Turbowraith

Revenant: A Sci-Fi Adventure (Always Accepting!)

Hey people, the banana man made me aware of this RP, and boy is it cool. Is there any way I can fit the dude below in the party? Also, if the CS is accepted, I'd very much appreciate any thoughts on how he could join with the rest of the crew.

A Pissed off Grease Monkey

Name: Joe Gore



Age/Race/Gender: 25/Human/Male

Appearance: Gore is a somewhat athletic, lean man with messy brown hair combed backwards. A constant bitter scowl is etched on his usually unshaven face, and his attire is nothing but fitting. He is commonly seen wearing simple jeans, engineer boots and a wife-beater shirt.

Occupation: Mechanic/Weapons Expert, Ex(?) Convict

Weapons:

Yolanda: The mother of all pump-action shotguns, this Siegebreaker model has been tuned, being able to fire the dreaded and highly illegal Hailburst shells, a type of short-range, high-spread buckshot with enough stopping power to blow holes through walls. It can still fire normal rounds, however, though due to being stockless, loading it with Hailburst makes it almost unusable without the G-85.

Sheila: A slightly modified Argus-5, it is a surprisingly reliable and accurate machine pistol, and gains in straight shooting and high caliber what it lacks in size. Joe primarily uses it for medium distances, and with the addition of an extended magazine, it is a great tool for urban combat.

Buster: A wrench of great size, too big to fit into Gore's toolbox. Good for unscrewing nuts, bolts, and the brains of whomever's dumb enough to come too close.

Armor: None at the moment, but Gore claims he's "Workin' on something big."

Items:

G-85 Exoskeleton: A customized model that has stood the test of time, this exoskeleton is a structure comprised of thin CarboSteel bars and miniature servos sharing a common Triforbium power cell located at the upper back, it stretches throughout the torso and limbs, even sporting intricate hand and foot parts to increase grip strength, stability and integrity, and allows about seven hours of continuous usage before needing to recharge. A wonderful piece of equipment for operating heavy machinery and similar tasks, not only does it significantly increase the full-body strength of its' user, but also dramatically improves endurance. It also features clip-on safeties for safely carrying equipment, and folds into the size of a backpack for easy transport, despite its' somewhat uncomfortable weight.

Randyne Toolbox: A sturdy box containing all of Gore's tools of the trade. Once opened, it unfolds for easy access. A simple nylex belt came free of charge, and it's surprisingly handy.

Welder's Joy mkII Sunglasses: A pair of bad-ass sunglasses mimicking century-old designs, their lenses are subtly curved in such a way that they protect the user's eyes from shrapnel due to fibermesh lenses and a titanite skeleton. This model was popularized in Joe's parts due to having a miniaturized, crude Powered field generator that deflected intense light. If you know what's good for you, don't remind that to him.

Skills: Before going haywire, Gore used to be an engineer and weaponsmith, and rather talented at that. He could re-route a Hypercharge Generator of a class B frigate and still make guns capable of blowing holes through a Kargul skull. The only catch? He's a bit, uh, traditional. He absolutely despises laser and Powered tech, preferring "good ol' steel and grease" over more elegant devices. That being said, provided he knows (and has tampered with) the inner workings of most pieces of tech, he can use them to quite satisfactory results. When dealing with gear that he himself has customized to his specifications, he can work wonders, weapons obviously included. His combat abilities are not to be underestimated either. Although untrained, living in the tough side of the galaxy has given him knowledge on how to hold his own in all sorts of fights, primarily relying on low blows and his quick reflexes.

Powers: N/A

Other: Constantly reeks of alcohol.

Busting Out of this Fresh Hell

I straight-up added Grog to the Character Tab just because.

Busting Out of this Fresh Hell

The Wrecker

Grog Lawson

Hider

Appearance: A wiry, yet sturdily built young chap, Grog prefers to cover himself in numerous articles of protective clothing, such as reinforced leather, goggles and even a few hints of chainmail. Behind his makeshift mask and anachronistic helmet, there lies the face of a twenty-something year old man, with almost shoulder-length messy brown hair, a somewhat handsome, angular visage and an ever-present stubble. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and glisten distinctively in stronger than average lighting.

Sex: Seldom.

Personality: Grog is the human personification of "Hold my beer dude, I got this." Hot-headed, completely chaotic and boisterous to boot, he's the type of guy who'd shoot himself in the foot on a dare, and then pistol-whip the doctor for trying to sedate him, then somehow mix the various available sedatives into a cocktail powerful enough to send a blue whale home trippin' balls while also acting as a potent fire-bomb if ignited properly. To add further figurative dynamite to the figurative pile, a hair-trigger temper is only matched by his inquisitive nature and love of booze, effectively making him a disaster with legs.

