The Calamitous Campaign [Round 1: Chess City]

**Pick Yer Poison** · 09-15-2011, 12:21 AM

In a small pocket of null space sat a barren, war-stricken planet. For reasons beyond their knowledge, the inhabitants had never known peace for more than a few short years, separated by vast periods of tumultuous uprisings, coups, land skirmishes, blood feuds, and just about every other incarnation of war possible. After three thousand years of bloody history, two members of opposing sides - and unbeknownst to them, the last sapient creatures alive on the planet - engaged in a grim and vicious melee, each determined to come out alive. But neither was good enough to win, nor was either bad enough to lose. They were, in all ways relevant, a perfect match, right down to the killing blow, struck at the same moment from both sides. The two stared at their wounds, then back at each other, and as the light dimmed from their eyes, they whispered at much the same time, "Why?..."

In an entirely different, yet relatively close by, section of null space, two figures - one an almost luminescent white, the other an equally dark shade of ebony - sat opposite each other, a table filled with incomprehensible tools and gadgets between them. Featured in the center of the table was a large hologram of the planet which life had so recently vacated. It slowly faded away, to be replaced by the word "DRAW" displayed in a neutral gray color and penned in a flourishing hand. The lighter character reclined his head slowly, closing his eyes in subtle exasperation; the darker one took a far less subtle route, simply dropping his head into his open palms.

"Yet another stalemate, Black," remarked the white-clad figure, his eyes still closed.

"I nearly had you that time, White," responded his counterpart, a hint of anger in his voice.

"What number are we on now? I lost count when we entered the septuple digits."

"Does it matter? They always end the same way."

White raised his head and glanced out one of the windows, casting his eyes onto a grassy knoll filled with exotic fauna and flora. "Perhaps what we need is...a change of scenery."

Black raised his head and peered at White. "You may be right. This game has become rather tiresome of late." He paused to think. "The question is...what?"

White rose from his chair and strolled over to the enormous bookcase covering one of the room's walls. It was packed with rulebooks for more games than most people would think could exist, sets of books containing uncountable numbers of game records, strategy guides and tip books that had been rendered nearly unreadable by the sheer amount of corrections penciled in by their owners, and, in one lonely corner, a sizable collection of classical literature. Both Black and White had a weakness for that sort of thing.

None of this concerned White at the moment, however. As Black's watchful eyes followed him curiously, he pulled up the catalog interface and entered his personal password. Either one could have easily guessed the other's password without much difficulty, but they refrained from doing so out of a sense of mutual respect. Within moments, a robotic arm on a rail system slid across the shelves and plucked out a small unlabeled volume, presenting it to White with a small flourish.

By now Black had gotten up from his seat and had joined White near the bookcase. "What's this, now?"

White gently drew the cover open and flipped about halfway through the book, revealing page after page of detailed notes, speculations, and rules which he himself had penned. "I came across the most interesting program a few decades back, during the first total war in that last game of ours. It was called 'The Grand Battle.'" Snapping the book shut, he began pacing the not-inconsiderable length of the room. "It seemed like a simple one-off attention-grabbing ploy, and I paid it little mind. But in almost no time at all, imitations were popping up all over the place, and I began to think that perhaps it could be adapted to suit our needs." His restless feet stopped moving, and he once again pulled the journal open, skimming it feverishly. "I've got it all here, Black. Everything we need to run one of our own. We just need a stage name for ourselves and a name for the battle itself."

Black nodded eagerly. "We can call ourselves The Chessmasters, and we can call our battle--"

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This is a GRAND BATTLE, a fight to the death with words. Eight people will be selected, and seven rounds will be played. At the end of a round, each of which is in a different location, the weakest writer will be eliminated and his or her character will be killed. Then the characters will be whisked away to the next round in the next location, and the process will repeat itself. Reserving posts is recommended. The standard time limit is 3 hours, although you're usually allotted more time than that by your fellow players if you really need it. You can find the first Grand Battle here. Look in the first post for the basic rules! If you've got a question about something, want to work out something regarding a post, or just want to hang with some cool people, you can join #grandbattle on irc.esper.net.

This battle is non-canon, and has a specific twist to it. Your characters are going to be in two groups, with four in each group. While canonically, the groups are chosen by Black and White, the choice is going to be yours (the players) in the end.

Name: Your character's name.
Gender: Male, female, or something completely made up. Your choice, but a reference noun other than "they" would be nice.
Color: The text color you will be using for your posts. Feel free to use backgrounds to increase the number of choices you have; however, please don't use non-default fonts. I will ask you to change any colors I can't read on the forum's background. "White" on "Black" and "Black" on "White" are used by Black and White, respectively, so they're not available.
Race: Your character's species. Human, martian, plant, meatball, undead vacuum cleaner, whatever.
Equipment: What was your character carrying when they were ripped from their homeworld by one of The Chessmasters?
Abilities: What kind of abilities does your character have? This could be anything from being good at acrobatics to being able to shoot fire from their butt.
Description: Describe your character's physical appearance and personality. Pictures are welcome, but by no means required!
Biography: What was your character's life like before they were abducted?

Entrants:
1. Mia Mallone (Wojjan) - #1205E5 Link -->
2. William James Smith and Charlotte "Lottie" Smith (Solaris) - #AA8855 Link -->
3. Krik'Ix (Jacquerel) - "SlateGrey" Link -->
4. Captain Omri Syluxyn (Ixcalibur) - #002157 Link -->
5. STARWHALE (engineclock) - #3C008F Link -->
6. Cambronne (Pharmacy) - #66B299 Link -->
7. Heather Alder (Godbot) - #5663BB Link -->
8. Andrew Smith (The Dr.) - #A52A2A Link -->

**cyber95** · 09-15-2011, 12:23 AM

Name: Hilux

Gender: None, but identifies as male.

Colour: #09285E matches his chassis

Race: 2001 Toyota Hilux

Equipment: hydraulics, GPS, 4 speed automatic transmission, 4L V6 engine, four-wheel drive, onboard computer with both satellite and wireless internet options, satellite radio, and a car phone, just for fun. Got a full tank of gas and a fully charged battery.

Abilities: Top speed of 170 km/h and can hit 0-100 km/h in about 13 seconds. Offroads pretty good, and can hop thanks to the hydraulics, which he can utilize pretty good thanks to a lot of dicking around with it after leaving the mod shop.
Oh, and he's pretty much indestructible. No seriously, look at the Reputation section on the Wikipedia article. It's a durable goddamn truck.

Description: Two doors, single cab, blue paint job. Plenty of space in the bed, if you need it. It's got a bit of grime on it, but it was serviced and restored pretty damn nicely after spending a year in a frozen wasteland.

Hilux is super enthusiastic about everything you guys! Oh man this situation sucks but he's sure that it'll turn out all right! He was programmed to have a positive attitude, and while he may panic sometimes, this doesn't last long. Once he's done panicking, he'll try his darndest to fix the solution!
It may now be a good time to mention that he has phenominally poor judgement. If given two options, he'll usually choose the worse one, even if it's pretty clear that it isn't a good idea. Somebody put a NOT somewhere in his code that they shouldn't have, apparently. Still, he's a good guy, and is willing to be your friend, just don't let him make any decisions.

Biography:

**Ixcalibur** · 09-15-2011, 01:59 AM

Name: Doesn’t have one; will most likely respond to Yael’Vaet.
Gender: None, male for ease of pronoun use.
Color: #005826
Race: Yael’Vaet

The thing that the Yael’Vaet most resemble is seaweed. They are technically speaking alien, but mankind has gotten so used to them that they don’t think of them as alien anymore. That said they barely think of the Yael’Vaet as alive. They are dark green; the core of their bodies is a circular structure roughly five centimetres in diameter. They have numerous tendrils which grow throughout their lives, in the wild growing up to miles but now growing no longer than thirty centimetres or less.

The Yael’Vaet naturally secrete a chemical that has proved to be impossible to duplicate. It affects different people in different ways but generally speaking it gifts people with some kind of superpower. There is a whole selection of most common effects from invisibility to super strength, from super speed to regeneration. Science currently is unable to explain the strange chemical and quite how it affects people as it does. This is not the only effect that the Yael’Veat have. When they secrete this venom they form a temporary bond with whomever they are connected. Some bonds are stronger than others, the weakest they are just a voice talking to the person in question, the strongest they are like a friend that the person has known all their lives.

Most responsible people would have left this noble species in peace; however they were discovered by a corporate spacecraft for the Praetorian corporation. Soon after the discovery they began breeding the Yael’Vaet on Earth and selling them to the public. They are typically worn with their secretion gland pressed to the back of the hand. Their tendrils naturally wind between the fingers, up the wrist and around the arm to lock themselves on. Crucially, before a Yael’Vaet is sold it undergoes a process which is effectively a lobotomy. This prevents it from forming any bonds and informing people what the Prateorian corporation gets up to. Most people who purchase a Yael’Vaet are not actually aware that they are wearing what should be a sentient creature.

Equipment: Yael’Vaet was not carrying anything. It was however in a topless glass saltwater fish tank which comes along with it.
Abilities: Yael’Vaet has no abilities except that intrinsic to its species. When ‘worn’ by another living being it gives them what amounts to a superpower. The superpower in question varies from person to person, for reasons science has yet to fathom. This Yael’Vaet was taken before it could be lobotomised and so it forms connections with whomever uses it.
Description: Yael’Vaet’s core is circular, dark green and about five centimetres in diameter. From this core it has six tendrils extending for fifteen centimetres.
Biography: Yael’Vaet spent the entirety of its life in its tank, getting fed by the Praetorian employees. It never even knew its parent. It spent most of its life wondering why everything sucked so much and then it was pulled into a battle to the death.

