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character's age: 146
character's pronouns: His/Him/He
link to app: http://writeyouatragedy.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=40
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player's alias: Sabe
player's pronouns: Him/His/He
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character's codename: Sabretooth
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Joined: 26-June 16
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Last Seen: May 7 2018, 03:12 PM
Local Time: May 23 2018, 11:02 AM
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Victor Creed

Mutant

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Apr 3 2018, 03:43 PM
Simple game. Can also be addiction inducing if you're prone to that already(*side eyes a mirror*). the way you play is simple. Take your character and the character who has posted immediately previous to yourself and make a baby. No matter how much sense it makes for them to get together and have a sprog. Then you get to tell us about them! Name, Hogwarts house, circumstances of conception, the play-by they would have and at least 3 facts about them. Those facts can be anything. From an anecdote from their life, their personality, a habit, career, powers they may have, their relationship with their parents. There are no limits(just don't break site rules).

Here's the little form:
CODE
A. Name(First, last, and if you want, any special meaning or reason why that is their name)
B. Hogwarts House
C.  Circumstance of conception
D. Faceclaim

[center][IMG]Image Here. Try not to stretch the board.[/IMG][/center]

E.[LIST]
[*]
[*]
[*]
[/LIST]

Below I've got an example from a previous version of the game. This kid had Victor Creed and Jennifer Walters for parents,

A. Alaina Creed
B. Gryffindor
C. That Axis plot happened and Victor and Jen got some real quality time in.
D. Claire Holt



E.
  • A bounty hunter, Alaina has taken it upon herself to track down and bring back the folks who try to get out of due process. She tried to become a cop but something about her temperament made that hard(rate of broken noses goes up in her vicinity). She's a natural at it.
  • She started sneaking booze at an early age during her rebellious phase. Vodka? Yuck, Rum? Gimme. She as in so much trouble when she was finally caught.
  • She loves the chase more than anything. when there's not bounty she'll find something to chase and just chase it until she catches it. Horses, squirrels, pigeons, people.
Mar 25 2018, 07:55 PM
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Victor had been doing jobs around New York City for various of their underground criminal types. He was fine sticking around the city and doing more. But something had happened last night and it left him pissed off. Really pissed off. A team had come after him. Knocked in the door and crashed through the windows showering the rooms of his temp place with glass. He’s torn through them like he would any gang of yahoos. He knew their nondescript, unmarked uniforms. Weapon X. They had finally found him and came to collect. <p>
Thing that bucked him though: how? He had been careful. Mostly.<p>
For answers, he kept one of them alive.Mortally wounded, but alive enough to answer questions. All Victor could get was “someone” had outed him to the Program for some kind of reward. The only people who really knew he was in the city were the guys he’d done work for. That narrowed it down to a few dozen people. Maybe ten dozen if it wasn't one of the bosses, but a snitch ranking employee. So he headed over to Ruth’s to let her know he’d be needing his room, following that with letting everyone he’d done work for know he was heading out of town, giving each a different point of departure. Then he chartered a plane to Vienna and waited from a half mile off from the runway with binoculars for someone to show. Sure enough there was a reward for the patience. Guys showed up in sedans and Victor blew up the hangar. He knew who had been trying to feed him back into the Program now. Now it was time to feed him into a printing press.<p>
Andrew “Thug” Thatcher was an old dog, a relic of the glory days of organized crime. He had been waning as an underworld power for years and his shrinking territory around the old printing press he owned only made it all the more obvious. So when he found out about Weapon X and Victor, he must have been promised something to recover that in return for pissing off the feral mutant. Whatever that was either wouldn’t be delivered until Creed was in a Weapon X cell again or it wasn’t anything that was going to slow him down. The first line of resistance were paper dolls. The second line were cardboard and held up as well as a cardboard box under a fat kid. By the time he was actually in the building, his claws were already dripping in red and his clothes were riddled with bullet holes. “Andy!” He roared. If he couldn't hear him through the walls the CCTV might catch him. “You shouldn’t have pissed me off, Andy!”


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<div style="width: 400px; text-align: center; font-family: old standard; text-transform: lowercase; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px;">tag: Elektra Natchios | words: 459 | notes:</div>

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<Center><a href="http://z10.invisionfree.com/A_THOUSAND_FIREFLIES/index.php?showuser=12224"><div style="width: 440px; margin-top: 5px; text-align: right; font-family: arial; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 6px; color: #111;">robb stark</div></a></center>

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May 11 2017, 12:53 AM
I'm not leaving. Well, I'm not planning to. Yall have probably noticed my activity slump lately, but there's a reason for that. Life is a bitch. I February my dad had a series of strokes and retired. We discovered we've basically been only paying off the interest on the house and not the prnciple. We're barely keeping our heads above water and so I'm actually looking for my first real job now and anticipating losing the house we've been in the last ten years and moving somewhere else. I don't know what is about to happen. Wish I did. But until further notice, this is my normal, I'll try to be active and post with everyone but I can't make promises and truth be told it is incredibly scary,

This affects T'Challa, Victor Creed, Hank McCoy aand Johnny Blaze.
Dec 8 2016, 03:24 PM
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Alive but just. Joint was an illegal gambling den down in Chinatown. Victor had gotten bored with the usual kinds of haunts and so had come this way looking for something more exciting. Going after the Winter Soldier had left something in his mind that was sticking like dried blood. Something about familiarity came up every time he thought about that metal arm. Smells, sensations, pain, they dragged themselves up from his memory like pieces of the background in a scene with no context. Wet, hot, fur, trees, scales. A fence? Roof? It wasn’t enough to piece together the events.<p>
A man fighting and screaming somewhere else in the dark took him out of the pit of his partial remembrance. Poor sod was losing a finger for cheating. Looked some street urchin. Too bad. Good thing they were in the states, whole hand would be hard to explain. Tons of ways in this city to lose a finger.<p>


