Well, I read over it. I mean plant monsters are something we are lacking, but your character is by any definition a super villain. No doubt about that, you can't kill people for jollies and not be labeled one.
As for the powers, you should go into detail as to what the toxins actually do to the body, where they target, how long it takes and all the other great details. Also, would electricity be able to ignite the fumes, or just fire?
On the bio, I saw a couple spelling errors, but aside from that not much was wrong. It seems strange that a plant monster could eat people in NYC without anyone noticing ever. Perhaps some explanation as to why would be nice.
Oh, I would not mind someone giving me some usable criticism on mine either.
Appearance: Waldemar stands at about 185 cm and weighs in at around 90 kg, he has a rather normal build, and doesn't appear to be particularly muscled. His skin has a very pale complexity, belying the fact that he's spent more than his fair share of time indoors as well as a Caucasian heritage, and his blue eyes have a distinct murky quality to them. He has brown hair with streaks of grey that is kept short for convenience sake, and a modest mustache on his upper lip that has also become streaked with grey over the years. Normally Waldemar can be found wearing an unimposing suit, dark grey or charcoal being preferred, with black leather shoes, he usually doesn't bother with a tie as he feels that just wearing a suit is good enough when it comes to professional formal wear. Other than that he sometimes wears just a button up shirt and jeans, but outside his home country he finds people too stiff and formal to do so normally.
He hasn't been aware of his powers for long, and as such hasn't given a huge deal of thought to any 'superhero getup', but being the practical man that he is he'll probably just grab some olive fatigues and a ski mask, slap on some body armor and call it a day.
Personality: Waldemar is a kind soul, but can be too gruff and rough around the edges for people to notice, he also tends to be modest, but that usually manifests as him refusing to take credit for parts of his work. He dislikes impulsive actions and likes to think things through before jumping into the fray, but this is understandably not always an option. Loyalty means a great deal to him, and if one is counted among his friends he'll do just about anything to help, even though getting into his good graces in the first place might take a little work. He's also loathe to actually injure people, though he will do it if he sees it as the best option, but he will not under any circumstances kill another human being. He's non-religious and tends to stay out of religious debates and keep his view to himself, to him every man has the right to believe in whatever religion he wants, one should never tolerate intolerance however.
Alignment: Superhero
Superpowers: The superpowers that Waldemar has found that he possesses are the following:
- Enhanced senses: His senses are way more sensitive than those of an ordinary human being, his sight reaches further and is more attentive to detail, and his hearing can pick up the sound of a pin being dropped in the next door room. Having more sensitive and enhanced senses leaves him vulnerable to sensory overload though.
- Peak human condition: While not quite reaching the level of a superpower his accuracy and reflexes are of note, they've pretty much reached the limit of what an ordinary human is capable of, his reflexes tend to be a little Achilles heel for him though, as the rest of his body seems unable to keep up with his reaction time at times.
- Innate weapon mastery: The only power of Waldemar's that can without a doubt be called a superpower is his ability to gradually master a weapon he is in direct contact with over the course of half an hour, the ability is temporary though, and any ability will be severed once he's no longer in direct contact with the weapon. It's worth noting that the object in question has to be a weapon, he cannot pick up a baseball bat and master it due to the fact that it is not constructed as a weapon. Another limit to this ability is that the weapon in question has to have been made by a human, as whatever ability that lets Waldemar use it needs to relay understandable information and impulses to him, which wouldn't be possible with something made by other species.
Weaknesses: Waldemar's most deliberating weaknesses are as follows:
- Only human: Despite his powers Waldemar is still only a human being, his flesh will rend when slashed, his organs and bones will burst and break when hit with enough force, and even with his reflexes he cannot dodge a bullet once it has been fired.
- Sensory overload: Since Waldemar's hearing and sight are more sensitive they require less to put out of commission, a bright flash will blind him for longer, and high noises are more likely to affect him negatively, a very loud noise close to him will probably shut down his hearing for quite a while as well.
- Personality: Two aspects of his personality are very likely to come in the way for whatever Waldemar might attempt. The first is his focus on loyalty, one can pretty much say that he's loyal to a fault, he'll never let down someone depending on him or leave someone behind, come hell or high water. The second is his tendency towards pacifism, though he'll hurt someone if it seems to be the most beneficial scenario he'll never kill another human being, under any circumstances.
Biography: In the city of Fredrikstad on a pretty ordinary November day in 1965, Waldemar Abel as he was later baptized was born. He spent his early years like most children in Norway, playing with others his age, going to school, enjoying summer vacation, the works really. He was never a particularly athletic kid, but he managed to hang on as his friends and him involved themselves in games and the occasional prank or two. His intellect was pretty astonishing for a person his age though, and he always seemed to fare well when it came to academic pursuits, even later in life when he managed to get the grades required to attend medical school.
Waldemar flew through the school with flying colors, though perhaps not as flying as some others who were true geniuses in their field. He had chosen to take his education as a anesthesiologist, one who was skilled in the use of anesthetics, pain medicine, intensive care medicine, and the most important to him, emergency medicine. Growing up in the 70s and 80s he had seen the world on the screen, and it was pretty damn clear to him that the world needed help, and what better way to help than as a doctor?
He practiced medicine in Norway for a while to get his bearings in his new profession, serving as an intern for one and a half years and then completing a five year residency program. Once this was finished he set out to do what he had wanted to since he had first realized how much stuff was wrong in the world. He signed on with a volunteer organization and went to where they deemed that he was needed, in his case a refugee camp in Africa. He embraced the challenge, the equipment was lacking, medicines were rationed, aid money disappeared, but he still tried his best, even though the experience up close left him a bit rougher than when he first arrived, realizing just how good people had it back home, and probably how little they cared.
He volunteered for several terms abroad in this fashion and seemed content with helping the displaced and needy. However his terms abroad would take an abrupt stop when the camp he was part of came under attack, an attack that Waldemar himself came out of abducted, but not before being hit by a stray bullet. Seeing that their prisoner was quickly becoming deadweight and not wanting to be burdened with him further, his attackers left him in the wilderness, still tied and blindfolded, and with a stomach wound that was surely going to be his end.
In the end the inevitable was thwarted however, and Waldemar would live to see another sunrise, when he opened his eyes he was in an unfamiliar place and with unfamiliar people, local inhabitants by the looks of it. From what little French Waldemar understood he had been found by them and carried back here to be taken care of since they recognized the logo on his clothes, but it was only their healer who had managed to bring him back with his knowledge of the traditional healing methods know to them for millennium. Waldemar stayed with them for a few weeks to recuperate before having them lead him back to the rebuilt refugee camp, here he was immediately relieved and sent back to his home country.
Due to his close call in Africa Waldemar was never accepted back on another term abroad, but with his credentials it had proven easy to get a job where he wished to work, and the air ambulance service was an important and challenging job in a country structured like Norway. Here he remained for years and years, but as the days went on he really couldn't shake off the feeling that everything seemed just a bit slower, things were getting just a bit sharper, and that the rotors of the helicopters were just getting a little bit louder each day.
Eventually the rotors grew so loud he had to quit, 'noise-induced hearing loss' another doctor had labeled it as, despite his hearing being good, maybe even extraordinarily good, but there just wasn't any other explanation. His eyesight was also checked, and though it had seemed to get progressively better over the years it was dismissed as the result of better testing equipment and incompetent testers. Then, less then a year ago, while spending a relaxing time at a rented lodge in the wilderness while he was pondering about job opportunities, he had heard a gunshot and cry of pain, a hunting accident it would seem. He had reacted quickly, gotten some supplies together and gone out to help the hunter, now crying for help amid the trees, and when he had found him he treated him. The hunter had explained that his weapon had been snagged by a branch and gone off, injuring one of his hands with a stray pellet of buckshot, and while he could walk back to his cottage just fine to wait for help he couldn't carry his equipment.
So Waldemar carried it, a pack of provisions and camping gear on his back and a hunting shotgun in his hands as he lead him back. But as he walked he felt odd, like he knew how to use this weapon, how it worked, the best way to load it, how the different types of shot made for it functioned, it all slowly filled his head, a most unnatural experience given that he had never before had an interest in firearms, and he would have dismissed it as stress and stray thoughts if not for its complexity and specific nature. In the end they met up with an ambulance and the hunter was taken away to be treated with the promise that he would be back for his gear. A bit tired after the trip, and more than a little unsettled by the shotgun in his hands, he discarded it all in the cottage, and then as his hands left the firearm, the knowledge was gone. He no longer knew the exact difference of bird and buck shot, and the proper grip that he had held the weapon in almost subconsciously had completely disappeared from his mind. From there it took only a short while to realize that he might not be completely like everyone else anymore, if he picked up the shotgun and held on to it he could soon treat it like a huntsman with experience beyond his years, but the second it was put down it faded away, and he was again merely a doctor. He hypothesized that the changes in reflexes, hearing, and sight had the same wellspring, something that made him no longer ordinary.
And we come to the time closer to today, when Waldemar stumbled across an internet ad with an advertisement from an organization known as 'Seraphim'. Their message haunted him, and finally with some regret he decided to head across the Atlantic ocean to New York and at the very least see if he could be of any help. He still had doubts about his status as anything deserving the label 'super-something' but it was surely better than sitting around looking at the classifieds back home no matter where this took him.
Other notes: Waldemar speaks Norwegian, English, and a little bit of French.
Finally got a sheet up, any criticism, feedback or suggestions are appreciated.
Gender: Male, though without the genitalia to back that up. Basically only in the most primal sense. You'll see.
Age: Twenty-fiveish, He's not certain, and doesn't really care
Appearance: Variable, as it depends on his capacity for fighting at the time. He can range from about 4ft to almost 11ft at the best of times. Dull grey to muddy green skin, also depending on things elaborated further down. His clothing options because of this tends to be rather slim. More often than not he'll but some pants that fit, and then get into a fight and have them all torn off him anyway. Not that he has anything to hide, considering his lack of genitalia. To sum it up he's usually naked. His face is.... expressive. Looking sub-human, jutting jaw and forehead, along with small green irises in black scalera, he;s not exactly a looker.
Personality: He's not particularly intelligent, or eloquent, or in any manner an agreeable person, unless you subscribe to his method of thinking, which boils down to essentially, "Fightin iz good. Fightin iz now. Why ain't we fightin?!" He's not that much deeper than that really. He has no friends or allies as as soon as their common enemy is done, he'll turn on them for a laugh, because they must like "fightin" as much as he does, right? His likes boil down to; fighting, looking for a fight, preparing for a fight, drinking before a fight, drinking in the middle of a fight, and sharing a drink with a worthy opponent after a fight, (if they are still alive, that is) What he doesn't like is much more extensive list, filled with anything he considers "not the right fightin face." That is, anyone sneaking, leaping, jumping, twisting, dodging, talking, negotiating, bartering, rolling away from, running away from, or avoiding a fight in any manner. It's best, should you find yourself in the company of Thrakka, to talk about all the fights you went in and won in as glorious manner as possible so he doesn't decide to chomp on you right then and there for being a pansy. Then again, if you impress him too much he'll want to scrap with you, and then you've got a whole lot more on your plate to deal with. He exists only as his alias, having no qualities that transpose well to civilian society. And besides, you can't get a good enough fight there anyway.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral He'll work for whoever gets him the best fight.
