Current
I am going to smuggle wholesomeness into your RPs and there's not a damned thing any of you can do to stop me.
5
likes
2 yrs ago
"Bud, you're like a pizza cutter; All edge and no point!"
6
likes
2 yrs ago
Habanero ain't the spiciest pepper but it's pretty tasty on things, ya gotta admit.
2
likes
2 yrs ago
And in addition to boneless wings being overrated; Anybody who looks at sauced and tossed wings, lovingly spiced and perfectly crispy and says; 'I'mma dunk that in blue cheese' has missed the point.
Superhero/villain Name: The Hound Civilian Name: Malcolm Talhaiarn Origin city/Planet: Bludhaven, New Jersey Hometown: Bludhaven, New jersey Sex: Male Race: Metahuman, as far as he can tell. Height: 5'8" Weight: 142 lbs Age: 16 Birth Date: Found in a dumpster as a newborn on February 1, 2005, so that's what he goes by. -------- Costumed Appearance: Though admittedly, Mal started out his superhero career with not much more than what was effectively a Canadian tuxedo and a rag over his face, he's noticeably upped his game in the intervening years- garbing himself up in a black long-sleeve shirt with matching leather gloves, SWAT-styled pants (properly bloused, of course) and some old combat boots with comfy insoles he got for free in his civilian life by pushing an old man in a wheelchair to the local Legion Hall. Add to this, there's his mask with a crude voice modulator sewn into the neck, covering the whole of his head save for his eyes, which he instead chooses to cover with an old pair of welding goggles to stifle some, but not all of the orange glow that emanates from his eyes when his vision is active and an experimental, lightweight flak-vest he liberated from some Monster Hunters a few years back, spray painted grey with a stencil of his logo across the chest. Same place he got the grapple-launcher on his right wrist.
He often wears an old leather jacket over all this, more for warmth and more storage than anything, but often foregoes it in the summer time and rolls up his sleeves-- it gets damned hot in that thing, don'cha know.
Civilian Appearance: Malcolm has… noticeably grown a bit since being a scrawny kid raised in an alleyway. Though still nothing special height-wise, the boy has grown up strong, with broad shoulders and a dense, though lean musculature cultivated through the years of hard work and toil- powerful, but without any excessive bulk that would impede on his agility and if the scars that dot his body are any indication-- across his knuckles, a few knife a bullet wounds across his chest, arms and back and one crescent shaped scar around his left eye from a broken beer-bottle-- extraordinarily tough.
This doesn't stop the boy from a striking a handsome, if not a little hooligan-like figure, with piercing grey eyes (when they aren't glowing orange), brown hair done in a buzz-cut and a face prone to making the occasional smug grin or raised brow.
Icon:
Costumed Personality: The Hound is, by reputation-- if you were to listen to the people who didn't believe him to be some kind of hellbeast-- intense, ruthless, and above all else- precise.
And while this isn't... inaccurate, it's not quite the full truth either.
No, The Hound is simply... Malcolm. Unrestrained.
The sense of humour and charm is still intact (particularly to those who somehow come across him with no intention of trying to murder him) but any notion of hiding behind a mask of youthful hooliganism is completely stripped away. Replaced instead by a cold, methodical intelligence propelled by an iron force of will and deep-seated well of anger.
...However, this isn't quite the full truth either. And as much as the darker parts of Mal's psyche are brought to the surface while he works, there is... something else there that always somehow seems to escape even his own notice; that twinge in his gut that stops him from just walking away from someone else's misery, that fire in his lungs that compels him to throw caution to the wind in their defense, that pang in his core that forces him to stop and help.
The last true remnant of that sweet, loving boy his dad had raised. Still somehow alive after all these years and all the best efforts of the world and Malcolm himself and screaming to be heard.
Civilian Personality: Malcolm is, for lack of a better way of putting it, a walking, talking stereotype of the Bludhaven lower-class; brutally frank, indomitably stubborn, clever in the worst possible way and possessing a potent mixture of pluck and grit with a healthy dash of crazy and a whole lot of heart- being capable of surprising feats of both generosity and compassion, despite his circumstances.
But all that said, there is something... off about the boy, if you were to look carefully enough. A constant, calculating coldness to his eyes that never quite goes away, even through all the joking and the smiles. Not anything that would immediately set you on edge, per se, but just enough to make you question if all this hooligan bravado and charm is who he actually is, or if it's just a clever mask.
Super abilities:
Infiltration/Stealth: To the surprise of... pretty much no one if you think about it, picking a lock becomes a lot easier when you can actually see inside the damned thing, and it becomes a helluva lot easier to sneak into places nobody wants you to go if you can both know in advance that the coast is clear, and physically see how much sound you're making and how the acoustics of the room will carry that around.
Parkour: Growing up in an urban slum, Malcolm has always had a knack for maneuvering around the city in some unconventional ways, more often for fun than anything. But now, with his new vision, reflexes and body-coordination, he damn near flies across rooftops and down alleyways, maneuvering through the urban jungle with astonishing ease.
Adept Brawler: Malcolm's adoptive father, being a former Marine raising a kid in a slum in one of the most dangerous cities in the whole United States, had the forethought to pass on his old tricks to his son. It sure ain't pretty but it is undoubtedly effective, especially when combined with Malcolm's unique abilities, and provides a solid base for the lad to adapt, tweak and add onto by his own experiences, which he has done so over the past five years with great enthusiasm.
