Well, this isn't your standard RP. This is an OCBT (Original Character Battle Tournament). The rules of these are basically: You create a character. You and your opponent each depict your character defeating theirs. Whoever has the most entertaining entry wins. The rules are: you each write a short story describing your character beating your opponents. http://thecolosseum.deviantart.com/journal/14111731/ is an OCBT done with art. Most of the rules are the same. Many fights will have some modifier I will think of. The pen is mightier than the sword. The best writer wins. The time commitment is less than an RP, so it will be easier to manage. There will be 15 entries allowed (I will be number 16). I will also need three unbiased judges to decide the winner of each fight. Most characters are allowed, as long as they are not fancharacters or Mary-Sues. The stronger they are, the more entertaining your opponent's underdog victory will be. Monsters, demons, aliens, elementals, humans, almost anything is allowed. If you want to join, you need a character reference sheet and an intro by the 22nd. The intro describes how your character got into the tournament. They can either find out about it or the big bosses, Hugo and Mr. Grant (my OCs who are running the tourney), can rope them in by hook or by crook.
THE BEGINNING: Hugo Armstrong was not a happy man. The ratings were down once again. He pressed the intercom. "Grant, get in here." A minute later, a well-dressed man with a face so blank it may as well have been carved from marble entered. "Grant, would you care to explain why the hell half our viewers are gone?! We've been the number one network for fighting for as long as I've been alive." "Sir, that new network has unregulated combat, uncensored blood, and enough severed limbs to turn a hundred worms into centipedes. Classic boxing and wrestling can't stand up to that." "What do you suggest, Grant?" "There are a lot of freaks out there that they don't let fight. How about letting them fight?" A smile spread across Armstrong's face. "Hell, not even the bloodbath on that upstart channel will top that! Do whatever you can, Grant. Anyting you can do to get the nastiest fighters in the world. Don't worry about legality, just do it." Grant nodded solemnly. "And the arena?" "Where it started. This will be gladiatorial combat! We're going to fight in the Colosseum of Rome! I'll get some guys to renovate it a bit so audiences can sit in and watch. It should take about six months. Until then, get all the freaks you can possibly find." Grant nodded and walked out. He immediately grabbed his cellphone and doubled his life insurance. He knew that the kinds of people he would be talking to wouldn't be too kind.
Alright, let's see if this gets off the ground. Winner gets to pick the next setting and restrictions.
Both single fighters and duos are allowed. Here is my character (you don't need this much detail, but I like to write.
Name: Erik Long Moniker: "The Dread" Occupation: Assassin Age: 26 Height: 6'1 Weight: 200 lbs. Weapons: Longsword, .454 Casull Semi-Auto. Clothes: Black helm with visor, breastplate, short-sleeved shirt and pants. Well-built, Brown hair, brown eyes.
Erik's father, Will, is a geneticist who was working on curing hemophilia. He managed to isolate the part of the disease that prevented blood from coagulating and reversed-engineered it. After presenting the cure, he worked on his own time to use his findings to create a gene that would allow somebody's blood to coagulate instantly both inside and outside the body, preventing hemorrhaging and bleeding out. He perfected it after a year. Realizing the potential for an assassin that could stay standing after being shredded by bullets, he used the gene, mixed with his own DNA, and impregnated his wife. She gave birth to Erik nine months later. Nobody outside of the Long household knows of his existence (Will told his family that his wife had miscarried at 8 months). Since then, Will has trained him in every form of combat known to man. Though Erik does not have any formal education, he has a keen tactical mind. His father plans to loan him to governments for use as an assassin. Strengths: High pain tolerance. No fear of bleeding. Fast and strong. Keen tactical mind. Weaknesses: Cannot regenerate tissue, bone, or muscle. Nearsighted; relies on prescription glass in visor to see. High pain tolerance can lead him to inadvertantly aggravate wounds. Cannot save destroyed organs, greatly damaged heart, or damaged brain.
