The Ratings War II: Set the World on Fire

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Unlike those dicks on cable who make you wait six months for the next season of their show, I find it easier to just give you the sequel right off the bat.
The basic structure is identical to that of the original tournament (, in that each competitor creates an original character and writes a short story describing their character defeating their opponent's. I've noticed that most RPs that actually feature the participants fighting each other tend to fail due to situations like "I shoot Bob". "No you don't; I dodge". The other factor is that the time commitment is quite small compared to that of your standard RP. No constantly refreshing the page to see whether your buddy has posted a response. Just one wall o' text a week or so.
NOTE: For the participants of the previous tournament: you can reuse your characters, but I'd recommend flexing your imagination and making someone new.

The major shift is that it's no longer confined to a single arena. Instead (once again stealing from a DeviantART tournament), this will be an open-world tournament. Each competitor will be sent to one of four separate areas (to be determined by me), each with different hazards. The winners of each arena will then face off in the central battle area in the finals.

The areas:
Borgor Swamp-Pretty much self-descriptive. Lots of bogs, insects, and hungry beasties. Be wary.

Jinkan City-An abandoned city, similar to that of a low-tech modern city. Decrepit skyscrapers loom above and collapsing buildings line the roadways.
Master-Jackie Rackham

King's Mausoleum-A large castle, its monarch long dead. Filled with traps (and maybe one or two mobile, pissed-off suits of armor).
Master-Jack Green

The Junk Heap-Not much more than the world's biggest landfill; you'll find junk and scrap from most dimensions. Chances are you'll find a few exotic weapons in there.
Master-James Reddy


Korin. A forgotten plane. Its ruler, Lorum the Tyrant, lords over ruins and scrap. Corpses are all that remain to bow to him.
But Lorum the Tyrant is planning something. Oh, yes, the Tyrant has something special in mind.
The greatest fighters of the many planes have been receiving strange notices, some even receiving an uninvited guest. The Tyrant wants to turn his little world from a forgotten memory to the greatest battleground the universe has ever seen.

What you need:

A description of your character. It doesn't need to be too long, but enough to where other competitors can write about him accurately.
An intro-Describe how your character got involved in this. He or she will receive a letter, offering something they desire in exchange for signing the bottom of said letter. As soon as they sign their name, they are transported to one of the four areas of Korin. Some particularly crafty individuals may receive a visit from Lorum himself. He normally appears in whatever form he feels will allow him to best persuade his target.

A match can be won by surrender, knockout, or fatality. If you desire a fatality, confirm with your opponent that it's alright.
Auditions will be open until next Sunday, or until I receive 31 characters (as before, I will enter myself; don't worry about bias. I lost first round last time).
I will try to keep my inner grammar Nazi in check. I'll permit some errors, but too many will result in an instant disqualification.
You can have a single fighter or a duo. Also acceptable are people like the Masterminds in City of Villains (i.e. they have some little army to do their fighting for them).
I will need three judges to decide the winner of each fight.
Fancharacters and Mary-Sues will be turned away at the door.
Try to avoid making your character too powerful. An underdog will usually have a more ingenious method of victory.
Matches will be judged on originality, keeping your opponent in-character, and basically how interesting it is to read.
ADDITION: If you wish, you may write a pre-fight fight story to practice with your character and show other competitors how he fights.

Good luck all.

The Sorrow
Khedive Rex
The Logician
Armitage Shanks
conqueror Kenny

My character (it doesn't have to be this long):

Name-Nathan Tosche
Nickname- The Amazing Chloom

Weight-142 lbs.
Build-In shape, but nothing special
Skin-Fair, but tanned
Defining features-Perpetual 5 o'clock shadow; shoulder-length blonde hair (dyed green for effect); has the kind of face that makes you want to punch him whenever you see him.
Clothing-Big, blue, stereotypical magician's hat; big, high-collared cloak full of internal and external pockets to hide his devices (combined with the hat, you can't see much of his face); khakis; boots (he thinks they make him look more wizardy). Basically, he looks like an extremely gay Black Mage.

Weapons/Gear-A wide variety of devices, from parlor tricks to high explosives, hidden throughout his cloak. Should these fail, he also has a Glock 10 holstered on his left hip.
Unusual abilities:
"Seeing is Believing"-Basically, if you think Nathan can do something, he can; if you think he can breathe fire, break out the marshmallows; if you think he can teleport, don't turn around (he's right behind you); if you think he can make the world's finest BLT, you'd better bring the bacon.
To achieve this effect, Nathan will break out his parlor tricks (a hidden gun strapped to the bottom of his wrist to trick you into thinking that he can shoot bullets from his fingers, a "ten-ton" hammer that in reality weighs about five pounds to convince you that he has super-strength, etc.). To put his ability into effect, he needs to specifically target one person. For thirty minutes after the targeting, the ability is in effect. The more gullible you are, the more screwed you are. He cannot target the same person again for an hour afterwards, though he can target someone else the instant thirty minutes are up. He cannot trick this system by having someone believe that the ability lasts longer than thirty minutes, nor will he gain anything from something vague like "I can't beat him". Even if you believe that he's immortal, he'll go right back to being killable after thirty minutes. His strength can't be reduced to anything lower than his normal strength by thoughts like "He's weak". He automatically knows his current capabilities while targeting.
As a stage magician, this lets him have the finest shows in town by targeting some idiot in the front row. If he thinks he's going to get in a fight, he'll bring said idiot along after the show. It's usually the same idiot: "Gullible" Kevin McGully. Unfortunately, Mr. McGully died recently when, while learning to be a magician himself, he practiced his craft by attempting to saw himself in half.
Fighting Style: Well, first off, he'll try to shoot you. If that doesn't work, he'll trick you into giving him some fancy powers, then he'll kick your ass. If he can get you to think "He's invincible" or "He can teleport", you're screwed.
And if that doesn't work, he'll try to shoot you again.

