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Rise of the Runelords / Re: Character Backgrounds
« Last post by Humourcide on October 15, 2018, 09:28:32 PM »
A storm approaches: lightning splits the darkening sky as the wind whips and howls, and the rain lashes down against the hastily-erected tents the merchants use on their travels. These humans fear the storm, it's power of destruction. They huddle together, waiting for the storm to pass. I do not huddle. I do not wait. I have learned to respect the storm. I have learned to endure. I have learned many things.

In exchange for food and transport, I guard them while they travel and while they sleep. The sight of a blue dragonborn often gives people cause to reconsider any hostile actions they had been planning. They have learned that when a dragonborn speaks, they should listen; for if our words are not sufficient, we have other strengths that most would do well to respect. Some of them have met others of my kind before. They know we do not suffer fools.

But I am not like those they have met. I do not look down on them.

The storm lasts through the night and into the dawn. They emerge from their tents, shivering against the wind. I have kept enough firewood dry for them to warm themselves before they continue their journey. Though they trust me to keep them safe, they remain wary of me. Perhaps they too have met other dragonborn. We do not speak of such things.

Their destination is less than a day's travel. Soon we will part ways.

A little over a mile from the city to which they travel, some bandits are attempting to pass themselves off as guards, extracting a toll from all who pass, threaten those who refuse to pay, beat those who cannot.

Alone, I approach them.

I ask politely that we be allowed to pass. Make it clear to them that sooner or later the real guards will hear of their activity. Advise them to leave now and take what coin they have, consider it an easy day's work.

They might have done just that, but for the overconfidence of the youngest of their number.

"Very well," I say, grinning without humour. Surprising how often warm-bloods are afraid of anyone with significantly more teeth than them. "But you had your chance."

With a twitch of my hand, an unseen force of my creation pushes on the end of a loaded crossbow, held by the human with a broken nose and thick stubble; instinctively, he squeezes the trigger and lets the bolt loose, sending it into the leg of the fat half-orc in a grease-stained tunic. The half-orc falls to the ground, screaming as he stares at his leg and the bolt now embedded in his flesh. I draw my blade and cut deep into the arm of another human, this one with a thick beard and shaven scalp; he drops his sword, clutching at the wound. As the younger man of the group hesitates, no longer so confident in their collective strength, I let loose a roar, blasting the ground before his feet with a bolt of lightning. The taste of burnt air will linger in my throat all day, but it is a small price compared with the newfound humility these bandits now display.

They quickly surrender. I disarm them, have another prospective victim of theirs bind them with their own rope. There is not enough space on the cart of my current employers to carry them, so I have them walk behind, bound one to another, the foremost tied to the cart. I follow them, watching for any sign that they might escape, or for another of theirs to attempt rescue.

No rescue comes for them.

As we enter the city, I part ways with the merchants. I do not expect that we will ever meet again. I hand the bandits over to the guards. A reward is paid for their capture. Though it has become a necessity in my travels, gold is not what I seek. Like the blue dragon who gave life to my people, I seek knowledge. I seek power. But unlike her, I seek also for something greater.

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For generations, my ancestors served the blue dragon Cadrilkasta, who is forever driven by a deep yearning to seek out ancient power and knowledge. Of late she has become obsessed with the fall of an empire some eleven millennia ago, and with whatever ancient thing lies beneath the ruin known as the Guiltspur.

Her thirst for power and knowledge has been with her since long before she learned of the Guiltspur. To this end, she enslaves ogres and giants for manual labour, but decided that a more intellectual approach was necessary for certain other tasks: thus, my ancestors were born. The first generation were born of a ritual, created from the torn flesh and broken bones of whichever poor souls the giants and ogres happened upon first, and Cadrilkasta's own eggs. The stories passed down say that these first few – later known by their descendants as “the Progenitors” – were more fanatical in their devotion to Cadrilkasta than even the most zealous priest is to their own god.

The second generation were more cunning and self-serving, and attempted to overthrow the Progenitors. All but a dozen – four male, eight female – were slain for their treachery, at Cadrilkasta's command: those survivors were kept alive only as breeding stock, and were put to death once they were no longer able to provide offspring. If that generation ever had a name, it has been erased from our history. In hushed tones, if ever we need to name them, we call them “the Lost”.

The third generation – called “the Wanderers” – were the first of our kind given permission to leave Cadrilkasta's domain and venture forth into the lands beyond: their task was to assess what Cadrilkasta called “the lesser races”, to learn their loyalties, their strengths, and most importantly their weaknesses. But the further they wandered, and the longer they spent away from Cadrilkasta, the less they felt her power over them. Many returned, choosing to remain in her service – perhaps they had grown to fear the very notion of independent thought – but some wandered ever further from Cadrilkasta's domain.