Mechanical Acumen: Being able to see inside or through damn near anything has it's benefits, one of them being being able to directly observe the guts of a machine to see and learn how it works. Something that has come in quite handy in all of his MacGuyvering over the past five years.
Polyglot: The slums of Bludhaven are a surprisingly diverse place, and Malcolm has grown up around a lot of people from a lot of places who speak a lot of languages, and that was before his brain was kicked into overdrive. As a result, the boy has handily become fluent English, Ukrainian, Russian, Italian, Spanish, French, Arabic, Mandarin and Cantonese.
Guitarist: Even before becoming the way he is now, Malcolm actually had some talent playing the strings, having learned from his dad. When he suddenly gained the ability to see sound and a brain that moved several times faster than that of nearly any other person, however, he gained a... newfound appreciation for it, going from just "Good" to being "Good enough to eat for a week on one day's work" over the course of just a year.
Unfortunately, this one positive, non-violent part of his life has been seemingly shelved indefinitely, as Mal began to focus more and more on his work against the Aquila Family. So now that old guitar he found freshly dumped in an alleyway just sits there in a corner of his hideout, untuned, unused and collecting dust.
There's probably some deep symbolism there or something, but Mal doesn't exactly have the time for that.
Omnivision: By far Malcolm's most drastically superhuman ability, the boy is able to perceive almost the entire Electromagnetic Spectrum, being able to see in infrared, ultraviolet, electrical currents and even straight through solid objects. And that's not even mentioning how he also possesses telescopic vision up to five miles, can see in absolute darkness and can even comprehend soundwaves and magic. Albeit, there are some drawbacks; he will not be able to see through a magic or electrical field if they are dense enough and, while he can focus on one thing or another, his natural state is to process all of this information at once, painting an image that vaguely resembles a world on fire.
...Which is, y'know, great fun for a guy who watched his entire family burn to death.
Enhanced Brain/Nervous Function: Malcolm's brain, as a side-effect from being able to function under the strain of everything listed above, has effectively been kicked into high gear, processing information at many times the rate of a normal human being. Allowing him to learn and retain information at several times the rate of a normal human being and some computers, with the added bonus of an eidetic memory; meaning that with time, and the proper instruction, he could prove to be one of the greatest minds of his generation.
Another, slightly more immediately advantageous side-effect of Malcolm's now overclocked brain is that, like his mental faculties, his reaction time and reflexes have been accelerated to ten times that of a normal human being. This, combined with his vision, makes the small, starving boy a legitimate force to be reckoned with as he can read an opponent's nerve impulses, body language and muscle contractions to get an idea of what they're doing and react to it before they're actually finished doing it. Additionally, this new, more efficient nervous system has granted the boy unparalleled bodily-coordination, allowing him to perform feats of dexterity and precision with ease that would be beyond even Olympic athletes and skilled craftsmen... which is quite handy when your life pretty much revolves around jumping off buildings and hitting people really goddamn hard.
Freakish Toughness/Force of Will: Since starting his superheroic career at the ripe age of ten years old Mal has been shot, stabbed, cut, poisoned, tzed, set on fire, had his bones broken, been nearly drowned, and dodged many other should've-been-deaths multiple times. And is somehow, beyond all reason and logic, still alive.
Many would assume this is due to some other, as yet undiscovered component of his apparent metahuman gene. But the fact of the matter is that Malcolm is no more bullet, knife or fireproof than any other guy; he is however, by virtue of experience and sheer force of will, ludicrously, obscenely tough. Able to take an outright inhuman amount of punishment, both physically and mentally and still get back up and keep fighting.
Grapple Launcher: Stolen off a few Monster Hunters he ran into a few years, when the Aquilas were buying heavily into the hype that he was some sort of literal bogeyman. Primitive, as it was one of the first models to come out on the market when the trade of Demon/Monster hunting first created demand for such things and lacking the range of say, someone like Grim's homemade one, but still a reliable workhorse for the kinds of people that need to get high real quickly in a much more literal sense.
Wristwatch: Mal somehow goes through an awful lot of these. His current one is some old Karen Hernandez and the Crusaders of Hope thing he picked up at a gas station a week earlier for three dollars because it was the only one there. It's alarm is a series of the Gotham phenom's Disney jingles, played in 8-bit. Mal hates it with a passion he can barely describe.
Voice Modulator: Reverse-engineered from bits and pieces of tech he stole from the Aquila, the voice modulator... modulates Mal's voice. Mostly to hide how young he is, but it can also be set to mimic the voices of others with a push of a button and a voice sample.
Lockpicking Kit: For those times when Mal just wants to be a sneaky little prick.
Dad's Old Zippo: In memory of better days...
USMC KA-BAR: One of the few things Mal has left of his Dad. Kept in immaculate condition, despite his circumstances.
Knuckledusters: Kept in his jacket pocket. Because sometimes a punch in the face just doesn't get the point across enough.
Throwing Knives: Short, sweet and straight to the point. Mal keeps about a half-dozen of these on him when he's and about doing his Hound business.
Browning Hi-Power: Something Mal only uses sparingly, usually only after running a quick calculation in the back of his computer-like brain about how to hit his target with a ricochet instead of a direct hit and never to kill.
