Erdawn, Joker, Phenom, Scripture, and Wyborn: Gaiden calls.

[Dhampir]

[It appears Erdawn and I are breaking off to fight in a separate topic]

[Scripture]

Totally forgot about this board. I'll take you up on this. You're actually gonna follow it through?

[Dhampir]

Mothfukka I already started, just need to type it up. Real talk. But it would help to know who's fighting, exactly....

[Joker]

^ Calm the F*** down and sit tight....Post your post and put me in it. I got one more post ahead of you that is llllonnnnggg over due and then I'll break my rust off on what ever you put out....


Wait... wait!! wait!! wait!!!wait!!! Gaiden ??


Lets see you prove your claim, set it up and I'll knock'em down...if you are who you say you are then it will be a pleasure to practice what ever talent I have left on such a legend. I won’t soon forget my very first Co-Mod or his skills......

[Dhampir]

OoC: Man I almost forgot the VGFBF

----

The Mask
Jonas Drapeau awoke in the early morning to the dawn's disoriented gray, just spilling from the East through this nation's exhausted heaven. He opened his sleeping bag and smoked his pipe in repose. He had spent the night on the porch of an abandoned house, behind the high cement barrier facing the streets. Flown above his camp was a huge tag sprayed on the aluminum siding: Gillahouse, many-colored in letters cut like daggers, long and straight with pointed corners.

Soon the streets would be alive again. Jonas dressed quickly: gauntlets, greaves, cuirass of scalloped leather; fox-fur robe, dark blue and knee-length, mantled with steel of ornate modernist design; and the tattered peaked hat of a black mage, broad-brimmed to cast a shadow over his yellow eyes. Soon the streets would be alive again; Jonas was leaving for the park. He slipped his thorny wand into its sleeve in his left gauntlet, and slung his pack over the right shoulder and his rifle over the left. The robe came across his chest, pressing the razor outline of the mask under his tunic painfully into the scarred flesh of his chest.

Jonas had a dream last night, of a stranger's approach. If you got beef then run on up, he thought with an ironic tone.

graffito
unwilling to disarm but for his rifle,
a wicked blade sheathed in his hand
Mask under the drape, tied round his neck with fine chain. Dusky blue and carved a blind face
hands of fingers many-ringed
writ a few scrolls

Entity of utter insanity and sorrow
Is also a being that absorbs all energy.
who was supposedly able to freeze things to absolute zero?
It will infect that magician with depression until he's driven insane and has to be put down.

the Masked can see ghosts
they tend to want to reintegrate, or they're lapping at water in the air

The shepherd of the departed
He bites their ****ing heads off and spits them into the afterlife.
screaming wraiths slipping out of a torn skull
Stripped away all the outer layers of the thing, only not in so many words
only the development and reasoning of a child.

----

OoC: Had to include that poem just to keep my own sense of the character, hope this passes for a introduction. It's all you Joker.

[To you other four: well, Wyborn is afk these days, Erdawn is committed but won't prioritize, Phenom is nowhere that I can see, and Scripture, you'll have to write an introduction, as I had a bunch of notes on the Gaiden I'd developed for you but lost them in the airport. Peace]

[Repster]

Phenom both read this topic and he is in the NLBFT, so he's around somewhat.

[Joker]

OOC: I wanted to use this character ever since I saw this movie.....

Click to view video.

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It was nearly midnight when the smoke finally settled. His guns lay spent, arms folded over each other as he scaned the room for any surviving enemies. Inside the high roller suite of Boston’s Hilton Hotel laid a complete massacre of human life. The upscale suite once room to the president himself now lay riddled with bullet holes along its fancy colored walls while pools of blood had begun soaking deep into its plush carpet floor. There were no survivors. The entire leading members of the Tatalia Crime Family had been obliterated into a bloody mess by one man. In the span of a single minute he managed to drop unexpectedly from the central air conditioning vent and open the full wrath of a fallen saint. He was a boondock, a hero among the vigilante world of crime fighters. Blessed by the Holy Father and imbued with his spirit, he acts as the vengeful hand of God.

He walks respectfully to each body laying pennies over their eyes and whispering a prayer for their damned souls. As he makes his way down the back freight elevator the Angel of Death whispers into his ears.

His head bows and he motions his hands in the sign of the cross. His next mission was given to him and he set off to meet the chosen sinner.

