how does this thing work?

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Spectre of the Fade

Nerd
Original poster
LURKER MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Fantasy, Sci-fi, Modern, Apocalypse, Action and adventure, Steampunk, Dieselpunk, People with Powers, some historical eras, lots and lots of other things. Feel free to ask.
Spectre's wreck of a Test Thread
WELCOME
Hello! My name is Spectre (Or Sam, if you're feeling familiar) and welcome to my code dump. Now featuring less blindingly white text boxes! I mostly make the bbcodes for shits and giggles, though I've gotten quite good at it over the months and months and months I've been working on doing so. Kind of a calming practice for me, at this point. Feel free to look around, though I make no promises on organization. I'd love credit/notification if you're planning on using something of mine.

If you're looking for my good and/or completed codes, this thread here has that in a far more neat and orderly fashion. c:

A couple of requests:
1.) Don't post, unless you've asked permission or I said to.
2.) Please don't be afraid to ask me to explain things in PMs.

A couple of warnings:
1.) Lots and lots of gifs, images, videos. Especially on the latter pages.
2.) Lots and lots of cursing. I am an unapologetic pottymouth.

Gonna drop some interesting links:
Iwaku Color Guide
Div Shit
Color Picker
Filler Text Generator
Photo Editor 1 - Collage edition
Photo Editor 2 - Filter edition
This post about writing accents
Text replacer!! - literally saves my live on a weekly basis
Room Sketcher
FREE Image background remover
Imgur - my current image storer
Google Font List
Flex boxes? Flex boxes.
Useful Tumblr blog - Clothes and Historical Shit
Useful Tumblr post - big ass list of mythical creatures

FACECLAIMS
I made an alphabetized FC list! Fuck yeah. Fuck, that was a massive pain in my ass. The people are sorted by gender then surname, and the symbols are my own ranking system. More * means I like their face more, and a ☆ means I've used them as an FC in the past or am currently using them as an FC.
also pls tell me if I made a mistake. pls, for realsies.
BOIS
name surname - Image search -

David Agbodji - **
Johan Akan - ***
Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje - **
Dawid Auguscik - ***
Pedro Aurelian - *
Braeden Baade - *
Daniel Bamdad - ☆ ***
Ben Barnes - **
Daniel Bederov - ☆ **
Brandon P. Bell - ***
Matthew Bell - **
Don Benjamin - ☆ ***
Jon Bernthal - ☆ ***
Gijs Blom - *
Tim Borrmann - **
Alex Bouchard - *
Ryan Bowden - **
David Brandt - Gallery Site - **
Matthew Brue - **
Caleb Callahan - **
Mario Casas - *
Cristian Codrin - **
Joe Collier - **
Andrew Cooper - **
Alejandro Corzo - **
Jai Courtney - ☆ **
Ben Dahlhaus - **
Arthur Daniyarov - *
Craig David - *
Casey Deidrick - ***
Andrea Denver - **
Benjamin Eidem - *
Boy Epic - **
Ben Feldman - **
Alexander Ferrario - **
Daniel Feuerriegel - **
Diego Fragoso - **
Dave Franco - **
Adam Gallagher - ☆ **
Dan Garland - ***
Daniel Garofali - **
Anthony Gastelier - ☆ ***
Dean Geyer - *
Baptiste Giabiconi - **
Artjom Gilz - **
David Giuntoli - **
Arthur Gosse - **
Frank Grillo - **
Adam Gurr - *
Quim Gutierrez - *
Armie Hammer - ☆ **
Thorbjorn Harr - ☆ **
Anders Hayward - *
Daniel Henney - **
Alfonso Herrera - **
Aldis Hodge - **
Craig Horner - **
Michiel Huisman - *
Billy Huxley - ☆ ***
Allan Hyde - *
Cheyanne Jackson - **
Stephen James - **
Erko Jun - *
Julien Kang - ***
Harshvardhan Kapoor - ***
Marwan Kenzari - **
Boris Kodjoe - *
Rahul Kohli - **
Francisco Lachowski - ☆ *
Miles Langford - *
Toby Leonard - ☆ **
Leandro Lima - ☆ **
Anton Lisin - *
Franco Lo Presti (? uncertain) - **
Alexander Ludwig - *
Daniel Madison - **
Rami Malek - ☆ **
Sasha Marini - **
Callan Mulvey - ☆ **
Sergio Muniz - *
Hideo Muraoka - ***
Cillian Murphy - **
Antonio Navas - **
Victor Norlander - **
Sean O'Pry - *
Alexis Papas - *
James Quaintance (Jimmy Q) - ☆ ***
Felix Rahmer - **
Matt Raimo - **
Edgar Ramirez - **
Blair Redford - **
Trevante Rhodes - ***
Drew Roy - **
Jesse Rutherford - ***
Benjamin Sadler - **
Adrien Sahores - **
AJ Saudin - ***
Adam Senn - *
Arran Sly - *
Clement Stevenant - *
Johnny Stevens - *
Levi Stocke - ☆ **
Chay Suede - **
Rajiv Surendra - ***
Alexander Uloom - **
Casper Van Dien - **
Bastiaan Van Gaalen - **
Simon Van Meervenne - **
Mateus Verdelho - ☆ **
Adam Von Rothfelder - ☆ ***
Hannes Wengle - ***
Edward Wilding - **
Finn Wittrock - **
GRILS
name surname - Image search -

Amy Acker - **
Clara Alonso - **
Angela Bassett - ☆ **
Valentina Belleza - ☆ ***
Alana Bunte - ☆ **
Amra Cerkezovic - **
Benthe De Vries - **
Alice Francis - **
Ashley Frangipane (Halsey) - **
Noni Gasa - ☆ ***
Beck Holladay - ☆ ***
Ellen Hollman - **
Alyosha Kovalyova - **
Katrina Law - **
Noemie Lenoir - **
Aiyana Lewis - ***
Gugu Mbatha-Raw - ***
Thandie Newton - **
Lupita Nyong'o - ***
Oluchi Onweagba - **
Felicia Porter - ☆ ***
Hilary Rhoda - **
Isabella Rossellini - **
Emily Rudd - **
Scarlett Simoneit - ☆ ***
Antonia Thomas - ***
Antje Traue - ☆ ***
Denise Vasi - ☆ **
Alek Wek - **
Michelle Yeoh - **
Elodie Yung - ☆ ***
Amelia Zadro - **
Ziyi Zhang - **
 
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[fieldbox="| Maxwell MacAllister |, steelblue, solid, 10, Palatino"]
[/fieldbox]​

[fieldbox="| Caoimhe O'Reilly |, darkgreen, solid, 10, Palatino"]
[/fieldbox]​

[fieldbox="| Elijah Haddad |, #7464e7, solid, 10, Palatino"]
[/fieldbox]​
 
fn1WYcJ.png
Jie Shen - The Ox
"There is no purpose for promises. Only proof."
castrobar.jpg
Location:
Drepung Monastery

Interactions:
Thing

Mentions:
Stuff

Outfit:
Monk Robes
 
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Eli - The Physical Therapist
"Whatever he says I did, I'm innocent. I swear. I'm a perfectly innocent angel."
Interactions:
His birds The poor front desk guy Junjie Teo @DarkiusHeavenstein
Mentions:
The soldiers
Location:
Outside --> Facility Room 4​
"Rah Rah Rasputin! Lover of the Russian queen!"

Eli jumped quite violently at the sudden lyrics blasting from the phone set on his bedside table, going from mostly asleep to far too awake in the span of a few seconds. Fuck, he'd forgotten he'd done that. His usual alarm system was a series of five - one an hour before he needed to get up, one at fifty minutes until, one at forty minutes until, one at thirty-five minutes until, and one at thirty minutes until. By the last alarm, he was basically awake and knew he still had a bit of time to laze a little in bed before he finally got up. The other day, though, he'd set a sixth alarm at fifteen minutes until he needed to roll out of bed, and he'd decided to torture himself by making the tone Rasputin by Boney M and setting it at maximum volume.

Why did he hate the song so much? How had it earned its place as his absolute last resort alarm? Good questions. Too bad Eli didn't have much in the way of answers.

Eli unclenched his right hand from where it was pressed against his chest and scrambled back across his bed, muttering curses as he snatched the phone and turned the stupid alarm off. Well, he was awake now. 5:48 am. Maybe it was a good thing he was up a little earlier than usual today, given that it was his first day working for the government. At least, he figured he was working for the government, given that he'd be overseeing the treatment of soldiers. Debris left after some project was shut down. Wait, maybe it wasn't his first day working for the government. Did working for the forest service count as working for the government? Eli spent a second or two lying in bed, propped up on his elbows and frowning at his messy sheets like they held the secrets of the universe while he tried to convince his tired brain to work through the specifics of that arrangement.

"Too early for this shit," Eli muttered as he gave up, making even more of a mess of the sheets as he climbed out of bed.

First order of business: heat up the coffee. He flicked the switch on the little pot, then walked over to the sizable bird cage in his living room that contained a pair of Budgies. Remove the blanket, turn off the night light, check the water, the bath, the food, the trays underneath the cage, attend to whichever needed cleaning or refilling, then open up the cage. He made sure to spend a few minutes showering both birds - Pippin in blue and Merry in green - with affection before walking back over to the coffee machine. The coffee was pitch black and strong enough to stand a horseshoe in, just how Eli liked it. Well. Not liked it, exactly, but he'd gotten way too used to having coffee like that to want to change it up now. Sip coffee while he worked through his morning stretches, gently coax the birds back into their cage, shower, shave, deal with the whole bedhead situation and slick his hair back, actually get dressed in the neat purple button up and slacks he'd selected for his first day. The sleeves did little to cover the tattoos on his hands and the collar did nothing to hide the tattoos on his neck, but he wasn't exactly going for either of those things. Collecting as much ink as he had was a long and expensive process. No point in trying to cover up all that fine work.

He finally got his jacket - white faux leather - on around 8:10 and headed out to his motorcycle, but he wasn't too concerned about traffic or whatever. He was distressingly good at dodging around cars on the old bike. Thirty minute drive, so he had some time to think.

For once, Eli took the opportunity.

A startlingly glowing review from the hardass director of the hospital where he'd done his residency had earned him a spot on the team looking after the soldiers of Project TESA, a discontinued experiment. He was working for the government, confidentiality agreement and secret clearances and all of it. He'd read through the files he'd been given - he was a damn diligent worker and he did his homework, thank you very much - on the soldiers and a couple of random google searches had turned up some entirely unhelpful results about some collective. So...Project TESA was big, mysterious, and being taken apart for whatever reason. Eli got the rare honor of helping the soldiers involved in it transition back into normal society. He was going to be spending at least a few weeks looking after some killers of men. Was he intimidated by the prospect? No. Eli wasn't intimidated by shit. Was he nervous? Maybe, maybe not, no one had any proof either way and Eli wouldn't dare own up to such a thing.

Translation: He was nervous as fuck.

Getting through the gate, once he finally arrived at the facility, was really easy. He just mentioned his name, taking his helmet off for whatever camera was no doubt watching his every move. He walked through the front door of the facility at 8:42 sharp, a hand self-consciously smoothing back his greased hair, all leather and tattoos. He was a stark contrast to the facility he was now working in, which looked like it was trying to make "coldly professional" an art form. Well, fuck it, it wasn't like he expected to blend in anyways.

The conversation with the man at the front desk was short and no doubt irritating for the poor guy, Eli focusing on flirting obnoxiously instead of acknowledging the nervousness in his gut or, y'know, complying with directions. Eli did manage to talk the guy into storing his helmet and jacket behind the desk. though, which was good given that he had no idea if he was getting a locker or anything. The physical therapist passed through the security check - which strongly reminded Eli of airport security but worse somehow - without issue, though he couldn't help but follow the impulse to wink saucily at the man at the desk before he headed to the room they were supposed to meet at.

He hesitated for a bare second before he headed into the room.

There was someone in the room already, which was awesome because Eli wasn't certain he wanted to be the earliest arrival to this strange party. Said someone had a familiar face, probably one of the doctors that Eli had been given a file on, but Eli couldn't remember the guy's name for the life of him. Not surprising, really. Eli was the fucking worst with names. So he didn't greet the guy, just offered an amiable wave before he plopped himself down into one of the chairs. It was only seconds before he settled into the seat, impatience obvious in his body language, long legs splaying out underneath the table while his hands went up to fuck with the purple gauges he'd elected to wear that day.
 
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Something
NAME:
The name, obviously. Full, from start to finish

PRONUNCIATION:
Deets on how to pronounce that sucker

NICKNAMES:
Stuff people call them! c:

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
All those things symbol combined but seperate symbol like this

SEXUALITY:
Probably bi/pan, honestly, I am shameless

DESCRIPTION:
Physical description and obvious quirks

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Tattoos! Scars! Dimples! Birthmarks! Features they are known for.

HAIR:
Deets on hair. Color, prefered length, texture, etc

EYES:
Deets on eyes. Detailed description of color, oddities, etc

HEIGHT:
Some length

WEIGHT:
Some number

PERSONALITY:
Paragraph personality description
Keywords:
Broken cymbal Up cymbal Like cymbal This cymbal Or
+ maybe
+ organized
+ a bit
- more
- like
- this

LIKES:
Some stuff! Maybe with symbols, maybe not

DISLIKES:
More stuff! Still a maybe on the symbols

AMBITIONS:
The symbols thing is kind of depending

FEARS:
Changes for each character

BIOGRAPHY:
The dirty details of their deep dark past because we both know their past is going to be painful.

OTHER:
symbol Faceclaim/art credit is Johan Akan
symbol Color code is #315F6F
symbol Stuff n things
symbol Things n stuff


WANTED TO FUCK WITH SOME STUFF I'VE BEEN WANTING TO USE SINCE I CAN'T SLEEP OR WRITE
Gonna include a codeless version if I do decide to use this in anything. Looks good, even on mobile, but it's...a whole thing. And gif-y. And with all the google fonts...
 