**Solaris** · 09-15-2011, 07:12 AM

Name: William James Smith and Charlotte "Lottie" Smith
Gender: Husband and Wife
Race: Giant Lizards (Okay they are more like 3 feet tall, that's still giant for them)
Color: They share this'un (#aa8855)
Equipment: William has his mighty pair of six shooters while Lottie has her specialized shotgun. Their aim is exceptional, and they always carry around plenty of bullets.
Abilities: Being slippery lizzards. Good aim. Wrangling powers. They are a resourceful duo who trust each other absolutely. The slippery couple believe that they can do anything as long as they do it together. In addition to their "normal" arms, they have a few left overs, such as a pair of light swords and a headband scanner from Ultra Mecha Citadel.
Description: They are both as mentioned, Giant Clay Brown Lizards, about three feet tall each. Will has green eyes and wears a brown vest over a white shirt along with a nice tailor made classic cowboy hat. Lottie has a nice pale blue dress and a matching headband. She's got red eyes and orange hair.
Will is a wild card, always has been, always will be. Showy, a daredevil, but he always comes through. Now that he's a married man though, he's going to take a few more precautions to protect his wife, even if it means not being the center of action.
Lottie was always the more level headed of the two, she was always worried about Will when they dated and wished that he would take less risks. As it turned out, after she was dragged along the multiverse, she learned that risks are sometimes necessary and she began to be a bit more risky.
They are prepared to do anything to make sure that their lives, and love stays intact.
Biography: When Willaim Smith entered the quiet little town of Grege, he was not expecting very much. He was hunting for the notorious Benjamin Fitz, an arsonist who had last been seen heading in the direction of the small town. He rode in, asked around, and eventually found out that the tip was a bust. Just as William was about to pack up and leave, he saw her.

Charlotte Gordon, daughter of the mayor. She was just a simple lass, sheltered by her father after he lost her mother in a tragic accident. She was content, and happy with her quiet life, never wanting anything more... until she laid eyes on William Smith.

It was love at first sight.
In the coming months, the two met in secret, as Charlotte knew that her father would never condone her marrying a vigilante, and as William knew that if people knew about her, they would get her to get to him.
She wished that he would leave his life of hunting criminals, but he just couldn't.

Then, just as they had another one of their meetings, William was whisked into the far, far, far future against his will. Later, to his dismay, Lottie was as well.

The time travelling couple landed in the Ultra Mecha Citadel, Will was summoned to fight for gladiatorial combat, while Lottie was kidnapped as bait for Will. It was tough, but eventually the two were able to make it back to their own time without issue.

After the crazy trip through time, they got married, made a life of their own wrangling cattle and hunting criminals and doing all sorts of things.

*****

The following are three other profiles that I entered to give pyps a hard time and also because I am insane.

**ch00_bakka** · 09-15-2011, 07:54 AM

Name: Anfdi Enoch
Gender: Male
Race: Librarian. Humans, but with four long, multiple-jointed arms and black (as in #000000, not "dark brown") skin.
Color: #556b2f
Description: Anfdi is fairly standard as Librarians go. His skin is more blue-black than most, but that by itself is not abnormal. What is abnormal is the glowing white sigils moving across his flesh. These are extremely fancy tattoos, made with glowing nanobots injected into his skin, and controlled by a chip in his lower back. He is about seven feet tall, and his arms are each about four feet long. His legs make up about half of his height, each being about the same length as his arms. He has white (bleached) hair, fairly straight and about neck length. His eyes are solid red, except for a large pupil, adapted for low light (this is completely normal). He is shirtless, and wears a short kilt-like skirt-thing that reaches just below his knees, which is held up by a rope around his waist.

Anfdi is slightly batty, and thinks of himself as a trickster god (instead of a god of knowledge, which is what Librarians are supposed to think of themselves as). He enjoys pranks, but is, in the immortal words of a Precursor writer whose name is lost to history, "the kind of bloke who would put a land mine under a seat cushion for a bit of a laugh." His "pranks" often lead to maiming and death. He also always talks in rhyming Iambic Pentameter. This makes him very annoying to talk to. VERY annoying to talk to.

Abilities: The nanobots in his skin have no function other to make pretty designs. But Anfdi has several other bionic implants, which help him on his Grand Mission to Trick the World. He can see in the dark, and he has increased agility from springs in his limbs (anything's possible with SCIENCE!). Like all Librarians, he has a repository of information in a computer in his chest cavity, with all of the great science and literature of the last several billion years. This is probably useless. He has some combat training, and a few pranking apparatus in a pouch on his belt. These include a joy buzzer, a clever disguise, three decks of cards (standard, tarot, and xth'rpp!!in tournament cards), several dice, and a vial of deadly poison. Deadly to Librarians, that is. Essentially a suicide pill. To other species it produces at most a mild allergic reaction.

Biography: A biography of a single Librarian would be confusing unless background on the race was given first. The Librarians, as well as the Tricksters, the Warriors, and the Fates, were created by an ancient race of beings known only as the Precursors. These great and noble beings looked essentially like the Librarians, but with different shades of skin and two fewer limbs. They created the Four Races to make sure that when they went to another galaxy (to lift up the races there), the races left in the Myylki'ouai Galaxy would not be left alone. They called themselves the Hyoomins. The Four Races were all created for different reasons. Tricksters were created to make new species clever, Warriors to make them strong, Fates to give them a sense of their own weaknesses, and Librarians to give them morals. Needless to say, Anfdi is terrible at this. He was created by mistake: in the Precursors' laboratories, a Trickster brain-pattern was accidentally mixed in with the Librarian brain-patterns. This resulted in Anfdi. All of the races he was assigned to ended up as insanely awesome races, yes. But they caused a lot of suffering in the galaxy. Which is bad. His chaotic life was ended when he disappeared one day. Poof, just like that.

**Jacquerel** · 09-15-2011, 10:27 AM

Name: Krik'Ix
Gender: Male
Color: Slate Grey
Race: Humanoid Beetle (He's not actually a beetle it's just the nearest equivalent)
Description:

Krik'Ix resembles something a bit like an upright beetle, though his anatomy is obviously rather diverged from that of Earth-dwelling species. He has more limbs to start with, standing on four legs arraged in a square around his base with two pairs of arms ending in rather humanoid hands (placed on his body roughly where you would expect them to be) and a final pair of elongated limbs ending in serrated scythes extending over his shoulders and reaching down to the floor in front of him, occasionally used as a third pair of supports for his legs.
His chest is covered in shiny, dark purple plates of chitin, as is most of the rest of his body. His back is covered in a very durable wingcase, tougher than any other part of his body, concealing his wings. The wings themselves are translucent and a good two and a half feet in length.
His head is roughly dome shaped and sports two pairs of long, overhanging antenna. He has three pairs of eyes arrayed at either side of his head (lacking pupils but not compound) and a large set of sharp mandibles.

Personality-wise, Krik'Ix is a rather self centered individual, though always polite and courteous. This is not to say he is unwilling to work with others (in fact it his preferred means of operation), although perhaps "manipulate" would be a better word. He likes to be in control of every situation and if not granted a leadership position will use deceit and manipulation to get people to do what he wants instead. He doesn't really care whether or not he is acknowledged as an official leader as long as things are always going his way. This is made easier for him by his insect face's lack of visible emotion and his ability to change the tone of his voice however he wishes, with complete disregard to how he actually feels, meaning he can be very convincing even as he lies outright.
He will not want to die in this competition and if he can remove all other obstacles without getting his hands dirty in any way, that's the way he'll want things to go. While he will try to protect anyone in his group from unecessary harm, he puts himself much higher in his list of priorities.

There's no point throwing away good tools, but you don't die for them either.

Abilities:

Biography:

Krik'Ix's kind are the dominant species on their home planet, and the only ones with what humans would call higher intelligence. Their technology is around the age of industrial revolution, which may leave him a little overwhelmed by the more advanced machinery he is likely to find at the start of the contest, and the population mainly live in very large familial groups within tall spire-hives, something like a mostly vertical castle. Circles of land around the hives are given over to agriculture and nesting sites for the young, which far outnumber the adults.
Their species goes through several stages of metamorphosis, doubling in size every time, growing from roughly the size of your thumb to slightly taller than the average human male. Each form also becomes substantially more intelligent and more humanoid (they first hatch looking not dissimlar to locusts). The stage immediately before the final one is when they gain the ability to talk and lose the ability to fly, and these are mainly employed as craftsmen and in other skilled labourers. All forms younger than this perform hunting and act as guards (the larger varieties) and soldiers (the smaller). The adults organise and mate.
It is difficult for any metamorphosis to happen without the consumption of many of any individual's siblings, meaning that each tier of development is rarer and more calculating than the last and that those that reach adulthood are generally the most devious and least trustworthy, locking even the smallest houses into a constant war of intrigue for the top position. Positions of power are almost exclusively held by males as not only as they less common, females die during pregnancy 100% of the time.

