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wise_assš Player Information
Name: Lindsay
Age: 31
Contact:![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
peregrina
Characters In-game: n/a
š Character Information
Name: Cuthbert Allgood
Canon: Stephen King's The Dark Tower
Canon Point: The Battle of Jericho Hill
Age: 23
Description: Bert is about average height, with a lean, coltish physique and a tanned complexion. He's animated, quick on the draw, and although you couldn't call him clumsy, there's something oddly comic about Bert's carriage, something that makes him seem as if he's only ever a moment away from slipping on a banana peel. His dark hair is almost to his shoulders and in need of a cut, though he usually wears it tied back from his face. Despite the sweltering heat, Bert continues to persevere in the clothes he's most comfortable in: jeans, a collared shirt and a vest, with a brow-mopping bandana in his back pocket. Sakes alive, but it's hot. You'd think he was in Hell or something.
Physical changes: Bert lost his left eye in battle, and Little Hades was kindly enough to supply him with a prosthetic. It works much the same as the old one did, though he suspects the bright red iris would've been a mite unsettling to the folks back home.
Also, he's not sure if he's imagining it, but it seems to Bert as if his canines are a little more... pronounced than they once were. He hasn't got fangs mind you; he's not some kind ofdemon monster. Just seems that he's been biting his tongue more often than usual. There are some might call that a welcome development.
Powers: Bert doesn't have any strictly supernatural* powers. In another lifetime, he was a gunslinger of Gilead, a hard-won title granted only to soldiers of exceptional speed, skill and cunning. Picture, like, a cowboy-ninja-knight. But these days, Bert doesn't want anything to do with his six-irons.
*However, it should be noted that his aptitude for-- and appreciation of-- puns, nonsense and wordplay has been known to reduce even mighty men to groans of agony.
History: HERE; though this Cuthbert is strictly book-canon.
Hell Status: Hell Veteran
What Brings Them To Hell: Cuthbert, while generally being a good-hearted, affectionate, and occasionally even heroic soul, has been killing folk since before he could grow a proper mustache (the fact that he still can't grow a proper mustache is neither here nor there, thankee-sai). It's all been in the name of supposedly good, supposedly noble ideals-- y'know, king and country; truth, justice, and the Gileadean way-- but at the end of the day, Bert was a soldier, programmed from adolescence to kill, and he did it despite compunctions for years. It's that last bit, he thinks, that really damned his soul.
The Pitch: "But I've gone my entire life without a... Cuthbert Allgood," you say, wrinkling your nose at the application. āWhy do I need one now? And a dead Cuthbert Allgood at that?ā
First of all, itās pronounced Key-youth-bert, not Kuth-bert. Second: Iām so glad you asked. A few of Bertās most popular features:
OLD TIMEY! Bert hails from a simpler age; an age that looks like King Arthur mythology car-crashed into an epic spaghetti Western. Yāknow, when women were women and men were men and boys born to nobility were raised to believe their greatest aspiration in life was to become keen-eyed killing machines. Heās got a sense of chivalry that should stick out like a sore thumb in a town like Little Hades, and some charming, old-fangled lingo that really must be heard to be believed. Speaking of...
ENTERTAINING! Wow! This kid never shuts up! Bert knows how to stretch a simple Iām doing fine, thanks into a soliloquy that will leave you wondering where the hell this kid is from and just what the fuck heās talking about. But donāt worry-- Bert wants to know about you, too, and where youāre from and whatās your poison and say, that reminds him of a joke.Ā¹ Heās fond of puns and sarcasm alike, and youāll find he has a passionate opinion to offer on nearly every subject. If you order now, Cuthbert comes complete with a standard pocket thesaurus and a Gilead-to-Normal Speak dictionary so you can keep up with every word of his antiquated hogwash!
FEISTY! Despite his occasionally asinine exterior, Bertās actually a whip-smart observer and surprisingly wry critic. Having spent a lifetime falling short of constant comparison to his best friend-- Roland Deschain: actual living legend-- has given Bert a kind of immunity against being underestimated and laughed at: he expects it, and wonāt hesitate to use the element of surprise (and that chip on his shoulder) against someone who pushes his berserk buttons. His gunslinger training produced a crack shot with a pistol or a slingshot (though he hasnāt used either since heās been in Little Hades) and although he prefers to talk his way out of problems, heās got the hand-to-hand skills to hold his own. Thatās cool, right? Your very own cowboy-ninja-knight ally!
