DeLarge

The metal men always came for her in the darkness.   She heard their enormous feet slam into the dry, dusty earth and their poorly-maintained joints squealing as they moved into position surrounding her, blocking out the last remnants of the day's light behind a wall of faceless iron creatures. She curled up in a ball on the hard ground, the pungent smell of oil and cordite filling her nostrils, almost overwhelming her. She felt the heat from their weapons on the back of her neck, and heard metallic clunks and clicks as the metal beasts loaded their guns, ready to obliterate her. It ended the same way every time.   It ended with her death.   But this time the hooded man descended from the heavens, wreathed in scarlet flames. His blade swiped through the air, cleaving through the metal hides of the Iron Guards, the fire coruscating from his body melting their shells into so much molten slag. Within moments the metal men were gone, scorched from the very earth itself by the hooded man's cleansing fire.   She looked to him as he stood, stoic and alone, and leapt to her feet to embrace her saviour. But as she got closer, he turned to face her, his eyes blazing with Hellfire, and with an unearthly howl he spewed flames from deep within his hood, engulfing her in perfect, screaming agony.   She awoke with a start, her breathing heavy and ragged, tears streaming down her face.   Breathing deeply to calm herself and lower her heartbeat, she looked at her surroundings: the small area was barely lit by a set of dim bulbs hanging from the metal rafters that made up the ceiling. The pale light illuminated the area enough for her to make out water dribbling down the tiled walls and onto the dark slabs of the ground, and she smelt mould and damp all around her. She had been placed on a thin, flimsy mattress in the corner of the room, and an open medical kit lay on the ground next to her, one that had recently been used on her.   "I don't have anything to say to you," said a voice from the darkness, echoing around the chamber, "You need to get out and not come back, or I will send you back home myself."   "As much as your delusions of power amuse me," replied a different, more confident-sounding voice, "You and I are both well aware that the last time you did that it nearly cost you your life."   "What makes you think I wouldn't take the same risk again?"   "Because these days you have people who rely on you. You're the self-appointed protector of this city, and I don't believe for a second that you would allow yourself to die in vain and leave them so very vulnerable."   "If you dare threaten these people to get to me," said the first voice coldly, "I will send you somewhere that makes your home seem like Paradise."   "There's the anger I see in you," hissed the second voice, "Unleash it. Let your rage run free..."   "Get out," said the first voice after a beat, now much calmer, "This won't work."   "Oh, but it already has," replied the second voice, "I'll be back. You have my word."   There was an odd whooshing sound which reverberated around the entire room, and then silence. She peered into the darkness, straining her eyes to try and get a glimpse of what was happening in this odd place, but she could make out only blurry shapes, no distinguishing features.   "Hello?" she said, her voice cracking as she did, "Is anyone there?"   A man emerged from the shadows, the black tank-top he wore displaying both the tattoos and the scars he bore across his arms and chest. His face was similarly scarred, his eyes almost black, but there was an odd kindness about his face as well, a kindness which both comforted and disturbed the girl.   "You're awake," he said, identifying him as the first speaker from the earlier conversation, "You've been asleep for a while. I was wondering whether you were in a coma."   "Who are you?" she asked, her tone a mixture of cautious and curious.   "My name's Slade," he replied, crouching down at the foot of the mattress, "People around here tend to know me as 'The Shroud', though."   "You're the vigilante? The one who kills humans and demonspawn?"   "I save anyone who needs it," he replied with a smile, "Doesn't matter if they're human or demonspawn, if they're in trouble then I help them. Are you hungry?"   She paused for a moment, then nodded. He stood up and grabbed a pair of silver pouches from a shelf, tossing her one and keeping the other for himself. She picked the pouch up and looked at it warily.   "Protein nibs," he said, tearing his own pouch open, "They're military rations, kind of disgusting, but they'll fill you up for a day or two."   Hesitating slightly, she pulled her own pouch open and grabbed a handful of the pellets inside, shovelling them into her mouth and enjoying the feeling of eating, even if they tasted odd and leathery.   "Careful," Slade chuckled, "Those things are slow-release - you eat too many of them and in a couple of hours you'll feel like shit."   "I haven't eaten in three days," she replied through a mouthful, "Right now the feeling of being too full would be like a blessing."   "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose," said Slade with a laugh, "So what's your name?"   "Layla," the girl said, finally slowing down with the protein nibs, "Are you half-demon? You don't quite seem...human."   "Thanks!" exclaimed Slade sarcastically, "But yes, I am a half-demon. Much like yourself...half-Jinn, am I right?" Layla nodded.   "I bet you're half...incubus?" she said, eyeing Slade up and down.   "I wish," he replied, "Half-incubus would be a walk in the park compared to this."   "So what then? Lycanthrope? Shigguroth?"   "Worse," he said, and she sensed by his tone that she should change the subject.   "So...who were you talking to before? I heard two voices, but you were the only one here."   "You heard that?" he asked, and she nodded, "That was...a rather unpleasant acquaintance of mine. He wants something I have, and I'm not exactly prepared to give it up."   "Why does he want it so badly?"   "Because he thinks it'll allow him to control me, and that's something he's wanted for a long time."   "He sounds like a dick," said Layla absent-mindedly, pushing more protein nibs into her mouth. Slade barked out a laugh, and she eventually joined him.   "He is a complete dick," he said as the laughter died down, "He'll be back, but he'll never get what he wants."   "It's kinda precious then?"   "It's probably the most precious thing in my possession, yeah," said Slade with a nod, "So how are you feeling? You've had a pretty tough time of it the past couple of days."   "I'm ok, I guess," she replied, "Those Slayers had been chasing me for a while, it's kind of a relief to get them off my back."   "So you don't have a problem with how I dealt with them?"   "They would have killed you if you'd given them the chance," she said with a shrug, "I'm just glad you didn't."   "True," Slade replied with a sigh, before pushing himself up off the ground, "Anyway, I need to head back out there. I picked up some chatter about a contingent of Iron Guards sweeping the outskirts of the city trying to mop up some half-demon resistance forces. You can stay here, just try not to touch anything that looks important, ok?"   "So you can fight Iron Guards with just a bow and arrows?" she asked as he grabbed his recurve bow from the wall and his quiver of arrows from the ground below.   "It's easy when you know how," he said with a tiny grin. Placing his weapons down for a moment, he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and swung it on, flipping the hood up as he went, then picked his weapons back up and hauled himself up a ladder to a manhole cover some twelve feet above the ground.   "Stay safe," he said, and she glanced up at him, only to see the hooded man from her nightmare. Her heart started beating faster, and she watched as he made his exit. Then, when she was sure he was gone, she let out a small sob.   The hooded man. Her saviour or a harbinger of her doom.   Only time would tell.

"Help me...someone, please help me..."   The whispered words were more of a self-serving mantra than a real plea for assistance, because by now the young half-Jinn girl had given up hope of salvation. Her hiding place on a burnt-out factory floor had been compromised, and the Slayers were quickly surrounding her, their weapons and equipment primed and ready to destroy her on sight.   "Someone...please help me...please..."   Her breathing was heavy and ragged, and tears resembling crystal prisms rolled gently down her cheeks as she repeated these words to herself over and over again.   "Where are you, little girl...?" came the taunting voice of a Slayer approaching her, and she had to clamp her own hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out, "We just wanna play with you a while..."   She whimpered softly, and too late she noticed that her skin was emitting a faint blue glow that was not uncommon to the spawn of Jinn, particularly during moments of heightened emotion. She desperately tried to calm herself, but the sight of her own abilities manifesting only served to panic her more, and the glow intensified.   "Well, what do we have here?" said the jeering voice of the lead Slayer, spotting the blue glow and dragging the young girl, kicking and screaming, out of her hiding place. He let go of her collar and crouched down over the terrified creature.   "Holy hell, wouldja lookit that?" he exclaimed, signalling for the other four Slayers to join him, "Who woulda known a demonspawn could be so damn pretty?"   "Please...I haven't done anything wrong..." pleaded the girl, crystalline tears now pouring from her cheeks, her skin glowing bright blue.   "Rats ain't done nothin' wrong neither, li'l girl," replied the Slayer, his voice cold as he stood up and drew a large revolver from the holster on his belt, "But when they come to where we live an' start spreadin' disease, we call the exterminator. It ain't your fault, it's just the way you was born."   He pulled back the hammer on his revolver and pointed it square at the half-demon girl's head. She howled in anguish and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable bullet just like her brother had done so long ago.   She waited.   And waited.   And the bullet never came.   Finally, she wrenched her eyes open, only to see the Slayer staring down at his own stomach in disbelief. She followed his eyes down and saw a long, thin object with a wickedly curved head protruding from his belly, the tip coated in blood. A moment later, a second object pierced the Slayer's throat from behind, and he fell to the floor gurgling out his last breath.   The rest of the Slayers fanned out, this new development proving a far greater threat than the young girl they had come to the outskirts of the city to exterminate. They aimed their guns into the rafters of the warehouse, straining their eyes to peer into the shadows and fumbling to grab the flashlights from their belts.   The girl watched as the Slayer closest to her fell, an arrow directly between her eyes.   Then the next, two arrows to the chest.   The next was dragged into the shadows, screaming as he went until his cries were cut short.   The final Slayer dropped his weapons to the ground and raised his hands in the air.   "I give up! I was only in this for the money anyhow, I don't wanna die 'cause of some half-demon bitch!"   He looked in front of him as a hooded figure stepped out of the shadows, a recurve bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. He could make out no discernible features of the figure other than a pair of scarlet eyes glowing from deep within the hood.   "The...the Shroud..." gasped the Slayer, "I thought you was just a story..."   "Maybe I am," said the figure, his voice coding him as male, "Either way, it doesn't end well for you."   With lightning-fast strides, the Shroud covered the distance between himself and the Slayer, and in one swift motion drew a long, thin sword from his hip and thrust it through the Slayer's stomach. His eyes widened, and the Shroud withdrew the blade and stepped back, pulling his hood down to reveal a scarred face, with cropped hair and a scruffy beard.   "My name is Slade Bennett," he said, the glow in his eyes dissipating and returning them to almost-blackness, "And I want you to take this knowledge deep into the Inferno with you: I am a demonspawn, and you have just been killed by that which you hate the most."   A look of sudden realisation crossed the Slayer's face as he slumped to the floor, wheezing out his final breath. Slade barely spared a glance for the man before striding over to the young girl and crouching down beside her.   "You're safe now," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder, "They're not going to hurt you any more."   The girl nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes, and wrapped her arms around Slade, pressing her face into his chest as she sobbed. He gently placed his arms around her and held her until the sobbing subsided.   "Now, what's your name?" he asked, removing his arms and pulling her gently away from his chest. However, she didn't answer as she had fallen asleep in his arms, presumably exhausted from the trauma of the day. He sighed, and lifted the slight creature in his arms, ready to take her somewhere safe.   "The things I do to protect the children..."

