08-31-2013, 11:57 AM
Character name:
Kenshin Himura
Character source:
Rurouni Kenshin
Character history:
Feudal Era Japan - there are many factions at war here in the Bakumatsu time period predating the Meiji Era of peace. This is a time of blood, a time of intrigue, and a time of honor; mostly, however, it is a time of blood. A caliber of assassins known as Hitokiri rise to a high level of prestige in these times of war; they are used by their shogunate to eliminate enemies of a high profile. Some garner fame, some infamy, but none garner so much of each as the one known as Hitokiri Battousai. Kenshin Himura is this man, a master of the sword style called Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu whose ancient and well protected techniques make him a man of both truth and legend whose superhuman speed and reflexes are the fear of all who oppose him.
In his wake there are bodies cut to ribbons, leaders tremble at his name and title, and even those who hold his figurative leash know the bounds of their authority on this monster of a man. Only the sword force of the enemy known as the Shinsengumi faces the Battousai and lives to tell the tale, and even they fall to pieces under his blade one member at a time. In his wartime blood feud with the Shinsengumi, we find Kenshin plucked from his time period by the strange diety Omni - barely a man in his blood lusting fury, and no longer a soldier on the other side of the dimensional rift; Kenshin arrives in the omniverse confused but unafraid.
He is a terror in a blue kimono, with a sword whose gleam is seen but whose blade is too quick to see. In the Omniverse he will sculpt his future in blood and in fear.
Stats:
ATK: 2
DEF: 1
SPD: 4
TEC: 3
Starting Proficiencies:
Physical Strength (1000)
Starting Powers:
Burst Movement (800), Enhanced Senses (1400), Advanced Super Jumping (500)
Starting Moves:
Katana (300)
Writing example:
The fingers of one of his hands traced the cracks in the crisp ground's crust while the fingers of his other hand rested half coiled around a bottle of whiskey. It was nearly empty.
Randall sat, back propped, against a humble little shack whose walls were as rough and tumble as the wastelanders who'd stayed in it in their travels. Bits of drywall crumbled from its sides at the wind's caress like a ghoul's skin might when touched by the hands of a lover. Back around the building's aft end there was a hill that rose in cascades towards the horizon, that, by this time in the afternoon shielded most of the sun from view. It was cooler than it had been that morning. It was a good time for a drink.
In this southwestern corner of the Mojave it was known that the territory belonged to the Vipers - this building was just one of the few tucked into this nook of Viper territory ensconced deep in what would otherwise be NCR stomping grounds. The Vipers were widely known, but they weren't widely respected - Randall himself considered the gang a pack of fools; there were wolves and then there were hyenas. The Vipers fell somewhat lower on the totem. Perhaps coyotes.
However, to a lone raider staring out at the Mojave, even a pack of fools poses a threat. Upon yonder horizon, whiskey still in hand, Randall's eyes spied figures creeping into the fading daylight. With the Mojave's flatlands one could see for miles in proper lighting and something close to that even in the evening before the darkness set in. Randall tried to carry little more in the way of guns than a hunting rifle and a 10mm, and nobody carried a hunting rifle that couldn't pick a couple figures off the horizon. His green eyes picked out four but he knew there could be as many as six or seven.
Odds are they hadn't seen him.
Now it was up to him to decide if he wanted them to see him or if he wanted to be long gone by then.
He looked down at his helmet upon the ground, like a rounded bucket - it was something he'd picked up years ago and it offered little in the way of protection but he liked its style. It looked pre-war like the helmets a military dog might wear on a tour of duty. It made Randall feel tough.
Then he looked at his bottle of whiskey and back at the horizon with an idea in his head.
He stood up, promptly, and dropped a hand to his waist. He was more than buzzed; he was drunk, and he wanted to make sure he wasn't leaving his shit lying around. But his combat knife was where he had expected it to be on his belt sheathed and accounted for.
The slaver stood up with a grunt, shouldered the strap to his hunting rifle so that it was slung over his right shoulder, and left the remnants of his bottle of whiskey right where he had been sitting. The Vipers were fools - chems and booze were their weaknesses. Any raider worth the scraps off a dinner table knew that the key to winning a battle was knowing your opponents. Randall liked to think he was worth a little more than that.
He snuck about the corner of the building to its rear while donning his helmet. He wasn't particularly well armored - he wore fatigues and all they were was cloth. He wasn't especially sneaky, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to crouch quietly behind a building. With his combat knife out he waited.
Now, in the Mojave, it wasn't unusual for a battle to draw out the scavengers or the bloodthirsty. This was something any seasoned raider accounted for - when a gun gave its report it was known to draw other raiders in the area like vultures who would linger on the outskirts of a battle for the opportunity to swoop in and finish the victor or offer their aid to the smaller side for a chance to split the bigger faction's spoils.
Randall's plan was to wait until one of the raiders came around the back of the building to take a piss then come up behind him and wrap a hand around his mouth to silence him. Then he'd put the knife in his throat if all went well. When another came around the back to investigate, Randall planned do the same thing and silence that investigator. Then he'd come around the corner, circumstances permitting, and open fire with his 10mm. If he caught the Vipers offguard he could probably finish off the remainder. Vipers were, after all, a pack of fools. Sitting behind the building and waiting, Randall mapped out this plan, and thought it solid. If he gained a vulture's helping hand he had this in the bag for sure.
Site: Duck and Cover (<!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="http://duckandcover.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showtopic=1447">http://duckandcover.b1.jcink.com/index. ... topic=1447</a><!-- m -->)
Character/Account: Randall (it's me!)
