Character Creation Chain

[Victoria Silverwolf]

Sly Billy, Slick Billy... Billy the ******* Maker!
Bad Billy, Fair Billy... Billy the Risk Taker!
Ho for Billy, Hi for Billy,
Lock up your wives and daughters,
Down goes Billy, Up goes Billy,
From the Devil's waters.

___________________________________________________

Phyllis Shern

 

[Mr Orange]

No one argued with Phyllis Shern. Old "Stern Shern" ruled the lab with an iron fist. No cultures were grown without her overlooking them, no chimps were infected without her observing, and no holidays were granted without her approval. So pretty much no holidays were granted at all. Dressed in plain brown dresses and drab cardigans, her dour, bespectacled face was a constant presence. Which made it kind of ironic that she was the first human to be accidentally infected and was, in fact, the origin of the outbreak.


___________________________________


Mozambique Herschel

 

[BenSt]

Sly Billy, Slick Billy... Billy the ******* Maker!
Bad Billy, Fair Billy... Billy the Risk Taker!
Ho for Billy, Hi for Billy,
Lock up your wives and daughters,
Down goes Billy, Up goes Billy,
From the Devil's waters.

that was outstanding.

...

No one ever noticed the little man standing outside the smoke shop, the aged man in the crisp black hat and modest silver walking stick. No one in the neighbourhood knew much about Old Herschel, who would always buy his newspaper and tobbaco in the morning and wander down to the river to speak to the ducks. They say years ago he tried feeding tobacco to the ducks, but that was just an urban myth. For the most pat they ignored him as he slowly walked along the sidewalk, watching time go by. No one suspected then when one day the little old man appeared in the newspaper surrounded by dignitaries. Old Herschel, the gentle man who enjoyed his tobacco and reading his newspaper day in and day out, had been keeping a secret. Well, not so a secret, he would have told anyone who would listen, but kids these days were so wrapped up in their holovids and their damned music. You see, Herschel had another name... fifty years before he had been known as Mozambique Herschel, hero of the Battle of Makonde. During a daring raid which had seen the death of most of his squad, Herschel had infiltrated Maputo and extracted the President Omaala and her family who were being held by South African paramilitary forces. The raid would have greater implications in the greater Horn War and would effectively end South African aggression in the area. Fifty years on, Hershel was tracked down by Omaala's grandson and presented with Mozambique's highest honour. Ofcourse, good old Herschel took it in stride, sure he had had a great military career afterwards but when he finally retired from the Federation Peacekeepers, he had not looked back. Accepting the award and hugging Prime Minister Omaala he returned to the neighbourhood where he continued buying his tobacco in the morning and reading his newspaper beside the river.

--------------

Loas Treeshrugger

 

[Mr Orange]

The radio on the dash crackled to life

“…. Jensen… Jensen… come in… we got another live one down on the North boundary…. Get that treeshrugger down here…. Now!”

Jensen shrugged his broad shoulders and the jeep roared to life. “Showtime Lo’..” He said, almost apologetically.

Loas Treeshrugger bounced around in the passenger seat as the jeep sped down the rough uneven track, through the ugly burnt stumps of the recently cleared forest. Ahead of them the green wall of the living forest rose from the dust of the mechanised clearancers.

The jeep shuddered to a halt in front of a mangled clearancer at the foot of a tall, majestic Vivus tree. Jensen leapt out and Loas followed.

A fat sweaty man in a hard hat yelled at them as they approached. “About time! Get that tree sorted. Now!”

Loas hardly heard him as she walked towards the destroyed machine, still now being beaten by the Vivus’s wildly thrashing branches. And she began to sing. She sang without words, just an eerie rising and falling tune. It was one she knew by heart and had sung a thousand times before. And the tree stopped thrashing and swaying and eventually settled back to wooden immobility.

This was her gift and her curse. It was the reason she had been cast out of her village as a witch, and the reason she could now find employment with the very people destroying her forest. As another small pieceof her died, the chainsaws roared to life.

