CHARACTER RECLAIMS

[powersthatbe]

From now until endgame, Synodiporia is closed to new applications. However, players who dropped or idled characters but who do not have a behavioral strike against them may reclaim characters at any time. Dungeons and app windows are no longer necessary. Simply comment below with "I'd like to bring [character (username)] back!" And we'll take it from there. Players already at 3 characters who wish to bring back a 4th or 5th may do so so long as they're current on AC. Players wishing to bring in characters above 5 may request special mod permission. If you are uncertain if you qualify to reclaim, please email us at synodiporians@gmail.com and ask!

Comments

part 2

[fathomsbeloww]

ABILITIES: He's got gills, so he can breathe underwater, but his tissue is adapted for saltwater. He can breathe freshwater but if he stays in it too long, it will kill him. He's cold-blooded, has webbed toes, and is built to comfortably withstand a wide range of temperatures and the intense pressures of the deep sea without trouble. He's got an incredibly strong constitution, can eat anything from poisonous blowfish to septic fluid to actual jet fuel without a problem, although he's hideously lactose intolerant, and milk is the only thing that makes him sick. He can keep going on fumes even after taking a lot of damage and recover from almost anything faster than a human if he gets a chance to rest. He has decent night vision, but he's nearsighted, as well as bioelectric sensitivity in his fins that lets him sense nearby people and other sources of electricity. His horns are more like insent antennae then ungulate horns, and they're sensory organs as well, picking up pressure, air currents, and the shape of spaces. Both his fins and horns are overwhelmingly sensitive if touched or damaged, as are his gills. (Going after his fins in a fight is not unlike a human going after the eyes. Sadly it happens to him a lot.)

He's also considerably stronger than a human of his size. Feferi can just about benchpress a whale, and while he's not in her league, he could probably carry a car if he got a good grip on it. He's fast, agile, and has been getting in and out of serious fights for his life for years. He's used to carrying only a small clam knife, but he's also a good shot with a rifle. He's excellent at sewing thanks to years of mending and adjusting his own clothes, a pretty good carpenter, welder, electronic repairman/troubleshooter, and general handyman due to fixing up their shipwreck of a hive, a good sailor and a decent cook.

Lastly, as a favorite of the God of Light and Rain, if he kills someone by slicing open their abdomen and pulling their guts out, and he really needs it and the stars are right, they'll turn into a revenant: a mindless, fast-moving flesh-hungry zombie oozing corrosive black smoke and killing everyone they can reach until they are literally hacked to pieces.

INVENTORY; One titanium and topaz spade ring, one nickle and abalone diamond ring, assorted other cheap rings, one golden bee pin, one small clam-shucking dagger, two easily concealed switchblades, and one shank made out of a spoon. A well-used pocket sewing kit with two spare buttons. A palmhusk - basically a cheap, sturdy smartphone with some biotechnobabble fibrous elements that he mostly uses for texting.

ANYTHING ELSE WE SHOULD KNOW? Hemostuck trolls are Ken dolls instead of tentadick horrors, this is ficverse canon, I'm sure you are delighted to know it.

S A M P L E S;
FIRST PERSON:

[The taste of his mindvoice is a little bit alien, cool and slippery and indescribably violet, in a way that does and doesn't dovetail perfectly with liquid tenor, warbling velar consonants, and slouch-casual dockside diction. It's colder than usual today, raw like all of them are, filtered to a few people who went hunting with him down Moebius's hallways, a few people he trusts.]

Well if that weren't a lark and a half through the Violet Sister's own flipping drydock dayterror. Some nights I am upright grateful to have a bright god of vengeance and secrets, woulda dedicated the whole heapin horrorshow to her if I knew where a building keeps its guts. And no, you hornless alien wigglers may not share, she don't give a microscopic krillshit aboat any a you, on account of you ain't seadwellers.

[He doesn't really want to talk about it any more than anyone else does - but he's too proud and too tactless not to be contrary as regards precisely that impulse. He is too fucking tired of chunks of his skin belonging to every-glubbin-body as wants to bite off a piece to let this be the thing that makes him curl up and lick his wounds in silence.]

Anyways, we got a bit of proper ocean on the other side a the castle made of air-filled expansible petroleum product sacs, an I need a fuckin swim. Anybody mind watchin my jacket? I ain't gettin that neon-spotted water in it for love nor money, and I damn well aint lettin it vanish neither, it's swag as fuck an I got most of the creepy red bloodstains out.

I'll owe you. A smooch or a song or a bit a sewwin or sparrin, you know I'm good for it.

[Under other circumstances, he might make a crack about being flippin irresistible, on account of how he absofuckinlutely is, but he doesn't have the heart for it tonight. He just wants to feel the cool cleansing tingle of salt in his gills. Next time, folks.]


THIRD PERSON: He never spent much time underwater back on Alternia - on account of the oceans being poisonous oily wrecks, slow sick deathtraps, and he is the sanest seadweller anyone's ever met and keen to keep it that way - but he still thinks in three dimensions plus rather than two, in depth and current, z-axis angles and the edge of an algal bloom's enticing anoxic near-invisible spiral arm reaching to catch the unsuspecting rather than the gravity-bound plain of terrestrial geography.

It takes him a lot less time to get used to the spacial configurations of liminal space than it does to the idea of not seeing Fef or Sol or Kar again for a good long while - he flatly refuses to imagine he might miss Ascension day, no matter what otherworldly forces are screwing him now - or how he's newest neighbors to so many glubbing mammals. He never bothers to try to orient himself to an up, just triangulates where he wants to go vis-a-vis what all he wants to keep a clear view of, and just which kinds of madness he is willing to leave at his back. He flips himself until he's content with where his eyes and fins and feet are facing, slices diagonally through the air with easy intent.

He gravitates to boats, always, no matter what style or era or planet of origin. He's in some kind of hadal-explorer saucer now, all synth-smooth space-age unscratchable hypercarbon, a little teacup shape just large enough to sit in, bobbing along on a magma ocean that is mostly made of bright red and gold silk scarves. He has the observation dome down, and occasionally reaches over the side to scoop out a scarf with a bit of nice embroidery, something Kanaya would have liked. They don't last, but it doesn't matter, as long as he keeps accumulating them, bits of soft pretty comfort.

He's been sleeping dry for a month without his moirail and it is straight up uncanny amazing that he hasn't gutted everyone yet. It helps that nowhere they go seems to have Alternia's pan-rattling ghost problems, but he's still twitching from daymares and aching for the cool thick sluice of sopor on his skin. He gets a flicknife and his needle out, slices up a few of the gold and coppery scarves just to hear that inimitable silk-shred sound, then starts stitching the tatters into a kind of herringbone pattern of glimmering interlocking diamonds. Something Gamzee would call miracles. Something the Premier himself would be proud to tie into a cravat. Something that would make a truly excellent garrote. Eridan loves his faithful little knives but sometimes you need clean and quiet. He makes sure the embroidered patterns match by motif - flowers, perfect, and bronze-on-brass vines not so far from tentacles on the next, the whorls similarly angled - as he lines them up. If it's got to be done - and sooner or later, he reckons, shit is going to go from nonsensical to outright vicious - no reason not to do the thing with style.