[Twi]Chronicles of the Impaler: Crisis of Infinite Draculas OOC

[Colesign]

Ooh. Quick question, Darkblade. Do Fangires share any weaknesses with other Vampires, or are they mainly Evil Sentai that consume lifeforce?

[Cracklord]

I can only assume this is what you wanted to happen.

Doliest? You better kill him soon, before he gets too powerful.

[Colesign]

I just saw a trailer for Blacula.

Not the movie...just the trailer.

...Ai ya.

[Prime32]

Evil Sentai

(Evil) Kaijin. KAIJIN.

[darkblade]

Ooh. Quick question, Darkblade. Do Fangires share any weaknesses with other Vampires, or are they mainly Evil Sentai that consume lifeforce?

They sparkle when they feed, are forced back into their human forms when thrown in rivers (although that's part of being in Toku), solar energy when focused directly into a weapon will kill them body and soul but not normally and the King personally doesn't care for garlic but that's a personal choice.

Also Kaijin. Sentai is a specific term for the teams of multicoloured heroes namely those of Super Sentai and Power Rangers. Kaijin are human sized monsters.

themoreyouknow.jpeg

[Cracklord]

In all fairness, he's only supposed to be called that by people with small refernce pools, and is in fact Prince Mamuwalde.

Also, I must say I now know far more about power Rangers then i ever expected to.

[Prime32]

Also Kaijin. Sentai is a specific term for the teams of multicoloured heroes namely those of Super Sentai and Power Rangers. Kaijin are human sized monsters.

themoreyouknow.jpeg

sen = battle/war
-shi = -er
tai = team
kai = monster
ju = beast
jin = man

I think it's something like that. Though there are a dozen other words pronounced identically.

[darkblade]

In all fairness, he's only supposed to be called that by people with small refernce pools, and is in fact Prince Mamuwalde.

Also, I must say I now know far more about power Rangers then i ever expected to.

Eh I view these games partially as a learning experience about various series I otherwise wouldn't have much dealings with myself.

[Colesign]

Ditto, Darkblade. Ditto.

So how are you going to survive the Antimatter explosion?

[darkblade]

There is no way I can think of for the King to survive that. There won't even be enough glass shards left over to be resurrected.

I'm going to think this over and either come up with some kind of halfway plausible survival trick or a replacement Dracula by tomorrow.

[AnimeKid]

Wait a minute, I mean I know I was gone for a while, but an antimatter explosion! What the hell have you people been doing?!

[Colesign]

See the IC page for details, Anime Kid.


And Darkblade...if this were a more serious game, perhaps I'd be a bit more worried about Ass pulls. But it isn't, and I'm totally cool with implausibilities.

If you still want something halfway plausible, You could try seeking refuge within Chapelvania and hope that the part of the structure you enter withstands the blast.

You'd probably have to confront the Mr. Prague, though.

[Cracklord]

Michael Carpenter (Part I)

Spoiler

Show

It was unlike anything he could have imagined. He stood within a vast, subterranean hall, a magic, frozen realm that stretched in all directions. Spheres of light bobbed gently through the air, radiating a diffuse glow akin to predawn. The earthen roof curved far overhead, and the vast roots of Yggdrasil hung down low, entwined to form pillars that came down to the ground. Other roots wound around the sloping, distant walls, forming archways that led of into other halls, deep beneath the world.
The crust of snow crunched beneath Michael's heavy workboots as he turned around, gazing in wonder. There was a world here, self contained and apart from the one above, gently sloping hills rising to meet the walls all around, forming a natural valley in the center of the otherworldy hall. A wide, frozen lake spread out in the depression, it's surface mirror-like and gleaming, and in the center rose a small island.
Michael found himself drawn there. Sheathing his sword, he began to walk, trudging through the powdery snow. His eyes were locked on the island. It was lightly wooded, its trees leafless and barren, and a winding path led to a low rocky headland jutting out from the ice.
The snow was knee-deep, but Michael picked up the pace, urged on by some indefinable impulse alike those when God had called him away. His joint's ached with the cold, and his limp was growing more pronounced, yet Michael hurried down the powdery slope, passing through the icy woods. The land leveled out as he came to the land's edge, and without delay he stepped out upon it's frozen surface.
The air was cold and crisp and still as he reached the island. He climbed a twisting path through ice-shawled trees, and passed through a stone archway carved with ivy and spiraling runes. He walked slowly out onto the low rocky headland, the highest point on the little island.
A circular dais was situated there, and it was to this that Michael was drawn. He hardly dared breathe as he approached. An elegantly designed stone plinth was carved into the dais, and lying upon in was...
"You should see it in summer. When my King is wed to Titania flowers bloom, the air is heavy with the scent of milk and honey, and all is well. Yet the cold has a beauty of it's own, or so says Mab, and for now, she is queen." The voice is low and pleasant, the turn of phrase old fashioned and faintly sinister yet there is no feeling of darkness about it.
A tall, grim figure stood amongst the snow, built with the dangerous suppleness of a panther. His skin white as milk, as was his hair hair that hung down to his shoulders, and his features that of the elfin. He bears a scar extending from the topmost ridge of one cheek to the other and crossing the bridge of the nose, with several perpendicular lines etched along it as well, and his eyes were a tawny, golden color, like that of a wolf, yet his features were more foxlike, cunning and sly, though not without a strange and indefinable nobility. His right forearm was missing, shorn away in some ancient battle, but a silver hand had replaced it, and it seemed to suit him fine. He wore white, and a light coat of silvered mail beneath a plain surcoat, but despite the make of them he was without ornamentation.
"I am Nuada Airgetlám, king of the Tuatha Dé Danann and servant of The Hunter, who we shall not speak of lest his attention be drawn here." He lowers his head a moment, then raises his eyes beneath lowered brows, and sinks into the prelude to a fighting stance, his body like a loaded trap waiting to be sprung. "As well as Oberon's champion in these matters."
Michael faces him squarely, planting his body like a mountain that refuses to bend, his hand well away from his sword, though he knows he shall need it in a moment. "I know of you, and your king. I have no quarrel with either."
Nuada nods. Were he to encounter this man anywhere else, he would kill him the moment he saw him, but here he must serve his function. "No, though your people are in his debt." When Michael looked in askance, Nuada elaborated. "Oberon paid the Erlkings weregeld, did he not? When John Taylor was informed, he offered his thanks to the King. While he may have been ignorant of the meaning, the words are an offer to repay. A debt Oberon has not forgotten."
Michael frowned at that. And Taylor had no idea. He was in for a shock when they brought up that one. And they would, The fey always had their due. He fell silent, trying to think how to proceed.
It was a strange thing, in this age of rationality and fact, to be on a quest, but that's what he was doing. He'd left his family in the care of friends after the founding of the Order, and began his long journey, spurred on by the visions in his dreams, that had led, at long last, here.
Though he did not know why. All he knew was that perhaps the success of the secret fight he would now live hung on his success here.
"I do. It is you who is lost. I am the arbiter of the trials. The rite of passage."
"Which Trials?" Michael asked, but wasn't talking to the elf anymore. The cavern had faded away, and he stood in darkness.