Superpowers: A fungus and bacterium based powerset. Thrakka can't feel much, in fact, he has no pain/pleasure receptors to speak of at all thanks to his unique physiology, that is, being a large sentient fungus being. He is immensely strong and highly durable, able to shrug off wounds that would fell a normal man. His body can generate poisons and gasses that seep out of his wounds. This is a problem as gasses are often flammable, and lighting a match around an injured Thrakka is just asking for a fiery inferno. Should any of his limbs be lopped off he'll regrow them eventually. His height and skin colour change thanks to his own ability to fight. How he perceives himself at the time. If he thinks he's gonna bring the house down in an epic fight to the death then he'll get to about 12ft and be green as the hulk and a about as strong. Should he have his arse handed to him he'll shrink up and turn grey and wimpy, losing muscle mass and being barely able to lift a normal human.
Weaknesses: Fire. Any kind of fire will pretty much send Thrakka running, or at least slow him down enough so that you can run away. He's highly flammable and should a body part of his catch alight it will often combust violently. Ice will also slow him down rapidly, as his body will start expanding and eventually he'll just explode into chunks of icy fungal stuff. He's also highly susceptible to psychic suggestion of any kind, even just really charismatic people can convince him that, if he does as they say, he'll get a good fight, then as long as they can continue convincing him of really good fights, they would have a willing fungus rage machine at their service.
Biography: Thrakka Dauk Madzkull was born in England at somepoint. His father was something of a football hooligan, along with his mother, both of whom he remembers barely as the brief flashes of a time when he wasn't green and lived for fighting. They had married young and gave birth soon after. Thrakka was a normal baby, he cried, he spat, he crapped and he ate. His parents loved him dearly and took their football rage and transferred it to him at a young age, giving them all something in common.
Around the age of two he was known throughout their run-down neighbourhood as the terror of the children, bother younger and older. He had run of the streets whenever he liked, since both his parents worked full-time jobs to keep them afloat, and he ruled them with an iron fist, ordering his boyz around and basically running a small cult/mafia family.
It was soon after he turned three that his condition first manifested. During a scrap with some older, rival boyz, Thrakka's skin had developed a greenish hue and he'd grown about 12 inches in less than the time it took to blink. he promptly wiped the floor with the other kids, and proceeded to do the same with his own group of nobs. His parents found his sudden growth spurt and colour change alarming, naturally, but didn't have the money to afford having him checked up at the hospital. So they just passed it off as some genetic quirk of their combined genes and carried on with life, albeit a tad scared of what their beloved son could do.
It was at the age of 6 when Thrakka killed his first human. Before then he'd indulged in torture and killing of animals but found it left him wanting. There was just no thrill when it came to hunting down a cat and stringing it up. People were much better targets. He still had some semblance of common sense at this point, and decided that he should have a secret base of operations far away from his parents flat in their run down complex.
He found an old shack in an abandoned community gardening project, overgrown with grasses and fungi of all kinds and kitted it out as he personal hive. He the proceeded to beat up and kidnap kids from across his neighbourhood and beyond looking for a good fight, and letting them go when he was done, positive that they would never tell about the goblin thing that lived in the shack out in the field over there.
But he was wrong. Eventually word got out and the police were summoned. He was alone, chewing on some fungi that he found particularly delicious when they arrived. He was told to put up his arms and come on out, the he wouldn't be hurt. Doing as he was told, Thrakka came out, only to be met with the horrified screams of his mother. It turned out that Thrakka had been hiding away for months and totally forgotten about his parents, who'd eventually had him declared dead. They'd heard about this green monster in the field and wondered if it was their son. Turns out they were right.
But Thrakk had changed. He stood about 6 ft, bulging muscle and long of tooth, eyes green and black, skin covered in mud and shining dirtily in the mid-afternoon light. Somewhere along the way he had lost his genitals and sense of decency, as he stood nude as the day eh was born. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he couldn't really remember much, so he decided to yell whatever he could remember from his childhood.
"We'ez tha biggist and tha Strongist! Naffingz gonna stop UZ!"
The police took this as a challenge and raised their batons and stun guns. Thrakka charged, fists held high and roaring wildly. Three men died as he swept towards them, poisons spreading and suffocating them easily. Another two fell to his fists, and by then they were all running.
"Puny humies!!" he called, waving the shattered skull of one officer in an attempt to get them to come back. "COME BACK AN FIGHT!"
And that is the story of Thrakka Dauk Madzkull. Eventually he made his way to America and bummed around there for a while, breaking people and places as much as he liked.
Other notes: I have totally based this guy off a combination of Orks form the Warhammer 40K setting and the Hulk, mainly because they are both awesome. Be prepared for Sum Orkey Goodnez!
Gender: Male, though without the genitalia to back that up. Basically only in the most primal sense. You'll see.
Age: Twenty-fiveish, He's not certain, and doesn't really care
Appearance: Variable, as it depends on his capacity for fighting at the time. He can range from about 4ft to almost 11ft at the best of times. Dull grey to muddy green skin, also depending on things elaborated further down. His clothing options because of this tends to be rather slim. More often than not he'll but some pants that fit, and then get into a fight and have them all torn off him anyway. Not that he has anything to hide, considering his lack of genitalia. To sum it up he's usually naked. His face is.... expressive. Looking sub-human, jutting jaw and forehead, along with small green irises in black scalera, he;s not exactly a looker.
Personality: He's not particularly intelligent, or eloquent, or in any manner an agreeable person, unless you subscribe to his method of thinking, which boils down to essentially, "Fightin iz good. Fightin iz now. Why ain't we fightin?!" He's not that much deeper than that really. He has no friends or allies as as soon as their common enemy is done, he'll turn on them for a laugh, because they must like "fightin" as much as he does, right? His likes boil down to; fighting, looking for a fight, preparing for a fight, drinking before a fight, drinking in the middle of a fight, and sharing a drink with a worthy opponent after a fight, (if they are still alive, that is) What he doesn't like is much more extensive list, filled with anything he considers "not the right fightin face." That is, anyone sneaking, leaping, jumping, twisting, dodging, talking, negotiating, bartering, rolling away from, running away from, or avoiding a fight in any manner. It's best, should you find yourself in the company of Thrakka, to talk about all the fights you went in and won in as glorious manner as possible so he doesn't decide to chomp on you right then and there for being a pansy. Then again, if you impress him too much he'll want to scrap with you, and then you've got a whole lot more on your plate to deal with. He exists only as his alias, having no qualities that transpose well to civilian society. And besides, you can't get a good enough fight there anyway.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral He'll work for whoever gets him the best fight.
Superpowers: A fungus and bacterium based powerset. Thrakka can't feel much, in fact, he has no pain/pleasure receptors to speak of at all thanks to his unique physiology, that is, being a large sentient fungus being. He is immensely strong and highly durable, able to shrug off wounds that would fell a normal man. His body can generate poisons and gasses that seep out of his wounds. This is a problem as gasses are often flammable, and lighting a match around an injured Thrakka is just asking for a fiery inferno. Should any of his limbs be lopped off he'll regrow them eventually. His height and skin colour change thanks to his own ability to fight. How he perceives himself at the time. If he thinks he's gonna bring the house down in an epic fight to the death then he'll get to about 12ft and be green as the hulk and a about as strong. Should he have his arse handed to him he'll shrink up and turn grey and wimpy, losing muscle mass and being barely able to lift a normal human.
Weaknesses: Fire. Any kind of fire will pretty much send Thrakka running, or at least slow him down enough so that you can run away. He's highly flammable and should a body part of his catch alight it will often combust violently. Ice will also slow him down rapidly, as his body will start expanding and eventually he'll just explode into chunks of icy fungal stuff. He's also highly susceptible to psychic suggestion of any kind, even just really charismatic people can convince him that, if he does as they say, he'll get a good fight, then as long as they can continue convincing him of really good fights, they would have a willing fungus rage machine at their service.
Biography: Thrakka Dauk Madzkull was born in England at somepoint. His father was something of a football hooligan, along with his mother, both of whom he remembers barely as the brief flashes of a time when he wasn't green and lived for fighting. They had married young and gave birth soon after. Thrakka was a normal baby, he cried, he spat, he crapped and he ate. His parents loved him dearly and took their football rage and transferred it to him at a young age, giving them all something in common.
Around the age of two he was known throughout their run-down neighbourhood as the terror of the children, bother younger and older. He had run of the streets whenever he liked, since both his parents worked full-time jobs to keep them afloat, and he ruled them with an iron fist, ordering his boyz around and basically running a small cult/mafia family.
It was soon after he turned three that his condition first manifested. During a scrap with some older, rival boyz, Thrakka's skin had developed a greenish hue and he'd grown about 12 inches in less than the time it took to blink. he promptly wiped the floor with the other kids, and proceeded to do the same with his own group of nobs. His parents found his sudden growth spurt and colour change alarming, naturally, but didn't have the money to afford having him checked up at the hospital. So they just passed it off as some genetic quirk of their combined genes and carried on with life, albeit a tad scared of what their beloved son could do.
It was at the age of 6 when Thrakka killed his first human. Before then he'd indulged in torture and killing of animals but found it left him wanting. There was just no thrill when it came to hunting down a cat and stringing it up. People were much better targets. He still had some semblance of common sense at this point, and decided that he should have a secret base of operations far away from his parents flat in their run down complex.
He found an old shack in an abandoned community gardening project, overgrown with grasses and fungi of all kinds and kitted it out as he personal hive. He the proceeded to beat up and kidnap kids from across his neighbourhood and beyond looking for a good fight, and letting them go when he was done, positive that they would never tell about the goblin thing that lived in the shack out in the field over there.
But he was wrong. Eventually word got out and the police were summoned. He was alone, chewing on some fungi that he found particularly delicious when they arrived. He was told to put up his arms and come on out, the he wouldn't be hurt. Doing as he was told, Thrakka came out, only to be met with the horrified screams of his mother. It turned out that Thrakka had been hiding away for months and totally forgotten about his parents, who'd eventually had him declared dead. They'd heard about this green monster in the field and wondered if it was their son. Turns out they were right.
But Thrakk had changed. He stood about 6 ft, bulging muscle and long of tooth, eyes green and black, skin covered in mud and shining dirtily in the mid-afternoon light. Somewhere along the way he had lost his genitals and sense of decency, as he stood nude as the day eh was born. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he couldn't really remember much, so he decided to yell whatever he could remember from his childhood.
"We'ez tha biggist and tha Strongist! Naffingz gonna stop UZ!"
The police took this as a challenge and raised their batons and stun guns. Thrakka charged, fists held high and roaring wildly. Three men died as he swept towards them, poisons spreading and suffocating them easily. Another two fell to his fists, and by then they were all running.
"Puny humies!!" he called, waving the shattered skull of one officer in an attempt to get them to come back. "COME BACK AN FIGHT!"
And that is the story of Thrakka Dauk Madzkull. Eventually he made his way to America and bummed around there for a while, breaking people and places as much as he liked.
Other notes: I have totally based this guy off a combination of Orks form the Warhammer 40K setting and the Hulk, mainly because they are both awesome. Be prepared for Sum Orkey Goodnez!
