SuperNES I: Gods Among Us
- Thread starter bestshot9
- Start date
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
Not a problem. simple enough to change. Are we going month by month?
Arrow Gamer
America's Dictator
Woodrow Wilson the president?
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
Yep. Was a Princeton Lecturer in 1900, so likely would have been in and out of NYC fairly often.
TheLastJacobite
No Commies
Jack slide into the pile of crates, eying the freighter just a few hundred feet away. It had gone bad, it had all gone bad in such a short time. When his Uncle Eamon had been elected to Parliament with the Irish Party, the whole family had thought that independence would be had soon. The Irish had finally found a way to circumvent the system of oppression and subjugation that the English had forced upon them so long ago. Then, the legislation had stagnated, the Irish allies had melted away, and the Irish Party had become a mere obstacle to British politics. Meanwhile, the situation in Ireland had denigrated even further. Jack had lost his job at the ship-works in Belfast and been forced to make money anyway he could, through races, through cards, and, when necessary, through boxing. He wasn't an impressive man, but had always had a penchant for fisticuffs. In his mind's eye, he was able to breakdown his opponent's weaknesses and exploit them. The Event had only increased that.
In fact, he'd been locked in combat when the Flash had happened. The late night fight was normal, an illegal bare knuckle fight in an abandoned warehouse in southern Belfast, with thousands of pounds at stake. It was abnormal in that, for once, Jack (a Catholic) was squaring off against the reigning Protestant underground champion, a huge brute of a man named Laughlin, who had supposedly killed at least three opponents. The fight had been about to start at the stroke of midnight when a flash had erupted in the sky, nearly blinding Jack. Next thing he knew, Laughlin's vicious left hook had connected with his skull, nearly knocking him out. But somehow, inexplicably, after that, none of his opponent's hits had connected. Meanwhile, Jack couldn't seem to miss. Every time his fist landed, he seemed to do more damage. Suddenly, Laughlin overreached and left himself open and Jack managed to land a full strength upper cut. His opponent had been laid out...permanently.
The warehouse had erupted in an uproar. The 200 pounds Jack had accepted to go down in the third round were suddenly meaningless. Laughlin's powerful backers had promised Jack his safety so long as he took a dive. Now, with Laughlin dead (and a good portion of Belfast out of money on a "sure thing"), he was the target of a good deal of local resentment. The few friends and supporters he'd had in the crowd had managed to get him out of the warehouse. From there he'd had to run back to his apartment, gather up what he could and try to get out of town. His cousin Patrick had been working as a seamen on a trans-Atlantic freighter going to New York. After the boxing debacle, he sent word to Jack that if he could get to the ship before it left in two days, he could get him out of the country.
So here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, trying to sneak his way past a pair of elderly guards on a dock in Belfast Harbor. He had inexplicably managed so make his way past the police patrols and the local toughs hunting him and made it this far. Now, he sat breathing heavily, trying to figure out how he was gonna make the last few hundred feet to freedom. Suddenly, a whistle blast broke the early morning silence.
"Stop right where ya are, ya bastard!" one of the guards shouted. Jack froze, expecting the worse. But the two old men headed off in the opposite direction, chasing after a small shadow heading off over the outer fence. Breathing a sigh of relief, he quickly headed to the boat. Patrick greeted him at the gangplank. "That was right spot o' luck, cousin. Welcome aboard the Lady Luck. Are ya excited ta see New York?"
Jack smiled. "Yes. I can honestly say I am."
Jack "Fighin' Irish" O"Flannery/TheLastJacobite
Nationality: Irish
Location: New York
Power: He is the luckiest man alive
Weakness: Everyone's luck runs out...
In fact, he'd been locked in combat when the Flash had happened. The late night fight was normal, an illegal bare knuckle fight in an abandoned warehouse in southern Belfast, with thousands of pounds at stake. It was abnormal in that, for once, Jack (a Catholic) was squaring off against the reigning Protestant underground champion, a huge brute of a man named Laughlin, who had supposedly killed at least three opponents. The fight had been about to start at the stroke of midnight when a flash had erupted in the sky, nearly blinding Jack. Next thing he knew, Laughlin's vicious left hook had connected with his skull, nearly knocking him out. But somehow, inexplicably, after that, none of his opponent's hits had connected. Meanwhile, Jack couldn't seem to miss. Every time his fist landed, he seemed to do more damage. Suddenly, Laughlin overreached and left himself open and Jack managed to land a full strength upper cut. His opponent had been laid out...permanently.
The warehouse had erupted in an uproar. The 200 pounds Jack had accepted to go down in the third round were suddenly meaningless. Laughlin's powerful backers had promised Jack his safety so long as he took a dive. Now, with Laughlin dead (and a good portion of Belfast out of money on a "sure thing"), he was the target of a good deal of local resentment. The few friends and supporters he'd had in the crowd had managed to get him out of the warehouse. From there he'd had to run back to his apartment, gather up what he could and try to get out of town. His cousin Patrick had been working as a seamen on a trans-Atlantic freighter going to New York. After the boxing debacle, he sent word to Jack that if he could get to the ship before it left in two days, he could get him out of the country.
So here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, trying to sneak his way past a pair of elderly guards on a dock in Belfast Harbor. He had inexplicably managed so make his way past the police patrols and the local toughs hunting him and made it this far. Now, he sat breathing heavily, trying to figure out how he was gonna make the last few hundred feet to freedom. Suddenly, a whistle blast broke the early morning silence.
"Stop right where ya are, ya bastard!" one of the guards shouted. Jack froze, expecting the worse. But the two old men headed off in the opposite direction, chasing after a small shadow heading off over the outer fence. Breathing a sigh of relief, he quickly headed to the boat. Patrick greeted him at the gangplank. "That was right spot o' luck, cousin. Welcome aboard the Lady Luck. Are ya excited ta see New York?"
Jack smiled. "Yes. I can honestly say I am."
Jack "Fighin' Irish" O"Flannery/TheLastJacobite
Nationality: Irish
Location: New York
Power: He is the luckiest man alive
Weakness: Everyone's luck runs out...
