The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
- Thread starter The Sorrow
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My last minute entry, I hope you all like it. Read the spoilers afterward if you do read the intro. It's late now, I may add more details later. Goodnight.
?When I?m off the field? I imagine doing horrible things to people, to my friends and comrades, to the POWS, and to the staff. Not because I can?t help it, because imagining them is the only thing I can do to stop myself from actually doing them.?-Farfig Alhazarid, Session 4
It appeared as though the area had been bombed with slaughterhouses, corpses were stacked like houses of cards on top of blood soaked earth. There was no sun in the sky, obscured as it was by great clouds of smoke. It appeared that a great blanket of oil had been dragged over the sky by god to hide the horrors below.
The war itself seemed to be a study in anachronisms; scattered tanks and ancient medieval siege engines equally trapped in the piles of dead bodies they had the misfortune to sink into. Men in both combat armor and cuirasses littered the ground, assault rifles and strange guns with twisting coils and wide bores that still seemed to spark with an alien energy.
Every face was locked into a scream or shattered into pieces. Silent battle cries and last words carved onto silent faces. Gory mud caked onto everything out here, little pieces of fallen warriors begging for a proper burial, seeking to leave this hell and go to their final peace. Walking across this violent hellhole, this veritable compost heap of human flesh was a man oddly hardened to its grisly wonders. It was his place of employment in a sense.
Tall and with a purpose in his stride that didn?t falter even when he sank knee deep into the ground and pulled his boot back up to brush the organs off. The uniform, a million just like it had passed under his feet today. A long grey coat now stained so many shades of crimson, a banner of bloody fire across the bottom. A gas mask, a large green tubular filter hanging down with a connection to an oxygen supply, without which he would no doubt choke just from the fumes of rotting corpses let alone the menagerie of pollutants in the air. The eyes behind the lenses of that pattern 9 gas mask held a calm that unnerved any greenhorn recruit lucky enough to see him face to face. The steel helmet and heavy combat armor, both standard issue with a few personal touches, the words ?fuck you? written in every language the translator in his regiment knew, all in thick black paint. He seemed to move like a phantom through a wall, he met no friction in this place. In one hand, he held a pistol that had become heavy with the days travels, and in his other, a chain.
The chain was connected to a monster, a creature which would make any man walking through these wastes as calm as the one that held it?s chain now. Seeming to be a living engine of destruction it was colored red with blood, the natural grey pigment of its flesh barely visible under the coat of paint it wore. It held a gun, if it could be called that. In truth it was more like a cannon, fit for a being that stood nearly twelve feet tall. The thing seemed to be a totem, an idol other guns would worship. The bullets trailing from it?s belt were as long as a mans arm and the weapon itself taller than the things apparent handler. The weapon itself was slung over the beasts massive shoulders, clicked against its collar as he walked and stumbled over the battleground on its thick legs.
Its face seemed to be human, or at least resembled one in that it bore eyes and ears. The nose it had were just two black dots sticking out among the red. It wore thick armor, looking like a tank had been wrapped around it, and a helmet similar to its handler. As strange as the pair was slogging their way across the killing fields, one thing about the giant stood out in particular, more than the unsettling calm it held, just like that of it?s handler. It was the body it held in it?s hand, a man dressing a robe that moved like it was alive and grew mouths to sing out verses of songs it had just written. He was missing much of his body, barely a bleeding torso and head remained, deep into its decay. The giant wore the rings from the odd mans fingers over his teeth, they gave him strange powers, he could tell the exact date, time and temperature, it made the guns of the hurting men?s pain-sticks announce their presence in a riot of beautiful colors only he could see. He was sure that one had made a fireball erupt out of his hand but was told it was a grenade someone else had thrown. The man with the chain said it was stupid, he said to throw the coat and body away, but the thing refused. Even though the coat sometimes bit him.
There were other trophies of a sort in the large leather sack he wore on his back. Many he did not understand, there was a piece of glass that always showed the reflection of the same man no matter who looked in it. On of the pain-sticks used by the hurting men, and a brick that always seemed to have something different carved into it every time you looked at it that helped him learn to read, among other weird bits of war litter.
