Ollumhammersong said
But who is this new guy? someone we have to rescue?
It's just Devon McIntosh, the guy who invented Big Dog. Thought I'd write a hook for us to use—and it gave me an opportunity to bump the thread ;)
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Aaaand we're back!
It's just Devon McIntosh, the guy who invented Big Dog. Thought I'd write a hook for us to use—and it gave me an opportunity to bump the thread ;)
It's just Devon McIntosh, the guy who invented Big Dog. Thought I'd write a hook for us to use—and it gave me an opportunity to bump the thread ;)
Alrighty, added a picture as well. I'll get working on an IC post.
Okay, charsheet is ready. Still need to get myself a picture—I'll work on that.
Name: Finnegan Witt
Age: 46
Gender: Male
Weapons: A regular Glock 19. 15 rounds a mag, 9mm, silver bullets.
Appearance:
Standing just below six feet tall, Finnegan isn't a particularly imposing sight. His wrinkles are deeper than you'd expect and his hair is completely grey, making him look older than his forty-six years.
Personality: Bitter and sarcastic. Seems the sarcasm comes with the job. While he'll often speak to and treat the others like they're a bunch of youngsters, he knows they're his equals. He's happy to be on the team.
Bio: "It's something of a bloody cliché, isn't it? An Irish priest who stopped believing in God and began playing with the dark arts and who's a little too fond of whiskey.
"I still believe in Him, mind you. I've just realized that whatever He's doing up there, he's not terribly concerned with what's going on here on Earth. Ghosts, spirits, they answer when you call.
"I always knew I wanted to be a priest. Felt the calling ever since I was a lad. Some years ago, I began to see things. Hear voices. Naturally, I was diagnosed with all sorts of issues. But in the end, I realised the things were real. From beyond the veil. 'Course, people don't take kindly to a reverend preaching about ghosts. If I hadn't left Ireland myself I'd've been run out. It's hard telling people to believe in a God who doesn't care about His children. Perhaps it's for the better. I do good here."
Other: Something of a computer wiz.
Name: Finnegan Witt
Age: 46
Gender: Male
Weapons: A regular Glock 19. 15 rounds a mag, 9mm, silver bullets.
Appearance:
Standing just below six feet tall, Finnegan isn't a particularly imposing sight. His wrinkles are deeper than you'd expect and his hair is completely grey, making him look older than his forty-six years.
Personality: Bitter and sarcastic. Seems the sarcasm comes with the job. While he'll often speak to and treat the others like they're a bunch of youngsters, he knows they're his equals. He's happy to be on the team.
Bio: "It's something of a bloody cliché, isn't it? An Irish priest who stopped believing in God and began playing with the dark arts and who's a little too fond of whiskey.
"I still believe in Him, mind you. I've just realized that whatever He's doing up there, he's not terribly concerned with what's going on here on Earth. Ghosts, spirits, they answer when you call.
"I always knew I wanted to be a priest. Felt the calling ever since I was a lad. Some years ago, I began to see things. Hear voices. Naturally, I was diagnosed with all sorts of issues. But in the end, I realised the things were real. From beyond the veil. 'Course, people don't take kindly to a reverend preaching about ghosts. If I hadn't left Ireland myself I'd've been run out. It's hard telling people to believe in a God who doesn't care about His children. Perhaps it's for the better. I do good here."
Other: Something of a computer wiz.
If he'd worked for a megacorp, someone with proper housing, maybe an arcology, perhaps house arrest wouldn't be so bad. Of course, they weren't calling it house arrest. He'd heard of "protecting their assets", "assuring his safety", pretty much anything except the plain truth: Devon had gotten a job offer, and Koch-Huang didn't want him leaving. Not that Devon had wanted to leave, anyway, although he was beginning to have second thoughts.
He'd only told Koch-Huang of the offer to maybe hustle a pay raise out of 'em, but they went ballistic, basically locking him inside the compound. Afraid some team of mercenaries was gonna extract him in the middle of the night. He slept in one of the coffin rooms, the two metres by one metre pods reserved for employees spending the night. They weren't designed for extended stays, though, so for a large part, Devon spent his time lying in his pod as well as in offices and cubicles retrofitted for his work.