That said, the general state of politics is not as war-ridden as you might expect. Males and females are regularly exchanged between houses once they are old enough to speak, in order to cement bonds of peace through marriage. As each house controls a small army of ravenous children and any of them would jump at the chance to grow up without having to eat their own siblings it is unwise for any house to annoy any other house, as the family of any victor will inevitably double in size causing far more competition for the leadership position, one that is already generally filled by stepping into your dead brother's shoes while they're still warm and a few dregs of your poison are left at the bottom of his wineglass. Not that they wear shoes.

Krik'Ix himself was lord of his own rather large house, with wide, fertile holdings and several wives. When one evening he suddenly disappeared, his poor and apparently now widowed Chir'Kah (who had been reading to him at the time) was shocked into early labour and quickly died as thousands of larvae ate their way through her organs and pupated for the first time inside the husk, as was customary.
Several days later, when his brother Jal'Ix broke through the door to find this unfortunate scene, he declared his brother dead ("A terrible sight, his daughters ate even his exoskeleton! Such a shame.") and immediately began making arrangements to move into his quarters.

**TimeothyHour** · 09-16-2011, 07:55 PM

Username: TimeothyHour

Name: A Clockwork Orange

Gender: Plants are Androgynous and robots are Genderless, yo. So obviously a He.

Race: Mechanical Orange

Colour: FREAKIN’ ORANGE AW YEAH

Weapons/Abilities: So, he’s mechanical and stuff, so like, he’s pretty resliant to people beatin’ down on him. He also has saw blades inside of him so he can EAT YOUR FACE OFF. He’s supposed to be an assassination robot and stuff. He can inject poison and laser you too, if necessary. He also looks like an orange and is pretty stealthy because of it. He also might try to sell you hipster stuff.

Description: Normally he looks like an orange (like, exactly like one. Size and everything) and he uses weights inside himself to move around but if he attacks you or whatever it’s like OH MAN ALL ALONG A FAÇADE and then he gets all roboty but with orange peels on him and its pretty sweet and stuff.

He likes eating people’s faces and he’s also sort of intellectual and a hipster. So imagine like a guy in prison but also a pimp since he’s and he sells incense instead of doing community service.

Biography: So he was built to assassinate people but he’s like “naw man I’m gonna eat EVERYONE’S face off and then be like a robot hipster guy. And then he ate everyone’s faces off and became a robot hipster guy. He’s classy enough for it, and all.

He was eatin’ a face off when he disappeared. He might be mad about it.

**kabbage** · 09-17-2011, 07:20 PM

Name: Meowmeus

Gender: Male

Color: Dark Orange :3

Race: Kitty Vampire (cat vampire)

Equipment: crossbow attached to back (don't ask how he does it, he can shoot and reload fine) knife for close combat, small metal claw boots, hook-shot, lock picks, bags on his sides, and a cloak under it all.

Abilities: very skilled at charming his enemies through his kitty charm, is VERY agile and smarter than most cats and humans, sucks blood to heal wounds (sucks any blood, be it mice to humans to aliens, doesn't matter) can sense heat and fast heartbeats, can unlock almost any lock, very well at sneaking out of situations.

Description: an orange and white tabby cat with blue eyes

Biography: lived in a post apocalyptic world and was able to survive with his knowledge, agility, and charm. was not owned by anyone and never wants to be. it was never known how his knowledge was granted, not even by him.When he didn't get supplies from stealing, he crafts supplies by himself from those he killed.

EDIT: Meowmeus only speaks in "meow"s, but i will put translations in quotes

**engineclock** · 09-17-2011, 07:27 PM

Name: STARWHALE

Race: STARWHALE

Gender: STARWHALE IS MASCULINE BUT STARWHALE DOES NOT BELIEVE IN CONCRETE GENDERS

Color: #3C008F

Equipment: STARWHALE NEEDS NO EQUIPMENT

Abilities: All starwhales produce a strange type of wave that is capable of traveling through the vacuum of space in the form of “songs”. Do not question this, it is the magic of whales. In the wild this is used to communicate between pods and individual starwhales, with the songs reportedly being audible on the far sides of galaxies when entire pods perform together. The rare occasions in which starwhales visit terrestrial ground inevitably end in horrible disaster: the same properties that allow the waves to be audible in space cause massive amounts of damage to physical matter, essentially atomizing everything in their path. A careless pod of starwhales can easily devastate small planets; a single one on its own can produce a “beam” of song that travels the lengths of solar systems. Naturally this costs the whale a lot of energy, and can’t safely be repeated in quick succession. Destroying planets is also something of a faux pas among starwhales and it is considered polite to avoid doing it whenever possible.

Starwhale is immune to the effects of gravity and normally maintains a floating height of fifty feet when planetside. His “true” voice is perceived by lesser beings as something akin to telepathy, though due to his size IT IS VERY LOUD AND YOU CANNOT IGNORE STARWHALE SO PLEASE STOP TRYING. Not many obstacles are capable of standing in Starwhale’s way, mostly because he is large enough to crush them without noticing.

Description: Vaguely resembles an Earth humpback whale, only more streamlined and a calming celestial indigo in color. Starwhale’s hide is speckled with millions of unevenly glowing lights that may or may not resemble stars. Somewhere around 100 ft in length, Starwhale would weigh over 200 tons if he ever landed which he will not.

Having come from a rigidly structured society, Starwhale is concerned about maintaining order and gets very distressed when the members of his pod do not act in accordance with their roles. Starwhale does not approve of rebels or rebellious actions and if Starwhale had his way you would all be ordered into neat lines and arranged by size, color, and preference of beverage.

Biography: STARWHALE WAS BORN IN A POD OF MANY STARWHALES WHO LOVED AND CARED FOR STARWHALE AND THEN LEFT TO FORM A POD OF OTHER STARWHALES AND THEN WAS PULLED AWAY AND IT WAS VERY RUDE STARWHALE DOES NOT THINK THIS WAS A GOOD WAY TO HANDLE THE SITUATION

**Pharmacy** · 09-17-2011, 08:48 PM

Name: Cambronne

Gender: Guy

Race: Spirit/Manifest

Color: #66B299

Description:

Cambronne resembles the poorest qualities of a man and a cat placed into one being. He looks vaguely humanoid – “vaguely” being the key word here. His hands are gnarled, his feet are twisted. His anatomy looks so twisted it is basically painful to look at. He staggers in a way that he looks constantly in pain, although the ecstatic, depraved look in his feral eyes suggest otherwise.

Cambronne does wear clothes, or at least he looks like he is wearing clothes. His attire (or a lack therefore) resembles those of a stereotypical medieval executioner. In the past, executioners were considered unclean by medieval society and it shows on Cambronne. He looks grimy and disgusting. He has scars everywhere, plus a couple of toes and fingers missing. If he had a smell, he would smell like fear. However, fear does not smell like anything, so he does not stink.

Cambronne is not a very nice person and probably would never be. He enjoys inflicting pain on himself and others, but especially others. One thing that brings joy to his rotten heart is making others suffer. Although he enjoys humiliating and dominating others, there is one thing he does not like: subservience. If there is one thing that makes the heart of Cambronne quail, it is bring himself lower than others. His arrogance and callousness in his prideful psyche prevent him from seeing others as equals.

Abilities:

Although he is a spirit that looks like a cat, he surprisingly does not any supernatural agility, reflexes, and even strength (however, he does have retractable claws). In fact, he cannot even phase through objects or do other ghostly things. Every of his skills seem to be borderline human to say the least. However, what seems ridiculously supernatural is his tolerance to pain. Lesser men would quell underneath the heavy hand of pain. However, Cambronne is not a man. He was formerly a man though, but now he’s a spirit. Regardless, he has a ridiculous tolerance for physical pain (mental? No one had tried yet) and in fact, drinks heavily in it.

Another supernatural quality of Cambronne is his whip – folded into each of his two arms. This organic whip has inhuman reach and can touch both the incorporeal and the worldly. Of course, each of these fleshy cords has small serrated blades lined inside them – for maximum pain. One might argue the practicality of a whip. After all, it is hard to kill with a razor whip. However, Cambronne intends not to kill his opponents. He wants to see them suffer.

Biography:

Cambronne does not remember much about his past. However, he does remember he was an executioner, he was an unpleasant man, he did nasty things, and he got executed. He also vaguely remembered being denied from both the pearly gates above and the abyssal portal of below. No eternal rest? Well, that does not bother him (so he claims)! He’ll enjoy every minute spent back in the restless realm, terrorizing those peasant worms and those maggot spirits. Cambronne prided himself a just man. After all, he gave his punishment indiscrimately (by punishment, he was referring to his debilitating torture).One day, while giving an errant village a piece of his mind,

He just disappeared.

**Godbot** · 09-17-2011, 09:22 PM

Name: Heather Alder
Gender: Female
Color: #5663B8
Race: Ordinary Human Girl

Equipment: Nothing! …Well, a purse. She has a purse with nail polish, makeup, two bottles of perfume, a notepad and pen, her cell phone, hairspray, a screwdriver, a crumpled-up sheet of physics homework, about $40 in cash and loose change, an iPod and a modified car battery (but you’re not supposed to know about that).

Abilities: Decent at baking. Good note-taker. Majoring in robotics at Harlan Tech. Took kickboxing once, but she had to quit when her instructor was nearly killed in a freak accident involving his upper half and a wall.

Description: A regular 19-year-old girl with about average-good looks. She could probably look cuter if she ever wore anything besides long, baggy, unflattering clothing, but she doesn’t seem to own any other kind. Her hair is long, dark and straight, and it reaches neatly down to the middle of her back, covering everything below her neck. She regularly double-checks to make sure it’s all in place. Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t hide her face behind a pair of glasses, even though it’s exactly the sort of thing she’d do.