Intro: Will Long was startled by the knocking on his door. He hadn't had visitors outside of the milkman in ten the years since he'd retired and his wife had died. He opened the door to find a tall man in a suit with a blank face. "What do you want?" "I know about Erik," was the reply. Will stepped back as if he had been struck. He motioned the man inside. As they sat in the living room, Will poured two cups of whiskey. As he drank, he began to talk. "What do I need to do to keep you quiet?" "I just need to borrow him for a while." "What's to stop me killing you to shut you up?" "My boss knows as well and will have this place surrounded by police in five minutes." Will took a larger sip. "So what exactly is it you need?" "We are holding a fighting tournament and would like to see what Erik can do." Will nodded. "Alright, he's this way." They walked into the kitchen to find a man with short hair and an impassive face drinking coffee. He looked at Grant, then at Will, and blinked twice, the signal for "I can kill him before he reaches the door." Will blinked twice, telling him not to worry. Grant sat down and extended his hand. Erik didn't move. Will grinned. "He's not too social." Grant stood up again and handed Will a card. "Rome's Colosseum. Five months from today. He can bring weapons." He left. Erik walked over to his closet and pulled out his mask,a black piece with a leering grin painted on and a visor. He set it back down and grabbed his gun and sword. He stepped towards the door. "Where are you going?" Erik turned around. "To practice." Will nodded. This was going to be entertaining.
Given that it's about writing skills, i think this character could actually work, feel free to shout at me.
The Ultra Joe. 7' 500lb in full armor Two Handed Broadsword. See Avatar. No Features, Helmet Technically part of flesh at this point.
Born when a gorgon locked eyes with a basilisk, The Ultra Joe suffers no fools and makes fools of us all.
Clad in heavy armor and wilding a generic broadsword, the Ultrajoe fights on the principal that brute force only fails through under-commitment and restraint. He is a devout anarchist and deeply hates any form of institution. His past is cloudy, but he is always on the move and seems to regret past actions, never discussing his previous doings or adventures.
He is a creature of pride, each night he polishes his equipment with single minded determination to purge all dirt from its surface, and suffers not a single imperfection. He sees his possessions as a part of him, in fact he rarely, if ever, removes it and guards anything he owns with a ferocity some would consider excessive. Adding to this his hatred of bandits or looters... and it can be assumed he has been wronged by them in the past, a fact reinforced by the scars on his body, arrow wounds and innumerable stab scars.
His first appearance as we know him was at a border skirmish outside a village in the cold northlands, when the town he was lodging at was raided by a marauder clan, The Ultra Joe held the town for a day and a half along with some armed citizens before succumbing to a wave of armored troops. When reinforcements arrived he had limped off, but townsfolk descriptions of the armored knight spread, and when he arrived at a fort in the south, he was apprehended.
As he had committed no crime, he was released with all his possessions, but he was watched for some time. His journey south was a subject of rumor, and when he reached the open plain between the regions gigantic twin forests, he simply set up camp and remained there for weeks.
He was a subject of discussion for much time, before an alliance of marauder clans met the kings forces on the plain he sat upon. He had been awaiting the seemingly unpredictable battle for almost a month, and screaming righteous fury he killed his way through the marauders and slew their leader. When he was challenged by the victorious royal forces on how he had known about the attack, he replied simply that he served a higher power. when attacked he flew into the wilderness.
Unseen for months now, a wanted man by both Government and Outlaw alike he waits his next call to arms.
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There, a short bio that serves also as summation of the character.
Name: The Axi Sutacross Monker: Master Sutacross (to some) Height: 5'7 Weight: 153 lbs Age: unknown; records of him exist as early as 1217, however. Occupation: none (formerly soldier) Strengths: Knows various forms of martial arts, genius IQ, very tactical mind, unusually strong (strong enough to lift a grown man over his head), very fast. Weaknesses: Is mute, cannot form a fist. Equipment: Longsword (named Merrik), blue mail shirt (sleeveless), black jeans, clogs, spiked braclet on left wrist, silver sash around waist (hangs over sword)
To say Sutacross is an enigma is to indulge in hyperbole. Seemingly a young adult, records of The Axi Sutacross exist as far back as 1217, making him almost 800 years old. He seemingly knows every form of martal arts known to man. And his skills with a sword; to say he is the greatest swordsman who ever lived is not an understatement by any means.
His sword, The Merrik, has been recorded cutting some of the strongest materials known to man; it has also been shown to be able to slice through objects without physically touching them. One of it's more unique properties; if anyone besides The Axi Sutacross tries to wield the blade, it becomes heavy and uwieldly.