_______________________________________________

Hula Hoop

 

[BenSt]

"It was announced today that legendary snap-star Hula Hoop has died, aged 78. Hula was one of the genre's rising stars, with a career that spanned almost 50 years, fans and friends are reeling from the news. Hailing from a humble beginning, Hula's breakout tract was "Living Like I want to"... thrust into stardom, she was soon steadily producing other young artists and managing her own record company, Gemini Entertainments. However, as one rises so too must one fall and in 2045, tragedy struck as a shuttle carrying her long time fiancee Frank Jaffa crashed. The loss of Jaffa was a major blow to Hula who for a few years became a recluse in the music industry. It was a chance and rare meeting with a little girl dying from GIID that persuaded Hula to return to the music world with her new album, "I'm Back so all you B****** better go!" Back in the spotlight Hula Hoop became known as the Queen of Snap. Autopsy results are expected later in the month, but preliminary reports indicate that death occurred from a sudden heart attack. Wow, Hula Hoop, dead at 78. Omaa, back to you!"

------------

Terry the Pumpkin Eater

 

[Mr Orange]

“Terry, Terry the pumpkin eater,
Twice as evil as his brother Peter,
Likes the little ones ‘cos they are sweeter,
Terry, Terry the pumpkin eater.”



Jack stood at the end of his nursery patch and wept. The remains of his children lay scattered before him, their pulp spread out on the ground, spilling from the jagged holes in their squashed heads. Even their stalks and roots had been destroyed; there was no chance of re-planting them.

“Excuse me… Mr Lantern?”

Jack turned to the detective

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me anything else, anything that might be of help?”

Jack looked down at the ground.

“I sang it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I sang it.”

“Oh jeez…. How many times?”

Tears streamed down Jack’s orange face as he looked up. “Three…I, I wasn't thinking... I didn’t realise I was doing it… oh God what have I done?”

The detective thumbed the radio on his shoulder. “HQ? Yeah,we got a problem… The pumpkin eater’s back.”



_______________________________________________



Nigel “Shenanigans” O’Rourke

 

[BenSt]

"Nigel "Shenanigans" O'Rourke, yes I know him." The old woman nodded, sipping her coffee, grinning to herself. "He was a one, I tell you."

The Interviewer asked, "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"That Nigel, fooled around with all those grooms in the stables before feasting his eyes on the Duke's son. Young Sir Timothy. He hadn't been back less than a day before Nigel started." She reached over to her bag and brought out a shiny black cigarette, switching it on, the end glowing blue as she inhaled.

"I understand he became very close.:

"Sir Timothy had just returned from fighting in Juteland and had brought with him a young English bride. Nigel didn't much care for brides but was all about stallions."

"He was... a sword swallower?" The Interviewer began hastily jotting down notes.

"A swallower? He was the bleedin' blacksmith himself! Knew exactly how to bend and twist young metal to his will. That bloke has corrupted enough marriages over the years, and it wasn't the wives he was after." She closed her eyes as she inhaled a deep puff. "But, with Sir Timothy it was different. I feel sorry for the poor bride me'self, didn't know what was happenin, but I do think Sir Tomithy was happy."

"They went off on campaign together, didn't they? Sir Timothy and Nigel?"

"Yes, were away a good six months. Left that poor little flower here with the Duchess. Then there was that message of the final battle, all thought the both of them had been killed. Unil three weeks later when two haggard figures wrapped in nothing but rags came limping up the drive. That's where his nickname came from... first thing Nigel said when the young Sir was being hoisted to a room... 'Oh, the escape was just a shenanigan!'

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Julia di Baratolli di Jerezi

 

[Spiegal]

Julia di Baratolli di Jerezi

Having acquired multiple double barreled names through a sequence of carefully planned marriages and questionable bereavements, 'Julia Jerezibel' was renowned for her ever growing collection of bridal gowns which she took to wearing on a daily basis.

At the last count of her surnames the Padre of her village gave up midway through, claiming "One more marriage and she has the whole collection." referencing the book 'Dr. Chavez's names for boys'

He refused to disclose the total amount, but the marriage records (featuring the only 2 women in the village to ever be married, Julia included) was already 7 feet tall and growing rapidly, requiring the use of a stepladder held steady by the altar boys for her bi-weekly marital ceremonies.

When asked about her long line of husbands she curtly responded "Let's face it, they're all the same with the lights off."

