Uffizi Member
We Reap What
We Sow
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- Old Guild Username: Uffizi
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Most Recent Posts
Worth!
I'm vey interested in this. Hailstorm for some reason reminds me of a part in the movie "Heavy Metal." So count me in.
I'm great, drinking a cold one now. I was waiting for Wired to post, but if he doesn't by tomorrow expect one from me after a cup of coffee.
Great! How're you doing? I will follow the current turn order, but expect Icarai to travel north to Portland. I would expect Otto as well as he's an associate of mine. :)
The first three posts were amazing! I hope mine is at the right caliber as the rest of you!
The wind howled like a witch with cancer in her belly. It was the eerie reminder of what was prophesied; but it was only a minuscule reminder. In fact the armored beasts that marched with stunning precision, like ants swarming to war. These men, or beasts as they were portrayed, were of the deepest fathoms of man's fear, and the summit of his technology. They were enforcers, juggernauts, sentinels of doom. Civilians scattered like sheep fleeing a pack of wolves. The metal men, trying to retain a level of order among the chaos, abused their authority profoundly, beating innocents to a bloody, mangled pulp, a far worse fate than those popped in the grape execution style. People tried, oh they tried so futilely to retaliate against these metal men, but they were primitive and weak. A woman, blonde and fair skinned clawed at the menacing, emotionless face of her executioner; he responded by snapping her wrist with ease, peeling her arm back and countering with a heavy metal gauntlet to her sniffling, reddened face. She went limp and lifeless. A man lunged on the back of one, but was beaten profusely off, like a mosquito before it was able to draw blood. Everywhere chaos was trumped by "order" and it was gruesome indeed.
Sirens wailed suddenly, overpowering the wind and the screams and foul language of the surrounding area-- a metropolis city, in flames of course. Street lamps flickered, car security systems went off, gunshots echoed from every street. This was the rapture, the apocalypse, the end of days, and the armored men were the demons upon Earth. The civilians ran on, those escaping the heart of the city found refuge anyplace they could. A small group, a group of seven to be precise, all familiar with each other, perhaps even family, sought refuge in a church, a cathedral of ancient architecture. A muscled man, bald and bearded, pushed the great oaken doors open and bid his companions to enter quickly.
"Hurry up damnit! They'll be on our heels no doubt! They're large but fast as I e'err seen," the bearded man howled.
The bearded man was last to enter the cathedral, which was dimly lit by candlelight. The architecture was gothic and gave off a haunting emotion. A woman in the group, the furthest ahead, screamed hysterically. Acting on his instincts, the bearded man pushed his way through the other five individuals, smashing his hip on the foot of a marble statue of an angel wielding a sword. He winced in pain and shuffled forth to the side of the woman, the other five cautiously remained at the rear. The woman shuddered, goosebumps formed on her appendages; she was terrified. The entire place was dimly lit, but in the distance, near the altar, a small, orange glow seemed to hover in mid-air.
"Who's there!?" the bearded man yelled.
The orange glow moved just then, a cloud of bluish-grey crept down the steps to the altar, and dissipated to the cathedral ceiling. It moved downward at an angle, stopping momentarily until a small flame appeared-- a candle wick had been lit, barely revealing the mystery man, whom was obviously wielding a cigarette. Parallel to the first, a second candle was lit, revealing the altar and the sinister man leaning over it. He was a tall man, clean shaven, the sides of his head buzzed leaving neatly parted, greasy black hair on his cranium. His eyes, pools of dark blue, like the heart of a glacier stared forth menacingly at the group. A sinister sort of smile retained on his visage revealing his sharp canines. Crow's feet stretched from the corners of his eyes. His posture remained still, the cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger. A small laugh escaped his smile quickly amplifying in volume until it boomed over the sirens outside the cathedral. The mystery man slapped his free hand on the altar and leaned forward, pointing a long arm forth, the finger pointing accusingly at the group. The cigarette remained.
"You'll know me soon enough!" roared Icarai.