Dressed in a plain black T-shirt an authentic Navy Pea coat of the same color and blue Levi jeans he walked into the street blending into the night and fading off into obscurity. Vincent O’Conner was the last of the boondock saints and perhaps the most powerful of all his family. His twin silver plated semi-atomic pistols were blessed so that their ammunition would feed off the sins of his enemies. The more vile or evil the soul, the more bullets rang from the barrel of his gun like thunder claps from the lords hands.

His biggest weapon however did not lie in some fragile creations of man. No, his weapons of choice are those bestowed to him by God at birth. He was born a natural psychic able to manipulate objects regardless of size or weight with the will of his mind. When situations called for it, other gifts from the lord were utilized to aid him in his crusade for the Holy Father. Astral projection and the ability to commune with the dead were just a few of his blessings. He was also well versed in the sacred magic’s long since forgotten by today’s Roman Catholics. The early Christians dabbled in sacred energies of this world and once combined them with their holiest rituals of worship. A book left to him by his father El Duece fed him knowledge of an old power lost to the sands of time.

Vincent could feel the way towards his chosen enemy. It was like a thick pool of energy flowing through his chest and connecting to his intended target. He was on his way to the gang torn lands of some town that the world had forgotten. Waiting in the park was the sinner, the man whose soul called for its executioner. It seemed like time stood still for the fallen saint. A distance that would have taken days to traverse passed bye in a matter of moments.

He walked calmly through the tatterd entrance of the run down park. Signs of obvious turf wars were sprayed all along the outer walls of the park. As he committed the entire area to memory he saw that one of the factions was the obvious victor.

Vincent spit in disgust

“ Hood Figgas…..”

The boondock saint turned his head toward the broken merry go round and addressed his enemy.


“I’m here….ready to spin?”



And shepherds we shall be,
For Thee, my Lord, for Thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand,
That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In Nomine Patri et Fili Spiritus Sancti.

[Erdawn Il Deus]

OoC: I'm not ignoring this, just at a loss currently in fashioning a character for you. I think I have an idea, though.

EDIT - in the span of that second remembering McCarthy's The Road and Ogami Itto, I suddenly have more than just a character, I have a post in pending. I'll put it up in a bit.

[Dhampir]

Jonas brings to bear his rifle and fires one shot dead-center to the solar plexus but Vincent draws the bullet to a standstill, dimming to black its telekinetic line. Vincent slings his pistols in the same breath and thunders a retalitory salvo, but Jonas draws his wand gently like an elegant thread and severs all the momentum of Vincent's bullets with the soft blue glow menacing from his wand's thorn point.

Jonas laughs, at ease. "I wouldn't have drawn on you if you weren't here to kill me."

Vincent is hesitant, curt. "I don't care what you wouldn't have done," he says, guns shaking slightly with an impatient lust. Jonas' voice, is a voice he's heard before, or related to one he's heard before; either it's in his lips' chaotic harmolodics, or somewhere in how he echoes over distance. "The Father has no ears for that."

"Ah-ha, I see," Jonas says, but with a vague lack of attention that suggests misunderstanding. He lifted his hat back for a moment, showing his browned face still tinged with pallor. "Well, this is just to catch a deer now and then," he says, patting the rifle whose bore has fallen to his hip, "so, since metallurgy, and the percussive instruments, are a little outside our department right now. We'd do well to do away with these." Jonas lifts his hat and rolls his neck. The rifle slides off his shoulder. In the same motion he re-assumes the peaked hat, letting the shadows fall again over his tan skin and dirtied red beard. but not over his yellow eyes.

"So, if I may ask," he says, standing like a fencer with his wand at attention. "Are you here to judge me for my use of magic?"

OoC: Keeping pace!

[Joker]

OOC: Sorry had to keep this short as the other members have yet to post an entrance.


"So, if I may ask," he says, standing like a fencer with his wand at attention. "Are you here to judge me for my use of magic?"



No reply.

Only the fluid motion of Vincent sliding off his coat and raising his arms to attack. The first thing Jonas noticed was that his opponents appendages were covered in tattoo like verses of angelic script. The decorations on his arms gave one the mental image of hooded monks laboring over each arm writing spells into a young boy’s soft skin. Each passage had been taken from ancient Gnostic texts and ritualistically bonded to his soul through the engraving of his skin . Like clockwork, the tattoo’s quickly activated and began to feed streams of magical energy into Vincent’s arms. In step with the tattoo’s activation, a deep voice spoke the verses into the wind as they flickered to life one by one.