On occasion he would see that riot of color that marked a hurting man bringing one of the strange guns to bear and the beast would move like lightning. The gun would roar, it was the sound of hell opening up, and a fine red mist would replace the riot of color. The handler liked the sound of the gun; it tended to drown the screams. Out here neither was ever distracted, just one reason they remained alive. Yet the next moment held a thing so strange that both were forced to drop their attentions from the violence around them.
Floating before them, lifted from the earth by the spinning propellers on the pair of green plane wings stemming from it?s back was a being both had seen in their dreams. The handler in a drug induced comma and the beast in the dreams he believed given to him by one of the rings. In tattered robes of camouflage colors it hovered in air. Its hair was burning napalm and its face was a gaunt skull with skin barely clinging to it. Yet it had an unnatural beauty about it, one you could not describe without sounding insane, a beauty almost forced upon you. In one hand it had a lance made of an artillery cannon, and in the other a shield of sorts made from helmets fused together. It?s hands bled perpetually, saturating its accessories with its blood that was the purest shade of red you would swear she bled red silk. The specter hung in the air for a moment, both patrons to its presence waited in reverent patience for its words. When it spoke there was the crash of artillery in every syllable.
?You have both accepted your place, and your deaths inevitability. You prove your ability to survive time and again in a place that makes men reject their own survival instinct to save their sanity. Single handedly you have shown your willingness to live even under the direst of circumstances and most painful conditions. You chose life over everything, and by making that choice you now join the ranks of a battle in another place.?
The beast wanted to nod. Yet the one holding the chain had not given any sign of recognition. Rather he stared up at the glorious being before him, unflinching and seemingly unmoved by its presence. His silence was now revealed not as pious patience, but rather contempt for the call of this battlefield god.
?No.? The answer was strong, and cold, the beast wanted to show anger against the man with chain but he still held the chain in his hand. He could do nothing unless the man with that chain told him so.
The silence swayed in the air like a man hung from a tree. It was painful to the giant, it chocked at his throat. He desperately wished to speak, to voice his rage to the man with the chain but could find no words to do it with. The tug on the chain banished the thoughts in his mind away. He moved, the man with the chain had moved and he was forced to follow. ?Come on. We?re leaving.? He had nothing more to say.
Unfortunately the god that floated above him had no sympathy for whatever insanity or sense of duty and honor fueled this man to defy her.
?You were not given a choice.? The cannons muzzle raised to meet him and his living tank.
The beast, seemed unmoved, it was sure it wasn?t dying it was quite aware that it was being moved. Yet this was not the focus of it's attentions. For, he had noticed, and perhaps in some random synapse of his tiny mind connected, that the guns of the hurting men had the same riot of color about them that the strange woman?s lance had when she raised it towards him.
He could not hear the blast, it deafened him instantly, he could only feel as it pulled him apart bodily and through all the pain, he felt himself being moved. For the first time in years, Farfig Alhazarid screamed. Not from the pain, not from the physical destruction but because he was being moved. The ***** was taking him away.
The war itself seemed to be a study in anachronisms; scattered tanks and ancient medieval siege engines equally trapped in the piles of dead bodies they had the misfortune to sink into. Men in both combat armor and cuirasses littered the ground, assault rifles and strange guns with twisting coils and wide bores that still seemed to spark with an alien energy.
Every face was locked into a scream or shattered into pieces. Silent battle cries and last words carved onto silent faces. Gory mud caked onto everything out here, little pieces of fallen warriors begging for a proper burial, seeking to leave this hell and go to their final peace. Walking across this violent hellhole, this veritable compost heap of human flesh was a man oddly hardened to its grisly wonders. It was his place of employment in a sense.
Tall and with a purpose in his stride that didn?t falter even when he sank knee deep into the ground and pulled his boot back up to brush the organs off. The uniform, a million just like it had passed under his feet today. A long grey coat now stained so many shades of crimson, a banner of bloody fire across the bottom. A gas mask, a large green tubular filter hanging down with a connection to an oxygen supply, without which he would no doubt choke just from the fumes of rotting corpses let alone the menagerie of pollutants in the air. The eyes behind the lenses of that pattern 9 gas mask held a calm that unnerved any greenhorn recruit lucky enough to see him face to face. The steel helmet and heavy combat armor, both standard issue with a few personal touches, the words ?fuck you? written in every language the translator in his regiment knew, all in thick black paint. He seemed to move like a phantom through a wall, he met no friction in this place. In one hand, he held a pistol that had become heavy with the days travels, and in his other, a chain.
