Cowman

Hmmm, let's see.

Apartment : Um, how about 1363. (Never thought about it really)
Name : Mason Fenrick AKA The Jabberwok (and kudos to anyone who knows were I got the name Fenrick from)
Current Location : Generally - her apartment. Specifically - the bathroom.
Storyteller : Cowman ...... or Old Dan Tucker. It depends.
Summary : Mason was an unexceptional, rather plain looking girl and she liked it that way. She gave up a career in engineering and became a janitor/matinance worker at a Crey research lab just out of town. An accident one day (natch!) sent her falling into the middle of a DNA splicing experiment. She was exposed to a variety of animal DNA which eventually mutated her, disfiguring her face as well as giving her special abilities. The traits of the different animals combined giving her greatly enhanced senses, speed, agility, and a heightened metabolism. Mason is easy going, not really caring much for self-pity, melodrama, or angst. She is not very "feminine", at least not by the popular definition of the word. The animal DNA in her system tends to give her some strange instinctive urges, but she can usually control these. However, these instincts tend to leave her mind a little conflicted and distracted, making her especially susceptible to mental powers.

Check out the Crey profile link in my sig for a more in-depth description.

[ QUOTE ]
“I am sorry to have to cut our discussion short, but it is time we should be leaving, we don’t have much time before we are due at the races at the Circus Maxiums.”

[/ QUOTE ]

He smiled, bowing a little as she left. He watched until the two women were gone before continuing with his sweeping.

"You took a mighty big chance there," the overseer said, looking over to the smaller man. "Some of the nobles would have had you beaten for that kind of brazeness."

"Hmmmm, perhaps," the herder said thoughtfully. "You would think that their wealth would put them in a better mood most of the time."

"Well consider yourself lucky you caught one of the decent ones," the overseer answered, ignoring the other man's little joke. "No tools for you this week I'm afraid. We've got some timber and some old leathers down below if you want some of that."

"Thank you," the herder said, finishing his work and leaning the broom on his shoulder. "But it seems I may be going away for awhile. I'll take no payment today." The overseer shrugged, quite used to the herder's strange impulses by now.

"Where are you going?" he asked, only half caring really.

"I may take a job with the military," the cow man shrugged. "Still kind of deciding." The overseer shrugged again, leaving the scruffy worker standing on the steps.

[ QUOTE ]
“but I am sure you have the opportunity to see many great fighters if you work here often. Though I would imagine Berit tends to stand out from many of those for many reasons.”

[/ QUOTE ]

"Many indeed," he smiled as he leaned briefly on his broom. "Though, as a mere tradesman, I can only guess as to their skills. Your friend has had more straight victories than I have seen from the other fighters. It is solely on that which I base my opinion."

At first glance, the herder's constant smile might have seemed like an attempt to be ingratiating, but it somehow went beyond that. It was an introspective smile that seemed to be caused by a genuine warm-hearted amusement at the world around him.

The cow herder had a few small jobs to do that day. There were a couple places he always stopped when he was in the city and offered to work for a small amount of food or maybe some old clothes. Mostly cleaning out stables or minor repair work. Another larger job had just become available about a month ago. He had offered to help with the cleaning of the arena and found that it often netted him such valuble payments as old tools and discarded building materials; both of which he could use to repair his cart and make temporary shelter in the fields if he needed it.

At the moment he was sweeping out the audience seats, mostly of natural debris blown there by the wind. He idley watched the fight below as he worked, smiling a little as the smaller fighter once again bested her larger opponent.

"The lady fights very well," he commented easily to the spectator seated nearby. "I don't think I've ever seen a woman as skilled." Of course, most workers would not have dared to speak to the woman, obviously from the upper-class, without being spoken to first. Though it wasn't any lack of respect on his part, on the contrary, the cow herder was very mindful of his manners. But living outside the city by himself, he often forgot many of the conventions of civilization.

The cow herder watched the sun as it rose over the hills, casting light across the buildings. He sat on the roof of an old stable, leaning on his walking staff as he stared out across the tops of the dwellings. Pulling himself up, he turned to go. He had things to do today.

The cow man nodded to Curius as he took his leave, smiling to himself after the man had left. Reaching into his cart he pulled out his walking staff and slowly ambled down the street. His barrow was left, seemingly forgotten, in the street. If the cow herder was concerned at this, he didn't show it.