The Merrik, its sheath, and Sutacross's mail shirt are made out of a material that, for all intents and purposes, is indestructable.
Current inteligence says that he is living in a small village in china.
Intro: The representitive walked into the small village. It smelled bad, was dusty, and there were children all over the place; but this is where that swordsman was, and he wanted one of those fat checks. He hoped his information was not mistaken.
"Hello," he said to a small child in chinese. "You there. Could you show me where The Axi Sutacross is?"
The child nodded. He pointed to a young man walking across the road.
"No, no, no, child, The Immortal Sutacross, the man they say has walked the land for hundreds of years?"
The child pointed again to the young man.
Oh well. He would get to the bottom of this.
The representitive walked over to the young man the child had pointed to. "You, you there, good sir, may I have a word with you?"
The young man turned around. Come to think of it, he did match the description; pale skin, long, straight black hair, a sword at one side...but it couldn't be. Master Sutacross was an old man, that's why he was called MasterSutacross.
Shaking off his initial shock, The Representitive said, "Young man, I was wondering if you knew where I could speak to The Axi Sutacross?"
The young man moved his hands in a broad gesture.
"Can't you spe-"
"The Master Sutacross says you are talking to him."
The Representitive turned around, facing a man that appeared to be in his sixties. "This," The Representitve said. "This is Master Sutacross?"
The old man nodded. The Representitive turned around. "Please forgive my rudness before, Master Sutacross. I humbly beg an audience with you, in private."
Sutacross shook his head, then gestured to the people around him. "Anything you can say to me you can say to these people." The old man translated.
"Uh, very well; There is a tournament, to be held in Rome in several days, between the greatest warriors in the world. I am here to offer you an invatation to this event."
Sutacross thought for a moment, then nodded, walking the way The Representitive came. "Master Sutacross has accepted your offer, and will travel with you to Rome." The old man said. "If this is a trick though, he will kill you and everyone associated with you."
Apologies for the wall of text; apparently, I like writing, too.
Name: Jack Green Moniker: Judgemental Jack, The Ref Height: 7'2" Weight: 185 Kg Age: 32 Occupation; Action Games Referee Weapons: His body, referee whistle and occasionally the odd chair. Clothes: Black pants, a black and white stripped shirt and matching bandanna. Appearance: Huge Frame, blond hair, green eyes and a scar running down the left side of his face.
Formerly a professional wrestler, he lost his job when the sport become unpopular. He had the choice of taking part in more dangerous sports or refereeing those sports. He chose the latter and became an official referee. Since then he has refereed a wide variety of sports and greatly grew in popularity when he was (secretly) paid to fight two tennis players during a final at Wimbledon. Since then the press has given him the image of the most violent referee in the history of sport. While this could not be further from the truth, Jack uses this image to guarantee future employment.
Intro: Jack sat in his locker room, his whistle in his hand. He muttered the referee's code and donned his bandanna.
"Today is a good day to referee death" he told himself, proud that he had made a Philosophical statement, however he was disappointed that no one could hear it.
