Shard

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

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Marvel: Judgment Day

I've been out of RPing for a while but I'd like to get back in and start over with something new. I am interested.

Avalia

Time
🌀 Morning.

Location
🌀 Riverport - Cheap Inn.

Interactions
🌀 @FunnyGuy - Kaleb.

Mentions
🌀 N/A.

Equipment
🌀 Regal clothes.
🌀 Tome.
🌀 356 Amas.

It was indeed true that Inori had done nothing to help the situation, and the demon would have been lying if he claimed not to enjoy the sight. Surface dwellers were a crucible for chaos, and their never ending pursuit of soothing its constant presence was a practice of futility clearly seen as entertainment by otherworldly beings such as Inori.

He was a bystander, an observer recording transpired events within the swirling recess of his mind before eventually putting it to paper. Even so, had he attempted to offer aid, Inori was quite certain others would have seen it as a means of hostility. A demon wielding its power during such a sensitive moment in time begged the question of whether benevolent intentions were at the forefront.

With a tilt of his head Inori shifted a crimson gaze towards yet another human. They came in all shapes, sizes, and colors it would appear. Something the demon was unused to. ’What the fuck is a Smurf?’ He found himself pondering, before the creature’s fingers grasped the strap of his shoulder bag. A conclusion drawn was that surface social etiquette had been increasingly difficult to navigate.

Inori needed a moment to process this and plan a decent course of action. ”Ah you mean me,” came a sheepish grin. Human lingo passed over the demon’s head. ”I should be taking my leave as well. Enjoy the rest of your day, and that promise of drinks will have to wait until.., how do you say it? ‘Rain check’?” A faint chuckle escaped him.

The infernal’s words were accompanied by a hand wave before his shape appeared to distort, an azure wind moving to phase the demonic entity from place, where he vanished. He needed time to document everything that had just happened, and relations were strained.

Young Justice

Location
Metahuman Youth Center.

Interactions
N/A

---

The outline of an impressive building stretched along the distance, a square framing itself perfectly between skies and earth. It was a colorful display, bright souls roaming the youth center as if a dancing rainbow, teenagers and children seeking refuge from an unforgiving world, one each member of Spectre’s group was well aware of, in their very own way. Friends had vanished, allies had been traumatized, and imprisoned within their own misery. What arrived at the youth center wasn’t a capable task force of battle-hardened warriors. It was a gathering of kids battling themselves more so than any opponent they may come across.

Zach had remained the same, and Casper noted it a shame. To the Spirit World and back, some things evidently never changed. In a way, he sought comfort in that. Stability presented itself in many ways, and Zach’s obsession with the flesh was one of these aspects. Spectre did not deign to answer, but rather saw the magical soul waltz off before his attention shifted towards those who afforded him a similarly curious gaze. Hidden behind a blindfold black as night, Casper’s eyes peered beyond the veil, meeting prospects he would eventually allow a moment’s interaction.

Gender, color, ethnicity, all superficial aspects passing him by unnoticed. Rather, Casper’s focus narrowed in on the brightness flashing before him, as if the very elementals themselves were presented.

Left to his own devices, Spectre reasoned that information could be found in every corner, if one only sought its lingering presence. Though Casper’s nature was officially branded a ‘Metahuman’, those present within the youth center likely peered upon him with a layer of skepticism; understandably so. He was a creature dancing between life and death, a wraith. Neither Metahuman nor alien, the boy was out of place wherever he found himself, which after a war in a world of ghosts came as a somewhat welcomed addition.

Claws traced a path down Spectre’s hoodie, a baggy shirt blanketing a scrawny shape, one now harboring deceptive power following the boy’s final spell. No longer a mage, he would stand between these children and their foe as a guardian, and a knight.

Weightless steps brought the phantasm forth. Pondering where he should begin, the lounge seemed reasonable, and without Coal present, the wisdom of a dear friend was lacking. One could not wear the disguise of a Metahuman while a talking crow followed closely behind.

It was when the group’s tour reached Casper’s designation that he decided to step away. These children had suffered loss, and it was a sensitive topic he would need to approach carefully. Close friends faded, never to be seen again. It was what made a Hero, setting aside one’s own strife to focus on the mission at hand; a role Spectre was presented to upon the sound of a voice. He lowered his gaze, blindfold meeting a meek tune. “Hello,” the voice of a girl, one still marching through the years of childhood. There was something in her hand, something extended, a dim essence of life flowing through it. A flower; soft, green streams outlining its shape. Feeling digits atop his obsidian claws, Casper noted how she would guide his inhuman fingers towards its stem where a smile greeted him, one sadly impossible to register. “There! A welcome flower!”