The sinister laugh continued as the puzzled expressions on the seven quickly turned to fear and panic as more than a dozen armor-clad figures stepped forth, wielding weapons of destruction. Automatic fire was released, Icarai still laughed as the muzzle flash illuminated the entire cathedral, six of the seven were mowed down instantly, the bearded man took only a single bullet to the arm, managed to escape the onslaught, pulling the oaken door open and stumbling outside-- to only a worse horror. In the distance an omnipotent glow ascended to the heavens, the bearded man shielded his eyes from the initial flash until it dimmed, a colossal mushroom cloud fattening rapidly towered like a deity behind the metropolis. Falling to his knees, tears poured down the cheeks of the man, defeat was in his heart. A wave of thermo-nuclear energy tore through the city, obliterating everything instantly, as it approached the man felt it's warmth, he felt it's brilliance. He quickly loved it. Until, a face appeared. A sneering face, a cigarette chomped down beneath sharp, pearly whites. The face of Icarai.
"You'll know me soon enough!" the face roared.
The bearded man screamed, his facial hair fizzled away first, then the eyes burned to dark coals, the face peeled back and melted into the nuclear wind. The man's face was gone, completely skeletal, almost ghoulish. This was the end. Maybe.
Salem, Oregon
8:15 A.M., Light Drizzle
October 20th, 2077
"Ouch! Fuck!" screamed Icarai, whom awoke unpleasantly from his slumber to a charred finger. He shouldn't have fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand again. The slender man threw off his blanket, rolled down to the floor and crawled to the table, squishing the filter and inch long ash into a green glass ashtray. He ran his fingers through his greasy black hair, and produced a comb from his pocket, forming it back to how it was before he rested. Icarai stood to his feet, his knees popping as he rose, and he grunted accordingly.
"The whole fuckin' worlds goin' to hell, and me right along with it."
Icarai was 41, and has been haunted by apocalyptic nightmares longer than he can remember. Such a thing could drive a man crazy don't ya think? Anyways, this along with his past, made Icarai a mean, evil son of a bitch; but he was no fool, and wasn't a murderous barbarian. He was clever, and will climb whichever ladder to the top he could, even if it was a mountain of corpses. Power, tyranny, control. These were Icarai Hawthorne's virtues.
He moved to the corner of his room, in a small, inconspicuous motel on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon. A perfect hideout. In said corner, on a small desk were his belongings. Clothes, wallet, and a golden necklace with more history than you could imagine. All were quickly equipped and a cigarette was quickly placed in the lips of the man. In the next room over was an associate of Icarai, a Mr. Otto Sommer, a beast of a man with a short fuse-- easily manipulated by Icarai. He had no ill intentions for the man, in fact he quite liked him and his barbaric ways. The brute would and has so far proved useful to the slender, cigarette-smoking man known as Icarai.
The shades to the small room were parted, gazing out into the dawn and to a Chevrolet 1500 pick-up, black in color with chrome sidebars and rims. A muscled arm hung from the window, resting on the driver's side. Otto Sommer was prepared to depart, wherever his boss, Icarai demanded.
Sirens wailed suddenly, overpowering the wind and the screams and foul language of the surrounding area-- a metropolis city, in flames of course. Street lamps flickered, car security systems went off, gunshots echoed from every street. This was the rapture, the apocalypse, the end of days, and the armored men were the demons upon Earth. The civilians ran on, those escaping the heart of the city found refuge anyplace they could. A small group, a group of seven to be precise, all familiar with each other, perhaps even family, sought refuge in a church, a cathedral of ancient architecture. A muscled man, bald and bearded, pushed the great oaken doors open and bid his companions to enter quickly.
"Hurry up damnit! They'll be on our heels no doubt! They're large but fast as I e'err seen," the bearded man howled.
The bearded man was last to enter the cathedral, which was dimly lit by candlelight. The architecture was gothic and gave off a haunting emotion. A woman in the group, the furthest ahead, screamed hysterically. Acting on his instincts, the bearded man pushed his way through the other five individuals, smashing his hip on the foot of a marble statue of an angel wielding a sword. He winced in pain and shuffled forth to the side of the woman, the other five cautiously remained at the rear. The woman shuddered, goosebumps formed on her appendages; she was terrified. The entire place was dimly lit, but in the distance, near the altar, a small, orange glow seemed to hover in mid-air.
