OOC
BEFORE YOU ROLEPLAY WITH ME...
IC ≠ OOC.
21+ muns only, please.
Do not godmod, metagame, KOS, and any other variation of the behavior.
I am not seeking OOC romantic relationships. Platonic, however, is very encouraged!
Be patient with responses.
Multiverse by default. Shipping is extremely selective. ERP isn't a priority and would rather prefer to focus on a critical relationship between y/c and mine.
BONUS PLAYLISTS.
II
GALLERY
IV
CONNECTIONS
CONTACTS
| FRIEND — ♦ | FAMILY — ♣ | "GOOD FRIEND" — ♥ | COMPLICATED — ♠ |
WIP.
HOOKS.
''A STICK IN THE MUD.''
Snaking tendrils of foul odor tickles your nostrils. Your mind, body, and soul crumples up like paper. What in gods awful—your nose directs your eyes to a filthy, soiled male Miqo'te in the middle of a dispersed crowd; no more than a stick in the mud. You have a seething need to get rid of him. Now.
''HELP ME FIND MY LOST ROBOT.''
The fated unkillable machine, ''Killer,'' is one of Condor's many homemade innovations. The autonomous monster is packed with 5 tons of killer prowess: a shedload of knife installments for optimal close-combat, eyeball snipers for optimal range, foot-wheels for optimal speed, winged-like fire engines on the back for optimal flare and intimidation; everything is perfect for the perfect killing machine. Killer just needs to stop taking random children for rides, watering flowers, tending adventurer errands—all of that needless junk. It needs to start killing. And it will. Any day now.
Return the wandering robot to Condor and he will pay you handsomely.
"We can change the world one bullet at a time."
Mercenary work. Gil. You know how it goes.
THE STORY REMAINS YET UNWRITTEN. . .
. . .AS SO THE STORY GOES.
(Check back later!)
I
ON THE SURFACE
FOLKS CALL HIM THE CONDOR.
The UNSEEN and the UNHEARD.
The MASKED MAN in the DARK.
A SCOUNDREL OF THE DEEP DUMPS vexed with a hot trigger finger to boot—mountains steaming of bullet shells by his gun are as easy as they come...if you piss him off.He prowls the junk wasteland of his home, hunting for wayward rats to feast for a night's meal. The rustle of trash, the soft tip-tapping of tiny feet on the hard stone, the fear-stricken squeals—now split into screeches as the knife finally melts into warm flesh—sends his pulse racing, as though he were facing battle rather than frightened, unruly rats. It all makes him feel very much alive.But he is not a monster.Alone in his day-to-night hunts, he is restless.
Hyperfixated. Disturbed. Unstable.At work is where Condor appears the most calm. The only requirement for him is to cooperate while your jaws stay in one piece. As it is—it’s nothing you can’t handle.
Right, partner?
III
DETAILS
DOSSIER.
| ALIAS (COMMON). (THE) CONDOR |
| NAME (RARE). DESMOND ("DEZ-MUND") |
| AGE. VERSE DEPENDENT |
| HEIGHT. 6'0" |
| PRONOUNS. HE/HIM |
| ORIGIN. THE OUTSKIRTS OF MOR DHONA |
I: CURRENT EQUIPMENT
''Keep those ribs knives-free.''
An iron-clad vest (''A bullet-proof vest,'' as the Condor insists to call it) is kept within the confinements of his clothes at all times. Even when sleeping.
''Silent makes deadly.''
A man dressed in black paired with dual suppressor firearms is a deadly combination not to be trifled with. You won't see death coming, but death sees you.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: FIGURINES, BOMBS, TRAPS (FOR BOTH ANIMALS AND PEOPLE), AND OTHER ''UNORTHODOX'' INVENTIONS.