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Star Wars: Legacies (Always Open)

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Star Wars: Legacies (Always Open)

Grand Admiral Jadal Thrax
Lord Imperium Koren Ozzel

Within the bowels of Daplona, in the lower levels of Jadal Thrax’ personal fortress, dug deep into the ground, was a communications room. Customized and built with state of the art equipment. The Grand Admiral often used it to communicate with his underlings, attend briefings when he couldn’t make it in person and transmit the occasional speech. It had never, however, been used to communicate with the Imperial Center or the Core in general. By the time construction had finished, Jadal Thrax had grown too apart from the Coruscant regime to bother with. And though C-CNO never officially declared its opposition to the Grand Imperium, it was an unspoken fact that the COMPNOR-state had long cut its ties with its once overlords at Coruscant.

That is, until now. Garbled, hushed messages from the few remaining loyalists within the capital had brought news that the Grand Admiral simply couldn’t ignore. And with the Rebels crawling ever closer to the heart of the Galaxy, Jadal Thrax finally found himself forced swallow his considerable distaste and distrust towards Ozzel’s regime and tear down the unofficial walls both had erected between themselves.

And so Grand Admiral Jadal Thrax stood atop a special platform, in pristine grey-black COMPNOR uniform as aides and technicians worked in the pits around him to patch him through to his target.

Several days had passed since Admiral Kava and her considerable fleet had appeared in orbit above Coruscant, the sudden intrusion had left a bad taste in Koren Ozzel’s mouth. Kava and her fleet had caught the Imperium completely off guard, which Ozzel himself believed had been intentional. Kava had never been one for subtlety, and she had indeed made her point. Coruscant either was, or was perceived to be vulnerable. Be it from threats from the New Republic, or the fledgeling New Confederacy, or even from rogue elements from within the shattered remnants of the Empire itself. There were numerous factions that wanted what the Imperium had: A foothold in the galactic capital.

The fact was, in the days since Kava’s appearance on Coruscant, there had been talk about the Imperium’s ability to defend the Imperial capital from outside threats. Of course, the talk was just that, talk. Quieted whispers in the dark intended to make the Imperium, and by extension, Ozzel himself appear weak. Despite the fact that such talk was unfounded, and completely untrue, it was something that had to be dealt with.

Ozzel had personally ordered an increased Imperial presence on the streets. He had increased both the volume and frequency of stormtrooper patrols.There had also been an increase in the number of checkpoints throughout the city, and anyone who was so much as suspected of spreading the false narrative that the Imperium was somehow weak was to be placed under immediate arrest and held for questioning.

Ozzel had also ordered that the monitoring of Coruscant’s orbit be expanded to not only Coruscant’s immediate vicinity, but deep into the star system as well. Though such an endeavor was taxing on the Imperium’s resources, it was something that had to be done in order to ensure the safety of the Imperium.

Ozzel sat behind his desk in his office, which had served as the Emperor’s Throne Room before his death, with a glass of vintage wine at hand as he looked over the information that had been uploaded to his datapad regarding his efforts to lock down the planet.

Suddenly, the holoprojector in the office snapped to life, and standing before him was the image of a man that he had not seen in quite some time. The man’s crisp uniform looked sharp even in the dull blue light of the hologram. The man himself had changed quite a bit since he had last seen him, the cybernetic enhancements were a startling sight, and when coupled with the distinct unifor of the Committee for the Continuation of the New Order, was an indicator of the man’s fanaticism.

“Hail Palpatine!” The salute was loud, stiff and mechanical. “Grand Moff Ozzel.” Thrax finished his greeting, face morphing into a slight frown. “I will not insult your intelligence, nor do I have the time to play games with you. I have heard of the ongoing Rebel advance on the Core and the arrival, or maybe return, of a certain strike group, and I come to you with an offer.”

Ozzel got out of his chair and stiffly returned the Grand Admiral’s salute and then stepped closer to the holoprojector. He studied the man’s image as he approached, coming to a stop just before it.

“Greetings to you, Grand Admiral Thrax. It has been a long time my friend. Too long.-” Ozzel said as he returned his arm to his side. Ozzel was somewhat skeptical that the other man’s offer was not a ploy to get a foothold into the Imperium. The fact was that ever since the fall of Palpatine and the rise of the Imperium, relations between the two men had been tepid at best. However, Ozzel was not a fool, and he knew that if word of Kava’s arrival had reached
even the Grand Admiral, that he could not afford to turn away potential alliances. l“-What is it exactly that you are offering?”

“You do your duty, Grand Moff.” Thrax stressed the title. “And I shall do mine. Stop cowering behind the walls of the Palace and waiting for the Rebels to come and kill you in your bedchambers. You have squandered the resources of the Center with your apathetic and hesitant policies.” The Grand Admiral scoffed. “Now fate has delivered unto you a second chance. As we speak, I am about to bring a fiery reconing to all those who defy the Empire in the Northern Rim. But all of it will be for naught if you continue to let the Rebels advance upon the heart of the Empire. Strike back and for once prove you are the man worthy of the duty our beloved Emperor bestowed upon you. Use the might you command to safeguard the New Order.” Thrax paused for a beat. “Do that and I shall extend my hand to you as a brother in arms once I reach the Core. And make no mistake, Lord Ozzel, I will soon arrive. Either to embrace you as an ally or to avenge your death.”

Ozzel stood in a silent fury for a moment as the Grand Admiral’s words registered. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to speak to him in such a manner, and Ozzel wanted nothing more than to see him suffer for his slight. However, Ozzel could not argue with the man’s reasoning. Perhaps he had been foolish to believe that he could win the war through diplomacy. It had become clear that the New Republic was not interested in anything less than the total destruction of the Imperium and everything that it stood for. And he would certainly not allow that to happen. Perhaps it was time for him, and by extension the entire Imperium itself, to mobilize the forces of the Grand Imperium and stamp out the flame of the rebellion once and for all.

“That’s Lord Imperium, Grand Admiral. I will do what must be done. Just be sure that you and your forces are ready.”

“They are more than ready, Grand Moff. They are already on the way.” Thrax replied, smugness seeping into his tone.

Star Wars: Legacies (Always Open)

Star Wars: Legacies Character Sheet

Jadal Thrax.

Grand Admiral of the Empire, COMPNOR Select Marshal, Chairman of the Committee for the Continuation of the New Order

Race: Human (Cyborg)

Faction: Imperial Remnant/C-CNO

Character Alignment: Lawful Evil

Character Background:

Born in Anaxes to a historied military family, Jadal Thrax and his siblings were raised on tales of glorious ancestors and military discipline for as long as he could remember. There was no question which path his parents had set out for him and his siblings. The Thrax had been soldiers ever since the earliest days of Anaxes, and they would continue to be soldiers until the very stars died out.

Jadal had no issue with that. If anything, the thought of a life in uniform drove was what drove the young boy forward. Order, discipline, camaraderie, sacrifice. All in the name of a greater cause. What else could one ask for?

It was with that mindset that Jadal Thrax enrolled in the Anaxes War College. And though family influence and wealth secured him a place there, it was his own near manic obsessive effort that earned praise from his instructors and convinced them that the young man would have a brilliant career in the Judicials or the planetary defense forces.

It was during these years that the young Jadal received the first of many cybernetics. A training accident cost him his right leg. But that did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm and dedication. If anything, now he had the additional challenge of proving that he was still the same overachiever as before.

By the time he graduated, Jadal added a robotic hand to his growing portfolio. Result of an unfortunate infection during a long term wilderness survival training exercise. Undaunted, the young man joined the Judicial Corps, ready to do his duty and give flight to his childhood dreams.

The sad reality hit him harder than most. Underfunded, understaffed, mired in red tape and sinking in corruption, the Judicial Corps were a far cry from the idealized pedestal Jadal had built them into.

Disappointment turned into determination and sadness was fashioned into righteous anger. Jadal Thrax soon became a vocal critic of the Judicials. Denouncing its many failings to anyone willing to listen. The Galaxy deserved better defenders and he would ensure it got them or die trying. This outspoken position got the young officer noticed. Corrupt officials, criminals and more importantly, like minded officers.

It didn’t take long for that attention to turn into action and a failed assassination attempt took Jadal’s remaining leg. His return to action was just in time to witness the Jedi invasion of Geonosis and the start of the Clone Wars. And just like that, it was as if the Galaxy had made his worst nightmares and direst warnings a reality.

The decrepit Judicials proved no match for the overwhelming Separatist forces in the early war. But still, Thrax fought on. Rising through the ranks of the newly created Grand Army of the Republic, Thrax quickly fell in with a crowd of like minded people. Both military and civilian personnel who recognized the inherent flaws of the Republic and the dire danger and weakness it posed to civilization. Rallying behind the awe inspiring figure of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, the Commission for the Protection of the Republic would ensure not only the destruction of the Separatist threat but that nothing like that ever happened again.

This association, and Thrax’ efforts to spread his increasingly authoritarian and human supremacist ideals among the rank and file, brought him into increasingly constant conflict with the Jedi assigned to the fleet.

Not that the then Commodore was ever fond of the mystics. The very thought of giving those insular monks high ranking command positions was downright insulting to Thrax. Sword skills and mind powers did not good commanders make. And for all the perverse, private vindication he felt watching the inexperienced Jedi stumble and fail and they learned the art of war on the go, Jadal still saw fit to blame them for every good man and woman lost to their blustering inexperience.

The Jedi slavish adherence to their own code of conduct did not help matters. But still, Thrax held his tongue and bid his time, taking out his frustrations on the acceptable targets and accruing ever greater physical and mental wounds.

By the time of the Battle of Coruscant, Rear Admiral Jadal Thrax was almost half machine and fully radicalized into the nascent ideology that would soon be known as the “New Order”. When Order 66 came and his Clone Soldiers suddenly turned their guns on the Jedi, Thrax watched in confusion and muted glee. Making sure to personally oversee the destruction of every dead body he could get his hands on.

And as Palpatine declared himself Emperor and the New Order was born from the ashes of the decadent and dying Republic, Jadal Thrax was in the vanguard of Imperial might. Taking part in the Outer Rim campaigns against the Separatist remnants, his stellar service and early association with COMPOR (now COMPNOR) ensured his career would be boosted to even greater heights.

With dedication unwavering and continued results, it was no surprise that two years before Yavin, Thrax was one of the select few raised to the rank of Grand Admiral by Emperor Palpatine.

