Roger base, this is Prophet Black ready for takeoff (Open Challenge)

[Prophet]

Testing a new character; open to anyone who wants it. Standard rules, post a template when you take this, and I'll introduce the arena in my opening post. Power Characters.


Name
Brad Ash (But the ladies call me baby)

Age
Mid-twenties (But who gives a damn? Age is a word wimps’ use as an excuse for their failures)

Gender
Male (At least, the last time I whipped it out)

Position
Prophet Black (Sounds sexy, don't it?)

Appearance
When one first glances at the imposing figure known as Brad Ash… (Ooh, ‘imposing,’ I like your choice of word) they can see a tall, slim figure. Brad is not a monster of strength; he is a slim, built fellow, with muscle toned along his entire 5’11” body… (No one gives a rat’s ass about these numbers you know…) He often can be seen wearing dark black clothes, albeit whatever weather strikes. His dark black pants, tucked into solid dark boots, with traditional silver spur on each end. He often selects to wear a simple button up black shirt, over which he sports a long black trench coat… (Aw hell, too many damn words. These people don’t give a damn about what I wear! And I dress however the hell I want to! If I wanna wear my good old black fedora today, than that’s what I’m gonna wear! Think you can decide my swag…) His skin is a golden white, the show of man who clearly spends his days in the sun (Get yo tan on, ya white prunes!) and his deep black eyes match perfectly with his beautiful thick, black hair, held perfectly under his black fedora (I told ya not to mess with the fedora… And the ladies love the hair, don’t be making fun now…)

Personality
Brad is not one t- (I don’t need no damn witch-psycho-analyst to screw around with my head! Get the hell outta here!)

Abilities
Brad is an interesting fellow (hehe, ‘fellow.’) Not only is he a fighter, capable of duking it out in the most practical way possible (don’t patronize them, I fight as dirty as a stripper with a twenty), but he is an expert marksman. Capable of hitting any target with practically anything (Eh, I’m a modest guy…), he also can understand any weapon handed to him in the moment of contact. It is as if the weapons are extensions of his own body. Brad is capable of utilizing anything as a weapon, often forming weapons out nothing… (Magic fingers, baby) and can utilize any source he can tap into as ammunition, including sources that may be used against him. (hehe, I can ‘tap’ a lot of things, eh buddy?) It seems as if his body acts an extension of this ability. Additionally, he possesses reflexes of gargantuan proportions (What the hell is ‘gargantuan?’) and has been known to increase in ability in proportion to his opponents abilities (Damn straight!). As if straight out of a Hollywood movie, Brad can seemingly perform the impossible when he fights, anticipating and reacting as if he already knows what is going to occur. (Man, I can dodge bullets- I. Am. Awesome.)

History

Brad was bor- (Boo, no one wants to read this crap man. Just get to the action!)-nd he grew up t- (What is this, school? I need a shot, not an education!)-ving on his own, he eventually began to travel the Om-(Zzzz, sorry? Are we in a battle here?)-fter he discovered how he did all th-(Don’t spoil the fun man!)-e would wander, searching for battle and pu-(you make me sound like a Michael Bay film, let’s get onto the battle!)

Quote
(Okay, here I go. Ready? Ready?) “Howdy.” (That is not funny. I’m gonna kick your ass when I get out to your dimension. You call that a quote? I have more lines than a coke addict!)

[Archetype00x]

name
Pepper.

alias
Death-Foot Pepper.

age
17, or so she claims. Considering the nature of what she is, it’s very possible she has transferred bodies to swap out an ‘older shell.’

gender
Female.

class
Bokor (sorcerer for hire, considered in some contexts as the dark alternative to a houngan.)

abilities

• Though identified as a bokor, Pepper is a master of magicks of varied nature. She takes her practice not just from voodoo, but from multiple mystic arts - these include rootwork and divination. However, where her real talent lies is in necromancy. Through years of practice, Pepper has come to learn the secrets of the dead from the loa, Baron Samedi, and is able to rip the souls from the bodies of her opponents and pin them to a fetish, turning them into yet another slave and increasing her magick power.
• Pepper’s spells run the range from offensive to utility in nature. She weighs her options in battle - what she lacks in physical strength, she can make up for by imbuing a corpse or empty vessel with one of the souls she has imprisoned, rendering them her guard and soldier. In terms of a battle of magick, she works to run her enemy down; using macumba (black magick, hexes), she unleashes her ‘hungry spirits’ upon them, stealing their strength, taking their sight, countering to the best of her ability whatever attack has been unleashed upon her.