LOYAL! You might think all this razzle-dazzle means that Cuthbertās just some flash in the pan, Johnny-come-latelyĀ². Not so. Underneath the smart mouth and fancy hairĀ³ is a very literal ride-or-die brother-in-arms who'd do just about anything for the people he loves. We're talking epic bromance potential here, people. Cuthbert wouldāve followed Roland to the ends of the earth if his dinh's quest had taken them there. Unfortunately, Bert didnāt make it that far.
DAMNED! ...yeah, about that. For all of Bertās considerable charms, it must be noted that he is very much dead as a doornail, and whatās more, heās been sentenced to burn in Hell for eternity for the countless men heās killed in the name of the Eld and Roland's quest (and also a few jokes that really pushed the boundaries of whatās decent).
But if you think about it, doesnāt that just sweeten the deal? Now heās an immortal cowboy-ninja-knight, which is obviously cooler. Plus, think of the emotional drama! The angst! He has crimes to answer for! He has sins to purge! Just look at that face! It was made for the kind of philosophical ennui that Death instills in tender souls like āBert Allgood! You know you want him, Hell. Come and get him.
Ā¹ Good taste definitely not guaranteed.
Ā² Bertās terminology.
Ā³ Pomade. Just a dab!
Setting Fit: The trick to staying sane post-death, Bertās discovered, is distraction. After a few harrowing, shell-shocked weeks in the Hive, he managed to pull himself together enough to apply for a Reaper position alongside his community service. After all, any time not clocked back at the old demonic dormitory is time well-spent, right?
Not that Bertās anti-social; far from it. In fact, heās been going out of his way to meet people, trying to find the least misanthrope-y of the misanthropes in his quest for a little post-mortem comfort. The Drag was one obvious option, but even if Bert couldāve afforded any of the enticing company there, it wasnāt really what he was looking for. Bert wanted conversation, some normal companionship in the face of all the chaos, and eventually he found it-- at a cramped little diner called The Bad Egg.
Turns out a part-time job as a fry cook/waiter/busboy was precisely what the doctor ordered. Itās a pretty cozy place as far as Hell goes, and even if flapjacks arenāt much without maple syrup, the food isnāt bad. Bertās cooking (previously tested only over campfires) leaves something to be desired, as a few grumpy old-timer customers wonāt hesitate to tell you, but heās perfectly suited to the fast-paced, wise-cracking atmosphere.
After a few months of running ragged between gigs, Bert finally saved up enough to put down a deposit on his own little studio apartment downtown. Most nights, he finds himself exhausted, too tired to think, and right now that's exactly how he likes it.
Ultimately, Iād like to see Bert make some close relationships, and eventually start to process his death. Heās hoping to find a way to stand out and distinguish himself at Brimstone, enough that heāll be assigned to more reaper gigs, which he really enjoys; something about the catharsis of helping someone else come to terms with their death, and the exciting allure of other worlds.
Samples:
The really remarkable thing about Hell, Bert thought, sweat beading at his brow as he squeezed out from the space between his bed and his wall for the third time that week, was that it was so deceptive. He hadnāt really thought much about the afterlife when heād been alive, truth be told, but the stories he remembered from his childhood about Old Man Splitfootās domain were fairly straightforward yarns: endless suffering, burning for eternity in a chasm of flame, that sort of thing. It sounded terrible, sure, but somewhere along the line, somebody mustāve figured out that you can get used to anything. Real hell, Bert thought, grabbing the rope at the foot of his bed frame and plying it into a sturdy stopper knot, wouldnāt be just one godawful calamity. Itād be a whole pack of them, cleverly hidden in the nooks and crannies of what looked, at the outset, to be a fairly ordinary life. Real hell was a cunningly orchestrated series of outrageously bad coincidences and indignities and paper cuts.
And here-- in this very specific case-- real hell was moving out of the Hive and into his very own apartment building, where people still screeched and fought and fucked like rabid weasels caught in a drainpipe, but the walls were thicker, and they had the decency not to get louder when Bert thumped the ceiling with a broomhandle. It was discovering that his bed-- a foldaway type that disappeared miraculously into the wall when Bert wasnāt sleeping and needed a bit of elbow room in his flat-- wanted to foldaway and disappear miraculously into the wall while he was sleeping as well. In the absurdly small hour of three in the damn morning, no less.
He stood up and considered his handiwork-- two lengths of tightly knotted rope anchoring the bed to the rusted wrought-iron radiator. It looked stupid beyond belief, and he was sure he was going to go ass over teakettle if he tried to navigate the place in the dark, but itād work, right?
Cortās voice surfaced in Bertās mind without warning: an optimist and a fool are the same damn thing, maggot.