"Who's there!?" the bearded man yelled.
The orange glow moved just then, a cloud of bluish-grey crept down the steps to the altar, and dissipated to the cathedral ceiling. It moved downward at an angle, stopping momentarily until a small flame appeared-- a candle wick had been lit, barely revealing the mystery man, whom was obviously wielding a cigarette. Parallel to the first, a second candle was lit, revealing the altar and the sinister man leaning over it. He was a tall man, clean shaven, the sides of his head buzzed leaving neatly parted, greasy black hair on his cranium. His eyes, pools of dark blue, like the heart of a glacier stared forth menacingly at the group. A sinister sort of smile retained on his visage revealing his sharp canines. Crow's feet stretched from the corners of his eyes. His posture remained still, the cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger. A small laugh escaped his smile quickly amplifying in volume until it boomed over the sirens outside the cathedral. The mystery man slapped his free hand on the altar and leaned forward, pointing a long arm forth, the finger pointing accusingly at the group. The cigarette remained.
"You'll know me soon enough!" roared Icarai.
The sinister laugh continued as the puzzled expressions on the seven quickly turned to fear and panic as more than a dozen armor-clad figures stepped forth, wielding weapons of destruction. Automatic fire was released, Icarai still laughed as the muzzle flash illuminated the entire cathedral, six of the seven were mowed down instantly, the bearded man took only a single bullet to the arm, managed to escape the onslaught, pulling the oaken door open and stumbling outside-- to only a worse horror. In the distance an omnipotent glow ascended to the heavens, the bearded man shielded his eyes from the initial flash until it dimmed, a colossal mushroom cloud fattening rapidly towered like a deity behind the metropolis. Falling to his knees, tears poured down the cheeks of the man, defeat was in his heart. A wave of thermo-nuclear energy tore through the city, obliterating everything instantly, as it approached the man felt it's warmth, he felt it's brilliance. He quickly loved it. Until, a face appeared. A sneering face, a cigarette chomped down beneath sharp, pearly whites. The face of Icarai.
"You'll know me soon enough!" the face roared.
The bearded man screamed, his facial hair fizzled away first, then the eyes burned to dark coals, the face peeled back and melted into the nuclear wind. The man's face was gone, completely skeletal, almost ghoulish. This was the end. Maybe.
"Ouch! Fuck!" screamed Icarai, whom awoke unpleasantly from his slumber to a charred finger. He shouldn't have fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand again. The slender man threw off his blanket, rolled down to the floor and crawled to the table, squishing the filter and inch long ash into a green glass ashtray. He ran his fingers through his greasy black hair, and produced a comb from his pocket, forming it back to how it was before he rested. Icarai stood to his feet, his knees popping as he rose, and he grunted accordingly.
"The whole fuckin' worlds goin' to hell, and me right along with it."
Icarai was 41, and has been haunted by apocalyptic nightmares longer than he can remember. Such a thing could drive a man crazy don't ya think? Anyways, this along with his past, made Icarai a mean, evil son of a bitch; but he was no fool, and wasn't a murderous barbarian. He was clever, and will climb whichever ladder to the top he could, even if it was a mountain of corpses. Power, tyranny, control. These were Icarai Hawthorne's virtues.
He moved to the corner of his room, in a small, inconspicuous motel on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon. A perfect hideout. In said corner, on a small desk were his belongings. Clothes, wallet, and a golden necklace with more history than you could imagine. All were quickly equipped and a cigarette was quickly placed in the lips of the man. In the next room over was an associate of Icarai, a Mr. Otto Sommer, a beast of a man with a short fuse-- easily manipulated by Icarai. He had no ill intentions for the man, in fact he quite liked him and his barbaric ways. The brute would and has so far proved useful to the slender, cigarette-smoking man known as Icarai.
The shades to the small room were parted, gazing out into the dawn and to a Chevrolet 1500 pick-up, black in color with chrome sidebars and rims. A muscled arm hung from the window, resting on the driver's side. Otto Sommer was prepared to depart, wherever his boss, Icarai demanded.
