The Harlequin

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Ah, blessed is gothicism. I need some black lipstick damn it.... I can get everything else should the situation call for it....[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]The bastards had finally quit. Since destroying, or perhaps redestroying, the convoy, Lacroix couldn't remember what he'd done, only that a lot of people had died, and a lot were very angry at him, he'd been stalked incessantly. He now had no idea where he was, not that he did in the first place, but the number of patrols he'd seen made him certain he was not in a friendly situation. And he was running low on ammo, his katana needed a hell of a lot of nicks polished out of it, and he was almost too sore to walk, much less fight. Taking stock of his surroundings, he was about 50 metres away from a small creek. Hobbling over, he drank his fill, hoping the water was potable. He looked around, trying to work out where he could be. He found no familar landscapes. But then, he'd never been good at geography. A slight sound.... a pause, then the sound, redoubled, tripled in volume, escalating into a huge roar. Instinctively, driven by days of a pure struggle for survival and harsh lessons learnt through it, Lacroix was down, rolling away. Several seconds later, he realised it was the sound of vehicles, lots of vehicles. It was also heading away from him. He leapt up, and ran towards the source of the sound. What he saw amazed him. It was some kind of Soviet base. What had to be at least a hundred tanks were rolling out of the main entrance, looking girded for battle. The tanks at the front were what caught his eyes though. Bigger, and faster, than any tank he'd ever seen, he was certain these weapons were also more deadly. They carried a viperish poise with them, lumbering behemoths driven by deadly purpose. They were almost certainly factory made here, and would almost certain give the Allies hell. Lacroix sat back, wondering what he was to do. Looking around, all concentration was on the departing army. The rest of the base seemed almost unmanned. The few lone guards were not much of a threat. He absently wondered about the wisdom of hiding in a Soviet base. He only spoke English for one thing. Still, a place to rest would be good, as would some supplies. Without further thoughts, he ran across to the large metal fence, listening intently for shouts of alarm. He heard nothing, but any noise he might have heard would most likely have been eclipsed anyway. Automatically, drilled into him from long hours of breaking into his home base in what seemed an eternity ago, Lacroix made several small cuts in the wire links and slipped through the small hole. Cleverly positioned, to the casual observor it seemed nothing more than a slight break, certainly not something a human could crawl through. It took agility, and the loss of a little skin, but Lacroix managed it. Amazingly, he had still not been discovered. Trusting that whatever fate decided it liked him at the moment would not be a capricious minx, he sprinted towards the largest building. Well, he tried to sprint. It ended up being a painful, staggering lope. Lacroix realised just how far gone he was, and what a bad idea this was. Still, what's done was done. To hell with it. Checking his pistols, he had three shots left. Two in one, a single one in the other. His katana was loose in its sheath, and assorted knives he had picked up were easily accessible. His long Chinese shirt was torn in several places, and in bad need of cleaning, as were his pants, but would serve. The black shirt underneath was stained in blood and sweat, sticking to him, outlining his gaunt, now wiry chest. The door was unlocked. Lacroix supposed locking it was unneccessary, he doubted anyone, even him, could have broken in here had they not come at the right time. He burst in, weapons levelled. Nothing but a long corridor, then some stairs. Ignoring the doors on either side of him, he sprinted up the stairs, finding another door, this one locked. Five seconds with a long metal file, and it wasn't locked anymore. Looking in to a room, these seemed quite luxurious. Probably senior NCOs or officers rooms. There was another set of stairs. This would get interesting. Heedless of caution now, he ran straight for the stairwell. He was alerted at the last moment by a slight scraping, as a boot on a floor would make. Stopping, paying attention, the breathing was clearly audible. A single guard. Lacroix leapt, spinning. He landed on his back at the bottom of the stairs, a single bullet taking out the surprised guard. Lacroix ran up to him. He was carrying a rifle, incompatible ammo. Which meant one shot in each gun. He was also not a Soviet, but a member of a reputable merc army. Very interesting. Lacroix was again forced to pick a lock, this one far more challenging. He looked around. No more stairs, it was likely that this was as good as it got. Here, he was less likely to be disturbed than any other place. Without further ado, he burst in through the nearest room, guns levelled.