Those of the Wanderers who returned gave rise to the fourth generation, whom their mistress named “the Seekers”: they were to be tasked with continuing the work of the Wanderers, but were not allowed to leave Cadrilkasta's domain unless their loyalty was beyond question and their obedience was without measure. Those who were found wanting met the same fate as the would-be usurpers of our second generation. Once proven, the Seekers were set loose, but by the time that she was satisfied with their loyalty Cadrilkasta had new plans for them: their first duty was to find all who remained of the Wanderers, and determine whether or not they too remained loyal to Cadrilkasta. Any whose dedication to her was deemed insufficient were killed outright. Those deemed suitably dedicated were sent back.

I am born of the seventh generation of Cadrilkasta's children.

Like all our kind since Cadrilkasta discovered the Guiltspur, I was instructed in Thassilonian and taught to recognise that culture's relics, though not their purpose. Our mistress had us learn only enough that we might be of use to her, but never enough that we might become wise in our own right. It was not until my first excursion into the catacombs beneath a crumbling temple of sorts that I learned how little Cadrilkasta truly valued her “children”: the ogre workers clearing the path ahead of us, nine of us, each only ten years of age, went into the catacombs to discover all that we could while the ancient pillars still held. As we examined the architecture and what scattered pieces of detritus we could find, we found ourselves attacked and overwhelmed by spectres of the long-dead denizens of the Guiltspur. Nine of us and three ogres descended into those buried halls: only four and one ogre returned alive. When told of the deaths of our fellows, Cadrilkasta's response was to scoff and reprimand us for our weakness, and to instruct our elders to “send stronger ones next time.”

I learned a hard lesson that day: while she may have given our ancestors life, to Cadrilkasta my people would only ever be slaves. Nothing more than the means to an end; and once her endeavours – whatever they might be – had been completed, we would outlive our usefulness to her. As I grew older, Cadrilkasta's apathy to any suffering we might endure became more and more blatant as her impatience to discover the secrets of the Guiltspur mounted: but I was not the only one to see her true nature. When we reached our sixteenth year, eight of my brood-kin and I were sent out into the world beyond the Guiltspur to seek out any and all Thassilonian artefacts, especially any writings that made reference to the Guiltspur, and return with them to aid Cadrilkasta. But we do not serve her will. Like certain of our ancestors, we possessed enough cunning to give every appearance of unerring loyalty to Cadrilkasta, and when we were sent out into the world we came to an agreement: that we should separate, each seeking aid and allies. We will defeat Cadrilkasta. We will free our people. And for good or ill we will seek a destiny beyond servitude.

We call ourselves “the Wayward”.

We are slaves to no-one.
Hell Trek / Matt Damon Block
« Last post by 348 on October 15, 2018, 09:24:33 PM »
Matt Damon Block
Private owned, modern block that has been made by City Hall to include residences on lowest levels for citizens on Welfare.  The most expensive apartments are on the higher levels, with commanding views across Mega-City One. The smaller apartments crowd into the lower levels but still offer a decent standard of living. 

Upper Levels
Elysium: Ultimate night club of elites (members only).
Ernest Goldleaf: Wealthy resident, war hero of the war of 70-71.
La Parisian: This restaurant situated almost at the top of the block is one of the most exclusive in Mega-City One. 

Lower Levels
Intermega:  Zoom station.
Ultimate Born Again: Face change parlour branch run by Patti Clocksmith.

Lowest Levels
Afleck News: This convenience store is open pretty much 24 hours a day, although no one is quite sure how. 
Bedlam Tuning: One of the noisier places on the lower floors of the block is this garage and vehicle repair centre. 
Mama Carlito: This rather rotund old lady used to work as a hairdresser until robotic automation forced her into early retirement. Now she welcomes neighbours and friends who cannot afford an expensive stylist into her apartment to cut their hair.
Medical Centre 7: There are several medical centres in Matt Damon block, but still only one for every fifty or so floors. Each has only one medic, a nurse and an administrator who helps where they can.   
Mother Grim: Fortune teller.
O’Callaghan’s: This rather rustic bar serves almost every form of synthetic alcohol you can find. 
Serendipity: Bar and night club with exotic dancers.
Seven Seas: Bar, patronized by aging hoodlums.
Singh Café: This cheap café serves a selection of simple but decent dishes, mostly to the poorer residents of the block.

Grossmore Robo-Zoo. Located near block.

Hell Trek / Re: Character Bio - Manchester
« Last post by Ant on October 15, 2018, 05:49:46 PM »
Excellent, I have an immediate idea how our characters might have interacted already
Hell Trek / Re: Character Bio - Manchester
« Last post by 348 on October 15, 2018, 05:32:41 PM »
Revolution / Re: Character Backgrounds
« Last post by Dean.Pye on October 15, 2018, 04:25:41 PM »

Mouse is the only name he has ever known.  His earliest memory is waking up in the streets of the rookery.   Bleeding dishevelled and covered in filth.
He learnt the hard way what it meant to live on the streets without friends and family.
Hiding in the shadows trying to steal, usually getting caught and beaten.   He began to realise that he disgusted those around him.
He still wears the scars of those beatings and worse things that happened to him.  Eventually he fell in with a local Fagin going by the name the “Mother”.   Whilst a poor thief he was quiet and had keen senses.  Making an excellent spotter and distraction.  Despite his small size he was fast and could outrun trouble.  Until the day he could not.  Chased down an alley by a local police officer who disgusted at his foul body proceeded to beat him. He fought back.  Somehow the officer tripped and fell and he caved his head in with a brick.

