Is this thing on?

[shutN]

Hello, hey, and whatever you young folks pass off as a greeting, nowadays. Maybe some hip thrusts and a squeeze. Pfff, kids. And their music.

Hi, I'm ShutN.

It's been a year since I've last roleplayed One Piece. I'm not proud of that, but I'm here to fix it. Well, here and on Gaia, but activity just isn't what it used to be. So I'm bored. So I'm here. So maybe I should have left that part out. Here, I'll just take this pen and there, it never happened. Anyway, hopefully things will pick up and we'll get more members. Until then, I'm going to try to keep up with you cats. Which is going to be a chore. You're posting like crazy!

[Shinx]

Because we ARE crazy MWA HA HA HA HA--- oh shiz I messed up the skin again.

[Grey Man]

Nice to meet ya Shut
Hope you have a good time here with the rest of us.

[shutN]

Now I'm going to get nitpicky. I hate getting nitpicky. People hate it when I get nitpicky. Oh god, the nitpick, it's coming! Nitpick!

Would it be too much to ask for the thread pages to be white? For graphic's sake. You know, white, on white.

Example:



Wouldn't that look better against a white background?

[Grey Man]

Well the graphics are a work in progress, so don't worry about it to much.

[shutN]

Don't mind me. I'll be using this page to test formats. Seeing what I can and cannot get away with, html-wise.

Edit:

Hogawd, that was a disaster. Note to self. What works in gaia, stays in gaia.

General Information

Name: Emeral D. Leche
Nickname: Plague of East Blue
Bounty: 0
Gender: Male
Age: 14
Race: Human
Occupation: Pirate
Position/Rank: Cook
Birthmarks/Scars: Like any self respecting teen, Leche is slim and squishy. At least, that's what his conservative ensemble would have you believe; but, beneath the apron and buttons lies a toned, scarred contradiction of the muscled sort. Years of self (often mutilating) training has left his body an able canvas of old scars and stitches.


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Pysche Information

Likes:
● B u g s
● S u p e r h e r o e s
● E a t i n g
● C o o k i n g
● F o o d
● S w o r d s
● S l e e p i n g
● C l o u d s
● A d v e n t u r e


Dislikes:
● T h e W o r d N o
● S o a p
● T h i n k i n g
● C o f f e e
● A l c o h o l
● B a t h s


Personality:
Leche is very much like a child. That oh so special age where rhyme and reason are swallowed whole by self-satisfaction and personal freedom. A child who, by every extent of the phrase, plays life by the ear. Planning and forethought weren't invited to the party. They sit at home, asking each other what they want to do, while instinct gets down with its bad self. Couple that with a stubborn streak and you have yourself quite the hoedown.

As open-minded and flexible as Leche is, when he wants something, nothing, not even the World Government shaking its large, looming finger will deter him in the slightest. In a way he's catapulted, launched by his whims at each and every turn. His inhibitions have been atrophied to the point where they're nothing more than meek midgets in the corner of a crowded room, raising their hands every so often to chirp out an almost silent, “Um, excuse me?” So if a thought comes immediately to mind he acts on it, without so much as a pause or break. But that's not to say it's all bad.

Leche is almost adorably naive. So much, in fact, that you could make him eat dirt, after assuring him that it tastes very much like chocolate. He's also prone to awe inspired stupors when he sees something unusual or, in his side of the world, amazing. His eyes light up, his jaw drops and a single word lunges from his throat, as if shot out of a cannon, “Cool!” He is, for better or for worse, a perfect example of a individual bearing the name of “D”: stubbornly loyal, disinclined to stay down in a fight, and unafraid of death and its painful threshold.

Biography:
Every story ever told has that fated encounter: the hero tracking down the villain, Spot finding his long, lost owner, Timmy, and the rugged adventurer netting his latest Mcguffin. It's a defining moment that comes at the story's conclusion. For Leche, however, it was the beginning of his. Boy, no older than seven, met man, no younger than thirty. They stood, poised and ready to strike. A loan loaf of bread sat between them on a trashcan, its alter – the prize. Leche had spent most of his childhood oblivious, living from meal to meal. His aunt had warned him, time and time again, not to eat things out of the trash, or off the side of the road or off of other people's plates. But what his aunt didn't know, wouldn't hurt her. Today's adventure meal had competition in the form of Collart. Like him, he was hungry and dirty - two bums fighting over food.