Appearance: Kurt stands at 5'8 with a moderate build and sleek muscle tone. He has a slightly round face, with straight, medium-length brown hair worn in a part down the center, and grayish blue eyes. When not operating as Spectre, Kurt likes to dress casually, mostly in t-shirts, jeans and sneakers. When he dons his crime-fighting persona, he wears a kevlar vest over a dark grey shirt, a black leather jacket, tactical gloves, jeans, boots, and a black face mask. The mask is made of neoprene and covers from the top of his forehead to his chin.
Personality: For the most part, Kurt is soft-spoken. He does his best to be friendly and maintain an outer calm despite what he might actually be feeling. After spending a public school career full of bullying and ridicule, he has a near pathological hatred of bullies; those who prey on the weak do not get any mercy from Kurt. He feels that it is his obligation to use his powers to help those that might not be able to help themselves. He is also rather enthusiastic, if slightly naive, about the idea of working in a team of metahumans.
Alignment: Superhero.
Superpowers: Kurt has the innate ability to tap into the realm of the spirits and channel its energy through his body. Because of this, he can:
- Detect and interact with the spirits that roam the Earth. He can see traces of their presence that others may not and can tell if a person is possessed. Kurt can also tap into the spirit realm and converse with any individual spirit he wishes, as long as he knows them by name and they are willing to speak to him. However, communing with the spirit realm requires a great amount of concentration and effort, so he can only do it in an environment free from stress and danger.
- Generate ectoplasm in either concentrated energy or "goo" form. In goo form, the ectoplasm can be used to ensnare weaker enemies or slow down faster ones. In its energy form, Kurt's ectoplasm works as a ranged burst attack, causing burns and kinetic trauma upon impact. He can manipulate the amount of energy an ectoplasm blast contains to make it weaker or more powerful. In addition to bursts, he can unleash a continuous stream of energy as a beam. However, maintaining a stream for too long can burn his flesh, and channeling too much energy at once can completely disintegrate his body in extreme circumstances. Also, rapidly firing ectoplasm blasts in a very short time window will eventually fatigue him, so Kurt must be careful to not overdo it.
- Cloak himself from view, but this effect is purely visual. Kurt remains in a tangible state; his presence could be revealed by simply bumping into him. He can also be detected by thermal optics, infrared optics, sonar, and equipment (or beings) that can detect the human body's electrical impulses. Any noise he makes can also be heard by anyone with a functional sense of hearing, and his body heat can be noticed in close proximity. Finally, it takes Kurt a good degree of effort to maintain this cloak. If he is fatigued or otherwise incapacitated, his cloak will be imperfect.
- Levitate. By channeling energy through the lower half of his body, Kurt can lift himself up to ten feet above the ground and propel himself along at speeds up to 30 mph. This is not true "flight" and to fly at his top speed requires uninterrupted acceleration along a straight path. In addition, he has to abide by the laws of physics; making abrupt turns at high speeds is very difficult and potentially dangerous. He can also use this ability to create a blast under his feet to launch himself a short distance and cushion himself against high falls and impacts.
- Detach his spirit from his body and explore his surroundings in something Kurt calls "Spirit Walking." While Spirit Walking, he cannot be seen or heard and cannot physically interact with anything. However, other spirits or spiritually aware people like him may still observe him. In addition, while Spirit Walking, Kurt's body is left vulnerable. If his body were to be destroyed during a Spirit Walk, he would be trapped in his intangible form.
Weaknesses: Aside from the drawbacks to his powers, Kurt's biggest weakness is that he has no superhuman traits whatsoever. He has the strength, speed, and dexterity of a normal human his age who engages in regular exercise. Due to this, Kurt has to rely heavily on his powers to even the playing field.
Kurt was born on the night of November 5, 1986 in Baltimore, Maryland. For as long as he could remember, he had an active imagination. As a young child, he spent a lot of time at the local playground playing large-scale matches of Cops and Robbers with the other kids. The playground was a fictitious warzone filled with the sounds of pretend gunfire and cries for medics. Kurt was always a cop, and his crack team of battle-hardened officers always caught the bad guys in the end...
Today's playdate at the park was coming to an end. The sun was setting and most of the children had already left with their parents. Kurt waved goodbye to the last of his friends as his mom dragged him away. He knew it was only a matter of time before his mother would tell him it was time to go, so he planned to enjoy his last few minutes of freedom. He climbed up the monkey bars and sat down on top of them. Surveying the playground below him, he noticed a boy sitting by himself in a swing. Kurt didn't recognize him, nor did he remember seeing him at all this afternoon. It was hard to tell from his vantage point, but the boy looked like he was sad. 'Maybe he needs a friend,' Kurt thought. He dropped down from the monkey bars and walked towards the lonely boy.
"Hi...my name is Kurt." he said with a friendly wave. "What's yours?"
The boy's ears perked up. He turned to look at Kurt. "Are...are you talking to me?" he asked uncertainly.
"Uh...yeah?"
"Oh..." The boy's expression brightened. "Well...my name is Brandon."
Kurt nodded "So...why did you look so sad, Brandon? I mean, sitting by yourself on the swings and stuff..."
"I...I don't get to play with other kids a lot," Brandon replied quietly. "It's like they don't even see me. They don't wanna play with me, I guess."
"Well, c'mon!" Kurt said enthusiastically. "We got the whole playground to ourselves! Let's-"
"Kurt?" It was his mother's voice. She always had to butt in at the worst time. "It's time to go home!"
Kurt turned around. "Moooom! I don't wanna go yet!" he complained. "I wanna play with my new friend!"
"What new friend, dear?"
"The guy I'm talking to right now! His name is..." he turned back to face his new acquaintance. "...Brandon?" The swing was empty. "Brandon? Hey, where'd you go? Brandon?"
Kurt's mother laughed. "Well, we can take 'Brandon' home with us for dinner. Come on, Kurt, let's go."
"But, Mom! He was right here a second ago, I swear..."
Despite his arguments to the contrary, Kurt's mother assumed that 'Brandon' was one of her son's new imaginary friends and left it at that. Little did Kurt know, but this was the beginning of a new chapter of his life. His innate connection to the spirit realm was beginning to open. 'Brandon' was the first earthbound spirit that Kurt ever encountered, and it would not be the last.
Kurt came across another spirit, this time at recess in the fifth grade. The two of them struck up a conversation over by the drinking fountain. His fellow students did not hesitate to make fun of the kid who seemed to be talking to the wall. This, and another incident with a spirit a few months later, earned Kurt the reputation of "the weird kid" that plagued him for the rest of his public school career. Entering middle school, he was the victim of incessant bullying. In high school, it only got worse. The only school he could attend was predominately black, where he stood out like a sore thumb. During those years, he learned just how cruel his peers could be.
The walk home from school was the only part of the day where Kurt had true peace. Nobody to bother him, nobody to insult him, and nobody to throw food at him. He liked to take the scenic route that cut through the local park, especially during the fall. Maybe it was because he was born during the tail end of it, but Autumn was Kurt's favorite season. There was something soothing about the yellows, reds, and browns that decorated the dense tree cover and the light breeze that carried the scent of leaves.
Well, normally it was soothing.
Today, Kurt was reflecting on the day's events while operating the park's isolated soda machine. It was yet another awful day at school. Every class period today had a test, and Kurt was sure that he failed at least half of them. P.E. was about 45 minutes of people using flag football as an excuse to shove him into the mud. Then there was the anonymous assailant that spent all of lunch period throwing food at him while nearby students laughed. His usual tactic of ignoring it and counting to ten didn't work, mainly because a carrot bounced off his head every time he reached seven. At some point, his attacker ran out of carrots, but smothered the last one in ranch dressing before throwing it at him. Three hours later, and his jacket still reeked of the foul white paste.
These were usually minor frustrations, but he was beginning to get tired of feeling powerless. Just about everyone at school stomped over him just to get their thrills. He had no identity besides "whitey," and they never missed an opportunity to remind him of that. His parents were no help, and the school administration liked to turn a blind eye to his problems. His life had become a cruel, cartoonish farce, and there was nothing he could do about it.
And now the vending machine wouldn't take his dollar.
"Get in there, goddammit," Kurt mumbled as the uncooperative device ejected the bill for a fourth time. Even the machines seemed to be out to get him today. A fifth attempt almost seemed to succeed, but the device didn't recognize his dollar and refused to spit it out. That was his last dollar, too. Kurt's hands curled into fists. "Fuck!" he growled as he slammed his fist into the vending machine. With a loud bang, a beam of purple energy exploded from his fist, burning a hole straight through the device.
Kurt jumped back in shock and looked at his hands, speechless. Purple smoke rose from his palms and faded into the cold autumn air. He looked back at the vending machine. The hard plastic and metal was melted and distorted in a fist-sized hole and the stone wall behind it was scorched. "Wha...what the hell was that?" he stammered weakly.
"You're beginning to learn the extent of your abilities," replied an unfamiliar voice behind him.
Kurt about-faced. The source of the voice was a man who appeared to be in his 50's, with a graying beard, short hair, and a nicely kept suit. "Who are you?" Kurt demanded. "And what on Earth are you talking about?"
The man clasped his hands behind his back. "Who I am is not important." he said, taking a moment to survey Kurt. "And I haven't seen one of your kind in quite some time."
"What do you mean?"
"You have a connection to the realm of spirits. It goes by many names. She'ol, Elysium, Valhalla, Heaven. And because of your connection, you can see me. You can see others like me. We are earthbound spirits who wander the mortal plane, observing life as it happens. Look back at your life. You've encountered spirits in the past. People that nobody else seem to notice. People that appear to vanish at the drop of a hat. Ghosts are real, and you probably see them every day."
Kurt crossed his arms. "This is crazy. I mean...I just shot a purple beam out of my fist, but even that's a bit much..."
"It's a lot to take in at once, I know, but you'll come to understand it in time. Every so few people are born with the gift to see beyond this world and into the next, but not all of them are aware of it. What you have at your fingertips, young man, is the energy of the spirit realm. It is a great gift, and I hope you will not abuse it."
As crazy as it all sounded, Kurt secretly wanted this to be true. "So...if this is all true and there's some kind of 'spirit realm' that I can tap into...what do I do next?"
"I cannot help you with that. You will have to learn on your own." The man grinned. "And I suggest you leave before someone calls the police."
Kurt looked back towards the ruined vending machine. "Right..." By the time he turned back around, the mysterious man had vanished. "...thanks."
After his encounter with the mysterious spirit, Kurt began to practice his abilities in secret. After a few months, he had a grasp on how to use ectoplasm and figured out how to make himself invisible. With his new powers, he decided to wage a guerrilla campaign against the people who tormented him for so long. His crowning achievement was cloaking into a crowd during lunch period and punching the star quarterback square in the jaw. The crowd erupted into a small riot as the football player fought with a person he mistakenly assumed to be the culprit. The brawl lead to the quarterback's suspension. Although the torment continued, Kurt took comfort in the fact that he could now fight back.
