Character Creation Chain

Jared Parks

"Corporal Parks, care to tell me what you're doing?"

"Sorry Sarge, I picked this up without thinking, and it opened."

"You picked...SQUAD! Squad, stand to! Now, Corporal-"

"It's OK Sarge, I know. Seen it before, with Harrison. I got maybe a dozen or so blinks left, then I'm gone. I tried tossing my tags over there, but the field was already too strong."

"Look, Parks, is there anything..."

"Nah, Sarge, its cool. No one knows what happens on the other side, do they? Maybe it'll be a sweet deal, maybe just nothin', maybe...."

"Jenkins! Get on the horn. I want an artifact team here pronto. Another of those damn boxes just swallowed one of my men. So long, Jared Parks. Keep the faith."


August Rios
 
August Rios

'Fine. Put it anywhere. I'll open it later.'

Perhaps the size of the box should have made her more curious, but there wasn't much that distracted her when she was doing her crossword.

She'd been stuck on 6 Down for about half an hour already. A six letter word. Amazed by a brief wind. Not, she had already decided, Shiver, which would have needed a T.

The delivery men left and she tipped them off-handedly as she allowed her gaze to alight on the crate for the first time. The bare wood was stamped with liberal helpings of This Way Up and Fragile and rested, the wrong way up, precariously against the china cabinet. It was easily a head or so taller than her and about as wide. She wondered how she would open it. She didn't have many handiman tools about the house and was pretty sure that there would be no crowbars among the ones she did have.

It didn't matter.

About twenty minutes later, as the sun had set and she had begun to make dinner, the lid of the box creaked open against the nails that held it in place. A small trickle of dust, that looked a little like soil, shook loose at its base and soon, with something approaching the sound of a contained explosion, the lid came away from the case and a figure tumbled out, heals-over-head, onto the linoleum floor.

'Ouch!' the man said as he fell. 'What, exactly, is the point in saying which way up something is supposed to be if nobody bothers to read the labels?'

She stared, not surprisingly, in some surprise.

'Who -?' she began to say, but by the time the sound had begun to make itself noticed, she had already been interrupted.

'The name's Rios,' the man said. 'I understand you have something of a reputation for rehabilitating vampires.'

'Yes,' she said, reaching for the stake she habitually kept in the belt at the back of her jeans. 'I believe I have.'

'My card,' he said with something of an old-world flourish as he handed her, as presaged, his card.

She took the item with one hand as her other struck to his heart with the wooden stake. He howled with pain and surprise and his remains collapsed as a heap of dust to the floor at her feet.

She read the card.

'Of course!' she exclaimed with exultant awe as she reached for the crossword puzzle and inserted the word, 6 down ...

AUGUST.


Holly Derkhardt
 
The footsteps picked up pace behind me. Sweat was rolling off my forehead as I looked for a place to hide. There, a door. I ducked inside the building. I hid in the shadows and prayed. The door opened and the woman entered reaching for my soul. I was afraid of this, it was Holly.
Holly was a collector, a soul collector. She was neither human nor spirit. This gave her a distinct advantage for dealing with whatever she was pursuing. Her long flowing dark hair looked more like a cape as it moved with her every step closer to me.
I reached out my hands to stop her, but she shimmered and passed through them reaching into my very being. She drew back and I could feel my soul slipping away. She smiled looking me straight in the eyes, “Didn’t think you could run from Holly Derkhardt, did you? I always find my mark.”


Vincent Trophy
 
VINCENT TROPHY

Vince was the kind of guy who knew black was black and white was white. Shoot first and don't bother asking questions. When it came to women he was old fashioned like a steam train. Girls were a means to get from A to B.
The closest he ever came to love was when he serviced his weapons. Polishing the barrel of his automatic taser rifle was the closest he came to a ritual of worship.
Life for Vincent Trophy was simple, dark and hostile...and that was just the way he liked it.

Felicity Darkheart-Brown
 
Felicity Darkheart-Brown
Felicity Darkheart-Brown, elegant lady of society, glamorous style icon, generous source of alms to the poor folk, and... utterly remorseless serial murderer.

