Zero Hex

A.I. am Human (Cyborg 009 remake)

we'll start short and having some of them already taken by Adam feels very much wrong.

@DrewVonAwesome

Well the other Cyborgs could just be not answering the call, whether because they're unwilling to give up a normal life or simply busy with other things we don't even need to know, this way you don't take up one of the nine slots in case other players come in and you can keep it a mystery whether the other cyborgs were already consumed. The story setup does say that usually they only gathered a few at a time and that there's been plenty of other threats across the years.

A.I. am Human (Cyborg 009 remake)

So, are we waiting till we get all nine cyborgs?

A.I. am Human (Cyborg 009 remake)

Tentative interest yo. By the way, given the story you set up, that means one could arguably play a human in a powered suit of armor or otherwise integrated to cybernetics less advanced than those of the Cyborgs, doesn't it? Not planning to if the Cyborg slots don't fill up but it's something to keep in mind.

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

Intermediate Powerhouse Tier+. Actual strength is about Intermediate Low and he lacks mass property damage features, but his skills make him far more dangerous, particularly in 1v1s, and his ability to harm most anything lets him punch up in class.

The Pale Count

Supervillain Name: The Pale Count of Nothing, Knight of the Bloody Rose, Eminence of Blades and Slayer of the Nightmaster (Nightslayer, if you will). Take your pick.
Civilian Name: Dorian Cornelius Timar-von Jelek. Or just Dorian von Jelek.
Origin city/Planet: Doomed and dead Vlatava bordering Hungary, family fled to Germany first then England
Hometown: Nomadic, has a few safe-houses and other properties spread about, family manor in St Albans, Hertfordshire, north of London
Sex: Male
Race: Human?
Height: Six feet one
Weight: 195 pounds or so
Age: 66

--------

Appearance:

Why yes, he does bear something of a resemblance to a certain british musician.

The Pale Count makes no attempt to hide his identity. A reasonably tall and athletically thin man with sharp, attractive features and impossibly well groomed milky white hair, he typically dresses in a simple but impeccable white dress shirt and black trousers with matching waistcoat, dress shoes and tie. Completing the outfit is a black trenchcoat and pitch black teashades to hide his red and deadened eyes, along with the occasional pair of black gloves, wide-brimmed hat and a small, preserved red rose for a lapel pin. And speaking of roses, when he is without clothing it’s impossible to miss the distinctive marking of a rose in red on his left breast, seemingly carved on the flesh first and inked after.

Icon:


Civilian Occupation: Rich person, vice enabler
Personality:
The Count is an educated, smooth talking rogue, an always calm and self assured daredevil with an oftentimes melancholic and world-weary air, though also given to an occasional penchant for dramatization and grandstanding as well as bouts of great passion. Known to enthusiastically partake in the many pleasures life has to offer, he can come across as a pompous hedonist at his worst but holds himself to extremely high standards. Noblesse oblige, as it were. A very active, adventurous man who would much rather do things himself than delegate, he is dedicated in his pursuits and even has something of a personal code, finding deceit and treachery rather beneath him and holding his word and honor to a very high value.

Having said all of this, the man is still an unrepentant villain, a cold blooded blackguard who sees no problem with wronging others and puts himself above all else. The Nightslayer opposes the forces of order simply because it is an adventure and a personal test, somewhere he can get his thrills in a life that grows increasingly dull, and his ultimate thrill is to risk his life against someone else’s. Particularly with blades, of course. Seeing bloodshed as a deeply personal, elegant art and especially when faced with worthy adversaries, for this reason Dorian is against wanton carnage or systematic extermination, seeing them as dull and impersonal corruptions of his craft.

Super abilities:
Powers:
-Mark of the Rose: Many years ago The Pale Count was marked by the Spirit of Murder, an independent aspect of the cosmic force of Death known as The Black or The Rot, and granted her boon in the shape of her rose sigil at the cost of dead eyes and skin cold and white as snow. The source of his exceptional prowess, or rather what allowed him to transcend all human reason and limits to achieve this prowess for himself, the Mark also gives Dorian a supernatural gift when it comes to inflicting harm to and ending the lives of all manner of beings, allowing him to seriously threaten adversaries that might otherwise be well above a man with a sharp piece of metal. And while blades are his preference and where his talents most shine, other means will also do should push come to shove.

-Eldritch vitality: It bears saying right now, The Pale Count is literally, legitimately blind and has been for a long time. However, one does not come to be known as The Eminence of Blades if one is truly handicapped, and his lack of eyesight does little to hinder him. Free of the limitations imposed upon humanity thanks to the Mark of the Rose, Dorian is a finely honed killing machine as of yet unburdened by age, ahead of even the most skilled “street powerhouses” in ways should not be possible for a mere man.

Though he isn’t as physically strong as those (in his powerscale) who dedicate themselves to muscle, there is a surprising unnatural power to his wiry frame, and as a fencer his other attributes come to the fore. While not quite a speedster, The Nightslayer’s speed, agility, flexibility, reflexes, precision and coordination are staggering, allowing him to perform feats such as deflecting barrages from lethal marksmen, throwing a knife faster than a room of people can follow, moving in bursts of clear superspeed, leaping through the air in defiance of gravity and easily outmaneuvering world class fighters lacking his gifts.

Outstandingly tough, he can be struck and sometimes stunned and be made to bleed, yes, but it seems to take far more effort than it should. The Count can continue performing efficiently even when severely injured, lives with horrendous pains like most can live with mild discomforts and doesn’t appear to tire unless severely pressed and harmed. Though not a regenerator per se, wounds that would fell lesser men fail to do the trick on him, disease and toxins and the like appear to take little to no hold in him, and he can often grit his teeth and survive until he can receive medical aid and return soon and well.

-A sharp mind: To make up for his blindness, the Nightslayer’s hearing, smell, touch and even taste have developed to superhuman levels, providing him with an enormous amount of information on his surroundings that he interprets as an extremely vivid mental “image”, as well as a supernatural sixth sense for threats to his well being. In order to properly process all of this, avoiding sensory overload and allowing him to function as a lethal fighter, his mind has developed to the point where it operates faster and more efficiently, enhancing his intellect and ability to learn, adapt and think on his feet, and making it so sharp and focused it has become all but impervious to outside interference.

-Amateur magician: Though not a wizard per se, The Pale’s mystical origins (in a way quite akin to a warlock’s dealings for power) and his involvement in such affairs have given him a solid enough grasp on the arcane. His eldritch powers on the fly are limited to a few simple spells, vastly less dangerous than his other skills, but he is fairly well informed on the supernatural, knows where he might find pertinent information should his knowledge be lacking and he can set about to cast more complex sorceries or concoct potions and other wizardly tasks with the use of spellbooks, scrolls and other aids should he ever feel the need.

-Skills:
-Eminence of Blades: The Knight of the Bloody Rose is, first and foremost, a swordsman of truly supernatural caliber and masterful at the use of bladed implements in general. Not representative of any one school, avoiding entrapment in rigid structure, Dorian reduces bladesmanship to its purest form, scientific application of a minimalist art of bloodshed. Measuring the opponent and range, finding weaknesses, controlling angles through footwork and timing, misdirection through feints, appropriate responses in parries, blocks and binds, simple, precise strokes with clarity of purpose, his blade flows beautifully as though he led a dance or worked on a canvas with absolute economy of motion.

Coupled with his physical and mental acumen, not to mention a magic sword, the Count’s skills allow him to mislead even those that might see into the future, defend himself from those stronger or faster and cleave through beings of much higher station, making him an adversary not to be taken lightly. Far from being limited to one method of violence, the Nightslayer is well versed in taking the core concepts behind his swordsmanship in the abstract and adjusting them to a variety of other applications, be it the use of other armament, barehanded combat or even strategy. In this way he does mirror the views expressed by both Miyamoto Musashi and those of the spanish Destreza school of fencing.

-Beware the daggers in the dark: The Count is a proficient infiltrator and assassin, as one might expect from someone “blessed” by the Spirit of Murder. Aside from his physical skills he is outstanding at operating stealthily, gifted with an uncanny talent for truly disappearing into the dark making not a single sound and disturbing nothing as he moves, finding cracks in defensive systems and navigating situations where less physically capable agents would fail. He is also, of course, quite capable of ensuring someone meets their end silently and inconspicuously, although it’s not a skillset he’s particularly fond of using.

-Renaissance man: Dorian was already an intelligent, driven and educated individual before his rebirth as the Pale Count. Ever since he has made amazing strides, becoming a resourceful polyglot and polymath simply to test his limitations and expand his horizons, although ultimately he uses his knowledge to further his progress in the way of the warrior.

-Man about town: Dorian von Jelek has lived a rather long life that could in no way be considered virtuous or normal save for his early years. Though he no longer has the slightest interest in being any sort of criminal lord or indeed commanding any sizeable enterprise, much preferring to live focused on himself, he retains a wide network of contacts, informants, providers, debtors, former employers, former employees, teachers, disciples, rivals and even the odd friend or two. By pulling a few strings and making some calls, or spending some of his admittedly relatively modest fortune, he can acquire a wide variety of goods and services.

-Weapons:
The Sword of Night: A powerful magical artifact that was once passed down a line of heroic knights along the title of Nightmaster, at least until Dorian slew the latest one and attuned the blade to himself. A magnificent hand a half (or bastard) sword of 43.5 inches with a 33.5 inch double edged blade that seems to gleam softly like pale moonlight, the grip wrapped in midnight blue leather and the bronzen guard and pommel decorated with rose and thorny vine motifs. Perfectly balanced for use in one hand but allowing for a comfortable two handed grip, it is effective for both slashing and chopping blows and thrusting through gaps in armor.

