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Grumpy Toad
King of Dirt

STATUS: Ribbit. 8 mos ago
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8 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

Most Recent Posts

In Star Wars Invasion [A Multiverse Spaceship RP] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Star Wars Invasion [A Multiverse Spaceship RP] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Safe to say I now have the coolest-looking ship in this game.



@Sep the sheet is now complete.
In Star Wars Invasion [A Multiverse Spaceship RP] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Safe to say I now have the coolest-looking ship in this game.

In Roman's Scrapbin → 1 yr ago Forum: Character Sheets
In π™΄πš‡π™·πš„π™Όπ™°πšƒπ™Έπ™Ύπ™½ → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Slimy, disgusting crap, but better than nothing. The Laborer hefts the Hunk of Knotted Roots in his hand, considering how best to use what amounts to little more than kindling.

The cigarette hangs in his mouth, nearly burnt out, as he watches the old man fail once more to make any proper headway on loosing his chains. He would laugh, were he not tired, his head pounding, drips of blood still trickling down his forehead. Instead he looked over at the woman, who was scrabbling around half-blind with her bare foot. Equally bizarre, but then he'd just been scrabbling in the dirt like some filthy rodent for nothing more than slimy tinder and a rotten relic of modern americana.

Besides, the woman found the single most promising development of their short waking experience thus far; a small key, rusted but solid in its antiquated construction.

Something in seeing that key jostled the Laborer and sparked a new-born zeal for survival in him. He looked at the old man, puffing after his exertion, and then at his own chains; the significant difference in slack between his and his co-convict's chains afforded him more leverage.
He wondered if there was a way to heat the chains and weaken the metal. Perhaps then, they may become more amenable to bending and breaking?
>Examine
In π™΄πš‡π™·πš„π™Όπ™°πšƒπ™Έπ™Ύπ™½ → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Laborer watched silently as the old man tried to escape his chains. A futile attempt.
β€œGotta die someday.” He said, sitting as comfortably as the chains would allow to watch the old man’s further attempts to break his bonds. β€œMay as well be here.”
His hands were shaky. He told himself it was fear; it was more likely alcohol withdrawal. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank. He couldn’t remember much of anything at all. Shouldn’t that concern him?

He could remember the act that he surmised lead to this predicament; he cursed that that particular memory remained fresh and verdant when even his own name escaped him.

He lifted a hand to wipe the blood from where it was beginning to trickle past his brow and into his eye; with no towels or tissues or anything except the filthy floors and walls and his fellow prisoners, he opted to wipe his palm on his trousers. In doing so, he brushed his hands over some unexpected items in his pocket; cigarettes and a lighter. Immediately he lifted one of both to his mouth, lighting up and taking a long, smooth drag. The weight of the lighter felt good in his hands and the smoke of the cigarette felt good in his lungs. He pocketed the lighter again, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth while he puffed on it.

His fingers began walking the edge of the carpeting, looking for a hold. Maybe they could tear the whole thing up. Use it as…something. Fuel? Blanketing? He couldn’t tell what time it was, but it might get cold later. Hell, tearing up carpet would at be something to do, rather than tug fruitlessly at chains. Even if the old man broke his, then what?

The lightbulb hummed steadily away above them, an arbiter of timelessness.

>Explore
In π™΄πš‡π™·πš„π™Όπ™°πšƒπ™Έπ™Ύπ™½ → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Labourer


PHYSICAL STRENGTH: 6
MENTAL STRENGTH: 3
EMOTIONAL STRENGTH: 2
MOTOR SKILLS: 2
PSYCHIC STRENGTH: 3

INVENTORY:
x1 Lighter (Engraved)
x2 Cigarettes
x1 Standard Cattle Chains

Health: 8/10
In Pacific Royal Collegiate & University - [CLOSED] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Humbly submitted for the consideration of my colleagues and peers.