Lady Felicity has caused the deaths of no fewer than fifty individuals; each one falling victim to an exotic and undetectable poison distilled from her collection of prized foreign orchids. She strikes seemingly at random, and at all levels of society, from the Lords of high estates, to the common wretches that are desperate enough to accept a morsel of food with no questions asked.

It was Lady Felicity who dispatched the detested Lord Chamberlain Rufus Sewell-Logan; though it was no act of kindness on her part to the thousands put to the lash under his lamentable reign. Lord Rufus was found dead sitting in his leather reading chair with his breeches around his ankles. His documents of state were strewn around the floor by his chair as though he had experienced a sudden extreme and fatal stroke.

No one questioned the residue of a lingering kiss on his temple - a small scarlet ring indicating an indiscretion the servants would never speak of. Nor would anyone link the oddly similar fate of Sewell-Logan's valet to his master's untimely death. Few were observant enough to recall he was the man that attempted to wipe off the evidence of the tryst before the officers of the Justice arrived.

The Lord Chamberlain had invited death into his personal rooms; a terrible and utterly heartless monster that hides beneath a veneer of beauty.

The most terrifying monsters are the ones that can hide in plain view.




Compell "Bombast" Jones
 
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Compell "Bombast" Jones

A charismatic man, what one would expect from a middle means man living in the early 1800s. He has a grudge against the duke, and will do anything to satisfy it.

"Harry!" I shouted, hoping he would hear me over the din of the London street.

"What?" he asked, exasperated. "What do you want from me now, peasant?"

His words cut me deeply. We had been best friends since we'd met in Southampton as young boys. It seemed now that he was a duke, friends didn't matter, even if it was one from the past.

"Never mind," I spat, not caring now if he was hurt or not.

As I turned around, away from the carriage, I nodded to the masked assassin hidden on the street corner. He nodded back, an expression of pure triumph on his face. He had been waiting to kill this man ever since the duke threw him down in the dirty street as a boy. He was perfect for my plan.


Kai Aeron
 
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“Kai, there’s one on your six! Break left, help me engage him!” Jayson commands into his comlink. Jayson’s voice was still ringing in her helmet as her ship suddenly changes direction. She holds her breath as her ship pulls away from the enemy craft just as it explodes into a ball of flames. “Yee Ha! The rest of ‘em are bugging out Kai! You wanna’ chase ‘em?” Jayson asks even though he already knew the answer. “No, let’s regroup with the others and head back to the carrier.” Kai answers as she takes another look at her HUD. She knows too well the tactics of her enemy. They may be off her scope, but they are just waiting for someone to follow them. They head home to the Midway.
They land and secure their fighters on the USS Midway, home the Fighting 5th. As Kai Aeron climbs out of her cockpit, she sees the damage the enemy caused to her ship. Had the weapon struck her ship a few inches higher, she would be dead. “Must be my lucky day.” She mumbles as she turns and leaves the flight deck heading towards the bar.

Terrance Sun
 
Terrance Sun

The creator of the popular young adult fantasy series The Gut-bursting Horror-Zombies of Fearmont High, Terrance Sun has been found dead in his cave in the Andes mountains, where he moved five years ago to escape his ever-growing hordes of shambling fans.
Apparently killed by a swarm of starving weasels, Sun's remains were identified via DNA and by relatives who said they recognized bits and pieces, as well as a mysterious ring found at the scene, which Sun's brother claims his brother had found in an abandoned mineshaft in Peru during a family visit there in 1984.
Sun's funeral was attended by thousands of undead-costumed geeks, who sang a song written especially for the occasion, entitled:
The Sun is Shambling.

NORBERT Q. MILQUETOAST
 
NORBERT Q. MILQUETOAST

Eton educated Norbert, known simply as Norb, is the unlikely new winner of musics prestigious Mercury Awards. Since the release of his debut album 6 months ago he has been gaining world wide acclaim for his pioneering aristocratic rap (hip hop for the quality!) Sales of dickie-bow-ties and bowler hats have risen with his popularity. Norbert is currently planning a world tour, tickets will be astronomical in price.