[ QUOTE ]
“You know, the legions, Rome’s defense against the barbarians and other threats to our way of life.
There are hundreds of uses for someone with your skills. You would not be required to fight, only help in the upkeep of the equipment of those that will be fighting Rome’s enemies.”

[/ QUOTE ]

The mention of protection against barbarians brought a slight widening to the cow herder's smile.

"It sounds very... interesting." He seemed to think about it for a time before finally speaking again. "I think I shall take the offer, " he smiled, "if, as you say, the pay is so generous."

[ QUOTE ]
“Hold citizen. Did you craft these leather goods?”

[/ QUOTE ]

"Indeed I did, sir" the cow man bowed a little, the ever-present 'almost-smile' still on his face.


[ QUOTE ]

“I could use someone so skilled in leatherworking. Have you never considered working for the legions? The pay is good, your meals provided and you could continue selling such trinkets on the side if you wish.”

[/ QUOTE ]


"You are too kind, sir." He let his barrow rest on the ground, turning to fully face the man. "I make a living any way I can, but I'm afraid I am rather ignorant as to the workings of the empire. May I ask just what this legion would involve?"

The cow herder finally stood, beginning to pack his things back into his old barrow. In the fading light, he began pushing the wooden cart down the emptying street.

The cow herder had set a couple of the small toys spinning as he finished the one he was working on. He took a moment, looking around at everything around him, his eyes finally resting on the small girl in front of him, staring at the spinning toys.

He smiled at her and asked her name. She replied hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. Taking his old knife, the cow man scratched her name into the toy in his hands.

"Here you are, young mistress," he tossed the wooden plaything to the surprised girl. "With my compliments." The child grinned broadly at him, thanking him quickly before turning and rushing away with her prize.

The herder bowed his head a little at her thanks, seemingly unaware of her moment of apprehension, a small smile still on his face.

"Of course. Good fortune to you." After her departure, he returned to his seated position, again whittling at some wood. A small spinning toy this time. It was always a rather popular item for him.

"I'm inclined to think your offer too generous," the cow herder smiled, bowing his head slightly. "But I have never been one to slap aside the hand of fortune." As he accepted the money, he reached down, picking up the small wooden object he had been whittling.

"Perhaps you'd accept this in return for your generosity, free of charge. I noticed you entered with a friend or two. Maybe one of them would find it.... amusing." Still smiling he held out a small wooden sculpture of a raven.

[ QUOTE ]
“How many Sestertii for this one?” She asked him in Latin.


[/ QUOTE ]

The cow herder looked up at the young woman. As he rose and took the bracelet he noted the hard look of the her hands. Tough and sturdy looking. A farmer's hands, or a fighter's. Looking at the bracelet carefully, he seemed to consider for awhile.

"I'm afraid," he said, smiling from under his hat, "that I am a bit uninformed on modern prices. Tell me," he handed the bracelet back to her, "what would YOU charge for it?" His tone held no hint of bartering, just a calm good-naturedness, as though he was generally curious.

The cow herder pushed his rickety old wagon into the city, joining the crowd of shops and stalls. His herd remained on the hill. They would stay there until his return. His cows were very well trained, something the cow herder was very, very good at.

He pushed his cart into it's usual spot and unpacked. Nothing special, just draping some hides over the sides of the cart and hanging some of the hand-made necklaces and braclets (mostly leather) on the corners. Sitting himself on the ground he whittled camly at some wood as he waited for customers.

A little ways outside the city walls, a young man in peasant's clothing crouched on a rock. He leaned almost lazily on a gnarled wooden staff as his herd grazed around him. Most people had heard of him. Just a slightly eccentric hermit, who's only talent was to raise the cows that were his livelyhood.

A crudely woven straw hat shaded his eyes from the sun as he stared into the distance, his gaze settling on a distant bird, flying across the sky. Pulling himself up, he wandered over to one of the cows, reaching under to scratch at its muzzle.

"A crow," he said absently, still staring at the bird. He was silent for a second before looking down at the animal beside him. "What do you think, girl? An omen perhaps?" The cow's only reply was an unconcerned stare as it continued to chew at the grass. The cow herder returned to sitting on the ground, scuffing his bare feet in the grass. It would be time to go down to the city soon to see what he could sell. Milk, animal hides, and some handmade clothing and accesories were his main wares. But not his cows. He would never sell his cows.