Given command of a special task force and a simple order from Palpatine’s own lips: “Destroy my enemies.” Jadal Thrax wasted no time in setting out to do his liege’s bidding.

Pirates, Rebels, Corrupt officials, “traitors” and anyone who didn’t fit into Thrax’ standards of loyalty, those all became the Grand Admiral’s targets. With many more innocents caught in the crossfire. But like every other time in his life, Thrax did not relent or stop. Setbacks and defeats did not smother the fire of his fanaticism, wounds and assassination attempts did not cripple his drive. Spurred on and helped by COMPNOR’s propaganda, always glad to have “one of their own” in the limelight, Thrax became a symbol of dedication to the ideals of the New Order. Or maddened, bloody fanaticism, depending on who you ask.

The Grand Admiral wasted no time in molding his own command according to his image. Bloodline and patronage meant little within Fleet Group Thrax and the corruption and infighting that was so common was harshly put down. But more than that, Thrax demanded faith in the New Order. Ideological training became just as important as physical education and other basic skills. A strong soldier is worse than useless if he lacks the fanaticism to fight for the cause.

For these and other shows of loyalty, Thrax was made a high ranking member of COMPNOR’s Select Committee

When the Emperor died at Endor, the Grand Admiral was at first paralyzed by fear and grief. His flagship, the SSD Passion stood idle above the shipyards of Ciutric for weeks while the Empire collapsed all around him.

It was only when news of Il Raz’ apparent suicide and the arrival of an old friend from Coruscant, that Thrax was dragged out of his stupor. Shamed and guilty for his weakness and inaction, Grand Admiral Jadal Thrax wasted no more time with self pity. The time had come for the next grand battle of the age. The war between order and civilization against alien savage degeneracy. And so Thrax set out to work, rallying his fleet and calling upon his extensive contact network to build a new bulwark against the enemies of the New Order.

Thus the Committee for the Continuation of the New Order was born. Declared above Yaga Minor a couple months after Endor. In opposition to the Rebel Alliance and the multitude of Separatist and Warlord fiefdoms tearing the Galaxy apart.

In the five years since then, Thrax has expanded his reach through parts of the Northern Rim. Consolidating the “Zealot-State” separate from the wider Remnant. Fighting Rebel and Imperial alike with little distinction or pity.

The Grand Admiral still remembers Palpatine’s last order to him. And he watches and waits for more opportunities to do his duty.


Character Personality-: Despite the appearance of coldness given by his extensive cybernetics and superficial behavior, Jadal Thrax deep down is a passionate man. He is moved by a deep and unshakable love for the New Order and all that it represents. And that love drives him to ruthless atrocity after atrocity. Anything is justifiable for the good of the cause and its enemies deserve nothing less than complete destruction, or exploitation if they can be proven useful.

In the same vein, Thrax does genuinely appreciates and loves those he sees as his comrade in arms. If in a rather warped way, and that love will certainly not spare them if the Grand Admiral decides that their sacrifice will be worth it. But until then, he will strive to ensure that they will be properly treated and rewarded according to their faith and efforts.

If anything else, there's little else to occupy himself with when you are 80% machine. So one might as well give heart, mind and soul to a greater good.

On the outside, however, Thrax is a immobile wall of ice. As unfeeling and merciless as the droids he is often compared to. This wall of ice often breaks in the privacy among close friends. But for most of the Galaxy, and even most of his own subordinates, Jadal Thrax is an unpertupable pillar.

Less rosy, is the Grand Admiral’s paranoia. Years of being the target of successive assassination attempts and the usual conspiracies within the Imperial court have made him even more reserved, withdrawn and careful about personal security.

Character Class : Soldier

Items-:

Thrax' extensive cybernetic enhancements hide a few last ditch defenses. In case everything else fails, Thrax can start shooting away with a blaster built inside his right arm. But too much use will eat up too much energy too fast.

Quotations of Director Il Raz - A book of statements, writings and speeches by the late COMPNOR head and Grand Admiral Ishin Il Raz

The New Order Lives! - Thrax' own magnum opus, written with the help of his fellow C-CNO ideologues, the book details the Committee's own brand of fanatical New Order, its beliefs, goals and everything else one would need to know about their own brand of radicalism. Required reading everywhere from labor camps to schools.

Fleet Group Thrax

Uhhh..not exactly sure on what would be an acceptable scale.

The Committee for the Continuation of the New Order.

Based around the New Territories of the Outer Rim, the C-CNO is one of the major post Imperial Warlord states of the region. With its capital at Ciutric and controlling most of the northern reaches of Oversector Outer. From Bastion in the edge of the Galaxy to Thalassia.

As expected of a state run on COMPNOR-based fanaticism, the organization seepes into every aspect of life. And membership is a requirement to advance within the system. Repression, total censorship and totalitarianism are common policies and aliens for the most part are relegated to second class citizens under the "benevolent protection of the Committee". Slavery is wide spread and so are rampant militarization and atrocities against "traitors, rebels and enemies of civilization."

Supporting Characters:

TBA

@Drunken Conquistador

Yeah....

I'm gonna go ahead and approve this. Welcome aboard. Feel free to post in the character tab

Star Wars: Legacies (Always Open)

Several days had passed since the attack by the Anzat, Drast'une, an attack which had forced to reveal his true nature to those closest to him. Nyna and Kelsa had been understanding. Though they had difficulty wrapping their heads around what they had learned, they had accepted it for what it was.

Dono on the other hand, was another matter.

The Mandalorian had hardly spoken to Joren since that night. He had felt betrayed by his friend. Although he still thought of Joren as his brother, Joren had lied to him from the day they had met. In a way, Dono understood why Joren had not told him the truth. The Empire had been actively searching out surviving Jedi since the end of the Clone Wars, and revealing his true nature could have possibly put him in danger. Yet, Joren knew that he would never betray his trust, yet decided to deceive him anyhow.

Joren sat alone in the room that Breia had given he and Dono to share while they stayed in her home. He packed the last of his belongings into his bag. Though they would have liked to stay a little longer with their new friend on Tatooine, the attack by Drast'une was a stark reminder of why they came to the desert world in the first place.

They were being hunted.

First by the Imperials on Nar Shaddaa, and then by Drast'une. The fact was, the Anzat had been hunting Joren from before they landed outside of Mos Espa. In fact, he had been after Joren from the moment they got off of the Smuggler's Moon. The Anzat may have been dead, but Joren didn't know if he had been alone, and he and the others had decided that the time to leave was now.

As Joren placed the last of his items into a bag, his hand brushed against something which caused him to wince slightly as he felt the metal object against his hand, He picked up the lightsaber and held it for a moment. Mixed emotions filled him as he stared at the silver hilt of the weapon. On one hand, this weapon had once belonged to his father, and it was all that he had left of him. On the other hand, being forced to use the weapon had caused so much strife between himself and his best friend. He contemplated attaching the weapon to his belt, however, he hesitated for a moment, and then stuffed the saber into his bag.

“So, you are really leaving, eh?” Breia's voice came from behind. He had been so focused on his father's lightsaber that he hadn't heard her enter.

“Yeah, it's time.” Joren told her.

“Too bad, I was just getting used to having you guys here. It's been a nice change.” Breia confessed.

“It has been nice. But we have to keep moving. We can't stay in one place for too long. It's not safe. For us, or for you.” Joren admitted.

“But Chandrila? What are you going to do there?” Breia asked.

“I don't know.-” Joren paused. He hated not having a plan, and for the first time in his life after both his father had died and his mother had vanished while out on a job, he truly did not know what he was doing. Back then, things had fallen into place shortly after he met Dono. They had taken care of each other, and it was together that they had survived on the streets of Nar Shaddaa. Now, he didn't know that this would still be the case. For all he knew, as unlikely as it seemed, the moment they touched down in Hanna City, Dono could for all intents and purposes walk out of his life altogether. “-I suppose find a place to stay, look for work.”

“And keep your heads down?” Breia said with a smirk.

“And keep our heads down.” Joren nodded.

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Breia said letting out a chuckle.

“Right.” Joren laughed.

“Look, you'll be going right into the heart of the New Republic. Do you think that's a good idea? How do you know they aren't just as bad as the Empire?” She asked, suddenly becoming very serious.

“We don't.” Joren admitted. “But the New Republic isn't looking for us. The Empire is.”

“Fair enough.” Breia told him. “But do me a favor, will you?”

“What's that?”

“When you're out there doing whatever it is that you're going to be doing, don't forget about us here. You guys will always have a place here.” She told him.

“Thanks Breia, that means a lot.” He said, feeling a sudden pang of guilt over their abrupt departure.

Joren reached down and picked up his bag, tossing it over his shoulder and turned to leave the room. As he reached the doorway where Breia had been standing, he stopped and met his new friend's gaze. He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled.

“We will come back to visit, I promise.” Joren said.

“Good.-” She said. -”I'm going to hold you to that.”

“I know you will.” Joren said with a smile as he continued past her and made his way to the Twilight Dreams, which had been sitting outside Breia's home since the day before.

“Joren!-” Breia called after him as he walked up the ram to the Dreams. “-Be careful. And stay out of trouble.” She said.

“I'll do my best.” He said with a laugh as he turned back and boarded the Dreams.

As Joren entered the Dreams, Kelsa was sitting in the lounge area and Nyna and Dono were already in the pilot and co-pilot seats. Joren tried to reach out and get a reading on Dono, but he wasn't able to discern exactly where the Mandalorian's head was at in the moment.

“I half expected you to leave without me.” Joren joked.

“Another minute and we would have.” Dono said evenly. Joren couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He knew that they would have to have a conversation about what had happened soon, but he knew that Dono wasn't ready, and he wasn't entirely sure that he was, either.

“Alright, well, what do you say we get out of here.” Joren said in a jovial tone, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Right, let's go. Joren, you may want to take a seat.” Nyna said as she punched the coordinates to Chandrila into the navcomputer and fired up the engines.

Star Wars: Legacies (Always Open)

Been working on some stuff which will be up shortly. Also having an idea for another character...

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

People of Interest

Nailtooth

NAME:
Neil Macintyre

ALIAS:
Nailtooth

SPEECH COLOR:
"Don_t mind _{the t}ee_th."