The chain was connected to a monster, a creature which would make any man walking through these wastes as calm as the one that held it?s chain now. Seeming to be a living engine of destruction it was colored red with blood, the natural grey pigment of its flesh barely visible under the coat of paint it wore. It held a gun, if it could be called that. In truth it was more like a cannon, fit for a being that stood nearly twelve feet tall. The thing seemed to be a totem, an idol other guns would worship. The bullets trailing from it?s belt were as long as a mans arm and the weapon itself taller than the things apparent handler. The weapon itself was slung over the beasts massive shoulders, clicked against its collar as he walked and stumbled over the battleground on its thick legs.
Its face seemed to be human, or at least resembled one in that it bore eyes and ears. The nose it had were just two black dots sticking out among the red. It wore thick armor, looking like a tank had been wrapped around it, and a helmet similar to its handler. As strange as the pair was slogging their way across the killing fields, one thing about the giant stood out in particular, more than the unsettling calm it held, just like that of it?s handler. It was the body it held in it?s hand, a man dressing a robe that moved like it was alive and grew mouths to sing out verses of songs it had just written. He was missing much of his body, barely a bleeding torso and head remained, deep into its decay. The giant wore the rings from the odd mans fingers over his teeth, they gave him strange powers, he could tell the exact date, time and temperature, it made the guns of the hurting men?s pain-sticks announce their presence in a riot of beautiful colors only he could see. He was sure that one had made a fireball erupt out of his hand but was told it was a grenade someone else had thrown. The man with the chain said it was stupid, he said to throw the coat and body away, but the thing refused. Even though the coat sometimes bit him.
There were other trophies of a sort in the large leather sack he wore on his back. Many he did not understand, there was a piece of glass that always showed the reflection of the same man no matter who looked in it. On of the pain-sticks used by the hurting men, and a brick that always seemed to have something different carved into it every time you looked at it that helped him learn to read, among other weird bits of war litter.
On occasion he would see that riot of color that marked a hurting man bringing one of the strange guns to bear and the beast would move like lightning. The gun would roar, it was the sound of hell opening up, and a fine red mist would replace the riot of color. The handler liked the sound of the gun; it tended to drown the screams. Out here neither was ever distracted, just one reason they remained alive. Yet the next moment held a thing so strange that both were forced to drop their attentions from the violence around them.
Floating before them, lifted from the earth by the spinning propellers on the pair of green plane wings stemming from it?s back was a being both had seen in their dreams. The handler in a drug induced comma and the beast in the dreams he believed given to him by one of the rings. In tattered robes of camouflage colors it hovered in air. Its hair was burning napalm and its face was a gaunt skull with skin barely clinging to it. Yet it had an unnatural beauty about it, one you could not describe without sounding insane, a beauty almost forced upon you. In one hand it had a lance made of an artillery cannon, and in the other a shield of sorts made from helmets fused together. It?s hands bled perpetually, saturating its accessories with its blood that was the purest shade of red you would swear she bled red silk. The specter hung in the air for a moment, both patrons to its presence waited in reverent patience for its words. When it spoke there was the crash of artillery in every syllable.
?You have both accepted your place, and your deaths inevitability. You prove your ability to survive time and again in a place that makes men reject their own survival instinct to save their sanity. Single handedly you have shown your willingness to live even under the direst of circumstances and most painful conditions. You chose life over everything, and by making that choice you now join the ranks of a battle in another place.?
The beast wanted to nod. Yet the one holding the chain had not given any sign of recognition. Rather he stared up at the glorious being before him, unflinching and seemingly unmoved by its presence. His silence was now revealed not as pious patience, but rather contempt for the call of this battlefield god.
?No.? The answer was strong, and cold, the beast wanted to show anger against the man with chain but he still held the chain in his hand. He could do nothing unless the man with that chain told him so.
