Hey Frost someone mentioned Light and since I have that fangirl syndrome I'd like to retract my previous entry. But if you already finished up some things i'll keep this one spoilered here to make things easy.
Abandoned Battle Arena Entry: He believes in himself. As a character that has faced terrible misfortunes throughout his impossibly tragic and conveniently shadowy past he has been beaten down beyond the point of defeat multiple times. He falls and there is a deafening silence until the cool wave of relief rushes over all onlookers when somehow despite that finishing blow he just received he's managed to prop himself back up and propels a makeshift and radical weapon into the faces of his enemies.
"Don't believe in the you who believes in me. Don't believe in the me who believes in you. Believe in the you who believes in yourself!"
and he comes through, the casual and cool reluctant hero. oh and for some really weird and unfortunate reason there's always a dramatic wind and a tearing of clothing/abundance of blood depending on the rating we're going for.
Battle Arena Entry: He believes in himself. As a character that has faced terrible misfortunes throughout his impossibly tragic and conveniently shadowy past he has been beaten down beyond the point of defeat multiple times. He falls and there is a deafening silence until the cool wave of relief rushes over all onlookers when somehow despite that finishing blow he just received he's managed to prop himself back up and propels a makeshift and radical weapon into the faces of his enemies.
"Don't believe in the you who believes in me. Don't believe in the me who believes in you. Believe in the you who believes in yourself!"
and he comes through, the casual and cool reluctant hero.
I wander the streets, asking people for a penny for my thoughts. A lifetime of this has led to a deep understand of the world. Using this understanding, I have built a small mob of bums, who I can summon purely through thought. They drink so much their breath is permanently flammable and can be used to burn my enemies to a crispy dust.
I am an enlightenedbum (with flamethrowing bum army).
enlightenedbum on
Self-righteousness is incompatible with coalition building.
With a mighty windmill motion, I open up my attack with multiple power-chords, sucking strength from the primal elements themselves and focusing them in the magic power crystals lining the frets of my stratocaster - a righteous instrument hand carved from a tree felled by lighting during a snowstorm in the eye of a hurricane. Once I have stored enough divine rock energy however, I quickly abandon the favor of the gods of rock and roll, and instead turn their granted favor to much darker purposes, launching into a series of licks inspired by Lucifer himself.
Being the fastest guitarist in the world, normal strings would crumble before this onslaught, which is why my guitar is strung with strings blessed by Jesus, and passed on in the annals of the Vatican until finally coming into my possession.
The soul-rending intensity of my solo has been known to gouge deep rifts in the earth, and in the most dire of situations, can rip holes in the gates of hell themselves, summoning demons to my aid. Naturally, this can cause dangers to bystanders who are children and pregnant women, or woman who may become pregnant.
If my foe survives this onslaught, I recharge my strength until it is over 9000 by raising my hand in an epic throwing of the horns, and then launch into a a final burst of mind-searing metal. My hair grows out far past its normal shoulder-length, and flashes into a luminous Nordic blond. I start headbanging, the tip of my illustrious mane cracking through the air like a whip. A demonic avatar erupts from the gates of hell - every note on my guitar another swing of his scythe, a hellish rock opera of gore and decapitation. My enemy finally vanquished, I collapse to my knees in awe as the demon nods to me and ascends into the night, our terrible bargain complete.
As the best and greatest hero in this puny arena, all of you other posers will fall before my cunning techniques and great strength. A lucky few may even be worthy enough to witness my super-secret, unleashed form-- but don't get your hopes up.
I am the giver of life and the bringer of death, and any who oppose my insurmountable might will learn their folly.
Battle Arena Entry: He believes in himself. As a character that has faced terrible misfortunes throughout his impossibly tragic and conveniently shadowy past he has been beaten down beyond the point of defeat multiple times. He falls and there is a deafening silence until the cool wave of relief rushes over all onlookers when somehow despite that finishing blow he just received he's managed to prop himself back up and propels a makeshift and radical weapon into the faces of his enemies.
"Don't believe in the you who believes in me. Don't believe in the me who believes in you. Believe in the you who believes in yourself!"
and he comes through, the casual and cool reluctant hero.
