Roman

Roman's Scrapbin

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

A L I A S

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^{_{V I N C E N T G I D E O N J A C O B S ♦ M A L E ♦ 2 0 ♦ C E N T R A L C I T Y}}

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

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^{"All roads could lead to Rome...but I'd rather they lead to the bedroom."}

A snarky, pain-in-the-ass, happy-go-lucky, turbulent mess of a young man, Vincent is extraordinarily gifted and extraordinarily un-practiced. Aware of his abilities, he's been using them to make his life easy for the past few years, since leaving his drunk of a father, but he's only really scraped the surface of what he's capable of; his biggest enemy is his reluctance to try, in case of failure - and besides, what he can do currently is fine enough to maintain his lifestyle, and with his city being The Flash's home haunt, any fancy showing-off might bring the wrong kind of attention from beings he is woefully under-equipped to deal with.

Vincent liked - or convinced himself he liked - his footloose-and-fancy-free life, and Julian's recent intrusion has been poorly received; Julian's clever architecture design to keep Vincent confused enough to be unable to turn his bedroom door into the main security gate is another particularly irking bugbear. Vincent finds himself at-odds with Julian's objectives, but there is enough of a moral streak in him - or enough spite for his father, who made a point of ensuring Vincent knew he would never amount - to keep him around, regardless of the countermeasures against him. Julian sees potential in Vincent, potential Vincent himself refuses to acknowledge; but silently, he is deeply appreciative of having someone believe in him.

A B I L I T I E S:

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Vincent is a reality warper. By which I mean, if you take 'The Space-Time Continuum' as a concept, Vincent takes the 'Space' half of said continuum, and turns it into putty in his hands.

Euclidean geometry means very little to Vincent. Pick a point in space; pick another point in space. Do what you want with the space in-between. Shorten it, and fast-step your way 2 miles down the road; lengthen it, and get your daily steps in while you walk from the kettle to the fridge to fetch the milk for your coffee. Darts championship at the local bar? Bend that space in front of the dart, and it'll never not have been on its way to bullseye. Balloon out your pocket space when you really need to shoplift that third case of beer for the kegger house party you're crashing tonight.

Naturally, this is incredibly powerful, and Vincent is practically a physical god walking the Earth...or at least he would be, if he took the time to practice with his powers and experiment with what's possible. Unfortunately, this would require effort, and leave him open to failing an attempt at something, so he has avoided this at all costs. Right now, his powers are limited to spaces he can see, or is extremely familiar with; he can bend, stretch, and shorten space, and alter the space within his pockets and some bags, but isn't capable of much else right now; and he is unable - and unwilling - to mess around with biological matter.

It's Julian's hope that the Renegades might force Vincent to push his limits; it's Vincent's hope that he'll be able to get away with as little as possible.

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:

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I've been gasping for OC for a while, and this is close enough. Honestly, enough of my friends are here for me to want to get involved purely on the basis of writing with you guys again, but also I wanted to try and get a little sillier and a little looser and try not to take myself or my writing so seriously, in hopes that it may open the door to just writing more and chopping it up, rather than agonizing over the perfect, most believable, most interesting story-arc, and then never writing it because my plotting is always so much better than my prose.

I figure the answer to that is to throw plotting out the window, and just have some fun with it.

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

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Effectively homeless without the Renegades; his powers did give him access to hotel rooms and empty holiday homes after he ran, but though he'd rather stay on the streets than return to his father, he's still not sure the Renegades life is for him, even if Julian is comping room and board.

Julian has set Vincent some pretty rigorous schedules to explore the nature and capacity of his powers. Vincent isn't very good at sticking to them; Julian isn't very good at pinning Vincent down for 'encouragement'. The two have a mutual respect, but find each other equally frustrating at times.

Vincent is one of the only reluctant members of the Renegades, and has no real experience 'in-the-field', so to speak. His abilities give him a natural edge, but half of his prescribed regime is basic combat drills.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S:

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Short summary of your characters thoughts, feelings and regards for the rest of the cast. Optional and can be added to whenever.