Harry Dresden

Spoiler

Show

My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Maybe you've heard of me.
I'm dead, and in purgatory, the sixth layer of the Nevernever if you're interested in looking me up, on a corner of what appears to be Chicago, albeit deserted and with unceasing rain like the mother of all film noir settings, and I'm thinking. I do it surprisingly often, yet people are always surprised.
At the moment, I am hacking my way through something of an existential crisis, and making very little in the way of progress. When you get right down to it, down to the brass tacks if you will, what I call myself is a wizard. And that's really who I am, toss in a bit of pop-culture geek and Private Detective who's read too many Raymond Chandler novels if you must, but in the end, it all leads up to wizard.
But magic doesn't exist, I hear you say. Well, could have fooled me. And if you're so smart, what are you doing here standing in the most disappointing afterlife imaginable talking to a long dead man? No answer? Good. Now be quiet, I'm trying to tell you how I wound up here.
So I'm a member of the part of the world that knows the truth, the secrets hidden from the rest. I'm not part of the Inquisition who actually forces all the various agencies to keep the secret on pain of pain, which I am very thankful for, they all seem like pretty boring guys so I doubt they'd have me if I applied, but just the same, I'm one of the lucky few who are in the know. I'm in on the secret, if you get my meaning. At least, that's what I believed until a week before I died, in which I learned that no, I'm just as ignorant as everyone else on the insignificant speck I come from. Moreso, perhaps.
It was humbling, which would normally be good for me, but in context if just felt excessively cruel.
Now, at the time I was too angry, flat-out terrified and otherwise emotional to really sit down and have a think about where it left me, and besides I didn't have time to, but I can now say without any doubt whatsoever that the universe is even bigger than imagination. And that scares me almost as much as some of the people who live in it.
The first thing to hit me was my smart-alec tendencies, and I suddenly don't feel so clever anymore. Calling someone a Ringwriath seems funny until you cross paths with the real thing and just about wet yourself in terror, then start crying for your mother. I'd seen some bad things up until that point, make no mistake, I'd love to forget all of them, but little compares. And once you do see that sort of thing, and are hit with the realization that it's all true, then you stop feeling oh so clever with your insults and start feeling like a little boy alone in the woods whistling in the dark to keep his mind off the shapes his imagination keeps on populating the murk with.
Comparing someone to a ridiculous super-villain seems funny, and then one of those super-vilains walks in out of nowhere after suddenly having been there all along, and takes over the country in a fair election. I wasn't there to actually see it, but we get a few souls on their way to their final destination who keep us appraised of the situation before they move on, but it's still enough to make me feel like climbing a tower and screaming defiance at the heavens who seem to enjoy insulting me.
The other thing is why I'm still hanging around, why I don't just bit the bullet and cross the curtain to joint the choir invisible, instead of hanging around here with a bunch of other cops accosting passing spirits and keeping them safe from demons and other nasties who plan to steal them on the way to their final journey up the river. It would be so easy, but I keep on holding myself back, and resigning myself to the fact that I would be here for a long, long time.
Why? Because, like Clint Eastwood before me, I had unfinished business.
His name was Randall Flagg, or at least it was most of the time. And he was responsible for everything wrong with the universe at the moment, at least as far as I could see.
Melodramatic? Shut up and listen. What do you know.
A while ago, he'd found the nexus that was the center of all the infinite universes. And he'd decided to use that to take over everything. I'm not sure what his plans were after that, he didn't seem to think I'd understand them, but his execution was pretty good. Find another badguy with plenty of power and intelligence but not much good old fashioned insight and an ego to match, glue his lips firmly to said badguys arse while passing on some advice, and take him to the Dark Tower. That way, his patsy would serve as a fallguy who would take all the heat while he could sit back and experiment, as well as get rid of the band of unlikely heroes that would try and stop him.
Oh, and be an evil bastard, too. Mustn't forget that. I've been hit while I'm down, but never like he hit me. He had my friends killed. Almost all of them. He raped my apprentice, then handed her over to a man just as soulless and sadistically evil as he. He killed my brother, along with most of my friends that he didn't get the first time. And that's just the start of it. All to get me following him.
Well, I came to the Tower, much good it did me. I climbed to the top, and there were three rooms. One led to God, but none of us were up to meeting him in the end. I did catch a glimpse, though, while I was watching the universe end in the third room along. And don't ask me to tell you about either the end of everything or about God, because I still haven't figured it out.
So I caught a hold of life again, but in the end? He's still out there, still plotting, and we didn't stop him. I'm not even convinced we slowed him down. And I'm dead. A point his way. But I have no intention of letting that stop me. Because I mightn't have his perspective, his power or any of the rest, but I intend to get him back.
My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Look me up. I'm not going anywhere.

Richard Seaton

Spoiler

Show

Φ

Where are these words coming from? What do they mean, how do they arrive in your head, and who is sending them? To what purpose? You don't know. Part of you doesn't want to know. But your ship, the Skylark is coming alive, though what it will become, you don't know. All you know for sure, is that you're not the captain anymore. You're a part of the organism, but not the brain, nor even the heart. You're just what keeps the thing healthy, making repairs and other minor alterations, though the majority of them are being taken care of by the ship itself. The closest you can come is the antibodies in a biological beings bloodstream, rather then whatever this is.
"All hail Lord Yawgmoth, the Ineffible! Father of Machines!" You whisper, as the door slides open with a faintly organic sound. "It is He who opened my mind, and it is He who healed me, of sickness, of pain, and of mortality. And it is He who shall lead us across the Multiverse to the heavens, as Gods!"
You don't know who it is you are praying to. Or how you understand the language, or even how your throat forms the alien sounds. It's better that way. But whatever it is, it's already got a hold on you that you fear you'll never break. You haven't slept in days, because when you do your body keeps on moving on it's own, and you wake up to find it taking apart the life-support or any of a thousand other incomprehensible tasks, all of which add up to something you don't understand.
But you will. Evolution is at work here, and you are part of something the scientist within you can barely wait to see. And the rest, what people would call a soul? That doesn't have a say anymore.

Will post John Constantine, Carlos Ramirez and the next Michael Carpenter soon. Waiting on inspiration again, and setting up future games.

[Colesign]

Cool stuff. Very Cool stuff.

But do you really have to turn Richard Seaton into a meat puppet of Yawgmoth? As far as awful fates go, that's really awful.

[Cracklord]

Heavens no! This is a temporary thing, he'll be saved sooner or later, you can count on that. Afterall, you need him to be alive when your evil game comes along (in order to be killed. Ain't it a bitch).
It's just why he's out of action for the apocalyptic game, and hasn't saved the world with super-science. Because he's been enslaved by science far more sophisticated and powerful then his own. When he does recover he'll be the member that opposes Phyrexia, and it's spreading power over the world (it calls itself North Central Positronics, and it's purpose is integrating Phyrexian technology into as many worlds as possible without them knowing. But when the invasion does happen, a few people might get a surprise as to just how much influence they have).

[Colesign]

Heavens no! This is a temporary thing, he'll be saved sooner or later, you can count on that. Afterall, you need him to be alive when your evil game comes along (in order to be killed. Ain't it a bitch).

Exactly!!!

My other worry was that seeing as Richard Seaton blew up a galaxy in his last Book...by throwing another galaxy at it... having him become an agent of Phyrexia would be really, really bad.

But...this makes sense, actually. It does explain why he wasn't around to help Post-Apocalyptic Earth, and At Last, you've answered that ever mysterious question: What Is North Central Positronics? Why, a front for one of Magic the Gathering's most horrendous threats!

This does mean that Dorothy and Richie Jr. will be cut off for a bit. Again. Still, Richie Jr.'s got the memories of Seaton downloaded into the back of his head, and Seaton had already come up with some good ideas on how to either destroy or bind the Red Infection.

