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About Engel

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  • Birthday January 14

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  1. Discuss

    [SIZE="1"]Sorry bout my lack of activity lately. Things have been going on. Am I still alive? Hah.[/SIZE]
  2. Discuss

    [size=1]I'm trying to decide if you mean that in a good or a bad way. D:[/size]
  3. Discuss

    [size=1]I hope no one finds my latest post too disturbing or anything. I enjoyed writing it. Heh. Yeah. I look like a psychopath now And I love it. .[/size]
  4. RPG

    [color=#E32636][size=1]Upon awaking, Thom made with his usual morning routine. Absinthe mixed with a spot of Dr. Pepper was a good wake up call. It cleared his head right up like a kick to the face, a punch in the gut, being told your mother was just torn into beautiful little pieces by a couple of disgruntled Spanish men who were tired of the tricks she was turning. Things like that. Grabbing his guitar and clearing his throat, he pulled the lyrics out that he had wrote last night, digging in his pocket to find a guitar pick. The first few strings were plucked roughly, and the rest came smoother, a flurry of notes that filled his hotel room with music that rang so sweetly through fake plastic trees. Feeling like he was warmed up enough to face the day, Thom set the guitar down and stripped out of yesterday's clothes, scratching a scar on his stomach absently. Blue jeans clung easily to his legs, a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt displaying the album art for "The Zephyr Song" on it. On a whim, Thom found a spot of styling wax for his hair, bothering to put it up just a bit. Some days it was nice to look half decent, even if it was your job to slay supernatural creatures that threatened the fate of humanity. And other things. Strapping his Lugers onto him and throwing on a denim jacket, Thom stepped downstairs and headed for the doorway while he began to send a text to Manjusra, reading [i]Hey, feel like doing something tonight, Ghostie? This town is so fucking boring.[/i] He had barely sent it when a hand on his chest snapped him from the reprieve. Tucking his cell phone into his pocket, he looked up at who had stopped him. It was a police officer. "Excuse me, Mr..." "Yorkton." Thom lied with the most absolute confidence. "Mr. Yorkton. You're not allowed to carry firearms in this building unless you're one of the police officers stationed here, or security. Why don't I take you back to the security office and we'll deal with this there?" "Sure, whatev, man." Thom shrugged, tracing the five o'clock shadow that was starting to come in with his palm thoughtfully. With a gentle hand on his shoulder, the officer directed him away. Taking a look at the cop, Thom studied him with a semi-interested eye. The others around here weren't that observant. This cop was kinda portly, and smelled like freshly powdered doughnuts. What a pig. As soon as they were out of sight by the normal hotel staff, the officer shoved him into a small room, filled with officers. They all seemed to be just like this one. Large and pot bellied and buldging at the seams, like they were trapped in their skins. Piggies. As if they could hear the thought, or notice the change in Thom's demeanor, they squealed like rats in a cage. Thom leapt to his feet, standing in front of the only way out. The door. Their horrible shrieks wracked his head, and he only had his trusty Lugers and his fists. With a smile, Thom looked at the one that had brought him here. "Can't we talk this out?" He was met with an enraged, terrified squeal and a charge meant to gore him with the horns rapidly protruding from the Piggy's head. Thom was quicker, and he drew the Luger on his left side out with his right hand, sticking it into the nostrils of the beast and pulling the trigger twice. It squealed and twitched, it's faces screaming at him in a mortified death rattle. God, it sounded so [i]sweet.[/i] Imbuing himself in it's death, Thom took the rest by surprise as he threw his hand up to catch one on the back of the head, slamming it's snout down on the table in the middle of the room, it's fragile skull shattering easily underneath his crushing force. Thom realized he was lucky in taking such bold leaps - they were terrified of actual combat, when their true natures were shown. The five or six left were huddled up in corners, squealing freakishly and afraid for their runty little lives. One jumped for him, making as if to snap at him with it's enormous molars. Thom caught that one with a round in the kneecaps and it fell, and just for then, he left it there to suffer. What happened next, no one could expect. Thom started singing as he danced his dance of brutality. "Have you seen the little piggies, Crawling in the dirt, And for all the little piggies, Life is getting worse-" He paused to put a round through the Piggy who's kneecaps he'd shot out, the bullet passing through his engorged belly and causing no real lasting damage besides excruciating pain. "Always having dirt to play around in." He ended the writhing creature. Four more were alive. "Have you seen the bigger piggies, in their starched white shirts? You'll find the bigger piggies, stirring up the dirt, always having clean shirts to play around in." Adding his second pistol to the mix, Thom lazily shot two rounds at the two Piggies, clipping one in the skull and killing it, the other being shot int he neck and stuttering for breath. "In their cities with all their backing, they don't care what goes on around, in their eyes there's something lacking What they need is..." Thom tucked the pistols away and took the last Piggy remanding in his hands, almost gently. The other one had passed out at the sight of blood. He smiled into it's eyes, so sweetly, before he brought his fist to it's face again and again. "A damn good whacking." Stepping on and crushing the throat of the one passed out, Thom took his lighter out and grabbed the papers that had been sitting on the desk, now scattered and harried. Deconstructing his lighter and pouring the fluid on the papers, he tucked one into each body and lit the paper on fire, sending the Piggies up in smoke. Checking his phone for a reply from Manjusra, he realized something. Bacon sounded really fucking good.[/color][/size]
  5. RPG