Usually if someone asks her about her unusual choice of clothes (which she maintains even in the dead of summer), she panics and says that she’s allergic to sunlight, but she’s obviously lying. If she really was, then she’d have to wear a hat, which she doesn’t. No one has the heart to call her out on it, though; she probably just has body image issues. They’re pretty common among girls her age, you know.

She often covers her mouth with her hand or sleeve when she talks – though it’s not like she has weird teeth, or anything. In fact, it’s a habit she’s hardly even aware of, so stop asking, it just makes her self-conscious. What if she only does it because she’s shy? You’d just make things worse.

Heather very strongly favors her right hand, and hardly ever seems to use her left at all. She also walks with just the slightest of limps, suggesting some kind of nasty injury that’s only mostly healed. Don’t ask her about it, that’s rude. If she were in a wheelchair or inside an iron lung, would you confront her about it? You terrible person.

When she was abducted for the battle, she was wearing a black-and-white striped shirt with sleeves so long that they cover her hands, an olive green vest, baggy jeans that almost reach the floor, and an ordinary pair of sneakers.

Heather is evasive and jumpy, and she’s often lost in thought. Her body image is clearly awful, and nothing bothers her more than strangers staring at her. Animals avoid her like the plague, dogs bark at her in the streets, and plants tend to shrivel and die around her, but I’m sure her perfume is just too strong or something. She sure does wear a lot of it.

She’s kind of a worrywart, which means she never gets onto planes, she cuts her own hair, and she never goes swimming, but really, that’s a good quality for a robotics major to have anyway. It means that she always double-checks and catches her mistakes. She must be under a lot of stress.

Kids these days, right?

Biography: Nothing terribly notable. Heather was born in Tarley, East Dakota, a smallish American town where the only thing anyone over 40 ever talked about was the Meteor Crash of 1862, the last recorded interesting thing to happen there before or since.

After an entirely uneventful childhood, she decided to put as much distance between herself and her hometown as possible and went to Harlan Tech, an engineering school in the middle of the Southwestern Seaboard.

Heather avoided meeting other people on her own, always preferring the company of her friends and the people they were friends with, which leads to a rather interesting chicken-and-egg paradox once you think about it. She didn’t always seem to fit in, though everyone just assumed it was because of her accent. College students are supposed to be a little eccentric anyway.

Sure, people swapped the occasional theory about her (she’s a child prodigy who invented the internet, she’s actually performing a lengthy psych experiment, she’s got a killer figure underneath all those baggy clothes, etc), but between a combination of general politeness and slight pity about all her nervous habits, people avoided talking about her behind her back.

Even when she stopped attending class altogether.

**The Dr.** · 09-17-2011, 10:38 PM

Man, Godbot, I look like I'm copying you so much right now you don't even know
Name: Andrew Smith
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Color: A lovely rustic #A52A2A sounds fantastic, thank you.
Equipment: Andrew didn't have much of anything special on him when he entered. He has a wallet with a couple twenties in it, if it counts for anything, and he carries his pocketknife around with him wherever he goes, so I guess there's that.
Abilities: Andrew is relatively unremarkable in this regard; he can run pretty fast, and he's actually pretty strong for a twenty-three year old guy, but other than that he's not very special. He's pretty smart, but he was a B student for most of his life, so he wouldn't necessarily put it under a list of feats, by any means.
Description: Andrew is a straight-standing, always-smiling twenty three year old man; he is currently wearing casual clothing (as opposed to the suit he usually wears for work), which is a simple white T-shirt and black loose-fitting jeans. His hair is generally messy, but he usually covers it with a straight-black fedora, which he has an affinity for. Andrew stands tall at 6'2" and is generally considered to be rather handsome, so as such it's not uncommon to see him with a woman. He speaks surprisingly eloquently and has an expansive vocabulary, even for a gentleman with such an (apparently) unremarkable measure of intelligence.
Bio: Andrew never was the kind of guy to be part of anything exciting. He played some football in his teenage years and has a relatively well-paying job working in a completely generic cubicle jungle. He lives a humble life, though he doesn't ask for much anyways.

**Pick Yer Poison** · 09-18-2011, 12:42 AM

ROSTER TIME

1. Hilux (cyber95) - #09285E Link -->
2. William James Smith and Charlotte "Lottie" Smith (Solaris) - #AA8855 Link -->
3. Krik'Ix (Jacquerel) - "Brown" Link -->
4. A Clockwork Orange (TimeothyHour) - "Orange" Link -->
5. STARWHALE (engineclock) - #3C008F Link -->
6. Cambronne (Pharmacy) - #66B299 Link -->
7. Heather Alder (Godbot) - #5663BB Link -->
8. Andrew Smith (The Dr.) - #A52A2A Link -->

Expect the intro post at some point tomorrow, when it's not midnight and I'm not about to head to bed. Those who were not accepted, you can PM me and ask me why if you'd like my reasoning.

**The Dr.** · 09-18-2011, 09:26 AM

(Happy 18th birthday, PYP!

)

Jacq and I seem to have awful similar colors. I'll change if necessary, but I personally think it fits the character. Is it possible we could negotiate that?

**Jacquerel** · 09-18-2011, 09:39 AM

I'm not particularly attached to my colour, I'm pretty happy to change it.
Will slategrey work instead? That doesn't seem to be too close to anyone else's.
I could go and grab a hex code colour but I have problems with getting the right one, so it's easier to just pick off a big list of preset bbcode colour tags :P

**Pick Yer Poison** · 09-18-2011, 07:40 PM

A spotlight shone upon a hatch, casting an excess bit of dim light onto the eight beings encircling it. Each of them was as confused as the other, and none were able to move. They stood helplessly in stunned silence as the hatch creaked open, revealing a rising platform carrying two sharply contrasting figures up into the light. A holographic marquee rotating around the bottom of the platform proudly announced this to be the "PRE-BATTLE INTRODUCTIONS." Its message was pointless, as only the Chessmasters understood what it meant, and they already knew where they were.

White cleared his throat, pointedly waiting a few moments so everyone could notice the lack of an echo. "Welcome to the Calamitous Campaign, everyone!" he announced grandly, sweeping his arms outwards and glancing around the circle. "You may refer to us as the Chessmasters, and we'll be the tacticians behind this battle. You're going to be fighting to the death in this little strategy game of ours. I understand that this probably comes as a shock to most of you, but I'm sure you'll adjust to it in due course."

"Or you'll more than likely be killed by those who do," Black interjected, chuckling nastily.

"Yes, or that," White acknowledged with a nod. He picked up his notepad, a strange item to see next to a holographic display, and flipped through a few pages until he found what he was looking for. "Okay, first order of business is the introductions. Black, why don't we swap off every other one to make it nice and even? They've been arranged randomly anyway."

Black nodded. "Seems fair enough to me. You want to go first?"

"I'm fine either way."

Black pulled a coin out of his pocket and tossed it into the air, catching it and covering it with his hand. "Call it."

"Heads."

Black took his hand off of the coin and peered at it, then showed it to White. "Heads. You first."

White nodded and turned to one of the contestants, seemingly at random. "Sorry about that. We have to keep everything equal, you know. Otherwise it's just not a fair fight!" He flipped through his notepad again. "Now, who do we have first...ah."

A second spotlight split off from the central one and moved towards the contestant White was facing, a large, quadrupedal beetle, standing frozen in an upright pose, his wings unfurled behind him. Two pairs of arms hung at his sides, and a nasty looking pair of scythe-like limbs extended over his shoulders and out to his front. "This is Krik'Ix. Those of you who are familiar with the species known as a beetle may note some resemblance, but let me assure you that most similarities are only superficial. He is not only intelligent, but quite cunning to boot."

Black stepped forward, and White returned to take his place on the platform, handing him the notepad as they passed. The spotlight shifted from Krik'Ix to the contestant next to him, a pretty young girl flanked by three intimidating men. "Mia Mallone is the daughter of a very influential crime boss, and is accompanied at all times by her three bodyguards, all of who have proved their worth to the mob boss himself."

The notepad switched hands again, and the spotlight moved on to an altogether unremarkable man wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans. His scraggly hair was mostly hidden by a black fedora. "Andrew Smith is an altogether unremarkable man, as you can see. He's unremarkably athletic, gets unremarkably average grades, and carries a few unremarkable things with him." White peeked at the next page. "Wow. That seems to be it. How unremarkable."

The next contestant resembled a neanderthal fused with a wildcat. He was hunched over in a way that made the backs of the other contestants ache in sympathy, or at least the backs of those who had backs. Two bright feline eyes glared out from underneath a wild bush of hair. "Executioner by trade, sadist by nature, and already dead by clinical standards, Cambronne is not one to be underestimated. He has difficulty recalling a lot of his past, but claims not to be bothered by it. He wields two whips made from his own flesh, and is extremely skilled in using them. Don't expect a quick finish if he manages to corner you." Black grinned nastily. "According to this, he enjoys playing with his food."

White paused before he introduced the next contestant, reading the page on her over carefully. He looked up at Black. "Really?" he demanded sarcastically.

Black shrugged in response, a half-smile on his face. "What're the odds?"

