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You stand at the bow of your ship, gazing out across the oceans, your Fluorite Octet clattering quiestly in your hands. The wind is at your back, pushing your ship silently forwards through the ocean and making your coat billow about you in a suitably dramatic fashion. Tonight is a good night for the hunt, to search out your prey on your ocean. The Empress has declared Crimsonsickle a rogue agent, a threat to the crown and to the nobility. Ordinarily you wouldn't care. What has she ever done for you? Nothing, that's what. But it's different this time. The Empress has placed a sizable bounty on Crimsonsickle's head. Collect on it, and you're set for life. And you have every intention of collecting on it. He murdered your best men, slandered your name, and trespassed on your seas. Not even Dualscar, the most feared of all the royal court, dares oppose you here. And yet, Crimsonsickle does. He's been a pain in your side for sweeps, harrassing you on land and blocking what ports he can. That seems to be more of them recently, as you have been unable to dock on the mainland for several months. You're running low on food and Sopor Slime. You downplay the lack of Slime when your crew brings up the dwindling supplies, instead focusing on the food. But, truth be told, it really is the Slime you're worried about. The bard you picked up at your last port is hooked on the stuff, consuming it instead of food. You've heard tales of what happens to those who go into Slime withdrawal from some of your allies, with Dayskin's being the most horrifying. When she talks about being sick at the sight of a Slime addict's victim, you know it's bad. Dayskin's got a cast iron stomach and nerves of steel. If something puts her off her lunch, it's got to be disgusting. You're doing fine, for now, though. You can begin draining recuperacoons soon if you need to in order to fuel the bard's addiction. Your men might start running ragged if you do, but better tired than dead, right? A cry wafts down from the crow's nest. Your lookout has spotted the gray sails of Crimsonsickle's pilfered ship. If there was one thing you disliked about Crimsonsickle, it was his refusual to go along with the Hemospectrum, wearing that gray of his to hid his blood colour. But that's just become his undoing. No ship on these seas has gray sails besides his. If he truly wanted to hide, he should have used teal or indigo or green or heck, even maroon would have worked. But no, the little freak took pride in his unknown blood colour, using it has a badge of pride. Well, your ship is faster and bigger and stronger than his in every way. You could take him down with no trouble at all. Still, even you have to acknowledge how dangerous Crimsonsickle is. As your ship slowly turns to the starboard, another ship bursts up through the waves off your port bow, amethyst sails draining watter off. Your ship straightens out so the two are running parallel, and you walk over to the port side to greet your companion. He rises out of the hold of his shipe, the Prince of Rage, and waves. You wave back, tossing him a grin as well. His crew of seadwellers is already scrambling about the ship, rigging it to keep up with yours, the Thief of Time. Never let it be said that Dualscar is inefficient. His ship runs like a well oiled machine. Yours has a few more little glitches in it, but it runs just as well. You lean over the railing on the side of the Thief and yell, "Ey Dualscar! Ready for some fuuuuuuuun?"
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But Given Our Current Situation And The Destruction Of Derse I Wish You Good Luck Instead wwhat
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A man in an Armani suit He is happier than I. A man driving his Porsche He is richer than I. A man with his family. He is luckier than I. A man paying taxes Scraping the bottom of the barrel Just to keep the heat on He is more fortunate than I. A man clothed in rags Begging at people's feet Barely staying alive He is better than I.
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-OPEN SPEAKLOG- Rise and shine Mr. Freeman. Rise and shine. Not that I wish to imply you have been sleeping on the job. No-one is more deserving of a rest. And all the effort in the world would have gone to waste until... Well, let's just say your hour has come again. The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world. So, wake up, Mr. Freeman. Wake up and smell the ashes. -END SPEAKLOG- Your name is GORDON FREEMAN. Today is an insignificant day, as far as you know. You had previously been escaping BLACK MESA until you were trapped in suspended animation for TWENTY ODD YEARS, so one could say today is your REBIRTHDAY. You have a VARIETY OF INTERESTS, none of which matter much right now. You have a degree in THEORETICAL PHYSICS, and wrote a thesis on SHOOTING ROCKS WITH LASERS TO CAUSE TELEPORTATION. You enjoy TALKING LIKE A PIRATE, GRAPPLING HOOKS, and MOCKING YOUR PREVIOUS PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT on the INTERNET. You also like playing VIDEO GAMES. Your CitizenHandle is gamerGordon and you never say anything on CitizenSpeak. At all.