To be met by such innocent compassion on a journey towards corners so dark they were christened by kidnapped teenagers was almost ironic, a mockery towards the task at hand, and yet a reminder as to why he was here. They were looking for someone’s brother, someone’s sister. Someone’s friend, someone’s child. Dearing a step through the miasma of blackness, Casper allowed a faint, sharp-toothed smile to bridge itself across his lips. ”Thank you,” the boy responded, digits wrapping around his claws before pulling him along.

It was difficult to determine the age of his initially acquired friend, but narrowing it down to twelve or thirteen seemed a reasonable conclusion. “We’re watching a movie!” A pause lingered in the air, the girl turning to meet Casper with a sheepish grin presented upon her features. “O-oh..,” she gulped. He couldn’t very well watch a movie, could he?

Unable to stifle another faint smile from peeking forth, Spectre shook his head. ”I’ll listen to a movie with you,” he spoke, gently lowering himself to the sofa. The lounge was populated by a handful of residents, their attention fluctuating between previous activities and peculiar newcomers to the youth center. From here, Casper was left with questions to ask, albeit unsure of where to begin.

“I’m Shania!” The girl spoke up, her soul a bright concentration of life yet untouched by the cynicism of experience.

”Casper,” the wraith returned. He had hoped to come across someone older, someone who in all likelihood had substantial knowledge to share, but perhaps Shania knew more than the ghost assumed of her.

Avalia

Time
🌀 Morning.

Location
🌀 Riverport - Cheap Inn.

Interactions
🌀 @Helo - Bowyn.
🌀 @Tae - Eris and Raven.
🌀 @Potter - Rue.
🌀 @princess - Annya.

Mentions
🌀 N/A.

Equipment
🌀 Regal clothes.
🌀 Tome.
🌀 356 Amas.

Having to put his hands together, and prevent his tail from wagging, Inori was left in a position where every natural reaction was curbed. Watching chaos unfold was for an Azure Fiend like the beauty of a flowing dance across starlight. He was almost thankful to see one of the particular things he feared; Light Magic. It grounded him, helping the demonic boy center himself. ’If I fight these people, I will have failed in my assignment,’ a thought encircled him, one surpassing the notion of anyone’s safety or wellbeing. ’But if I was to fight them..,’ he pondered, claw rising to tap at his chin as the lad pictured the scene. He was still young, still growing into his Azura, and surely couldn’t combat a user of Light Magic while simultaneously fighting a handful of other opponents, despite their fractured and unstable mental states. However, Raven was a ticking time bomb, and thus using her to his advantage was paramount. A simple nudge would push her over the edge, allowing Inori the opening he required to scratch out those who posed the biggest thr-.., the boy shook his head. There was no reason to entertain that right now. He was making friends, wasn’t he?

It was going splendidly.

Tilting his head, the demon continued watching. He really did want something to drink, something to imbibe while enjoying the sight before him. Chaos, panic, anger, aggression, a crucible of destruction. Pride had done exactly what he intended, and it worked without a hitch. From what Inori knew about the Sins, he could narrow down their immense strength, and found respect in the power they possessed. However, the reptilian demon had not taken Pride for a tactician, and while this act was a far cry from calculated master plans, it had sent the surface races into disarray, something they were already struggling with; and this was rather interesting. How could an army so divided ever hope to defeat Pride and his compatriots? Inori’s desire to linger had grown ever more present, and despite the threat he received, despite the yelling he endured, he was captivated by these panicked individuals. No, perhaps ’because’ of the response he had witnessed, the infernal was intrigued. What fun was there to find in an army collected beneath a tyrant’s thumb? No, this was a boiling pot, and Inori was going to see where it led.

He would proceed to converse with these individuals, for a part of him had already grown to like them. An expert would be able to pinpoint that Inori’s stance on current events did not hail from malicious intent, but rather his biology. Perhaps the lad’s position would change upon growing closer to surface dwellers, but could anything surpass biological wiring? These were thoughts taking hold of him, despite the series of disasters swirling like a tempest. Would it have been a good idea to offer his aid? To present his own powers as a means of containing the chaos rapidly expanding? A boring, and horridly atrocious decision, but one that could further his research, and his curiosity. Even so, he was currently considered an enemy by virtue of Pride’s actions, and catering to a less impulsive approach, while hard to stomach, was the most sensible decision.

Besides; Inori had promised drinks, and it was only proper to follow up on that notion, wasn’t it? Following this sequence of thought, he pondered approaching this issue from afar, taking note from a distance. An immediate flaw presented itself in how he wouldn’t be in the thick of the issue, but the added distance allowed for a more nuanced view. A difficult decision, but one he could consider. After things died down, he could allow for some space between himself and the others, an attempt at letting emotions settle. With chaos drifting away in the breeze, Inori crossed his arms. He had chosen a hilarious, albeit bad time to approach this lot.