(A swelling of harps summons a swelling of cellos summons a swelling of gongs summons a swelling of cannons capped off by breaching humpback whales in a pool whose each and every wall is a cymbal.)
I am Oboro. I have fought many times in my life. On occasion, I have been forced to kill.
I killed Dracula at a dinner party, where I played a rendition of Bach's third concerto so uplifting that the copper and nickel in a coin the Lord of Vampires professed to offer me fused in a joyous matrimony, becoming silver and handily deposing the count.
I killed Aphrodite while traveling Olympus under the assumed name of Dionysus (in my time-traveling days), after accidentally commuting to her a modern strain of syphilis (completely inert in my body, I assure you, and whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger after all). She, being divine and all of this, got off rather lucky in that she knocked boots with Ares-after-the-fact. Didn't bother me none -- and, after all, it was a bonus to be the one who ultimately brought the 'pleasure' of syphilis to the damned and dead.
I killed Elvis by strumming a single chord for a single second, after he foolishly asserted to me that there was no pleasure in the world greater than that he could obtain through his illicit drugs. Perhaps, in his death, he proved me wrong -- I provided such great pleasure, after all, that he was forced to leave this world.
I killed a hundred-thousand massed Imperial soldiers by turning them to stone. When the Emperor claimed that the soldiers were merely preserved with dark magicks for a future conflict, I yielded to him -- it would not please me to see the commoners revolt as well. It was enough to spoil his military. I am not one for hubris, as you no doubt know.
Yes, I have killed many in my days. I will kill many more in the days to come, unfortunately. Let it not be said, however, that I am not humble -- for I have, after all, refrained from telling you which American presidents it was that I assassinated.
I'll give you a clue, though;
every attempt that succeeded.
(The camera zooms out, to reveal that the amphitheater is floating through space. Each whale is now directly attached to a cymbal, and their clamoring forms create a raucous calamity as I stand above the Milky Way, sleeving my Arms of Infinity in the glittering dust of stars and playing the Kepler Belt like one very ostentatious drum kit.)
Oboro on
words
0
duraxWho watches the watchdogs?Registered Userregular
edited September 2008
A mans got to do what a mans gotta do.:whistle: It seems that destiny ends with me "saving" you.When your the best you can't rest, what's the use?
An Ass needs kicking? Some ticking Bomb to diffuse?
The only doom that's looming is you loving me to death
So I'll give a you a sec to catch your breath.
warbanWho the Hoof do you think we are?Registered Userregular
edited September 2008
Battle Arena Entry:
Good evening, Phallains. Allow me first to apologize for this interruption. I do, like many of you,
appreciate the comforts of every day routine- the security of the familiar, the tranquility of repetition.
I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration, thereby those important events
of the past usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle,
a celebration of a nice holiday, I thought we could mark this November the 5th, a day that is sadly no
longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat.
There are of course those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now, orders are being shouted
into telephones, and men with guns will soon be on their way. Why? Because while the truncheon may
be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning,
and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong
with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had
the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of
surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame?
Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again
truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it.
I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease. There were a myriad of problems which
conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in
your panic you turned to the now high chancellor, Frosteey. He promised you order, he promised you
peace, and all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent.
Last night I sought to end that silence. Last night I destroyed the Old Warban, to remind this country of
what it has forgotten. More than four hundred years ago a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of
November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice, and freedom
are more than words, they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government
remain unknown to you then I would suggest you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked.
But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand
beside me one year from tonight, outside the gates of Parliament, and together we shall give them a
Phalla game that shall never, ever be forgot.
There is no flesh or blood behind this cloak to kill. There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof. ~ V
At first, when I signed up for this, I was all, "Yeah, TV tropes, dunno but whatever I'll sign up." But about a half our ago I actually went to the Tropes site.
Understand this. I do not 'fight', in the strictest physical sense of the term. I have seen your 'fights', crude confusions that they are, and I have not been impressed. They lack grace. They lack subtlety. They lack... beauty. Mere physical pain is but an echo. When you have decimated a man using words alone, stripped him of desires and turned all his beliefs to floating ash, then you will understand the true and terrible beauty of destruction.