Backstory- Led a fairly normal life up until college, when he got kicked out for having a 0.5 GPA (the principal was not convinced by his argument that "partying is just as important as studying to prepare me for the real world"). He discovered his abilities after becoming a stage magician to pay the rent in his crappy apartment. He toyed with the idea of becoming some notorious supervillain, but gave up that ambition after realizing that it would require work. He currently lives in his Los Angeles apartment, doing a show five nights a week.

Loves-Studying the occult, the ladies, tricking said ladies into making him ultra masculine for half and hour, using his powers to mess with people (Voice of God, anyone?).
Hates-Skeptics, politicians, lawyers, lawyers who are also politicians.
Quirks-No alcohol tolerance; the man would get drunk off a piece of beer bread. Likes kids; the look on their faces when you destroy their innocence is priceless. Takes an insult to his garb as an insult to his character, and will often respond with violence. Enjoys joining protests; he doesn't have much of an opinion, usually, but he likes holding up signs. Takes great pride in being an unlikable jackass. His favorite magic trick is the Pencil Trick, wherein he smacks your face onto an upturned pencil, but you don't get hurt, because the pencil has disappeared (eight people have wet themselves when he's done it to them. The same eight also punched his lights out afterwards).


Nathan Tosche was not a happy man. His shows weren't doing well, the bar nearby was being torn down, and the rent was due.

More importantly, he hadn't gotten laid in weeks.

He didn't understand it; was he losing his touch? Or were the ladies just developing some serious alcohol tolerance?

He sifted through his mail. Bills, bills, expiring porn mag subscription...hang on a tick, what's this?

He ripped open the odd envelope and read the flowery script.

Dear Mr. Tosche,
My name is Lorum. I have heard great tales about your prowess...

"That's what the last one said," Nathan snickered.

I wish to offer you a position in my actor's troupe as our resident magician. You will be paid very well.

Nathan was about to crumple the letter up and throw it away when he read the end of the letter.

Our new, nubile eighteen year-old Swedish magician only recently took up magic after she gave up modeling, so she needs someone to show her the ropes. Please sign this sheet and send it back to us with your answer.

Sincerely, Lorum.

With a cry of "SCORE!", Nathan jotted his name down. Opening a drawer to pull out a fresh envelope, he noticed that, curiously, a rather large portal had opened up behind him. Disconcertingly, it also seemed to be drawing him towards it.

"Ah, crap, not ag-" he cried as he was sucked in.

The desert is unforgiving.

In its dry embrace the laws of survival take a back seat to the driving forces of will and determination. Here i mind can shape the land and crush those of a lesser constitution. Here what walks forth from the sands are not what enters.

He entered years ago. He is ready to walk forth.

Stick thin, no wider than the ribcage that supports him, limbs so lacking in girth they are little more than the bones inside the flesh so cooked by heat that it resembles leather. Not that you can see it. every facet of his form is wrapped in the protective cloth of his garb. For the desert is unforgiving, and to give an inch is to take your life. Like some ancient tomb-king of the ancient times he stalked out of the wastes, his already tall frame made to seem larger by his own inhuman fragility.

The ragged ends of his bandage-garb hang loose all over, many strips salvaged from a thousand other desert corpses make up the all-covering shroud, and the only part of his beleaguered form that is exposed are his eyes, deep brown and sharp, red rimmed from exposure to the elements. Long ago taught that tears were a waste of water and that to see was to know.

He is unforgiving.

The walking wretch, the broken man, the sand-puppet, all so many false names given by other travelers or those who sought him as prey.

The messenger, however, had used a name he had not heard since he had emerged screaming into the world and had been granted it. He stood for a minute eternity as the man spoke of his invitation. On behalf of his master, offering the chance at honor and glory. Honor? Glory? There was no such thing in the desert... he had no want for such devices.

But a more lucrative reward would be appreciated, to buy much water and steel, stone and wood to hold back the desert that at once he hated, loved and lived. He would fight for this lord, he decided, and his riches.

He looked down on the man, his tall stature not changing the man's doubting opinion of him. He wondered, the wraith knew, how such a man of bone and dust could offer any challenge. His height was impressive, to be sure, and he was obviously fast. But what made him such a renowned predator?

The same thing that made him the wraith-king of the desert. A will that was beyond strong, beyond unbreakable. Most men used their determination to make them strong within, unbending, unbreaking and immovable in the face of all opposition. In the realm of their mind they were without flaw or vice, beyond corruption. Within.

He used his without.

This man questioned his ability, understandably, he would put his fears to rest.


The messenger studied the man, so thin, and so tall, he knew that he should be dead as he was. But improbably alive does not mean surprisingly deadly. The frail did not need to have a redeeming quality. They could just be that, frail.

The... well... he had tried to resist calling him by that name, but it was irresistible... the... Sandman had agreed to demonstrate why his master would deem him worthy of joining his tournament. He was walking towards a towering dune, almost sheer in its towering form. Would he climb it?

The man walked towards the dune, and walked inside, as if it were air, a the sand boiled as he entered but it did not collapse or shift.

A rusty, wicked knife appeared in his peripheral vision, as the gaunt man appeared behind him out of the sand below. He spun around to see his target standing impassively, the serrated, curved blade in one hand and a handful of sand in the other.

The sandman spoke, in a voice of rhapsing winds and shifting sands. "Where the desert exists, my will has power. Illusion, deception, speed and sand have made me the warrior your master seeks"

"There is no desert where we are going" the messenger replied.