The silence swayed in the air like a man hung from a tree. It was painful to the giant, it chocked at his throat. He desperately wished to speak, to voice his rage to the man with the chain but could find no words to do it with. The tug on the chain banished the thoughts in his mind away. He moved, the man with the chain had moved and he was forced to follow. ?Come on. We?re leaving.? He had nothing more to say.
Unfortunately the god that floated above him had no sympathy for whatever insanity or sense of duty and honor fueled this man to defy her.
?You were not given a choice.? The cannons muzzle raised to meet him and his living tank.
The beast, seemed unmoved, it was sure it wasn?t dying it was quite aware that it was being moved. Yet this was not the focus of it's attentions. For, he had noticed, and perhaps in some random synapse of his tiny mind connected, that the guns of the hurting men had the same riot of color about them that the strange woman?s lance had when she raised it towards him.
He could not hear the blast, it deafened him instantly, he could only feel as it pulled him apart bodily and through all the pain, he felt himself being moved. For the first time in years, Farfig Alhazarid screamed. Not from the pain, not from the physical destruction but because he was being moved. The ***** was taking him away.
?Yesterday I thought I stepped inside a boy, but as I brushed his entrails off my feet I saw his face and realized he was just a man. I realize now that I can never leave this place. I live here now, and I will die here.?- Farfig Alhazarid, Session 8
Is there an actual character sheet describing your character? It would really help us to understand him. Excellent intro, though.MeatSpace said:
Final Evil-intro incoming. Finding the balance between awesome and 'Oh, come ON' is killing me.
The original may or may not have had him tackling a helicopter. That has since been removed.
EDIT: Or not, work is getting crazy. Looks like it's late nights for a week or so, and then perhaps even some weekend labor. Deadlines suck.
If it turns out i'm here until 6:30 again, i'll at least give Evil a stats spoiler before I drag myself into bed.
Also, to that chappie with the god avatar and the apocalypse soldiers, Very Nice. I was thinking we might not see some surreal or truly stylised characters. You fill me with glee and cupcake. I hope that was your idea, anyway. They read like anime or something by Tim Burton, which from me is a compliment, and I hope it is to you.
The original may or may not have had him tackling a helicopter. That has since been removed.
EDIT: Or not, work is getting crazy. Looks like it's late nights for a week or so, and then perhaps even some weekend labor. Deadlines suck.
If it turns out i'm here until 6:30 again, i'll at least give Evil a stats spoiler before I drag myself into bed.
Also, to that chappie with the god avatar and the apocalypse soldiers, Very Nice. I was thinking we might not see some surreal or truly stylised characters. You fill me with glee and cupcake. I hope that was your idea, anyway. They read like anime or something by Tim Burton, which from me is a compliment, and I hope it is to you.
Janet Pike Biography: Pt 3
[sup]Pt. 1 available here. [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/362.107952.1838633]
Pt. 2 available here. [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/362.107952.1870639][/sup]
[sup]Pt. 1 available here. [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/362.107952.1838633]
Pt. 2 available here. [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/362.107952.1870639][/sup]
Cold. A biting chill like being packed in with ice surrounded Janet as she awoke. Her head felt split open and questing fingers found dry blood marring her blonde hair. No wonder it hurt. The floor was carpeted beneath Janet's questing fingers as they inched around to explore her space. She found herself to be in a cell of some description with hardened wood all around and a rough metal door. One palm smacked into it and the hinges swung open to admit blinding light soon after.
"The heretic awakens. Bring her out."
Rough hands grabbed Janet under the arms to drag her along a corridor. Still bleary from unconsciousness and unable to see through the light, she hung, stunned between them. The door at the end was opened by a blurred figure aside it and the first thing that struck her was the noise. The screaming. Tash's screaming. That guttural sound of a woman in pain snapped Janet out of her stupor. Something inside her rose up and flooded rage through her mind. The person holding her right arm smashed into the wall with the force of the blow to his stomach, blood spraying as she drove her fingertips into his gut. No time to think, move. Move. More red erupted one Janet smashed the other guard's nose back into his skull.
