Liche-King Johns
He is a mobile construction crane, his thin, skeletal form, long limbs, and still longer fingers illiciting something strangely xenophobic. He does not move so much as guide others about him, their placement precise, calculated, a chessmaster's play, as he skirts a ganger here, glides close to the pusher there, while gingerly stuffing chyen into the dirty rentacop's fist in passing. His dead-pool eyes glide icelike over everything he sees, and try as others might, he sees everything. He is superannuated, so ancient as to seem out of place among the quick and dying of the Mix, and yet he moves through it as though he's made long, sleepless rounds down the grim, dark streets and puddles of acid-washed trash time and again, ad infinitum.
Johns' eyes are gun-metal orbs--cold, distant, and frozen as far-off Titan. Wrinkles radiate from them like corona around a halogen arc light. His ash-gray hair has gone a brittle shade of arctic white. He's let it grow out since his first days in the city, the utilitarian buzz lengthened to something less spartan. His face is covered in blood, bright ice-blue eyes staring out of a mess. His arctic white hair is matted and streaked red with zombie bile. Johns is wearing a necklace of human fingers and toes, some still moving and writhing. As a central pendant, a pair of cyber eyes gaze blindly at the world. Johns has loaded himself with a shitload of weapons--knives, several pistols, a shotgun, all strapped to him with odd duct tape holsters. He carries a pouch at his side just jangling with ammo. �He also has a few blunt instruments hanging from his waist. The man's flesh is dowsed in blood and gore, strange symbols for the loa, particularly Samedi, etched into the grime of several days of zombie hunting. If read correctly, they are voodoo scryes and sigels of protection. For a man of his lineage and line of work, Johns has kept himself relatively fit. A life in orbit initially left him thin and untoned, but time, exercise, and medication has allowed him to become lean, muscular, and catlike. A string of skinned zombie heads dangle from a leather strap at John's waist, muttering and groaning wordlessly, their ability to speak muted when they were separated from their bodies. �Their hair acts as a strange sort of Hawaiian hula skirt.
You are holding an Ironwood D-Barrel shotgun in both hands.
You are suffering from a couple of vicious gashes, an ugly bruise and are in slight pain, are physically well rested and recovering moderately.
You have a shitload of chyen on you.
Night RampageMOO! See you next year!