    [size=1][color=#E32636]Watching Manjusra turn heel, Thom scratched the back of his head with a long finger, and traced over his cheek where the scar - and her touch - had been. He huffed slightly, pushing his hair out of his eyes and deciding to take a quick search around the area. Sometimes, vampires horded treasures - like his Lugers, which he had looted from an earlier experience. There was no harm in looking. Searching through their pockets and clothing, he found nothing but crumpled dollar bills and change, false ID's and other such things. They could kill for what they wanted, but they seemed to like creating a high place in society to their fancy. It annoyed Thom greatly - the world wasn't their plaything. It was his. As he made his way through the rest of the place, he would occasionally mutter to himself, writing it down in his metal notebook to use for later. Hunts always inspired songs of his. Among other things. When he was satisfied - or rather, dissatisfied with what he found, Thom left with the odd 19 dollars and 92 cents collected, along with two fake ID's and a locket that held a picture of the male within it. "Stupid fuckin' vamps. Shoulda kept it skin on skin, mebbe then she wouldn'a looked so surprised when I chopped down her cherry tree." A miryad of small thoughts, like fleeting creatures, ran through his head, but he dismissed them by pocketing the locket. Maybe he could melt it down and sell it or something. It seemed to be made of gold. Going outside, Thom climbed into his car, turning on the radio and finding a suitable song. It was that Dragula one. By whatever band. The one that people always cracked jokes on. Thom found it suiting and shrugged as he drove home, mouthing along to the words. Pulling to the side of the street and exiting his car, Thom made his way into the hotel room, the cigarette between his lips now a smoldering cherry that he put out in a faucet, guaranteeing the taste of ash - also known as diet cola - for the next few people to drink out of. With that, he retired to his room, taking his guitar and begging work on a new song. "The Blood is Love."[/size][/color]
  6. Discuss

    [quote name='Darren']Posted. Just thought I would apologize to Zephyr for stealing your internet format type thing at the beginning. I liked it! So kudos to you ^_^ Anyway, Talon, if there's anything wrong with the post, (simply because I mentioned the black substance) let me know and I'll change it. Also, Engel, if I happened to falsely describe the Weilands, let me know and I'll take care of that as well.[/QUOTE] [size=1]The Weiland you described is fine. =] Just in case anyone was wondering, their name is a reference to Scott Weiland. 'Cause that guy did heroin like candy. I thought about the most humorous thing to do when Thom runs into some Piggies...[/size]
  7. RPG