The two figures either side the door reeled back in shock. One collected his wits enough to draw a knife before a similar weapon Janet had taken from the body of a guard was jammed up through his chin and into the brain. He fell, the other joining him soon, for all she was no longer there to see them fall. The tortured screaming had her sprinting through endless rooms, with no door in the direction that it was coming for. Janet froze with the realisation that it was just the other side of a wall. Pure adrenaline had her pick up a table to throw it straight through the plaster. She followed soon after with two bloody knives and an all-consuming, desperate fury. The robed figures which lunged for her met swift ends. Even if they made it past her reflexes to land a blow she never registered it, everything was focused on that noise and the way it made her soul ache.
At last she saw the alter below her upon which Tash lay. A man held a bloody crucifix high above her, drenched no doubt from the red dripping from her burnt, slit wrists. The nemesis dropped from above to floor this priest with a single blow to the throat. Had the knife been longer it would have decapitated him entirely. Instead the ichor sprayed outwards in a fine mist.
A shocked silence took over from the prayers of before as Janet dropped the knives to scoop her wife up. Breathe... oh fuck no.. breathe. Breathe. BREATHE. Tash's chest moved a little. That was enough for Janet to hope. She had almost picked up the slim frame when there was a hiss behind her and a blinding flash.
* * *
"Hello?" a voice muttered above her. "Who are you? You're not meant to be here, there's been some mistake. The Summon said nothing about someone like you."
The rage was not gone. It had hardened to a steel frame within Janet as she snapped her eyes open. One hand wrapped around the throat of the person above her, the other reaching for a knife no-longer present. In a second she was on her feet with both hands twisting about the speaker's throat.
"I'll fucking kill you all!" she screamed with absolute rage in her eyes.
"Err.. you're definitely not what I was told was coming. Are you here for the fight on behalf of Heaven to rule or what?"
Shock went a long way to loosening Janet's grip. After a minute she let go and collapsed back onto the floor.
"What? I don't care about Heaven, where the fuck is my wife? She was dying!"
Once she had the chance to focus, she noticed that the figure she'd choked was a man of slim build, dressed in a white suit. He frowned at her and bent to pick up a sheet of paper. One digit ran down, then that hand dug in his pocket to pull out something resembling a top-of-the-range mobile phone. All this Janet noticed. None of it stopped her from collapsing to her knees in horror at the realisation of what had happened. Tash, tortured and bleeding upon the alter. The spray of blood.. yet her body was clean. Naked as she realised, but clean.
"Look er.. Janet. We're not supposed to do this but I was told to get a representative no matter what happened. The short version is you're dead, and you've got to fight in this tournament to become the next ruler of Earth from this plane. You seem pretty distressed... I don't have any record of your Tash coming through, so it looks like she's still alive. Does that help? If you need more incentive then your best bet of seeing her again is to do this and just command her to be where you want. Now please get up, we're running to a schedu-.." he said, stopping when he saw the look on her face.
"The people who tortured my wife were Christian... the people who killed me. What makes you think I have any care for serving a Christian system? If that's the only way I'll see Tash.. I'll do it, but there's no way in Hell I'm slaving under your holy-fucking-whips."
A smile broke out across the man's face and he patted her on the head. Slender fingers snapped and as Janet found herself landed in a street, his voice echoed in her ear. Fading in front of her was the image of the man's face shifting from the beauty she had seen into something far more evil.
"That's the spirit."
I'll have a character sheet soon, with stats.
Name: Evil
Description: 6-foot, armored in black, you know the story.
Abilities: Your basic Joe. Resistant to heat and cold, but that's just because of the armor. Strong, but that could just be him. Gas does nothing, and neither does pepper spray or blinding light. He's sealed off from the world, there is no more face behind the darkness of that helmet then there is tuna.
Allies: None
Weapons: None
Mental State: Unbalanced, convinced his rage is directed towards an end to corruption and suffering. Doesn't seem to be sane enough to notice the suffering he inflicts and the corruption he embodies. Do not be fooled, he is nothing but anger.
Reason for joining the tournament: It took long enough for God to die, he will not allow a second to rise.
Eviljoe is fast, strong and cunning. I believe I have written enough on the subject. He is self confident and able of mind and body, just as willing to insult as to beat raw. 'Efficient' describes him more accurately than 'Brutal', but i think he can be summed up in the review i got from someone who has been reading the posts:
'He's not crazy, he's just one intense ************'
Nothing is without purpose, and his purpose is vengeance. Remember that above all else, his philosophy is just the justification. His motivation are the corpses in his wake, and the memories he can never laugh away... and he tries often.
