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revanchism [strong M- SVL]


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[color=crimson][center]"[i]There is no justice - there is only me.[/i]"


Every push brought her closer to orgasm. It was her first time, she had been a virgin. It went through her head: she had been a virgin and this.. was going to be the memory of her first time. The invasion, the humiliation, the complete and utter degradation of what she was going through.. he was invading every part of her. It was stuffy. That was what came to the front of her mind, that was was she was thinking about as the man continued to brutally rape her. The blood had dried on her face and her arms, the wounds that he had given her just a few minutes earlier. Yet, she was pondering how stuffy it was in the dank alleyway he had dragged her into. How absurd.

The alleyway had a putrid smell, a smell that mixed with her rapists own offensive odor into some kind of a concoction that she knew that she would never forget. She was only fifteen, just nearing adulthood and already things had gone to **** for her. Street children in Russia weren't uncommon, God knows that. Every day was a struggle, every little ****ing minute of her life seemed to be a fight she was slowly losing. The fat ogre of a man that was raping her just seemed to be one more drop in the bucket that was her living nightmare, a Hell she wanted to escape from in any way possible.

[b](what is it that you most desire, my sweet katerina?)[/b]

The voice was a whisper, a ghost echoing amongst the discordant tones that seemed to be deafening her mind. Desire. What was it she most desired? The gears in her head turned as much as they could as the man continued to shove into her- from his grunts he seemed to be nearing climax. This.. swine. Her desire?


[b](a sweet concept little katerina, something i could help you with.)[/b]

He finally climaxed, spreading his dirty seed all within her. She felt it too, her body's bliss juxtaposing with her mind's scream. It crawled within her, it made her feel so dirty. She wanted one thing now, more than anything she had felt before.

"Anything. I will give you anything. Just.. [i]make him pay[/i].."

[b](as you desire, katerina.)[/b]

Blood. That was what came next. Blood.

All over her back. Dripping onto the ground. All over the walls. The blood on the walls, it was mixed with.. ugh, entrails. Katerina slowly stood upright, feeling the blood slowly drip down her back and onto the floor, pooling with what was dripping out of herself. She was too stunned, her mind too fragmented to even being to fathom what had happened. Dazed, she gathered the remains of her clothes and turned around to stare at the grotesque pile of parts, the remnants of her rapist.

She was smiling and glanced beside her, where a tall shadow stood. The shadow's form seemed to be almost like flame, parts of him whipping up into the air similar to a fire. A pair of glowing purple eyes stared at her and into her, peering straight into her mind.

[b](an interesting choice you made, katerina. you could have said many things instead of that..)[/b] the voice paused, [b](.. yet you have fulfilled my expectations thusfar.)[/b]

"I wanted him to pay."

The Shadow might have grinned at this- was that even possible? The thought fell from her mind as her anger roared up within her and she spat on the remains of the man. She loathed everything about her existence- this ****** little town, herself, her 'friends' that had set her up like this. All of it. She slumped against the wall and mentally broke, the rape finally catching up to her. She began to sob uncontrollably as the Shadow stared down at her.

[b](ah.. it is alright, katerina. you have.. potential, you know. you tire so much of your current trappings, the filth in which you life. all of this.. muck, this mire that you are forced to bathe in. i.. could offer you something more.)[/b]

Her mind was still clouded, she didn't question who she was talking to. She just spoke out loud, muttering to herself that she would do anything to get out of this Hell.

[b](if that is your desire..)[/b]


Hello, child.

I am [b]Nemesis[/b]. I have come to you today to offer you a proposal, an opportunity that you should be interested in. You are a orphan of society, a guttersnipe perpetually stuck in the underbelly of the human world. I know of your desperation to survive, your loathing of your own situation and your environment. I understand how you seethe, how you wish for something beyond that.. I am here to offer you that chance.

I am not human and I am not mortal. The nature of my existence is of little important to you, but my goals are what I need you for. You can.. smell it in the air, can't you? The corruption, the incessant destruction of everything humanity touches. It doesn't stop with the planet, no- you turn on each other like dogs, ripping each other apart over the smallest of matters. This grim world, this diseased planet I wish to reboot, restart, redo.. and create this mud hole anew according to my designs. I will raze and destroy this world you hate so much and raise it anew without the corruption, the rampant rape of the planet, without social classes or poverty. No disease, no real health problems.. the only foe you will face is your eventual death but, unfortunately, that is the only curse I cannot cure you of.

