Luckymoose
The World is Mine
We specifically aren't playing overpowered, we WANT the players to kill us and make an interesting story in the meantime.
Mutant NES: The Rising
- Thread starter Karalysia
- Start date
Freemanuncg
Warlord
The moral ambiguity is kind of a key concept; my character is at best deluded and at worst a psychotic mass murderer who thinks of himself as a good guy. A champion for the mutants now and the savior of the whole human race at times.
Right everyone's stats should be up now. And I've gotten pm's from people about whether they're metagaming or not so let me clarify:
It's very simple. Is your character currently, or eventually is/going to become an invincible, invulnerable unstoppable god? Can your character be killed by no other character? Does your character have a vast number of powers to the point that they are a one man army?
If you answer yes to these questions then you need to tone it down.
It's very simple. Is your character currently, or eventually is/going to become an invincible, invulnerable unstoppable god? Can your character be killed by no other character? Does your character have a vast number of powers to the point that they are a one man army?
If you answer yes to these questions then you need to tone it down.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
By this the Nazi squad is completely not metagaming, as we can all be stopped/killed by one or more of the other players or natural coincidence.
SKILORD
Insurgent
But, now that we are beyond this concept of 'Designated Villains' I'm willing to admit that, frankly, the Liberation Front has enough people and diversity of powers to roll the Nazi trio like some girl scouts.
The idea about having a set villain really got to me, but I don't care anything about the Nazi's. I don't think they're metagaming, I'm pretty sure that on the other hand ther lack of diversity will probably hurt them more than help them.
The idea about having a set villain really got to me, but I don't care anything about the Nazi's. I don't think they're metagaming, I'm pretty sure that on the other hand ther lack of diversity will probably hurt them more than help them.
Freemanuncg
Warlord
Sunrise 7:24 am there were only two living souls in the Christian Identity compound.
The rising sun had quenched the rampant blood lust just as he had swept in for the last kill, Roark was sobbing on the floor smelling as if he had released his bowels on himself. Set remembered, he needed this man alive; the corpses were fodder, common soldiers in the Identities cause.
Roark had information, he would have to coax Roark’s mind back from the brink of insanity, it would only be a matter of time. He had all day…
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jeffrey Roark was a much more highly placed member of the Christian Identity than Set had dared to hope he now knew what he had to do.
“Listen here I need these weapons unloaded by noon I have another shipment coming in then.” Roark said matter-of-factly, to the corpse on the ground in front of him. He continued to babble as the last rays of sun light disappeared behind the mountain, Set lifted the psychotic man to his feet and marched him out onto the destroyed entryway to the enormous mountain complex. Set drank him, death was a release for this ruined husk of a man, and his blood filled Set with new strength.
He marveled at the beauty of the mountains and the night sky.
Washington was about three hundred miles, he needed a car.
The rising sun had quenched the rampant blood lust just as he had swept in for the last kill, Roark was sobbing on the floor smelling as if he had released his bowels on himself. Set remembered, he needed this man alive; the corpses were fodder, common soldiers in the Identities cause.
Roark had information, he would have to coax Roark’s mind back from the brink of insanity, it would only be a matter of time. He had all day…
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jeffrey Roark was a much more highly placed member of the Christian Identity than Set had dared to hope he now knew what he had to do.
“Listen here I need these weapons unloaded by noon I have another shipment coming in then.” Roark said matter-of-factly, to the corpse on the ground in front of him. He continued to babble as the last rays of sun light disappeared behind the mountain, Set lifted the psychotic man to his feet and marched him out onto the destroyed entryway to the enormous mountain complex. Set drank him, death was a release for this ruined husk of a man, and his blood filled Set with new strength.
He marveled at the beauty of the mountains and the night sky.
Washington was about three hundred miles, he needed a car.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Name: Cody Tepper/Seon
Age: 28
Occupation: Field Agent of the Special Bureau of Mutant Affairs.
Location: Washington D.C.
Physical Description: Broad-shouldered (realistically, of course) male. Brown hair and brown eyes. Fairly average and unassumiing looking face had paid off many times.
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Superhuman speed and agility (enough to dodge a bullet with ease) and strength (enough to punch through people). He also has slight regeneration and slight resistance to damage (slight means slight.).
