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Grumpy Toad, King of Dirt

STATUS: Ribbit. 6 mos ago
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6 mos ago
Current Ribbit.
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Watch out.

The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?


DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED

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In Roman's Archive → 4 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets
D E T E C T I V E W O L F E
R U S T I N T H O M A S W O L F E ◼ S E P T E M B E R ' 8 2 ( 3 8 ) ◼ M A L E

"The world is changing....we need to change with it."

▼ A P P E A R A N C E:
"Look at a man long enough, and he becomes a stranger."
//STATS:
◼ HEIGHT | 6'1"

◼ WEIGHT | 121lbs

◼ BUILD | Gaunt.

◼ HAIR COLOR | Dark Brown.

◼ EYE COLOR | Gray.

//DESCRIPTION:
Often scruffy, Rust's staple clothes are cloth blazers, tight shirts, and skinny ties. He owns a coat for rough - or cold - weather, and it's been seeing a lot of use lately, but Rust dislikes the restriction of movement. His hair is wavy and unkempt, brushed up and out of his face with a grubby palm. Rust scowls a lot - an occupational hazard - and his skin is rough, collecting grime in its creases. Rust dresses pragmatic and light, with a revolver on his hip and a badge in his pocket.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:
"How much can you really know about a person? Every man is the guard of his own mind."
Rustin's father, Paul Wolfe, led an unremarkable childhood. Paul's own father was a long-serving and loyal military man, and his various stations kept his family mobile and never settled; Paul and his two brothers quickly grew used to the lifestyle, and the daily regimens of life on a military base or encampment - even to civilians - quickly became ingrained in them. When the three men came of age to enlist, they did so immediately; in part to follow their father and to gain his approval, and in part because military life was all they really knew.

Paul and his brothers were all enlisted and serving in time to be stationed in Vietnam during the US occupation of the country; Paul's service in those hot jungles lasted from 1967 to 1972, during which time he fought, killed, wept, and lost both of his brothers as well as several squadmates, friends he'd forged in the fire of war and violence. He came back a shell of a man, suffering PTSD and disillusioned with the military institution as a whole, unable to shake the horrors he'd both seen and committed. Regardless, Paul still felt the desire to serve and protect, but in a way he knew was for the good of the people, rather than a way that the state only told him was good. To this end, he volunteered for an ex-soldier rehabilitation program that landed him a job as a beat cop in the Crescent City Police Force. The work was hard, and jarring to Paul - but slowly and surely, he regained control over his life.

Paul's new independence couldn't have come at a better time. A squadmate who had survived the war alongside him suddenly died due to complications from an old war wound, and Paul attended the funeral - a sad day indeed, but a day he would always remember as the beginning of his new life, and the day he met Andrea. Andrea was the widow, and the pair bonded in their loss and their grief and comforted each other in the coming weeks and months, eventually starting a new relationship. Two years in, they married, and sold their individual estates and pooled their funds to buy a new house in East City, using the property and their new home as a chance to start afresh, free from their old lives and attachments. They were happy.

In 1983, at 35, Paul and Andrea had Rustin, a wiry child who grew quickly and displayed a keen cleverness that his father quickly picked up on. Paul guided Rustin's mind, feeding it knowledge and allowing him to devour information from any and all subjects - but also focusing on Rustin's natural guile and sharp wit, ensuring he'd be smart in more ways that academically. He involved Rustin in his work with the CCPD, encouraging Rustin to be inquisitive and molding him to follow his father into the police force; this molding worked. Rustin grew up with a strong sense of justice and right and wrong, and after graduating high school with high grades quickly joined the force at the bottom of the ladder.

Rustin quickly proved himself a capable cop, fierce in the chase and unrelenting in the apprehension and charge. He became a problem for the gangs and crime families of Crescent City, his sharpness becoming an issue as he began patrolling known centres of gang activity. In an effort to deal with the problem in a new, intelligent, non-violent manner, strings were pulled and Rustin's smarts were recognized by the higher authorities of the police department: Rustin was promoted to a plain-clothes detective and tucked away in Homicide, investigating cases where the crime families had already gone through with their business, and were able to set up a patsy to keep Rustin at bay.

Rustin continues to work as a Homicide Detective to this day, solving murders efficiently and refusing to let a case go cold, even taking unsolved folders out of the records office to pour over at home. He is perfectly aware of the why of his position; but he refuses the corrupt forces of Crescent City to tuck him out of the way of their business - and the gangs and families are well aware of how Rustin continues to be a thorn in their side. Rustin plays a dangerous game; but he is recognized, and respected, as a dangerous man - by all sides.

