Gall_

If only there were pistols for heroes.....

LoL...ok I'll keep thinking....

Just love the new War Mace skins esp the pipe wrenches

Would 2 tanks be too much?

Ok this has caught my eye....

Maybe keep the names of the characters low key too? ie real names/surnames not "codenames"?

Bloody hell man she's well scary looking!


Awesome work tho!

Wow! Hi Catch!

Sorry guys, comp had a **** fit :/ Using g/f's laptop till I figure it out....

Ok, I'll do my utmost to be there. What's the roster so far?

This tonight?

Ok cool *goes off to decide on a toon*

Is it Tech heroes, or Tech armour heroes?

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yep im in .. few Q's
so im guessing new charcater's ?
is the tech itself themed ? ie steampunk or wired or enforcer look ?
is it power suits or small gozmos ?
how high tech is the tech ? extreme versions of RL tech , or startrek tech level ?
im i right in assuming characters are all normals using the tech ? not say AI's or robots ?
and for back stories who owns / designs / builds the tech

[/ QUOTE ]


As above

Very cool mate

Yeah, he'd encounter a soul stealing, busty, aggressively sexual, power hungry female version of himself called Titanic, only pronounced naughtily

[ QUOTE ]
[ QUOTE ]
Ahhh but the same happened to Green Arrow

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Yeah, but Green Arrow actually DID die in that explosion! It was just a heart sick Hal Jordan as The Spectre who plucked him back from an earlier time and recreated his body. Know anyone that powerful in game who's looking out for Britanic?

[/ QUOTE ]

Dante?/Powerstone?

I wasn't suggesting Brit possess the body of his own kid, but a child of Britanic might be a way to return. Maybe Britanic's son from the future?


Either way, I await the patriotic pugilist's return!

Ahhh but the same happened to Green Arrow

Hmmmm maybe White Vampyr is expecting?

*cue Britanic sighting posts*

*sniff*

Feck.

He's killing him!!!????????

Jesus!

Totally gutted!

You're gonna be missed BADLY mate! For what little we spoke you've always been a great guy! And Britanic IC is an inspiration to everyone he met IC.

Seriously man, take care, good luck and COME BACK!

Certain things were amiss this morning. He had dreamed that three figures, upon snatching possession of the book, had laid waste to the Eidolon. A savage display of power that in his dream, had levelled the building, letting it fall on top of him and the sinewy Culpeper.

The dream, or daymare as it became obvious, ended badly. Not in a “damn I wish I’d stayed asleep” kind of way, but in a “Dear god, please let this be a dream!” kind of way. Sadly, for the young now-mentor-less apprentice, it was the latter. He opened his eyes, dusted with sleep-sands and the combined grittiness of plaster and bricks, and took in his predicament.

He sat up, nursing a bruised neck and a fractured ego and took account of his actions.

One. I was arguing with Sam. He thought.

Two. There was a loud crash.

Three. Three men were outside looking at me.

Four. I ran to warn Old Culpeper.

Culpeper!

He looked around, hauling himself onto his knees. Digging frantically he found three things. His wand, the handkerchief he practiced with. And hanging limply from a pale emaciated, cold wrist - Culpeper’s copper bracelet.

He felt for a pulse, hoping he would feel something of the quickness Culpeper so favoured. But there was nothing. No movement save for the cold passage of time.

He imagined Culpeper’s voice telling him off.

“Good lord! Whatever were you thinking? No. No. Perhaps not. You aren’t paid to think! Nevertheless you will pay for the damages, and help track down the transcript you so eloquently misplaced. Now what were you doing reading the book anyway?”

He looked downcast. I’m sorry, Saullis.

That was the first time and last time he used his employer’s name.

Samuel had to confess. The boy had shown remarkable promise. He seemed to stumble over himself to start a new lesson. The book ruffled his pages, sending a moth scuttering out of the thud as his cover snapped shut. Culpeper noticed the sound and gave the book a surly “you’re not my friend anymore” kind of look. Samuel wanted to blow a raspberry at the showman, but having nothing but leather and paper for body parts made that difficult. Still, he was sure Culpeper sensed the slight.