Civilian Occupation: Homeless boi.
Biography---------
Character History/Origin:
Bludhaven, a city with many names; The Devil's Tongue, The Big Dirty, The Bloody Haven, The Blud, Gotham's Toilet, etc... it was here on a frigid February evening that John "Mad Jack" Talhaiarn, former United States Marine and current owner of the clothes on his back and not much else, happened upon a screaming newborn baby in a dumpster behind a biker bar and across the road from a Denny's.
Thinking quickly, the man lifted the screaming infant out of the trash and pulled him into the warm confines of his parka as he began trudging his way through the heavy winter's snow towards the shanty town he called home. Talhaiarn had no idea what hell he was doing, but after a lifetime of mistakes that had led him down dark paths, disgraced and astray from his beloved Corps, he vowed to himself and any God who may've been listening, he was at least gonna get this one thing right-
Saving this fucking kid.
It took a bit of doing, and a little help from his neighbours to scrounge up and MacGuyver everything necessary to care for a newborn, but somehow he pulled it off.
After a week or so, the kid stopped screaming so much and started giggling whenever he caught wind of the old Marine near his makeshift crib. A few days after that, he started calling him "Malcolm" after his old man.
And some time after that, John Talhaiarn, a man who was both a living legend and a disgraced outcast of the United States Marine Corps... began to actually enjoy life again.
If there was anywhere to start this story, this would be it.
Mad Jack's boy grew up in their little Shanty Town, comfortably nestled in a wide alleyway, stubborn, tough and clever. With a tongue and wit sharp as any bayonet his Dad'd ever held in his former life but a heart as big and as bright as the goddamned sun. Never having much, but never really needing anything his little community couldn't provide anyway, Malcolm spent most of his days scouring the slums for anything he, his dad and his neighbours could use to make their lives easier, getting into all sorts of trouble with the other slum kids and sitting around with his dad, raptly listening to (heavily censored) war stories from his days in the corps.
It wasn't an easy life, by any means- But he was happy, so he never really gave a shit.
Though, if you've ever read a comic book, you probably have a good idea where this is going...
In the opening weeks of 2014, the three-year-long turf war between an alliance of the local Chinese Tongs, Russian Mafia and Irish gangs against the invading Aquila crime family of Gotham was reaching it's end with the interlopers emerging as the clear victor in no small part due to their open use of non-human forces as disposable deathsquads and the employ of a particular group of supervillains, who would become known as the 'Fearsome Five', who now set themselves to the task of hunting down and butchering their rapidly scattering adversaries with immense prejudice and very little care as to who got caught in the middle.
They were there to send a clear message, after all, not make friends.
And that was about who this town belonged to now.
The night of January 31st was a relatively standard one for Malcolm; his "Aunt" Lin was cooking dinner over a drum fire, the Mikhailovich brothers were arguing in a heated, Slavic sort of way about... something stupid, from what Malcolm could gather as their confrontation shifted back and forth between Russian when they didn't want the kids to understand what they were saying and Ukrainian when they were too mad to give a shit, and Malcolm was sitting with a bunch of kids around his dad, who played Johnny Cash on a (mostly) intact guitar he and Malcolm had found the year before and the Shanty Town's communal mutt, affectionately named 'Fleabag', was sprawled belly-up on Malcolm's lap being smelly and aggressively affectionate.
All-in-all, pretty normal... until something caught Fleabag's attention and she started barking up a storm. That being a charred... thing that vaguely resembled a person and stank of burned meat that shambled it's way into their alleyway, gargling and hissing only one thing on what was left of it's vocal chords as a massive, gangly figure stepped out from shadows behind it and gleefully raised a single hand in the direction of everyone present;
"Help... me..."
All Malcolm can recall of what happened next was the sight, sounds and smell of everyone he'd ever loved or cared about screaming and writhing around on the ground around him as they literally melted while wreathed in flame, the look of horror on his dad's face as he lunged forward to hold him one last time, a bellowing, warbling cackle and then pain and then... nothing.
The next thing Malcolm remembers is crawling out from underneath the charred, but still juicy remains of his father, his dog and all else that he knew, being feasted upon by thousands of carrion flies, which scattered as he sat up.
It was his birthday.
And he didn't have scratch on him.
At first, he could do nothing but sit there, shaking and trembling in silence as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was looking at, before realization slowly set in.
Then the crying started. Followed by the screaming.
And as the screaming gradually changed in pitch from horror and denial to pure outrage, something in the boy broke. The fire that consumed his family and friends slowly ebbed it's way back into his vision and consumed the whole world as he comprehended it.
Seemingly trapped in an eternally burning hellscape, even when he closed his eyes and in a fragile mental state, he could've easily just bent or broken down right there in that corpse-filled alley. Instead, he got mad. He got real mad.
And something else began to stir to life within him.
Over the next six years, as the Aquila family consolidated their hold on Bludhaven, and the Fearsome Five were granted their own little Fiefdoms within the Don's criminal empire, something was watching, listening and more importantly, learning.
It started small at first, a few things of the Aquilas would go missing or the police would suddenly get wise. These things were easily remedied, for a time, with a few subtle exchanges of money and a beefing up of security... until a few weeks later, when it would start up anew and they'd have to spend even more money on this confusing little hindrance.