The child was determined to come out full in this and no man was going to stand in his mouth's way. Twin, powerful legs shot forward toward the tin, kicking up dust as Leche's feet rapidly hit the ground. He was running and the man stood there, unmoving. Fine, the kid thought narrowing the distance, let him have it. It was better that way. But no sooner had his hand brushed the crust's surface he felt his stomach give a lurch. Looking down he saw a scabbard, a thick white stick running across his chest. Air left his lungs at once and he flew from the impact, landing several feet away, painfully on his back. Leche struggled for breath, coughing and gasping. Back at the trashcan Collart stood, smiling with the prize in hand, the sword mysteriously absent. How? The boy climbed to his feet and glared. Whatever, his thoughts remained positive, angry, he'd get him. Another desperate charge followed. His punch was blocked, his kick was avoided and again, like before, the hard, white club appeared, this time atop his skull. Every failed attempt was met with a bite of the bread. Collart mocked him with every chew and every fallen crumb until there was nothing left. Leche was a panting, sweating, tired mess on the ground. Bruises decorated his body like dull, black tattoos of pain. Collart, for his part, remained unscathed. He didn't even have the decency to appear winded. And he left then, coldly, leaving the boy beaten and hungry on the ground. What a bastard, Leche heaved.

In Collart, Leche found an enemy. A goal. He made his presence constant, following the former pirate like a dog. No matter how hard he tried to shake him, Leche always appeared hot on his trail. Again and again, the two fought over what morsels of food Mirrorball Island had to offer. It was a one-sided war of apples, bread and trash that led to defeat after defeat for the young D. Eventually it was no longer about stealing the man's food, it had become a contest of strength, a mission to win. Stick met scabbard as the boy and the man's duels escalated across the island, in town, on the mountain and even the docks – the man nearly screamed when Leche had jumped out of that barrel. Their relationship slowly evolved into something friendly, and the game of cat and mouse came to an end as Leche was welcomed into Collart's company. It made for a terrible combination for restaurants, everywhere.

Eat, run, don't get caught, every man for himself, and smile: these were the rules of Collart, and these were the rules that were pounded, often ruthlessly, into the skull of the young Emeral D. Leche. Years of getting left behind, to deal with angry chefs, had taught him much in the way of the world, behind the counter and inside the kitchen. The world of cooking. While nursing his wounds and washing their dishes, he'd find himself in awe of their craft. Many a meal and countless a cuisine was prepared before him as older friend and him toured the city, stuffing their faces and running like hell. But while he drank in the knowledge, greedily, there was little he could actually comprehend. Most of the recipes and techniques flew straight over his head and over the horizon. After all he wasn't exactly the sharpest spatula in the drawer. He was Leche. And it was because he was Leche that he gave it a shot, anyway. The results were anything but pleasant. Even with his aunt's help.

To Collaart's credit he had a cast iron stomach and could swallow most of Leche's culinary attempts. However as the years dragged on and the menu grew larger and more...exotic, their duels became less about beating the boy silly and more about passing on his talents in swordsmanship. He was, after all, a swordsman himself and was pretty darn good at it, if you asked him. Still Leche again proved to be a questionable student. Maybe it took him longer to learn things? Maybe he wasn't suited to wield a blade? Or maybe he was just stupid? Whatever the case might have been, Collaart was only able to teach him for so long. When Leche had reached the age of twelve he was gone. It was sudden and unexpected. The older man left Leche a sword and a promise. To become strong, to become so great that his name would be heard by everyone, everywhere. If he did that, they would meet again. It was a promise the boy intended to keep as his friend, his stand-in father boarded a ship and left for a fate unknown.
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Combat Information

Weapon: His sword, a Meitō (one of many famous, named katana) lost its name after the disappearance of its original owner. Ignorant, Leche named the blade “Santoku bōchō” or roughly, “All-Purpose kitchen knife”. A title made even more sad by the fact that it's also used for cooking.

