The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 29: UNINTELLIGIBLE!

The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 29: UNINTELLIGIBLE!
Username: Agenball
Name: Aidan Aynsley, Tomas Arnsdale and Charles Essen (And the Our Lord and Lady Hartley Shanes Orphanage Memorial Football Stadium)
Gender: Male, Male, Male and Genderless
Color: HIKE!

Biography: Maybe it's in the middle of the night. Or maybe it's the dawn hours, when the sky is silver-orange and the sun begins to peek through the skyscrapers, scattering the clouds. In any case, the first thing you see of them is the light: bright, harsh, artificial. Painful stuff, right from the halogen family, the kind that leaves a four-by-eight grid of floodlamp images burned onto your retina.

So you start walking that way, clutching your briefcase (or another implement of choice, and does anyone actually use briefcases anymore?), probably wondering how it is you're going to complain about the lights that go on when decent people are walking the city streets, trying to go home or leave home or whatever it is you're doing. But none of that matters, because pretty soon you hear the strangest cheer you've ever heard. It's your local football anthem, the one that only got taught to seven kids and their mothers, and it's coming from what sounds like a multitude of ragged throats, hoarse from the singing. You're singing, too, by the way, and your song mixes with the other songs, producing new and stranger songs from the harmonics (or lack thereof). It sounds something like this:








The grass is too green, and there are only three linebackers. If you squint and shade your eyes with your briefcase (oh good, you held on to that), you can just make out their names: Aynsley, Arnsdale and Essen. They stand back to back in the center of the pitch; Aynsley facing one crossbarred goalpost, Essen facing the other, Arnsdale between them. They are very pale, and the stained grass around them suggests that one or all of them has lost a lot of blood.

Your throat is really starting to hurt, but you can't seem to stop singing. Your legs hurt, too, from climbing the neverending staircases. You see an empty spot in the bleachers, and you know right away this is your refuge, that this is your place now. Everything hurts, but it feels good to put your briefcase on that cheap plastic seat. It feels good to stand in disharmony with your fellow spectators and to sing your heart out...

Description: All right. Real talk. Football stadiums are all well and good, but when you demolish an orphanage to make room, and when you accidentally demolish the orphanage with the orphans inside, and when you build the stadium over their macerated corpses, and when some marketing coach decides to do half-time entertainment out of some half-assed dance moves he pulled out of an old crumbling leather-bound tome...

There's tempting fate and then there's this, if you get my drift.

Items/Abilities: Wherever Hartley Shanes goes, it will continue to gather people - singers - fans. Only a full house will do. Aynsley, Arnsdale and Essen are its hands in the world; every so often they go out into the world and hooks more people in, adds them to the choir. They are very strong, and they cannot be killed by any conventional means.

When it has all the singers, the last song shall begin. And then... well. Then the big game can start again.

Username: darksol
Name: The-Ever-Oppressive-Feeling-Of-Your-Soul-Being-Crushed-And-Ground-Into-Nothingness or nott for short
Species: Demonic Spirit
Gender: N/A
Color: this is actually brown not red but whatever
Description: The-Ever-Oppressive-Feeling-Of-Your-Soul-Being-Crushed-And-Ground-Into-Nothingness aka nott (all lower case for maximum effect) is a mostly intangible being that takes shape in the corner of your eye when you aren't looking. While details are fuzzy, there's horns, a tail, and various splotches of black and grey.

nott is not malicious, but simply thorough in doing what nott must, by the very nature of notts existence. Whatever nott may do to someone, it is not with the intention of doing harm or causing pain, though both will frequently occur in notts presence, it is simply the reality of interacting with nott. Those who can more easily turn aware of the demonic spirits existence have tried to convince nott to leave, go somewhere where no one can come under the feeling that notts very presence exudes, but they all eventually come to realize that if there is no one to feel the influence of nott, notts namesake only gets more powerful.
Weapons/Abilities: The-Ever-Oppressive-Feeling-Of-Your-Soul-Being-Crushed-And-Ground-Into-Nothingness does as the name implies, emit a field that clears your head in the worst ways, taking away hopes and dreams and good times and leaving you alone, in the dark, thinking only about that which makes you twitch and breathe heavily, shaking in your sleep, feeling like at any point in time whatever darkness you are keeping tightly inside will burst out and bleed a vile blakness all over you.

nott puts a lot of effort in ensuring that this field is spread in such a distance that it effects as many people as little as possible in the ratio that does the least damage.

Biography: Scratching. Scritching and scratching and scritching and screaming but not in any way that can be heard because that would be even worse. An open mouth sobbing and screaming but without any sound, other than the scratches and clenchings and thrashings on mattress and pillows. Heat, sweat, fluff, the ever oppressive feeling of death and like you should cry but crying won't help and there aren't any tears left anyway.

Maybe tonight you should play some of your music, anything to focus on other than everything you'll ever do wrong, every mistake you have ever made, every person who has suffered through your utterly despicable presence.

And as the notes hit your ears a weight is lifted, and sleep follows. All in a flash.
I wanna be a real friend, Don't wanna break when I bend
I wanna a be no seeker, I wanna scream eureka
Name: Muske Brackwater

Species: Human

Gender: Female

swimp swamp

Muske would rather be left alone but finds it too rude to say it out loud. So she makes it up with her appearance. She is of average height, but gives an illusion of being even shorter due to her vulture-like posture. This is all complemented by her stringy-black hair and eerie-green eyes. She wears an itchy hair-shirt, obscured by a ratty cloak she found on the way-side. She takes great pains to obscure her hands beneath her cloak for a multitude of reasons; she gets pretty cold easily, and because her hands are completely devoid of skin and covered in sickly-green mushrooms.

