Ruiner — Roleplayer Guild

"Hey man, need a light? Ehehheheheh."

Name:
The Butcher, Devourer of Kings, Scourge of the Lowest Pits, Castigated Ape of the Backwater Plane, Taker of Tongues and Bloodhungery Forevermore... or Big Trev

Age:
A little hard to tell given the vagueries of Hellscape's laws of space/time, but Trev maintains a "personal history" of 112 years. Flesh cage appears to be in their mid-twenties.

Birthdate:
Says on his ID that he was born on 10/30

Gender:
Two Knives

Nationality:
Dead

Appearance:

Height:
7 foot 4
Weight:
 420 Pounds of pure, undiluted, 100%, Prime Grade A brick shit house
Fashion Sense:
Due to the unfortunate realities of having more muscle mass than Jesus and all of his disciples combined, Trev wears whatever he can get and dredges the Big and Tall section for anything that'll look halfway decent. This amounts to a lot of plain t-shirts, jeans, and big ass boots. 

Has killed for sick ass clothes before and will kill again.
Distinguishing Features:
If one were to peep under the mask, they'd find a strangely mundane face. Normally strong, masculine features that would appear intimidating have been blunted by a youthful rounding of the face, leaving it strangely average and forgettable compared to the whole package. The eyes are the real kicker, pupils reflecting light much like a wild predator with a piercing glow that sparks anxiety and paranoia in many. When Trev falls into a Fell Mood his skin takes on a blackened, necrotic hue and their eyes lose their shine, instead being replaced with an empty, yawning abyss where eyes should be as their hands drip a caustic ichor.

Biography:

Personality Questions:

You're fighting a worthy opponent who you're about to defeat, then they forsake their humanity and give up their self just to beat you, how do you react?
"I've seen monsters made out of the concept of flaying skin, waded through the collective misery and filth of humanities most vile tendencies, and ate that novelty wing sauce that's too hot, you know the one, got a tiger on it that says "Party Time"? Yeah you do. Someone growing some extra tentacles and glows a bit isnt anything new buddy."

How do you feel about explosions?
"Radical."

You lost a fight, what are you going to do about it?
"Spit the blood out of my mouth, get up, and spill theirs."

Where do you go when you die?
"Nowhere nice."

What's your worst nightmare?
"Eh... after a while they just kinda blend together, variety and life and spices... that kinda shit."

Do you believe in karma?
"Karma, luck, cause and effect, don't really matter much to me how ya sell it. Shitty stuff happens to good people all the time and the people who deserve it usually don't get theirs until the damage is done. Believe in what ya want kid, I'll stick with what I can do with my hands and burn bridges when I get there."

Can evil people be rehabilitated?
"I'm sure there are some more philosophically inclined individuals who would like to wax poetic on the inherent virtue of the human spirit and the souls ability to repent from the black, sticky tar that stain our pasts, but if I see an evil motherfucker I'm just going to snik the bastard and let the Powers That Be sort em out."

Are you a bad person?
"Heh, yeah a little bit."

Backstory:
The person who was to become Trev was a nobody who had too much will and not enough sense, getting killed after a string of passionate acts of seld defense and hot-blooded homicide. Next thing they knew they were careening out of a burning sky, a drop of many in a rain of cindering bodies. The shock of it all was more than they could handle in the beginning, too many urgent questions bouncing around their head before splatting on the ground in an expectantly messy manner. There was a moment of blissful quiet as unconsciousness took them for a while before being violently ripped back into their new reality in the Hellscape, just as scared and confused as before. Death came swiftly again when a pack of daemonic creatures set upon them and tore them to ribbons, once again plunging into the cradle of unconsciousness. So on and so for they moved through the lands, the pattern of death and darkness repeating itself in every unpleasant end one could imagine.