Name: Nathan Abbot Moniker: "Ghost" Occupation: Assassin Age: appears 18 Height: 6'5 Weight: 185lbs. Weapons: Long-sword, hidden blade under right wrist, throwing knives strapped to his waist, and two Desert Eagles on his belt. Clothes: Skin tight armor that could in theory absorb a tactical nuclear strike, and made out of diamonds, and regular clothes to wear over it. Nathan remembers nearly nothing of his human life other than he was a son of a noble in feudal Europe, He was bitten in what he believes in 1118 A.D during the crusades or around their, after one century he hired himself out to the highest bidder as a assassin seeing as he had immense strength, speed, stamina, nearly unkillable save for being decapitated. After thirteen successful assassinations he settled down in England drinking only when he had needed to. When he heard that Columbus had discovered a new land he eagerly thought of the new blood he could sample and was on the first English colony, after a young girl was attacked by Native Americans he smelled her blood and was in the house she was taken to, that triggered his instinct to feed. He utterly destroyed the colony, draining every inhabitant dry within an hour, to make sure no one learned of what he had done he burnt the entire area down. He ran into the wilderness only feeding on the occasional Native American and settler. After two hundred years he came out of hiding and hired himself out as a assassin again using his own methods, he took many live within a century and became a legend in the underground assassin community seeing as he spanned nearly five centuries, when he was hired to kill another vampire he found it distasteful and killed the man who assigned it to him. During the late eighteen hundreds he was given an assignment to kill Abraham Lincoln but seeing as the man would die the next day he waited for booth to do the dirty work, and took the money. He lived a quite secluded life in the back country of Michigan. When prohibition hit he was once more called upon to assassinate men the mobsters did not want meddling in their affairs. When the depression hit he was the richest man on the planet, during the war he went into a deep sleep to wait until the population was more robust. When he awoke it was the 50's and the cold war was in full swing he was contracted by both sides to do assassinations, and one was to assassinate Kennedy during his stay in office he used a scapegoat, to fire one shot and he took a position in a building while, Nathan took up a position on the grassy knole, he used a dart gun loaded with poison to kill him. As soon as the cold war ended he was contracted by the US government to be their top operative, he did his job well instigating revolts where necessary, assassinations, and securing nuclear arms. He soon got tired off this process and put himself back on the open market, but not after stealing a suit of armor from the United States Armory that was in Area 51. Strengths: Nearly a millennium of pain has made him immune to it. No fear of death. Can lift a two ton car over his head with little effort, can run at nearly two hundred miles an hour, skin as tough as titanium. Does not fear harm seeing as he can regenerate anything over a time span of a few days. Weaknesses: Needs to feed more often the more he does any physical activities seeing as he needs no sleep, food, water, air only blood to use for energy. Does not like to draw blood from opponents in fear of going into frenzy and killing everyone nearby. Cannot go into bright daylight without his suit for the UV damages his skin irreparably. Goes into a coma when a limb is cut off to regenerate it.
Intro. Nathan liked dealing with his enemies up close because if he was thirsty he could always feed on them. "Remember, you job is to execute him and dump the body" A voice said inside the suits mask. "I know" Nathan said calmly as he latched onto the ceiling and crawled above the cameras ripping the cords out of each one he passed. After a few minutes of repeating this process he came across a guard standing by a door, he wondered what was beyond it so he crawled above the guard and grabbed him by the shoulders hoisting him up, the area near his mouth the mask curled back, he bit him and drained him on the spot to top off his tanks. Dropping the now limp body he looked at the steel door and ripped it off its hinges. He walked into the room and he saw that there were no lights, but that did not hinder him as he saw clearly in the darkest environments. As Nathan walked into the room he saw it was empty save for a man tied to a chair, a cold voice then echoed in the room as he heard a hiss and a door slid into the place of the one he ripped down. "Now looks like we have the most famous assassin Ghost to come and kill me" the voice said while lights sprang on in the room and he saw that their were black doors all around him. "Now lets see how you fair against my pets" The man said while each door opened revealing a pack of Doberman in each. "Childs play" Nathan whispered as the dogs rushed him. He grabbed the ones nearest to him and crushed their necks, throwing the dogs bodies at the others he simply repeated this process until all the dogs where dead. "What the hell are you?" the voice said and Nathan could hear the fear in his voice. "I will show you" He said walking over to the man tied to the chair, the mask around his mouth pulling back to reveal his mouth and the sharp bone white teeth and canines. He picked the man up and drained him, Nathan then remembered to breath and he smelt a chemical in the air and he barely heard a nearly inaudible hissing. Nathan rushed at the door and kicked it down sending the three inch thick door two feet into a concrete wall. He walked calmly out of the room and saw that he was surrounded by guards. Each was holding a G36 and they were all aimed at him. Nathan drew his longsword. "Now I think this is an unfair fight" He said while a smile under the mask. Before the men could breathe he had sliced each and everyone one of their guns in half. "Now unless you want to be put together with..." Nathan stopped as he felt something cold and metallic press against the back of his head. "Time to die Vampire" a voice said and Nathan could hear the insanity in it. "Not likely" He said while kicking behind him sending whoever was behind in into the ceiling. Nathan drew his two Desert Eagles and said in a calm tone. "Who's next?" He said while the men tried to turn and run. Nathan calmly put a round in each and everyone of their heads.