J.K. Stockholme
Right Opposition
Background of "Professor" Harald Hügel
The likeness of Harald in the 1890s
Son of a lower class musician and performer, Harald and his single parent father travelled across the villages of upper Germany with a circus company during his childhood. The acting, drama, excitement, and mischief of the shows impressed on young Harald an adaptability, a suave diplomacy which he'd keep for the rest of his life. He self-taught himself how to sing and play on the old moving piano the circus company used in performances, and, and proudly studied under his father the art of lying, cheating, thievery, but most importantly, proper acting.
Circumstances unknown caused his father's disappearance, sometime in the 1890s, and Harald left the family of circus folk he'd grown up with, to adventure alone as a travelling salesman. What did Harald sell? Perpetually edging on broke, Harald scraped together whatever odds he could, pawned musical instruments mainly; he sang in the streets whenever selling couldn't make enough. Not only did disturbing the peace upset the authorities, but Harald's wares were often broken, and only his honest demeanour and friendly voice did he make deals.
By 1898, Harald looked just old enough to pass as a young professor, and by leagues did the title help him push his goods. He was from then on a professional seller of fine instruments and musical wares, with a "degree" from prestigious Berlin. But this went too far, and in December 1899, his petty peddling finally brought enough attention from the police to get him formally arrested for impersonating (among other things) a university teacher, selling faulty wares, general disturbances, and the like. He enjoyed the turning of the century from within the cell walls of a Berlin jail, where he was awaiting a trial set for January.
The likeness of Harald in the 1890s
Son of a lower class musician and performer, Harald and his single parent father travelled across the villages of upper Germany with a circus company during his childhood. The acting, drama, excitement, and mischief of the shows impressed on young Harald an adaptability, a suave diplomacy which he'd keep for the rest of his life. He self-taught himself how to sing and play on the old moving piano the circus company used in performances, and, and proudly studied under his father the art of lying, cheating, thievery, but most importantly, proper acting.
Circumstances unknown caused his father's disappearance, sometime in the 1890s, and Harald left the family of circus folk he'd grown up with, to adventure alone as a travelling salesman. What did Harald sell? Perpetually edging on broke, Harald scraped together whatever odds he could, pawned musical instruments mainly; he sang in the streets whenever selling couldn't make enough. Not only did disturbing the peace upset the authorities, but Harald's wares were often broken, and only his honest demeanour and friendly voice did he make deals.
By 1898, Harald looked just old enough to pass as a young professor, and by leagues did the title help him push his goods. He was from then on a professional seller of fine instruments and musical wares, with a "degree" from prestigious Berlin. But this went too far, and in December 1899, his petty peddling finally brought enough attention from the police to get him formally arrested for impersonating (among other things) a university teacher, selling faulty wares, general disturbances, and the like. He enjoyed the turning of the century from within the cell walls of a Berlin jail, where he was awaiting a trial set for January.
tuxedohamm
Disguised as crow.
This lamp is getting low...
I need more coal oil...
How far is it back?...
A man crawled slowly in a cramped tunnel. Head lowered so the slowly dimming oil lamp on his hat would not bump the low ceiling. Wearing dark colored pants with simple suspenders and what was at one time a white shirt, the man was covered from head to toe in coal dust. His face smeared with it beyond recognition. He pushed a loaded coal bucket in front of him. Each push gained him another six to twelve inches.
Maybe I leave the bucket so I can get back faster?
He tried pushing it to the side, but the ceiling was lower preventing the bucket from getting all the way to the edge. He tried passing around what space he was able to give himself, but there he was unable to do so. He tried rolling onto his side. It afforded him more space, but his handleless pick tied to his side caught the ceiling and rained some loose coal and dust onto him.
This isnt working...cursed hole-in-the-ground.
Wait...
Wheres my pick?
The man kicked around behind himself. Listening for the metal head of the pick or the wooden handle...Nothing.
Mother of...
Go back or keep going? The lamp is low. But I wont be assigned this tunnel tomorrow. That pick will cost me a week of pay. I wont eat...
Cursed hole-in-the-ground...
The man shuffled backwards. He was unable to turn his head enough to light the crawl space behind him. So he edged into the black.
Foot-by-foot he moved pushing himself towards where he last remembered the pick. His lamp dimming more and more. Darkness slowly enveloping him.
I hate this. I could be by the cart by now. With that new lighting they put in. Not fudging around for this pick.
He kicked around with his feet again. Nothing. He felt around as it was getting too dark to see. He was in the wide spot where he turned around before. Shuffling, he adjusted his position to face the direction of where his pick should be. He continued. Feeling blindly with his hands. Certainly he should be close.
Another foot. Nothing.
Another foot. Nothing.
Another foot. Rock.
He had reached the end of the tunnel. All he felt was the rock hard wall of coal he had been working on earlier. He had not felt his pick at any point.
CURSED HOLE-IN-THE-GROUND! He yelled.
A short echo and then the deep silence he was used to when he was alone.
Now what?...
Guess I go back?...
Didnt like food anyway. All that hard work. Sitting. Chewing. Wear a man out.
He edged back to the wide point and began to turn around again.
*RRMMBBRRM* *CRASH!*
A gust of dusty wind rushed from the direction of his cart and his exit.
Not Good!
He rushed his turn around and crawled as quickly as he could.
I dont know what that was, but hell if Im staying!
As quick as he moved, it was still a long process of scooting and crawling through the tunnel. Once he reached his coal bucket, he was slowed even more. The darkness and the silence caused him to focus on his racing heartbeat.
*thump thump thump thump*
Cursed hole...
*thump thump thump thump*
Never miss the moment I get out of here.
*thump thump thump thump*
This thing is going to tear itself from my chest.
He felt his way through the tunnel until he reached what should have been the end of the tunnel. However, all he found was a new wall.
Rubble? This was supposed to be the main hole. I feel...rubble?
He grabbed at handfuls of coal and rock. Dust filled the air. He violently pulled at his handle-less pick. Once free he smashed it into the rubble pile. Each hole he opened up refilled with debris.
