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 Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
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.
>> "Um, I don't really know what you just said, but from what I can make out, I don't think anyone I know would of ever think this place as ugly."
Slate blinked over the young woman as she... giggled. An 'um'-ing statement followed by a giggle. Somehow, this new data did not help to dissuade his current idea that the intellect of women fell short of the intellect of men on the average. Then again, he did tend to speak in a rather confusing manner. It probably came from only having himself to talk to, most of the time. Literally. Calley was currently quiet in the back of their mind; he'd been persuaded to stay there with ample promises of not having to actually listen to any of this 'classical music'. Though it was an understatement to say he'd been unhappy to find that Slate was taking their body on a date. Their body already had a girlfriend. Her name was Isabel Duskmoor, and she stabbed people for a hobby. ...Fortunately, she didn't seem like the type to come to the orchestra.
Leila's attention span did not seem geared towards architecture. She only glanced at it while she responded; then her eyes were back on the ocean. From the way she stared at it, one would almost expect her to be capitalizing it in her head; not the ocean, but the Ocean.
>> "And this, the Ocean, it's the beginning of Winter, yet the Ocean looks appealing right now."
Slate stared out over the cliff, likewise contemplating the scene with a small creasing between his eyebrows. Below them, the gray waves of the Atlantic broke and rolled onto a white sand beach. The wind off of it was cold, and tousled. It was not unpleasant. His blue eyes showed his slight confusion as he looked back at the blonde standing at his side. "Yes," he agreed; "it does. ...Should it not?" Did Winter somehow detract from it? What was its proper season, then?
Apparently, both his offering of his arm and his opening of the door were appropriate for the situation: she smiled at each action. It brought a brief flash of focus to eyes that seemed somehow distracted. Slate stood awkwardly in the Club House's spacious entry hall, a beautiful young lady on his arm, yet feeling somehow alone. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Her mind and her body seemed to be curiously distinct entities. While the latter was non-offensive to look at, it was the former he was interested in. Unfortunately, that part of her seemed to be continuously drifting elsewhere.
>> "So, when does this start?"
Ah. It was back, for the moment. He straightened like a soldier at attention: while her mind was with him, he had best seek to engage it. His strategy was two-fold. First: answer her question in a prompt and timely manner. A quick glance at the large, modern clock hanging along one wall revealed the answer. "We have approximately sixteen minutes." And twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seven--
Second: draw in her interest, like a fish to a lure. His readings had turned up an urban lore-esk rumor that subsequent observations had seemed to confirm: people liked to talk about themselves. With this in mind, he launched into his own question. "What made you chose Marine Biology for your major?"
There was a slight dampness in his palms. ...Why was he sweating?
Character's full name: Caleb Swartz Nickname: Slate Gender: Male Age: Looks 28. Birthday: September 4, 2007 Nationality/ Ethnicity: American, with Italian, Hungarian, Irish, and German ancestry. Birthplace/ Home/ Place of origin: Calley's mind and/or apartment building, in New York, New York.
Appearance
(Human Form / Wolfhound Form)
Hair color and style: Dark brown and short. / Gray and wiry. Eyes: Baby blue. / Baby blue. Height: 5'8" / 3' at the shoulder Build: Scrawny. Slate is a fairly nondescript man / At the larger end of the breed standard, though not by much. Scars/ Tattoos/ Piercings: None, none, none.
Everyday clothing style: Slate's clothes are actually a permanent sticking illusion created by his girlfriend Katrina, and affixed to a silver chain he wears. Therefore, even though Slate appears to wear a pair of khaki dress pants and a light blue dress shirt (as well as his usual scarf) in human form, he is technically... only wearing a necklace. Fortunately, only Katrina, Hunter, and the rest of Calley's splinters can readily perceive this. The illusion looks, feels, tastes, smells, sounds, and moves like real clothing. Uniform: Slate finds the concept of uniforms curious but unappealing. Sleepwear: Wolfhound form.
Character
Personality: Slate is the most functional of Calley's splinters. He still has troubles with complex multi-tasking, and with redirecting his focus once something catches his attention. His attitude is always upbeat or neutral, but never downcast. It is a beautiful day to own one's own life, after all. Hobbies/ Interests: Studying, particularly Mathematics and Zen meditation. Job or part time job and description: Teacher at the Pax Academy. Fears/ phobias/ concerns: Disorder disturbs him. Special talents: Focusing. Maintaining a level head.
Morality
Good/ bad/ neutral/ other: Slate wishes there to be order in the world, and is opposed to violence, particularly the sort that leads to undue chaos; this generally puts him on the side of "good".
[Power Growth: Future Plot Only]Human shifting/Wolfhound shifting: Slate can shift between a human form and that of an Irish Wolfhound.
Weaknesses:
Healing/Breaking weaknesses are the same as present.