Greatest Sin: Wrath. Two words: Unrestrained and violent.

Also bar fights.

Motivation: "Escort a portal making demon so she can open up one of those bad boys to god knows where? That'd fucking rule."

Biography: "Honestly, I've got nothing to say. I had my fun. I did anything I wanted to do. I only wish I died with more style. You know, getting hit by a truck hurts like a bitch."

That pretty much sums our short-tempered, strong-livered modern day adventurer's story. In life, he was a virtually jobless part-time delinquent, living off petty theft, mainly by blowing up the showcases of chain stores and running off overloaded with stuff in the middle of the night, or by snatching their cash registers in broad daylight and hoping nobody caught up to him. What little earnings he had, he mainly spent in booze, pizza, and materials for more homemade death traps.

Overall, his hobbies mainly consisted of raising as much hell as humanly possible. They included: Previously mentioned cases of theft, public intoxication, loitering, vandalism, disorderly conduct, assault, battery, numerous attempts to pimp farm animals, unlawful possession of weapons and improvised explosive devices, construction of said devices, dumpster arson, jaywalking, uncountable barfights and a hell of a lot more nasty things. It is worthy to note, that even though he was extremely disruptive, Grog displayed an unhinged version of fairness (that was often subject to change), preventing him from lapsing into a full-on psychotic.

Despite his bad habits, Grog had only spent a few months total in prison, due to somehow always evading capture. Eventually, though, his recklessness caught up to him, and he ended up mangled in the sidewalk, after an attempt to outrun a few officers by charging head first into high-speed traffic.

Once he awoke in Hell, Grog was, to say the least, excited. A chance to have a blast and carry on boozing for all of eternity? So what if it had a few pesky demons and nightmarish creatures? It seemed like a pretty sweet deal. And so he went, his vile, bar-hopping, face-beating campaign continuing to this day.

Skills:

Hold My Beer: Grog's most formidable trait is his ability to constantly innovate in unconventional (and dangerously idiotic) ways. He knows enough about subjects such as engineering, science and the occult to create extremely hazardous and utterly bizarre inventions. Furthermore, even though his long-term planning skills are poor at best, he can improvise mind-boggling "strategies" on the spot to counter pressing problems.

Fist of the Barfighter: A life spent in blowing things up and consuming copious amounts of booze has left Grog with the ability to hold his own in a fight exceptionally well. He is an unpredictable and highly formidable combatant, relying on his quick wits, impulsive nature and overwhelming fury, as well as the element of surprise (that he himself is not immune to) to bring down his foes (as well as everything else in the vicinity, himself included).

Battle Brew: Perhaps an echo of his habits in the mortal realm, Grog has the uncanny ability to gain almost supernatural strength and toughness proportionate to the booze he consumes, at the measly cost of mental stability. As if he had enough to begin with.

Weaponized Driving: If you want to go somewhere in a jiffy, and you've got a nasty pack of goons on your trail, Grog is your guy. He's an inhumanly good driver, able to perform crazy stunts and maneuvers other road warriors would never think of attempting. There's one teeny-tiny catch, however. He's quite possibly just as dangerous a driver as he is a fearless one, and chances are, it'd be better for everyone involved if Grog remained far, far away from the steering wheel.

Spell List

None yet, but he's bound to concoct something disastrous eventually.

Gear:

Power Pint: A slightly oversized, enchanted wooden pint stolen by Grog during a night that he can't remember anything about, it has the ability to fill itself with a variety of beverages. It also appears to be indestructible.

Cargo Belt: A belt with numerous pouches full of stuff. They act as an efficient way for Grog to store knickknacks and tricks.

The Beatstick: A metallic baseball bat with nails and rusted barbed wire welded on it.

Theme Song: Kids, don't use beer bottles for improvised incendiaries.

Other: "If I don't know what the hell I'm doing, then my enemies won't expect my moves!"
-The motto Grog lives by (and embodies).

Busting Out of this Fresh Hell

Ayyyy guess who hasn't left the building.

Hellscapers! [PRETTY MUCH ALWAYS ACCEPTING EXCEPT WHEN WE HAVE TEN PEOPLE (WE DON'T)!]

Grog's head dangled aimlessly as Deprave carried him into the sickest fucking RV he had seen in his entire goddamn life. The Mayan dropped him with minimal caution, as expected, just as he had entered the surprisingly spacious, and fancy, interior. The vandal fell with an audible flop, and his first thought was, obviously, to crawl towards the kitchen immediately after the strange rabbit-demon informed the lot of what was inside. Jesus, though. Rabbit-girls? Why would a demon fall so low? Before dying, Grog always thought that hell was full of those goat-legged, red skinned humanoids with an insatiable appetite for violence, not some reclusive high-schooler's questionable fantasies with oddly clean motor homes.