Cursed hole. Cursed coal. Im going to die in here.
AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
He thrashed violently against the hard walls, ceiling, and floor. Dust flew everywhere. He choked on it and began coughing.
This is it...
I guess there is no point...
Silence.
He cried.
How long until there is only blackdamp?
Maybe I can sleep through it?
Will I feel it?
Silence.
He tried to calm himself. He wanted to sleep until he suffocated. He had a plan. It wasnt the best plan. But he could at least try to control being aware of his death.
I cant stop thinking.
Maybe someone will get me?
No.
Blackdamp will get me.
Sleep.
Silence.
He closed his eyes, not that it mattered in the total darkness. He was going to sleep if he could. He rolled slightly to try and move some loose rocks out from under him.
What is that?
He had bumped something in the dark. He reached toward whatever it was.
Wood?
Cursed hole, its a pick!
Is it mine? Cant be. I know I had mine back at the other end.
Curious, he felt around again.
Is that a shovel? Some fool throw a shovel in here before the collapse?
He felt again, but found nothing extra.
If I only had a light. I could bur-
A glow started emanating from the pick. It was ghostly blue in color, but enough that the coal miner could see. He looked at the pick.
Not what I would expect. What kind of cursed tool is this?
Not really thinking why, he grasped the handle. It felt solid in his hand. He felt something surge through his arm and into his torso and legs.
I guess it cant hurt to try. Maybe Ill make myself tired so I can sleep.
It what limited space he had, he swung the pickaxe as hard as he could.
*SMASH!*
Dust flew past him. A sizeable hole was made in the rubble. When the air cleared he looked carefully at the hole.
Thats large enough for my head!
He tried again.
*SMASH!*
The same result. Rubble would refill the hole, but he quickly realized that he could almost out pace it.
Might as well take you too.
He grabbed the shovel and before he could even think about how to carry it and use the pick, a new surge flowed through him. He tried the pick again.
*SMASH! SMASH!*
He could easily outpace the rubble falling into the tunnel he was forming.
I might make it?!
He edged his way out of his low, narrow tunnel. With one hand he smashed his way through the rubble, making a tunnel high enough to stand in. Travelling only by memory and the light of his pick. He was certain he knew the direction, but after a period of time he realized he had come to a solid wall.
Cursed hole.
He tore a pocket in the wall large enough to stand in and stopped. Out of the rubble pile allowed him to rest. Not tired, he wanted to figure out what to do next, and figure out what he had.
I shouldnt be able to do this.
I should be dead, or near it.
Asleep.
Im asleep. I succeeded in passing out and this is my last dream before I die.
He sat for a moment and reflected on it.
Well, if Im dying, I might as well as escape.
He looked at the wall and began tearing into it again. He angled his path upward. He might not remember how to follow the tunnel, but he knew that up meant getting out of the cursed hole-in-the-ground and maybe heaven.
More to come...
I need more coal oil...
How far is it back?...
A man crawled slowly in a cramped tunnel. Head lowered so the slowly dimming oil lamp on his hat would not bump the low ceiling. Wearing dark colored pants with simple suspenders and what was at one time a white shirt, the man was covered from head to toe in coal dust. His face smeared with it beyond recognition. He pushed a loaded coal bucket in front of him. Each push gained him another six to twelve inches.
Maybe I leave the bucket so I can get back faster?
He tried pushing it to the side, but the ceiling was lower preventing the bucket from getting all the way to the edge. He tried passing around what space he was able to give himself, but there he was unable to do so. He tried rolling onto his side. It afforded him more space, but his handleless pick tied to his side caught the ceiling and rained some loose coal and dust onto him.
This isnt working...cursed hole-in-the-ground.
Wait...
Wheres my pick?
The man kicked around behind himself. Listening for the metal head of the pick or the wooden handle...Nothing.
Mother of...
Go back or keep going? The lamp is low. But I wont be assigned this tunnel tomorrow. That pick will cost me a week of pay. I wont eat...
Cursed hole-in-the-ground...
The man shuffled backwards. He was unable to turn his head enough to light the crawl space behind him. So he edged into the black.
Foot-by-foot he moved pushing himself towards where he last remembered the pick. His lamp dimming more and more. Darkness slowly enveloping him.
I hate this. I could be by the cart by now. With that new lighting they put in. Not fudging around for this pick.
He kicked around with his feet again. Nothing. He felt around as it was getting too dark to see. He was in the wide spot where he turned around before. Shuffling, he adjusted his position to face the direction of where his pick should be. He continued. Feeling blindly with his hands. Certainly he should be close.
Another foot. Nothing.
Another foot. Nothing.
Another foot. Rock.
He had reached the end of the tunnel. All he felt was the rock hard wall of coal he had been working on earlier. He had not felt his pick at any point.
CURSED HOLE-IN-THE-GROUND! He yelled.
A short echo and then the deep silence he was used to when he was alone.
Now what?...
Guess I go back?...
Didnt like food anyway. All that hard work. Sitting. Chewing. Wear a man out.
He edged back to the wide point and began to turn around again.
*RRMMBBRRM* *CRASH!*
A gust of dusty wind rushed from the direction of his cart and his exit.
Not Good!
He rushed his turn around and crawled as quickly as he could.
I dont know what that was, but hell if Im staying!
As quick as he moved, it was still a long process of scooting and crawling through the tunnel. Once he reached his coal bucket, he was slowed even more. The darkness and the silence caused him to focus on his racing heartbeat.
*thump thump thump thump*
Cursed hole...
*thump thump thump thump*
Never miss the moment I get out of here.
*thump thump thump thump*
This thing is going to tear itself from my chest.
He felt his way through the tunnel until he reached what should have been the end of the tunnel. However, all he found was a new wall.
Rubble? This was supposed to be the main hole. I feel...rubble?
He grabbed at handfuls of coal and rock. Dust filled the air. He violently pulled at his handle-less pick. Once free he smashed it into the rubble pile. Each hole he opened up refilled with debris.
Cursed hole. Cursed coal. Im going to die in here.
AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
He thrashed violently against the hard walls, ceiling, and floor. Dust flew everywhere. He choked on it and began coughing.
This is it...
I guess there is no point...
Silence.
He cried.
How long until there is only blackdamp?
Maybe I can sleep through it?
Will I feel it?
Silence.
He tried to calm himself. He wanted to sleep until he suffocated. He had a plan. It wasnt the best plan. But he could at least try to control being aware of his death.
I cant stop thinking.
Maybe someone will get me?
No.
Blackdamp will get me.
Sleep.
Silence.
He closed his eyes, not that it mattered in the total darkness. He was going to sleep if he could. He rolled slightly to try and move some loose rocks out from under him.
What is that?
He had bumped something in the dark. He reached toward whatever it was.
Wood?
Cursed hole, its a pick!
Is it mine? Cant be. I know I had mine back at the other end.
Curious, he felt around again.
Is that a shovel? Some fool throw a shovel in here before the collapse?
He felt again, but found nothing extra.
If I only had a light. I could bur-
A glow started emanating from the pick. It was ghostly blue in color, but enough that the coal miner could see. He looked at the pick.
Not what I would expect. What kind of cursed tool is this?
Not really thinking why, he grasped the handle. It felt solid in his hand. He felt something surge through his arm and into his torso and legs.
I guess it cant hurt to try. Maybe Ill make myself tired so I can sleep.
It what limited space he had, he swung the pickaxe as hard as he could.
*SMASH!*
Dust flew past him. A sizeable hole was made in the rubble. When the air cleared he looked carefully at the hole.
Thats large enough for my head!
He tried again.
*SMASH!*
The same result. Rubble would refill the hole, but he quickly realized that he could almost out pace it.
Might as well take you too.
He grabbed the shovel and before he could even think about how to carry it and use the pick, a new surge flowed through him. He tried the pick again.
*SMASH! SMASH!*
He could easily outpace the rubble falling into the tunnel he was forming.
I might make it?!
He edged his way out of his low, narrow tunnel. With one hand he smashed his way through the rubble, making a tunnel high enough to stand in. Travelling only by memory and the light of his pick. He was certain he knew the direction, but after a period of time he realized he had come to a solid wall.
Cursed hole.
He tore a pocket in the wall large enough to stand in and stopped. Out of the rubble pile allowed him to rest. Not tired, he wanted to figure out what to do next, and figure out what he had.
I shouldnt be able to do this.
I should be dead, or near it.
Asleep.
Im asleep. I succeeded in passing out and this is my last dream before I die.
He sat for a moment and reflected on it.
Well, if Im dying, I might as well as escape.
He looked at the wall and began tearing into it again. He angled his path upward. He might not remember how to follow the tunnel, but he knew that up meant getting out of the cursed hole-in-the-ground and maybe heaven.
More to come...
- Joined
- Apr 4, 2010
- Messages
- 8,873
Interested, I will make a character soon.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Spoiler :
A New Begining
Wade had just arrived to Rome and was excited, but a little nervous, to begin his new life. Nobody knew, or cared who he was. He could be anybody here, luckily for him he knew Italian from his grandmother who taught him when he was a boy. It was always a dream of his to visit Italy and Rome one day, he just didn't expect to be here under the circumstances which had taken place. However, everything was behind him now and he was ready to begin anew.
James, who had never been to a theater or opera in his eighteen years of life, had heard that there was some special opera that was being postponed due to the citizens possible riots. He wasn't worried about the riots or anything and was interested in seeing the opera. Though he knew he had to get settled in soon, he didn't want to just live on the streets, but he didn't have to find work somewhere first. As he wondered the streets of Rome he noticed a restaurant with an Aiuto Ricercato sign posted, or help wanted in English. He stepped into the building and talked to the owner. The interview lasted around an hour, and the owner was impressed with the American's ability to speak Italian fluently, and Wade got a job as a dish washer.
With a job secured he started looking for a place to live, but it was soon dark and he hadn't found anywhere that would rent to someone like him. Being early January it started to get pretty cold and he noticed an empty apartment. He walked up to it and looked in through the window, he could see some furniture. James thought he could easily break in and stay the night, but he was unsure if the noise would attract people, or the sight of a broken door. Feeling a sense of defeat he turned and walked a few paces, when he remembered his ability! James turned, standing in the shadows and looking around to ensure he wasn't being watched, focused on the room behind the window. Focusing hard he began to see a faint white light, that turned to a brighter light within seconds and then...
Zap!
James was inside the room staring back at where he had just been standing. He grinned to himself and closed the curtains before finding the bedroom and falling asleep.
- Joined
- Apr 4, 2010
- Messages
- 8,873
Name: Anne Smith
Nationality: American
Location: New York City
Power: Ability to see visions of a person's future of someone she touches, from their perspective. These visions last approximately half a minute each, although only moments passes for everyone else. The future can be changed, although she needs to be directly intervening.
Weakness: A vast majority of her visions are utterly useless, showing people walking along the street or doing something equally as mundane. Also, she has no idea when these visions are going to happen, they can range from being seconds in the future to decades in the future. Also, having a vision every time you touch someone is very disorientating.
Bio: Anne was born in a small town in New York State to a devout religious family, although Anne has never really felt the faith and has just pretended to believe. Anne discovered her powers when she was just 22. At first she thought she was going insane, seeing things whenever she touched someone. However, she soon discovered the reality of her powers.
She tried to live life as normal, but when she foiled a would be murder her powers were exposed to the town. Her family kicked her out, saying that she was "Satan's Spawn". She then decided to leave the town and move the New York City, to join other people with powers and to find answers.
Nationality: American
Location: New York City
Power: Ability to see visions of a person's future of someone she touches, from their perspective. These visions last approximately half a minute each, although only moments passes for everyone else. The future can be changed, although she needs to be directly intervening.
Weakness: A vast majority of her visions are utterly useless, showing people walking along the street or doing something equally as mundane. Also, she has no idea when these visions are going to happen, they can range from being seconds in the future to decades in the future. Also, having a vision every time you touch someone is very disorientating.