Description: 6-foot, armored in black, you know the story.
Abilities: Your basic Joe. Resistant to heat and cold, but that's just because of the armor. Strong, but that could just be him. Gas does nothing, and neither does pepper spray or blinding light. He's sealed off from the world, there is no more face behind the darkness of that helmet then there is tuna.
Allies: None
Weapons: None
Mental State: Unbalanced, convinced his rage is directed towards an end to corruption and suffering. Doesn't seem to be sane enough to notice the suffering he inflicts and the corruption he embodies. Do not be fooled, he is nothing but anger.
Reason for joining the tournament: It took long enough for God to die, he will not allow a second to rise.
Eviljoe is fast, strong and cunning. I believe I have written enough on the subject. He is self confident and able of mind and body, just as willing to insult as to beat raw. 'Efficient' describes him more accurately than 'Brutal', but i think he can be summed up in the review i got from someone who has been reading the posts:
'He's not crazy, he's just one intense ************'
Nothing is without purpose, and his purpose is vengeance. Remember that above all else, his philosophy is just the justification. His motivation are the corpses in his wake, and the memories he can never laugh away... and he tries often.
It took me awhile, but I decided I would rather try to participate in this than wonder what might have happened if I hadn't.
So, yeah. Consider this a placeholder for my...eventual post. The idea I have is long, so it may take awhile, and several posts.
Apologies for the inconvenience.
So, yeah. Consider this a placeholder for my...eventual post. The idea I have is long, so it may take awhile, and several posts.
Apologies for the inconvenience.
I wrote an intro, but I forgot the notebook that I wrote it in at a friends house and I can't get it back until tomorrow. If you're not starting at this very minute, would you give me a chance to post it?
Name: Farfig Alhazarid and Bio Engine Mark I or Mark for short.
Weapon: A .45 pistol and Mark.
Appearance: Dark skinned and bald, he looks to be in his early 40's but some people just look older than they should. Wears the uniform described at all times. Mark is a towering twelve foot giant, he has gray skin and is covered in heavy steel armor that resembles a massive suit of plate mail. Is gun is an oversized parody of the m60 machine gun and uses 14mm ammunition.
Bio: Farfig lived a very boring and mundane life, he was a clerk under the new government for a couple years until he took one to many hits of acid one night and lapsed into a hallucinogenic coma for two days. While in this constantly shifting land he met many strange things, men who walked every where on their hands and had two heads where their feet would be who only spoke Greek, which for some reason he suddenly understood. The ground played off key music wherever he walked and he could never escape the sound of clicking gears no matter how far he walked. Nothing was quite as strange as the Persona of war itself that appeared to give him a message. It told him to find her again, not in this place, but instead on the battlefield. That opportunity came sooner than he expected with The Paradise Wars. Yet the war held things he never expected. It was an awful place, like hell, yet he found he was able to survive there unlike anyone else in his platoon. He excelled at war to his surprise, moved without hesitation or regret, he had to live long enough to find that phantom once more. His skill did not go unrecognized, he rose quickly through the non-officer ranks, men without connections couldn't get out that way, but it suited him fine. If he died off the battlefield he would be a monster, the things he did to survive in these wastes were the stuff of rumor and cover up. They needed a way to keep him alive, he was to good to just get rid off, yet they needed a scape goat if anything was ever revealed. Someone to blame for the horrors of this war. So, they gave him Mark. A true monster, one people would believe capable of all the awful crimes committed in these wastes. There were many like him before, prototypes that had failed their conditioning and lacked the unbreakable loyalty required for a living tank. Mark was the only one to pass the tests, because he was only one smart enough to do exactly what they wanted. Mark is docile, and superstitious, he is convinced that he has magical powers. When fighting one day, he noticed a man in a strange coat who could make lightning from his fingers and fire from his palms. Bullets refused to touch him, seeming to be guided off course by invisible hands. However, he could only deflect so many and a burst from Mark's weapon was more than enough to send the strange soldier colliding into the ground. It was the first thing Mark ever regretted doing and so he changed the way it happened, the strange man had killed him, but somehow the man with the chain got a hold of the strange man and made him his slave. Now he fights for a different as a servant to the man with the chain. He still has his robe and his rings but uses a massive metal staff that speaks in power-words of thunder and death, and blood and smoke.