Vincent pulled both arms over and around each other as the electrifying power between them crackled and arched their way back and forth. A dark shadow fell over his entire face and his eyes began to gleam like stones of polished obsidian. The power could be held no longer and it instantly exploded from his hands like a road side bomb. A radiant blast of burning energy shot towards Jonas and collided with a defensive spell from his wand. Vincent had not intended for his attack to penetrate his enemies defenses. Instead he advanced behind his enemy with blinding speed and swung a right hand glowing with magic dead center into the back of his enemies head. The shock of having missed his opponent’s movements was quickly overtaken by the pain from Vincent’s attack. The cleansing energy released from Vincent’s fist scorched its way down the network of nerves in Jonas spinal cord.

Pivoting on his right foot and twisting with his hips in one motion, he spun in place and launched a powerful kick to Jonas back with all his weight and momentum. Vincent’s foot indented itself nearly an inch deep into Jonas' mid lumbar section sending him through the air towards the broken merry-go-round. The sinner collided into the child’s park ride with a bone shattering crash. Wasting no time, the fallen saint motioned his hands over the area his enemy lay in and released another burst of magic. However instead of some flashy explosion of power, the energy released from the palms of his hand evaporated into thin air. In response to his movements the metal handle bars on the merry-go-round became malleable and quickly wrapped themselves around Jonas arms and legs. With his enemy temporarily restrained, the boondock saint focused his mind and lifted the circular table into the air. With a single thought he began spinning his enemy around like a race car tire. After a brief moment of fun Vincent waved his hand through the air and sent the rotating disk flying towards one of the few trees still untouched by gangsters spray cans. The thick trunk of the tree was obliterated by the impact leaving its massive canopy of branches and leaves to fall on top of the entangled warrior.

Vincent fixed his stare on the fallen bits of tree as it lay over the mangled metal disk. He silently whispered spells into the air as he waited for his enemies counter attack.

[Erdawn Il Deus]

The road was broken, like it had been stood on its end and tipped over and now lay smashed like a line of dark egg-shells over the persistent migrations of brome grass and the pagan shapes thrown up by weed and creeper vine. As he passed across it his movements he threw up handfuls of insects which lit up in the fading light of the sun like match-heads and threw up the glimmering tracery of their passage. He cut a large figure, his flesh tanned to a foreign bronze under the harshness of day and hanging sallow from his body over rippling, shifting muscles. Dirt and grime clung to him like a second skin, and a drab palette of paints, to make him indistinguishable from the jungle which he passed through. It couldn’t rightfully be said that he wore clothing – a drab green shirt so rotted away it collected itself in strips sucked to the sweat of his chest, tunic and leggings of military fatigues billowing soundlessly around his limbs, one of the sleeves slashed violently from the shoulder leaving his arm bare – a heavy, gangly thing corded thick and veined with muscle like knots down a length of rope. He pushed with this arm the skeleton of a shopping cart, tied down with a burlap tarp, its wheels replaced to befit more treacherous going over the blasted landscape. He chewed straw bitterly, his skull sashed in a multi-purpose scarf of breathable fabric which flapped down the back of his bull-neck, easily wrapped around the mouth and neck to ward against the cold (or air). A makeshift ruck creaked tight against his upper back and shoulders, tied again around his waist to more evenly disperse its weight.

In his other hand he held a rifle, by the pistol-grip and magazine, the sling ticking back and forth which his steps.

His name was Dog. Before him the macadam receded to dark sand and eventually it would become dirt and seed more jungle from its bowels. Eventually there would be no roads, and the gutted sky-scrapers and ghettos of the old world would topple over, their electricity burned out, and be grown over by jungle as well. In the sun-set, the horizon hazed opalescent with foreign colours through radioactive smog. At night, the fires would glow, and the scavengers would roam, and he would go to ground. For now, he moved.

[Dhampir]

The noise of the coming rider ran up the fragments of asphalt like an earthquake. There was a sound like a thresher approaching through both concrete and through vine. The grasshoppers all jumped together when the engine in the distance fired a flare into the thin slice of horizon above the downtown canyon. Dog raised his head and watched it burn violently, sparks crackling off the windows, through each color of the rainbow burning three seconds for each--

The approaching engine roared in the canyon. Dog tried to make it out, but the wheels kicked up such a cloud of dust that the vehicle was only a locust before a storm of some kind, between dune and tide. A laser fell on Dog's camouflage tunic, the sights of an eager gun: the laser fell so hot it burned. Dog dove into the bloated gutter before the rattle of gunfire split the unmuffled, amphetamined heartbeat of the dunebike.