The sandman moved closer, and gestured to the desert before them, an expanse of death that birthed so much life. "Where i go, the desert follows" he said, jovially, as sand began to cascade from the bandages around his hand. "And while there is no substitute for the desert itself, i can carry enough to keep myself alive"

The desert is unforgiving.

Some called him a daemon.

Some called him a devil.

Some called him a arrogant dick.

He called himself 'Bartelby'.

Of course, Bartelby knew that a name could not overshadow his other qualities. He was a daemon. And a powerful one so the title 'devil' was not entirely uncalled for. As for arrogant dick, he had his moments. The only thing is, all those names made him sound evil. Bartelby didn't like that.

Evil was a state of mind. A personal choice. One could choose to be evil the same way one could choose to be a vegitarian. It was ... ooh. Temporary. Fallible. Mortal?

A human construction. Just another way to explain the universe and deal with your crippling insignificance within it.

"I like the universe. How it is." Bartelby intoned lying on an ornate ceramic bench staring at the star lit heavens.

"And how is the universe?" Lorum demanded, growing impatient.

"It isn't." Bartelby sat up energetically and faced the silhoutte who had invaded his sanctuary. The gaunt man had his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the hedge wall behind him. Bartelby wondered momentarily how he had found his way to the center of the hedgemaze in the velvet darkness this night had cast. "The universe was." he continued, smiling widely, "The universe will be. But the universe is not. The present tense is innappropriate for a being composed entirely of possibility. Chance. Pure glorious chaos; I call it, beauty."

"I expected little less. Fire demons go on about fire. Earth demons go on about earth. A chaos demon would obssess with random chance. You understand though, this wont be -"

"And why would I follow you to this tournament precisely?" Bartelby interrupted, pulling a golden ball the size of a large apple from the pocket of his white suit. "It sounds like you're asking me to condescend to beat up on mortals for no reason other than entertainment." Bartelby began to bounce the ball against the earthen ground. Little paradoxical metalic notes rang whenever it hit the ground and whenever Bartelby snatched it out of the air.

Lorum saw the little holes in reality the ball created when it hit the ground. Peppering the grass with ... what? Portals to other worlds? Maybe nothing at all? "Does a chaos demon need any other reason? As I was saying though, this competition has rules. You will be expected to abide by them. If this offends you, I suggest getting over it."

Bartelby bounced the golden sphere without shifting his gaze from the gaunt man. "It'd be fun to play. But then again it would also be fun to spite you. All things considered..." Bartelby closed his eyes for a moment though Lorum felt as if he was still watching him. And that damned ball kept bouncing. "... You find me uncomfortable. I like that. I can bother you at the same time I'm 'tutoring' humans. I'll play."

Lorum nodded "Good to see you've made the smart decision. Now, how may I ask does one remove themselves from this maze of yours?"

Bartelby began bouncing the ball more energetically, ricochetting it between walls and soaring above the pair. Bartelby still caught it occasionally to alter it's course, eyes still not leaving Lorum. "The quickest way from point A to point B, is to go from point A to point B. Ignore the rules. It's only a hedge."

Lorum considered this before nodding and pushing his way into the hedge wall. Bartelby smiled. This would be fun.

Kaleb Roth was a sorry sight.

They had completely shaved his head, because he had hidden a misplaced needle in his hair. They had bound him in a straitjacket, because he had used the needle to slowly wear through his bonds.

They had struck him about the head, cracking his skull, because he had opened the necks of two wardens, and proceeded to eat them.

Kaleb Roth found himself hairless, unable to move, and severely disorientated in the asylum he had been incarcerated in for many a year.

Kaleb has, since his birth in the South-West of England, been a mystery to the scientific world. He was born with a fully functional Vermiform Appendix, an enlarged, thickened Muscular Coat in the stomach, and a seemingly over-active Mucosa.

Kaleb's digestive system was 'different', what seemed to be both an evolution and devolution of the human body. His health was unaffected - if not improved, and for a few years, the Roth household made a lucrative business out of selling exclusive rights to run tests on little Kaleb.

This did not last, however, as his mental health was called into question.

During his childhood, it was 'merely' wildlife - rabbits, birds, foxes, even the occasional stray dog - what Kaleb caught, he would kill, and he would eat it raw.

His parents did not notice the specks of blood around his mouth upon the return from his walks, but they did notice his grades escalating, his physical and mental capabilities increasing. With each passing day, he seemed to become slightly stronger, slightly faster, with a disturbingly cunning, calculating mind.

By the age of 20, Kaleb Roth had moved further North, into the city, out of the country.

Kaleb refuses to discuss with his many psychological analysers how he first moved from animals to other human beings, but the disturbing murders of at least two dozen vagrants marks the beginning of his cannibalistic crimes.

Perhaps through guilt, perhaps through convenience, or perhaps through a misguided sense of justice, Kaleb Roth became a kind of vigilante. At night he would stalk, butcher and eat any criminals he found, and, on rare occasions, would do the same to their victims.

Kaleb's dental records show his guilt in at least 76 murders, and he is speculated of being responsible for another 19 missing persons in the same area. All of this occurred over the process of a few weeks, and, aged 22, Kaleb Roth was committed to an institution for the criminally insane.

One of the most infamous serial killers and vigilantes of his time, Kaleb finds himself caged, beaten and drugged, guilty of nothing but what his biological imperatives compel him to do.

He is perfectly lucid, he holds no delusions, nor does he act with violence outside his feeding. To Kaleb, he is merely a step above other animals, and he, like all animals, has to feed. Humans are just another, especially exquisite source of that food. Kaleb believed he had done the world a favour - he removed their criminals, he got to eat, yet the justice system seemed to disagree with that, as did the psychologists.

"What if you could get out of here, right now? What would you do?"