I can offer you many things.. infinite amounts of power, glory, prestige. Or, if you desire it, tranquility, peace, romance, happiness, contentment. I can make any dream of yours come true, anything at all.. all you have to do is [b]serve me[/b].

Looking at you how you are now.. can you really refuse the chance to help yourself.. and the world?

Heh. I thought not.

I will bless you, I will grant you some of my power so you may serve me well against your mortal kin.. what do you want to be able to do, child? Anything you desire.. it can be yours. Any ability, any power, any item, any [i]thing[/i] that waltzes through your mind.

Simply say the word.. and it will be yours.


Welcome to [b]revanchism[/b]. In this RPG your character is the latest member of a growing army of forgotten youths and adults from across the globe who have been enamored by Nemesis offers to grant you your deepest desires, whatever they may be. In return you have promised to serve Nemesis as he carries out his broad goal of 'rebooting' the Earth and it's sentient populace through rampent destruction, the final goal being a paradisaic world created and controlled by Nemesis void of the many plagues that currently fester upon it.. with you living in your own realized dream of your choosing.

As part of this contract Nemesis has bolstered you, granting you a unique blessing that, aside from giving you noticable physical advantages such as better strength, dexterity and senses he has given you a special, personal capability of your choosing. With these advantages it has been implied by your new Master that you are capable of killing many hundreds of men, if not thousands due to this blessing.

You and your cohorts are currently residing in a rather lavish estate located in the rural parts of south western France serviced by an attentive, if not rather eerie, staff. You wait for Nemesis word, his order to begin the War.

Sign up-

[b]Name[/b]: Your given name or nickname.

[b]Age[/b]: The age your character gives out to others as being his/her own.


[b]Ethnicity and Place of Birth[/b]:

[b]Ability[/b]: What you requested of Nemesis to grant you as your own special capability. You asked him if there was any limitation to what he could grant you and his response was a quiet snicker and a flat reply: "I think not."

[b]Appearance[/b]: Pictures are welcome but not necessary.

[b]Biography[/b]: A description of the events that transpired in the past, leading up to your contract with Nemesis.

[b]Other[/b]: Put any side notes you deem necessary here.[/color]
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[COLOR=DimGray][SIZE=1][B]Name:[/B] Edward Quincy Silvers II (Insists people call him Quincy, never ?Ed? or ?Eddie?)

[B]Age:[/B] 11

[B]Gender:[/B] Male

[B]Ethnicity and Place of Birth:[/B] A white English boy, born in a small village in the countryside, now residing in said small village, in a rather large house.

[B]Ability:[/B] The ability to create illusions and nightmares in order to drive a person insane without having to do any of the gory, messy work himself. He?d much rather have his tormentors kill themselves.

[B]Appearance:[/B] Quincy is a beautiful child, his golden locks of thick hair left to hang straight down to his shoulders, always cut evenly with no fringe covering his large, green eyes. His skin is pale, due to his indoor lifestyle, so his small, rosy lips tend to be more noticeable against the china-white of his cheeks. He is, most certainly, a perfect boy, and his parents will flaunt him as much as possible.

However, being the?eccentric people they are, his clothing tends to differ from that of other young boys. He will be dressed in brown or black corduroys, with suede boots to match. A cream or black shirt is worn (tucked in, of course), with a waistcoat to keep him looking smart. If they are dining with guests, a black ribbon is used to keep his hair back. Having not seen any other boys, Quincy has become quite attached to his style of dress, seeing as it does make him look important and special. His pride and confidence are, of course, boosted by this image.

[B]Biography:[/B] Quincy?s short life has not consisted of very much. He was lucky to born with brain, so along with top-class personal tutors, he has managed to excel well past the expectance of his age group. He had a fascination with the piano from a young age, and has been told that he should seriously consider becoming a musician. His parents will have none of it, because their darling is going to become a doctor, or a surgeon, or something equally as important and special.

Quincy just wants people to respect him.