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Dennis started at the sound of the voice, vaguely recognising it. He leapt through the broken window, followed by John and Rob. He rolled, shotguns coming out. He risked glancing over, seeing nothing but a car over the other side of the road. A car that had a pair of feet showing underneath it. Absently, he wiped a smear of blood out of his hair. Two could play at this game. His shotgun came up slowly, aiming for the windows. The bullet resounded across the street, blowing the fron to windows directly, then the back two indirectly. There was a lot of cursing from behind the car.[/I] Dennis: Hell, just one guy. Probably some punk. John: Alright then, we'll deal with him. [I]Neas, who was shaking glass out of his clothing, chanced looking up. Dennis was sitting on the car in front of him, shotgun aimed at his head. His friends were on either side, also with weapons levelled.[/I] Dennis: Ah, but isn't this fun?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]It's so nice to be appreciated...[/font][/color]

OC: Bleh, its 2 am in the morning? really the morning? at 2 am? Sorry, yeah, I'm too lazy to sign out. This I Jesus Chicken, thats why I'm not using that crazy colour\gothicy crap Flynn does. Yeah. [I]The two walked out of the house, Billy wearing the high heels, just to see what the big deal was. He found them quite confortable, and considered buying himself a pair... They really didn't realise how far they were to walk to, but it was still pretty early in the morning. They reached the nature trail around 12 noon. Rebekkah was concerned about being sunburnt, but the canopy over the trail was densly thick. They walked for a few minutes, enjoying the pleasant atmosphere. Birds singing in the trees, small squirrels stealing people's picnic baskets, and running up the trees with them. Rebekkah was just upset that they forgor theirs.[/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]After you read the vampyres, you absolutely have to read The Witching Hour and Lasher. Amazingly good, even if it's not as purely gothic.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Get whoever (I don't know anything about whatever cartoon it is that Trunks comes from) pregnant, cut her open, then beat Trunks or whoever to unconsciousness with the feotus, then force him to eat it.... I do have problems... Or better yet, barb wire, heated until glowing, placed down the throat, dug in, then yanked out, hard and fast. Do you want me to dig up some more ...esoteric ones? I'd probably have to PM them to you though.... Hehehe, I love my life.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Actually, I have read some stuff you could call Finnish fantasy. It's just really, really old.... I'll tell you what, recommend me anything good and I'll dig it up.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: Ah. I know a Chris Farley, that's all. [I]Pheonix turned away, looking out over the city. John and Dennis shared a quick glance. To John's amazement, Dennis was struggling to keep from bursting out into laughter. At last, he couldn't hold it anymore, and started shaking in mirth. Pheonix turned around, surprised.[/I] Pheonix: What's so funny? Dennis: You know, the whole "I'm a knight, and I've got magic powers, and I don't want to be mortal because it wouldn't make a good story and i have to be all powerful, and I like to blow things up and be really childish without admitting it, and I need to act incredibly noble, and have some burning motive for everything, and can't possibly be a normal human being, and can't be wrong." Really, get over yourself. [I]Pheonix stared at him a moment, then turned away.[/I] Pheonix: I must have my revenge. [I]Dennis hooted with laughter.