armaments

• Grand Loa Fetish: Pepper’s primary weapon. A bracelet with 500 bad spirits pinned to it, which she can use to both curse her enemy as well as conjure a zombie horde. The greater the number of spirits within the fetish, the greater her spell-casting ability; thus, the more undead she summons, the weaker her spells become, and vice versa.
• Goofer Dust: The powders that Pepper uses to augment her spells. It draws in spirits and sends them into a frenzy, doubling their power and their volatility.
• Paper Dolls: Pepper’s secondary weapon. Though more folk magic hoodoo than real craft, with these Pepper, if she can establish a physical connection with her opponent (a sigil of hair, skin, blood, or clothing), she can afflict upon them any damage she does to the doll’s fabric.
• Brother Mercy: The strongest spirit in Pepper’s arsenal. A hellhound of great malice, before he was reigned in by Pepper, he was known to demand a tribute of one child from a Louisiana village every year to eat and fuel his powers.

appearance
Elegance and catastrophe are hybridized in Pepper. Skin dark as mahogany, otherwise unblemished, is etched with thin scars. Her hair, impossibly blonde, curls upward in violent frizz, a stark contrast to a handsome face emboldened with fine features - a Grecian nose, strong cheekbones, a smooth jawline. Her eyes are a steel-blue grey, flecked with opalescent diamonds and rimmed with gold, but shocked with crimson veins throughout the whites. Pepper stands at 5’4”, slim as a rake and flat-chested, her build not sturdy, and her left foot, from the ankle down, is dead black - the tribute she paid to Baron Samedi in return for her power, and the place from which she gets her name of ‘Death’s Foot.’ The foot, despite being drained of all life, does not decay, as all bacteria that attempts to break down the flesh perishes upon contact. It is held in place by stitches of strong white thread (and a generous amount of staples, if needed.) Pepper’s wardrobe holds true to her overall appearance as well; ragged class. She wears a torn, silk sleeve-less top, scarlet in color and mended many times over. Below that, a frayed sable peasant skirt, wrapped with a huge burlap belt, from which hang pockets, bottles and vials containing assorted materials of dubious nature. Over her blouse Pepper dons a cream-colored button blazer, worn and caked with what is most likely grave dirt. She wears no shoes, to let those who have heard whispers of her that she is indeed, the one they fear - or the one they’ve enlisted. The only accessory she wears is this; a simple, white-beaded bracelet, so basic that it could be mistaken for a mere trinket or bauble of no value. However, it is, in reality, the bracelet that acts as the source of her power, and the cursed fetish to which she gathers spirits.

theme
working craft | “Dark Night of the Soul” - Danger Mouse & Sparkle Horse.
prelude to battle | “Dark Eyes” - DeVotchKa.
battle song | “Man on the Burning Tight Rope” - Firewater.
dark memories | “Magnolia” - Jon Brion.

[Prophet]

"Give me the status on Prophet Black, Methuselah..."

"Please relax Mr. Lasting. When you asked me to keep my proverbial 'eyes' on Mr. Ash, I did as you requested; interplanar signal takes a little longer to decode than you might think."

"I don't have time for that jargon; I need to know if he's ready to be moved from isolation..."

"We've managed to keep him leaving the set of isolated dimensions in which we dropped him; soon, after this test run, we'll open the gates to other Universes; his wandering will truly begin."

"Awesome. Sure this project is gonna work?"

"While there are nigh-infinite possibilities of how this might go, our chances of success are high; so far, everything has gone as I have predicted; albeit his constant blathering about this non-existent dimension."

"I was wondering; should we be concerned about that?"

"No; it is simply a figment of his personality. Prophets are meant to bring truth, not ramble nonsense about 'forums' and 'KHI' or whatever ridiculousness he spouts."

"Eh, I suppose. Guess we should know, huh? I mean, we did make the fu-"

"Curb your tongue, Mr. Lasting. Data decoded; he is in an isolated dimension along the outer edges of the Omniverse- looks like he's taken refuge on a small planet, mostly desert, but with a high enough population of sentient life. Been hiding out there for the past few months; seems like he's becoming restless again."

"Keep watch Methuselah; I want to know how this goes down. We need to see how Prophet Black reacts to this existence..."