A Note on the World: Farfigs battleground is not his true home. In truth he comes from a world just out of a violent world takeover. His government is made up of a group of individuals calling themselves 'The Correct' who form a direct democracy (I believe this is the right term feel free to correct me.) The battleground itself only came into being 7 years ago. A message was sent to a dozen other worlds, some say more, in all languages that the world to capture a place called 'Fort End' would have it's dimension transformed into paradise and those that failed would have their worlds turned into hell. So began an inter-dimensional war for Paradise. It has raged on for some twenty years now and many people are unsure if Fort End has ever even been seen. Still, no one can take the chance, who knows how big this battlefield is. No one knows if this war will ever end.
*Edit* Attitudes about the Tournament: Farfig is convinced that if he dies anywhere other than the battlefield that he will damned to hell. The tournament, while by no means a peaceful place is simply not the same. He thinks he can't be blamed for his actions out in search for Fort End, he was a pawn being pushed down the field. Here things are different though, he isn't fighting for any just cause or moral right. To him it appears to be a pointless blood letting. He knows he has to win though, he's seen heaven now, and nothing will stand in his way.
*Edit continued* Combat: Farfig does most of the fighting, Mark normally serves as either cover or a distraction. Mark, strong and dangerous as he is, is a living tank and comes with all the disadvantages that normal tanks have. He is big, gets stuck easily and can't get into many places. That and his gun is unwieldy in anything other than an completely open area.
*Edit continued* Notes on Mark: When I say Mark absorbed the personality of the mage he killed I mean that in very loose terms. He is only able to piece together some semblance of his personality based on what little he has learned of the strange men. He fills in the gaps himself sometimes with strange results. His new personality does not affect his loyalty to Farfig, though it does cause some mental recognition of his own servitude. Mark does in fact believe he can cast magic, and ascribes acts of technology and science as events of a supernatural nature. Mark does have the ability to speak, but does so rarely and not eloquently. Mark is a blunt instrument to be aimed and implemented. Under his simple demeanor and monstrous exterior though, is a brain developing with frightening speed.
Note on the sessions: The sessions are between Farfig and the psychologist on base who records them. He is one of the people who led to Mark being given to Farfig to help keep him safe and maybe even help him stay sane.
Why the edit?: With the rounds beginning I figured I should add additional notes on my character to assist anyone who needs information about the pair.
Weapon: A .45 pistol and Mark.
Appearance: Dark skinned and bald, he looks to be in his early 40's but some people just look older than they should. Wears the uniform described at all times. Mark is a towering twelve foot giant, he has gray skin and is covered in heavy steel armor that resembles a massive suit of plate mail. Is gun is an oversized parody of the m60 machine gun and uses 14mm ammunition.
Bio: Farfig lived a very boring and mundane life, he was a clerk under the new government for a couple years until he took one to many hits of acid one night and lapsed into a hallucinogenic coma for two days. While in this constantly shifting land he met many strange things, men who walked every where on their hands and had two heads where their feet would be who only spoke Greek, which for some reason he suddenly understood. The ground played off key music wherever he walked and he could never escape the sound of clicking gears no matter how far he walked. Nothing was quite as strange as the Persona of war itself that appeared to give him a message. It told him to find her again, not in this place, but instead on the battlefield. That opportunity came sooner than he expected with The Paradise Wars. Yet the war held things he never expected. It was an awful place, like hell, yet he found he was able to survive there unlike anyone else in his platoon. He excelled at war to his surprise, moved without hesitation or regret, he had to live long enough to find that phantom once more. His skill did not go unrecognized, he rose quickly through the non-officer ranks, men without connections couldn't get out that way, but it suited him fine. If he died off the battlefield he would be a monster, the things he did to survive in these wastes were the stuff of rumor and cover up. They needed a way to keep him alive, he was to good to just get rid off, yet they needed a scape goat if anything was ever revealed. Someone to blame for the horrors of this war. So, they gave him Mark. A true monster, one people would believe capable of all the awful crimes committed in these wastes. There were many like him before, prototypes that had failed their conditioning and lacked the unbreakable loyalty required for a living tank. Mark was the only one to pass the tests, because he was only one smart enough to do exactly what they wanted. Mark is docile, and superstitious, he is convinced that he has magical powers. When fighting one day, he noticed a man in a strange coat who could make lightning from his fingers and fire from his palms. Bullets refused to touch him, seeming to be guided off course by invisible hands. However, he could only deflect so many and a burst from Mark's weapon was more than enough to send the strange soldier colliding into the ground. It was the first thing Mark ever regretted doing and so he changed the way it happened, the strange man had killed him, but somehow the man with the chain got a hold of the strange man and made him his slave. Now he fights for a different as a servant to the man with the chain. He still has his robe and his rings but uses a massive metal staff that speaks in power-words of thunder and death, and blood and smoke.