...Say, wouldn't that be a cool idea for a future game? A Order of the Tower related storyline where the player characters are all children of some of the characters who formed the Order of the Tower!

After all, Harry Dresden still has a daughter he doesn't know about, who may very well have magical talents. Richard Seaton has a half-vampire boy who'll get a fine super-scientific education, John Taylor and Suzie are expecting, Michael Carpenter has a ****load of kids, and who knows what Solomon Kane and Hellboy have gotten up to?

As a good general rule of thumb, each character would have no more powers/special abilities than both their parents possess.

As for the plot...maybe those rambunctious, lovable kids decide to steal a Bleedship and see the universe, stumbling upon a devious plot against their parents that they must unravel without said parents knowing!

[industrious]

I love your theory, Colesign. I really do.

That being said, you may be counting chickens before they hatch.

[Colesign]

Which theory? Cracklord's story idea about Yawgmoth, my game idea about the "Children of the Order", or something else?

...Wait. You didn't think I was talking about Solomon Kane and Hellboy in the context of them...?

[industrious]

No. That's just...wrong. On so many levels.

The Children of the Order game is a neat concept. And all will be explained in Post-Apocalyptic Earth.

[Colesign]

Yes. Let us not speak of this again.

...and by "All will be explained", I'm guessing you were referring to the reason why none of the Off-Planet civilizations and individuals come into play on Post Apocalypse Earth?

[industrious]

All will be explained.

[Cracklord]

You know, it occurs to me that the last thing they'd want is their children to follow their footsteps. If you were a soldier on Eastern Front, would you bring your children to the trenches to take over after one of the bullets hits you? Maybe show them the ropes as you go?
God no. You'd try to keep them as far from the fight as you can. Besides, most of them are, if not immortal, at least frighteningly long lived. They don't really need successors.

Hellboy: Been single sixty years and counting. I think he'll probably stay that way, whatever the movie feels about the matter. Some characters don't need relationships to define them, and he's one of them.
Solomon Kane: The only woman he ever loved was killed by Nicodemus while he was being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. Not to mention he's not the sort of character who cares for trysts despite the occasional offer. At all. You'd have better luck trying to seduce a statue.
Ramirez: Having a kid would scare him witless. I can see him raising little Maggie, however, and she probably is a wizard.
Eddie Riggs: Sure, I can see him and Ophelia going for it.
Dante: My exposure to him is based on Tygre's snarky explanation, so all I can say is hello Oedipus Elektra complex.
John Taylor: He's going to keep his child as far from all this as he can, because he, better then anyone, understands precisely what sort of evil there is in this universe of ours, and exactly what it can do to a person.
Michael Carpenter: That choice is up to God, and up to his kids. Not to him.

John Constantine

Spoiler

Show

The leather coated mystic finished sketching out the infernal triangle on the floor in blood, mostly his pigs from the butcher but roughly 1/5 his own. Without establishing a connection, it would not go well for him at all. He sprinkled powdered bone into the proper symbols in each of the spaces, painstakingly crafting each one with all the care he could. It was not
good enough to get just the shape correct; bits of his own essence, what would be called a soul if he had one, had to reside within each sigil, giving the necessary energy with which to complete the act and trap him within. At last he was done, and flicked his fingers, closing the circle and completing the rite.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the lines caught aflame, burning fiercely, supernaturally, given that rabidly drying blood was not what you'd call easily combustible. The heat was intense, but in his line of work you got used to the occasional bit of discomfort. He spoke the words he had used once before, and reflected how pleased he was that he did not know precisely what they meant. Whenever he took the time to find out he was physically ill.
This was a seriously bad decision, but need overcame his caution. The flames roared from the center of the symbol to consume the powdered bone sigils, the circle lost in the perfect circle of roaring flame, as the portal stabilized enough for the being called to step through. Constantine gasped as tongues of fire licked his hair, setting it aflame, and it was all he could do not to rock back and try desperately to pat it out. Tears welled in his eyes but he dared not wipe them away lest it spoil the incantation. It took every ounce of his self control but he managed to complete the call without stumbling over any of the phrases. He just hoped that the fire on his scalp wasn't a sign he messed up.
Just as the conflagration threatened to turn his room into a crematorium, Constantine felt the arrival of the Lord of Hell.
“Arise, slave, and behold my glory.” Commanded a deep voice he heard with his head rather than his ears, and Constantine looked at him. He wasn't kneeling, but his eyes were lowered, mostly to protect them. The massive figure of Lord Shax looming above him was ridiculously tall, as though a tower had somehow been animated and given the ability to move. It's dark wings scraped the corners of the room, and its terrible form was concealed by suffocating black smoke. It's talons flex, and it's enormous head, like that of a crow or raven, looks down it's beak at the street magician, massive pupil widening.
"Wot do you soddin' call this, then?" Constantine yelled, pointing at his head. "Think it's funny, do you?" Any normal man would be in the process of crapping their pants. Constantine had met and even conversed with Dream and plenty of terrible things. He'd worked up a resistance to this sort of being. Which wasn't to say he wasn't terrified. It's just he was so used to the feeling it didn't effect him very much.
There was a rumble like an earthquake, and Constantine almost lost his footing as he felt the walls and floor vibrate. For a moment he looked around in alarm, then realized it was the demon laughing. "Afraid of a little fire, insect? Remember, there is plenty more waiting for you on the other side. An ocean of it."
"Pissed off is what I am, you soddin' wanker." He grumbles, having patted his spiky hair with the palms of his hands until it had stopped smoldering. it was still smoking, but that was for a hairdresser to worry about. At least the damage to his skin wasn't too bad, just lightly charred. It probably wouldn't even scar. "Anyway, way I see it, we drew up a contract. You owe me."
"Do I? Refresh my memory." Shax says, talons twitching in a manner that was difficult to read. Maybe he was excited. Maybe he was thinking about fastening them around Constantine's neck and crushing him until every bone in his body cracked under the pressure.
"Pretty standard Faustian stuff. You get my soul when I die. Well, you and everyone else, anyway. And you owe me a service in the meantime, yet to be determined. Well I'm callin' in the marker now. Answer my question, and your side is well and done."
"I see." Shax replied. There was some quality in his tone, some eagerness, that Constantine really should have noticed, but he was still too flustered and annoyed to pay enough attention. "Well, if it washes my hands of you, then I'll tell you anything you wish to know."
"That's right you can." He reaches into his coat, rummages around a moment, then removes a curious golden upside down pyramid hanging on a chain. "There's a spirit in here. I want to know how to destroy it without damaging the soul trap. Or at least, send it on to either your lot or the wolves of different shades up in the sky. Can you do that?"
"You call me for such a simple matter?" He sounds shocked.
"Well, I've saved it for a decade and nothings really suggested itself yet. Why not this? If it does what I want, it's better then anything you'll give me"
"Take it apart and the soul will be released. Ensure it is caught in a circle to keep it from escaping. Then to ensure it passes on, trade it to a demon. Once that is done, put the toy back together and when it is complete you will master it's secrets. A simple matter."
Constantine raises his eyebrows. "Right. Too simple. Well, good enough for me. Off you go then." It was a formal dismissal, though not voiced as one. But the flames continue, and the demon remains where it is.
"You still here?" He asks, flicking his cigarette onto the ground and staring at him, attitude in every crease and wrinkle. "Stay much longer I'll charge you rent. It's my place, and I say you're not welcome."
"The time in which you had a say in matters has passed, slipped through your fingers never to be regained." Shax replies, and now a man would have to be deaf to miss the gloating quality in the words. Constantine opened his mout to ask what the hell he was talking about, but all that came out was a rattling wheeze and a spray of blood. His vision bluring and his hands shaking, he doubled up as he struggle to breathe, but no air was making it to his lungs. Spots danced before his eyes, and hammers pounded from inside his skull.
"Your health. Never take a gift from a demon, you never know what manner of interest will build before we take it back. Suppressing your symptoms took a toll on your body, though you never felt it or guessed what it was going through. Now that nothing is blocking what has been eating away at you without your notice for quite some time, it is all hitting you at once." Shax said, and the room rumbled again as he laughed and laughed. "You didn't notice, too besotted with your own cleverness and the illusion of health, but the world has moved on. The Triumvirate has resolved itself, as I knew it would. Mephisto's gambit failed, and he has fled, leaving his realm behind and all memory of his name erased as he goes into hiding. What choice did he have, once two mortals saved the child's mother from Hell." His eye twinkles with mischief and sadistic glee, as well as pride at having ousted one of his rivals. "I may have had some part in it. And as for Astaroth, his alliance has broken now that his son has refused his destiny, and so his own power is weakened. Alone he could never contest me. Not when I have the Wrath of the Almighty itself locked in my kingdom, imprisoned and bound by my will. Now all I await is the awakening of The Morningstar to name me Seneschal of perdition."
Shax leaned forward, a crackle of energy flashing as he penetrated the impotent barriers of the summoning circle easily. That had never been more then tradition, no circle could hold him, Constantine has been relying on the understanding he had to keep him out of trouble. Apparently, it was a lot more fragile then he'd hoped. A huge taloned hand snatched up the occultist by his chest, crushing it with the snap of breaking ribs as he lifted the man so that they were face to face. Constantine shrieked as he felt his face melt under the heat of the demon’s presence. He could smell his flesh cooking. The hair that remained withered and burned away, and his body caught fire.
"I rule Perdition in all but name. And you have a debt to pay, Constantine. A debt you ran from, but has found you at last." He says, then opens his beak wide, wide enough to swallow him whole in one bite. "It's time to give the devil his due."

