The Blood-drenched Plateau: Act I Of The Four

((Note that "The Four" does not signifiy 1/4 Acts, merely the title of the RP; this RP as a whole is "The Four", if that makes sense))

How had it come to this? Drawn to such extremes, with revolvers leveled at each other's heads and razor-sharp blades ready to be hurled at the others' throats. Perhaps once upon a time, once upon a when, they had been friends, lovers, perhaps never or perhaps it would have taken an entirely different universe, parallel to our own. Perhaps some things shouldn't be pondered, for they shall never happen-or perhaps they should be pondered for that reason.

Regardless, the orange sun was setting in the west and the four stood opposite one another, mirroring the hallowed directions man held so dear: north, south, east, west. Their shadows were long and dark, nighttime would be upon them soon, but blood would be spilled before the shadows caused a ceasefire.

Each had come here of their own volition, of their own desires strong enough to override humanity, powerful enough to gnaw through morality, great enough to drive a man to murder. For each had come here knowing they would not leave whole, that part of their souls would stay with the bloodied corpse of the one they'd shot or stabbed or strangled or shivved, and they continued on despite it. Perserverance or immorality, determination or animalism. Your call.

Regardless, they came, they saw, they would conquer.

With "his" back to the north was the holder of the Dragon Monocle, the crimson-tinted glass eyepiece that was wedged firmly into "his" eye socket. Yes, the holder's vision was split, one half of the world normal colors and hues, the other a clairvoyant blur of emotions and futures and other worlds beyond this one, and the limitless power in what "he" saw was only restrained by the ability of the viewer to craft reality from it.

With "his" back to the west was the holder of the Thanatos Sixgun, the behemoth of lava-forged steel and pristine silver that formed the deathly beautiful revolver, curled and shaped for perfection. Perhaps those on the lethal end of it would admire its pristine nature before their skulls exploded, their bodies mangled. It carried the power of the stars in it and the harbinger of death was marked with its muzzle flash and kick, the revolver carried the power of warriors from Odysseus to the Prateorian and further on, and looking down the sights one saw not cloth and color but flesh and blood, and the means to destroy them both.

With "his" back to the east was the holder of the Joker , a worn and weathered playing card that was formidable nonetheless, painted with meticulous attention to detail and finished with a kiss from Lady Luck, the holder was beyond reality, beyond logic. For luck was strong in the card, amounting to thirteen-to-the-thirteenth power's rabbit feet and four leaf clovers, and even then all the luck and finesse of the world could not compare. The Joker was the idol of rogues and scoundrels, for in it was charisma and charm, skill and deception. It was razor edged and slender, it held the riches of the world and the women that rivaled Aphrodite, but it offered dark choices and temptations beneath its gold-tipped wonders.

With "his" back to the south was the holder of the Wolfseal Mail armor from neck to toe, fused to the wearer and as much their body as skin or lungs or liver or heart. It was alive, it was sentient, it bonded and fused and WAS. The armor was stronger than any steel and more flexible than any silk, it shifted and rippled under the sun's lights and eased and massaged where bruises and pains plagued its user. Bodily functions evaporated, it offered protection and support but began to take its toll, a mixed-blessing even of symbiotes, and some would question where, truly, the Wolfseal stopped and the user ended, if you so understand what I say.

These four brought their weapons and packs and bitterest ambition to the Plateau, soon to be the Blood-drenched Plateau, and they would resolve their passion with the death of their quarry...

...or so they thought. For this tale was not to be told in a few minutes of fire and steel, and unbeknownst to them all they would all leave this place alive-but perhaps not unharmed.

So who are you? Do you hold the glass that sees beyond or the card that warps around, the armor that stops bullets or the gun that redefines them? What reason do you come for the death of three others, what draws you to this place of unimaginable power and unimaginable destruction? Time is running out and tensions run high; hold steady your ground and, to be sure, be prepared to die.

----

HOW THIS RP WILL WORK.

This RP will be told in Five Acts.

We are currently in Act I: The Blood-drenched Plateau. Here, our characters assemble as their furies mount to the point of no return: they have each gathered for the others' blood and there is no pretenses in any of their minds. Justifications, perhaps, or holes in their morality they've meshed this ideal into, but they all know they have come for blood and will not leave until their thirst is satiated.