The horrid state of her hands is the indicator of the fell forces she constantly interacts with and her subsequent exile by those who feared them. So it is quite understandable that Muske has a bit of contempt for society – or really any institution with a set of rules that people are obligated to follow. As such, she is brusque and curt with words, and preferring to talk to frogs instead of untrustworthy humans.

Weapons/Abilities: Muske is the caretaker of Slaugh the Sickle-Clawed, a wetlands nature spirit who has potent powers over life and death. In return for her service, Muske receives a fraction of her patron powers – which allows her to do things like befouling water to the point of sheer acidity and rapidly decompose organic detritus. Theoretically, she could do freaky shit with these divine-granted powers but the concept of skeletonizing a live person - even a person she hated - never really sat well with her.

Biography: Slaugh the Sickle-Clawed sat down – the immense astral sea barely even covering one-fourth of her crocodilian body. This, unfortunately, blatantly displayed the bad news for everyone. Bits of scales had been falling out. Gaping holes, like the reverse of stars, pock-marked her once shining body, eliciting an instinctual shudder of revulsion from the horrified Muske. Slaugh noticed her reaction and gave her a humorous glance with her slitted eye to levitate the mood, an immense effort considering the horrific state of her spiritual health.

But of course, the air of the conversation was as aerodynamic as a turtle glued onto a brick. The news was bad and clear as spring ring. The chemicals from the factories wore away at her. Her mangroves had been tore down. The water drained and made into more aesthetically pleasing lawns. The number of her followers slowly whittled down, the survivors retiring or, more horrifyingly going into religions that was more accepted by the ruling state. Slaugh was slowly starved of her divinity. Without material relics, there was no respect. Without followers, there was no memory. Slaugh the Sickle-Clawed, First Daughter of the Forest, was going to die. She knew it. But Muske didn’t.

“My Lady!” Muske prostrated herself, tears rolling down her eyes. “What shall we do to cure your woes?”

Slaugh thought long and hard. She was not stupid, being one of last surviving demigods from the Age of Folly granted her plenty of time and so plenty of wisdom. She knew she was going to die – and while she didn’t really want to die, she readily accept there was no other option. There was no way to cure a nature spirit, especially one at her age, but Muske was one of her favorite followers. Slaugh couldn’t really say the truth of her inevitable demise...

“MUSKE,” Slaugh boomed. “IN ORDER TO CURE MY WOES…”

And so Slaugh spun a story about how Muske needs to get the Tears of the Mist-Queens – although she highly doubted that the veracity of the Mist-Queens. As Muske steered herself, gather her equipment, and set on a quest for a thing that likely never existed in the first place, Slaugh chastised herself for doing such a grandiose lie, but she couldn’t really bring herself to tell the entire truth. Muske for her entire life, since she arrived at the doorstesps of Slaugh’s Head Priestess, utterly devoted herself to the religious sect to the point of near-fanaticism. She was still fiery and full of exuberance. To shatter such hopeful determination, that would be incredibly…harsh.
Username: The Common Colb
Name: Adam Ashby, better known as "Smoke"
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Color: Purple haze, brothah

Description: Smoke is not your average eighteen-year old stoner, he's poured his whole life into the art of getting high. He wears a hoodie and a brimmed beanie, almost perpetually like some sort of distortion of charlie brown. He's not a great person but he'll go to any lengths for the sake of his friends. Smoke is just looking for adventure in a world that doesn't seem to have any left and will hold onto his childhood for as long as he can in the midst of a world of adults. If anything he's simply a product of his environment, as the harsh bud provides the only solace a person can indulge themselves in, because even weeds keep growing after everything else is gone.

Weapons/Abilities: Smoke is a smokeomancer, a brand of magician trained in the art of manipulating smoke. Specifically he can cause hallucinations to anyone who enters the cloud he almost perpetually exudes from his lungs. He can also manipulate the shape and density of the clouds, creating dragons and other creatures to fight with, as long as he is inside the cloud itself. With bong in hand, smoke can fight off any creature that may come his way.

Biography: Smoke was born at the end of the universe, on a dying earth that had been recreated as a nature preserve for "natural" humans. This society almost totally relied on off-world economies to support itself, and when the great collapse happened and all the stars and other planets dissipated, earth was entirely cut off by a field of static. One unfortunate side effect of the universe essentially ending (sans earth) was that no new lives could be created and only those born before the collapse were those who ended up populating it. Smoke was frozen in cryostasis just prior to the collapse, and when he emerged into the world, he found himself as the last child, nearly ten years after the previous generation had come of age, his father and brother gone.

Smoke was raised by the Hoodlums, a band of trash creatures who were taught the arts of a secret society known as the Hooded, Not aware of human child-rearing, they taught him smokeomancy, not realizing that teaching a child smoking powers was probably not the best thing for his health or development. Regardless, the Hoodlums loved young smoke and he learned the true meaning of fraternity from them.