This is so I can play him in the afterlife themed one, and also provide a little exposition if you look for it.

Michael Carpenter

Spoiler

Show

He stood on an island, surrounded by bluebells, the air blanketed with fog. He could hear the roar of the ocean, crashing against the rocks just of the coast. The pebbled beach was strewn with the bones of thousands of men.
Amidst the devestation strode a single figure, no more then a silhouette, quickly receding.
"I walked the earth long before the coming of your short-lived race. And I shall continue to walk it long after you are all but a memory."
"Perhaps." Michael said noncommittally.
"I remember the coming of your people. I watched them as they first entered the Green. They were so full of fear. I laughed as their blood was first spilt on the forest floor. And I screamed my fury when our fate became entwined with theirs. They make promises to break them, hold us to compacts that they themselves never keep. It was all a mistake, allowing us to fade as we have, but it is of no matter. Their time shall soon come to an end."
"You are a pitiful creature. You are nothing but a slave to malice and resentment, consumed with bitterness and poison." Michael replied, watching Nuada carefully as he paced back and forth, hands still clasped around the hilt of his sword. He had seen the deadliness in Nuada, and the madness that ate away at him. He knew the elflord could turn on him in an instant. He did not intend to be taken unawares.
"We should have destroyed them! It was in our power. What could they offer us? We didn't need their protection, they needed us. But our kings feared their axes now of iron, and their fire, and so they withdrew. Now we are reduced to trading our magicks and secrets simply to exist in the world we left behind. They were ever weak-willed beings, filled with slyness and tricks. They ingratiated themselves with us, taking what knowledge could be gleaned and giving back little. And they caged us here, in the shadow-world, where all is dreams. Well we shall be free. We shall take back what was ours." He ceased his pacing, and faced Michael squarely.
"Leave this place, mortal." He says, his voice ice. "You are not welcome here."
"No." Michael replied. "It is by my Lord's will that I am here, and I shall not fail him."
"I know your heart, mortal. I know your hopes and desires. Here, nothing is hidden from me. I can guide you along the darkling paths that wend and twine. You could save your daughter from the darkness that threatens, even now." Another shape joins the pacing Elflord, alike and yet unalike. Angular, fine-boned features and glittering yellow eyes, the two were unmistakably twins, though one was soft where the other was hard. Their aristocratic features were scarred identically. Both were almost identical, neither to feminine or too masculine, and together the pair seemed disturbingly unreal.
"That is out of my hands." Michael replied.
"Would you like to see her again? It is already underway. She's already killed your best friend. Why are you here, when that is where you ought to be? Is that not part of your duty? Is that not part of your sworn oath, even your beliefs?"
"Get out of my head." Michael said, never raising his voice but his hands gripping the handle of his sword hard enough that his muscles creaked.
"It's still not too late. Even after what was done to her, even after all she went through, it's not too late. The outcome of her life, and by extension the future of your world, hangs in balance."
"Silence witch." His voice is rough with barely contained fury, the calmness he displayed before having fled in the face of this fresh assault. "Your heart is as rotten as your companions. Your threats mean nothing to me, no more then your temptations. But you must fear me, or you would not offer them. You fear me because you know my path is true."
"I do not lie."
"I believe you." He sounded calm again, his momentary fury quenched. It was easy to forget, but they were not his enemies. Merely the tools God had chosen to test him.
"It's easy to know in your head, but I don't believe your heart knows. Look there." She says, and points behind him.
He can't help it. He turns, to find only the trunk of an ancient oak tree, ancient and knotted and hung with moss. "I see nothing."
"Look again, oh Fist of God."
A wave of vertigo passed over him, but he soon realized he could see something. He aught to have been seeing trees and snow and the clear surface of the lake, but instead he could see...
"No."
It is a bitter thing, to lose a child to evil, before one loses one to death.
"Yes. Why do you doubt it? Don't tell me you were so blinded you never saw what was in her. Never knew what dreams she truly dreamt. How can this be a surprise? Or is it just that you deluded yourself. That you chose not to see what was truly there." She affected a thoughtful look, her eyes glimmering with something unguessable. "What else have you hid from yourself? What else have you never allowed yourself to see?"
Micheal thinks about Molly. There had always been a darkness in her that she hid so well, an instability, a lack of peace. It wasn't that she didn't feel, it's that she felt to well. She couldn't distance herself from all the inequities of the world, or learn to accept them. They had been the first steps down a dark path, one he couldn't turn her away from.
And yet ahead the tunnel stretched, leading back to Chicago, back to his daughter, back to his family, back to his oh so short retirement. He could abandon this, make his way back and try to save her. That was where he ought to be. He had always put his duty to his God before his family, and perhaps these were the consequences.
His faith in God did not excuse him from accepting responsibility. It did not allow him to wash his hands of his daughter, to claim the choice was out of his hands. And it did not excuse blind obedience either.
It was with considerable reluctance that he turned away.
"No." He said, taking the blade and drawing it. It was not the holy blade he had bore as a knight of the Cross, it had not been so much as blessed, and yet the light of God filled him, guiding his arm and eliminating all doubt. "She made her choice. Just as I made mine. I will protect the innocent and fight wickedness where I may. My place is here."
Nuala stepped back, shocked, but her brother smiled a satisfied smile, and Michael realized that this is what he wanted from the beginning. "Then you are a fool, and I thank you." He said, stepping in front of his sister and reaching to his hip, where he removed his weapon with his metal hand, showing marvelous dexterity as he did. He swung the weapon, and by curious design it extended until it was a spear, which he pointed at Michael with evident pleasure and superlative skill. His eyes flared, and he drove the spear forward, the weapon singing through the air as it thrust towards Michael's chest.
Michael leaped out of the way, falling heavily to his knees and only just avoiding being skewered, but it was only the beginning. Nuada simply brought the spear in an arc, hitting him in the corner of his skull with the haft and sending him sprawling.
He got to his feet quickly, blocking the fey's attack with his sword. He held it in two-hands, but even so was brought to his knees by the force of the blow. Desperate now he got to his feet and blocked the next blow, which shuddered up his arms and sent him reeling back two steps. And Nuada came on relentlessly, giving him no time to recover.
The elf was without a doubt the finest warrior he'd ever seen, his entire body a finely honed weapon that had been taken to the very peak of skill and conditioning his immortal body could sustain. Each blow followed perfectly from the next, expertly maneuvering him back with a timeless barrage of attacks, without pause and without remorse, and any of them would fell Michael were he a little slower.
Nuada may have been slight, but there was power in him, and every blow sent Michael reeling. His hands were numb from the jarring blows, and he had no time to even consider launching a riposte.
The rolling mist continued to build around them, cloaking the island completely, so that all that existed seemed to be the two of them. Nothing else mattered.
Michael franticly backtracked, using all his skill and battle-experience to remain alive for another few seconds. His arms were tiring, the heavy blade felt like a leaden weight in his arms, and increasingly he was failing to turn the elflords blows aside. He was yet to be wounded seriously yet, but it was only a matter of time, his right leg couldn't keep it up, and every drop of blood sapped away more of his strength.
Then he saw an opening. Turning himself rather then the expected parry, he avoided the thrust and swung his sword, pouring every ounce of strength he had left, his whole body thrown behind the strike.
Nuada ducked, the sword sailing over his head, then backhanded Michael who hit the ground, spitting blood. Scrambling, he threw himself aside to avoid the spear as it came again. The weapon sunk into the ground, and Michael was upright.
His arms were aching, and he backed off, panic clawing at his heart. He put everything behind that blow, and it's timing was perfect. Yet Nuada had contemptuously avoided it. It was that moment he knew he was outmatched, that he would not win this fight no matter what he tried.
Well, so be it then.
Clearing his mind, he pushed the fear aside and rose to meet the elflord. pale fire flickered along the edge of his sword, and he felt fresh vigor infuse his limbs.
With the name of God on his lips, he threw himself at the elf, thrusting and slashing. He feinted high and came low, swinging his blade in murderous arcs. Each blow was met by the spear, and the enchanted weapons came together again and again. He was losing momentum, and thereby losing the offensive. If Nuada began attacking again, he knew it was all over, and yet despite his best efforts he hadn't managed to land a blow.
Michael and the elf battled fiercely, Nuada dodging and weaving around Michael's strikes, Michael no longer giving ground. For a time it seemed that they would battle forever, a never-ending duel within the mists as time lost all meaning, and their blades were a blur as they cut and thrust.
No end was in sight, then understanding came on Michael in a rush and he stepped back, lowering his blade. "This is not a test of prowess." he said, shaking his head that he had not realized it earlier.
Nuada came on, lunging with his spear, and for a moment Michael moved to parry, then at the last moment he reversed his grip on his sword and thrust it into the earth, kneeling on one knee. He lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck, and closed his eyes.
Nuada looked down, contempt and fury twisting his features into something ugly, and lifted his spear to kill the man, then something caught the corner of his eye. He turned, and his eyes widened.
"No." He said softly, as though he could deny it with the word. He held for a moment, looking as though he was resolving to kill Michael anyway and to hell with the consequences, then replaced his spear furiously and turned his back. "I will remember this, knight. Next time we meet, nothing will stay me. I shall be free to scatter your bones." Then he was gone.
Michael opened his eyes, and they widened still further with shock. The mists parted before him, opening a passage through the fog. A beauteous figure rose from the lake, wreathed in light and garlanded with lilies. No ripple marked the lakes surface as she emerged. Her hair was bright and the color of sunlight, and her form was as pure as a vision from god. Tears ran unashamedly down Michael's cheeks. No power could have made him turn away at this moment. The Lady of The Lake floated towards Michael, her bare feet inches above the surface of the water.
Barely daring to breathe, Michael rose to his feet and stepped into the shallows to meet the figure, stretching out his faltering hands to take the chalice.
It was heavy, and he felt a strange tingle run up his arms. Looking down into the Holy Grail's fathomless depths, he saw something that filled him with joy. He saw hope, he saw prayers answered, and faith rewarded. He saw that as dark as the universe might be, every living being within was offered unconditional love.
He drew the chalice up to his lips, but hesitated a moment before drinking. It was said that only those pure of heart and devoid of any hint of taint upon their soul could drink from this cup.
Then he dismissed his doubts and took it to his lips.