He has never been allowed outside, and this is something that has always tormented him and is, quite possibly, what has made him turn nasty in the last couple of years. He was always ahead of his time, thinking things that only adults should really be considering, and once he realised that he was essentially a (very well treated) prisoner in his own home, he made a turn for the worse.

His parents barely saw him any more. He insisted on locking himself away in the Library, reading about men such as Adolph Hitler and Josef Stalin, forming his own fantasy worlds where he, too, could control everyone. A few times he attempted to escape, but that never got very far. That was when he realised how truly insane his parents really were.

After his first attempted escape, this was at the age of ten; Quincy was retrieved after having only reached the garden gate. The servant who had been sent after him promptly threw him into the cellar, where he was left without food and little water until he had learnt his lesson. This lasted for five days, and during that time the tormented boy had resorted to killing and eating the only rat that crossed his path.

When his father tugged him from the cellar his was greeted with hugs and kisses and [I]?Oh, do go wash that nasty stuff off your face, dear, it?s disgusting.?[/I] He drew into himself for the next year, barely spoke, and only planned. Planned and hoped for something bigger to get him out of this mess.

A few days after his eleventh birthday, the young boy tried to escape again. Once again, he was caught, and once again he was thrown into the cellar. Only this time he had company.

He wanted to torture people, drive them insane as he had been. Of course, he only meant to use this on his parents, but once Nemesis granted him the unimaginable power he realised what he was now capable of.

Quincy came willingly and joyfully to be dropped off at the mansion in France. It barely registered in his young mind that he had to walk over the bodies of his parents as he left the house.

[B]Other:[/B] Quincy is a very proud, very arrogant boy who has grown used to compliments and people waiting on him hand and foot. He isn?t expecting to be treated any differently amongst the other members of the ?army?.

I really, really like the idea of this, Ken. Excellent.[/SIZE][/COLOR]
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[font=times][COLOR=DarkOrchid]Name: Liang Lou-Hou

Age: 16

Gender: Female

Ethnicity and Place of Birth: Taiwanese; Kaohsiung City

Ability: The power to completely manipulate the laws of gravity. When she has direct contact with the earth, she can affect massive amounts of space, flipping building upside down, turning people backwards, and any number of disorienting things. When she's decided to fly, her powers are only slightly less magnificent.

Appearance: Black hair, red highlights, black eyes, and since the gaining of her ability, her eyes have become completely black, with no whites or visible pupils. She often wears normal civillian clothing, but lately she's been wearing traditional asian dress, and running around barefoot at that. Since she doesn't often need to touch the ground, I suppose shoes would be a waste of fabric.

Biography: Liang walks the streets alone when she can. In a city of over a million souls, it's not difficult to do. She liked to go to the port and watch the ships come in. It was, she recalls, one of the biggest in the world. And the people were exciting, when she took the time to actively observe them. Soon Liang discovered that she didn't like the harbor, and she didn't like the people. It wasn't that she was being abused or raped, or that her parents didn't like her going down to see them. They had been dead and she had been at school.

She realized that people were cruel. People were mean and broke things, and people became more than just a blanket statement for her late one evening. She had snuck out of the house, and been attacked. He told her his name was of no true importance, and he offered her power to make up for what he'd done to hear. He'd helped her realize that without him, there was no power. ...Or it could be that she'd just gone completely insane.

[i]A quiet Asian girl with her head tilted to one side, a vacant expression on her face, and a man caressing her pale cheeks.[/i]

"I give you power....what will you give me?"

[i]Her eyes flickered, or they might have, if you could have seen her pupils. But there were none to be seen. Just cavernous darkness.[/i]


Other: Her name, properly translated, comes out to mean Pretty Tiger.[/COLOR][/font]
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[SIZE=1]How fascinating Ken.

[B]Name:[/B] Thomas Ambrose.

[B]Age:[/B] 19.

[B]Gender:[/B] Male.

[B]Ethnicity and Place of Birth:[/B] Irish, a few miles outside Galway City.