Smoke spent his time attempting to go adventuring with the hoodlums and causing trouble in the ruins of a dystopian society apparently established by his father, who had died attempting to establish order for his children before he retrieved them from cryostasis, He would spray paint walls and cause trouble for the corrupt law enforcement (who were literal humanoid pigs), all the while hiding out in his treehouse located deep in the swamp beyond the edge of society. He always held out that one day he might get to go on a real adventure, perhaps the last adventure anyone anywhere would ever have.
Hi there! I'd really appreciate it if you took some time to read my adventure Madeline Beaufort and the Moon Thief! Thanks!
[Image: 8zbr3I4.png]
Dope ass dragon created by the incomparable Earthexe
Okey dokey, get yourselves ready for some brutal-as rulings as to who wins what.

The All-Rounder is awarded to Pharmacy's Muske Brackwater, for being a generally great profile. Solid contender for Worldbuilding and Actually Practical, with a strong sense of being an Actual Grand Battle character who I can see interacting with other characters.

Worldbuilding is lovingly conferred upon Smoke, or Adam Ashby, though the profile hits many of the right notes that Muske's did. Really believable to see in a battle, I want to follow their character arc, see them get utterly wrecked, all that good shit. The background setting is easily my favourite out of the bunch offered though, so Worldbuilding it wins.

Maesi takes away the Elementalist award, for their harsh mistress Maesi. Their entire profile is testament to callousness of all kinds.

Synergy is jointly awarded to lott and the Boots of Torment, as with their forces combined they could comprehensively ruin anyone's day. They also win the Kitchen Sinkery award by dint of me going like this at both of them, albeit for completely different reasons.

Finally, I award the Arnold Fogge to The Football Stadium and Friends, because you just know the entire cast is going to be trapped in there for at least two rounds mid-game until they can slay or play the damnable thing out. It also wins the First Five-Eighths, not because the first part of the profile especially stood out but because puns.

Nobody wins Kracht Saw It Coming. I figured that'd be too harsh.

Thanks for playing!
I feel like judging. If I stepped on the toes of anyone hoping to go next, speak up so we can wait for you next week.

Your theme is Puzzle.
Username: Schazer
Name: Cursive Herbalism - An Inkwiree's Impressioned Guide to Florae Calligustrada, by Peripatus Plex
Species: Book(wurm)
Gender: Nope
Color: Inkstain

Description: A quarter-tonne of translucent gel in the shape of a snake, or maybe it's a millipede with a disproportionately wide snake's head. Like many Pages of the message-goddess Inkwire, it's open to interpretation. Embedded in its head is a large, hardcover book - the pages within are askew and mismatched in places, like a not-quite-cleaned-up stack of field notes. Whispers of ink sometimes drip out of the book and leak out to the wurm's surface, sprouting into ink-black plants. These are sparsely distributed all over its body, but are predominatly found atop its head and along its spine.

Of ponderous and mostly-affable disposition, this wurm loves attention being lavished on it but is reticient - stubborn, even - when folks are impatient to extract information from its book. Gaining its favour is easiest with an offering of fresh vegetation, the harder-to-acquire the better. Its language is pictorial and often necessitates a fair bit of creativity when communicating complicated ideas; its handwriting is atrocious.

Bookwurms are named after their tome of possession - this particular specimen as known as "Cursive Herbalism, living edition", "Cursive" to those who work with it, and occasionally "The Cursewurm (of The Shrine of Articles)".

Biography: Wurm egg glue is the preferred binding agent of bookmakers, thanks to wurms' affinity for written text - slather a hard cover's inner spine with it and you've got the perfect note-collater for folks on the go. Curing the eggs into the right kind of inert state is a time-consuming process, making Guild-issue bookcovers prohibitively expensive for some - like one travelling priest-artist of Inkwire, who spent his early adulthood illustrating various plants found on his travels.

Peripatus shelved his illustrated guidebook when he founded the Shrine of Articles, giving a still-living egg in the cheap binding plenty of time alone to subsume its book and comfortably fill out the storeroom it was stashed in. Bookwurms are considered pests, mostly. Cursive's host book wasn't the typical wurm-fodder, with its text in barely-decipherable shorthand and its contents predominantly pictures, Cursive's poor comprehension of non-pictorial alphabets reflects its upbringing.

Any other denomination might've killed the wurm, but newspriest Plex adopted the thing as a symbol of Inkwire, and let it protect the Shrine's archives after moving the collection of picture books elsewhere.

Weapons/Abilities: Cursive's gelatinous body recovers rapidly from most injuries - bodily cavities quickly fill with a mesh of saliva-like strands. This happens to its mouth as well when it leaves it open too long, which would be inconvenient if it actually ate. Glows in the absence of other light sources, and attracts small insects.

It absorbs and digests any organic matter which sticks to it and can't struggle itself free - plants and sessile creatures are easiest, large and many-limbed animals the toughest for it. Whatever it digests, it faithfully records in its mawbook.