The rest of his high school career went by without major incident, aside from the pranks he covertly pulled on trouble individuals. He enrolled at the local community college directly after graduation; he couldn't put that hellhole behind him any faster. With a much more open schedule, Kurt was able to enroll in martial arts courses and continue to hone his ghostly powers on the side. He was done with using his abilities to get petty revenge on school bullies. He had plans to take them to the street to promote the greater good, to do his part in protecting innocents. Otherwise, such incredible power would be going to waste.
Under the alias Spectre, Kurt spent the next six years moonlighting as a crimefighter. After the first year, he rented out a small apartment close to the community college and used student aid (plus his parents' contributions) to cover the costs of rent. It served as his base of operations when he patrolled the streets and dark corners of Baltimore. He earned a name for himself as he foiled muggings, rapes, and robberies all over the city. The local media dubbed him the "Baltimore Phantom," and the police wanted him for unlawful vigilantism.
One night, after returning home from a rather uneventful night on patrol, Kurt would have an encounter that would change the course of his life once more.
As the front door closed behind him, Kurt allowed his cloak to dissipate. The ability was definitely handy for entering and leaving his apartment undetected. He flicked on the living room light. Right away, he knew was something wrong. His kitchen light was on, and he never left lights on when he left the apartment. That meant that somebody broke in. He dropped the backpack that contained his costume, re-engaged his cloak, and moved towards the kitchen slowly, as not to make any noise.
Rounding the corner, Kurt saw a man sitting at his table. He was dressed in a very expensive looking suit and was typing away on a laptop. The man wasn't a ghost, nor did Kurt detect any sign of possession. He also didn't seem to be armed, but he wasn't going to take any chances. Kurt entered the kitchen slowly, intending to get behind the man and getting him in a chokehold. As he crossed through the doorway, however, something began to beep. The suited man pulled up his sleeve and inspected what looked like a wristwatch.
"Mister Isherwood, glad to see you back."
Kurt froze in his tracks. 'What?' he thought. 'How does he know I-"
As if the man could sense his surprise, he spoke again. "Motion sensor. Placed it in the doorway. Tiny little thing, easy to miss. Anyway, I'm Allan Meyers, representing Seraphim. If you'd please take a seat, I have a proposition for you."
Seraphim. Kurt knew the name. It was a technology firm that was publicly recruiting metahumans. If they took the time to track him down, it had to be important. Reluctantly, Kurt disengaged the cloak and pulled up a chair. "So, Allan...do you mind if I call you Allan?"
"Not at all."
"Alright, Allan. How did you find me? How did you track me down?"
Allan set the laptop aside. "We've been keeping an eye on you ever since the reports of the 'Baltimore Phantom' started surfacing. Seraphim is a large company, Mister Isherwood. We have a lot of resources. If we see something that interests us, we'll keep tabs on it. And don't worry about your identity. Seraphim is not in the business of exposing metahumans when they contribute so much to this world at their own peril. But that's aside the point. I came here to offer you a chance to make a difference. Not just for Baltimore. Not just for America, but for all of mankind. Mister Isherwood, Seraphim wants you, and I think we can make it worth your while."
Kurt took a moment to consider the offer. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he knew it. With the resources of an entire corporation and fellow superhumans to work with, he could realize his full potential. But before he could accept, he had to sort out some details. "What happens if I decide to work for you? My family doesn't know about my powers. How am I supposed to tell them that I'm working for Seraphim all of a sudden without telling them I'm a super? You know as well as I do that telling them is giving them dangerous knowledge."
"That is no problem. Seraphim will provide you with a cover story." Allan thought for a moment. "How does a paid internship and a free ride through university sound? We give scholarships in the tech field all the time. That should be good enough alibi for you."
Kurt nodded. "They've been on my case about going back to school lately, so that works nicely." He hesitated for a second before extending his hand. "Consider me on board, Allan."
"Glad to have you, Mister Isherwood," Allan replied as he gave Kurt's hand a firm shake. "It will take a few months to get everything in place, so I suggest you begin your cover story. We'll be in touch."
The next day, Kurt mentioned to his parents that Seraphim was offering paid internships and full scholarships in New York and that he applied just to see what would happen. A few weeks later, the fabricated acceptance letter came in the mail, and Kurt's parents were thrilled. He felt bad for lying to his parents, but it was better than putting them in danger by telling him what he was really going to New York for. By July, Kurt was moved and situated in New York City, residing in Seraphim's top secret safe haven and waiting for his first mission. In the mean time, he has been using its training facilities to hone his talents and working with the technicians to create an updated version of his outfit.
Other Notes: Kurt also has extensive martial arts and self-defense training in addition to his main powers. He is capable of handling himself in fights against opponents with normal human strength. In addition, he has exceptional talent in stealth due to the nature of his cloaking ability.
EDIT: Adjusted and clarified things in the powers section.
Appearance: 2.2 meters tall, very broad frame and very muscular build. He has a light complexion, having a mild tan, and is completely hairless. His left eye is dark blue, the right being grey and foggy, appearing to be dead and accompanied by a long scar running from the top of his brow to his jaw. Due to advanced surgical reconstruction, the eye is fully functional though he chose to keep the look as a reminder of what was done to him. He is usually seen wearing expensive suits, mostly black or gray, as he is generally a man of business. When the moment strikes him, he'll wear less formal attire like polyester shirts and a leather jacket with dark jeans and black mountain boots. He also favors wearing a Luzhkov's-style leather cap with his informal wear.
Personality: Aleksander is a cold, calculating man in every aspect of his life. He's grown to be uncaring and unforgiving person much throughout the recent years of his life. He does have a sense of humor, though it's a rather dark and twisted sense. Usually is one to put business before personal matters or feelings, though he has his exceptions in some cases for One thing that he values above all else is honorability. He's taught himself to have no fear, to have great strength of will, and to be unrelenting in his convictions. One could say his mind is as strong as his body, which is as strong as a herd of ox. He wasn't always as he is now, but his past was great indication that life is cruel, and to survive one must be equally harsh in almost all respects.
Alignment: Supervillain.
Superpowers:
Fortified Constitution: Aleksander's flesh and bone have been strengthened beyond that of any normal man, allowing him body to take gargantuan amounts of punishment before bringing him pain. He also has regenerative abilities that take moments to close and heal open wounds, though it's far from instantaneous, as well as a highly developed immune system that defends his body from chemical and biological attacks.
Might of Many: Having nearly unmatched strength, Aleksander has the might to single-handedly flip a car and even pick up and throw a city bus. He could easily rip a man to pieces and has been known to do that when the need arises. Something to take note of, is that his full strength only comes through in his transformed state.
Iron Hide: At will, Aleksander is able to tranform his body to grow rapidly and form armored flesh-plating all over his exterior. At full height after transformation, he is a little over 3 meters tall and his armor resembles rough, flesh-toned granite. In this state, he is immune to nearly any form of physical injury. He has developed enough control over his ability that he is able to change just a single part of his body, should he choose to do so.
Weaknesses: When he's just a man, he is still susceptible to many dangers of any ordinary man, albeit slightly less so. Enough bullets in the right place will definitely put him down for good, as well as massive amounts of trauma to the head. He may be a very strong man, but he is still just a man. Though when he is in his transformed state, that changes things substantially. In his transformed state, he is still susceptible to extreme temperatures, electricity and being without oxygen for extended periods of time. While he is an expert in hand-to-hand combat, most of it is the use of brute force as his bulk greatly reduces his agility, especially when in his transformed state.
Biography: Aleksander was born to Pyotr and Natalia Kyznetsov in the city of Serpukhov on November 2nd, 1978. It was a small, stable family in a quaint town home where Natalita raised Aleksander throughout his childhood. Pyotr worked at a textile factory, providing maintenance of the various machines that were used within. He didn't much very much money, but enough to allow his family to live comfortably. That is until one night, when Aleksander was 7, tragedy befell the Kyznetzov home.
The young boy was sleeping peacefully until the first shot was fired. By the time he awoke and made to get out of bed, he heard two more. He was frightened beyond any point a child should ever be, standing before his bedroom door and staring at the doorknob, uncertain if he really wanted to know what happened. He heard commotion through the door and down the hall, in his parents' room. Aleksander had reached out to open the door just as heavy footsteps fell on the hardwood floor and stopped just outside. The door had flung open and hit the boy, sending him sprawling back on the floor. Before he could cry out, he was frozen as he saw a large man in a ski mask standing in his doorway with a revolver in a gloved hand.
The masked man called out to another who was down the hall, not taking his eyes off Aleksander. "Ey, yest zdes rebenka!" Hey, there's a kid here!
"Togda zapotit'sya o malen'kikh der mo," said the man looting the master bedroom. Then take care of the little shit.
"Poshel ty! Ya ne sobirayus ubivat malen'golo ublyudka." Fuck you! I'm not going to kill the little bastard.
"Khorosho. Togda poydem. Ya ne dozhidayas soseday, chtoby vyzvat politsiyu." Alright. Then let's go. I'm not waiting for the neighbors to call the police.
The masked man motioned towards the man down the hall before giving Aleksander another look and shaking his head. Swiftly, the pair grabbed what they could and left the town home in the dead of night. The boy didn't know how long it was before his stupor waned and he was able to get back onto his feet. Shaking, he cautiously left his bedroom and moved towards that of his parents. Soon, Aleksander found himself frozen as his gaze met the bloody corpses of his mother and father. He didn't scream when he saw the sight. He didn't weep when the police arrived and removed him from the scene, nor when an officer tried to console him. He hadn't felt anything, he couldn't feel anything that day and it would be a long while before he could feel any sort of emotion.
Life went by quickly for Aleksander after that. He was put into foster care where he was raised for the remainder of his childhood. His foster parents tried to make him happy, to ease him out of the shell that he built around himself, but he just went through the motions as he was simply unable to process feelings of joy. Life continued like this until one day, in the later years of secondary school, he met the girl who would become the love of his life. Her name was Valeriya and she was the same age as he. They met in their Economics when they were paired up for a small class project. She took a great liking to him, and slowly but surely he grew to like her. Aleksander began feeling the first inkling of happiness since before his parents' death, and it only grew as his time with Valeriya went on.
By the time the couple had graduated, Valeriya with high honors and Aleksander just passing, they had become as close as could be and already planned on marrying. They moved into a house together and had a small ceremony in their back yard. It was a perfect life for an aspiring insurance broker and a florist, and would soon be even more so when they saw the first signs that Valeriya was bearing a child. To celebrate this grand news, they both went out to dinner; talking and laughing the night away, going over possible names, having a merry time until the restaurant had to close. It was looking to be the best night of their lives, however fate had a much more grim agenda.
Aleksander and Valeriya were walking to their car that silent night, the only light coming from the few street lamps along the road, when a shady figure with his collar up and a baseball cap on moved for the unaware couple. The capped man pulled out a switchblade, grabbed Aleksander's shoulder and spun him around. Aleksander, at the time being only just under six feet, was surprised to find himself held at knife point. Instinct took over and he threw the man's arm off his shoulder, only to have the tweaked mugger punch him in the gut and slash the knife up his face. The blade carved a deep gash running from his jaw, through his right eye, and up to his brow. The searing pain sent Aleksander to the ground, causing Valeriya to try moving past the mugger to his aid. The jumpy druggie saw this as an act of aggression and swiftly brought the blade of the knife across Valeriya's throat. She fell, clutching her neck and desperately trying to breathe past the blood that begun to fill her windpipe. The mugger quickly dropped the weapon and fled without a second thought, leaving Aleksander with his dying wife. The injured man knelt helpless beside her, holding her in his arms and looking into her desperate, pleading, frightful eyes, doing what little he could to console her. He cried out for help, for paramedics, an ambulance, police, God, anybody, though it was already too late. He watched as Valeriya's life left her eyes, clutched her lifeless body and wept, crying out as all that was good in his life was ripped from him once again.