Other Skills: Weapons proficiency. Investigation. Tracking. Close-combat mastery.
Possessions: Desert Eagle (.50 cal). Wakizashi (small katana). HUD sunglass
Injuries: None
Affiliation: DMA
Followers: Dlanor Knox (Telekinetic. Burnt). Orwell (Telepath. Uninjured, but obese).
Age: 28
Occupation: Field Agent of the Special Bureau of Mutant Affairs.
Location: Washington D.C.
Physical Description: Broad-shouldered (realistically, of course) male. Brown hair and brown eyes. Fairly average and unassumiing looking face had paid off many times.
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Superhuman speed and agility (enough to dodge a bullet with ease) and strength (enough to punch through people). He also has slight regeneration and slight resistance to damage (slight means slight.).
Other Skills: Weapons proficiency. Investigation. Tracking. Close-combat mastery.
Possessions: Desert Eagle (.50 cal). Wakizashi (small katana). HUD sunglass
Injuries: None
Affiliation: DMA
Followers: Dlanor Knox (Telekinetic. Burnt). Orwell (Telepath. Uninjured, but obese).
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Never underestimate the power of the girlscouts.
sophie
Break My Heart
Since Lucky has already responded to claims of powergaming on his end, I'll respond on my thoughts. Though I made my character immune to physical attacks (as in bullets, explosions, and the like), he is very limited in his potency. As I said before, he cannot operate in areas where there exists a great deal of light (as in great difficulty wandering off on is own through the desert in the middle of the day). Being exposed to such light can weaken and disorient him, and, given enough light, he can be destroyed altogether. Additionally, he is susceptible to energy based attacks. From the list provided by Kara, I count at least 4 heroes that could kill me, 2 of which could do it without even trying. As for my vector of killing, as I elucidated, the attack works quickly against weak-willed people (as in your run of the mill faceless grunt), but takes much longer to take effect on those with stronger wills, some cannot be killed , but might induce a mild depression or slight weakening, and others still would be completely unaffected by me. Additionally, the strength of my attacks varies heavily based on location. In particularly bright areas, I am rendered virtually powerless, whereas in darker areas I might be slightly stronger. So no, I am not immortal, as is displayed quite well simply by the fact that I am starting out in custody, and have been for the last 60 years or so. Does that answer your accusations of powergaming?
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Could you update my stats, by the way?
Kozmos
Jew Detective
Eugene licked the teeth with his tongue inside his mouth. The one tooth that was missing due to a brawl was rebuilt by his body rather quickly. He loved that, the fact that he would never again be subjected to dental harassment. Munching on the last chicken leg from the super KFC drum he tossed it away out of his trailer window. He looked over to the bed section, his cousin Charlotte the Harlot was asleep, entangled in sheets, her naked bum out in the air, red hair flowing over the edge of the bed.
Suppressing an urge to semi-rape her while she's asleep, he licked his fingers and started sifting through the papers and photos on the table, chicken grease staining several of them. The Christian Identity wanted him to hunt down several muties, off the record of course. Wanted dead or alive, but with an emphasis on dead. He didn't know what to think of it. On one hand the pay was handsome, mutant hunting was hazardous. On the other he was a secret mutie himself, not that he had moral qualms about hunting his own kind, a terrorist was a terrorist, pure and simple. He was just concerned about getting burned accidentally and so ending up on the CIs hitlist himself.
The little people on his even smaller TV were babbling about chaos, riots, murders, this and that. He loved to see them damn liberals and city slickers squirming about like pathetic worms he used to stomp into dirt when he was a kid. But it was all so goddamn confusing, his own kind was turning America into crap but he loved Amerikkka more then anything. Rednecks like him built america with their own bare hands and trucks and made the safe heaven of moonshine and infinite supplies of cousins for all to love and cherish. It was a conundrum, a word he heard on a documentary once. Smiting the CI meant smacking his roots, but deep down he was a mutie freak and perhaps poking his own bothered him a little.
The last guy he brought to them...Cyclops they called him...was just a confused kiddo, 16 years old tops. He inadvertently killed his sweetheart when he climaxed, his ability was to fire a kind of a free electron laser or some such sciency nonsense from his penis. It was quite unfortunate that his power manifested at a such a time. The result was not pretty coz' the girl was cut in half. He thought at the time he was doing the world a favour bringing the kid in, but he was drunk on that occasion and might have misremembered him. Now that he thought about he seemed scared and full of regret inside. He felt kinda bad about it so he decided to do two things:
1) Get drunk to push down the guilt.