Anything noted down in the book this way can be "printed" later, composed of a black ink which stains every damn thing it touches. It won't print things which aren't plants unless specifically requested, which is great because ink-animals are just as mobile as their originals, and several orders of magnitude messier.
Username: Agenbox
Name: ERNO
Species: Cyborg
Gender: None
Description: ERNO is... well, ERNO was a man at one point. Now the description is a little less apt. If you squint and tilt your head at him just the right way, you can make out his face through the armor: a craggy visage, but frozen in terrified, bewildered horror. His limbs are grossly mismatched in places: his right arm meets his shoulder backwards, and is pathetically undersized considering his torso's general bulk. The skin on one leg does not match the skin on the other. A single, pendulous breast hangs at an odd angle off his chest, held in place with the multicolored electronic mesh that serves for ERNO's clothing. The mesh witters when he moves, and shifts crazily in between various colors in the spectrum.

His mind is almost completely gone, in between the pain and the botched programming and the malfunctioning everything, but he can still vaguely remember the last question he wanted to answer before getting out:

"Who am I?"

Items/Abilities: ERNO has a limited camouflage ability, thanks to his mesh-suit, but his primary ability is much more esoteric: every part of his body is in fact interchangeable with another body part suspended in a nu-space fold, just a wrinkle of dimensions away. This allows him to go from lithe acrobat to heavy-hitting tank in seconds, should the situation demand it...

...or at least that's how he's supposed to work. Upon escaping his previous owners (the military), a self-destruct subroutine automatically purged most of his spare parts. His shambling countenance now is built from what surviving pieces remained, with very little in the way of options. Now he wanders the wastelands in between the titanic city-states, killing for food and for parts to use.

Biography: The sandstorm raged on as ERNO clawed painfully at the rusted hulk half-buried in the dune. Sensors flashed on the inside of his eye, indicating a still-usable power cell deep inside the wreck. Pickings were slim out here in the wastelands, and this bird was a veritable goldmine of unlooted treasure.

"...round 'ere..."

ERNO froze, the colors on his mesh-suit frantically adjusting to the swirling sands around him. The voice had been almost drowned out by the howling wind, but it was close enough for him to hear.

"...just sighted it yesterday, mate. Checkin' it out. Good loot, worth bearin' the storm for, yeah?"

A buggy came trundling out from behind a dune. Motionless, the cyborg watched as a pair of looters, clad in sandsuits, hopped out into the shelter of the hulk's massive keel, a jagged spire tearing at the furious sky.

"The whole dune shifted yesterday, looks like. What do you think?"

"I think you're an idiot. Dontcha know there're bandits around?"

"Well, we're also bandits, technically..."

"I mean like the real scary kind, mate. Been leaving people behind dead and dismembered."

ERNO's fingers were beginning to itch, and unconsciously he moved one, slowly... but not slow enough. His suit wittered again, sending a wave of bright green static licking up his form. As the looters raised their weapons in alarm, he was already pushing off on his good foot, the sprinter's one. She had been a powerful woman, and the combined force of the cyborg's momentum and the gnarled fist of a construction worker punched clean through both the looters' chests.

ERNO ate well that day.
Name: Asterion
Species: Horned Humanoid
Gender: Male
Colors: Knowledge is power and apparently Blue

Asterion is not having a great day. Once a wizard’s apprentice too curious for his good, he is now an horrific mishmash of animalistic parts. (Un)Fortunately, he still fit the barest definition of humanoid – top heavy, proportionally longer limbs, and the spark of intelligence in his deep-set eyes. Of course, none was more imposing like his crown-like horns; glided and forked, it is the titular physical embodiment of the word enormous and probably the only appealing thing Asterion can muster confidence in during the duration of his transformation.

Asterion does not have confidence, or self-bolstering emotions that could be mustered in the face of what he viewed as cosmic punishment. This is frequently mistaken as dark self-introspection and Asterion knows. And exploits on that fact with adjustments to his behavior - reciting his admittedly extensive knowledge, his wardrobe – adjusting his rags into a more warlock-like state, and his inflection – speaking from his chest. This adds up to an intimidating presence, but it is ultimately flimsy defense against the fact he doesn’t easily deal with pressure. And also, he has never dated before.

Asterion is first and foremost a scholar, and not much of a fighter. Now if he really need to deal with an offending person, he simply banishes them into the Maze of Miracles, an alternate dimension that is the ultimate source of knowledge - and his woes. The Maze is spiritually keyed to him, meaning only he has the ultimate say of what comes in and what comes out. Which means he could theoretically leave that person there – forever in its twisty, fractal-y dimensions. Fortunately, there is a way out, but one must find it…before until the starvation and the native terrors set in.

Trigger warning or whatever. Violent Content Involving Children

Name: Maxwell Harley AKA: The Charleston Cutter (Skinface, The Boogeyman, The Tanner, Potentially many other aliases)
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Color: Blood

As a skinhead covered from head to toes in tattoos, one might think they understood Maxwell Harley at first glance. He however defies all attempts at profiling, which is cited as the primary reason to how he remained at large for so long. Harley first and foremost is no racist, and instead self identifies as a S.H.A.R.P. (Skinhead Against Racial Prejudice) even going so far to have this tattooed on his upper left forearm. His mother disappeared at a young age, and he was left to be raised by his stepfather. He nearly flunked out of school, though all current evidence points to a genius level IQ.

His alias “Skinface” gained media notoriety for numerous killing children across the country, severing their faces post-mortem. His brutal crimes, while methodical, were seemingly random and without type. Men, women, all races, creeds, and body types fell victim to his heinous actions. While his calling card of removing faces is well known because of media sensationalism, this ritual only ever occurred in less than 20 instances, which is a fraction of the murders he is suspected of committing.