[B]Ability:[/B] Thomas has the rather media-whored ability of telekinesis, though his application of this gift from Nemesis is not so quaintly used as those in silly comic books or movies. Thomas prefers to direct his abilities more so towards his fellow humans, sealing off someone?s alveoli or stopping their heart or more favoured by him, breaking their spinal cord like a toothpick between two fingers while they helplessly writhe in pain. Truly Ambrose styles himself as a puppeteer, playing with men, women and children as mere objects for his own debauched amusement.

[B]Appearance:[/B] [url=http://zeitgeistglee.250free.com/Cillian.jpg]Thomas[/url]. Lean and lithe, the puppeteer stands a gangly 6?1? making him appear even more emaciated than he already is. Dark blue eyes hint at the intelligence lurking beneath, as well as the cruelty and sadism that have become so familiar to him. His sense of dress is limited to dark and black, usually clothed in a dark shirt with black pants covered by a three-quarter length black leather jacket. His skin is pale, but not so pale as to make one think Thomas sick, or rather even more sickly than he already looks with dark greasy brown hair.

[B]Biography:[/B] The smell of the salt air is one of Thomas? first memories, wafting into the window of his parents small bungalow on the coast, the chill of the Atlantic barely penetrating his warm woollen blanket. Years passed, his parents slowly going about their awfully dull lives and lavishing attention on their only child, how nausea inducing. Pretty soon things changed, at four he was shipped off to a local primary school, the same his father had attended, being taught by the same teacher that had tutored his father and receiving education in the same mostly pointless subjects as thousands of other children. He grew, little by little every year, a bigger shoe size, longer pants, and shirts, eventually glasses to help him see due to inherited short sightedness, how he longed to be somewhere else, contrived of his own imagination.

A decade later at fourteen he found himself in the city, attending a high school, not very plush, a few dozen walls, a few hundred desks, and innumerable bastards who each took a disliking to young Ambrose. Physical abuse became common, a black eye, a bloody lip, eventually he graduated to more deviant punishments, providing sexual relief for larger, more powerful boys, he was nothing more to them than something for their enjoyment. On occasion he was granted a reprieve, being required to satisfy the nymphomaniac girlfriend of a tormentor, bringing her to climax in a bathroom with only his tongue, watched by a small clique of lust-driven teens.

His schooling did not suffer oddly, despite his treatment, after two years he grew tall enough to defend himself from lone attacks, by four years he had graduated to the point where he was now too old to be of any interest to them, it suited Thomas perfectly. Though deep within he desired revenge, it was beyond his grasp, he knew this, there would be no point in seeking that which could not be attained.

?[b]Cannot be attained ? My, my don?t you give up easily for one who has suffered so much.[/b]?

The voice was effeminate and mocking, as though someone of a high-breed as all too amused by him. So familiar, so enraging.

?[b]Ah so you do have the desire for it. If you have the power you would hurt them.[/b]? A cackling laugh. ?[b]Then do so my boy, my little puppeteer, take them and break them as you see fit. Rape their women while they watch you, helpless to interfere until you crush the life from their pathetic bodies.[/b]?

Desire, but also fear.

?[b]Who are you ?[/b]?

?[b]I am your Master.[/b]?


?[b]Then I will serve.[/b]?

Thomas murdered them all, one, by one, day by day tracking them down with the relaxed clarity of a hunter who has all the time in the world. The women were especially enjoyable, they struggled against him, or they tried, movement was beyond them, but their eyes showed everything, the desire to get away from his maligned touch. He never touched them, no, he wore gloves now, his bare skin would never touch this world again. Only though his mind would be interact, only with his mind would his Master be served.

[B]Other:[/B] Nothing that I can think of.[/SIZE]
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[Color=DarkSlateGrey][Size=1][B]Name:[/B] Kyra Jan Keuck is his full name, although he prefers the nickname Jay.

[B]Age:[/B] 13

[B]Gender:[/B] Male

[B]Ethnicity and Place of Birth:[/B] Jay is a full blooded German, born and raised in Heidelberg, Germany.

[B]Ability:[/B] Jay has the power to force any disease he so wishes on someone. He also controls how fast the disease spreads and how quickly it enters the various phases. Whether it affects one person or a million is all up to Jay.

[B]Appearance:[/B] Jay?s big brown eyes are the first things that cause people to wonder whether he?s really his mother?s child. In contrast to his mother?s small green ones, his eyes compare to those of a deer?s. Another thing is his brown hair, which is always short in the back with longer bangs in the front.

