have unquestioning devotion to taking care of his siblings. Someone taught him duty and familial obligation when he was too young to know better.

There is still mischief in him, paired with a dry, deadpan humour that few realise exists. He disobeys orders more frequently than some would think, masquerading it as incompetence at his job when a child makes off with a loaf of bread to feed himself. It's lucky that the Captain likes him. Faolán has a rebellious streak that he keeps well-hidden in his guard uniform. There is a reason why he was never interested in being a knight or a general. Guards protect and serve the people. The hand is tipped in favour of the nobility. It's only right that some people stick up for the little guy if the spirit of the law isn't being followed. Justice doesn't need to be blind, dumb and deaf to inequalities as some of his fellow guardsmen seem to believe.

Faolán is a poor conversationalist. He's too quietly-spoken, reserved, and it's an accepted quirk that sometimes he just fades out to stare up at the sky, lost in thought. Sometimes he's more blatant about it, pulling out his notebook to sketch out a concept before the idea forsakes him. As expected, the only friends he has are those who smile fondly when it happens. That one abandoned dream – the one where he's an artist, doing what he loves – never truly disappeared.

Of course, there is at least one aspect of his job that suits his character: the danger. Faolán is a thrill-seeker, and there is none better than the thrill of chasing a criminal down a labyrinth of streets, though of course he would prefer if they didn't go via rooftops. He doesn't consider himself blood-thirsty, but there's something fulfilling about a fight (or a fair duel) that leaves him just as satisfied as the ending of a good book.

As far as the Mark is concerned, Faolán hates it. The legend seems to be the only thing his family talks about when he's around these days. He's not a pious man, and while he believes well enough that his magical potential is god-given, he doesn't like the idea that his fate has been written out by someone else. Faolán already has plans to never marry, because he doesn't like the idea that someone has been chosen who has 'perfect' for him, and neither does he like the stomach-churning implications that if he falls in love with someone else, it won't be as strong as what could be with his Destined. It is natural to hate what one fears.

Background

^{_________________}

Faolán was born in a small town only a three-day journey away from the Royal City. His family relocated there to inherit a sizable house from a relative, useful in their end-game plan of having children and settling down to farm or some other 'safe' profession. Faolán's father was Kyran Black, the Captain of the Guard in the city, and he spent little time at home – only able to travel out once a month for a few days before he returned to the career was putting food on the table for his family. Affording a proper education was possible, and so Faolán was given lessons from the retired tutor up the road, where he learned his numbers and letters, history and literature. In his free time, he didn't climb trees or fight mock battles with wooden swords but instead sketched landscapes and people with sticks of charcoal and later expensive paints.

Growing up with three brothers within two years of his age was difficult, for Faolán most of all. The twins, Conall and Culainn, had each other; Fergus was a handful at the best of times; and ultimately, none of them were like the eldest. He was the one with the Mark on his wrist, the one whom their mother doted over. Her sister had been in a similar position, living a life that was nothing if not interesting in search of her soulmate, selfishly using much funds available to her as a member of minor nobility. When Faolán finally met Aunt Eileen, he was surprised to see a faded, almost-imperceptible birthmark and no supernatural powers in sight. Whilst Faolán was considering the implications that he didn't have to abide by Destiny's plan for him, Conall and Culainn were hounding him about his future love. Would she be pretty or smart? Was it the girl down the street? What if he didn't like her?

By the time Faolán was ten years old, he had developed something of a complex about it. He left the room whenever the topic came up, and kept the Mark itself hidden beneath the sleeves of his tunic or a strip of fabric stolen from the sewing kit. Exclusively right-handed, he made the conscious decision to switch to his left, frustrating his tutors with his messy scrawl (which has seen no change to this day) and confusing his grandfather, who was at the time teaching him how to use a sword. He would still draw and paint with his right-hand, but he would never do such things in the presence of others anymore. There was the weight of embarrassment and self-consciousness on his shoulders. His mother put him forward for an education in the magical arts, which he squandered and truanted, and eventually he refused to go back.