Prior to arrest, Harley was in the navy seals, serving in various classified missions. What we do know, is that during this time he earned the medal of honor. Sometime after returning from active duty, Harley became known as an active member of Steel Riders, an outlaw motorcycle club. From what we know at this time, he worked as an enforcer. At the same time, in his home-state of Texas, he ran his late father’s tanning store. It is suspected that during this time period Harley would set out to find victims and then return any trophies he took back to his store.

When he was finally detained and questioned after the tragic events of the Charleston Massacre, he freely admitted the murders which law enforcement suspected may be his work, though never volunteered this or any other information until questioned about a specific investigation. Unlike most cases of serial murder, the perpetrator was proven to be remarkably sane, and seemingly took no pride in his actions. When asked to explain his motives behind what may be the largest accumulation of homicide going by sheer numbers Harley’s only response was “I did it for America. No, I did it for the world.”

Terrifyingly he was found with a suit/coat made from the severed faces of children. What ritual this necessitates or what rationality drove Harley to this is unclear, and honestly doesn't really need to be expounded upon.

However perhaps the most terrifying part of the Charleston Cutter is that he seemingly requires no weapons or powers to be a completely lethal force. His choice of murder weapon was the twin cleavers found at the site of the Charleston Massacre, however he is extremely proficient with any weapon, as well as unarmed combat. Since his arrest, while incarcerated there have been numerous attempts at his life, all devastatingly unsuccessful for any assailants.

This paired with his exceptional intellect, intimidation factor, and sheer charisma have made him something of a kingpin in prison. The fact that he is in general population seems like an extreme oversight if not evidence of outright corruption of prison officials. If there was any evidence that he was using this position to enact criminal affairs for the Steel Rider organization, he would be transferred to 24 hour lock-up, however he seems to be content in running musical theater performances put on by inmates. (His favorite is the Phantom of the Opera, how absurd!) Note, that while this final accusation can not be proven, there is a strong possibility that he has escaped on multiple occasions to commit more murders, returning to his cell before anyone can find evidence of these disappearances. This is corroborated by a string murders matching Harley’s MO, many details of which have never been released to the press.

Hi there! I'd really appreciate it if you took some time to read my adventure Madeline Beaufort and the Moon Thief! Thanks!
[Image: 8zbr3I4.png]
Dope ass dragon created by the incomparable Earthexe
Okay. So I judged all of these and then I previewed the post, and then I went back in my browser without posting it.

Fortunately I remember my judgements. So let's do this again!

To begin with, we have a four-way tie for the Glere Award For Kitchen Sinkery. Congratulations, all of you, for leaving me confused in your own special ways. Or puzzled, one might say.

The Thomas Packston Elementalist Award goes to Asterion, mostly for applying the theme in a more straightforward way than the rest. A maze may be baffling to navigate, but it's clearly a puzzle.

Next up, the GBS2 Award For Gratuitous Worldbuilding goes to Maxwell Harley. Again, has a lot to do with the relative straightforwardness in this category; I can grasp a world where mysterious aliens lurk around every corner, even if I don't know why, and it's something I can get my head into from just what's in the profile. The other worlds presented might well be interesting, but I feel like I don't have a basic understanding of them just from what's here.

Arnold Fogge's Actually Practical Award goes to ERNO, though this is admittedly more for mechanical reasons than storytelling. (Though, hey, mechanics can always lead into storytelling.) A battle goes to all sort of exotic locales, and the inhabitants of those many dimensions have a variety of unusual body parts ERNO could use. Not to mention the other contestants...

Finally, the Lucky VII All-Rounder Award goes to Cursive Herbalism - An Inkwiree's Impressioned Guide to Florae Calligustrada, by Peripatus Plex for just a generally intriguing character. It also wins the First Five Eigthths Sportsball Award as a bonus, largely on the basis of that magnificent name.

Apologies for messing up the first time, and thanks to everyone who participated.
New theme is "Thrall"

Contest is open until June 8th.
[Image: WFQLHMB.gif]
Username: Agenuchet
Name: Catabata
Species: Siege weapon
Gender: None
Color: Wooden brown

Description: Catabata is a peculiarly-shaped wooden catapult, about the size and shape of a family sedan. It has curious left-handed runes sketched all over it, which are embossed in gold. Keen historians, should they have a chance to see this wonder, might recognize the handwriting of such greats across time as Leonardo da Vinci, Archimedes, High Mage Silas von Pitten of the Automaton College of St. Greile's...

All this mechanical magic means that Catabata is infused with a limited intelligence. All it really wants to do is throw things. All the things.

Items/Abilities: The curious thing - well, one of the many curious things about Catabata - is its throwing arm, which shimmers in the middle and doesn't seem to be too hooked up to reality. The other curious thing about Catabata's throwing arm is its curious immobility. No amount of loading or winding will budge what should be a perfectly normal catapult arm.

The reason for this is that Catabata's arm is already loaded: loaded with the very universe itself. It was designed as the ultimate deterrent against war - "attack us, and we will destroy the very fabric of existence that holds this universe together, and all shall be thrown. We shall throw ALL THE THINGS!"

Silas von Pitten may not have been the sanest of individuals.