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  • Love
Reactions: SatanicBamnana
STILL FUCKIN WITH STUFF WHILE I SHOULD BE SLEEPING WHOOPS
wanted to make something.....brighter
also, I have yet to even try the thing I wanted to do, I keep getting distracted with making other stuff work


nIBM8v7.gif
NAME
LHj3DYn.gif

NAME:
The name, obviously. Full, from start to finish

PRONUNCIATION:
Deets on how to pronounce that sucker

NICKNAMES:
Stuff people call them! c:

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
All those things symbol combined but seperate symbol like this

SEXUALITY:
Probably bi/pan, honestly, I am shameless

DESCRIPTION:
Physical description and obvious quirks

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Tattoos! Scars! Dimples! Birthmarks! Features they are known for.

HAIR:
Deets on hair. Color, prefered length, texture, etc

EYES:
Deets on eyes. Detailed description of color, oddities, etc

HEIGHT:
Some length

WEIGHT:
Some number

PERSONALITY:
Paragraph personality description
Keywords:
Broken cymbal Up cymbal Like cymbal This cymbal Or
+ maybe
+ organized
+ a bit
- more
- like
- this

LIKES:
Some stuff! Maybe with symbols, maybe not

DISLIKES:
More stuff! Still a maybe on the symbols

AMBITIONS:
The symbols thing is kind of depending

FEARS:
Changes for each character

BIOGRAPHY:
The dirty details of their deep dark past because we both know their past is going to be painful.

OTHER:
symbol Faceclaim is Tyler Maher
symbol Color code is #87CEEB
symbol Stuff n things
symbol Things n stuff
 
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The Criminal
"Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist." - George Carlin
Coke or Pepsi?
"Neither. Stupid question. Next?"

Steak or hamburger?
"Ugh. Steak, I suppose."

Dogs or cats?
"Dogs."

Rome or Paris?
"Paris."

Summer or winter?
"Neither. I prefer autumn."

Formal or casual?
"Formal whenever possible."

Half full or half empty?
"Is it something I can drink?"

Snakes or spiders?
"Snakes, if I must choose."

Swords or guns?
"Guns, though I'm shit with them."

Pirates or ninjas?
"...Seriously?"
NAME:
Malcolm Cillian Hayes

PRONUNCIATION:
MAEL-kuhm kihl-yun HAY-z

NICKNAMES:
Mal: uncommon, disliked

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
27 December 25th London, England, UK

SEXUALITY:
Homosexual

DESCRIPTION:
[spoili]
Malcolm cuts an intimidating figure, standing tall with a muscle-bound form he works rigorously to maintain. The fact that he's nowhere as distressingly skinny as he was only added to his intimidation factor, backing up his muscle with sheer size. That isn't even taking into account the fact that he has a nasty case of resting bitchface - which is difficult to judge as intentional or not - and carries around this air of cold confidence like another person might carry around a bag or a favorite accessory. His posture is always excellent, chin tilted up a little bit like he's looking down his nose at other people. Even the freckles spattered across his neck, shoulders, upper arms, and back can't soften his hard edged appearance, given that there's a healthy assortment of prison tattoos and scars marking the same areas. It helps exactly none that the smiles he directs at others are rarely genuine. The genuine ones are quite obvious, however, given that he covers the expression with a hand or any nearby object.

His preferred manner of dress tends towards professional whenever he'll be in public. His clothes are always neatly tucked in and well taken care of - even his work clothes are generally as stain free as possible - and he matches them with care and a fine eye for color. He tends towards simple colors and minimalistic patterns, but he does quite like blues, cooler reds, and blacks. When he's not in the public eye, however, he dresses more for comfort than for looks and has quite the taste for soft sweaters and loose sweatpants. He doesn't grow out his hair long enough to have to style it, but there's no doubt that it'd be as elegantly taken care of as the rest of him if he did, and he shaves most every morning on the days he works.

His mod, the thing he's using to change his life for the better, is a collection of flashing neon and glimmering metal on either side of his face, covering the distance from eye to ear. It's been toned down considerably from what it was when he received it, the lights shifted to softer greens and blues instead of vibrant neons, but Malcolm still finds it to be obnoxious. He's quite fond of it, despite its gaudiness, but he'd never admit such a thing even under pain of death.[/spoili]
Refs:
One Two Three

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Resting bitchface Freckles across his back, shoulders, and upper arms Scars dotting his hands and arms and shoulders, remnants of violence and drug use as much as hard work Small tattoos across his biceps and shoulders from time spent in prison, along with Gao Yord at the top of his back and Paed Tidt just below it

AUGMENTS:
[spoili]
Cranium -
Malcolm's one and only modification is quite a special one - it's an experimental prototype, high-grade, melded as seamlessly as possible into each side of his face. It's easy to assume it's merely a physical modification, but that's not entirely true; Malcolm's noticed that his thoughts and reaction times have been faster while his perception of time has slowed since he got it. The changes aren't particularly drastic, nowhere near as noticeable as the lights the aug has in it, but those changes are quite the advantage in a fast-paced situation. The company Malcolm "acquired" the aug from is quite...displeased that he has it.[/spoili]

HAIR:
Auburn in color, thick and curly in texture, usually buzzed close to his head

EYES:
Gunmetal blue, originally, but his augments enhance the color with pale blue lights in his irises

HEIGHT:
6'2" (188cm)

WEIGHT:
197 lbs (89 kg)

PERSONALITY:
[spoili]
Externally, Malcolm's something of a dick. His appearance tends towards the intimidating and his personality tends towards the same. He's obviously cynical, extremely suspicious of others, and the exact opposite of shy about expressing as much. The best he can manage, even at work, is politeness, but all the politeness in the world can't hide the fact that he's terrible with small talk and at interacting with people in general. He's awkward, and his sense of morality is disturbingly practical, and he's bad at socializing, but he's too proud to go about fixing all of those things. Instead, he covers the lot up with an unhealthy amount of assholery and pushes others away to keep them from discovering just how lonely he is. It helps none that he's proud; if pushed, he would typically prefer to end a relationship than admit he was wrong out loud.

Internally, one of the better words to describe Malcolm. He's all too aware of his faults and all too aware of how easy it could be to fix them, but he's too proud and too stubborn to take the steps. He knows he's difficult to be around and he knows he pushes others away, but he's uncertain how to fix that. He knows he's often unfair in his judgment of others and he knows he's no shining paragon of moral uprightness, but those are more issues he has no idea how to go about addressing. The fact that he's been used, discarded, mistrusted and disliked so very much in his past makes him unwilling and therefore unable to rely on others even when it's more self-destructive to keep something to himself.

As bad as it sounds, Malcolm isn't entirely darkness and spite. One of the core elements of his personality is loyalty; he commits to causes and decisions and people that he considers worthy completely and utterly. If one can manage to cut through all the bullshit, Malcolm is a steadfast and determined companion, someone who can be relied upon without any sort of condition attached. Earning that kind of loyalty is easier said than done, of course. It requires time, patience, or some intense stress. It is, arguably, worth it in the end, though. Malcolm would appreciate it, at least.[/spoili]
Keywords:
Loyal Self-Possessed Practical Opportunistic Vindictive Cynical​

LIKES:
Comfortable sweaters Driving fast vehicles Sweets, especially caramel EDM, dubstep, instrumental music Melee combat Coffee Useful people Blues and reds

DISLIKES:
Hot weather Weakness, especially in himself Tight spaces Being questioned Embarassing situations Yellows and pinks Risky situations Being called "Mal"

AMBITIONS:
Achieve wealth, power, status, in that order Find someone worth following

FEARS:
Gaining power then losing it Tight spaces Being inadequate Being discarded

BIOGRAPHY:
[spoili]
Born and raised in East London, the one boy between two sisters, Malcolm was raised in a criminally-inclined family and had something of a hard life growing up. The matriarch was a hard woman, caring but in a strict and stubborn fashion...when she was home. She worked or she gambled or she slept around far too much of the time, all attempts to entice her husband into reacting to something she did, and her children suffered for it. The patriarch was a bad man, spending all his time away from home "working" and shifting his allegiance between two separate crime families. A dangerous position to be in, sure. The man was just good enough at playing the game to keep himself from getting dead or an extended stint in prison, but not good enough to win big. The family struggled.

The eldest sister, Amelia, started working as soon as she was old enough, leaving Malcolm at home with his younger sister. Malcolm never quite grew close to Erin, said younger sister, and the time they had to spend together only seemed to widen the distance between them. He was quite close to Amelia, though, and quite liked following her around their neighborhood while she visited friends or went to the store. She died when he was thirteen. Heroin overdose. Their father reacted with scorn, adamant about the fact it was her own fault with the crowd she ran around with. Their mother managed to be even colder than usual about the situation, claiming her daughter deserved it. Whether she insisted such a crazy thing to cover her own grief or actually believed it is a debatable topic, but not one to bring up with Malcolm.

So, as he pushed himself even further away from his parents, the friend he'd had since he was six - John Arkwright -kept offering him opportunities. Little jobs for the crime boss John worked for, running drugs and such when they were younger, theft and such as they got older and the police stopped feeling bad for arresting them. Malcolm didn't stick with that kind of work for long, though. He was tall and damn intimidating, even as a teenager, and the boss ended up making Malcolm one of his fighters. The fact that he was underage didn't matter too much since the fights were illegal anyway.

Then, when he was nineteen, he went to prison. John came to Malcolm one night with a crazy fucking plan; John and Malcolm and John's own sister would take a few thousand pounds from the boss they all worked for, then escape London. Escape the UK. Go to Europe, or Asia, or maybe the US. And Malcolm, against all logic and his better judgment, agreed. He'd been in love with John since they were boys anyway and that was about the closest he would ever get to them running away together. But the daring robbery went all sorts of wrong. None of them had thought to check for security cameras, and it was too late to abandon the plan when the lot of them realized the mistake. So, Malcolm stayed behind. John and his sister escaped into the night. then Malcolm torched the club the money had been stashed in. It was empty, thankfully, but the fire spread to a nearby apartment building. No serious injuries, but given his ties to a known crime boss and the sketchy things Malcolm had been questioned about in the past, the judge saw fit to give him four years for arson.

The time passed quickly enough. Malcolm's behavior was good, for the most part, and he took the time to learn mechanics while he was locked up. His younger sister sent a letter or two. Even his father called once or twice, even if it was only to insist that no real son of his would ever be caught for something so idiotic. But, no word from John. No call, no letter, no visit, nothing.

Malcolm got out of prison after those four years and the world had been reshaped. He was lost in the world of the Unreal, then, and struggling with civilian life and struggling with being on his own and struggling with his bone-deep loneliness. John had abandoned him, his father refused to speak to him, and he lacked other close friends, so he scraped together the funds to go to Europe. Somewhere along the line, he broke in a bad way and turned to the same drug that killed his sister. A year and some change after that, he was in Thailand and the months between were a violent blur of periods of withdrawal and periods where he was so very fucking high. A monk found him, in some dingy back alley, and ended up hauling Malcolm back to his temple. Must've seen something in that mess Malcolm had let himself become. Malcolm spent a few months there at the temple, working through his withdrawal and working in general. Training, sometimes, learning meditation. Malcolm found more peace there than he had in a long time.

Of course, he fucked it up. He had a shit day. He relapsed. He ran from the temple, unwilling to face his shame, and concocted some crazy plan to steal an augment a few days later. It was amazing the facility even accepted him as a test subject, given his physical state - or, perhaps, that was exactly why they accepted him - but he spent a couple of months there. Then he escaped with the prototype still in his head, somehow managed to scrape through the shitstorm that followed with the aid of Troy Liu, Tax Montri, and one Angel Cove.

Troy, he likes. Tax, he respects. Angel, though? Not even going there.

He currently works in a small time repair shop, servicing droids and cars alike and trying to keep his head down. Even an optimist couldn't deny that there's always the chance he'll fall off the wagon again, always the chance that trouble will kick up again, and Malcolm isn't even remotely close to optimistic.[/spoili]

PATTERN:
None

OTHER:
Faceclaim is Jai Courtney
Color code is #B06060
Speaks fluent English and Thai
Tentatively considers himself to be Buddhist
Scary good at hand to hand combat
A bit self-conscious about his accent, usually tries to emmulate a more formal and stereotypical British accent when he speaks English

RELATED TROPES:
True Neutral At Least I Admit It Consummate Professional Undying Loyalty


The Soldier
"Trust everybody - but cut the cards." ~ Finley Peter Dunne
NAME:
Carlos Santiago Diaz Monterrosa

PRONUNCIATION:
KAR-lohs san-TEE-ah-go DEE-ahz MAA-tuh-roh-suh

NICKNAMES:
Monty: common, preferred
Santi: only by friends, liked
Full Monty: military nickname, neutral

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
35 June 26th Corpus Christi, Texas, USA

SEXUALITY:
Homosexual

DESCRIPTION:
[spoili]
Monty is, suffice to say, quite the dichotomy. He's tall, even if most of his height is in his fine legs, but he's not timid by any means, and while he's skipped too many days of going to the gym to be as muscular as he was, he's still quite fit. His military record is nothing shy of impressive - a well-respected officer and scout sniper, with a stack of commendations and completed missions attached to his file - and his employment history seems to be headed down similarly impressive lines. You wouldn't believe much of that by looking at him, though.

In person, Monty is generally unobtrusive. He doesn't carry himself like any stereotypical soldier or fighting man. Sure, his footsteps are eerily silent and his walk is more of a near-predatory stalk, even with how he favors his right leg, but he's awfully good at announcing his presence to hide this fact and avoid startling others. His posture is...well, a kind person might use the word "relaxed", but in all honesty it's terrible. He tends to stoop when he stands and slouch when he sits, an unconscious effort to make himself less intimidating and meet others' eyes better. And, while his body language is generally as laid-back as he is, he does tend to take up the least amount of space he can. His long legs never splay out too far from his body, his hand gestures are short and precise movements meant to avoid any nearby objects and people, he tends to take the corner seat or the end of the couch. He's tactile, but not obvious about it, only really getting touchy with friends or after he's downed no small number of drinks.