Magically speaking it is essentially indestructible and capable of cutting through and/or harming most anything, though not effortlessly and depending on some level upon is user, it bears saying. It is even capable of cleaving sorcerous energies, allowing the user to defend themselves from spells and the like should their skills be sufficient. Furthermore, the blade has its own storage of arcane power, which the wielder can call upon to strengthen sword and self in time of need. Finally, the sword can be mentally summoned to the hand of the wielder, making it rather practical for everyday carry.

-Webley Revolver: Sometimes there’s just no replacement for putting a bullet in someone and for that the Nightslayer carries a six shot Webley Mk. V revolver in a hidden holster on the inside of his coat, along with three full reloads. A World War II antique, made for a british agent tasked with running counter operations to the activities of the mystical Thule Society, this old school top break gun was enchanted for toughness, reliability and boosts the impact and penetration of its bullets beyond their original power. The conversion from the extremely rare .455 webley caliber to commonplace .45acp, on the other hand, is the Count’s doing.

-Vorpal Dagger: A 20 inch dagger with a 14 inch blade, crafted to match the Sword of Night visually if not in power. A companion weapon meant to serve as a parrying dagger should Dorian deem it necessary or simply to stab or slice someone at close ranges, it is of course magically reinforced and cuts with far more venom than any regular blade of the sort, but it’s still very much an offhand weapon. Carries it hidden in his coat as well.

-Folding knives: Small, nondescript lockback pocket folding knives with a slim handle, not garbage cheap ones but not exactly anything special. Dorian carries them in the four pockets on his waistcoat, four on each bottom one and three on the top ones for a total of 14, with a simple cantrip helping keep them hidden. Not great for fighting, though obviously stab wounds are no laughing matter even from these, he uses them as disposable throwing blades.

-Cane: A black hardwood cane threaded with silver in a thorny vine pattern, with a spherical handle and a slightly longer and thicker than usual ferrule at the bottom. Not a weapon per-se, it still makes for an effective bludgeon in Dorian’s hands and actually helps him focus when he decides to summon the Sword of Night, typically replacing one for the other.

-The Arsenal: Dorian, as a connoisseur in the art of murder and given his rather hectic life, has collected a fair number of assorted special arms and armors across the years. Not all of them are necessarily magical or even particularly powerful when they are, but they are unique or simply very very well made and he has a whole collection of them spread about his properties. He doesn’t carry them on the regular, his usual loadout is as detailed above, but given time and preparation he can whip out some nasty (or even just curious) implements.

-Gadgets:
-Magic rope: What manner of adventurous man can’t appreciate having some rope or rope-like implements for climbing, swinging, tying and other rope uses? While grappling hook guns are quite popular, Dorian carries some magic rope with him. Silk rope because he’s not an animal, and also because spider silk is comparable to kevlar in mechanical properties and some magic works better on organic materials. Usually collapsed into a deceptively (impossibly) small monkey’s fist knot, the rope can operate individually and obey commands.

-The Infinite Smoker’s Case: A handy little silver case that holds 16 short, narrow cigars and 35 wooden matches, along with an appropriate striking surface for the latter. So named because the supply slowly replenishes as they’re consumed. Very hard to destroy, much like the vice, otherwise unremarkable and harmless unless you’re in the tobacco industry.

-The Flask of Endless Libation: Much the same as above, a self-filling, handy little silver flask filled with quality red rum, though its contents can be changed by the owner with a little work.

Biography---------
Character History/Origin:
Violence and bloodshed have marked Dorian Cornelius Timar-von Jelek since before his birth in 1954. Scion of a cadet branch of the ruling line of Vlatava, a small country infamous for its never ending internecine conflicts, it was through deeds of arms that his bastard-born line was legitimized, and it was civil war that resulted in his family fleeing the land and settling in Germany first then England after, seeking to escape the rising tides of communism and fascism. By the time Dorian came of age Vlatava had been forsaken by God and ceased to be, reduced to a smoldering ruin split amongst surrounding countries and its royal line declared extinct.

Count of a nonexistent land of the dead and in-name-only at that, reared on tales of martial valor, all his life Dorian felt a strong fascination with violence and combat and death. But as a frail sentimental man, educated to avoid such matters and afflicted with albinism to boot, he found but one way to delve into what he saw as his calling in life: through art. By age 25 Dorian von Jelek had gained some renown as a painter and photographer, if a rather bizarre and at times offputting one, having taken to travelling the ever more troubled world and finding the moving and beautiful in the ugliest and most savage it had to offer.

It was a journey to what had once been his doomed homeland that produced his ultimate masterpiece and started him down his current path. Vlatava was pure death wrought by human hands, the worst and lowest of the times, and as he wandered accosted by refugees and fleeing the activities of still operating guerrillas he sought to convey it all: the dark depths of man, the harrowing frailty of life and the finality of death. And in so doing he found her. Upon an altar of flesh and blood and bone, bodies of the rich and poor and young and old alike indiscriminately strewn about, sat the Spirit of Murder, and the artist was smitten as though God’s own lightning had struck.

For the first hour he stood stone still, frozen in equal parts terror and admiration, and she sat and examined him curiously. When the spell finally broke and he regained some control of himself he set off on a desperate dash, and perhaps she understood his purpose or perhaps was simply amused and cared little for the comings and goings of another mortal, but still she sat. Soon enough he returned with canvas and the tools of his trade and for the rest of the day he set to work in a feverish trance, violently discarding what he deemed as failed attempts with mounting frustration. And she rested upon her grisly throne and smiled a predatory smile at this sickly man with clear curiosity in her eye.

The next day came and at last he considered himself satisfied with what he had done. This was his zenith, his apex as an artist, of this he was certain. And at last murder incarnate left her perch and strode to examine this fresh idol, and she saw a pale woman of perfect proportions and entrancing beauty, hair as dark flame partially covering a mysteriously blind eye, her body marked in its near entirety by red flowers in bloom and thorny vines. The Lady of the Rose Tattoo saw herself and she was pleased, and Dorian von Jelek wasted not a single moment in having it delivered to where others might admire his new muse. And then he vanished from the public eye as his new life began.

For a year the strange couple journeyed together across the world. She spoke little but seemed endlessly amused by this frail man who felt such an infatuation for death, and for whatever reason she indulged him and worked to mold him in her image. For a year, a time spent in a blissful haze as though he were living out a first love of summer, he followed the Spirit of Murder to the ends of the Earth as she introduced him to the lows of man and taught him her ways. She made him better, turned the sickly artist into a man that seemed carved out of stone and replaced his brushes with blades. He would never again love another so.

But a year was all it would last, all it could last. For you see, such a spirit was never meant to walk amidst mortals. The Lady of the Rose Tattoo was a part of something far greater and far more terrible, she was an aspect of the cosmic truth of death known as The Rot, and she was not its Avatar tasked with expanding its influence. It had been the massive scale and man-made nature of the ravaging of Vlatava that had accidentally summoned her and allowed her to bind herself to a borrowed body, but her time was limited and she had chosen to spend it on him. This she explained to him in perhaps the longest conversation they had ever had, and she added that she had two final gifts for Dorian.

The first was a test to prove that her efforts had not been wasted, to allow him to prove his worth both to himself and to her. For a full day did he battle a guerrilla cell in the bombed out remains of what had once been a city in Vlatava, where they had returned to end their relationship where it had started. For a full day he once again worked to represent her perfection through art in a feverish delirium, though this art was one of blade and gun and worked on a canvas of flesh and blood. And once again by the end he stood and basked in his work, drained physically and mentally but pleased to his very core, and she judged his work satisfactory. The feeling was exhilarating.

And for her second dark gift, she whispered in his ear what he had always known and always sought: “You are mine forever”. And so did the Spirit of Murder, on her last day on Earth, mark Dorian Von Jelek with her sigil. A dark power coursed through his body and inflicted upon him pain unlike no other, and he could feel what only the truly dying feel as they trascend their mortal coil but die he did not even as she vanished in one final, cruelly mirthful laugh. The horror had rendered him cold and pale as snow and she had taken the light from his once bright red eyes. This was, in her way, a confession that she saw beauty in them and thus in him, he was sure of it. He was hers. Forever.

Thus began the life of the Pale Count of Nothing. A life lived in the dark corners of the world, a life of spilled blood and delightful excess, of serving some and leading others and rivalries aplenty throughout the decades as dark powers staved off the coming of decay in his body. But, ultimately, the passage of time still affected the Knight of the Bloody Rose. With time the excesses grew dull and the prospect of dedicating himself to others bothersome, and the rivalries faded or grew into mutual respect or were settled to the bitter end. Dorian found himself increasingly tired of his station and pined for the days of his youth, spent in intoxicating trance with his muse who he knew he would never see again.

So afflicted, for many years the Pale Count faded into obscurity, content to rest and amuse himself as best he could in what was his first period of tranquility since his youth and ensuring only that his skills dulled not one bit. But, eventually, peace lost its luster and restlessness settled in once more. He wondered what it was he might do, but not for long, for his timing had been nothing short of impeccable. Here he was, seeking the next great adventure in his life, and the world had seen fit to provide with a cadre of new heroes and strange happenings abound. Ah, what fun he would have.

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

I did a thing @Blackstripe

The Pale Count

Supervillain Name: The Pale Count of Nothing, Knight of the Bloody Rose, Eminence of Blades and Slayer of the Nightmaster (Nightslayer, if you will). Take your pick.
Civilian Name: Dorian Cornelius Timar-von Jelek. Or just Dorian von Jelek.
Origin city/Planet: Doomed and dead Vlatava bordering Hungary, family fled to Germany first then England
Hometown: Nomadic, has a few safe-houses and other properties spread about, family manor in St Albans, Hertfordshire, north of London
Sex: Male
Race: Human?
Height: Six feet one
Weight: 195 pounds or so
Age: 66

--------

Appearance:

Why yes, he does bear something of a resemblance to a certain british musician.