Bio: Anne was born in a small town in New York State to a devout religious family, although Anne has never really felt the faith and has just pretended to believe. Anne discovered her powers when she was just 22. At first she thought she was going insane, seeing things whenever she touched someone. However, she soon discovered the reality of her powers.
She tried to live life as normal, but when she foiled a would be murder her powers were exposed to the town. Her family kicked her out, saying that she was "Satan's Spawn". She then decided to leave the town and move the New York City, to join other people with powers and to find answers.
Name: Sebastian von Krauf
Nationality: German
Location: San Francisco
Power: Able to manipulate blood. Right now, he is only able to use it like a whip, though with experimentation, he may find his power is deeper than he thought
Weakness: Only recently did he find his power, so he still needs to find out the depths of his power. Though he is physically stronger than the average human, he's not extraordinary by any means in the physical department. As he uses his power more and more, physically he becomes weaker, and as he loses blood, Sebastian has less he can fight with, and too much blood usage in a short span will weak him.
Bio: Son of Reinhard von Krauf, a German aristrocrat, Sebastian was the dutiful son for his father. Obedient, staying out of trouble, and doing what was told. Sebastian was a normal 19 year old, but then he acquired a mysterious power. Time will tell if Sebastian can use this power and grow, or if he will fall victim to it. After all, too much blood loss can be a dangerous thing....
Nationality: German
Location: San Francisco
Power: Able to manipulate blood. Right now, he is only able to use it like a whip, though with experimentation, he may find his power is deeper than he thought
Weakness: Only recently did he find his power, so he still needs to find out the depths of his power. Though he is physically stronger than the average human, he's not extraordinary by any means in the physical department. As he uses his power more and more, physically he becomes weaker, and as he loses blood, Sebastian has less he can fight with, and too much blood usage in a short span will weak him.
Bio: Son of Reinhard von Krauf, a German aristrocrat, Sebastian was the dutiful son for his father. Obedient, staying out of trouble, and doing what was told. Sebastian was a normal 19 year old, but then he acquired a mysterious power. Time will tell if Sebastian can use this power and grow, or if he will fall victim to it. After all, too much blood loss can be a dangerous thing....
J.K. Stockholme
Right Opposition
January Jail
You one of our union boys? spoke the honest looking chap in the corner of the dark, stonewalled jail cell, its the suit you got, he pointed out with a friendly tip of his cap.
Harald hadnt said much word to anyone since he entered the jail; he didnt want to botch getting a light sentence, probably a fine, and then scramming Berlin for the countryside again. He was hunched on a wooden bench, looking at the floor.
He wanted to say, absolutely I am comrade, and were forwarding the mission of working class for our brothers by occupying this bourgeois jail. Outside the iron bars which cut the light coming from the Berlin sky, people were striking, roving through the streets as they yelled out their slogans for the proletarian movement.
The jail cell doors smashed open, and two more working class men were shoved into the cobble room by a couple of officers.
Harald stood up with his suitcase, took two controlled steps towards the friendly worker whod asked his honest question, stuck out his hand for a solid shake, and said:
Im Professor Harald Hügel, and although I am no union man, let me tell you I sympathize dearly with your cause.
While the two beaten workers stood up sorely, the honest chap, curious, questioned on.
Professor of what?
Music.
Professor, can you teach me to sing? the honest chap asked genuinely. The other two workers had by now stood up, and were interested in how the conversation would play out. Harald raised an eyebrow confidently, tilted his head slightly, and told him:
Ill teach you to sing your way out of anything! Perhaps he should have stopped, Harald was being impulsive to aggravate his situation by what he was about to do, but goddamnit, he believed he believed he could sing his way out of anything.
So Harald then began to sing a clearly improvised (and very incorrect) version of The Internationale.
After one full round, Harald almost stopped, thinking hed failed to do anything but worsen his position, but solemnly, his cell mates joined to sing the second round. Their voices echoed through the dim jail corridors, and other workers could be heard joining in from around the building. By the third stanza, Harald stopped - while the working class men continued to sing in unison - unlocked his suitcase, and pulled out a used trumpet, which he played to enhance the fury of the scene.
The guards had been rushing to the cell where this disorderly conduct began, when as they approached, Harald put down his trumpet and bellowed the words of the song into their faces beyond the iron bars.
The Internationale,
Unites the world in song!
He then demanded, let us out, we are free men!
And, after opening the cell up, they dropped their batons and, with hesitation, backed away from the group.
Harald paraded through the corridors with his comrades, finally giving up the lead to the honest chap who was tearing with exasperation. The whole party exited the main doors to join the moving band of striking workers, who were passing the jail.
Harald stopped singing, slipped through the crowd, ducked into an alley, and ran. The guards had regained their sense of duty, and the now inspired crowd of labour supporters was being threatened by officers to stop immediately with their singing.
Harald heard shots firing into the air. He sprinted on.
You one of our union boys? spoke the honest looking chap in the corner of the dark, stonewalled jail cell, its the suit you got, he pointed out with a friendly tip of his cap.
Harald hadnt said much word to anyone since he entered the jail; he didnt want to botch getting a light sentence, probably a fine, and then scramming Berlin for the countryside again. He was hunched on a wooden bench, looking at the floor.
He wanted to say, absolutely I am comrade, and were forwarding the mission of working class for our brothers by occupying this bourgeois jail. Outside the iron bars which cut the light coming from the Berlin sky, people were striking, roving through the streets as they yelled out their slogans for the proletarian movement.
The jail cell doors smashed open, and two more working class men were shoved into the cobble room by a couple of officers.
Harald stood up with his suitcase, took two controlled steps towards the friendly worker whod asked his honest question, stuck out his hand for a solid shake, and said:
Im Professor Harald Hügel, and although I am no union man, let me tell you I sympathize dearly with your cause.
While the two beaten workers stood up sorely, the honest chap, curious, questioned on.
Professor of what?
Music.
Professor, can you teach me to sing? the honest chap asked genuinely. The other two workers had by now stood up, and were interested in how the conversation would play out. Harald raised an eyebrow confidently, tilted his head slightly, and told him:
Ill teach you to sing your way out of anything! Perhaps he should have stopped, Harald was being impulsive to aggravate his situation by what he was about to do, but goddamnit, he believed he believed he could sing his way out of anything.