His clothing really doesn?t set him apart form the rest of the world. A pair of jeans and whatever T-Shirt Jay can find are usually on the menu, although every once and a while Jay will dress up in nice pants and a shirt with a collar.

[B]Biography:[/B] Krya Jan Keuck was born to a very crazy and very disturbed woman. Already half out of her mind when she was impregnated by some guy so picked up on the street, nine months of carrying a child without anyone to help her drove her over the edge. After giving birth to a baby boy, she moved out into a secluded area in the country.

It was there, as Kyra began to grow and develop that he found the hard way about tough love. From his mother who constantly verbally abused him, to the kids at school who ridiculed him for his name, he never got a break. As the years passed, his mother?s abuse started to become more serious, her words becoming more painful, more hate-ridden.

Slowly but surely, his mother also began to hit him as well. As with everything else in his life, it began with slaps to the behind and escalated into slaps that?d send him flying across the room when he turned twelve.

The thing that Kyra could never understand was that he never did anything. He would be walking down the street and the kids would just start throwing rocks and calling him a girl. He would just run and hold back the tears as the rocks pelted his back. With his mother, it was asking the wrong question or saying the wrong thing.

Questions such as, ?How are you today Mother?? or ?Can you help me with my homework?? earned him a backhand and saying ?Hello? or ?Good morning? earned him a kick to rear.

One day, Kyra decided to stop going home and to school, fed up with the way he was being treated. The next morning, he packed up his few intact possessions and set out, catching a bus into the city. He had planned to make money betting on the streets, but was instead quickly picked up within a couple days by a group of homeless people who proceeded to then rape him.

Kyra, who woke up remembering and savoring every horrible minute didn?t know it, but in a few minutes, his life was going to change for ever. As he stood up and tried to find his torn and scattered clothing, a voice came to him.

[B][I][Do you desire more?][/B][/I]

?More than this.? He responded.

[B][I][What?s the one thing you wish for more than anything?][/I][/B]

?Revenge. Revenge on my mother, those kids, those hobos?? Kyra trailed off?

[B][I][As you wish?][/I][/B]

Kyra didn?t feel any different, but he knew there was something different about him. It wasn?t until he saw those hobos again that he found out why exactly he felt different.

After they all died of various STDs, Kyra realized he needed to change his name. So he adapted the nickname Jay and went back to his mother and the school he used to go to.

He didn?t stay for long, setting off a string of the pest and leaving, grinning like a madman as he stepped over his mother dead body. She was never going to harm him again. As he stepped into the sunshine, he was contacted again.

[I][B][Have you achieved that which you set out for?][/B][/I]

?Yes, I have.?

[I][B][Then come join my army. Help me cleanse this world of people like those you who hurt you.][/I][/B]

?Gladly. I am your servant.? Jay responded, smiling.

[B]Other:[/B] Jay came willingly to Nemesis and is a devoted solider. [/color][/size]

OOC: I shall finish this by tomorrow. Just wanted to make sure no one got the bright idea I did. Awesome idea Ken.

EDIT: And done, just as promised.
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[FONT=Trebuchet MS][COLOR=DarkGreen]Name: Michael Van Zeeben

Age: 19

Gender: male

Ethnicity and Place of Birth: Dutch, with pinch of Swedish. He was born in rural Colorado.

Ability: At will, he can make bony spikes (about a foot long) jut out from his forearms. They never entirely disappear though, just retreat beneath the skin. As such, he must always wear baggy clothing. When his arm-spikes jut forth, his eyes turn red and he fully loses control of himself, in a hulk-like style.

Appearance: He stands tall for his age, as the dutch are prone to be. He has long dirty-blond hair that he keeps long and ties back. His eyes are normally green. He always wears black clothing, but covers it up with a brown leather duster, similar to those of cowboys.

Biography: He grew up a normal rural boy. He attended school, looked forward to living his life on his ancestral farm, and was generally a happy person. In fact, he was never anything but happy. He was a firm optimist. In school, he was never popular, but managed to ignore that fact. He had real friends.