A Note on the World: Farfigs battleground is not his true home. In truth he comes from a world just out of a violent world takeover. His government is made up of a group of individuals calling themselves 'The Correct' who form a direct democracy (I believe this is the right term feel free to correct me.) The battleground itself only came into being 7 years ago. A message was sent to a dozen other worlds, some say more, in all languages that the world to capture a place called 'Fort End' would have it's dimension transformed into paradise and those that failed would have their worlds turned into hell. So began an inter-dimensional war for Paradise. It has raged on for some twenty years now and many people are unsure if Fort End has ever even been seen. Still, no one can take the chance, who knows how big this battlefield is. No one knows if this war will ever end.
*Edit* Attitudes about the Tournament: Farfig is convinced that if he dies anywhere other than the battlefield that he will damned to hell. The tournament, while by no means a peaceful place is simply not the same. He thinks he can't be blamed for his actions out in search for Fort End, he was a pawn being pushed down the field. Here things are different though, he isn't fighting for any just cause or moral right. To him it appears to be a pointless blood letting. He knows he has to win though, he's seen heaven now, and nothing will stand in his way.
*Edit continued* Combat: Farfig does most of the fighting, Mark normally serves as either cover or a distraction. Mark, strong and dangerous as he is, is a living tank and comes with all the disadvantages that normal tanks have. He is big, gets stuck easily and can't get into many places. That and his gun is unwieldy in anything other than an completely open area.
*Edit continued* Notes on Mark: When I say Mark absorbed the personality of the mage he killed I mean that in very loose terms. He is only able to piece together some semblance of his personality based on what little he has learned of the strange men. He fills in the gaps himself sometimes with strange results. His new personality does not affect his loyalty to Farfig, though it does cause some mental recognition of his own servitude. Mark does in fact believe he can cast magic, and ascribes acts of technology and science as events of a supernatural nature. Mark does have the ability to speak, but does so rarely and not eloquently. Mark is a blunt instrument to be aimed and implemented. Under his simple demeanor and monstrous exterior though, is a brain developing with frightening speed.
Note on the sessions: The sessions are between Farfig and the psychologist on base who records them. He is one of the people who led to Mark being given to Farfig to help keep him safe and maybe even help him stay sane.
Why the edit?: With the rounds beginning I figured I should add additional notes on my character to assist anyone who needs information about the pair.
*discretely tugs at wedgie* Sorrow, hurry up, man! I challenged Jo(sephine) in another thread. Her ass ain't going to beat itself, y'know.Higurashi said:
...
OK, that sounded less inappropriate in my head.
Due to technical difficulties, this will not begin until Friday at the earliest.
Auditions are closed.
Auditions are closed.
aaaaawww.... he was all set to be a blademaster... and then he went all dragon-ball z.SargentToughie said:
this section was rather abrupt. if it were me, i would have had more build-up in the previous sections, maybe mentions of mystic power or the war. it would have been quite easy to set him up as killing his way through the soldiers with a sword rather than the ubiquitous blue lighht...
but that's just me.
it is indeed. i return your high-five, good sir.Higurashi said:
this is dark, gritty... i love it. it's a fairy tale gone... interesting.
i especially like jyill's hair-flail. a tasteful depiction.
...slowly getting through all these.