ALIGNMENT:
Villain

STATUS:
The nominal leader of the city-wide Human Trafficking Network based out of Lost Haven, known as Oubliette.

IDENTITY:
Known underworld quantity, contact, and person of interest. The sort of guy the FBI would be closely investigating if not for the implicit connections he leans on that make his business model possible.

PERSONALITY:
Nailtooth cuts an affable, teddy-bear demeanor that compliments him being built like a bear. He is very quick to lean on and present with his disability and easy-going countenance to make people underestimate him. Underneath the surface, Nailtooth is not a man who gets mad - he gets even. He is therefore notorious for his casual and unaffected behavior when it comes to killing others - he is the type of person to laugh along with a joke made at his expense and buy a round of drinks for everyone in the room, just to shoot the offending party as they raise glasses. Easily liked by most of the people he meets up until he sends them running with casual acts of egregious and disproportionate violence, he has built up a cult of personality around him by people in awe of his effortless combined charm and ruthlessness - whilst everyone else who knows about him keeps a wide berth. While this behavior has afforded Nailtooth with a reputation as a remorseless, unhinged killer, Nailtooth is a generous and fast friend to those who can navigate the mine field of his temperament - a group of people largely comprising other lunatics and serial killers.

OUTFIT:
Nailtooth wears a standard, irregular assortment of civilian attire. However, he is known to regularly wear a custom-tailored flight jacket with a fur inner-lining and collar. He also has a somewhat hard to see piercing, reminiscent of a nail-head, that juts from the bottom of his jaw.

ORIGIN:

The Injury

A story Nailtooth is pleased to share with his inner circle is the story of how he got his characteristic injury and dentures. As the story goes, he used to be another faceless, nameless goon in the private army of some European gang, up until he annoyed his boss a little more than was advisable. The man shot Neil through the floor of his jaw with a nailgun, piercing through the base of his mouth, through his tongue, and partially up into the roof as well - permanently impairing his speech, and serving as the root cause of a severe infection that would require Neil to have major reconstructive surgery.

Reportedly, this unknown boss (Nailtooth is remarkably coy when it comes to identifying them) then made the unprecedented decision of entrusting Neil with greater responsibilities upon his recovery. Wanted already in four different countries, Neil had little recourse and a pressing desire to continue breathing - and impressed his employer with his commitment in spite of his injury and its source, using his disability to charm and intimidate rivals, deter investigation, and trick enemies into underestimating him. As time passed, the urban legend of the man who had a nailhead stuck through the bottom of his jaw who ruled the streets began to grow and spread.

("I_ts ac_tuall_y jus_t a pier_cing I ha_d ma_de _spe_cial." He has been known to confide to those close to him.)

Years later, when it seemed like Neil might potentially rise to become the gang's second in command, he received a payoff from the boss and was told, "Fuck off and make a name for yourself somewhere else. You're clearly you're own man now."

When asked whether Nailtooth ever made something out of his old boss, he is just known to give an easy smile with his chrome-plated dentures and casually change the topic.

TYPE:
Normal - Unpowered, Baseline Human

SCALE:
City

CAPABILITIES & EQUIPMENT:

• VIP Status

Nailtooth is well connected and has greased quite a few palms to make Oubliette possible. He knows the names of every Magistrate and Judge in the city and where their children go to school. He has a pack of dirty cops and unscrupulous lawyers on speed dial, and investigations by the FBI against him and Oubliette have a history of being 'recalled and reassigned.' Barring outright and egregious exposure of his crimes, trying to pin and stick anything to him legally is a forlorn hope. Moreover, several dangerous individuals benefit substantially from his business and make it their business to keep him safe. Even starting trouble in his general vicinity can result in a number of hitmen erupting out of the woodwork to protect their interests.

• Polychrome Psyche

Nailtooth is hard to read and gauge, even telepathically. He demonstrates zero behavioral variation when playing cards or shooting somebody in the back, and his anger is glacier-cold and nearly imperceptible. In particular, it is difficult to tell whether or not he is lying, given how ambivalent and unreliable his current mental state is as an indicator of what he actually intends to do.

• Overtime Overkill

Nailtooth has no regular assortment of weaponry he prefers - in his own places of business and safehouses he has veritable armories, and is not afraid to use them to the fullest extent possible. He has zero compunction about using a grenade launcher when a knife could get the job done, and he has little issue with escalating a situation by calling in for backup with specialized weaponry if need be.

ATTRIBUTES:

Height: 1.98 Meters, though with a significant hunch that makes him look shorter.
Weight: 140 Kilograms, quite a lot of it muscle.
Strength: Exceptional but Human strength. He could nearly pass for a professional strongman.
Mobility: Standard.
Intelligence: Standard.
Fighting Skill: Untrained, but brutally strong and with zero inhibitions.

RESOURCES:
Nailtooth is the leader of a city-wide Human Trafficking Network known as Oubliette. He has bodyguards, custom-tooled weaponry, hitmen and dirty cops on speed-dial, and even access to a few esoteric trinkets. He also has deep pockets - he would not make the fortune 500, but he could bid earnestly at upscale auctions.

WEAKNESSES:
Nailtooth is merely Human. His power is manifest in affluence, influence, and people he has under his thumb.

SUPPORTING CHARACTERS:

• Tribal Mountebank - Professional killer apparently on Nailtooth's pay.
• Charis - Powered muscle and indentured servant of Oubliette and therefore Nailtooth, raised from a young age as a criminal soldier.

Tribal Mountebank

NAME:
Tribal Mountebank

ALIAS:
N/A

SPEECH COLOR:
"Hello there, my newest darling."

ALIGNMENT:
Villain

STATUS:
A professional killer within Oubliette.

IDENTITY:
Tribal is a relative unknown. He is a common fixture of Nailtooth's coterie but nobody has ever been able to positively determine what his exact responsibilities within Oubliette are. It is openly speculated by other members of Oubliette that he's a wetworker, but even within the organization it is uncertain.

PERSONALITY:
Tribal is apparently a sap at heart. He is quiet, polite, and fond of frequent and elaborate romantic gestures. A shameless flirt and apparent lech, he always has a new sweetheart or supposed soul mate every other month that he has swept up into some whirlwind romance - whether they be willing or coerced victums, or otherwise. Regardless of their interest, after a time they are consequently never seen again. An extremely private man except with those he is presently courting, few have any lingering interest in determining what his true demeanor is like, lest they risk vanishing into thin air under mysterious circumstances one day. He does not speak much and always has an easy smirk on his face.

OUTFIT:
Tribal wears an irregular assortment of ordinary civilian attire, usually comprising fine silk shirts and tailored slacks along with a full-length dark coat. Less immediately evident is the full-coverage, articulated ballistic armor he wears underneath his everyday wear.

ORIGIN:

The Man Who Was Not There

Tribal Mountebank does not exist. He is not a citizen of any country, has no criminal record, and is only known of in a small circle of enforcement agencies due to his constant proximity and association with Nailtooth. He has no apparent dayjob, no bank account, pays no taxes or bills, and seemingly has no permanent address. Insofar as can be determined, Tribal Mountebank just magically appeared out of thin air on day.

Surveillance and photography depicting Tribal date back only six years, with no trace of him prior - leading some to speculate he is another one of Oubliette's indentured unpersons, trained and intended to be a killer ghost in the system from a young age - that he does in fact have an identity, but that it is lost in the churning sea of historical missing persons who were never found.

TYPE:
Normal - Unpowered, Baseline Human

SCALE:
City

CAPABILITIES & EQUIPMENT:

• Advanced Ballistic Armor

Tribal wears a trim, next-generation full-body coverage suit of articulated ballistic armor made from non-Newtonian reactive fibers and ceramics underneath his everyday clothes. The material is light and flexible, but momentarily strengthens in response to impressed force. It is rated to stop convention small-arms munitions, is completely insulated against electrical shocks, and is fire-retardant. The suit's exotic material makeup is extremely susceptible to chemical wear, and is known to completely immobilize the wearer for several seconds when subjected to a full-body shockwave, such as from an explosive. Like traditional protective suits, the reactive materials have reduced efficacy over time when the same area is exposed to repeated instances of force and trauma. Finally, the suit has sacrificed mass and bulk in order to achieve a slim profile, and cannot stand up to especially violent impacts such as from high-velocity, armor piercing munitions. Such weapons still do not reliably kill through the suit, but will usually sunder most of the contact-site material as well as rupture and degrade the surrounding materials to the point of uselessness.

• Blackout Predator

Other than the sound of his beating heart, Tribal can walk and even run (a slow run - not a full-on sprint) so silently that he is completely imperceptible to standard Human hearing even at point blank range. He also has training that allows him to assemble and disassemble weaponry or operate machinery by feel while blinded or in complete darkness, as well as to navigate most environments and locate and combat hostiles under similar conditions.

• Abyssal Mind

Tribal's mental state, if telepathically apprised, shows signs of deliberately conditioned maladaptive schemas that have encoded most of his memories and thoughts with a surreal and paradoxical filter of warped thought. Additionally, his emotional spectrum is evidently stunted with a limited range - the only things he seems capable of feeling are fear, anxiety, ennui, apathy, and lust. His projected demeanor is an evident front.

• Marksman

Tribal is an accomplished Marksman, capable of reliably hitting targets with reflexive snap-shots at ranges in excess of 2 kilometers while standing - assuming he is familiar and comfortable with the rifle being used.

• Swordsman

While Tribal has advanced training in hand to hand combat inclusive of multiple martial disciplines, his true capabilities lie elsewhere. Although he rarely has excuse to exercise his talent, Tribal has exceptional swordsmanship skills, blending multiple blade styles including Fencing, Kendo, Knife-Fighting and HEMA. He rarely carries any actual swords with him due to them being difficult to conceal, but he frequently carries knives and is practiced at facing victims armed with melee weapons in turn.

• Pocket Guillotine

Tribal's favored weapon is an unconventional blade called the Pocket Guillotine, which resembles a box-cutter. The handle is loaded with single-use extending blade cartridges. In operation, the cartridge extends a mechanically collapsed molecular blade at high-speed whenever the handle is triggered, which is immediately electrified and super-heated. The heat and electrical charge that shoots up the length of the blade while it extends is so potent that it briefly causes the edge to wreath itself in a plume of ionized plasma. While rated to cut through steel girders almost effortlessly, the materials the blades are made from cannot withstand the coursing energies for more than half a second at most - and even if they could, the capacitor built into each cartridge would not be able to sustain the discharge of energy. Each blade extended from the handle in this fashion invariably disintegrates half a second after extension, and thereafter the handle has to be loaded with a new cartridge. It should thus come as little surprise that Tribal largely uses the Pocket Guillotine in conjunction with his Iado training to take victims by surprise, killing them in a single stroke before they can even react, with the murder weapon flash-vaporizing any spilled blood, cauterizing the injuries, and then disintegrating after the fact.