"Another," said Garrick, gesturing his tankard at the barmaid, who returned his blunt command with an oft-practiced smile and a wink which suggested sexual attraction but was, in reality, quite the opposite. Garrick rolled his tongue around his mouth and screwed his eyes up, trying to conceal the fact that he had drunk more than he probably should have done. The barmaid slammed a foaming tankard down in front of him, and he took a deep breath before grabbing the handle.   His descent into a drunken stupor was rudely interrupted by a hand slapping down onto his shoulder from behind. He turned his head gradually, knowing that whoever the hand belonged to, it wouldn't be good news.   He was right.   Even in his half-intoxicated state, he recognised the owner of the hand as one of Chu'val's disciples from the crowd, a large, thick-set man with a heavily-scarred face. Two more men flanked him, these ones smaller but equally scarred, one of them sporting a ragged eyepatch and the other a deep scar across the bridge of his nose. Garrick swallowed his nerves about the situation and stared the central man down, slowly getting to his feet.   "Gentlemen," he said, his words slurring a little, "I presume, as disciples of Chu'val...that you have some issue with my associating with Dragon Knights. Would I be correct in this presumption?"   Thick-Set grunted, folding his thick, muscular arms.   "I'll take that as a yes," said Garrick, "And I don't suppose it would lessen the inevitable brutal physical beating if I told you that I hold no loyalty to the Dragon Knights' cause...they were simply the highest bidder for my services."   "No," replied Eyepatch, "I don't suppose it would."   "Very well," said Garrick, grabbing his tankard from the bar and draining it, "But would you mind terribly if we stepped outside? I'm afraid I've caused Glenda here far too much trouble already today..." He gestured to the barmaid, who gave a nod of confirmation when Thick-Set looked over to her.   Without a word of response, Thick-Set grabbed Garrick by the collar and dragged him through the small door of the Hero Tavern, the conflict of his size and the size of the doorway eliciting the tiniest of chuckles from Garrick as he did so.   The moment they were outside, Thick-Set threw Garrick to the floor and cracked his substantial knuckles.   "Get 'im," growled Nose-Scar, "Kill the heathen! String 'is body up at the city gates! Send a message to the First Born the only way 'e'll understand!" Thick-Set nodded and advanced on Garrick, who writhed on the ground a little, winded by Thick-Set's shove.   "Look at him, crawling around on the floor like the worm he is," snarled Eyepatch, "I'd have thought the First Born would pick his soldiers more carefully than this."   Thick-Set loomed over Garrick, lifting his enormous foot up and letting it hover above the Virdisian's head for a moment, grinning maliciously with far less than a full set of teeth. Garrick returned the gaze, and for the briefest of seconds a grin flashed across his face, causing Thick-Set's brow to furrow in anger, and his foot come hurtling towards his prone adversary.   Then Garrick caught his foot.   Lightning-quick, Garrick pushed Thick-Set's foot back, sending him stumbling backwards into his two companions, both of whom were knocked to the floor as Thick-Set attempted to regain his balance. Garrick, in turn, leapt to his feet and rested his hand on the hilt of one of his swords.   "Please tell me you didn't think I was drunk," said Garrick, his words now perfectly clear, "The watered-down Chu'valian piss they serve in this city couldn't intoxicate a child. Now, you had some kind of quarrel with me and my people?"   Thick-Set responded in the only way he knew how: he swung one of his meaty fists at Garrick with all the strength he could muster, which was admittedly considerable.   Garrick neatly sidestepped the blow and watched as Thick-Set stumbled past him, dragged forward by the momentum of his punch.   "Try that again and I'll take your fucking hand," said Garrick, pointing at Thick-Set like a disappointed schoolteacher. He almost didn't notice Eyepatch and Nose-Scar scrambling to their feet and drawing their weapons.   Almost.   They charged at him together, short knives glinting in the early-evening sun, but the Virdisian was too quick for them: he dodged under Eyepatch's clumsy swipe, slamming a fist into the side of his knee until he heard a sickening pop, then drew his own knife and drew it across Nose-Scar's belly, cutting a deep wound which immediately began weeping blood.   Both men went down, and Garrick turned just in time to see Thick-Set charge at him again. With a single fluid movement that wouldn't have been possible if he weren't a Battle-Mage, Garrick drew one of his blades and with a flash of steel and a trail of icy-blue light carving through the air, the Virdisian kept his promise.   Thick-Set crumpled to the floor, grabbing at the stump which used to be his right hand, feverishly attempting to stem the gout of blood that spurted from his wrist as he stared in disbelief at the wound which had just been inflicted upon him.   Garrick walked over to the three incapacitated men, grabbing Eyepatch's collar and lifting the man to face him as he whimpered over his broken knee-joint.   "Now, if you wish to escape a fate similar to your two friends here, I suggest you tell me what your leader, the preacher we witnessed over at the Central Fountain, has planned for us," said Garrick calmly.   "You're dead if you tell this heathen anything," rasped Nose-Scar through the pain of his stomach-wound. Garrick rolled his eyes, flicked the knife in his hand around and slammed the blade into Nose-Scar's throat, holding it there as he gurgled and rasped his way to death.   "You may be dead if you tell me anything," said Garrick, removing his blade and wiping it on Nose-Scar's shirt, "But you'll be dead sooner if you don't."   "H-he intends to k-kill...the..." whimpered Eyepatch, spluttering like a guilty child, "T-to kill the...." Garrick sighed and pressed down on Eyepatch's knee, eliciting a howl of agony from the man.   "The Empress! He intends to...to assassinate the Empress..." stammered Eyepatch. Then, much to Garrick's disdain, he fainted from the combination of pain and severe emotional stress.   "Waste of effort," muttered Garrick, letting Eyepatch's prone form slump to the ground. A few feet away, Thick-Set was nursing the stump of his hand, his skin pallid and sweaty as he whimpered softly. Garrick rolled his eyes and turned to walk away, when his eyes met those of a horrified-looking Cassandra.   "Chu'val's disciples intend to assassinate the Empress," he said, ignoring the clear disgust on her face.   "I know," she replied after a moment, her mouth dry and her face pale, "Haytham and Julian reported back. Somehow they managed to discover this without the need for this much bloodshed."   Garrick looked from Cassandra to the slumped forms of the men he had just defeated, then back to Cassandra.   "Well...at least we know what they're up to now!"

I've recently become a complete YouTube nerd. I spend a good deal of my spare time surfing around the site trying to find stuff to watch, so I was wondering: what are your favourite YouTube channels? I'm always looking for more channels to subscribe to, and you OB types seem like a bunch with uncommonly good taste in entertainment so I thought I'd find out!   I'll go first!   I think the channels I watch the most are The Yogscast and RoosterTeeth (and, more recently the spin-off channel of the latter, Let's Play), which are both companies who grew to their current size mostly thanks to YouTube. Between the two of them it's mostly video game commentary, but to my mind they're some of the more entertaining commentators on YouTube (never been a big fan of PewDiePie, much to the hatred of the rest of YouTube!). It helps that they are both large groups of people doing gaming commentary, as I find lone commentators a little bit boring - much better when they have other people to bounce off!   Other than those I've recently become a big fan of freddiew and CorridorDigital who both do some really interesting stuff with Visual Effects, and Hannah Hart is a regular staple on my subscriptions list, particularly with her show 'My Drunk Kitchen'.   Those are a few of my favourite YouTube channels, what are yours?   And as a sub-question, anyone around the 'Boards have a YouTube channel of their own? I'd like to think with a group of creative net-savvy folks like you guys, there are bound to be a few out there! I recently started my own channel called EmpathDigital featuring a weekly show called 'SO YOU'RE A SUPERHERO' - it's essentially a series of mock-instructional videos teaching the viewers how to become a superhero, from working out your superhuman name to guides for the use of different superpowers. I'd love for you guys to check it out sometime!   So feel free to use this thread to tell us what your relationship to YouTube is: are you an infrequent, casual viewer or a user with dozens of subscriptions, or even a content creator yourself?

Name: Slade Bennett Age: 184 (appears to be in his late twenties) Gender: Male Appearance: Slade stands at roughly 6 feet tall, with a lean build that belies his physical strength. Without clothes, his body is covered in fine scars along with what appear to be snaking black tattoos across his arms, chest and back. However, when his abilities manifest these black tattoos glow scarlet along with his eyes, the glow intensifying as he exerts more effort. The only other physical manifestations of his demonic heritage are elongated, sharpened knuckles on his hands and longer, sharper incisors than a pure human should have.   Moving on from his body, Slade's hair is dirty blonde and cropped short, and he sports a scruffy beard purely through having very little time to spend looking after his physical appearance. His eyes are dark brown, almost black and have dark rings around them caused by a combination of fatigue and his demonic heritage.   When it comes to clothes, Slade wears the same things most days: a pair of charcoal-grey combat trousers with a pair of black leather boots with flexible soles. Above the waist he wears a black custom jacket with a hood deep enough to almost completely conceal his face, lined with kevlar to protect him from most small arms-fire and short blades, and fingerless leather gloves.   Personality: Slade is a loner by his nature, due to the contradictory nature of being a demonspawn, hated by both sides of the endless conflict he was born into against his will. However, he is a largely benevolent being who has managed to keep the less-desirable aspects of his demonic heritage subdued over the two centuries he has been alive and on the run. He will attempt to help people, human or demonspawn, if they appear to be in danger, and maintains a calm, almost cold demeanor to most people, never wanting to be thanked for his good deeds.   While it takes a long time for him to let his guard down and trust people, however, when he does he is known as a caring and protective person, with a surprising dry sense of humour. He can count the number of people he trusts to this extent on one hand, though, and he is not quick to allow other people to join their ranks.   Species: Half-Nephelim Species Description: The Nephelim are Fallen Angels, one of the highest tiers of demons in the Underworld and one of the most dangerous groups of creatures in existence. They were allegedly once angels who betrayed God and were cast into the Underworld; however, there has never been conclusive evidence of this and it it far more likely that they were some of the original denizens of the Underworld instead.   The Nephelim have the ability to take on human form and cross between the Underworld and the human world with relative ease, and each one represents a different Deadly Sin, using their abilities to persuade humans to indulge in the Sins so their souls will be condemned to the Underworld. While human literature paints the Nephelim as hideous, demonic creatures devoted to spreading pain and suffering across the world, in reality they are a lot less hands-on, preferring to sow the seeds of Sin in a low-key way, then sit back and wait for the humans to corrupt themselves before dragging their souls into the Underworld. There is considerable competition between the seven most important Nephelim to corrupt the most human souls, and they are not afraid of manipulating their demonspawn to help them in achieving their goals.   The original Seven Nephelim are Lucifer the Prideful, Asmodeus the Lustful, Astaroth the Slothful, Leviathan the Envious, Mammon the Greedy, Beelzebub the Gluttonous, and Belial the Hateful. However, there are dozens of lesser Nephelim who tempt humans with the lesser sins; and each of the original Seven have many demonspawn they are willing to use as pawns in their corruption.   Abilities: Like most demonspawn, Slade is considerably quicker, stronger and more agile than a human being, able to jump great distances and lift weights relative to his size and muscle mass. He also has considerable combat prowess, having been forced to fight in order to survive for his entire life: he is a skilled archer and a proficient close-quarters combatant, although his fighting technique is scrappy due to his lack of formal training.   As the 'son' of Belial the Hateful, Slade's physical abilities become far greater when he is angry: his eyes and the markings on his body glow scarlet and his strength, speed and agility increase to a level beyond that of most demonspawn. In essence, when angry he becomes a kind of 'berzerker', able to punch through solid steel and leap great distances. He also generates heat from his body, enough to set objects on fire with a mere touch: however, this fire is known as 'Hellfire', and is far more dangerous than any mortal flame.   However, every time he enters his berzerker state, a portion of his soul returns to his 'father', and he loses some of his humanity. This affects him both emotionally, causing him to become more vicious and cruel; and physically, causing more marking to appear on his body, his teeth to sharpen and elongate and his skeleton to gain more growths like those on his knuckles. It is for these reasons that he has learned to keep his anger under control, and hasn't used his abilities in almost a century.   Supplies: Slade likes to travel light at all times, but he always keeps his bow and a quiver of arrows with him, along with a single, thin-bladed sword and several knives secreted about his person. He reluctantly also keeps his V.I.O.L.E.N.C.E. amulet on him, knowing that it's always better to be safe than sorry even though he doesn't wish to rely on the organisation.   Background: Thanks to the markings covering his body, Slade was instantly recognised as a demonspawn when he was born. His mother, a kind soul, protected him when her husband attempted to kill him at the cost of her own life, and Slade was rescued by the fledgling organisation known as V.I.O.L.E.N.C.E. They raised him and taught him how to fight, and at age eighteen he left them to pursue his own path through life.   He wandered the world for a decades, finding only hostility in the towns and cities he visited, never being able to find a home. After surviving to the age of fifty, he was visited by his father Belial the Hateful, and told of his purpose: to spread hate amongst the humans and allow Belial to take their souls down to the Underworld. In an unprecedented display, Slade managed to send Belial back to the Underworld, albeit suffering grave injuries in the process.   He was found on the edge of death by a kindly old couple who believed that he could be saved, and during his recovery their home was attacked by demon hunters and they were brutally murdered in front of him for harbouring a demonspawn. Even in his weakened state, Slade managed to fight them off, and realised in the process that humans could be just as evil as the demons they hunted: from then on, he vowed to protect the innocent, whether human or demonspawn, and punish the guilty regardless of their species.   Moving back to Europe, he set himself up in an abandoned section of the underground railway system in Paris, gradually building a base of operations from which he operates as something of a vigilante in the city, becoming infamous among the general populace as a mysterious protector of the innocent and among the government and the forces of the UWG as a dangerous criminal. However, to both groups, he is known simply as 'The Shroud'.   I hope this is ok, I'm aware the sign-up is a pretty long one!