So Harald then began to sing a clearly improvised (and very incorrect) version of The Internationale.
After one full round, Harald almost stopped, thinking hed failed to do anything but worsen his position, but solemnly, his cell mates joined to sing the second round. Their voices echoed through the dim jail corridors, and other workers could be heard joining in from around the building. By the third stanza, Harald stopped - while the working class men continued to sing in unison - unlocked his suitcase, and pulled out a used trumpet, which he played to enhance the fury of the scene.
The guards had been rushing to the cell where this disorderly conduct began, when as they approached, Harald put down his trumpet and bellowed the words of the song into their faces beyond the iron bars.
The Internationale,
Unites the world in song!
He then demanded, let us out, we are free men!
And, after opening the cell up, they dropped their batons and, with hesitation, backed away from the group.
Harald paraded through the corridors with his comrades, finally giving up the lead to the honest chap who was tearing with exasperation. The whole party exited the main doors to join the moving band of striking workers, who were passing the jail.
Harald stopped singing, slipped through the crowd, ducked into an alley, and ran. The guards had regained their sense of duty, and the now inspired crowd of labour supporters was being threatened by officers to stop immediately with their singing.
Harald heard shots firing into the air. He sprinted on.
Arrow Gamer
America's Dictator
Jake walked the streets, thinking about the past night. He had slaughtered the police with his bare hands. No gun, no help. Just him, destroying the police, ripping them apart. Now he knew he needed to use his powers for something. He needed to put them to use, make some money for him and his boys. He had no idea how, but there had to be a way.
Fifteen days later, Jake picked up the New York Times, and skimmed it like usual. The cover story was about the search for the police killer, and how no progress was made. Jake knew that he had brought a lot of heat down on himself, but at least no leads were found. He was about to throw it away when something on page 3 caught his eye. Apparently some magician had robbed a bank and cleaned the place right out. Now there's an idea.
On the 21st of January, a lone figure walked into a crowded Wells Fargo Bank. He walked through the crowd, ignoring the complaints levied by the jostled patrons. Moments later, he was standing in front of an elderly teller, having cut the lengthy line of men waiting to cash checks. The mysterious man pulled out a bag, shoving it in the face of the old worker. "Fill it with cash. Now."
"Why would I do that, young man?" The banker smiled, not seeing how this young upstart could possibly threaten him. To be safe, however, he reached under his desk and pulled out a pistol. "Now, I would recommend you slowly back away from here and exit the building."
The young man smiled. "Do you really?" With that he grabbed the pistol and ripped it away from the frail old teller. Whipping around, he fired sixteen shots in quick succession into the crowd. Suddenly, the room devolved into a mess of panic, sinking further when the doors suddenly swung closed, pulled by a group of teenagers. Climbing up onto the desk of the old man, who was still cowering in fright, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "EVERYONE STAND STILL, OR MORE PEOPLE WILL DIE!"
Slowly, the crowd halted their frantic movements and slowed to a stop. "GOOD! NOW SIT DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS." The crowd complied. Simultaneously, every teller in the building pulled out guns of various shapes and sizes, and leveled them on him.
"You seem to have miscalculated, imbecile. That gun has what, three shots left? There are over twenty of us. Leave now, and you may escape. Doubtful, but a possibility," the head teller said. Less than a second later, the robber was now standing next to the man who spoke, holding the banker's head, which had been torn from his body.
"No more games. Give me the money, and I'll let the rest of you survive." Suddenly, the man disappeared in a hailstorm of bullets. When the firing ended, he stood perfectly fine, with the dented bullets lying at his feet. While some had seemed to puncture his skin, they seemed not to bother him. "The money. Now."
Half an hour later, the money was piled into various sacks, held by either him or his accomplices. Minutes after, they walked out, holding hostages. They escaped freely, the police too frightened for the hostages to do anything. Although they were pursued, they disappeared soon after they left the bank, leaving the dead hostages behind.
OOC: Jake is a heartless villain. Don't cross him.
Fifteen days later, Jake picked up the New York Times, and skimmed it like usual. The cover story was about the search for the police killer, and how no progress was made. Jake knew that he had brought a lot of heat down on himself, but at least no leads were found. He was about to throw it away when something on page 3 caught his eye. Apparently some magician had robbed a bank and cleaned the place right out. Now there's an idea.
On the 21st of January, a lone figure walked into a crowded Wells Fargo Bank. He walked through the crowd, ignoring the complaints levied by the jostled patrons. Moments later, he was standing in front of an elderly teller, having cut the lengthy line of men waiting to cash checks. The mysterious man pulled out a bag, shoving it in the face of the old worker. "Fill it with cash. Now."
"Why would I do that, young man?" The banker smiled, not seeing how this young upstart could possibly threaten him. To be safe, however, he reached under his desk and pulled out a pistol. "Now, I would recommend you slowly back away from here and exit the building."
The young man smiled. "Do you really?" With that he grabbed the pistol and ripped it away from the frail old teller. Whipping around, he fired sixteen shots in quick succession into the crowd. Suddenly, the room devolved into a mess of panic, sinking further when the doors suddenly swung closed, pulled by a group of teenagers. Climbing up onto the desk of the old man, who was still cowering in fright, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "EVERYONE STAND STILL, OR MORE PEOPLE WILL DIE!"
Slowly, the crowd halted their frantic movements and slowed to a stop. "GOOD! NOW SIT DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS." The crowd complied. Simultaneously, every teller in the building pulled out guns of various shapes and sizes, and leveled them on him.
"You seem to have miscalculated, imbecile. That gun has what, three shots left? There are over twenty of us. Leave now, and you may escape. Doubtful, but a possibility," the head teller said. Less than a second later, the robber was now standing next to the man who spoke, holding the banker's head, which had been torn from his body.