Fighting Style: As a D Leche possesses phenomenal strength and endurance. Not only can he withstand inhuman amounts of pain and injury, but he can also lift and throw things that stretch the imagination, bugging out the eyes of many a spectator. And while he prefers to wield a sword (his missing father's sword at that), it isn't rare to see him throw a punch or two; making him a formidable, though unorthodox adversary.

Leche's swordsmanship is anything but masterful. In fact it seems almost amateurish; a glossy bit of basics with nimble athletics thrown over it like glitter. It's incomplete, unrefined and as rough and unpolished as a burnt stone. However there's always room for improvement, a chance to polish, shine and clean that rock into a, well, nice, shiny rock. I'm not about to get ahead of myself with talks of diamonds. I mean, come on.

Fighting Style Weakness: Leche's an idiot. Not only in how he acts, but how he fights as well. You can expect a lot of tom, hank, or even bob foolery from this kid. Very rarely does he take a fight seriously, which can lead to some disastrous results.


Special Techniques:
TBA

-------------------------------------------------------

Sample:”You're looking good, Dan. Have you gotten taller?” The question was innocent enough as it rolled across the distance between them. They stood alone, facing one another. One smiled, while the other remained fixed like stoic stone. Marine and bounty hunter; David and Goliath. The whole thing had an air of grim seriousness about it. Like two friends catching up on old times, only with knives held metaphorically to each other's throats. It was heavy; like two tons of tension that threatened to give out at any moment. Still, it was only a matter of time before they ran into one another, today of all days.

Captain Justice was a threat. Even before Dan left the Marines. He was idealistic, passionate and most of all, stupid. Dan never particularly cared for him. Not then, not now, not ever. He was a thorn, a tolerated boil that needed regular treatment to keep it under control. It was a small wonder how he was able to remain a Captain. Maybe it was his sun catching smile or his overzealous charisma. Whatever it was, it just proved how far the Marines had fallen. They were soft, much too soft.

The bounty hunter's fist plummeted harmlessly into the ground, digging a massive crater and causing dust and stone to jump in fright. “Woah! Now, that wasn't very nice.” Had Justice not jumped out of the way, he would have ended up like the road beneath his feet. Concaved. Newport only stared, unfazed as his adversary gently returned to earth. Did he just float? As the question dawned on him, its answer immediately followed: devil fruit. There was a different man standing before him. Very different from what he was five years ago. Which was a problem. “Surprised? You shouldn't be. After all, the fight against evil is a never ending battle. Why, with adversity comes-” Another punch, another jump. Why couldn't he just shut up? Why couldn't he just stand still and let him catch the D boy? He was a fool. A blind, idiotic fool who, much to his own annoyance, was as capable as he was dumb. And he was now flying around like an insect, leaving Dan to remove his leg from the crumbled remnants of what had been a wall. Might as well had been tinfoil. Shouts were heard close by. Familiar yells that brought him here in the first place. Leche.

“My fight...isn't with you.” The bounty hunter said, simply.

“No, I suppose it isn't.” Captain Justice just smiled.

“Then...why?”

The question was met with a quick, thoughtful expression.

“Because, I think it's more interesting this way.”

The other man could only shake his head.

“Let's finish this...” Dan said. And Captain Justice could only blink as his former colleague reached for his coat's sleeve and tugged at it downwards, revealing flesh.

“I see,” realization sparkled in the Marine's eyes as he examined the limb, “I'm not the only one who changed.”

Minature den-den mushi were just adorable. Even more so when Miho was on the other line. The little fellow would purse its lips, furrow its brow – so serious – and speak woman. It was hard not to cuddle and coo (making for a very odd one-sided conversation), even there on the floor, surrounded by bits of wall and concrete. He was still alive.

"Cwapture Leche and those wiff him, my wittle Miho-kins." The Captain nestled his dirtied face against the snail as he picked himself up off the floor. He fought back the urge to wince. Ah, damn, his ribs were broken. Farther away, his den-den counterpart was puckering its mouth and closing its eyes adoringly. But, no sooner than the words had left his lips, Dan was back with a vengeance. "Oops, gotta go, commander. I have company."