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I cannot compress enough hatred into one word to write Karkat well.
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You pull up your helmet-mounted Companion Interlink program to check who is pestering you. Looks like Preston and Natalie want to talk to you now. You pull up Preston's channel. -chilledCommander began pestering temporalTunemaster- CC: Stringer. TT: Suup, Preston? CC: Has Evo contacted you yet? TT: Nah, Evo's been offline since I got back from the last mission. TT: Been wondering what the little dude's up to. TT: Any insights? CC: Yeah, as a matter of fact. CC: Evo and Nex found an interesting data packet on their last mission. CC: They've been translating it, and it looks to be a game of some kind. TT: Duude. CC: Evo should be sending you a copy soon. CC: We'll be splitting up for this TT: Preston, man, you know I don't question you that often. TT: But, you sure that splitting the team's a good idea, dude? CC: Stringer, I'm splitting us up. CC: That way at least one team will win. TT: Whatever you say, Preston. CC: Stringer, you'll be working with Furno, Nex, and Breez. CC: I'll be running the game with Evo, Surge, and Bulk. CC: I want it clear: We're not competing. CC: If this game works like Nex fears, it might ruin everyone's day, so keep in constant contact with everyone. CC: Keep us abreast of any problems and other insights. TT: Got it, bossman. CC: Good luck, Stringer. CC: We'll speak again. TT: No problem, Preston. -chilledCommander ceased pestering temporalTunemaster- You are so glad you disabled coloured text on this. Preston's continuous posting in white got annoying to read after a long time.
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A young hero stands in his pod. It just so happens that today, the thirtieth of January, is his thirteenth construction anniversary. Although he was built thirteen years ago, it is only today that he will receive identification. What will this hero's alias be? ENTER NAME: _ IRRITATING MUSICIAN Warning: Name not found. Try again. ENTER NAME: _ JIMI STRINGER Identity confirmed. Thank you for logging in. Your name is JIMI STRINGER. As stated above it is the ANNIVERSARY OF YOUR CONSTRUCTION. You posess a variety of INTERESTS, not the least of which is PLAYING SWEET TUNES. You also enjoy COMPLETELY AWFUL FILMS. You like COLLECTING GREATEST HITS ALBUMS, although you don't have very many. You enjoy PHOTOGRAPHY, and even have your own PICTURE DEVELOPEMENT STATION, You also take pleasure in playing GAMES from time to time. What will you do? And so it begins: FactoryStuck, AKA Xae being DERP. Please note, submission of any serious instructions will be ignored.
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For someone with a very simple talking/typing quirk, Karkat's surprisingly hard to write. ====/
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Publish teaser Y/N?