My race once had a saying. 'To know a people, you must understand the ways they hurt each other." You people hurt each other in so many ways. I have studied your greatest fighters, your Bruce Lees and Beowulfs, and found them lacking. I have studied those who knew enough to target the mind instead of the body, your Charles Mansons and Chairman Maos, that one individual out of a thousand who has the gift of seeing deeper into pain.
I have seen, in their works, a semblance of possibility. You might - if you studied the Arts for centuries, devoted your lives and your species and the flesh of your children to the Cause - might produce a single individual capable of teaching one of our kindergarten classes.
But understand this, if you hope to understand anything at all. Each and every one of my people are born into glory. Our childhoods are idyllic. Every desire granted, every wish fulfilled. We are blessed with perfect and loving families, we have every material and emotional need that could possibly be wanted. And on the eve of our fourteenth birthday, our parents come to us in the night and tell us it has all been a lie. They tell us we are despicable insects, that we are lower then the dirt at their feet. They strip us of all that has been good and holy, burn our possessions around us, cast us to the ground. Our society is designed from the ground up from this; to teach our children the meaning of betrayal. And this is merely the beginning.
So when we fight, you will not see me. I will be the voice of shame in your ear, the gripping fear that saps your will to battle. I will be the rumors that shred your honour. I will be the reason your wife leaves you and your children are born mad. I will be the closest friend to stab you in the back.
I know I will succeed, because I am the greatest manipulator my race has ever produced. I have sundered empires and brought messiahs to their knees. And I am the only one left of my kind. The only one in all of space and time. Because I persuaded all the other ones to kill themselves.
But really, they're not so bad. A 4.2 million-mile-long mass of writhing tentacles leaking chemicals so caustic that they tear through the fabric of space/time? It's basically just a Jellyfish+. A field of planet-sized ichor-spewing tumours that drift in vacuum violating the dreams of mortals? A big bowl of fondue has the same psychological effect, and it can be similarly messy if you let the leftovers harden overnight.
See, despite appearances they're not bad guys. They make for very good clients, especially the ones that can drive themselves mad just by sneaking a peek in a mirror. Being a psychiatrist to entities that are pretty much insanity incarnate is very rewarding.
If we're honest, where's the fun in just killing someone? Anyone can do that. It happens all the time, all around the world. It's low class, and requires very little effort. Humans aren't exactly known for their resistance to sharp objects now are they? Or for their resistance to high velocity rounds, or temperature extremes. Face it people, we're squishy. Capatalising on the fact is child's play, and ultimately it's boring.
>You see Oatway brandishing an eraser!
>Crimson King looks frightened!
>Crimson King persuades Oatway's wife to kill his children and set his dog on fire!
>Oatway shrugs, and erasers Crimson King!
>Crimson King squeals like a girl!
Will somone give me a TL;DR of the thread thus far so I don't have to read all this shit? Busy ass day at work, and I'll be lucky to keep up with this game today.
I have a gun arm that shoots jellyfish. Plus, I have the word "COOL" written all over the gun arm. I also have spikes all over my body that squirt choloate milk out.
Posts
And it's me.
Steam | Twitter
I'm from the clan McCloud.
"Don't believe in the you who believes in me. Don't believe in the me who believes in you. Believe in the you who believes in yourself!"
and he comes through, the casual and cool reluctant hero. oh and for some really weird and unfortunate reason there's always a dramatic wind and a tearing of clothing/abundance of blood depending on the rating we're going for.
Wow I was going to do that. Glad I didn't or I would have been all kinds of pissed to see that you beat me to it by one post.
As an aside. all of highlander is on Hulu right now.
Great minds.
I might check that out. It's been a while since the last time I watched Highlander.
Heed his every order and you might, survive.
I'll either decide or open it up to the vote. I need to weigh the options once I don't have to worry about sending out a billion roles.
I am an enlightenedbum (with flamethrowing bum army).
I obliterate my enemies through the Power of Metal!
With a mighty windmill motion, I open up my attack with multiple power-chords, sucking strength from the primal elements themselves and focusing them in the magic power crystals lining the frets of my stratocaster - a righteous instrument hand carved from a tree felled by lighting during a snowstorm in the eye of a hurricane. Once I have stored enough divine rock energy however, I quickly abandon the favor of the gods of rock and roll, and instead turn their granted favor to much darker purposes, launching into a series of licks inspired by Lucifer himself.