    [color=#E32636][size=1]The female had evaded the length of Manjusra's whip, which left her open for an attack. Seeing this, Thom put a dash into his step, smashing the vampire head on with his all-encompassing shield to keep Manjursa relatively safe. Of course, this was little to the bitch who he had blocked, using her immortal strength to grasp a spike on the shield and wrench it from his hand, throwing it aside. With a scowl and a slight bit of a grin, Thom clipped her in the joint of the arm with his blade, her arm overextended from removing one of his defenses. Peeling backwards from the vampire, he deliberated using an Edge to hopefully end it quickly. However, this would be unwise - there could be others lurking around in the dark, and that most definitely would not be good. Best to forget such abilities for now, he decided. Hand to hand it was. Thinking fast, his left hand dipped into the holster on his side that held one of the Luger pistols, whipping it out as he brought his blade up with his right to block the monstrous and lightning-paced blows from the female. As she rose her left foot to make a low kick at his shin, Thom titled the pistol down and fired two shots off into her kneecap, stifling her kicks and movements, but not doing any real fatal damage. Raising his sword to make a mortal strike, Thom noticed the male vampire cutting in out of the darkness with a cruel hand outstretched for his neck, to choke and break. Thom grit his teeth, ready for the impact of the blow, when he realized the male had stopped short, one of Manjusra's whips around his neck, choking the life out of him with every second he tried to struggle close to Thom. Using the momentary distraction caused by her partner, the female's hand slid across his cheek, creating a tear on his cheek, from his ear to his lips. It wasn't deep, but it stung like blood and toxins. That's most likely what it was, Thom thought passingly. Spinning on his heel, Thom's blade removed the male's head, and he hacked at it again, separating skull and brain matter and all sorts of joyous fluids. The female seemed stunned at the action, and her stunned silence allowed Manjusra to slide both whips around her neck, breaking and crumbling the bones easily, allowing a blade to be placed between her eyes, and her head to be severed. Cracking his neck and forgetting the cut on his face, Thom chuckled a little. "Star-cross'd lovers come to my mind, a bit, y'know?" He asked, withdrawing two cigarettes from his pack and lighting both up, his lips more intent around the one he then passed to Manjusra. "We should probably burn the bodies and heads or something."[/color][/size]
  8. Art

    [size=1]Gonna go ahead and put my [b]current signature[/b] as a contestant.[/size]
  9. RPG

    [color=#E32636][size=1]Thom smiled his trademark one sided grin. He had a few nicknames for Manjusra, from Snowflake to other things regarding her unique complexion. She never minded, either, which made it a little more fun to make new ones. If he listed his pastimes, making up more nicknames would be under the list. He moved to the closet, stripping out of his shirt. A brownish stain on the chest told him that he had a brief conjugal burn there, probably from an earlier fight. [i]Great...gotta replace this one. Excellent.[/i] He couldn't stand blemishes on his clothes - it was most likely some form of OCD he didn't know he had, but at the same time suspected it a great deal. Withdrawing a t-shirt that read "The Mars Volta" - detailed with the album art and bizzare, but wonderful images - and slipping it on, he strapped his tower shield to his back and withdrawing Myxoma from the closet. Mumbling under his breath, Thom cast his carefree stare out the window, observing the milling ants below. Crawling around in the dirt. Unbeknown of what fate held in store for them. It made him sick, and it made him smile. With passing thoughts on whether or not he was a horrible, sick and twisted person for thinking that, Thom whistled to the tune of his own drum - and guitar and synths and lyrics, as he played all the parts for the song - as he opened the window he had been glaring out of and used the length of high-tensile rope that led down to the bottom to rappel himself quietly and quickly to the bottom. The sun was setting. They'd be out soon. A sigh coloured his somewhat cold lips, a key withdrawn from his front pocket used to unlock the door to a car that was by no means bad and by no means extremely fancy. It was a Dodge Magnum, tinted a dark greyish-black, and for all intents and purposes, served Thom's needs. Shifting from park to drive, he made his way into the downtown, past shady areas filled with drug cartels and homeless beggars who wanted your money for more liquor or to lord it over the even more desolate that inhabited the area. Parking on the side of the street, Thom's nimble fingers plucked the phone from his pocket and hit the first number on speed dial. "I'm here, now's the time I say somethin' clever and you walk outta a door and into my car." [/color][/size]
  10. RPG