This leaves us with a few questions. Who are you, of these four? Why have you come, what drives you? What are your plans and hopes, and, most importantly-are you prepared, truly, to kill and die for them?

-----

REGARDING THIS RP.

This RP is set in the late 19th century era of technology. Bolt action rifles, over-under or double barrel shotguns, single-action revolvers, all permitted. As far as transportation, trains are the fastest thing save the wings of angels. Medicine has just unveiled the glorious morphine to the world, science just wrought the beginnings of electricity.

Is all that accurate to the late 19th century? No. But what this RP needs this Rp gets. For all intents and purposes, if it wouldn't feel right in the hands of a cowboy, don't have it in this RP. Technology may vary-drastically, but that is for later.

We are not on Earth, that much as is clear. Are characters are for all intents and purposes, human.

What is your character's backstory? Why are they like this? For you to decide. If you aren't entirely sure, leave it mysterious. Flashbacks are always welcome.

Realism will be fairly high in this RP-I expect reloading of guns, treating of wounds, sleeping, eating, pissing and drinking.

I will set no boundaries as far as sex, romance, or graphic detail: however, if you're going to get vivid with a sex scene or overily gory with a death description, I'll have to say something.

You betta not make me say something, bitches, this is Slim Shady talkin'.

Now....


RULES
1. Four RP'ers, one character each. Any competition will be settled with a write-off.
2. Autohitting is a tricky thing. In a fight or combat scene, it is not permitted. If you hold a man's sleeping head in your steady rifle sights, I have no objections to you blowing his brains out.
3. For that matter, you do not need permission to kill another's character...
4...but you will need to be realistic and fair in your fighting. Dodging everything, hitting everyone, never fatiguing are all nos in my back.
5. Aside from the Wolfseal Armor, no form of bulletproof or even bullet resistant personal armor exists. Bullets should strike fear into your character-or, at least, register with them a lethality that we don't recognize with our bulletproof vests and Hollywood action scenes.
6. This is a literate RP.
7. This OP's vague. Lots of room for you all to be creative, eh?
8. This will be a heavily character-driven RP. Thus, dropping out will really complicate things. If you join, I'd really appreciate it if you stuck with this RP. I'm not asking for frequent posts-1 a day or so is fine.
9. Literacy is expected, but I hardly need to say that to this group of RP'ers.
10. Have Fun.
11. NPCs will be played by yours truly. Semi-important NPCs may be played by those who come along late.
12. Check the OP each Act for that Act's requirements.

----
THE ACTS
Here I will detail the going-ons of each Act and the Requirements. Each Act will have specific requirements that function as rules for that specific Act.

ACT ONE
THE BLOOD-DRENCHED PLATEAU

Our heroes meet at the Plateau, set in the heart of a jagged and treacherous mountain range, to solve their bloody dispute once and for all. What drives them? What keeps them going? What, ultimately, do they quarrel with such supernatural forces over? All to be decided.

They arrive at sun up and remain motionless, held in a silent standoff for nigh on twelve hours straight. Now, though, as the sun begins to set, they sense the tension and readiness in each other, and thus rally their aching and stiff muscles into a fighting stance, feel the adrenaline rush as their fingers curl around knives and pistols, rifles and machetes. The slightest twitch could provoke a firestorm of lead and steel, but all have come prepared for Death.

REQUIREMENTS OF ACT ONE
-No one's character can directly be killed during this Act: you've all worked hard on your characters and I feel they deserve at least one Act to live. After this, no limitations!
-This does not exclude wounds: your character merely will not DIE during this Act. You can be shot in the gut and bleed and wither until the start of Act Two and promptly drop dead, understood?
-Your character must, by the end of Act One, have left the Plateau in one way, shape, or form.
-A little light must be shed on your backstory-not all, mind you.

-----


CHARACTER TEMPLATES
Name:
Title: (Optional)
Relic: (The Dragon Monocle, The Joker, The Thanatos Sixgun, or the Wolfseal Armor)
Sex: (Male/Female)
Age: (Over 19, under 80)
Bio: (How you encountered the Relic is entirely up to you. Passed down from your father? Bought from a pawn shop?)
Weapon of Choice: (Obviously, one of the sheets will have the Thanatos Sixgun)
Personality/Description:

RESERVED

So, are they all male, or do the quotation marks mean 'optional'?