BENJAMIN BARNABY
 
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BENJAMIN BARNABY

The once famous dwarf wrestler, adored by millions and revered by his opponents, has finally thrown in the towel. For years he entertained the masses by taking on men three times his size, often taking them down with a swift punch to the gonads. But fate has decided otherwise.

After several of his old wrestling friends are killed in a series of horrifying tap-dancing murders, Benjamin embarks on a quest to discover the truth behind their deaths, using his unique pile-driving and suplex manoeuvres to literally “wrestle” the truth from those with secrets to hide.

SIMON MOONFROST
 
SIMON MOONFROST

The breeze blew his cloak like a flag flapping in the wind, his horse crying softly from the bitterness of the winter air. He would not be swayed. Simon was not a cunning man, but he was strong. The four men before him would soon find the outcome of their decision to stand in his way.

He dismounted, and the men followed drawing their blades, the rear soldier releasing his bow. An arrow was quickly drawn. Then Simon's hair iced over, his hands chilled, his eyes glazed. And he roared.

Eight perfectly preserved statues of ice were left in his wake. The man could only sigh in disgust. He hated killing, but he knew deep down they would not be the last to taste the fury of Simon Moonfrost. He mounted his horse, and continued off into the night.

GALVINAR PATREUS
 
GALVINAR PATREUS

The sign on the door said,

GALVINAR PATREUS
TECHNOMAGE, MACHINIST,
ARTIFICER, GEAR SMITH,
FABRICATOR, & CYBER-ALCHEMIST
Small repairs while you wait.​

It looked to be a small store front, on a side street in a large metropolis, but everybody knew that many wonderworkers advertised by word of mouth and reputation instead. Patreus may have looked like a kindly old grandfather, but he was one of the more powerful adepts on the East Coast. He was a John Wellington Wells for the 21st Century, someone you came to for all of your modern eldritch problems and needs.

LELAND OLIVER McMASTERS​
 
LELAND OLIVER McMASTERS

No-one quite drove a tanker like Leland. For a desert world like Querita, water was at a premium, and it was Leland's job to make sure that the outposts didn't go dry. No matter what the cost.

He could often be seen behind the wheel of his tanker, stubble peppering his chin and eyes narrowed against the glare, completely focused on his goal. The solitude didn't bother him: in fact, he preferred it. He couldn't stand being around the other colonists - by and large, they were all questionsome and irritating; prone to chit-chat and such. They spoke far too much for his liking. He only took the job because of the week long trips there and back, alone, save for the radio.

And then there were the bandits. They were another reason he liked to be alone.

For the most part, Headquarters frowned on random violence, but they disliked going thirsty even more, and he was allowed to use force in order to get through. That he could get paid for something he enjoyed was a bonus.

Erato Jones
 
Erato Jones, second in command, sat upright in his bunk, blinking wide-eyed at the darkness. The alarm was screaming through the Satellite Station. Its harsh, nerve-jarring clang echoing and re-echoing down the metal corridors, penetrating every nook and crevice of the lonely outpost through the dark sleeping period. Jones shook the sleep from his eyes, and then a panic of fear burst into his mind. The alarm! Tumbling out of his bunk in the darkness, he crashed into the far bulkhead, staggering along in the zero gravity as he pawed about for his grav-boots. Impossible, after these many long months of bitter waiting. In the corridor he collided with Childs, looking like a frightened gnome, and he muttered profanity as he raced down the corridor for the Combat Information Center.
Frightened eyes turned to him as he blinked at the bright lights of the room. The voices rose in a confused, anxious babble, and he shook his head and swore, and sorted through them toward the screen. "Kill that damned alarm!" he roared, blinking as he counted faces. "Somebody get the Captain out of his sack, pronto, and stop that clatter! What's the trouble?"
The radioman waved feebly at the view screen, shimmering on the great side panel. "We just picked it up!"
It was a ship, moving in from beyond Saturn's rings, a huge, gray-black blob in the silvery screen, moving in toward the Station with ponderous, clumsy grace, growing larger by the second as it sped toward them. Jones felt the fear spill over in his mind, driving out all thought, and he sank into the control chair like a well-trained automaton. His green eyes were wide, trained for long military years to miss nothing; his fingers moved over the panel with deft skill. "Get the men to stations," he growled, "and will somebody kindly get the Captain down here, if he can manage to take a minute."
 