Legion of Heroes

Mentions - N/A
Interactions - N/A.

---

Though tension thickened, a lingering mist growing ever present, Spectre made no attempts at moving, the phantasmal creature remaining where he stood. “If you want to fight..,” came a response, labored and forced, before a burglar dressed in Red multiplied. Heavy breathing accompanied the act, arms rising to initiate battle. A path paved through desperation, one wrapped in an eerie embrace of discomfort.

It was difficult to place the exact nature of what had been found in the woods, a boy neither living, nor dead. Emotion appeared divorced from his being, and yet, a sharp-toothed smile hinted at joy and entertainment. The night certainly hadn’t laid itself out like the brick path of a planned heist. From the moment it started, disaster struck, and from there, a downhill fall.

Spindly fingers gently clicked against a peculiar weapon as the ghostly tool was woven into existence, head tilted as spectral orbs peered ahead. That smile, that horrific expression belonging to campfire stories slowly faded, Spectre’s digits grasping his sinister armament. "One of you possesses a soul," he spoke, the lad’s attention fixing itself on one particular individual amongst the gaggle of foes. A single step was taken, a scythe’s edge slowly sliding across leaves below, "but none of you live."

A chill trickled down the burglar’s spine, a tremble soon following its unwelcome presence. This felt wrong. Everything about this confrontation felt unnatural. Whether the wind was louder, or blackened air grew colder, terror had most certainly reared its ugly face. Frozen to the spot, Red was unable to move. Fatigue had set in, and there was no reality where a battle with something so unnaturally horrific beneath the moonlight would end in victory. Breathing accelerated, teeth clenching; Spectre was coming closer. His steps continued along a slow, deliberate path, one foot in front of the other with a weapon clearly too large for someone so small, and yet, so impossibly graceful in its weightless motions.

The way it was held, the way it was casually extended, the way it was wielded with a single hand, playfully twirled between scrawny fingers; it painted a picture. Closer, closer, Spectre’s advance maintained an almost tauntingly stunted pace, but before long, he reached his mark. A chance to run had been afforded, but with legs unwilling, no attempt had reached the surface.

A surprise it was, then, when a rapidly beating heart, a jackhammer to the ribs eventually noted how the boy had simply passed by, that monstrous grin returning. "I will not fight a half-dead insect. May we find each other when your breathing is slower, and your soulless puppets can move." Willow’s voice was a ghostly addition to any night, its soft, whispering echo denoting it a product of another world. His scythe vanished as it had appeared, a solid shape fading into spectral mist as the boy walked, eventually swallowed by the darkness of a starlit forest.

With knees meeting the dirt below, Red clutched their chest, a tremble ceaselessly echoing through them. The Spectre appeared disinterested, presenting the first gift of luck this night had offered. Ironically enough, such would likely not have been the case, if only Red and Yellow were untouched by previous conflicts.

Legion of Heroes

Mentions - N/A
Interactions - N/A.

---

The roar of a crowd, a ceaseless tempest of noise and splendor presented upon a bloodied stage. Exclamations were barely audible beneath a mist of cheers, as if a tune one ought dance to, and dance they did, fighters of the ring. Fists and powers entwined to allow for duels some may have considered dishonorable, for there was only a single rule presented; do not kill your opponent. Illegal in the highest of regards, superpowered freaks ‘beating the shit out of each other’ as Willow had so gleefully expressed, was not an activity condoned or allowed by the government. Yet, here they were, fighters and spectators among sweat, blood, and conflict. A haven for those drawn to such depravity, a fight club. “Come on, you fucking corpse!” A voice rang out, piercing an overlying layer of sound, “I bet money on you!”

Willow’s spindly hand moved atop a dirt stained floor, the boy pushing himself up from its surface with a nigh weightless motion, his movements allowing the Wraith safety of a dodge mere moments before a rock hard fist rammed itself into the ground. Cracks followed the devastating blow, a wide, sharp toothed smirk bridging across Willow’s features where he stood, a taunting motion accompanying such an expression, hand beckoning towards his opponent.

It was a giant of a man, his skin clad in rock and grime, slow movements compensated by immense force follow through with every punch. “Little shit..,” the combatant spat, “I’ll fucking end you.” Indeed the disparity between them was grand, a spindly boy in opposition to a hulk, but the pit knew better. The audience knew better. It was a place where appearances meant nothing, and where strength was proven in the ring.

Weaving past earth shattering fists, Willow’s motions drew a blurry picture, all before a twist and a twirl, his palm finding its mark. Rock shattered, fragments of stone splintering upon the lad’s strike, an attack forcing his opponent to the ground.