By the time two years had passed, this had escalated to the point where reports began to come in of some of their footmen collecting protection money and doing patrols being ambushed by... some ravenous thing with glowing orange eyes that'd launch itself out of the shadows at night, beating them down with frenzied, yet precise strikes before they had time enough to react and taking back what they'd stolen. To this, they doubled up patrols and hired a small team of Monster Hunters out of Hub to lay a trap for for their mystery creature. To their credit, this seemed to work. For about three days. And then they were right back to square one as whatever this thing was abruptly got the jump on their Hunters in their own trap, stole some of their gear and seemingly used whatever it had learned from the experience to hit them even harder than before.
That's about when people started talking about the so-called 'Hound of Bludhaven', an urban myth for a new age and desperate times about some guardian spirit risen up from hell to punish the wicked... A bit heavy-handed and melodramatic, maybe. But the fact that their little 'Problem' was now known enough to have it's own name, did prompt the Aquila family to start taking it a little more seriously.
And so this cycle would continue on an endless loop for the next few years; With the Syndicate taking increasingly harsher and harsher measures against this little thorn in the side of their operations, only for it to seemingly adapt, improve and come right back at them. Stronger than before.
And through it all, not one of them became wise to the fact that the cause of all their trouble was not some vengeful demon, wild monster or guardian spirit...
...But a fucking kid in a mask.
As stated at the tail-end of all that very, very dramatic text above, Malcolm wasn't reborn as some kind of demon or guardian beast and he sure as hell isn't some kind of urban messiah. No-
He's just a kid.
One who spent those early years on his lonesome getting by on money he earned playing songs on a guitar he found on a corner and taking up space once a week at his usual table at the soup kitchen, sitting beside a depressed, lovesick succubus and across from a one-eyed, one-handed mage who thinks he's Sir Bedivere. A habit he continues to subscribe to, even after he moved onto just looting the people he fought for grocery money as opposed to strumming strings on a street corner. Those two are the closest things he has to friends in this world, after all.
Operating out of an abandoned subway station turned ad-hoc workshop, the boy has been meticulously working to dismantle the Aquila Family's entire operation, using his wits and newfound abilities to probe their defenses, learn their tactics and where to hit them to make it hurt.
And now, after over half a decade of hard work, he's finally getting ready for his final play.
A showdown with the Fearsome Five.
Optional information ---------- Nemesis: The Fearsome Five Allies: Team: Other: Will Fight Bad Guys 4 Food.
Superhero/villain Name: The Hound Civilian Name: Malcolm Talhaiarn Origin city/Planet: Bludhaven, New Jersey Hometown: Bludhaven, New jersey Sex: Male Race: Metahuman, as far as he can tell. Height: 5'8" Weight: 142 lbs Age: 16 Birth Date: Found in a dumpster as a newborn on February 1, 2006, so that's what he goes by. -------- Costumed Appearance: Though admittedly, Mal started out his superhero career with not much more than what was effectively a Canadian tuxedo and a rag over his face, he's noticeably upped his game in the intervening years- garbing himself up in a black long-sleeve shirt with matching leather gloves, SWAT-styled pants (properly bloused, of course) and some old combat boots with comfy insoles he got for free in his civilian life by pushing an old man in a wheelchair to the local Legion Hall. Add to this, there's his mask with a crude voice modulator sewn into the neck, covering the whole of his head save for his eyes, which he instead chooses to cover with an old pair of welding goggles to stifle some, but not all of the orange glow that emanates from his eyes when his vision is active and an experimental, lightweight flak-vest he liberated from some Monster Hunters a few years back, spray painted grey with a stencil of his logo across the chest. Same place he got the grapple-launcher on his right wrist.
He often wears an old leather jacket over all this, more for warmth and more storage than anything, but often foregoes it in the summer time and rolls up his sleeves-- it gets damned hot in that thing, don'cha know.
Civilian Appearance: Malcolm has… noticeably grown a bit since being a scrawny kid raised in an alleyway. Though still nothing special height-wise, the boy has grown up strong, with broad shoulders and a dense, though lean musculature cultivated through the years of hard work and toil- powerful, but without any excessive bulk that would impede on his agility and if the scars that dot his body are any indication-- across his knuckles, a few knife a bullet wounds across his chest, arms and back and one crescent shaped scar around his left eye from a broken beer-bottle-- extraordinarily tough.
This doesn't stop the boy from a striking a handsome, if not a little hooligan-like figure, with piercing grey eyes (when they aren't glowing orange), brown hair done in a buzz-cut and a face prone to making the occasional smug grin or raised brow.
Icon:
Costumed Personality: The Hound is, by reputation-- if you were to listen to the people who didn't believe him to be some kind of hellbeast-- intense, ruthless, and above all else- precise.
And while this isn't... inaccurate, it's not quite the full truth either.
No, The Hound is simply... Malcolm. Unrestrained.
The sense of humour and charm is still intact (particularly to those who somehow come across him with no intention of trying to murder him) but any notion of hiding behind a mask of youthful hooliganism is completely stripped away. Replaced instead by a cold, methodical intelligence propelled by an iron force of will and deep-seated well of anger.