As for how Monty dresses, he doesn't put much thought into it. At work, he does dress professionally, all slacks and neat button ups, but when left to his own devices he doesn't really care. His taste in clothes is simple and he dresses perhaps excessively appropriately for the weather, piling on layers on days forecast to be cold and wearing the bare minimum when the weather is supposed to be warm. He prefers jeans, half sleeves, grays and blues, and striped patterns, but one will occasionally see him in an old band tee or something every once and again. He tries to keep his hair trimmed well enough that styling it isn't too much of a hassle. He does shave most mornings, but he still somehow maintains a perpetual layer of reddish stubble.[/spoili]
Refs:
One Two Three

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Dimples on each of his cheeks Constant layer of stubble, several shades lighter than the hair on his head A sizable scar from a knife wound on his right thigh that occasionally gives him a bit of a limp, numerous but typically subtle surgery scars from receiving his augs "Audax At Fidelis" tattooed in faded black ink across the top of his back

AUGMENTS:
[spoili]
Eyes -
Monty's eyes were enhanced during his military career, same as his arms. And, like his arms, they're no longer what they were then. Most of the advanced features and displays have been disabled. He does still retain a limited zoom function and the capability for night vision, but both of those features are available on the consumer market. The night vision function is highly advanced, but still leaves him sensitive to light and darkens the color of his eyes considerably. That's the only really noticeable sign of this aug, however.
Arms -
The pieces Monty was originally equipped with were ugly hunks of metal, prototypes made to purpose instead of for appeal, but the civilian models he was given to replace them are far prettier. He's paid to have them covered with an expensive layer of artificial skin that's capable of feeling touch or pain. This layer of skin also has tiny lights within it, constantly displaying geometrical patterns from his fingertips to his shoulders that shift and move in an appealing fashion. Monty has limited control over the patterns/colors and the lights react to touch.
Pattern Refs: One Two Three
General -
After graduating the demanding physical training course and proving himself enough of a marksman to be put on the sniper path, Monty was brought in for surgery. He got his augs, then, and also got general modifications: muscle weaves to ensure he could actually bear the weight of his new augments and bone weaves to ensure he wouldn't break his collarbone or anything else while firing the modern high-powered rifles. While his other augs were disabled or replaced when he was discharged, these weaves were basically left alone.[/spoili]

HAIR:
Dark brown, curly in texture, usually messy and only trimmed when it gets long enough to be in his eyes

EYES:
Dark brown and spattered with gold; enhanced, though you couldn't tell by looking at them

HEIGHT:
6'3" (190.5cm)

WEIGHT:
389 lbs (175 kg)

PERSONALITY:
[spoili]
Outwardly, Monty is quite the approachable person. He's not exactly an extrovert, but he is pleasant to converse with, as he's an excellent listener and he's got a supernaturally good sense of how to keep a conversation going. He's laid back enough to take everything in stride, without being so laid-back that he's lax when it comes to work or serious matters. He's not exactly a personification of patience, but he doesn't have enough of a temper to turn his impatience into anything disruptive. It's that charisma and good humor that makes him such a good bartender; he doesn't get angry at the drunks, keeps a cool head under pressure or during busy shifts, and it'd be difficult to find anyone better suited to de-escalate potential fights. He does get a bit emotional, given that he's the sort who wears his heart on his sleeve and tends to be too empathetic for his own good, but he's far from soft, equally far from naive, and certainly no idealist.

Inwardly, Monty is...well, a mess. He still struggles with the psychological scars his military service left him with and he's still working through the issues his last relationship created. He's confident enough, and while that isn't completely an act, he's got an ever-present sense of insecurity and doubt that others think well of him. He probably pays too much attention to the numbers he sees, always worrying that others are lying to him, and he doesn't quite know how to react to any sincere compliments. He's empathetic and understanding to his very core, but he's also skeptical and a touch pessimistic, so the contradiction is enough to drive him crazy some days. Sometimes he'll slip into moods and it'll take him days to get back out of them again, and sometimes genuine questions regarding his well being will be met with irritation and a snappy retort.

Monty's a difficult person to pin down and a damn stubborn one to boot, someone who cares so deeply and so strongly for the people in his inner circle but also someone who'd rather wrap himself in the issues of others than face his own. He does acknowledge his scars, faults, and flaws, but the road to self-improvement has been a difficult one.[/spoili]
Keywords:
Charismatic Empathetic Mellow Touchy-Feely Insecure Aggressive​

LIKES:
The ocean Greens, blues, reds Connecting with people Poker, billiards Warm weather Cuddles Honesty Classic rock

DISLIKES:
Cold weather Rude people Boring colors Snakes, reptiles Robots and excessive augmentation Conflict Lying, liars, dishonesty Too much silence

AMBITIONS:
Obtain a secure and stable home Success, by his definition Real love, romance, perhaps a child (or three)

FEARS:
Snakes Having his heart broken again Someone he loves being hurt Heights Snakes

BIOGRAPHY:
[spoili]
Monty's childhood was...surprisingly not terrible. He grew up on a sizable ranch, south of Corpus Christi and only a stone's throw from the Gulf of Mexico. He never wanted for much as a kid, given that his parents were loaded, but they operated on the value of hard work and the virtue of diligence was instilled into him at a young age. His family was large - he was one of the middle children with one older sister, two younger brothers, and a younger sister, not to mention the army of aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant relatives - but his parents did their best to care for the lot. Sure, he would have liked more bonding time with his parents, and sure, they were tough on him and his siblings to make sure they did their fair share of work around the ranch, but he lacks real complaints about their parenting methods.

School was easy enough for Monty, given that he'd been developing good social skills since he was a baby, so he made a little circle of friends in elementary school and he stuck with them. He played sports when he could find the time. His grades in subjects that weren't related to math, science, or physical education weren't the best, but they weren't terrible. He even managed to have a couple of awkward high school relationships. And, as lovely as all those experiences were, it was during middle school and high school that he grew accustomed to loss.

It started with one of his cousins when he was seven. Some tragic work-related accident at the construction site. It was hard for the family, hard for Monty because he was such a family-centric person even then, but they were close and they got through it. Then it was one of his uncles when he was nine, another uncle a year later. One of his grandparents when he was thirteen. Then...Then it was one of his little brothers, just a couple short months before Monty's eighteenth birthday. That had been a tragic car crash, some freak accident. Something in Monty's heart cracked a little with that, something all the familial love in the world couldn't fix, and years later he would figure that crack was why he went into the military instead of staying close to home.

Passing the alarmingly in depth physical exams and all the testing required to enter the military was far easier said than done, but Monty was nothing if not a hard worker and he managed to earn himself a place. Boot camp, somehow, managed to be even more difficult than that. He earned the call sign "The Full Monty" on the second day of his third week, when he was still green but getting used to the rigid schedule of basic. He'd broken that schedule on the night of that fateful day, taking a shower later than he typically did. A couple other members of his platoon elected that was nothing if not the perfect time to fuck with him some, so...they stole his clothes. And hid all the towels. Monty had to run all the way back to the barracks in nothing but his dog tags. No one spotted him on that run of shame, thankfully, and Monty was about to consider himself the luckiest recruit in the entire Corps when he ran into one of their sergeants, performing a surprise inspection of the barracks. That sergeant made some crack about whether or not Monty was trying to give him "the full monty", a couple of members of Monty's platoon just happened to be within earshot, and the nickname spread like fucking wildfire.

Monty accepted his new title and nickname, embarrassing story and all, because he figured there were a lot worse places it could have gone.

After Monty graduated and was assigned to a sniper MOS, his memory of his military service gets really fuzzy. Standard procedure. Any and all classified information was wiped from his memories. He remembers most of it, remembers the camaraderie and the promotions and the missions and every damn time he pulled the trigger, but names and dates and places and details were all stripped from him. He struggled with that after he'd been sent home. Near six years, on and off of active duty, and they didn't have the courtesy to take out the good with the bad. Merging back into civilian life after that was a damn difficult thing. But, Monty had a therapist and his family and a staunch friend he'd made during his service - Tanner Rhames. Together he and Tanner were a sniper/spotter pair, working efficiently side by side and in each other's space for most of the time each of them had been in the military. Oddly enough, their relationship didn't take any sort of turn for the sexual until Tanner moved in with Monty, some eight months after they were both sent home. Then it took a turn for the romantic, and it was all downhill from there.

Monty started seeing the numbers when he was twenty-nine. It was a task, figuring out what they meant once they'd stopped shifting, and it was one he...one he felt obligated to do on his own. He never worked up the courage to tell Tanner, not even when the obnoxiously high number hovering above Tanner's head started ticking up every time he mentioned what his plans for the night were. Monty, too smart for his own good, figured it all out before too long. Just like that a relationship that had lasted for nine years of his life was gone and he struggled after that. Struggled with insecurity, struggled with how much he hated the apartment they'd shared, struggled with the numbers he saw, struggled with all the dreams that he hadn't had in years resurfacing all at once.

Something else in his heart cracked, then, and just like the first time, he had to leave. First, it was Amsterdam. Two years, bartending at some cute, out-of-the-way bar. He learned quite a bit of Dutch. Got very, very high. But he left the weed behind when he left that place, too, after another relationship crumbled because he was cursed with perception. Then it was Huelva in Spain, close to the coast. Close to Portugal. He left there after a year because he simply didn't want to stay anymore, even though he did love the city. An old friend had offered him a job bartending at one of her clubs in her home city of Bangkok, and Monty ended up taking her up on the offer. It was somewhere to be, at least. He's been doing that for nearly two years now, learned the local language and gotten himself awfully familiar with the gangs and powers that his friend dealt with to keep her business open, safe, and free of bullet holes or too many prying noses.[/spoili]

PATTERN:
Monty is a polygraph, or polyg, meaning the numbers he sees above the heads of others are how many lies they've told in their lifetime. It offers an advantage while he plays poker and occasionally in day to day interaction but it also tore his last serious relationship apart.

OTHER:
Faceclaim is Manuel Garcia-Rulfo
Color code is #3F7BB7
Speaks English and Spanish fluently, Thai and Dutch conversationally, and polite Portuguese
Scary good with guns, and he's at his most dangerous on high ground with a rifle
Enjoys the thrill of a good fight...perhaps a little too much
Considers himself Catholic, but occasionally debates God's existence in his more private moments

RELATED TROPES:
True Neutral The Anti-Nihilist Heroic Neutral Friendly Sniper
Coke or Pepsi?
"Coke. Pepsi is all right, though."

Steak or hamburger?
"Hamburgers."

Dogs or cats?
"Dogs. Cats are...untrustworthy."

Rome or Paris?
"I've always wanted to see Rome."

Summer or winter?
"Cold weather does not agree with me, so summer."

Formal or casual?
"Casual, usually."

Half full or half empty?
"The metaphorical glass? Half empty."

Snakes or spiders?
"Fuck snakes. Spiders, I suppose."

Swords or guns?
"Guns, of course, I am a Texan."

Pirates or ninjas?
"Definitely pirates."


The Officer
"Danger gleams like sunshine to a brave man's eyes." - Euripides
Coke or Pepsi?
"Both. I like soda."

Steak or hamburger?
"...Steak. Tough question."

Dogs or cats?
"I like rodents, actually. Rats and mice, not...nevermind."

Rome or Paris?
"Rome!"

Summer or winter?
"Winter. Snow is marvelous."

Formal or casual?
"Depends on the situation."

Half full or half empty?
"Half full."

Snakes or spiders?
"Neither. If at all possible."

Swords or guns?
"Guns are interesting, but knives are fun...Swords, then."

Pirates or ninjas?
"Ninjas!"
NAME:
Tanakorn Chaisurivirat

PRONUNCIATION:
tan-ah-corn chai-soo-ri-we-raht

NICKNAMES:
Tana: common, liked

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
29 TBA Bangkok, Thailand

SEXUALITY:
Pansexual

DESCRIPTION:
[spoili]
TBA[/spoili]
Refs:
One Two Three

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Tends to have food or writing utensils in/around his mouth Scars, yes Tattoos...no. Maybe?

AUGMENTS:
[spoili]
Hands for sure. Head, most likely. Something in the chest area?[/spoili]

HAIR:
Black, thick and coarse in texture, kept short and orderly

EYES:
Dark, even brown, closeish to the color of black coffee

HEIGHT:
5'7" (170 cm)

WEIGHT:
TBA ( kg)

PERSONALITY:
[spoili]
he's a happy little motherfucker...but he'll kick ur ass[/spoili]
Keywords:
Courageous Polite Passionate Introverted Callous Pragmatic​

LIKES:
TBA

DISLIKES:
TBA

AMBITIONS:
TBA

FEARS:
TBA

BIOGRAPHY:
TBA

PATTERN:
Pretty sure it's gonna be something fun but useless, like how many people others have slept with

OTHER:
Faceclaim is Nat Sakdatorn
Color code is #6A7557
Speaks fluent Thai and English
Decent shot with a handgun or a rifle, but prefers to use a pair of short stun blades that are charged with enough electricty to stun a human or wreak havoc on a robot's systems
Calls himself agnostic, privately undecided on matters of religion

RELATED TROPES:
Neutral Good Good Is Not Soft Cowboy Cop Pint-Sized Powerhouse
 
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It's about time I coded for one of these...

Saucy Spectre's Search?
Spectre's Partner Search
Sassy Spectre's Saucy Search!
Hello!

Esotono tirel monotir hipa fosamen ilat esomale utaseroh; ienireme tatis rieba, novelel doral rusis cahe una, pileq ram tolipom kex situd fel lur ditat tarit yadon. Tegudi nesonob seyuvo dik binalec. Non erel tebebi surelin rurete po? Iecerasel qo turaten litiy ice inisa inu mayer rone; cosuno losuse ta. Sa nedore emugi lerunu ielatame tu; eha nogicec wep rofute sedim. Rorit detanu eliyup neyow cegec wo; odona diemici ekasil pocow nuhec titas yetomo ketuc itavet casaren. Acamo cedo tomese ded. Emor etielimil unapiru delun lecore redu amamoten. Uba lan locig tena gamoc elisugan! Falelom len cosie. Ececi pisate tayiel les yutala mosuhi padadit cesa cuvubit dogi: Darahit oracietab nat nenem. Rivonie saceros serise acafeno otedo renos.
About Me
Mihig lime hatem hoveler: Sipie inat silenat sace seta lo ural; naric rateli foker? Lule hip wabafa ta lole nila enuvohar nep rit ben. Ricie fanen tiesip. Cowi memieley cof silevas silie etireli erecame vena seyite edehiero. Caris ni ricem vice! Terep piete ta emien rijin rad ketota: Ozi sifiesel tevuxe sog yorer vit.