The spotlight revealed another human, this time a girl, a large purse slung over her shoulder. Her clothing was baggy and awkward, her sleeves running the full length of her arms and hiding her hands from view. An uncomfortable expression was frozen on her face. White gestured in her vague direction. "Heather Alder is a fairly unremarkable woman. She can cook, takes good notes, and is, well, was, majoring in robotics at a university. She's also got a bunch of things in that purse, some of which would probably surprise a few of you."

The next contestant seemed to be a pair. Two light brown lizards, each about three feet tall, stood next to each other. One wore a brown vest over a white shirt, topped off with a ten-gallon hat; the other had on a pale blue dress and headband. "This married couple consists of William James Smith..." Black pointed to the vest-wearing lizard. "...and Charlotte "Lottie" Smith." He pointed to the one wearing the dress. "After a romance fit for a western-themed B-movie and a series of daring escapades through the time stream, these two have come to trust each other implicitly. Both are crack shots with their respective firearms, and neither intends to go down without a fight."

The spotlight moved forward to a grizzled sailor type, complete with a facial scar, a grizzly beard, and an artificial leg. White looked him up and down in an approving manner. "This is Captain Omri Syluxyn, a grizzled veteran of space with a vendetta against starwhales. Which, I believe, leads us nicely into our next entrant."

Black blanched at the sight of the next contestant. "You're kidding me. What the hell is that thing?" "That thing" proved to be an absolutely massive and soothingly purple whale suspended high off of the ground. Uncountable numbers of flickering lights dotted his hide. Black shuffled around in the notepad until he found the correct page. "This is Starwhale. As you can clearly see, he is a massive whale. His natural habitat is the cold nothingness of space, where he resided with his pod of other starwhales. He despises piña coladas, long walks on the beach, and getting caught in the rain." Black looked back up at White. "Did you really write this, White?" White simply shrugged and returned the half-grin Black had given him earlier.

Black rolled his eyes in response. "Whatever. That's everyone introduced. Now we can get to the best part of the whole affair." He joined White back on the central platform. The holographic marquee changed from "PRE-BATTLE INTRODUCTIONS" to "BEGINNING FIRST ROUND TRANSFER." The contestants caught a glimpse of Black and White shaking hands just as they were all whisked off to a city where boundaries were made abundantly clear.

**Jacquerel** · 09-22-2011, 12:19 AM

The transition from home to grandmaster's palace to battlefield is unsettling at the best of times, Krik'Ix had been just about to fall asleep and it took him a little while to convince himself he wasn't dreaming.
His eventual conclusion was that if this was a dream then it wasn't his. He was a fairly accomplished liar among his own species but as a collective they were a little more lacking in the creative department than your average human. He wasn't sure his imagination would be able to build anything of quite this scope.

Buildings towered over him like hive spires, but at least three times as tall. These were no tapering constructions of wood and stone blocks either, they seemed to be made out of one solid piece of stone, which couldn't possibly be right could it? The ones surrounding him were a pristine white and the glare from the sun off the walls was actually a little painful, though off in the distance he could see a district of much darker coloured hives.
The light suprised him, it had been almost full dark before he had been taken and he didn't even feel tired at all (maybe he was dreaming?). He spread his wings to warm in the sun, and picked up whispering from behind some kind of large stone barricade at the end of a street, several feet away.

"What is that, some new kind of Black?"
"I don't know man, looks sort of purplish to me."
"It's definitely not one of ours though, we don't have anything that looks like that."
"Yeah, might not be Black but it's closer to black than White..."
"So, what do we do?"

People were here!
The bizzare organisers of... whatever this was had mentioned some kind of battle to the death, but if this was some kind of gladiator pit it was far more elaborate than any he had seen before. Still, dream or no dream he had no intention of being killed.

Sheathing his wings again for protection, Krik'Ix lifted his heavy scythes from the ground and scuttled forth towards the barrier.

**Solaris** · 09-22-2011, 06:54 AM

Now, going from another peaceful day wrangling and riding out to being entered into a bloody battle to the death wasn't really the best development in a day. This was even less so when our wife was brought along. Not trying to hold his scowl or anger at the situation, William James Smith, former vigilante wished death upon those Chessmasters the moment they thought they could mess with "lesser beings." It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Charlotte on the other hand, was a lot less mad about this. Yea, she obviously wasn't pleased, but ever since the adventure through time she constantly felt a bit bored of the normal way of life. She wanted to live an exciting, fast-paced, actiony life, and while she certainly wished it wasn't so similar to what happened last time, she could deal. Lottie walked toward her husband and began to console him.

"Oh darlin, calm down, there's nothin we can do about it. They're gone, at least fer now. We've got other things to deal with. "

Will let out a sigh, "I know... it's just that, I hoped we could just live without all of this shit. I knew that we would never be able to escape our regular past, but I at least hoped that we'd survive a few years without some supernatural bullshit like this propped up."

Lottie rubbed her hand across William's head, rubbing his cheeks lovingly, she moved in for a kiss.

"Look, we've got this, seems like these guys have some sort of team shtick, so let's go and rally up some allies, huh?"

"STARWHALE COMMENDS YOU ON THIS ASTUTE OBSERVATION."

Upon hearing that glorious yet terrifying voice, both Smith's froze in place.

However, Lottie recovered and turned around, witnessing quite the sight. Floating far above them was a large, indigo whale. He had a very serious face. Lottie had a more surprised face, with her mouth open and her eyes open more wide than she thought possible. "Uh.... pardon?"

"STARWHALE REFERS TO THE TEAM MOTIF. STARWHALE NOTICES THAT THE CITY WE ARE SITUATED IN CONSISTS OF TWO SOMEWHAT EQUAL SIDES IN TWO DIFFERENT COLORS. JUDGING FROM THE GENERAL DIRECTION OF THE TWO THAT TOOK US AND THEIR REFERENCE OF THIS AS A SORT OF EQUAL COMPETITION, STARWHALE ASSUMES THAT YOU TWO ARE MEMBERS OF STARWHALES SIDE." After a few moments, Starwhale added, "PLEASE ORDER YOURSELVES IN ORDER OF SIZE, COLOR, AND PREFERENCE OF BEVERAGE."

Not wishing to tick off the large behemoth toweing above them, Will and Lottie did so quickly, still silently staring at the whale floating in the air.

"DID YOUR MOTHERS NOT TEACH YOU THAT IT IS NOT NICE TO STARE? YOU REPTILIANS AND YOUR LACK OF MANNERS DISGUSTS STAR WHALE. HOWEVER, STARWHALE WILL LOOK PAST THIS TRANSGRESSION. THIS TIME. STARWHALE WILL NOW FLOAT HIGHER ABOVE IN SEARCH OF OTHERS. CONTINUE YOUR SHOWS OF AFFECTION."

The Smith's snapped out of their trance. As the large whale floated up they began to continuously whisper to each other "Is that a fucking whale?" and "Yes... it is." and the logical conversation that followed until the closest building began to move forward, right into Starwhale. Starwhale neither did move nor flinch as the building collided with him. The only indication that the thing actually acknowledged being hit was the "THAT WAS RUDE" that it let out after the collision.

"What... the... fuck."

Before William could react any more, the building came had come to a halt and an odd, pitch black creature, only slightly taller than William with the exception of its large hat, wearing similarly black fancy clothes, rushed out in a fury and yelling, "WHO OWNS THAT WHALE?"

This situation was quickly proving to be much, much more than any lizard could handle.

**Pharmacy** · 09-22-2011, 10:47 PM

The region in which Cambronne is native to could be described as medieval fantasy. Along with the conventional notations of fantasy things such as dragons and spirits, there was also the medieval. As typical of medieval regions of previous worlds, the denizens of that particular place tend to have archaic notions of purity applied to everything – even executioners were not ignored. Unsurprisingly, the concept of executing a person was considered unclean. As such, the corporal punishment was often handled by heathens, where the domains of holiness did not reside.

This worship of purity combined with the very real certainty of Spirits had not really surprised the villages in which Cambronne attacked. Even with all the lacerations and physical pain imbibed onto their very beings, they could only shrug at the mess in which the vicious cat of a man inflicted upon their homes. They did not feel fear at the ravaging monster, but rather pity. Somehow, he stayed within the tantalizing sin of the physical realm, bereft off the benefit from the paradise above. As he somehow disappeared into thin air, the villagers, farmers, blacksmiths, and whatnot, could only stand – wondering if his core is truly rotten…

***

Chaos erupted in the ebony regions of Chess City as the dark-hued civilians of this particular place flee in terror. The police came with their weapons and armor only to shudder at the perpetuator of this chaos. There was this massive bestial man, swinging his fleshy cords around with a tremendous force. Of course, some of the police were already there, but what could stop that culprit? Any movement resulted in the hapless police being flung violently through the air and one of the many buildings, breaking many bones. As of now, the security were standing around him in a circle, letting the riot shields stand the buffeting of the whip.

The terrifying appearance was enough to make backup stand still agape with horror. However, there was peace to uphold and plus their hated enemies could attack any time. There was no time to lose! Gritting his teeth, the head of the enforcements turned back and shouted a couple of commands back at his followers. At these harsh orders, the armored policed moved forward and unloaded all their buckshot into the attacking man-cat.

The pellets of each shotgun shell sank into Cambronne, making pillows of blood-like substance spray out from behind. Of course, he screamed. He screamed really loud, but he was screaming in pleasure – pure undulated pleasure. If this pleasure could be described physically, it was like best birthday present ever. Of course, the noise was terrible to others. To the shooting police, it sounded like if a chainsaw was grinding against the chalkboard. That spooked them so much that they reloaded and shot even faster.