"Is this really the best use of our time in the Capital, Battle-Mage?" asked Bayel with a sneer, taking in her surroundings with a hefty dose of scorn, "A tavern?"   They had not long since docked in Babel, but Garrick had felt the urge to get as far away from the Dragon Commander as possible for a while. He had been partnered with the other Dragon Knight in their entourage in an attempt to find out more information about the supposed resurrection of Chu'val, and his first stop was a small but crowded tavern named 'The Hero Tavern', where he was currently attempting to order a drink.   "We are here to ascertain the whereabouts of the reborn Hero of Chu'val, are we not?" he replied, never turning to face Bayel as he spoke, "Taverns are where people come to socialise, to relax and unwind. Their secrets are more liberally spilled here than anywhere else in the city, therefore this seems like a good place to start, does it not?"   "We would be better served finding Chu'val's disciples," replied Bayel, "I doubt they would be found in this...den of filth." She returned the angry looks of the tavern's patrons with an icy-cold stare that scared even the toughest-looking men off.   "You don't much care for me, do you Dragon Knight?" asked Garrick, picking up his long-awaited drink and turning to face Bayel.   "You are a drunken scoundrel and a sell-sword, and you have no loyalty to the First Born. So no, I don't much care for you, Battle-Mage," Bayel spat in response.   "And you have such unwavering loyalty to him," said Garrick, taking a step towards her, "I wonder why you appear so enthralled by the man."   "What are you insinuating?"   "You can't be blind to everything that's happened, surely? Barely an hour into our noble quest and we lose half the crew of our airship to an ambush: that should not have happened. In a defensive battle such as the one we just found ourselves in, a Commander's first and foremost duty is to protect the men and women who fight for him. And yet Malik charged headlong into an offensive position, taking you with him and leaving his ship, and his men, outnumbered and outgunned. For the love of the Mother Tree, he left Julian, a ten-year-old boy, to defend the deck alone!"   "The attack was a surprise, he had to react however he could in order to take control of the situation. What is your point, Virdisian?"   "My point is...that can't have been the first, or the most devastating ambush he's ever led you and his men into, can it? His obsession with battle has widowed a lot of wives and orphaned a great many children over the years, perhaps more even than the actions of Corvin..."   He was cut off as he spoke the final syllable of their enemy's name as Bayel grabbed his collar and slammed him against one of the wooden support beams holding up the roof of the tavern. A flash of light emanated from his back as his enchanted armour absorbed the blow, and his tankard tumbled to the floor, spilling warm ale across the wooden planks.   "How dare you compare the First Born to that traitor!" she snarled, "Corvin kills indiscriminately, he murders men and women and children in their beds and Malik has prevented him from doing even worse things. Malik fights to protect his people, and Corvin fights with no nobility or honour. So don't you dare compare the two of them ever again, Battle-Mage, or it will be the last thing you do on this earth."   "Corvin's methods are far more brutal than Malik's, that much is true," replied Garrick softly, prising her fingers off his tunic and pushing her backwards, "But to some, to many in fact, Malik is no more noble or honourable than Corvin. Malik collects the weaponry of those Knights who have died for him; what makes you think Corvin isn't doing the same?" Bayel stared into Garrick's eyes, her breathing heavy, before a look of realisation crossed her face.   "You would fight for Corvin just the same if he offered payment?" she asked, the disgust evident in her voice.   "War is war," replied Garrick coldly, "All I'm saying is that it is not such a bad thing to look at both sides of a conflict. You may find things are not as black and white as they first appear. Now come on, the barmaid told me that Chu'val's disciples gather at the Central Fountain every day at around this time to await his return: if we wish to find out more, we should go there now."   He picked up his pack and swung it onto his back, before walking past the still horrified-looking Dragon Knight on his way out of the Tavern.   "One more thing...Malik can read people's minds, can he not? You would do well to remember that it is only the smallest of steps between reading a man's thoughts," he said quietly to her as he walked past,  "And pushing some of his own in there."   He shoved his way out of the Tavern and began walking towards the City Centre, caring very little as to whether or not Bayel was following him.

"Blasted dragons," muttered Garrick as he stumbled through the corridors of the ship, the whole world seemingly shaking and rocking back and forth with each impact on the side of the ship, "I'm already regretting coming on board..."   He drew one of his swords as a hooded figure emerged from one of the other cabins, a wickedly curved, blood-drenched scimitar in his gloved hand. Garrick's blade hummed with power as he spun it in his hand, and it sung as he swung it through the air, clashing against his opponent's sword with a burst of white-hot sparks.   "Battle-mage..." hissed the hooded figure, a set of sharp teeth visible in the light of the sparks as they dribbled from the clashing metal.   "Hooded man..." hissed Garrick, mocking his assailant before planting a solid kick in the hooded figure's sternum, knocking him backwards. Garrick whipped his blade around and swung the tip of the blade across the figure's neck: a hot jet of blood spurted from his throat, and he collapsed in a ragged heap as he bled out. A second and third attacker saw Garrick as the hooded man's body slumped, and began advancing down the corridor towards him.   Garrick drew his second blade and readied his stance, when a jet of fire blasted the two men off their feet as it rolled down the corridor. As the flames cleared, Garrick saw Julian standing in the doorway at the opposite end of the corridor, his hands outstretched.   "Mr Virdisian! Are you ok?" shouted the kid excitably.   "Smart kid," Garrick murmured under his breath, rushing down the corridor and pushing past the boy, ruffling his hair as he went.   Moments later, he emerged onto the deck and saw chaos erupting in the sky. Dragons circled and swooped past the ship, fire spurting from their mouths as they chased each other; men boarded the ship and clashed with the soldiers already on board, and the Dragon Commander had abandoned his crew to fight the enemy dragons.   Garrick saw Cassandra in the middle of the deck, fire lashing from her hand in the shape of a long whip. Enemies turned to ash at its touch and a ring of scorch-marks surrounded her on the floor. Garrick saw a fury and a level of concentration he would never have expected to see on Cassandra's face, and he leapt across the deck to assist her. He swung his blades across an enemy soldier's chest, causing gouts of blood to pour from the X-shaped wound, and Cassandra's magic turned him to dust before he could gurgle out his death rattle.   "It looked like you could use a hand," said Garrick with a smirk, covering Cassandra's back as she turned to take on more assailants.   "I could say the same about you," she replied as her flame-whip lashed out and struck a hooded figure attacking Garrick from the side.   "Well-played, milady," he said with a grin, running across the deck and planting his foot in the centre of an enemy's chest, sending the man flying over the side of the deck with a scream. However, he was knocked off his feet as a huge, grey-green dragon swooped past the ship.   "Blasted dragons," Garrick repeated, scrambling to his feet and pulling his bow off his back. He reached into his brand new quiver of arrows, picked one out and nocked it. He drew the string back and took aim at the vague shape of an ice-blue dragon in the distance.   "Let's see what these arrows can do," he muttered, exhaling and letting the arrow fly. As it whistled through the air, he reached out with his will and changed the form of the arrow.   With a single thought, the arrow extended outwards, becoming longer and thicker until it was roughly the size of the airship's smallest mast, still travelling at the same speed the smaller arrow had been. The enormous arrow pierced through the blue dragon's wing-joint, almost cleaving the entire appendage off in a spurt of dark-blue blood. The dragon recoiled with a deafening screech, and the black and red creature Garrick recognised as Malik's dragon-form tore the blue dragon's throat out; Garrick watched as the dead dragon fell from the skies, and grinned.   "A bet well won," he murmured, grabbing a second arrow from the quiver and nocking it, pulling the string back and aiming at a small group of enemy soldiers cleaving their way through dozens of crew members on one of the observation decks. He fired the arrow, and with a tiny injection of will, it caught fire, setting the enemy soldiers ablaze as it struck them.   He barely had time to grin as his enchanted arrows served him before the entire ship rocked as the grey-green dragon he had seen earlier ploughed into the side of the vehicle. He was thrown from his feet across the deck, his head slamming into the railings on the opposite side.   His vision blurred instantly, and he looked up to see the scaly visage of the grey-green dragon looming over the deck as the creature grabbed on to the side of the airship.   "In the name of the Mother Tree..." he muttered in awe as the creature opened its mouth, a ball of fire visibly swelling in the back of its throat.