Etese agelis piedetoh ga otepa etib. Rade win rarefaw, ieroli roribe ti catenil lit reter ieleloce letag. Sahi refeba mip etaperu het? Etefa eyi ile yu no la pie. Rayar tisi tumeler ror ele nu ravub nisayi soha detilel! Hier lib aber itulora piti pol yudepo seteti re punad.

Apezuba imero hiem eqexi yalo sa ibihu rehar? Tetiri ieselovey lasas rites xediete jipure mabef tenuqa. Sebami pezab husu terusad retavot: Mesin tieseh lesisis cenamer sac.

Penolu uloti te hes nedurec mucedog enidisieh rinien no aye. Odane rafodur nayime te tarebie: Oka cu ila hiru etayisin wef. Tudo sasin tanunin yi con hiet hotoc gimeto. Ledogeh teputah cusoreh acina tehata terohe sel rehar teramas lapicew! Ratoyin ci rolutod satugen ofis yu rabata. Nas efaciy erapeciey aganudir! Senata bicac yecaca; nied esa sucole ehazat tubuped. Ocira inu sarienat tenil re lu.

Viebunes pima itogin ram oroves ramamun ohi; mewabe ded elosa nam tana su nalapul pocu huhe. Tocog nut ce usin san tid hi cunikat. Esin senagic ire; oni ponate sur neya oniniti ket hitole iku isepe. Tira ler rotehi cicitoc. Lep lonabew ta. Tanos yediro lorepe linel tat iyesi ivodir pu biteku irijit: Uhi orehera atah he atame efawone. Niete pawiewe ni. Ne rurat pare peg nirien icomitim irir. Xuded etuh lotan nataral! Ivo efol diniele pen ficepa mini gedoh. Opetih elaru hot kamocan nefar co rohucec. Olahat sabodat tone gape ireset rac catadar silir olied bodapor, go foh pesiye wi sini, hidisi lis tobota saw hicitu tev biso.
Expectations
Mihig lime hatem hoveler: Sipie inat silenat sace seta lo ural; naric rateli foker? Lule hip wabafa ta lole nila enuvohar nep rit ben. Ricie fanen tiesip. Cowi memieley cof silevas silie etireli erecame vena seyite edehiero. Caris ni ricem vice! Terep piete ta emien rijin rad ketota: Ozi sifiesel tevuxe sog yorer vit.

Etese agelis piedetoh ga otepa etib. Rade win rarefaw, ieroli roribe ti catenil lit reter ieleloce letag. Sahi refeba mip etaperu het? Etefa eyi ile yu no la pie. Rayar tisi tumeler ror ele nu ravub nisayi soha detilel! Hier lib aber itulora piti pol yudepo seteti re punad.

Apezuba imero hiem eqexi yalo sa ibihu rehar? Tetiri ieselovey lasas rites xediete jipure mabef tenuqa. Sebami pezab husu terusad retavot: Mesin tieseh lesisis cenamer sac.

Penolu uloti te hes nedurec mucedog enidisieh rinien no aye. Odane rafodur nayime te tarebie: Oka cu ila hiru etayisin wef. Tudo sasin tanunin yi con hiet hotoc gimeto. Ledogeh teputah cusoreh acina tehata terohe sel rehar teramas lapicew! Ratoyin ci rolutod satugen ofis yu rabata. Nas efaciy erapeciey aganudir! Senata bicac yecaca; nied esa sucole ehazat tubuped. Ocira inu sarienat tenil re lu.

Viebunes pima itogin ram oroves ramamun ohi; mewabe ded elosa nam tana su nalapul pocu huhe. Tocog nut ce usin san tid hi cunikat. Esin senagic ire; oni ponate sur neya oniniti ket hitole iku isepe. Tira ler rotehi cicitoc. Lep lonabew ta. Tanos yediro lorepe linel tat iyesi ivodir pu biteku irijit: Uhi orehera atah he atame efawone. Niete pawiewe ni. Ne rurat pare peg nirien icomitim irir. Xuded etuh lotan nataral! Ivo efol diniele pen ficepa mini gedoh. Opetih elaru hot kamocan nefar co rohucec. Olahat sabodat tone gape ireset rac catadar silir olied bodapor, go foh pesiye wi sini, hidisi lis tobota saw hicitu tev biso.
Genres/Pairings
Mihig lime hatem hoveler: Sipie inat silenat sace seta lo ural; naric rateli foker? Lule hip wabafa ta lole nila enuvohar nep rit ben. Ricie fanen tiesip. Cowi memieley cof silevas silie etireli erecame vena seyite edehiero. Caris ni ricem vice! Terep piete ta emien rijin rad ketota: Ozi sifiesel tevuxe sog yorer vit.

Etese agelis piedetoh ga otepa etib. Rade win rarefaw, ieroli roribe ti catenil lit reter ieleloce letag. Sahi refeba mip etaperu het? Etefa eyi ile yu no la pie. Rayar tisi tumeler ror ele nu ravub nisayi soha detilel! Hier lib aber itulora piti pol yudepo seteti re punad.

Apezuba imero hiem eqexi yalo sa ibihu rehar? Tetiri ieselovey lasas rites xediete jipure mabef tenuqa. Sebami pezab husu terusad retavot: Mesin tieseh lesisis cenamer sac.

Penolu uloti te hes nedurec mucedog enidisieh rinien no aye. Odane rafodur nayime te tarebie: Oka cu ila hiru etayisin wef. Tudo sasin tanunin yi con hiet hotoc gimeto. Ledogeh teputah cusoreh acina tehata terohe sel rehar teramas lapicew! Ratoyin ci rolutod satugen ofis yu rabata. Nas efaciy erapeciey aganudir! Senata bicac yecaca; nied esa sucole ehazat tubuped. Ocira inu sarienat tenil re lu.

Viebunes pima itogin ram oroves ramamun ohi; mewabe ded elosa nam tana su nalapul pocu huhe. Tocog nut ce usin san tid hi cunikat. Esin senagic ire; oni ponate sur neya oniniti ket hitole iku isepe. Tira ler rotehi cicitoc. Lep lonabew ta. Tanos yediro lorepe linel tat iyesi ivodir pu biteku irijit: Uhi orehera atah he atame efawone. Niete pawiewe ni. Ne rurat pare peg nirien icomitim irir. Xuded etuh lotan nataral! Ivo efol diniele pen ficepa mini gedoh. Opetih elaru hot kamocan nefar co rohucec. Olahat sabodat tone gape ireset rac catadar silir olied bodapor, go foh pesiye wi sini, hidisi lis tobota saw hicitu tev biso.
 
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nVh74p5.jpg
Jasper Sinclair
LOCATION:
Lobby
INTERACTIONS:
NPC police, Catalina Lovelace @Juszen❤Sunshine™
MENTIONS:
The victim, his parents
STATUS:
Tired, anxious, lowkey in pain
MOTIVE:
Loathing
When Jasper opened his apartment door at an unholy hour of the night only to be confronted with a pair of officers from the Seattle police department, he had a suspicion that he was in for quite the long night. Well, longer night. There was a nasty bruise on his right arsecheek that could testify to the long night he'd had already. It was a deep, blotchy purple. Bigger than a plum. Sore enough that walking or sitting or moving in general was an intensely undesirable prospect. Would he dare admit the cause of that bruise to any one person? Would he dare explain the less painful but quite colorful line of bruising on his right shoulder? No. Coming up with a reasonable lie to explain away his stiffness was easier said than done, however.

Oh, no, he would have to be honest with the police. Shit.

"It's going to be a long night, isn't it?" he asked before either officer spoke, tired brown eyes flicking between the two of them. The officer who'd knocked gave him an apologetic smile and nodded. That did very little to inspire Jasper's confidence. Or optimism, for that matter.

Twenty minutes later, the officers had explained the situation, Jasper had filled up a tall travel mug with tea, and the three of them were headed down the stairs. It was an awkwardly silent trip, seeing as Jasper kept his mouth firmly shut for once. He didn't trust speaking too much, not with how much his arse hurt with every step, and he would be damned before he made some kind of pained noise in front of the bizzies. Good thing he had an awful lot to occupy his mind with. Laura dead, crime scene, murder investigation, few questions for him, so on and so forth. It was all very sudden. Jasper was fairly certain he was not awake enough to deal with this shit, and he was also quite certain that he wanted to be done with it all as soon as possible.

After an agonizingly long trip, the odd trio reached the lowest floor. The officers were quick to dismiss themselves, informing Jasper that he was to stay in the lobby and would be questioned in due time, so Jasper stood by the exit to the stairs for a moment. He was, for once, at a loss for what to do.

It was only a moment before he glared down at the steaming drink in his hand. A metal mug, black rubber accents, filled with 0.5 liters of the insanely strong black tea his mum loved so much and insisted on sending him during the holidays. It was powerful and highly caffeinated, that was certain. Though, even after drowning the foul liquid in sugar and milk and with the conscious knowledge he was going to need the boost to keep himself awake for whatever loops the fine detectives wanted to run him through, he was still hesitant to drink it.

With a noise of disgust, he raised the cup to his lips and took a few drinks then shuddered after he swallowed. Terrible. Better than coffee, but only just. Tea had the dubious honor of being something forced upon him since childhood; his mother so loved tea times and his father was the sort of man who had the perfect tea for every ailment. So, of course, their son had grown up with a strong aversion to it.

Pushing thoughts of tea from his mind, Jasper carefully made his way to the lobby's large couch, where he found a familiar resident of the apartment complex already seated in it. He wasn't completely familiar with all of the residents of the building, but he tried to know most of them. Was wise to keep an eye on who he was living with, what with his side profession.

"Evening. Miss Lovelace, isn't it?" he greeted, shifting a bit on his feet and hoping it wasn't too obvious that he favored his right leg. Too many questions about the state of - well, the state of his arse would not end well. He wasn't about to admit that sort of thing. Especially to a pretty woman. "Odd what happened to Laura, isn't it? I never liked her much, myself, but it's difficult to imagine why anyone would kill her." He didn't sound particularly disturbed by the death, and he truly wasn't. People died. That was life. Etiher way, sitting sounded like a good idea. "Mind if I sit down?"
 
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For personal reference~! c:
#800000 background
#B06060 text
#600000 links
The Ruler, The Choleric, ENTJ
Malcolm Hayes
Mood: Twitchy
MSgu6fL.jpg
7:16 pm.

Early evening. Malcolm finished up his last project for the day - a pair of easy fixes for some "classic" vehicle - and clocked out, lifting his palm from the reader when the machine flashed green. That done, he had the uncomfortable realization that the shop was deathly silent. The only noise was from his booted feet as he walked around in the back, checking once again that everything was in its place and he'd cleaned up after himself. There weren't many people who would bother voluntarily staying at work so late on a Friday. None of them were his coworkers. Malcolm, though, Malcolm didn't have anything better to do. He was a workaholic on his good days, and describing how his Friday had gone thus far as "shitty" simply wasn't a strong enough adjective. The most terrible thing about the lot of it about it was that there was no event he could point at and declare to be the cause of his bad day. He'd just woken up agitated, something irritating and restless shifting in his stomach, and he couldn't shake the feeling something was going to happen. When or what, he had no answers for, and that was without a doubt the most maddening aspect. He cared so very little for not knowing. It wasn't like he could simply Google the answers he needed, however. So, of course, the cravings had set in sometime after he got to work. During the lunch break, it had shaped itself into want so strong that it itched under his skin.

Work was good for all that, surprisingly. Work was distracting. Work kept his focus off the discordant noise filling his head. But now there was a lack of work and oppressive silence, but Malcolm didn't want to go home. Didn't want to go to any sort of bar or club, either. Getting drunk was unwise and he wasn't much good with people when he was sober.

Which he was. Sober, that is. Four months. It was fucking terrible. The withdrawal was terrible, the cravings were terrible, his headspace was terrible, and he was about convinced he was never going to feel emotions normally ever again. But, he was alive, and he would very much like to remain that way. He would very much like to take the second chance life had given him, too, and perhaps improve as a person. That second part was something he wouldn't dare admit to another living person, however.

He paced around in the back for a minute or two, trying to sort out what he could do for the rest of the night versus what he wanted to do, walking past racks of parts and tools and the one car that was parked in the place. The car was some coworker's half-finished project, no doubt left over the weekend. He paced around for another lap, then made an irritated noise and stopped dead. There was little point in cowardice.

"Open message history," Malcolm muttered after a moment, a frown twisting his lips further down than usual. The words were directions for his augment; he wasn't quite crazy enough to be talking to himself. In the months since he'd gotten it, in the months since he'd gotten his memory back and everything had calmed down somewhat, he'd spent time figuring out the metal hooked into his head. It increased his thought processing - often unhelpful, especially at times like these - and improved his reaction times. The lights had been dialed down from the aggressive neon they'd been, all soft blues and cool reds these days, but they still lit up his eyes. They also could project information directly onto his eyes. He could check the weather, search the web, and even text. All with eye movements and vocal commands. Thoughts too, but, well.

A little display, glowing soft blue on the right side of his field of vision, popped up only a second after he made the command, stilling on the most recent messages. The displays worked as fast as his mind did, which would be quite nice if he could reliably direct the thing with his thoughts. His head was hectic at the best of times, though, so. He'd master the skill. He would. Eventually. That line of thinking was neither here nor there, though, so he turned his attention to the task.

"Angel Cove. Compose," Malcolm murmured after looking over the pitifully few contacts he had. Angel was the best chance he had for some entertainment. He'd never admit such a thing to the man himself, but Angel was the one he wanted to see most, as well. At least he had something of an excuse. The trash heap that Angel tried to call a real vehicle had become something of a personal project of Malcolm's since he'd gotten the shop job. He'd never been good with expressing gratitude, so fixing up the old thing was the least he could do. Given how much Angel had helped him, willingly or no. Given how much he'd fucked up Angel's life. Malcolm would be fairly free over the weekend, no double shift or anything - his boss's attempt at a reward for the stupid amount of unpaid overtime Malcolm put in - so maybe he could spend his time doing that. Better than sitting. And, socializing was supposed to be good, even if Malcolm was complete shit at it.