2) Git 'er done before he leaves.
2) Exercise his powers on the local CI compound and see where it takes him. Perhaps even save the kid if they didnt castrate him already.
3) Steal a new banjo since he broke the last one on Cyclops' power source, that is his balls.
Suppressing an urge to semi-rape her while she's asleep, he licked his fingers and started sifting through the papers and photos on the table, chicken grease staining several of them. The Christian Identity wanted him to hunt down several muties, off the record of course. Wanted dead or alive, but with an emphasis on dead. He didn't know what to think of it. On one hand the pay was handsome, mutant hunting was hazardous. On the other he was a secret mutie himself, not that he had moral qualms about hunting his own kind, a terrorist was a terrorist, pure and simple. He was just concerned about getting burned accidentally and so ending up on the CIs hitlist himself.
The little people on his even smaller TV were babbling about chaos, riots, murders, this and that. He loved to see them damn liberals and city slickers squirming about like pathetic worms he used to stomp into dirt when he was a kid. But it was all so goddamn confusing, his own kind was turning America into crap but he loved Amerikkka more then anything. Rednecks like him built america with their own bare hands and trucks and made the safe heaven of moonshine and infinite supplies of cousins for all to love and cherish. It was a conundrum, a word he heard on a documentary once. Smiting the CI meant smacking his roots, but deep down he was a mutie freak and perhaps poking his own bothered him a little.
The last guy he brought to them...Cyclops they called him...was just a confused kiddo, 16 years old tops. He inadvertently killed his sweetheart when he climaxed, his ability was to fire a kind of a free electron laser or some such sciency nonsense from his penis. It was quite unfortunate that his power manifested at a such a time. The result was not pretty coz' the girl was cut in half. He thought at the time he was doing the world a favour bringing the kid in, but he was drunk on that occasion and might have misremembered him. Now that he thought about he seemed scared and full of regret inside. He felt kinda bad about it so he decided to do two things:
1) Get drunk to push down the guilt.
2) Git 'er done before he leaves.
2) Exercise his powers on the local CI compound and see where it takes him. Perhaps even save the kid if they didnt castrate him already.
3) Steal a new banjo since he broke the last one on Cyclops' power source, that is his balls.
DarthNader
Destroyer of Worlds
Ilya grabbed the little man by the throat and dragged him through the bruised and bloody corpses that littered the room towards a door to the back alley. In the alley sat two cars, surrounded by men armed with clubs, knives, and guns who had just exited the building less than a minute earlier. Ilya popped the trunk and reached for a roll of duct tape inside. The Asian man was quickly bound, gagged and heaved into the trunk. Before the trunk was closed, Ilya sank his fist into his gut.
The room was dark, only lit by a single hanging lightbulb in the center of the room. Inside sat the Asian man, tied to a wooden chair, his face covered in bruises and blood trickling down the side of his face. The door opened and in walked in three men, one of which was shirtless and his chest and arms covered with tattoos, the largest of which appeared to be a domed church. The tattooed man stepped forward and knelt down beside the Asian man.
Do you know who I am?
The Asian shook his head slowly.
My name is Fedya. Fedya Sergeyevich Volkov. Pleased to make your aquaintance.
Fedya stood and stretched out his hand to the tied up man.
Why do you not shake my hand little man? Didn't your mother tell you how rude this is? The least you could do is tell me your name
The man whimpered, duct tape still covering his mouth.
Still nothing? No matter, I already know.
He beckoned to one of the other men, who handed him a folded piece of paper.
Qiang Liu, 24, 1500 43rd Street, Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Apartment 21. It also says here that, when you aren't doing work for the Tongs, you work at a Chinese grocery as a aisle stocker. What a coincidence! We are in a grocery right now! Isn't that funny?
Laughing, Fedya walks behind the bound Asian, resting his hands upon his shoulders.
Now, we have a few questions that it would be in your best interest to answer. We've killed nearly everyone in your little gang, at least the ones we want killed, except for one. Now, this guy happens that you are one of the people who takes orders from this guy, so we know you know where he is.
