Toxx

The Agency. [Positions open: Monster hunters needed!]

Alrighty, welp, just got done with my shower, and it's 3 AM, plus I got a flight to catch in like two hours.

Gonna start on my character now.

*cries from insomnia*

The Agency. [Positions open: Monster hunters needed!]

Name:
Classified Information. Call him...Grave.

Gender:
Undoubtedly male.

Age:
Young adult. (20)

Background:
Hm...well...let's start from the beginning, yes?

Grave was originally born as James Carter, in the ruined walls of what seemed to be a ghost town. James' father was a retired SS class hunter, now scavenger and looter, while his mother was a former combat medic with a crippling illness - the loss of her left arm. Life was incredibly hard for James, growing up. Due to the nature of his birth; being forced out inside of an unsterilized hospital room...well, let's just say that Mother did not make it. Immediately after his unneeded birth, Father was stuck with a heavy dilemma. Keep the baby, and risk being slowed down to take care of it, or...leave it in the ruins of the abandoned city, with the corpse of it's dead mother, and have the monsters eat on it's bones. Despite the anger and resentment that Father couldn't help but have for the boy...who came into the world at the wrong time...the man couldn't just leave him there...and so they entered the disastrous world - once more for Father, and for the first time, for little James.

Life as a nomad was rough for the two. Father didn't have much food, or equipment for that matter. Despite being an admittedly powerful, experienced, and skilled man, he wasn't the best when it came to gathering money, or food for that matter. Along with this, he only had a jerry-rigged sniper rifle, with the stock and guard made from wood, and the barrel melded from some old concrete he found back in the other town. He himself didn't have any powers, so that didn't come in handy, so it was right back to the drawing boards. James was left with a ratty old towel, and Father, with his stupid sniper rifle, a rusty knife, and a heavy stick. Thankfully, despite their constant wandering, they didn't come across too many monsters - and the smaller ones that they did come across, were quickly taken out by Father, or completely avoided, utilizing the man's incredible stealth skill.

It was around the time of when James reached the age of three, did things finally change. Now, for the other two years of his baby life, James hadn't said a word. Not a word. It didn't help that they were surrounded by danger at every cost, and that his Father only said the occasional cuss word every once and a while. It was bound to do something to his voice, or, at the very least, injure his thorax. Father hadn't really cared- he only carried the baby around due to stupid morals, and he wasn't a medic anyways. So, it was rather surprising when, at the age of 3 years old, whilst Father carried James through a treacherous forest with trees that had eyeballs, James finally said his first word. It was 'fok'. Literally...'fok'. Father was astounded, completely ignoring the fact that his first born child cussed for his first word. No, what astounded him, was that, as soon as the word was said, James seemed to be a completely new baby. He was more active, he could walk, and he had waaaay too much strength in his grip. Turns out that, instead of a cuss word, 'Fok' was the word that all half-Daemons uttered whenever they gain control of their vocal strands, and it was also the word to jumpstart their 'power' and 'brain process'. James' mother was a female, humanoid Daemon, after all.

After his 'awakening', if you can even call it that, Father finally began training his son. At the age of 5, James was forced through rigorous physical, mental, and excruciating training that spanned on and on for 24 hours a day. He had his skin sliced open, only for it to heal and grow calloused and stronger. His bones broken, just so that they can meld back a few days later, stronger than before. He experienced pain beyond belief, and nightmares beyond what you could even imagine, just so his mind could grow a mental defense against psychological fears. All of this...at the age of five and upwards. Father was a slave driver, a calloused man, and, in some ways, cruel, cold, and evil. He wanted his son to grow strong, even though he didn't have any interest in the boy's life before his 'awakening'. James grew up in this type of environment...training with every type of weapon available to him at the time, under the experienced eyes of his father. With his new skills and physical sharpness, the boy hunted for the two, taking on mercenary quests, and becoming the warrior his father molded him to be.