Having finally reached the kitchen after a heroic effort, he somehow climbed onto a chair before slowly sliding across the room at small bursts, grabbing onto every available surface and somewhat messing up the neatly organized kitchen in the meantime, he reached his intended destination. He opened the fridge in one abrupt motion, basking in its' golden light and artificially chill gusts of wind.

A few moments later, the masked vandal shouted, in hopes of the rabbit chick hearing him.

"Hey Bugs. If we can somehow unburn my crotch, I could drive this thing like nobody's business."

A Cosmic Disturbance (Oraculum et Turbowraith)

We who found it are just men. Not gods. Not giants. Just men.

A tuft of hair began to poke into one of her eyeballs again. She should get to trimming them, eventually. But they were just the right amount of pointy. What to do, what to do. Jo was facing quite a dilemma. She made an attempt to get off of her bed and clear her head. Nada. Too tired from the night before, and a tad too hungover as well. The aimless bouncing that resulted from her futile attempts at getting up was enough for her to give up all efforts on being the least bit productive this day. Or evening. Instead, she stretched her limbs, a pleasant sensation that almost made her forget the complete glitch of an ailment that was the booze-flu, and remained in a position that kind of looked like crucifixion. Arms stretched to the sides, expression of profound agony and all. Fumbling about on her covers, and making involuntary snow angels while she was at it, she recalled fragments of previously transpired events with a mixture of amusement and "oh fuck why".

The bruises weren't helping her relax either. With each small movement, stinging pains coursed through her low back and arms. A fight? Who knew. Her stomach wasn't bothering her that much though, but it was bound to once she decided to lay gut-down. Boy, she was a mess alright. Miraculously enough, the sudden realization that not even staying in bed could help, became the jolt needed to raise her from the ever-so comfy black hole. Rolling and practically falling out of her bed, she quickly gathered herself and adjusted her tank top with jittery motions. Scanning around an elegantly messy room, she retrieved a military-style jacket with a white, fuzzy collar and hastily put it on as she left her bedroom. She loved that goddamn jacket so much, by the way. It had a savage-meets-action hero sort of feel to it that just clicked with her on a spiritual level. Passing from a cramped kitchen, she downed a few good gulps of coffee (brewed in god-knows-when b.C.) straight from the pot, before unlocking a shoddy door and pausing for a moment to smell the fresh air.

By the time she reached Phil's Phantaseum, the sky had began to darken in color, and clouds amassed above the town. Despite feeling like hell, she was not below enjoying the pleasant sensation of a winter's Friday afternoon. The streets were somewhat empty, somewhat sleepy, with the few remaining drivers probably returning to a warm home from their nine-to fives. Days like these, the town seemed like it was readying for bed. It was oddly charming, and Jo was glad she was instead awake. The crisp air was doing its' job well, and she was already feeling more, well, not energetic, but functional. Jo pressed her hands and face against a glass door that was, just like most of the shop's display, covered from the inside, with colorful posters of obscure decade-old movies and games to a ridiculous degree, and forming a fist, bashed against it several times with zombielike repetitiveness, threatening its' already questionable integrity.

"Hey. Hey, Phil. Open up."

Silence. She bashed it again, harder, and finally a fierce voice replied, muffled by the distance and perhaps a closed door.

"Who is it? We're closed goddammit!"

"It's your girlfriend, Phil. I'm here to rescue you from a life of crippling loneliness and tentacle p-"

A continuous whumping sound grew louder as the store's owner drew closer, presumably knocking down all sorts of shit in the process. A somewhat plump, bearded face with rosy cheeks greeted her behind a half-opened door.

"Hey! What's up Jaws! -Jesus Christ, you look like shit. Ya sick or something?"

"Worse." Jo blurted out with disgust. "Hungover."

"At it again, huh? Well, come on in, I've got just the thing for that."

The door's hinges let loose a soft, drawn-out screech as the chubby man opened it all the way. He shortly retrieved a small remote and lowered a revolving steel door that slowly began to cover the display as his guest headed for the usual room in the back before looking around for anything new. The Phantaseum's interior was perhaps messier than its' exterior image, with shelves and tables full of mismatched game cases, comic books, action figures, other memorabilia and even VHS tapes. Despite being somewhat roomy, the sheer amount of stuff within, the walls covered with more posters than the glass panes and perhaps that one Slayhammer panorama in the middle made the space feel smaller than what it actually was, though not claustrophobic. Rather, the atmosphere more closely resembled that of an oversized pillow fort.

Having settled in the dimly-lit back room, an even smaller space containing nothing notable other than two couches, an aged television, a coffee table, a laptop and a great stack of cardboard boxes, the two friends finally began catching up. It had been a while, after all. Pushing aside a couple of pillows and blankets, that signified the back room also served as a crude living space, Phil reached out and gave a hearty pat on Jo’s shoulder.