C A L L A H A N
C A L L A H A N
β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…
"How vain to sit and write, when you have not stood and lived."
β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…
β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–… Y E A R B O O K P H O T O β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…
β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–… Y E A R B O O K P H O T O β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…


β–…β–…β–…β–…β–… S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…
β–…β–…β–…β–…β–… S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…

Harlan G. N. Callahan Danielewski
_________________________________________________________
August 27th, 2000 | 23 | Caucasian
_________________________________________________________
Single | Male | Heterosexual
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New Orleans | Louisiana | Amerca_________________________________________________________
HouseTBD | TeamXX - TBD

β–… P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E
β–… P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…

β–… M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S
β–… M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…

β–… N O T E S
β–… N O T E S β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…


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β–… S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S
β–… S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…

Callahan is the eldest of 4; 2 brothers in the middle and his sister, the youngest, all of whom he has watched over carefully, effectively since his first brother could walk. His father meant well, but worked hard - too hard - and while he wasn't abusive when he drank, he was neglectful. His mother was loving and doted on all of them, but there were no funds to spoil them with and no free time to raise them by herself. Callahan stepped in, a silent pact to do the job his father either couldn't or wouldn't, and his mother felt equally guilty and grateful.

And then Callahan's mother got sick, and then she got worse, and then his father - already working himself to death to provide what little finances they had - buckled under the pressure and fled entirely. The brothers and sister did what they could, and to their credit, they rallied valiantly beneath Callahan's soft guidance. The brothers old enough to work - Callahan himself and his first brother - did so, bringing money into the household; his second brother studied, hard, as did his sister, and between the two of them they also maintained the household. Callahan rose to the occasion nobly, and kept the family together while caring for their steadily declining mother, and trying to locate their absent father. Somewhere along the way, Callahan realised he'd lost any sense of individual, his own needs buried beneath those of his family.

Six years later, their mother finally passed. The siblings were devastated, but also prepared. Callahan's abilities had awakened in the interim period, and while he'd thought little of them amidst the unravelling tragedy of their lives, his siblings saw in Callahan someone truly capable of great and beautiful things, and someone who surely deserved the chance to achieve those things.

They were aware of P.R.C.U., aware of H.E.L.P. and H.I.T., aware of the academy and all the potential it held for Callahan. The night after the evening of the wake, his brothers and sister, weeping and smiling in equal measure, presented Callahan with the brochures, the leaflets, the course guides. They also presented him with a letter of invitation, and tickets for the journey.

They held each other close and cried until they could produce no more tears, and then cried some more. A week later, Callahan set off for Dundas Island.
β–… A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S
β–… A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…

H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || SCRIPTOKINESIS // ACTUALISED NARRATIVE
__PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION ||EXOTERIC
__SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION ||FUNDAMENTAL

Callahan's ability allows him to manipulate the written word, and through it, the world around him.

Fundamental primary use: able to extract singular words from written language, and manifest the meaning or concept represented by that word.
For example, 'fire', 'burn', and 'ignite' become flame or sparks to set something alight; 'light',' bright', and 'dazzle' become glowing beacons; 'cut', 'slash', and 'slice' become sharp, inky blades; 'push', 'shove', and 'shunt' become short, forceful nudges.
If the word is written, and its meaning straightforward and understood, then Callahan can manifest it for his own purpose.

Mundane secondary uses: able to alter written word by thought; able to automatically transcribe his own thoughts, or the words of anybody speaking aloud within earshot; innate memorization of anything read; able to make written word verbalise itself; able to innately understand the written word of any language.

L I M I T A T I O N S ||

If a word is too complex, or its meaning not understood by Callahan, he cannot manifest it. Manifested words are a one-time use only; you get one shove, one slash, one spark, then it collapses back into its material. Objects manifested from words are made of what the text was formed from - ink, graphite, charcoal etc. - and while are as solid as they need to be for their purpose, are easily distinguishable from their actual counterparts.

Callahan cannot manifest abstract or philosophical concepts like 'death' or 'freedom', and cannot manifest living beings, or directly alter their states - physical, mental, emotional - though a manifested word (e.g. 'angry', 'tired', 'drunk', or 'crippled').