The man-made missile that was Captain Justice was sent spinning once more out the other side of the house. Stone met flesh and crumbled with ease. Looking up, the Marine couldn't help but admire the long trench his body had unintentionally dug across the ground. Now that one had stung. Before he could estimate its length, however, a fist filled his vision. He couldn't dodge like before; all thanks to Dan's little 'trick'. The man giant was on top of him in a flash of movement thought impossible for someone of his size. The curled hand dwarfed his head and sent him flying for the third time that day. It was difficult to draw a comparison when it came to being hit by Dan. He could say it was like getting bludgeoned by a sledge hammer. But that did it little justice; like comparing a needle to a sword, which was attached to more swords in a room filled with swords. Frankly, getting hit by Dan was like...getting hit by Dan. It hurt. A lot.

"If I didn't know any better, Dan," Justice wiped at his mouth, "I'd say you were trying to kill me." A throat full of blood agreed.

"Give up..." The bounty hunter watched impassively as the other man struggled to stand.

"Give up?" He looked incredulous. Talking was becoming difficult; was his face swelling, already? "If justice has taught me anything it- What's that over there!?" Surprise went off like a bomb on the Marine's broken face, and his finger lunged forward, pointing behind the towering man. It was contagious; Dan turned to look. But instead of an eye catching spectacle he was greeted with a fist to his face. "Justice punch!" It was Dan's turn to fly.

Captain Justice was gone. Or, to be more precise, he disappeared. And his parting words echoed in Dan like a familiar, booming chime. “Soru!” The human body was capable of so much. Strength, speed: anything could be transcended into the realm of superhuman. He was a walking example of that very fact. But while a normal person couldn't hope to follow the movement of someone as fast as Justice, Dan was hardly normal. The incoming punch was avoided within inches. His neck moved to the side - fist sailing by - as if he were idly stretching. But, Justice wasn't done. A kick followed another kick, eager to land where his hand had missed previously. And while Dan wasn't the least bit accommodating, the speed and power behind the other man's legs left him little choice. They hit with enough force to level iron. For the first time in a long time, Dan felt himself reeling in pain.

The building shuddered as the bounty hunter sat up. A smog of dust and stone clung to the air; remnants of his speedy, destructive entrance. Before he could climb to his feet, the Marine was on him. Which suited Dan just fine. He was eager to return the favor. Speed met speed as the two of them clashed.

“Soru!” They echoed, fist to fist; boulder to pebble.

Undeterred, Dan threw his other arm forward, only to have it met by the Captain in an identical fashion. He was beaming as the both of them stood there in mid swing, pushing against one another's knuckles in a manly contest of strength.

“Finally taking me serious, Dan?” The bounty hunter only grunted in reply. They were a picture of clenched teeth and flexed muscles, pulsing and sweating as they poured everything into their arms. Death was the underlying intent while frustration took the high ground, waving a big, red flag.

That smile of his was getting really annoying.

If Dan and Justice had a captivated audience, gripping the edge of their seats with eyes glued to the action, they'd be a disappointed bunch. Both were a blur, a pair of human rockets bombarding one another like two pendulums on a constant crash course. They'd meet, exchange fire, and break off, only to do it all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. It wasn't much to look at, especially at the speeds they were going. To the untrained eye, they were ghosts in motion, invisible, save for the destruction left in their mutual wake. Their stalemate.

The area was a mess. Buildings laid in ruin, as if blown apart by bombs, and pieces of the street jutted out of the ground like splintered bone. The chaos was deserted, save for two. Was it Justice? Had the Captain planned that far ahead, to avoid innocent casualties? The wreckage held nothing but space. Space that was now smothered in stone. Good, the bounty hunter couldn't help but think. The only person he wanted dead was the man in front of him. The Ds would have to wait.