No shirts and no shoes, an understanding shared between those attending blood sports. No surprises, no weapons. It was what robbed Willow of the ability to utilize his scythe, but the rule against killing generally kept that part in the clause. “What are you doing?! Finish him off, stop playing around!” An all too familiar tune once more pierced the volume swirling through a ravaging arena, words landing on deaf ears.

'Well, that’s no fun,' Willow mused, a quiet thought trickling past. He had enjoyed this fight, thoroughly appreciating the excitement accompanying the devastation of a rock clad limb shattering bones. Was it not for Willow’s own supernaturally enhanced skin, the boy would have been crushed, but it was fair to state that as he so often did, the Wraith played with his food.

Combat was his life, and evidently his un-life as well. It was what he had been taught since an early age, once driven by duty now replaced by passion. He had lost fights in this pit, he had won them. For Willow it scarcely mattered. Battle retained a sense of sanctity, it was something to revere and pursue. Indeed, he had abandoned the more gruesome aspects taught by a cult of death knights, but discarding such a notion did little in hampering his inner flame. It was simply the product of a more civilized world.

Jolting from the ground, Willow’s opponent moved with speed otherwise unexpected from a man of his girth and size. A punch was launched, nearly connecting with the ghost had the boy’s reflexes not abided by his prowess. It was followed by another, and a third requiring Willow to deflect the strike, the lad’s own attacks meeting a rocky giant in an exchange of blows. Each one blocked, each one parried, both combatants melding into a dance of aggression and adrenaline.

Their waltz found its end upon the Wraith’s next display, a graceful maneuver where like a flowing ghost, the boy slid around his opponent, elbow slamming into a rock-hardened back. Again, like shattering glass, splinters were scattered. A loud crash echoed upon impact with the floor, denoting Willow the victor.

With eyes falling shut, the ghost took a moment to revel in bliss of conflict. He stood victorious and yet, this outcome held no value. It had no purpose, for the journey was its own rewards. Yet, a roaring crowd blanketed the pit in cheers, a sharp-toothed smile stretching across the phantasm’s pale lips. He turned on his heel, met by a clustering mass of people with dollars trading hands. A sight he could register, with signs across those bills passing him by unseen.

“You fucking did it, kid! Here’s your cut.” There was a man considered Willow’s agent, someone who had taken it upon himself to introduce the boy to this underground world of combat. A short, stubby individual many may have considered the face of greed, had there not been creatures present to truly claim that title.

Spindly fingers wrapped their way around a gathering of paper bills, spectral eyes robbing the boy of a most shallow ability; to see how much he was holding. Raising the wad, Willow used it to slap his agent across the face. “H-hey! Come on, kid!”

"How much?" A distinct, present accent could be plucked from the boy’s words, those with knowledge of the surrounding world pinpointing it as Arabic. More specifically, Egyptian.

“I only shortened you once, little guy. Honest!” His name was Osworth, a weasel in every regard. “Swear to God.”

Leaning in, sharp teeth loomed by Osworth’s ear. Despite Willow’s diminutive stature, his agent appeared to have managed an even shorter build. "You may not want to swear to my God, little man," came a smirk. "Nefrah mennak, habibi," Willow finished, his hand finding home upon Osworth’s shoulder, before weightless steps brought him onward.

---

The surface world, much like the loudness of an arena, had been engulfed in wondrous chaos. Explosions, a robbery, villains and heroes. Willow did not need to go far before hearing other attendees speak of current events. How magnificent technology was, its ever-reaching presence touching even the wilderness of a forest where the ghost’s pit fighting shenanigans knew home. An abandoned factory just beyond a sea of trees.

Silence presented a serene scene the deeper Willow delved, converse shoes lightly padding across leaf covered dirt. Indeed, Osworth could have spirited the boy back by car across forest roads, but he had declined the drive on several occasions. Though the Spectre enjoyed a chaotic city life, there was little comparing to small, if appreciated bouts of silence, something the woods offered in serene purity. A purity that was halted, pierced, and ended by the sound of hurried footsteps.

They were paused moments after Willow’s spectral gaze met a breathless gait. Though color and shade remained silent, the boy tilted his head, a haunting presence standing between a peculiar duo. Clad in Red and Yellow, one was carrying the other, an escape from disaster left in their wake. “Look man, whatever you are,” a fatigued voice trickled past mighty trees, “we don’t need any trouble,” spoke a soul draped in sanguine crimson.

"Trouble..," the ghost echoed, putting scenarios together, words and stories woven into tapestries. A robbery at the museum, heroes stopping the charge. It was rather close by; that much he knew, for Willow had purviewed the Egyptian section more than once, his deathly orbs taking in the magical nature of its artifacts. Here, a short distance from the battlefield spoken of by curious bystanders reading digital newspapers and watching streams, Willow had come across two escapees. "Ah, you are from the museum," a scrawny finger rose, the boy’s grin ever present. "Did you steal something worthwhile, harami?”