However despair did not settle in, that same stubbornness that landed them in this place became their sanctuary. Every wretch he passed that chose the quickest means of death over living here only hardened his resolve to be stronger, seeing the handiwork of more sadistic beings only stoked the flames of his determination to one day leave, and every death under the hands of foul creatures taught invaluable lessons. Yet slowly, methodically, one by one they were able to cut down and eat the power of those lesser than him, or act as a scavenger and pick on the feeble and weak until he could start pulling down larger meals. On and on this went, forgetting more and more of who they once were and replacing it with the best ways to snap bone, carve flesh, and cripple minds.

At their lowest point, they were no better than the Daemons they hunted, a soul-scorched predator of the blood-soaked lands that feasted on the entrails of Dukes and Kings. The only thing that kept them going throughout their... storied travels and deeds, was the ultimate desire to leave the Hellscape, something that was denied to them time and again by the various forces working against them. That is until pure happenstance occurred that got him and a Daemon he was currently spiritually tussling with summoned into the same vessel, an event that absolutely no one saw coming, especially the cultists when their sacrifice began shouting at themselves in two languages and started spitting out flames and fluids that did unsavory things anything they touched.

In the end, after everything was all said and done, everyone was dead... all except for Them, adding a seemingly final notch to their Daemon tally before walking out of the ruined compound and tasted fresh air for the first time in an eternity. The next thing they did was walk 26 miles to the nearest roadside diner and "Trevor" bought the best worst banana cream pie he ever.

Three years later and Trev is still struggling to find a successful answer for "What Now?" but spends his time talking to strangers, wandering, and participating in a little Community Service when the now normalized itch of violence grows unbearable.

Abilities:
- School of Hard Knocks and Hellfire: Trev doesn't know how to fight as much as he knows how to savage, mutilate, and brutalize with an efficiency that'd turn a butcher green with envy and knot the stomachs of even the blackest, most frozen hearts known to man.

- Ouch: Nothing puts the fear of God in you until you see a man get riddled with bullets, stabbed just... way too much, bludgeoned into a bloody garbage bag, and burnt, just... get back up and rip your friends head off of his shoulders like he's snapping peas. They're certainly physically tougher than your average specimen, but not by much compared to other... exceptional beings. Their real strength in this regard is that their grotesquely high pain tolerance allows them to fight through their injuries until they get enough gore to heal.

- Eat The Pain: What allows Trev to work the onslaught despite his many, many, MANY injuries. Ripping the trick from the tongue of a greater daemon, Trev is able to sup on the death throes of his enemies to restore flesh and mend bone in a squicky display as blood and viscera rush in to seal fresh wounds. The bloodier the better.

- Freakie Deekie: Despite his great size Trev is able to move with an eerie silence and has the nasty habit of blending in almost completely with the shadows with disturbing ease. Trev primarily uses this to pick off victims one by one, whittling down the opposition while enjoying the high of a great plan coming together and no small amount of casual sadism.

- Fell Mood: Sometimes a fight gets too real, too many innocent people are on the line, the deadly dance of combat stalls for too long, or maybe Trev just really doesn't like the bugger. Either way the luster is gone and the kid gloves come off as Trev slips back into the well-oiled killing machine they are, slicing, dicing, and crushing everything with a fluid, practiced savagery. The ichor that flows from their hands during these moments is caustic in nature but isn't intended for combat, being painful to unprotected skin but not much else.

- Something That Bumps In The Night: Trev's time in the Hellscape changed them fundamentally, scorching their soul and staining their hands, however, they still retain the essence of what makes something human. Free choice and compassion, empathy, and a sense of good no matter how deeply buried or skewed. They are a spiritual anomaly who borrows from many sources but is never bound by one category, harmed by faith in holy symbols but not banished, hurt by physical violence but seemingly never killed, lost in every sense of the word but hardened with a simple focus.

Look Not In The Noggin: Lets just say to an unvarnished mind, the horrors that Trev experienced in the Hellscape are a little... much. Trev is just used to it due to a lot of exposure.