What happened next is predictable.  The officer rose as one of the dead and proceeded to cause a small riot and end the life of 14 other people until the Deathwatch were called to end it.
Mouse refused to give up his gang and was to be hanged until a last minute reprieve of sorts got him assigned to the Penal Corps for 10 years.

Life in the corps was hard.  But he was soon adopted as the mascot of his unit and managed to stay alive long enough to learn how to shoot.  He was a natural scout and soon nearly everyone in his unit owed their life to his keen senses.  His unit had one of the lowest casualty rates in the corps and gained a reputation as ruthless but effective.  By the time his sentence was over he was a corporal and was offered a chance to sign up with a promotion and service with the rifles.

He told the officer to fuck themselves.  For that the paperwork got misplaced and he served the better part of another year before being released and was demoted to private and give the worst jobs.

Mouse has been back in the Rookery for nearly two years now.  He makes his living doing odds jobs.  Following people, Finding people and collecting debts are his main sources of income.

Sometimes big jobs such as cheating husbands/wives or providing discrete protection for slumming nobles give him a little extra cash.  But these always involve middlemen whos face fits and for whom most of the money goes.

Sometimes he works with local undertakers to provide backup and to guide them through the underworld.  Mouse has a strange if beneficial relationship with the local Ghouls some of which seem to find him attractive.  Its disconcerting to say the least.

One of his most regular clients is MR Mole.   He sometimes works as a leg breaker for him but most often as a bounty hunter.  Its a decent gig and he can usually fit he work around other clients.

Mouse is a heavy set if extremely short man.  Standing under 5ft tall.   His body is covered in scars and burns.  His ears pointed his teeth yellow with pronounced canines.  His skin were its not already disfigured is blotchy.   But worse are his eyes.   They almost seem to glow red with their bloodshot nature and few people can look into them without feeling disconcerted or sick.

He often wears googles, hooded mantle and flat cap to hide his appearance.  Worn over a heavy grey woollen coat that's patched and filthy.

His favourite guns are a pair of Winchesters he acquired in the wasteland from a heavily infested estate.  A 1887 shotgun and 1895 carbine.
Their lever action is easier for him to operate then the customary bolt action rifles of the Deathwatch.   A 12mm revolver sits under his left arm whilst the 1887 shotgun hangs under the right.  The rifle is usually wrapped and tied to his backpack.

Mouse is a fairly crude individual.  He often insults those around him, can appear cruel and his appearance leave much to be desired.    He does however possess singular loyalty to those few people he calls friends and a fondness for children.    He often lets some of the street kids hide in what passes as a home on the edge of the underground.  And has been known to track down missing kids.   A few months ago he tracked down a serial child killer who was hiding in the tunnels. 
What was left of him was found dumped by the local police station.

Mouse is not particularly political.  But deep down he has a loathing for the rich and powerful.  He is attending the protest to meet Mr Mole about a job.
Hell Trek / Character Bio - Manchester
« Last post by Plushiecompanioncube on October 15, 2018, 04:09:55 PM »
Concept: Mega-City Tech Goddess  :P

I'm gonna keep this as brief as I can. You don't really need to know more than you've already heard. I'm a mechanic for Bedlam tuning in Matt Damon block. No. I don't do that Psyker stromm, Bambo. Not anymore. Not for whoever is asking. You come to me if you have a mechanical problem, i fix your tech. With my hands - not my mind. I'm not even a psi - got it?

My last name? Don't associate with anyone who has it so I don't need it. I don't keep junk around. No i'm not some jumped up star trying to be edgy...who do you think you are -

Look. I've been a blocker my entire life. A punk. Tri-dee was boring so I took it apart and learnt to make something new with its parts. I can find things - you looking for a spare part?

Nah you're just a waste of space. Don't even have the creds to lick my boots.  Get outta here drokker.
Hell Trek / Re: What you know
« Last post by 348 on October 14, 2018, 08:32:59 PM »

President Robert Booth, commonly called 'Bad Bob Booth' after the Atomic War.Long gone...but the last President of the USA has left behind devastated nations and irradiated wilderness.
Hell Trek / Re: Mega-City One Artwork
« Last post by 348 on October 14, 2018, 08:19:17 PM »
Hell Trek / Re: Mega-City One Artwork
« Last post by 348 on October 14, 2018, 07:50:58 PM »
Hell Trek / Re: Character Intro - Doctor Karibou & Hernando
« Last post by 348 on October 14, 2018, 05:30:22 PM »
Bravo..and another candidate for bonus xp as well!
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