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

The sun beamed down upon the baking rock, causing it to crack subtly under its boiling heat. The small town of Petramayo was quiet now, in the hottest part of the day. Whatever people were around were inside, hiding from the harsh rays of the sun amidst air conditioning and cool shade. Despite the look of what might be a traditional Western town, several power lines ran through the town, and underneath a few feet of rocky earth, one would find both a sewage and a water pipe. A marvel of both worlds, where the new West met the old West. Instead of galloping horse hooves, one would occasionally hear the revving of an old engine, someone desperate to get away from the sun into the natural cool springs a few miles down the road. The air was hot and dry, and if one glanced down the long dusty street, between the Saloon and the Sheriff's office, several lizards would lay in the sun, sitting their, poised with their tongues hanging out, despairing to keep cool. Those scales absorbed the sunlight, taking in those beautiful rays and turning it into energy. It was all so wondrous, that cycle of energy, of power.

I feel ya cousin...

There was a slight snort as a horse rounded the bend. A plume of dust rose beneath its stomping hooves, and it shorted dryly, as if even it's nose was feeling chapped. Glazed brown eyes blinked as it strode into town, gently jauntying its way down the beaten path, far more dusty than its rider. Atop the brown stallion, utterly black against the afternoon sun, was a man. Golden skin shielded underneath the black fedora, the barely cast shadow slipping along his handsome features as he bucked slightly with the horse, making his way down the dusty road. He wore all black, his pants not collecting a trace of the brown dust, even as a plume of the stuff rose behind him. One might think that in all this black, with the fedora and the long black coat, he would be boiling; and yet not a drop of sweat crossed his pale brow. Locks of thick black hair poked from beneath his hat, and as his horse trotted along the dusty road, he let a grin escape his face, his features twisting into a look of fun delight. Brad Ash was strolling through another town on this near-deserted rock...

Fun delight? That's the best choice you could think of, bud?

"Been wandering a long time, eh bucko?" he said aloud, talking to his horse, which seemed to simply pant in agreement, "Picked you up a couple days back, and now here we are. Another old-ass town that seems to enjoy siesta's more than cleaning up this place... You'd think the man upstairs would pick a better place for duking it out..." The horse seemed to neigh a weak yes, and Brad caught the sign, cranking the reigns to the left as the horse trotted over towards a nearby water spigot, which stuck out of the side of the Saloon, in one of the only shadows in this relic of the past. As the horse neared the spigot, Brad pushed himself off, grunting as he hit the ground, ground cracking slightly beneath his ebony boots, the silver spurs glinting in the light along with his silver belt buckle, glowing in the sun as he reached down to grasp the dial in his black-gloved hands. "Drink up boy," he grunted as he cranked the water on with a creak, the water spilling out into the trough with a gurgling sound that could make a marooned man cry, "Don't know how long you're gonna last with my record anyways..." The horse bent its head immediately, lapping up the water greedily as Brad sighed, glancing up at the golden sun, his voice low and rough, like the sound was coming from a deep hole in the earth rather than this dapper man in front of you. He glanced around the empty town, knowing full well that eyes probably watched him from the closer curtain windows around him. People in this dimension were so damn nosy...

Can't wait til I get to visit Vegas... can you say strip club? Come on Prophet, I know you can... Say aloud for me... s-t-r-i-p...

[Archetype00x]

raised in a shallow grave on a sable evening
nose plugs dipped in alcohol
feel a shaking in my bones, like vinegar

She'd sauntered into town a week ago, a ragged silhouette carried on an ill wind. That was what she did - she heard the whispers, the secrets of the people under the earth, and she led them guide her, counting their fingers as they stuck bone-dry hands up through barren, clay-like soil to point her in the right direction. They weren't always large in number, maybe the odd corpse here and there, a ghost of an unfortunate traveller who'd lost his way out in the desert. But they always came to her, and it was always enough. She left a distinctive trail behind in the dusty top soil as she went, the dead foot on her left leg dragging a bit with each step. She didn't consider it a nuisance; rather, it was a gift. A reminder of the day he'd kissed her with his lips like fire, and all that power - that wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous power - had poured into her like sweet molasses, filling her to the brim. It was his legacy, and she bore it with pride.

she walks like a cat, spreading brick dust as she goes
swaggering in Southern heat
rising up from the ground in a steady trance