Listen, strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Governance comes from mandate from the masses, not some farcical aquatic ceremony.
I'm going to give him a few other pieces of Knightly regalia as well, I think. Oliphant, Roland's horn (also known as the Horn of Valere, and the Horn of Susan) Saint George's Iron box, and maybe something else for luck.

Next up is Ramirez, and then Nuada himself, then, of course, Randall Flagg.

[darkblade]

Just to add to that.

Tsukasa: He's not going to want a kid, considering that he himself is the son of the Great Leader of Shocker (which given some stuff said in the shatter-verse history we tried to compile may have been the Red Skull) and would be suitably paranoid of having his kid turn out to be evil, particularly since his only potential love interest is part monster and may not even be biologically compatible.

Seaton would probably support Richard Jr going into being a science hero but I haven't read any of his books so I know next to nothing beyond what Colseign posted.

Also I am going to be a bit busy for the next few days and may not be able to post fully.

[industrious]

Awesome stuff as always, Cracklord.

That being said...I have some background stuff planned myself for Nuada for the PA game.

[Cracklord]

Suit yourself.
The Nuada I am intending to play is only half movie version, 3/8ths folklore version, with a bit of other stuff gleaned from other bits of urban fantasy tossed in for good measure, and without any 'clap your hands if you believe' stuff, which I am declaring war on.

[industrious]

The way I see it, at some point between VII and VIII, there is a war between the Fae and the Knights of the Last Order. A pretty big one, too. The casualties include Maeve, Lily, Mab, and Mother Summer.

This, in turn, effectively shatters the Winter and Summer Courts. While they still retain power, they no longer dominate all of Faerie, and the Wyldfae, including Nuada, thereby gain power proportionately, even though the sum total of Faerie power has been greatly diminished. V's actions further destroyed the Seasonal Courts, and by the time of the PA game, there are no formal Courts of Summer and Winter. There are allegiances, to be sure, and alliances aplenty; Nuada will enjoy a great bit of support. But Faerie is still far from what it once was, and those who follow him hope that by ridding the world of the humans will they regain their lost power.