Through the fine mist of ecstasy, Cambronne knew he was outmatched. He was enjoying this show alright, but too much pleasure could be a bad thing – especially if it results in obvious death. After all, good people know that pleasure is only good if it was kept in moderation and from what Cambronne remembered, he was a good man.

For some reason, the manifest cackled at the slight hint of that thought.

Cambronne gave one final swing of his whips, using the force to violently retract his cords back into his arms (and knocking over a few people in the process). Then, he bolted. Of course, the police continued to swarm after him shooting buckshot all over the place. However, the twists and turns of the city combined with massive numbers of the police force stalled them enough for the single Cambronne to high-tail out of there. Just before they lost sight of him, Cambronne cackled. Although distant and barely audible, the noise was enough to send a chill up the spines of every member of the attacking policemen.

**The Dr.** · 09-24-2011, 09:08 PM

Andrew was deposited, rather awkwardly, onto the concrete flooring of the parkway. Upon landing flat on his face, he flipped, caught himself, and was brought to his feet. Dizzy only for a moment, he gained his bearings and looked around. He'd been left on an innocent street, silent save for an afternoon breeze; all around him, buildings stretched into the very skies themselves, coated in darkness. Being a daily commuter of the urban streets, he was no stranger to skyscrapers, but these were different. Impossible architecture, twisting up and down and left and right, yet still humble; despite seeming curvy and insane, everything was straight, upright, and rigid; windows leading to nowhere, supports that supported nothing; and more importantly, all covered in a dark obsidian color. Dazed, he walked nonchalantly over and rubbed his finger down one of them. They were smooth, glassy.

He adjusted his fedora. Just what had he gotten himself into?

He was taking the situation surprisingly well. Perhaps he'd seen something like this before, perhaps he was too confused to care, perhaps he'd just taken accustom to his descent into madness. After all, he was going to die at some point in his lowly human life, and he was at least going to be given an interesting show beforehand. But his thoughts, however morbid, were interrupted by the screams of terror suddenly erupting behind him. He turned swiftly to the source, a massive spray of blood and horror, and the first real expression returned to his face: fear.

A silhouette of an innocent citizen turned and ran, having since watched the brutal murder of a friend; Andrew heard the clacking of his terrified feet on the concrete from even this far away. He made a misstep and stumbled for a moment, and before he could readjust, the look of fear in his ebony eyes became frozen as a pale cord pierced his spine and he was paralyzed. A spew of blood, as dark as the man it had come from, came forth from the wound, though not a drop of it covered the whip. Before he could scream, the innocent was brought into the air, waved back and forth like a chew toy, and dropped back to the hard concrete. Andrew backed a couple steps. There was a wild look in the eye of the murderer; the cat-man and his frightful anatomy seemed out of place. Bright as day, his twisted look was not nearly as smooth as the city he was now tearing apart. He seemed to squirm with pleasure at his now confirmed kill, and he was quick to pick another citizen up by the throat and crush him against the ground.

Andrew turned and ran. He didn't want anything to do with that, and was quick to distance himself from the scene. Thankfully, the twisted corridors and paths seemed straight enough, and nobody was around to confront him. They were all busy spilling their blood on the sidewalks to care, anyways. It wasn't long before he stopped and considered himself.

He remembered that man. He was one of the ones to be introduced in the pre-battle introductions. He was supposed to kill that? What did they expect him capable of? All of the others seemed to be psycopathic murderers or something resembling that nature. He was only a man, not a god, what was he to do? Run and hide until there's only one left, and then get murdered by that, instead? He was as good as dead. He fell against a building, feeling it's cold, smooth curvature even through his shirt, and slowly slid to his knees. He really was going to have that show, wasn't he... he sighed, and breathed.

Sirens rang in the distance.

**Pharmacy** · 10-11-2011, 02:01 PM

The police continued their pursuit. Despite the disconcerting appearance and the significant amount of casualties left by Cambronne, the security of the Black District were determined to uphold peace (at all costs), especially with those scoundrels from the White District buffering at the warzone regions. In the distance, security – the heavy-duty kind spawned into appearance, already announcing their presence with ear-piercing sirens. Armored vans skidded to a stop around the corners and suddenly, security spilled out, equipped with pocketed vests and dangerous-looking guns.

Not that Cambronne cared, of course. To be honest, the noise (especially the sirens) was getting on his metaphorical nerves. He did not found pleasure in annoyance. The feeling of such was not exactly, not intense enough, not overwhelming, to say the least. He needed to get pain, the authentic kind. He wanted bites and stings, rubbing the nerves raw with that extreme feeling. He wanted that threshold, that pleasure. In speaking of pleasure, Cambronne figured that it has been a while (not very long) that he got his fix. He needed to apprehend that and was not too particularly picky about that.

But what’s this? Cambronne’s vision was not exactly as good as it was when he was alive. However, you did not need to have super-vision to notice that extraordinarily large barrier in the distance, half translucent black from his side and an opaque white on the other side. However, that was not the only interesting noticeable thing, violence was commencing in the sealed-off area. Violence was good. It was exciting and best of all, it brought pain.

Cambronne smirked to himself as he darted to the barrier. Luckily, the barrier (and the packaged fun) was very near, judging from the perspective and the executioner could really do a good whipping on somebody, plus, the guards getting closer

–always the guards,

always the damn guards ruining his fun.

***

Meanwhile, Krik’Ix was observing the boiling chaos within the barrier. The two sides were essentially chucking soldiers, tanks, anything remotely fighting with a weapon at each other. As a result, the pile of dead bodies and unused equipment were stacked rather high. There was essentially no method in this madness. Although, the equipment they were using against each other were far beyond what the insectoid Lord could imagine (thereby catching his attention), he could not help but be disappointed at the lack of forethought in their tactics.

Suddenly, even more chaos erupted! The level of negligible orderliness was hard to tell in this particular warzone, especially since the troops were trying every possible method of murdering their enemies. Regardless, Krik’Ix noticed the change. After all, it was hard to ignore a massive feline-humanoid hybrid tearing up soldiers on the Black District.

That freaky thing was enjoying his escapades a little way too much, Kirk’Ix silently shrugged to himself.

**engineclock** · 10-17-2011, 01:29 PM

Starwhale huffed in a way that only a colossal celestial whale could huff, with lungs the size of buses and through baleen taller than the average house. The huff was so mighty that a nearby flock of starlings suffered simultaneous heart attacks and collided into a building that had mere moments before rudely nudged Starwhale, prompting a display of sadness and the appreciation of the irony of life from absolutely no one.

“HOW RUDE,” Starwhale trebled. “STARWHALE IS NOT OWNED BY ANY INDIVIDUAL OR CORPORATION AND STARWHALE FINDS IT VERY OFFENSIVE THAT YOU WOULD ASSUME THIS. THE OWNERSHIP OF A SENTIENT CREATURE IS A SHAMEFUL THING. STARWHALE BELIEVES THERE ARE BOOKS ON IT. THIS IS STARWHALE.”

Far below, the Black Bishop ground his teeth. He had the look of a man whose teeth went through this sort of thing frequently. “I DON’T HONESTLY CARE IF THE DEVIL HIMSELF OWNS YOU, YOU ARE IN THE WAY!”

Starwhale’s relatively tiny eyes, brimming with a deeply calming sense of mild irritation, swept the obsidian structure resting against his side. The building’s entire height fit neatly into his shadow. “STARWHALE WOULD LIKE TO POSIT THAT STARWHALE WAS HERE FIRST.”

“WILL YOU JUST MOVE?”

The celestial whale made a show of yawning slowly, exposing the vast cavern of his mouth. He failed to notice when a very confused eagle flew straight into it and died a miserable death. “PERHAPS STARWHALE WILL CONSIDER IT IF STARWHALE IS ASKED POLITELY.”

“WHAT?”

“STARWHALE IS WAITING, TINY PERSON!”

The Bishop sighed angrily. “PLEASE.”

“STARWHALE DID NOT CATCH THAT.”

“WILL YOU PLEASE MOVE OUT OF THE WAY?”

The whale’s mouth curved upwards with the gravity of tectonic plates shifting, forming a smug smile. He lifted his flippers in farewell. “STARWHALE THANKS YOU FOR YOUR COURTESY. THIS IS STARWHALE.”

The downswing of Starwhale’s tail caught the roof of the building with the force of a tidal wave, pulverizing the upper floors instantly and collapsing the rest like a poorly-constructed house of cards. Glass shattered with a series of bangs as each level buckled under the weight of the one above it, peppering the nearby structures with glittering black shrapnel. Clouds of dust and smoke shot up into the sky as Starwhale sailed obliviously past, chunks of concrete bouncing off his starry skin.

The faint sounds of screaming echoed off the streets as the whale scouted for his remaining teammates. He was pleased to see that everything below had been neatly arranged into clearly marked squares with no more than one fortress-like tower per block. He allowed himself a brief moment to dwell on the wonder of urban planning before descending to mid-building height, sailing gracefully between the clustered towers. Most of the squealing little creatures running around beneath him were a solid ebony black, he noted. Much like ants, they seemed preoccupied with swarming and trying to communicate in their feeble little language. Starwhale scoffed, shattering a nearby window. Lesser beings.