Manifested words do not return to the page they were taken from after use.
Only written words can be manifested.

W E A K N E S S E S ||

Callahan requires written word to be accessible to manifest it. He can also 'use up' words too quickly if he's not careful, as used words don't replace themselves, and each manifestation only has a one-time use. Without access to a source of written or printed text, or the means to write his own words, Callahan is completely powerless.

________________________________________________________________________________________
β–… P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S
β–… P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…β–…

Y O U A W A K E I N T H E D E A D O F N I G H T, W H A T W O K E Y O U?

Here you write an in-character response to the above prompt.

A D I S H E V E L E D S T R A N G E R A P P R O A C H E S Y O U A S K I N G F O R H E L P, H O W D O Y O U R E S P O N D?

Here you write an in-character response to the above prompt.

A N I N T R U D E R A L A R M H A S B E E N S E T O F F O N C A M P U S, H O W D O Y O U R E A C T?

Here you write an in-character response to the above prompt.
In Ju-V → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay

INTERACTIONS: Haven, @Skai
When the bus arrived for Fritz and whoever this other girl was - so pale that he was semi-convinced she was another street-cleaner sweep up, though he denied himself the notion of kinship - he finally came to realize that this mystery tour from his familiar haunts, through a courtroom, bounced across several holding cells of steadily-increasing quality yet uniform purpose, to being quietly-yet-firmly escorted through three separate flight transfers was nearing its promised end. It had taken several weeks to arrive at this precipice; and yet, it wasn't until Fritz was seated at the front of the bus, surreptitiously swiveling his head to scan the other passengers and suddenly noticing that the girl sat beside him had wings, that it really hit him that despite all expectations, this hadn't simply been an elaborate ruse to relocate him and his particular brand of 'problem' and 'statistics' to another city's municipality.

This is all to say that Fritz remained in something of a stupefied fugue for the majority of the remaining commute to Alcatraz, occasionally surfacing only to acknowledge and file away some new oddity. A native off the rez. A boy made of stone. An otter. He was certain that each and every one of them, sat like sardines in a tin with wheels, hid qualities that only a select few were forced to wear in the open. For his part, Fritz clenched and flexed his fist repeatedly, fingers aching for a familiar blade that had been permanently severed from his personage some handful of months previously. He wasn't sure what he missed more: the reliable access to his self-taught abilities, his first and last line of offense and defense alike, or the only tangible item he'd ever truly considered his own singular possession. He fixed his gaze on the notebook held by the girl sat at the front, plotting on how to obtain even a single page. It would do for now.

The bus gave way to a slow, supervised shuffle, gave way to a ferry, gave way to more shuffling. Fritz had failed to attain a page while disembarking either the bus or the ferry, and now he was on-alert and it was out-of-mind; instead, he focused on absorbing his new surroundings and supervisors, as well as his erstwhile peers. He pondered their natures, both psychological and metaphysical, musing which of either would serve the best purpose to him. The wings were of particular interest; not only did they offer a tantalizing degree of freedom, but each feather, with its pointed quill, was another avenue for Fritz' own personal talents. A useful early ally in all respects; all he needed was the angle of approach, and that would reveal itself simply enough, given time.

His study was interrupted by a lecture that Fritz found put his hackles up and set his teeth on edge, its hollow, well-rehearsed welcomes and honey-coated warnings all-too-familiar to the boy who had heard the same sickly spiel from scores of fosters and would-be guardians. He rolled his eyes, letting his vision glaze over as he resolved to simply drift in absent thought until they would be finally left to their own devices.

Although, if Dwayne 'The Pebble' Fuckface and his cheerleader pining for a time out of style 70 years ago at its conception had their way, it would appear they'd all be on whatever Aegis' equivalent of the naughty step was; or more likely, in Fritz' known experience, the empty pantry cupboard with the burnt-out bulb and lock on the other side of the door. Even the otter seemed to approve of the juvenile display. Fritz still found it outlandish that an otter was even among them inferring what behaviour it did and didn't approve of.