ATTRIBUTES:

Height: 1.83 Meters
Weight: 81 Kilograms
Strength: Honed but Human strength. A professional wrestler could overpower him.
Mobility: Wired Flesh and Bones. Has reflexive agility is close to the Human pinnacle.
Intelligence: Standard
Fighting Skill: Competent hand-to-hand combatant, exceptional melee capability with bladed weapons, exceptional marksman capable of long-distance reflexive snap-shots with rifles.

RESOURCES:
Tribal has implicit access to Oubliette's armories as a member, but his exotic armor and weaponry betray access to a more advanced and sophisticated source of munitions and equipment that he collects at what appear to be prearranged dead-drops. He clearly cannot replace his preferred loadout overnight, but he has otherwise rapid access to replacements.

Weaknesses:
Tribal, behind his next-generation armor, exotic weaponry and honed reflexes, is just a man - and even his armor does not allow him to outright ignore conventional weapons.

Supporting Characters:

• Nailtooth (Neil Macintyre) - The leader of Oubliette, and presumably Tribal's employer.
• Charis - A victim of Oubliette turned powered child soldier and professional muscle for the organization.

Charis

NAME:
Charis

ALIAS:
N/A

SPEECH COLOR
"Hey there, Coffin Stuffer."

ALIGNMENT:
Villain

IDENTITY:
Unknown Persona Non Grata. She would be subject to deportation if only anybody knew her country of origin.

PERSONALITY:
Off-work, Charis can nearly approximate a normal, if brusque and abrasive routine and behavior. During work, which she enjoys immensely, her brutality and psychotically perverse indulgence of violence emerges. Having been raised and trained for her current occupation and having no legitimate life to fall back on otherwise, it is no surprise that she has emotionally built herself up in the context of her employment, where she enjoys the most power and personal freedom. In the quiet hours of her free time, when endeavoring to blend in with a society she can never truly join, she can adopt a façade of normalcy - with evident cracks and hints as to her true nature.

OUTFIT:
N/A - Wears a standard unfixed assortment of civilian clothing.

ORIGIN:

The Prize Panther

Charis was born with her powers, which she was capable of using reflexively even from a young age - which was what attracted the attention of her abductors, who sold her to a trafficking network known as Oubliette that shipped her overseas, shut inside a fire-suit locker. Destined to be sold as either a child soldier in some third world country or as a lab rat, she was spared such a fate when it was decided the trafficking business would benefit from having cultivated 'product' to act as living exemplars of what could be offered to those with the necessary wealth and moral flexibility. Charis was trained from a young age to act an an enforcer and muscle for Oubliette, and received a diverse amount of training in martial arts and the use of various weapons. She was also educated in battlefield tactics, bodyguarding, security, and accounting - affording her a crooked, practical education devoid of more nuanced academic merit. To this day she continues to work for Oubliette as an undocumented person, with no civilian cover, having been conditioned to be emotionally invested in her work and to have no other practical recourse.

SCALE:
City

TYPE:
Kinetic Energy

CAPABILITIES & EQUIPMENT:

• Power: Kinetic Modulation

  Charis can accelerate and decelerate any kinetic force in proximity to herself to a degree proportional to its velocity and current delta V. The higher an affected force's velocity, the greater the effect can be in either direction, and forces already accelerating are easier to accelerate, while forces already decelerating are easier to decelerate.
  
  The range of this ability is effective within a three meter radius of Charis and must be consciously maintained, in addition to being reflex-dependent. A bullet can still hit her just fine if she is not maintaining the field, especially if she is caught unaware. While the field is up however, it can act as a powerful pseudo-shield.
  
  Although Charis can maintain the field indefinitely with concentration, breaks and distractions to her focus will prevent its ongoing use. As a result she often uses it in short, flickering bursts, especially during pitched combat where she often has to pay attention to several other things at once. The field is also uniform in effect - it either accelerates or decelerates everything moving through it, not both. The upper limit of its effect is also completely divorced from the concepts of mass, gravity, inertia, and momentum, meaning objects like falling steel girders, meteors, catapult boulders, and other large, heavy objects are still likely to kill her even after passing through her field. Its effect is most powerful against small objects with relatively low mass, such as bullets. It is most effective against fields of energy with high amounts of directed force but little coherent mass. Naturally, it barely works at all on slowly moving objects, and not at all on stationary objects.
  
  The practical uses of this field include slowing down bullets to less-than-lethal velocities, or accelerating projectiles to give them more stopping power. She can dampen blows in melee combat while increasing the impact of her own, run faster and jump further or higher, fall at feather-speed, and can ruin a Speedster's day by having her entire personal space act as an abrupt tripwire.

• Ballistic Armor

Charis sports some sleek-looking ballistic armor (not the pictured individual). She does not wear it at all times and is intended to act as supplemental protection on top of her power. It is unpowered and mundane beyond its clearly sophisticated craftsmanship.

• Bloodmist Pistol

Charis' weapon of choice is a custom-made hand-pistol. It fires shotgun-spread gas-propelled flechettes in 12-round bursts. The pistol has a built-in intake and motor that allows it to compress oxygen into an integral canister, which is mixed with hydrogen from ampules in the vane of each flechette and then ignited for the weapon discharge. Both the weapon and its ammunition, due to their exotic designs, doubtlessly originate from a specific supplier. On top of the pistol having an integral suppressor, the fired flechettes are subsonic munitions, making the weapon almost soundless in operation. Charis can also accelerate flechettes after they have left the barrel, past the sound barrier while still producing a reduced acoustic report. It is an extraordinarily messy weapon that can reduce unarmored targets to strewn heaps of messy viscera, and it has the benefit of being able to penetrate through traditional ballistic and Kevlar vests, although notedly it has difficulty penetrating solid ceramics and metallic armor if the flechettes are not accelerated through Charis' field.

• CollaBo

Charis possesses a collapsible Bo-staff. She does not always carry it with her since even when collapsed, it is somewhat difficult to readily conceal.

ATTRIBUTES:

Height: 1.77 Meters
Weight: 72 KG
Strength: Human Standard
Mobility: Human Standard
Intelligence: Substandard academic knowledge - never attended school. Above average practical intelligence.
Fighting Skill: Exceptional martial artist with specialized training in hand to hand combat and with multiple weapons.

RESOURCES:
Numerous contacts in the criminal underworld, ready access to slush funds and illicit weaponry in Oubliette's armory, with the means to procure exotic weaponry and equipment with time.

Weaknesses: Charis' power does not alter her baseline physiology, leaving her effectively identical to a baseline Human in terms of strength and resilience. Due to never having attended school, she is largely ignorant of a large amount of otherwise everyday, academic information.

SUPPORTING CHARACTERS:

• Nailtooth - The leader of Oubliette, Charis' nominal sort-of employer.
• Tribal Mountebank - A professional killer who possibly works for Nailtooth.

The Wailer

NAME:
Tracy Guiomar

Alias:
The Wailer

SPEECH:
"I do not have the time or nerves for your drama right this second, ok?"

ALIGNMENT:
Unaligned

IDENTITY:
Has been listed as legally dead for more than six years.

PERSONALITY:
Tracy Guiomar is the proverbial man on a mission, if said man was somewhat of a coward and had crippling anxiety. He is most generously described as energetic and vigilant and most accurately described as being twitchy and paranoid. He bluffs frequently and often, and instantly turns into a bootlicker if that fails. In general he behaves as though he has a proverbial Sword of Damocles hanging over him at all times - he does not want to do what he is doing but is compelled by do-or-die circumstances. He is of a dour and melancholy disposition, distant and terse, as well as risk and violence averse. When cornered or believing he has no alternative however, he is capable of the most desperate of actions...

OUTFIT:
Irregular assortment of worn civilian clothing.

ORIGIN:

A Wailing Specter, Lost at Sea

Tracy Guiomar was declared missing, presumed dead more than six years ago when the German planet-class naval research vessel, the Valknut, was lost at sea amidst an oceanic storm. At the time he was nothing more than an accountant being shipped overseas to a new desk job as a corporate liason in Europe. He was declared dead shortly thereafter, along with the rest of the crew and passengers aboard the Valknut - but now, he has seemingly returned from the dead. He is a paradoxical figure - dressed in rags, but sporting exotic weaponry and unusual, valuable cargo. Desperate and driven by mysterious necessities, woe be to those that awaken the terrible, earth-sundering power housed within him.

POWER:
Street => Escalates to City

TYPE:
Resonant Energy

CAPAIBILITES & EQUIPMENT:

• Thespian Education

Tracy has a formal education as an actor - and though that proverbial ship has sailed in his life, his ability to improvise and project his presence and demeanor in a room have served in well since those days. Tracy can adopt a wide variety of roles and project convincing emotional and characteristic airs - assuming he does not break down and panic mid-role.

• The Leaden Spear

  Tracy carries what looks to be an utterly unique, hand-tooled machine pistol. Engraved on its barrel is the designation: 'Leaden Spear Mk. II' . While resembling a conventional machine pistol, it has no slide, ejection port, or safety, and its hammer is nonfunctional and possibly present purely for aesthetic purposes or else to assist with sighting. The pistol fires singularly unique .44 caliber rounds with unconventional integral casing in 12-round magazines. Each bullet houses a hollow chamber with gyroscopic stabilizers and a resonant acoustic emitter. The casing itself, instead of housing solid propellant, appear to be hollow heat-sink chambers lined with traces of nuclear isomers, that is launched from the barrel along with the bullet itself, and how exactly they are fired remains a mystery. Each shot is utterly silent despite the absence of a suppressor, while the rounds themselves are subsonic.
  