One day, he met a girl. She was popular and seemed interested in him. He spent less time with his friends and, when they expressed concern, he snapped at them, telling them that he had new friends. Eventually she broke up with him and left him for another man; a more popular man.

He was struck dumb for days. His life passed before him in a blur as he was catatonic. His old friends didn't like him anymore. His new friends never liked him. He sat on a rock one day outside his family's farm.

"What do you want, my dear? What do you want the most in your life?"

His lips mouthed a word that he never consciously desired. "Rage..."[/COLOR][/FONT]
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[SIZE=1][COLOR=SlateGray][B]Name:[/B] Sandalio de Valle; "El Lobo"

[B]Age:[/B] 16

[B]Gender:[/B] Male

[B]Ethnicity and Place of Birth:[/B] Spanish/Cuban; Born and raised in Cuba

[B]Ability:[/B] Sandalio's greatest desire was to make those who cross him bleed, just as he's bled all his life, and Nemesis complied. If it cuts, stabs, or otherwise spills blood, Sandalio can summon it to hand at will. He made sure to point out to Nemesis, though, that "guns are the ***** way out. **** that ****." As such, Sandalio cannot call firearms, but he rarely needs them.

[B]Appearance:[/B] Sandalio, true to his nickname, has all the charm and beauty of a hungry wolf. His 5' 7" frame is wiry and lean, muscles ropy and well-trained by street-fights and running from store-owners and the police. His brown eyes are flecked with gold, and seem to shine when he's in a particularly wild mood. His hair is wild and untethered, free to dangle just above his shoulders and fly in the wind.

One of the most noticable thing about him, aside from the two studs in his eyebrow and the gold hoop in his ear, are the scars on his body. One puckered scar runs across his unpierced eyebrow, a reminder of just what a broken bottle can do. He bears marks on his hands, chest, back, anywhere he's been whipped or stabbed at. Also prominant is the long barbed-wire tattoo that runs down his arm, from shoulder to wrist, that he saved for two years to be able to pay for.

He shows the battle scars on his chest with pride, never covering them with a shirt, although the marks from his beatings on his back lay covered by a weather-beaten leather jacket. He usually dresses in that rebellious style, like he walked straight out of an American movie from the 50s. Ragged jeans, heavy motorcycle boots, and a pair of sunglasses are his choice of wardrobe.

[B]Biography:[/B] Born illegitimately to a Cuban whore and a runaway Spaniard, Sandalio was raised in the warzone that is the slums of Latin America. From early childhood, he's been scrawny and small, but with a razor-sharp mind and all the tenacity of a bulldog. He quickly made his way in life by using his wisdom to good use around the bigger, stonger boys, and had built up quite the gang by just thirteen.

In his family life, he was less than powerful, however. His mother never has any time for him, being a busy whore, and he is usually shoved off under the not-so watchful eye of the brothel manager where she works. Whenever Sandalio gets in trouble, it is the managers job to reprimand him, something the sadistic old [I]cabrón[/I] takes great pleasure in. The belt lashings Sandalio has taken over the years has left his back a road-map of scars.

Stealing and fighting were how Sandalio spent his days for many years, whether for his own purposes alone or in gang jobs. He'd filch food when his mother's paycheck was too thin, cash to pay for new clothes or the holes in his ear, studs to put in his eyebrow, or ink for his arm. He fought rival gangs almost daily, and the reputation of El Lobo followed him constantly. Usually, he and his boys won. But numerous times, he was far from so lucky.

His worst loss was by far his most recent, as well. Ten members of another crew caught him alone one night, and there was nothing he could do but take the punches, taste their rings as they tore holes in his lip, and feel the brunt of steel-toed boots in his side. Two ribs snapped that night, and he got three knew switch-blade scars for his trouble, too. They eventually got him to the ground, and just kicked and kicked until they got tired.

It was that night that Nemesis came to him. That night that the mysterious being whispered in his ear and asked what he wanted.

Sandalio told him, told him he wanted them all to bleed.

When he got home, Sandalio snuck up on the brothel man, and looped a length of barbed wire around his throat. He strangled slow, and bled hot, and Sandalio felt his cock get hard as the fat old ****'s life dripped around his fingers. Then he went upstairs and had his way with one of the girls, a spineless little blonde *****. When he was done, he left and showered, standing under the water until his skin practically glowed from the heat.