"No more games. Give me the money, and I'll let the rest of you survive." Suddenly, the man disappeared in a hailstorm of bullets. When the firing ended, he stood perfectly fine, with the dented bullets lying at his feet. While some had seemed to puncture his skin, they seemed not to bother him. "The money. Now."
Half an hour later, the money was piled into various sacks, held by either him or his accomplices. Minutes after, they walked out, holding hostages. They escaped freely, the police too frightened for the hostages to do anything. Although they were pursued, they disappeared soon after they left the bank, leaving the dead hostages behind.
OOC: Jake is a heartless villain. Don't cross him.
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
The dense mist was unseasonal and clung to every surface like groping hands. Despite the bottle of whiskey in his hands and the heavy clothes covering him, James Mcgavin shivered. He looked out over the harbor, and softly called out “Hey, Mickey. Ever seen fog like this one?”
“Nah, but don’t worry. Ain’t nothing but cold reactin’ with the water.”
“It isn’t right. Reminds me of the stories my Gran usta tell about the Baen Sidh and the Fey.” James clutched at the crucifix around his neck. “This isn’t right. Something’s wrong.”
“You’ve had too much to drink is what’s wrong. Hand me that bottle, or the bosses will kill you for being drunk on guard duty.”
Both glanced back at the dimly lit glow of the pub behind them, where negotiations between the Irish gangs were taking place.
“Think the Wops are gonna try anything tonight?” James asked
“Not if they know what’s good for them.” Mickey took a swig from the bottle of whiskey that he had wrested from James’s unresisting hands. A ghostly wail echoed around them, coming from somewhere deep in the fog, and Mickey spit out the whiskey “What was that?” he whispered.
“Who’s there!” James’s voice wavered as he called out. “Come out or I’ll shoot!”
There was nothing, and, slowly, their heartbeats returned to normal. “Musta been a cat in heat. Damn things sound almost human -”
The clatter of running feet cut him off and a figure ran up to James and cried out in a thick Italian accent. “Please! Help me! He killed them all! Morello is dead!”
“What? Get the hell off me” James pushed the Italian back as Mickey pointed a gun at him.
The Italian man looked at them pleadingly, his eyes reflecting back green light for a moment as he turned. “Please. Please. They’re all dead. He’s coming”
“Who’s dead?”
“Everyone. Even Giuseppe.”
“Guiseppe Morello is dead?” James and Mickey looked at each other, and Mickey grabbed the Italian man, roughly pushing him towards the pub. The interior was smokey and dim, lit only by a fire in the hearth and the flickering of a few candles. The only people inside the pub were gathered around a single long table. They turned as the door opened, most of them reaching for their pockets, where weapons were undoubtedly hidden.
“Mcgraw! O’Reilly! What’s the Meaning o’ this!” the man standing at the head of the table asked.
“Sorry sir, but this wop here says that Giuseppe Morello and his gang are all dead.” Mickey pushed the Italian and he fell to the ground sobbing.
“And you believe that lying son of a b----? They’re trying to lead us into a trap.” He gestured towards the Italian man, who was now huddled on the ground, gripping his head.
“But sir, what if it’s the truth?”
“Then why don’t you go find out for us? Go check out Wop territory, and report back.” The man sat back down, and then looked at James and Mickey again. “Before you go, kill him.”
Mickey drew his pistol and fired a round into the sobbing Italian man’s head, and turned away. The sobbing didn’t stop, but continued unabated. James clutched his crucifix again, praying softly as he stared at the Italian in shock.
“Don’t you see? No one can die unless he wills it!” The Italian man turned towards them, still crying: “He won’t let me go.” A green glow now clearly filled his eyes, and the bullet’s exit wound was clearly obvious in the middle of his forehead.
The assembled Mob bosses opened fire on the Italian, riddling the body with bullets. Still the sobbing did not stop. From outside the pub the wail echoed again, the window panes reverberating in the high pitched noise, before finally shattering. A well dressed man walked through the door, trailing the looming fog behind him. Shadowy figures could be seen through the window, completely hidden by the fog. The Italian gave a shriek of terror upon seeing the man, who smiled at him.
“Good evening, friend, you may now rest.” The Italian man gave one last sob before collapsing, dead. The man turned towards the assembled bosses. “My name is Baron Von Tragenort, and I am your new boss. I believe my friend here,” he gestured at the corpse “warned you of my coming, and my offer, which, I regret to say, his compatriots declined.”
“We are the White Hand. We do not bow down to ANYONE!” The man at the end of the table shouted angrily.
The Baron tisked once, and waved. The fog reached in through the window and enveloped the mob boss. A single scream was heard, and the fog dissipated, leaving an empty chair.
The Baron spoke again, to the other bosses. “I hope you will not be as unreasonable.” One by one, they bowed before him.
“Nah, but don’t worry. Ain’t nothing but cold reactin’ with the water.”
“It isn’t right. Reminds me of the stories my Gran usta tell about the Baen Sidh and the Fey.” James clutched at the crucifix around his neck. “This isn’t right. Something’s wrong.”
“You’ve had too much to drink is what’s wrong. Hand me that bottle, or the bosses will kill you for being drunk on guard duty.”
Both glanced back at the dimly lit glow of the pub behind them, where negotiations between the Irish gangs were taking place.
“Think the Wops are gonna try anything tonight?” James asked
“Not if they know what’s good for them.” Mickey took a swig from the bottle of whiskey that he had wrested from James’s unresisting hands. A ghostly wail echoed around them, coming from somewhere deep in the fog, and Mickey spit out the whiskey “What was that?” he whispered.
“Who’s there!” James’s voice wavered as he called out. “Come out or I’ll shoot!”
There was nothing, and, slowly, their heartbeats returned to normal. “Musta been a cat in heat. Damn things sound almost human -”
The clatter of running feet cut him off and a figure ran up to James and cried out in a thick Italian accent. “Please! Help me! He killed them all! Morello is dead!”
“What? Get the hell off me” James pushed the Italian back as Mickey pointed a gun at him.
The Italian man looked at them pleadingly, his eyes reflecting back green light for a moment as he turned. “Please. Please. They’re all dead. He’s coming”
“Who’s dead?”