One of the goons who was in the room ripped the tape off the Asian man's mouth.
I have no idea who you are talking about, let alone where he is.
Fedya sighed and produced two things from his pocket. The first was a photograph, and the second was a small metal contraption.
This is your boss, said Fedya as he held the photo in front of the Asian's face Denying who and where he is will not save you. You will die here, I assure you that, and that will not change.
Then why should I talk if you are going to kill me regardless?
Fedya chuckled then said something in Russian to one of the goons, who then untied the Asian's right arm and retied it to one of the chair's arms.
Before I came to this country...I worked for the KGB. I did a number of things, most of which involved obtaining information, or preventing information from becoming known. I have killed many, many people and done horrible, unspeakable things to others. I say all this because you will tell no one.
He slid the metal device onto the man's hand, right over his knuckles and turned a screw to keep them from slipping.
Now, whether you talk or not will determine how you die, amongst other things. If you talk, we will kill you right now, bullet to the head, no pain. If you don't...
The device tightened and a sharp pain shot through his fingers.
...I break you. I will make sure your last hours of existence are in excruciating pain. Not only you, but these too.
He held the piece of paper in front of the Asian's face, whose eyes widened in terror.
These names. These addresses. You recognize them, no?
Silence.
That's what I thought. Now, do them all a favor and talk.
Ilya kicked down the door and walked into the bedroom where the last "boss" of the Tongs had relations with his girlfriend. He shot the naked woman in the head and turned the pistol towards the Tong. He fired into his leg and he fell to the floor. The man began begging for his life, offering money to let him live. Ilya slid a pair of brass knuckles onto his right arm and knelt over the Tong, placing his knee on his stomach. Mercilessly, he struck his arms several times, making sure the bones were shattered. He then turned to the legs, then the stomach, then the chest, making the wailing man suffer unbelievable amounts of pain. Finally, he swung at the head, pounding until the skull caved in and blood streamed from his nose and ears. He stood and placed the brass knuckles back into his pocket and drove his foot into the dying man's groin. He then left, leaving the beaten man to die.
* * *
The room was dark, only lit by a single hanging lightbulb in the center of the room. Inside sat the Asian man, tied to a wooden chair, his face covered in bruises and blood trickling down the side of his face. The door opened and in walked in three men, one of which was shirtless and his chest and arms covered with tattoos, the largest of which appeared to be a domed church. The tattooed man stepped forward and knelt down beside the Asian man.
Do you know who I am?
The Asian shook his head slowly.
My name is Fedya. Fedya Sergeyevich Volkov. Pleased to make your aquaintance.
Fedya stood and stretched out his hand to the tied up man.
Why do you not shake my hand little man? Didn't your mother tell you how rude this is? The least you could do is tell me your name
The man whimpered, duct tape still covering his mouth.
Still nothing? No matter, I already know.
He beckoned to one of the other men, who handed him a folded piece of paper.
Qiang Liu, 24, 1500 43rd Street, Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Apartment 21. It also says here that, when you aren't doing work for the Tongs, you work at a Chinese grocery as a aisle stocker. What a coincidence! We are in a grocery right now! Isn't that funny?
Laughing, Fedya walks behind the bound Asian, resting his hands upon his shoulders.
Now, we have a few questions that it would be in your best interest to answer. We've killed nearly everyone in your little gang, at least the ones we want killed, except for one. Now, this guy happens that you are one of the people who takes orders from this guy, so we know you know where he is.
One of the goons who was in the room ripped the tape off the Asian man's mouth.
I have no idea who you are talking about, let alone where he is.
Fedya sighed and produced two things from his pocket. The first was a photograph, and the second was a small metal contraption.
This is your boss, said Fedya as he held the photo in front of the Asian's face Denying who and where he is will not save you. You will die here, I assure you that, and that will not change.
Then why should I talk if you are going to kill me regardless?
Fedya chuckled then said something in Russian to one of the goons, who then untied the Asian's right arm and retied it to one of the chair's arms.
Before I came to this country...I worked for the KGB. I did a number of things, most of which involved obtaining information, or preventing information from becoming known. I have killed many, many people and done horrible, unspeakable things to others. I say all this because you will tell no one.
He slid the metal device onto the man's hand, right over his knuckles and turned a screw to keep them from slipping.