Nat’s assistance in his shows became all the more overt, to the point of almost stealing the Stage magician’s lemon-light.

Culpeper didn’t like limes.

“I say! Anyone would think you were trying to outdo me, dear boy! The trick with the wand, and the handkerchief. One could almost say there was no trickery involved. That it was in fact “magic”.” He emphasised the last word, lingering on it with a clucked tongue. The accusation was blatant.

“Not at all, Mr. Culpeper. I’ve just been watching you do it. You do it much better than I do.” As obvious as the praise was, it stroked Culpeper’s swift-footed ego.

“Course not. You’re just an assistant. Besides the only way you could is if you...”

Read from Sam’s pages, Nat thought. Grinning.

“Mr. Culpeper? What is that old book in the store-room? It looks so dusty, maybe you should throw it out?”

Samuel listened and folded a corner of his first page angrily.

Culpeper shook his head vehemently. “No. No. No. No. That would not do. Not at all. Now, no more of this silliness. Bring me the Oubliette. We need to sell out tonight. The bills don’t pay themselves you know.” He whisked away like a waist-coated spinning top.

Nat toyed with the zip on his coat, walking back to Samuel’s room.

“You little snipe! What were you thinking? If Culpeper found out I was teaching you things I didn’t him, he’d throw us both out! Of all the...”

“Shush! He doesn’t suspect a thing. He thinks I’m too daft to even try. I was just having some fun with the old chap.”

“Fun? Fun, young fellow me lad, is not what magic is all about. You can’t just go around turning people into toads and not expect consequences. You have to learn restraint. With your mouth as well as your wand. Now pick me up and put me on the windowsill. I can hear birds singing.”

Nat smiled. The old book was something of a sentimental. He lifted the dusty pile of spells and ciphers and plopped it onto the dreary window frame.

“When are you going to teach me some more? I’m bored with the wand spell. And if I levitate that handkerchief one more time I’ll...”

“Give your mouth a rest! You aren’t getting anything else out of me till you shut up and practice more! Ungrateful toe rag!”

“And put away that petted lip! Grief! Can’t get a good apprentice anywhere these days!”

Nat pouted anyway.

He went into the other room and practiced the spells he had been shown.

Concentrating on the little wand he added a few personal touches. Thorns would pop in and out from the wands length. As if following some soundless rhythm. It was like watching paint dry. In fact watching paint dry was more exciting. Especially when it was an especially vibrant puce. He rubbed his temples and asked the wand to shrink.

It trembled negatively.

“Aww please!”

The wand repented and shrunk down becoming small enough to be hidden between his fingers.

“Thankyou.” The tiny wand swelled as if with pride.

Nat shook his head. Must stop humanising objects, he thought.

He took the snotty old handkerchief out of his pocket, straightening it as best he could before he held it at finger’s length.

“Next time. Use a clean one! Magic is best done with a washed hankie.” Sam called out.

He scowled at the dusty book, leaving him to his windows and his birds.

“You. You can shut it!” He returned his gaze to the hankie. Which, as weighed down with bogeys and crusties as it was, still managed to maintain a Peregrine-like hovering a few feet from the floor.

“There.”

“Yes. Very good, give yourself a pat on the bac...”

The window’s smashing ended Samuel’s mockery suddenly. In an instant he was gone. Nat, panic stricken ran to the window.

The book fell at first, before it rose, caught in the talons of a falcon that whirled hauntingly outside the shattered window. Nat looked out and down, wishing he hadn’t when he saw the pale faces and outstretched hands of three men look up at him.

He looked pleadingly after the book who seemed to mouth the words “Don’t say my name!”.

“Samuel?”

The book sighed as it landed in the outstretched palm of one of the figures.

“Now you’ve done it, Nat.” Sam whispered pointlessly. “They’ll be after you now they know who I am.”

Nat’s eyes glazed over as if he had in deed heard Samuel’s message.

He spun on his heels, dropping the wand as he ran to warn Culpeper.