...However, this isn't quite the full truth either. And as much as the darker parts of Mal's psyche are brought to the surface while he works, there is... something else there that always somehow seems to escape even his own notice; that twinge in his gut that stops him from just walking away from someone else's misery, that fire in his lungs that compels him to throw caution to the wind in their defense, that pang in his core that forces him to stop and help.
The last true remnant of that sweet, loving boy his dad had raised. Still somehow alive after all these years and all the best efforts of the world and Malcolm himself and screaming to be heard.
Civilian Personality: Malcolm is, for lack of a better way of putting it, a walking, talking stereotype of the Bludhaven lower-class; brutally frank, indomitably stubborn, clever in the worst possible way and possessing a potent mixture of pluck and grit with a healthy dash of crazy and a whole lot of heart- being capable of surprising feats of both generosity and compassion, despite his circumstances.
But all that said, there is something... off about the boy, if you were to look carefully enough. A constant, calculating coldness to his eyes that never quite goes away, even through all the joking and the smiles. Not anything that would immediately set you on edge, per se, but just enough to make you question if all this hooligan bravado and charm is who he actually is, or if it's just a clever mask.
Super abilities:
Infiltration/Stealth: To the surprise of... pretty much no one if you think about it, picking a lock becomes a lot easier when you can actually see inside the damned thing, and it becomes a helluva lot easier to sneak into places nobody wants you to go if you can both know in advance that the coast is clear, and physically see how much sound you're making and how the acoustics of the room will carry that around.
Parkour: Growing up in an urban slum, Malcolm has always had a knack for maneuvering around the city in some unconventional ways, more often for fun than anything. But now, with his new vision, reflexes and body-coordination, he damn near flies across rooftops and down alleyways, maneuvering through the urban jungle with astonishing ease.
Adept Brawler: Malcolm's adoptive father, being a former Marine raising a kid in a slum in one of the most dangerous cities in the whole United States, had the forethought to pass on his old tricks to his son. It sure ain't pretty but it is undoubtedly effective, especially when combined with Malcolm's unique abilities, and provides a solid base for the lad to adapt, tweak and add onto by his own experiences, which he has done so over the past five years with great enthusiasm.
Mechanical Acumen: Being able to see inside or through damn near anything has it's benefits, one of them being being able to directly observe the guts of a machine to see and learn how it works. Something that has come in quite handy in all of his MacGuyvering over the past five years.
Polyglot: The slums of Bludhaven are a surprisingly diverse place, and Malcolm has grown up around a lot of people from a lot of places who speak a lot of languages, and that was before his brain was kicked into overdrive. As a result, the boy has handily become fluent English, Ukrainian, Russian, Italian, Spanish, French, Arabic, Mandarin and Cantonese.
Guitarist: Even before becoming the way he is now, Malcolm actually had some talent playing the strings, having learned from his dad. When he suddenly gained the ability to see sound and a brain that moved several times faster than that of nearly any other person, however, he gained a... newfound appreciation for it, going from just "Good" to being "Good enough to eat for a week on one day's work" over the course of just a year.
Unfortunately, this one positive, non-violent part of his life has been seemingly shelved indefinitely, as Mal began to focus more and more on his work against the Aquila Family. So now that old guitar he found freshly dumped in an alleyway just sits there in a corner of his hideout, untuned, unused and collecting dust.
There's probably some deep symbolism there or something, but Mal doesn't exactly have the time for that.
Omnivision: By far Malcolm's most drastically superhuman ability, the boy is able to perceive almost the entire Electromagnetic Spectrum, being able to see in infrared, ultraviolet, electrical currents and even straight through solid objects. And that's not even mentioning how he also possesses telescopic vision up to five miles, can see in absolute darkness and can even comprehend soundwaves and magic. Albeit, there are some drawbacks; he will not be able to see through a magic or electrical field if they are dense enough and, while he can focus on one thing or another, he is almost always processing all of this information at once, painting an image that vaguely resembles a world on fire.
...Which is, y'know, great fun for a guy who watched his entire family burn to death.
Enhanced Brain/Nervous Function: Malcolm's brain, as a side-effect from being able to function under the strain of everything listed above, has effectively been kicked into high gear, processing information at many times the rate of a normal human being. Allowing him to learn and retain information at several times the rate of a normal human being and some computers, with the added bonus of an eidetic memory; meaning that with time, and the proper instruction, he could prove to be one of the greatest minds of his generation.
Another, slightly more immediately advantageous side-effect of Malcolm's now overclocked brain is that, like his mental faculties, his reaction time and reflexes have been accelerated to ten times that of a normal human being. This, combined with his vision, makes the small, starving boy a legitimate force to be reckoned with as he can read an opponent's nerve impulses, body language and muscle contractions to get an idea of what they're doing and react to it before they're actually finished doing it. Additionally, this new, more efficient nervous system has granted the boy unparalleled bodily-coordination, allowing him to perform feats of dexterity and precision with ease that would be beyond even Olympic athletes and skilled craftsmen... which is quite handy when your life pretty much revolves around jumping off buildings and hitting people really goddamn hard.
Freakish Toughness/Force of Will: Since starting his superheroic career at the ripe age of ten years old Mal has been shot, stabbed, cut, poisoned, tzed, set on fire, had his bones broken, been nearly drowned, and dodged many other should've-been-deaths multiple times. And is somehow, beyond all reason and logic, still alive.