Young Justice

Location
Headquarters.

Interactions
@dreamingflowers

---

Was it truly a victory? Casper has prolonged the inevitable, a truth he couldn’t escape. Insurmountable power gazed across the veil, eyes of impossible black maintaining constant watch. The temptations would continue, the calling never ending. There were moments in that war where Casper nearly abandoned his quest, where he stood at the brink of devastation. An eternal struggle couldn’t possibly produce the same outcome throughout the ages. It was a mathematical impossibility, and Nekron needed a single victory for his plans to be realized.

Claws dug into his flesh as Casper’s razor teeth clenched. A poetic scene, contemplating the spread of death, absolute and final, where lamentations of life stagnating a mere layer of glass away echoed within the boy’s mind. He was fighting a losing battle, and the sight before him attested to this fact, be it in a day or a thousand years. The lad was no fool, he knew fully well why Nekron expressed such patience, for what was time to beings such as them? Knew people the stakes at hand, Casper would have been hunted by the very heroes he worked for, and the lad would not stop their advance. 'She taught me the Phantom Dance for a reason,' came a thought, Casper’s eyes traveling skyward as he gazed onto the ceiling.

The Spirit Realm had afforded him much, some things coming into light following his absence. He was still young, still inexperienced in the grand scheme of an infinite cosmos. Those much wiser than he foretold a future Casper never considered, or more accurately; did not want to confront.

As long as the Wraith existed, he would be a threat; by no fault of his own. Whether he walked in the footsteps of his mother or the twisted legacy of his father, every single step brought him closer to Nekron. As his powers grew, so too did the risk of unlocking a cage; Nekron’s Land of the Unliving.

Daphne reminded him of this, her motionless stasis speaking louder than any words the boy had ever expressed for himself. One single victory in the Spirit World meant nothing. A thousand victories would mean nothing, because in the end, a single loss meant everything. It was not a conflict he could continue, for how could he struggle against an entity whose greatest means of success was the Wraith himself? 'She knew I would come to this conclusion, whether it was today or a hundred years from now.' A mentor had taken him under her wing during that war, a woman whose expertise and wisdom was the reason behind Casper’s eventual, if short-lived success.

“You’ve been quiet for a while,” Coal spoke, a beak gently moving to peck against Casper’s temple.

”It’s funny,” the Wraith spoke, ”how I was terrified of my powers in the wrong hands, when I was given the solution so long ago.” Until now, it had not been a solution. It had not been a thought.

“Take that step and there’s no way back, kiddo’,” the crow mused, “it’s a one and only. You do what you’re thinking, and that’s it.”

”Do you have any better ideas?” Casper offered in turn, ”I was created for an explicit purpose, and one war won’t change that.”

Shaking his head, Coal continued, “nah,” he began, “it won’t, and I don’t,” the spirit confirmed. “You’d be giving up a lot. Granted, you’ll get shit in return, but even with what Mirran taught you, it’ll be a change.”

A change, something spirling through Casper’s mind. What else but a change was needed for stagnancy to shatter? A change was exactly what was required, a breaking of the wheel. Even if Duke Murdock Blackwood failed once, what he had set in motion would continue until that spinning destiny was unrailed.

Torn from his thoughts, Casper shifted a blindfolded gaze towards a newcomer. He had not seen this soul before. Not from any venue, nook, or cranny that he could recall. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ indeed. A moment of silence lingered, the Wraith’s focus remaining fixed on someone whose words denoted him a relative. Daphne’s brother. How he must have suffered, witnessing a dear sister embraced by a prison of her own making. Any parent, any brother would curse those at her side, those affording her orders and missions presented. How could they not, for they had all failed her.

Rising to his feet, Casper’s spectral eyes fell shut beneath that blindfold. ”I am sorry..,” he uttered, slow, deliberate steps bringing him past the young man. The boy scarcely knew how to introduce himself. Who was he? It was difficult to say, for until this very moment, Casper had been puppeteered by others. Until this moment, his every step had been calculated, and his sense of self trickled away as if a fading wind. ”..I’ll leave you to your sister..,” he finished, a quiet statement to summarize the turmoil within.

---

It would appear that Casper required those five hours, after all. Perhaps the fates smiled upon him, for this decision, one to sever everything he had known, would take time to execute. It was a process he understood, one coursing through him without the need of an explanation or instruction. It made sense now, more so than ever before. Words Mirran had shared with him; ‘Walk your own path, and you will see the sins left by those before you washed away’. The woman was known for speaking in riddles, and now the answer to her most cryptic rambling had finally revealed itself.