Being the fastest guitarist in the world, normal strings would crumble before this onslaught, which is why my guitar is strung with strings blessed by Jesus, and passed on in the annals of the Vatican until finally coming into my possession.
The soul-rending intensity of my solo has been known to gouge deep rifts in the earth, and in the most dire of situations, can rip holes in the gates of hell themselves, summoning demons to my aid. Naturally, this can cause dangers to bystanders who are children and pregnant women, or woman who may become pregnant.
If my foe survives this onslaught, I recharge my strength until it is over 9000 by raising my hand in an epic throwing of the horns, and then launch into a a final burst of mind-searing metal. My hair grows out far past its normal shoulder-length, and flashes into a luminous Nordic blond. I start headbanging, the tip of my illustrious mane cracking through the air like a whip. A demonic avatar erupts from the gates of hell - every note on my guitar another swing of his scythe, a hellish rock opera of gore and decapitation. My enemy finally vanquished, I collapse to my knees in awe as the demon nods to me and ascends into the night, our terrible bargain complete.
As the best and greatest hero in this puny arena, all of you other posers will fall before my cunning techniques and great strength. A lucky few may even be worthy enough to witness my super-secret, unleashed form-- but don't get your hopes up.
I am the giver of life and the bringer of death, and any who oppose my insurmountable might will learn their folly.
Beware!
(Plus, it's way too early for me to die)
3DS Friend Code: 3110-5393-4113
Steam profile
But what exactly is his cool power?
He's so crazy that it just works?
oh my god.
i love you cj iwakura. i won't even kill you in this phalla. no matter what.
He has the power to eat that potato chip.
I am Oboro. I have fought many times in my life. On occasion, I have been forced to kill.
I killed Dracula at a dinner party, where I played a rendition of Bach's third concerto so uplifting that the copper and nickel in a coin the Lord of Vampires professed to offer me fused in a joyous matrimony, becoming silver and handily deposing the count.
I killed Aphrodite while traveling Olympus under the assumed name of Dionysus (in my time-traveling days), after accidentally commuting to her a modern strain of syphilis (completely inert in my body, I assure you, and whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger after all). She, being divine and all of this, got off rather lucky in that she knocked boots with Ares-after-the-fact. Didn't bother me none -- and, after all, it was a bonus to be the one who ultimately brought the 'pleasure' of syphilis to the damned and dead.
I killed Elvis by strumming a single chord for a single second, after he foolishly asserted to me that there was no pleasure in the world greater than that he could obtain through his illicit drugs. Perhaps, in his death, he proved me wrong -- I provided such great pleasure, after all, that he was forced to leave this world.
I killed a hundred-thousand massed Imperial soldiers by turning them to stone. When the Emperor claimed that the soldiers were merely preserved with dark magicks for a future conflict, I yielded to him -- it would not please me to see the commoners revolt as well. It was enough to spoil his military. I am not one for hubris, as you no doubt know.
Yes, I have killed many in my days. I will kill many more in the days to come, unfortunately. Let it not be said, however, that I am not humble -- for I have, after all, refrained from telling you which American presidents it was that I assassinated.
I'll give you a clue, though;
every attempt that succeeded.
(The camera zooms out, to reveal that the amphitheater is floating through space. Each whale is now directly attached to a cymbal, and their clamoring forms create a raucous calamity as I stand above the Milky Way, sleeving my Arms of Infinity in the glittering dust of stars and playing the Kepler Belt like one very ostentatious drum kit.)
It seems that destiny ends with me "saving" you. When your the best you can't rest, what's the use?
An Ass needs kicking? Some ticking Bomb to diffuse?
The only doom that's looming is you loving me to death
So I'll give a you a sec to catch your breath.
Balls.
Battle Entry Maybe if you'll allow it: Just as planned.
Good evening, Phallains. Allow me first to apologize for this interruption. I do, like many of you,
appreciate the comforts of every day routine- the security of the familiar, the tranquility of repetition.
I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration, thereby those important events
of the past usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle,
a celebration of a nice holiday, I thought we could mark this November the 5th, a day that is sadly no
longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat.