Julia 'Jerezibel' di Baratolli di Jerezi met her unfortunate end whilst in a particularly moving ceremony that many believed trumped the one from the day before. The tortured church bell, having pealed for the last time, finally succumbed to the life time of stress and came crashing down upon her.

Her heavily annotated gravestone, some 42 feet in height still stands on the hill overlooking the village. The protruding shadow it casts, resembled the ring laden finger that was the scourge of the village. The cold chill of it passing over serves as a constant reminder of the pitfalls of being wed.


-----------------------------

Pavel 'Jarhands' Paskal

 

[BenSt]

Ace fighter pilot in the court of European Emperor Napolean V, Pavel Paskal was born into an illustrious musical family in the eastern provincial capital of Prague in 2045. Known for his talent with a violin and the control stick of a fighter jet, Paskal literilly wrote the book on modern air warfare. It was while flying a mission in North Africa that Paskal gained his now infamous callsign, Jarhands. Whilst engaged in a dogfight with forces of a local warlord, Paskal engaged in a maneuver whereby creating a ring of fire around his opponents. Along with two other fighters, they succesfully managed to pin the rebels within a single geographic area, and then Paskal closed the lid... eliminating them. After the fight, while debreifing with North African Union pilots, the name Jarhands was suggested by one of the NFU pilots.

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Jorolf Bregginjharl

 

[Spiegal]

Jorolf Bregginjharl

In the ice encrusted forest by the tumbling Svarlbard fjord,
Steel yourself young warrior, keen your eyes, your ears your sword.

A crack of a fallen footstep, a throat lets loose a snarl,
But its bearer is no mortal beast, it's Jorolf of Bregginjharl.

He wields an axe of frost, a shield and helmet hewn from stone
His entourage of baying wolves pull his mighty moving throne.

For a hundred generations, a procession of changing kings,
It's his name that haunts the feasting hall, his name the Valkyrie sings.

Death's steed cannot keep up with him, his pace too fierce and fast,
Pray warrior when you wander through these lands, each step won't be your last.

For lurking behind each boulder, snowdrift or tree bow's gnarl,
Could be the hunting Wraithking,

Jorolf of Bregginjharl.


-----------------------------
Titus Whorldsunder

 

[Winter Lord]

Titus Whorldsunder

He is a legend along the spacelanes. The accidental commander of an ancient alien star cursier that he renamed THE EMPEROR NORTON. He was at the Battle of the Horsehead Nebula; The Fall of the Crucible of the Ages; he rerouted Comet Damocles so that it will never threaten an inhabited world again; and many other civilization changing events through the last five thousand years of Galatic Civilization. To some, he is a hero, to others an opportunistic gloryhound, and he has even been called a busybody.

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Constantine Bartelby

 

[cgsmith]

Constantine Barterby

The smart sister of a simple god. She created the universe that the inhabitants of earth are aware of as a childhood project, for a kind of celestial science fair. She and her brother spend eons playing with it like a bored game. She would visit her simple god brother from time to time, if only to keep him from destroying all creation and for a little rest from work with universes of actual significance.


Petunia McCoulk

 

[Spiegal]

Petunia McCoulk was no wilting wallflower. For the 6th year in a row she had run her latest contender into the ground on the jousting field. Her thundering steed 'Jacobi' bit and chewed fiercely in anticipation of her next challenger, the slight armoured figure now being hoisted into the saddle.

She held her lance aloft, family colours pouring from the tip and dancing in the breeze that ran through the field. It was like a challenge from nature itself seemingly desperate for her to chase after it.

At the drop of the King's handkerchiefed hand, the combatants exploded from their ends of the field, closing on each other with blinding speed. The world was a blur to Petunia, all save for the tiny patch of shield her foe held. She took aim, dropping her lance into position.

With a crunch of shattered wood and the warm spray of blood spattered across the grass, the realisation that something had gone terribly awry was heralded by a cry from the audience.

Dismounted, Petunia stood over her opponent. Broken lance in one hand and helmet in the other, she stared down in pity.

'Accidents happen' she consoled herself, almost believing it until they removed her foe's helmet. She saw her own visage as she realised it was her younger brother she had jousted. Her younger brother she had slain.