If this had been an arcology, he'd have access to an internal Matrix, letting him at least browse some approved sites. As it was now, he requested trids, books, and podcasts from one of the big German goons "protecting" him who'd procure it for him. Needless to say, it wasn't optimal. There was a reason he was slowly trying to create a backdoor in the system from the puny commlink provided for him.
He was almost hoping for an extraction.
He'd only told Koch-Huang of the offer to maybe hustle a pay raise out of 'em, but they went ballistic, basically locking him inside the compound. Afraid some team of mercenaries was gonna extract him in the middle of the night. He slept in one of the coffin rooms, the two metres by one metre pods reserved for employees spending the night. They weren't designed for extended stays, though, so for a large part, Devon spent his time lying in his pod as well as in offices and cubicles retrofitted for his work.
If this had been an arcology, he'd have access to an internal Matrix, letting him at least browse some approved sites. As it was now, he requested trids, books, and podcasts from one of the big German goons "protecting" him who'd procure it for him. Needless to say, it wasn't optimal. There was a reason he was slowly trying to create a backdoor in the system from the puny commlink provided for him.
He was almost hoping for an extraction.
I'm eager to get going!
I didn't specify which other clothes Charlie's wearing. I'll probably go back and edit that in. I'll also add a bag.
I didn't specify which other clothes Charlie's wearing. I'll probably go back and edit that in. I'll also add a bag.
Hey, yo, a feminist character! Excellent.
It's past midnight here. I'm heading to bed, but I'll get to work on the rest of my CS first thing tomorrow.
edit: As for premonition, I'm cool with it, personally. It can be a bit of a gamebreaker in some cases, but I've always enjoyed finding ways to steer my character towards making another character's visions come true.
It's past midnight here. I'm heading to bed, but I'll get to work on the rest of my CS first thing tomorrow.
edit: As for premonition, I'm cool with it, personally. It can be a bit of a gamebreaker in some cases, but I've always enjoyed finding ways to steer my character towards making another character's visions come true.
Got it. He's gonna be using computers rather than dusty books to look his shit up (well, the more garden-variety kind of rituals, anyway). This should be fun.
antman0623 said
Everyone has access to the same dark magic, but each possess something unique like you were thinking perhaps? I'm open to suggestions.
Yeah, that's pretty much what I was thinking. Which parts of the magic you'd focus on would come down to your personality, I guess. I think I'll go with someone who focuses on rituals more than throwing fireballs. You know, drawing pentagrams, communicating with spirits, the works.
While I type up a charsheet—antman, did you have anything specific in mind concering the "powers"? Would people have different kinds of magic powers (I'm thinking paranormal Teen Titans, heh, you know, different areas of expertise), or would everyone simply have access to the same dark magic?
Right, I think this is finished. I'll check the thread in the morning.
Name: Charlie
Age: About 30
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Mostly straight
Appearance:
Charlie stands about 6 feet tall and weighs around 180 pounds, a lot of it brawn. His hair and beard are beginning to show quite a few strands of grey, but otherwise he pretty much looks like your average adult wastelander.
Aside from the arm, of course.
It looks like something that might belong on an alien mix of a bug and a crab. Its surface feels like it's made of rough, solid rock, and though the claw is in no way as articulate as a hand, the arm itself is surprisingly limber, moving almost as well as his left arm. For a large part he keeps it hidden, usually in his coat sleeve. Some people aren't exactly fond of mutants, and they're usually very well armed.
Mutation: Charlie's right arm has grown into a claw, taking on a hard, spiny surface
Weapons:
Glock 19 (15 round magazine, 9mm)
Knife
Big Damn Claw™
Gear:
Gas mask
Ski goggles
Two clips of ammo (one only half full)
Six rounds of 12-gauge buckshot
Big army issue coat
Lighter
Flathead screwdriver
Flashlight
Bedroll
Faction:
Currency: $21, hidden in his left boot
Short History: "The bombs fell before I was born. My parents were alive to see it, though, and from what I hear I'm glad I missed it. Still, my mom took a heavy dose of radiation. Guess that's why I look like I do. Hey, at least I actually made it, as opposed to some of those stillborn mutie babies still being born, two heads, no mouth, shit like that. And I was sorta cute until I was about eighteen.