Roman's Scrapbin

The first thing Jonah Hex did upon his impromptu resurrection was die. In his first new moment of second-life, he gasped wildly in shock and fear and confusion, and in doing so inhaled a massive lungful of sand and water-starved dirt. He choked on it, alternating between swallowing it and breathing it and coughing it up, thrashing about in his apparently double-grave until he thrashed no longer and grew still.

The first thing Jonah Hex did upon his second return to the mortal fold was to keep his mouth closed and hold his breath. He pushed his arms upwards with great effort, clawing aside fistfuls of sand until he felt his hand meet air, and then he kicked and pushed and clawed and eventually shifted enough earth to begin sitting up; rivulets of sand fell from him as he lifted himself, streams running from the brim of his hat as he finally breached the surface and sat straight, his lower half still encompassed in sand. He allowed himself to breath, soaking in the taste of the dry desert air - salt of his own sweat, heat of the high sun - and then, surprise giving way to the perturbation of mystery, surveyed his surroundings.

Jonah took off his hat, fanning himself with the brim while he held a hand over his eyes to gaze out across the horizon. A tumbleweed drifted across his line of sight, as if cued off-screen. Jonah went "Hmmmm" suspiciously, then replaced his hat and set to work digging his legs out, scrabbling around in the dirt and kicked until he could stand, and stand he did, stepping a few feet forwards and turning to take a look at his supposed-to-be-final resting place. It was a shallow grave, even with the natural settling of sand and soil deposited by wind and the movement of critters, and looked to be crudely and hastily dug. Jonah coughed into his hand and came away with a small pile of sand in his palm. "Hmmmm" he went again, and dusted himself down from head to toe. He carefully checked himself over as he did so: clothes intact, if battered and frayed; boots still sturdy, with soles comfortably worn in down to the shape of the callouses beneath his toes; skin feeling springy and alive, and mostly un-tarnished. He raised a hand to touch his face, and his fingers brushed the familiar rough, unshapen scarring that marred its left half. He nodded to himself. His hands moved south, and he pulled the waist of his trousers forward and risked a glance downward. All intact. Jonah nodded again.

His search moved across his waistline and onto the familiar tough leather of his gun belt; his fingers carefully traced the edge of the leather towards the holster, faltering before brushing the cool metal of his revolver. Inwardly, Jonah breathed relief. Digging himself out of his own grave is one thing; being caught without his gun is another entirely. Some things are sacred, even if Jonah himself is apparently not. He closed a fist around the grip and lifted his revolver from his side, rediscovering the comfortable weight of it and how it felt in his hand. With a practiced movement he sharply shook the gun sideways to knock the chamber loose of the body, and checked within: fully loaded, though polluted with sand and dirt and dust. He shook the bullets loose into the palm of his other hand and blew down each chamber, clearing the worst of the loose debris, and then wiped each bullet clean before loading them back into the drum and giving the gun another sharp knock to re-chamber it. With some encouragement the drum span span freely, but Jonah knew his pistol would need a proper clean and oil before he could properly rely on it again.

Snakes and coyotes he could handle without it. Men were more complicated.

Roman's Scrapbin

JONAH HEX

classic cowboy fish-out-of-timewater story

walks out of desert and into town, meets bar owner who agrees to shelter him in return for some favours
favours start with intimidating bar owner's ex husband who's gunning for ownership of bar (presumably so he can sell it)

Ex-Husband works on an oilfield in the nearby desert
Oilfield owner is great-great-grandson of Quentin Turnbull
He wants the deed of the bar, not for the bar, but for the LAND the bar is on - Quentin put his treasure there years and years ago after finally killing Jonah

Roman's Scrapbin

cowboys but silent hill

cowboys in hell?

cowboys but it's spooky, but not spooky in a quaint way, spooky in a nasty eldritch horrible roman-style way. not cowboys and vampires and werewolves - cowboys and old gods and corruption and horrific beasts and stuff

Cowboys returning from a job, not realising they’ve died and they’re in purgatory?