When the EMTs finally arrived, Aleksander was in a state of partial awareness, though his own injury was just a small portion of the cause. He appeared to still be in shock as he was transported to the hospital and treated. The weeks following, an observer could say the Aleksander had put himself on autopilot. He was devoid of emotion when the police questioned him, when he checked himself out of the hospital, when he went home and tried to adjust to the empty house, even when he heard the news that his wife's killer had been found and was detained at a local precinct. Aleksander was to go to court the next week and testify against him, though the broken man had another form of judgement in mind.
On the day of the trial, Aleksander had walked into that courtroom with a gun acquired through illegal means tucked into his suit jacket and the intention of killing the guilty man where he sat. When he was asked to the stand as a witness, Aleksander walked up to the table where his wife's killer sat, removed his bandage so he could see the marred flesh and dead tissue. Before the court security could intervene, Aleksander pulled out a .38 snub nose revolver and unloaded all six hollow points into the defendant's chest. The court was thrown into a mix of panic and uproar, and the shooter was quickly detained with a wisp of a smile on his face.
In a few weeks' time, Aleksander played the part of the defendant at his own trial, plead guilty for the murder of Iosef Dubrovsky and was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. In his cell, he felt more at peace than he had been in months. He shared a cell with a man who was serving his sentence for small-arms trafficking. While Aleksander wanted silence from the man, Gleb Sidirov was having none of it. He spoke of how Aleksander looked to be a man whose life was strictly business, risky business, just simply not meant for a peaceful life as he initially thought. Aleksander knew the truth of the latter, but as the man bunked below him talked, remained quiet most days while Gleb told him of the business he was in. Gleb said once he was out in a year or two, he'd be back in the business, and not small stuff as he had been doing previously. He intended to be a big shot, turning war into big profit, making deals with dictators and warlords. Aleksander admired Glebs ambitions, certainly not for what they were, but just how the man thought big and aimed to make a name for himself. Over the next few years, Aleksander was happy to call the man a true friend, something he hadn't had in a very long time.
Before the pair knew it, it was Gleb's time to depart. He'd reached the end of his sentence and it was time for him to begin his work on "readjusting to society" as his parole officer had told him. The last thing Gleb told Aleksander was that once he got out, to get in touch with him so they could be partners once he got "the business" going again. Aleksander promised that he would, then they said their goodbyes, leaving the scarred man to finish his sentence. Or so he had thought...
While Aleksander had been spending the months after, biding his time, he was being monitored by government-sanctioned biochemists tasked with finding suitable test subjects for the highly classified "Project: Super". They were searching for those that seemed to have stronger constitutions than most, those that have been through great emotional and physical duress while still adapting well to life afterwards. Aleksander, to them, had fit the bill perfectly. The inmate was told that, if he accepted, he would be transferred to a new facility where he would become part of a lab study. He was ensured that the accomodations would be a significant improvement from what they were now, and if all went well, he could have his sentence shortened greatly and possibly removed entirely. Aleksander, as any sane man would have been, was skeptical about the idea. Figuring he really had nothing to lose, he signed up and soon found himself in an armored truck heading for a hidden bunker in the Russian woodlands.
In the fortified facility, he was treated to meals and living quarters much better than what was provided for him in prison. He was only given a week to acquaint himself with life there before they would begin the tests. He was given a physical and put through rigorous trials testing his strength, endurance, mental capacity, and the occasional pain threshold exam. After the initial testing, he was told the primary injections would be administered every morning and all he would have to do is go about his day as usual. This went on for a month before they decided to put him through the trials again. The results showed noteable improvement from the prior session and noted that Aleksander was adapting well to the serum. Another month of daily injections went by, however he was scheduled for daily excercise routines that would accelerate the process, a theory that proved to be true during the next trial when he greatly exceeded all expectations. It was believed that, in the condition his body was in now, a complete reconstruction of his right eye using the dead cells would not only be possible, but highly probable that it would result in success. Again, this theory was proved to be true, but Aleksander asked the surgeons to leave the eye as it appeared. It was a curious request, but not at all difficult to comply with. They were happy to oblige seeing as their subject was so cooperative in the experiment thus far.
There was but one last series of daily injections before they transitioned to a much stronger serum, one that need be administered only once a week. This new compound showed not only muscular and cardial improvement, but in bone structure as well. Enough to the point where Aleksander was showing signs of growth at the end of every week. The density of his bones was beyond what most would believe to be in the realm of possibility, the compositions of which more closely resembled a complex network of carbon nanotubes rather than normal bone structures. It was noted that immediately after the bone fragment exctraction, it appeared that the bone had already begun replenishing the missing fragment, and that the incision healed quicker than ever would have expected. After six months of weekly injections, they believed him to be ready for what they had all been working towards. Everything had been building up to the administration of the final serum, the one that would make Aleksander into what he is today.
This final administration required Aleksander to be strapped to an examination table. This concerned him greatly, and although reluctant, he complied seeing as he had trusted them thus far. The syringe for this procedure seemed far more intimidating than the last, seeing as it was encased in a large, gun-like device. He began to feel pain in his forearm the moment the liquid had entered his veins and immediately his whole arm began to quiver from hs fingertips to his shoulder. His muscles tensed, pushing against his bindings as it shook more violently and begun to spread throughout his body. The man looked as if he had thousands of volts of electricity surging through his body, siezing violently with gritted teeth and eyes wide open. Suddenly, the bindings started to tear as Aleksander grew, his muscle and bone expanding as he tensed and braced against the violent shaking.
No one could have anticipated what had happened next. A growth appeared to have formed on his arm, like a large callus, except it expanded rapidly. Then another formed just above it. Then another, and another, and yet another. Hundreds of them began growing on every surface of his body, sprouting from beneath his skin and spreading the open flesh as it expanded until it hit another growth. The pain was unlike anything he had felt before, and at the stage he was in the experiment, it was the sort of pain that could kill an ordinary man. By the time it was over, Aleksander had passed out from exhaustion and was lying unconscious on the exam table. Several studied from behind a solid glass wall while the two attending doctors began running tests. They couldn't cut into the growths that covered his body, for when they used a scalpel, the blade was dulled when they attempted to slice one open. They tried again with a bone saw but only to achieve similar results. They really didn't know what to make of this transformation. They exposed a portion to extreme heat with an acetylene torch, which showed interesting results. The hardened "flesh" began charring and opening up to reveal softer flesh that burned as well, leaving a grotesque third degree burn. When the flame was removed, the blood began to coagulate and the wound showed minor signs of regeneration. Next, a steady flow of liquid nitrogen was applied to one growth and then one examiner proceeded to hit the flash-frozen callus with a hammer. The growth shattered and, like the one before it, revealed a bloody mass of soft tissue beneath it that began to heal as well. They took what samples they could to study and allowed Aleksander to recover for the remainder of the day.
It wasn't until the following morning that Aleksander awoke, his body returned to normal and he found himself lying on his bed. One of the labcoats walked into the room and approached the waking man, informing him that they had just finished the analysis and that his part in this study was complete. They told him they had just been ordered to administer a serum that would reverse the effects of everything and that he would be able to return home after filling out the necessary forms. The labcoat had made the mistake of absentmindedly waving and sweeping his clipboard about as he spoke, though one couldn't really blame him as animated of a person he had been, and revealed to Aleksander the true nature of the next procedure. A quick look at the paper clipped to the plastic surface was all he needed to catch the small ink scrawl on the form that read "Terminate subject immediately".
Aleksander quickly made for the exit and bullrushed straight through the steel door, ripping it from its track and sending it clattering on the floor. He was surprised at the extent of his strength, but there was no time for admiration as klaxons blared throughout the facility. No sooner than he had made it to the end of the hall, he was met with a phalanx of heavily armed guard, all carrying high-caliber automatic rifles. Aleksander raised his arms in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the bullets and instantly he felt a burning sensation all over his body. Realization struck when they stopped firing and he still stood, a quick glance confirming that the growths had reformed over his body and he had grown substantially from just moments before. He pushed through the armed guards, many of which proceeded to empty new clips to no avail while others were trying to tend to bones broken by the brute who barreled past. Aleksander ran down many hallways before he found his goal, a large pair of blast doors that stood between him and freedom. The mutated man charged the door and bashed it with all his strength. He rebounded off the cold, hard surface, succeeding in only putting a large dent in the doors. He charged again and again, relentlessly attacking the very thing that contained him. Just when all hope seemed to be lost, another charge proved to be all that was necessary as the doors gave way, releasing the changed man from his personal prison.
Aleksander didn't stop running after pushing through those doors, not until he knew he would be safe from his captors. For miles he ran, gradually transforming back from the armored beast he was, and it wouldn't be until nightfall that he would come to rest at a small town. It was quite a strange sight for the old couple in the first house he came to, for once they had opened the doors, they were met with the sight of a towering bulk of a man wearing naught but a pair of exceptionally flexible shorts. Even stranger still, all he asked was to make a quick phone call. Having nowhere to turn and knowing no one else on the outside, he called the number that he kept in his memory, a number for someone who could get him in touch with his good friend Gleb.
The very next day, an arranged transport took him from the small town and all the way to Volgograd. He met with Gleb who, just as he had said, was back in business and transporting small-arms in and out of the country, using the city as a main hub for his business. It was no major operation like Gleb had desired, but with Aleksander's help, the two would turn it into the business that was once only a dream. They quickly climbed the ladder from small-arms dealers to heavy-duty wholesale brokers for various private military companies. Aleksander eventually took over as the head of the business, his prowess in such matters showing through surprisingly well, and he made his trafficking network global with Gleb as his right hand man. For years, they have on top of the arms business and have garnered much infamy and respect.
Other Notes: Being an international man of business, he speaks fluently in over a dozen languages. The business he is in has given him great instinct and awareness not unlike that of a hawk. The time as a science project has improved his senses greatly, helping him maintain exceptional situational awareness.
Going over your sheet the only real issue is the powers. Though suggestion implantation can be a lot of and be a good power (Like Iron Ruler hinted, see Code Geass). The problem is that it may not work well in an RP, because it is a form of mind-control. Mind-control in RP's tends to go either two ways: It becomes something everyone else ignores, or just leads to the Mind controller doing a bunch of character controlling other people. Mind controlling NPC's can be a problem because that can essentially lead to you having to manage several characters at once.
Besides that it looks good. I realize tweaking your powers would cause you to have to change a lot of things about the character, but it might be a good idea to address the problem areas of character control and multiple characters to make your sheet more attractive to the GM.
