ON HOLD - NO CRITS NEEDED, THANK YOU <3
DEUS EX MACHINA PERSONNEL FORM
The Hunter
Name: James Estlin
Nicknames: Dollface
Gender: male
Age: 23 (born January 17, 1991)
Category: sun
The Weapon
Name: anaconda
Nicknames: butts
Type of Weapon: a pair of bladed straps that attach to his boots -or- just like boots full of spikes idk
Former species of weapon: well idk a big butt monster who knows
Gender: female
-Personalities:
James:
James is a pretty simple guy. He likes good booze, women, shitty TV shows, horror flicks. He laughs easily and loudly and loves nothing more than the easy comradery of the army.
James was a pretty simple guy. He still likes the same things, although the pleasure he took in them feels cheated, dulled, unfair. He's plagued by the guilt of living. When he smiles - and it's never as often or as widely genuine as it used to be - his smile has a strange hitch to it, and not even he is sure if it's because of his scar or simply that something twisted inside of him is leaking out. The attack on his battalion, their subsequent slaughter and his exile (marked, quite simply, as 'convalescent leave - unspecified'), have all taken their toll on the easy-going man. He often finds himself irrationally angry, lashing out at doors or whatever furniture has the misfortune of being nearby. It's healthier than taking it out on himself, although he still pushes his body to its limits. The strain reminds him he's alive.
When he's relaxed, some of the old James shows through, he's charming, conscientious, and loves puns. But even then. he's a soldier through and through and it shows in the way he moves, and how he never sits with his back to a door. He's more distrustful now, full of the conviction that life really is 'every man for himself' after all. Despite that, James is still an alright team member and leader - he pulls his own weight and more, expecting nothing of his teammates. He's not exactly the most fun guy to have on a team. He's left behind most of the impulsiveness of his youth, although his anger still leads him astray. But for him, Deus missions are all business, and that business is revenge.
He tries to hold to that. In short, James is perpetually fearful that everyone will end up like his battalion. They died; he failed them; he doesn't deserve anything more than this shot at payback.
Likes: Supernatural, poetry, alcohol
Dislikes: tomatoes, sleeping
WEAPON:
-redacted-.
-Why did your human character choose to become a Hunter?
Revenge, retribution, justice. James calls it many things, but mainly it's about getting even.
When they took his battalion, he watched most of his friends die in front of his eyes. JJ got lucky - one clean hit and his head rolled. He never had to see the rest of his brothers die. Hoolio, Big Sexy, dead in seconds, although they got to fight back. James watched as Sherman bled out in the sand, turning it to mud. And Tuck, Tuck had run, the b*****d. But, James thought, he couldn't fault the son of a b***h.
When he woke up, it was to silence. He wasn't entirely sure how he had survived; the killing blow had somehow managed to only knock him out cold. Maybe the horsemen got lazy. Maybe they just didn't care. In the end, it didn't matter. He was in the desert, surrounded by the bits and pieces of his brothers. They'd taken JJ's head, Big Sexy's hand, Sherman's eyes, all of Tuck. He didn't cry, or even try to pursue what had attacked them. Instead, like the good little soldier he was, he slipped their dogtags into his pockets and slowly, painfully, made his way back to the temp base.
The next weeks were a blur. Those things had ******** up his shoulder, had ******** up his brain. James couldn't explain the vague things he'd seen to his superiors: the barely remembered swoosh of wings, weapons flashing, the screams of his friends; he didn't try - and it was merely categorized as the violent band of rebels they'd been tracking. Stuck on convalescent leave, he wished he coulda been the one to give notice to Gnat, to JJ's wife, to Sherman's girl back home. He'd failed them, and some other poor sod had to tell their families, their lovers.
When Deus showed up, it was like a ******** gift. He'd find a way to repay every scream, every sleepless night.