What about cigarettes? Hopefully they are plentiful..everywhere.
I agree, the sense of might and power early on can possibly be a great irony later on! Which will only add to the flavor of the story, which is the most important thing in my opinion. Every character is unique in their own way and I'm very interested to see which alliances, enemies, and deceptions form.
Indeed.
Name: Icarai Quinn Hawthorne
Date of Birth: 09-12-2036
Physical Description: Icarai is a tall, slender man. His hair is jet black, combed and parted neatly to the right--and the sides are buzzed. He has piercing blue eyes, which exude intelligence. The face of the man is clean-shaven and a pine-scented cologne is usually lingering about him. A golden necklace dangles from his neck, resting upon his tanned skin, which is revealed with an unbuttoned long-sleeve white dress shirt. Said dress shirt is tucked neatly underneath black dress slacks and black dress belt.
Pearly whites gleam when Icarai smiles, which he nearly always does. His canines are sharp, and often are intimidating. Crow's feet stretch from the corner of his piercing eyes. His cheek bones are high and set upon an angular jawline. Beneath his clothing, he is adorned with various tattoos. "Redemption" is displayed beneath his collar bone, on his taut pectorals. On the right shoulder, down the length of his bicep and tricep, stopping at the elbow, is a half-sleeve depicting a battle between angels and demons. A crescent moon over a dark forest is artistically placed on his left bicep. "LIVE" is inked across his right knuckles; it is the only visible tattoo besides: "Redemption"-- if the shirt is unbuttoned further.
Profession: Gambler, convict, gangster, thug, goon, thief.
Background: Born September 12th, 2036, Icarai was raised in the suburbs of Detroit, MI, where he often found himself in trouble with the law and street gangs. He was a skilled pickpocket and often was clobbered when caught; which trained him to not get caught. At the age of 10 he moved to Las Vegas, NV to live with his uncle Sully, after his widowed mother overdosed on prescription drugs. Uncle Sully was a notorious pool shark, gambler, hustler, playboy, and whatever else put a bad taste in your mouth, THAT was Sully. He also became a quick mentor to Icarai, whom adapted the Las Vegas live style rather quickly.
In 2050, a world-wide energy crisis had stricken the planet--but the neons were kept lit in Vegas. Murder, prostitution, and illegal gambling were at an all-time high. Icarai was 14 years of age when he killed his first man. A game of pool had turned for the worst in a hole-in-the-wall bar on the south end of town, resulting in uncle Sully's brains being beat from his head by a group of three Italian thugs. Sully managed to hold his own with the men, knocking one out cold and fending the other two off with a pool stick, until they finally pounced and overpowered him, a portly man whom obviously enjoyed his pasta too much brought his size twelve down several times on Sully's temple. Icarai, infuriated, charged the two men whom had their back unguarded. A pool stick was snapped on the back of the second man's head, laying him low next to the corpse of Sully. The portly man howled in agony as a shard of the pool stick penetrated his right side, sinking deep and puncturing his liver. He bled to death rather quickly. Icarai tore a golden chain from Sully's neck whilst looking away at his uncle's horrid expression.
Icarai then fled the bar through a cob-webbed corridor behind the DJ stand, and onto the back streets of Vegas. A mob of patrons attempted to pursue him, but were quickly distanced by the swift teen. The teen then visited uncle Sully's apartment, quickly packing his things and a few of Sully's as well, (including some cigarettes.) He bolted then, quick as his legs would allow, a classical CCR song blasting in his mind as fear and adrenaline (and perhaps unseen forces) carried him into the desert..
(I thoroughly enjoy revealing my character's history, but I enjoy doing so as I post, giving bits and pieces as I go to further acquaint the reader with the individual.)
Personality: Icarai is a calm and collected individual. He enjoys smoking a cigarette and is always seen with one dangling from his lips. An aura of professionalism and experience radiates from his tall, slender form. Grinning always, Icarai is in fact a menacing man. Evil personified. A betrayer, Icarai gambles with emotions much like his profession, gloating over woe and misfortune. He is a business man however, and always has a deal to strike, typically to only sate his lust for greed and power. He is an interloper, and perhaps not a man at all?