    [size=1][color=#E32636]The traffic filtered through the pre-determined pathways, all red stop, yellow slow and green go. It unnerved Thom. He hated cars. Wheeled death traps. Contraptions that facilitated explosions and loss of life. Tore holes in the ozone. Killed us all, slowly but surely. He [i]really[/i] hated cars. Turning away from the street to the building behind him, Thom lit up a cigarette, squinting one eye and looking up at the sun. It smiled, even though it was dulled by the city smog. It seemed so hypocritical. The force of nature that gave them all life, so bright and burning, so smiling, while we crawled around in the mud lost to our God. With a deep drag of the Camel Frost in his fingertips, he exhaled and entered the building. It was a hotel, moderately high-range. Thom wandered where his music and the Hunter-net took him. He had a few safe houses, permanently owned, utilities kept up to date, but he mostly stayed in hotels and if applicable, a fellow Hunter's house. The deskkeeper made to stop him from smoking the cigarette, but an unamused glare from Thom silenced him. He made his way upstairs, feeling the familiar weight of the twin Lugers snuggled up against his side, little bullet maritime lovers drawn to his warmth like a moth to the flame. They were a comfort, along with cigarettes and guitar riffs in an unsure world. With a grunt, he reached into his back pocket and withdrew the card key, severing the magnetic lock on his room. Inside, besides the default furniture, the decor was rather plain. A laptop sat on the desk, an external keyboard and mouse laying next to it. A half eaten sandwich was in the fridge, along with a selection of wonderful, intoxicating liquors. His guitar was propped up against the wall, perfectly tuned to Thom's standards. A new e-mail message was on the screen, about 18 minutes old. With a slight rise of his eyebrow, he opened it and peered across the message. It was sent by Manjusra. With a one-sided grin, Thom punched her number into the phone, and as he drawled upon the cigarette, spoke to her when she picked up. "Gonna be able ta handle those big nasty creatures all by yer littl' self, now, snowflake?"[/color][/size]
  11. Discuss

    [size=1][b]Darren:[/b] First thing that came into my head was The Collector by Nine Inch Nails. [i]I am the plague, I am the swarm...[/i] Hmmm. Wonder when the thread is going up. Any word, Talon?[/size]
  12. Discuss

    [size=1]Too lazy to remember the code for my color. Thom stays mostly around Europe, anywhere from the top to the bottom of Europe though. He's been around the Americas though. He likes it in states more in the New England area of the US. So if you wanted a character history, which I'm open with, it'd have to be any place in Europe or somewhere in New England area US.[/size]
  13. Discuss

    [color=#E32636][size=1]As long as it's not too obvious - they are [i]somewhat[/i] intelligent. [b]Weilands[/b] Humanoid looking at first, these creatures have sunken eyes that are hollow, and gaunt cheeks that display cheekbones that appear to click and move - like some sort of chitineous mandible. Their arms are riddled with pockmarks, track wounds, torn veins. The works of a heroin addict, and their legs the same. Their bodies are walking messes, and yet they move with frightening speed. Their hands are probably the worst part - their fingers have been replaced with hypodermic syringes, and their fingernails slope into needlepoints, that carries a deadly venom within. They, however, are quite frail. They've even killed themselves from time to time upon accidents - moving too fast and hitting something at high speeds.[/color][/size]
  14. Discuss

    [color=#E32636][size=1]Time for an original creation. [b]Piggies:[/b] These little bastards are some of the worst. They look like normal policemen, upstanding individuals. They even have wives, and families. However, when revealed for what they are, their bodies become massive and grotesque, and their features splay into many multifaceted pig faces, snarling and whimpering and blankly staring. From each of their hands, their fingers each split into tiny hooves, and the same happens with their feet. These are used as effective rending tools, but it makes wielding their batons and munitions difficult at times. They most often adhere to police stereotypes, and go after mostly innocent people, hiding behind supernatural walls and bending their status and distrustful human natures to their own whims. If revealed, most Piggies attempt to run, and their greatest weapon is their ability to blend in with society.[/color][/size]
  15. Sign Up