I will monitor this.

Interesting, but I'm curious as to how this will play out. Will the first act be a giant fight scene, and we each need to interpret the abilities of our respective items to survive against the others?

I'm okay with the vagueness, as it sure allows for creativity, I'm just worried that if I attempt to join I'll misunderstand and give you something you're not allowing or looking for : P

I wrote this nice, long paragraph answering you, Mata, and IE8 deleted it by accident. Damn you, Microsoft.

I will reply in more detail tomorrow.

And the "him" thing was that it could be female, yeah: sorry for the confusion.

Ah, okay. Bloody hate when that happens XD

So can I have the Dragon Monocle guy or

Wait no. That's too typical of me. The gun. Weapons. Myes.

The Thantos Sixgun was the choice I was focusing on, simply because the other's don't have much appeal to me. Oh well.

Oh, I won't take it if it was the only one you wanted. I'm not that huge of a douche.

Meh, I've been thinking about it overnight, and I'm still unsure as to whether I can keep up a decent level of description. Might just wait to see who else joins first, in case there are others who would be interested.

Oh my... How are we going to work out who gets what? XD

Assuming we all make it in. Hey, there's another thought. What if more than four people apply at the beginning, is it first-come-first-serve or does the best sheet win?

A write off. I may have an anonymous impartial judge decide, to avoid bias.

And there may be opportunities for additonal minor characters throughout the RP.

So regarding the four items:

The Dragon Monocle, essentially, is a clairvoyance device. Using it will allow you to see better, in both the literal sense-if you've ever looked at something with the naked eye and then through a scope, you'll know what I mean. Everything through the Monocle is clearer, more distinct, more vivid. Now, its more flashy powers extend past that. You'll be able to see auras of a sort, as in people's moods and intentions. Mind-reading isn't an accurate term, more of a rough empathy. If someone means violence, you'll pick up on that; you may not know they specfiically want to stab someone, but you'll know they're pissed. Additionally, you'll be able to see things in a more idiomatic sense-seeing through lies, seeing through disguises, camoflauge won't have much of an effect, etc.

The Joker is essentially a logic-defying artifact of extreme luck. Envision the Joker holding a revolver and emptying all the bullets out. He snaps the cylinder in and pulls the trigger-there's a deafening bang and someone's dropped dead. How did it happen? LUCK. Does it make any sense? Hell no. The potential for godmodding is ridiculous here, so I'll be keeping a close eye on the Joker. Luck isn't everything, and I'll step in if it's used too often. Additionally, the Joker has adverse psychological effects. Arrogance. False sense of security. Recklessness. Cartomancy may also play into this, although I don't know enough about Cartomancy to really incorporate it. (that's OK with me-no offense to anyone here, but people who are into that stuff are a little creepy)

The Thanatos Sixgun is a ridiculously powerful handgun, to put it bluntly. It's a double action revolver (meaning you can simply pull the trigger instead of having to pull the trigger, then cock it back, and pull it again) and has an unlimited ammunition supply (the user will have a bandolier). It has an insane amount of power and will essentially stop anything it shoots-if it isn't an instant kill, they'll die from having the limb that it hit being ripped off. It's extremely accurate and has a natural ease of use.

The Wolfseal Armor is a set of full body armor, from just under the chin to the feet. This includes things like greaves, gauntlets, the ever important groin armor, etc. The Armor will stop most anything (yes, including the Thanatos Sixgun). Note that stopping something doesn't make you entirely immune: the Thanatos Sixgun hitting you will still knock you flat on your ass and likely leave you bruised and winded. The Armor doesnt protect one's head, also. The Armor is symbiotic: it will latch onto its user and begin to fuse into them. The longer you wear it the more effective it becomes but you might notice changes. Minor things like losing your humanity. See, the longer you wear it the more it bonds to you and your biological/psychological state: so it will become like reactive camoflauge, as you walk into a ballroom it might shift into a tuxedo, in the woods a green and brown ghillie suit, etc. You'll stop needing to use the bathroom after a while, so there won't seem much of a purpose in removing it, and its comfortable to sleep in, so why take it off to sleep, and if it's so protective, you shouldn't take it off becaues you'd be vulnerable, so that means no intimacy, and even if the armor protects you your head's still vulnerable, so you should avoid other people and-you get the point.