Relics of the First Age.

I'm into it and I'm desperate for original worlds, characters, and stories.

A couple questions:

Does magic exist? If so, in what capacity? Who, if anyone, wields it, and what does it require from the individual to do so?

What races and species exist in the world? Is this low-fantasy, with humans and animals, or high-fantasy, with the classic elves/dwarves/humans, or dark-fantasy, with all kinds of shivering horrors?

Is there a driving plot, or is this more of a sandbox in which to tell our stories? How big is the world? How much leeway do we have in character history to establish our own unique settings, cultures, and identifiers?

I'm likely in this regardless of how these questions are answered, but that doesn't mean I'm not curious.

Roman's Scrapbin

AN APPOINTMENT WITH APOTHEOSIS

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Saṃsāra

Whether the individual accepts it or not, belief shapes his reality minute-to-minute. Belief in the self becomes the deciding factor when confronting challenges; belief in others forges the foundations of relationships; belief in the adversary becomes the face of our fears. The man who believes in the righteousness of his cause will slay the man who does not. So it has been since the dawn of humanity, and so it remains.

So grand, then, is the potential of belief, that it should be little surprise that it would gather unto itself a power unlike that of any other; that it became, early in Man's infancy, a force so potent that it would wield the gift of creation, pure and true. And so it was, that what were once stories and legends told in hushed tones to marvelling tribes, were born into the cosmos as Gods and Deities and mythical beings.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

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Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

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Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

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Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

H E L L B L A Z E R

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^{_{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:

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

Every time I've tried playing Constantine in the past, I've started slap-bang in the middle of his career as an occultist, exorcist, detective, magician, etc etc, and often include nearly every major event of his canon in the biography. And I usually end up directionless after 2/3 posts with no real plan or solid character development to pursue. No more!

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:

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I've had a lot of ideas for John over the years, varying from continuing the canon to retelling an old story to redirecting existing character goals. This is none of them; this is a new origin story, this is taking the themes and story notes of the character that I love and running them through my personal lens, and developing a brand new Constantine that can be definitively mine while avoiding a complete departure from the source material.

John is young; 20-something, still several years before 30. His sister disappeared over a year ago, and he suffered a nervous breakdown that got him sectioned; he has only just been released from mental care at Ravenscar. He's done a lot of introspection and reflection during his incarceration and has come out of it seeking to repair the damage he's done to his minimal existing relationships and at least come to terms with, if not solve, his sister's disappearance. Unfortunately, he is yet unaware of the supernatural brush his life is about to be stained by, and the events shortly about to unfold that will change John’s life forever, and force him down terrible, grievous paths for a greater good he will never live to see.

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

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Ravenscar Psychiatric Hospital

A large mental health facility in the North of England, Ravenscar has existed in one form or another for hundred of years, and will exist for a hundred more. The 'treatment' used within is questionable and often outdated, and the staff are often negligent or outright cruel. It is not a place of dedicated healing, and most patients do not leave. John Constantine was one of the lucky few - but the fear that his fragile psyche will lead back to that shadowy building hangs over him eternally.

Cheryl Constantine

John's elder sister, who cared for John during their childhood and did her best to protect the both of them from their father. John and Cheryl enjoy a deep bond with each other via their shared childhood trauma, but also find it difficult to spend time together due to the memories that tend to resurface. Two years ago, Cheryl disappeared in mysterious circumstances, and shortly afterward John started experiencing horrific nightmares and strange visions. Coupled with his grief and the inability of all invovled to find her, he suffered a nervous break, and was committed to Ravenscar. Cheryl remains missing, and John refuses to believe she is dead.

Thomas Constantine

John and Cheryl's alcoholic, abusive, general degenerate father. still in Liverpool. With several misdemeanor crimes on his record, he works basic labour at the docks, and uses the money to drink himself to death. John reckons he's well over halfway there; with a bit of luck, he'll do himself in by the end of the year.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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