  Upon impact with a target, the interior gyroscope in each bullet calibrates the resonance emitter inside of the bullet, which then releases a forward-facing, cone-shaped resonant shockwave of force that degrades the structural cohesion of the impact site. Each bullet uses a seemingly and impossibly intricate combination of gyroscopic force and structural feedback from the deformation of the bullet's shell to precisely calibrate the necessary resonant frequency needed, allowing each bullet to severely weaken and disintegrate various physical substances from concrete, to ballistic vests, chunks of flesh and bone, and even solid titanium in a small radius around the impact site.
  
  The bullet's shell then invariably crumbles and hardens around the acoustic emitter, which lodges inside the target and begins to emit a continuous, resonant frequency specifically attuned to Human nervous tissue and gray matter. In a number of surviving victims shot by one of these bullets where the projectiles were not promptly removed, acute onsets of spongiform encephalitis and necrosis ensued, leading to brain damage, hemorrhaging, and death. This effect manifests irregularly and not at all in certain victims, and possibly correlates in likelihood to the number of bullets lodged inside the body at once. What is consistent between victims however, is the auditory sensation of a wailing, keening shriek akin to physically and mentally crippling tinnitus that wracks the body while a bullet is lodged inside a wound - or even while simply holding a bullet directly in contact with skin. Victims who survive being shot are almost universally shortly crippled and left writhing in agony from the unbearable wailing resonating within their body.
  
  The bullets fired from the pistol are impossibly intricate in design, and have possibly all been hand-crafted - though given how many magazines Tracy carries with him, they either had too much time on their hands or there is an automated machining table churning the stuff out somewhere. Each individual bullet would cost more than $3000 apiece to have custom-made just from the materials used, let alone the impossible hardware built into each bullet shell and casing. Given Tracy himself is evidently a baseline Human, how exactly he got his hands on them is a mystery.

• Conspicuous Duffel

Tracy carries with him a duffel-bag heaped full of magazine reloads for the Leaden Spear. Being searched or caught with these would definitely make things awkward.

• The Tamper-Proof Case

  The briefcase looks to be made of polished, gleaming chrome. It has no hinges that you can see, both its halves appear to be adhered to each other without any external fixtures. Both halves are smooth with rounded edges, and look to have been molded as single whole pieces. The only evidence they even come apart is a single thin seam separating them bilaterally, with faintly raised edges where the two halves come together. The seam itself is so thin and finely pressed together, it is actually hard to tell it is there. If your attention were not specifically drawn to it by the raised edges on either side of it, it could be easily overlooked.
  
  Set in the middle of one of the halves' sides is what must be the locking mechanism - some kind of round display panel and tactile interface the size of a palm. It displays what looks to you to be a bog-standard RGB color wheel, with extremes around the edges and white towards the center. Right in the middle of the wheel is a raised dial, with a red arrow indicating that it can be twisted along its side, and an inscription of tiny red lettering on the top that says 'Press Me.' A second, smaller display panel the size of a small LED above the color wheel seems to display the current color selected.
  
  On the other side of the case is a small plaque engraved with a message.
  
  <Snipped quote by Tamper-Proof Case>

• The Wailer's Cry

  Whenever the Tamper-Proof case is taken more than five meters away from Tracy, the surgically installed hardware inside his skull activates. This creates an audible, keening, wailing shriek that perpetually reverberates inside of Tracy's body, growing and crowning in intensity when Tracy is facing in the direction of the case and as he comes back into proximity of it, until he returns within ten meters, at which point the device shuts off. At a distance of more than a kilometer the wailing is barely perceptible to those around Tracy, even though to him it will have all the intensity of an underworld symphonic orchestra. Within a kilometer, the wailing sound becomes drastically more and more audible to those in the area, escalating from the volume of a tornado siren, then an air-raid siren, and eventually becoming acutely painful to listen to.
  
  During this period, Tracy will also be surrounded by a one-meter thick bubble of auditory occlusion, completely muffling and muting most sounds originating from outside the area of effect. The field of sonic occlusion is so powerful is actually slows and retards the passage of physical objects, causing most projectiles and attacks to drastically slow and lose power as they move through it.
  
  Also during this period, by pressing on the metal pad seated in the roof of his mouth Tracy can cause the device to unleash a devastating shockwave of sonic energy in a sphere around him, powerful enough to make concrete and steel disintegrate within a ten meter range and completely repelling and destroying most ordinary physical projectiles, dispersing most gasses, and is even capable of extinguishing fires.
  
  Both the occluding field as well as the shockwave become inactive while Tracy is within a five meter range of the Tamper-Proof Case. The physical toll exacted on Tracy's body by the unceasing sonic resonance coursing through him, the flood with adrenaline and cortisol and the resulting lack of sleep, likely means each instance of the device activating takes a year or more off of Tracy's life expectancy.
  
  If Tracy's vitals flatline for more than five minutes, the device will explode with an equivalent explosive yield of thirty-six kilograms of TNT.

ATTRIBUTES:

Height: 1.77 Meters
Weight: 52 kg
Strength: Frail due to malnourishment.
Mobility: Borderline superhuman nervous reflex and reaction time.
Intelligence: Standard.
Fighting Skill: Nonexistent.

WEAKNESSES:
Tracy is a baseline Human whenever within five meters of the Tamper-Proof Case with all the vulnerabilities that entails. When more than five meters away from the Tamper-Proof Case, the occluding field that surrounds him and the sonic shockwave he becomes capable of unleashing make him substantially more dangerous and resilient, but he will still effectively be a baseline Human behind the occluding field. Bladed melee weapons, oxygen deprivation, darkness, and a variety of other approaches will remain effective. Additionally, Tracy is both violence and risk-averse under most circumstances, and if bluffing his way through the opposition does not work he has a tendency to fall back onto begging and bootlicking before resorting to actual conflict.

SUPPORTING CHARACTERS:

• The Technician - The mysterious individual who tortured Tracy, and ostensibly designed and installed the sonic hardware inside of his skull, as well as the Mk. II Leaden Spear.

Groups of Interest

Oubliette

NAME:
Oubliette

ALIGNMENT:
Villainous

RENOWN:
Known underworld element. Not commonly known of in Civilian circles.

ICONOGRAPHY:
N/A

UNIFORMS:
N/A

AGENDA:
Oubliette is a Human Trafficking Network. Their aims are to obtain, transport, and sell people as prisoners and slaves to anybody with deep enough pockets and few morals. Beyond that they care mostly about establishing territory, asserting influence, and control.

ORIGIN:
Oubliette rose to prominence perhaps twelve years ago when its leader, Neil Macintyre, arrived in Lost Haven and managed to unify the disparate gangs and cliques otherwise relegated to small-scale kidnapping and extortion and smuggling by buying out their leadership. Pulling on criminal contacts from Europe, he was able to establish illicit overseas trade routes that allowed Oubliette to stick its foot in the door and start turning a profit, and making a name for itself as the organization to go to for trafficking of live people in Lost Haven. Even if they have nothing to do with undocumented and missing persons being moved through Lost Haven, they receive a cut and provide logistical support for each deal as a way of maintaining and asserting their control over the market within the city. Since their paltry beginnings, Oubliette has grown into a well-connected and prosperous criminal kingdom within the city.

TYPE RANGE:
Oubliette 'procures' and 'ships' a diverse number of victims, including powered individuals with a wide range of capabilities. Oubliette's meta-range thus encompasses everything save for the Mystical and outright Supernatural.

SCALE:
City

MEMBERSHIP:

• Nailtooth - Founder and leader.
• Charis - Victim of Oubliette, raised as a child soldier to be Oubliette's professional muscle and living model product.
• Tribal Mountebank - A professional killer. More associated directly with Nailtooth than with Oubliette specifically.
• Several hundred various individuals - muscles, bookies, faces, etcetera - living in and around Lost Haven and in odd spots overseas.

INFLUENCE:
Oubliette has a number of useful local connections, including with the local police department as well as the Courts. They know where powerful people live and where their children go to school. They have a number of hitmen and cleaners on standby, dirty cops on their pay, and even have enough clout to have Federal investigations 'recalled and reassigned.' Combined with their dealings with other criminal enterprises, within Lost Haven they are difficult to deal with and root out - and dangerous to cross.

RESOURCES:

• Harborfront Warehouses - Warehouses near shipping and loading areas where the workers and supervisors are on the take.
• Safehouses - More than a dozen secure and discreet sites where Oubliette keeps product, armories, reserve cash, and isolated systems where they manufacture and process forged documents.
• Tenancies - Oubliette owns a sprinkling of entirely legitimate tenancy housing around the city. They use this to house a number of their men, employees, and contractors - and occasionally move product through them as well.

Wishing Well

NAME:
Wishing Well

ALIGNMENT:
Villainous

RENOWN:
Obscure Urban Legend/Unheard Of outside of Intelligence Circles

ICONOGRAPHY:
A water well with a noose where the bucket and chain should be.

UNIFORMS:
Non-Newtonian Next-Generation Ballistic Armor with a trim profile. Identifying insignia detailed on the back, breast, and shoulder.

AGENDA:
Wishing Well is an obscure terrorist agency best known for its obscurity. Their agenda is completely unknown. Refer to their Interpol Dossier.

ORIGIN:
Unknown.

TYPE RANGE:
Wishing Well makes predominant use of baseline Humans with a small number of powered assets, though the exact range is unknown.

SCALE:
World

MEMBERSHIP:
Unknown. Interpol speculates there are at least five distinct and active cells of between four and a dozen members each presently.

INFLUENCE:
Little to none. The telltale sign of Wishing Well's influence inside of another agency is a pattern of destructive behavior followed by complete collapse. Interpol speculates they have little interest in asserting control over external agencies.

RESOURCES:
Unknown, although Interpol's analysis indicates they may have sophisticated manufacturing capabilities that enable them to be self-sufficient and resupply themselves with advanced, military hardware regularly.

Interpol Dossier on Wishing Well

Wishing Well is a collection of affiliated but independent terrorist cells which are speculated to have been active for approximately twelve years as of this date. They are suspected of perpetrating upwards of hundreds of separate, discrete terror actions inclusive of assassination, asset theft, bombing, communications tampering, false-flag operations, infiltration, kidnapping, sabotage, and numerous lesser disruptive actions across the entire world and all seven continents, including Antarctica (refer to action report 12TA871155).