    [color=#893F45][size=1][b]Name:[/b] Thomas "Thom" Viaquez. [b]Hunter-Net Name.:[/b] Eraser 96. [b]Age:[/b] Age 31. [b]Hair:[/b] Ashen-black with a tint of red. [b]Eyes:[/b] A greyish-green. [b]Height:[/b] Around 5'10 [b]Weight:[/b] Thom hesitated, looked down at himself, and tacked on a few pounds to the number. 138 lbs. [b]Creed:[/b] Judge. Writing this down made Thom look back up at his earlier answer, and sighed inwardly. [i]I'm judgin' those stupid bastards, not myself.[/i] [b]Weapons:[/b] An ornately designed longsword, befitting a person with the creed of a Judge. [i]At least I thin' so, dunno 'bout these guys...[/i] P90 machine gun with anti-armor rounds. [i]Not everything has to be quick and quiet, eh?[/i] Two antique Luger pistols, ransacked from a group of vampires. [i]God, I love those guns.[/i] A large tower shield, as ornate as the longsword it matches. Usually strapped to his back when used. Also a capable hand to hand fighter, but dislikes actually dirtying his hands. [b]Edges:[/b] [i][u]Discern[/i][/u]: Usually, just mumbles something under his breath, like a nonchalant joke or phrase, with the keyword "Lucky." [i]I don't make shitty jokes much, see...[/i] [i][u]Pierce.[/i][/u]: Concentrates with mild attention on a target, and then whispers with a little grin, "Knives out." [i]Then I start lying...luckily...every kid think's a your mum's joke is funny, so I wouldn't have to do anything...it'd be dyin' from just hearing the failure contain'd wit'in that joke.[/i] [i][u]Burden:[/i][/u] Settles a gaze on the target, and then says planly, "Stop whispering." like an accusation. They go dead in their tracks. [i][u]Smolder:[/i][/u] Declares happily, "How'm I drivin'?" and a thick black smog rolls out, like the scene of a bad car crash. [i][u]Blaze:[/i][/u] Simply snaps his finger and with concentrated willpower, the light turns up on the freaks majorly. [i][u]Delve:[/i][/u] What kind of Judge wouldn't have this skill? Another thought produced one, allows him to "experience" the previous event. [i][u]Expose:[/i][/u] With a little concentration and the words "Meeting people is easy," the shrouds are ripped down. [b]Appearance:[/b] For a Judge, I'm not the most regal person You'd ever meet. I wear acid-washed blue jeans and a white button up shirt with a black vest, most days. I have several sets of this. I look like some sort of fusion between casual and caustic, and that works well for me. I've got a bit of stubble on my face, usually, and I don't much care to shave it. My hair is a light greyish black, with a tint of red, and lays kinda jutted and spiky and short on my head. It's pretty soft, actually. Dunno how. I've got green eyes, and my hands are pretty calloused. Other than that, I've got a scar on my left eyebrow that looks quite strange, as no hair ever grows back over it. And a nice one on my leg, when some little bastard yapped at my leg and I had to cleave it off. Always a fun time. I've got it in for more of quickness approach, and I ain't gonna clunk around town in a suit of goddamn armor. My shield's enough. I kinda laugh at the hunters who name their weapons, but if I ever admitted I named my sword "Myxoma", they'd laugh right back. [b]Biography:[/b] I was born and raised in a little cutaway section of London where lots of Spanish people had made residence. Hence my last name. My mum was knocked up by a righ' and proper English gent who refused to pay alimony or take me to the park after Sunday's services. I was raised christian, but I never really believed in that religion stuff. Righ' and proper for those do. Went to public school with a bunch of Spanish kids and poor English gents. I didn't much mind it, I got involved with the musical program. It was at that point, when I picked up a guitar, I realized, everyone could play guitar. If the dips tried hard enough. Most people lack the perseverance to actually go through with anything. It's a shittin' shame. When I got to high school, I made my own little band. Didn't ever catch on though. I think about trying it again from time to time, but that wouldn't really work. All my old friends are off in other places, and I might as well not exist. Oh well. My life was never exciting, never out of the ordinary, never special, never something to write about. It still isn't, really, knowing that there's a bunch of people [i][b]just like me[/i][/b] doing the same thing. [b]Imbuing:[/b] I was hangin' out at The Basement, a local night club, around the age of what, 15? They never let me drink, but they'd let me get up there and do my singin' and guitar playin' thing. No one knew I never learned how to really play music, I'd always just picked up on what everyone else was playin' at the time. I bet that's how everyone really did it. Music doesn't make sense on paper. I was up on the stage, and right in the middle of the lyric, "My thoughts are misguided and a little naive," the room went dark. Like someone put out the lights. And everyone started to slow down, and then this weird musical tone, light and mysterious, kinda hit me like some sort of realization. And then time sped up like fast little arpeggi and around me were things I thought were pulled out of some weird cartoon. Misshapen shambles of grins and limbs, grasping and tearing. I wrenched the guitar to the right, the body of it slamming into the nearest's face - I think it was it's face, bloody damn can't tell with them - and screaming, "Knives out, lights out!" for some reason, that little musical tune building to a fever pitch inside my head told me two things. [i]Don't be afraid. They're guilty. Guilty sinners.[/i] And I swung with all the righteous fury of a man devoted to his cause, the thick twanging of discordant guitar notes and the thick-pitch body colliding with sinew and skulls. They lay dead on the stage and I stood above them all, a whacked out, tweaked piece of wood and metal strings in my hands. I plucked loosely at the notes. That was kinda cool.[/color][/size]