[/I] Dennis: Yeah, that's exactly what I'm talking about. Get over your idea that the world works because you want it to. John: Ah, Dennis.... Dennis: What's he gonna do? Hit me again? He's welcome to, it might show him something. Or blow me up with his fancy lightshow? No, wait... he can't do that, or he'd prove his life isn't circumscribed by destiny. And we can't have that, all that insecurity, and perhaps even it working out for him! Oh god, what a horrible fate, being a normal person! [I]Pheonix swung around, fist swinging towards Dennis's mouth. Dennis caught it inches away, twisting sharply. Pheonix fell to his knees, and Dennis pushed him away.[/I] Dennis: Look kid. I've been beating people up longer than you've been alive, and I've had a lot more practice that you'll ever get. If you want to run off and save the world, go right ahead. If John goes along, I'll go along for the company. But don't think you can intimidate me with some flashy lights. I've seen it all before, even without acid.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Alright... No wolves, no giant eagle wings, nobody with extended lifespans (unless you're a mage, or a Koriana enchantress), no elves, no immortals (excepting the Paravians, who aren't even the forasken continent!) Magic exists in the form of conjury: runes and ciphers and such. No incantations, or natural healing, its done through funny little symbols, unless your a Fellowship sorceror, which you aren't. Or music, but it takes a masterbard to do that, and that's me. Sorry to *****, but I'd like to be able to keep this managably like the story.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Doesn't make sense. How come every rpg I create never goes anywhere? It's just not right. Oh well, here's another shot at it. Anyway, this rpg is based on "The Wars Of Light And Shadow", a series by fantasy Janny Wurts. I'd request you all ignore the cliche title. Anyway, if you've read the books, good, it will keep it a little more 'real', and if you haven't, even better, it will make it more original. Don't ask me to explain how that works.... Anyway, an overview of Athera, the world 'we' live on. It gets cryptic, but most of this information is here for the bored. You don't need to know it. So you can skip right down to the sign-up form, I don't mind. [I]Athera is the prime world in a hub of five. Athera has four Worldsend Gates, placed at the north, south, east and west points on the main continent, Paravia. The West Gate, leading to Marak, was sealed off by Traithe to cut the flow of Desh Thiere. There is one other major continent, Katharr, which is uninhabited, and scarred by drake fire. I suppose I bit of history would help.... Ath- prime creator, force behind all life, founder of the Law Of Major Balance. When Ath created Athera and surrounding worlds, only Athera was inhabited. The creatures in question were dragons, the greater drakes. These beings had the power to mesh reality with fantasy, and true-dreamed creatures into existance. One such creature was the Seardluin, vicious, intelligent cat-like predators that roamed in packs, their hierarchy was arranged for ruthless and efficient slaughter of other living beings. Even the greater drakes lost young to their predation. Countless life forms were slaughtered, until creation itself was at risk. To counter this, Ath created the Paravians. There were three races: The Riathan- unicorns, direct links to Ath creater. Ilitharis - centaurs, bound to cultivate the earth, and defend it with their lives if needs be, and the Athlien - Small race of semi-mortals, pixie like, keepers of the great mysteries. The Paravians were imbued with long life, and would only die if mishap befell them. Which it did... The Seardluin slaughtered the Paravians as easily as any other creatures. The Greater Drakes, seeking to right their former wrongs, sent searching thoughts throughout the multiverse, seeking those most skilled in destruction. Man had evolved on several planets. One such was technologically advanced, yet was based entirely on weapons. A group of seven singlehandedly engineered that world's destruction, and had fled in an escape craft left just for such a purpose. Their spacefaring ship was plucked out of space by the great drakes, and brought to Athera. It landed at Crater Lake, marking the beginning of the Second Age. The seven men inside took vows, that the Paravian's should never be annihilated, and were so absolved of the wanton death of their consciences. The newly named Fellowship of Seven came under the Law Of Major Balance, and were granted a mastery of Grand Conjury