His fingers itched. He'd lived several years forced to wear eyes on the back of his head and sleep too lightly to actually rest. He could tell himself there were no immediate threats all he liked; instinct refused to let him forget he was surrounded by strangers, every last one representing their own unique and unknown potential, and had been forcibly left bereft of his sole line of defense. He felt painfully vulnerable. He eyed the winged girl, feathered wings partially splayed as she took the opportunity to stretch out after the cramped journey.

He moved before thinking about it, and if he had thought about it, he wouldn't have done it, but this wasn't Fritz operating on thought; this was Fritz operating on barely-restrained, permanently-etched fight-or-flight.

It was so easy. His hand reached out and took the calamus of an outer-edge feather firmly between thumb and forefinger, and yanked sharply down. The feather gave slight resistance at the tug, but came free nonetheless, and it quickly moved to his right hand and got palmed, the quill's point protruding out and seeming to glisten in the light.

Haven, for her part, did not fail to notice the intrusion, yelping sharply as she felt the feather rip out with a painful and unpleasant 'pop'. Wheeling round, fist already raised and drawn back, she paused only momentarily as she locked eyes with Fritz and recognized an uncomfortable familiarity with the coming violence, as well as an equally-disturbing feral eagerness. Her eyes flitted to the feather in his hand, proffered upwards in a clenched fist like a shiv.

She didn't have time to land the punch. A shout went up from one of the observing guards.
"EDGE!"
And then Fritz seized as the prongs of a tazer lodged in his back and he tipped forwards, feather dropped and quickly kicked away as the same guard approached with a zip tie, quickly and carefully slipping it around Fritz' wrists as the shock-induced shudders subsided. Shortly thereafter, Fritz was up, sat on his arse on the floor, hands restrained behind his back and cursing himself for his moronic impulse, and cursing himself again for giving into it.

Haven, from her standing point, gave him a quick slap across the back of the skull, which everyone - Fritz included - surmised he probably deserved.
In Ju-V → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
V O R P A L
F R E D E R I C K ' F R I T Z ' J A C K S O N β—Ό N O V E M B E R 2 1 ( 1 7 ) β—Ό M A L E
"I cut my losses a long time ago."

β–Ό A P P E A R A N C E:
"Cut from a different cloth."
//STATS:
β—Ό HEIGHT | 5' 8"

β—Ό WEIGHT | 130lbs

β—Ό BUILD | Skinny

β—Ό HAIR COLOR | Dark brown.

β—Ό EYE COLOR | Gray and dark.

β—Ό OTHER | Multiple tattoos scattered across his body, none professionally done - mostly stick'n'poke jobs in community kitchens or on street corners. Some scarring, slashes from accidents while experimenting with his abilities, but patchy burns too from fires, cigarettes, etc.

//DESCRIPTION:
Undeniably, and even uncomfortably, Fritz looks rough for his age; he's been forced, through abuse and his own retreat from the social system, to mature ahead of his time. Rough living combined with less food than a growing body needs, but more cigarettes and alcohol than a growing body should get, makes him look haggard despite his young age, and while he miraculously retains youthful vitality, he's still marked by scars, burns, and stick'n'poke tattoos from his time on the streets, and his eyes speak of years he shouldn't have lived yet. His hair is cut pragmatically short by himself (it's difficult to maintain a salon hairstyle living rough, and long hair is a disadvantage in fights) and his clothes are hand-me-downs, found-threads, and the occasional better-quality garment, inevitably stolen.