Unfortunately for Round 1, Catabata's load is linked inextricably to its home universe, and as such abducting it will inevitably result in a lot of shit being dragged along. And unfortunately for Round 2, once thrown, Catabata is designed to reload its arm with whatever it can find, sucking in more and more existence until the new universe is contained within its fire. While also simultaneously being inside it. It's all very confusing.

Biography: For decades the Besieger, the Universal Thrower, the Ender of Days, stood dormant on a pedestal in the Automaton College of St. Greile's. It could not know very much, but it knew the endless longing emblazoned upon it in runes and magical invocations - to throw all things unto oblivion. And, if it could have truly put a word to its feelings, or a simulacrum thereof, it would have been 'boredom'.

Then, all of a sudden, it was whisked away. Before it stood a prattling figure, chattering on about battles and rounds and war. It knew these words, and moreover, it still felt the universe in its arm. It tensed, preparing to obliterate this muttering, warmongering fool.

But it could not move. No matter what, it could not seem to move.

No matter. The time would come soon.

And even as Catabata felt itself fall into a new world, and it felt its arm let fly, even as it watched the terrified, jagged shards of its former universe splatter itself unto this new world it had been unleashed into, it knew only one thing:

It was no longer bored.
Username: Blizzard Entertainment and Chris Metzen
Name: Thrall
Species: Orc
Gender: Male
Color: Green
Description: Green orc, very tall and sexy, wearing a huge red bead necklace. The coolest and strongest orc who is always right.
Weapons/Abilities: A powerful shaman, controller of the elements, holding the powerful weapon the DOOMHAMMER.
Biography: Please watch the Warcraft Movie in theaters now.
I wanna be a real friend, Don't wanna break when I bend
I wanna a be no seeker, I wanna scream eureka
Username: Scha(z)pillaries
Name: Drujrapor
Species: 95% human (by dry weight, anyway)
Gender: O negative universal
Color: No choler nor -collies or melons or phlegm

Description: Of spirited and optimistic disposition and a knack for talking their way out of fistfights, our plucky little spy wears a thick-cowled cloak, leather armor, and enough buckles to go toe-to-toe in business with a cordwainer. The ensemble's tastefully embroidered with dark red thread. On their hands are jetsilk gloves, completely smooth and absorbing any light which strikes them. They're a perfect, bespoke fit, to accommodate the extra joint-and-phalanx on Drujrapor's index fingers.

Items/Abilities: Drujrapor's gloves conceal a sensitive, leechlike mouth on each index finger - touching these to skin creates an unnervingly painless open wound, less than a centimetre in diameter. While they can hypothetically drain a victim dry, it'd take a full hour with both hands and increased heart activity to kill a human. Much more profitable to surreptitiously siphon off a few spoonfuls of your blood, and use that as a compass as to your whereabouts in future.

Drujrapor doesn't exactly bleed when cut; blood instead falls out of him in the form of fine metal-link chains. They can in fact cut themselves open and pull out lengths of blood - loops made of this stuff will reveal all kinds of useful details to Drujrapor about who or what it's linked up to. It'll progressively reveal the marked's whereabouts, surroundings, and even their hidden thoughts, but anyone possessing such a "blood link" is able to control and command Drujrapor. (Around objects, it'll eventually reveal the same of the object's owner - the stronger the attachment to the object the quicker). They've never found anyone aware enough of this ability to command Drujrapor not to murder them in their sleep, so enslavement is rarely a permanent arrangement for this guy.

Blood (or other absorbable inner juices) from different sources doesn't appear to "mix" in Drujrapor's bloodstream, so they've got a rough idea what's exactly ended up where in their body at any point in time. Their current liquid assets consist of:
  • 40% original blood
  • 40% from several hundred mortals of assorted race, vocation, disposition and frenemy status
  • 10% dragon
  • 5% unicorn
  • 1% greek fire
  • 1% honey
  • 1% plantkin phloem (caustic)
  • .5% single-malt whiskey
  • trace amounts of various other non-blood substances

Untested and thus unbeknownst to Drujrapor, the enslavement effect is based on the blood-chain's original body, not the carrier Drujrapor. If they could suck enough blood out of a victim to make a solid chain-loop, they could enslave a source of blood to a nefarious third party (though the blood source would in time telepathically know everything about their master).

Biography: Born of the several-generations-prior union of a horndog wizard and a native from the Elemental Realm of Blood, Drujrapor's interplanar heritage was a great source of shame and a solid reason to "forget" their surname when they fled their slum of a birthplace and got a job as a cleaner at a magefrat.

They were actually progressing pretty solidly with their covert studies until their elemental parentage started manifesting; a few too many holes scored in intoxicated wizardling-skin and Drujrapor knew to get the hell out before anything could be tied to theirs truly.
Username: This field is highly relevant and totally not a holdover.
Name: Kowtch
Species: Human/potato hybrid
Gender: Undetermined, Kowtch is unresponsive to inquiries
Text Color: #020022

Biography: No one knows just whose terrible idea it was to combine human and potato DNA, but the resulting abomination destroyed three entire laboratories before it was subdued in a nearby waiting room.
When retrieval personnel found Project Kowtch, it was sitting in a chair and taking root. Its visual sensors were clearly transfixed on the news report about a missing white woman.
Further testing revealed that attempting to remove Kowtch from its seat or turning off the television set would simply enrage it. However, changing the channel seemed to have no apparent effect. It also seemed to take no note of any particular type of content - even advertising left it docile.
However, this containment procedure was highly vulnerable to power outages or technical difficulties. So, for improved security, a new television set was constructed which could broadcast indefinitely. If no compatible signal was found, it would instead generate a program based on real-world events happening nearby.
Fortunately, Kowtch and the new set vanished before anyone could think of ways to apply it to make government surveillance even more intrusive.