"Well," said Garrick with a sigh, hefting his pack back on, "As much fun as this little jaunt into the big city has been, I should take my leave. I am beginning to feel the telltale itch in the back of my head that suggests someone, somewhere is attempting to read my thoughts, and I remain uncomfortable with that notion." He swung his bow and his brand new quiver of enchanted arrows onto his back along with his other belongings, and nodded curtly to Cassandra.   "Milady," he said with a crooked grin, "I do hope our paths cross again in the future. Although, considering your involvement with Malik's suicide mission, I'd say the likelihood of such a reunion is rather slim. So may I simply say that it has been a pleasure!"   He spun on his heel to leave when Cassandra cut him short.   "We all have doubts about this quest, Virdisian. Corvin is a dangerous foe, it is true, but he is still, to all intents and purposes, a man. A man with weaknesses like any other: the First Born sees that, and I believe he will triumph in this quest. I am only sorry that you have lost faith in any cause but your own, but I do understand your hesitance."   "I've seen men like Malik before," said Garrick, turning back to face Cassandra, "He is a man obsessed."   "Corvin has slaughtered too many innocent people. It is not such a terrible thing to be obsessed with stopping him before he can kill any more."   "But his obsession isn't with Corvin," replied Garrick, moving close to Cassandra, his voice lowered, "It won't stop if and when he finds him and kills him. Malik is obsessed with fighting, because honestly when all is said and done, the war is won and the fighting stops, where is he going to go? What place does a man like that have in a world free of violence?"   "The Dragon Commander...will be as great a leader during peacetime as he has been in war," replied Cassandra, although her hesitance did not go unnoticed by Garrick, who let out the tiniest of chuckles.   "So your faith in him isn't so absolute after all," he said, turning and striding towards the doors of the chamber, "Be careful, Lady Cassandra. Doubt can be a dangerous thing."   She shouted something after him, but he was too far away to comprehend precisely what her final words of persuasion were. He strolled across the sunny courtyard, whistling softly to himself, before losing himself in a labyrinth of thatched cottages and buildings in an attempt to find an inn where he could spend the last few scraps of bronze he had about his person.   "Garrick?!" screeched a high-pitched voice from behind him as he walked, "Garrick Flynt?"   "Oh dear..." he muttered softly to himself before turning around to face the angry young red-headed woman who was calling his name, "Martha, my dear, how are you?" She stared him in the face for a moment, her nostrils flaring, then raised her hand and struck him across the cheek.   "You left me in the middle of nowhere, Garrick," she snarled with the venom of a woman scorned, "It took me three days to get back here!"   "Now, I can explain that..." Garrick began, before getting cut off by his name being howled from the opposite direction.   "Is that really Garrick Flynt?" growled an equally-furious young blonde woman, "The man who asked me to marry him and then fled the country for eighteen months?"   "That was an unfortunate misunderstanding..." Garrick stammered, "I was called away to a war in a foreign country! How could I decline the opportunity to fight for my people?"   "Who's she, Garrick?" asked the blonde girl, jabbing her finger at Martha.   "Never mind who I am, who are you?" snarled Martha, staring daggers at the young blonde woman.   "Ladies, as much as I would love to stay here and discuss the ins and outs of our respective relationships, I have a very important appointment at the hangar. It's an extremely important, and highly confidential mission handed to me specially by the Dragon Commander himself. So...if you'll excuse me...?" With that final sentence, he turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him back to the hangar, dodging streams of curses and expletives hurled at him by the two young women he had left behind.   Moments later, he burst into the vast, cavernous hangar and looked frantically around at the airships being maintained by their crews. Spotting Cassandra making her way up the gangplank of a ship emblazoned with the name Vorzik and strolled over, attempting to maintain his composure.   "The great hero returns, I see," said Cassandra, her words positively dripping with sarcasm as she spotted him.   "The truth is, I took a stroll around the city and realised the importance of the task ahead of us," he replied, leaping onto the gangplank, "We're fighting for these people, they deserve to have the best of the best on their side."   "I see," Cassandra replied with a smirk, "And it wouldn't be anything to do with them?" She gestured over to the hangar doors, where the two woman Garrick thought he had escaped once again where struggling to get past the guards, their vitriol all but drowned out by the roar of the airship engines.   "Never seen them before in my life," Garrick said with a nervous grin, "Now, please can we board? I'm...itching to get this adventure started!"

The raucous noise from the Tavern could be heard across the hills and valleys, echoing through the darkness of night and shaking the ground. Orange light spilled from the small windows, large bodies casting grotesque silhouettes on the ground as they passed back and forth across the torches.   Bodies were pressed close together and the thumping on the wooden floors was deafening as the circle of men held tankards to their lips, pouring dark, bitter ale down their throats, their eyes flicking back and forth to their opponents. A scruffy, bearded man drained the last drops of foamy liquid from his tankard and slammed it on the table in front of him, moments before the tall man opposite him did the same. The crowd erupted as the bearded man threw his arms in the air, slapping him on the back and chanting his name.   The tall man narrowed his eyes, leaned over the table and grabbed the bearded man by the scruff of his neck.   "That was the last of my bronze, stranger," he growled, his voice rumbling from deep in his belly and his rage evident in his small, piggy eyes, "And no-one beats me in a drinking contest. No-one."   "Well, to be fair..." the bearded man replied, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of peace, "It seems like on this occasion, someone did!"   The tall man raised his fist, until the bearded man's hand shot out and grabbed his opponent's wrist.   "Let's not get excited, friend," he said, pushing the taller man back to his spot on the other side of the table, "How about this - I'll give you a chance to not only win back your own money, but also take all of mine?"   "How do you propose that happens, stranger?" replied the tall man, lowering his fist and settling in his place across the table from the bearded man.   "With these," the bearded man said, producing a small wooden box from the pack at his feet and placing it on the table. He slid the lid back a tiny amount, and a spindly, insect-like leg whipped out of the box, causing the collected crowd to gasp and recoil from the table.   "What in the name of the Twin Moons is that?" growled the tall man.   "That, my friend, is a Kardosian Tree Spider," replied the bearded man, "A deadly spider found only in the deepest part of the Kardosi Jungle."   "And what do you propose we do with that?"   "Correction, friend: what do we do with them?" the bearded man said, tipping the box up and revealing two large, green-and-red spiders which scuttled around the table for a moment before settling.   "I propose a game," said the bearded man, "Kardosian Tree Spiders feed on a healthy diet of living flesh, but human is their favourite. We each take a spider, place them on the backs of our hands and drink. The first person to finish their drink, tip the spider off their hand and place the tankard on top of the spider wins."   The tall man, visibly recoiling from the presence of the two spiders, swallowed nervously.   "And what are we to play for?"   "If you win, you take back every bronze shard I have taken from you tonight, as well as every other bronze shard in my possession, and you may choose one other item from my pack to take home with you."   "And if you win?"   "If I win...I take your arrows," the bearded man replied, gesturing towards the man's quiver, hanging on the back of his chair.   "Those are enchanted arrows. They're priceless," the tall man replied, angry.   "These are the terms of my wager, friend," the bearded man said with a smile as a pair of full tankards were placed in front of him, "You may accept or reject them as you so wish, but be aware that backing out will paint something of a target on your back, and the fellows in this very Tavern don't seem to take to cowardice well." He gestured around to some of the toughest, angriest-looking men in the Tavern, which seemed to strengthen the tall man's resolve somewhat.   "Very well. You have your wager," the tall man said, reaching his hand across the table. The bearded man gripped it tight and shook it, sliding one of the tankards over to the tall man. Maintaining his grip on the tall man's hand, he picked up the spiders and placed one on his own hand, and one on the tall man's. The second the spindly legs touched skin, the spiders plunged their mandibles into the flesh of the men's hands, causing the tall man to wince and the bearded man to grin and lift his own tankard to his lips.   The spiders continued to drive themselves deep into the men's hands, blood pouring out of the wounds as they drank. The bearded man kept his eyes locked on the tall man, whose own gaze was wavering, grunts of pain gurgling through mouthfuls of ale.   Moments later, the bearded man swallowed the final mouthful of ale, flipped the spider off his hand and slammed the tankard down over the spider. The Tavern exploded with noise and chaos, and the tall man threw his near-empty tankard to the ground, tearing the spider off and leaving it to scuttle over towards the box.   The bearded man scooped the spiders back into the box and slid it shut, placing it back in his pack calmly. He gestured over to the tall man, beckoning with the three remaining fingers of his right hand.   "Your arrows, if you please," he said with a grin, and the tall man reluctantly handed his quiver over. The other patrons of the Tavern cheered, and the bearded man picked up his pack.   "I believe I've had all the fun I can manage for tonight, friends," he said, and as the Tavern groaned he placed a small coin purse on the bar, "But your drinks are on me tonight!" The groans immediately turned into cheers, and the bearded man stepped out of the door into the cold night, his breath misting in the air in front of him.   "Garrick Flynt?" asked an unfamiliar voice from behind him, and the bearded man turned to face an attractive young woman following him out of the Tavern, a woman dressed in long robes covered by a hooded black cloak.   "For you, my dear, I can be anyone you want," replied Garrick, slurring his words a little.   "Impressive piece of trickery in there," she said, gesturing to the Tavern, "He didn't know you're a Virdisian, did he? Those spiders eat flesh, not tree bark."   "Half-Virdisian, if you please," he replied, lifting his hand and showing the oozing circular gash in the back of it, "All flesh here, no tree bark."   "I doubt that would matter to him," she replied, "In fact, I think he's coming to settle that particular dispute with you right now." She gestured back to the Tavern, as the tall man strode through the door towards Garrick, a long knife glinting in his hand.   "You tricked me!" the tall man yelled, thrusting his knife towards Garrick's gut. With a single movement, Garrick dodged the blow, grabbed the tall man's wrist and slammed his own knife into the tall man's throat. He gurgled, his eyes wide, for a moment, then collapsed on the ground. Garrick removed his knife, wiped it on the tall man's shirt and placed it back into the sheath on his thigh.   "Now, was there something I could help you with? It's just that there's a village full of rather comely young women just over that hill and I'd really like to make the most of my night," said Garrick with a wide, crooked grin.   "My name is Cassandra," replied the young woman, "I am a cohort of the Dragon Commander, Malik Diarmid the First Born."   "Oh, that big man with the armour and no sense of humour, sitting up in his tower trying to take control of the chaos? Am I supposed to be impressed by your connection to him?" said Garrick, his tone suddenly much colder.   "He led all of us, including you, to victory against the Daemons," snarled Cassandra, "And you should have some respect."   "He's nothing special, you realise that? Just another soldier in a long line of soldiers that goes back to the dawn of time and will continue to go until the darkness swallows us all whole. So he can turn into a dragon, he's just another weapon in a war that will never end."   "And you are a mercenary. You do not fight for honour or for the greater good. You fight only for profit," spat Cassandra.   "Don't we all? 'Honour' and 'victory' are just commodities, same as gold and gemstones. At least I'm honest about my intentions, that's more than I can say for your friend Malik," said Garrick, turning on his heel and walking away.   "Very well," sighed Cassandra, "I had hoped to instill some sense of dignity and honour in you, but it is obvious now that this is a lost cause."   "Thank you, at least you realised that eventually!"   "What I can offer you is wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Enough to keep you stocked up on ale and women of loose morals until the end of your days, if that's how you choose to spend your life," Cassandra shouted after him, and Garrick stopped in place.   "Before you go around making promises the Dragon Commander may not be able to keep," replied Garrick, turning on his heel and walking back towards Cassandra, "You should be aware that my appetites for both ale and women, border on the unquenchable. How much money are we really talking about here?"   "Enough to purchase your own island in the Shimmering Seas if you so wish. All we request is that you meet with the First Born at Dragon's Rise to discuss a mission. If you accept, your reward will be riches and freedom to do with your life exactly as you choose. If you decline, you will be compensated handsomely for your time and allowed to go your own way. What do you say?"   "Well..." said Garrick, stroking his beard with the two fingers and thumb of his right hand, "I suppose it can't hurt to talk to the old warhorse. Lead on, milady!"

I'm not sure whether or not this has been brought up already, but I can't seem to do very much with my signature. I've managed to insert an image, but the editor basically doesn't work: everything seems greyed-out and I can't press anything. I initially thought this was something to do with a character limit that my IMG code exceeded, but it also doesn't work when the box is empty. Any pointers?