Appearance: Alard stands at an even 6"1', and has a somewhat lean build. Although his unique musculature is somewhat apparent. He has medium length red hair, and navy blue eyes, but his eyes are usually hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. He isn't especially one for secret identities or masks, so his usual attire is a white, button-up pinstripe shirt, with a light, somewhat fancy dark-grey coat covering it. He wears slightly loose beige slacks, and slip on leather shoes. And he has a belt with a special silver buckle.
Personality: Alard is, most usually a somewhat quiet, mostly solitary man, but you can strike up a conversation with him. Despite his tough, no nonsense appearance, he will openly discuss things with people if they want to chat. He'll usually do you a favor if you need something and he's not one to shy away from someone else's problems if he thinks they need some help. A negative trait of his, however, is his anger. He doesn't have a whole lot of buttons, but press one and he can quite literally leap into a fit of berserker rage. He's also one to promote standing by one's own belief, even when if conflicts with any kind of regulation. In short, a guy who's quiet when he wants to be, but won't stray when he sees someone desperately in need.
Alignment: Hero(with an occasional price tag)
Superpowers: Alard's one true power, is above all else, his sheer strength and resilience. He's strong enough to hurl a delivery truck a few meters, and he isn't one to shy away from a fistfight with a group of unlucky thugs. He isn't exceptionally fast, but he's somewhat good at parkour, and other small feats of agility. Not strictly being a power, he is also very efficient and greatly proficient with improbable or improvised weapons. The way he sees it, anything can effectively be used in a fight, street lights, garbage cans, signs, and of course garage doors among other things. If it's laying around, chances are, he'll try fighting with it, he's very creative at that sort of thing. Another slight side effect is a somewhat longer lifespan.
Weaknesses: Alard is resistant to large amounts of force, so crushing, or smashing him isn't an option unless you can muster the force required for it. He can take getting hit with a vehicle, but having said vehicle fall on him, or run into a thick wall would cause him a severe amount of anguish. As stated, he isn't extraordinarily fast, or swift, when it comes to running, and his temper can get the better of him. He is also pretty susceptible to burns, high powered gun shots, high voltage, drowning, being frozen to death, falling incredible heights, and being stabbed or cut will more than likely affect him. He's also somewhat afraid of bees, due to an allergy he discovered he had as a child. It is also said that you can ward him off by chopping onions in his vicinity. A side benefit from his strength though, is his near immunity to poisons, toxins and illnesses. His stamina also isn't infinite, so it is possible to tire him out if you can elude him long enough.
Biography: Alard was born to a rather normal middle class family, but it was soon discovered that he *wasn't* so normal. Due to a 'Defect' he had his body produced much more adrenaline than the average person, and in turn his muscles developed a higher level of strength without necessarily having the bulk of a massive body builder. He was sort of an enigma. In short, he was abnormally strong, however despite his great strength, his body was still human, and unused to such feats. As such whenever he exerted his powers, bones would get broken or other various dangers that required attention.
Over time however, his body slowly grew used to the strain of his abilities and this of course meant that he could use his strength freely without fear of fatally injuring himself. by the time he hit middle school, and high school, he had discovered he had an affinity for taking bullies down a notch for some of the more defenceless kids. He wasn't a complete saint however, he would require small rewards for his acts. He also believed that, if you had a fair shot at it, you should try to fight your own battles. As he put it, "If I solve all of your problems, you'll never learn to solve them for yourself."
After graduating, Alard continued what he started in school, working as a sort of bounty hunter, or in some cases, body guard. Taking odd jobs here and there to support himself. Sometimes he would even stop thugs and malicious criminals simply out of a sense of duty. His way of life earned him many friends, and quite a few enemies, but that's life. Wild. Unpredictable. And he wouldn't change a second of it.
After a few dangerous stints with some criminal organizations, he figured he wouldn't have very many safe places to stay if this kept up, and that's when, by sheer coincidence he encountered Seraphim. It sounded nearly too good to be true, a place where he could be on the payroll, have a safe place to sleep at night, and test his mettle against people who were just as gifted as him. Without a doubt, he believed he had found a place he could call home.
Now when he's cracking the skulls of crooks, fiends, monsters, or mobsters, he's doing it for Seraphim. He still has transactions with a few of his less shady contacts, along with the occasional odd job, but when he lays down to sleep at night he knows that there's a lower chance of waking up to a bomb, or at the point of a knife or a gun. It's like he's always said.
"That's life. Interesting, wild, and never predictable, and I wouldn't trade it for a damn thing."
Decided to go in different direction with my sheet.
Well, here's my application. I hope it's satisfactory.
Name: Greg Lang
Alias: Werewolf
Gender: Male
Age: 27
Appearance: In his unchanged appearance Werewolf stands at 5'10", weighing around 156 pounds with a lean, runner's build. His neck length, dark brown hair and pale skin serve to highlight his gaunt, grim looking facial features. Slightly dark circles under his green eyes and a thin layer of stubble around his jaw serve to enhance a trained look of apathy. His body is a mess, littered with scars both from surgery and from battle.
Werewolf typically wears comfortable clothing that's easy to move around in: a simple T-Shirt, pair of pants and running shoes are his typical fashion choices, though he has been known to wear any number of attire if it suits his current needs.
While using his power the hair on his body can expand to cover any part of his person. While in this state it usually appears as a dark brown, form fitting exoskeleton. It is possible for Werewolf to cover his entire body with this exoskeleton, giving him the appearance of a featureless human figure, useful for intimidating enemies.
Personality: A life constantly on the run, constantly living in fear of being captured, has left Greg inherently distrustful to those in positions of power. An acerbic wit and a wry sense of humor are used to cover up a desire to simply be left alone.
Greg's true motivations can be difficult to pin down, though his actions are primarily guided by a sense of self-preservation and self-interest. It would not be unthinkable for him to ally himself with others that he believes could further his own goals, though he would be reluctant to do so.
Werewolf can be vicious to those who oppose him. He has no qualms about killing his enemies and can even demonstrate a sadistic streak when performing the act, but he is able to recognize when he's beaten and will back down from a superior foe.
Alignment: Supervillain
Superpowers: A genetic experiment has left Werewolf with the ability to manipulate the keratin proteins in his body allowing him to manipulate his hair and nails. He commonly demonstrates this power as control over the length, shape and solidity of the hair on his body.
Werewolf is able to cover his entire body with a solid exoskeleton made of hair; this greatly increases his resistance to most direct forms of damage. He's also able to extend his hair in the form of tendrils that he typically fires from his hands, but they can also be spawned just below the shoulder blades. These tendrils can be extended up to a maximum distance of around 30 meters and can be used to grab objects and enemies from a distance. Werewolf often uses the tendrils as a form of locomotion, grabbing onto distant objects and swinging from them with ease.
During combat Werewolf can extend his nails into razor sharp claws, useful for tearing into his targets. He can shape his hair into a pair of arm blades, which allow for more finesse in a fight. He also makes use of his tendrils to grab, strike, and pierce distant enemies. These techniques combine to make Werewolf a formidable combatant.
The genetic experiment not only granted Werewolf superpowers, it also enhanced his physicality. Werewolf is near the peak of human strength, speed, and endurance. He can carry about double his own body weight, and run up to speeds of 24 miles per hour. He's hardier than an average human and has an increased resistance to disease and poisons.
Weaknesses: When he's not being protected by his exoskeleton, Werewolf is no more durable than any other human. Even while he's being covered by his exoskeleton he's not invulnerable; armor piercing attacks or repeated attacks of significant strength will be able to get through his guard.
In addition, Werewolf has a strict limit on how many applications of his powers he can use without spreading himself too thin. Covering his entire body with the exoskeleton takes a great deal of concentration and he'll be unable to use any of his offensive powers while protected.
In combat scenarios Werewolf commonly forgoes his defensive powers in favor of simply avoiding attacks all together; a quicker opponent would easily have the advantage in this case. And although his tendrils provide him some measure of compensation for this weakness, he is primarily a close ranged specialist and is vulnerable to attacks from long range.
His hair, particularly his tendrils may be cut off, and he is especially susceptible to fire based attacks. Though he can regrow any lost hair in a matter of moments he will be left in an extremely vulnerable state.
From the moment of his birth, Gregory Lang's life has followed a set path. His father, Jonathan Lang, was a brilliant geneticist working for HEART, a bio-medical corporation. John was part of a team that was working on a serum that they hoped would bring a better standard of living to future generations: An end to common illnesses, a method for creating a stronger, healthier, better human being.
Unbeknownst to John and many of the other scientists, the heads of HEART saw a different application for the serum. As part of a long term plan, John and many of the other employees were injected with the very serum they were working on. The serum worked on a genetic level, spreading the strains of mutation throughout the subject's DNA, changing the subject's genetic makeup on such a subtle level to render it unnoticeable.
They would find out years later that it worked. John had passed the mutation onto his son, Greg. For much of his childhood Greg lived a relatively normal life - albeit one that was filled with many visits to various doctors within HEART - until he was 15, when his parents tragically perished under mysterious circumstances. Rather than being taken in by relatives or child protective services, representatives from HEART came for the young man. For the next 2 years of his life, Greg served as a lab rat for HEART.
His days were spent getting poked and prodded as the scientists tried to find out what, if anything, the genetic experiment changed about the boy. The kindness and patience the doctors exhibited from his childhood had been replaced with a cold, unsympathetic sterility. The tests were torturous in and of themselves, but the true torment came from the dehumanization he faced; Greg wasn't a person to them, he was just a test subject and when he wasn't being experimented on, he was locked away in isolation.
This continued until one day, when one loose restraining strap allowed him to escape. There was a struggle as soon as his feet touched the floor. The doctor that was present attempted to subdue him; the man grabbed hold of Greg's arms and tried to stop the teen from escaping, but Greg was able to break free and grab a nearby syringe, which he repeatedly jabbed into the doctor's neck. The man fell to the ground as blood leaked from the torn skin on his neck, staining the tile. Greg was in shock, he had taken the life of another human being. He took a few moments to try and calm his nerves and then ran out of the room. It wasn't long before a security breach was reported and an alarm started flashing all throughout the HEART facility.
Greg narrowly avoided getting captured by the security team sent to apprehend him, and during his escape he found himself in an area that looked remarkably like a prison cell block. As he ran past the rows of doors he saw glimpses of people locked inside, dressed in the same medical robes as himself, he figured they were test subjects just like him. There wasn't any time to save them though, as Greg focused on finding a way out for himself.
His searching eventually proved fruitful when he found an elevator located at the center of the facility. He spotted one of the doctors approaching the elevator, keycard in hand, escorted by one of the security guards. Greg hadn't been noticed, so he had the upper hand; he pounced on the guard from behind and grabbed the struggling man's neck in between his arms. He wrestled the guard's tranq gun away from him and pressed the barrel up to the man's exposed neck, firing three darts in a rapid succession. The tranquilizer worked fast and the guard fell to the ground. Greg turned to the terrified doctor and fired four darts into his chest, sending him tumbling to the ground as well. He took the keycard from the doctor's body and accessed the elevator.
The frantic atmosphere of the underground facility gave way to the eerie calm of the elevator ride. After a few tense minutes, the elevator finally opened and when Greg stepped outside he saw a place that was very familiar to him, the main HEART facility in Detroit.