Kenshin Himura
Character source:
Rurouni Kenshin
Character history:
Feudal Era Japan - there are many factions at war here in the Bakumatsu time period predating the Meiji Era of peace. This is a time of blood, a time of intrigue, and a time of honor; mostly, however, it is a time of blood. A caliber of assassins known as Hitokiri rise to a high level of prestige in these times of war; they are used by their shogunate to eliminate enemies of a high profile. Some garner fame, some infamy, but none garner so much of each as the one known as Hitokiri Battousai. Kenshin Himura is this man, a master of the sword style called Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu whose ancient and well protected techniques make him a man of both truth and legend whose superhuman speed and reflexes are the fear of all who oppose him.
In his wake there are bodies cut to ribbons, leaders tremble at his name and title, and even those who hold his figurative leash know the bounds of their authority on this monster of a man. Only the sword force of the enemy known as the Shinsengumi faces the Battousai and lives to tell the tale, and even they fall to pieces under his blade one member at a time. In his wartime blood feud with the Shinsengumi, we find Kenshin plucked from his time period by the strange diety Omni - barely a man in his blood lusting fury, and no longer a soldier on the other side of the dimensional rift; Kenshin arrives in the omniverse confused but unafraid.
He is a terror in a blue kimono, with a sword whose gleam is seen but whose blade is too quick to see. In the Omniverse he will sculpt his future in blood and in fear.
Stats:
ATK: 2
DEF: 1
SPD: 4
TEC: 3
Starting Proficiencies:
Physical Strength (1000)
Starting Powers:
Burst Movement (800), Enhanced Senses (1400), Advanced Super Jumping (500)
Starting Moves:
Katana (300)
Writing example:
The fingers of one of his hands traced the cracks in the crisp ground's crust while the fingers of his other hand rested half coiled around a bottle of whiskey. It was nearly empty.
Randall sat, back propped, against a humble little shack whose walls were as rough and tumble as the wastelanders who'd stayed in it in their travels. Bits of drywall crumbled from its sides at the wind's caress like a ghoul's skin might when touched by the hands of a lover. Back around the building's aft end there was a hill that rose in cascades towards the horizon, that, by this time in the afternoon shielded most of the sun from view. It was cooler than it had been that morning. It was a good time for a drink.
In this southwestern corner of the Mojave it was known that the territory belonged to the Vipers - this building was just one of the few tucked into this nook of Viper territory ensconced deep in what would otherwise be NCR stomping grounds. The Vipers were widely known, but they weren't widely respected - Randall himself considered the gang a pack of fools; there were wolves and then there were hyenas. The Vipers fell somewhat lower on the totem. Perhaps coyotes.
However, to a lone raider staring out at the Mojave, even a pack of fools poses a threat. Upon yonder horizon, whiskey still in hand, Randall's eyes spied figures creeping into the fading daylight. With the Mojave's flatlands one could see for miles in proper lighting and something close to that even in the evening before the darkness set in. Randall tried to carry little more in the way of guns than a hunting rifle and a 10mm, and nobody carried a hunting rifle that couldn't pick a couple figures off the horizon. His green eyes picked out four but he knew there could be as many as six or seven.
Odds are they hadn't seen him.
Now it was up to him to decide if he wanted them to see him or if he wanted to be long gone by then.
He looked down at his helmet upon the ground, like a rounded bucket - it was something he'd picked up years ago and it offered little in the way of protection but he liked its style. It looked pre-war like the helmets a military dog might wear on a tour of duty. It made Randall feel tough.
Then he looked at his bottle of whiskey and back at the horizon with an idea in his head.
He stood up, promptly, and dropped a hand to his waist. He was more than buzzed; he was drunk, and he wanted to make sure he wasn't leaving his shit lying around. But his combat knife was where he had expected it to be on his belt sheathed and accounted for.
The slaver stood up with a grunt, shouldered the strap to his hunting rifle so that it was slung over his right shoulder, and left the remnants of his bottle of whiskey right where he had been sitting. The Vipers were fools - chems and booze were their weaknesses. Any raider worth the scraps off a dinner table knew that the key to winning a battle was knowing your opponents. Randall liked to think he was worth a little more than that.
He snuck about the corner of the building to its rear while donning his helmet. He wasn't particularly well armored - he wore fatigues and all they were was cloth. He wasn't especially sneaky, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to crouch quietly behind a building. With his combat knife out he waited.
Now, in the Mojave, it wasn't unusual for a battle to draw out the scavengers or the bloodthirsty. This was something any seasoned raider accounted for - when a gun gave its report it was known to draw other raiders in the area like vultures who would linger on the outskirts of a battle for the opportunity to swoop in and finish the victor or offer their aid to the smaller side for a chance to split the bigger faction's spoils.
Randall's plan was to wait until one of the raiders came around the back of the building to take a piss then come up behind him and wrap a hand around his mouth to silence him. Then he'd put the knife in his throat if all went well. When another came around the back to investigate, Randall planned do the same thing and silence that investigator. Then he'd come around the corner, circumstances permitting, and open fire with his 10mm. If he caught the Vipers offguard he could probably finish off the remainder. Vipers were, after all, a pack of fools. Sitting behind the building and waiting, Randall mapped out this plan, and thought it solid. If he gained a vulture's helping hand he had this in the bag for sure.
Site: Duck and Cover (<!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="http://duckandcover.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showtopic=1447">http://duckandcover.b1.jcink.com/index. ... topic=1447</a><!-- m -->)
Character/Account: Randall (it's me!)