āAnd who asked you,ā he muttered gloomily-- but perhaps it was time to consider trying his luck in the lumpy recliner instead.
Name: Lindsay
Age: 31
Contact:
Characters In-game: n/a
š Character Information
Name: Cuthbert Allgood
Canon: Stephen King's The Dark Tower
Canon Point: The Battle of Jericho Hill
Age: 23
Description: Bert is about average height, with a lean, coltish physique and a tanned complexion. He's animated, quick on the draw, and although you couldn't call him clumsy, there's something oddly comic about Bert's carriage, something that makes him seem as if he's only ever a moment away from slipping on a banana peel. His dark hair is almost to his shoulders and in need of a cut, though he usually wears it tied back from his face. Despite the sweltering heat, Bert continues to persevere in the clothes he's most comfortable in: jeans, a collared shirt and a vest, with a brow-mopping bandana in his back pocket. Sakes alive, but it's hot. You'd think he was in Hell or something.
Physical changes: Bert lost his left eye in battle, and Little Hades was kindly enough to supply him with a prosthetic. It works much the same as the old one did, though he suspects the bright red iris would've been a mite unsettling to the folks back home.
Also, he's not sure if he's imagining it, but it seems to Bert as if his canines are a little more... pronounced than they once were. He hasn't got fangs mind you; he's not some kind of
Powers: Bert doesn't have any strictly supernatural* powers. In another lifetime, he was a gunslinger of Gilead, a hard-won title granted only to soldiers of exceptional speed, skill and cunning. Picture, like, a cowboy-ninja-knight. But these days, Bert doesn't want anything to do with his six-irons.
*However, it should be noted that his aptitude for-- and appreciation of-- puns, nonsense and wordplay has been known to reduce even mighty men to groans of agony.
History: HERE; though this Cuthbert is strictly book-canon.
Hell Status: Hell Veteran
What Brings Them To Hell: Cuthbert, while generally being a good-hearted, affectionate, and occasionally even heroic soul, has been killing folk since before he could grow a proper mustache (the fact that he still can't grow a proper mustache is neither here nor there, thankee-sai). It's all been in the name of supposedly good, supposedly noble ideals-- y'know, king and country; truth, justice, and the Gileadean way-- but at the end of the day, Bert was a soldier, programmed from adolescence to kill, and he did it despite compunctions for years. It's that last bit, he thinks, that really damned his soul.
The Pitch: "But I've gone my entire life without a... Cuthbert Allgood," you say, wrinkling your nose at the application. āWhy do I need one now? And a dead Cuthbert Allgood at that?ā
First of all, itās pronounced Key-youth-bert, not Kuth-bert. Second: Iām so glad you asked. A few of Bertās most popular features:
OLD TIMEY! Bert hails from a simpler age; an age that looks like King Arthur mythology car-crashed into an epic spaghetti Western. Yāknow, when women were women and men were men and boys born to nobility were raised to believe their greatest aspiration in life was to become keen-eyed killing machines. Heās got a sense of chivalry that should stick out like a sore thumb in a town like Little Hades, and some charming, old-fangled lingo that really must be heard to be believed. Speaking of...
ENTERTAINING! Wow! This kid never shuts up! Bert knows how to stretch a simple Iām doing fine, thanks into a soliloquy that will leave you wondering where the hell this kid is from and just what the fuck heās talking about. But donāt worry-- Bert wants to know about you, too, and where youāre from and whatās your poison and say, that reminds him of a joke.Ā¹ Heās fond of puns and sarcasm alike, and youāll find he has a passionate opinion to offer on nearly every subject. If you order now, Cuthbert comes complete with a standard pocket thesaurus and a Gilead-to-Normal Speak dictionary so you can keep up with every word of his antiquated hogwash!
FEISTY! Despite his occasionally asinine exterior, Bertās actually a whip-smart observer and surprisingly wry critic. Having spent a lifetime falling short of constant comparison to his best friend-- Roland Deschain: actual living legend-- has given Bert a kind of immunity against being underestimated and laughed at: he expects it, and wonāt hesitate to use the element of surprise (and that chip on his shoulder) against someone who pushes his berserk buttons. His gunslinger training produced a crack shot with a pistol or a slingshot (though he hasnāt used either since heās been in Little Hades) and although he prefers to talk his way out of problems, heās got the hand-to-hand skills to hold his own. Thatās cool, right? Your very own cowboy-ninja-knight ally!