Now, whether you talk or not will determine how you die, amongst other things. If you talk, we will kill you right now, bullet to the head, no pain. If you don't...
The device tightened and a sharp pain shot through his fingers.
...I break you. I will make sure your last hours of existence are in excruciating pain. Not only you, but these too.
He held the piece of paper in front of the Asian's face, whose eyes widened in terror.
These names. These addresses. You recognize them, no?
Silence.
That's what I thought. Now, do them all a favor and talk.
* * *
Ilya kicked down the door and walked into the bedroom where the last "boss" of the Tongs had relations with his girlfriend. He shot the naked woman in the head and turned the pistol towards the Tong. He fired into his leg and he fell to the floor. The man began begging for his life, offering money to let him live. Ilya slid a pair of brass knuckles onto his right arm and knelt over the Tong, placing his knee on his stomach. Mercilessly, he struck his arms several times, making sure the bones were shattered. He then turned to the legs, then the stomach, then the chest, making the wailing man suffer unbelievable amounts of pain. Finally, he swung at the head, pounding until the skull caved in and blood streamed from his nose and ears. He stood and placed the brass knuckles back into his pocket and drove his foot into the dying man's groin. He then left, leaving the beaten man to die.
Name: Julia Evans
Age: 26
Occupation: Assassin, fixer
Location: New Orleans (at the moment)
Physical Description: 5'10", brunette, shoulder-length hair, hazel eyes, medium-to-petite build.
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Teleportation.
Other Skills: Proficiency with knives, unarmed combat, some small-arms use. Underwent Army basic training.
Possessions: Several knives, one (1) H&K P30 pistol and magazines, street clothing and formal wear, one (1) 2006 Ford Taurus, various license plates, several trashy romance novels and Shakespearean plays.
Injuries: None
Affiliation: None in particular. Frequent work for various organized crime groups.
Followers: 0
Background: Relatively uneventful childhood in Bethlehem, PA, mutant abilities apparently unknown through her teen years. Brief and unhappy stint in the military after high school ended during a tour in Iraq, during which she was cornered and almost killed, awakening her latent teleportation abilities and resulting in her disappearance from records as MIA. Upon returning to the States, her personal distrust of the government and mutant registration and also, apparently, avarice led her into small jobs for organized crime in New York and later DC. Was partially responsible for the implosion of the Lucchese crime family in 2008. Reason for current activity in New Orleans unclear.
I've actually done more work developing an antagonist for her than on Julia herself.
Age: 26
Occupation: Assassin, fixer
Location: New Orleans (at the moment)
Physical Description: 5'10", brunette, shoulder-length hair, hazel eyes, medium-to-petite build.
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Teleportation.
Other Skills: Proficiency with knives, unarmed combat, some small-arms use. Underwent Army basic training.
Possessions: Several knives, one (1) H&K P30 pistol and magazines, street clothing and formal wear, one (1) 2006 Ford Taurus, various license plates, several trashy romance novels and Shakespearean plays.
Injuries: None
Affiliation: None in particular. Frequent work for various organized crime groups.
Followers: 0
Background: Relatively uneventful childhood in Bethlehem, PA, mutant abilities apparently unknown through her teen years. Brief and unhappy stint in the military after high school ended during a tour in Iraq, during which she was cornered and almost killed, awakening her latent teleportation abilities and resulting in her disappearance from records as MIA. Upon returning to the States, her personal distrust of the government and mutant registration and also, apparently, avarice led her into small jobs for organized crime in New York and later DC. Was partially responsible for the implosion of the Lucchese crime family in 2008. Reason for current activity in New Orleans unclear.
I've actually done more work developing an antagonist for her than on Julia herself.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
So you're going to kill it when classes start?
SKILORD
Insurgent
nvmnd
Freemanuncg
Warlord
He enjoyed driving, the calm smoothness of it, it was peaceful.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The swift chestnut mare tossed her head as he fixed his position by the stars. The horse galloped for hours before needing to stop to drink. Set was on the last leg of his journey before him loomed the slopes of the mother of mountains. The sacrifice waited before him, the man embraced his god and his death with light shining from his soul. He began to climb the cliffs hand over foot, he wore only leather breeches and a hemp sack slung over his back. His long fingers sought out hand holds, the muscles in his arms and legs straining; he climbed quickly he had to reach the top before it was too late.