-Weapon Ability
-NAME OF ATTACK HERE-
WEAPON becomes overcharged with fear and, at James' discretion, unleashes it in one powerful burst.
type: Battle Cry
Tier Two:
Dice: 7d4
First Dice:
1: Miss
2-4: Full Damage
Damage: Add up remaining dice. This total is the damage dealt to your opponent.
Average Damage: 15
Dice: 7d4
First Dice:
1: Miss
2-4: Full Damage
Damage: Add up remaining dice. This total is the damage dealt to your opponent.
Average Damage: 15
-Physical Description:
Eye Colour: olive green
Hair Colour/Style: blond, curly, it's grown longish and he wears it in a low ponytail.
Skin Colour: pale, a few freckles, one scar cutting through the side of his lower lip
Clothing Style/Colours: combat boots, pants tucked into them, likes wearing tank tops with dumb sayings on them. dumb sayings omg yep (for the official art though, I like the ******** Off tank top best)
-Coat: standing collar, open, double-breasted, idk can it have epaulets? (far left coat)
-Scarf: MAN IDK MAYBE GREEN I LIKE GREEN
Extra: 6'4", muscular beefcake. ex-military. Scars - right shoulder, long, jagged, arcing around to his back & lips, bisecting the side of his lip, thin, angled
References: this
man is perfect (just add scars & longer hair)
History:
beep beep loading....
Other:
Somewhere, Clover was singing. It was faint and sweet and sounded very far away. Except it wasn't somewhere, it was inside his head, James thought irritably. They were fused together like this, never apart. And in a way, that was comforting - that he could never be alone - but it was also stifling. Whatever she thought, whatever he thought, they were inside of each other. He never thought he could miss the quiet of his own mind before. But he did, sometimes, times like these, when she stuttered out songs so steeped in an unfamiliar sorrow that he could not think of anything else. Thankfully, Clover kept silent during the more important things - like when James was sleeping or ******** or pissing. Other times, she chattered at herself in a soft voice filled with the nonsensical creakings of poetry and song. It was both unobtrusive and unignorable, like a television left on in another room.
::far away, long ago
glowing dim as an ember
things my heart used to know
things it yearns to remember...::
He guessed he should be glad that the girl could carry a tune. Clover's voice sounded sad, wistful maybe. Her singing was like an earworm come to life; he supposed he sound be glad that she hadn't chosen a catchier song. But the ******** song... Last leave - he'd been drunk, rented some horror flick about a serial killer. James hadn't expected to be scared by it; there was something about humans that seemed a little less scary since Deus. Maybe it was a little comforting, even. Humans seemed more predictable than their monster counterparts. Manageable. But the disc inside was a kid's movie instead and by that point James had been too damn drunk to take it back. So he'd watched it (because he had nothing else to watch), and drank more beer, and wondered at the naivete of a lost princess. Clover had liked it more, become absorbed in the amnesiac aspect of the film. He couldn't blame her. She was silent now, only the faintest hum in the curve of his synapses, like electricity. But James heard her sigh, held his own tongue, and waited.
::I wonder... there was someone, once-::
She struggled to find the words inside of her, inside of him, dredging up age-old poems that he'd read as a romantic child. Whatever had happened during weaponization had made her own words harder to find. So Clover used those of others: poems, songs, famous lines from books. ::and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you I think:: Her voice trailed off, upset and sorrow following the last word: mourners at the grave of her speech. He could tell, sometimes, that she was frustrated by her own lack of vocal autonomy. Still, James didn't understand her half the time she spoke, filling his head with poetry and nonsense. But this feeling Clover gave out, this low keen of bewildered loss - he knew too well. And if he were a different man, if she more than just a tool used to murder others of her own kind, he might have wrapped one solid arm around her thin shoulders (he always pictured her as slight), might have patted, stroked her hair. Instead, he had no choice but to listen blankly to the silence that was filled with a formless sadness he had not caused and could never comfort.
::I think I liked to fly, once::