The Firsts: Weapons Trev found in the deepest pits of human violence and hatred, the Firsts are what allowed Trev to finally gain the strength they needed to stop running and fight back against the entities that assailed them. They are bound to Trev's flesh, manifesting when they've drunk deep from the carnage around them. Each one of these weapons is supernaturally strong and gifted with uniquely disturbing abilities, though they can only be wielded two at a time at most given the time/energy needed to summon and the fact that Trev only has two hands. When separated from Trev the weapons return to which they came, splatting into piles of blood, bone, and assorted viscera. Juicy.

Equipment:
Tongue Lash - An obsidian dagger with an unnatural serpentine curve to the blade that connects to a ravenous fanged guard. Preternaturally sharp as is, the real power of the Tongue is its ability to siphon life energy directly into Trev if stabbed into the heart of another being, draining their power into themselves.
The Shillelagh - A gnarled branch with a kaleidoscope effect amount of tally marks carved into it. Blood that comes into contact with the head of the Shillelagh curdles into a sanguine sap that sticks and burns like caustic napalm.
Conquest - A plain, unadorned bronze sword with an edge ravaged by battle and oxidized blood that nonetheless can open a steel door like a tuna can made of aluminum foil.
Cain - A stone axe with a handle made of black, barbed wood with a stone head formed from an unknown mineral, a snarling face can be seen carved into the "blade". It emanates a profound dread.

Other:
Likes cats, hated by dogs.

WIP, Got some family stuff I gotta see to before I finish this.



::NAME:: 
B48-Y

::NICKNAME//ALIAS:: 
Baby

::Age:::
22

::Gender::
Male

::Sexual Orientation::
Bisexual

::Ethnicity::
Caucasian



::Appearance Details::
Baby stands at a respectable 6'4 with long, thickly muscled limbs and a core so hard you'd bust open an eyebrow just motorboating those abs. Dispite the "Prime Specimen" aspects of his physiology, Baby's past as Vat-born property is easily apparent, with bleached wispy hair that is kept buzzed close to his head and the blue skin indicitive of a live surrounded by silver based goods, medicines, and markers. MARCO has a pretty shitty dental policy.

::Tattoos, Piercings, Scars, Other::
As regulations forbid the unsanctioned modification of the self and any acts of self vandalism, Baby is fairly clean in terms of the body. Beyond the neat, uniform surgical scars left behind by his various procedures  Baby has only minor scrapes, cuts, and several bullet grazes along his limbs and torso from close calls in the past.

::Brand Tattoo Placement::
Along his left forearm with an additional brand of an encrypted employee sigil on his left pectoral.

::Assets and Bank Account::
As a Senior Courier, Baby has been outfitted with a full suite of cybernetic augmentations. His bones have been reinforced with bio friendly titanium alloys while organs were either improved or removed for high endurance, more efficient augmetics. Any savings Baby had up until four days ago has been seized and his belongings confiscated, leaving him with only the hidden caches he's stashed around town, little things that make homelessness a little easier.


::Gang Affiliation::
Rogue Rocket is a subsidiary to MARCO.

::Occupation::
Senior Courier

::Sanction::
Borderlands between Eden and Korven

::Favorite Season::
Winter

::Personality::
Thrillseeker/Addrenaline Junkie - Optimistic/Reckless - Confident/Afraid



::Likes and Dislikes::

✚ All The Drugs
✚ Elluding Capture
✚ Being Faster Than Others
✚ Loud Noises
✚ Breaking Things

✖ Baby Farms
✖ Bitter/Sour Foods
✖ Sight/Sound of Medical Equipment
✖ Hangovers
✖ Introspection

::Hobbies and Interests::

▶ Maps - TBD
▶ 
▶ 

::Small Biography::

::Family Members:
Null, Homegrown Vat-Baby

::Relationships::

::THEME SONG::

Ruiner Member

Hyper Bastard

Status

Bio

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