The only contact with other humans that Kaleb was allowed came from wardens or doctors, and this question came from the latter. A new doctor, one he had not seen before - one that, despite his profession, had seemed far more understanding and astute than those that had tried before him.

"I would wonder what the catch was."

The stranger smiled at this.

"No catch - you'd be a place admittedly unfamiliar to you, but free to do as you please, to whosoever you should meet."

Kaleb considered for a moment, turned as best he could in the jacket, and replied;

"I should think the answer is fairly obvious. I'd find someone, I'd kill them, and I'd eat them. Or perhaps eat bits of them, then kill them. Depends on my mood."

The 'doctor' seemed pleased at this, as he slid what appeared to be a contract and a pen in front of him.

"Excellent! Now then, I'll just let one of your arms out."

Keeping his distance, the stranger released one of Kaleb's arms from the straitjacket.

"Sign the contract, please"

"You mean the contract that contains little information other than my name, and a dotted line?"

"Sign the contract, please"

Kaleb, filled with curiosity, used the pen to sign his name, rather than attempt to stab the doctor with it.

"Very good. Very shortly you'll be out of here. I've been instructed to fully release you, and to give you this..."

The cannibal may have attempted to question the man, or perhaps eat him, but once again he was heavily distracted by a...growing...portal.

He was released from the jacket, revealing the sterile white shirt all patients wore underneath, and a panel hacksaw was placed in his hand.

"I believe this is yours, correct?"

Kaleb stared at the growing portal, his grip tightening on the saw.

"I would say that this is a fairly big fucking catch, how unfamiliar a place will I find myself in?"

The stranger replied, but he went unheard, as Kaleb Roth, infamous cannibal vigilante, found himself pulled through a portal.

All in all, a very peculiar turn of events.

Name: Fredrich Jehosephat Wilker image
Moniker: Wilker
Occupation: Recluse, former Sniper for Israeli Special Forces
Age: 46
Height: 6'1
Weight: 206 lbs
Appearance: Male, face bears traits of a native Hebrew, somewhat built, Dark chesnut eyes
Weapons: Ishapore Lee-Enfeild 2A1 (Indian Make, w/ modified tranquilizer rounds), Haskins m500 Anti-Materiel Rifle image, Lightweight Utility Knife, Factory .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda, Various Stealth & Marksman Implementations
Clothes: Appropriate Ghille Suit
(Out of Combat): Beige cargo pants, gray vest, black longsleeved shirt & brown slouch hat
Residence: Sweden
Strengths: Supreme Marksman & Traditional (old fashioned) stealth Operative, Highly keen, excellent swimmer, high endurance & stamina, Very little can be done to surprise him
Weaknesses: Has no "superpowers" or "powers" of any kind, just human talents, and compared to your average sword-wielding Ninja, not the best at Close-Quarters combat. (Given that you can find him. His main weapon is obscurity or hiding. Think Bobby-Lee Swagger plus Sam Fisher.)

Born in 1962 in Jerusalem under a different name, was quickly forced into the armed forces, Wilker quickly became an expert marksman far exceeding his peers in accuracy and ability. Quickly enrolled into the Special Forces, a prodigy compared to his peers. In an undisclosed mission, he disapeared and was never heard from again, although a man resembling him with a new name 'Wilker' was detected immigrating into Sweden and he began residing there. Little hence is know, his skills since his disappearance are assumed to be substantial beyond extreme complexes of long range sniper proficiency, stealth tactics, assassination, Reconnaissance, Counter-Sniper Tactics and Close Quarters combat in the event of close engagement

Intro: The gray sky bid curses on the inhabitants below. Nearby a cabin in the snow covered woods, a figure dynamically stood, swinging an axe. The bitter cold nipped at him, but he didn't mind. Another thwack of the axe separated burning wood from the log, flying off into one direction, landing at the feet of a particular individual. He stood there eying Wilker, hands in his pockets and evidently not used to the weather. Wilker brought the axe over his head and with another 'thunk' had staked the axe into the frosted chopping block.
"'Afton. Maj jag hjälp du?" The man stood, obviously not understanding, but his red nose and discomforted face betrayed quiet interest in Wilker's person.
"Skön rida ut , er det icke?" Again, he stood in curious silent repose.
"Vill du tala Engelsk? Er.. Engliche?"
"The infamous sniper Wilker, I presume?" Not having the fancy of others speaking his diminutively known name, but still retaining his poker face, Wilker replied
"What do you want?" stepping intimidatingly close. It was obvious to the man that Wilker automatically knew the strangers sources and intentions, but not what he wanted.
"I represent a... fight contractor, and would humbly request if you would do the service in entering-"
"That is need-to-know information I cannot disclose."
"I would appreciate knowing it, if that's what you mean. But evidently if it confidential in such context, I assume you do not need me." Wilker grabbing and withdrawing the axe from the wood in a swift thrust and starting towards the cabin, the man exclaimed
"It pays well!"
"Ha! ...I gave up killing people a long time ago."
Wilker continued to walk to the small building, ignoring the strange man.
"You want me to be a gladiator? *Snicker* Ha!"
"If it's your resentment of death talking, your methods can be non-lethal if you so wish."
Wilker stopped as he opened the door to his cabin.
"Non-lethal, you say?"
"Well, I can't say that all of your opponents would fare the same chivalry in honoring your fighting style, but you may if you so wish."
Wilker pondered for a moment, standing in the cold, holding his stubbled chin with his hand, snow starting to perchlorate on is black hair. Without a word, he continued into the cabin. For a few minutes, the man stood in estranged silence of the Nordic wood. An owl called out in the quickly diminishing evening. The world procured from the cabin a man with a back-pack of notable size, a black rifle slung over his shoulder along with an even larger gray camouflaged rifle, knife sheathed on his chest and a revolver holstered at his hip.
"Well, where 'we off to?"