"Mom and Dad worked the crops on our settlement. Most of us did at the time. The soil was burned by the bombs, hardly anything grew. We were already having a tough time, so when my skin started to harden, fingers started fusing together, everyone was pretty spooked. In the end, my parents were given a choice: go with me into the wasteland, or send me away on my own. Either way, I was going. They chose the latter, and to be honest, I can't say I blame them. I think I'd've done the same.
"So, there I was, big child with a fuckin' claw for a hand. I was unarmed, alone, scared, and to top it all off, I had to deal with being a leftie. Turns out, though, that claw will rip a jugular clean open. Sometimes I still dream about the things I did in the past ten years. I'm not proud, that's for sure. But I made it. I did. Even when the skin further up my arm started to harden. When I ruined my clothes trying to put them on. When I was chased from camps. I stay outside settlements, mostly, travel light. I don't visit anywhere for long. Not very many settlers are okay with heavy mutations, at least not on a long-term basis. So when I've had company, mostly it's been other muties. We're all freaks, so a third eye or a weird arm doesn't mean much to us. It's no use being a purist these days."
Name: Charlie
Age: About 30
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Mostly straight
Appearance:
Charlie stands about 6 feet tall and weighs around 180 pounds, a lot of it brawn. His hair and beard are beginning to show quite a few strands of grey, but otherwise he pretty much looks like your average adult wastelander.
Aside from the arm, of course.
It looks like something that might belong on an alien mix of a bug and a crab. Its surface feels like it's made of rough, solid rock, and though the claw is in no way as articulate as a hand, the arm itself is surprisingly limber, moving almost as well as his left arm. For a large part he keeps it hidden, usually in his coat sleeve. Some people aren't exactly fond of mutants, and they're usually very well armed.
Mutation: Charlie's right arm has grown into a claw, taking on a hard, spiny surface
Weapons:
Glock 19 (15 round magazine, 9mm)
Knife
Big Damn Claw™
Gear:
Gas mask
Ski goggles
Two clips of ammo (one only half full)
Six rounds of 12-gauge buckshot
Big army issue coat
Lighter
Flathead screwdriver
Flashlight
Bedroll
Faction:
Currency: $21, hidden in his left boot
Short History: "The bombs fell before I was born. My parents were alive to see it, though, and from what I hear I'm glad I missed it. Still, my mom took a heavy dose of radiation. Guess that's why I look like I do. Hey, at least I actually made it, as opposed to some of those stillborn mutie babies still being born, two heads, no mouth, shit like that. And I was sorta cute until I was about eighteen.
"Mom and Dad worked the crops on our settlement. Most of us did at the time. The soil was burned by the bombs, hardly anything grew. We were already having a tough time, so when my skin started to harden, fingers started fusing together, everyone was pretty spooked. In the end, my parents were given a choice: go with me into the wasteland, or send me away on my own. Either way, I was going. They chose the latter, and to be honest, I can't say I blame them. I think I'd've done the same.
"So, there I was, big child with a fuckin' claw for a hand. I was unarmed, alone, scared, and to top it all off, I had to deal with being a leftie. Turns out, though, that claw will rip a jugular clean open. Sometimes I still dream about the things I did in the past ten years. I'm not proud, that's for sure. But I made it. I did. Even when the skin further up my arm started to harden. When I ruined my clothes trying to put them on. When I was chased from camps. I stay outside settlements, mostly, travel light. I don't visit anywhere for long. Not very many settlers are okay with heavy mutations, at least not on a long-term basis. So when I've had company, mostly it's been other muties. We're all freaks, so a third eye or a weird arm doesn't mean much to us. It's no use being a purist these days."
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