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Robert Kennedy

Bobo, to his friends, the youngest of six brothers from Seven Sisters and the fastest balloon-animal maker this side of Texas Latex Zoo, he once created a completely new animal at a birthday party for his cousin's youngest niece and amazed the assembled crowd with the speed of his departure from the scene given the size of his shoes. The animal went on to rip apart most of the Eastern Seaboard until it was halted by some film makers who were shooting a film about giant robots. Bobo is now working in China, making balloon bulls, and living on his nerves while getting on other people's.

Mithro Philpro
 
Mithro Philpro;

The only member of the Alchemists' Guild ever to obtain a negative result from the thermite reaction - that about sums him up.

Hardworking, conscientious and the unluckiest man ever to enter the guild, he lost out on just about every major discovery in the reign of Ertin IV (the Comatose) simply through being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ertin IV (The Comatose).
 
Ertin IV (The Comatose)

They visited him rarely, unwilling to look on his dormant face lest it should wake and capture them with his fixed and fixing gaze. Ertin had been recumbent now for nearly a year, waking only occasionally to defy the approach of others and render the faithless to stone.

Only one man - one terribly young and ancient man - dared the presence and faced, fearlessly, the feared face of wrath. He tip-toed to the hallowed bedside and, with a stick he had brought for the purpose, poked the king in the belly, saying, "Oi! Comatose! Wake up and turn me to stone, if you can," and he laughed.

Erlin the Comatose lifted one eyelid and said, "Faithless serf!"

He opened his other eye and his gaze settled on the doomed young and ancient man.

Did I say "doomed"? For if 'twere so, should not this callow and wizzened child petrify at once? Would not his very faithlessness spell his rocky end?

"Sorry, Er. Y'see, you come face to face with real faithlessness this time, old man, not that watered-down version the others brought with them. I really don't believe your gaze can petrify me, so it won't."

"Ah," said the king monosyllabically. "But that is the true faith indeed. Faith in oneself."

And he made the young and ancient man into his first and future Knight Defiant, and his name....

Sir Charge
 
Sir Charge

Torn pennants fluttered above the wrack and carnage of the battle as Sir Charge led the Household Knights across the Zygrrxxx Fields. A hundred mighty warhorses shifted pace from walk to trot and then from trot to canter as they closed on the lines of goblin soldiers. The troop ranks parted for the little bands of militia who had been driven in by the main advance and who were now fleeing back to the palisades

Three hundred yards out, Sir Charge motioned to the Bugle Sergeant. The sergeant rose into his saddle and blew three long, piercing blasts.

As the horses broke into full gallop, a hundred voices roared and a hundred glittering lances dropped to the horizontal. The ground shook and the earth flew. Retreating militiamen fell to the ground and were ridden down.

The goblins fell into square and gave one volley at fifty yards. An acrid cloud of black powder temporarily obstructed Sir Charge's view. The Bugle Sergeant went down to be crushed by the hooves of the second rank, but the charge did not falter or waver even for a second.

Unable to face the charge and oblivious to the shouts of the Ludds and the cries of Daccyn! Daccyn Yr Vammau!*, the goblin squares dissolved like sand through the fingers. Sir Charge's men crashed into the breaking lines; slaughtering and trampling their foemen.

Sir Charge dropped his shattered lance, pulled out his sabre and spurred his horse towards the goblin colours. An enormous Ludd stepped out from the stand to meet him. Sir Charge reined his horse in and pointed accusatorily at the goblin blood, brains and unidentifiable nether bits which were smeared over his pristine tunic. When he spoke, it was with a rasp of hatred and fire.

"This isn't my tunic. When I return it to the hire place, I will have to pay a small additional amount to cover the costs of dry cleaning. If only we knew a better way of expressing that".

Then he ran him through

Rancid John the Rat Man




* Stand fast! Stand fast or we die!
 
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