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Gog, the RPG hasn't even been open a full day, and I've already almost caused one bar fight, and I think I might just wind up causing another here soon. I love this game. ====P
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Name: Colonel Nynn (pronounced Nine) Gender: Male Species: Toa Alignment: Lawful Neutral Age: ~450, although all except the last twenty or so years are beyond recollection Appearance: Picture 1 Picture 2 Nynn stands at roughly average height, but the antenna-like protrusion on his mask pushes him barely over the edge. Mask: Mask of Sensory Aptitude Weaponry: Two ornate iron swords and a short drill-spear. Right hand has three small claws. Spurs on heels Powers: Earth (element), proficient in unarmed combat Personality: Nynn is a calm, patient toa, if somewhat vain. He has to be, given his business partner. He is fiercely loyal to Disotel and to his morals. He refuses to take work that involves children or innocents. In fact, he prefers to take jobs protecting trade caravans, guarding forges, and the like. He is not above a little assassination work, however, if the price is right. Biography: Nynn washed up on the shores of Mata Nui one day, knowing only his military rank and his name. He was barely clinging to life when Disotel found him and helped him back to some semblance of health. The two began a small mercenary business together, using the pay to purchase supplies needed to keep Nynn standing and food for both of them. Weakness: Nynn has incredibly weak legs, requiring complex gearing and custom-forged armour to allow them to support his weight. He is incapable of moving at more than a brisk jog because of this and can't turn quickly at all. In addition, these gears are partially exposed, permitting tampering if he doesn't remain vigilant. These gears make a loud clattering when moving, demolishing any semblance of stealth while moving. He will also break off from any engagement if Disotel is wounded beyond a few cuts and scrapes, at his own peril. Name: Disotel (Diss-oh-tell) Gender: Female Species: Skakdi Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Age: 427 Appearance: Disotel is a Mata Blue skakdi with iron gray armour, slightly narrower in the shoulders than other skakdi and a full head shorter. Her spine is a dark brown with three rows of spikes along it, splayed every which way and looking eternally like the skakdi equivalent of bed-head. She is missing her left eye, which is now a blackened, charred pit she covers with an eyepatch. She wears a black cloth tricorne and bamboo shutter shades to protect her lone remaining eye from the sun. Her face is seemingly locked in a perpetual grin of insanity. Mask: N/A Weaponry: Traditional single-shot Zamor launcher used to fire Madu Cabolo, a Scottish-styled Targe, and a frying pan Powers: Impact vision, limited by lack of an eye Personality: Disotel has more than a few screws loose. She's somewhat unstable, prone to bouts of sudden violence against plants/animals/whatever's around and off her rocker. She's less scrupulous than Nynn, her business partner, but she defers to him when taking jobs out of a sense of loyalty and her own awareness of her instability. She's also an excellent cook. Biography: Everything between a sudden departure from her homeland of Zakaz and Disotel's arrival on Mata Nui 27 years ago, a roughly two century long gap, is a blur. She knows she's not from Mata Nui, but doesn't say anything, since the last time she did, her Madu Cabolo blew up in her face, ruining her eye and forcing her to remove it herself. She was the one who found Nynn on the beach he washed up on, nursing him back to health through her cooking. They formed a mercenary business together and use the money from jobs to keep them both alive. Weakness: Disotel is very sensitive to light, to the point where anything over a weak campfire hurts her eyes tremendously. Roughly a third of her field of view is missing, along with her depth perception, thanks to a missing eye. Her impact vision is nowhere near as strong as a healthy Skakdi's, and her shutter shades only make it worse. Disotel also lacks any elemental abilities. Using Madu Cabolo as ammunition, Disotel needs to be very careful while fighting enemies who can send her flying, should they cause the Cabolo to impact anything. Name: Szairs (Zz-air-ss) Gender: Male Species: Toa Alignment: Good Age: 210, give or take a few years. Appearance: Picture 1 Picture 2 Szairs is a head and a half taller than average, placing him at roughly nine feet tall. Mask: Volitak, the mask of stealth Weaponry: Claw-arm, arm-mounted sword, steel blade positioned over left knuckles Equipment: A pair of folding glider wings on his back, a crude vision corrector over his right eye, clockwork prosthetic limbs Powers: Very weak Iron, to the point where he can't control any metal more than a few meters away, Personality: Szairs is a very curious toa, knowing nothing about himself at all besides his name. He has an insatiable thirst for knowledge, both of Mata Nui and himself. He also has a strong sense of justice, going out of his way to stop whatever crimes he sees, to a certain extent. He is rather cheerful for someone widly considered a misshapen monstrosity. Biography: Szairs has lived on Mata Nui all his life, that much he knows. His memory is riddled with holes, the most disconcerting being a span of several months, which begins after a day mining in Onu-wahi and which ends with him a toa, waking up in a basin filled with ice in Ko-Wahi in his current shape. He is a guardian of some small lightstone mines in the outskirts of Onu-Koro, venturing outside to act as an intermediary between the mines and other koros, usually for tools and supplies. Weakness: Szairs is very visible when not stealthed, due to his misshapen body and the multiple orange-red Lightstones lashed to him. He is very clumsy, due in part to the awkward prosthetics that make up his left arm and leg. He is near sighted in his right eye and requires a bulky apparatus to correct for that, offering foes a point to grab onto in combat or a liability should it be broken. Despite his large appearance, he is very susceptible to multiple blows with crushing weapons such as clubs, hammers, fists, etc. due to the gearing in his left side. His glider wings offer enemies a flammable target and sometimes open without warning, leaving him open to wind based attacks as well. He cannot swim.