Beaten jacket slung over her shoulder, Pepper had entered the town with some awful bad medicine in tow. Grown men staggered back from her path, overcome with horror at something they couldn't see, but knew was there. Children, transfixed by the shadows that seemed to dance behind her, were scooped up in the arms of their mother and hurried inside. Wild street dogs whimpered, let loose a stream of vivid yellow piss, and retreated into their sometimes homes, or an alley, out of sight. And all the while, she'd bore a pearly, crooked grin, mildly amused at their respective reactions. Pepper considered their fright or awe a kind of praise, and it pleased her to feel their silent prayers (of protection, from her, whatever she was) to a nameless god pass through her and on into a nothingness where there could be no god to speak of. Not out here, anyway. Not when she's around. Pepper fancied herself something of a 'higher power', and there was no room for other deities where she went.

press needles in my doll
rub the powder on my gums
hang the gris-gris round my neck
sing low, don’t leave no coins

When she'd finally found her way to the only place with decent lodging in town, she made herself at home in the finest room available. The proprietor of this none-too-shabby establishment, when he'd finished shaking, had mustered up the courage once to ask how long she intended to stay. Pepper, lounging in a dusty old leather armchair, had merely tossed her head back and smiled at him. It wasn't a nice smile. The man did not return to work the next day, and neither did the rest of the staff. The other tenants vacated when they found their beds inhabited by oil black snakes, and the mice that had taken up residence in the walls had fled the town in a great wave of grey fur frightened squeaking. Only one girl remained behind, by far the prettiest wench in town, she decided to keep her. And so, Pepper was left alone to conduct her business.

It took some time, but the loas never lied to Pepper - he showed up eventually, a wild-eyed man dressed in black. He brought a horse with him. Like any proper woman, she sent out someone to greet them both - the beautiful woman of no more than 20, with cream-colored skin, honey blonde hair and big blue eyes. A white knit shroud wrapped around her head and shoulders to fend off the oppressive heat, and a purse hung round her side. You could barely see the scar where Pepper had pressed her knife.

"That's a fine horse you got there, mis'r, but he sure looks plum tuckered."

She smiled her prettiest smile. There was not a hint of malice.

"You sure you're treating him fair? Mind if I give him a good stroke?"

Sweet little country girl.

feel the music in my feet
feel the crawl beneath my skin
see the pale of her bone white eyes
fancy voodoo spices
lighting up my soul

[Prophet]

Damn heat; I know it ain't real Proph, but why'd you gotta throw me in this frying pan?

Even as the golden sun reflected in Brad's pitch black eyes, like twin eclipses in his head, his ears twitched, as if catching an inaudible swish of a dress in the air. The beneath the shadow of the brim of his black fedora, his lips rippled into a grin, white teeth blazing in the sunlight, glinting like snow off a sunrise-lit mountain top. He stepped back, flicking his boot off of the trough, causing the silver spur to spin, shimmering intriguingly in the light as he turned around. A mischievous grin across his face, he turned to face the figure he had sensed behind him, his wild, far-eyed stare locking with those gorgeous blue eyes. His smile was wide his entire, and he shifted on the spot, clicking his spurs quietly against the ground, lifting up the brim of his cap in a nod, his pitch-black eyes roaming over her curves. As the sun glinted off her golden hair, like honey dripping over the beauty, he let his eyes roam not-so subtly over some of the more 'pronounced' part of her figure, before grinning as he returned to her eyes.

"He is a bit tired, miss," he replied, one black-leather glove stroking the side of his slurping stallion, "But I'm sure he wouldn't mind a hand. I sure wouldn't." He winked, reaching forward and offering her hand, and leading her cream-colored hand to the horses side, with the gentle strength of a lion handling his lioness. He smiled as he felt her presence come closer, the heat from her body far more permeating than the afternoon heat.

So this is her, eh Proph? Archy's sure come up with a hot mess this time. Give him my regards...

"So miss," he said to her with a mysterious smile, stroking the neck of his horse as he slid his hand along his side, feeling his skin slip against the black fabric, "What brings the Goddess of the West to my side?"

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

"He's attracted to that girl? How is that even possible?"

"He is 'human' after all. Just composed differently. His thought patterns are abnormal however; its like he's mentally conversing with another mind that is not there."

"Should we be worried?"

"Leave the worrying to me; I cannot actually simulate emotion however, so that statement was a bit hollo-"

"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?"

"Quite a few. In fact, when I had a probe studying with Gallileo, he slapped it right across the face."