((I haven't forgotten this thread yet. Still planning out my next post. I'll try to have it up soon.))

Donnie's eye happened to catch the morning paper's headline. "Woman Found Dead in Boomtown." He couldn't help but wince a little at the thought of that little problem. She had been one of the fighters, but after being beaten a few days ago she died shortly after being dragged from the ring.

Now usually that wouldn't have been a problem since all the members signed releases exempting the Ring from any responsibility from the outcome of the matches. However, this woman had joined while Donnie's predecessor was still running things and the idiot hadn't made sure she signed the papers. If the cops knew that she had died in one of their fights with no paperwork, it would leave the doors wide open for them to investigate every aspect of the Ring.

So Donnie had the body dumped quietly near the Boomtown entrance. The place was a warzone and Donnie was hoping that it would just be assumed that she had been beaten to death by one of the wandering gangs.

He sighed, taking a look at the schedule for that day. There was a "tanker" weapons match at eleven. The two nigh-invulnerable behemoths would go at each other in a ring filled with sledge hammers, steel girders, and other large metal things. These specialized matches were tricky to set up. Like the full-blown super powered fight he was currently trying to arrange. Perez Park would be the ideal location, but with the roving monsters that frequented the area, he would have to scout it out rather carefully.

Lasers and energy shields were flashy and drew in new people, but the Ring's bread and butter was the hand-to-hand matches. People liked the flash of super powers, but seemed to prefer seeing the fighters up close and seeing the damage they did to each other. Powered fights had to be watched from a distance or simply on video. Donnie scratched his chin thoughtfully as he looked at the other scheduled fights that day.

Donnie Holden walked through the main doors of the warehouse. Making his way past the rest area and heading to his small makeshift office. He had been the manager of this branch of the Ring for only a month now, but had already been congratulated on his skills. With the Colosseum being built, membership had dropped rather dramatically. The fact that the previous manager had been skimming funds didn't help either, but Donnie had been able to stop the decline and had even gotten a call from one of the higher-ups in the Family, telling him what a good job he was doing.

But then, Donnie Holden had always prided himself on doing the best job possible no matter what it was. He had treated his lowly bag-man position with the same care and respect as the more prestigious jobs he had gotten more recently. Sitting down at his desk, Donnie retreived the pile of folders from a drawer. He had been working on familiarizing himself with the longer running fighters in order to get a better feel for his position.

The folders were an archive of all the oldest and/or best fighters in the Ring. One was sitting to the side. The fighter in that folder actually had a match this morning and Donnie had figured it would be a good time to read about him. Popping in the VHS tape of the fight, Donnie opened the folder.

Alfred Keys
(no ring name)
Age: 28
Blood Type: O
Abilities: Knowledgable in basic hand-to-hand fighting. Technique mostly from street fighting and brawling. Has unique nerve mutation. When nerves fire in pain, his body can take that energy and transfer it to mucsles and tissue. This gives him slightly enhanced stamina and sometimes strength. Side effects include a temporary dulling of pain and superficial wounds tend to heal slower than normal.

Donnie watched the video of Keys' fight. It was obvious that the guy could still feel pain, dulled or not. Keys was by no means the best fighter around. Far from it. But the guy had shown some impressive feats in his time and had never turned down a fight, win or lose. And he had lost. A couple of those loses had ended up with him in intensive care. But Keys always came back for more.

Donnie continued watching the man even after the fight was over. That detached demeanor of Keys' puzzled him slightly. But as long as he kept up the fights, Donnie really didn't care. Turning back to the rest of the files, the new manager began flipping through, reading about the different fighters that made their living in the Ring.

((Consider the files a convienant way of introducing your characters.))

((The main building of the Ring is in Kings Row. It's a large warehouse and consists of several fenced in dirt rings, a barracks style sleeping area, a couple shower and locker rooms, and a rest area with a bar. (You can also get a supply of Superdine and other performance enhancing drugs there, if you know how)))

((Okay, this thread is about a semi-legal underground fight business. Set up long before the upcoming Colosseum, it specialized in super-powered fights, mostly fist-fighting, though other types of matches can be set-up. I'd like to have this RP be about the over-all community of these underground fighters, though there is a larger plot that will develop. Many of the fighters are not registered heroes, though heroes can participate if they don't have any qualms about being connected to a blood-sport with illegal undertones. Also, moral heroes can also get involved. Maybe they are investigating the Ring, maybe they are connected to one of the fighters, or whatever.