The Pale Count makes no attempt to hide his identity. A reasonably tall and athletically thin man with sharp, attractive features and impossibly well groomed milky white hair, he typically dresses in a simple but impeccable white dress shirt and black trousers with matching waistcoat, dress shoes and tie. Completing the outfit is a black trenchcoat and pitch black teashades to hide his red and deadened eyes, along with the occasional pair of black gloves, wide-brimmed hat and a small, preserved red rose for a lapel pin. And speaking of roses, when he is without clothing it’s impossible to miss the distinctive marking of a rose in red on his left breast, seemingly carved on the flesh first and inked after.

Icon:


Civilian Occupation: Rich person, vice enabler
Personality:
The Count is an educated, smooth talking rogue, an always calm and self assured daredevil with an oftentimes melancholic and world-weary air, though also given to an occasional penchant for dramatization and grandstanding as well as bouts of great passion. Known to enthusiastically partake in the many pleasures life has to offer, he can come across as a pompous hedonist at his worst but holds himself to extremely high standards. Noblesse oblige, as it were. A very active, adventurous man who would much rather do things himself than delegate, he is dedicated in his pursuits and even has something of a personal code, finding deceit and treachery rather beneath him and holding his word and honor to a very high value.

Having said all of this, the man is still an unrepentant villain, a cold blooded blackguard who sees no problem with wronging others and puts himself above all else. The Nightslayer opposes the forces of order simply because it is an adventure and a personal test, somewhere he can get his thrills in a life that grows increasingly dull, and his ultimate thrill is to risk his life against someone else’s. Particularly with blades, of course. Seeing bloodshed as a deeply personal, elegant art and especially when faced with worthy adversaries, for this reason Dorian is against wanton carnage or systematic extermination, seeing them as dull and impersonal corruptions of his craft.

Super abilities:
Powers:
-Mark of the Rose: Many years ago The Pale Count was marked by the Spirit of Murder, an independent aspect of the cosmic force of Death known as The Black or The Rot, and granted her boon in the shape of her rose sigil at the cost of dead eyes and skin cold and white as snow. The source of his exceptional prowess, or rather what allowed him to transcend all human reason and limits to achieve this prowess for himself, the Mark also gives Dorian a supernatural gift when it comes to inflicting harm to and ending the lives of all manner of beings, allowing him to seriously threaten adversaries that might otherwise be well above a man with a sharp piece of metal. And while blades are his preference and where his talents most shine, other means will also do should push come to shove.

-Eldritch vitality: It bears saying right now, The Pale Count is literally, legitimately blind and has been for a long time. However, one does not come to be known as The Eminence of Blades if one is truly handicapped, and his lack of eyesight does little to hinder him. Free of the limitations imposed upon humanity thanks to the Mark of the Rose, Dorian is a finely honed killing machine as of yet unburdened by age, ahead of even the most skilled “street powerhouses” in ways should not be possible for a mere man.

Though he isn’t as physically strong as those (in his powerscale) who dedicate themselves to muscle, there is a surprising unnatural power to his wiry frame, and as a fencer his other attributes come to the fore. While not quite a speedster, The Nightslayer’s speed, agility, flexibility, reflexes, precision and coordination are staggering, allowing him to perform feats such as deflecting barrages from lethal marksmen, throwing a knife faster than a room of people can follow, moving in bursts of clear superspeed, leaping through the air in defiance of gravity and easily outmaneuvering world class fighters lacking his gifts.

Outstandingly tough, he can be struck and sometimes stunned and be made to bleed, yes, but it seems to take far more effort than it should. The Count can continue performing efficiently even when severely injured, lives with horrendous pains like most can live with mild discomforts and doesn’t appear to tire unless severely pressed and harmed. Though not a regenerator per se, wounds that would fell lesser men fail to do the trick on him, disease and toxins and the like appear to take little to no hold in him, and he can often grit his teeth and survive until he can receive medical aid and return soon and well.

-A sharp mind: To make up for his blindness, the Nightslayer’s hearing, smell, touch and even taste have developed to superhuman levels, providing him with an enormous amount of information on his surroundings that he interprets as an extremely vivid mental “image”, as well as a supernatural sixth sense for threats to his well being. In order to properly process all of this, avoiding sensory overload and allowing him to function as a lethal fighter, his mind has developed to the point where it operates faster and more efficiently, enhancing his intellect and ability to learn, adapt and think on his feet, and making it so sharp and focused it has become all but impervious to outside interference.

-Amateur magician: Though not a wizard per se, The Pale’s mystical origins (in a way quite akin to a warlock’s dealings for power) and his involvement in such affairs have given him a solid enough grasp on the arcane. His eldritch powers on the fly are limited to a few simple spells, vastly less dangerous than his other skills, but he is fairly well informed on the supernatural, knows where he might find pertinent information should his knowledge be lacking and he can set about to cast more complex sorceries or concoct potions and other wizardly tasks with the use of spellbooks, scrolls and other aids should he ever feel the need.

-Skills:
-Eminence of Blades: The Knight of the Bloody Rose is, first and foremost, a swordsman of truly supernatural caliber and masterful at the use of bladed implements in general. Not representative of any one school, avoiding entrapment in rigid structure, Dorian reduces bladesmanship to its purest form, scientific application of a minimalist art of bloodshed. Measuring the opponent and range, finding weaknesses, controlling angles through footwork and timing, misdirection through feints, appropriate responses in parries, blocks and binds, simple, precise strokes with clarity of purpose, his blade flows beautifully as though he led a dance or worked on a canvas with absolute economy of motion.

Coupled with his physical and mental acumen, not to mention a magic sword, the Count’s skills allow him to mislead even those that might see into the future, defend himself from those stronger or faster and cleave through beings of much higher station, making him an adversary not to be taken lightly. Far from being limited to one method of violence, the Nightslayer is well versed in taking the core concepts behind his swordsmanship in the abstract and adjusting them to a variety of other applications, be it the use of other armament, barehanded combat or even strategy. In this way he does mirror the views expressed by both Miyamoto Musashi and those of the spanish Destreza school of fencing.

-Beware the daggers in the dark: The Count is a proficient infiltrator and assassin, as one might expect from someone “blessed” by the Spirit of Murder. Aside from his physical skills he is outstanding at operating stealthily, gifted with an uncanny talent for truly disappearing into the dark making not a single sound and disturbing nothing as he moves, finding cracks in defensive systems and navigating situations where less physically capable agents would fail. He is also, of course, quite capable of ensuring someone meets their end silently and inconspicuously, although it’s not a skillset he’s particularly fond of using.

-Renaissance man: Dorian was already an intelligent, driven and educated individual before his rebirth as the Pale Count. Ever since he has made amazing strides, becoming a resourceful polyglot and polymath simply to test his limitations and expand his horizons, although ultimately he uses his knowledge to further his progress in the way of the warrior.

-Man about town: Dorian von Jelek has lived a rather long life that could in no way be considered virtuous or normal save for his early years. Though he no longer has the slightest interest in being any sort of criminal lord or indeed commanding any sizeable enterprise, much preferring to live focused on himself, he retains a wide network of contacts, informants, providers, debtors, former employers, former employees, teachers, disciples, rivals and even the odd friend or two. By pulling a few strings and making some calls, or spending some of his admittedly relatively modest fortune, he can acquire a wide variety of goods and services.

-Weapons:
The Sword of Night: A powerful magical artifact that was once passed down a line of heroic knights along the title of Nightmaster, at least until Dorian slew the latest one and attuned the blade to himself. A magnificent hand a half (or bastard) sword of 43.5 inches with a 33.5 inch double edged blade that seems to gleam softly like pale moonlight, the grip wrapped in midnight blue leather and the bronzen guard and pommel decorated with rose and thorny vine motifs. Perfectly balanced for use in one hand but allowing for a comfortable two handed grip, it is effective for both slashing and chopping blows and thrusting through gaps in armor.

Magically speaking it is essentially indestructible and capable of cutting through and/or harming most anything, though not effortlessly and depending on some level upon is user, it bears saying. It is even capable of cleaving sorcerous energies, allowing the user to defend themselves from spells and the like should their skills be sufficient. Furthermore, the blade has its own storage of arcane power, which the wielder can call upon to strengthen sword and self in time of need. Finally, the sword can be mentally summoned to the hand of the wielder, making it rather practical for everyday carry.

-Webley Revolver: Sometimes there’s just no replacement for putting a bullet in someone and for that the Nightslayer carries a six shot Webley Mk. V revolver in a hidden holster on the inside of his coat, along with three full reloads. A World War II antique, made for a british agent tasked with running counter operations to the activities of the mystical Thule Society, this old school top break gun was enchanted for toughness, reliability and boosts the impact and penetration of its bullets beyond their original power. The conversion from the extremely rare .455 webley caliber to commonplace .45acp, on the other hand, is the Count’s doing.

-Vorpal Dagger: A 20 inch dagger with a 14 inch blade, crafted to match the Sword of Night visually if not in power. A companion weapon meant to serve as a parrying dagger should Dorian deem it necessary or simply to stab or slice someone at close ranges, it is of course magically reinforced and cuts with far more venom than any regular blade of the sort, but it’s still very much an offhand weapon. Carries it hidden in his coat as well.

-Folding knives: Small, nondescript lockback pocket folding knives with a slim handle, not garbage cheap ones but not exactly anything special. Dorian carries them in the four pockets on his waistcoat, four on each bottom one and three on the top ones for a total of 14, with a simple cantrip helping keep them hidden. Not great for fighting, though obviously stab wounds are no laughing matter even from these, he uses them as disposable throwing blades.