Pseudasmo kicked Dog's shopping cart as she rode past, but the wheels were well-designed and even her massive feet could not turn the cart over. Road bombs dropped from a pipe above Pseudasmo's back tire. Dog tried to stand to run, until the bombs exploded out, creating a corridor of flames that gnawed into the steel of the sunken skyscrapers at roadside. The explosion blew Dog and his shopping cart twenty yards closer to Pseudasmo, who brought her dunebike to park at the end of the block.

Dog tried to regain his bearings. Behind him was a wall of flames roaring with delight, and above was a cloud of dust that sullied the solemn sky blue. It cleared only behind Pseudasmo.

"Well, look at you," she purred, across the distance, through the dust. "The last man." She was an android, but rendered gender in her design and behavior. She stood seductively beside her dunebike, pricking one of her long fingers against the back tire's pointed cleats. Her body was painted mahogany with gold armor plates, custom-fitted at her breasts and the thong of her hips to give her the suggestion of womanhood. In one hand she held a rod, and in the other a net. "Well, before I bring a man home with me, I always ask his name," she said.

[OoC: Joker, I'll reply to yours soon.]

[Wyborn]

Man I forgot what you meant by "natural singularity"

[Dhampir]

[OoC: It doesn't matter at all Wyborn. If you want to use Pilot, that's cool, I just found the machine thing too enticing not to use for what I thought was going to be some sort of mythical beast (when I wrote the post against Erdawn). The characters have been changing in my mind, luckily Jonas is the only one I've had for a long long time. So I'll probably just use whomever when I next need to add a character.

By the way, Erdawn: I don't mean anything by this, it's just a creepy coincidence that we both have had wilderness-wanderer characters named Dog.]

The cage that tangled around Jonas pressed the mask deep into the flesh of his skin. Despite ageless scars the mask's razor edge still tasted blood. Until blood began to stain its dusky blue finish its thirst was not quenched. Satisfied for a time, it jumped from his chest against the aluminum bars that constricted Jonas, and that left him to suffocate beneath the tree boughs; the mask pried the bars and stretched its own golden chain.

Jonas slipped his hand from the cuff and brought his wand to chest, making one circle clockwise that reversed Vincent's spell on the bars. One line vertical from his solar plexus shattered the timber into a multitude of splinters. A zephyr squall was heard in the distance, and car alarms not far off; Jonas spun the splinters and the new-sprung leaves alike into a freezing cyclone. He reset his peaked hat over the burn and trauma to his scalp and skull, and with his wand gestured commands in Vincent's direction.

Vincent advanced on Jonas, still in repose, and drew his pistol. One full sweep of his arm broke all of Jonas' bonds, and he lept from the ruined mechanical heap. He sent the cyclone out to meet Vincent's approach and the phenomenom collapsed upon the saint. He tried to shield his eyes, but even before his skin he could see the frozen leaves disintegrate and bury themselves in his pores--he felt the particles fill his lungs.

Vincent began to suffocate, and Jonas jumped toward his enemy. The freezing, erratic void of air evaporated as he entered. Vincent's body hesitated to respond, wracked in coughs, as Jonas took a painful grip on Vincent's face, pinching a handful of his flesh; on his hand glowed the tattoo of a wicked blade, outlined in blue but cursed in black; Jonas' hand became like a knife's subtle brilliance, passing through flesh many seconds before it is felt; the blood began to rush r4om Vincent's face.

Momentum carried them both to the ground. Vincent, his body invaded with miniature snow driven even into his blood, began to feel slow condensate burn, his freezing outer flesh sucking the warm life from his inner and carrying him toward death. Jonas sat up, and ripped open his cuirass. The leather inside was scabbed with blood that pocketed around the mask.

"Do you SEE this?" Jonas said, and stuck it in the face of Vincent, still paralyzed with cough and frost. The mask was dusky blue, without eyes, and instead of lips a mouth of gnashing fangs. Shaped like an apple, it would cover Jonas' face completely--but due to the unnatural shadow cast under his mage's hat, all that was visible were Jonas' yellow eyes. "All you, false paladins... ****ing demons. You're all trying to be this mask." The mask hung on a chain many-ringed. Magic rings, powerful, on which a forgotten language burned in silver fog. The words appeared Atlantean: nautical. Vincent's eyes, just before returning to proper function in temperate climate, suddenly saw the mask's paint as a grid of points, like realizing an optical illusion: each point a symbol, heiroglyphs. "This is the Face of Knowledge," Jonas whispered, fit his mask, and smashed his wooden forehead into Vincent's sheared nose.