From then on, he belonged to Nemesis.

[B]Other:[/B] Sandalio hates Caucasians, and especially hates rich kids who think they're better than everyone because they have rich fathers.[/COLOR][/SIZE]
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[size=1]Here's hoping I might be able to sneak in before this actually gets started.

[b]Name:[/b] Vincent Terenitio

[b]Age:[/b] 22

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Ethnicity and Place of Birth:[/b] [/size][size=1] Caucasian, Born and raised in Virginia

[b]Ability:[/b] Vincent's most dire wish was to be able to hide his curse, and pass it onto others. To this end, Nemesis granted him transmutation abilities which apply both to Vincent and due victims he may choose. Vincent very rarely kills with his own hands, though it is always a messy deal when he does. Instead, he watches his victims go crazy as their family, friends, coworkers, and just the normal people on the street shrink in horror from them, as he often uses his abilities to make people appear as he once did.

[b]Appearance:[/b] In his true body, Vincent's left side is a horrendous mess. If viewed from the right, one expects to find an attractive young man, shoulder-length black hair with red highlights pulled back into a ponytail, well-defined, sharp features, andeyes such a dark brown they're almost black. He stands at 6'4" and weighs in at 225 lbs of muscle, with broad shoulders, large, powerful muscles across his chest and arms, and a 34" waist.
The problem occurs when Vincent turns to face you, and his left side comes into view. Starting about an inch below his left eye and to the left side of his nose, miraculously curving around his mouth, Vincent's left side suffers from horrendous burn scars, caused by an explosion from a loose gas line in a stove. The scars pull at his good skin, restricting his movement, severely limiting his use of his left side.
Vincent very rarely allows this form to be seen. Instead, he uses his power to make his left side match his right. In this form, he is remarkably handsome, a striking figure certain to grab the attention of any female passing by.

[b]Biography:[/b] Through most of his life, Vincent was a normal person, well off, his family rolling in inherited wealth. Money was never a problem, and there was never anything he wanted that he didn't get. Unlike most wealthy children, however, Vincent was not spoiled. His parents sent him to a private school, the best available, but told him that if his grades were not kept up, he would be transferred to a public school, to sit with all the regular kids.

"Our wealth is a privilege, not a right. You will earn it."

As far as Vincent was concerned, that was fair enough. He was naturally intelligent, and keeping up his grades was a fairly simple task. He was not pampered by servants at home. He did not live in a mansion, but a simple four bedroom home. From an early age, he helped with the chores, cleaning, helping with laundry, and even learning to cook.

Ah, cooking...Vincent loved to cook. It was his passion, his art. He loved watching the transformation of something nigh-inedible to a decadent masterpiece meant to tantalize and tease with its smells until it landing on one's tongue in an explosion of exquisite taste.

It ended up his downfall. Not long after his graduation from high school, he was preparing to cook dinner for the night. It was his parents' 20th anniversary, and he wanted a wonderful dinner for them, and had even arranged to be out with friends after the dinner so his parents could have a night alone. But somehow, the lines in the oven had broke free. As he lit it, it exploded open, blasting him across the room, the erupting ball of flames searing his left side.

That was the second worst event of his life. No, the skin grafts hadn't worked. He would never look the same again. Normal people shrinked from him in fear. But not his parents. No, never his parents. They loved him, scars and all.

The boy still wanted to cook, still wanted to go to culinary school. But he knew he couldn't, not looking like he did. People feared him. So his parents bought him a personal teacher, paid well to shut up and do her job. The teacher grew accustomed to his appearance, grew to admire his skill. She was young, beautiful, technically fresh out of school herself but having already made a name for herself. He was drawn to her, this woman of such similar tastes to his own, and she, to a point, was drawn to him.

It was the scars...The scars that tore her away from him....While accustomed to their appearance, she could not bear to feel them against her skin. She disappeared as soon as he finished his courses.

It was then that Vincent truly began to change. How could this be? These, these, these things had torn his love from his life...How could something he'd never asked for, never wanted, rip the most important person to him from his world forever? He started to shrink into himself, knowing his parents would take care of him no matter what.