Hope that clears some things up, we can expand/specify the powers as needed. The Joker is irking me a bit, I can't decide a way to regulate it without destroying the point of it being a "wild card" in the first place.

Alright, cool. Got my eye on either the Monocle or the Joker, but truth be told I'd be perfectly fine with any of the items if I make it in. So no one think I've called dibs and feel like you have to take something else, lol. Will there be a character sheet? o:

Yeah, I think I want the Monocle. Sounds fuckin' cool. xD

Added a Template Sheet.

Alright, cool beans. I'll start work on a charrie.

Have no internet at home, won't be back until Tuesday my time, Monday you guys. Can you please hold on the Sixgun until I can get access to post the sheet?

Sure thing, I'm eyeing the Joker anyways. x3

Warning, wall of text.

Name: Rag
Title: Witch Doctor of the Late Moa
Relic: The Joker
Sex: Female
Age: 63
Bio: Rag was raised by her father in a small town in gulf-coast America. At a young age, she learned of her father’s heritage by means of a journal he kept locked up in the attic. He was one of the final remaining members of a tribal cult which was rumored to reside in the swamp outside town and had fled to the city with his daughter to give her a better life. Fed up with this life, as well as her father, she began to study the tribe’s rituals and practice them herself. When her father learned of this, he was furious and struck her. Rag fled into the swamp and was discovered by the Moa Witch Doctor, who brought her to the camp. Her father, in pursuit, was captured by one of the few remaining Moa warriors. Rag was given a ritual club and instructed to kill him, found that she could not, and bludgeoned the frail Witch Doctor instead, killing him. The warriors killed her father and beat her, severely, into unconsciousness. With no witchdoctor, and her having been the last female line of their race, they did not kill her but instead kept her a prisoner for many years. It was during this time of having gruesome rituals enacted upon her, of being mutilated, raped, and beaten to near-death only to be revived for more torture that Rag forgot her name and assumed her current moniker. In her dreams, she was visited frequently by her future Chosen God of War and Life, who told her that it was her destiny to take her former’s place as the Last Witch Doctor of the Moa. Whilst her body suffered, Rag’s mind plotted and calculated, until eventually she was able to kill the first, weakest Warrior when they were alone by having laced her saliva with a hallucinogenic extract and spitting into his eyes. Of course, during this time she suffered the effects as well, but was able to push aside the monstrosities to beat the Warrior’s brains out with his own club. She painted the Vengeful Sign of her Chosen God on her abdomen with his blood, forbidding the other two Warriors from killing her for fear of retaliation. She killed the second Warrior by training venomous snakes to hide in her clothes, then attack as the man came to rape her that night. The third Warrior, the strongest and most cautious, she tried multiple times to kill but was outwitted and humiliated further each time. Finally, she prayed to her Chosen God for assistance, who rejected her and prophesied her death and eternal post-mortem torture if she could not fulfill her destiny. For the next few weeks, Rag gathered thorns from any plants she could find, hiding them in the only place she could – inside herself. She swallowed each thorn, drinking little and eating less for fear of excreting the things. She collected stingers from venomous wasps, which numbed the skin, and stored these in her mouth, being careful not to bite them. On the night of the Ritual of Fire and Eternal Servitude, she regurgitated all of these thorns, picking them from her vomit and sticking them into her hands. She took the wasp stingers and ground them to a fine paste, storing the venom in her mouth. When the Warrior came for her that night, she was quick to gouge out his eyes with her newly-clawed hands. When he roared and advanced upon her, she spat upon him with the numbing venom. As he grasped her and began to beat her, she positioned herself in such a way that she collapsed directly into the roaring ceremonial pyre. Blinded by rage and the thorns in his eyes, numbed by the venom and his boundless anger, the Warrior charged in after Rag and beat and abused her, unaware of his searing flesh. Rag, fueled by adrenaline from the unbearable pain and her imminent victory, displayed a sudden burst of strength and forced the Warrior’s head into the coals, stuffing hot ashes down his throat. In this way she was able to asphyxiate him, as gradually the venom took greater effect and his muscles lapsed, and as the body burned, she removed herself from the flames and pronounced herself the Last Witch Doctor of the Moa.