Many would assume this is due to some other, as yet undiscovered component of his apparent metahuman gene. But the fact of the matter is that Malcolm is no more bullet, knife or fireproof than any other guy; he is however, by virtue of experience and sheer force of will, ludicrously, obscenely tough. Able to take an outright inhuman amount of punishment, both physically and mentally and still get back up and keep fighting.
Grapple Launcher: Stolen off a few Monster Hunters he ran into a few years, when the Aquilas were buying heavily into the hype that he was some sort of literal bogeyman. Primitive, as it was one of the first models to come out on the market when the trade of Demon/Monster hunting first created demand for such things on the market and lacking the range of say, someone like Grim's homemade one, but still a reliable workhorse for the kinds of people that need to get high real quickly in a much more literal sense.
Wristwatch: Mal somehow goes through an awful lot of these. His current one is some old Karen Hernandez and the Crusaders of Hope thing he picked up at a gas station a week earlier for three dollars because it was the only one there. It's alarm is a series of the Gotham phenom's Disney jingles, played in 8-bit. Mal hates it with a passion he can barely describe.
Voice Modulator: Reverse-engineered from bits and pieces of tech he stole from the Aquila, the voice modulator... modulates Mal's voice. Mostly to hide how young he is, but it can also be set to mimic the voices of others with a push of a button and a voice sample.
Lockpicking Kit: For those times when Mal just wants to be a sneaky little prick.
Dad's Old Zippo: In memory of better days...
USMC KA-BAR: One of the few things Mal has left of his Dad. Kept in immaculate condition, despite his circumstances.
Knuckledusters: Kept in his jacket pocket. Because sometimes a punch in the face just doesn't get the point across enough.
Throwing Knives: Short, sweet and straight to the point. Mal keeps about a half-dozen of these on him when he's and about doing his Hound business.
Browning Hi-Power: Something Mal only uses sparingly, usually only after running a quick calculation in the back of his computer-like brain about how to hit his target with a ricochet instead of a direct hit and never to kill.
Civilian Occupation: Homeless boi.
Biography---------
Character History/Origin:
Bludhaven, a city with many names; The Devil's Tongue, The Big Dirty, The Bloody Haven, The Blud, Gotham's Toilet, etc... it was here on a frigid February evening that John "Mad Jack" Talhaiarn, former United States Marine and current owner of the clothes on his back and not much else, happened upon a screaming newborn baby in a dumpster behind a biker bar and across the road from a Denny's.
Thinking quickly, the man lifted the screaming infant out of the trash and pulled him into the warm confines of his parka as he began trudging his way through the heavy winter's snow towards the shanty town he called home. Talhaiarn had no idea what hell he was doing, but after a lifetime of mistakes that had led him down dark paths, disgraced and astray from his beloved Corps, he vowed to himself and any God who may've been listening, he was at least gonna get this one thing right-
Saving this fucking kid.
It took a bit of doing, and a little help from his neighbours to scrounge up and MacGuyver everything necessary to care for a newborn, but somehow he pulled it off.
After a week or so, the kid stopped screaming so much and started giggling whenever he caught wind of the old Marine near his makeshift crib. A few days after that, he started calling him "Malcolm" after his old man.
And some time after that, John Talhaiarn, a man who was both a living legend and a disgraced outcast of the United States Marine Corps... began to actually enjoy life again.
If there was anywhere to start this story, this would be it.
Mad Jack's boy grew up in their little Shanty Town, comfortably nestled in a wide alleyway, stubborn, tough and clever. With a tongue and wit sharp as any bayonet his Dad'd ever held in his former life but a heart as big and as bright as the goddamned sun. Never having much, but never really needing anything his little community couldn't provide anyway, Malcolm spent most of his days scouring the slums for anything he, his dad and his neighbours could use to make their lives easier, getting into all sorts of trouble with the other slum kids and sitting around with his dad, raptly listening to (heavily censored) war stories from his days in the corps.
It wasn't an easy life, by any means- But he was happy, so he never really gave a shit.
Though, if you've ever read a comic book, you probably have a good idea where this is going...
In the opening weeks of 2015, the three-year-long turf war between an alliance of the local Chinese Tongs, Russian Mafia and Irish gangs against the invading Aquila crime family of Gotham was reaching it's end with the interlopers emerging as the clear victor in no small part due to their open use of non-human forces as disposable deathsquads and the employ of a particular group of supervillains, who would become known as the 'Fearsome Five', who now set themselves to the task of hunting down and butchering their rapidly scattering adversaries with immense prejudice and very little care as to who got caught in the middle.
They were there to send a clear message, after all, not make friends.
And that was about who this town belonged to now.
The night of January 31st was a relatively standard one for Malcolm; his "Aunt" Lin was cooking dinner over a drum fire, the Mikhailovich brothers were arguing in a heated, Slavic sort of way about... something stupid, from what Malcolm could gather as their confrontation shifted back and forth between Russian when they didn't want the kids to understand what they were saying and Ukrainian when they were too mad to give a shit, and Malcolm was sitting with a bunch of kids around his dad, who played Johnny Cash on a (mostly) intact guitar he and Malcolm had found the year before and the Shanty Town's communal mutt, affectionately named 'Fleabag', was sprawled belly-up on Malcolm's lap being smelly and aggressively affectionate.