((I hope this isn't too much, but given the powers of some people here, it should be good...))

A small hatch slides back in the steel laboratory door.

"Doctor Lanyon, there's a telegram for you."
"Thank you Nurse, I won't be a moment."

The lab was getting stuffy again. But it was no time for stopping - he was on the verge of a breakthrough. He unleashed a few more drops of a strange orange liquid from a pipette. The green mixture below fizzled and spat, before settling down to a turquoise hue.

"Excellent," he thought "Elixir number seven is ready! Time for testing..."

He poured a small amount of the serum into one of his custom syringes. Once loaded, the base clicked easily into the matched socket embedded in his left arm. The doctor gasped as the fluid surged into his veins.

"Let's see what... this... can do..." He croaked.

Twenty minutes later, the Nurse was sat at her desk outside the laboratory. Doctor Lanyon emerged, as always dressed in an immaculate white labcoat. The Nurse looked up from her screen. The doctor looked... different.

"How was the test Doctor?"
"It was a triumph! With this elixir, the set is complete. I just need a field test."
"This may please you then, sir."
She handed him the telegram. On seeing the seal of Lorum, the doctor cracked a wry smile.

Dearest Doctor Lanyon,
Congratulations on the successful test of your seventh elixir...

How did he...? He couldn't...

...but I have a proposition. That is to say, a demand. Your work has garnered more attention than you may have liked. In particular, the sources of your 'raw materials'. Quite frankly, your work has been underhand, dangerous and maniacal in the extreme. That is why I would like to offer you a position under my command. This is wholly dependant, of course, on a successful demonstration of each one of your elixirs. A second tournament will be starting shortly. I await your 'decision'...


"Nurse, we shall be going on a journey. Pack my bag..."

Name-Tanner O'Dare
Weight-170 lbs.
Build-As part of a strict regimen, enacted by his company, he is to have differing work-outs at the same time each week. This is to retain as balanced a coherence between being both lithe and muscular.
Skin-Wan, with a sallow sulkiness about it.

Defining features-Sunken, hollow from within and supple from out, as though he was being depressed in onto himself somehow and having the inner portions shoved out to keep his meat on his bones. The subtle features are otherwise attractively placed in a manner which he is loathe to notice. Without any defining physical flaws, he is by all appearance, a particularly average PMC with a horrible, wasting disease that sucks his life out... or some such.

Weapons/Gear- Whatever ranged weaponry he has at hand. Is otherwise unremarkable in the fields of combat, simply does what he can.

Personality/Backstory- Reviles his life, yet wishes to keep it. He lives in constant contradiction, wishing one thing, but through empathy having to do another. World-weary and constantly under stress, he can do more for others than he can himself. And why is this?

As a child, he had grown up in a modest life. His family had enough to get by and to afford simple luxuries. He had friends his age and lived in a simple home with the job of tidying up the house and waving father and mother goodbye when they left for work. The simplest, and only wish he had was that his parents might come home earlier. After his town had been turned into a base of operations for a nice group of IRA terrorists, his parents shot, home burned down, he with several villagers placed into captivity, he then had one more wish: To help humans realise the folly of their actions. This got him no where trying to explain it to them.

He had, during those days, learned everything he needed to about his life and it's future. It was going to be shitty. And just because his would be, that didn't mean it had to be for anyone else. The world does not revolve around him. But his revolves around everyone else. He has, since then, tried desperately to aid others in every way possible, he has reformed some, enlightened a few. And failed miserably on many occasions. He understands humanity's worthlessness, as the pointless speck of dust on the basement floor of a skyscraper called the universe. And so he wants to help them believe they are better than that, to realise that they can help one another to at least stop being idiots, so that they can help the others out there in the universe. One day.

Otherwise, he is a mirthless faucet of complete mawkishness. He will drown you with love and selflessness, and then he will drown you with his misery, regret and the stress of a thankless occupation. If only because he has lost himself, and now does his damnable best to find it in at least another person. He did join those terrorists I mentioned, reformed them, helped them find new causes, causes that pay next to nothing. Killing as the profession of a man devoted to other men? He understands the future must be a good thing, and death is as possible a future as any other.

Intro- "Of all the men in the world. Of the most noteable contracters, of the most skilled marksmen and practitioners in death dealing, I was chosen."

Tanner stared at the man, he had been asked to join a tourney, a gladiatorial tourney. One in which he was to kill others for the simple sake of killing.
Tanner looked back up at this messenger, who had at this point began smiling.

"Why?" That was all he could ask. The man was almost surprised.

"Why? Well why not? You deal in death, do you not?" He smirked again, in that coy he seemed to have.

"I am as much a dealer in death as a mosquito is a carrier of plague."

He seemed confused by this. And stopped smiling. As though unsure how to follow that, the man pretended Tanner had replied diffrently.

"You have little renown about you, but from what I have heard, people love you. You have done generous things for the reason that people "required it". Yet you hate humans, hate them for the terrible things they have done, and still do. Yet you love them for what they can be... you have what I believe to be the greatest form of will: The idea that you are the only good man in the world. And you prove it to everone everyday. How long have you been at it?"

"I was born without a heart, but at least I'm acting like I have one. I never had to "prove" anything to anyone, I figured they already thought I was a ruthless bastard. Funny, I didn't think on counting the years."

"Really? Well, I will tell you why you are entering the tournament, and it's for this reason: All actions, by those living and dead, are purely conincidental. This is a coincidence! Little more than several brains making brain farts between the folds of their cerebellums on the frontal cortexical lobe-y thing-y."

"You are asking me to do something that benefits me in no real way, and separates souls from bodies?"