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>Have MoC to use for BZPRPG character >Eyepiece crucial to existing character aesthetic >Eyepieces definitely not allowed >Give character vision problem >Make eyepiece vision corrector >Aesthetic preserved >Get called original SUCCESS!
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So my initial plan for a BZPRPG character didn't (Demo)pan out, So I need t(w)o refine(d) him a bit, flesh him (St)out a bit and whatnot. Shak(o)e him down, get rid of the useless bits. Nynn will hopefully be acceptable, though.
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He forced himself out of his bed, a daily routine it seemed. He couldn't ever sleep. Dreams of lives gone past tortured his nights, rendering his sleep into something of a second waking. His daylit world of endless combat and bloodshed, the world of the Offblast Lumberyards, seemed as real as his evening city of Rapture, or his midnight chambers of the Enrichment Centre, or the dawn's bombed out ruins of Amsterdam. Every world is real to him, every moment precious. He swings his feet out and onto the floor, searching for -His Boots,- -His ADAM,- -His Socks,- -His Gun,- but finding nothing. He stands up, walking over to his closet, pulling out the deep blue clothing he wore daily, regardless of how hot or cold the weather was. It wasn't the same clothes, per se, every day, but rather one of a few identical sets. In any case, it protected him from bullets as well as any kevlar, which was odd for clothes made out of -Asbestos and Rubber,- -Silk and Suede,- -Cotton and Wool,- -Denim and GoreTek,- but hey, it worked. Nynn couldn't bring himself to complain about that. He smiled lightly to himself, remembering bullets as one of the few constants in his many lives. Bullets and death.
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Vegas is another Earthborn Audiosurf pilot, like Elliot Richards, but that is where their similarities end. Where Elliot is cautious, Vegas is unpredictable. Where Elliot is well-groomed, Vegas barely bothers getting the uniform right. Despite these differences, however, the two are nearly inseperable when they're together. Vegas is an Absolute Orphan, having no immidiately identifiable family members within three generations. Vegas was found years ago, at the age of twelve, when Elite pilot Pamela E. Manley's vehicle lost its Track and crashed in the barren ruins of Nevada. Pamela found Vegas in the ruins of a casino nearby and brought her back to the compnay's barracks. Vegas's real name is Victoria G. Ansted. Vegas can scramble the location of all Beats in her fuel grid and can generate Beat Modifiers with her experimental fold-space engine.
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Pilot Elliot is a "Pro" listed pilot for AudioSurf. Elliot and his brother, Ezekiel, were raised on Earth, in the massive city-state of Washington, DC. Bicycle meesengers before they discovered their affinity for the shuttles that ride the Tracks, the Richards brothers were overjoyed to have a future off-planet. Elliot can remove Beats from his fuel grid, storing them in a redundant fuel grid until such a time as he needs it again. Like many of the younger members of AudioSurf families, Elliot can find shoulders on every Track where his brother and many other Pilots cannot. Elliot is the senior pilot of the Pro pilots, and is used as an AudioSurf poster boy for recruitment ads. The well-groomed Elliot is rarely seen off-duty without his comrade Vegas nearby.