Victor’s eyes returned to the table in front of him. In Between was the game. Simple and quick game. It was why Vic played it here. Two cards set down on the table. The objective was to guess if the next one was gonna fall between the other two, placing your bet based on how well you think it’s gonna happen. See? Quick and simple.<p>
The people here though, these crazy sons of bitches made the game better than any poker he’d played. These bastards bet body parts.<p>
To his credit, Victor hadn’t lost anything tonight. Most he had ever lost was a few years back. Playing some coked out Wall Street type who’d fallen in a hole and ended up here. The first card to come down was an Ace. After that the second was an eight. Eyes went between the cards, the deck. Those baby blues in the other man were almost black he had so much coke in him. Man woulda croaked right there if they’d waited long enough. Victor’s lips were twitchy, quick snarls flashing over his face as he waited for the next card. He had bet his ear on it being between the two. Other guy was betting the fingers on his right hand. All of them.<p>
That next card came up and it was a seven. Victor almost launched across the table at the dealer. Instead the guy behind the table grabbed his gun from his thigh and blasted the ear off.

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<div style="width: 400px; text-align: center; font-family: old standard; text-transform: lowercase; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px;">tag: open | words: 400+ | notes:</div>

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<Center><a href="http://z10.invisionfree.com/A_THOUSAND_FIREFLIES/index.php?showuser=12224"><div style="width: 440px; margin-top: 5px; text-align: right; font-family: arial; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 6px; color: #111;">robb stark</div></a></center>

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Oct 18 2016, 08:10 PM
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<div style="width: 400px; height: 250px; background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/veAvSAH.png/CxjMv69.png);"><div style="width: 420px; padding-top: 190px; padding-right: 30px;"><div class="lyrics">LIVING NIGHTMARE FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE</div></div></div>

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Victor Creed was a man with a bloody past. He’d fought in all the big wars since the turn of the century and some of the little ones no one knows about. He’d opened up men from all over, and he can tell you. Everybody looks the same when you slice him apple to berries. No difference between a black man, asian, white dude, brunette, ginger, albino. They’re all the same, meat. And they make a hell of a mess.<p>
For Victor it wasn’t anything special to kill a man. Not the way most folks looked at it. To him it wasn’t even the great game he played it out as. To him it's almost a need. Sick, twisted. Born down in his guts somewhere where the devil his daddy worried about lived. But Victor didn’t care. He embraced the perverse desire to kill. To murder. To turn on his fellow man like Cain did to his wee little brother Abel. It was just natural.<p>
He’d spent more than a regular man’s lifetime trying to figure out what was “wrong” with him. He guessed maybe it was the time he spent in the cellar. Chained, bound. Teeth pulled every day by his daddy. Maybe it was that. But Luthor had died before that nightmare stay under the house. Maybe Victor was just born wrong. Too late to do anything about it though. And he’d made peace with that and let go, let whatever humanity he had slip away and slide off like fat in a fire. In so doing, he’d made a lot of the things he’d down easier than they coulda ever been for someone with a conscience.<p>
<p>
<b>Summer, sometime before World War One</b><p>

Air’s always crisp up north. You get into them carpetbagger states and then Canada, the only thing that beats it is gonna be a nice fresh Blood Ploughman’s apple. Story to the name is a ploughman went and stole some apples from a castle. Got himself caught and shot. The wife of the gamekeeper who did the shootin’, she tossed the bloody bag on the compost heap and a tree grew outta what he stole. And that’s how ya get a Bloody Ploughman.<p>
Fruit will fill you belly, but Victor loved the air more. It was crisp and sharp, like his teeth, his claws. Exiting smooth warmth of any decent dwelling into the northern air was like walking along the edge of a blade. One wrong movie and you’ll cut yourself as the cold bites at your bones. Red on white is really easy to follow.<p>
And while the winter and the autumn would do you in, Summer air’s safer, but still crisp as an apple. Victor had been moving back towards the east after finishing his time on the railroad and making plenty of mess Authority types never liked cleanin up after him and so he was on his way through Saskatchewan, nearin the United States border, some little dump of a mining town, when he did done caught himself a scent and a sound that played like music to his ears: violence.<p>
Someone had started a brawl in a saloon and it sounded like the party was just getting started. He turned his attention to it, his head and his whole body quickly followed after it until he was pushing through hem swinging doors. It was beautiful in its own way. Lips curved into a grin and without taking any more time than to see who had the advantage(aint it more fun to beat the guy who’s got most the cards?) he leaped into the fray, grabbing one big surly looking bastard with a chair and throwing him across the room. Half a mind to shove the chair where the good lord split’em. But there were plenty others who he had to get himself a piece of first.<P>
Course smackdab in the middle of the whole mess was a little guy. Some runt who thought he was a grizzly bear. And boy did he fought like one. Or maybe one of them ferocious weasel things. Look like a little bear.

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<div style="width: 400px; text-align: center; font-family: old standard; text-transform: lowercase; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px;">tag: Logan | words: 699 | notes:</div>

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<Center><a href="http://z10.invisionfree.com/A_THOUSAND_FIREFLIES/index.php?showuser=12224"><div style="width: 440px; margin-top: 5px; text-align: right; font-family: arial; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 6px; color: #111;">robb stark</div></a></center>

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