He couldn't believe that the hell he suffered for two years was buried just underneath a place he was so familiar with. He made a dash to the facility's entrance and kept running until he was several blocks away. Greg ducked behind an alleyway and finally took a well-deserved rest. It was difficult to process all that had just happened, his escape, and how simple it seemed to be for the 17 year old to take down two fully grown adults.
Greg didn't go to any authorities, he didn't seek support from any of his relatives; he laid low for several months after his escape, surviving by means of petty theft, seeking shelter wherever he could. For a while he was able to forget about his horrific time at HEART, until he saw them in the news. HEART's CEO had announced that the medical corporation was branching into the military sector. Greg had a sinking feeling in his gut; he wondered if that's why HEART had tortured him.
Regardless, HEART's military funding had helped them grow substantially, and more importantly it gave them the resources they needed to track down Greg. He represented years worth of medical research data and HEART wasn?t about to let him slip away.
Greg soon found himself under hot pursuit from better armed and better trained forces than the ones he had faced back at the underground facility.
He left the US and traveled around the world, looking for a new place to hide. He was constantly being hunted, but as the years passed his skills improved, his techniques were honed, and his willingness to kill to survive had grown. For 8 years Greg had managed to stay one step ahead of HEART, until one day in 2010 when his luck had run out.
HEART managed to capture Greg and transport him back to the States, where they had big plans for him. During the 8 years Greg had been on the run, a new subject had captured HEART's attention. It was from this "Subject Prime" that HEART had finally managed to activate their superpowered mutation within a human being, and it was from his blood that HEART hoped to do the same to Greg.
Greg was strapped to reinforced table and injected with a serum synthesized from Subject Prime's blood. When the switch was flipped and the radiation mixed with Greg's infected blood, everything changed.
His skin felt like it was being peeled off, his eyes burned, his muscles shot with pain. Though it was only a few short, agonizing minutes, it felt like an eternity. When it was finally over, he just laid there, his vital signs showed that he flatlined; he couldn't see anything around him but darkness, but he could sense that he was still very much alive. His eyes opened; the procedure was a success and Gregory Lang was forever changed.
The heads of HEART were pleased with their latest success, and quickly figured out a way to put him to good use. They had given Greg a handler who told him that Subject Prime had slipped out of HEART's grasp over a year ago, much like Greg did before. Subject Prime was the key to HEART's generation of superhumans, so they cut a deal with Greg: if he returned Subject Prime to them they would stop their constant pursuit of him. Their success with Greg proved that HEART could create a superhuman, and what little use they had left for him wasn't worth the continued trouble of trying to restrain the now superpowered young man.
Greg agreed to aid them in exchange for his freedom, and he spent the next few weeks tracking down Subject Prime and trying to get a handle on his new powers. He took on the moniker of "Werewolf", in reference to his altered appearance.
Following the intel provided by HEART, Werewolf had located Subject Prime and the two fought. The fight was close, but it ended in Werewolf's favor.
But rather than capture Prime as instructed, Werewolf created a blade on his right arm and stabbed Subject Prime in the chest with it, killing him. He wasn't going to be a lackey for HEART and he certainly wasn?t going to aid them in doing to others what they did to him.
He looked back at Prime's body and cast off his old identity as Greg Lang; that man was hunted and tortured for years, that man lived in fear. He looked down at his hands as claws extended from his fingers; Greg Lang may have lived in fear, but Werewolf wouldn't. He realized that HEART would pursue him, but they had given him the strength he needed to fight back.
Werewolf fled the scene and eventually found himself in New York, where he remains two years later. HEART is no longer the only one looking for him anymore, he had learned later that Subject Prime had joined up with Seraphim and murdering him put Werewolf in their sights as well.
It doesn't matter who's after him; Werewolf is a survivor and so long as he has powers, he'll continue to be a survivor.
Other notes: Though Werewolf does indeed fall within the definition of "supervillain", and should be considered hostile should any heroes come across him, he lacks the ambition found in other villains and mainly limits himself to the petty crimes of his teenage years. If he found a cause to devote himself to whether it be for good or evil, he may become a more prominent figure, but right now the limited scope of his focus marks him as only a moderate threat.
Let me know if there's anything that should be changed or expanded upon.
Gender: Female Age: 50, in her 30's in Leviathan age
Appearance:
Ianthe has deep blue hair, pure black eyes, and light gray/violet skin. Her bone structure, especially that of her face, gives the impression that even aside from her odd colors, she isn't a human. Her eyes are a little too big, her nose, chin, and teeth are a little too sharp. She has a slim build, with little in the chest and hips, and long legs. Her toes are webbed. She stands nearly 6 feet tall. Her spine has bony growths that are similar to craggy spikes, not big enough to stick out of a large jacket, but noticeable enough that she can't wear a fitted t-shirt. She has gills along her neck and shoulders, but they are not very visible.
Ianthe is similar in physiology to a Kronosaurus or a Crocodile with fins instead of limbs. Four thick tentacles ending in flat, sharp, cartilage emerge from her shoulders and sides, a pair in each. Her head and torso are covered in thick gray scales, and the spikes in her human form are enlarged, extending from the top of her head to mid-back. The bottom half of her body is not armored, similar to shark skin in texture, with a belly similar to a snake. She has several rows of sharp teeth.
Personality: Ianthe is usually gentle, calm, and quiet, however when her daughter is in trouble she can be forceful and aggressive. She's slow to anger, but isn't shy about it when she's in a bad mood, shouting and lashing out. She's very protective of Mneme, and would do anything to keep her safe.
Alignment: Supervillain Superpowers:
Leviathan Physiology: Only gets to full size when Ianthe is in deep seawater. Her transformation is quick, but it still takes a few minutes to extend to full size. Her size depends on the depth of the water she is in, starting out at 8 feet in no water at all, to 15 feet near land, to 40 feet in the open ocean, and 120 feet in the deep trenches. She can withstand the pressure at the ocean floor. She can swallow water and shoot it out in a high pressure jet, and also create whirlpools when inhaling.
(includes Aquatic Adaptation: Aquatic Respiration, Cold-proof Skin, Pressure Resistance)
Precipitation Manipulation: Ianthe can change the weather to rain or snow. It takes an hour or so to take effect. She cannot control the rain/snow itself, nor can she create or control lightning.
Self-Liquefaction: Ianthe can turn herself, or parts of herself into a sort of saltwater jelly. Her volume remains the same. She can still feel in this form.
Aquatic Respiration: Thanks to her gills. Can only breathe in oxygenated water, still suffocates if there is not enough Oxygen.
Enhanced Strength: Not as powerful as someone who has this as their main power, but stronger than the average human. She can lift up most people a foot off the ground in one hand.
Weaknesses: In Leviathan form, although her top half is armored to a point, she is still vulnerable to most torpedoes and missiles. The fleshy part of her tentacles can be cut through with most blades. She slithers on land, and has trouble moving fast on smooth surfaces. She easily dries out in heavy sun, and has to turn back to her human form to conserve water. Without a source of water like a fire hydrant, she cannot use her water based attacks.
In liquid form, Ianthe can still feel pain, and can still sustain damage, especially from piercing attacks. Although most of the time it won't be fatal, an equal wound will appear when she materializes again. She is weak to electricity, and can faint when shocked in liquid form. Her liquid form cannot be accessed in Leviathan form. Any damage sustained in her liquid or Leviathan form will carry over when she transforms.
Biography: The bottom of the ocean is a place rarely observed, a realm unknown. There, the Leviathan make their home. Massive creatures with long lifespans, it was rumored that their fights caused earthquakes and tsunamis. In myths, they are the rulers of the ocean, in legends they are the guardians of the Earth itself. The Leviathan are rumored to be descended from humans, hundreds of thousands of years ago. They were a people of the water, transformed by Pleione into the guardians of the deep. They were removed from the human populace as generations passed: finally reaching the point at which they could not ever fully return to human form, no matter how far from Pleione they were.
There are several gateways that lead up to the oceans and seas from the undersea haven. They are guarded not only with magic, but with claws and teeth. Pleione itself is massive, spanning the entire ocean floor. The pressure is crushing, the temperatures freezing, and the sunlight non-existent. The only ones that move in the darkness are the mighty Leviathan.
It was here that Ianthe was born, and this is the place she calls home. For years she swam among her brethren, occasionally slipping through the gateways to feed on whales and sharks that passed by. She had plenty of space: Leviathan were long lived, had few children, and were at the top of the food chain. There was only one unwritten rule: you couldn't go into the Sunlight zone during the daytime. The sun would destroy the pockets of photophores that line their body. The bright stripes of light that run lengthwise along their body are the keys to Pleione. In stories it was a pocket of sunlight trapped in their skin, and being exposed to the sun released it, effectively stripping them of their ability to enter the gateways.
Of course, it wasn't Ianthe that went to the surface. It was her only daughter, Mneme. Her 4-year-old daughter, Mneme, didn't come back after chasing a school of tuna. Ianthe knew that Mneme wasn't stupid enough to stay out after dawn, and she was right. Mneme had gotten attacked by a large shark, and couldn't swim back to Pleione. With the sun rising and Mneme in bad condition, Ianthe did what a mother would. She swam to her daughter, and gave up her stripes in order to protect Mneme.
For the first time, mother and daughter saw the sun. The blue sky, the white clouds... but they also felt themselves changing. Pleione was far now, its familiar pulse now so very weak. They seemed so small, too. Ianthe was a fourth of her original size, and Mneme seemed even smaller than that. Still too injured to attempt the trip back to the abyss, Mneme and Ianthe float around the sea, ducking into the water when unfamiliar creatures buzzed by.
A few days later, the pair returned to the gateways, fully aware of what awaited them, but holding with a glimmer of faith. It was quickly extinguished as they reached the gate. It was closed forever to them: they were so close, yet so far from their world.
Now, Leviathan could go on land, but they just didn't. There was no water on land, and it made no sense for them to go there. However, due to their origins, all of the Leviathan still possessed the ability to change into a more humanoid shape: two arms, two legs, one head. At first it was weird, since neither Ianthe nor Mneme had tried it, but they learned quickly. Their second test was to learn to use the new human form. After a few false starts flopping around on the sand, Ianthe stood, then walked, then ran. She needed help for her daughter, but her language wouldn't form in her mouth. They all ran away when she tried to approach. Her daughter was healing slowly, but she needed help. Was there no healer here?
When she returned to the shore, she was greeted by a flashing, noisy thing attacking her daughter. Enraged, she turned back to her aquatic form and attacked the offender, smashing it and crushing it and throwing it into the water. Two of the humans stood over Mneme, shouting and saying things. Mneme was afraid, crying for her mother. In a flash, Ianthe killed the men, splattering their blood on the sand. She cradled her daughter close, finding a safe haven in a small cove around the side of the cliffs. There she hid her daughter, letting her sleep in the small pools left at low tide.
That was 5 years ago. Now Mneme is sick. She cannot sleep, and she cries every night and day. Ianthe is at a loss: she has no access to Pleione, and her daughter can't make a trip below the surface. with no choice, Ianthe started kidnapping brilliant doctors and veterinarians. She demolishes banks and hospitals to get the supplies and funds necessary to find the treatment and cure. The first one she kidnapped was easy: she snatched him from his beach-side home, carrying him in her mouth until they reached the cave. Unfortunately, Ianthe was neither patient nor understanding. He died trying to escape through the underwater passage to the ocean. The next time, she took a doctor and her family from their home, keeping them all prisoners. She killed them in a fit when she found out they had tried to kill Mneme, and then the mother when she refused to work after her family was murdered. So far she's gone through 7 doctors, each one dying after just a few months in the damp cave.