After a few minutes of fighting guards and going through the odd room he reached his target. He could smell the fear coming off of him and his scent was that of oil. Nathan quietly walked towards him and touched him on the shoulder. That is when he knew something was wrong, the man had no heartbeat he walked in front of him and found that they stood a dead man up with a bomb strapped to his chest and "You have been chosen" written in English while the counter just clicked to zero. Nathan had no time to react, the next thing he knew he was blown out of the building and into the bay of a waiting helicopter. Nathan was quickly strapped down and had a titanium shell put over him. A joyous voice said. "Welcome Nathan Abbot, yes we know who you are so that is why we gave you that phony assassination we just wanted to confirm what we thought you were and I must say you blew all of our expectations. Let me just get down to the jist of things, first yes we know how to kill you there is a shaped charge in front of your head right now and if you try to escape it will kill you, second you have been chosen from among the many greatest warriors around the world to fight in the Arena in Rome, you will be given what ever you desire once you do as we say" The voice then cut off and Nathan was left to ponder his thoughts.
Entry Name: Ivan Goranovich Height: 6'6" Weight: 215 lbs Age: 27 Occupation: legally none (technically cat burglar and hired muscle) Strengths: can blend into environment in outdoor fight, mastered boxing and CQC, extremely agile, deadly. Weaknesses: um...he's a big target I suppose Equipment: dagger, stealth suit, sunglasses, revolver His residence is in Moscow, Russia, his homeland, but he is a known traveler.
Intro thing: The representative from the network certainly was confused. When he was told to recruit fighters for this tournament, he expected to go to a battleground or the streets or somewhere dangerous. Instead he found himself standing in front of the door of a quaint little house in Moscow. The last few interviews hadn't gone so well, and he was threatened with being fired if he couldn't find a real interest to the program. He needed this one to work. He rang the bell. Suddenly, a large Russian man opened the door "Кто вы?" The representative didn't speak Russian so he tried to signal non understanding. "Greetings comrade!" replied the man cheerily, "How may I be helping you?" "Um..." the rep started, "I represent the #1 fighting network in the US." The large Russian had the same blank smile on his face. "And they are prepared to offer...." The Russian was wearing a tuxedo and retained his vacuous grin. "Never mind, I don't think you'd be interested in this offer, sir." Suddenly, two men came from behind the two of them with guns. "YOU'LL PAY FOR STEALING FROM THE MOB GORANOVICH!" Suddenly, the rep was jerked into the house by the Russian and shoots rang out above them as they hid behind the door. "Hold that thought, comrade." Suddenly, Ivan leapt from the door on top of one of the men and stabbed him in the throat with a concealed dagger. The other man fired several times into the Russian, but the Russian rolled out of the way of the bullets. As the man tried to reload his gun, the Russian disarmed him, threw him to the ground and stepped onto his neck. The Russian seemed to think for a moment and then toss the man off his property. As the man ran, the Russian yelled out "И DON' ВОЗВРАТ T, ВЫ МАЛЕНЬКИЕ ПАНКИ" The Russian walked back to the representative and pulls him from the ground, "I am sorry, comrade. I am called Ivan Goranovich. Can we talk inside house about your offer?" The representative was tempted pump his fist, but he was satisfied with an under his breath, "Jackpot!"
The Sorrow: Damn it... Ah, well. Lock it. It will return in some form later on.
Hang on, wait up! Should have checked what this was earlier shouldn't I? Looks like fun and I can submit a character tomorrow, its really waaaaay to late at night for me to do it now, so watch this space... Unless its locked.
If the time commitment wont be overly large, I'd consider playing. If it's going to be a "post a day" sort of thing then I probably won't have the time to devote but if it's just "put in a long story about how you win every now and then" it seems like it'd be fun.