-Cane: A black hardwood cane threaded with silver in a thorny vine pattern, with a spherical handle and a slightly longer and thicker than usual ferrule at the bottom. Not a weapon per-se, it still makes for an effective bludgeon in Dorian’s hands and actually helps him focus when he decides to summon the Sword of Night, typically replacing one for the other.

-The Arsenal: Dorian, as a connoisseur in the art of murder and given his rather hectic life, has collected a fair number of assorted special arms and armors across the years. Not all of them are necessarily magical or even particularly powerful when they are, but they are unique or simply very very well made and he has a whole collection of them spread about his properties. He doesn’t carry them on the regular, his usual loadout is as detailed above, but given time and preparation he can whip out some nasty (or even just curious) implements.

-Gadgets:
-Magic rope: What manner of adventurous man can’t appreciate having some rope or rope-like implements for climbing, swinging, tying and other rope uses? While grappling hook guns are quite popular, Dorian carries some magic rope with him. Silk rope because he’s not an animal, and also because spider silk is comparable to kevlar in mechanical properties and some magic works better on organic materials. Usually collapsed into a deceptively (impossibly) small monkey’s fist knot, the rope can operate individually and obey commands.

-The Infinite Smoker’s Case: A handy little silver case that holds 16 short, narrow cigars and 35 wooden matches, along with an appropriate striking surface for the latter. So named because the supply slowly replenishes as they’re consumed. Very hard to destroy, much like the vice, otherwise unremarkable and harmless unless you’re in the tobacco industry.

-The Flask of Endless Libation: Much the same as above, a self-filling, handy little silver flask filled with quality red rum, though its contents can be changed by the owner with a little work.

Biography---------
Character History/Origin:
Violence and bloodshed have marked Dorian Cornelius Timar-von Jelek since before his birth in 1954. Scion of a cadet branch of the ruling line of Vlatava, a small country infamous for its never ending internecine conflicts, it was through deeds of arms that his bastard-born line was legitimized, and it was civil war that resulted in his family fleeing the land and settling in Germany first then England after, seeking to escape the rising tides of communism and fascism. By the time Dorian came of age Vlatava had been forsaken by God and ceased to be, reduced to a smoldering ruin split amongst surrounding countries and its royal line declared extinct.

Count of a nonexistent land of the dead and in-name-only at that, reared on tales of martial valor, all his life Dorian felt a strong fascination with violence and combat and death. But as a frail sentimental man, educated to avoid such matters and afflicted with albinism to boot, he found but one way to delve into what he saw as his calling in life: through art. By age 25 Dorian von Jelek had gained some renown as a painter and photographer, if a rather bizarre and at times offputting one, having taken to travelling the ever more troubled world and finding the moving and beautiful in the ugliest and most savage it had to offer.

It was a journey to what had once been his doomed homeland that produced his ultimate masterpiece and started him down his current path. Vlatava was pure death wrought by human hands, the worst and lowest of the times, and as he wandered accosted by refugees and fleeing the activities of still operating guerrillas he sought to convey it all: the dark depths of man, the harrowing frailty of life and the finality of death. And in so doing he found her. Upon an altar of flesh and blood and bone, bodies of the rich and poor and young and old alike indiscriminately strewn about, sat the Spirit of Murder, and the artist was smitten as though God’s own lightning had struck.

For the first hour he stood stone still, frozen in equal parts terror and admiration, and she sat and examined him curiously. When the spell finally broke and he regained some control of himself he set off on a desperate dash, and perhaps she understood his purpose or perhaps was simply amused and cared little for the comings and goings of another mortal, but still she sat. Soon enough he returned with canvas and the tools of his trade and for the rest of the day he set to work in a feverish trance, violently discarding what he deemed as failed attempts with mounting frustration. And she rested upon her grisly throne and smiled a predatory smile at this sickly man with clear curiosity in her eye.

The next day came and at last he considered himself satisfied with what he had done. This was his zenith, his apex as an artist, of this he was certain. And at last murder incarnate left her perch and strode to examine this fresh idol, and she saw a pale woman of perfect proportions and entrancing beauty, hair as dark flame partially covering a mysteriously blind eye, her body marked in its near entirety by red flowers in bloom and thorny vines. The Lady of the Rose Tattoo saw herself and she was pleased, and Dorian von Jelek wasted not a single moment in having it delivered to where others might admire his new muse. And then he vanished from the public eye as his new life began.

For a year the strange couple journeyed together across the world. She spoke little but seemed endlessly amused by this frail man who felt such an infatuation for death, and for whatever reason she indulged him and worked to mold him in her image. For a year, a time spent in a blissful haze as though he were living out a first love of summer, he followed the Spirit of Murder to the ends of the Earth as she introduced him to the lows of man and taught him her ways. She made him better, turned the sickly artist into a man that seemed carved out of stone and replaced his brushes with blades. He would never again love another so.

But a year was all it would last, all it could last. For you see, such a spirit was never meant to walk amidst mortals. The Lady of the Rose Tattoo was a part of something far greater and far more terrible, she was an aspect of the cosmic truth of death known as The Rot, and she was not its Avatar tasked with expanding its influence. It had been the massive scale and man-made nature of the ravaging of Vlatava that had accidentally summoned her and allowed her to bind herself to a borrowed body, but her time was limited and she had chosen to spend it on him. This she explained to him in perhaps the longest conversation they had ever had, and she added that she had two final gifts for Dorian.

The first was a test to prove that her efforts had not been wasted, to allow him to prove his worth both to himself and to her. For a full day did he battle a guerrilla cell in the bombed out remains of what had once been a city in Vlatava, where they had returned to end their relationship where it had started. For a full day he once again worked to represent her perfection through art in a feverish delirium, though this art was one of blade and gun and worked on a canvas of flesh and blood. And once again by the end he stood and basked in his work, drained physically and mentally but pleased to his very core, and she judged his work satisfactory. The feeling was exhilarating.

And for her second dark gift, she whispered in his ear what he had always known and always sought: “You are mine forever”. And so did the Spirit of Murder, on her last day on Earth, mark Dorian Von Jelek with her sigil. A dark power coursed through his body and inflicted upon him pain unlike no other, and he could feel what only the truly dying feel as they trascend their mortal coil but die he did not even as she vanished in one final, cruelly mirthful laugh. The horror had rendered him cold and pale as snow and she had taken the light from his once bright red eyes. This was, in her way, a confession that she saw beauty in them and thus in him, he was sure of it. He was hers. Forever.

Thus began the life of the Pale Count of Nothing. A life lived in the dark corners of the world, a life of spilled blood and delightful excess, of serving some and leading others and rivalries aplenty throughout the decades as dark powers staved off the coming of decay in his body. But, ultimately, the passage of time still affected the Knight of the Bloody Rose. With time the excesses grew dull and the prospect of dedicating himself to others bothersome, and the rivalries faded or grew into mutual respect or were settled to the bitter end. Dorian found himself increasingly tired of his station and pined for the days of his youth, spent in intoxicating trance with his muse who he knew he would never see again.

So afflicted, for many years the Pale Count faded into obscurity, content to rest and amuse himself as best he could in what was his first period of tranquility since his youth and ensuring only that his skills dulled not one bit. But, eventually, peace lost its luster and restlessness settled in once more. He wondered what it was he might do, but not for long, for his timing had been nothing short of impeccable. Here he was, seeking the next great adventure in his life, and the world had seen fit to provide with a cadre of new heroes and strange happenings abound. Ah, what fun he would have.

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

@clanjos
Did the thing, we can start working on them heinous godforsaken collabs. Sorry for the holdup, you and Pleeko

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

October 26th, 9 a.m.
Hong Kong, China

Hmmm, no, this will not do, Sir Desmond Dorrance thought to himself as he stood on his front porch and "beheld" the living dead walking the earth anew over a cup of morning tea. Trying to walk through his property no less, mindlessly endeavoring to overcome the barriers between them and the gated mansion. He could not see them but he could feel them. He could hear their every moan with grating clarity, the wafting stench of the grave assaulted his nostrils and he could taste the putrefaction in the already unclean air. "This simply will not do at all, Singh", he spoke to his gurkha majordomo, who was already well aware of his master's mood.

Correctly interpreting Sir Desmond's desires, Singh went to fetch an especially prepared weapon and momentarily left the baronet to his thoughts. This had rapidly become a most bothersome infestation indeed. His Society of the Snakes in Shadows had quite a lot of work on its hands now, ensuring the situation did not become a setback for King Snake's businesses or those of his associates. It wasn't merely a matter of money, the situation might rouse the wulin of their stupor borne of inactivity and their activities might draw true scrutiny for perhaps the first time since the Boxer Rebellion. And that was an order he meant upset in due time.

For the moment squadrons of his underlings had taken to protecting key properties and activities, dressed up as hired security and toting body armor and riot shields where under public scrutiny and as their regular outlaw selves when not. He did not need their help at his home, of course, but it was a welcome reprieve from having to dirty his hands with such poor sport. As though he had willed it, his thoughts were punctuated by a trio of gunshots in the morning quiet and three of the undead pack that were starting to climb over the rest fell back out of sight once more. From the mansion emerged Singh, carrying a still smoking shotgun.

"Excellent aim as usual, Singh, good work". The gurkha was not superhumanly powerful as the massive fighter Snakepit nor skilled in the arts as the cunning gangster Coral, but his accuracy, discipline and ability to command in his stead made him an appreciated aide. As for the undead, they lay on the ground, writhing and scratching at nothing but for the moment relatively incapacitated. Shells loaded with shot, but also purified salt and the ashes of especially crafted and ritually burned taoist amulets. Worth a try, and they had worked quite well. "Take them to the basement for examination, before the Security Bureau arrives to confiscate them".