that would be matched by no other mortal. The Seardluin were hunted down and eliminated. Eventually, other ships crashed to Athera, fleeing the disaster caused by the Fellowship. They sought sanctuary, and swore oaths declaring that they would submit to the Paravians' laws for all time, and follow the Fellowship's direction. This marked the beginning of the Third Age. One such law the Paravians insisted on was that certain research be proscribed, such as research that would lead to weapons of mass destruction, to prevent another disaster. The Fellowship exiled those found breaking that law to the splinter world of Marak, through the West Gate. A society grew up there based on such weapons. In the Third Age year 4993, Athera was attacked. Seeking the perfect weapon, the people of Marak created a fog, and synergised it with the souls of slaughtered victims. The creature escaped, laying the world of Marak to waste. Then, it came through the West Gate to Athera. Only a small portion of it came through however, as the sorceror Traithe destroyed the Worldsend Gate, at the cost of his major faculties. He was left with no memory of the attack, and was unable to help the Seven with destroying the creature. He was also physically crippled. The Mistwraith, Desh Thiere, was bound in West Shand for 23 years, until the rebellion shattered the peace. All of the old Blood rulers kings and dukes alike, were thrown down, and their kinsmen driven out into the wilds. The Paravians withdrew from Athera, disappearing, and Desh Thiere covered the continent in fog. 500 hundred years passed. The descendants of the earls, dukes and kings and such are referred to as clansmen, huntsmen living in the woods, and hunted down by townsmen for sport and bounty. They make their living raiding caravans, and as such are hated by the Trade consortiums. The Townsmen live in cities, and devote their life to trade and social intrigue, and fear the return of the High Kings. From the Splinter world of Dascen Elur, two princes were exiled. These were Arithon s'Ffalenn, Master Of Shadow, and Lysaer s'Ilessid, Prince Of The Light. Half brothers by blood, they were the product of a bitter feud between the two bloodlines, and were forced out of neccessity to survive together. Their inborn elemental masteries were to fufill the West Gate prophecy, made by Dakar the Mad Prophet, apprentice spell binder to Fellowship sorceror Asandir. It told of the restoration of the the rule of the High Kings, and of sunlight. True to its words, Lysaer and Arithon battled against the Mistwraith, eventually containing it. Lysaer however, was possessed by one of the many wraiths, and left a banespell entangled in the aura after it was exorcised. At the crowning of Arithon as High King of the kingdom of Rathain, at the city of EtarraArithon realised Lysaer was cursed, and Lysaer attacked Arithon with his power of light, transferring the bane spell. Thus, the princes were cursed to eternal emnity. Arithon, who had been mage trained, recognised the curse, and strove against it, Lysaer was untrained, and was unaware of anything wrong. Arithon fled, seeking refuge with the clans of Strakewood. The clans immediately accepted him, having remained loyal to the old ways for 5 centuries. Lysaer raised the Etarran army, and attacked. Battle ensued, and Lysaer's forces were eventually driven back. Since then, Lysaer has become Prince of Avenor, and trained an elite army to hunt down his hlaf brother, while Arithon became an apprentice to Masterbard Halliron, and using his native abilities on the lyranthe, quickly became his successor. Now Arithon has vanished, and Lysaer hunts him down again. In case you've read the books: It is now a year after Arithon made the perilous trip through Kewar Tunnel, and is in now in Whitehold with his beloved, Elaira. Lysaer and Sulfin Evend have returned to Avenor, training more troops, for Lysaer knows Arithon to be alive. A few other things. The Koriathon - an order of female enchantresses, aligning their spells through quartz crystals. In conflict with the Fellowship over the Compact. Sorceror's Preserve- an area inhabited by Khadrim, lesser dragons. The kingdom of Havish - The only kingdom the Fellowship could restore the monarchy to. Ruled by Eldir, neutral in all ways. Alestron - ruled by the s'Brydian blood line, a line of dukes. The only clan blood to retain their rule during the rebellion. Grimwards - circles enclosing the bones of great drakes, fatal to any who enter them. Preserved by the Fellowship. Bloodlines - the major bloodlines have virtues spellbound into them. s'Ffalenn - compassion, empathy. s'Ilessid - justice. Davien's fountain - Davien, a Fellowship sorceror, imbued a fountain in the Red Desert (an area between Dascen Elur and Athera), with waters that gave one a life of 500 years. Both Arithon and Lysaer have drunk from it.