Jacobi went out in the field to stud that very same day and would continue to ride in the Tournaments. Petunia, living a life racked with guilt, never lifted a lance again.

-------------------

Scarlet 'Scar' Giorgio

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

Scarlet 'Scar' Giorgio

Celebrated supermodel, known for the smoothness of her bronze skin, the size of her deep brown eyes, and the elegance of her aristocratic features. Contrary to popular legend, she acquired her nickname from a photographer before the tragic accident that caused her to wear a mask in public for the rest of her life. Received ten million dollars to appear naked, except for the mask, in Playboy. Upon her untimely death from a viral infection at the age of thirry-one, thousands of fanatical admirers of both sexes scarred their own faces and took to wearing masks identical to her own.

_____________________________________________________________

Philomena Crater

 

[BenSt]

She was a strange woman, that Philomena Crater. She would spend hours dressing herself up in her finest silks, whale skins, and feathers just to go to the corner shop. She hosted elaborate parties and would invite all manner of people, only to be sadly disappointed when only a few would come. It wasn't Philomena's fault you see, her grandmother was part nixie, and although Philomena herself lacked most qualities... people perceived a certain awkwardness about her that was hard to overlook. Day in and day out, using the money of her inheritance, Philomena would devise ever more radical ways to be accepted socially. Yes, the other women of town were polite when she came calling, yet rarely visited her during the drop in hours. It was at this time, desperate for some social parity, that Philomena met the witch. The witch showed her how to arrange her dainties in just the perfect way, what to serve with butternut tea and what colours were best suited for her many outfits. Social graces the witch taught in abundance... but neglected to teach Philomena how to carry on a decent conversation. After Philomena's first big engagement with the two reigning socialites of the town failed miserably, the witch shrugged her shoulders, "I'm a wise woman, not a miracle worker," was her reply.

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Gumblnoot Flypike

 

[Spiegal]

this is great, it's just how people talk where I'm from!

Gumblnoot Flypike

"So I cast my line in, all baited up nice and watched it bob about on the water for a while."

The clustered group of ale soaked fishermen lent in closer, hanging on my every word. I had them, for lack of a better expression, hook, line and sinker.

A particularly gruff fellow who appeared more beard than man rose the two wiry bushes atop his eyes high onto his forehead in anticipation.

"And? What then?"

I dropped my voice to a whisper as we huddled, heads almost touching and facial hair dipped into beer.

"I felt a tug on the line. The float vanished beneath the emerald shallows with nothing but a few bubbles as a farewell."

All eyes were on me wide as saucers and mouths agape like fish, indeed there was nary a tooth between the four of them.

"There was no struggling on the line, no tugging or tussling, frolicking or tumbling. Just like as if someone had a hold of it and wouldn't let it go."

The ruddy faced old gent to my left gasped in wonderment and the man whose port reddened nose, the subtle hue of a boiled lobster, explained his awe.

"You want to be careful, boy. That be Gumblnoot"

"Gumblnoot?"

"Gumblnoot Flypike" he elucidated further, hands gesturing madly with excitement "He moves around the waterways travelling through eddies and whirlpools. You ever been fishing alone and felt a tap on your shoulder?" There was a mumbled chorus of agreement and nodding. "That be old Gumblnoot."

The fourth fisherman, silent up this point, plunged his fist into his toothless mouth and when it emerged again there were a pristine, albeit much too large, set of pearly whites. With a whistle of ill fitting dentures he spoke of his own experience.

"I saw the same thing lad. Fishing for Chubb in the old Bogmarsh Fens. I seen it all, will o' wisps, dead mans hands, reverse-mermaids but nothing prepared me for old Gumblnoot. Tell me boy, what did you see when you finally got your line out of the water?"

I hadn't gotten to that part of the story yet, and with a resigned sigh told my thunder-ridden climax.

"It was a locket, open and with a picture of a pretty young girl inside."

As the words left my mouth, the very same trinket emerged from his pocket and laid down on the table between us all. Our small huddle suddenly enlarged as everyone leant back in amazement, myself included.

He gruffled out an explanation.