She lived in the swamp for many decades afterwards, continuing the Moan traditions.

Rag obtained the Joker Card from a child who stole it from his father, a traveling merchant. Everything had seemed to be going the boy's way that day, and he wandered into the swamp with his friends to kill this reclusive monster of urban legend that stole babies from their cribs and preyed on younglings like himself. As the relic’s strange luck would have it, he possessed a birthmark on his neck which closely resembled the Vengeful Sing of Rag’s Chosen God. She made sacrifices of his friends but let him go, stealing all of his possessions first. The strange playing card fascinated her – she remembered cards like it from her youth, but this seemed different. As teams of city authorities and angry parents, fueled by the returning boy’s wild story, invaded Rag’s swamp, she was able to elude them and watch as they destroyed her home. Rag wandered, wandered, wandered, swearing revenge on her father, revenge on the Warriors, revenge on the boy, revenge on the desecrators, revenge on the world and all who inhabited it until fate directed her feet to the Blood-Drenched Plateau.
Weapon of Choice: A tribal war club similar to the Shillelagh, decorated with beads and paints; additionally, she carries a small jar of Spit of Poison, a fighting tactic similar to the Zulu's.
Personality/Description: At first glance, Rag appears to be a combination of something one would find in the deepest, darkest pits of a bucket of muck gathered from an area of equal depth and lighting in the Bayou and something from a nightmare you had last year that you still remember a bit too vividly.

Appearance-wise, Rag is about 5’11”, and would be half a foot taller if it weren’t for her abominable posture – her spine is crooked from an incident with a crocodile in her younger days. Her long, incredibly unkempt hair is pitch black and sports an impressive variety of tangles, beads, braids, bits of string, and several species of arthropod. Her blinded eyes are a pure, milky white and her mouth has been sewed shut with spiders’ silk, which has been spun into incredibly strong threads in accordance with an ancient technique that a select few still practice. Additionally, Rag’s skull has been punctured with several dozen iron pins, creating an assortment of bald spots.

Her skin color is hard to determine. Clearly, it was naturally very dark, but whatever parts of Rag are not covered in scars and burns have been tattooed with the likenesses of forgotten deities and decorated with ceremonial paint. She has three out of four fingers on her right hand and two on her left, every one of them stripped of fingernail. Her toes have been similarly mutilated.

Rag wears as many of her namesakes as she can find, sewing them together to create patchwork garments. She wears necklaces made of crocodile teeth, shrunken heads, and worse things. Her rings are decorated with stolen gemstones and the bones of animals many thought to be extinct.

She has an extreme resistance to physical pain built up by years of mutilating rituals. The scars, burns, and execrable tattoos are only part of the torture Rag has enjoyed over the decades. In her younger years, she regularly ingested a fear toxin created from mixing certain hallucinogenic mushrooms with the territory marking fluid of various night animals – as such, she does not scare easily. A ritual of servitude to her Chosen God of War and Nature has rendered her genderless – her reproductive organs and all associated body parts were scorched into disuse and ripped out long ago.

Personality-wise, Rag hates all other people with a passion, if a subdued passion, and will not deal with them unless doing so directly contributes to their severe misfortune. As such, she only shows her head in modern society to snatch babies or lure city children into the swamp she calls home, where she crucifies and tortures them, partaking of their brain fluids to receive boons from her otherworldly masters.

When not in the company of others, Rag is dangerously intelligent, as she must be to avoid being detected by any terrestrial authority that would put an end to her activities.

Her voice, muffled by her patched maw, is a rasping moan that seems to emanate from everywhere except Rag. Her senses of sound and smell are especially keen.

Conclusively, Rag is intelligent, sadistic, masochistic, hermetic, naturalistic, cruel, and superstitious. Her major fault is the belief that her beloved Chosen Gods will protect her against all enemies, so long as she continues to please them with sacrifice after sacrifice, ritual after ritual, obscene concession after obscene concession.



Any complaints? Concerns? Comments? Questions?

Accepted.

Cool cool. Thanks!

Name: Teyla Carol.

Title: The Light that Struck the Earth. (If you didn’t guess by the name...)

Relic: The Thanatos Sixgun

Sex: Female

Age: 25.