Sitting upon the floor in his room, darkness filled every corner of the boy’s shaded abode. A spell was in progress; the last he would ever cast. A spell to fundamentally change him, one to concentrate every fraction of magic into his very being, fusing with it to create something new. It was a process of stripping Casper of something he had held dear; his spellcraft. Rather, it would be woven into him, into his very essence.

It was a spell to render the boy unable to further utilize his magic, but rather, allowed for a different approach entirely. Most notably, he would from this moment on be entirely unable to unlock Nekron’s cage, whether he was bestowed a Black Lantern ring or not. Internalizing his powers, the Wraith called it. Casting aside the fragility of a wizard and replacing it with a knight’s vigilance.

Indeed, it was a process, one he thanked five free hours for. Magic wrapped itself around his ghostly essence, embracing it as he was strengthened by each advance, destructive forces abandoning their position to take new form. Change, it was the enemy of prophecy, the enemy of fate. If Casper aimed to step forward and sever shackles eternally present, he would need to destroy all that was before, by allowing it to blossom into something new. How ironic, blossoms in death, and yet, the only way forward.

It was upon this path that claws no longer beckoned spells to their side, but rather, wrapped themselves around the shaft of a weapon. Hex, a product of his father, had evolved. Hex finally took it upon himself to step out of the darkness and into position as Spectre, Casper’s own legacy.

---

Note - To finally cut himself free from a predestined future where he can create his own, Casper has risen anew. His powers have changed, and are available on his character sheet and this post.

Knight of Souls

Power

Ghost Knight

Spectral Regalia
🌑 At his behest, Casper can summon forth his ghostly weapon, as much a part of his own being as the boy’s essence itself.

🌑 Casper’s scythe, while supernaturally sharp, is yet to develop any notable features. However, being a supernatural weapon, it does treat otherwise immortal foes, and ethereal beings as entirely mortal and tangible. With time, his Regalia will grow stronger and develop different passive effects. It has proven to deal devastating damage to planar beings, such as Demons and Angels.

Deathly Prowess
🌑 Despite his otherwise scrawny appearance, Casper’s physical aptitude is on a supernatural level, allowing for impressive feats of strength and prowess fitting such an otherworldly presence.

Death Knight
🌑 Casper can utilize his ghostly powers to heal himself, which is a commonly used ability, especially considering how he cannot heal naturally, or by any other means. Healing himself in this manner will weave limbs back into place, and fully restore him.

Limitations and Weaknesses

Weaknesses

Restoration
❌ Healing forces Casper into a meditative trance, where he is unaware of the outside world, as if in a deep slumber. Due to this, Casper cannot reconstruct his body while in a battle, and can only do so in a safe location.

Loyalty
❌ Casper is physically unable to use anything other than his Regalia as a weapon, as it will sear his hand like a burning ember. This severely limits his range and options.

Eternity
❌ Due to his undead nature, Casper cannot age, which brings with it a host of issues.
❌ Casper cannot actively alter his body, but is reliant on the passing of time for his undead prowess to grow. This includes building muscle, gaining weight, or changing his appearance in any way.

Sacrament
❌ Casper can be imprisoned by sigils designed to trap undead beings.
❌ The same principle can keep him from entering an area, entirely.
❌ These sigils effectively create an invisible force field that he cannot pass through.
❌ He is also highly vulnerable to divine, celestial magic.

Growth
❌ Though clearly supernatural, Casper's prowess is still in its infant stages. He can resist small arms fire, but anything beyond that will pierce his skin.
❌ Though he is a Wraith, Casper lacks abilities otherwise associated with similar creatures, due to his age. He cannot fly or use any largely flamboyant power. Neither can he possess others (while already inside a body), or teleport, which is a common ability associated with ghosts. Casper can also only possess corpses, not living people.

Divinity
❌ Casper despises the sun. He shares this weakness with Vampires, where sunlight will indeed destroy him, rendering him nothing but a breeze of dark energy, fading in the morning light. To counteract this, Casper wears a ring protecting him from its unforgiving rays. Equally so, he wears a blindfold, or mask, to guard his sight from the sun, being incredibly sensitive and severely blinded by its rays.

Biology

What's Inside

Eyes of the Ghost
🌑 Casper is, in a way, blind. His eyes allow the boy to see that of which is hidden, beneath the surface, and otherwise invisible. He sees people not as physical entities, but rather, as spirits. They were an outline, a vague silhouette containing the brightness of their souls, their life energy. Casper’s spectral gaze allows him to witness the world without obfuscation, while simultaneously blind to the most shallow.

🌑 Where the world is built up as shapes for Casper, he cannot make out details. He cannot see text, moving images on a television, or clothes worn. The world is a grayscale landscape lacking texture, but finds itself brimming with color in life. It is how he tells people apart; by their souls.