When he reached the top he stopped an unslung the bag. “Who seeks the knowledge of what will be?” a greeting from the shrine above him. The shrine sat upon the very peak of the mountain; pillars of stone supported the roof, twin sphinxes of polished onyx stood on either side of the entrance. He stood there for a moment and marveled at the beauty of the mountain and the night sky.
“It is I Set Pharaoh, God, the Morning and evening Star, ruler of the world.”
“All men must pay to speak with the oracle” came the reply from the temple.
Set strode forward into the temple, when he was inside he knelt and emptied the satchel into the bowl made of stone before him. Coals burned hot in the urns between each of the temples pillars casting a red light on the ceiling above him. The light sparkled off of the gift, gems large and clear magnificent facets crystals formed under incredible conditions, precious to man and gods alike.
“Welcome to the temple of Sight, thank you for your offering friend. Many come here seeking knowledge many find it but few have the wisdom to understand what they learn.” Said the oracle, he sat on a bench of carved polished wood. The pupils of the oracles eyes expand till his whole eye is black his hands clenched into fists after a few moments he relaxed and his eyes returned to normal.
“What did you see?” Set asked.
“You are mighty great king, but beware your joy may change the world forever. You dreams of order, but know that love is not always ordered. One more sight did I see; A day will come you will stand before the sun, you will look upon it and on that day you will leave Egypt forever.” The oracle sighed as if the ordeal had exhausted him. Set brought him a cup of beer from the cask behind him “I cannot see into your distant future the world will be very different I think, I saw a glimpse of you standing between giant shining mountains with light all around.” He smiled at Set.
“You are blessed indeed, many thanks for your wisdom oracle.” Set bowed again and left the shrine.
He stepped back out in the night and began to bound down the slopes. Mother of mountains, he descended and mounted his horse and begin to ride north. It was thousands of miles north to the land that would be called Egypt from the foot of the mountain that would be called Kilimanjaro.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Set slowed down and exited the highway into the rest stop.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The swift chestnut mare tossed her head as he fixed his position by the stars. The horse galloped for hours before needing to stop to drink. Set was on the last leg of his journey before him loomed the slopes of the mother of mountains. The sacrifice waited before him, the man embraced his god and his death with light shining from his soul. He began to climb the cliffs hand over foot, he wore only leather breeches and a hemp sack slung over his back. His long fingers sought out hand holds, the muscles in his arms and legs straining; he climbed quickly he had to reach the top before it was too late.
When he reached the top he stopped an unslung the bag. “Who seeks the knowledge of what will be?” a greeting from the shrine above him. The shrine sat upon the very peak of the mountain; pillars of stone supported the roof, twin sphinxes of polished onyx stood on either side of the entrance. He stood there for a moment and marveled at the beauty of the mountain and the night sky.
“It is I Set Pharaoh, God, the Morning and evening Star, ruler of the world.”
“All men must pay to speak with the oracle” came the reply from the temple.
Set strode forward into the temple, when he was inside he knelt and emptied the satchel into the bowl made of stone before him. Coals burned hot in the urns between each of the temples pillars casting a red light on the ceiling above him. The light sparkled off of the gift, gems large and clear magnificent facets crystals formed under incredible conditions, precious to man and gods alike.
“Welcome to the temple of Sight, thank you for your offering friend. Many come here seeking knowledge many find it but few have the wisdom to understand what they learn.” Said the oracle, he sat on a bench of carved polished wood. The pupils of the oracles eyes expand till his whole eye is black his hands clenched into fists after a few moments he relaxed and his eyes returned to normal.
“What did you see?” Set asked.
“You are mighty great king, but beware your joy may change the world forever. You dreams of order, but know that love is not always ordered. One more sight did I see; A day will come you will stand before the sun, you will look upon it and on that day you will leave Egypt forever.” The oracle sighed as if the ordeal had exhausted him. Set brought him a cup of beer from the cask behind him “I cannot see into your distant future the world will be very different I think, I saw a glimpse of you standing between giant shining mountains with light all around.” He smiled at Set.
“You are blessed indeed, many thanks for your wisdom oracle.” Set bowed again and left the shrine.