I will become the most powerful Magi that ever lived!

Nat woke up in the basement theatre.

He was shown around the inside of the crumbling, pitiful excuse for the theatre. Ancient paper hung from the walls, inadequately dressed up by voluminous drapes of red velvet and sparkling silver stars that, had he not seen the wires, he would have thought suspended in mid air.

He was led into a large room that looked to hold every trick in the book.

“Which book?”

“The book.” Culpeper replied frizzedly. He pointed at the volume propped gingerly on a slanted shelf.

“You can look at anything else in here! But you are not to touch that book! Understand?” He nodded. “Now. Bring me that Guillotine. And that table, one with the black cloth, not the red one! Oh and the bag in the corner....Chop chop! Haven’t got all day! Gracious!”

Nat glanced around the room. He found the objects Culpeper requested easily enough. But the book seemed to look down on him teasingly, menacingly. He watched as his new employer hurried around the stage, tutting and sighing as he arranged things just so. He had to admit, on first impressions he liked Culpeper.

The book however, kept drawing his eye.

Ever mercurial, Culpeper ordered him about the rest of the afternoon. His sharp staccatoed voice hurrying his every step.

“Make haste! They’ll be here soon!”

Nat could have watched him all day given the chance. He was remarkably sprightly for someone who looked to be in his late 50’s. As the time drew nearer, Culpeper seemed harefooted as he sent Nat to usher in the audience.

The guests suited the place magnificently.

Two, Nat mused, could easily have posed as one of those Gothic “vampires” he’d heard about. The dramatic make-up. The Gothic-European waistcoats and capes. They moved soundlessly. Had alabaster-ous skin. They didn’t seem to breathe as they floated by. He felt a distinct chill in his spine before welcoming the next guest. A large, heavyset gentleman of oriental origin. He smiled at Nat, making him feel a little less anxious. The others were as varied in their dress sense as in their manners. Some pushing past him as if desperate to sit down. Others lumbering like stiff legged corpses keen on learning some new method to injure themselves.

He made sure everyone was seated before the lights were dimmed. He had to look twice at the “vampire twins”, a trick of the light made their eyes glow. Blinking he disappeared behind a heavy dark blue curtain.

A booming voice, somewhat unlike Culpeper’s, filled the darkness.

“Welcome to the mysterious! The ever changing! World of Magic!”

Culpeper stepped out. Dressed even more flamboyantly than before and so began his performances....

The next few weeks were a cyclic continuation of that first night. The guests got stranger. Culpeper never slowed, but he did seem to warm to his assistant somewhat. And the book kept taunting Nat with its stare. He had imagined it a face one day, while he collated the equipment. The studs on its spine were misaligned eyes, the mouth facing away from him, filled with toothy pages. It made his skin, not just crawl, but literally haul itself off.

One day, when Culpeper had gone out on an “errand”, the first of many he kept secret from Nat, he decided to face the book. “Head” on.

“Just what is your problem?” He shouted at the tome.

It sat silently. It’s unwillingness to answer driving him mad.

“I know you’re listening! And I’m fairly sure you can talk! So talk!”

The book. Said nothing.

“Damnit!” Nat threw a juggling ball angrily. Knocking the book off balance.

“oh [censored]!” It muttered as it fell to the floor.

Nat felt his bowels threaten to loose themselves into his underpants.

“You can talk!?”

“Well actually...no. Well yes. Dash and tarnation noone has heard me in years. And here you are, barging in here without bye nor leave and BANG you hear me!”

“Who are you? What are you?”

“A book you silly twit! God are you dense? Don’t answer that!”

For a book, the book was quite the adept at insulting.

Nat scowled.

“Not quite what I meant! Books don’t generally talk.”

“Don’t they? Hmmm. That makes things more difficult to get out of.”

“So?”

“Okay. Okay. I’m hiding. Satisfied?”

“Not really no.”

“Well tough!”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a wanted man. Book. Wanted book!” It seemed agitated. Even worried.

“A man called?”