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Surf pilot Michael O. Nicholson was essentially raised on The Tracks. His parents were both Pilots, as were their parents, and their parents' parents, all the way back to the discovery of The Tracks. As such, Michael has an uncanny ability to not only find Beats and use them all, but find shoulders no matter the Track he's riding. Unlike his brothers, Parker and Norman, Michael's shuttle has no modifications at all. Michael is the youngest of the three Nicholsons currently piloting the Tracks under the employ of AudioSurf. He is listed as "casual" on the rosters, but be warned. Unlike fellow "Casual" pilots Damian Vladiv and Poirot Manley, Michael's shuttle is not defended against "Off-Tempo" Beats, and can quickly clog his fuel grid when he's not careful.
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An expert is psychological warfare and demoralization of his enemies, Romeo Thornewood was Hero Factory's go-to hero for recon and sabotage. His helipack enabled him to fly high above villains and his unique comm headset allowed him to report back to HQ with tactical information on the whereabouts of criminals and heroes alike. He was well known for his chemical thrower, a weapon that reduced many substances to gasses and permitted him to use them as ammunition. Romeo disappeared on a mission to take down Baron von Baron twenty years ago. Romeo has reportedly returned to active duty as the Class 3 villain, Rotor. He is a psychologically fragmented villain, his mind having shattered under Von Nebula's influence. His notable personages include Romeo, an apologetic attacker, Rotor, a sycophantic flunky, and Red, a conniving criminal mastermind. Official Hero Factory psychologists have surmised that his mind may actually be constantly shifting, forming new personalities and killing off older ones. Whatever his mental state, Rotor is a deadly warrior. He is armed with an upgraded chemical thrower, the Hurricane Cannon, as well as twin, independantly swiveling machine guns, a rotating double barrelled shotgun on the Hurricane Cannon, and an M56 Planetoid Meteor Blaster. He has nearly doubled in size since his time as a hero. If sighted, it is recommended you hide and finish your will. You won't last long.
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Pierre, you killed my wife. *a white hand picks up a Luger from on top of a dresser. The clip slides out from the bottom, wiping the screen to black* You paralyzed my son. *a hand pumps an ornate shotgun's pump. The cartiridge spirals out the side, falling across the screen* You kidnapped my daughter. *a solid gold wrench moves up and down, lightly tapping the palm of a hand. The third time this happens, the screen wipes with the fall of the wrench* You're going to wish you hadn't. *a mechanical hand siezes a guitar by the bridge* *a pair of goggles is seen next to a blood spattered kinfe as the word 'REVENGINEER' fades into view*
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Starring: RED ENGINEER as Ernest Conahager, an Engineer for Red Team's Upward oil wells RED SCOUT as Patrick Conahager, Ernest's son and assistant RED SCOUT'S MOTHER as Mrs. Conahager, Ernest's wife RED PYRO as Samantha "Sam" Conahager, Ernest's daughter and assistant RED SNIPER as Liam O'Neil, a friend of the Conahagers and a guard for the Upward oil wells BLU SPY as Pierre Schavez, a Blu Team general assigned with destroying the Upward oil wells BLU SOLDIER as Jane Doe, Pierre's second in command and the HORSELESS HEADLESS HORSEMANN (not pictured) as Silan, the devil
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An exclusive, sneak peek of the upcoming GMod comic from Xaeraz, Revengineer.
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Fromerly a member of the Hero Factory crew several decades ago, Matthew Dixon was considered the original Firebug hero. He was well known as a ruthless warrior back in the first Hero Tower, back when the hero cores were elaborate gearing mechanisms that were required to enable the heroes to lift their weaponry. His signature weapon was a super-heated Meteor Blaster, a behemoth of a gun requiring a pair of arm-mounted coolant tanks to prevent it from overheating. Dixon was listed as Killed In Action thirty years ago while on a mission to stop Von Nebula, around the advent of the new subspace cores, capable of storing massive amounts of power. Back from the dead, Matthew Dixon is now known as Meltdown, a hulking, sadistic, monster of a villain. His every action is filled with malice now, raging against both the Hero Factory that turned its back on him and the despicable Von Nebula that made him what he is with every shot. He now weilds a lava wave gun, a heavy clockwork Meteor Blaster, and a toxic waste cannon, waste supplied by the very coolant tanks that made him stand out against everyone else all those years ago. His learing, Cyclopean scowl is a sight that strikes fear into any and all, and he is listed as a Class 2 villain. If seen, do not engage.