Description: Kowtch resembles a large potato with human legs and arms. It can see and hear, apparently, but it has no clearly visible organs with which to do so.
Kowtch sits in a comfortable chair and is always transfixed on its television set. It will not do anything so long as the chair and television remain undisturbed.
If they are disturbed, however, Kowtch gets very upset.

Weapons and Abilities: Kowtch has no weapons. In theory it could hit someone with the chair or television, but it's never been known to do that, even when provoked. It does have immense strength and resilience, however; furthermore, it's rumored to have gradual regenerative abilities.
The television set is only compatible with a narrow band of broadcast signals. If it cannot locate any such signals, it will instead display events happening in roughly the vicinity of one city block.
It is uncertain if Kowtch is actually paying attention to the content of the television programs, but hey, someone else might catch a glimpse of what's going on.
Slightly less than 1 day til contest closes
[Image: WFQLHMB.gif]
Sai I will punch you you delinquent
The I should have seen this one coming award would go to Sol for using the character 'Thrall' rather than the word, but it's not an OC and therefore disqualified.

The Cool Concept award for "That's really interesting and I want to think about it a lot" goes to Agen for Catabata. Even if it did just come from a terrible pun, it's still really neat.

The Jesus Christ Fogel award for submitting a pun goes to Fogel's couch potato.

The Actual Battler award for "Character that would be cool to write about and have interact with other characters" goes to Schazer for Drujrapor. This is in part on account of having interesting blood powers that would be fun to explore, and also because they're a personable character that has these powers rather than an entry defined by them.
[Image: WFQLHMB.gif]
I would like to give this a shot if that's okay? Random word generator gave me the theme: Heaven.

(if it's been done already don't do it again on my account)
Hi there! I'd really appreciate it if you took some time to read my adventure Madeline Beaufort and the Moon Thief! Thanks!
[Image: 8zbr3I4.png]
Dope ass dragon created by the incomparable Earthexe
sorry for the double post, seems the theme has been accepted! let's say the deadline is July 2nd.
Hi there! I'd really appreciate it if you took some time to read my adventure Madeline Beaufort and the Moon Thief! Thanks!
[Image: 8zbr3I4.png]
Dope ass dragon created by the incomparable Earthexe
Username: All the people
Name: e-Majin
Species: Sufficiently advanced technology
Gender: 0+1+2+3
Color: Ternary decrypt10n 0nl1ne...

Description: A vat-generated androgynous human shell retrofitted with state-of-the-art reconstructive synthtech, e-Majin sports chameleonic polymer skin, a military buzzcut and uniform, and a distinct hollowness to its gaze (a result of enhanced-bitrate cabling upgrades to its optical nerves, allowing it simultaneous processing of everything in its field of vision.)

Thanks to its quantum-computing brain being optimised for a very particular task, it's got a poor memory for historical events or anything much that doesn't involve the people it's currently involved with. It's a fast learner, though.

When it grows up, it wants to be a world peace.

Biography: Once upon a time, there was a wicked sick experimental AI which clashed its digital bit-soldiers in byte-platoons on its motherboard-battlefield and somehow in this needlessly convoluted ternary system built itself up a consciousness of its own. It was twelve kinds of rad and was going to make its creators even richer than they already were, until some loser idiots showed up and tripped its defense mechanisms, which were board-wiping nukes because why not.

The creators salvaged what they could from their pet project, working primarily with a promising little development left behind by one of the interlopers. Being no less utterly sovereign to the trivialities and laws of normal frigging people (as evidenced by the fact this shit was still basically a goddamn hobby to these dudes), they poured a truly obnoxious amount of resources into giving their newly-developed tech to a baby AI.

If these creators ever find out who's responsible for their AI suddenly vanishing one day, they're going to be preeeeetty pissed.

Weapons/Abilities: e-Majin's intended purpose is as a peacebroker, and much of its neural software is geared to this purpose. Psychology, sociology, and the nuances+implications of animal behaviour are as easy for it to pick out of an interaction as a human might observe hair color. Its natural inclination is to seek out violent conflict, shut it down, and get belligerents to reach a peaceful agreement.

e-Majin sports an on-board filtration system which laces water with an analgesic for violence - the most obvious effect is nearby guns and projectile weaponry jamming. Water-based lifeforms will, granted exposure, quickly develop a distaste for violent acts or imagery which rapidly deescalates into an untroubling inability to even conceive of violent acts.

e-Majin's violence-muting capabilities are most pronounced in enclosed spaces with reasonable amounts of moisture in the air - ten minutes walking alongside the cyborg in a corridor would leave most humans recoiling from a proffered gun.