Name: Garrick Flynt Age: 34 Gender: Male Race: Half Human/Half Virdisian Forest People - The Virdisians are humanoid descendants of ancient trees, believed by the Virdisians to have grown at the Crucible of Life at the dawn of creation. Even though they have evolved to the point of walking and acting much as humans do, they still have a lingering psychic connection to trees across the land. However, due to Garrick's half-human parentage, for him this amounts to nothing more than a vague sense of events occurring within forests of the same species as his father.   Appearance: Fully-clothed, Garrick appears to be entirely human: he has a head of cropped, hazel-brown hair and a scruffy beard growing over his chin, deep forest-green eyes and a slightly crooked grin. He stands at roughly 6 feet tall, with lean, sinewy muscle and a rangy stride: in fact, the only thing which distinguishes him from the normal human soldiers is that he is missing the ring and pinky fingers from his right hand.   However, when his clothes removed, his Virdisian heritage is obvious: he has a growth of tough, dark flesh across his upper arms and shoulders, as well as his lower legs and feet which closely resembles tree-bark, and a close look at his hair would reveal tiny, leaf-like growths throughout that one could be forgiven for thinking were caused by numerous nights spent sleeping on the forest floor, but are actually attached to his scalp.   On a day-to-day basis, Garrick wears a pair of dark green breeches tucked into a well-worn brown boots with several small knives strapped to his thighs. Around his waist he wears a thick leather belt, the back of which hold his two short-swords, and above which is a collarless white shirt entirely covered by a black tunic with a large metal breastplate. He usually wears fingerless gloves and a large pack on his back filled with his essential equipment, along with a custom-crafted longbow and a quiver of arrows, and around his neck on a black leather thong is an arrowhead-shaped shard of bark carved from the very tree his father was descended from, given to him by his mother for luck.   Class: Battle-Mage   Abilities: Garrick would be the first to admit that his skills in offensive magic are severely limited, to the point that he had to pay another Battle-Mage to enchant his weapons for him. However, where his skill really lies is in defensive magic: he has enchanted his own armour to resist the most vicious of direct blows, and is able to throw up strong defensive shields at a moment's notice: whoever is inside the shield is essentially impervious to physical attacks from even the strongest of daemons or dragons. Unfortunately, he is unable to deflect other forms of attack: heat energy from dragon-fire and many forms of offensive magic will puncture his shields without much difficulty.   Garricks does, however, have an ace up his sleeve along with the weapon-mastery that comes with being a Battle-Mage: his Viridisian heritage has made him an expert tracker, able to hunt even the smallest of creatures through miles of woodland. His travels across the land have also given him an in-depth knowledge of much of the geography, and as such he is an invaluable member of any party.   Motives: Garrick has one very simple reason for fighting against Corvin and the rogue Dragon Knights: he doesn't know how to do anything else. Born into war and orphaned from an early age, Garrick has always been a soldier. Even when the war against the daemon hordes was won and many of his comrades turned their hands to farming or baking or simply homelife, Garrick found work as a mercenary, fighting those he was paid to fight against and spending his money on drink and women. Since Corvin instigated this new conflict, however, Garrick has rejoined the army and become an important part of Malik's War Council.   Snippet:   "Thirty pieces of bronze? You play me for a fool, Carstairs," snarled the weathered Battle-Mage, his short blades on the table between him and his former comrade.   "Do you complain because my prices are unreasonable," replied the younger man, pushing the blades back towards his so-called 'customer', "Or because you have wasted the pay for your last three contracts on ale and strumpets, and have not the means to pay for this rather taxing service?"   "Dark molasses rum is far more costly than ale will ever be, and those women showed me the way to the Kingdom of Heaven and back. Rather quickly and rather forcefully back, admittedly, but nonetheless you charge too much!"   "I hear no bartering, Garrick," said Carstairs rather dismissively, "Only simple-minded excuses and more reasons I should not enchant your blades."   "Very well! I will give you..." Garrick fumbled in his pack and fished out a small leather coin-purse, emptying the meagre contents on the table, "Seventeen bronze shards and a pendant belonging to the Water Goddess of Qarantine?"   "That's no pendant, Garrick. That is a mere trinket sold to you by a merchant trader of Sarahaster, of no value to me or anyone, in fact. I will, however, accept your seventeen bronze shards..."   "Perfect!" cried Garrick, pushing the coins over to him before Carstairs placed a single hand on his wrist.   "Seventeen bronze shards...and a favour."   "And allow me to assume your intentions...you wish to send me on some wild goose chase or suicide mission in the hopes that my inevitable and presumably messy, painful, and likely exruciatingly drawn-out death will leave you not only in possession of my seventeen bronze shards, but released of any obligation to enchant my blades and, knowing you, free of guilt for my untimely demise. Might I be correct in this assumption?"   "I would imagine so, yes."   "Very well. What would you like me to do?"   ---   ooc: Hope this is alright for you - I made up a race, but it doesn't have too much bearing on the story. Let me know if I stepped on any toes!

[font=georgia,serif][b]Metahuman Name: [/b]Spartan[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Secret Identity: [/b]Otherwise known simply as â??Johnâ??[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Age: [/b]Looks 25, although his real age is probably closer to 50[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Gender: [/b]Male[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Species: [/b]Enhanced Human[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Appearance: [/b]Unusually for an Enhanced Human, Spartan cuts a relatively slight figure, rather than the large, musclebound physiques of other metahumans. Having trained as both an athlete and an acrobat, he has almost no body fat, instead being made up of strong, sinewy muscle (along with a few other things that help him out significantly). His hair is normally covered by his hood, but when visible it is short, scruffy and dirty-blonde: similarly, his eyes are usually in the shadow of his eyemask, but upon closer inspection they are icy blue, and near-emotionless.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]As a full-timer, Spartan is never seen out of his costume, which once consisted of a gaudy jumpsuit emblazoned with Union Flag designs which looked a little something like [url="http://www.internationalhero.co.uk/c/captainbritain5.jpg"]this[/url], representing the country which enhanced him and established him as a hero. However, a number of LSH-approved character overhauls later, his costume now consists of a hooded, sleeveless, Kevlar-reinforced black leather tunic with a [url="http://hellas21.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/lambda.gif"]Spartan symbol[/url] on the back, with another version with sleeves as a backup. Along with this, he wears fingerless black gloves which come to the middle of his forearms, a pair of black combat trousers and lightweight combat boots, although each item of clothing bears the Spartan symbol somewhere. He also wears a black eyemask underneath his hood, although this is more to bow to convention than for any functional reason.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Affiliation: [/b]Former Hero, now turned Villain.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Personality: [/b]Spartan used to believe in the justice that heroes purport to uphold, he used to fight crime in the name of the law, and protect innocent people from harm. That was, until he discovered that his British Secret Service handlers were as corrupt as the people he was engineered to take down: ever since, he has become disillusioned with ideas of morality and justice, and has taken on an amoral, borderline sociopathic approach to life. This partly comes from his realisation that corruption will never be wiped from the face of the planet, and it is better to be on the winning side than on the â??rightâ?? side.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Superpowers:[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif]· [i]Physical Enhancements [/i]â?? through a combination of genetic and chemical engineering and advanced cybernetics, Spartan possesses strength, speed, stamina, agility and reflexes far in advance of any normal human. He is able to punch through solid concrete, sprint at 31 miles per hour for up to twenty miles without breaking a sweat, jump great distances with little effort, and even dodge bullets given the right situations. However, the cybernetic nature of many parts of his body does leave him vulnerable to electricity, and particularly electro-magnetic pulses which can knock his systems out long enough for him to be defeated.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]· [i]Onboard Computer System [/i]â?? another of the cybernetic enhancements given to him, Spartanâ??s internal System performs the calculations he cannot: for example, a number of precise calculations are required to jump from one building to another, and his System makes the calculations and displays the result in nanoseconds, before engaging his physical enhancements to allow him to physically perform the acrobatic feats. A targeting system and a number of optical filters round out the System, giving him an even greater edge in reconnaissance and combat situations. He does, however, need to update his System regularly, which involves him getting close to a Wi-Fi hotspot and installing the latest available updates from an encrypted server.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]· [i]Instant Education [/i]â?? although this is really a subset of his System, Spartanâ??s Instant Education function allows him to learn any of a large number of pre-loaded skills instantly. For example, if he needs to pick a lock, he can simply scroll through his pre-loaded skills and teach himself how to pick lock within a few seconds. However, he is only able to store one skill at a time, and â??learningâ?? a new skill will cause him to â??unlearnâ?? the previous one.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]· [i]Psychic Blocks [/i]â?? a combination of intense psychic training and some cybernetic implants in his brain mean that Spartan is all-but immune to psionic attacks.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Source of Powers: [/b]Super-soldier engineering and training carried out by the British Government, adding to prior physical excellence.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Other Skills: [/b]Well-honed, almost unmatched hand-to-hand and small arms combat skills. For the rest see [i]Instant Education[/i].[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Weapons/Gadgets: [/b]Spartan carries a number of weapons and gadgets with him at all times, all of them non-lethal in order to comply with the SVAâ??s Rules. His main weapons are a pair of telescopic batons rigged to discharge an electric shock upon contact: not enough to kill, just enough to stun a normal human, as well as most low-powered metahumans. He also has a small canister of tear gas concealed in each of his gloves, which sprays out through a small nozzle hidden in the palm of each glove when he flexes a certain muscle group in his wrists. In various pockets on his belt and in his trousers, he carries small explosives, mostly used for distraction as opposed to destruction. However, with his training and his Instant Education function, he can adapt to using almost any kind of weapon, and frequently does so in combat situations.[/font]

[quote][color=#2F4F4F][font=lucida sans unicode', 'lucida grande', sans-serif]The Nifty Fifty....is this still going on? Can anybody update me with the current happenings? I remember how awesome it was to be nominated (I was only once but I didnt win individually I think *sniffles*) but i did vote and still have my old list. Being a mod was fun.[/font][/color][/quote] [font=georgia, serif]As far as I can remember, nominations opened for the Nifty Eleven earlier this year, and for the first time in my entire membership of OB I was nominated not once, not twice but [i]three [/i]times (and considering the small number of nominations, that meant I was pretty much guaranteed to be Nifty). Then the server move happened, the thread got deleted and it was as if nothing ever happened. Thus ends the sad tale of the Nifty Eleven...[/font] [quote][color=#282828][font=palatino linotype]huge kudos to DeLarge for continuing to wave the flag[/font][/color][/quote] [font=georgia, serif]It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it! I'll continue to stand at the eye of the storm of uninterest, waving my staff like Gandalf until the bitter end.[/font]