Dan drew his arm back and briefly ran two fingers across his torn lip. He felt a familiar wetness and pressed down. Captain Justice was strong, alright. Strong enough to hurt him. Strong enough to make him bleed. But the fight was just beginning. The beginning of the end. With a grunt Dan disappeared in a flash. Soru carried him behind the bewildered Captain. And while Justice was quick enough to catch the first punch, the second one found its mark. Thick fingers wrapped around the man's head, cutting off most of his senses. The Marine clawed at the branch-like digits, but to no avail. Dan held his ground, mumbling.

“Red Eye...” He tossed his captive aside, letting his body crash into a wall before falling into a pile of debris.

“What...” Captain Justice rubbed at his eyes, his vision blurry. “What did you do?” His hands came back wet, and he almost let out a sickening gasp. They were covered in blood. His eyes were bleeding. Try as he might to shake it off, the Captain found his legs uncooperative. He rose, then fell. Rose again, and fell again. Why couldn't he move?

“You are...strong.” The giant towered over the Marine, starring down at him. His guard had vanished and his arms were at his sides. Captain Justice was no longer a threat to him. “But not...strong enough.”

“What...” Talking was becoming difficult. It was as if his body wasn't his anymore. Like he was a spectator who could only see and feel.

“Your...body...” Dan bent down, digging his fingers under what was left and intact of the house in front of them. “Is...now...” With a heave of effort, the building rose into the air. Dirt fell as it climbed the inches, as it scaled the feet. “Mine.” And just as soon as it went up, it came crashing down onto the helpless Captain. The area was soon engulfed in a screen of dirt and dust.

[Grey Man]

All righty then

Well hope that you get your char profile up and running soon!

[shutN]

[/color]
✗Plague of East Blue✗x[/center]

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T[/color]he fishman took off in a full sprint, his mission and club forgotten amidst the bodies of his friends. Being the only one still conscious it was his right, no, his duty to run away, flailing. Maybe work in a scream or two. He chased after the green light, down the tunnel toward the unknown, yelling as he did.

"Booooooooossss!" Was his cry.

Leche gave chase. The single glowing, green bulb had become a sun. A glowing, green sun. Dark became light. Black became green. Through clenched teeth and squinted gaze, Leche took it all in: every blur and every tint the haze had to offer. The bugs lined the walls and ceiling like paint that twitched. They showered them, fish and non-fish alike, in their light. It painted a vague, green picture. There were fishmen and cages; greenish blurs with greenish smudges. Leche rubbed his eyes. The light burned them, giving the pair a sharp slap to the pupils as they constricted. Good morning, he thought as his left and right dashed across his view. He willed them to stop. He urged them to open. And they did, shyly behind the eyelids. The fish were still there, as were the cages, but they were different now. Clearer. Leche saw the people behind the wooden prisons and almost gave it some thought. Almost. A beard caught his eye. A long, flowing beard that dangled from one of the fish's chins and coiled on the ground like rope. Eyes, once dilated, widened in wonder at the hairy sight. What happened next could be best described as dumb.

In moments the child had crossed the length of the room and stood before the boss, dwarfed by the giant. He eyed the beard again, trailing its length up the body and down the chin. It was magnificent. "Hey Mr. you have a long beard." The obvious was followed by a sharp tug as Leche picked up the gray line and pulled. "How'd you get it that long?" Tug. "No one in Mirrorball has a beard like this." Pull. "Not even the guys." Yank. "Do fish's beards grow differently?" Wretch. "Maybe that's why it's so long." Again and again he pulled, testing its strength and enjoying its touch. Leche was smiling. He was like a kid at play. He was a kid at play. The fishmen, the survivors, the prisoners: none of them could get in his head. It was boarded and locked, leaving the boy alone, alone with the man and his beard.

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[/center]

xxxxxxxxx

[/ul][/ul][/ul]

[shutN]

[/color]xxxxxxxxx
☠ Murky Depths ☠x[/center]

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Fishmen, everywhere, were bodies on the floor. Sleeping, motionless forms that refused to move and refused to attack. The ambush had failed, the survivors had won. But why, who? Questions remained in that dark stomach. Questions that no one present, awake, could answer. Except maybe that glowing light. It returned with a vengeance, a lighthouse in a fog, drifting through the silent carnage and bathing everyone in its green glow once more. The way it moved seemed panicked. Afraid, for a flying lightbulb, jumping between the fishmen in a hurried, almost worried fashion. It zipped, it zagged, it dove through the darkness in a hovered run. The ball of light retreated at once, going further and further into the bowels of whatever had swallowed them, taking with it the only source of light. Where it headed, answers could be found. Where it ran, a way out waited. Maybe. Those that followed, those that gave chase through the tunnels would be surprised. Surprised by that light, literally, at the end of the tunnel.