Other notes:
Mneme looks almost exactly like a younger, smaller, version of her mother, in Leviathan and in human form. She also sports similar powers.
Ianthe isn't inherently evil. She doesn't bear any ill will towards humanity. The problem is that she isn't well-versed in human customs or mannerisms, and that most humans have already taken to trying to kill her.
I like this character man, but I see two problems with it: One, he doesn't seem to have any reason to ever go out of Iron Hide mode, and two, he doesn't seem particularly supervillainous. Reading the bio it seems to suggest he's more along the lines of a legitimate arms dealer and manufacturer like Remington than the Yuri Orlov type, arming terrorists and rogue states.
Appearance: His body consists of rags and hay, with bits and pieces of other things stuck inside either by accident or as weights. The Straw Man wears a tattered, crooked, wide brimmed hat, complete with a crow's feather stuck in it, on top of straw hair, and a filled burlap sack face stitched with a malevolent grin. When it's dark and when he opens his mouth, an eerie light filters out of the gaps. A noose hangs around his neck and is pulled tight to keep things secure. The rest of his body is covered in poorly stitched together rags that provide an almost cape-like quality. A crow or raven is always seen perched on his shoulder.
Personality: The Straw Man has grown to delight in the suffering and fear in others, and has developed a fondness for torture. Whilst his life necessitates that he must kill with his pestilent aura, he is not above dismembering with his scythe, or recently, stringing people up as sacrificial effigies, leaving them as nought but a feast for crows.
He sees himself as a necessary force, the reckoning for those who sow the seeds of evil in their hearts. Seeing as everyone has their own personal evil, Robin has no qualms with his victims, although those who are visibly more corrupt he takes more pleasure in culling from mankind.
Alignment: Super-villain
Superpowers:
Scarecrow Physiology - Being soul bound to a body comprised mainly of a wooden skeleton, hay and rags, Rob is impervious to pain (with the exception of fire). He is unaffected by dismemberment, and is equally bothered by other large scale injuries, as long as a significant fraction of him still remains.
Corvid Manipulation - An ironic power to say the least, The Straw Man has power over the aforementioned family of birds, using them as his minions to do his bidding. They are helpful as scouts, messengers, distractions, weapons, and to retrieve his body parts. He also uses them as a means of short-term flight, via lifting him into the air.
Pestilence - Another ironic reminder of both his previous life, and of the Scarecrow's previous purpose, Robin has become a walking blight upon the living. In his small vicinity, everything he walks upon or touches begins to wither and die. Plants are immediately corrupted, however the effect on more complex living organisms takes longer, with humans experiencing excruciating internal pain.
Weaknesses:
Fire - Robin is exceptionally susceptible to fire, due to both his innate materials, and the effect of the witch's curse. It is the only physical thing capable of causing him pain, and it causes him extreme [/b] agony.
Dismemberment/Decapitation - Whilst The Straw Man is not particularly affected by the loss of limbs, it does intensely annoy him. Much like a zombie, it severely impairs his abilities, the loss of arms affecting his scythemanship, or the loss of legs rendering him largely immobile.
The removal of Rob's head also prevents the control of the rest of his body, and as such is the usually target for his opponents.
Evisceration - The complete destruction of a body part renders that aspect of him incapacitated until he is able to re-assemble himself with new materials/sewing himself back together.
The complete destruction of the whole of his body, including vitally his head, removes his soul pact altogether, destroying him permanently.
Scarecrow Physiology - As previously referred to as a power, it is as much a curse as a blessing. Scarecrows aren't well-known for being exceptionally resilient, and although Robin is of the sturdy variety, being constantly rebuilt by himself, as well as being partially infused with magic, he is still just a Glass Cannon [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GlassCannon]
Biography:
The Straw Man was once nothing but a simple farmer by the name Robin Goodfellow.
Robin lived in a small Puritan village on the outskirts of Massachusetts during the early 17th century, there he owned a small cottage along with a plot of land that his father had toiled over before him, there he worked the land himself after his parents had died, growing the finest crops in all of the village, his land always producing a fine harvest.
Along came a particularly tough time in the village, with rumours of sin abound, accusations were thrown, and the people became increasingly paranoid of their neighbours, with the majority opting to keep to themselves and their property and families, with the only excursions being going to the church.
These tough times were not helped by the weather, with the land plagued with drought, the stubborn land resisted all attempts of growth, with Robin's expansive plot being especially affected. Along came the Harvest Season, and in the whole village, not a single crop was reaped. The people became increasingly scared, and had no choice but to turn to their reserve stores of grain, such a preparation being necessary due to their isolation. They rationed each household a set amount, until such a time where their measures were not necessary.
The townsfolk returned their devotion to God with a renewed vigour, each person praying diligently, praying for salvation from their hunger and a better Harvest Season to come.
Robin himself was not particularly as convinced, he had always been a man of scepticism, directing his attention more to Earthly matters. He shied away from Church, his land being his livelihood, he wasn't about to put such important things in the hands of God, and therefore inspected his land more thoroughly, re-sowing his crops more efficiently.
The next Harvest Season was just as unfruitful, and the following looked just as promising. The town's hunger was by that point threatening the lives of everyone, with their reserves having run completely dry. Although Rob had no family of his own, he saw those affected, the parents desperately trying to allay their children's hunger, turning to eating vermin, to cooking shoe leather. The elderly were the first to die, their lifeless bodies appeared in the streets, before the Church took them into their care, determined to stop the looming thought of cannibalism.
Robin, distraught with what he was witnessing, sought out an alternative means to stop any more suffering. He heard rumours of Witchcraft in the outlying forest, and ventured out into the wilderness to see if they were founded. There, he found a small hut, and inside was a woman, younger than what he had imagined a witch. He went to her, and begged for a way to solve the villages woes, and for a fruitful harvest. The witch told him that such a thing was not possible, and that it was not a mortal's job to meddle in such affairs, and that the consequences for interfering in the balance of nature were too great.
Dissatisfied with such an answer, Robin nevertheless left the witch to her solitude, before returning in dead of night to her shack. Rob stole ancient arcane texts as she slept, before retreating to his cottage under the cover of darkness. Once alone, he studied the texts for an answer to the dreadful harvest. Within the books, he found what he was looking for, The Principle of Life; that only an offering of life could give life, and that for the crops to grow, he must offer up a life to heathen gods.
With the town's options growing smaller by the day, Rob took an ailing old man living as a vagrant. He was not a member of any family, and kept himself to himself. With his strength having faded with age, along with the stifling hunger, it was an easy task to overpower the old man and to lead him to the forest, where he bound him to a tree and slit his throat, all whilst reciting incantations from the arcane texts. Once he was dead, he returned to his cottage.
The Harvest Season approached, and the remaining villagers had all but abandoned hope of surviving. It was then that Robin knocked upon each door, asking them to come to the fields to see the crops for themselves, and so they did follow. Upon his request, they saw the lush crops, as bountiful as they had been in their dreams. They reaped the harvest, and although each was eager to sate their hunger, the children came first, and thus were given the first of the food. Immediately the children were struck with sickness, whereupon they fell to the ground, their hearts still, dead.
The villagers cried out in grief and fury, blaming Robin for the crops that had poisoned their children. He objected to their accusations, and in a moment of thought, he lied to them about who was responsible, blaming the witch who lived in the forest, saying it was her that had caused the drought and subsequent poisoned crops. Anxious for violence, the townsfolk rallied behind Robin as he lead them to where he knew she lived. They bound and gagged her, and brought her before the church, before tying her to a stake surrounded by kindling. They found her guilty of witchcraft, and each person took their go at decrying her name and cutting her. Robin began the slow process of setting her alight, the kindling igniting. As she burned, the witch did not writhe in agony, instead she stared at him as her flesh singed, giving him the glare of Death himself.
Morning came, and with it came the findings of a body strung up in the forest, one of the tonwsfolk, an elderly man with his throat slit. Robin was quick to dismiss the findings as yet more proof of work by the witch, probably in one of her sinister heathen rituals to plague the people with ill fortune. However the men who discovered the body addressed that the weapon used to slit the man's throat was a common sickle, and that they had inspected the witch's estate and found no need for such an implement. They were also quick to point out that every farmer had an alibi, be it family or other that they had been at home for the full extent of recent time, all except for one, Robin.
Two: Why does being made of straw and rags make him impervious to physical harm? Scarecrows are not hard to damage. Also, fire.
Three: How does being good with a scythe translated to wind manipulation?
Four: You have literally no weaknesses listed and it's not like you have a weak powerset.
Five: Backstory doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. They have a drought so this guy decides to one: Turn against his God and two: Commit murder in the name of these pagan Gods. This could be made to be dramatic, but the way it's written it's so fast it seems ludicrous. The Witch screws them over basically for the lulz. She doesn't get anything out of it. Why does a Witch with the power to control crops and curse him into becoming a scarecrow just let herself get burned at the stake?
Two: Why does being made of straw and rags make him impervious to physical harm? Scarecrows are not hard to damage. Also, fire.
Three: How does being good with a scythe translated to wind manipulation?
Four: You have literally no weaknesses listed and it's not like you have a weak powerset.
Five: Backstory doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. They have a drought so this guy decides to one: Turn against his God and two: Commit murder in the name of these pagan Gods. This could be made to be dramatic, but the way it's written it's so fast it seems ludicrous. The Witch screws them over basically for the lulz. She doesn't get anything out of it. Why does a Witch with the power to control crops and curse him into becoming a scarecrow just let herself get burned at the stake?
1: Because I can't be bothered to look up the Puritan-Era and work out his age, also because he doesn't have a body to age.
2: Because magically reanimated hay gives him some variation of light armour and consistency, I could give him a wooden/solid skeleton if it's that much of an issue. I addressed the issue of fire as his one real weakness, and then it's just an issue of choice of words, which I agree I floundered with trying to not make him sound invincible.
3. I needed some way for him to not be screwed when fire's near him, as he would be constantly putting them out as he's so paranoid. Initially I wanted him to have crow's wings as well as the manipulation, which would serve the same purpose, if that's a better alternative.
4. Scarecrow physiology is both a blessing and a curse, and as you pointed out it isn't exactly hard to damage a scarecrow.
So being being dismembered isn't a disadvantage? And a single spark could ignite his body, as stated.
I'd welcome suggestions if you feel this way.
5. He wasn't especially close to God, and if you saw everyone around you starving and suffering a slow death, I'm sure you'd want to do something too. I agree, because it was written quickly, so I will address the bio.
She didn't control the crops, he lied about her as the source so the people would blame her, so as to hide his act from everyone.
Because she's mortal, and it was her last act alive, and as such her magic was particularly strong when she was feeling the most intense pain and anger as she burned alive.
Like I said, I will address the bio issues, although I'd appreciate constructive criticism, with some suggestions on how to improve.
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