[Cracklord]

The way I imagine it is this:

Spoiler

Show

In the beginning, the fey were inhabiting the world. The Nevernever wasn't so far apart in those days, indeed you cross a shadow by accident and find yourself in the Twilight Woods. In this time, humans hadn't come to England, and the wildfae inhabited the real world, those of summer and winter sleeping in the shadow realm when it was not their time to reign.
However, they were an empire on the decline, and what's more they knew it. Their numbers were going down, their magic was no longer being used for great things, and all the rest of the signs were there that the end was coming. So they probably would have faded on their own, much as Nuada and his detractors would hate to admit it.
And then the Picts arrived. At first, the fey largely ignored them, though a few decided to hunt them for sport instead. The picts feared them with superstitious dread, and came the worst of most of the encounters, but it's important to remember that they did have a few advantages. There were more of them, for one thing, they didn't depend on the earth for life and magic (I'll let where Human magic comes from be explained later), and though they were a fractious bunch they worked together far better then their enemies. If they didn't, they would never have had a chance. And as they put their mark on the world. building huts, farmland, and otherwise taming the wilderness, the fey's power weakened, though this early they didn't even realize it. There isn't much the picts could do with their copper hatchets against them.
And that was why they weren't seen as a threat. Not this early, anyway. Had they made a concentrated effort to get rid of the humans at this point, they might have saved themselves. But they didn't.
So the picts continued what could generously be called the beginnings of habitation (not civilization. That was to come), and then the Celts arrived, and suddenly things changed. The Celts were more advanced. They built castles and collected heads, and unlike the picts they'd made deals with the spirits of where they came from, whom protected and helped them. More to the point, they had bronze, and they had better organization, better crops and progress in the livestock front, and more will to win.
So now the fey are watching bermused as all the land they don't want is getting eaten up by this ever-expanding society, whore are carving on monuments, wearing white robes for sacrifices, and, as I mentioned before, cutting off heads (the celts loved heads). They're building castles (glorified forts with over enthusiastic fortification) and villages, and otherwise making their mark on the land, and the elves are beginning to realize, uneasily, that they don't own everything anymore.
The first war begins, the fey against the men who are well in the process of inheriting the earth. And the men take frightful casualties that they can replace, while the fey grieve at every lost soldier. The spirits guarding the celts aren't as strong, so far from the land they are tied to, but still strong enough to negate the magical advantage, which isn't much use anyway outside their own homes due to the earth being increasingly covered by men.
So they did the unthinkable, and they negotiated. The celts agreed, gave them the odd sacrifice and left their forests alone.
And then the game changed, with a teutonic invasion, and iron thrown into the mix, that terrible symbol of industrialization, of human forcing nature to adapt to it, that burns the very souls of the fey to nothing, and kills the land. And now it's not even slightly even. They hold on for long enough for the Romans to arrive, who show no interest in negotiating and drive them all out past Hadrim's wall along with all the humans who won't settle under the new regime, where the displaced begin to sicken and die, deprived of their connection to the earth.
Then the Romans left and King Arthur arrived, who did many great things, as I'm sure you know. He even made those remaining convert to Christianity, which is why several now serve as what is effectively low class angels (including their overall lord (Guess who that is. Go on. Guess)). Then Mab was led astray by a man with murder in his heart, who became the first Winter Knight and killed the King (Mordred would go on to have other adventures that don't bare speaking about. Seriously, you don't want to know). However, King Arthur's death may have shattered civilization, but it did not improve the situation, as once he died the Saxons started coming in droves, who had not only iron in their hands, but iron in their hearts and souls. So that was the end for them, and so they joined their kin in the shadow world, returning periodically when the stars are right to the land they are still connected to. But as industrialization continued, they were increasingly cut off, until they can't really be said to be part of the real world at all. So they settled in the Nevernever, with the two Courts. Unfortunately, they became bound to it, and are now trapped there. So they live their, and plot and scheme, but the problem is they can only return to the world properly on the right occasions, and only for short periods.
And then the making deals came about. They don't care about souls, they care about realness, for want of a better term. Because the more they take from you, the more real they become themselves. The more real they become, the closer they come back to our world.
Nuada, however sees what V did and the current state of the world as the perfect opportunity to wipe the slate clean and return properly. By killing everyone and reclaiming the earth.

Based on folklore, Once and Future King, Dresden Files, Night Watch, Marvel Comics, Robert E. Howard, Tolkien, and a few other influences.

As for how fae works in my mind, Oberon (Freyr) is wed to whichever queen is dominant until the season is over, at which point he trades. They command their courts, and he commands the various lords of the wyldfae, who pay him tribute but otherwise do their own thing. Which he lets them do, more or less. He mostly settles disputes and tries to talk his two queens into a threesome (joking about the last one). He's essentially the dominant being in the fey (pagans weren't as much the feminists as wiccans would have you believe), and he only is second in power to his father, who is Santa Claus, and more or less serves the function of mother Winter and Summer as far as the wyldfae are concerned. And yes, he was converted to Christianity by King Arthur, so now uses his powers mostly to protect children (he does not give them gifts. That's commercialism talking, though he does appreciate the attention).
The wyldfae are actually the bulk of the fai, though they tend to pick allegiances whenever there is a war (which Oberon always keeps out of). It's just Dresden never encounters them because they aren't tied to America (specifically Chicago), so seldom find their way over there, what with the ocean in the way (the season courts are effectively worldwide, though the hemispheres make it confusing). I mean, sure, Dresden thinks he saves the world all the time, but he's a lot more provincial then he realizes. Lots of county sheriffs think they crack the case of the century locally as well.
The Jotuns, who joined about the time the Viking settled, join whichever side is appropriate (Surtar joined Summer, Thrym joined Winter, and the welsh giants remained as part of the wyldfae). The dwarves and elves all owe their allegiance to Oberon, but can choose a side if they want to. The various Greek and Spanish beings aren't really part of any faction unless they decide to be. And so on.
Of course, they are mostly from Western Europe, since the Djinn empire starts next, then the Heavenly Kingdom, and so on. But they all have vaguely similar stories of how humanity took over and tossed them into the spirit world.

Now that you've inspired me, and while I'm on a roll, after Colesign finishes his Crisis of infinite Dracula thing, we'll do the war of the Last Order against the Fey.

Ramirez/Lex Luthor

Spoiler

Show

"Pleased you could take the time to see me, Ramirez."
"Well, when the President of the United States asks for me, I don't have much choice." The latino wizard replies, not meeting the mans eyes.
"Oh, I'm not here as the president. I'm here as a scientist."
"Are you." He fell silent for a moment, but when Luthor remained silent himself he looked up and led him on. "I take it you've discovered something interesting to me?"
"You might say that." Luthor replied. "It took me a while, all sorts of... tests, but I figured out how your magic works. It began as an intellectual exercise, I was confronted with a problem I didn't like and wanted to understand it. And then control it, naturally. I am surrounded by people with something I am defenseless against, allies of convenience and enemies of substance, and so I am vulnerable. So I decided I wanted to know more. Besides, I didn't like the implication that I am inferior to other people simply due to sheer dumb luck of genetics and interbreeding amongst the elite."
He pauses for a sip out of the decanter on his desk. "So I did some tests, to determine the nature of your powers. And as it happens, you're not a metahuman, but you are quantifiably different. But it's not a matter of genes, or mutations, or any other bits of biological wisdom. It's something far simpler."
"Yes. It's magic."
"No such thing. You see, what you so naively call magic is actually a far more complicated scientific process. And it exists in everyone, to a greater or lesser extent. What it is, in fact, is their life-force, which radiates from them, and the leakage is dispersed across the world. Where the concentration is higher, it runs together, in a manner not unlike the wind currents of the earth, and serve a similar function. Think of it like body temperature. And if you're affinity is higher then the average, then you are an ordinary human being."
"Well yes... higher?"
"Higher. And then there are those born with less. Those who are less intense then the surrounding world. To stretch the body heat metaphor, the majority heat up the world, while the others absorb the warmth the others produce, receiving a constant influx of power while the rest carry on aimlessly filling up the world. What you are is a parasite. Your magic is not applied will. The human mind can triumph over many things, I know that better then anyone, but it cannot make fire out of nothing. What makes the fire is life leached away from every individual you come into contact with, and some physics thrown in for good measure. You yourself are less a wizard then almost anyone else. Even your longevity is a sham."
Ramirez opened his mouth, then closed it, blinking. It actually made a lot of sense. It would explain how some beings existed on belief, because they were unconsciously being fed magic by the masses of humanity who believed in them. It answered so many questions, why cruel people only seemed to be able to summon up negative energy, and a thousand other little irregularities he'd never even thought of before.
"I thought you should know that. You can go." He said, looking down at the papers on his desk.