[/I] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alright, onto the relevant stuff. You can be a character you make up, or one of these. If so, I'll PM you anything you need to know. I'm playing Arithon, and if no ones takes them, Dakar, Elaira, and Lysaer as well. If you make your own character, I'll PM you with anything you need to know. You can be a clansman, an Alliance soldier, a soldier in the service of Havish, whoever the hell you like. Lysaer: Prince Of Avenor. Holds an inborn control over light. Cold, heartless, perfect statesmen, loved by the masses as their Savior from Shadow. Sulfin Evind - Commander of Lysaer's armies. Dakar: The Mad Prophet, given to spurious fits of presience. Currently in Alestron with Fionn Areth. Elaira: Koriathon enchanctress, beloved of Arithon (me, so watch it). Currently under orders to liason with Arithon, and is allowed immunity to the strict bounds of the Koriathon which prohibit physical attachments. Fionn Areth - Body double of Arithon. His face was spell changed by the Koriathon. It was thought that when Fionn Areth was mistaken for Arithon and sentanced to death, Arithon would come out of hiding. Fionn Areth was trying to join Lysaer's army at the time. Rescued by Dakar and Arithon from Jaelot, and when pursued, was separated from Arithon. Arithon led the guardsmen away. Fionn Areth, struck that a man he had sought to kill would help him in such away, decided to stick with Dakar until he could be reunited with Arithon. Bransian/Keldmar/Parrien/Mearn s'Brydion - rulers of Alestrom, covert allies of Arithon, though openly allied to Lysaer. Feylind - female captin of the brig "Evenstar", friend of Arithon's. Name: Arithon s'Ffalenn Age: about 150 Equipment: Alithiel, Elshian's last lyranthe. Bio: Raised in the splinter world of Dascen Elur, by the mages at Rauven. Returned to his impoverished kingdom of Katharn, at his father's, the king, behest. Captured during a raid by the s'Ilessids and taken to their capital at Amroth. The rules a Rauven, Arithon and Lysaer's grandfather, warned the king of Amroth that if he sought revenge on Arithon for seven generation's blood feud, and the fact that his wife had fled him for Arithon's father, equal punishment would be visited on Lysaer. So the king exiled Arithon through the world gate. Lysaer was thus exiled to. etc, etc, etc. Description: Shorter than average, about 5"7. Black hair, and piercing green eyes. Wiry build. Anything else of note: Masterbard of Athera, successor to the kingdom of Rathain. Trained mage. I have a strange feeling this isn't going to work....[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: How the **** do you know Chris Farley? Or are we not talking about the same one.... IC: [I]Dennis sat there, feigning sleep. Mystic quest ****. Not his problem. He decided it was about time to make that clear. He pushed himself up from the car, looking at John intently.[/I] Dennis: I've known you a long time now John, and you've never been suckered into **** like this before. John: Take a look at your car? Kind of looks like **** to me.... [I]Dennis reached in, pulling out his shotguns, absently cleaning them off.[/I] Dennis: Yeah, it does, and when I dig up that malacophilious crack whore(OOC: Is there a maturity warning anywhere in this? Or do I have to refrain from getting nasty?), you can bet there'll be hell to pay. John: Yeah, you'll get plants all over you. Dennis: Not likely. Nemisis my ***. I think you're the one who's played too many damn video games. You really think this **** is even remotely relevant? I mean, look at this guy. Waving a sword around for Christ's sake.... What's his problem? [I]Pheonix tightened the grip on his sword, dangerously annoyed. He stopped a moment later, looking down the barrel of a shotgun.[/I] Dennis: 'Pheonix" eh? Let me guess, read a few too many comic books? To hell with this ****. [I]Dennis turned and strode off, leaving the other three standing there shaking their heads. He was about 200 metres up when a suited man, wearing dark sunglasses, stepped out in front of him, pistols aimed at his head.