That is...until, at the age of 15, James finally snapped under the pressure, and killed his father in cold blood. Over the years, due to James' mercenary work, they had acquired quite the wealthy wallet, and the boy finally found it in his heart to...kill his old man. He felt absolutely nothing from it. Later on, after disposing of the man's body, James decided that he needed a new identity. A new start. A new life. And thus...Grave was born, named after the shoddy grave he made his father, in the destroyed town he was born in. Life continued on, with the name 'Grave' being feared throughout the lands - because of the high-classed, high-risk missions he seemed to take like drugs, and the pure mystery surrounded his form. No one knew how he looked, as the man kept on the custom armor and cloak/hood that he apparently made himself. Hell, barely anyone even knew how his form looked, period. The man was like a ghost. He just wasn't seen - there were mostly only rumors on his appearance, as fenced by the occasional wealthy businessman Grave took quests from.

Finally, at the age of 20, Grave found Kalli. He has been doing missions there for months, mostly because of the steady income, and the challenge the quests provides.

Powers:
Grave's powers aren't as flashy as most, but they are just as, if not moreso, dangerous. His senses, physical ability, and general self is enhanced to above supernatural limits. To explain in a bit more detail...

His senses are all increased to high levels. He has the eyes of a cyborg, basically, being able to see figures in pure darkness, just as well as he can see things in the daytime. His natural eyesight allows him to see things in crisp, high-definition vision, even if they are miles away.

His strength, speed, and agility are all at increased levels. Strength-wise, he has shown that he can lift above five tons with minimal strain, and handle the recoil of his high-powered sniper rifle with absolutely no budging or snaps. Speed-wise, he can move at cheetah speed full-kilt, which is around 70 to 80 mph, and has him resembling a blur. Agility-wise, Grave's brain moves at a speed that's reminiscent to his actual sprinting prowess. His arms are a blur as he moves through motions at astounding agility, and the man seemingly has the reflexes of a lashing whip, as he has been seen dodging and twirling around bullet rounds.

Weapons:
Plasma Blades - Simply two pure black, smooth, and thin hilts until squeezed. Once squeezed, two glowing blue lasers, long extremely hot to the touch, is jutted from the hilts. The true extent of their 'power' is unknown, but they are shown to be feather-light, and at least stronger than steel, being able to cut through most material as if it was knife through butter, and block/redirect projectiles and other weapons.

Plasma Pistols - Two pistols, tuned to fire streams of pure, unadultered blue plasma. It must be reloaded with small, glass capsules of raw plasma, but it only needs to be reloaded once every two blue moons. Not really. But it doesn't run out of plasma quickly.

Sniper Rifle - One of Grave's most prized possessions, and also one of his favorite weapons. An incredibly intricate piece of work that weighs much more than an average man, meaning that it's generally unusable to anyone that doesn't possess enhanced strength. It silently fires out long, thin blue needles made of solidified blue plasma, like all of Grave's weapons. It's best used at long range, and the pure stopping fire power of this gun is astounding.

Knife - Nothing too special about this one. A dozen or so back-up knives, hooked to his right and left legs, just in case he needs 'em.

Other than the above-listed weapons, Grave doesn't keep much else on him. He has a few grenade pellets, but they are mostly used for escape opportunities, or for ambushes.

Interesting Equipment:
He has a full capsule of smoke pellets, which are, like his grenade pellets, only used for certain situations. His armor would also be listed as 'interesting'. It's light-weight, easily maintained, considering it was made by him, and made with looted Kevlar, allowing it to be bullet-proof to most low-caliber rounds, and protective against claws and swords. He has a few knick-knack gadgets as well, but they're still being created and tinkered on. One, in particular, is a custom-made dark blue rune he has on his right glove. By squeezing his right hand, and activating the rune, his hand is emblazoned in fiery blue energy. So far, he hasn't made any discoveries with this rune, other then having it linked to his vehicle, and being able to throw orbs of harmless energy at things. It's quite funny to watch, though.



It's called the Void Digger, and it's super sw33t, yo. Thing can accelerate to above 100mph after squeezing the gas, and it has a few built in technology junk. Squeezing the left handle blasts plasma rockets from between the two split parts you can see in the front, and the vehicle moves around by levitating, not using wheels...because it has none. It's materialized from a dark blue rune he keeps on the palm of his right glove. Squeeze yo' hand, form an orb of artificial blue flames, throw dat 'shizz on the ground, and bam, the Void Digger's right there, revving and ready to go.

That's the description, at least. Custom-built by Grave himself. He can build others. Thinkin' 'bout making an anonymous business for custom weapons and vehicles one day. Maybe.

Hunter Rank:
SS

Other:
Finished.

