The World SU & OOC

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So excited! *Does a little dance and proceeds to act cool* I mean.. This could be good.
 
Real World:

Name:
Sylvie Jones


Age:
20


Gender:
Female


Sexuality:
Bisexual. Mostly into girls, though the occasional guy will catch her eye


Appearance:
xku907.png


How they came to be comatose:

Eight weeks into her pregnancy, her Fallopian tube burst due to an ectopic pregnancy. She passed out at work, slamming her head into a counter. Due to the intial shock, internal bleeding, and the bump on the head, she was placed into a medically induced coma to allow her to heal.

Brief bit of a bio:
Sylvie is/was an ordinary girl going about life. Graduated with a GED a year before her peers, she has yet to find her niche. Currently, she works at a consignment shop. Her family isn't around much, and the father of her child is not in the picture.


Other:

She is often very blunt as she promised someone a long time ago to always be honest. She rarely tells a lie.


In World:

Name:

Anna Sophia Whitacre - Female
Andy James Leonardo - Male


Age:
18

Gender:

Upon will, she can transform into a male.

Race:

Male-self is a half-elf. Female is full human.

Sexuality:

Same (Bi)

Class/Role/Profession:

Wanderer, Thief/Pickpocket/Rogue

Abilities:

Feline Agility - Graceful, flexible, can easily dodge most attacks
Healing
Able to stop time - Only able to on a single object at a time and for a short period


Combative Style:

Loves close-combat. General, she sneaks before attacking aggressively.

Weapon(s) of Choice:

Three daggers in a belt around her waist. One dagger in a hidden sheath on each wrist.

Inventory:

In a small napsack, she carries: A canteen, various candles, ferret food, hardtack, a solar-powered coffee maker, mug, and rope. Attached beneath the sack is her bedroll/tent combo. Just large enough to fit herself inside with a cushioned bottom. Both ends of the tent are open.

Residence:

Her tent. She moves frequently.

Female & Male Appearance:
ogmbdi.jpg


Other:
Has a ferret.



Companion:


Name:

Trent Blackwood

Gender:
Male


Species:

Human/Avian hybrid

Abilities:

Teleportation - Short distances only. Able to teleport small items to his hands.
Spellcast - He knows only one spell. Sleep
Flight - Able to fly.


Main Purpose:

Friend

Circumstance:

Only recently, Trent had become a permanent resident of this world. He was in the Harvest Woods hunting when he came across a pathetic little figure. Ana was about to let herself go completely, but Trent befriended her. Now, he is basically there to keep her going. Her reason to try to exist. Here. There. Anywhere.

Appearance:
6h0r4o.jpg


Other:

He had a companion ferret whom he allowed Anna Sophia to adopt.
 
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Alright, I'm going to put up the IC thread in the next couple of days.
 
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuude. I'm already loving this, and I hope this isn't too late. So many people in the party. Great, great fun! We need a mascot (well, sorta)!


Real World -


Name:
???

Age:
???

Gender:
Male

Sexuality:
Straight

Appearance:
???

How they came to be comatose:
Hendrix doesn't remember jack about himself in the 'Outer' anymore. Only that the World is his home now, and he's happy.

Brief bit of a bio:
From the tiny bits that he even remembers of his life in the Outer, he'd reckon he was someone young, and infallibly dashing, capable of swooning the entirety of the female masses into a bout of pathological debauchery.

Nah, he's just messing with ya.

All he remembers is that he once found a friend in the Outer, and for some reason or another, he still can't forget about her. Also, he thinks he met King Midas once. The guy with the golden touch and shit, yeah?

Other:
Knows about Dora the Explorer (?!).


In World -

Name:
Hendrix Colt Whitaker Endwraith Silvalriillion Golmegas Megiddoneas Apocalyphos Reaven the Fourth (but call him Hendrix. Or the first three. 'Cause, the ones after can get a wee bit... unsettling to a few and then some.)

Age:
Carpets (read: either very old or he doesn't know)

Gender:
Male

Race:
I think I should mention it here that he's a bag. Yeah.

Sexuality:
Straight as an arrow!

Class/Role/Profession:
Inquisitor, Valiant, Gentleman Explorer, Venerable Apostle, High Commandant, Swashbuckler of the Seventeen Seas, Bag.

Abilities:

Immortality, Sorta - Being a cosmological pocket of variable existential anomalies sandwiched in durable fabric of some sort generally means he's incapable of collapsing under logical vigor. Ergo, he can't die, at least not in the general fashion. He can die, but to attempt such a feat would mean you'd have to strike at his heart, hidden deep within the abyss swirling within his physical remnant. After all, he is a bag of holding of sorts. One that talks, at least. His heart is probably situated somewhere between Quetzalcoatl's parking lot and the great fishing pole of Edward Hughes. If he gets ripped to pieces, though, he'd be rendered unable to do anything by himself until someone drops him in a washing machine and puts in 1 and a half (but not more!) cups of detergent. But doing so would also mean it'd be nigh-impossible for an outside party to reach into his abyss. By and large, it's a win-win sort of life for the man-bag. Oh, right. If he gets damaged, just drop him into a washing machine per instructions and he'll come out brand new, without a scratch to behold.