[Weakness Addition: Future Plot Only]
[/i] Human shifting/Wolfhound shifting Cons: Slate is mute in human form, since Calley wanted their vocal chords for himself. Additionally, Slate's human form persistently drains his energy in small amounts when he uses it; to counter this, he needs to either spend a large amount of time in wolfhound form or eat incredible amounts of food.[/li][/ul]
Same as present, but much more practiced and refined.
Weaknesses:
Same as present.
Fighting Style
Explanation: None of which to speak. Pros for fighting style: Heh. Cons for fighting style: Many.
Faction Allegiance The fourth faction.
History Of Your Character After his official split from Calley in 2009, Slate... spent several years growing up. The world was a new and wonderful place, after all, even if he did occasionally forget not to walk into walls.
When Haywire broke out, merely a month after his split, Slate's new and exciting world collided with reality. His developing powers as a healer of others, so recently discovered, proved futile against the virus' effects. Nonetheless, a healer he was, and so healing he attempted: he joined the efforts to help the sick, even if he couldn't do anything more than a normal human.
As the Haywire Epidemic ebbed, Slate was left deeply confused by the Order's actions. Why had they released the virus? The epidemic had been messy, wasteful, and unproductive. There was no value to it that outweighed those three failings. Often, he discussed with Katrina--who had been his friend since before he remembered, in a very literal sense--how a more peaceful, non-violent and all-around more well ordered world could be created. These thoughts were hard, and puzzling, and curious: he liked them very much. He also liked Zen meditation, which he began to study seriously under Toshiyuki-Sensei, a traveling Japanese Master who seemed to know him somehow, but never really spoke of it. During this time Katrina asked him out on their first date, and Slate discovered that the experience of having a girlfriend was enjoyable. The experience of sharing a small home with said girlfriend is, he is discovering, even more enjoyable.
Slate has gone to college and obtained a degree in Mathematics, with a focus upon Chaos Theory and Differential Equations, whose disturbing lack of orderly results produced from the self-same equations still occasionally cause him to growl and kick his legs in his sleep. Under Katrina's suggestion, and having no real protest on his own end, he pursued alternative teaching certification and became employed at the Pax Academy, where the conversation in the teacher's longue is delightfully quite hard to keep up with, intellectually speaking, and the viewpoints represented are varied but convergent upon one thing: the use of peaceful means. Relatively speaking. 2018 marks his first full year of teaching, after student teaching at the Pax Academy during the spring of 2017. His subjects are Mathematics and the Sciences. He has been teaching Zen meditation and Resistance to Telepathy at the Pax Community Center for two years.[/color]
Welcome to MRO! Come to think of it, I am surprised we didn't have a weather manipulator... this'll be cool.
As for that lovely link Silver Streak mentioned, if you paste this code into your signature, it should do the trick: [url=http://theultimatexmen.proboards26.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=charactersprofile&thread=3251&page=1] Anne[/url]
I can't say I'd be too thrilled with the idea of gods, demons, or zombies popping up in our humble X-Men RP...
The zombies thing is also something we've already been planning on doing in the "Power in the Wrong Hands" plot, though with an explanation based on the X-gene.
Ze next chapter of my novel, it has begun. This is very good news for my novel, and very bad news for that mound of posts that I've been ignoring while my brain did its usual pre-writing fidgets.
I've also got an X-Mas party tonight which'll no doubt go to late hours, and next Thursday, I'm flying back to the States for two weeks. I'll have internet, but I'll also have friends and family I haven't seen in four months. So. Yeah. The posting probably won't be too swift then.
I'll endeavor to get a post up on the Birthday brawl ASAP, and write myself out of that before I catch my plane so that the rest of you can continue your joyful smashing whilst I'm away.
Any thread I'm in with just one other person, it would be lovely if we could put those on hold for a bit. The pie contest, as well.
Thank you for your patience, everyone! *hugs and cookies all around*
This affects Calley, Slate, Rupert, and Historian.
>> "That is where you are mistaken. Our bond is deeper than that of blood. Our fraternity is ingrained into our very genetic structure. We are different from the humans. We are to them as they are to whatever crawled out of a cave thousands of years ago."
Slate tilted his head the slightest bit to the right. That was all the response that tirade would get. He had heard it before, in the Kabal, in the Order, from the lips of a wolf girl at the Mansion. Different words, but always the same. He disagreed, but it was on a more fundamental level than the teenager's words addressed. Such a tangent would be silliness, and Slate did not go in for such.
>> "I was nurtured and bred for my position as Inquisitor at the Medical building in the Registration Camp. It was my duty to make my brothers and sisters tell all sorts of tales at the request of my masters at the time. Humans. Garrett is too much of a wilting flower to stand that kind of questioning for long, so I stepped in when he could no longer stomach it. He was doing well to put me to sleep, but once that elixir of life touched his veins, my strength became tenfold to what it was. I decided that I was not ready to leave. I have agendas of my own and I think it would be best for both of us if I stayed around."