Creation. (Play God, Free Roleplay)

Creation. (Play God, Free Roleplay)

if you come back and rek us again i swur

it will be all ogre

i will fokin create a gigantic planet made of stone, earth, and thorns, and i will explode it inside of yur eye sockets

(By the way, what timezones are you guys in? I'm Central, and it's 1:35 AM. Just asking, since it seems like the timezones in this RP is really wonky.)

Edit: And hell yeah, that actually sounds badass.

Creation. (Play God, Free Roleplay)

Pfft yeah, if anyone new joins, I don't think we can make a summarized version of what all happened from beginning to end.

-also-bing-i-responded-to-your-post

The Island (stranded on an Island RP)

Welcome to the site as well, Clockface! :)

Liah: Ah, he wouldn't have the knife on the island! It was just something I cooked up on the spot, whilst making his history. I doubt that he would be able to hold onto the knife whilst being dipped into the ocean, especially since he was knocked out from it all~ But yes, I will take it out of the bio.

The Island (stranded on an Island RP)

That's something that still astounds me to this day. I sorta took that event from my bro. He said that he was flying in from New York, and apparently he was able to hide his pocket knife in his heavy duty work boots. I could definitely take it out if it's a problem, however. :)

The Island (stranded on an Island RP)

Sure, I'm fine with that! Also, here's my character, because I will probably not be here tomorrow~

Jack

]

Name: Jackson Taylor

Age: He's a young adult. (19, will be 20 in December.)

Gender: Male

Appearance: Jackson is tall, standing at 6'2, with lightly tanned and calloused skin that comes from spending the majority of his entire life outside, in the sweltering heat. His facial features are rather strong and chiseled to a certain degree, his baby fat completely gone, leaving a ruggedly handsome jawline, and a face that seemed to be carved from marble. That's a bit of an overstatement, but, at the same time, it goes well to depict his facial structure. His body build is, as you would believe, rather muscular from, as you can also believe, spending the majority of his entire life outside, in the sweltering heat, working on tractors, hunting for wild game, and wrestling with chickens, cows, and horses. It goes rather well with his fair skin, and even greater with his shortly cut black hair, which slightly wisps upwards into a natural faux hawk. A light sprinkle of sun freckles dots above the bridge of his slim nose, which is slightly crooked on the tip, due to being broken numerous times in bar fights. During the plane crash, Jackson was wearing a red and gray flannel shirt, torn blue jeans with a buckle of a wolf fang, and cowboy boots. His shirt was promptly torn into shreds due to being tossed around mid-air, and he has a few welting red scars on his torso from the crash.

Personality: Jackson is certainly an interesting individual once you first meet him. Sharp witted, with the brain and social attitude of a lashing whip, or a steel sword, he isn't someone you would want to get into an argument with. While he is a sarcastic, 'keeping to myself' young man whom enjoys the solitary life rather than testing his lack-luster social skills with other humans, Jackson also has a crimson tongue - no, not a silver tongue, but a crimson one. He will slice you down with pure spat fire if necessary, which, when dealing with annoyances, it most definitely is. Quiet, with a slight frown tugging at his mouth, and his eyes focused, Jackson also has mediocre social skills at best, although his attitude tends to force him into ironical social interactions despite the man's best attempts at avoiding them. He could be seen as cold and brutally honest, due to him not pussy-footing over insults or wordings.

In general, he is a stoic, distant man who would rather date a knife, rather than an actual living, breathing female. As long as you're respectful, kind, and generally not an abominable hindrance, then you can expect him to treat you at arm's distance - sure, he can joke sometimes, but he's not your friend. If you're an idiot, then you can sort of expect a severe tongue lashing and a disdainful flick of the middle finger. Anymore than that? Well...let's just say that he won't be as forgiving. He's rather easy to get into an argument with, and despite him attempting to stay calm, he's also easy to anger and annoy. Jack is inwardly 'kind' despite his hard exterior, and he doesn't mind helping others; although he may seem gruff about it. He is a nice enough guy - maybe a bit too aloof and uncaring, but if you're not, in his eyes, frustrating, than he'll be kind to you as long as you return the favor. Under stressful situations, Jackson is usually the guy who takes charge, unless someone else does, which, in that case, he sits back and observes the proceedings with an analytical air.

Jackson could be pretty laidback if you catch him on a good day.