All-in-all, pretty normal... until something caught Fleabag's attention and she started barking up a storm. That being a charred... thing that vaguely resembled a person and stank of burned meat that shambled it's way into their alleyway, gargling and hissing only one thing on what was left of it's vocal chords as a massive, gangly figure stepped out from shadows behind it and gleefully raised a single hand in the direction of everyone present;
"Help... me..."
All Malcolm can recall of what happened next was the sight, sounds and smell of everyone he'd ever loved or cared about screaming and writhing around on the ground around him as they literally melted while wreathed in flame, the look of horror on his dad's face as he lunged forward to hold him one last time, a bellowing, warbling cackle and then pain and then... nothing.
The next thing Malcolm remembers is crawling out from underneath the charred, but still juicy remains of his father, his dog and all else that he knew, being feasted upon by thousands of carrion flies, which scattered as he sat up.
It was his birthday.
And he didn't have scratch on him.
At first, he could do nothing but sit there, shaking and trembling in silence as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was looking at, before realization slowly set in.
Then the crying started. Followed by the screaming.
And as the screaming gradually changed in pitch from horror and denial to pure outrage, something in the boy broke. The fire that consumed his family and friends slowly ebbed it's way back into his vision and consumed the whole world as he comprehended it.
Seemingly trapped in an eternally burning hellscape, even when he closed his eyes and in a fragile mental state, he could've easily just bent or broken down right there in that corpse-filled alley. Instead, he got mad. He got real mad.
And something else began to stir to life within him.
Over the next six years, as the Aquila family consolidated their hold on Bludhaven, and the Fearsome Five were granted their own little Fiefdoms within the Don's criminal empire, something was watching, listening and more importantly, learning.
It started small at first, a few things of the Aquilas would go missing or the police would suddenly get wise. These things were easily remedied, for a time, with a few subtle exchanges of money and a beefing up of security... until a few weeks later, when it would start up anew and they'd have to spend even more money on this confusing little hindrance.
By the time two years had passed, this had escalated to the point where reports began to come in of some of their footmen collecting protection money and doing patrols being ambushed by... some ravenous thing with glowing orange eyes that'd launch itself out of the shadows at night, beating them down with frenzied, yet precise strikes before they had time enough to react and taking back what they'd stolen. To this, they doubled up patrols and hired a small team of Monster Hunters out of Hub to lay a trap for for their mystery creature. To their credit, this seemed to work. For about three days. And then they were right back to square one as whatever this thing was abruptly got the jump on their Hunters in their own trap, stole some of their gear and seemingly used whatever it had learned from the experience to hit them even harder than before.
That's about when people started talking about the so-called 'Hound of Bludhaven', an urban myth for a new age and desperate times about some guardian spirit risen up from hell to punish the wicked... A bit heavy-handed and melodramatic, maybe. But the fact that their little 'Problem' was now known enough to have it's own name, did prompt the Aquila family to start taking it a little more seriously.
And so this cycle would continue on an endless loop for the next few years; With the Syndicate taking increasingly harsher and harsher measures against this little thorn in the side of their operations, only for it to seemingly adapt, improve and come right back at them. Stronger than before.
And through it all, not one of them became wise to the fact that the cause of all their trouble was not some vengeful demon, wild monster or guardian spirit...
...But a fucking kid in a mask.
As stated at the tail-end of all that very, very dramatic text above, Malcolm wasn't reborn as some kind of demon or guardian beast and he sure as hell isn't some kind of urban messiah. No-
He's just a kid.
One who spent those early years on his lonesome getting by on money he earned playing songs on a guitar he found on a corner and taking up space once a week at his usual table at the soup kitchen, sitting beside a depressed, lovesick succubus and across from a one-eyed, one-handed mage who thinks he's Sir Bedivere. A habit he continues to subscribe to, even after he moved onto just looting the people he fought for grocery money as opposed to strumming strings on a street corner. Those two are the closest things he has to friends in this world, after all.
Operating out of an abandoned subway station turned ad-hoc workshop, the boy has been meticulously working to dismantle the Aquila Family's entire operation, using his wits and newfound abilities to probe their defenses, learn their tactics and where to hit them to make it hurt.
And now, after over half a decade of hard work, he's finally getting ready for his final play.
A showdown with the Fearsome Five.
Optional information ---------- Nemesis: The Fearsome Five Allies: Team: Other: Will Fight Bad Guys 4 Food.
Basic Information ========= Superhero/villain Name: The Champion Civilian Name: Duncan Reid MacAodhan Origin city/Planet: Born in the medbay of a clanky old star-freighter, because nothing in Duncan's life can be simple Hometown: Halifax, Nova Scotia Sex: Male Race: Kryptonian Height: 5'7" Weight: 162 Age: 30 (though his Kryptonian physiology has kept him looking as though he's still in his early 20's) Birth Date: July 1st, 1990 -------- Costumed Appearance: As perhaps befitting of what most consider the world's first costumed superhero, The Champion's working attire is somewhat more... modest than many of his contemporaries; garbing himself in a form-fitting, though thoroughly not skintight dark blue and grey jumpsuit of what many over the years have assumed to be some sort of Kryptonian battle-armour (but in reality, would be something more akin to a mechanic's coveralls on his homeworld, albeit an extraordinarily durable one) with a modified crest of the house of El emblazoned upon it's chest and a pair of black boots of the same material. On top of all this, Duncan wears his father's old, brown jacket made the same material as his suit in place of the usual flowing cape his people were apparently so fond of with his symbol sewn across the back as well as a utility belt in which he stores everything from his communicator to his mom's grocery list and a pair of gauntlets of some dark bronze-coloured metal, the right of which also houses a small ruggedised computer that connects directly to his 'Fortress of Solitude' (as some of his team insist on calling it) and perhaps more importantly, the uploaded AI consciousness of his biological mother that operates there to help him out with all those kinds of problems his tradeschool education didn't quite prepare him for.