Bio: 15. That age at which she began the ten years of isolation in a crowded city. All it had begun with was a short shove. But then again, it was her former lover she had shoved, and he was standing in front of a rather precarious drop, and she did shoot him several times when he was on the ground afterwards. ‘Life’s cheap’, they told her... She’d done everyone a favour persay, removing a person brought attention to the town, attention meant money, and money was good for them. Not for her...

Whether it was accusations of stealing from the bar till all the way to organising the annual bank heist which was more or less criminals and guards dancing about, afraid that if they shot one of the other side, there would be less people for next year’s heist to dance with. In reality, she couldn’t care less. What the world did with or without her was nothing in comparison to her own mental turmoil. Sharpshooter, is what she wanted to be called. Sharpshooter was not the name she was to be called.

A random hobo who she felt rather compelled to put out of his misery ranted to her about his ‘brilliant’ theory for a weapon of infinite power. And of course, that caught her attention. But quickly learning that the weapon he spoke of couldn’t be held by oneself, she quickly left him to his continued scribbles. She did however insist that he name the weapon after her in return for a hot slug, which he took to be a nice meal. She knew rather better.

But then of course she was fixated on this ‘weapon of infinite power’. She spent all those years in isolation, researching such a weapon. At one point, she was prepared to sleep with the museum curator in exchange for what seemed like the fabled weapon, but instead chose to give him his toes as a necklace for his obvious deceit.

All in all, she ended back up at the police station after being arrested for countless murders and a long list of other crimes, most of which were indirectly related to insulting the police chief. After incapacitating the ones on duty with clean kicks to the particulars, the legendary weapon of infinite power she had spent seven years searching for washed up on the riverside. Spending the next few days, doing nothing but eating, sleeping and cleaning the gun, she had a work of art.

Art wasn’t exactly one of her favourite subjects anyway. Satisfied that she had a work of exceptional craftsmanship, she began testing it out on a group of geese swimming by. After all, they had just been attacking a mother duck and her young for breadcrumbs thrown by bystanders. But then geese weren’t her type of sport. People merely pointed in the direction of the sun-baked desert whenever she asked about good sport. It took a while for her to work out the actual location in the end. She wanted her title of Sharpshooter. Well, Shooter would suffice. If her water bottle ran out, human blood wasn’t such a bad substitute...

Weapon of Choice: Thanatos Sixgun :P

Description: One of the first things you’d notice about her is the bright white hair contrasted with an assortment of colour streaks, ranging from red to green to purple. Black corduroy jacket, khaki green pants, patterned shirt, ironically the only thing that isn’t covered in dust is her white leather shoes. Essentially she looks like something from another age, just with a completely unnatural smile of perfect black. (I kid, I kid, they’re your typical yellow-white).

In general, she’s not that different from most other girls around 16, except for the fact that she is 9 years older than that. Whether some force of nature kept her physical body on hold while she embarked on her personal quest to find the ignored weapon of infinite power, or she just uses too much make-up for anyone’s sake, looks are genuinely deceptive in this case.

Sixgun holstered on her jeans, she never takes her belt off, even when she showers, which used to be a regular thing for her you understand. On that note, she takes great care to keep her hair neat, I can’t say much for the rest of her though.

Personality: Generally, she will do anything to get what she wants, there isn’t really anything left for her to care about, apart from her own particulars, her hair, the Sixgun of course, and a terrier in the downtown she named Max who is riddled with fleas and has a cute bark.

That said, she is driven to achieve that title, and she isn’t stupid. Promising to help her achieve that title will not add much time to your short life, if you survive that long. On the flipside, you may actually save it indefinitely by calling her Sharpshooter in a way that makes her feel as loved and appreciated as possible.

In summary, consider her to be a very dangerous threat to your life, as she pretty much wants to see you dead as long as it serves her needs, which are quite few. Sympathy however is not unknown to her, as long as you’re male that is. A strong distrust for females brought up by women who treated her as a teenager rather than her actual age encouraged such an attitude. As for the males, she’s got the unending impression that her little finger can twist them to her will.

Also, she will on occasion act like a little child, insisting that she be called Sharpshooter under threat of shooting brains out.

Torn between a really charming guy and a really overreactive guy. Ack.

Nice, Jokie. Accepted.