One of the squealing things caught his eye even from his multi-story height. Taller than the majority of the crowd, it was surrounded by a constantly-growing ring of clamoring bystanders, a prospect that appeared to be making it increasingly agitated. Starwhale assumed that it might be female, though admittedly he’d had limited interaction with bipedal mono-gendered species in the past and was really only making an educated guess. The fact that it wore obscuring clothing and appeared to be trying to hide its face was not helping. All motion ceased as the celestial whale’s enormous shadow overtook the crowd, eclipsing the sun and casting the people below into darkness.

“GO BACK TO YOUR HOMES, CITIZENS,” Starwhale bellowed. “THIS IS NOT A MATTER THAT CONCERNS YOUR PETTY INDIVIDUAL LIVES. STARWHALE HAS BUSINESS WITH THIS PERSON. THIS IS STARWHALE.”

**Godbot** · 10-24-2011, 03:16 AM

Heather groaned listlessly and blinked a couple of times, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark before she tried to move. This went on for a few seconds before she realized she’d materialized lying on the ground, and she was just looking at pure black stone about three inches from her face. She shifted and sat up. Her head was still pounding, but Heather was at least grateful that she’d appeared in an alley where no one would see her being clueless.

Wait, shit, she was in an alley. Were there criminals or hobos or something?

Nope, she was alone.

Cool, she decided, slumping against an ebony wall and hugging her knees to her chest. She glanced towards where the alley opened into the street and rested her chin on her knees, satisfied that she was by herself. Now she just had to stay like this for the whole Campaign, and no one would bother her, and they would all kill each other, and she would win because everyone left her alone.

It was the perfect plan.

She sighed and buried her face in her good hand. She just had to stay here, and she’d be fine.

This was the worst day of her life.

Nope, not yet, said the universe that was conspiring against her, but it was drowned out by the sound of two thunderstorms getting in a car wreck, or possibly thousands of tons of stone collapsing in on itself and smashing to pieces on the ground forty stories below. Heather stood and looked up in horror, but all she could see was a narrow strip of blue sky. The sun hung overhead, hovering perfectly over what must have been the center of the battlefield.

Something beneath her rumbled, and Heather watched as the heavens wrenched themselves to one side.

Before she could register what was going on, the ground threw her off her feet and she landed hard on her back. The entire city block lurched sideways, groaning horribly as the Black fortress she was standing in clambered to its four mechanical feet and began to walk forwards. Heather tumbled down the rapidly inclining alley, vaguely aware that she was screaming as she scrabbled for a handhold in the seamless stone. She spilled out into the street and scrambled to get ahold of the closest streetlamp.

She wrapped her arms around it and desperately held on as her heartbeat paused for a three-hour drum solo. She was numbly aware that the ground had stopped moving, and that some stumpy people carved out of ebony were gathering around her, but she wasn’t ready to care about that. It sure as hell didn’t feel like the ground had stopped moving.

(Incidentally, this also applied to the Black citizens, who were so used to the ground getting up and moving that they didn’t even notice anymore. They just nailed their chairs and tables down and went about their daily lives.)

The people around her murmured, but her body was far more interested in getting her heart rate back down to the triple digits and deciding whether or not to vomit.

“Your shirt!” someone repeated, jabbing a finger at Heather.

“Not so loud,” she groaned through gritted teeth, resting her aching forehead on the lamppost. She absently brushed her tousled hair over the back of her neck. The towers overhead spurted dark smoke, and the street shuddered and rattled.

“The girl wears white, but she covers it with stripes of black! She’s an enemy spy!”

“No, you paranoid fool!” declared another. “Her clothes are black, with stripes of white! She is one of us!”

“That’s – what?” she asked, squinting up at them. She must have hit her head or something.

“She wears the sacred colors with the robes of the enemy! Heretic!”

“She’s a witch!”

“They’re just clothes,” Heather grumbled, bracing herself against the lamppost and staggering to her feet. She felt a little seasick. “I’m gonna die out here, leave me alone.” She began to push through the crowd of Pawns gathering around her, but one cried something about seizing the heretic and grabbed her by the arm.

Her left arm.

Heather froze and shuddered, scared and revolted at the idea of anyone touching her, let alone laying a hand on her ‘bad’ arm. The Pawn was just scared and revolted.

“What is this?” he started to ask, feeling up Heather’s arm a bit without meaning to. Before he could get a complete thought out, Heather’s covered hand was already around his neck.

Moving statues don’t actually need to breathe in order to speak, so the Pawn was able to manage a quick-but-trite “What the-” before Heather hurled him over the crowd’s heads. He smashed headfirst into the merciless ground and shattered to pieces. The Pawns turned as one to stare at what was left of him, and then at Heather and that weird striped shirt of hers.

Heather backed into the lamppost and gripped it with one shaking hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” she stammered. The moving statues hardly had faces at all, but she could see the horror in their fake, empty expressions. It wasn’t anywhere in their eyes – they were just smooth stone – but she could see it. It was there, and it was horrible. They knew about her, and she knew that they knew and oh god, they were staring right at her oh my god

“Get away!” she cried, hurling herself blindly at the crowd and trying to shove past the waist-height soldiers. Before she could touch one, they drew back, parted in all directions like a school of fish and flowed around her. She stumbled to a halt and watched as the Pawns formed a ring around her, blocking her path from a safe distance away.

She bit her lip and tried to rush the Pawns in front of her, but they gathered together, supporting each other and absorbing the impact with sheer numbers. She very nearly fell onto them, but they reached up and shoved her back, knocking her over again. She quickly sat up, and the crowd parted to make way for three guards. Each carried a short spear with a wide fork that pointed at diagonals to the left and the right, but not straight ahead. One yelled for order while the other two rushed towards her, jabbing at her with their spears as she scrambled backwards, but missing her entirely because she was right in front of them. The shattered Pawn’s thrown leg cracked against the ground a few inches from her hand.

Heather would have yelled for help right about then, but her voice was drowned out by psychic ethereal whalesong.

(As so often happens.)

“GO BACK TO YOUR HOMES, CITIZENS,” bellowed a whale that was so impossibly huge that the only thing about it that might have been more impossible was how it was somehow levitating above them, blocking out the sun and roaring commands like a police chopper from an utterly ridiculous nightmare.

“Burn the witch,” someone yelled back, but he was quickly silenced by the rest of the crowd trampling over him as they fled in abject terror. Starwhale completely ignored them and descended. Heather covered her face from the gusts of wind created by Starwhale’s sheer mass as it lowered itself to about 20 feet above the ground and put out one gigantic incandescent flipper.

She stared up at its flipper, and then turned her head and looked up at Starwhale’s giant eye as if she had any hope of reading a whale’s expression.

“GET ON,” boomed the giant space whale as Heather tightly held onto its flipper, too afraid to hesitate or let him finish talking before following its orders.

There was a rush of air, and suddenly they were five stories above the ground, watching as the giant mechanical fortress clambered on stubby legs towards the middle of the board. In the distance, a tall White tower stood up on a set of enormously long, skittery metal legs and climbed over the buildings in front of it, moving in an L-shape towards the center of the board.

Heather climbed towards Starwhale’s body before it started to flap its giant flippers or something, sending her hurtling to her death.

“STARWHALE FINDS YOUR CURRENT PROGRESS TO BE LACKING,” bellowed the giant space whale. Heather tried to cover one of her ears with her good hand, but it didn’t make much difference.

“WHAT ARE YOU TAL-KING A-BOUT,” Heather cried at the top of her lungs, e-nun-ci-a-ting each syl-la-ble.

“STARWHALE CAN HEAR YOU JUST FINE, THANK YOU.”

“Oh,” Heather mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“AND SPEAK UP.”

**Pick Yer Poison** · 10-31-2011, 09:14 PM

Hey dudes! cyber95 has decided to resign for reasons of his own, and Wojjan has volunteered to take his place! So without further ado, here is her profile:

Originally Posted by Wojjan

Name: Mia Malllone
Race: Mobster
Gender: Miss Boss
Colour: Guns

Story: Mia is the most beautiful girl in the world. Her stunning blonde hair curls perfectly right until about her waist, but still, her brilliant blue eyes shine almost as brightly as her plethora of golden jewelry. Her dress, fashionably black with accents glittering as if a galaxy spins inside it, only covers her to her décolleté and immediately wraps itself around her arms like a pair of long gloves. Where her dress ends she found a way to magically accessorize with striped stockings, black and red, and ruby red heels to boot. It works, because the dress is right about long enough to hide the pistol she carries in her garter. Nobody really mentions her freckles, because that'd be rude, since she doesn't really like them.

Her personality, on the other hand, is nowhere near as imposing as her looks. Mia is quite a sociable girl, agreeably witty and an eager conversation partner. Perhaps a bit to giggly and with a silly quirk or uncommon habit here or there, but those are the little nip-and-tucks you can't help but forgive her. She smokes, but it adds to her charm. She's very pleasant company, and very pleasant... company.