[center][img]http://i1114.photobucket.com/albums/k528/PhilBoothman/malesuperherosilhouette.jpg[/img][/center] [center][size=3][font=georgia, serif][i]The best of us died tonight.[/i][/font][/size][/center] [center][size=3][font=georgia, serif][i]There are rules in place to prevent this kind of thing, and though they were bound to be broken sometime, none of us ever thought it would be him that suffered. The Invulnerable Man, the most powerful hero the world has ever seen, and soon the only lingering memory most people will have of him is the limp, lifeless body hanging from the roof of the Capitol Building, his costume in charred tatters.[/i][/font][/size][/center] [center][size=3][font=georgia, serif][i]Someone broke the rules, and thereâ??s only thing that can come of this situation.[/i][/font][/size][/center] [center][size=3][font=georgia, serif][i]Anarchy.[/i][/font][/size][/center] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b][u]Metahuman History[/u][/b][/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]At this moment, there are approximately two thousand, four hundred and sixty three [b]metahumans[/b] living on the planet Earth. There are the standard genetic mutants, of course, but there are considerably more classifications out there: billionaire playboys with too much money and too much free time, victims of advanced and unrepeatable scientific accidents, exiled alien monarchs, refugees from aborted timelines or dystopian alternate futures, athletes with genetic and cybernetic enhancements and full-blown cyborgs, and even a few ancient deities stuck on Earth either by accident or design.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]If you believe the history books, the first of us appeared in the late 1940s, a [b]super-soldier[/b] chemically enhanced by a top-secret government programme designed to fight the Nazis, but that was just the beginning. In the following years, the floodgates opened and dozens of super-soldiers were created by governments across the globe, beginning the age of [b]Super-Combat[/b]: men who could punch through reinforced concrete and crush tanks with their bare hands going toe-to-toe on the battlefield, rendering standard combatants near-obsolete.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]But the real metahuman breakthrough came in the early 1970s, when a brilliant young scientist named [b]Joseph Clarke[/b] found himself trapped inside his laboratory as an experimental particle reactor malfunctioned, a freak accident which resulted in Clarke becoming the hero known as [b]Vanquisher, the Invulnerable Man[/b]. He was the first truly â??superâ?? superhero, able to fly through the air, shoot beams of light from his eyes and reduce entire buildings to rubble with just a swing of his fist.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]If it wasnâ??t for Vanquisher, none of us would even exist. The mutations in his blood, when studied, revealed more about the potential hidden within the human body, and government-funded scientists began work on creating the new breed of super-soldiers, selectively mutating them to create men and women with capabilities to equal Vanquisher, and soon enough new superheroes began appearing across the globe. Suddenly, people with the ability to generate massive quantities of fire or move objects with their minds began helping civilians, fighting crimes and engaging in acts of international heroism.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Naturally, the emergence of more and more superhumans resulted in the forging of alliances, with multiple teams forming across the [b]United States[/b], and eventually spreading across the world. The first, and most well-known team was [b]Stormforce[/b], an esteemed group of powerful superhumans which still exists today, albeit with a much-changed roster of heroes. It is the dream of many superhumans to join Stormforce and fight evil with the best metahumans on the face of the planet.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]It wasnâ??t too long before the mutations developed included hyper-intelligence, and soon intergalactic spaceflight was not just possible, it was simple. Some of them even discovered other universes existing alongside our own, and eventually they managed to open gateways between these realities, allowing visitors from other worlds to cross over into our own.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]But regular Earthbound humans were not ready to let aliens and creatures from other worlds take all the glory, and countless wealthy or just plain bored men and women set themselves up as vigilantes, utilising acrobatics, martial arts and high-tech weaponry to fight crime in their respective cities and neighbourhoods. The most notorious of these was a mysterious figure known only as the [b]Shadow[/b] who operated across [b]New York City[/b], and was ultimately the first non-powered metahuman ever to join the ranks of Stormforce.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]However, this is only to speak of the heroes: where heroes are created, villains will soon follow. While some metahumans chose the righteous path, upholding justice where previously there was none, others took the darker path, choosing to use their abilities for personal gain. From the late 1970s, super-powered criminals began robbing banks and stealing precious artefacts from museums to use in their twisted plots and experiments, but they were always defeated by their heroic counterparts, causing the villainous route to be left to losers and deadbeats.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]But then, in the late 1990s, a change came: a villain known only as [b]Bedlam[/b] emerged in the USA, a nihilistic super-terrorist whose only desire was anarchy. He rampaged across [b]Washington DC[/b], leaving massive death and destruction in his wake, and came close to bringing the nationâ??s capital to its knees. It was only through the combined efforts of Stormforce and [b]Nightwatch[/b], the worldâ??s second-most powerful team that Bedlam was brought to justice, and imprisoned in a specially-designed fortress known only as [b]The Pit[/b], now home to numerous powerful supervillains.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Suddenly supervillainy became â??coolâ??, and countless psychotic supervillains began their assaults on civilisation. Whilst it was still tough to be a villain, with the frequent defeats and public humiliations, it became more popular than ever to be a bad guy. But with conflict comes extreme risk, and it was because of this risk that the [b]League of Superheroes[/b] and the [b]Supervillain Alliance[/b] were established.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b][u]The League of Superheroes and the Supervillain Alliance[/u][/b][/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]With the sheer number of metahumans in existence on Earth, it was only a matter of time before a governing body was set up to control them. Taking care of the heroes was the League of Superheroes, or [b]LSH[/b], headed by [b]Director Pierce Novac[/b], set up to ensure that no hero ever committed murder in the name of justice; overseeing the villains was the Supervillain Alliance, or [b]SVA[/b], headed by [b]Director Harriet Blonsky[/b]. The two organisations work closely with each other to make sure that balance between the groups is maintained, and civilians are spared from harm as much as possible.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]There is much conjecture as to the true nature of the two organisations: some believe they were established by the earliest generation of super-soldiers purely as a peacekeeping exercise, while others believe they were set up by the all-powerful aliens and deities allowed into our world by the hyper-intelligent metahumans of the 1980s. The truth, however, is far more sinister.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]In reality, the two organisations are clandestine, government-funded agencies designed to trick the public into believing they are safe from potential threats, both human and metahuman. They do this by engineering scenarios in which villains engage in high-profile crime, often violent and involving a high level of property damage, and then sending in a hero to thwart the villainâ??s plot in as public a situation as possible.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Alongside this, their [b]PR departments[/b] are second-to-none, staffed by people skilled enough to maintain both the secrecy of the organisations and the interest of the general public. They do this through setting up regular high-profile crossover events between metahuman teams, and launching occasional â??relaunchesâ?? of particular metahumans and teams: specifically altering their costumes and backstories for public consumption and to target them towards particular demographics seen to be losing interest in the existence of metahumans.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]The agencies are kept entirely secret from the public, with only metahumans and government employees with extremely high clearance levels being made aware of their existence.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b][u]The Rules[/u][/b][/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]To control the metahumans, the two organisations agreed on a set of [b]Rules[/b] which all metahumans must follow. Any violation of the Rules will result in the guilty party receiving a visit from the [b]Grey Men[/b], a shadowy cabal of highly-trained agents who â??removeâ?? potential threats to the metahuman status quo. The Rules are as follows:[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]1. The hero must always win.[/b] If a situation arises in which the hero is defeated, it will only be to increase the drama of the Heroâ??s Return and subsequent victory.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]2. There shall be no death caused by either group.[/b] Villains may inflict injuries which simulate death, but only if a Heroâ??s Resurrection has been planned beforehand.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]3. The villain shall always be imprisoned, never killed[/b]. If a villain is deemed too powerful for a normal prison to hold, they shall be immediately transferred to The Pit until further notice.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]4. Escapes from The Pit shall always be planned in advance.[/b] They will also be staggered so as not to over-expose any individual villain or villains.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]5. All metahumans shall participate in one large-scale crossover event every twenty-four months.[/b] This event will result in at least one high-profile Heroâ??s Sacrifice which, according to rule 2, will be attached to a pre-planned Heroâ??s Resurrection.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Any metahuman found violating any of these rules will at best be depowered by the Grey Men, and at worst terminated without prejudice depending on the severity of the violation, regardless of their status as either hero or villain.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b][u]Justice City[/u][/b][/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]After the destructive events brought about by the supervillain Bedlam, Washington DC was rebuilt in honour of the heroes who saved it. The capital city of the United States of America was renamed â??[b]Justice City[/b]â??, and ever since then it has had the largest number of metahumans per capita in the world.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]The centre of the city is a vast steel-and-glass structure known simply as the Capitol Building, topped with a statue of Vanquisher, the greatest superhero the world has ever seen. It is not only the centre of the city, but it is also a symbol of peace and justice which can be seen from every other building in the city.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Whilst Justice City appears to be a utopia, it is in fact controlled, and mostly owned, by the LSH and the SVA, who ensure a certain level of crime is present in the cityâ??s dark underbelly. This serves two purposes: firstly, to provide a â??proving groundâ?? of sorts for the cityâ??s young heroes, and secondly to provide a breeding ground for the cityâ??s villains, allowing them to start as petty criminals and work their way up to becoming full-fledged villains.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b][u]Applications[/u][/b][/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Welcome to Vanquished, a brand new open-world superhero RP. The story takes place in a world filled with metahumans, some good, some evil, all governed by their respective government-funded organisations. You will be playing as one of these metahumans, trying to find balance in the wake of the death of the worldâ??s greatest superhero, Vanquisher.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]However, as this is an open-world RP, you will be free to carry out your own stories, with the death of Vanquisher and subsequent events as a backdrop to your own tale of heroism or villainy. There will be some events at a later stage of the RP which bring the characters together, but for the most part you have the freedom to do whatever you like within the world created.[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Another area where you will have freedom is your character creation. As stated in the intro, scientific advances have made interstellar travel possible, as well as opened gateways to the multiverse: therefore, your character could be an alien, a cyborg, a fugitive from a dystopian future, or even an exiled deity. Youâ??re also welcome to sign up as multiple characters, provided you can make sure it doesnâ??t get confusing for the other players! Just try to make sure your character isnâ??t overpowered, and youâ??re good to go![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]So without further ado, here is the sign-up sheet, although if you need to add extra sections or leave existing sections out, feel free![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Metahuman Name: [/b]anything you like![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Secret Identity: [/b]if you have one![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Age: [/b]anything from 12-year-old sidekicks to ancient, immortal gods[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Gender: [/b]remember, some aliens will have new genders, or even no gender at all![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Species: [/b]if youâ??re a mutated human, please state â??Evolved Humanâ??[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Species Characteristics: [/b]if non-human[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Appearance: [/b]if you have a Secret Identity, please state their appearance as well[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Affiliation: [/b]Hero or Villain[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Team Membership: [/b]if you decide to create a team that your character is part of, please give a brief description of the team and some of the other members. You can also choose to be a member of either Stormforce or Nightwatch, but bear in mind that you will need to be aware of the other members, whom I will list in the Backstage thread, and that your character would have to be amongst the most powerful on the planet to join either of these teams[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Personality: [/b]again, if you have a Secret Identity, please state your human and metahuman personalities[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Superpower(s): [/b]just avoid overpowering, and list them all here â?? even if itâ??s a power everyone will have heard of, like Pyrokinesis, give a brief explanation of the power and the extent to which you control it. Also, try and be original here![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Source of Powers: [/b]benevolent mutation? Godly powers? Alien power ring? Again, try and be original![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Other Skills: [/b]anything else which helps you in your chose profession â?? include combat skills here[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif][b]Weapons/Gadgets: [/b]any other tricks up your sleeve?[/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]Youâ??ll notice I havenâ??t asked for a Bio of any kind, as Iâ??m hoping that will emerge as the story progresses. Iâ??ll be setting up a Backstage thread in the next couple of days which will hopefully answer any questions, but if you have one before then please feel free to PM me, and Iâ??ll do my best to get back to you as quickly as possible![/font][/size] [size=3][font=georgia, serif]In the meantime, happy creating![/font][/size]