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:
"A sharp mind and steady hand will open many doors."

//SKILLS:
Despite Rustin's lack of 'superpowers', he does possess several notable talents that make him a valuable - if zealous - asset to the CCPD, as well as a dangerous individual. Most obvious is Rust's zeal: his sheer passion in the pursuit of justice, and the determination that allows him to succeed where many of his colleagues simply abandon a case to the cold locker. This persistence allows him to pour over what he knows and what he has in the hopes of finding something new, and more often than not, he does just that, using quick and wily intelligence to make previously unnoticed connections. In the field Rust is light on his feet and quick to analyse his surroundings, keeping himself on his toes and ready to react however is necessary - skills the city taught him through sheer necessity during his time as a beat cop.

Rust has also spent time at the HQ's range, honing his aim and learning how to remain calm and in control under pressure and in the middle of an intense situation. While he's not formally trained in any hand-to-hand combat, he is well-learned on how thugs prefer to fight, and he's thrown more than a few punches in his time on patrol.

//LIMITATIONS:
As Rustin doesn't possess any powers, his limitations come only in the varieties that restrict him in his line of duty. While Rustin is usually unimpeded in the apprehension of the killers he pursues case-to-case, occasionally the corruption of the system he works in, or the sheer power wielded by the various gangs and crime families of Crescent City, prevents him from moving further with a particular case, or interferes with one of the many processes of criminal justice - usually preventing arrest, detainment, or sentencing.

However, there are times when the law itself gets in the way of Rustin's ability to administer due justice, and there are times when he feels his job as phantom shackles chained around his wrists - due diligence is necessary in enforcing judicial law, but more often than not, it only combines with the state of Crescent City as a corrupt institute to pervert the course of true, natural justice - and frustrates Rustin to all ends.

//WEAKNESSES:
Rustin's notable weaknesses are best summed up as thus: he is Human, and fragile. With no supernatural endurance, no kind of precognition, no extraordinary combative talents, Rustin is as vulnerable to the common fist as any other Homo-Sapien, to say nothing of weapons, whether they be blunt, sharp, or projectile. His defenses do nothing against the criminal affairs that plague his city, and he survives in Crescent City by sheer luck and guile alone.
In Roman's Scrapbin → 4 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
H E L L B L A Z E R

J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E ♦ U N E M P L O Y E D ♦ E N G L A N D ♦ I N D E P E N D E N T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"S'just the way of it. We all sell our souls sooner or later."


This Constantine is young. He's just been released from Ravenscar after an eighteen-month incarceration, with no home, family, friends or life to return to. His sister is still disappeared; his mother is still dead; his father still may as well be. He's a blank slate to carve scars and stories into, and there's a clear vision to begin setting him up as the equally legendary and infamous mage we know from DC today.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
Description

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:



S A M P L E P O S T:
Leeds. June. 2006. John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. Summer in Liverpool, as much as Liverpool could allow, and the sky was covered by a pallid shroud of grey clouds. They were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, on abandoned tables, in phoneboxes and ticket machines. John's pockets rattled melodically with coins as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise. Cheryl downplayed her amusement but could not stifle a chuckle here and there.

At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.

Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.

John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.

P O S T C A T A L O G:
In DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
The Return Of The West
A Man Came Walking...

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.
The sun was rising as Jonah walked past the first residences of Ajo, Arizona, and when his boots went from sand to the asphalt of the road, he stopped, and looked down. He’d seen brick roads and cobbled streets in his day, even seen a few buildings made from cement, but this was strange. He brushed a hand across the surface of the road and found it to be coarse; cracks ran deep, and where he’d brushed the desert dust aside it was deep black. He’d never seen anything like it, and while it was harder than the sand it felt smoother, stabler to walk on.
“Hmm. Alright.” He muttered quietly to himself, before standing again and surveying his surroundings. The houses around him were small and one-storey, with smooth, single-colour walls. Nearly all of them had chain link fences, and the one that didn’t had a fancy-looking mix of brick and iron that looked very out-of-place against the desert and its neighbours. A few houses had next to them what looked like second houses, but with wheels, and some kind of cabin at the front. Jonah didn’t want to think about that just yet.