Bag O' Tricks - Unzip his main compartment (top zipper) and you'll see his abyss, which functions like any and all bag of holding or hammer-space satchel. He can bring forth a plateau of different items to aid in his daily life, provided he has it in storage. These items range from skateboards to laser swords to rubber chickens to bottles of whiskey to the Spear of Dantalion. Hendrix occasionally unlatches his straps to wiggle as his arms and legs, and most of the time walks with the gait of someone stuck waist-down in a gunny sack. But, he prefers to send flying a rope made out of handkerchiefs tied together at the ends (like the ones used in magic tricks, the ones with a palette sewn from rainbow?) to grab at things or strike out like a whip in battle. The handkerchiefs have been slathered with and dipped in canopy whale blubber, which makes them as tough as iron, despite keeping their soft, flexible mold.

rm20thcen-full.jpg

"Like so, but much, MUCH, longer."

Right Back At Ya, Buddy! - Hendrix can open his mouth (lower zipper) or even the top zipper to eat anything that comes his way, be it energy or knives, and throw them back out from the other zipper. Better in than out, as they say. Of course, he can't eat a whole horse in a matter of seconds. It's too big. He'd need a minute, at the least. And since he's sentient, it hurts his jaw if whatever he's eating carries a little too much bulk.

Omnomnom - Being a thinking, living bag of holding, it's no surprise that a very efficient way for Hendrix to deal with problems is to eat 'em up. His current record so far is an entire star serpent, monsters that surpass whole cruise liners in size at adolescence. It's become a pet to him ever since, and as such, another asset to him in combat. But since Quetzy's so cute and adorable, Hendrix pretty much keeps the thing kept away most of the time. Just as with the ability above, he hurts himself if he tries to eat something that's too big, and has had to rest an entire week after swallowing up Quetzy.

As a being who has lived from well beyond the realms of humanity's dwell, Hendrix is much more than meets the eye. Who knows what else he's hiding...?

Combative Style:

- Quips often.
- Makes sure the females are not in the line of harm. He is a gentleman, after all.
- Puts on snarks to provoke enemies, then goes on a dire offensive that's sure to leave a few cuts on himself once he feels the others are in the good of things.

Weapon(s) of Choice:
Handkerchief-rope arms, else he wields whatever he's got within (namely a few weapons to spit out or equip mid-battle, or folding chairs), or redirects projectiles and shit. Tanky goodness is a possibility, man.

Inventory:
An entire Hendrix's worth of stuff. Do you REALLY want to go over all that?

Residence?:
Having made good terms with the Covenant of the Trees, all Hendrix needs to do if he's looking for a snooze out in the wilds is to climb up a tree and hang from a branch by his latches. The tree will protect him until he wakes up, refreshed.

That being said, despite being a bag, Hendrix does, indeed, partake in all the basic humanly amenities, such as eating and the other end of the likes, but whether or not he needs it is unclear to everyone else. All we know is that you should never ask him how he goes about it. For it is horrifying.

Appearance:
united_day_backpack_front1.jpg

"
'Sup. If you'd look closely, you'd see that those black slits against the orange rhombus are my eyes. Now don't go thinkin' I'm some sorta plank, 'cause I could well enough furrow my brows and so forth. Shit, I could even bare my thousand fangs if ya need me to. And that little prick by my mouth? That ain't my teeth. Hell if I know what it is."

united_day_backpack_sizer1-590x427.jpg

"And here you'll see a dashing bloke being carried on the back of a less fortunate motherfucker."

Other:
Yeah... He might not exactly come off as the nicest bag. Sorta. Maybe? Yeah.
 
So... What happens if we stick him inside of another bag of holding?
 
You'd incite Class Z Limbo Collateral, i.e. World War Z. Because did I mention he might have zombies in there?
 
Totally a chance I'm willing to take *Paints An Army Of Professional Zombie Hunters*
 
*hides behind Req and his zombie hunters* I'm only slightly horrified of zombies...
 
Only slightly though :P
 
Dude, what the hell are you doing. Professional teams NEVER win over zombie apocalypses.

You'd need like, some office worker who's like Harry Mason, his pregnant wife, maybe some kinda Australian croc hunter dude, and then one of those badass retired colonels. Oh, and one of those annoying kids, maybe two, that keep pulling zombies in, or leaving doors unlocked.

Best team, man, BEST TEAM.
 
For a team, perhaps, but this is an army, faceless soldiers who's only purpose is to eradicate zombies. May or may not be made of metal...
 
Holy shit, that's actually an awesome idea. But don't do metal, do... iron.

House Party Protocol, undead bitches!
 
Iron Soldiers. That's kind of catchy. It's got a nice ring to it. I mean, it's not technically accurate. It's more of a gold titanium alloy, but it's kind of provocative, the imagery anyway.
 
Indeed, for iron was amongst the first types of earthen machinations conquered by man, or at least, one of the most revolutionizing. I mean, just ask the Assyrians. As for Metal... a subjection most varied in this age anew, wouldn't you agree? You might as well call them The Soldiers of Rock.

Shit, that's actually kinda awesome-sounding.
 
Great, now I'm imagining them lining up with guitars and drums and giant speakers and killing the zombies with rock music
 
So what you're saying is that sticking you into a bag of holding is a good thing, gotcha
 
Hmm... I wouldn't say that, friend. It's still kinda hazy, but I think doing that didn't work out so well in the end for the Templars. Something about a mass of geometries and psychosis come to life.
Of course, it's been a long time since then, so I dunno.

Now, if you're talking about Hendrix, then yeah. There'd be spaghetti all over the place, ha.
 
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