"I'm asking you to do something you would both hate and enjoy, you know what they've done, can do... and what you think you can convince them to do! You may or may not be excellent in the arts of combat. But God-damnit, if you haven't got as much balls as the strongest contestant: I'll give you MY balls!"

Tanner lowered his head, stared at the forms he had been given. He had thought the messengers words uncomfortable, but he was happy he said them. He began to sign them, by this time he was only doing this to keep his hand on the rope around his neck, the rope pulling his clueless arse across these events. It is unfortunate life happens too fast to be truly thought over, even his current thoughts were flickering by, like matches in an enclosed space. It was done, whatever was to come, would come.

"Very good! On one condition: Don't be all mushy to the audience, and, God forbid it, DEFINITELY do not talk philosophy. No-one gives a flying fuck."

"Thank you. I'm being genuinely grateful to you, for no reason.
Remember: Be Loving and Open-hearted With My Emotions. Don't ponder it, because you'll yell at me, and that would be awful."

Tanner waved him goodbye, and immediately realised what he had done, and fell onto the floor. He layed there for awhile... wondering when the excrement would hit the air-conditioning.



Height: 6'6

Weight; 1078 lbs.

Description: Gabriel can be best described as an organic machine, although this is not even remotely accurate.

Gabriel has (what seems to be) a black exoskeletal structure; attached to this exoskeletal structure at various points is maroon armor, filligreed with gold and silver. Together, the armor and the exoskeleton are capable of repeling most attacks, as well as most small arms fire. Attached to his forearms are two medium energy cannons; they are capable of anything from stunning a person to blowing a hole through their body. They can be launched in small bombs or as a continuous beam. On Gabriel's back are a pair of giant silver "wings"; these are as long as he is tall, and form a long diamond if put side by side. These "wings" are covered in the front by dozens of "feathers": these metal feathers, along with the edges of the wings, are razor sharp, and the "feathers" can be shot out with great force (enough to tear apart a police van). The wings themselves seem to be made of a harder metal than Gabriel's exoskeleton; they have deflected armor piercing and exploding tip bullets. He can use them defensively or offensively, and can manuver them to protect his front, his sides, or his back.

Gabriel, being made of metal, is much stronger than most people (strong enough to, with much effort, lift and throw a sedan). He is also capable of flight through some unknown mechanism.

Gabriel's head is shaped like a quarter-cylinder (lying on it's side) with a ridge in the middle, and is the same maroon color as his armor. The ridge that seperates the two halves of his face (his nose, as some have called it) is silver, and sharp, allowing him to headbutt to great affect; he has smashed though walls like this.


Gabriel is unaware of the circumstances of his "birth". His first memories are of being attacked by street thugs in a dark alley; he surmises they thought he was in some sort of costume, and wanted to take it from him. As he was unaware of his own strengh, he killed all three of them. He was later attacked by a group of police officers, and killed several of them, destroying one of their vans in the process (yes, there was a particular significance to that example). He was recruited into the mob shortly thereafter, and learned to speak. He worked as an enforcer for the mob for two years before fleeing across the country (after learning he could fly).

While flying over Shore City, California, Gabriel noticed someone falling from a bridge; wanting to prove to himself he was good for more than killing, he went out of his way to save the person, a young boy named Brian. Since then he has been the guaridan of Shore City, protecting them from corrupt police, natural disastars, and even the mob he once belonged to.

He is currently five years old; he does factory work between looking for his origin and his general do-goodery.


Gabriel is a man of few words; he doesn't like speaking, because his half-electric half-human voice tends to frighten people. He is fully aware of his monstrous appearance, and accepts it; he takes what little solace he can in the idea that there are others like him.

Gabriel is also wracked with guilt over the deaths he caused in his youth; he refuses to kill if he can help it at all, but still does not know the upper limits of what he is capable of. He is also especially protective of children, and has gone out of his way to protect them.

Gabriel is a capable hand-to-hand combatant, making up for what he lacks in expirience with immense power (being made out of metal and all). He mostly utilizes kickboxing and grappling techniques (he was a heavy in the mob). Gabriel is of average intellegence in regards to people; however, he tends to be highly imaginitive.

He is generally regarded as a superhero in his city; he finds this extremely disdainful, as he cannot call himself a hero.


Gabriel was awakend by a thunderclap. He rose from his stone pedistal; he found he was disturbed the least when he predended to be a gargoyle. It was ironic, he sometimes thought; only by becoming a monster could he escape the need to help the people that needed him.

Gabriel sighed, and stood up. The cool rain felt good on his metal "skin"; he had always loved the rain. It was engulfing, consuming. It let him forget, if only for a little while, what he was, and how alone he felt.

"Beutaful day, isn't it?"

Gabriel turned around; as he did, a small silver plate on his arm detached, spun forward, and extended, forming a small cylinder. Pointing the weapon at the newcomer he asked, "Who are you?"

The Man smiled. "Overly cautious, aren't we? Don't worry; there's no need for that."

Gabriel remained rooted to the spot, pointing his cannon at the man.

The Man smiled. "I see you won't be moved. Very well. May I speak to you?"

Gabriel nodded. There was something about this man that disturbed him, and he couldn't place his finger on it. He was an unremarkable man, except for the greasyness of his voice, and he was just dressed in a business suit-

That's it.

He wasn't wet.

The rain wasn't touching him.

"I have a proposition for you, Gabriel."

"Who are you." Gabriel said again.

The Man smiled. " of mine are hosing a...tournament...of sorts, and would like you to be involved."

Gabriel didn't like this at all. He was very sure that the man in front of him was not actually there, and he didn't want to damage the church.

"I've heared about you from around, and think I have an offer you can't refuse."

"If you destroy Shore City I'll kill you."