Instead, he walked to the nearby intersection where the roads converged and looked down each street, checking the houses on either side for where the buildings became more frequent and better-repaired; that would lead to the town’s main street, and hopefully a saloon. It was quiet, save the desert winds pushing the sand along the ground. A small pack of coyotes trotted a little ways down the road, sniffing around but not finding anything. Jonah watched as one got up on its hind legs against a large metal bin and used its nose to push the top off; the crash-clang of the lid on the road spooked the pack and they all ran. Bright light sprung from the windows of the house; Jonah could hear movement from within, and quickly moved on, not looking for any unpleasantries with the locals. He followed the road, heading further into town.

From an alleyway Jonah heard someone tumbling to the ground, swearing and hitting metal. He investigated; a man stumbled to his feet, leaning on a large metal container to steady himself, and then threw back a swig from the bottle in his other hand. The man went to move, then tripped over himself again, and hit the ground hard. The bottle rolled away towards Jonah, and he stopped it beneath his boot. He picked it up, inspecting the label - ‘beer’ was about the only word amidst the barrage of adjectives that felt both familiar and necessary - and slowly approached the man, who had given up on getting up, and had merely rolled himself over to sit up against the container he had previously steadied himself on. Jonah handed the drunk the bottle, and then crouched down next to him.

“Son, you are just full as a tick.”
The drunk looked at Jonah and squinted, taking another swig of his beer bottle. He slurred his words.
“I ain’t no bug.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow. “I mean you’re drunk, boy.”
“Now...to THAT I raise a toast..!” The drunk swigged again and emptied the bottle, tossing it aside. He looked Jonah up and down. “You’re funny-lookin’, mister. Just roll in from the wild west?”
“I’m gonna let that slide on account of your being roostered, and ask you to point me in the direction of a saloon.”
“A...a saloon?” The drunk guffawed, hiccuping between laughs. “You really are a rootin-tootin cowboy, man! Yeehaw, ride ‘em!” He laughed again, and Jonah hung his head and sighed in frustration. He carefully undid the clasp on his holster and brought the barrel of his pistol up into the drunk’s chin. The drunk stopped laughing pretty quick, then.
“Listen here, ya damn drunk mudsill. I have had a long, dry, few days, and I would much care for a quiet place to bend my elbow and make sense’a what the hell’s goin’ on. Now I need you to understand you have woken up the wrong passenger, and you are gonna tell me where I can wet my whistle, or I am gonna knock galley west before I empty my six.” Jonah leaned forwards, his face coming into the light of the moon. The drunk whimpered as he eyed Jonah’s scars.
“Wha-what happened to your f-face…?”
Jonah cocked the hammer back on his pistol.
“Turn left at the end and 3 doors down! Jessie’s! It’s a dive, but it’s open 24 hours!”
Jonah nodded and holstered his pistol. The drunk sighed in relief, then gasped when Jonah instead reeled back and struck him across the jaw. He slumped over, out cold, and Jonah walked away following the directions.

Jonah found the bar quickly enough. He opened the door carefully but with purpose, and stood in the half-shadow of the doorway, the electric bulbs illuminating his front and the moonlight shining on his back. The bar was mostly empty, one or two patrons already collapsed across their table, sound asleep and snoring, and there was a single disinterested bartender at the far end. The bartender idly picked at her mouth with a toothpick, barely even glancing at the open door where Jonah stood. Jonah took two steps in, his boots landing heavy on the wooden floor and spurs clinking, and let the door swing shut behind him. The bartender looked up properly this time, and furrowed her brow as Jonah approached the counter. They eyed each other as Jonah stood silently. The bartender consciously ignored Jonah’s scars and odd getup. She’d seen enough to know what not to ask about.

After a beat, Jonah sat down.
“Whiskey. Cheap.”
The bartender turned wordlessly, selecting a bottle of something brown and unlabelled from the shelf and pouring a single shot out. Jonah took the glass and the shot quickly, showing no reaction.
“‘Nother.”
Same again. Jonah drank it like water.
“‘Noth-”
“Just take the bottle. I ain’t standin’ here and pourin’ it out for you eighteen times in a row. I’m busy enough.”