He stepped back out in the night and began to bound down the slopes. Mother of mountains, he descended and mounted his horse and begin to ride north. It was thousands of miles north to the land that would be called Egypt from the foot of the mountain that would be called Kilimanjaro.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Set slowed down and exited the highway into the rest stop.
das
Regeneration In Process
OOC: Meh story, but you get the idea. No real need for Michael to do much of anything yet, there's plenty of other excitement going on that I'll need to catch up on one of these days. 
IC: Everybody has a gift.
But with some, those gifts are more apparent than with others.
Michael’s father had a Gift, with a capital G. He could spot and draw out the Gifts in other people, and then he would have them do God’s work.
Michael’s brother had a Gift too.
As for Michael, his own Gift was one of words. He could speak and you would have to listen. And other words came back into his mind, too, to tell him if you heard him right, and if you understood. He heard what people felt, and he knew what words and what language to pick.
In this case, it was the language of strength that was the most called for. Strength and being able to fight was not Michael’s Gift. He was just very good at it.
The first two men went down easily, persuaded by Michael’s fists to lie down. The third one had a knife, and got one hit in, making the best of his opportunity and stabbing Michael in the area of the abdomen, cutting through the raincoat and the skin. Perhaps it was his gift; in any case, it was clearly fate, so Michael ignored it and knocked out the third one as well. They would be alright. He turned to the woman. She was dazed, but the daze was momentarily broken by concern: “You’re bleeding!” He just smiled.
---
They made it to her nearby apartment without trouble. Michael did not protest the bandage, but otherwise insisted that they hurry. She looked a little dubious for a moment, but agreed, not wanting to stay in that alley for any longer than she had to.
Once there, the young black woman took off the bandage and looked over his wound again. He waited calmly. She hesitated, then took off her thick gloves. Large dark spots, on the skin, everywhere except on the face. This explained part of it. Michael’s father had angel wings. Michael himself just always smiled. So he smiled now, and allowed her to lay her hands on the wound. He felt a tingling sensation. The woman closed her eyes, concentrating on the wound.
This lasted several minutes, during which Michael remained as motionless as he could. Finally, the woman stepped away, clearly exhausted. She put the gloves back on. The wound was gone, although a bruise remained. “Thank God it wasn’t more serious,” she said. “I have,” Michael replied.
The apartment house Rebecca (as he found out she was called) lived in was very poor and run-down. As Michael quickly found out, and as he could probably have guessed himself, she didn’t always live there. She also used to study at the Washington University School of Medicine. The spots, and her healing power, and the strange intolerance to cold only started to emerge half a year ago. She has been ostracised by her old social circle, and was driven here as a last resort. It was a dead end, though. She was suicidal, and that was why she went into that alley, without thinking.
Some of that Michael got from talking to her, the rest from just listening. His mind was elsewhere, though. He already knew that there was a part for her in the Plan. Steadily over the course of the conversation he persuaded her to volunteer and to use her Gift to help the people he will lead her to, promising sincerely that he would find her a new purpose. She was Converted.
Michael had made his choice. Now was not yet the time. He would stay in St. Louis, and share whatever fate God had in store for the city in the next few weeks.
IC: Everybody has a gift.
But with some, those gifts are more apparent than with others.
Michael’s father had a Gift, with a capital G. He could spot and draw out the Gifts in other people, and then he would have them do God’s work.
Michael’s brother had a Gift too.
As for Michael, his own Gift was one of words. He could speak and you would have to listen. And other words came back into his mind, too, to tell him if you heard him right, and if you understood. He heard what people felt, and he knew what words and what language to pick.
In this case, it was the language of strength that was the most called for. Strength and being able to fight was not Michael’s Gift. He was just very good at it.
The first two men went down easily, persuaded by Michael’s fists to lie down. The third one had a knife, and got one hit in, making the best of his opportunity and stabbing Michael in the area of the abdomen, cutting through the raincoat and the skin. Perhaps it was his gift; in any case, it was clearly fate, so Michael ignored it and knocked out the third one as well. They would be alright. He turned to the woman. She was dazed, but the daze was momentarily broken by concern: “You’re bleeding!” He just smiled.
---
They made it to her nearby apartment without trouble. Michael did not protest the bandage, but otherwise insisted that they hurry. She looked a little dubious for a moment, but agreed, not wanting to stay in that alley for any longer than she had to.