In his teenage years, he was assisting his mother with the housework and the taming of his two younger sisters, Sorcha and Sloane, who each arrived suddenly and without warning. They were both promised to be "the last". Faolán's father was not often present, having fewer periods of respite in which he could travel back home from the Royal City, but when he was home, he was irritable – not at anyone in particular, but Faolán could only take so much pestering as to when he would apply to join the guard, especially when he was considering fleeing to the Artist's Guild across the sea. They parted on bad terms.

They received word that he had died before they could meet again to repair their relationship. Faolán took it the hardest, a guilty-conscience plaguing him. He left home the moment he turned seventeen to live in the Royal City, but not before having lived through a year of trying times in a household of hungry mouths to feed and no bread-winner. His pay afforded him a spartan living in a room downwind of a tannery, and the rest was sent home. Life as a guardsman proved difficult for Faolán. He daydreamed too often, socialised too little. If it wasn't for his father's reputation as a fair and just captain and his poorly-hidden Mark, he would surely have been kicked out several times over in his first year. The fact that he wasn't is something he calls 'divine intervention'.

A rocky start, but he settled. The home-sickness never truly passed, but it became manageable over time. His superiors stopped giving him the awful patrols through dark alleys in hopes that he would be stabbed and save them the trouble, and eventually (after repeatedly making up for his rookie mistakes) they warmed up to him. Faolán still volunteered for the more dangerous parts of the city to patrol, if only because they were home to him, but he was also given the privilege of 'guarding' the noble courts, where nothing ever happened, except drunken lords and ladies occasionally making passes at him. The current captain is grooming him to be the next-in-line, sure that in a few years, Faolán will receive a lucrative offer to work in the castle itself.

Faolán was more than happy to slave away at his duties, refusing the invitation and ignoring the celebrations that would rage on around them, though the captain 'suggested' (without accepting 'no' for an answer) that he take some time off for the Festival of Destinies. The city would be packed to the rafters, and while it was all hands on deck in the run up to the event, it would be just asking for a smiting to make a Destined work when he ought to be out there looking for his soulmate. That was fine – Faolán intended to use his free time to go visit his brothers and sisters... until they learned of his plan, and decided the only way to help their dear, hopeless older brother out was to live with him until the festivities subsided – if only to keep him from running away from fate.

Extra

^________

Colour: #b2b8cc
Faceclaim: Jude Law

The Academy: A school for Heroes and Villains (closed)

^{_{@Juno & @Lockhart}}


(Biff Constantine & Ricky Allen)

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Biff took a long, slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling at a similar snail's pace. Tobacco, even the cheap stuff, was relaxing in only the direst of circumstances. The only buzz she received from it now – as had been the case for six years – was the dull satisfaction of an itch being scratched; however, in chaotic circumstances, like when a collection of children is left to wait without supervision like a ticking time bomb with no defusal squad, it gave her something to focus on.

Like answering the question of the man who appeared out of thin air while she was zoned out, like an apparition, or a spectre.

"You're too late to duck out the back door, if that's what you mean, but classes haven't started. Fighting has, though," she said. Her expression was a pained amalgamation of a smile crossed with a grimace. It would be hard to explain what she had just witnessed to someone who clearly wasn't present, or (if she couldn't trust her powers of observation) simply not paying attention. "I've got no clue why my dad wanted me to come here, 'cos from what I've been seeing, it's an absolute shit-show."

She tilted her head in the direction of a group gathering not far away from where she was standing, still in hearing range, but only if she strained. After having watched an Asian girl attack a guy after something he said (and really, she hoped she had misheard him because of distance), and then a edged weapon being drawn on her (because that was a proportional response), Biff wanted nothing more than to head inside and start painting her dorm room all sorts of pretty colours with bloody wards. "Sorry, I just needed to bitch a bit. Not the best start." She crushed the remains of her cigarette underfoot and held out her hand. "Biff Constantine."

