The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Welldrinker Cult
A shadowy group is gaining power, drawing in people who are curious, vulnerable, or malicious, and turning them into Mystics. They are recruiting people into their ranks to spread the influence of magic in the world, but for what end goal?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
Heaven. Absolute heaven. There was no denying this simple truth.
Crow was warm.
Crow was full.
Crow was clean.
In no particular order, but ALL TOGETHER. He wasn't clean but frozen, he wasn't not-hungry but filthy, he wasn't warm but starving. He was clean AND full AND warm. Or, rather, he was clean and full and not-cold; he was exploring for the moment, so he wasn't entirely warm yet.
Or... maybe he was going to be!
He had found a fairly large, seemingly empty room, see. There were couches and comfortable things like that, but what caught his attention was a fireplace.
A large, well-lit fireplace.
A very well-lit fireplace.
He shattered without a moment's hesitation, scrambling out of his freshly washed coveralls (which had been less held together by dirt than he had thought!) and stepping freely on his own bruises in an entirely self-serving attempt to get to the fireplace first. After a few moments of squirming and squawking, his clothing settled to the floor, shrouding a forgotten lump of long-dead birdflesh, and the murder piled in front of the flames. Such warmth! It was wonderful!
Wood smoke was one of man's earliest memories. Across nations and continents, it was a smell that could be recognized on the faintest of breezes. It was safety and warmth. It was power: a fox could kill a rabbit; a lion could kill a gazelle; a man could burn down a forest, with every living creature inside. Wood smoke made animals run before it; it drew men closer, for it signaled to them that their own kind was near.
The old god dreamed in wood smoke. Pictures that may have been memories or prophecies wisped and curled in his mind. Outside the world might be frozen and cold, but fire he could always give his people. Faces came and went. A young woman with a scar on her lip; an old man who may have been his grandfather, or his grandson. They each had meaning, but none had substance; like wood smoke, they left only a scent in the air that spoke of something more.
When the phoenix opened his eyes, the world had long thawed. The walls around him were of brick, not stone, and they were so very much closer. There was no room for people to sit around him, except on one side. These things change with time: but the fire still hugged itself to his body, the wood smoke still hung on the air, and his people still came to him.
...These people had more beaks then the ones in his dreams. But the phoenix was not one to discriminate against feathers, so long as there was intelligence in their eyes.
The red and gold of the fireplace flames rose. It flexed its wings and settled them again; it arched its neck in stately fashion, and looked out at its parishioner with welcoming golden eyes as it roosted on the blacked logs.
Living without shelter for several months taunt a murder a thing or two. One of these things was to always keep a sentry posted.
Sentry noticed the fire was moving. Sentry did not quite process this as a threat for a while, having simply drawn the figurative short stick by not calling shotty-not fast enough and being far too easily entrances by the dancing flames. Oooh pretty warm fire.
... Fire had wings. Sentry squawked in surprise and pecked his fellows awake until the entire murder was staring at the mysterious burning bird. Wasn't he a little toasty, sitting in the flames like that? No, there was clearly an association with fire. The set up must be intentional. Such intent and such a polite greeting clearly deserved a polite response, did it not?
"Caw!" Oh, be quiet. Only one of them had to talk at a time. There was a brief struggle as the second-caw-er was reprimanded and shoved to the back of the flock to watch the entrance in the cold.
The crow people were startled; it was an unfortunate inevitability, and the bird god did his best to make amends for it by holding his regal pose as they discussed him. Not in so many words, of course; with jostling and hops and quick tilts of heads. They were all quite fine birds; large and black, each of them about half his own size.
They elected their leader, and his greetings were returned: "Caw!"
"Coo," he acknowledged with a graceful dip of his head. Though he could not help following with his eyes the poor exiled member of their group, who had apparently spoken out of turn. That crow was jostled to the back of the group, then to the room's entrance; he strode past a pile of clothes that spoke of at least one member of the group having quite a different form earlier this evening. And tangled in those clothes...
"Coo!" The fire god voiced his alarm, as he spied a crow who lacked the glossy sheen of its comrades. Distinctly lacked, as well, a vertical status. Or perceptible breathing.
The red and gold bird strode from the flames, trailing sparks in his feathers; he approached the fallen member of their group with regal solemnity and bowed his head to rest it on the still bird's chest.
A moment later, he raised it again.
"Coo?" He asked of their leader, extinguishing his flames with the respect due to the dead.
"Caw?" Crow was confused by the fire-notcrow-notmagpie's sudden alarm. He hopped around uneasily, a few of his more nervous birds fluttering into the air to perch on various pieces of furniture, and the rest were quick to follow and so clear a path for the walking fireball.
Oh, the left-rib corpse. The fire guy had noticed that, did he?
Oh sh*t the heat was going with him. Crow flicked his various wings and did his best to follow the brighter avian without crowding him.
Nooooo not the flames! The mournful murmuring the murder muttered was entirely for the loss of the fire, but if the colourful warm one cared to interpret it differently, so be it. The request itself, however, deserved a proper answer. The nearest crow was nudged forward to shrug his wings. "Caw." The loss wasn't new, but carrying around the reminder was a heck of a lot more comfortable than trying to walk around without him. He should probably get around to trying to replicate the success he'd had with his shoulder at some point...
Bird wings rustled in a soft sigh, like a wind through the last leaves of Autumn. The murder murmured over their fallen friend. They ringed both him and the god, holding a respectful distance from both. Clearly these were a people who understood the sanctity of life's passing.
After a moment of proper silence, the bird god turned his attentions back to the living: on thin stately legs he walked to the one who cawed in the name of all, and settled himself down besides it for proper palaver.
Even without his flames, the larger bird's mere presence was still like sitting next to a space heater, or roosting on the rocks at a sauna.
The outermost birds shuffled and pushed until the heat was slightly more fairly shared. The degree of fairness may have been dependent on just how good a threat or blackmail offer an individual bird was able to offer to the rest, a process greatly aided and quieted by their mental integration.
There was a definite consensus among the murder, however: this colourful bird ought to become an honorary member of the flock. That was possible, wasn't it? It seemed completely out of the question and impossible for the stranger to become self and actually be part of the flock, but honorary membership ought to work. He could do that. A nod to himself rippled through the crowded birds. "Caw."