There are of course those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now, orders are being shouted
into telephones, and men with guns will soon be on their way. Why? Because while the truncheon may
be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning,
and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong
with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had
the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of
surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame?
Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again
truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it.
I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease. There were a myriad of problems which
conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in
your panic you turned to the now high chancellor, Frosteey. He promised you order, he promised you
peace, and all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent.
Last night I sought to end that silence. Last night I destroyed the Old Warban, to remind this country of
what it has forgotten. More than four hundred years ago a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of
November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice, and freedom
are more than words, they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government
remain unknown to you then I would suggest you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked.
But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand
beside me one year from tonight, outside the gates of Parliament, and together we shall give them a
Phalla game that shall never, ever be forgot.
There is no flesh or blood behind this cloak to kill. There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof. ~ V
twitch.tv/tehsloth
what's that 2+ hours of PM sending :S, ouch.
Frosteey
And this just got goddamn amazing.
. . .
. . .
...
..?
>A small piece of paper is dropped by the oddly silent being.
>pick up paper
>You picked up the paper. You're now carrying: piece of paper, somewhat used condom, puppet, Iconic Item
>read piece of paper
>You see three small circles of the same size aligned linearly paralell to the top and bottom edge of the paper.
>post facepalm.gif
My race once had a saying. 'To know a people, you must understand the ways they hurt each other." You people hurt each other in so many ways. I have studied your greatest fighters, your Bruce Lees and Beowulfs, and found them lacking. I have studied those who knew enough to target the mind instead of the body, your Charles Mansons and Chairman Maos, that one individual out of a thousand who has the gift of seeing deeper into pain.
I have seen, in their works, a semblance of possibility. You might - if you studied the Arts for centuries, devoted your lives and your species and the flesh of your children to the Cause - might produce a single individual capable of teaching one of our kindergarten classes.
But understand this, if you hope to understand anything at all. Each and every one of my people are born into glory. Our childhoods are idyllic. Every desire granted, every wish fulfilled. We are blessed with perfect and loving families, we have every material and emotional need that could possibly be wanted. And on the eve of our fourteenth birthday, our parents come to us in the night and tell us it has all been a lie. They tell us we are despicable insects, that we are lower then the dirt at their feet. They strip us of all that has been good and holy, burn our possessions around us, cast us to the ground. Our society is designed from the ground up from this; to teach our children the meaning of betrayal. And this is merely the beginning.
So when we fight, you will not see me. I will be the voice of shame in your ear, the gripping fear that saps your will to battle. I will be the rumors that shred your honour. I will be the reason your wife leaves you and your children are born mad. I will be the closest friend to stab you in the back.
I know I will succeed, because I am the greatest manipulator my race has ever produced. I have sundered empires and brought messiahs to their knees. And I am the only one left of my kind. The only one in all of space and time. Because I persuaded all the other ones to kill themselves.
I am Crimson King, of the Magnificent Bastards.
And if all of that mental stuff doesn't work, I have a gun that shoots pirahnas.
>Crimson King looks frightened!
You know how some cosmic-level entities hang around in low-powered dimensions just to rake in cheap kills?
They’re total amateurs. The real money is in going after the big guys, especially the one's that turn your brain inside out if you so much as look at them.
But really, they're not so bad. A 4.2 million-mile-long mass of writhing tentacles leaking chemicals so caustic that they tear through the fabric of space/time? It's basically just a Jellyfish+. A field of planet-sized ichor-spewing tumours that drift in vacuum violating the dreams of mortals? A big bowl of fondue has the same psychological effect, and it can be similarly messy if you let the leftovers harden overnight.
See, despite appearances they're not bad guys. They make for very good clients, especially the ones that can drive themselves mad just by sneaking a peek in a mirror. Being a psychiatrist to entities that are pretty much insanity incarnate is very rewarding.
(Incidentally, Cthulu? He's got a whole mess of "Daddy Didn't Love Me" going on.)
Leaving them a frail shell of their former self so everyone else can join in and laugh? Now that's entertainment.
>Crimson King persuades Oatway's wife to kill his children and set his dog on fire!
>Oatway shrugs, and erasers Crimson King!
>Crimson King squeals like a girl!
Don't worry if you have two days left until retirement or have any happy plans for the future. What could possibly go wrong?