Mike and I have discussed and we have decided that Idoun may be better suited for another purpose. So, in lieu of any other options, I present before the jury:
(No current pictures of him exist: this is his most recent one)
Name: Jeen (former name:
Geno)
Canon: Super Mario RPG/OC
Age: Unknown
Attributes/Powers: Powerful light-based magic. Also uses gauntlets that shoot projectiles and augment his hand-to-hand abilities. He'd grown accustomed to the powers he possessed in his previous form.
Costume: "Somehow, his old cap and cloak still fit. Guess he could be a wizard. Good enough. He hated dressing up."
Personality/History: "The poor wretch sneered as the barkeep topped off his glass with what must have been the cheapest garbage in the house. He rested his head down on the counter to steady his vision: sure enough, he could make out the motion of tiny white grains settling to the bottom.
'Is that... sediment? Jesus Christ, man, did you make this in a goddamn bathtub or something?'
'Sorry, Jeenie. I can't help what they bring me, and this is all I got. You cleared out my top-shelf stuff already.'
'For the last time, I told you not to call me that. You're not my fuckin' mom.'
'C'mon, don't get like that. I like ya, Jeenie, you know that.'
It was true, sort of. He came in just about every night anymore: had been for maybe three or four years now. No point getting shitty with a regular, especially when they manage to stay mostly quiet and keep to themselves. The barkeep didn't know much more about him than he did on day one, though: the wretch didn't talk about himself. Not who he was, not who he did, not what drove him to go to the same dive all night, every night, clearing out the exact same shit every single time. It took about a year and a half to coax a name out of him, and that was just because some bad stock sent him to the ER that night. Since then, he warmed up... a little. A subtle nod when he headed out, some small talk here and there, mostly about whatever wino got his teeth kicked in or which couple he caught plowing in the bathroom the hour before. Nothing personal, though. There probably wasn't anything to say. He could see it in his eyes. There was no life left. He liked the wretch, sort of. But he mostly pitied him. He wasn't like the other pieces of shit who crawled in here to hide out from the heat or find some cheap broad too strung out to know any better. Despite himself, he had the air of someone who had it good at one point: if not money, or love, or comfort, then a reason to pursue it. But something happened along the line, and now here he was. The same old story, but it never got any less tragic.
The wretch gave the barkeep a vacant sidelong glance before closing his eyes and knocking it back. He couldn't keep his face from scrunching up, not this time. Truth be told, he always hated vodka. He'd rather drink fuckin' gasoline. But it was his first, and he could always find it, and everything else he had just happened to be that much worse. He spent a minute exchanging glances with the glass and the barkeep before he answered.
'Well, then. If you like me so much, how about one more for the road... Mom?'
The barkeep obliged. The wretch was about to get surly, and he knew it. He always knew to quit while he was ahead. One more for the road.
The wretch looked down at his last drink of the night. Despite the sediment's best effort, it was still clear enough to see hes reflection. He looked into at himself, deep into his eyes, and grimaced. It never got easier. He had a purpose, once upon a time. He could make wishes come true. For a single day, or maybe two, everyone's hopes rested on his shoulders. It was... gratifying. But it got old after a while. He never got a lot of chances to leave his front yard. He wanted to see the world. At some point, he traded the flesh of trees for the flesh of men. New doors had opened to him. He could indulge in all of mankind's pleasures. But somewhere down the line, something changed. Pleasure gave way to boredom. Boredom gave way to frustration. Frustration gave way to bitterness; bitterness to resignation; resignation to apathy. The people he met, the places he'd seen, the things he'd done - and all permutations thereof - it all felt pointless. The naive might call him a hedonist, but it couldn't be further from the truth. He derived no pleasure from any of it. Not anymore.
The end of the night was mostly typical. He knocked back his last call, paid off the week's tab (plus a pretty generous tip - he wasn't
all bad), took his glass and headed for the door. He got about five feet from the entrance when he held out his hand and crushed the glass between his fingers. He stared dreamily at the mess of broken glass and sticky red fluid pooling in his outstretched palm. The barkeep, against all odds, didn't stop him. He never did, although eventually the wretch had to start bringing his own glass. He'd tended bar in this dump for a long time: he'd seen stranger, even if the other patrons hadn't. And, all things considered, it was one of the smaller messes he had to clean up every night.
The wretch looked on as a soft warm glow enveloped his hand. It was a ritual, of sorts, to see what shapes he could make out of the cuts. He liked to think it could tell his fortune: his own masochistic version of a tea leaf reading. It was also a neat parlor trick, one of many he employed that helped keep him housed and alive over the years. It was fortunate for him that people around here still didn't believe in magic.
The glow faded and the scars came back into view, and he found himself absolutely bewildered by what he saw. He knew he couldn't tell his fortune - he wasn't
that drunk - but the image that etched itself into his palm was uncanny in its familiarity. The silhouette of a person he knew, a long time ago. Was it a friend? A lover? A nemesis? He couldn't remember. But he didn't need to remember. He hadn't felt...
anything so strongly in a long, long time. Maybe he was only seeing what he wanted to see - between the flickering glow of the light overhead and his own failing vision, it was certainly possible - but it no longer had to be real. He knew what he had to do.
As he opened the door to the deserted alleyway, the barkeep called behind him.
'Hey, Jeen! You okay? What are you doing, paying your tab on a Thursday?'
'... I've got somewhere I've got to be.'
'You? Where the hell do you need to go?'
The wretch turned to face the barkeep and smirked.
'If I don't see you again, I just want you to know... you're all right.'
With that, he stumbled out. He didn't look back as the cacophony of the bar faded out of earshot."