Wishing Well's ideological cause, nation/s of origin, and approximate membership remain unknown to this day - Wishing Well operatives have been captured alive in the past, but they operate in disparate, clandestine cells that maintain tight and stringent operational security that precludes most efforts to discern their agenda. It is speculated that Wishing Well operates using a three-layered hierarchy. The first being Wishing Well's core members, the only individuals in regular communication with other cells and core members, who ultimately define and direct the organization as a whole and who instruct and delegate tasks to all members in the second layer. The second layer is an intermediate and small collection of Wishing Well's standard operatives, numbering perhaps between four and twelve in each cell, possessing advanced combat training with multiple weapons and martial disciplines and a zealous dedication. These operatives are often given delegated instructions by Wishing Well's core members and expected to accomplish them independently and without explanation beyond simplified success and failure parameters. The third, bottom layer is made up of temporary and disposable muscle usually comprised of local criminal elements, commonly dealt with indirectly by the second layer and unaware of the true nature or identity of their employers.

Due to either the innate flexibility or lack of an ideological core, Wishing Well operatives appear capable of assuming and accurately depicting various faiths, beliefs, and political views when necessary for operational security, without apparent discrimination or particularity except as required by operational security. The aims of their terrorist activities are obscure; they never announce or claim responsibility for any given act, and suspected Wishing Well terrorist actions are also nondiscriminatory and lacking in particularity. They are suspected of having targeted a diversity of other groups of interest including other terrorist agencies, and their true aims are difficult to discern. Their terrorist activities appear to coincide with asset theft that is either involved or adjacent to the activities themselves, and may be theft of convenience or else in furtherance of some obscure design.

To date, the following assets are suspected of having been stolen by Wishing Well, confirmed by way of capture and interrogation of at least one operative involved with each theft. This list is nonexhaustive.

-Industrial-grade nanolathes & extruder components (see action report 12TA84430).
-Multiple NM matrix containment array components (see action report 12TA851129).
-Multiple military and industrial-rated rectenna manifold components (see action report 12TA851163).
-One Naval Destroyer of the UN Peacekeeping Navy (see action report 12TA871155).
-Multiple ansible system components (see action report 12TA89269).
-Multiple ansible encryption & decryption system components (see action report 12TA90749).

As should be apparent, Wishing Well asset theft operations are highly sophisticated and organized, and are usually successfully despite location, number of opposing agents, and presence of security measures. They appear familiar and well-versed in the expeditious and covert transportation of advanced machinery and electronics. During the affairs of 12TA90749, Wishing Well revealed an involved familiarity with UN Peacekeeping Navy protocol and security; the stolen Destroyer assumed a heading that did not match what was reported to satellite-relayed traffic control. Its black-box, emergency transmitters, and asset-denial systems all simultaneously shut-down less than two hours after departure and prior to emergency alerts being raised. The vessel failed to arrive at its expected destination point, vanishing from GPS monitoring after passing through an oceanic storm. Initially thought to have been lost at sea, the Destroyer's removed name plate was later mailed to Interpol HQ in Lyons, France. Considered an unsolved mystery for more than four years, Wishing Well's involvement with the Destroyer's theft was revealed during the enhanced interrogation of a captured operative who expired shortly after revealing they had been personally present at the time.

The various forms of technology and systems assets present amongst the vessel's hardware exceed the breadth of this dossier, but suspected Wishing Well asset theft activity has not appeared to deviate in interest from hardware and systems inclusive of those present in the stolen vessel. This would suggest that Wishing Well may not have been interested in the ship itself, may have a greater need for certain materials than the Destroyer could supply, or that the operation was conducted of convenience rather than necessity. It also suggests that Wishing Well possesses technology, technical knowledge, and expertise that is at least equal to that of the UN Peacekeeping Navy in terms of quality if not quantity.

Specific knowledge of Wishing Well, inclusive of its name, is known of only due to careful dragnet analysis of online forum topics, questioning of known third-layer Wishing Well accomplices, and a single near-successful infiltration attempt of a Wishing Well cell. Despite Wishing Well's clandestine nature, growing awareness of its existence amongst the international intelligence community coupled with frequent contact between Wishing Well operatives and local criminal elements has resulted in the proliferation of their existence as something approaching an underworld urban legend. Few criminal agencies accept or are aware of the existence of Wishing Well, and those that do inevitably have a decided lack of interest beyond possible interference with their own activities. Only the most fanatical of criminal elements, namely other terrorist organizations, commonly afford Wishing Well any serious consideration due in part to Wishing Well's nondiscriminate tendency to attack and disrupt other terrorist organizations. The most coherent and credible digital references to Wishing Well available take the form of black-ops urban legends and myths posted on a variety of niche online forum communities, with little in the way of citation or evidence beyond hearsay, presenting Wishing Well as figurative bogeymen akin to the Illuminati.

Local criminal elements employed by Wishing Well rarely have direct contact with their operatives, though it is not unknown for operatives to co-opt criminal leadership elements or else pose as them, and thus directly interact in a limited capacity with local underworld elements. Commonly, such coopted or suborned criminal elements will be unaware of the true affiliation of such operatives. Analysis into the possible number of criminal agencies that might secretly be controlled by Wishing Well has concluded that their agenda is far too erratic and unstable for such a trend to be likely; most if not all criminal agencies co-opted or suborned by Wishing Well inevitably demonstrate erratic activity inevitably leading to their collapse. Wishing Well has little evident desire to infiltrate and control other organizations in the long term.

Approximately four years ago, an Interpol asset in the form of a young war-orphan was approached by a Wishing Well operative who entered into a mentorship relation with the asset, during which they appeared to be appraising the asset's suitability for recruitment. During this period, the suspected operative divulged a number of surreal oral stories (refer to database entries: International Folklore; Four Thieves, Grave Digger, Wishing Well), and particular lines of questioning as to the asset's beliefs and desires, as well as arranging several confrontational scenarios and encounters without the asset's knowledge. This is all believed to have been part of an elaborate and obscure screening process, which ultimately proved to be effective. The operative abruptly abandoned the asset and attempted to flee the region some time after contact, requiring immediate intervention of discretely arranged assets to intercept. Enhanced chemical-assisted interrogation conducted upon the operative was only marginally successful, as the Operative was revealed to have limited practical knowledge of Wishing Well's agenda. While the locations of several safehouses were extracted, these sites were all abandoned upon investigation.

Although Wishing Well is a small agency, its operations are uniformly destructive and apathetic as to the loss of human life, nearly impossible to anticipate in advance, and difficult to deter or prevent. It is theorized that their limited membership and numbers may permit for an organized dismantling of the organization if it could be successfully infiltrated, but given their irregular recruitment and screening methodology, planting such an infiltrator amongst their ranks will likely prove to be difficult. Suborning or otherwise turning captured operatives may prove to be more effective, although to date such captured parties have proven singularly recalcitrant. . .

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:

Sample Post

Earth
North Atlantic
German Naval Research Vessel Valknut
Six Years Ago...

Tracy shivered and sniffed wretchedly in his bunk, curled in a fetal ball and with his guts churning like ravenous, spined worms. One of the other passengers had been coming in and out of their cabin and out to the deck, repeatedly and on end approximately every ten minutes - and left the doors open every single time they left, letting frigid ocean wind howl down through corridor and into the cabin. Every single time, the odious woman would slam the door open, splashing thin sheets of water all over the floor, and obliviously begin babbling directly at Tracy about every stray and errant thought that had visited her since she had last terrorized him in her nasally, high-pitched voice, often standing directly by his bunk for several minutes on end to chatter rhetorical diatribes at him even after she had retrieved whatever miscellaneous tool from her pack. Evidently there was a nearby oceanic storm brewing that everyone was studying like it was some undiscovered cryptid. Normally Tracy might have had the nerve to indicate he was trying to sleep, but between his pulsating intestines and the biting cold from the wind blowing into the cabin he could hardly think straight or summon the fortitude needed to protest.

All Tracy wanted was to try and get some sleep, or at least lull himself into a fit of furtive torpor that would allow him to escape the wracking agony of his spasming gut - but time and time again, he hauled himself out of his bunk to shuffle morosely over to the cabin door in order to quietly shut it before haltingly hauling himself back up to his resting place to pursue slumber. It was the middle of the day as well, with thick rays of indifferent sunshine beaming through the cabin porthole, which did not help even remotely. So much for the supposed oceanic storm.

Minutes ticked by. Tracy's breathing began to even out and he began to warm as his body heat pooled within the blankets and banished the cold. His mind began to drift away from his churning stomach and for a half a moment, Tracy thought he might have blissfully dozed off.

The other passenger - whose name he really did not know, something dumb that started with B, maybe Bianca - had thrown open the cabin door again and was now unreasonably shaking at him, causing a new nail of anguish to drive through his abdomen with every light push and obliterating any chance of sleeping yet again as another draft of freezing air rolled into the room.

"Tracy, come on, you've got to come see this! Nearly everyone is out on the deck, it's headed right for us!"

Tracy's eyes dragged themselves across the far wall of the cabin - the porthole was dark. In the span of a minute the sun had vanished.

"I don't really think I should be going out during a storm-" He began.

"No, that's not it. Tracy - there are lights!"

And so Tracy dragged himself out of his bunk and down the hall and onto the deck, where most of the other passengers and a good chunk of the crew ha gathered, leaning near the railings and upper balconies, some with cameras or recording with their phones - as the piercing rays of light beaming out from the roiling thunderheads above drifted across the shifting waves and bobbing hull of the Valknut from above. Tracy blinked in disbelief as he took everything in, and began to process the excited murmurs from around him.

"-aliens!"

"-irst contact-"

"-the sea god!"

"-cient Atlantean ship-"

'Glad to know so many trained scientists still hold onto vestiges of traditional beliefs.' Tracy sardonically thought to himself. His eyes narrowed as he tried to get a good look at the lights above. It was hard to see exactly what they were emitting from, but from the silhouettes and the way they were undulating in their movement made it seem pretty apparent - to him at least - that they were just bog standard high-powered search lights. Maybe they were mounted on helicopters - though the heavy cloud cover above seemed too coherent, and he definitely could not hear any chopper blades.

There was a dull, booming sound, like a distant cannon being fired, and suddenly a massive harpoon shot down from the clouds above, pierced straight down through maybe-Bianca's head and body where she stood next to Tracy, causing ruptured viscera, shattered bone fragments and scraps of ruined, blood-mottled clothing to scatter in every direction. The harpoon pierced straight through her and tore into the deck plating, extending a triad of barbed clamps with a mechanical whine. Tracy fell flat on his rear, front and face splattered with gore as he looked on and upwards in shock - following the length of wound cable linking the harpoon to...something, up above in the clouds. He thought, for a moment, he caught glimpse of a silhouetted outline in the clouds - of something massive.