"Drowned by a jilted lover." He pointed at the picture "That be old Gumblnoot Flypike. If she ever shows herself to you by god you better give her a kiss" He landed his ugly stumped wrist on the table, upsetting the tankards sitting atop it. "Or she'll take more than your bait. She got my tackle too." He gestured with his stump towards his groin. "Tell me boy, why'd you think they call me stumpy?"

As I bid them tutty-bye and left I vowed never to fish again.

-------------------------------------------------

Penelope Thunderwell

 

[BenSt]

Penelope Thunderwell (1734-1820), writer and good housewife, Ms. Thunderwell was born and raised in the gently rolling landscape of Burringshire to a middling family of successful agriculturalists. Her father, the towering figure Sir Leopold Thunderwell, was a rising star in the Burringshire social scene and believed very strongly in education for all of his seven children. Ms. Thunderwell was trained in all of the classics: Virgil, Mithradites, Cicero, Julian; and relished her time spent amongst her books in the library. At the age of 20, Ms. Thunderwell was courted by a local gentlemen named Mr. Charles Hastie, but declined his kind offer after spending a single night of conversation with him. It was revealed in her posthumously published memoirs entitled The Phoenix's Quill and I that Mr. Hastie was a "dreadful bore to the point that the fellow should not even have been subjected to mine worst enemy." So, he married Penelope's younger sister Prudence instead. Thus began Ms. Thunderwell's career as a writer, publishing think volumes on the household arts, indeed she later stated that with a family such as hers one need not be married to see the failings of the modern home. Ms. Thunderwell strayed into many areas, romance writing, fables, horticulture, painting, cookery, and the occult. Indeed her imaginative but unsuccessful pamphlet Cooking with the Necronomicon showcased her willingness to cross breed her many interests. Penelope Thunderwell died surrounded by her extended family in her Burringshire estate, a succesful writer and champion of women's rights in the early modern period. To this day, many contemporary admirers count Ms. Thunderwell as their inspiration...personas such as Felice Saunders of the Colonial University, Io Campus.

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Big Morg the Fly Killer

 

[jastius]

Big Morg the Fly Killer was no ordinary mouser.. a great hulking marmalade cat disposed to sit in whatever chair it was you were trying to set down on....he had a penchant for instantly morphing from a thirty five pound throw cushion to a aerial acrobat doing enough mid air twists to put those kung fu fighters to shame... all it took was the introduction into his environment of a common house fly..

Captain Bobby Borelli of the Martian Grenadiers

 

[cgsmith]

Captain Bobby Borelli of the Martian Grenadiers was seven feet tall, toped with a head of golden locks, and as strong as a genetically modified fighting ox. Every inch of him was perfectly toned muscle, a fact he was very proud of and keen to flaunt. The man was so enthralled with his own physical stature that people would wonder how he'd achieved the rank of captain. Surely, they might say, a captain needs character, what's this shallow buffoon doing with those stripes? Then, almost as if the narrative demanded it, a fight or a scuffle would break out and he would reveal himself to be as capable, quick witted and brave as he was strong and pretty. And the ladies would note the ample bounce around his crotch, the man had it all. Then, to the damsel he'd have inevitably had to save, he might have liked to say something, but he wouldn't. Not because he was the strong silent type but because, ever since a nasty, improbable and unnecessarily complicated accident as a youngster he had the voice of a hormonal thirteen year old by with a helium addiction and a latex fetish. He found it rather embarrassing really.

---

Rufus Scabbard "The Temple" Robin Robertson IV

 

[Mr Orange]

Acknowledged as the Kings of psychosomatic interstellar funk, RSTTRR IV filled spacebowls in all corners of the galaxy. Millions travelled across star systems to hear and feel them perform. Rufus Scabbard was an artist on the electro-violette, his fingers flying across the strings and keys faster than the human eye could comprehend. Behind his ferocious sound, the deep bass of mystical “The Temple” on his Gilerian thrombone always kept the air charged. The wailing ethereal sound of Robin Robertson’s titrontium vocal chords rose and fell over the instruments, and it could make your chest swim. Beneath it all, IV, their fourth generational cognisant drum machine kept the beat.

They were the best, and their music filled your body, mind and soul until everything, including your very being, was lost in the moment. They were the best, and they were an addiction.








Steam-driven Animatronic Sapien Machine