Slate was quiet for a moment after that. His breath steamed lightly upwards; once, twice, three times. "Garret," came his carefully measured replied, "please stop this mockery. You have created a puppet to do the deeds you yourself find too disgraceful. You have even had this puppet take your own codename as an X-Men. You know that this is what you have done; your words say as much, even if you still fight the conscious realization of it. I have no desire to speak to the marionette of your disgrace."
Slate remembered the first days of his life. They were not confusing--he did not know what confusion was yet, then. They had simply been... quiet. When he gained control, he was content to spend hours looking out a window, or sitting in Central Park with his eyes closed, and only the sounds and smells and tactile sensations coming in. Perhaps this 'Seizure' was indeed a true split personality--but if he was, then there was something Slate had learned after those days had turned into months and those months into a year: not everything needs to live. If it was a true split personality, then this was his favor to it; as brothers, as the thing would likely say.
What he saw before him, though, was a man running from the actions his own hands had voluntarily committed, rather than accepting them for what they were. It sickened him.
"If you did not wish to hurt those people at the Camps," he stated, with the finality of a judge, "then you should not have done so. If you did wish to hurt them, then you should accept the fact. Outside of shame there lies responsibility, Garret."
He continued to use the teenager's name: Garret. Garret, Garret, Garret. This was his favor to either the one of them or the both of them, whichever it truly was. Perhaps if someone had been equally ruthless with Caleb Swartz, the Italian teen would still only have one nickname.
Slate followed her gaze to the building and its location, and gave an agreeable nod. "Yes," he said, because he judged that slightly obvious question to be more of a dialogue promoter than an inquiry; "I think so." Slate shut the door gently behind her as she got out, his gaze still on the building. "Are there people who would not find it beautiful, in your experience? Does beauty have an externalized truth, or does the judgment of beauty have internal origins?" It was a curious question. Perhaps a bit more philosophical than her own simple prompt had been aimed for, however. Slate's face gained a slightly reddish flush.
He offered out his arm to her as they walked towards the Club House's double doors. An old-fashioned gesture, he knew, but he had been told that women liked 'chivalry'. He had been told a lot of things by the wiry, nervous boys in his Calculus class, when they had sniffed out the news that he had a date. Though it had been quite disruptive to his notes on indefinite integrals, he had made sure to listen to what they had to say. Therefore, Slate offered his arm; he wore a suit; and you had better believe that when they reached the doors, he held them open for her.
((ooc: Continued from Meet Leila. Tell me if there's anything I need to mod. )
December 17, 1770: the day upon which Ludwig van Beethoven was baptized, at a small church in Bonn, Germany. In honor of that historic event in the history of music, the Club House Orchestra was putting on a month of shows in the renowned composer's honor. Tonight's performance would be no exception. The tickets had not been trivial to either come by or to purchase--particularly at such a late date--but the orchestra is what Slate had blurted out, and so the orchestra it would be.
The building itself was worth whatever symphonic pain his eardrums were about to be subjected to. It was stunning: built only two years ago, the Orchestra's private donors had allowed for some of the best architectural minds to be hired. The Orchestra had already been in possession of a breath-taking piece of real estate; now it had the building to match. Three wide levels on the outside turned into five playfully arranged, mildly labyrinthine floors on the inside; the building was famous for having several staircases that lead to nothing but a remarkable view of the lower level, and several doors that opened only to wide windows. There was a certain sense of humor and adventure behind the design that could not be missed; nor could these qualities overshadow the classy, tasteful arrangements of color and composition that were the true pinnacle of the building's virtues. A few museum-quality antique chandeliers rather helped; one rather felt that they had walked into the world of the Phantom of the Orchestra, and that anything was possible.
It was built atop a solid cliff, overlooking the gray ocean. A steep staircase carved into the stone itself many years ago and recently updated with a steel railing allowed patrons pre- and post-show access to an undeveloped beach. The best shows at the Club House, it was said, were those in mid-winter: when storms roared out over the Atlantic, crashing and buckling against the windows of the orchestral hall. Tonight, however, was quite fair.
Slate parked the car into a spot near the cliff, and circled around its front to open the door for the blonde woman in the passenger seat. He was dressed stiffly in a steel-colored dress shirt, tucked into his black pants; a navy blue tie stood out against the rest of his grayscale composition, and a black suit coat completed the set. His dark brown hair tingled with the foreign sensation of having been combed, though the curls had promptly come back with exactly the same tousled appearance as ever. The car itself was a black Nissan of some relatively new model or another. He had borrowed it from the Mondragon Labs vehicle bay; if the woman had asked, he would have told her it was borrowed from a friend.
"Shall we?" He asked simply, as he opened her door. If he had beaten her to opening it, that is.
)