Name: Armitage Shanks and Diego Flombere AKA "The Fighting Hobos", "The British Gents", "The Deadly Clowns" and "The North Coast Plumbers" Height: 6'5" and 5'6" Respectively Weight: 94kg and 86kg Respectively Age: Both 28 Occupation: Currently bouncers at a high class nightclub. Have worked for PMC's, criminals and been (unofficially) subcontracted by several small nation-states. Strengths: Armitage: Tough, strong and an expert with all kinds firearms and explosives, although is semi-proficient in bar room style brawling. Can take a great deal of punishment. A link of spirits that dulls pain and gives him an almost psychic bond with Diego that allows them to work as an incredibly cohesive team, also also weakens the fabric of space the duo occupy and lets them switch places mid fight. Diego: Very fast, agile, natural acrobat and a master of close-in fighting. Is crack shot with a Makarov PM, but is not great with other firearms, prefers fists and melee weapons. A link of spirits that dulls pain and gives him an almost psychic bond with Diego that allows them to work as an incredibly cohesive team, also weakens the fabric of space the duo occupy and lets them switch places mid fight. Weaknesses: Armitage: Totos Africa, somewhat slow, lacks melee finesse. Relies on his firearms too often. Diego: Fat jokes, not great at taking hits, can be outclassed if out ranged. Equipment: Often changes based on persona. Currently Armitage: Double barrel sawn-off shotgun, Pair of C96 'Broomhandle' Mausers (one with stock and expanded magazine, one without.) and a Khukri. Wears a durable but rather movement inhibiting flak vest with ceramic plates. Diego: Blackjack, ASP extendable baton, switchblade, Makarov PM. Lightweight body armor. Costumes (Currently): Large top hats, waistcoats with suit pants and dress shirts, monocles, pipes and bow-ties (Purple for Diego, Red for Armitage).
Intro: The rep felt much better. California was a much more familiar place than rural China. It was a lot less cold than the former USSR and their was less chance of being shot in the streets of Los Angeles than in Fallujah or South Ossetia. Even better, he thought my destination is a nightclub, a place where normal people and not freaks um.. freqented. Joining the end of the long long line he waited patiently amongst the party goers, shuffling forward occasionally.
After about an hour and half of listening to the inane drivel of socialites around him he was almost at the front of the queue, and almost beginning to think that the Russian trip hadn't been that bad. "I say spiffing outfit and all, but is your name on the list? No, no you are not in fact Bono. Why? Well I happen to know that he does not finish every sentence with 'Save the Children'. You also have a terrible Irish accent. Back of the line chaps," an almost comical upper class voice cut out across the crowd. "Well then, we'll looks like we'll have to do this the hard way then, don't it? Quick boys," a more gruff voice responded as the line broke apart, the crowd pushing forward to see what was happening. The rep was caught in the wave of movement and got pushed up against the barrier, but had a perfect view of what was happening. 8 or so burly men threw off cumbersome jackets and coats, instantly revealing themselves to not be in general A-list scene. Pulling out an assortment of knives, Tec-9s, Desert Eagles and even one AK-47, the gang threatened the two bizarrely dressed bouncers. "Get on the fuckin' ground before we fill you full of lead!" the Bono impersonating leader roared and his men fanned out in a circle around the erstwhile two. "I say old bean, in quite a spot of bother aren't we?" The shorter more rotund one asked. "Quite so, quite so my chum. Time for 'afternoon tea'?" "Oh my Shanks, how delightful..." the gangs befuddlement got worse as the short one seemed to throw himself into the air in a bright flash and a shower of confetti, somersaulting and landing on the tall skinny ones shoulders. Appearing to defy gravity, the tall one shrugged slightly while drawing a sawn off shotgun from his inside his suit-jacket. As he emptied the first barrel into the closest thugs stomach he also un-holstered a box like pistol.
The leader could still see nothing but he heard boots landing on pavement just before he felt a blunt force come down on his gun arm, shattering the bone. "Argghh!" "Jolly good and all," the voice came from behind him and seemed to dance off. Sight having returned slightly, he spun round and found no one, but saw a round shape flip by in his peripheral vision. Holding his machine pistol left handed, he fired a couple of shots, hitting nothing. Trying to follow the shape, he saw the skinny man (Shanks he presumed) drop the shotgun and take out 2 more of his stunned men with a mauser. "Spiffing show Diego, if I don't say so myself," enraged, the thug ran at the skinny man "Heads up ol' chum!" Shanks turned to look the furious thug, then briefly closed his eyes. There was a soft pop, and an instant later Diego was in Shank's place. "Nice try young fella'," grinning idiotically he braced for the impact then, sidestepping and grabbing the gangster, he used his own momentum against him, propelling him through the air and into straight into the hapless rep, knocking him out cold.