The Man smiled at him again. "No, you wouldn't be able to. Really, must you point that at me? I find it intimidating."


The man sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Anyway, we aren't so boorish as to destroy a city with eight million people; no, I have an option that benifits you."

The Man was silent for a moment. Gabriel stood with his cannon pointing. There was no sound but the rain.

"We may be able to find the person that made you."


"No, no, associates have very deep pockets, and quite a few associates of their own. We already have a few leads. Of course, I could just leave now, and there would be no negative reprocussions, but...could you really pass this up?"

Gabriel thought for a moment. His maker might very well be a megalomaniac bent on world destruction. Or he could be a kindly soul, who just so happened to have an interesting theory.

Or this could all be a bluff, and Gabriel was walking into his death.

The Man was right, though; Gabriel had to know.

"What do I have to do?"

The Man smiled. "Come with me."

Just so you all know, I'll be judging this baby again. Y'all better treat me good and proper ya hear.

Do I need to make another Judge character? Just look at the old thread for my character sheet.

FD: We can use your old character. We'll assume he's the master of one of the areas.

Praxus VII was a busy world. Its twin moons had yielded previously untapped levels of Unobtainium and Yeahritium. Mining convoys became frequent, with Praxus rapidly becoming one of the most multi-ethnic worlds in the sector.

Dimitry Shanks worked on Praxus. Not as a miner, or a surveyor, or a mining administrator or an administrative surveyor, a surveying administrator and not even as mining sub contractor.

Dimitry worked behind a bar. That in itself didn't make him unusual. There were a lot of people on Praxus that weren't involved in the mining industry.

Dimitry also played bass in a band. That didn't make him unusual either.

The envelope arrived on his desk through a collection of other factors.

It was just there after his shift one day. A sealed data slate. He hadn't forseen this.

... and then he picked it up and everything-


The path ahead shimmered, like heat haze on the road during the solar rotation.

My my. This was unexpected. For a psychic to suddenly see the future change, it could be both unsettling and exciting. For no concrete change to emerge, there was only way to describe it.

Pure awesome.
He didn't bother opening the data slate, just grabbed a stylus and scribbled his autograph on the touch-pad. Great riches and fame await eh? Well then, 'Alea iacta est', I guess.

He counted down silently in his head, chuckling.
5, 4, 3, 2 and... portal! Never stops being fun that one.

Good thing I'm done with it.

I'm almost done with my char's first post; I'll say little about him except his name is Gabriel. And he is awesome.


Khedive Rex:

Yes, much more so. The only question remaining is the following. Is there a defined system to this 'magic' or is it a 'rabbits-hat' that can pull out all sorts of cool stuff. I prefer magic systems for development of a character (hell, i'm writing a character that fights through psychological mind-buggery) but when it comes to sheer epic writing you can't go past the Rabbit-hat.

So, are there inherent rules? Or does the chaos demon really run on random?

It just changes the style of any potential battle, and knowing now would be handy.

I'm not pre-writing ideas, no, never.

I refuse to high five, The Ultra Joe goes for a bakers dozen or bust.

It's finally done. All that waiting was worth it.

Gabriel's post is in my placehoder post. I worked on it for four hours; at least take a look at it for me.

Apologes for taking so long. Oh, and welcome to the competition, Zelmac.

I hope I understand your question. Bartelby knows what the ball is going to do (it's only his tool after all, not it's own demon) but the ball could potentially do anything. It will look the same no matter what its intent is and there really isn't a way for an observer to guess what the ball's going to do.

There aren't any rules to it besides the ones I've put down (The ball can't change form, turn things into swords/bullets/ect or be destroyed and it's only direct attack is eliminating peices of matter) and it can pretty much do ... anything.

I feel like I should define 'attack' though. The ball's only direct way of doing damage is eliminating matter, but it could have effects on people (nothing cheap, just tools for setting up a godmoding fight if I feel the need). Like, if Bartelby hit someone enough he could make them defy gravity, or he could make them uncharacteristically powerful (like hoping they'll break their weapon or something).

I hope that the ball isn't too powerful. I tried to make Bartelby himself something of a push over to compensate for his weapon. If you snuck up on him or got him without the ball he'd be easy enough to kill (or more likely easy enough to force a surrender out of).

So in summary, I'm pretty sure the chaos demon runs on random. And if I'm being overly ... 'godmod-y' here just let me know.


It also occurs to me I should probably say that Bartelby won't be taking these fights very seriously. In determined hands the ball could be amazing but Bartelby is far more interested in keeping things interesting than winning the fight.

He plays with his opponents, not so much against them.


The sky shimmered.

It began to shake, twist, and the clouds swirled around it, and finally, a shape began to appear.

A silhouette, a giant one to be precise, fell out of the sky and slammed into the ground, shattering.

Out of the wreckage, a figure appeared. He stumbled, regained his footing, and brushed himself off.

Lord Krunk took a look around, and then eyed his remote, lying on the ground. The Eccentric ventriloquist was no more, it seemed, and now he was stuck in this parallel universe.

He took a look at the wreckage for a few hours, and discovered that he still had a chance to get back home.

All I need is a Milo Tin and a few pieces of chewing gum, and I should be able to get home...

He decided to leave the wreckage and find the bits and bobs. But he didn't know what to expect in the big world beyond. Maybe they would give him cake! He liked cake.

He pocketed his remote and walked off.

Lord Krunk:
With all due respect, I would rather not have a self-insertion. This isn't an adventure on the Escapist; it's its own universe. I allowed The Ultra Joe because he was a unique character and not merely a personification of Ultrajoe.
Please come up with an original character.

I'm actually quite interested in this thing now... and it appears that all of the all star RPers are here... so I'm more interested than ever before

Is it too late to enter? Or are you always accepting new people?