History: It's not anything heart-wrenching or dramatic. Jackson was originally born on a farm quite a ways away from Dallas, Texas, with his father and younger brother. His father was a hearty old cowboy, being in his late 40s, with a long gray beard and a shiny bald head. He went by the name of 'Ron'. Jack's younger brother, Kent, was only younger than him by one approximate year, and he was scrawny, quiet, shy, and caring, more often then not spending his time tending to the gardens, or calculating the taxes on their old dial up computer. Sadly, his mother had...passed away after having Kent, which was the secretive reason for why the young boy was so shy and soft in the first place. It wasn't anything Jackson or Ron could help with, so the two simply left Kent to his own thoughts. Eventually, the boy got his head on straight, although the silence and softness remained his defining traits.

On the farm, Jackson had a multitude of tasks to perfect - chasing down pigs and chickens, lifting bales of hay, picking corn, and more physically-demanding things. He perfected them, and quickly became a hardy 'rancher'. He lassoed horses, fought with cows and bulls, and journeyed into the mountains to herd sheep, and into the forests for days upon days, to hunt prey for the winters. It all became a part of his character, and he would have preferred the difficult lifestyle to anything else. He could even remember the first time he had gotten stuck in the large forest that surrounded their home. He had been 10 at the time, and he had went into the forest, chasing down their old hog. The boy only had on some bleached jeans, being bare footed and bare of chest. Long story short, Jack chased the hog miles into the forest, just as a storm hit, forcing him to take shelter. He stripped a few branches of their leaves, and used the leaf stems to tie the branches into a make-shift lean-to, which actually helped him survive until the next day, when his father, and Kent, came riding in on a horse.

After that day, Jackson quickly began melding into the country life. He went skeet shooting with Kent whenever the two made their way into the towns, learned to enjoy whiskey, had his first brawl in a bar, and started taking weekly camping trips in the tough winter. The boy turned into a man within years, and his skills of life melded into his mind. How to build tools in the wild, how to use a bow and arrow to kill game, the fundamentals of using a machete as a tool of craft, a tool of survival, and a pretty damn good weapon. This rock hard life became his life...until that faithful day. He had been on that damned plane, heading towards Vancouver for a small vacation - doctor's orders. Jackson could still remember that shitty 'landing'...if it was even a landing.

He had been in his seat, listening to some Skillet, and generally resting...when the panicked screams began. Tearing off his straps, and practically slamming the oxygen mask onto his lower face, Jackson breathed erratically, attempting to stay calm. He could feel the panic, the fire, the metal slicing into his tough skin...and then darkness. When he had awoke, he was dozens of feet underwater. Swimming lessons paying off, Jackson swam towards the nearest shore he could see, the salt water sealing up his cuts and awakening him to a life of Hell...or could it be paradise?

Other: None.

Pokemon: A New Generation

Yeah, me neither. Gray may bury his, to come back later for it.

Toxic's Manor

Name: Jackson Taylor

Age: He's a young adult. (19, will be 20 in December.)

Gender: Male

Appearance: Jackson is tall, standing at 6'2, with lightly tanned and calloused skin that comes from spending the majority of his entire life outside, in the sweltering heat. His facial features are rather strong and chiseled to a certain degree, his baby fat completely gone, leaving a ruggedly handsome jawline, and a face that seemed to be carved from marble. That's a bit of an overstatement, but, at the same time, it goes well to depict his facial structure. His body build is, as you would believe, rather muscular from, as you can also believe, spending the majority of his entire life outside, in the sweltering heat, working on tractors, hunting for wild game, and wrestling with chickens, cows, and horses. It goes rather well with his fair skin, and even greater with his shortly cut black hair, which slightly wisps upwards into a natural faux hawk. A light sprinkle of sun freckles dots above the bridge of his slim nose, which is slightly crooked on the tip, due to being broken numerous times in bar fights. During the plane crash, Jackson was wearing a red and gray flannel shirt, torn blue jeans with a buckle of a wolf fang, and cowboy boots. His shirt was promptly torn into shreds due to being tossed around mid-air, and he has a few welting red scars on his torso from the crash.