“Jeez you don’t give up do you? Okay my name was Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers. I got on the bad side of some dangerous people and decided to hide in my book. Last place they’d expect to find me. Good yes?”

“Not really. I found you straight away.”

“Yes well we’ll forget about that won’t we? Good day to you sir!”

“It doesn’t quite work like that. You see I know who you are now. And you need me to keep you secret.”

“Blackmail? Who would believe you? Old man Culpeper warned you not to even look at me, so there!”

“Even so. Someone would. Or you wouldn’t be hiding.”

“What do you want then? Or dare I ask?”

“You are a wizard, aren’t you?” Samuel cut his sentence in half.

“Wizard!? I’m no wizard boy! I’m a Magi of the Order of the Golden Dawn! Wizard! Humph!”

“Sorry.”

“You will be.” Samuel grumbled.

“Sorry?”

“Oh nothing.” Samuel smirked. His pages fluttering.

“So. You want to be my apprentice then eh? Culpeper won’t be amused. Upstaged by a child.”

“I’m 22 for god’s sake! I’m not a child anymore!”

“Yes quite.”

“Can you do any tricks?”

So Nat showed him. The disappearing and reappearing coin. The empty glass filling with water trick. And the rabbit from a hat. Samuel wasn’t impressed.

“That it?” He sighed.

So Nat thought. And reluctantly he opened his left hand. Concentrated on it. And a tiny, baby-like icicle dripped from his outstretched finger.

He heard Samuel’s pages flutter.

“Interesting. Where did you learn that?”

“Don’t know. Always been able to do it.”

“Interesting.”

“Okay I’ll teach you what I know. But once I have you move out. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Nat had a mentor. Albeit it was a disgruntled, talking, dusty old book.

The existence of tricks does not imply the absence of magic.

Nat needed a job.

That was plain to see.

He had thought his grand adventure overseas would have been fun. But if anything it had only been problem after problem.

The advert in the paper had said enough to bring him running.

“The Great. The Fantastical Culpeper. Master of the mysterious! Lord of Illusion!...”

His eyes scrolled down, skipping the next four lines of clearly, self administered praise....

“needs an assistant. All applicants come to the Eidolon theatre, 32a White Apples for interviews. Applicants must be clean and well behaved.”

He grinned. Clean and well behaved? Was that a joke.

Something told him to read on. As if answering him, words seemed to move together at the bottom of the advert.

“Yes. Funny, no?”

This is going to be good, Nat thought. Memorising the curious address.

“White Apples,” he thought.

“Where the hell is that?”

The taxi dropped him off at the end of a narrow alleyway, at the bottom end of a dishevelled street that sprouted from a non-distinct road.

The theatre was a haberdashery of the banal. No that didn’t do it justice. It was frankly, rambunctious.

He walked to the less than impressive front door, clanging the knocker before waiting for a reply.

“Yes? Who is it? I don’t have time for Jehovah’s witnesses, for the prosecution OR the defence! What are you selling? What? Hmmm?”

A Victorian looking gentleman appeared. Visibly ruffled and like the exterior of his door. Nothing remarkable. He was also rather short, barely meeting Nat’s eyes as he huffed and cafuffled about.

“I’m here about the job.” Nat spoke suddenly.

Culpeper, he presumed, suddenly sharply took his chin in one hand. Turning his head this way and twsting it that way before looking into each of Nat’s eyes as though checking a dogs state of health.

“When can you start?”

“Errr....”

“Come on I haven’t all day you know!”

“Well uhh. Now?”

“Excellent dear boy! Excellent! Now come in, Mr...?”

“Rime....”

Culpeper was a most accelerated fellow.

“Rhyme. Nursery Rhyme by any chance?” He looked downcast when Nat shook his head.

“R. I. M. E. Nat Rime.”

“Pity. Hmmm pity indeed, Jacob Nursery Rhyme would have been most fortuitous. Most fortuitous indeed.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. Blame the parents I always say! Now come inside! We have lots to prepare. Show is at ten. Need everything top-tip!”

Nat had a job.