+ + + + +

Parker Robbins didn't have a second to react when the man grabbed him from behind, ripped his hood away, and forced his hands into handcuffs. There were two schools of how to handcuff a man. Less freedom if they handcuff you from behind, but they can't watch your hands either. This man settled on faith in the handcuffs, and forced his arms behind his back.
Then he pulled a black bag over his head with more then average strength, and forced him into the backseat of a car, taking his shoes as well. It was a nice car, he could tell by feel. Clean, leather seats, plenty of leg space, and the engine barely rattled. Probably something expensive and European. It even had that new car smell. He couldn't speak behind the bag, his voice was too muffled, so he bore the wait in silence. If the man wanted to kill him, he wouldn't take half an hour driving to wherever the place was. He'd just drop him at the bottom of the river. So he simply held still and tried to figure out what to do.
And the trip stretched on. The car rumbled to a stop a few times, then started again after waiting a minute. Picking up passengers? He doubted it, he could only hear the slow, steady, regular breathing of one man, the driver who had captured him. The man had used mixed martial arts to subdue him, and was clearly in good practice. Special forces at least, although the thought of being subdued by some name and number rankled him quite a bit.
At last the car pulled to a stop and the engine died. He heard a door open and felt a rush of fresh air across his exposed skin. The door opened to his right and the bag was yanked of him. He looked up at the man who had dragged him here, and his face fell.
From neck to foot, his lean form was enclosed in tightly moulded form-fitting leather and kevlar, as well as the occasional steel plates over his vitals. He was well armed, and built to muscular perfection, like a male anatomy cross-section in a textbook. And Parker had seen his face before. His features were saturnine and gloomy, somewhat gaunt, but classically well-formed enough to still be handsome, even accounting for the ravages of age, the leathery skin and scar tissue. His remaining eye was deep-set and unblinking, and it was impossible to decide what color it was, though it gave the impression of looking into countless fathoms of ice. His other was covered by a black patch, and the scars around suggested it had been ripped from the socket. A high, broad forehead, marked him as an idealist and dreamer, but even so he looked tough enough to make Parker feel like a soft-boiled egg.
"Slade Wilson." He says, doing his best to appear in control of the situation despite being more or less completely at the mercenaries mercy. Slade tossed his wild white hair in a manner reminiscent of a lions mane, and gave Parker a crocodilian smile, then reached down, his fingers closing around the front of Parker's shirt. He paused a moment, then hauled him to his feet, and pushed him down the path. It was then that Parker realized where he had been dragged. The White House.
The Special Services at the gate and patrolling the doors gave them both odd looks and lowered their hands meaningfully to their guns, but didn't actually act on their glowers, and Slade ignored them. Going for an angle of wounded dignity, Parker did the same thing.
The double doors swung open, and Parker was shoved into the oval office. The handcuffs were removed after Slade patted him down to make sure he wasn't concealing a weapon and ignored the japes about 'wanting to feel me up, or aren't I a little old for your taste?', but the hood and shoes were not returned, leaving him feeling almost naked.
Lex Luthor is handsome as well, in a classical sense, with high-cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a strong jaw, with a faint scar across his lip. Even so, there was something remotely repellant about him, some way he held himself, perhaps, maybe the casual arrogance in every line of him, that set alarm bells in the mind. His clothes don't help matters, he's dressed in an exquisite white white jacket and pants, meticulously pressed and with diamond cufflinks. A black glove on his right hand adds something remotely sinister, as if that was needed.
Lex looks up, and does not offer Parker a seat, or a glass from the decanter next to a stack of letters and his computer. He presses his fingertips together, as though pondering something complex, then at last speaks. "When they say an 'offer you can't refuse', they were taking a lead from me, Parker. Which is why you hang around abandoned warehouses making drug deals and keep out of Gotham, and I rule the country and manage all the production and industry in most of our cities. It's not a matter of luck, it's because if you do it well enough, most people will applaud you for it. Whether what you do is crime or not, it's a matter of doing it well."
"I don't hear an offer in there." Parker replied, curious despite himself. With Luthor as a patron, suddenly his future was looking a lot brighter. Things had been hard, of late.
If Luthor heard him, his only sign was a slight shift in the direction of his explanation. "Recently, I have been working towards a goal. That goal is humanity retaking the reigns of it's own fate. That goal is me and several right-thinking humans of influence and power removing them all, one way or another. It won't be as clean as I'd like, of course, but I can assure you a minimum of loss of life, and opportunities aplenty for the victors."
"You want to fight all of them?" Parker said incredulously, trying to figure out if Luthor had lost it. But if he had gone of the deep end, there were no outside signs of it. He looked calm and in control of himself. Of course, he always did.
In the world they lived in, the underworld were men used their talents to try to unmake society in their own dreams out of megalomania, psychopathy and a million other reasons, Luthor was a name that demanded and received the awe that was it's due. When they wanted to frighten each other they told Joker stories, true, but when they wanted to impress or inspire each other they talked about the man who set himself up against what was probably the strongest being in the universe, despite having no superpowers of his own except for his intelligence and sheer grit.
Luthor smiled his stainless steel grin, and lifted the phone as though it were an animal he'd hunted and killed himself, that he now intended to cook and eat. "No. I want to kill them all. Remove them as an issue. Wipe the slate clean. And I want you to help."
For a moment, the sheer ludicrous power of the idea struck Parker, and he wanted to say yes for no other reason then because this man was asking it. But he shook himself out of it quickly. He hadn't gotten where he was by moving without thinking and following his sudden impulses, and it was clear in an instant exactly how stacked out of Lex's favor the odds were, president or not.
"Join your gang? No thanks. They never work." Parker says, losing interest. "And I got enough problems without putting on a costume and picking a fight out of my league. I've got problems, but I also have a good thing going in New York, and I don't intend to lose it on a pointless gesture."
"Fatalism? Self-interest? No wonder they never work." Luthor replies, his voice as soft and clear as it was when he started. "And there is nothing I can say to make you reconsider?"
"Did I stutter?"
"Very well then." He presses a button on his phone in a manner that makes it very clear he had assumed it would turn out this way and only kept up pretenses for formalities sake. "The IRS just froze your accounts, giving you no liquid assets. My people just repossessed your offshore accounts. And I just brought all your investments at two cents a share. I even bought your bank so I can have the pleasure of foreclosing you personally. Which means I owe you just under five thousand dollars." He reaches into his wallet, then pauses a moment. "After ninety-nine percent taxation, which as president I just decided to institute in your case, that comes to almost fifty dollars. Here, keep the change." He slaps a note on the table.
Parker blinked, uncomprehending. "You can't do that!" And he was pretty sure that Luthor couldn't, at that.
"Can't I? I make the rules, and I say they don't apply to me. Even if I was accountable, which I am not, by the way. I have the money to make all the problems go away, and I have the sort of connections you can't dream of. In fact, I can do anything I want. Or do you think this office is for show? I'm president, and my platform is free energy, clean water, production up enough for people to work and even occasionally to make new jobs, and no more inflation, as well as a decent system to offset all those super-powered people running around and keep them under control. And because nobody else can offer that, I've got better job security then anybody else in the country."