The man (boy?) reached out to shake a little too quickly, like he’d been waiting for it. “Richard Allen but everyone calls me Ricky, and I don’t mind the bitching so long as you leave some for me. Hey, are you one of those villains I’ve heard so much about?” His smile was somewhere between genuine and forced with a little worry underneath it.

“I’d consider myself a bit more of an anti-hero, really,” she answered instantly. It didn’t take much thought. Alignment to good or evil wasn’t something inherited, but in her case it was simple, because she was too much like her father. John Constantine might have saved many lives he stumbled across, but he was also a bit of a bastard while doing it, and that (to Biff, at least) was something to admire and emulate. “You know, a shade of grey. Don’t worry – I’m on the lookout for them so I know who to avoid like the plague.”

Giving Ricky a curious once-over, she decided that asking him if he was a villain would be a stupid question. More often than not, villains looked like villains. They were unoriginal, made of pure, distilled human suffering. “I’ve already got put person on my ‘let’s not meet’ list––Mister Molester over there.” She nodded in the direction of the guy she’d overheard harassing girls not too long ago. Tall, dark and rapey; scruffy in the sense that he looked like he had just finished up murdering hitchhikers with an ax… or his hand-knives.

Ricky glanced at the man in question, looking over just in time to see him aggressively jostle another student while stalking away from a small group. “Some people waste no time in making friends. I’d ask what happened but from the look of him and his new nickname, I think it’s probably better for my peace of mind that I don’t.”

He had a fidgety look about him, like he was aching to be doing something rather than just standing around at the gates, though Biff guessed he was always twitching in one way or another. Here and there, she thought she caught the hint of a blur around his movements, which probably explained his appearance from midair. After watching the newly nicknamed ‘Mister Molester’ move off, he turned back to her.

“So you’re an anti-hero, good to know. My whole family’s whiter than white so I don’t think I can go as far as grey, maybe cream if I’m lucky.” He paused for a few seconds. “How about yours? Are they involved in all this… thisness?”

“It’s not quite the same brand of ‘thisness’, if you catch my drift. Less super, more–– er…” Biff floundered for a minute as she tried to sum up demons, hauntings, vampires, and Hell in one neat turn of phrase. As she had learned as early as Primary School, speaking of those things to new acquaintances was a poor way to make friends and the quick way to standing all alone in the corner of the playground. Satanism and all such rot didn’t become cool until high school. “Magic. Yeah, let’s go with that. I’m sort of… following my dad’s footsteps with that.”

“Oh, wow, that’s awesome! Magic is such a fascinating branch of Quasi-Science, I’ve wanted to do a research paper on the interactions between hell-plane energies and the speedforce for ages but you’ve no idea how lamed my dad is about dimension hopping. You could…” He cut himself off, like he’d suddenly realised he was garbling.

“Uhm… Sometime you could help me with something like that, if you’re interested in occult theory. I’m pretty new to it but I learn very fast.” He said it with a straight face.

Biff was beginning to wonder if she was out of her depth here with the talk of speedforce and something-science, but if there was one thing she did understand, it was hell-plane energies. “I’m not the type to write papers and essays and all that, but you’d be hard-pressed to find someone more interested in the occult than me at the school. Most of what I know is oral tradition – sometimes it’s not safe to write stuff down – but if you meet up at some point, I can give you a crash course in all things mystical. Always did want an acolyte.” There was mischief in her barely-there grin. “Of course, it’ll cost you. I’m an equal trade sort of girl. You know, ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’. I’ve got some research of my own to do, and I could use a hand with it.”

“Acolyte sounds a bit ominous, I don’t have to wear a robe or anything do I? And what sort of things do you want to know? I’m happy to share but most of what I know is advanced quantum theory and practise, it’s all math with funny letters. Most people would rather do literally anything else.” He shrugged a little self consciously at the last, conscious of his own over self deprecation.