______________________

October 26th, 12 p.m.
Hong Kong, China

In accordance with the State Religious Affairs Bureau Order No. 5, the Measures on the Management of Reincarnation, passed by the State Administration for Religious Affairs in mainland China and adopted by Hong Kong, a Reincarnation Application must be filed to recognize individuals as having returned from the dead. This was the most it had ever been enforced, of course, and military and police forces across the country mobilized to detain the living dead in order to determine their identity, means of resurrection and in this case means of dealing with said resurrection. King Snake had to admit he was impressed by the scale of their planning.

The authorities, by this point, had come and gone and he had supervised their work. They knew they were not to bother him, the scion of the Dorrance family was very fond of his privacy, and so they carried out their thankless task with a mixture of detached professionalism and some slight resentment towards the wealthy foreigner, safely out of the reach of the undead in his manor. Oh if only they knew. Instructions had been relayed and the so-called Ghost Dragons were hard at work, quietly collecting walking corpses to experiment on. An army of jiangshi, built in record time, was certainly an enticing idea for King Snake.

But that would come later. For the moment, Sir Desmond Dorrance sat to enjoy his lunch. Or he would, had a pest not managed to sneak its way into his abode. I must have a stern talk with Singh about security, he thought to himself, but he knew he was simply annoyed at the interruption. Light of foot, precise and agile movements, controlled breathing and heartbeat as he strangled and replaced the kitchen assistant bringing him his meal, this man was a professional and trained well in the old ways. His regular subordinates could not possibly have detected this intruder, only his lieutenants themselves and they were otherwise occupied.

King Snake remained seated, his back to the only door, and smiled to himself. The assassin was good, but he was better. He knew every inch of his home, every breath, every step that occurred within. It was his realm and no invader would find an advantage within it. As the assassin confidently approached from behind him, the baronet could tell the fool only knew that the lord of the manor was blind and expected an easy target. He knew nothing of the mind's eye awakened in that pitch dark that let the King Snake see all, see him for what he was, see his approach, the reaching towards the hidden dagger at exactly five steps of distance between them.

"DEATH SENDS HIS REGARDS!" was the battlecry as the blade launched through the air, seeking a body that was already well out of its path, moving faster than even that expert attack. Ah yes, of course it is his doing. A game, a test of my mettle after a long absence, a message...cruelly amusing as always, Lord Death Man thought King Snake, and in the time it took him to consider this the would-be hitman lay at his feet. Shattered kneecap, snapped clavicle, a concussion as he was swept off his feet and dumped in a heap on the back of his head against the cold, hard floor. He could've killed the man already, but the invasion of his home had incensed him.

"Rest assured, I will end your life in but a moment for this intrusion. But before that, there is something you must know: Your Lord Death Man sent you here to die", Desmond Dorrance mused as stood over his fallen, glassy-eyed foe, a foot carefully and cruelly pressed against the broken collarbone as he let the man digest this information. "He wished to gain my attention and you were the tool. If I had to guess, the blade you were given is marked with a message in braille. Whatever he promised you, the truth is you displeased him and this is your punishment". The assassin had time for but a tortured whimper, realization barely settling in.

A swift motion of the foot, the sickening crack and gasp of a snapping neck and once again Sir Desmond Dorrance stood alone. Alone and intrigued. Had his japanese rival truly sought to kill him a greater effort would have been made. What might the skull-faced immortal have planned? The winds of change were turning into a full blown storm and perhaps it was time to throw caution to the winds, then. With a smile, he walked towards and plucked the dagger from the wall it had embedded itself in, running his fingers across the handle and blade. There was indeed a message in braille for him: "Not here, try again Snake. Regards, LDM".

With an amused sigh, King Snake had to admit to himself he was now glad he hadn't torn the man to ribbons. Searching the body like that would have been rather inconvenient.

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

10 pm, Shanghai, China
Ivory Palace Resort, July 2019

For the first time in many years, Chien Na Wei did not feel in control. In fact it was safe to say her world was falling apart around her at a downright stunning pace. The breakneck speed of events was in a twisted way a saving grace, because the situation was so catastrophic her mind refused to fully acknowledge it. This and her nerve, that of a hardened outlaw and skilled martial artist, let her handle herself with admirable calm. Her, China White, head of a powerful Triad now bearing her name, was being forced into a candle-lit dinner in the presidential suite of her own resort, by a man she thought she had killed long ago.

This was how Sir Desmond Dorrance announced his return. With a smile in the dark, the moon over Shanghai to his back and expensive wine in his hands, poured with such precision she could hardly believe that his eyes were blank. But he now held her life in his grasp as her empire came apart at the seams, destroyed from within by traitors on every level, her trustworthy lieutenants murdered one after the other. Seeking safety she had retreated to her stronghold, the Ivory Palace resort that she had built on lands she had taken from Dorrance, protected by the last man she thought she could trust. And her bodyguard Snakepit had delivered her to the trap.

Snakes in her midst. The hidden warning, so obvious now, mocked her. Snakepit had only arrived around two years ago, and how convenient had it been that he was there to protect her when others failed. She had come to rely on the superhuman behemoth too much and was now paying the price. Before she could further ruminate on her mistakes, however, the clinking of the glasses interrupted her train of thought. She hadn't even realized she was holding the drink the man had given her and fought an urge to toss it straight at his face. "Please don't look so shocked, Lady Chien. I assure you I am no apparition", Sir Desmond Dorrance began.

"How I am here is of little consequence. Suffice to say that I am not dead, and I have come to reclaim what is rightfully mine". A hundred replies crossed Chien Na Wei's mind. Chinese land did not rightfully belong to any white man, the country did not belong to any foreigner in any way. What he sought was hers by right, she was her father's daughter and heir to the Triad, he was but an associate, an upstart parasite that she had squashed to secure her position in the underworld. She bit her tongue and bided her time, and Sir Dorrance knew this. "That you are unharmed is a matter of courtesy and proper form, which I suggest you mind".

The bastard took a long, slow sip of wine and let her simmer, seemingly gauging her reactions. She wanted to kill him herself and she was not without skill. But he knew she would not strike yet, not even at a blind target, while Snakepit might knock the killing blow off course and ruin her attempts at taking him with her. She would only have one chance at best, one she might find if he kept talking. "Whatever feeble resistance you might think to muster, it is meaningless. I control the streets, my men are everywhere, no one can help you. Drug traffic, prostitution, gambling, protection, fences, counterfeiting, everything you own will be mine once more by dawn".

He was gloating to his former tormentor, yes, but this was no empty bluster, no meaningless threats. China White knew enough to realize that he spoke the plain and honest truth. This was checkmate. She swore to herself she would accept any hell that any god saw fit to consign her to, if only she could drag the smug snake down with her. "I know you would rather die than face undignified exile unscathed, but your departed father was good to me and my ties to him stay my hand. You will still, however, serve as a warning to others". And then, to her great surprise, the arrogant bastard himself gave her the opportunity she'd been waiting for.

With but a gesture, the blind idiot sent his bodyguard away. Did he not know she was a master of the Leopard Fist? Did he not realize his life was now forfeit? As soon as Snakepit left the room, the very second she heard the door close, China White cast her wine-filled glass at her enemy. It smashed against the window behind him, but she did not see this. She was already bursting from her seat with practiced skill and grace, propelling herself over the table in a fierce kick that struck at Sir Dorrance's neck with deadly certainty. It was a killing stroke. Or it would have been, had the blind man still been at his seat.

Instead, Chien Na Wei's heel brought low an empty chair. Without pause she rolled through her momentum and leapt up in her guard, scanning the dark room for her target. Her sudden attack had put out one of the candles, it was hard to see at all. And there he was at but two steps of distance, standing tall and proud, holding the last source of light in the room in his hand. She would not be denied by some accursed western cripple. She had brought him low before, she would finish the job. And Sir Desmond Dorrance could feel, nay he could see her frustration, her anger welling up. As he blew out the last candle, he knew he'd treasure these moments.

The snake's laughter, cold and mocking, rang out in the moonlit dark as China White crossed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, her hand seeking to crush his windpipe and hitting nothing but air. She couldn't see. She heard him laugh behind her and with a shriek swung through in a furious backhand, and she knew she had measured the distance right even as she spun clean and made no contact, and then the laughter seemed to come from elsewhere in the room that now seemed so much larger, so much emptier and she couldn't pinpoint his location. She couldn't see. Where was he, how could he move so fast, where were the lights?

Silently Sir Dorrance slithered unseen, and yet he could see everything with startling clarity, his every sense supplanting the eyes she had cost him. China White's every breath, every step, every heartbeat, her cold sweat, the very waves of the air as she advanced in her guard and swung at nothing, he could feel all of this, he could feel her anger, her confusion, the fear forming deep within her. Yes, good. The lesson was right on track. From the shadows he emerged, time and time again, mocking the feared triad boss' every move, not even bothering to counterattack, barely even forced to block or parry the majority of her efforts.

Every step, every spin, every failed attack left her lost once more. She had to stop and find the window and the moon to place herself in the suite and pray that clouds would not take away this mercy from her. Unknowingly, instinctively, she no longer even sought the death of her foe. Just to preserve her own life, and every passing moment she lashed out more and more wildly, every passing moment her form and grace and skill were replaced by a mounting panic. She couldn't see, and somehow he could. Yes, Sir Dorrance could see her breaking down. How he had waited for this moment. The dark, true dark, was terrifying. He had learned thanks to her.

"I see the fabled skills of China White were nothing but exagerated hearsay after all", his voice rang out in the dark once more as Chien Na Wei stopped to gather her increasingly ragged breath. These would be the finishing touches. "I understand now why your father did not wish for you to inherit his position". Another shriek, equally pained and furious, and the white haired mob boss lashed out in the direction of the voice for her last stand. But he denied her even this. Every attempt at an attack was stopped before it was made, met by a gentle nudge at a vital target. Eyes, throat, nose, temples, ears, solar plexus, liver, even her kidneys.