[/I] Mr. White: My name is White. Dennis: That it? Just White eh? Mr. White: Yeah, there's more. Mr. Make sure to use all of it. [I]Dennis laughed in derision.[/I] Dennis: Look punk, I don't have time for this ****. [I]Mr. White stepped forward, striking Dennis across the face with the butt of one of his pistols. He had a shotgun barrel in each eye in an instant.[/I] Dennis: Watch it Mr. White. Mr. White: Ha. I killed your pope, I killed your president, I can certainly kill you. Dennis: You took a old guy and someone with an IQ so below average he should never have gotten into politics. Go right ahead and try to kill me. [I]Mr. White's finger constricted slightly on the triggers. Before he could fully pull them, Dennis lifted his boot, kicking him in the groin. Mr. White doubled over, Dennis walking away.[/I] Dennis: Tch. Who gives a damn about the pope.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Yeah, the whole Candomble thing was good. However, my personal favourite would have to be Vittorio, or maybe even what Thornevald would have been had his character been truly developed.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Dennis walked backstage, out into the small alley, not stopping to talk to anyone. He got into his sleek black sportscar, naturally with tinted windows, and started it up. There was none of that heavy roar that some young men thought attractive in cars. If anything, it was overly quiet. Dennis rested his head against the soft seat for a moment. He then opened his glove box, making sure his shotguns were inside. He left it open. He shot out of the alleyway, nearly taking out two men. The jumped out of the way, waving pistols at the car. Dennis, who had pulled up sharply, with no screech of tyres, grabbed his guns and rolled out his door, which was on the opposite side to the men. He came up, one shotgun aimed at each man. They stared back, pistols levelled.[/I] Dennis: What the **** are you doing John? John: You just have to meet this guy. [I]Dennis appraised him for a moment, then lowered his guns. John did the same. The other man was a little more reticient. Dennis's glance changed into a cold stare, and the man reholstered his pistols.[/I] Dennis: He's got a lot to learn. Now get the **** in the car. [I]John complied, well aware that Dennis was only like this to those he considered friends. To other people he was cold and distant. To friends he was a mixture of a gruff exterior, showering people with friendly abuse and obscenity, hiding a calm, open interior. A person who, while quite intelligent, was wary of letting his real self be known. There was only a hand count of people who really knew him, and John was foremost on that list. John was in the passenger seat, next to Dennis. The other man was in the back.[/I] Dennis: So, who is he? John: Rob Gordon. Rob, this, as I'm sure you've gathered, is the nefarious Dennis Leary. [I]Dennis turned to him, his driving not suffering in the slightest. He even stopped perfectly at a red light.[/I] Dennis *heavy dracula accent*: Velkome to my den of inikwity. ~~~~~~~~~~~ [I]From the front of the building, Mr. White watched the altercation, the easy way Dennis held his weapons. The sure, cold look in his eyes. He would be no easy prey. Mr. White shrugged, walking away. He had things to do.[/I] [/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]This coming from the Botticelli of ******** artists.... Don't worry Butterfly, we'll drag you down to Livid next year.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Yeah, that was the line, except it had "Flynn" instead of "Harlequin". Ah, it was classic. I got up, started walking to the door, he put his hand on my shoulder, I spun around... and whack! There he was, leaning over his desk, holding his nose and swearing. Then I had the principal pulling me away, and I have to say it was one of the most satisfying moments of my life. I don't have fun, no, I merely take advantage of situations. If you but detachments now:.......you won't have to change your emotions for a week! What a great offer! Hehehe.... I like that.