"All I'm saying is the whole 'British Gent' thing is getting too predictable for the punters," Diego whined, no trace of the London accent in his bland voice. "Cheer up, looks like he's awake enough to offer us that job," The rep came to groggily. "Um, yes, Colosseum 4 months? Uhh.. Oh yes, um be there." he still wasn't sure if he imagined the bizarre fight was a side affect of a concussion. Diego chuckled, "Yep, definitely time for a new persona. I'm thinking The Vegas Card Sharks. I stuff some poker chips in my blackjack, and you could learn to throw cards?" he asked excitedly. "Or, alternately, you could learn to shut up," "Hasn't happened and it never will," "It better.." "It won't," The bickering receded into the distance as the rep passed out again.
Name: Dr Hubert East Moniker: "The Doc" Occupation: Medicle Scientist Age: 49 Height: 6'5 Weight: 205 lbs. Weapons: Dark gun filled with poisons and strange substant, vibrating knife. Clothes: Lab coat and glasses.
Strengths: The Doc wasn't your average fighter. He looked little more then an old man looking for a beating. This gave most enemies a false sense of sucrutiy as he'd dart around them, abnormally fast and agile, stabbing the poor sids in the neck and letting the knife do the rest of the work. Weaknessess: As he is not frightfully strong nor tough, he can barely take many blows. People have rumoured that he has special drugs on him that can alter his appreance and strength to some monsterous form, but none have ever seen this.
INTRO: Calmly waiting at the door he had knocked upon, the Doc looked down the grim alley, full of bums and drugged prositutes. Unnerved to the fact one of the bums was eyeing him, he once again knocked back on the door before looking at his watch. The shaky, drit encrusted man pulled himself to his feet, sliding up the wall behind him. Each step, more of a stumble, the bum walked over the Hubert.
"H-hey. That's a nice looken' watch ya' got there. Mind if I cald' have it?" "You sir? My father gave me this watch. I could not dream of what a man in your possition would do to such a think of beauty." "Mah, position?!" the bum said scrunching up his tattered sleeves, "How's abouts ya' give it up or things may get a bit violent." "Violent? You don't know the meaning of the word," the Doc said with a face that could stun an angel.
With that the bum took a blind drunken swing at the Doc. Darting quickly to the left the Doc pulled out his dart gun and aimed it at the bum who stood froozen looking down the barrel of it. Behind the two, the door opened flooding the alley with light. A sillohet of a man looked at the two on the street. "Hubert. I heard you wanted to fight?" "Indeed I do," he said not taking his eyes of the bum, "I have a few contraptions I'd like to test."
The three remained still until without warning a dart hit the bum in the eye and collapsed him to the floor. The man flinched in pain and death spasims, skin bloating and turning a strange shade of yellow before the bums life left him in a pool of sickly white puss draining from his mouth.
"Well that one worked I guess," The Doc said entering the building.
Name: Leila Rakov Moniker: "Zephyr" Occupation: Specialized Courier Age: 22 Height: 5'8 Weight: 120 lbs. Weapons: Whip, crossbow, rope and hook Clothes: A white shirt adorns her shoulders that continues down to cling to her thighs, below the shorts a glimpse of skin is presented above pale grey stockings. A translucent grey scarf is wrapped tightly around her waist, and is perhaps longer than it appears.
Zephyr has always been fast. Always been dexterous. Always been stealthy. And she's always been paid handsomely for her talents. Need to get something somewhere fast, and you want it discrete? And maybe this something happened to be the contents of a crooked CEO's safe and the somewhere happened to be a moving train? No problem. She can get in anywhere, out anywhere, and nobody has any idea what hit them. She isn't a leaf on the wind, she is the wind. With pale skin and long platinum blonde hair, she is a wisp through your window, scarcely silhouetted against the moon.