Personality: Jackson is certainly an interesting individual once you first meet him. Sharp witted, with the brain and social attitude of a lashing whip, or a steel sword, he isn't someone you would want to get into an argument with. While he is a sarcastic, 'keeping to myself' young man whom enjoys the solitary life rather than testing his lack-luster social skills with other humans, Jackson also has a crimson tongue - no, not a silver tongue, but a crimson one. He will slice you down with pure spat fire if necessary, which, when dealing with annoyances, it most definitely is. Quiet, with a slight frown tugging at his mouth, and his eyes focused, Jackson also has mediocre social skills at best, although his attitude tends to force him into ironical social interactions despite the man's best attempts at avoiding them. He could be seen as cold and brutally honest, due to him not pussy-footing over insults or wordings.

In general, he is a stoic, distant man who would rather date a knife, rather than an actual living, breathing female. As long as you're respectful, kind, and generally not an abominable hindrance, then you can expect him to treat you at arm's distance - sure, he can joke sometimes, but he's not your friend. If you're an idiot, then you can sort of expect a severe tongue lashing and a disdainful flick of the middle finger. Anymore than that? Well...let's just say that he won't be as forgiving. He's rather easy to get into an argument with, and despite him attempting to stay calm, he's also easy to anger and annoy. Jack is inwardly 'kind' despite his hard exterior, and he doesn't mind helping others; although he may seem gruff about it. He is a nice enough guy - maybe a bit too aloof and uncaring, but if you're not, in his eyes, frustrating, than he'll be kind to you as long as you return the favor. Under stressful situations, Jackson is usually the guy who takes charge, unless someone else does, which, in that case, he sits back and observes the proceedings with an analytical air.

Jackson could be pretty laidback if you catch him on a good day.

History: It's not anything heart-wrenching or dramatic. Jackson was originally born on a farm quite a ways away from Dallas, Texas, with his father and younger brother. His father was a hearty old cowboy, being in his late 40s, with a long gray beard and a shiny bald head. He went by the name of 'Ron'. Jack's younger brother, Kent, was only younger than him by one approximate year, and he was scrawny, quiet, shy, and caring, more often then not spending his time tending to the gardens, or calculating the taxes on their old dial up computer. Sadly, his mother had...passed away after having Kent, which was the secretive reason for why the young boy was so shy and soft in the first place. It wasn't anything Jackson or Ron could help with, so the two simply left Kent to his own thoughts. Eventually, the boy got his head on straight, although the silence and softness remained his defining traits.

On the farm, he had a multitude of tasks to perfect - chasing down pigs and chickens, lifting bales of hay, picking corn, and more physically-demanding things. He perfected them, and quickly became a hardy 'rancher'. He lassoed horses, fought with cows and bulls, and journeyed into the mountains to herd sheep, and into the forests for days upon days, to hunt prey for the winters. It all became a part of his character, and he would have preferred the difficult lifestyle to anything else. He could even remember the first time he had gotten stuck in the large forest that surrounded their home. He had been 10 at the time, and he had went into the forest, chasing down their old hog. The boy only had on some bleached jeans, being bare footed and bare of chest. Long story short, Jack chased the hog miles into the forest, just as a storm hit, forcing him to take shelter. He stripped a few branches of their leaves, and used the leaf stems to tie the branches into a make-shift lean-to, which actually helped him survive until the next day, when his father, and Kent, came riding in on a horse.

After that day, Jackson quickly began melding into the country life. He went skeet shooting with Kent whenever the two made their way into the towns, learned to enjoy whiskey, had his first brawl in a bar, and started taking weekly camping trips in the tough winter. The boy turned into a man within years, and his skills of life melded into his mind. How to build tools in the wild, how to use a bow and arrow to kill game, the fundamentals of using a machete as a tool of craft, a tool of survival, and a pretty damn good weapon. This rock hard life became his life...until that faithful day. He had been on that damned plane, heading towards Vancouver for a small vacation - doctor's orders. Jackson could still remember that shitty 'landing'...if it was even a landing.

He had been in his seat, listening to some Skillet, and generally resting...when the panicked screams began. Taking out his knife, which he had kept in his boots, Jackson had cut out his oxygen mask and practically slammed it onto his face, just as the altitude dropped. He could feel the panic, the fire, the metal slicing into his tough skin...and then darkness. When he had awoke, he was dozens of feet underwater. Swimming lessons paying off, Jackson swam towards the nearest shore he could see, the salt water sealing up his cuts and awakening him to a life of Hell...or could it be paradise?

Other: None.