Once there, the young black woman took off the bandage and looked over his wound again. He waited calmly. She hesitated, then took off her thick gloves. Large dark spots, on the skin, everywhere except on the face. This explained part of it. Michael’s father had angel wings. Michael himself just always smiled. So he smiled now, and allowed her to lay her hands on the wound. He felt a tingling sensation. The woman closed her eyes, concentrating on the wound.
This lasted several minutes, during which Michael remained as motionless as he could. Finally, the woman stepped away, clearly exhausted. She put the gloves back on. The wound was gone, although a bruise remained. “Thank God it wasn’t more serious,” she said. “I have,” Michael replied.
The apartment house Rebecca (as he found out she was called) lived in was very poor and run-down. As Michael quickly found out, and as he could probably have guessed himself, she didn’t always live there. She also used to study at the Washington University School of Medicine. The spots, and her healing power, and the strange intolerance to cold only started to emerge half a year ago. She has been ostracised by her old social circle, and was driven here as a last resort. It was a dead end, though. She was suicidal, and that was why she went into that alley, without thinking.
Some of that Michael got from talking to her, the rest from just listening. His mind was elsewhere, though. He already knew that there was a part for her in the Plan. Steadily over the course of the conversation he persuaded her to volunteer and to use her Gift to help the people he will lead her to, promising sincerely that he would find her a new purpose. She was Converted.
Michael had made his choice. Now was not yet the time. He would stay in St. Louis, and share whatever fate God had in store for the city in the next few weeks.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
OOC" I accidently said that Orwell's power is TELEPATH when I meant to say TECHNOPATH XD.
IC:
Cody flicked through the files. This was the place, alright. "Mr. Orwell," Cody muttered. "I advise you to stay in the car."
"But..."
Cody did not answer. He took off his sunglasses and placed them in the glovebox. "If I am not back by 30 minutes, you need to run away. This car is a registered vehicle, so nobody should try and stop you. You can drive this car without a key, right?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Good, then we are agreed, Mr. Orwell." Cody left the car and shut the door. This base... the files suggested that mutants, or those assumed to be mutants, were locked up in here without actually being charged with anything at all. Cody had to verify whether or not this was the truth. At about 3 minutes later, he was knocking on the doors to the base.
"Open the door!" Cody commanded. A national guard peered out of the guard tower. "Who the **** are you?" the guard said.
Cody pulled out his badge. "DMA. I just wanted to ask some questions."
"And we don't have to answer, you know."
"Listen," Cody said, raising a finger. "This place is supposed to be a normal prison, albeit one filled with mutants and national guards. I will just assume that you have nothing to hide, and just take a quick look around, okay?"
"Go. Away, sir." the guard replied. He slightly raised a rifle.
"...fine," Cody replied. He turned and began to walk away. The national guard closed the doors. As soon as he did so, Cody darted to the side of the base and leapt over the walls...
IC:
Cody flicked through the files. This was the place, alright. "Mr. Orwell," Cody muttered. "I advise you to stay in the car."
"But..."
Cody did not answer. He took off his sunglasses and placed them in the glovebox. "If I am not back by 30 minutes, you need to run away. This car is a registered vehicle, so nobody should try and stop you. You can drive this car without a key, right?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Good, then we are agreed, Mr. Orwell." Cody left the car and shut the door. This base... the files suggested that mutants, or those assumed to be mutants, were locked up in here without actually being charged with anything at all. Cody had to verify whether or not this was the truth. At about 3 minutes later, he was knocking on the doors to the base.
Spoiler :
"Open the door!" Cody commanded. A national guard peered out of the guard tower. "Who the **** are you?" the guard said.
Cody pulled out his badge. "DMA. I just wanted to ask some questions."
"And we don't have to answer, you know."
"Listen," Cody said, raising a finger. "This place is supposed to be a normal prison, albeit one filled with mutants and national guards. I will just assume that you have nothing to hide, and just take a quick look around, okay?"
"Go. Away, sir." the guard replied. He slightly raised a rifle.
"...fine," Cody replied. He turned and began to walk away. The national guard closed the doors. As soon as he did so, Cody darted to the side of the base and leapt over the walls...
Similar threads
- Poll