Intro: In the forgotten part of a skyscraper, rain is navigating a pane of glass, and a curtain sways in a faint breeze. Beneath a sheer canopy, on a mattress lying bare on the cold marble floor, Zephyr sits cross-legged, meditating. One pale eye opens, just before the space resonates with a knock. In an instant she vaults to the copper pipes above and rolls swiftly across until she sees through a vent the man standing at her portal. Landing silently on dainty feet she holds her robes closely and opens the door. "A-hem, Miss Zephyr?" She nods, her face calm and unwavering. "May I come in?" She raises an eyebrow, but opens the door more and backs away. "Eh, thank you," he says, stepping into the cold, bare room. "I represent a client who's interested in utilizing your abilities in an unconventional manner," he continues, looking around awkwardly like he was casing the joint. She walks slowly over to her dresser, and disrobes, ignoring his presence. "Well, er," he states, trying to look the other way, "It's a test of your combat skills you see, in a, er, battle arena. Not any battle arena either! The-the coliseum of all places! Ha ha, who would've... would've-" Zephyr was before him now, fully clothed beneath a pale grey trench coat, holding a cup of coffee up to him. "Thanks!" he said, and took it gratefully, a hot rush flowing through his shivering body. "Watch your head," she said softly, with a smoky voice that he heard long before he understood.
Blood warmed the marble as the man lay there, motionless. He'd fainted from what she'd put in the coffee, and had fallen poorly, resulting in the inevitable sever head trauma. "These things happen," she whispered, miasmatic. Searching through his wallet the man's phone rang and she opened it. "So what's the answer?" an older man queries. "I'm in," she purrs, before crushing the phone in her palm and tossing it onto the man's chest. In an instant she was gone; the curtain still waving and the rain heavy.
Ill referee matches outside my own, i don't think that would be an issue.
Better would be a panel of 3 dedicated judges for each and every match. They PM their discussions to The Sorrow and then he announces a winner, prevents collaboration on the part f judges or writer-warriors... or warrior-poets.
And Sorrow, if you don't want to get this thing going, i will.
Well, this isn't your standard RP. This is an OCBT (Original Character Battle Tournament). The rules of these are basically: You create a character. You and your opponent each depict your character defeating theirs. Whoever has the most entertaining entry wins.
The rules are: you each write a short story describing your character beating your opponents.
http://thecolosseum.deviantart.com/journal/14111731/ is an OCBT done with art. Most of the rules are the same. Many fights will have some modifier I will think of.
The pen is mightier than the sword. The best writer wins. The time commitment is less than an RP, so it will be easier to manage.
There will be 15 entries allowed (I will be number 16). I will also need three unbiased judges to decide the winner of each fight.
Most characters are allowed, as long as they are not fancharacters or Mary-Sues. The stronger they are, the more entertaining your opponent's underdog victory will be. Monsters, demons, aliens, elementals, humans, almost anything is allowed.
If you want to join, you need a character reference sheet and an intro by the 22nd. The intro describes how your character got into the tournament. They can either find out about it or the big bosses, Hugo and Mr. Grant (my OCs who are running the tourney), can rope them in by hook or by crook.
THE BEGINNING:
Hugo Armstrong was not a happy man. The ratings were down once again. He pressed the intercom.
"Grant, get in here."
A minute later, a well-dressed man with a face so blank it may as well have been carved from marble entered.
"Grant, would you care to explain why the hell half our viewers are gone?! We've been the number one network for fighting for as long as I've been alive."
"Sir, that new network has unregulated combat, uncensored blood, and enough severed limbs to turn a hundred worms into centipedes. Classic boxing and wrestling can't stand up to that."
"What do you suggest, Grant?"
"There are a lot of freaks out there that they don't let fight. How about letting them fight?"
A smile spread across Armstrong's face.
"Hell, not even the bloodbath on that upstart channel will top that! Do whatever you can, Grant. Anyting you can do to get the nastiest fighters in the world. Don't worry about legality, just do it."
Grant nodded solemnly.
"And the arena?"
"Where it started. This will be gladiatorial combat! We're going to fight in the Colosseum of Rome! I'll get some guys to renovate it a bit so audiences can sit in and watch. It should take about six months. Until then, get all the freaks you can possibly find."
Grant nodded and walked out. He immediately grabbed his cellphone and doubled his life insurance. He knew that the kinds of people he would be talking to wouldn't be too kind.
Alright, let's see if this gets off the ground. Winner gets to pick the next setting and restrictions.