As he looked up, there was a rapid stutter of muffled explosions, and amidst the terrified screams of passengers and crew reacting to the first fired harpoon, five more descended from the nebulous mist above to spear into the Valknut. One of the more hardened crew-members regained their composure and ran back inside the ship - returning moments later with a fireman's axe even as the whirring sound of motors began to echo down from above. With a heaving grunt and a wide swing, he chopped at one of the cables connecting the giant harpoons to the vehicle above - and was forced to drop it with a panicked cry as a surge of arcing electricity leapt between the cable and the axe-head, before grounding into the deck of the ship - but not before the raw, coursing power that had discharged into the axehead set part of the wooden haft on fire.

Moments later, black rappelling lines descended from the cloud cover, and decidedly Human figures in black fatigues and armor broke through the cloud layer, rapidly trailing down along the lines to land on the Valknut's deck. One of them landed right besides Tracy, still lying prone and in shock on the deck, and was gracious enough to daze Tracy into stunned senselessness by slamming the butt of their rifle into his face.

The dull, muted ringing in Tracy's ears muffled the ensuing deluge of screams and gunfire that followed. Fading in and out of consciousness, all that could occur to Tracy was that somehow, his roiling gut actually felt much better.

---

888888888888

---

Unknown Dockside
One Year Ago...

"No, I think you can go tell your boss to fuck himself."

The next thing Tracy knew, he was being hammered in the face by the dealer's grapefruit-sized fist, hard enough to send him stumbling off the pier to fall, flailing, back into the motor-boat he and the others had arrived in. He slammed head-first against one of the raised seats and agonizingly tried to pry himself back up off the floor as the now intimately familiar sound of gunfire started to rattle off back up on the pier itself. A shallow wave of water splashed itself across Tracy's face as a bullet-riddled body tumbled into the water next to the boat, followed by another - and then as he finally began to blink the pinwheeling stars from out of his eyes, the two surviving thugs that had been provided as muscle leapt into the boat and had shoved off, one of them steering and revving the motor to its limit while the other provided desperate covering fire.

All Tracy could do was sit back, drenched in water, his mouth open like a goldfish. He had overplayed his role - he had doubled down when he should have let it stand, and now the deal was ruined and they were two warm bodies short. Tracy blearily cast his gaze towards the two survivors, and realized - with a dread chill stealing across him as he did - that Walker was not with them. He had been one of the bodies falling into the water.

They were going to kill him.

---

888888888888

---

The Phantasmagoria
Two Days Later...

"You know, Tracy, I have to admit I underestimated you."

Tracy, handcuffed to a metal chair between two thugs and with an IV drip already hooked into his arm nearby, sweat profusely as the speaker shut the bulkhead down behind him as he entered the room.

The other man was on the shorter side - even shorter than Tracy himself - and had a deceptively lanky appearance, with bare arms on display under the rolled-up sleeves of his white jumpsuit that bristled with cords of muscle. He had a mane of dark, slicked-back and spiked hair and a wide soul patch framing his narrow, somewhat bony and angular face. He wore a pair of welding goggles over his eyes even now, but the rictus grin on his face made his mood evident.

"I could have sworn I reminded you every time I've seen you for the last few years that if you slipped up even once, I was going to torture you and then all of your worthless friends and co-workers in front of you and then toss you them all one-by-one into a scrap grinder, followed by you."

The man approached the stainless steel table across from Tracy and set a black tool-case across the surface, unlatching it and popping it open to reveal rows of sharp, pointed implements neatly arrayed in both halves. Reaching down to his toolbelt, the man carelessly unclipped and slid a multitool and a cordless hand-drill across the table as well.

"I wasn't expecting you to actually try and rough it out! I figured you were going to eventually try to break and run! And even after that fiasco at the port, rather than try and make a break for it by diving over the side, you actually came back. Willingly. Knowing what I was going to do to you...or well, the gist of what I was going to do to you..."

The man turned and boosted himself to sit on the tabletop as he finally turned to stare at Tracy through his welding goggles. "You've got an awful lot of nerve for a gutless coward. Of course, now I've got the real measure of you...just as terrified of your own guilt as you are of the idea of me quartering you with a hacksaw. Normally that might be useful. Normally I might think I'd be able to make better use of you..."

Tracy sucked in a nervous breath.

"But in demonstrating that you fucked everything up and also got Walker killed. So I'm gonna try and go for a compromise instead here. I'm going to ruin you, and if you survive..."

With a burst of speed fueled by panic and desperation, Tracy leapt to his feet, swung the back-end of his chair against one of the guard's legs and head-butted the second in the gut, driving the air from the man's lungs and causing him to back up, hunched over and wheezing for air as his friend swore repeatedly and stumbled over, clutching at his legs with a grimace. The IV needle tore from Tracy's arm as he haphazardly started ambling for the bulkhead door leading out of the room.

He came short when the man in the jumpsuit clotheslined him from the side, knocking Tracy down onto the steel hull and then delivering a series of kicks to his gut and across the face for good measure. He then grabbed Tracy by the hair of his scalp and dragged him over to the table, where he raised Tracy's head before slamming it down onto the hard surface. With the entire room oscillating and turning different colors in Tracy's vision, he barely even processed the two thugs regaining their composure and approaching to hold him in place.

"Look what you went and did. Knocked the IV loose. That was how I was going to administer the anesthesia." The man in the jumpsuit tutted as he picked up the hand-drill and experimentally pressed the trigger, eliciting an electrical whine as the drill-bit began to rev and spin. "Now we have to do this the fun way. Protip for you, the more you move, the more this is going to hurt."

The man craned his head to match Tracy's orientation and treated him with another rictus grin as he pressed the drill bit against the side of Tracy's head.

"So feel free to go crazy."

---

888888888888

---

Some Time Later...

"Jesus christ. How is he not dead?"

"It looks like they used something to seal the hole they put in his skull."

"Then why the fuck did they not also stitch together the everything they did to his scalp?!? And what the hell is going on in his mouth?"

"Look, I used to be a nurse, this is...this is really bad, but he can recover from this. We need clean, sterilized bandages and maybe some duct tape. I'm honestly more worried about the hole in his mouth. We need actual antibiotics for that or that is going to become inflamed and probably get infected, and that will definitely kill him."

"Alright, got it, so we need sterilized bandages, duct tape, antibiotics, would you also like some gold bullion and flawlessly cut diamonds while we are at it?"

"Calm down, we can...we can probably work something out with the guards..."

"Setting aside the entire issue of that, how long would he need to recover?"

"Well, assuming there's no lasting brain damage that we can't see? Puncture wounds start to heal at around three weeks. Maybe in a few months he might have skin over that spot again..."

---

88888888888

---

Present Day

Tracy winced as his cell door crashed open and harsh, intense light pierced into his vision, now long-adapted to complete darkness. He did not resist as he was bodily hauled up by two men in black fatigues and dragged out of the small room and through a number of hallways, before eventually being lead into a large interior workshop. Machining tables, lathes, metal-working extruders, and a variety of heavy machinery crowded the workfloor, and in the middle of it all was a somewhat cleared out space where the man in the white jumpsuit had arranged what appeared to be a combination conference table and breakfast nook, with stray, emptied bottles of alchohol, cans of motor oil, half a dozen disarrayed tool-cases and what looked, disconcertingly, like plastic explosives littering the surface.

"Ah, if it isn't that guy! Whatever your name is!" The man in the jumpsuit fired a pair of fingerguns at Tracy nonchalantly. "And how are we feeling this morning?"

Tracy, knowing better than to not answer, tried to summon up a response and ended up hacking out a rasping, heaving series of coughs from his parched throat instead.

"Always good to hear, lot of that going around." The man in the jumpsuit nodded sagely as he pointed to a nearby chair, which Tracy was forcibly seated in by his escorts.

"Now that we've reconfigured the parameters of your wetware into something marginally more useful, and assuming we still have a hard bead on that charmingly archaic guilt complex of yours - we've got a job for you. Catch!" The man picked up a large metallic case from the table and bodily tossed it to Tracy. He feebled raised his arms and just barely managed to grasp at it as it hit him, though it would still have fallen onto the floor if one of the men in fatigues had not steadied it for him. Now clutching the object to his chest, Tracy squinted with his eyes, still adjusting to the light, and took it in.

It appeared to be a briefcase made of polished, gleaming chrome. It had no hinges he could see, both its halves appearing to be adhered to each other without any external fixtures. Both halves were smooth with rounded edges, and looked to have been molded as single whole pieces. The only evidence they even come apart was a single thin seam separating them bilaterally, with faintly raised edges where the two halves came together. The seam itself was so thin and finely pressed together, it was actually hard to tell it was there, especially with his bleary vision. If his attention was not specifically drawn to it by the raised edges on either side, he could easily have overlooked it.

Set in the middle of one of the halves' sides was what must have been the locking mechanism - some kind of round display panel and tactile interface the size of his palm. It displayed what looked to him to be a bog-standard RGB color wheel, with extremes around the edges and white towards the center. Right in the middle of the wheel was a raised dial, with a red arrow indicating that it could be twisted along its side, and an inscription of tiny red lettering on the top that said 'Press Me.' A second, smaller display panel the size of a small LED above the color wheel seemed to display the current color selected.

On the other side of the case was a small plaque engraved with a message.

<Snipped quote by Tamper-Proof Case>

"You're going to be playing courier for us once again. You will be delivering that to a certain somebody. And hey, good news - no adult supervision this time! We're trusting you to do this all on your lonesome!" The man in the jumpsuit announced with all the countenance of a proud and doting father. "Oh and by the way we will definitely torture and murder all of your worthless associates if you try to run or do something stupid like rat us out. And then we'll probably package and donate their ground-up body parts as meat to homeless shelters and soup kitchens."

Tracy stared blankly at the man in the jumpsuit, who crossed his arms expectantly and looked back. "Well?"

"WhuACK-" Tracy hacked up again. "Whuagh...who am I...delerghering it to?"

"Glad you're onboard. That go-get-em attitude will take you places, whats-yer-name." The man in the jumpsuit smiled. "Listen carefully. Going to have to say this a few times and have you repeat it back to me to make sure you've memorized it."