Until that day...That true worst moment of his life. The cops showed at his door. The taller, male cop actually passed out upon seeing Vincent, who wasn't wearing a shirt at the time. The female cop swallowed hard, trying to focus her gaze on his eyes, still perfect and untouched. He dropped to his knees at the news.

Dead? How? No, the cop had to be lieing...To the morgue? Why? Identification? Just to be sure? No, they couldn't force him...What choice did he have? He went, forced to look at the shattered remains of his parents. A drunk driver in a full-size pick-up had torn into their sports car, a head-on collision. The driver had swerved into the wrong lane. He was scratched, bruised, a concussion. His parents were dead, their bodies nearly crushed.

The cops took a step away from him when he looked up from their corpses. They could see the pain, the anger, the vengeance in his eyes.

"Leave me."

The tone left no room to argue. The room emptied, the door shut tight behind him.

He knew what would happen now. No would would let him be a human. No one would hire him as a cook, not even some fast food place. He was a freak, a monstrosity. And there was nothing he could do with that fact. So he wished. Wished for someone, somewhere, to let him do something about it.

[b]What is it you desire most, young Vincent?[/b]

The voice was soft, in his head, but there was no denying its existence. Was he going mad?

[b]No, not at all. Now please answer my question.[/b]

What the hell?! Vincent fought the urge for a second, but what was the point? It couldn't hurt anyway.

"I want to be who I am. I only want those I want to fear me to do so. I want to make those who taunt and torture me feel my pain."

[b]An interesting idea, to be sure. I can grant you that power.[/b]

"For what cost?"

[b]Nothing much really. Just that you serve me.[/b]

Vincent stopped to think for a moment, then smiled. It couldn't hurt, could it? "So be it."

By the time he left the room, his scars had been hidden with his powers. The two cops that had come to his house were the only ones still standing there. The man was found dead the next day, a bullet through his head, his magazine missing a round, his left side a horrendous mess.

The female was never seen again, nor will she be. Vincent used her for a sexual toy for a time, but grew bored, and burned her body. The driver that killed his parents was torn to shreds. The coroner could not associate the claw marks with those of any living creature. He never will.

[b]Other:[/b] As the sole heir to his parents' money, Vincent has access to vast resources, and is more than willing to use them when necessary.
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OOC: I pm'd you already, but I'm takinga chance on you letting more people in :catgirl:
[B]Name: [/B] Jake

[B]Age:[/B] 21

[B]Gender:[/B] female

[B]Ethnicity and Place of Birth:[/B] Brazil, but jumped the border into the US at 14

[B]Ability:[/B] She asked for the ability to heal any injury so no one can hurt her again; instantly on her person and with her touch on anyone she wished. With that she gained other powers through touch; she can cause wonderful pleasure or crippling pain with a single glance of the hand. Also due to her healing power, she often has no need for nutrients through food or water.

[B]Appearance:[/B] 5?4?, athletic build

[B]Biography:[/B] Her mother had too many kids to take care of, but good Catholics don?t use birth control. Good Catholics don?t have abortions. And good Catholics can starve just like anybody else. She was the oldest of 12 children. Her father ran off after the last was born, too much stress finally out weighed the pleasure of sex. Pity that didn?t kick in at number 6 or 7.
Her mother kept loosing jobs because of ?family emergencies? after their grandmother died and their father left. As the oldest, Jake felt most of the stress and handle way too many of the responsibilities. She finally took a job smuggling drugs over the border. At 14 she got stuck in the US when her contact tried to kill her and it was too risky to make contact or go home. Managed to keep a waitressing job, getting paid a miserable wage under the table on the edge of a desert somewhere in texas.
She went through a serious of abusive boyfriends and nasty landlords. After barily surviving the last sever beating at age 18 that left her for dead on a highway in the middle of the dessert, she knew she had to get tough or die. She started walking back to civilization. After three days of extreme heat and no food, she collapsed shaking on the side of the road where Nemesis found her?

[B]Other:[/B] by now she?s learned all forms of weaponry from swords and crossbows, to guns and knives. She spent a lot of her free time at the estate perfecting different kinds of hand to hand combat.
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