[OoC: Jonas will complete mask transformation, but for now, he's yours to abuse.]

[Erdawn Il Deus]

"There are no formalities between flesh and toys," Dog said. "And you are merely a better designed toy than the rest."

Pseudasmo's eyes flared. "Arrogant. We 'toys' are now the dominant species."

"You dominate nothing but the dust of a better world."

He lifted his hand, and closed his eyes, and Pseudasmo's skull snapped backwards and her shoulders disconnected and her limbs shuddered. Wires burst from creases in her armour like entrail, sparking, torn loose, and the armour itself fragmented into segments. Oil and fluids sputtered. The android found 'her'self knocked over, as if by the invisible hand of some horrific god.

Dog stood up.

"Still a toy."

[Dhampir]

OoC: Jesus Erdawn, giving me just a tiny dose for the character I have the least understanding of.

Pseudasmo's legs moved with elegance, like bows over violins, as they moved on free bearings and leveraged her to her feet alone.

"Toys, hmm, toys for kids," Pseudasmo's speaker cackled. Her swiveling hips carried her gracefully forward, she crossed her arms over her chest. "The toys came to life and killed all the kids, now isn't that a chuckle," she joked. ("Get it?" she asked, suddenly sounding self-conscious. Dog offered no reply.) From her ribs emerged a second pair of arms, undamaged but equally slender. The succuboid's fresh limbs repaired the damage to her frame with scars of laser welding.

And in that instant she swept forward on churning legs, splitting the concrete as she ran. Dog was instantly netted, the barbed threads glowing electric blue. Dog kicked and struggled against the net, but it absorbed his blows and began to oscillate, holding him prisoner in a gravitational bubble. She held him up before her face, arms extending to double-length; her face was gorgeous, an actual skin graft supernaturally perfect, unmarred, such that beneath it Pseudasmo could even blush. Sandy curls fell from beneath her helm, designed like a pharoah queen.

"Listen to me, pure-blooded itch," she said, facing up at him as though there were even eyes behind her mirror-yellow sunglasses. "The Gezer Group built your toys. Built me for the boys," she laughed, "and for the military they designed the intelligence. Project Menthu, if you've heard of it--I don't know if you're a military man, I just bet you'd look great in uniform.

"Humanity built something better than itself. I am--" she emphasized her individuality, "--better. You're alive because you're just lucky enough to have a fraction of the DNA I'm looking for. But you just refuse to come quietly." And Menthugezer Pseudasmo swung the net to the ground from its great height, and began to batter Dog mercilessly with her vibrating rod.

[OoC: Check the innuendo. Particularly in that last line, hahaha.]

[Dhampir]

Joker, Phenom, Wyborn?

[Joker]

The boondock saint whipped his head back from the blow. His lungs still processing the minute shards of frozen foliage. Wounds from the sinners blade released pain through out his body and let seep his precious blood on to the floor. Vincent clenched his teeth as he summoned the strength to ignite the holy spirit dwelling with in him. Stigmata wounds began to painfully appear on both sides of his palms. The blood from his wounds receded back into his body and poured instead from the open sores on his hands and feet. And with the blessed sacrament came the unyielding flame of God’s holy spirit. It radiated with such heat from the core of his being that it hastened the disintegration of Jonas spell.

As he regained his bearings, Vincent quickly grabbed the sleeves of his chosen enemy and rolled with all his weight backwards. At the end of his back roll the fallen saint kicked his feet out and sent Jonas flying into the air. Struggling to his feet he clapped his bleeding hands together and sent rushing forth a wave of intense flame. The scorching ring of fire expanded outward engulfing everything in its path. Jonas who was still in the air at this point was caught by the wave of white flame. He screamed in pain as the fire of the holy spirit burned through his soul like a raging inferno. The sinner fell to the floor and immediately felt the stinging pain of metal eating through his flesh. Vincent had grabbed his firarm with his bloodied hands and squeezed off three rounds. Each bullet struck its target with pin point accuracy. Coughing up blood he mumbled the words to detonate each round lodged inside his opponents body. Holes the size of a silver dollar exploded like road side bombs in his right arm, chest and left leg. Vincent cautiously made his way over to the fallen sinner.