[font=georgia,serif]Maine held his defensive stance in the centre of the room, the furniture now more like debris littering a battlefield. Those few occupants of the bar had long since left, their near-empty glasses smashed as tables had been flipped and anything close to hand had been used as a weapon.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Jefferson was nowhere to be seen, having teleported himself away from the immediate fight, but Maine knew the next flurry of attacks was close at hand: heâ??d put off fighting Jefferson for this long because he was one of the few former members of the Freelancers whose abilities interfered with his own. As long as Jefferson could still teleport, Maine couldnâ??t predict where his attacks would be coming from.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]As if on cue, Jefferson appeared behind Maine, slamming a fist into his side: had Maine been a lesser man, or Jefferson been a stronger one, it would have floored him, but the latterâ??s strength had always been in evasion as opposed to full-on attacks, even before the Fall.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??I was just trying to escape it,â? [/b]snarled Jefferson as Maine spun to counter-attack, [b]â??I tried to hide from everything. But you fucked everything up, Maine.â? [/b]Almost before the last words had made it off his lips, Jefferson vanished to dodge a haymaker delivered by Maine, whose tightly-clenched fist simply swung through the air where his opponentâ??s head had been just a fraction of a second before.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Without hesitation, Maine reversed his arm, and felt his elbow connect sharply with Jeffersonâ??s sternum as he reappeared behind Maine, the strength of the latterâ??s blow knocking the former to the floor. Then, again without a single secondâ??s hesitation, Maine lifted his foot and slammed it into the floor, and again missed Jefferson by the tiniest of margins as he teleported away.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Using the delay in his opponentâ??s attacks, Maine grabbed one of his knives from his backpack, now laying discarded against the bar, and flipped it in his hand so the blade ran down the length of his forearm. He lifted his other fist and bent his knees slightly, as though he was about to start a boxing match, and slowly turned in a circle in the centre of the room.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??You were always an evasive man, Jefferson,â? [/b]Maine said loudly to the entire building, knowing that his opponent was lying in wait somewhere, [b]â??Even before we got these abilities. But you always forgot one thing about yourself, even in training...â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif]Maine spun on his heel, crouching and swinging the razor-sharp blade of the knife through the air at roughly knee-height. With perfect timing, Jefferson appeared, only to have the knife-blade slice through the tendons in his right knee, a spurt of blood and a grunt of pain indicating that Maine had hit his target. With barely a secondâ??s pause, Jefferson vanished again, leaving nothing but a spray of blood on the floor behind him, and reappeared behind Maine, just as the knife sliced across his torso, leaving a long but thankfully shallow cut diagonally across his upper body.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]For what Maine knew would be the final time, Jefferson vanished and reappeared, immediately feeling the cold steel of the knife being driven right into his chest, right up to the hilt.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Jefferson collapsed to his knees, a thick rivulet of dark blood running from the wound all the way down to the floor. He choked down ragged breaths, even as he felt his mouth and throat filling with blood, and flailed at the knife-handle protruding from his chest, to no avail.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??...you were always too predictable,â? [/b]murmured Maine, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his weapon and yanking it out of his opponentâ??s chest cavity with a crunch. Jefferson fell to one side as his eyes rolled back into his head, and Maine heard his final, rasping breath escape as he turned away to clean his weapon.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Maine wiped the blade of the knife on a rag he found on the surface of the bar, then stuffed it back into its strap underneath his backpack. Opening the bag, he pulled out a small box which he placed on top of the bar, flipped the catches on the front and lifted the lid. Inside were two small devices like the one he had recorded Jeffersonâ??s voice onto, along with a number of small glass phials, seven of which were filled with dark red liquid, five of which were empty. He grabbed one of the empty phials and turned to crouch over Jeffersonâ??s body, carefully twisting the cap off with his teeth and holding it between them as he pressed the phial next to Jeffersonâ??s knife-wound. It steadily filled with his blood, and once it was full enough for Maineâ??s needs he replaced the cap and tossed the phial back into the box.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Probably wouldnâ??t have given [i]that [/i]up willingly anyway,â? [/b]Maine murmured as he placed the box back into his backpack and closed it up. With a lithe springing motion, he leapt over the bar and began to rummage around underneath, liberally knocking glasses off the shelves as he searched.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]He grabbed everything he could find that could potentially be useful, including a heavy, but powerful sawn-off shotgun that Jefferson had almost reached for earlier, and some bottles of fresh water he found in a small cooler behind the bar. He leapt back over the bar and tucked the items into his backpack, then headed for the back door of the bar.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]---[/font] [font=georgia,serif]The town centre was abuzz with activity, which worked well for Maine: there was enough commotion that people wouldnâ??t be overly interested in a bar brawl, and that meant that they wouldnâ??t find Jeffersonâ??s body until Maine was a few miles out of Jacken City.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Weaving his way through the crowd, Maine realised that the cause of the commotion in the centre of the town was the arrival of a large group of people: some of them clearly traders, making the first moves towards setting up stalls first thing in the morning; and others more heavily-armed, definitely soldiers as opposed to traders.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]After a momentâ??s inspection, Maine recognised the two groups as the Migrant Trade Union and the Mercantile Defence Force respectively, and immediately saw an opportunity. He pushed his way through the bustling crowd towards a heavyset man taking a seat on the flatbed of a nearby truck, reloading a modified twelve-gauge with shells and looking visibly unsettled even as he seated himself. A quick scan over his form told Maine a number of things which would potentially be of use, and with this new information he approached the man and took a seat next to him.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Those Riders causing you trouble, huh?â? [/b]Maine asked, adding a touch of warmth to his voice that would not normally be present. The man turned and eyed Maine carefully, before nodding and taking a swig from a canteen at his side.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??The Trade Unionâ??s always been a target for raiding parties,â? [/b]the man said, placing the canteen back by his side, [b]â??We get by best we can, but the Riders are pretty tenacious.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Iâ??ve had my share of problems with them,â? [/b]replied Maine, [b]â??Got ambushed by a bunch of them around thirty miles outside Jacken.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??One man ambushed by a group of Riders? Youâ??re lucky to be alive, frie...â? [/b]he tailed off, a look of curiosity crossing his face, [b]â??...hold on, thirty miles outside the city?â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Yeah, I think they were pretty close to their hideout, it didnâ??t seem like theyâ??d been on the raid too long,â? [/b]replied Maine, forcing himself not to react to the realisation that he had his hooks in this man.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??We passed a group of Riders around thirty miles out,â? [/b]the man said, [b]â??They were all dead, we thought theyâ??d chanced across a rival gang, but...was that you?â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??I...well, I have my talents,â? [/b]replied Maine hesitantly, [b]â??They tend to help me out of situations like that.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Holy ****,â? [/b]murmured the man, [b]â??Well, we could sure use someone of your talents in the Mercantile Defence Force, if youâ??re ever interested in a change of career!â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Iâ??d love to help you out, if you need me?â? [/b]replied Maine, surprising the man with his quick answer. The man held his large hand out to Maine, smiling as he did.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Iâ??m Magnus,â? [/b]he said, and Maine returned both the smile and the handshake.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Nice to meet you, Magnus,â? [/b]he said, [b]â??Iâ??m Creed. Now, you want to see where those Riders are coming from?â?[/b][/font]

[font=georgia,serif][i]Jacken City Gates, 2106 hours[/i][/font] [font=georgia,serif]Maine stepped through the gates of the small settlement, his boots kicking up clouds of dust as he moved. There were few buildings in Jacken City, to the point that the moniker of â??cityâ?? was far too grandiose for this place: town or even village would have been far more fitting. People milled around, trying to complete their business before the sun set completely, gas-lamps lining the streets rather than the electric ones of larger, more populous settlements.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Taking a few steps forward, Maine could feel the eyes of the townsfolk on him, whether it was his combat-ready appearance or simply the presence of a stranger that was making them nervous, he couldnâ??t tell. It wasnâ??t as though he cared how they felt around him, but he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible until his business in Jacken was done.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Weâ??re not used to having visitors around here, son,â? [/b]said a gruff voice from the entrance to a ramshackle wooden building to Maineâ??s left. He turned to see an old man, replete with shaggy silver hair and a beard, sitting on a rocking chair on the porch of a run-down house.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Even if people can get across the desert, the Riders surround this place, and they arenâ??t too keen on letting people past,â? [/b]he said, slowly rocking back and forth.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Iâ??ve been walking a long time. The desert doesnâ??t bother me,â? [/b]replied Maine with the smallest of smiles.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??And the Riders?â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Could say the same for them,â? [/b]said Maine, taking a few steps towards the old man.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Well, youâ??re clearly a...talented young man,â? [/b]replied the old man, his words laden with subtext, [b]â??Canâ??t see why someone would go to all that trouble to get here, though.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Iâ??m looking for someone,â? [/b]said Maine, reaching into his jacket, [b]â??Maybe you can help me.â? [/b]He pulled a tattered, repeatedly-folded photograph out of his inside pocket and proffered it to the old man. The old, black and white photograph depicted a dozen young, athletic-looking men and women standing in a group, all wearing black combat fatigues and standing in front of an old red-brick building. There were notes scrawled across the surface of the picture, with some faces circled and others entirely crossed out.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Well thereâ??s a whole lot of people in this photo, son,â? [/b]said the old man, taking the photo and looking closely at it,[b] â??Anyone in particular you might be looking for?â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif]Maine leaned over, and pointed to one of the twelve figures in the photograph, a young man with short black hair and a goatee beard, stood in the middle of the group, a broad grin across his face.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Him,â? [/b]said Maine, [b]â??I heard he was living here, or at least he used to.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Aye, I know him. Thatâ??s Darryl, he owns the bar just a few streets down from here,â? [/b]said the old man, handing the photograph back, [b]â??If you hurry, youâ??ll make it there before he closes up for the day.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif]Maine nodded in gratitude, and folded the photo back into his pocket. He turned to where the old man had gestured, and broke into a swift walk towards the bar, keeping his head down and ignoring the passing civilians: the fewer of them who saw his face before his work was done, the better.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]A few minutes later, he stood at the entrance to Darrylâ??s Bar, a building which looked just as run-down as the rest of the town, a faded wooden sign alerting passers-by to its existence, and several significant holes were visible in the roof. Nonetheless, a comforting orange glow emanated from the windows, signifying an abundance of gas or oil-lamps on the inside of the bar.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Taking a deep breath, Maine pushed the swinging doors of the bar open and walked inside, his boots clicking on the hard wooden floor. There were very few patrons inside, a single scruffy-looking man slumped over at the bar, and a couple more engaged in a hushed conversation in the far corner of the room.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Youâ??re a little late, friend,â? [/b]said the man behind the bar, [b]â??Iâ??m just about to close up.â? [/b]The man was a little softer around the edges than the one in the photograph, and there were significantly more lines in his face, but it was unmistakably the same man.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Canâ??t stay open a little longer?â? [/b]replied Maine, now sure that Darryl had not recognised him, [b]â??Iâ??ve got some hard-earned coin burning a hole in my pocket, and I could use a drink!â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??You maybe got time for one, but Iâ??m running late as it is,â? [/b]replied Darryl, grabbing a glass from underneath the bar and filling it with clear liquid from a large, unmarked jar. Maine walked over to the bar, grabbing the drink and finishing it in one, the burn of the alcohol almost making him wince. He nodded and pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, placing them on the bar. Darryl smiled and took the money, turning his back on Maine to place it in the register.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Interesting place to settle down,â? [/b]Maine said, [b]â??Not really where I saw you ending up, back in the day.â? [/b]He looked for Darrylâ??s reaction, which consisted of a slight hesitation between closing the register and turning back round, with a broad smile on his face.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??I donâ??t know what you mean, friend,â? [/b]he said, [b]â??I donâ??t believe weâ??ve ever met.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Ah,â? [/b]replied Maine, [b]â??My mistake. I guess you just look like someone I used to know. Well, thanks for the drink.â? [/b]He got to his feet, and turned to leave the bar when he saw exactly what was about to happen, and stopped in his tracks.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??I wouldnâ??t go for the gun if I was you,â? [/b]Maine said coldly and calmly, turning around slowly to face Darryl, [b]â??You know how itâ??ll end.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??How did you find me?â? [/b]asked Darryl, raising both his hands and placing them on the bar, [b]â??I thought this was the last place anybody would look for one of us.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Savannah told me,â? [/b]replied Maine, [b]â??Or more specifically, I made her find you.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??So youâ??re the one,â? [/b]said Darryl, recognition creeping into his voice, [b]â??I heard something about what was happening, last transmission I had with Sydney.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??I know,â? [/b]replied Maine, [b]â??I was there.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??You son of a *****.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Itâ??s all for a purpose,â? [/b]said Maine, moving towards Darryl.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??What possible purpose could there be, Maine? The Freelancers are done, thereâ??s nothing left. Are you honestly trying to continue what Chapel was doing?â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Not exactly,â? [/b]replied Maine, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small, silver device, about the same size as a cigarette lighter, [b]â??But I will need you to state your codename for me.â? [/b]Maine held the device close to Darrylâ??s face, and a look of realization slowly crept across the other manâ??s face.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??So thatâ??s it,â? [/b]he said, [b]â??Youâ??re trying to get into the Crucible...â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Please state your codename,â? [/b]replied Maine coldly, looking towards the device in his hand.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??You know itâ??s suicide to try and get in there, Maine. Even if you can get to Valhalla, the Crucible is the most heavily-guarded facility the Freelancers ever set up. And once you get inside, whatâ??s your endgame? Even if you get in, thereâ??s no way theyâ??re going to let you get back out again.â?[/b][/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??State. Your. Codename,â? [/b]Maine repeated, with the air of someone who wouldnâ??t ask again. Darryl stared into Maineâ??s eyes, wavered, and moved closer to the device.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Codename Jefferson,â? [/b]he said, and Maine immediately slipped the device back into his pocket.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Much obliged,â? [/b]said Maine, turning around to leave the building. He closed his eyes, pleased with what heâ??d accomplished, and a split-second too late he was what was about to happen.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]In the blink of an eye, Jefferson blinked into existence in front of Maine and slammed his fist into Maineâ??s chest. The surprise as much as the force of the blow knocked Maine backwards off his feet, and he saw his opponent blink back out of existence.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??It could have been easy,â? [/b]groaned Maine, jumping to his feet and preparing himself for the next attack.[/font]