The message was clear. He could have taken her life at any given time. Every time he marked her body her attacks lessened and she retreated further and further back, until finally she cowered miserably at a wall, awaiting a death that would never come. Instead, a candle lit itself to free her from the dark and she saw her tormentor as not a man but a snake, coiled and ready to bite and tear and poison her, mocking her misfortune and weakness. "Go now. Where I do not care, so long as you stay away from China. Stay away from Asia. Run and tell all the others: The King Snake is coming". Defeated, ashamed, left with nothing, China White fled and King Snake sat triumphant. Word would spread of these events across the underworld, yes, it would be the dawn of a new day soon.

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

King Snake

Supervillain Name: King Snake
Civilian Name: Sir Desmond Dorrance
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Height: 6’3’’
Weight: 195 pounds or so
Age: 57
Origin city/Planet: London
Hometown: Primary base of operation in Shanghai, cells of followers in Hong Kong and Macau, smaller cells scattered in US chinatowns. Personal lodgings in London.
--------
Appearance:


Here have a little gallery for details: imgur.com/a/66L0A

Gaunt for his height but built wiry and taut as though he were corded from steel cables, the striking surfaces of his body hardened and calloused beyond all reason, King Snake makes for a striking figure and bears two obvious eyecatches. The first, of course, is the mark of his namesake: a massive viper nests upon his chest, coiled and fangs exposed, ready to bite down on prey. The other are the brutal scars upon his back, a collection of crisscrossing markings that suggest a truly horrifying suffering lived long ago.

Thanks to these peculiarities and his powerful build and presence, King Snake doesn’t bother much with costumes. His regular outfit consists of a green dress shirt, white trousers and white dress loafers, along with a white jacket in the style of a mao suit. A pair of black gloves tend to complete his look, along with the nearly ever-present shades to hide the fact that his eyes have long gone dead and blank. He will also, at times, swap for white kung fu pants with wrappings around his feet and shins, black kung fu slippers, handwraps and a golden sash.

Icon: His snake tattoo.

Civilian Occupation: Head of the Society of the Snakes in Shadows, often simplified from its full chinese name as just the Ghost Snakes.

Personality:
King Snake likes to present himself as an educated, smooth talking rogue, an always calm and self assured crime lord with a penchant for dramatization and grandstanding, as well as a great love for the many pleasures life has to offer. Though he can come across as something of a pompous hedonist at times, he holds himself to extremely high standards. Noblesse oblige, as it were. A very active, adventurous man who just can’t accept having others do his work for him, he is absolutely manic in his pursuits and even has something of a personal code, finding deceit and treachery rather beneath him and holding his word and honor to a very high value.

Having said all of this, the man is still an unrepentant, cold-blooded villain who puts himself above all else and sees no problem with wronging others if it serves his own purposes. For his villainy, Sir Desmond Dorrance sees opposing the forces of order as a great adventure, a personal test, somewhere he can get the ultimate thrills in life. And for him, there is no greater thrill than the way of combat. A dedicated martial artist who sees bloodshed as a deeply personal, elegant art, especially when faced with worthy adversaries, he is against wanton carnage or systematic extermination, seeing them as dull and impersonal corruptions of his craft.

Super abilities:
Powers:
-The body a fortress: It bears saying right now, King Snake is literally, legitimately blind and has been for a long time. Despite this apparent clear-cut handicap, however, the man has risen in the underworld primarily through his physical might. Always an athletic and gifted fighter, now rejuvenated through ancient medicine and empowered by the Totem of the Snake, Sir Desmond Dorrance is a finely honed killing machine, ahead of even the most skilled “street powerhouses” in ways should not be possible for a human being.

Though he isn’t as purely strong as those (in his powerscale) who dedicate themselves to muscle, he is still freakishly powerful for his build, and it is everywhere else where he shines best. His speed, agility, flexibility, reflexes, precision and coordination are staggering; allowing him to perform feats such as catching sustained barrages from lethal marksmen with minimal effort, throwing a knife faster than a room of people can follow, easily outmaneuvering world class fighters and performing seemingly gravity defying leaps even from the least stable of footing.

Outstandingly tough, he can be struck and sometimes stunned and be made to bleed, yes, but it seems to take far more effort than it should. King Snake can continue performing efficiently even when severely injured, and doesn’t appear to tire unless severely pressed and harmed. Though not a regenerator per se, wounds that would fell lesser men fail to do the trick on him, disease and toxins and the like appear to take little to no hold in him, and he can often grit his teeth and survive until he can receive medical aid and return soon and well.

-The mind a temple: To make up for his blindness, King Snake’s hearing, smell, touch and even taste have developed to superhuman levels, providing him with an enormous amount of information on his surroundings that he interprets as an extremely vivid mental “image”. In order to properly process and manage all of this, avoiding sensory overload and allowing him to function as a lethal fighter, his mind has developed to the point where it operates faster and more efficiently, enhancing his intellect and ability to learn, adapt and think on his feet, and making it so sharp and focused it has become all but impervious to outside interference.

Skills:
-Fangs of the Viper: King Snake is a lethal martial artist, having synthesized his own fighting style which he perpetually seeks to improve upon. It is fast, sinuous and fluid much like Snake forms of kung fu, entwining, dodging, deflecting, redirecting and attacking precisely from advantageous angles, deceptive to the point where even those with extrasensory perceptions that should be able to see through his intentions can be fooled. Through proper technique, he can defend himself from attacks that surpass his impressive physical traits, and he can strike with shocking, snapping power that exceeds his pure lifting strength from nearly all positions and distances.

Two particular things stand out from Sir Dorrance’s fighting skills, first and foremost being his “venom”. The sum total of all his abilities, King Snake is preternaturally capable of attacking vulnerable spots and overcoming defensive measures, his attacks effective even against armor, beings more powerful than he or even those otherwise unaffected by mere physical trauma. Second is the power of his hands, usually one of the most vulnerable parts of the body. King Snake’s fingers act like his namesake’s fangs, his grip is disproportionately powerful and he can easily tear off or stab through flesh, even being capable of piercing and crushing rock and metals (within “reason”).

-Beware what lurks in shadows: King Snake is a proficient assassin and infiltrator. Aside from his physical skills he is outstanding at operating stealthily, making not a single noise and blending into environments as a serpent blends into foliage, finding cracks in defensive systems and navigating situations where less physically capable agents would fail. The dark is where his abilities truly shine, as those who rely on their eyesight find themselves at the mercy of someone who has long forsaken his.

-Renaissance man: Sir Desmond Dorrance was already an intelligent, driven and educated individual before his rebirth as King Snake. Ever since he has made amazing strides, becoming a resourceful polyglot and polymath, using his knowledge to further help him navigate around his blindness and form organizations around him. He is, however, still obsessed with martial skill above all, and will more often than not prefer to engage in it rather than falling back on any other field.

-Crime lord: King Snake is currently on his second attempt at a criminal empire, after the rapid rise and catastrophic fall of the first, and the lessons he learned at the cost of his eyes have made him much more successful so far. As the head of the Society of Snakes in Shadows, Sir Dorrance has a good array of contacts, informants and “providers” for all manner of needs, as well as a cadre of often personally trained enforcers skilled both in the martial arts and in more mundane but modern means of waging war.

A relatively smaller but elusive and widespread organization, his soldiers come from all walks of life. Though the core is made up of disenfranchised street youth given purpose, a better life and shaped into a fighting force, the society’s ranks includes drivers, waiters, maids, factory workers and desk jockeys, all sorts. They are all fanatically loyal and they are often hidden in plain sight, waiting for King Snake’s command. He also possesses ample resources to call upon and can facilitate most things that money can buy and plenty that money can’t.

-Gadgets: Rarely ever carries anything, relying on his own strength instead.

-Weapons: Although he is quite skilled in the use of a wide variety of both modern and more classical weaponry, King Snake prefers to rely on his own abilities. Discretion, however, is the better part of valor, and so he tends to carry six small throwing blades just in case, as well as a hook on a long, thin fiber line that can be used for both utility and offensive purposes. He also carries a collapsible white cane, used for masquerading as a blind socialite and to humiliate weak assailants.

Biography---------
Character History/Origin:
TLDR: Former british marine is blinded while attempting to establish a criminal empire in China, falls in with a kung fu cult and is empowered by a mythical snake totem. Now he returns with a vengeance.

Desmond Dorrance was born in 1962 in the less than welcoming parts of London. A lanky and self-conscious youth mocked for his early growth spurts, a desire to better himself led him to discover training in the martial arts, fighting, and that he was quite talented at both. Soon he found that the name calling mattered less and less to him as he improved in skill and his confidence grew in turn, though his need to climb ever higher away from his humble beginnings never left him. By age 18 he had joined the british navy as a Royal Marine, guaranteeing himself greater education and an environment that would nurture his gift for violence.

Extremely driven, regarded as almost manic by his peers, by age 24 Dorrance had reached captaincy. The marine distinguished himself in engagements against increasingly desperate communist guerrilla activity based in East and Southeast Asia, from where they struck out primarily as pirates plaguing both the west and their own. China, still under communist rule but opening to the world at large, denounced these movements and cooperated with other navies to quell what they saw as disruptive insurrections that the Party could not tolerate. It was during these travels that Dorrance spent time in and became enamored with the “Middle Kingdom”.

A pivotal moment came when Dorrance was wounded in the line of duty by age 26, acting as a bodyguard to british dignitaries including a member of the royal family in Beijing. Desmond protected the diplomatic mission to discuss further cooperation between China and the west, foiling an assassination attempt that sought to destabilize the eastern power and create tension between the countries. Hailed as a hero, he was given an honorary knighthood as he recovered in Beijing and was granted an honorable discharge at his request. In the decade that followed, Sir Dorrance established himself as a socialite in Britain and China, building bridges between the countries as he amassed a fortune for himself.