“So, how you been, J-”

“Ah, shit! Don’t touch me there, I think it’s bruised.”

“That good, huh? So, ya managed to do anything with the job thing?”

Jo only responded with staring at the concerned burly man, and, shuffling on her seat, uttered a disheartened “Nah.”

“Aw, fuck dude. I wish I could give you something to do here, but I’m barely scraping by as it is-”

“It’s alright, Phil, I know.”
“Y’know I’d literally have nothing to-”

“Fuck, man it’s fine!”

Jo raised her hands in frustration, followed by a short chuckle.

“Alright, alright. Anyways, I may have something to, uh, help with your pain.”, Phil commented, a sly grin forming on his face. She immediately responded, more surprised than anything.

“Jesus, man, I’ve only been here for, like, five minutes.”

Phil simply stared back at her, immobile, the same grin etched on his face.

“Fine.”

Soon enough, the room was filled with smoke, the last rays of the sun carving parallel lines from a small, half-closed windows’ shutters, the former placed near the ceiling. Even though she did not admit it, this whole thing was exactly what she needed. Not just the stash, though it was most certainly a nice bonus, but a simple, laid-back good time with an old friend. They laughed like mad, they caught up, Phil shared his recent love life disasters, Jo made fun of them. And just when they were halfway through some nonsensical Webm clip, Jo felt a large, genuine smile forming on her face. She ran her hand through the thick cloud wafting gently through the room, and for the first time in a while, she had an almost crystal-clear thought.

And at the same time, in some faraway corner of the cosmic spheres, another being, sitting upon an impossibly massive throne, made the exact same motion. The entity's’ hand, clad in gleaming golden armor, clawed through the Mists of Scrying, and surprisingly enough, it observed the unfolding scene with great fascination.

Kill the Heroes! (Sorry, we're full for now)

Just letting you folks know, I'm still here! Obviously waiting for the rest to post.

Legend of the Silver Legion (A Fantasy RP)

Hey guys, I was recently made aware of this RP by Oraculum's cryptic whispers, but as I see, it's kinda full. Said ghastly presence informed me that it may be possible for a player to join with a nomadic force or a refugee wave. Is that still a thing?

Hellscapers! [PRETTY MUCH ALWAYS ACCEPTING EXCEPT WHEN WE HAVE TEN PEOPLE (WE DON'T)!]

Fucksville's a hell of a drug. When it's not amplifying your aggression and rage tenfold, you're left with a world in slow motion and one hell of a high. As Grog dangled limply from the Mayancatec's shoulder, he casually examined his surroundings, since he had nothing better to do, and, well. It was sort of amusing seeing all of these emaciated and generally battered prisoners rioting. Grog really hoped they'd just start beating each other senseless, but alas, that was not the case. Deprave had began to rally the inmates, and started going on about conquering Earth and similar things. Well, he had pretty much all the aspects of a super-villain, so it made sense, despite being a totally dick move. As Grog's eyes darted around the gathering team, from the ambiguously psycho spirit, to the poor Mushroom crab who had the mother of all booboos, the kneeling Jon with the kid by his side caught his attention. Higher than a kite, all he could do was let loose a lazy giggle. He perked up as much as he could, made a finger-gun pointed at the visibly distressed knight, and twisted his head in a sort of upright manner, which definitely did not seem good for the spine.

"Eeey, Jon. Lookin' good man!"

He immediately fell limp once again, his half-masked face slightly bouncing against Deprave's back. Grog's only remaining thought was rather simplistic. He should have a nice pint of beer. With that out of the way, he began giggling between gulps, that he somehow managed to down with the aid of a crumpled pink straw kept in his pocket, and narrowed his eyes, absolutely certain that he had forgotten something important.

Hellscapers! [PRETTY MUCH ALWAYS ACCEPTING EXCEPT WHEN WE HAVE TEN PEOPLE (WE DON'T)!]

...Yeah, Grog's fancy trick didn't really work out. He had time for five? Maybe six shots? Before falling face-first on the cold, hard concrete floor, breaking his nose as he landed. Fuming with a junkie's fury, he began to half-skitter in an attempt to turn belly-side-up, in order to at least have some sort of clear shot against the-

Oh, wait. He's dead. Goody. Aztec dude shoved his big rock-sword-thing straight in Head Honcho's skull. In an instant, the majority of frothing fury and adrenaline that had been accumulated inside Grog suddenly vanished, leaving behind a heavily injured idiot, drunk and high out of his mind, but still somewhat pissed off.

"Alright, gentlemen. That's a wrap. That was pretty brutal, Pravey. Yay, woo-hoo, great success and so forth. Now, can someone please get me the fuck out of here? I think my legs are broke."