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I've read everything Anne Rice has ever written, asiding Feast Of All Saints, Cry To Heaven, Servant Of The Bones, and Blackwood Farm (which I will read very soon! MWA!), and I assure you its Magnus. Just a little redition here. [spoiler]Magnus created him, after hunting down several beings who looked like him. Lestat was in Paris with Nicki at the time, acting. Lelio, or wolf-killer, depending on who he talked to. Anyway,Magnus took him to his tower, turned him into a vampyre, then went into the fire. Lestat ran off and decided to have a life. He Marius later, after searching for him for years. Lestat eventually depaired, went down into the earth for a few years, I think, then Marius woke him up, and took him to his Island on the Aegean Sea. Spelling? Anyway, Lestat encountered Those Who must Be Kept, etc. I can remember the plot of the entire series easily, but I'm sure as hell not writing it all out.[/spoiler] Oh, and the pope doesn't know what he's talking about, so I wouldn't bother paying attention. Or to society at all for that matter.... Hmmm. While I don't believe vampyres exist, give me a few years once I'm out of Uni and they will. I'm studying biochem/genetics/bioengineering for a reason damn it. Hehehe. Messing with diseases and creating vampyres. I'm going to have so much fun... [/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]In my experience, school councillors are god damn idiots. All of them. Hell, when I was 9, the year my mother had cancer, I went through 5 of them. Know why they left? They couldn't take dealing with me anymore. I got that in writing, delivered to my father, along with the recommendation, "seek professional help". Now that is god damn ridiculous. I admit, I broke one's nose... he was going on about how God had decided it was best for my mother to die... he was asking for it. But really, these people are meant to be professional help. Or what are they there for? Damn it, it drives me crazy. The one at my current high school isn't that bad... she thinks I'm really in touch with my "dark side"...[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Dennis strode up and down the stage, the lyrics to "*******" ringout out in usual fashion. He stopped, as the best part of the song came around.[/I] Dennis (ranting): Know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna get myself a 1967 Cadillac El Dorado Convertible, hot pink, with whaleskin hubcaps and all-leather cow interior and big brown baby seal eyes for headlights... yeah! And I'm gonna drive around in that baby at 115 miles per hour, getting 1 mile per gallon, suckin' down quarter pound cheeseburgers from McDonald's in the old-fashioned non-biodegradable styrofoam containers and whenI'm done suckin' down those greaseball burgers I'm gonna wipe my mouthon the American Flag and then I'm gonna toss the styrofoam containers right out the side, and there ain't a goddamn thing anybody can do about it. You know why? Because we got the bombs, that's why Two words: Nuclear ****in' weapons, OK? Russia, Germany, Romania, they can have all the democracy they want...they can have a big democracy cakewalk right through the middle of Tienamen Square and it won't make a lick of difference, because we got the bombs, OK? John Wayne's not dead, he's frozen! And as soon as we find a cure for cancer, we're gonna thaw out the Duke and he's gonna be pretty pissed off. You know why? Have you ever taken a cold shower? Well, multiply that by 15 million times, that's how pissed off the Duke's gonna be. And what am I gonna do abou it? I'm gonna get the Duke and John Casavetti and Lee Marvin and Sam Peckinpaw and a case of whisky and drive to Texas, and then I gotta chance to say... Backup Vocalist: Hey! Hey Hey! Dennis: What? Backup: You know you really are an *******. Dennis: Why don't you just shut up and sing this song pal. [I]As the song's final chorus closed, Dennis leaned up to the mic, taking in the thousands of yelling people in front of him. He looked out, smiling grimly, and finished with his usual line.[/I] Dennis: I'm an *******, and I'm proud of it. [I]Dennis turned and walked off stage, his black trenchcoat billowing out behind him.[/I] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [I]Down in the audience, Mr. White looked at the singer, a hate boiling inside him like nothing ever had before. He knew this was his double, the arrogant bastard before him. He checked his pistols, then set off. Killing him could wait. He had other orders.[/I][/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Yeah, I reckon I can beat that pretty damn easily if I try hard enough. In fact, I know I can. Besides, if we count the fact that we've read certain books multiple times.... Let's see... Belgariad x 11. For example.