LOYAL! You might think all this razzle-dazzle means that Cuthbertās just some flash in the pan, Johnny-come-latelyĀ². Not so. Underneath the smart mouth and fancy hairĀ³ is a very literal ride-or-die brother-in-arms who'd do just about anything for the people he loves. We're talking epic bromance potential here, people. Cuthbert wouldāve followed Roland to the ends of the earth if his dinh's quest had taken them there. Unfortunately, Bert didnāt make it that far.
DAMNED! ...yeah, about that. For all of Bertās considerable charms, it must be noted that he is very much dead as a doornail, and whatās more, heās been sentenced to burn in Hell for eternity for the countless men heās killed in the name of the Eld and Roland's quest (and also a few jokes that really pushed the boundaries of whatās decent).
But if you think about it, doesnāt that just sweeten the deal? Now heās an immortal cowboy-ninja-knight, which is obviously cooler. Plus, think of the emotional drama! The angst! He has crimes to answer for! He has sins to purge! Just look at that face! It was made for the kind of philosophical ennui that Death instills in tender souls like āBert Allgood! You know you want him, Hell. Come and get him.
Ā¹ Good taste definitely not guaranteed.
Ā² Bertās terminology.
Ā³ Pomade. Just a dab!
Setting Fit: The trick to staying sane post-death, Bertās discovered, is distraction. After a few harrowing, shell-shocked weeks in the Hive, he managed to pull himself together enough to apply for a Reaper position alongside his community service. After all, any time not clocked back at the old demonic dormitory is time well-spent, right?
Not that Bertās anti-social; far from it. In fact, heās been going out of his way to meet people, trying to find the least misanthrope-y of the misanthropes in his quest for a little post-mortem comfort. The Drag was one obvious option, but even if Bert couldāve afforded any of the enticing company there, it wasnāt really what he was looking for. Bert wanted conversation, some normal companionship in the face of all the chaos, and eventually he found it-- at a cramped little diner called The Bad Egg.
Turns out a part-time job as a fry cook/waiter/busboy was precisely what the doctor ordered. Itās a pretty cozy place as far as Hell goes, and even if flapjacks arenāt much without maple syrup, the food isnāt bad. Bertās cooking (previously tested only over campfires) leaves something to be desired, as a few grumpy old-timer customers wonāt hesitate to tell you, but heās perfectly suited to the fast-paced, wise-cracking atmosphere.
After a few months of running ragged between gigs, Bert finally saved up enough to put down a deposit on his own little studio apartment downtown. Most nights, he finds himself exhausted, too tired to think, and right now that's exactly how he likes it.
Ultimately, Iād like to see Bert make some close relationships, and eventually start to process his death. Heās hoping to find a way to stand out and distinguish himself at Brimstone, enough that heāll be assigned to more reaper gigs, which he really enjoys; something about the catharsis of helping someone else come to terms with their death, and the exciting allure of other worlds.
Samples:
The really remarkable thing about Hell, Bert thought, sweat beading at his brow as he squeezed out from the space between his bed and his wall for the third time that week, was that it was so deceptive. He hadnāt really thought much about the afterlife when heād been alive, truth be told, but the stories he remembered from his childhood about Old Man Splitfootās domain were fairly straightforward yarns: endless suffering, burning for eternity in a chasm of flame, that sort of thing. It sounded terrible, sure, but somewhere along the line, somebody mustāve figured out that you can get used to anything. Real hell, Bert thought, grabbing the rope at the foot of his bed frame and plying it into a sturdy stopper knot, wouldnāt be just one godawful calamity. Itād be a whole pack of them, cleverly hidden in the nooks and crannies of what looked, at the outset, to be a fairly ordinary life. Real hell was a cunningly orchestrated series of outrageously bad coincidences and indignities and paper cuts.
And here-- in this very specific case-- real hell was moving out of the Hive and into his very own apartment building, where people still screeched and fought and fucked like rabid weasels caught in a drainpipe, but the walls were thicker, and they had the decency not to get louder when Bert thumped the ceiling with a broomhandle. It was discovering that his bed-- a foldaway type that disappeared miraculously into the wall when Bert wasnāt sleeping and needed a bit of elbow room in his flat-- wanted to foldaway and disappear miraculously into the wall while he was sleeping as well. In the absurdly small hour of three in the damn morning, no less.
He stood up and considered his handiwork-- two lengths of tightly knotted rope anchoring the bed to the rusted wrought-iron radiator. It looked stupid beyond belief, and he was sure he was going to go ass over teakettle if he tried to navigate the place in the dark, but itād work, right?
Cortās voice surfaced in Bertās mind without warning: an optimist and a fool are the same damn thing, maggot.
āAnd who asked you,ā he muttered gloomily-- but perhaps it was time to consider trying his luck in the lumpy recliner instead.