Parker only stuttered. Lex smiled like a shark, and spread his hands, now openly mocking him. "What, you thought moving to the big leagues was all fun, games and respect you haven't earned? Welcome to the jungle. Oh, and by the way, right now you're thinking you don't need to take this and you can get revenge, because you don't have anything to risk or lose. But it's easy to think that. So before you do anything you'll regret, here is a list." He reaches into the letters, and removes a piece of crisp white paper, which he places onto the table and points at the first line with his gloved hand.
"That's the name of your mother, and her room in the asylum where she gets special care. Even preferential treatment. So very noble of you, looking after her like that. Should have left her to die in the street, so she couldn't be used against you. I would. Great men aren't pulled down by others, Parker. But you had to leave her where anyone can find her. Now look at the next name. That's your girlfriend (she's pregnant again, isn't she?) and the address she's living at with your daughter. Your child is four already and you still haven't made an honest woman of her. That's low. No wonder this country needs me to save it."
"Oh, don't look so shocked, I have you under observation, Parker. I know everything that happens, because knowledge is power, and so I take great care to be well-informed. I know where she has her hair done, now that she can afford to, and I know which magazines she buys. I know who your little girls friends are, and where they play when they aren't at school." He pauses.
"Well, I don't know personally, I have people to know that for me. But that's hardly the point, the information is a phone call away. Speaking of which, here are your mistresses and favorite prostitutes. Clearly a man of great appetites, if this list is anything to go by. The numbers next to them are their phone numbers, since they move around so much. New apartments, jewelry, who knows what else? Quite expensive, I imagine. Think any of them will stand-by you with your reversal of fortunes? Well, if they do, Parker, that just gives me more leverage. So I suppose if I want to make a point to you, I'll just have to tell one of the men I keep around for just such an eventuality to go and have them killed."
"Fine." Parker snarled, wanting nothing more then to wring the bald man's neck.
"See, this is why you don't get attached to other people. It makes you easy to threaten, and unable to carry out what you need to in order to survive. If you'd just left your mother when she became a burden and your girlfriend when you started fornicating with everyone who caught your eye, I wouldn't be able to -" He pauses, pointedly and exaggeratedly, then raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
"I said fine. I'll join the club, I'll wear the shirts, say the slogans whatever. Just leave them out of it and don't take away my money." He looks up into Luthors cold, unblinking eyes, and quickly lowers his own, wishing he hadn't. It's not a gaze you want to meet. "Please."
The president's eyes narrow, but his smile is triumphant. "No. Too late. Nobody says no to Lex Luthor, Parker. Particularly not a second-rate with delusions of grandeur like you. And if I can threaten you like this, anyone can, which means that you're at the mercy of every thug with a gun and a certain lack of scruples. I will just put your fashion accessories on someone more disposed to rational thinking, and less disposed to acting the fool. I'd wear them myself, except I can't help but think how terrible an idea it is to make yourself a conduit to those of a demonic persuasion. I prefer to be my own man." He leans back and snaps his fingers. "Miss Graves? Show this little vermin the door. I think we're done here."
"Like hell we are!"
Lex gave him no more attention then he would a mouse, squeaking in the corner. "No need to call Deathstroke. I'm sure he can make his own way home. Isn't that right, Robbins?"
Parker gave no sound, no moments warning, as in one fluid movement he grabbed a letter opener and dove for Luthor's throat. He was a foot away when he hit an immovable barrier and his wrist broke with an audible crack. The air rippled slightly, then returned to normal. Luthor only smiled. "A forcefield, of course. I always take preventative measures. It keeps me safe from violence. And extortion as well." He taps his nose with one long thin pianists finger. "Plan for the worst. Always plan for the worst, and you'll rarely be caught unprepared.
Parker Robbins felt a vicelike hand close around his shoulder, and looked up into the face of a statuesque amazon beauty dressed in a slightly too tight to be formal chauffeur uniform, with an expression of stern disproval on his face.
"Please. Before we have to kill him." Luthor says, still smiling, eyes looking up at his personal assistant. "He'd make a terrible mess, and I'd miss the pleasure of enjoying his downfall and eventual death. It'll be rather like throwing him into a shark pool, like the old days, except taken over a period of weeks rather then moments." He looks at Parker again. "If you want my advice, use that money you have, to catch a taxi home, and enjoy your last night with a roof over your head, then steal a car and hope the police find you before your old associates. They won't be able to help you, you're long past help, but it might buy you a few more days. And don't bother going to the media, because they'll investigate you as well, and you don't have anything to hold them off anymore. In the end, I'll come of as looking like the good guy as far as the public is concerned. Don't try the unconventional groups either. They'll just kill you. And if you go to the metahumans... well, they'll probably take my side, since you don't know anything useful about what I'm planning, so they'll just dismiss whatever you say. And anyway, this sort of justice appeals to them. Not the one based on reasonable doubt, presumption of innocence, and the rule of evidence, they always go with the one that relies on summary judgement, perceptions, and stereotypes where you punch evil-doers in the face. Which is more or less what I just did, except I hit you where it will really hurt."
He pauses for a moment, almost philosophically, then returns to the present. "You have no resources. You can no longer access the powers that let you become a threat in the first place, and your old accomplices smell blood in the water, and look forward to a future where you are taken out of the way. You're finished. Enjoy your few remaining days on the street, alone and destitute, because your enemies closing in, and first hand experience tells me that there is a hell waiting for you. And nobody can help you. You might as well be an unperson." He smiled like a shark. "I think we're done here."
That his smile was gone, and he theatrically checked his watch. "Well, I have a phonecall with Doctor Victor Von Doom. As amusing a diversion this is, I have better things to do. Some of us actually have a purpose." He waves his hand, and Mercy Graves nods, then drags the protesting man out of the office, forcefully removing him from the White house, through the doorway and tossed onto the street outside the gate like so much refuse, with no shoes, nothing to his name but $50, and a few people he knew who'd no doubt already heard and written him off.

Also, next up is actually going to be Nuada himself, then Eddie Riggs, then Randall Flagg.

Finally, anyone want to resume this?

[AnimeKid]

Sure, I had always liked where I was going with Sartorius. I also hope that people still want to continue the Kingdom Hearts game on Ratpackrp as well.

[Cracklord]

As long as people post, the story continues.

[industrious]

Believing that Luthor is lying, myself, about magic. Has to be.

And Cracklord? That's how things were, at least. Now, the Seasonal Courts are gone. Flat out gone. Oberon is dead, or at the very least nobody's seen him. Sinterklaas, likewise. Ditto the 3rd most powerful Wildfae (and most useful for anyone seeking to become more powerful), Puck.

Picture of Sinterklass:

Spoiler

Show

[imghttp://twitchfilm.com/news/sint-****-maas.jpg[/img]

Could we do the war against the Fae after the PA Game? I've already written in the references to it for my game. Like how it started, and the situation of what happened after it ended.