“While I’m sure I’ve got one lying around, no. And I dropped out of high school after my GCSEs, so no maths required, either.” She craned her neck to see if she could identify the library out of all the other buildings on the campus. It was on the leaflets – she ought to know the shape of it – and it was just about the only thing that stopped her from getting back in the car with Chas. “I could use an extra pair of eyes when I’m looking over the sixteenth century grimoires and Victorian journals. They’ve got some one-of-a-kinds in that library. Besides, you might learn something. Does that work for you?”

Ricky shrugged. “Works for me, sure. I’m like google for books, tell me what you want found and a few keywords and I’ll find it in 0.6 seconds. But it looks like we’re still stuck out here, any idea when they’re letting us into this place?” The buildings looked intimidating from outside the gates though also somewhat mismatched, like a they’d been built by committee rather than by a single guiding vision.

“Probably when we’ve all killed each other out of boredom and there’s only one left standing,” Biff replied glibly, running a hand over her short-cropped hair in a nervous gesture, though she hoped it looked nothing like one. She didn’t twist her hands around and around, or stutter and stumble over rapid-fire words, or any of the other visible signs of anxiety that people could identify – like sharks smelling blood on the water – but her heartbeat didn’t lie, and neither did the apprehension she felt when looking over in the direction of the academy.

Fake it ‘til you make it.

At least she wasn’t alone; she had a nerd with an as-of-yet-unknown power on her side. There was something familiar about his face and name, like Biff had seen someone who looked very similar on the telly once or twice after the treaty had been signed. That didn’t matter, in the end, as the only thing that did was if they were kindred (read: outcast) spirits or not. That remained to be seen. “I heard something about an assembly? If it is one, let’s sit up the back and hope we don’t have to sing Jesus songs.”

“Would Satan songs be more your speed?” Ricky quipped with an agitated smile.

“Think more Pink Floyd. ‘We don’t need no education...’”

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The Destined (Soulmate RP)

Sneak Peak

@Knight of Doom@deyinger

Are real life faceclaims allowed? I've only been looking for them because I automatically assume that FC = real life people, and I've got a Pinterest for medieval ones to trawl through. I just wanted to check so that I can quickly change it up if I was wrong. =]

The Destined (Soulmate RP)

@Knight of Doom Would a guardsman in the Royal City be acceptable? Not a knight, but something more civilian, maybe.

The Destined (Soulmate RP)

Interested.

The Academy: A school for Heroes and Villains (closed)

Working on characters on and off. I have two in the works =]

(Sorry @Polaris North - I can't think of much to fill a post with at the moment.)

The Academy: A school for Heroes and Villains (closed)

I'm not in favour of any 4th wall-breaking heroes because few people do it well. I agree with @Caits that the toon character shouldn't have it, because it's silly, but I'm also uncomfortable because the objection seems to be in the name of making sure the Co-GM's Deadpool child is unique and special in the roleplay as the only one with the meta knowledge. Someone could make a child of She-Hulk and justify that power's placement – movies are not the be and end all of the comic book world. I feel like if it's banned for one person, it should be banned for everyone (including GMs) in the name of fairness, because right now it's quite alienating to see two different sets of rules for different people.

I don't know. I'm also worried that more arguments are going to develop, as we've already seen in the telepathy debacle, and also I think that the characters without the backing of a canonical parent (or two) are being placed at a disadvantage, because they don't have the 'lore' to back up huge lists of powers. People who have the creativity to create their own OC and put them in the roleplay shouldn't be shunted away as side-characters, and it certainly feels like that now.

Isn't there a rule somewhere that says all of the students are low-powered to begin with to allow room to grow?

The Academy: A school for Heroes and Villains (closed)

@Caits Can we apply to control an NPC?

^{It's my life's goal to make the Halle Berry!Selina Kyle/Catwoman that could have been.}