I'm actually quite interested in this thing now... and it appears that all of the all star RPers are here... so I'm more interested than ever before

Is it too late to enter? Or are you always accepting new people?

Well, he said he wanted thirty-one people, and that the entries would go until sunday, so, yeah, make up a char and go with it.

Also, when you say "star" RP'ers, what do you mean?




On Superstition

He read the letter in the empty village, sitting cross-legged in front of the chieftain's house. It was arrogant, yes, but he did not fear reprisal from the proud people who lived here. The mountains hid them well but he knew they were there, hiding in caves and behind rocks, shaking in fear. They would not disturb him. Not today.

He read the letter, reclining against the tribe's sacred totem as it began to snow--just a few flakes drifting on the freezing wind. He neither noticed nor cared, save to brush off an errant flake when it landed on the page. Something whirred softly as the hand moved, brushing up against the edge of hearing. Grey eyes narrowed at the words on the page.

You have been invited...


He had many names. The people of the mountains called him anathema, demon or god, and fled at his approach. He laughed at them. Anything that they did not understand was magic, and he was the greatest unknown in their lives. They gifted him with many names, most of them unpronounceable by those outside of the tribe. He shed their names like water: he defied their primitive descriptions.

He called himself Clockman. The name amused him.

And now there came this letter, a message that addressed him with the name of a dead man. It addressed him by a name that angered him, and worse, worried him. No one should know that name. No one alive and no one dead.

He stood, stepping over the body of the chieftain's son and back into the small wood house. The fool had tried to fight the demon when everyone else in the village ran. There was occasionally one who would do that, one who was reckless or stupid or angry enough to think themselves a hero. Perhaps the lad had imagined the glories that would be his once he slew the demon who's casual passage had sent his world screaming in terror, perhaps he had imagined the riches, the fame, the young woman throwing themselves at his feet. Clockman didn't know what motivated these heroic fools. The lad had been opening his mouth to deliver a challenge when Clockman had killed him. His face didn't even have time to register the surprise.

Clockman stopped inside the small house and surveyed the room. The letter had been there, on the table, when he had entered after killing the hero. The envelope looked out of place in these primitive surroundings, and when he had picked it up it had still been warm with the temperature of some foreign clime. It unsettled him. Surrounding him in these mountains was a wall of superstition, foolish belief in a fell magic. And here, on this rough table, was something that might have been real magic.

A letter, addressed to him. A message that had known where he was, and worse known the name of the dead man.

Clockman opened his hands, and the letter fell to the table. He was angry suddenly, at whoever had dared disturb his life this way, at whoever had dared bring up so many questions.

Clockman did not like questions.

Half an hour later he was leaving the burning village, calmer now. He would find whoever had sent this letter, he would participate in this foolish tournament, and he would find his answers. The details of the letter were recorded and stored in his mind, the original burning in the fires behind him. A tournament would be fought and won. A fighting tournament. He wondered if he would, perhaps, die there. He remembered dying once, long ago. It had been an intensely unpleasant experience. He decided that he would not go through it again.

A portal opened in front of him, and he strolled through it.

And in the inferno behind him, the name he had borne before his death curled and crackled in the flames.

You can bet that I'm judging this thing again. Set me up. I'll even get my profile together for everyone to see.


Name: James Reddy
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 185 Kg
Age: 27
Occupation; Action Games Referee
Weapons: None.
Clothes: Black pants, a black and white stripped shirt and a black cap.
Appearance: Brown hair, blue eyes and fair skinned.

Okay now, character creation take 2


Name: Julian Arrowind
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Race: Human

Julian lived a fairly normal life, he was trained in the arts of swordsmanship by his parents, who were both master warriors when they were his age, he now travels the world in an attempt to surpass them in skill and fame, not an easy task. But one that Julian seeks to accomplish.

Julian fights with two large blades, a few inches shorter than an adverage longsword, and it's wide ends are much thicker, making it usefull for defenseive techniques as well as offenseive onces. He generally favors Speed over defence, and he also places a heavy weight into his power, allowing him to strike hard and fast.


Julian read the letter, grinning widely with excitement
"Master fighters wanted... oh yeah... I'm moving up in the world"

Julian readad it one more time, the pride of finally being noticed by someone as his own fighter, rather than just the son of his parents, it made him feel really good. He looked at the bottom of the note, where it asked him about something that he would want in return. To Julian, this was an easy question to answer.

"To grow more powerfull... and become a famous warrior that the entire world looks up to"

Julian nodded, but a feeling of dismay entered his mind as he realized that he had no way to get this letter back to the mystery people that sent it to him. The dark and depressing feeling would have lasted for a long time if he were not suddenly pulled into the letter. Julian let out a paniced yelp as he is sucked into it... He was momentarally blinded by a flash of white light. However it quickly passes, he looked around to figure out exactly where he was. need to redo that.
I'm trying to keep my Grammar Nazi in check, but c'mon, that's like putting a baby on a hook and dangling it over a shark pool and expecting to get it back in one piece.
The intro needs to be longer, and the grammar and spelling needs work.
Might want to rethink the character, too. The half-dragon idea has not only been done to death, it's been beaten, sodomized, killed, revived, and killed again.

The Sorrow:
Lord Krunk:
With all due respect, I would rather not have a self-insertion. This isn't an adventure on the Escapist; it's its own universe. I allowed The Ultra Joe because he was a unique character and not merely a personification of Ultrajoe.
Please come up with an original character.

Aww? I thought I had.

I'll try and work something out, but I'll be a bit depressed to not be able to use Surrealonomy.

You can just make a non-you character that uses that power.

Sargent: Run it through a spellcheck. Please.

Done, I would draw your attention to my new character in the above post

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