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I don't think the Hogdensvale Pie Festival counts does it.... shudder. I haven't, and you know why jack. Hell with it, we'll all go to Livid next year.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I could do with a PS2, or perhaps a Fender Zone. I know I'm getting at least one Tea Party album, so I can cross that off the list.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Roxie, you made the same mistake Deus did. I argue by asking questions, more than anything else. Read Jeff's post about the world being black and white, and you'll understand I was making the same point you are, or more accurately, showing Jeff his misconception. And as for hell not being a place... Bleh. Eternal nothingness is O.K. if you're dressed for it.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Lacroix sank wearily, greatfully to the ground, the first rest he'd had in hours of prolonged flight. He had no ieda what was the problem with the convoy, but he'd had Soviet's tracking him down like hornets ever since. He'd picked off countless individual soldiers, yet their numbers seemed undiminished, their determination indefatiguable. He'd only had one choice. Flee. However, he had slowly circled, until he was only a mile or two from the ambush site that had gone horribly wrong. All his observational powers told him that there was no one around. He'd finally slipped the gauntlet. Using one of the simplest tricks. Strange... Maybe they'd found something more important. ..something more important.... The idea went through Lacroix's mind like wildfire. Something that precluded catching him. Whatever that convoy had been carrying... All weariness forgotten, Lacroic leapt to his feet, silently running towards the ambush site, leaping around trees and over roots. Wild animals scattered at his approach. A sure sign of his coming, yet also a sure sign no one else was around. Lacroix approached the remnants of the bridge through the water course it had once crossed over. When he was a mere fifty metres away, he ran off to the side, taking to the tall trees. He surveyed the site, and found it immediately interesting. Their was an disproportionate number of troops there. They were all shadowing a small group, who were carrying what appeared to be a canister, Lacroix was unsure at this range, very, very carefully. They were heading towards a heavily armoured truck. However, the vehicle must have been at the bridge when the first explosion happened, for it was now in somewhat inferior condition. Several gaping holes showed through the armour. Still, it was the most secure vehicle there. Wasting no time, Lacorix wildly started firing, hoping to hit the canister. Immediately, rapid fire roared around him, bullets whiplashing through the tree trunk around him. Lacroix swore. He'd underestimated something here. Knowing he most likely going to die, and that he didn't have a chance in hell of making this shot, Lacroix ducked back around the tree trunk, took aim, and fired regardless of the bullets that flew towards him, the one that scraped his arm, the arm that sent splinters into his face. The canister was inside the truck. One of the holes was wide open. The canister was wide open. Though he was fifty metres away, Lacroix saw the bullet penetrate, saw the reaction. He leapt down, and ran, as screams of pain echoed behind him. He felt no remorse. Nothing else would come of that convoy, he was certain.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: Damn. I'll have to settle for this then. Name: Dennis Leary Alignment:Good Z-Keeper/Mortal counterpart: Mr. White. Age:27 Hair: Brown, shoulder length. Eyes: Grey, with small black flecks. Build: 6 foot tall, medium build. Weapon: 2 Waste class Combat shotguns, 4 bullet capacity each. Abilities: "Yeah? Well, **** you!": Vapourises Dennis's shotgun rounds as they come from the barrel. The result: Get yourself some glass, and break to until it's a powder. Shake it into the wind, see what happens. Flak cannon gone horribly, horribly wrong. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Z-Keeper: Mr. White. Alignment:Evil Age:27 Hair: Brown, let grow naturally, pretty short. Eyes: Who knows? He never takes his damn sunglasses off. Build:6 foot, medium build. Weapon: Twin SIG Sauer semi automatics. Abilities: "Be Proud Mr Woo!": Pistols start acting like automatics. "Yeah, I'll see you all in hell!": Let's just say it goes with Mr. White's motto: "If some ******* starts to think he's Charles Bronson, break his nose on the butt of your gun...". [/font][/color]