The man in the jumpsuit cleared his throat, and then spoke. He went on for a moment. Tracy's eyes widened in disbelief.

"...What?" He croaked.

"Geez, KEEP UP will you? I said -" And the man in the jumpsuit repeated the segue, word for word, doubtlessly having memorized it himself. "Now repeat that back to me."

Tracy open and closed his mouth, once. Then, squirming in his seat somewhat and clutching at the case in his lap almost as if for support, he opened his mouth and immediately fell into a coughing fit.

"Not even close." The man in the jumpsuit tutted.

"I could...use some...some water to clear my-" Tracy tried to say. Before he had even finished his sentence, the man in the jumpsuit reached for a half-emptied bottle of vodka and hurled it directly at Tracy's head. Tracy flinched and reflexively lifted the case to block it, with the bottle shattering on impact and the vaguely antiseptic stench of the alchohol spreading through the air as the vokda spilled over the case and him.

"There you go, bet you're feeling better already. Now, this time, I'm going to say that all one phrase at a time and you'll repeat after me, alright? So -" He spoke the first phrase. Tracy halting repeated it back to him. They went on that way until they had reached the end.

"Now repeat all that back to me." The man in the jumpsuit demanded flatly.

Tracy haltingly attempted to comply. He flustering got caught up on the fourth phrase, requiring the man in the jumpsuit to correct him after casually throwing a pair of pliers at his legs - after which Tracy started over, and although he hoarsely stumbled over a few words, he managed to reach the end.

"There we go! Clear as mud I trust! Now of course, since we will be sending you out on your own, we've got a few toys for you, and - well, it's not that we do not trust you not to lose the case - but we absolutely, definitely, completely do not trust you not to lose the case. We actually have a bit of a betting pool going on how long it will take you to lose it, but never fear! We have given you the tools to find it if that happens." The man in the jumpsuit snapped his fingers, and one of Tracy's escorts abruptly yanked the case out of his grasp and tossed it out and along the floor of the workshop. Tracy simply watched with a puzzled look as the case slid across the floor - and then...

Dawning on him like a the gates of hell shuddering open, a keening, piercing wail blossomed within Tracy's head. A resonating shriek, like a banshee with an angle grinder polishing off the edge of one of his femurs while a hurricane filled with nails in the midst of an avalanche descended on them. It was more than simply an unpleasant, undulating sound. It was a hollow, pitted sensation that felt like mites were burrowing into his bones. He could feel his organs individually warbling inside of his chest, could sense his blood curdling in his veins. Without wasting any time, he immediately fell out of the chair and began to dry heave drool and spit onto the floor, wretching up his empty guts repeatedly as his skull and eyes began to throb in response to the unrelenting clamor of the wail that was making his skin itch. A scant instant later, the faint tinge of copper flooded his mouth and a driving, biting pain began to corkscrew through his throat and along his spine while a mountainous, bass rhythm began to ebb in and out of his chest cavity. This, was hell. Even having a power drill taken to his head without anesthesia had been nothing compared to this. There was less raw, concentrated physical pain - instead it was a menagerie of dulled physical suffering distributed across every remote micron of his body and unbearable mental fatigue. He could feel his Heartbeat fluttering erratically in response to the *sound*, jacking up until it was pulsing as fast as a hummingbird beat its wings, adrenaline and cortisol shooting through every vessel in his body like rocket fuel.

Slowly, convinced that the entire world was ending, with the lights in the room seeming to brighten and dim in bursts and surges while his vision rocked and trembled, Tracy raised his head and looked over to where the case had fallen. The man in the jumpsuit crouched over it, beckoning Tracy over like a dog. Fetch!

Dragging himself achingly across the metal floor, with tiny cavities in his teeth and spots in his bones suddenly highlighted and punctuated with fiery clarity by the noise from within, Tracy inched closer and closer to the case - and then...

It took a moment to realize the wailing had stopped. The pain did not vanish. Every cell in his body did not immediately cease throbbing with exquisite anguish. The sound of his cerebrospinal fluid seething and boiling inside of him did not instantly abate. Draping himself across the case, Tracy simply lay still for - minutes? Hours? As he slowly came down from his reality of demented, buzzing static.

After a time, he finally flinched when he heard an audible snapping sound in one of his ears.

"Aha, there we go. Welcome back to naptime." The man said, slapping Tracy across the back - causing him to heave up nothing but mucous and spittle again. "If the case ever gets more than five meters away from you, that will start up. The feedback induction should align itself in the direction of the case and let you know what direction to go in."

Tracy simply stared straight ahead, his entire body shuddering violently.

The man in the jumpsuit let out a sigh of exaggerated exasperation. "Now now." He chided. "What do we say?"

"Wuhlp..." Tracy try, nearly biting off his numbed tongue. He tried again. "..Wuh...why...?"

The man in the jumpsuit laudged, stood up, brushed a stray bit of spittle off of his chest, and then treated Tracy to a healthy kick across the face.

"Because you were sent here just to suffer." He declared cheerfully. He then motioned to the men in fatigues.

"Get him on his way. Give him the duffel on the table and everything in it, it has some old junk I can bear to part with. You know where to drop him off."

---

888888888888

Lost Haven Harbor
Present

Tracy stared helplessly as the motor-boat that had dropped him off began to pull away from the pier, leaving him there, dressed in his old, tattered clothes with a suspiciously stained duffelbag and the comparatively gleaming and pristine case.

"If I were you, I would work fast." One of the men in the boat called out. "There's no real deadline, but you still probably only have until he starts running out of patience. Come back here once you're done if you know what's good for everyone involved."

The boat pulled away, and began to head back out to sea.

Tracy turned and, tears streaming down his face, took in the view of the City of Lost Haven.

This was where he would die.

@Terminal

Approved

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

Khalathrax, the First Fallen

True Daemonic Form

Character you have created:

Khalathrax, Daemon Lord of Chaos Undivided

Aliases:

Khalathrax, to most, is known only as a man named John Roberts, who runs a nightclub in downtown Lost Haven known as the Red Cloud. However, to a select few black sorcerers who possess the secrets of the Liber Daemonifica, he is also known as The First Fallen.

Speech Color:

"Your technological construct details this colour as... ed1c24. I didn't even think that was a word." - Khalathrax Proper
"That's because it isn't, you technologically-challenged buffoon. For a Daemon Lord of Chaos, your knowledge of the modern world is certainly lacking in some areas. How the hell did you manage to take human form?" - John Roberts

Character Alignment:

Villain

Identity:

Secret to all but a handful of black sorcerers throughout the world, and even then they only know him as the First Fallen.

'Human' Personality:

John Roberts is a quiet, unassuming man. Few would conflate him with the monolithic form of his true daemonic self, and of course, that is just how Khalathrax prefers it to be. To most, John is just a well-spoken Briton who runs a nightclub, but to those who are more alert, opportunities abound for criminal activity. The Red Cloud, located in the French Quarter, is a hubbub of activity, both legal and not, but is also considered by many in the criminal underworld to be a 'neutral meeting ground', where business and deals can be made, fortunes can be shared, and the long arm of the law can be safely avoided. John himself has few dealings with the underground, but what can always attract his attention are, unsurprisingly, rare - and sometimes illegal to own - books on 'black magic' and 'sorcery'. The purposes of his collecting these codices is unknown to all but him.

Daemonic Personality:

Khalathrax is best summed up in a single word; rage. Fuelled by little more than primordial anger, fury and bloodlust, Khalathrax will stop at nothing to slake his ever-growing thirst for violence, destruction and death. Khalathrax will not stand for those who would seek to stop his reign of terror, and even other forces of disorder that may attempt to intercede for their own benefit often find themselves the target of the First Fallen's unstoppable fury. With a bellow, Khalathrax directs his anger at those who dare stand before him, over the ruined husks of buildings, the blood-soaked ground stained with the vitae of those who thought they could stop a Daemon Lord in their prime. There is no remorse, no mercy, no respite. Khalathrax will stop at nothing until he and his Gods rule the planet, and from Earth, the dominion of Chaos will spread through the Cosmos...

Uniform/costume:

One usually finds John sporting a tailor-cut black three-piece suit, black polished leather shoes, a black buttoned shirt with matching silk tie, and sometimes black leather gloves and sunglasses. On his left wrist, John usually can be seen sporting an Omega Seamaster 300M watch, whilst on his right hand, he has a single, plain silver ring, studded with a dozen diamonds. John also does not slack with personal protection, carrying a Walther PPK/S chambered in .32 ACP in a Gelco Executive shoulder holster, worn over the top of his waistcoat and with the gun on the left side of his chest, as well as a Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife in a holster in the inside right pocket of his jacket... in case of emergencies.

Origin Info/Details:

Nobody knows exactly when and where 'John Roberts' came from. His British passport indicates a birth date of the 24th of August, 1962, with a birth place of Leytonstone, in the East of London, but searching birth records in the local archives reveals nothing about a 'John Roberts' born on that day. However, what is known is that Mr Roberts has been in the United States since 1987, and a resident of Lost Haven since 1990. The nightclub known as the Red Cloud was first opened in July 1996, and has been running without incident since then. However, what is perhaps not entirely realised by those who know of Mr Roberts is that he has seemingly not aged in the entire time - even his passport picture shows Mr Roberts as he is, rather than a 'younger' version of him. Certain individuals have wondered whether Mr Roberts was somehow frozen in time biologically following the Doctor Diplodoc Incident, and as such all depictions of him match his current image, and are now unchanging. Nobody knows for sure, and Mr Roberts certainly is not divulging the truth any time soon, if at all.

---

Hero Type:

Supernatural, I suppose?

Power Level:

• Human Form - City Level
• Daemonic Form - Cosmic Level

Powers:

Being an Unstoppable Force of 'Fuck You'.

Weaknesses:

---

Supporting Characters:

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:

Sample Post:

@Legion X51

I'm gonna go ahead and approve. Welcome back

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

....I'm going to add I think I just deleted the entire "sample post" and need to rewrite it now. Gaaaaaaaah

Edit: OK done. I remembered 80% of it at least.

@Moondog

Denied.

Just kidding, I like it.



Welcome aboard

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

We've come a loooooong way, @nitemare shape…

Might add some perspective to that last post...

@Hound55

Yeah we have

Star Wars: Legacies (Always Open)

I should have something up this weekend