And also, to nag.
A lot.
Civilian Appearance: To read what Duncan is capable of, you might picture some sort of hulking mountain of a man with bulging muscles, a jawline chiseled from granite and a smile that could charm a dragon from the other side of the planet... to actually meet the man however, you'd be disappointed and maybe a little confused- MacAodhan is not a large man. In fact, compared to most in the League he is downright tiny, standing at only 5'7" on a good day and lacking the bulging, vaguely v-shaped physique of what you'd expect of somebody the entire friggin' planet calls 'The Champion'. Closer inspection or just plain catching him without a shirt on, however, reveals that what Duncan's 'gains' lack in raw bodybuilder-style size, they handily make up for in sheer density; covering his broad-shouldered, lean frame with an almost inhuman looking amount of compact, but powerful musculature.
Now, if you weren't just staring at his ludicrously chiseled body like a creepy person or some kind of stab-happy anime girl, you might just notice that while he ain't some waifish prettyboy or chunky, hunky Mr. Universe contestant... he's still quite the looker, even with his usual working-class choice of fashion; with sharp, clever green eyes that've been known to elicit the odd swoon from time to time and an angular face awfully prone to warm smiles, the odd grease stain and sprouting a healthy amount of brown stubble by quitting time to match the short crew-cut he usually keeps stuffed under some old ball-cap or another.
All in all, pretty handsome... if you actually managed to notice the guy on the street through his age-old habit of keeping his head down, his hands in his pockets and striving as hard as humanly possible to just fade into the background. Something he's gotten particularly good at over the course of his life.
Icon:
Costumed Personality: The Champion, as the whole world has insisted on calling Duncan these past ten years is... well, something of a paradox, really. Possessing an almost bottomless reserve of good-humour, compassion and carrying an easygoing nature, but still terrifyingly sharp enough of both tongue and wit to lay a downright visceral verbal thrashing if need be and bearing no small reserve of genre-savvy sarcasm. Relentlessly stubborn and strong-willed enough to stand tall against impossible odds and invincible foes with naught but a plucky grin and a fiery glint in his eye, yet modest and humble enough to be embarrassed by, and even downplay his heroic antics while passing on the 'glory' to someone else when grilled about it by the press. A being so powerful he could sunder mountains with a slap and burn entire cities to the ground with a look... but not at all above shoveling an old lady's driveway or putting a bandaid on some kid's scraped knee while cracking jokes and telling old war stories to make them feel better.
All in all, Champ is a... very confusing man. But a good man nonetheless. And though he never really wanted this kind of life in the first place, it does seem to suit him well.
Even if being called a 'Hero' by so many still causes him to feel a twinge of sheepishness whenever it's brought up.
Civilian Personality: In contrast to the wit, charm and raw courage of The Champion, Duncan himself is a bit more... subdued. Though perhaps a youth spent desperately trying to hide the fact that he could fly and tank bullets to the face without flinching all while balancing a bus on his little finger for fear of drawing unwanted attention to his folks or getting somebody hurt miiiiight've had something to do with that. That's not to say that he's a wallflower, mind you, as many who've borne the brunt of his specially dry blend of humour or seen how excited he gets in the stands of a hockey game could tell you, but he is noticeably more... distant, though still generally friendly, to all but his family and closest friends- preferring to fade into the background in most situations to let others soak up the limelight while he just goes about living his life beneath their notice.
To those lucky few that actually have that unrestricted access to what's going on in his head, however, Duncan is an indelibly stubborn, hard-nosed but otherwise affable and caring kind of guy who'd move heaven and earth for those closest to him, even at his own expense.
Super abilities:
Skills:
Master mechanic.
Handyman.
A Polyglot, fluent in English, Acadian French, Scots Gaelic and Kryptonian (though he rarely gets to use the latter)
Is a ludicrously good cook, despite what he'd tell you.
-Powers:
Incalculable strength and speed.
Flight
Near-Invulnerability
Heat vision
X-ray vision
Cold breath
-Gadgets:
That afore-mentioned utility belt and computer gauntlet.
-Vulnerabilities:
Kryptonite
Exposure to red sun radiation will rapidly rob him of his powers.
Magic, though not inherently harmful to him in the way Kryptonite is, has a much easier time making it's way through his Kryptonian invulnerability than more conventional attacks.
Civilian Occupation: Shipyard Diesel Mechanic
Biography---------
Character History/Origin:
Optional information ---------- Nemesis: Many. Allies: Grim, Velocity, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, Kraken and a whole lot of others. Team: The Justice League Other:
Member
Carlyle,
Howe,
The Otter,
ASDAValueMilk,
Bacon,
Crimson Flame,
Simple Unicycle,
ColdAtlas,
Autumn Moon,
Roman