Bending down he grasped the warriors shirt lifting him up and bringing him closer to his own face. The boondock saint peered through the holes of the mask and into Jonas eyes. Letting one hand off the shirt, he pulled back his arm and clenched his fist. Then with out hesitation he smashed his fist into the sinners face at full force. All the time keeping his eyes focused on the masked warrior. Repeatedly he pounded his fist into the mask increasing his speed and power with each blow. Despite what one might think, Vincent’s intentions were not try and cause any physical damage to the mask or the warrior. Instead he intended to pound the blood dripping from his stigmata deep into the very material of the face plate. However the blows themselves were still delivered with an unrelenting force and snapped the sinners head viciously back with each strike. Finished, he rose upright and wobbled back a few steps, leaving Jonas to shake the cob-webs from his mind. The deed had been done, and no one save the Lord knew what was in store for this sinner.

[Dhampir]

Vincent stood with his back to a wicked front of wind. The air was freezing and all of it rushed to Jonas Drapeau on his hands and knees. His neck muscles were shredded and his forehead hung to the cement.

"This will be a kindness, then," Jonas said through his convulsions, suffocated sobs. He began to whisper his own incantations and the mask laid fresh root into the bones of his face. Energy in the neighborhood began to gather, and the wind gathered Jonas' hat in a circle around him, like a carousel. "I am humble enough to share my gift," he said.

His voice was strong, and Vincent watched in disbelief the wires emerge like black worms, thriving and writhing in the frigid breeze before joining the to Jonas' brain stem and stretching taught to support his neck. Jonas' convulsions carried him suddenly to his feet, and he stood with his spine long, staring at Vincent though he had no eyes.

A barbed tongue fell from the mask's open mouth, dangling speech from the ring of sharkteeth. "This is an act of love. Love and glory everlasting." Jonas' mask bore the expression of a being lost in infinite sadness, and with a last guttural, starving sob there was a burst of lightning that linked Vincent's solar-plexus to the wicked blade inked in the wizard's hand, light that swirled in slow fractals like the pattern of frosted glass.

"I am your blessing. I am what you pray for. God works in mysterious ways, right? So, don't be disappointed, at the end of all the emptiness. I'm only here to share," he said. Vincent was paralyzed, and levitating into the air in the grip of his own energy stream. All his sainted blood that covered Jonas began to glow and pattern as well, in the crimson of a low sun.

"I am not your sacrifice, so do not anoint me in living blood!" Jonas yelled, his voice deepened, achieving an echoing acoustic, like he spoke through the vocal cords of the surrounding atmposhere. The blood ran clean from his body, and a salve of all colors of midnight subsumed his skin as he finished the transformation. His wounds, the gaps in his flesh, were replaced with quartz lit with galactic energies, blinking like a living computer; his armor phased into a different space, joined with the black wires that tightened round his frame like guitar strings, and became like dim mirrors that can reflect only the light of distant stars. His form revealed, Jonas flicked his wrist, and the fractal frost snapped Vincent's body from stasis and stole him in Jonas' direction.

Vincent was aware, and held his bleeding hands forward in anticipation. However, Jonas intercepted the God-hand's next attack; from his back emerged three limbs like the claws of the praying mantis, translucent like ancient amber, whose barbed points dripped aetheric poison that brought Vincent's muscles to wooden numb. Stigmata blood dripping down his legs froze into painful, weighty scabs.

He bore his opponent's face close to his, so that Vincent stared at Jonas' face without eyes, the empty wall of flesh bruised with night. "My name is Jonas Drapeau. I wear the Mask of the Agentur. I am the Twilight Phoenix, the End and the Beginning," he said in his disembodied voice. For a bare instant Vincent glimpsed his huge eyes open like a gecko's, but flat and saucered, and simply robin's-egg blue without pupil or cornea, dominating his swollen, unadorned alien head.

And a band of prismatic fractals reached from Vincent's body, and into the nearby parking lot; and the Agentur held Vincent at the length of his claws, his eyes unopened as the mechanical mass smashed into the boondock saint.

[OoC: I don't know if your character has a transformation, but the Agentur is one of those world-ender characters, better suited for spirit bomb type ****... but I'll do whatever.]

[Joker]

Originally Posted by Dhampir

And Menthugezer Pseudasmo swung the net to the ground from its great height, and began to batter Dog mercilessly with her vibrating rod.

Nice !! First Wyborn with his feeding drugs to an opponent and now Gaiden having his female character beat some one with a giant vibrator.

You guys make me want to burn something