Hopefully Angel was available.

"'Drop by the shop. I have time this weekend to look at your car.'" The message sent after a pause, confirming as much with a little green checkmark. Malcolm closed the display with a flick of his eyes, contemplated for a moment, then shrugged and opened another one. "Weather." The weather display popped up a second after that. Warm temperatures. Severely overcast. Very high chance of rain. High humidity. And, it even helpfully informed him the sun had set not ten minutes previous. Malcolm picked up a mostly clean cloth and wiped his hands as he walked into the shop's front room, approaching the large window with curiosity.

The neon-lit streets of Bangkok were every bit as busy as usual. Cars flashed by in the streets, honking and stopping and rushing to whatever destination. People flashed by on the sidewalks, umbrellas up and coats covering heads. Even walking traffic wasn't about to let a torrential downpour from the sinister clouds blanketing the skies above get in the way of their plans for the night.

Leaning up against the wall beside the window, Malcolm stared out at the rain-drenched streets outside. He half-heartedly wished he had a cigarette. Something to occupy his hands with while he waited.


For personal reference~! c:
#274D72 background
#3F7BB7 text
#1D3A56 links
The Lover, The Supine, ESFJ
NICKNAMES
Malcolm: guerito (means white boy; fond)
Tana: TBD
Angel: something angel related and punny...
Tax: Solo (when he learns his first name)
Troy: Paris
Carlos Monterrosa
Mood: Content
IJ5dHIU.jpg
Monty knew it was going to rain as soon as he woke up.

Okay, sure, it was the rainy season and it rained basically every day. But that didn't mean he couldn't predict the rain. Even if it hadn't rained in weeks, he would know. Something about the shifting pressures drove his right knee - the bad one - seven kinds of crazy, which in turn irritated the scarring on his thigh, which in turn irritated Monty. Frustrating as fuck to wake up after the same damned nightmares with a sweat-drenched shirt and his right leg on fucking fire.

It was fine, though. Totally fine. Monty got up slow, taking his nightshirt off - only cursing himself a little when it hit the laundry basket with a wet noise - and letting the shifting fractal patterns playing under the skin on his augmented arms calm his head. Rubbing some of the tension out of the knot of scar tissue on his right thigh was easier said than done, but he did what he could. The rest he'd have to grin and bear because there was only so much he could do with the state of the weather. Sometimes he wondered how much more easy life would be if he had replaced the leg after he busted the knee, but he didn't really entertain the thoughts. No point to it. Either way, the pain had worked itself into his schedule. Like a splinter. After dealing with that mess, coffee. Cigar. The three S's. Get dressed. Head out. It was his day off, so he didn't need to go to Club Li, but it was a familiar place with familiar people and too much time spent in the empty silence of his small apartment would drive Monty up the wall.

Despite his leg's protesting, it felt quite nice to walk. Warm weather, even if it was humid. Warm rain, too, when it started pouring down, though Monty opened up his umbrella before he got too wet with it.

Finding the little door that led to Club Li was a task and a half. It was a little thing, right on the street and tucked between two joined buildings, painted all dark. Just a detail, one that was awfully easy to look past. Even if you were looking for it. Monty'd walked past it, once or twice, whenever he was feeling particularly glum or he was distracted for whatever reason. Not tonight, though. He found it at 19:16. Fifteen minutes later than he'd wanted to arrive. Oh, well.

The door opened with a rush of cool air. It was an awkward shuffle, trying to tap the water off the umbrella and close it and get inside with as little rain on himself as possible, and he wasn't particularly good at the steps. By the time he got inside, the rain had soaked through his coat and made a complete mess of his hair. Both those things were fine, though. Monty's mood was rising higher with the noise of the people down below and even some water couldn't bring it down. He shifted around in the tight entranceway, tucking the umbrella into his armpit. He offered a nod to the man who took the coats, but didn't offer up his own; it felt more secure, locking his shit up in his actual locker. Employee area was below ground, though, along with the bar. So, he headed down the stairs. Trying to button up his umbrella one-handed - the other hand going out to steady himself on the railing as he went down - was at least as awkward as the maneuver outside, but he managed this one with considerably more success. His right knee still protested when he stepped onto the landing. Still sent a spike of pain up his right thigh, all the scar tissue kicking up a fuss at its "rough treatment". Monty huffed a bit and surreptitiously rubbed at the old scar while he looked around the bar.

The stairs and their landing were in the center of the back wall. Since it was built below street level, the room was quite wide open, all comfortable chairs and soft lights, tastefully accented with bright neons. The vibe it gave was very early twentieth century. Enough hardwood and leather to earn the vibe, enough shadow and dark lights to keep a little mystery and an almost clandestine appeal, enough chrome and flashy screens to keep it from looking outdated. A couple of pretty girls in floral dresses that were revealing but classy suspended from swings hanging from the ceiling, smiling and swinging and posing for the bar's occupants. The bar and the tables and the floors all shined, kept neat and clean and pretty. Just like the bartender's uniforms. All in all, Monty deemed it a nice place. The sort of place he might just like even if he didn't work there.

The place was a bit more packed than usual at this early in the night, several people lounging across the armchairs or waiting at the bar. Monty would dare guess it had something to do with the rain.

He moved across the bar area at a leisurely pace. Had to, given the dangerous calibre of people Club Li catered to. He was a familiar face, sure, but there was never a lot of trust in this room. The whole situation pulled at his "sixth sense", his soldier's instincts, his heightened awareness, whatever you wanted to call it. It'd been a long time since he saw actual combat, but there was something about having so many wary eyes on him all at once that still sent prickles up his spine. He probably shouldn't like the sensation as much as he did.

Wary eyes or no, Monty reached the locked door to the employee area and smiled awkwardly at the camera, stepping in when it recognized his facial features and unlocked the door. Close the door real quick. Stash his coat and umbrella in his locker. Get out quick. He wasn't on shift, after all, no point in dillydallying. Once he was back in the main bar area, he headed for a discreet curtain next to the bar itself, grinning at the bartender - who snorted in amusement and nodded back - before he ducked through the curtain.

Through there was a second room. Not nearly as big as the main bar, but it was still quite lovely. A similar brand of decor, though the neons were subdued back in this area and there weren't girls swinging from the ceiling. No, they served drinks back here. A couple of pretty little things, bustling about with trays in hand. The girls weren't what drew people to this area, though; the main draw had to be the gambling tables. Poker, blackjack, even a roulette table in the back of the room. This area, from opening to closing, tended to have a crowd. That was probably why Monty liked to spend his days off here.

Monty only hesitated in the entranceway for a second before he headed deeper into the gamblers' den, looking over the tables, over the numbers hovering above the various heads in the room, and maybe keeping an eye out for familiar faces. What game of chance was he feeling like tonight? Hm.


For personal reference~! c:
#556B2F background
#6A7557 text
#35431D links
The Hero, The Sanguine, ISTP
Tanakorn Chaisurivirat
Mood: Angry
ecbj6ig.jpg
"Get the fuck out of my office" were the last words the commissioner had sneered at him. Suffice to say that Tana was angry. He had tried appealing to internal investigations, but they would hear none of his "ramblings". He brought it to four of the six deputy commissioners of the Metropolitan police, and he had been booted or laughed out of each of their offices in turn. So, he had taken the matter directly to the commissioner. Waiting for his appointment was terrible, Tana refused to be good at waiting now that he had the luxury not to be, but wait he did. Three days, manning drones and only finding more evidence of what he was so very certain had to be fact. Newly implemented patrol routes around police weapons stashes, weapons that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Quality checks on entire shipments of police robots, despite the fact that their current forces were perfectly adequate.

Then he had gone into the office only for the commissioner himself to dismiss his concerns. It was above his pay grade. It was a matter for the superior officers. Tana was, after all, merely a police corporal. Tana had, perhaps, snapped. So, Tana was, perhaps, suspended. Without pay. For the duration of an investigation into his actions.

He ground his teeth hard as he walked down the stairs, hard enough that it was difficult to separate his jaws when he realized he was doing it. Tana paused between floors and rubbed tenderly at the sore spot, wishing he had something proper to chew on but also hoping for the exact opposite. Any hapless stylus that ended up near his mouth then would end up chewed to bits. Chewing on something was an improvement over grinding his teeth, but plastic had something of an unpleasant taste. It was a difficult situation.

Tana threw up his hands after a moment, further frustrated by his own indecision, and resumed stomping down the stairs. He reached his desk in record time and set about preparing his shit so he could leave. His one desk trinket - a jade Buddha given to him by his mother - went into one of his pockets. His files were generally orderly and he would not be technically allowed to take any of those. His computer, however, needed some managing. Doing something so obvious as wiping it would be idiotic. He could, however, take a copy of its contents. Lucky he kept a data drive big enough for that sort of thing on hand. It was easy to set up the process, even though Tana elected not to plug in for this one. There was something distinctly satisfying about jabbing his finger into the transparent screen, even if it damaged his finger far more than it damaged the glass of the screen.

To anyone who bothered asking what he was doing, given that he was suspended, he simply said, "I kept a lot of my pictures on this computer. For safekeeping, you know. I would hate losing all those images if they wipe my drive for some reason during the investigation."

It wasn't until seven in the evening that he got out of the office. There was quite a lot of data to backup and quite a lot of tracks to cover. Tana did leave with his drive secure in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and - and he was quite glad its shell was water-resistant when he finally got outside. He'd lived in Bangkok all his life and the rain still made him nervous. Some irrational worry, perhaps that the water would short out his augments somehow, or that he would be knocked off his feet and carried away by the rainwater. Childish concerns. Groundless concerns, unless the fictional horror stories he'd read on the internet as a child counted as a ground for concern. Tana did not consider them a ground for concern...but there was still that rush of fear when he walked out into the downpour.

Stupid, but everyone was. At least on occasion.

Tana didn't bother covering his head as he jogged down the steps of the police building, eyes flicking over the familiar streets outside. The rain and the darkness made it difficult to see, but he knew his way to his own vehicle. It was compact and only a few years old, painted dark, and it responded with flashing lights when he waved his hand. Fuck, did he love his augments sometimes. No time to lose, so he got into the car without delay and proceeded to drip water all over the seats as he got it started up. Then he sped off, direction like he was headed towards home when that couldn't be further from the truth. After a few blocks had passed in his rear view, Tana pulled out of the traffic and took a look around the street. Cameras littered the fronts of the stores and apartment complexes, of course, but there was a conveniently placed alley that lacked monitoring devices. Tana walked in that direction.

Afer he'd gone a few meters into the alley, safe in the darkness, he raised his right hand and pressed the index finger to his ear, the other fingers hovering somewhere near his mouth. Only one number he would go to such lengths to call - Troy Liu. They were friends, as strange as the idea was. Since the commissioner had thrown Tana out when he tried to resolve the situation in a legal fashion, it was about time that Tana got his friend involved.

"Troy?" he said as soon as the phone picked up, past caring if he was speaking to an answering machine or Troy himself. The rain poured on around him, soaking him to the bone, but he was nearly to the point of not caring about that too. "We should talk."
 
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Made up a random acronym...legit just wanted to see if I could make an official-looking character sheet for like criminals or applicants to government stuff or something. Needs work, but I like it...

CID

CRIME INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT
pYIAAd2.jpg
NAME:
First, middle, last

ALIASES:
Any and all aliases, alternate names, etc

DESCRIPTION:
Birthdate / birthplace / height / weight / eye color / hair color / blood type / any other notes (traits, tattoos, scars, marks)

FAMILY BACKGROUND
Marital status, deets on spouse / deets on children / deets on parents / deets on siblings[/right]

ASSOCIATES:
Friends / Contacts

HISTORY:
Description of criminal stuff. Keep it direct and don't leave out facts but omit emotional feels and whatnot since this was wrtten by someone who isn't the character.
Lulale ratulig neno ibac ratemo nog lebi lebapoc yi tapa! Dos api erunehu soh roson. Nacas pasih cohito guyadat bel bapiti aterowub tepe. Rugacat cikocol begeb ra. Ilarerir yeyah becalip mit lecetier. Sen pora tana lorihor ro pas ya. Neton tepi lile inabo gelen fi lef re luse ote. Secie eqegetem roger ninobo niwelec recita sudisen. Gesup ro alonugoc pie tosa he benole: Ca aloratal ce nohoyu satopit liru co ogilolos evotic ate. Zolome xere bod rarecen telono nuyalie rile, tiesie futew bieto leri getopet rorogam! Teneru turieled godice gociegu cihosuf iralo anoteh anecudar. Amat nonisaw nienice senama elot eciepof. Nose levi obatiecoc latic; pir mepa naleres ceheta merados uresisaw fa. Hu rug ri opeye reg yiyuxu bibutu anabaret! Nale se reyenal wihis retisip die.

KNOWN SKILLS:
All the character's skills and fun stuff, including combat proficiencies. Preferably in a bulleted list...

REMARKS:
Fun things! Extra info, stuff that's important but not in the rest of the sheet. Character comments on the sheet, even.
 
Stats?! Stats!!
oh shit this is a pain in the ass but I like it?? ugh
....Found an easier way. I like this
This probably needs a set number of points to use?? hm
Probably going to set the points at 80
Alright! Restarting from scratch. Sort of. Carlos gets +1 to each physical stat (strength, endurance, dexterity) because he has dem good sci-fi mods. Elijah gets +2 to physical stats, but only 3 distributable points, because he is a vampire. Everyone else gets 80 points, period. 5 in each stat, 5 extra to be distributed, none can go below 1 or above 10.