β–Ό B I O G R A P H Y:
"Let's cut to the chase."
Fritz' parents were young, naive, broke, and immature, and yet still thought they could raise a child on good intentions and perseverance. They were wrong. Fritz was a tricky child, fierce, bold, and ultimately unsuited to the docile, easily-malleable role of a walking talking dress-up-doll his mother and father had hoped he'd be. Eventually, unable to cope, they gave him up to the state, hoping he'd find better care with a foster family who were more equipped to handle the turmoil of parenting. Again, they were wrong. Bouncing through the system, in and out of care homes and foster families, enduring scattered abuse both physical and emotional in the process, eventually molded an already precocious child into a ferocious one, convinced he was innately unwanted, plagued by abandonment disorder, and maturing before his time into the kind of independence and self-reliance born only from neglect. He struck out of the social system entirely and onto the streets in his early teens and, never having a stable home foundation in the first place, never looked back.

His time on the streets helped him develop his already volatile psyche, and when his powers awakened he was only pushed further over that edge. A spree ensued: starting slow with non-violent mugging and burglary, it quickly escalated to assault, armed robbery, culminating in an attack that, pending the results of the victim's coma, could stick at GBH or escalate to manslaughter.

The law caught up with him rapidly, and disarmed, the young teen was of little threat to trained officers. Aegis found him in the holding cells, and in their campaign took on his legal battle. Looking at being tried as an adult, despite his age, Aegis somehow convinced the judge and state defense that the boy should be given one final chance at the Metahuman Rehabilitation Centre; they would provide the stable home and nurturing foundation Fritz had never had the chance to know, and give him the opportunity to harness his natural cleverness and well-earned street-smart cunning for the betterment of himself and his fellow man, Metahuman or otherwise.

Fritz didn't really see that he had much of choice.

β–Ό M O T I V A T I O N / O B J E C T I V E:
"Cut the crap."
Fritz is content to play along with Aegis' rules and the court terms of his inpatient stay at the Centre, seeing it as an opportunity to hone his abilities and observe the workings of the organization, assured that he'll be able to discern something of value for use in the outside world. However he is naturally distrustful of authority figures, and quietly convinced that Aegis too will inevitably abandon their promise and palm Fritz off to somewhere else. He's braced himself mentally for when that happens, and very ready to return to the streets. It is, to Fritz, simply a matter of time.

β–Ό A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:
"The world's pretty cut-throat."
//ABILITIES:
β—Ό Aichmokinesis | The control over, and manipulation of, sharp edges and piercing points.

Fritz passively hones the sharpness of any held cutting or piercing implement to the absolute limit of its potential, but can also focus to take it beyond that, eventually producing a blade that can effortlessly cut down to the molecular level, cleaving cleanly through even rock and steel.

Alternatively, he can extend the cutting edge beyond the end of the blade, ultimately wielding a kitchen knife like a claymore.

//SKILLS:
β—Ό CQC, Survival, Street-Smarts | Naturally, Fritz has taught himself to be quick with a blade and how to properly handle all manner of knives. He's also well-versed in survival skills and how best to approach people to get what you want. He has no aversion to denting his pride or spending some dignity if it will further his goals, and his time in the streets (and accidents in his own power experimentation) has left him comfortable with physically-repulsive situations and first aid.

//LIMITATIONS:
β—Ό Conduits Not Included | Fritz requires an item with a cutting or pre-sharp edge in order to hone it; a knife, a saw, a needle, some bolt cutters, even a page of paper. If it has the ability to cut, slice, or pierce, Fritz can enhance it - but he can't turn a flat piece of wood or a plastic tube into a blade to cleave the heavens. He also requires constant physical contact with the item; he can't enhance something he's not touching, and once he lets go of the item it loses his enhancements. An enhanced blade will also 'blunt' as it's used, so Fritz must put considerable effort into keeping an edge sharp, and bad-quality blades will blunt faster and be harder to enhance. Finally, the bigger the blade, the better the enhancement, but the harder and slower it is to sharpen.

//WEAKNESSES:
β—Ό You Can't Sharpen Fists, Brought A Knife To A Gunfight | Disarming Fritz deprives him of an object to channel his ability through and therefore renders his power impotent. He's also naturally quite simple to handle at range, and can be detained and incapacitated as simply as the average 17-year-old street urchin.

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