Jonah took a look around the bar. The fella in the booth had slicked the table with drool. Jonah nudged the fella at the bar next to him with his boot, and got only a snorting start before he returned to snoring.
“Yeah...flush off yer feet.” He replied, taking the bottle all the same and pouring another drink.
“You know what day it is?”
“Ma’am, I’m at sea to know even what year it is.”
“Saturday. Early hours of, in fact. Which means the night worker boys will be here soon, and then I will be busy.”
Jonah nodded, staring ahead, taking his fourth drink.
“Three dollars a drink, by the way, so the math is on you.”
Jonah almost spat out the liquor in shock.
“Three dollars for this damn swill? I said cheap!”
The bartender eyed Jonah quizzically.
“That’s the cheapest shit I got, and I ain’t even waterin’ it down.”
“Don’t reckon there’d be any whisky left if you did…” Jonah muttered, picking up the bottle and looking at it through the light. Same colour as piss, he thought. Even still, he’d had worse. Jonah reached for his pocket and seized what money he had, pulling it out and slamming it down palm-first on the counter. The sleeper next to him jumped, waking and frowning, but returned to sleeping quick enough. Jonah removed his hand to reveal his net worth.

“Two dollars?” The bartender asked, disbelief in her voice. Jonah considered the coins, the silver dull and dirty. Sand speckled the dark wood of the bar.
“Two dollars.” Jonah confirmed. The bartender sighed. She picked a coin up and turned it in her hands.
“Wait a minute...these are old. Really old. Does this say 1820?” She spoke in an excited, but hushed tone. Jonah looked at the other coin before dropping it back on the counter.
“Reckon it does.”
The bartender raised both of her eyebrows.
“Just where the hell are you from, mister.”
“Missouri-born, miss.”
“Uh-huh, sure thing, sure, so just how the hell did you end up in a shitty dive bar in the middle-of-nowhere Arizona looking like a damn gunslinger with 200-year-old coins jingling around in your damn pocket?”
Jonah shrugged, taking another drink, this time forgoing the glass to swig directly from the bottle.
“Walked.”
The bartender growled in frustration and put her head in her hands. Jonah watched her, faintly amused.

“Alright, look,” she finally said, a tone of finality in her voice, “here’s the picture. Some stranger, dressed up to the nines in his cowboy best, gravelly-voiced and battle-scarred, walks in to my bar covered in sand and sweat at god-knows in the damn morning. He doesn’t ask for water, or for food, he just wants the cheapest liquor I can give him, and then he pounds the bottle like a alky vet and then tries to pay for a 3-dollar drink with 2 silvers, both of which are worth over a grand, and yet he has no idea that they’re as valuable as they are. Then he says he walked across six states. Walked.”
Jonah leaned back, swallowing the image.
“That is about the all of it.” He concluded.
“You got anywhere you’re staying?”
Jonah shook his head.
“Alright. I’ll take these coins as payment, and you can drink whatever you want to drink. And I’ve got a room too. But if you’re gonna stay, you do me a favor first.”
Jonah finally chuckled slightly, though when he spoke, his voice was cold as the grave.
“Been a long time since I worked for free.”
“We’ll split what I get for the coins, then. Either way, if you need a room, I’m the only option, and I need something done.”

Jonah regarded her through his good eye.

“Alright. Shoot.”
In Roman's Scrapbin → 4 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets
The Return Of The West
A Man Came Walking...
In DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
These are the players that were accepted prior to the beginning of the IC. As such, players such as Roman's Jonah Hex, Cybermaxx's Teen Titans, and more recently accepted characters have no reason to worry this week.


Also it's my birthday so today doesn't count
In DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

S A M P L E P O S T:

P O S T C A T A L O G:
TBC, partner.
In DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Roman>

You're right. I have a life outside the internet.


In DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
No one would ever seriously call you "our dear Roman," though. I'm starting to suspect those weren't genuine quotes.


You clearly don't spend time in the same chatrooms that I do.
In DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Rootin’, tootin’, toil n’ shootin’

Fire burn and cowboy bootin’

Eye of newt and spicy beans,

Toe of frog and denim jeans,

Whiskey, grits, n’ demon spittle

Tossed into my iron griddle

With the tannin’ of our hides,

Somethin’ wicked this way rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

S A M P L E P O S T:

P O S T C A T A L O G:
TBC, partner.
In Roman's Scrapbin → 4 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets
Whiskey, grits, and demon spittle
Tossed into my iron griddle
With the tannin’ of our hides
Somethin’ Wicked This Way Rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

S A M P L E P O S T:

P O S T C A T A L O G:
TBC, partner.
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