Fighting in the Ring is mostly hand-to-hand and is rather brutal. If your character doesn't have any real fighting skills (relies on beams or psychic powers) you may want to think up another character if you wish to participate in the fights. Not to say that I'm limiting who can be in this thread, not at all. More morally minded heroes can also interact in the story by investigating the Ring.

Fighters sign up, stating that they know what kind of fighting goes on in the Ring and are participating of their own free will. However, it is generally known that many illegal activities are connected to the group. Gambling on fights for example; and some drug trafficing. Fighters aren't necessarily aware of these; it will be your decision just how involved your character is.

One thing I'd like to stress. This is NOT a thread for trying to beat each other's characters up. You can have your character fight as many NPC's as you want, but if you want to fight another poster, you must work out the fight with them in private messages before posting. I refuse to have any flame wars in here. Try to remember that you don't have to humiliate someone you beat and that you can still be cool even if you lose. I'd like to stay away from undefeated uber-tankers who cannot be hurt. As the saying goes, "blood sells" and two fighters who can go at it for hours and not look any different won't be very exciting.

Lastly, these are not fights to the death. People DO die, but it is never (or at least doesn't seem to be) intentional. So please no "DarkThroatSlitter threw his beaten opponent to the ground and then calmly snapped his neck". The thread is meant to be rather graphic and gritty, but I don't think it violates the boards' rating. Feel free to start your own storylines if you'd like. I'm hoping this'll just be something fun for everybody.))

(( Alfred Keys: Head shaven, otherwise rather normal looking, wirey, brown eyes, 28 years old. Wears regular street clothes, mostly older looking stuff. Only clothing change while fighting is to take off shirt. ))


There was a chilly sting in the air as the sun began to rise over Galaxy City. Alfred Keys pulled his dirty hooded sweatshirt closed against the biting wind. He took a long, lazy drag on the cigarette in his mouth as he watched the construction crew working on the foundations for the new Colosseum.

He had laughed when he heard that the city was building them. It seemed so ironic really, especially since most of the city wasn't even aware that a similar establishment had been around for quite some time. Of course, it was quite different from the rather glitzy monument to fair play that was being constructed in front of him. Keys made no judgements. Things were as they were and he accepted them that way.

Glancing at his watch, he threw the smoke away, standing from the bench. He had to get moving. It was an "Out of Ring"-er today. This time it was the bottom level of some parking garage. "Out of Ring"-s were usually in parking garages, warehouses, or on rooftops. There had been one on top of the Atlas statue once in the dead of night. At least he wouldn't have to deal with any large crowds. These ones were usually limited to 10-20 people and the less people the better, in Keys' opinion.

-------------------------------------------------------

Was that it?

*wham*

No, that wasn't it. There it was.

*wham*

Damn, stitches on forehead got ripped open again. Blood got in eyes; missed it that time.

*wham*

Keys reeled back from yet another blow to the head. He stumbled back a little, the ring of on-lookers caught him and pushed him back towards the center. The guy today, Kent "Mauler" Hower, was tough. Some sorta low level healing ability and enhanced strength. Keys shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

There. He got it this time. The slight dip in the guy's left side, giving a slight warning to the hook that was about to come. He was ready for it this time, moving his head to the right and catching Hower's arm as it went by. Keys wrapped his own arm around it, using it to pull the guy in close.

Taking advantage of the brief window of opportunity, Keys sent an elbow to the side of Hower's head, followed by slamming his forearm into his throat. Hower's healing powers kept him going, however, and he managed to grab Keys' other arm, using the leverage to throw him over his head.

Keys flew for a short distance, crashing through the windowshield of a parked van. He felt the dashboard crack and the steering wheel break under his weight. Hower was back on him in a second, pulling the bleeding man from the van. As he was dragged out, Keys managed to grab the broken steering wheel and as Hower pulled back, Keys lashed out, slamming the metal ring into the other's head.

Hower stumbled back, but Keys didn't let up, hammering at the man repeatedly. Finally, even Hower's healing couldn't keep him conscious and the man collapsed to the concrete. Keys all but fell down, sitting with his back against the van's grill. Shaky hands reached inside his pocket for a crushed pack of smokes. He didn't hear the cheers and booing of the others, but let that familiar numbness creep over him. It would hurt later, but for now he didn't feel a thing.