“Everyone. Even Giuseppe.”
“Guiseppe Morello is dead?” James and Mickey looked at each other, and Mickey grabbed the Italian man, roughly pushing him towards the pub. The interior was smokey and dim, lit only by a fire in the hearth and the flickering of a few candles. The only people inside the pub were gathered around a single long table. They turned as the door opened, most of them reaching for their pockets, where weapons were undoubtedly hidden.
“Mcgraw! O’Reilly! What’s the Meaning o’ this!” the man standing at the head of the table asked.
“Sorry sir, but this wop here says that Giuseppe Morello and his gang are all dead.” Mickey pushed the Italian and he fell to the ground sobbing.
“And you believe that lying son of a b----? They’re trying to lead us into a trap.” He gestured towards the Italian man, who was now huddled on the ground, gripping his head.
“But sir, what if it’s the truth?”
“Then why don’t you go find out for us? Go check out Wop territory, and report back.” The man sat back down, and then looked at James and Mickey again. “Before you go, kill him.”
Mickey drew his pistol and fired a round into the sobbing Italian man’s head, and turned away. The sobbing didn’t stop, but continued unabated. James clutched his crucifix again, praying softly as he stared at the Italian in shock.
“Don’t you see? No one can die unless he wills it!” The Italian man turned towards them, still crying: “He won’t let me go.” A green glow now clearly filled his eyes, and the bullet’s exit wound was clearly obvious in the middle of his forehead.
The assembled Mob bosses opened fire on the Italian, riddling the body with bullets. Still the sobbing did not stop. From outside the pub the wail echoed again, the window panes reverberating in the high pitched noise, before finally shattering. A well dressed man walked through the door, trailing the looming fog behind him. Shadowy figures could be seen through the window, completely hidden by the fog. The Italian gave a shriek of terror upon seeing the man, who smiled at him.
“Good evening, friend, you may now rest.” The Italian man gave one last sob before collapsing, dead. The man turned towards the assembled bosses. “My name is Baron Von Tragenort, and I am your new boss. I believe my friend here,” he gestured at the corpse “warned you of my coming, and my offer, which, I regret to say, his compatriots declined.”
“We are the White Hand. We do not bow down to ANYONE!” The man at the end of the table shouted angrily.
The Baron tisked once, and waved. The fog reached in through the window and enveloped the mob boss. A single scream was heard, and the fog dissipated, leaving an empty chair.
The Baron spoke again, to the other bosses. “I hope you will not be as unreasonable.” One by one, they bowed before him.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Spoiler :
Arrow Gamer
America's Dictator
Tom, are you in NYC? Because I'm going to do the exact same thing (I had this plan originally, I'm not copying), so we might have a showdown. Otherwise, the city is mine!
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
I AM in nyc. The Criminal underground is MINE! I have the Irish Mob under my command, at this point... And implied a neutralization of the Irish Mafia... There are still a number of active crime gangs you can take. Get on AIM?
Arrow Gamer
America's Dictator
Sure.
qoou
Emperor
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2007
- Messages
- 1,991
The young boy sat in the dark alley, her back pressed close against the cold wall behind him, her eyes transfixed in horror by what seemed to be an ordinary rat, recently deceased.
"L-live."
The rat's legs started twitching. Its chest started rhythmically rising and falling. After a few seconds, it raised its head. The boy sprang up and tried to back away in fear, through the wall behind her, anything, anything to get away from this monstrosity from this curse from himself.
"DIE! DIE! Please. Die. D - "
The rat's head immediately slumped back over.
The girl stood glued to the wall behind him for what seemed like an eternity. The meowling of toms in heat fighting rang from nearby. A minute passed.
"Live," the girl said decidedly.
The rat again went through the grotesque motions of resurrection before the boy's cold eyes. After a minute, its limbs stopped twitching. It looked at the girl with apparent wonder. Suddenly it stood up and started scurrying away.
"Die."
The rat went suddenly limp, its momentum carrying it another few inches across the cobblestones.
"Live. Die. Live. Die. Live!"
The boy paused for a second.
"Jump."
The twitching body did not respond.
"I said JUMP!"
The rat's legs moved in an awkward manner, as if they were attempting to jump for the first time. Utterly in vain, as the rat's body still lay on its side.
"WHY WON'T YOU JUMP!"
The rat, having finally gained enough conscience, attempted to turn right side up again and run away. Its legs refused to obey him, preferring to lead him into a macabre dance of misshapen hops instead.
"Choke."
The rat squealed desperately. Its chest went perfectly still. It continued its surreal dance for a few minutes, until finally it dropped on its side, stone-cold dead. The girl watched the entire show.
"God help me."
"L-live."
The rat's legs started twitching. Its chest started rhythmically rising and falling. After a few seconds, it raised its head. The boy sprang up and tried to back away in fear, through the wall behind her, anything, anything to get away from this monstrosity from this curse from himself.
"DIE! DIE! Please. Die. D - "
The rat's head immediately slumped back over.
The girl stood glued to the wall behind him for what seemed like an eternity. The meowling of toms in heat fighting rang from nearby. A minute passed.
"Live," the girl said decidedly.
The rat again went through the grotesque motions of resurrection before the boy's cold eyes. After a minute, its limbs stopped twitching. It looked at the girl with apparent wonder. Suddenly it stood up and started scurrying away.
"Die."
The rat went suddenly limp, its momentum carrying it another few inches across the cobblestones.
"Live. Die. Live. Die. Live!"
The boy paused for a second.
"Jump."
The twitching body did not respond.
"I said JUMP!"
The rat's legs moved in an awkward manner, as if they were attempting to jump for the first time. Utterly in vain, as the rat's body still lay on its side.
"WHY WON'T YOU JUMP!"
The rat, having finally gained enough conscience, attempted to turn right side up again and run away. Its legs refused to obey him, preferring to lead him into a macabre dance of misshapen hops instead.
"Choke."
The rat squealed desperately. Its chest went perfectly still. It continued its surreal dance for a few minutes, until finally it dropped on its side, stone-cold dead. The girl watched the entire show.
"God help me."