Accusations of foul play were levied towards Desmond in his meteoric rise to fortune, but few could fathom the depths of his corruption. Tired of serving others, of risking life and limb for a flag he felt nothing for, Sir Dorrance struck out on his own in Asia, the law be damned. Accompanied by several former soldiers he started a mercenary and smuggling venture in the turbulent waters. Having learned much from pirates and guerrillas and their failings during his military career, the highly successful Desmond managed to keep airtight secrecy about his activities even as he gathered more and more men under his command and immersed himself in the underground martial arts culture in China, forging himself into an outstanding figure.

Sir Dorrance’s operation rose from a smuggling ring to the upstart to watch within the chinese underworld, the so called Rising Dragon Clan. But that ancient, insular world of long upheld traditions was incensed by the foreign invader, they would not allow the british intrusion to begin anew. Acting in far greater concert and force than their usual methods, an alliance of Triads destroyed the Clan to a man in the span of a week, its assets acquired and split between those who led the operations. During the assault Sir Dorrance was captured, tortured and left broken and dying. But die he didn’t. He had lost his eyes, his honor and everything he had ever worked for, but within him burned a terrible vengeance.

For three years he worked like a man possessed, making a recovery that astounded the doctors he managed to buy with what valuables he had left, who thought he’d be lucky to walk again. In his fury he dove deeper into the martial arts, using them as a means to overcome his handicap and advancing his fighting skills by leaps and bounds. Word of his survival spread but it was seen as trifling matter, just a crippled madman seeking bogus enlightenment. A few cooler heads saw it fit to worry, but their peace of mind returned when Desmond vanished in the area around Mount Tai and was presumed dead. Instead, within the Great Mountain of China Sir Dorrance found his destiny.

An outsider who experienced a rapid rise, catastrophic fall and subsequent battle with disability, Desmond fit within an old prophecy, marking him as one who might carry the legacy of the Snake Clan. The stories he had long heard whispered were real. The mythical sub society of martial artists, adventurers and mystics known as the Wulin existed, and he had come to their doorstep. Guided to their hidden temple within one of the most important landmarks in the country he was offered a choice: he could restore his eyesight and return to the mundane world, or blinded he could seek ever greater heights he had never even dreamed of. Desmond did not hesitate.

Though he was now 40 time was of no consequence, for the Clan held one great asset. Using primordial substances of the Earth with regenerative properties and the lethal venom of snakes they concocted arcane potions and performed strange rituals, strengthening their own against the passage of time. Though his eyes were left dead and blank, instead his other senses developed monstrously to compensate. It was maddening, it was intoxicating power. Fifteen long years of training the body and mind followed, and Desmond was not alone. Others risen and fallen, all of them disabled in some manner, were to be the rivals for his ambition, but he would not be denied and he once again excelled.

At the end of the period, only one other remained. Mei Xue was beautiful, her skin the palest, purest white, her gaze like gold, her hair like silk and black as the night. Born deaf and having adapted admirably over the years, she had been rescued from poverty by the selfless head of a martial arts school. Under him she learned, she prospered and she grew to love him, and his untimely passing and the closing of his school shattered her. She became a death seeker, challenging others in increasingly brutal duels until the Clan found her and gave her a new purpose. Sir Desmond Dorrance was smitten with her, and ignorant of his past she grew attracted to him as a kindred soul forced to fight the cruelty of the world.

Dorrance truly wanted to love Mei Xue, yet he also hated her for he very quickly realized she was his superior in talents and skills. He hated that she was bound to claim the title he sought and above all he hated that she would never accept his ways, that any moment spent with her threw his mind into disarray. Desmond’s ambitions took hold. He could not let this stand, he would not serve again. Covertly, slowly, as the years passed and students dropped out of the running, healed of their imperfections and deprived of much of their former powers, he spread his influence. He had the ear of the youngest and most malleable, earned himself their loyalty, planted in them thoughts of taking power once more.

With only him and Mei Xue left, the final test was at last announced: an honorable race through the labyrinthine caverns under the mountain, filled with traps and deadly creatures, with the coveted title as the prize. The former marine’s estimations of the beloved’s skills were not wrong, she was his superior, he could not best her directly. But he would not lose. Instead, at an intersection, he deceived her, lured her to the dark where she would not be able to read him. There he embraced her, he confessed his heartfelt love for her and as she stood momentarily stricken Sir Desmond Dorrance slew the last person he ever truly cared for, carrying her body out as he emerged from the caverns to claim his title.

The clan elders were outraged at what they saw as a clear breach of honor and sought to deny Dorrance his position and cripple him anew now they saw him for what he was. In turn, Desmond was outraged that he would be denied what he felt he had rightly earned and what he had sacrificed so much for. But had planned for this, he knew the chinese would never truly accept a westerner. In a spiral of madness, Sir Dorrance and the followers he had gained attacked and the Temple of the Snake was ravaged by the battle. The instructors were struck down one after the other and as the tragedy unfolded, the spirit of the great snake awoke and watched with bemused interest.

Make no mistake, it too would have favored kindly Mei Xue, many of its past champions had been heroes. But the totem represented all aspects of the being, and this included its malice, its venom, its cunning and deadliness, and it was by this judgement that Sir Desmond Dorrance was deemed worthy. Once again he had risen above all expectations, surpassed every obstacle put in front of him and despite great suffering he had elevated himself above the rabble as he always knew he would. It was his destiny. Sir Desmond Dorrance was now King Snake, and the newly crowned monarch had a score to settle with those that had sought to end him before he could claim what was rightfully his.

Silently, he slithered outside the temple with his cadre of disciples and extended his grasp, slowly but surely coiling himself around those who had wronged him. For two years he collected more followers and whipped them into shape, creating a force far more sinister than his first, clumsy attempt. In two years he rebuilt what had once taken him ten to create, and in these two years he hid patiently and waited. He had called himself a dragon before, but now he realized the true danger lay not in the thunder on the horizon but within the shadows by your feet. A lesson he would soon impart.

Heroes Reborn - A DCAU Roleplay (Always open!)

@Blackstripe Yeah still here, yes I'm done.

Supervillain Name: King Snake
Civilian Name: Sir Edmund Drake
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Height: 6’3’’
Weight: 195 pounds or so
Age: 57
Origin city/Planet: London
Hometown: Primary base of operation in Shanghai, cells of followers in Hong Kong and Macau, smaller cells scattered in US chinatowns. Personal lodgings in London.
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Appearance:

Impressive, no?

Tall and gaunt and built as if he’d been corded from steel wires, the striking surfaces of his body hardened and calloused beyond all reason, King Snake’s main eyecatch are his body markings. A mixture of ritualistic scarring and tattoo, Sir Drake is covered neck to toe in these symbols and scriptures that all coalesce into the figure of a demonic, dragon-like snake coiled upon his back. Aside from this peculiarity, King Snake doesn’t bother much with costumes. His regular outfit consists of a simple green dress shirt, white trousers and white dress loafers, along with a white jacket in the style of a mao suit. A pair of black gloves tend to complete his usual look, along with the everpresent shades to hide the fact that his eyes have long gone dead and blank.

Icon: His snake tattoo.

Civilian Occupation: Head of the Society of the Snakes in Shadows, often simplified from its full chinese name as just the Ghost Snakes.

Personality:
King Snake likes to present himself as an educated, smooth talking rogue, an always calm and self assured crime lord with a penchant for dramatization and grandstanding, as well as a great love for the many pleasures life has to offer. Though he can come across as something of a pompous hedonist at times, he holds himself to extremely high standards. Noblesse oblige, as it were. A very active, adventurous man who just can’t accept having others do his work for him, he is absolutely manic in his pursuits and even has something of a personal code, finding deceit and treachery rather beneath him and holding his word and honor to a very high value.

Having said all of this, the man is still an unrepentant villain, a cold blooded blackguard who puts himself above all else and sees no problem with wronging others if it serves his own purposes. For his villainy, Sir Edmund Drake sees opposing the forces of order as a great adventure, a personal test, somewhere he can get the ultimate thrills in life. And for him, there is no greater thrill than the way of combat. A dedicated martial artist who sees bloodshed as a deeply personal, elegant art, especially when faced with worthy adversaries, he is against wanton carnage or systematic extermination, seeing them as dull and impersonal corruptions of his craft.

Super abilities:
-Powers:
The body a fortress: It bears saying right now, King Snake is literally, legitimately blind and has been for a long time. Despite this apparent clear-cut handicap, however, the man has risen in the underworld primarily through his physical might. Always an athletic and gifted fighter, now rejuvenated through a lazarus pit and empowered by the Totem of the Snake, Sir Edmund Drake is a finely honed killing machine, ahead of even the iost skilled “street powerhouses” in ways should not be possible for a human being.

Though he isn’t as purely strong as those (in his powerscale) who dedicate themselves to muscle, he is still freakishly powerful for his build, and it is everywhere else where he shines best. His speed, agility, flexibility, reflexes, precision and coordination are staggering; allowing him to perform feats such as catching sustained barrages from lethal marksmen with minimal effort, throwing a knife faster than a room of people can follow, outmaneuvering world class fighters and performing seemingly gravity defying leaps even from the least stable of footing.

Outstandingly tough, he can be struck and sometimes stunned and be made to bleed, yes, but it seems to take more effort than it should. King Snake can continue performing efficiently even when severely injured, and doesn’t appear to tire unless severely pressed and harmed. Though not a regenerator per se, wounds that would fell lesser men fail to do the trick on him, disease and toxins and the like appear to take little to no hold in him, and he can often grit his teeth and survive until he can receive medical aid and return soon and well.