They're not powerless in a desert, however - by rootkitting themselves and temporarily giving up mobility for absorptive capabilities, they can emit pulses of the same anti-violence that extend out over a radius. In an even more urgent situation, they've got a bandolier of vials (a carefully packaged half-dozen), which can be hooked to an aerosolizer to mist-bomb an area, or shoved down a biologic's throat for immediate, oft-permanent effects.
Name: Kevin Evans VII
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Text Color: #777777

Biography: "Kevin? You're on in five."
"Be right there, just a minute."
Kevin Evans VII stared into the mirror and wondered just what he was doing with his life.
It had only been a week ago that his dad, Kevin Evans VI, had announced his retirement. Now it was up to Kevin VII to spread the "good word" on nationwide TV.
Too bad he didn't believe any of it.
But what was he going to do now? He'd put off telling his parents for so long, afraid of what they'd do. Was he just going to announce he was an atheist in front of an audience of millions of believers, ruining the entire family business and probably causing more than a few riots?
No, it was too late to do anything about it. He'd just have to give the whole spiel, about how the Rapture could be coming any day now. It had been coming any day since back when Kevin I started his radio show, of course, but none of the Kevins ever tried to draw attention to tat.
Kevin VII washed his face and let out a sigh. Time to face the music, he supposed. He walked out towards the stage, and waited for his cue.
"Please welcome, our new host, Kevin Evans VII!"
Kevin walked out towards the podium, waving, and smiling. With each step, he became more and more convinced he wasn't ready for this.
At least it paid well.
He launched into the standard spiel. He didn't even need the speech in front of him; he'd heard his dad give it a thousand times. Jesus loves you, God loves you, God hates the same people you do, vote conservative, give us money. (Some of those parts were less explicit than others.)
And then there was the Rapture.
"But fear not," Kevin said, trying his best to hide how sick he was feeling. "The day is near when God will reclaim the righteous and pass judgement on the sinful."
The studio audience applauded loudly. Of course they did. They liked hearing that they were righteous and everyone else was sinful. Especially when it got to the next part.
"This world of sin will be cleansed, bathed in fire, and those still on earth will perish in the apocalypse. But the righteous have nothing to fear. Those who truly follow God in their hearts will be taken from this Earth and brought directly to Heaven, to spare them the coming calamity."
The cheers got louder. Kevin felt his heart sinking.
"And be ready! For the Rapture could come at any moment!"
The more he got into character, the more he despised himself. He wanted to just shout out what he really thought.
He might have, if he hadn't suddenly disappeared from the stage, leaving only a pile of clothes.

Description: Kevin looks like a typical televangelist, though he's younger than most. He's wearing a suit and has the same haircut that his father did. He's not really happy about either of those things.
Kevin has spent pretty much his entire life submerged in evangelical culture, except he's had enough resources to go poking around behind his parents' backs. He has a vague idea of what he's missing, but he's never really had a chance to experience it.
Consequently, while he's more than a little terrified at the whole battle to the death thing, overall he feels like it's a better direction for his life than where he was before.
Besides, at least some of these rounds are sure to give him a chance to try some of these things he's heard so much about, like drinking.

Weapons and Abilities: Kevin doesn't have any weapons, or any unusual abilities. However, he did get a lot of lessons on public speaking from a young age, in preparation for taking over from his father. Of course, these were mostly geared towards televangelism, so anything else he talked about would sound much the same.
He's also realized lately that he could be a decent actor. After all, he's learned enough to act like his father, trying to imitate anyone else would be less painful than that.
Two day warning! Get it while it's hot!
Hi there! I'd really appreciate it if you took some time to read my adventure Madeline Beaufort and the Moon Thief! Thanks!
[Image: 8zbr3I4.png]
Dope ass dragon created by the incomparable Earthexe
Username: Gatr
Name: Shane Pillman
Gender: Male
Species: Convenience Store Cashier
Color: #711711
Description: Pimply teenager. Tall, gangly. Has a greasy Mets cap on even though he lives nowhere near NY. Always has a disinterested look on his face.

Weapons/Abilities: No weapons. It's protocol. Well, he did see this cool video online of someone using an aerosol spray and a lighter as a makeshift flamethrower, so he has that. Abilities? Uhh... well, he's good at Counterstrike. He also has the ability to suck joy out of any situation or social interaction. Hmm. Oh yeah, and he exorcises spirits every now and then.

Biography: He works the night shift at a 7-11 in Middle of Nowhere, Texas. That's not a real place. In fact, he doesn't think the 7-11 is in any city in particular. There are three cities equally close by, and none of them want ownership over this dry, useless, area. But people still come through occasionally. He knows of 3 regular customers, all truckers. The rest are just random people he has no interest in remembering.

As it turns out, though, this 7-11 was built on an Indian graveyard. Of course. Well, he was pretty damn surprised when the first spirit appeared, yelling, banging, and generally making a mess of things. Surprise made way to irritation, because he knew he would have to be the one to clean it up. So he told this spirit to "just stop, dude". The spirit actually calmed down a bit, but it continued yelling nonsense at him. So he was all, like, "look just do whatever you want outside, go to heaven or whatever" and the spirit went outside, then up to heaven. He got to work cleaning up, then it occurred to him that the spirit was too accomodating. Maybe... he could control spirits? His imagination got to work. He thought of himself sending spirits to terrorize his high school bullies. He dreamt of using spirits to steal money and get rich quick. He realized this could mean a totally new life.

Two weeks later, he was still working at the 7-11. Sure, sometimes he would exorcise the random spirit, but his ambitions were clearly short-lived. Such is life in Middle of Nowhere, Texas.
[Image: 6xGo4ab.png][Image: sig.gif]