🌑 “I can see everything, I can see nothing.” Finally, Casper lacks physical eyes. Rather, within two large black eye sockets one can see two brightly glowing white orbs.

Phantasm
🌑 At his core, Casper is a ghost. He lacks a body, and cannot interact with the physical world unless he inhabits a body, which severely mutates upon his presence. The boy’s skin turns an ashen gray, his eyes much like his inner organs erased and replaced by ghostly essence, Casper’s body is a shell, a skeleton draped in skin and kept autonomous by the spectral energies he is composed of. A ghost inside a puppet, as Casper would say.

🌑 There is one particular inner organ that he does possess; a brain. He claims that this is what allows him to passively maintain his body without actively needing to keep it functional with his ghostly essence. Casper’s brain also allows him to feel pain, pleasure, and physical sensations, including a sense of taste.

🌑 Though he can eat, any organic matter entering his stomach will be erased by the necrotic forces composing his being, as if a furnace beneath that shell he wears. Equally so, being Undead, Casper does not breathe, and thus cannot utilize a sense of smell. Neither does he sleep, but has been known to enter a meditative trance when needed, which to him is similar.

🌑 Upon possessing a corpse, Casper is anchored to the physical plane until he either leaves the body or it is destroyed. If he intends to maintain his ability to interact with the world, he will need another body.

🌑 Cutting into his resilient skin, one will notice a spectral glow within, rather than blood, indicating that he does not possess any. Going further will reveal his lack of organs, a bright ethereal essence brimming. This attests to the boy’s weightless nature.

🌑 Due to his biology being what it is, Casper largely lacks a natural scent. He doesn’t produce pheromones, and has no biological functions that would produce any form of odor. Rather, those with a strong nose would note that he smells like the clothes on his back. Animals are rather confused around him and tend to mistake him for a statue.

🌑 In true undead fashion, Casper cannot register the elements. Whether it’s cold or warm, he cannot tell, and the boy himself appears to maintain a constant, lukewarm temperature. He doesn’t produce body heat, but nor is he chilling to the touch.

Fighting Style

Movements and Motions

Phantasmal Dance
🌑 Like a ghostly wind, Casper moves as if a dance. Be it barehanded or with fingers gripping his scythe, the boy executes fluid, sweeping attacks, each melding into the next as his body leans towards an agile approach. An exotic display, it is clear that Casper's combat style finds itself hailing from another world. One of spirits and phantasms.

🌑 Where a certain level of weightlessness can be severely detrimental, Casper uses it to his advantage, flowing across the battlefield in true, spectral fashion, each movement followed by a dangerous, bladed swipe or deceivingly strong unarmed strike.

Death Scythe

Onyx

Legion of Heroes

Mentions - @Lurking Shadow @Unkown58 @The Forgotten@Ryik
Interactions - N/A.

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Crystalline eyes fell shut, Skylar’s spindly frame lowering towards the ground as a breath escaped his lips. These were it, the night’s endeavors. He had done what was possible of the boy, and reaching a hand into his pocket, he produced a phone where the screen rivaled his own nightly glow. ‘Got him?’’ A message stated, one earning a response as Star Scourge moved his thumb across a digital keyboard, ‘yes’. Exhaling a breath, Skylar felt rapid beats against his scrawny chest, akin to the motion of a jackhammer. It was still coursing through him, a willingness to abandon reason. A voice inside his head mimicking the lad’s very own, something hinting back at his nature. A star in the cosmos, a brightly burning celestial body amidst endless darkness. Researchers were not alone in finding this mutant odd and peculiar, his starlit eyes curiously peering ahead at what could further illuminate a hazy existence.

Moments of confined strife sang tunes akin to a caged animal, a beast clawing for freedom. An exploding star; a Supernova. The question lingered; the thought of losing control. How long could Skylar maintain it? What he feared wasn’t another’s influence, or falling into infinite blackness. What dragged its talons down his back was the intoxicating desire to unleash. It begged the question; how long did Skylar want to remain shackled by his own morality?

Embracing his legs, hugging them against his chest, the lad turned to gaze upon the group of misfits before him. A dragon, a massive wolf, a blonde boy whose clothes seemed woefully out of place, and finally, the medic. This was it, then. This was the outside world, the colorful explosion of people and personalities beyond the facility Skylar had known as his home. It was charming, in a way, and daunting in others. Where did he fit into this gathering?

Pushing himself off the ground, Skylar shifted his attention to a straggling crowd, those who remained following disaster and chaos. Talking amongst themselves, the boy noted their desire to approach the Heroes, but a sense of shyness halted their advance. It was still quite foreign to him, the word ‘Hero’. He recalled a saying trickling past his ears, that powers did not make a Hero. Actions did.