SPECIAL:
Strength 3
Perception 4
Endurance 4
Charisma 7
Intellligence 7
Agility 5
Luck 10
Date of Birth: 09-12-2036
Physical Description: Icarai is a tall, slender man. His hair is jet black, combed and parted neatly to the right--and the sides are buzzed. He has piercing blue eyes, which exude intelligence. The face of the man is clean-shaven and a pine-scented cologne is usually lingering about him. A golden necklace dangles from his neck, resting upon his tanned skin, which is revealed with an unbuttoned long-sleeve white dress shirt. Said dress shirt is tucked neatly underneath black dress slacks and black dress belt.
Pearly whites gleam when Icarai smiles, which he nearly always does. His canines are sharp, and often are intimidating. Crow's feet stretch from the corner of his piercing eyes. His cheek bones are high and set upon an angular jawline. Beneath his clothing, he is adorned with various tattoos. "Redemption" is displayed beneath his collar bone, on his taut pectorals. On the right shoulder, down the length of his bicep and tricep, stopping at the elbow, is a half-sleeve depicting a battle between angels and demons. A crescent moon over a dark forest is artistically placed on his left bicep. "LIVE" is inked across his right knuckles; it is the only visible tattoo besides: "Redemption"-- if the shirt is unbuttoned further.
Profession: Gambler, convict, gangster, thug, goon, thief.
Background: Born September 12th, 2036, Icarai was raised in the suburbs of Detroit, MI, where he often found himself in trouble with the law and street gangs. He was a skilled pickpocket and often was clobbered when caught; which trained him to not get caught. At the age of 10 he moved to Las Vegas, NV to live with his uncle Sully, after his widowed mother overdosed on prescription drugs. Uncle Sully was a notorious pool shark, gambler, hustler, playboy, and whatever else put a bad taste in your mouth, THAT was Sully. He also became a quick mentor to Icarai, whom adapted the Las Vegas live style rather quickly.
In 2050, a world-wide energy crisis had stricken the planet--but the neons were kept lit in Vegas. Murder, prostitution, and illegal gambling were at an all-time high. Icarai was 14 years of age when he killed his first man. A game of pool had turned for the worst in a hole-in-the-wall bar on the south end of town, resulting in uncle Sully's brains being beat from his head by a group of three Italian thugs. Sully managed to hold his own with the men, knocking one out cold and fending the other two off with a pool stick, until they finally pounced and overpowered him, a portly man whom obviously enjoyed his pasta too much brought his size twelve down several times on Sully's temple. Icarai, infuriated, charged the two men whom had their back unguarded. A pool stick was snapped on the back of the second man's head, laying him low next to the corpse of Sully. The portly man howled in agony as a shard of the pool stick penetrated his right side, sinking deep and puncturing his liver. He bled to death rather quickly. Icarai tore a golden chain from Sully's neck whilst looking away at his uncle's horrid expression.
Icarai then fled the bar through a cob-webbed corridor behind the DJ stand, and onto the back streets of Vegas. A mob of patrons attempted to pursue him, but were quickly distanced by the swift teen. The teen then visited uncle Sully's apartment, quickly packing his things and a few of Sully's as well, (including some cigarettes.) He bolted then, quick as his legs would allow, a classical CCR song blasting in his mind as fear and adrenaline (and perhaps unseen forces) carried him into the desert..
(I thoroughly enjoy revealing my character's history, but I enjoy doing so as I post, giving bits and pieces as I go to further acquaint the reader with the individual.)
Personality: Icarai is a calm and collected individual. He enjoys smoking a cigarette and is always seen with one dangling from his lips. An aura of professionalism and experience radiates from his tall, slender form. Grinning always, Icarai is in fact a menacing man. Evil personified. A betrayer, Icarai gambles with emotions much like his profession, gloating over woe and misfortune. He is a business man however, and always has a deal to strike, typically to only sate his lust for greed and power. He is an interloper, and perhaps not a man at all?
SPECIAL:
Strength 3
Perception 4
Endurance 4
Charisma 7
Intellligence 7
Agility 5
Luck 10
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