"I use whatever's handy," answered Kirke, affecting an almost conversational tone. "In my line of work you learn to be flexible." Setting his cigarette aside, Kirke once again steepled his fingers, looking at his two "guests" over them.

"Medb's choice to invite me doesn't trouble me as much as her decision to invite ANY of us. The woman obviously has resources we've barely dreamed of. She could hire people for this. She could hire the best if she wanted to. So why us? Why a group of villains who could very well turn on her at the drop of a hat? And now this 'Blind Guardian' appears.... "

Kirke sat thoughtfully for awhile before speaking again.

"Tell me Trevor, who do you believe. Medb, or the Guardian?"

Kirke glanced lazily at the new arrival. So this was Trevor. He looked briefly at the offered hand, but didn't reach for it.

"Marcus Kirke," he said, voice monotone, "A pleasure." The man was all smiles and openess, but there was something in his eyes, that faint icy glint of distrustfulness.

'a NICE guy'

Kirke gestured to the nearby coffee table containing the bottle of Jack Daniels and his pack of smokes in invitation.

"Their specialy made," he said, taking one of the plain white cigarettes for himself. "An herbal painkiller. Easier than pills and quite a bit healthier." He lit the smoke, inhaling deeply as he stared back at Trevor. He briefly went over what Disco had said before interrupted. The bizarre villain may trust the so-called demon, but Kirke had no reason to do so. But then he didn't trust Medb either. So now he would have to plan for two contengencies.

One bit of information interested him greatly. Namely the theft of this Guardian's eyes. He thought back to the gem Medb had pulled out of her desk.

"It glows when the demon it belongs to is near"

"Don't worry Disco," he said, returning to the present conversation, "I won't use it against you. After all," he sent a rather humorless smile to Trevor, "we're among friends, aren't we?"

Vance, Trevor and Will, Jack in Diamonds, Hegemon, Dark Mason..... all the people from the meeting room. Kirke didn't remember any "Blind Guardian" which meant he either showed up late or was an entirely new factor in this little game. He slumped in his chair a little, steepling his hands as he answered Disco.

"Book?" smoke from the cigarette drifted up from his nose and mouth. "Posh. Aristocratic." the moment when Book had almost lost his temper flashed through Kirke's mind. "Dangerous. The man's got too many secrets from my liking." He took another drag on the smoke, thinking over Disco's comments.

"Trevor and Will got something personal against Crey, huh? Their tough luck. Personal grudges are never a good thing. Nothing but trouble." He didn't mention his opinion of Trevor and Will being 'nice guys'. If they were running with this crowd, 'nice guys' meant they'd apologize before blowing your head off. "Don't worry, though. I don't trust Vance." Truth be told, Kirke didn't trust any of them and was sure none of them really trusted him. At least he didn't think any of them were that stupid.

"Tell me though," he said, looking at Disco over his steepled hands, "just who is this 'Blind Guardian'? He sounds rather.... interesting."

((Thanks for the clarification Combat. Kirke probably won't use them right now, as he's horribly paranoid about everyone and everything. But he won't discount them entirely. He'll keep them around as an emergency measure.))

Kirke raised an eyebrow slightly at the man beside him, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He had seen "gimmick" villains before, but this guy took the cake.

"Afraid I've been too busy with my own problems to really scope out the villain population in the city. Tell me, you know anything about any of these other guys?" Disco seemed the sociable type and had probably been talking to the others while he was with Medb. The guy might have gotten to know the others rather well in that time.

Through his light doze Kirke heard the creak of the door opening. By the time it hit his chair, his hand was already on the gun sitting beside him. As the man who entered started talking, however, Kirke quickly decided he didn't have anything to worry about at the moment.

"Yeah," he said slowly after the man's rant had ceased, "Disco Inferno, wasn't it? Thanks, I'll think about it." Kirke only had some rough military hand-to-hand training. If a fight came down to that in Paragon City he would most likely already be dead anyway.

Rising from the chair, he holstered his weapon, pulling one of the plain white cigarettes from his pocket and lighting it.

"Cyborg huh? Any particular reason for it, or just a personal choice?" ((meaning, did he NEED to become a cyborg or just did it to be a villian)) From the brief glimpses Kirke had caught of Disco he would guess the guy was slightly unstable. Of course, that didn't make him any less dangerous. He moved the chair back to it's normal position, sitting down and taking a long drag on the cigerette.