While there was no conflict in agreement, a single glance towards his digits glowing a bright blue beneath the moonshine brought the lad’s thoughts back to where they had previously dwelled. How could an engine of destruction maintain this mantle? Ember was alive because Skylar fought against himself as much as he did the villain.

An itch was beginning to intrude, tugging at his skin where dried, cosmic blood made its mark. He needed to go home and take a shower. He needed to buy new clothes, and he felt like hugging Cosmos tightly against a tired frame. Rising into the night sky akin to an azure specter, the lad gave his fellow Heroes a final glance before taking his leave.

Legion of Heroes

@Lurking Shadow @Unkown58 - @The Forgotten@Ryik

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‘You did good’, an echoing statement repeated within. Did he? Skylar’s glimmering gaze lowered towards that gold star placed in his hand, starlit sapphire blood now dried upon his pale skin. Why did something so extremely mundane, something so incredibly juvenile as a gold star and a pat on his shoulder bring forth such emotion? ‘You saved people’, the boy raised his attention to a now fading crowd. They had filmed him, they had taken pictures. His battle with Ember was likely already streaming on HeroTube, but he had never cared enough to check, to read the comments, or watch any of the uploads including him.

Gently, spindly fingers clenched around that sticker, a breath escaping the lad’s lips. Ember was willing to let countless people die for what was in that museum, Skylar’s attention confiscated by its impressive presence. Was a battle still raging within? Was he going to help? The idea was rather foolish. Not because of the life threatening injury he had previously suffered, but because he’d do more harm than good. Skylar’s powers in small spaces, or indoors for that matter, had a tendency of destroying far more than his opponents. If Star Scourge took it upon him to join a battle inside a museum, his involvement would cost more than the thieves were looking to steal. Not to mention those who’d be caught in the crossfire; the other heroes.

Abandoning the thought, Skylar turned to Fiadh, the dragon. It was likely safe to discard the notion of another mutant. She certainly wasn’t like him, and further explanation would have attested to that, had the woman not burst from the spot at James’ orders. A gold sticker was enough to warrant such action? With a small shake of his head, Skylar leaned against a lamppost, fingers still grasping that gold star, eyes occasionally landing on its polished surface. ’The dude actually gave me a fucking sticker..,’ the boy raised a brow, slipping that priceless reward into his pocket. ‘You did good’, a statement he never thought he’d hear, and it felt.., odd. Was this validation?

The Hero's pondering was cut short, soon following Fiadh’s return. There was more conflict? Outside the museum, no less. Narrowing his starlit gaze, an azure force erupted, framing the lad as his feet rose from the ground. Heeding a doctor’s suggestions was clearly not on the table, and with a flamboyant tempest of Starlight bursting from the boy’s flight, he was off, like a projectile rippling through the air.

Making it to the other side of the museum was an easy task, and as Fiadh had reported, Skylar witnessed conflict. ’M̷͖̔õ̵̼r̷̬̈e̴̮̔ ̶̲͛t̷̗̀o̸̹̍ ̵̙̽d̵͇͌ḙ̸̇s̸̢̈t̵̘̓ȑ̶͉o̵͚͑ý̶̥.̷͓̄.̵̘̈,̷̬̽ ̶̏ͅm̸͖̽ọ̶̀r̸͍͆ẽ̶̹ ̸̟̚t̷̪̾o̶̰̊ ̵̰̊k̶̠̑i̶̙̓l̵̂͜l̷̹̆.̷̣̓.̷̛͇,̷̤͝ ̷̖̀m̵̗̅o̸̲̒r̷̡͗ę̶̇ ̷͓͝t̸̨͝ơ̵̙ ̴͉͝ë̶̹n̷̯̂d̶̖̃.̶̗͑.̸̫̀’ Star Scourge clenched his teeth, hands rising to his forehead where the lad’s body felt a shiver running down its spine. ’Shut up, shut up, shut up..!’ Skylar tried, a desperate attempt, but luck was on his side. Their battle had reached a conclusion, and with it, Skylar’s inner conflict dimmed. Exhaling a faint breath, Star Scourge abandoned the skies, lowering himself towards the ground where he confronted two new actors.

Helplessness came in situations like these, where all the destructive power in the world couldn’t help a single person when medical aid was required. Hopefully, the doctor was on his way, but from what Skylar recalled, the man had already used his abilities to rob Star Scourge of a life-threatening wound. Doing it again seemed risky.

Meeting the ground with his feet, Skylar’s coat of Starlight gently faded, as if a crystalline breeze cradled by wind, leaving only his softly glowing skin beneath the moonlight. Crossing his arms, the boy kept a short if healthy distance. The only thing he could do now was stand guard until more capable hands arrived. Destruction couldn’t help anyone, in the end, and that was all Skylar was.