The mind a temple: To make up for his blindness, King Snake’s hearing, smell, touch and even taste have developed to superhuman levels, providing him with an enormous amount of information on his surroundings that he interprets as an extremely vivid mental “image”. In order to properly process and manage all of this, avoiding sensory overload and allowing him to function as a lethal fighter, his mind has developed to the point where it operates faster and more efficiently, enhancing his intellect and ability to learn, adapt and think on his feet, and making it so sharp and focused it has become all but impervious to outside interference.

-Skills:
Fangs of the Viper: King Snake is a lethal martial artist, having synthesized his own fighting style which he perpetually seeks to improve upon. It is fast, sinuous and fluid much like Snake kung fu, entwining, dodging, deflecting, redirecting and attacking precisely from advantageous angles, deceptive to the point where even those with extrasensory perceptions that should be able to see through his intentions can be fooled. Through proper technique, he can defend himself from attacks that surpass his sheer physicality, and he can strike with shocking, snapping power that exceeds his pure lifting strength from nearly all positions and distances.

Two particular things stand out from Sir Drake’s fighting skills, first and foremost being his “venom”. The sum total of all his abilities, King Snake is preternaturally capable of attacking vulnerable spots and overcoming defensive measures, his attacks effective even against beings more powerful than he or even those otherwise unaffected by mere physical trauma. Second is the power of his hands, usually one of the most vulnerable parts of the body. King Snake’s fingers act like his namesake’s fangs, his grip is disproportionately powerful and he can easily tear off or stab through flesh, even being capable of piercing and crushing rock and metals (within “reason”).

Beware what lurks in shadows: King Snake is a proficient assassin and infiltrator. Aside from his physical skills he is outstanding at operating stealthily, making not a single noise and blending into environments as a serpent blends into foliage, finding cracks in defensive systems and navigating situations where less physically capable agents would fail. The dark is where his abilities truly shine, as those who rely on their eyesight find themselves at the mercy of someone who has long forsaken his.

Renaissance man: Sir Edmund Drake was already an intelligent, driven and educated individual before his rebirth as King Snake. Ever since he has made amazing strides, becoming a resourceful polyglot and polymath, using his knowledge to further help him navigate around his blindness and form organizations around him. He is, however, still obsessed with martial skill above all, and will more often than not prefer to engage in it rather than falling back on any other field.

Crime lord: King Snake is currently on his second attempt at a criminal empire, after the rapid rise and catastrophic fall of the first, and the lessons he learned at the cost of his eyes have made him much more successful so far. As the head of the Society of Snakes in Shadows, Sir Drake has a good array of contacts, informants and “providers” as well as a cadre of often personally trained enforcers. A relatively smaller but elusive and widespread organization, his soldiers come from all walks of life, they are fanatically loyal and they are often hidden in plain sight, waiting for his command. He also possesses ample resources to call upon and can facilitate most things that money can buy and plenty that money can’t.

-Gadgets: Rarely ever carries anything, relying on his strength and skills instead.

-Weapons: Same as above, although he is quite skilled in the use of a wide variety of both modern and more classical weaponry.

Character History/Origin:
TLDR: Former british marine is blinded while attempting to establish a criminal empire in China, falls in with a kung fu cult and is empowered by a mythical snake totem. Now he returns with a vengeance.

Edmund Drake was born in 1962 in the less than welcoming parts of London. A lanky and self-conscious youth mocked for his early growth spurts, a desire to better himself led him to discover training in the martial arts, fighting, and that he was quite talented at both. Soon he found that the name calling mattered less and less to him as he improved in skill, and his confidence grew in turn though his need to climb ever higher away from his humble beginnings never left him. By age 18 he had joined the british navy as a Royal Marine, guaranteeing himself greater education and an environment that would nurture his gift for violence.

Extremely driven, regarded as almost manic by his peers, by age 24 Drake had reached captaincy. The marine distinguished himself in engagements against increasingly desperate communist guerrilla activity based in East and Southeast Asia, from where they struck out primarily as pirates plaguing both the west and their own. China, still under communist rule but opening to the world at large, denounced these movements and cooperated with other navies to quell what they say as disruptive insurrections that the Party could not tolerate. It was during these travels that Drake spent time in and became enamored with the “Middle Kingdom”.

A pivotal moment came when Drake was wounded in the line of duty by age 26. Acting as a bodyguard to british dignitaries including a member of the royal family, in Beijing for a diplomatic mission to discuss further cooperation between China and the west, Edmund’s intervention foiled an assassination attempt that sought to destabilize the eastern power and create tension between the countries. Hailed as a hero, he was given an honorary knighthood as he recovered in Beijing and was granted an honorable discharge at his request. Soon after, he disappeared into obscurity, only to emerge a decade later.

In this time, the ever ambitious Sir Drake was far from idle. Tired of serving others, of risking life and limb for a flag he felt nothing for, he struck out on his own in the land that so called to him, accompanied by several other former soldiers as he started a mercenary and smuggling venture in the turbulent waters. Having learned much from pirates and guerrillas and their failings during his military career, Edmund amassed ill-gotten riches and gathered more and more men under his command, and as he did so he immersed himself in the underground martial arts culture in China and forged himself into an outstanding figure.

His Rising Dragon Clan positioned itself as the upstart to watch within the chinese underworld, but it was too much and far too soon. A year after his return to prominence the Triads made their move, incensed by this foreign invader. The Clan was destroyed to a man in the span of a week, its assets acquired and split between those responsible, and during the assault Sir Drake was wounded and left for dead. Die he didn’t, but he did lose his eyes, his honor and everything he had ever worked for. What he didn’t lose was his will to live, and a burning need for revenge consumed him.

For three years Drake worked like a man possessed, seeking out many martial arts masters to learn to overcome his handicap and advancing his own fighting skills further and further. Word of his survival spread but mattered little, just crippled madman seeking bogus enlightenment. A few cooler heads saw it fit to worry, especially when hitmen sent to end the westerner once and for all never returned, but their peace of mind returned when Edmund vanished in the area around Mount Tai and was presumed dead. Instead, within the Great Mountain of China Sir Drake found his destiny.

One marked by gold and the paleness of snow, one who ascended to the heavens and survived the fall, one who is lesser than all and yet shall shall rise above. The briton’s rapid rise, catastrophic fall and subsequent battle with disability fit within an old prophecy, marking him as one who might carry the legacy of the Snake Clan, an ancient organization within the mythical sub society of martial artists, adventurers and mystics known as the Wulin. Guided to their hidden temple within one of the most important landmarks in the country he was offered a choice: he could restore his eyesight or he could seek ever greater heights. Edmund did not hesitate.

Now 40, Sir Drake was rejuvenated in the Clan’s greatest asset, spoken of only in legend: a mysterious substance hidden deep within the bowels of the Earth known as a lazarus pit. His eyes ritualistically left dead and blank, instead his other senses developed monstrously to compensate. It was maddening, it was intoxicating power. Fifteen long years of training the body and mind followed, and Edmund was not alone. Others, golden and pale, risen and fallen, all of them disabled in some manner, were to be the rivals for his ambition, but he would not be denied and in this strange and demanding environment he once again excelled.

At the end of the period, only one other remained. Mei Xue was beautiful, her skin and gaze gleamed like gold, her hair was the purest white. Born deaf and having adapted admirably over the years, she had been rescued from poverty by the selfless head of a martial arts school. Under him she learned, she prospered and she grew to love him, and his untimely passing shattered her. She became a death seeker, challenging others in increasingly brutal duels until the Clan found her and gave her a new purpose. Sir Edmund Drake was smitten with her, and ignorant of his past she saw him as a kindred soul trying to escape the cruelty of the world.

Drake truly wanted to love Mei Xue, yet he also hated her for being his superior in talents and skills. He hated that she was bound to claim the title he sought and the power it conveyed and above all he hated that she would never accept his ways, that any moment spent with her threw his mind into disarray. When the final test was announced, a race through the labyrinthine caverns under the mountain, at last the prize was truly explained: to be the successor to the Snake Totem, to be bestowed power beyond that of humans in the dawn of a new age. Drake’s hatred and ambitions took hold. He could not let this stand, he would not serve again.

During the trial he broke all rules, all etiquette, all in the name of his honor as a martial artist, and attacked Mei Xue. The former marine’s estimations of her skill were not wrong, she was her superior. Still, she was once again torn, her emotions troubled her. She did not fight as hard as she could’ve, strike as lethally as perhaps she should have, she allowed herself to be misled, manipulated. Luring her to the darkest pits, where her enhanced vision to overcome her deafness did her little good, Sir Edmund Drake struck down the last person he ever truly loved, carrying her body out as he emerged from the caverns claiming his title.

The clan elders were outraged, they sought to deny him what he felt he had rightly earned and he was outraged in turn. In a spiral of madness, he attacked, and the temple’s halls were ravaged by the battle. They had taught him well, and this he proved by striking his instructors down one after the other. And as the tragedy unfolded, the spirit of the great snake awoke and watched with great interest. Make no mistake, it too would have favored kindly Mei Xue, many of its past champions had been heroes. But the totem represented all aspects of the being, and this included its malice, its venom, its cunning and deadliness.

And it was by this judgement that Sir Edmund Dorrance was deemed worthy. Once again he had risen above all expectations, surpassed every obstacle. He was no longer a mere mortal, no, he was King Snake. And the newly crowned King had a score to settle with those that had sought to end him. Silently, he slithered outside the temple and extended his grasp. For two years he collected followers, in two years he rebuilt what had once taken him 10 to create, and in these two years he hid patiently and waited. He had called himself a dragon before, but now he realized the true dangers were those within the shadows by your feet. A lesson he would soon impart.