Vladislav | Hillevi | Elijah
[spoili]
Vladislav

Strength
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Endurance
8
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪]

Dexterity
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Intelligence
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Wisdom
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Perception
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Creativity
2
[] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Confidence
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Passion
1
[] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Charisma
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Empathy
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Patience
9
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪]

Humor
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Discipline
10
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] []

Luck
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]
Hillevi

Strength
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Endurance
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Dexterity
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Intelligence
8
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪]

Wisdom
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Perception
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Creativity
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Confidence
2
[] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Passion
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Charisma
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Empathy
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Patience
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Humor
8
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪]

Discipline
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Luck
1
[] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]
Elijah

Strength
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Endurance
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Dexterity
9
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪]

Intelligence
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Wisdom
2
[] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Perception
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Creativity
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Confidence
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Passion
8
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪]

Charisma
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Empathy
9
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪]

Patience
1
[] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Humor
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Discipline
1
[] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Luck
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]
[/spoili]​

Malcolm | Carlos | Tanakorn
[spoili]
Malcolm

Strength
8
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪]

Endurance
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Dexterity
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Intelligence
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Wisdom
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Perception
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Creativity
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Confidence
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Passion
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Charisma
2
[] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Empathy
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Patience
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Humor
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Discipline
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Luck
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]
Carlos

Strength
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Endurance
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Dexterity
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Intelligence
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Wisdom
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Perception
9
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪]

Creativity
3
[] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Confidence
2
[] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Passion
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Charisma
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Empathy
8
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪]

Patience
7
[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Humor
5
[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Discipline
6
[] [] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Luck
4
[] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]
Tanakorn

Strength

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Endurance

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Dexterity

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Intelligence

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Wisdom

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Perception

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Creativity

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Confidence

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Passion

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Charisma

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Empathy

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Patience

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Humor

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Discipline

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]

Luck

[] [] [] [] [] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪] [▪]
[/spoili]​
 
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Cool shit here
NAME:
The name, obviously. Full, from start to finish

PRONUNCIATION:
Deets on how to pronounce that sucker

NICKNAMES:
Stuff people call them! c:

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
All those things symbol combined but seperate symbol like this

SEXUALITY:
Probably bi/pan, honestly, I am shameless

DESCRIPTION:
Physical description and obvious quirks

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Tattoos! Scars! Dimples! Birthmarks! Features they are known for.

HAIR:
Deets on hair. Color, prefered length, texture, etc

EYES:
Deets on eyes. Detailed description of color, oddities, etc

HEIGHT:
Some length

WEIGHT:
Some number

PERSONALITY:
Paragraph personality description
Keywords:
Broken cymbal Up cymbal Like cymbal This cymbal Or
+ maybe
+ organized
+ a bit
- more
- like
- this

LIKES:
Some stuff! Maybe with symbols, maybe not

DISLIKES:
More stuff! Still a maybe on the symbols

AMBITIONS:
The symbols thing is kind of depending

FEARS:
Changes for each character

BIOGRAPHY:
The dirty details of their deep dark past because we both know their past is going to be painful.

OTHER:
symbol Faceclaim/art credit is
symbol Color code is
symbol Stuff n things
symbol Things n stuff


oh god this is so not mobile friendly
 
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fuck it

SOMETHING
noimage-800x285.jpg
Basics
NAME:
The name, obviously. Full, from start to finish

PRONUNCIATION:
Deets on how to pronounce that sucker

NICKNAMES:
Stuff people call them! c:

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
All those things symbol combined but seperate symbol like this

SEXUALITY:
Probably bi/pan, honestly, I am shameless
Appearance
DESCRIPTION:
Physical description and obvious quirks

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Tattoos! Scars! Dimples! Birthmarks! Features they are known for.

HAIR:
Deets on hair. Color, prefered length, texture, etc

EYES:
Deets on eyes. Detailed description of color, oddities, etc

HEIGHT:
Some length

WEIGHT:
Some number
Personality
PERSONALITY:
Paragraph personality description
Keywords:
Broken cymbal Up cymbal Like cymbal This cymbal Or
+ maybe
+ organized
+ a bit
- more
- like
- this

LIKES:
Some stuff! Maybe with symbols, maybe not

DISLIKES:
More stuff! Still a maybe on the symbols

AMBITIONS:
The symbols thing is kind of depending

FEARS:
Changes for each character
Biography
OTHER:
symbol Faceclaim/art credit is Johan Akan
symbol Color code is #315F6F
symbol Stuff n things
symbol Things n stuff
 
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Alright! Flexboxes. Doin the thing. Here's hoping this works like I want it to.
Okay, played around with previews and this was a lot easier than expected. Pretty sure flex is gonna be my new best friend.

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NOT MY CODE NOT MY CODE NOT MY CODE

-


-​


T H I N G


bloop




 
Carpe Diem
"Seize the day."
Basics

NAME:
The name, obviously. Full, from start to finish

PRONUNCIATION:
Deets on how to pronounce that sucker

NICKNAMES:
Stuff people call them! c:

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
All those things symbol combined but seperate symbol like this

SEXUALITY:
Probably bi/pan, honestly, I am shameless
Appearance

DESCRIPTION:
Physical description and obvious quirks

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Tattoos! Scars! Dimples! Birthmarks! Features they are known for.

HAIR:
Deets on hair. Color, prefered length, texture, etc

EYES:
Deets on eyes. Detailed description of color, oddities, etc

HEIGHT:
Some length

WEIGHT:
Some number
Personality

Paragraph personality description
Keywords:
Broken cymbal Up cymbal Like cymbal This cymbal Or
+ maybe
+ organized
+ a bit
- more
- like
- this

LIKES:
Some stuff! Maybe with symbols, maybe not

DISLIKES:
More stuff! Still a maybe on the symbols

AMBITIONS:
The symbols thing is kind of depending

FEARS:
Changes for each character
Bio/Other

BIOGRAPHY:
The dirty details of their deep dark past because we both know their past is going to be painful.

OTHER:
symbol Faceclaim/art credit is
symbol Color code is
symbol Stuff n things
symbol Things n stuff
 
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Desmond Durand
Basics

NAME:
Desmond Jonathan Durand
デスモンド - de su mo n do
ジョナサン - jo na sa n
デュラン - du ra n


PRONUNCIATION:
dehz-muhnd JAH-nuh-thun do-RAHN

NICKNAMES:
Des, Desu, Dessy

AGE/BIRTHDATE/LOCATION:
26 November 30th Lille, France

SEXUALITY:
Pansexual

ALIGNMENT:
Neutral Good

BLOOD TYPE:
B
Appearance

DESCRIPTION:
The first thing people tend to notice about Desmond is his height. He clears six feet with ease, even while barefoot, and his posture when sitting or standing tends to be confident enough to accentuate how tall he is. The second thing is typically his general looks. He's quite the handsome young man, well-groomed and usually clean shaven. That's helped by how well he dresses; you aren't necessarily going to see him in a suit every day, as he dresses for the situation instead of to any certain standard, but he does pick his clothing with care and a rare attention to detail. The third thing is often his muteness. He doesn't speak very often, his voice too quiet and too hoarse to be a useful means of communication, so he tends to use apps on his phone, hand signs, and the odd bit of paper - when available - to communicate with others. Most that pass him on the street aren't going to notice that fact, as he's incredibly polite even in his silence, but anyone who spends any length of time with him would.

Frankly, Desmond was a very easy to read person to begin with. He was never much of a liar. He was always quite expressive, heart displayed on his sleeve for the whole world to see. This natural expressiveness was only expanded upon after his accident. His tells are easy enough, his every emotion is broadcast in the lines and curves of his facial expressions, and it's doubtful he would be very good at deception even if he tried. In regards to other mannerisms, he tends to wear bracelets or rings and fiddle with them whenever he gets particularly impatient. Lip biting is a sure sign he's nervous and/or interested in someone, and he'll often scrunch his nose up when dealing with a particularly perplexing problem.

His manner of dress changes with the season and with the sort of company he's expecting to deal with, but he chooses even his casual outfits with care. The most complex pattern he goes for is stripes, and he tends towards grays, blacks, and dark blues.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:
Expressive features Dimples in each of his cheeks A couple dozen freckles dotting his neck, shoulders, and chest A faded scar high on his throat, just over his larynx A piercing in his left ear No tattoos

HAIR:
Dark brown, soft in texture, kept cut short and usually styled up

EYES:
Dark and fairly even brown

HEIGHT:
6'1" 1.85 m

WEIGHT:
168 lbs 76 kg
Personality

Generally speaking, Desmond is quite the pleasant individual. He's not particularly socially awkward, nor shy in any obvious fashion. That is perhaps surprising, given his circumstances, but he makes do with the methods he has. It does bother him more often than he would like to admit, though. His muteness is nothing less than frustrating while he attempts to discuss subjects he cares about or wishes to answer questions or in other similar situation; it's incredibly irritating to make others wait while he writes out a paragraph or two, or tries to type all he wishes to say into his phone and wait while it is read aloud. Not to mention all of the other inconveniences he deals with, small and large. He does his best to move past those sorts of occurrences as best as he can, even if doing so is more difficult on some days than others.

As hard as he tries to work with his muteness, he works every bit as hard to be polite and considerate to others. So, provided one is willing to work with his unusual communication methods, Desmond is a generous and caring friend, the sort who believes the best of everyone and tries to keep their best interests in mind. Does this make him easy to take advantage of? Perhaps, but he has yet to run into anyone with truly dark intentions and has managed to keep that fragile idealistic attitude intact. He's quite perceptive and just as inclined to trust his instincts, that may be why he has yet to realize his naivety, but it is difficult to say with any certainty.
Keywords:
Unselfish Perceptive Witty Expressive Headstrong Naive

LIKES:
Reading, especially non-fiction Bright spaces Minimalism Grays, blacks, dark blues People watching Onigiri Integrity in others and himself Drinking things from straws

DISLIKES:
Cooking Dishonesty, manipulation, threats Flying insects Complicated colors or patterns Careless people Wasting time Being underestimated, being considered stupid Uncomfortable clothing

AMBITIONS:
Learn as much as humanly possible Explore everywhere he possibly can Get a position as a museum curator

FEARS:
Bugs, especially flying bugs Exclusion Getting into another car accident
Bio/Other

BIOGRAPHY:
[spoili]
Desmond was born the only child of an interesting couple. His mother was an Australian woman, tall and at least as tenacious as her son would grow up to be. His father was a French man, not quite as tall but incredibly intelligent and an up and coming architect. They met while his mother was teaching English in northern France; Desmond was born only a year later. They liked one another enough to marry, and when their young son was only five years old, his mother accepted the job of her dreams: to teach English in Japan.

Desmond picked up the language quite quickly and did well in school, plenty social enough to become popular with the others in his class. He even got involved in a sports club. Said sports club was the reason why, when he was eight years of age, he was bowled over by a young boy of similar age and ended up breaking his arm. The experience ended up creating an odd sort of bond between Desmond and the other boy, but Aki returned home only a few days later and whatever might have become of their bond died soon after.

The next noteworthy occasion in Desmond's life occurred when he was eleven and it was far more traumatic in nature. A car accident. His father was driving too fast, taking the pair of them out of Tokyo for a weekend vacation, but they had a head on collision with a distracted driver in the opposite lane. His father would make it out of the crash with his own set of injuries, but a piece of shattered windshield had lodged itself in Desmond's throat. The boy was rushed to the hospital and survived the blood loss...then the tube placed in his neck...then the infection that nearly resulted from it. It was months before he could even think about talking again, and he honestly chose not to. The speech therapist he was assigned could make little progress, given how stubborn Desmond was even when he was so young, so his parents eventually relented and researched alternate means of communication.

The first few years were difficult, but between the friends he'd made at school and the support of his parents, Desmond worked his way back to having a fairly normal life. Little of excitement has happened in his life since then, beyond his degree in history, and Desmond spends his days working as a technician at a history museum in Tokyo. He isn't quite satisfied with his lot in life and he's often more lonely than he likes to admit, but he's doing well enough that he doesn't like to complain.[/spoili]

OTHER:
Faceclaim is Anthony Gastelier
Color code is #424242
Not completely mute, but his voice is weak enough that he doesn't speak
Understands and writes fluent English, French, and Japanese
Crazy high tolerance for pain
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  • Love
Reactions: DarkiusHeavenstein
デスモンド - de su mo n do
ジョナサン - jo na sa n
デュラン - du ra n
BLOOD TYPE: B
ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good
Color code is #424242
The Explorer, the Sanguine
Desmond Durand
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Dinner had been nothing short of pleasant, Desmond thought to himself as he walked away from the little restaurant he'd eaten at with hands in his pockets and a soft smile on his face. Mineko and Kaito were visiting from Nagoya and Mineko had somehow managed to talk her recluse of a brother, Masato, into joining the three of them for a meal. They'd shared drinks and traded tales over some very well grilled steaks. It was good. Very good. Desmond hadn't seen Mineko in person since she finally married Kaito almost a year and a half ago, and Masato's unusual work schedule made it difficult for Desmond to see him. The three of them were doing very well; Kaito was back to training after some minor injury and Mineko had been subtly dropping hints about children all night and Masato was on the verge of a promotion. They all had stories to share about wayward coworkers and news they'd read about. It was great to reconnect like that. Perhaps he'd drank a bit too much, given the buzz that saturated his thoughts, but there was a lightness in his step that wasn't merely because of the alcohol.

Why, then, did his shoulders sink as he wandered through Tokyo's well-lit streets?

Perhaps it was the realization he wasn't likely to see the three of them for months, at least. Perhaps it was because Mineko and Kaito were still such a pleasant, idyllic couple, even after nearly five years together. Perhaps it was because Desmond had good friends and a good job and a good relationship with his parents but he was still lonely and he only acknowledged that in his weaker moments or after too many drinks. Perhaps he'd drank far too much alcohol and that was what turned his mood for the maudlin as soon as he left the bright lights of the restaurant behind.

Desmond paused that line of thought at the mouth of some backstreet, stopping short while he considered his options. The main street was one way he could go home, lit by neon and populated even at this time of night. That would be a near thirty-minute walk, however, not counting the time he'd wait to cross streets. Then, there was the option of taking the back streets. A more direct route, if a bit dark and more sparsely populated, and it would take at least ten minutes off his walk. Logic dictated he not take the risk of the direct route, given his current state and the late hour, but he couldn't deny how much he wanted to go home and get to bed.

The soft sway in his step as he turned the corner onto the backstreet settled the debate he'd been having before his indecision over the route to take; his emotional mood was definitely because of the alcohol, and any feelings beyond that should be examined under the harsh light of sobriety.

Desmond's excellent sense of direction guided him through the backways of the city he'd loved since he was just a boy. He paid little attention to how few people he passed as he went deeper into the network, and he paid even less attention to how dark his surroundings got as he went away from the areas frequented by tourists. He didn't even notice how quiet it'd gotten until he caught sight of a group of figures standing near the only lit up storefront for some distance in either direction. Curiosity is what compelled Desmond to stop, safe in the depths of the shadows at the edge of the pool of light. Horror is what kept him frozen there.