One of the rather intimidating obstacles to overcome before dating her though, is her upbringing. Mia has the fortune of being the sole daughter to Montgomery “Monty” Mallone, one of the most notorious crime bosses in The District. He has all the right intentions, but Mia can't help but think sticking three bodyguards on her at any given time is a tad overprotective. And they're not just expendable grunts, either. Layne “Scissors” Vice has gotten into several fights for the boss' sake, and has all the ugly scars to show for it. He's a pretty lanky man, and it came as quite a surprise that he could as much as lift a tommy-gun, let alone wipe an entire building with it. Dimitri “Dimi” Lebowitz doesn't have nearly as many marks to show, but that's because he hardly ever has to take a blow. A lot of brawny grunts simply take the punches and stabs and pretend they're nothing. Dimi's not like that: he'll often be the first to attack, and never endure hits for longer than necessary. Common courtesy, on the other hand, is not his strong suit. Lazlo “Marky” MacKenzie is a lot more amiable, in comparison. He's a sneaky fellow with a lot of interpersonal skill for a gangster. He was usually the one to sweet-talk his way into or out of any situation, but he was stuck onto the protection of Mia simply so that she would have at least someone around her who she can talk to on a more personal level. Lazlo was a somewhat closer friend to Monty, he even came over for dinner from time to time. He was probably the first business contact of Monty he allowed to extend to his daughter, which in the world of The District meant that Montgomery had absolute, impeccable trust in you.

After all, Mia is the most beautiful girl in the world, and anyone who says otherwise is risking a cap in their skull.

And here's her paragraph in the intro post, which will be edited in:

Originally Posted by Black

Black stepped forward, and White returned to take his place on the platform, handing him the notepad as they passed. The spotlight shifted from Krik'Ix to the contestant next to him, a pretty young girl flanked by three intimidating men. "Mia Mallone is the daughter of a very influential crime boss, and is accompanied at all times by her three bodyguards, all of who have proved their worth to the mob boss himself."

**Wojjan** · 11-28-2011, 04:31 AM

Mia was used to her office. She had an office, where she usually conducted business for a reason, and if anyone asked for more specifics she would mutter “expertimngnt” and suddenly realise that it was high time for a break. Her office, like any modern-day office where business occurred, seemed to have taken on the ink from the copier through osmosis, now not only emitting the same smell, but also being daubed in the same color. Black is the new white, and Mia's corporation was not one to lag behind.

Mia was used to going out at night. Her stay at the office weren't actually all that formal and businessy, but more like a place she could stay that had a heater for those empty spots of the week between five in the morning and nine in the evening. Her posse of henchmen would be waiting at the door at five to take her someplace nice for dinner, after which they'd probably go to some dark and murky bar to get high, stoned, wasted, laid, and probably at least two activities for which we don't know the dysphemism yet. Those clubs were all mostly black, and the night sky all the same.

With all that black around her at all times, it took Mia and her grunts an uncharacteristically long time to figure out that they were actually in a different location.

It took a characteristically short time for Mia to accept this.

It's hard to accept that sometimes things don't need reasons. If anyone would ask White or Black their criterion for picking their contestants, it wouldn't take a relentless soothsayer to find out they just teleported chunks of universe from here or there, and waited for them to contain a person. In a way, it was sort of like fishing. You'd be just as happy with a criminal mastermind as you would be with, say, a Toyota Hilux. They're about as rare, and the actual choice of contestants wasn't as important as seeing how their incredibly lopsided teams (anyone versus Starwhale was an uphill battle) would turn out to a tie once again. To be honest, both of them would actually be fine with losing by now if it meant ending the feud.

Lazlo had about one true maxim he actually stuck by: If you don't know anything, shut the fuck up. He applied this to bellboys, hookers, salesmen, Dimi, spics, and even himself, in a situation like this one. He set his feet a bit more apart. He lit a cigarette. His eyes slid over the black skyscrapers around him in sync with his smokes, as if his eyes moved through some kind of lateral nicotin pressure.

Of course, being the silent guy means that you have to be pretty good at non-verbal communication to be the least bit amicable. Mia had learnt a lot of Lazlo's tells by heart over the years: He tends to switch balance from one leg to the other when trying to hide excitement, when he doesn't want to admit he got lucky, he rubs the bridge of his nose. He has a very specific habit, where he places his left hand on his cheek, and folds his fingers alongside his face until his ring finger rests on his nose, which means a situation's about to get ugly.

He quit smoking a year ago, 'cause his momma died. Lighting a cigarette meant utter catastrophe.

“Why the long face?” Mia approached Lazlo how a wife approaches an ex-husband.

Lazlo puffed smoke at the bleak white sky, or perhaps beyond that at all of the universe in its entirety. “I didn't even say anything.” He looked over at his comrades, both with significantly different shrugs all over them.

“Ey boss, since we're here, wanna go have some fun?” Layne had a shrug that said “I have no idea what we're doing here, but I'm not going to waste a second of my life pretending it's not just another city.”

“Fellas, I dunno about you but I do remember some guys telling me that dis here's gonna be some sorta, uh, tournament thing.” Dmitri shrugged in a way that said “If you tell me what to shoot I'll shoot it but fucked if I know what we should be aiming at.”

If somewhere in the sky White and Black were following this battle and perchance invited a guest right at that time, their visitor would be able to appreciate just how vast The Board was. Though at first it seemed like an enormous, ingenious chessboard, it'd take a second look to appreciate the subtle details: the closer you edged to either side, white or black, the distinction between the tiles slowly faded, leaving the ends of the board (which to the respective teams were, of course, the center) a completely solid color. At white's border, pawns were struggling to convert tiles back to black, so a nearby bishop could finally cross into their territory. Meanwhile, the black side was fighting off a tracer knight that converted every tile he stepped on to his own color. He got swiftly taken out by a landmine planted on C-907. He exploded vehemently, because the white knight, unlike the black pieces that all work on coal and smoke, was equipped with gas and steam so its fumes would be candid white instead of sordid black.

When they dubbed it, they both felt that however their battle would play out in this giant plane, it would likely be important enough to capitalize it.

There was exactly one diagonal alley in all of the black side of the board. Even then, it wasn't much an alley as it was a very long staircase down, leading into the depths of the board, even below it, into a peculiar dilapidated building. Once it was a warship like any other, a spy sneaking across the flipside of the board, tearing through the inside of other pieces by drilling back up. The tank, modeled to be a hybrid between ceiling-hung spider and lighthouse, had suffered a heavy blow, and repairing it had never been an urgency. Like a bat the empty shell hung from the floor, and it didn't take long for those that discovered it to call it the epitome of their warfare: broken pieces. The vacant Black Spy became a pub, a melting pot for all the villainy in the black city, and the road that led to it, ajar to the checkered world, became its thrall.

Mia had a sixth sense for feeling criminal minds like you would feel a breeze flowing in: She could discern where it came from, and where it was going, but also exactly how heavily it permeated the environment. It didn't take her woman’s intuition long to find the diagonal alley. Her guards were doing a poor job at defending her, trailing a foot behind, but as this was far from unusual nobody commented on it. The staircase let them down, and past a group of delinquents. The distance between her and her posse gave them just about the time to call Mia names before instantly regretting it.

Scissors sped to the black figure, apparently a moving statue of some kind, and set a world speed record for holding a man at gunpoint. “Nowwwwhat, may I ask, did you just call this nice young lady?”

“Woah, chill dude, I don't want any troub-”

“You, hat. What did he call her?”

“He, uh, Mesh.”

“What's a mesh?”

“It's uh, it uh, it's uh, it means that you're both black and white. Tha's, uh, generally, sort of, a bad thing.”

Calling someone a Mesh on either side of Chess City was the equivalent of calling someone gay in our world if we lived in the fifties, where being gay was the eighth among the seven sins. Sometimes the statues of Chessboard were born with specks of black on white, or white on black, and it didn't take long for them to get shunned or killed. Chessboard was pro-choice to such an extreme that if something went wrong in post-production “they could always make a new one if you wanna.”

The other two bodyguards stepped from the shadows, invoking an ever increasing sense of dread in the pair. Neither of them had any idea what a Mesh meant, or of the social implications of calling someone that, but the tone the pawn spoke in betrayed more than he would have wanted three gangsters to know.

“Now I really do hope that you're a very clean and christian little figure, eh... what's your name, kiddo?”

“N-Nirsche,” he stammered, though he wasn't quite sure why he told him right away or why he stammered.

“Nirsche, but I think if I caught you speaking such things about the daughter of the main boss of the District, then why I'd not feel to comfy in my position. Especially considering the District controls about half the underground movement in this area...” Lazlo was entirely bluffing about where this are might be exactly “...and you seem like a guy who likes himself a party or two, I would prefer to keep myself welcome in certain places, if you know what I'm getting at.”

He dropped Nirsche, since somewhere along the line he apparently had grabbed him. He didn't really notice.

“You, Hat. Who're you?”

“Craisle.” Craisle did not stammer, because he had witnessed with Nirsche exactly how far off the ground stammering got you. Craisle tipped his hat in an attempt to look par to the gangsters in front of him, and realised that with his shaky face that probably wasn't a very good idea.

“We could use a guy like you in the District. You got spunk. Stick with us close and you'll go far.”

Craisle had no idea what caused their sudden change of heart, but he hoped it was the hat.

-

“STARWHALE WILL HAVE TO ASK YOU TO STAY BEHIND FOR A MOMENT. STARWHALE WISHES TO URGE THE FEMALES TO CALM THEIR COLLECTIVE MAMMARIES AND PLEASE NOT MAKE A BIG DEAL OUT OF THIS. STARWHALE IS JUST UNCOMFORTABLE WITH GOING TO A NIGHTCLUB WITH A BUNCH OF WEIRD LITTLE PEOPLE ON STARWHALE'S BACK. STARWHALE DOESN'T NOT LIKE YOU, STARWHALE JUST THINKS YOU WOULDN'T BLEND IN THAT WELL. THIS IS STARWHALE.”

Thread: The Calamitous Campaign [Round 1: Chess City]

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