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I stumbled out of the walk-in freezer, flexing my hand experimentally. The crude lumps of iron that passed passed for my fingers bent and twisted to my will, clenching and opening. I reached over to the right half of my body, feeling the ragged edge where my torso had been torn open, hanging off me, useless. I pulled it back up, aligning it roughly where it normally was. I limped out of the kitchen I had been in, the gears in my left leg not yet realigned and therefore leaving the ruined mess of my leg to do all the work itself. It really was a miracle I managed to rewind this time. Having been brought back from the brink of death years ago, I was signifcantly more gears than anything else. It really wasn't fun, never being able to rest in piece, what with the constant rewindings. Maybe I'll speak with Mahliss about dying today, I thought grimly as a chain in my body unraveled and dropped to the floor. I was falling apart, and it was likely affecting my thinking. Hadn't I volunteered to be rebuilt? No, actually. They had resurrected me specifically against my wishes. The burns on my arm were testement to that. There was a dull thunk as I lost my grip on my torn body, the arm attatched to that chunk smacking the floor as I hobbled my way to the window. I placed my hand on the sill, looking out the window. The ship was floating off a few milles to the West. I couldn't make it, not in my state. To Karz with it. I'll get as far as I can. I pulled myself out the sill so I just needed to lean forward to fall out. My glider wings began opening, the gears groaning loudly in the process. I was either going to die, or spend several hours on the operating table. I leaned forward and my wings snapped open. I glided as far as I could, gears tumbling out of my wounds, as far as I could before blacking out. I awoke to a massive black pupil staring down at me, surrounded by a red iris. The red iris, which I now saw was filled with black bars, dimmed and brightened, Mahliss's way of blinking. "And how are ve feeling?" Mahliss asked, his deep rumble of a voice carrying a slight air of worry. "Ve had to go out and find you, you know. You vere little if not dead. It is only thanks to Sarge you survived." "Heh. Tell him I owe him a drink, if he comes to visit, eh?" I grinned slightly, before asking, "Why can't I feel my right hand?" "What right hand?" Mahliss asked, confused. "I had to completely rebuild half of your body. You vere like a one-person airship vreck. And, I'm sorry to tell you this, but ve could not give you a new hand. Ve hope you like claws." "Mata Nui, Mahliss. Do I at least have your permission to sit up?" "Ja. Just... Be more careful next time. I do not vant to lose my favorite test bed." "Yeah, yeah, yeah. See you around, Mahliss." I walked out of the medical bay as Mahliss began humming a funeral dirge for some reason. I shook my head, smiling, and walked up on deck to watch the night sky. Hey. My conceptualized epic is finally coming together. =D
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Toying with mortals does not. You are all merely gears in a vast cosmic watch. "Yes, but if ve're just insignifcant metal to you, vy are ve here?" I never said you were insignificant, any of you. "You implied it though." I may have implied it, yes. We are not used to interacting with you mortals this directly, I must admit. "Ye never answered the big lug's question." "Big Lug, am I? Say that again, boy. Ve all know you von't." I brought all of you here because I have a trial for you all. Together. "You mean ta say I've gotta work with big, ugly, and cyclopean over here? And the midget cyborg?" "Shut up, you Skakdi s-" Enough. Yes. You three will have to work together, along with others, for this trial. "If ye're so bloody powerful, then why do we have to do yer bloody dirty work?" As I said before, omniscience gets dull. Toying with mortals, does not.
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When you decide you're a sky pirate's cook, and the second in comand on the ship is like a cyclopean Dr. Stienman from Bioshock, except working on himself instead of others. aka, NEW STORY SOONISH