The scene he'd stumbled across was a gruesome one. Four men. Three were dressed well, suits and gold chains and expensive wristwatches. One of those men had an ox head tattooed in the hollow of his throat and the other two had their sleeves rolled up enough to expose the color marking their skin. The fourth man was perfectly ordinary. Not particularly tall, not particularly handsome, not particularly unattractive. Ordinary, except for the cuts on his face and the deep purple bruising around his eye that seemed to be darkening in color by the second. He was on his knees, the tattooed trio pacing around him like wolves eyeing their weakened prey. He was saying something, as well; Desmond wasn't close enough to hear his broken words, but he could read lips well enough to determine the man was pleading for his life. It was all over in a moment. The one with the ox head on his throat stepped close and grabbed the ordinary man by the hair, yanking his head back and drawing a blade across his exposed throat in a flash of motion fast enough that Desmond could hardly follow it.

A harsh gasp escaped Desmond's mouth and his hand went to his own throat, some reflexive gesture, while he tried to process what he'd just witnessed. Whatever functional logical sense he had remaining supplied that the tattooed men must be yakuza. The tattooed men must be yakuza and Desmond just bore witness to one of their killings. He backed up slowly, the hand that wasn't at his neck held out like he could keep the three men from seeing him with nothing more than an outstretched palm. His breath came faster as his pulse kicked up. The three hadn't noticed him yet, too busy watching their victim bleed out on the street, so Desmond risked turning around. Mistake. He swayed with the suddenness of the movement and stumbled on his feet, his neat dress shoes betraying his presence by clicking loudly on the stone beneath him. Desmond didn't dare turn back to see if the men really had heard it. He just ran.

In all honesty, he didn't get very far. The scarring in his throat made breathing - especially panting - a painful process. Not to mention that his cardio routine wasn't nearly enough to keep him ahead of three gangsters for very long. Sure enough, it wasn't more than a minute before Desmond took a corner too fast and overbalanced, hitting the ground hard enough to streak dirt over his nice slacks and fitted button up, then scratch the skin under the clothes. There was nothing graceful about how he flipped onto his back and pressed his shoulders against the nearest wall, feeling his rapid heartbeat intensify the rough pain in his throat and sting of scrapes on his palms and knee and elbow.

It was the man with the ox tattoo that approached him first, but the other two were close behind.

"He isn't begging for his life yet," one of the pair observed as the man with the ox tattoo crouched down beside Desmond. Desmond couldn't quite take his eyes off the way the blade in his hand glittered under the lights of the street. Couldn't quite ignore the blood on its deadly edge, either. Desmond's lips pressed into a tight line, fear and determination mingling in his expression.

"He'll be begging soon enough," the man with the ox tattoo responded, tone filled with cold confidence and underlined with a certainty that chilled Desmond to the bone. Desmond felt the blood drain from his face, but he still kicked out toward the man. His foot missed and the man growled. The blade in his hand raised up, and Desmond flinched, one scraped hand going to cover his face. There was the sudden sound of a car honking on a nearby street, close enough to startle the three yakuza, and Desmond didn't feel the knife bite into his skin. He didn't dare lower his hand, even after the startling noise. Death was a terrifying prospect, frankly, and when it came down to it he didn't have the courage to look it in the face. He couldn't face the man who'd kill him.

The sound of voices was surprising enough that he had to peek, though. The man with the ox tattoo had leaned back on his haunches, still entirely too close but facing more towards his comrades than Desmond. He was speaking to them in a low tone, cursing while the other two tried to calm their fiery friend and offered up plans of action. Demond missed most of the conversation, the rush in his head and sound of blood pounding in his ears drowning out most other noise, but he watched. He even caught a couple of phrases. "Too risky". "Another mess to clean". Something ominous about "the mongrel". The argument that particular phrase sparked was fierce but brief, and it was moments before the three were hauling Desmond to his feet and walking him down the back streets. He struggled against them at first, but another growl from the man with the ox tattoo and a threatening wave of the blade in his hand was all it took to still Desmond for the moment. They walked for some indeterminate amount of time, Desmond's head swimming badly enough that he could hardly keep track of direction. Firm hands gripping his arms and shoulders kept him up and walking, though, even as the adrenaline drained from his body and the true horror of his situation set in.

The odd group slowed eventually and approached a pitch black car, parked in some nondescript location away from the main streets. There was a flare of panic in Desmond's chest and he couldn't help but fight once again against the men that held him, heartbeat picking up again. A hard blow to the head stilled him for long enough that the three could dump him unceremoniously in the trunk of the car and slam it shut. He curled up in the darkness, struggling with his breathing and the rapid beating of his heart and the panic rising up in his chest. Waiting for...something. The car to start? The lurch of movement? Something.

Instead, he sat in relative silence, only the sound of his harsh breaths and the pounding of blood in his head to keep him company. Seconds passed. Minutes. Fuck, it could have been an hour until the trunk opened again. Desmond's methods of measuring time were questionable at best, given his state. Given his location. He fumbled for his phone at some point, pulling the thing out and trying to shine its light into the darkness, but the screen was cracked under his fingertips. Broken when he'd fallen, most likely. Cracked or not, it was still pulled from his hand and thrown when the trunk was finally reopened. Then the body of the trio's first victim was dumped into the trunk alongside Desmond, and the lid was slammed shut again.

Car doors opened and closed, the engine rumbled to life, but Desmond only noticed these things in a passive fashion. His mind was too occupied with the metallic scent of blood that clung to the body he was trapped with, with the pain in his chest and throat, with the sting of his scrapes, with the panic in his chest that ramped up with every lurch as the car turned corners and shifted speeds. He couldn't say how long they drove for, only that it was the most terrifying length of time he'd experienced in his relatively short life.
 
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  • Bucket of Rainbows
Reactions: junebug
O.B. Pyrebough
Location: Militia Camp ♣ Interaction: Person Person Person
Fuckin' elves.

Obi had filed into the glade, same as the rest of the newly drafted "adventurers". He was generally doing his best to be inconspicuous - not that such a task was difficult, given how many tall bastards he was surrounded by - and kept towards the center of the crowd. Well, in front and off to the left of the crowd, for the sake of being able to see around the other members of the merry band of misfit militia. Concessions for his short stature aside, Obi still did his best not to stand out all that much. Easier to be a faceless name - or was it a nameless face - until he decided who he cared to trust in this wild adventure they were setting out on. Wild didn't seem to cover it, really. The elf in front claimed they were headed past the outer limits.

Which, speaking of. Fuckin' elves.

The one in front was some too-tall drow, it looked like, and he was talking all grand. Handing out orders and describing roles. All business, now. Obi tightened his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes just a bit at the elfy bastard. I saw you, he thought because he couldn't very well say it out loud, I saw you daydreaming. Prig. Man had been half asleep - all right, perhaps that was an overstatement - when they all filed in, but he went real professional real quick once all his underlings arrived. Obi didn't like him, just on principle alone. What principle? Good question. Wasn't like Obi had many. Still didn't like the elf, though.

He did bother paying attention to the names as they were called out, though. Wouldn't do to not know where to go; idiots always got noticed. One of the names in the list was noteworthy enough, one he'd heard any number of times before. Cain Casey, one of Obi's very carefully selected drinking buddies. Hard to say if they were friends, but they were certainly friendly enough. It was good that there was going to be a familiar face somewhere. It was bad that said familiar face wasn't on Obi's wagon. Bad that both of them had gotten drafted, too, that fact should probably go in the "cons" section. Ah, well, ancestors below. He was surrounded by the tall and the uncomfortably tall - wait, was that a bogling or three? - and there was an elf or two but all that was fine. He could live with it. Not like he had much choice in the matter.

The elf in front wrapped up his speech with a grimace and Obi suppressed the snort that nearly escaped. Alright, well, time to find the rest of his wagon. Get to look at who he would be dealing with for who knew how long.

"Wagon two, anyone?" he asked those in his immediate vicinity, because hey, maybe his job would be easy just this once. No luck. He made his way through the dissipating crowd, asking for a "Ganymede - there's a wilds name if I ever heard one - anyone?" and a horribly butchered version of "Ishraq Oraib" because while he had a real good head for names, pronouncing them without mangling them beyond recognition was not his forte.

Obi ended up finding a naga and one of the uncomfortably tall individuals that he'd seen in the crowd earlier. Ewan, he'd bet. Man like that deserved a name like Ewan. As for the naga...well, he'd seen worse. He shifted back and forth on his feet, awkward in the momentary silence, so he decided to speak. "This one's real quiet, isn't he?" is what he remarked smartly to the naga woman, nodding toward the tall one with an equally smart smile on his face. The tall one would hear, no doubt; Obi wasn't exactly trying to keep his voice down.
Sheet Link ♣ Mood: Salty ♣ Status: Uninjured but ready to complain
 
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Slava - The Bogatyr
34 | Male | Knight's Templar | Lawful Neutral
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Full name:
Vladislav Miloslavich

Significance of Name:
Vladislav means "to own glory" and Miloslavich means "son of Miloslav"

Nicknames:
Slava, Vladik, Law (given to him by Renaud)

Birth:
1206 AD in Toropets, of the Principality of Toropets

Death:
1240 AD in Kolomya, of the Principality of Halych

Species:
Human

Speaks:
Old East Slavic, French, Latin, English (polite)

Family:
Miloslav Miloslavich - father - boyar under Mstislav the Bold who died in 1228
Anna Ganzavich - mother - daughter of another boyar, married Miloslav in 1205, died in 1241
No spouse or children

Affiliates:
Sir Renaud de Vichiers - a close friend he made during his time among the Templars - Grand Master of the Knights Templar from 1250 to 1256
Daniel of Galicia - the prince he declared his service to and who sealed him away after some years spent fighting the Mongols - Grand Prince of Kiev from 1240 to 1264
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Slava is a bit short by modern standards and certainly unused to being regarded as such, but his broad shoulders and well muscled frame still carry the same intimidation factor they did all those centuries ago. His hair, beard, and armor are all neat and well kept, the effort he puts into maintaining an excellent image obvious in the soft shine of the metal pieces of his armor set.

The best word to describe his tells would be subtle; he stands with excellent posture and tends to keep his hands neatly folded behind his back, he sits with similarly excellent posture and tends to keep his hands in his lap. He doesn't gesture much, and even then only when necessary. He's getting into the fashions of modern clothes slowly but surely and shows a marked preference for cool reds and softer fabrics.

Hair:
Dark brown; straight and thick, kept cropped short enough not to interfere with helmet wearing

Eyes:
Brown; smooth and even across his irises, roughly the color of melted chocolate

Identifying Features:
A new, angry pink scar on his left shoulder going down his back from a hacking blow or two
A series of scars from a nasty set of claws raking across his right shoulder, slashing down towards his chest
A short but gnarled battle scar just under his right armpit from an attempted stab wound; the injury nearly killed him and did not heal well
Numerous scars dotting his hands and forearms, from practice with blades or cooking or what have you
A few pale brown birthmarks on his lower back, all with random shapes

Height:
5'8" (174 cm)

Weight:
167 lbs (75.7 kg)

Equipment:
Wields a saber and a kite shield; the saber is somewhat longer than typical and the shield is somewhat smaller than typical; the shield was also replaced quite recently and Slava is still adjusting to the heft of it
Wears plate, pictured here, made of durable steel and dutifully re-enchanted whenever the effect wears off, though the left shoulder plate has suffered irreparable damage

Magic:
Steel - Slava is particularly adept at enchanting his armor and his shield to be stronger and tougher, making him a small but sturdy tank on the battlefield and the man you want to hide behind in the event of a dragon attack. Spells: Steel Enchanting, Steel Shield
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Traits:
Dependable (+) | Will not break his promises even under pain of death; ten minutes early for literally everything; probably keeps a secret and weirdly specific written schedule somewhere
Patient (+) | Can and will do the same task several dozen times in a row; finds waiting or instructing someone on something they simply do not understand draining instead of irritating; the temperature of his temper is in the negatives but there is no doubt he has one
Stoic (=) | Serious almost all the time; refuses to show or express too much of his feelings, negative or positive; take him at his word when he says things because you probably won't be able to read it in his face
Morally questionable (=) | Makes decisions based on his code, the law, what is best for his people, what is best for him, and then what is morally correct in that order; if it's legal and good for the Templars but not morally correct, he gonna do it; not the person to go to for a "good guy" opinion
Insensitive (-) | Bad at feelings, whether it's his own or dealing with other people's; can and will say rude things and not understand why it was rude
Critical (-) | Hard on himself; somewhat less hard on other people; tends to be more critical of the people he cares about because that's how he shows his affection

Personality Type:
ISTJ - The Disciplined Soldier, The Logistician, The Duty Fulfiller, The Reliable Realist, The Responsible Accountant, The Examiner, The Rule Follower
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Slava was born in the late summer of 1206 AD, considered a blessing by both of his parents. His father was a boyar, roughly equivalent to a noble and a trusted adviser; his mother was the daughter of another boyar and a woman of influence in her own right. With his father off fighting alongside the prince and a complete lack of siblings, his mother was a strong influence in his childhood and luckily a positive one. His childhood was a decent one overall, filled with admiration for his father, education, and martial training, but also much love and support from his mother. He was sixteen when he finally elected to leave home and find his own glories.

France caught his interest enough that he elected to stay. It was mere months later that he fell in with the Knights Templar, and only weeks after he began studying magic with the order that he met Renaud. Renaud was a bright individual, as sociable as he was intelligent, and he quickly took a liking to the quiet but observant Slava. The pair hit it off famously enough that they'd be friends until Slava left France in 1229 AD, seven years after he left home, after hearing news of his father's death. From there, he pledged his service to Daniel of Galicia and loyally served the invasion of the Golden Horde. He spent years fighting off the Mongols and their fiendish beasts, earning his mastery of battle magic and experience by valiantly fighting them in actual combat.