[font=georgia, serif]24 May 2015[/font] [font=georgia,serif][i]The South: around 30 miles outside Jacken City, 1538 hours[/i][/font] [font=georgia,serif]The desert sand shifted slowly in the gentle breeze, untouched and pristine. Nothing had spoiled the natural calm of the oasis in a long time, possibly even since before the Fall: mankind had grouped together into small communities since the event, and the deserts and tundras across the globe were not the ideal place for developing cities, so they quickly returned to their natural states.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Silence reigned in places like this.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Suddenly, one of the larger dunes exploded into life and noise, a leather-clad figure leaping over the top, closely followed by a roaring, dirty quad-bike, tearing through the air above the sand. The rider jabbed a long spear with a wicked point on the end towards the running man, missing by a hairâ??s breadth upon every thrust.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Without even a momentâ??s warning, the runner spun on his heel, narrowly avoiding another spear jab and slamming his hand down on the shaft of the spear. With another quarter-turn, he hauled the rider off the saddle of the vehicle and slammed the shaft into the base of his head, sending him sprawling into the sand. The bike swerved out of control with no-one to steer, finally tipping over, the wheels grinding to a halt. The man who had been running now stood looking in the opposite direction to the one he had been fleeing in, the riderâ??s spear still in his hand.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Hearing a grunt behind him, the man turned to see the rider, rolled over and supporting himself with one arm, the other pointing a battered pistol at him.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??The Riders rule these parts, stranger,â?[/b] he snarled, literally spitting out the final word as though it was distasteful.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??Iâ??ve no desire to rule,â?[/b] replied the man calmly, [b]â??I just wanted to pass through. You tried to stop me, so anything else that happens is on your shoulders.â?[/b] The Rider clambered to his feet, never moving his aim from the man, and stepped a few paces towards him.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]The man took a few deep breaths, and as the Rider stepped within reach his arm snapped out and grabbed the top of the pistol, pushing the slide back far enough to pop the bullet out of the spout, and slammed the base of the spear into the Riderâ??s gut, making him double over. A swift kick to the head incapacitated the Rider, and the man took the pistol along with the spear.[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]â??******* Riders,â?[/b] muttered the man, trudging up to the top of the dune and looking back the way he came. A few hundred yards off, he saw two huge dust clouds, with large greyish shapes in front of them. He groaned, realizing immediately what they were, and readied himself for what was about to come.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Closing his eyes and taking a number of deep breaths, he began to truly see just what was about to come.[/font] [i][font=georgia,serif]Two jeeps, three occupants each: one driving, one armed with an assault rifle in the passenger seat and the third on the mounted turret on the back. Spear throw. Sprint forward, quick jump into the air. Four shots at waist-height, high-legged sweep-kick. Grab and squeeze, jump into rolling landing, single shot to the side. Two jeeps, six riders, sixty seconds.[/font][/i] [font=georgia,serif]He opened his eyes and saw that the Riders were closing in. Hefting the spear onto his shoulder, he went to work.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]With a grunt of effort, he hurled the spear towards the furthest jeep, adding a touch of spin to the shaft as he let it go. Without looking to see if the spear hit its target, and knowing that it did, he set off towards the closest jeep, fast approaching, at a sprint. The second before it collided with him, he leapt into the air, feeling his front foot touching the hood of the jeep, and without a secondâ??s thought, he fired four shots through the windshield into the heads of the two occupants.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]As the gunner swung the turret to face him, he slammed his foot into the side of the barrel hard, sending the gun swinging back round, knocking the gunner off. As the gun completed a half-rotation, he grabbed the trigger and squeezed, sending a barrage of high-calibre rounds through the windshield of the second jeep, killing the two occupants instantly in a messy spray of blood.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]Feeling the jeep beneath him begin to swerve, he leapt off the turret and landed in a roll, finally swinging the pistol out to his side and unloading a single shot into the gunnerâ??s head as he was struggling to his feet.[/font] [font=georgia,serif]As the dust and the noise settled, he stood up slowly, dropping the now-empty pistol on the body of his last opponent.[/font] [i][font=georgia,serif]Two jeeps. Six occupants. Sixty seconds.[/font][/i] [i][font=georgia,serif]Amateurs.[/font][/i]

[font=georgia,serif]I can give some more details about the Freelancers if you want, so other people can join the gang?[/font]

[center][font=georgia, serif]Sounds fun, I'm game![/font] [b]Name: [/b][font=georgia,serif]Unknown[/font] [b]Codename: [/b][font=georgia,serif]Maine[/font] [font=georgia,serif][b]Age: [/b][/font][font=georgia, serif]Unknown, appears to be in his mid-thirties[/font] [font=georgia, serif][b]Gender: [/b][/font][font=georgia, serif]Male[/font] [font=georgia, serif][b]Appearance: [/b]Maine stands at just over 6 feet tall, and cuts an athletic figure, muscular but not too bulky. His sandy-brown hair is short and tufty, the shortage of clean, fresh water making it difficult to wash regularly, and a short beard covers the lower portion of his face. His eyes are icy-blue and unforgiving, and he bears a number of small scars from previous encounters across his face.[/font] [font=georgia, serif]He tends to wear a dark brown leather jacket, made lighter in places by years of fading and a thin coating of dust which refuses to shift regardless of how many times he attempts to clean it; and dark combat trousers with a number of pockets stuffed with anything useful for survival or trade. Underneath his jacket he wears a lightweight flak-jacket, sturdy enough to resist small-arms fire and knife-blades, and a tattered red bandana around his neck. Black fingerless gloves on his hands and scuffed black steel-toed boots on his feet complete his ensemble, but the most important thing he wears is his backpack.[/font] [font=georgia, serif]In his tattered black backpack is everything he needs to survive: a respirator mask for occasions where he is required to go somewhere where air is scarce and goggles for dusty or smoky areas; a large metal canteen which he fills up at every given opportunity; a small rifle-scope for scouting out safe locations; a pop-up tent and a small refillable gas burner and much more. He has also rigged a couple of straps which hold his knives in place underneath his backpack, placed for easy reach in combat situations.[/font] [font=georgia, serif][b]Personality: [/b]Maine is all business, even though his chosen business isn't particularly pleasant. He seems, to the outside observer, to go about his profession with grim determination, although in reality he is just fully focused on the task set out before him. This can make him seem cold and distant, and in many ways he is, but this is more due to the fact that he doesn't trust people easily than any innate dysfunction. Nonetheless, it is difficult to make him angry, as anger implies that he cares about the situations he finds himself in, and thus he does appear to be largely calm throughout his missions.[/font] [b][font=georgia,serif]Power:[/font] [/b][font=georgia, serif]Maine has the ability to see a few moments ahead within his own timeline at will: not far enough to predict major events, but enough to make him a preternaturally skilled fighter. He can see where a punch is going to land in time to block or dodge it, he can see where to aim a projectile to inflict the most damage, and he can see the trajectory of his own movements, allowing him to display incredible agility and reflexes. Combined with an increase in his relative strength and speed, he is close to unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat. However, due to the unpredictability of the abilities of other Ascended and Augs, he often has some difficulty fighting them.[/font] [font=georgia, serif][b]Gang: [/b]Whilst Maine has no current affiliation, he was at one time part of a loose-knit gang known as the Freelancers, and it is from them that he received the majority of his combat training. At present, he considers himself a drifter, taking the occasional piece of mercenary work in return for water and food, but always heading to a singular destination.[/font] [font=georgia, serif][b]Weapons: [/b]As previously stated, Maine prefers to fight hand-to-hand, and likes to improvise when it comes to weaponry, using whatever is to hand to injure his opponents. His style of combat is based around inflicting as much damage in as short a time as possible, so his blows are quick and well-aimed, usually at joints and the weaker parts of the human body. His training with the Freelancers has also given him a certain proficiency with a number of ranged weapons, but as ammo is hard to come by he prefers not to rely on them. The only weapons he actually carries on him are a pair of long-bladed knives which he carries on his back, below his backpack.[/font] [font=georgia, serif][b]City: [/b]As a drifter, Maine prefers not to reveal his city of origin, and he moves around a lot. But he seems singularly obsessed with a city called Valhalla, situated in the north, and it would seem that this is his ultimate destination.[/font] [font=georgia, serif][i]Hope this all looks good, let me know if I need to change anything![/i][/font][/center]

[font="georgia, serif"]Hey guys, just so you know I haven't forgotten about this: I have the final exam of my degree on Wednesday so I'm stuck in revision hell right now. But by the end of next week I should be about ready to kick things off and post an Audition thread, so keep an eye out for that! I'll be checking back here sporadically over the next few days, so if you have questions then please continue to ask them![/font]

[font=georgia, serif]That's not a bad title, I'll definitely keep it in mind![/font] [font=georgia, serif]My thoughts on the lack of disease were that by that point in this world's history medical science had advanced to the point that they had wiped out all existing disease, and are advanced enough to immediately combat any kind of illness which develops. The downside of this is that the humans have little to no immune system, but that probably won't really be a factor in the RP. I basically put that in as a sign of Argyll being a utopian society up until the Beholders took control.[/font] [font=georgia, serif]I actually played Eternal Darkness back in the day when I had a GameCube, and I actually hadn't made the connection. In my mind, the idea of revisiting ancestry came from Assassin's Creed, and the process behind this in the RP is likely to be similar to the process in AC. But Eternal Darkness is as good a reference point as any![/font] [font=georgia, serif]Thanks for your questions, I'm always glad to have you on board![/font]