They were fighting a losing battle, however, and by 1240 AD, Daniel of Galicia had determined the only real option was surrender. He wouldn't stand for leaving the Mongols in power, however; he collected a small number of his greatest knights, drummed up deaths for the lot of them, and buried them all in places across his domain. Slava was one of them.

[Spoili]
1246 AD, years after he'd received the letter from Law's mother that he had passed, Renaud finally worked up the time and willpower to travel east in an attempt to discover his friend's real fate. The crypt took no small amount of investigation to find; Law's mother had passed not too long after her son, too heartbroken by loss to continue on, and was unable to show him to it. It was buried in a small and otherwise nondescript cave south of Halych. Finding it without a guide was difficult, but find it he did, and there he went.

Finally laying eyes on his friend's coffin, deep in the cave and elegantly carved from stone, was like a punch to the gut. Law had no one to tend to this place now, no one to visit anymore, no one who could care. Just Renaud. So he willed himself to say something, anything, carefully placing a hand on the top of his friend's coffin in an attempt to prepare himself. What he felt in the stone shocked him enough that he took a few steps back. Magic, thrumming through the stone like he'd never felt it before. Powerful magic. Powerful enough that Renaud made a choked noise and let curiosity win over his reservations about cracking open a man's grave, pushing at the coffin's lid.

He pushed until it shifted enough that he could see - and sure enough, he could see his friend inside it. Not bones, but flesh. Complete and whole, completely undamaged by the passage of time. His armor was in fine condition, arms placed in an X over his chest with his saber pressed into one hand and shield strapped to the other. He had the most serene expression on his face; he could be sleeping, almost. Sleeping, almost, if it wasn't for the bubble of magic that encapsulated him. It was an enchantment the likes of which Renaud had never beheld in person before. He'd seen mentions of such powerful magic in old texts, heard references to such things from other Templars, but this...this was real. Renaud instinctively reached out to touch the bubble, finding that the magic felt...felt solid. Cold and solid, like stone or steel.

Renaud didn't attempt to break the spell, too afraid of inadvertently killing Law to even try, but he sealed the coffin back up and brought the knowledge of the burial place back to the Templar Order. Useless information, then, but it was still archived with the rest, to be utilized at a later date...[/spoili]
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Evie - The Modern Medic
26 | Female | Knights Templar | Chaotic Neutral
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Full name:
Hillevi Hansen

Significance of Name:
Hillevi means "safe in battle" and Hansen means "son of Hans"

Nicknames:
Evie, Eve, Hillie (if you want to get smacked)

Birth:
January 3rd, 2044, in Portland, Oregon

Species:
Human

Speaks:
English, Swedish, French (polite)

Family:
Annette Ronning - mother - status unknown
Charles Hansen - father - Knight Templar, deceased
Linnea Ronning - Half sister - status unknown
Nils Ronning - Half brother - deceased
No spouse or children
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Evie stands a bit taller than average, built slim without much obvious muscle, her pretty blond hair reaching her back when its down though she often keeps it neatly twisted up into a bun or a braid. Her makeup, when she bothers, is light and neat, complimenting her features without trying to cover them. Those fairly normal traits tend to starkly contrast her colorful tattoos and the scars dotting her hands and the calluses on her fingers and her interesting personality, so it's easy to consider her someone worth staring at.

She tends to slouch when she sits, though she hardly ever uses a chair in the intended fashion due to her penchant for unusual sitting positions. Her face is easy to read, but that doesn't mean her heart is on her sleeve. She also gestures very little while she speaks, arms usually crossed over her chest or hands in her pockets. Her clothes are chosen for comfort and utility rather than style, but she has a knack for looking good and well coordinated anyways.

Hair:
Blonde and straight; long, but always bound up into a bun or braid to keep it out of her face

Eyes:
Blue; Mixed stormy gray-blue, with the base color being blue and the gray streaked across her iris from edge to pupil

Identifying Features:
Many scars, from little ones easily explained by her violent work to larger ones with darker stories; Gun tattoo on leg, Fenrir emblem in the small of her back, and here is tattoo ref one and tattoo ref two and tattoo ref three

Height:
5'6" (168 cm)

Weight:
137 lbs (62 kg)

Equipment:
Uses an assault rifle with a scope she uses with deadly efficiency - when she's not trying to keep her fellow knights alive
Wears light armor in modern style, pictured here, with the addition of the Templar insignia on the chest plate

Magic:
Healing - Evie's skills are primarily focused on healing and repairing injuries, though she only has a limited capacity for this. She backs up her healing magic with a solid knowledge of anatomy and medical procedure.
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Personality:
Evie usually makes a positive first impression, regardless of the situation, as she's quite polite and charming no matter what sort of mood she's in or what she's doing. She's a good listener but also good at holding up her end of a conversation, passionate if you can find the right topic, and she's got a darkly sarcastic and self-deprecating sense of humor that she pulls off quite well even given how dark it tends to be. She's never shy and she never lies, though she's not exactly honest and she's certainly not open. Still, she comes off as polite and innocent enough that it's a shock to many she converses with when she mentions her darker interests or brings up a violent/racy/illegal/morally questionable story from her crazy teenage years. Her commanding officers almost always think well of her; she's tenacious and determined, never one to back down in the face of difficulty and excellent at time management, though most people don't get to witness these traits in battle.

Inwardly, she's a skeptic and a cynic who struggles to put faith in other people. She's terrified of losing her temper and especially terrified of losing control, yet at the same time manages to be irritable and rash. The cycle of self-degradation that creates is a vicious one, though she's struggled to break it ever since she left her mother's care at the tender age of sixteen.

Traits:
+ Tenacious
+ Passionate
+ Blunt
+ Cunning
+ Charismatic
- Irritable
- Obstinate
- Apathetic
- Callous
- Reckless

Personality Type:
ENTJ
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Wouldn't you like to know...
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Eli - The Vampire
164 | Male | Knights Templar | Chaotic Good
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Full name:
Elijah Haddad

Significance of Name:
Elijah is a Biblical name meaning "Yahweh is God" and Haddad is an occupational surname meaning "Blacksmith"

Nicknames:
Eli

Birth:
March 25th, 1906, in Boston, Massachusetts

Species:
Vampire

Speaks:
English, French, German, Arabic (conversational)

Family:
Joram Haddad - father - deceased
Ilse Edwards - mother - alive, vampire
Charles Edwards - step-father - deceased, vampire
No spouse, maybe some children
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Even though his appearance isn't viewed with the stigma it used to be, Eli still manages to be an intimidating individual. He's tall and broad, well muscled because he's the type of person who works out. Not just for the sake of his health, though, he exercises for pleasure and vanity in fairly equal measure and it shows in the definition of his muscles and how often he takes opportunities to flex. His tattoos earn him a few looks, too, given that they cover his skin from fingertip to fingertip and pectoral to jawline, all dark ink and interesting patterns. His smiles are wide and pleasant what with his dimples, his eyes tend to light up with the general enthusiasm he has for life, and he has an almost suspicious lack of scars.

Eli generally keeps a relaxed posture, spreading out across whatever space is available to him like a lazy cat, and he radiates a casual kind of confidence even when he's hyped up and unable to sit still. His tells and facial expressions are usually easy to read, though those don't necessarily reveal his motives. His outfits tend to be casual, well put together, and horribly inappropriate for the weather.

Hair:
Black; coarse in texture and long enough that he can put it in a ponytail, but he only really bothers doing so while working

Eyes:
Brown; dark and fairly even brown, shot with gold if one looks closely

Identifying Features:
Dimples Tattoos covering his chest and both arms (ref one & two & three), a moon tattoo wrapped around his right thigh, a raven tattoo on his left hip, the raven just below his hipbone and the skull down towards his thigh Both ears pierced with gauges No scars

Height:
6'2" (188 cm)

Weight:
217 lbs (98 kg)

Equipment:
If he were to be allowed a weapon, he would choose a sniper rifle, a marksman to his core, but he's just as deadly without a gun
Wears a glorified catsuit into battle, pictured here, with the addition of the Templar insignia on the chest (technically there are plates, pieces, and a belt or two that go over the suit, but Eli quite intentionally chooses not to wear them...and he usually "forgets" the helmet, too)

Species Info:
As a vampire, Eli is stronger and faster than any normal human, along with having better physical senses and a lower reaction time. He's also more durable; one would have to target his heart, head, or spinal cord to do any lasting damage, but he's far from immune to pain and he doesn't heal instantly. Bleeding him dry is, in fact, a viable way to kill him. His heart still beats and his body temperature is perfectly normal. He can eat regular food but he cannot survive on it and he only has to consume blood every day or two to keep his appetite in check. The only really apparent sign of his inhuman nature is his canine teeth - they're long and well developed and sharp - but those are an oddity easy to pass off as surgical modification or some genetic thing, given his un-vampire-like personality.
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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Personality:
A combination of amiability and natural charm means that Eli tends to win people over easily and make excellent first impressions. He's energetic but not overbearing, optimistic without being annoying, sociable without dominating conversations. Given all that, finding people who like his energy and occasionally odd sense of humor is simple enough. However, making sure those people stick around is a task and a half. His stubborn, impulsive nature and general sensitivity to criticism make him inflexible when it comes to arguments and resolving day-to-day situations, and the fact that he's too proud to apologize when he was "just being honest" or some similar excuse helps matters exactly none. Handling him when he's being broody or in a down mood is a downright painful task on occasion, given that he commits to his bad moods just as much as he commits to his good ones.

That said, it doesn't matter much to him what others think of him. He'll protect those he feels need protection, he'll heal those he feels need healing, he'll stand beside anyone he wants to offer his support to. He tends to be far too obvious about his feelings to people he's fond of, and though those signs can be misinterpreted - he bugs these people with an endless supply of questions or sneaks hair remover into their shampoo or throws bits of paper at them just to be annoying, etc - they mark Eli's unconditional love and those who get that treatment can rely on him to have their back or come to their defense any time.

Traits:
+ Gregarious
+ Energetic
+ Perceptive
+ Direct
+ Thorough
- Proud
- Pigheaded
- Impulsive
- Obnoxious
- Defiant

Personality Type:
ESTP
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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The son of a Syrian immigrant and a German woman, the second of whom was in America illegally, Eli is a human-born vampire with an interesting history. His father was from what would become modern day Iraq, a Christian who left the country of his birth to chase the American dream, get wealthy, and return home with his new wife and son. His mother was from Germany, the youngest daughter of an esteemed family who'd broken away from her family and stowed away on a cargo vessel bound for the United States to escape whatever she'd done or whatever she'd been involved with. She never told Eli much about her past before she met his father, and he hasn't ever really asked or tried to find out.

Whatever his mother's history is, he does know that his parents met in New York, his father settled into a life as a traveling peddler and his mother fresh off the boat with a newly acquired name and a need for a new life. She met him on accident several times as they both traveled around, then several more times on purpose, before he eventually proposed. They were married a year before they settled down in Boston and had Elijah. He was the only child the pair successfully conceived, the three other pregnancies that came after him ending in miscarriages, so his father doted on him more and more as he grew up. Until the first World War, that is. His father volunteered for service, proud to prove himself a worthy soldier for the country that took him in, and never returned home.

Ilse eventually remarried, the stress of living as a single mother with a teenage boy too much for even her impressive limits, and the man she chose would change her and her son's lives forever. Forever in a surprisingly literal sense. Ilse became a vampire when Eli was sixteen, and Eli accepted her offer to turn him when he was twenty-three. Life after that was highly entertaining, for the most part, what with all the havoc he caused and all the fun he had. He earned a few college degrees (a Bachelors in environmental science, first, in the 1960s when he finally decided he was ready to try school, then a Bachelors in behavioral science in the 1980s, a Bachelors then a Masters in environmental science to refresh his knowledge in the 2000s, then the whole MD program all the way through his residency in the 2020s) and learned a lot of things, but little of it had to do with the path that put him on the road to where he is now.

That road began almost twenty-eight years ago. A worldwide resurgence of beasts forced humanity's silent protectors, the Templars, to publically recruit for the first time in centuries. And Eli (being an upstanding vampire with a strong sense of right, wrong, and the value of lives that were not his own, along with a downright crazy attraction to danger) decided to join them. All was well for several years; Eli kept his vampiric nature a secret and slaked his thirst with blood bags. Not the most satisfying of diets, but it served well enough while he watched the backs of people who killed those like him for the crime of existing. Eli was a crap liar, but he was plenty good at getting people to like him, so few in the order suspected that he was no human until he'd been a templar for several years. The event that gave it away was nothing short of impressive.

Eli was a field sniper. He was a good shot anyway, and sniping meant he stayed back. Away from the action. Injuries were less likely, which means there was less chance for some poor doctor in the medical section to discover exactly how well Eli healed from injuries that would have crippled a human. But, because Murphy's law is a thing and Eli asks for trouble at the best of time, he was attacked by an ogre while he was out in the field. He woke up in the medical wing and the nurse who checked his injuries screamed at the pale skin where only hours previous there had been mottled purple bruises. Eli was promptly thrown in the dungeon under the south tower of Wartburg Castle, and it was there he stayed while Landgrave (only twenty-seven) decided what to do with him.

It was six weeks before Landgrave finally came to a decision. Eli spent that time locked in the dungeon, fed with blood bags and left in the sun all day, and he was angry when Landgrave finally retrieved him. A ritual was worked that night, something old and something dark, something upsetting enough that many of the templars Landgrave led would be scandalized if they were to learn of his involvement in it. As dark as it may have been, the ritual was still worked (with the aid of a couple of the Templar's magic users) and Eli was bound to Landgrave's will.

That meant he has to follow Landgrave's orders to the letter. Resisting them or trying to subvert them was equal parts painful and difficult, hard enough that Eli still hasn't managed it. With Eli's free will effectively eliminated, Landgrave sent the vampire away to aid the Templar order in other places and told the Templars of Wartburg that he was dead. He worked as a doctor and moved from place to place, all across Europe, chafing under the leash Landgrave had cursed him with but unable to do anything about it. Nearly twenty years later, Eli has been summoned back to Wartburg given the situation with the witch. Landgrave feels Eli's unique perspective might do some good for the pitiful thing...and he wouldn't dare risk any of his Templars caring for someone with her abilities.
Darkflames13 made the stabs code. Yes, they're officially dubbed "stabs".​

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