Details hit them like a bright, green freight train. The green orb joined hundreds of its kind in a room, adorning the walls and the ceiling. Clarity shined down at long last upon the party. With the light came the answers. Some of them. The orb wasn't an orb at all. It was a bug. One of many bugs that obediently clung to the room like light fixtures. Their bio-luminescent glow washed over everything, drowning out the dark with a green tint. The room, the section of insides, was small. Smaller than that invisible dome they had left earlier, anyway. There was no signs of debris or scattered, wooden remains. It was relatively clean for something inside a thing's stomach. The ground was still wet, still squishy, but you could see it though. See how organic it looked, how soft and fleshy it was and how it didn't stop there. It climbed the walls and encompassed the ceiling. If they still had their doubts about where they were, maybe now they could find peace, peace in the fact that they were eaten alive.

The decor was sparse and bare. Cages lined the walls, small 7x7 prisons constructed roughly out of wood; no doubt the recycled remains of the broken shipyard they had just left behind. Some of them were empty. The others were filled. With people. Humans. Tired-looking and scared as they retreated backwards into their cages, away from the giant fishman that towered over its brethren and subordinates, dozens in number, in an impressive display of height and muscle. It sat in a large throne, which was also constructed from ship bits. The fishman, the apparent leader, looked old. A long beard poured from its chin, thin and groomed. It dangled over a wide, muscled chest put on display as the kimono's top was opened, with a right arm peeking through the dark fabric, leaving it and its shoulder bare. Traveling further down, the facial hair fell across the hakama tied securely around the fishman's waist. The beard stopped just above the ankles, where a pair of large, thick geta were held in place by the fishman's equally thick toes. A fin poked from behind its head, revealing its species. A shark. The fishman took a long drink from a white bottle of some kind. It was embroidered and tied at the nose by a length of rope, which the fishman held on to tightly as he drank. Another pause, and he stopped, letting out an enjoyed, though exaggerated sigh.

"What took ye?" He regarded those gathered with a fanged grin, twin razors poking from his bottom lip.

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[/center][/ul][/ul][/ul]

[shutN]

General Information

Name: Simon
Nickname:
Bounty: 0
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Race: Human
Occupation: Marine - APT
Position/Rank: Commander, East Blue Branch - APT
Birthmarks/Scars: N/A


-------------------------------------------------------

Pysche Information

Likes:
Himself
Winning
Obedience
Praise
Strength

Dislikes:
Losing
Disloyalty
Insults
Weakness
The Ocean; not being able to do something, swim, is a huge blow to his ego.
Father
Mather
Pirates
Pretty much everyone else


Personality:
Simon has a superiority complex, and that's putting it mildly. Every waking moment is devoted to exclaiming and proving he's better than everyone else. I take that back. He's convinced he's a better sleeper than you, too. Friend or foe, pirate or civilian, if given the chance to show off, he'll take it; even if he has to kick it past your teeth to do it. If proven wrong, slighted, or defeated in any way, Simon will snap. The gloves will fly. The kiddy ones that smothered his temper and distracted his will to kill you with sharp, pointy things. From this point on he'll do anything in his power to one up the responsible party. Going as far as to beat them into a pile of unrecognizable pulp that cry's, "Uncle."

Because of this attitude he has odd, almost unrealistic expectations of his allies and himself; going as far as to order the other members of APT to swim after the enemy, despite losing their ship and despite half of them being devil fruit users. Suffice it to say, Simon isn't the easiest person to work with. In spite of this, or rather because of it, he rewards competence and loyalty with his own brand of fealty, going above and beyond to help those deemed, "worthwhile lackeys." It's as close to 'friend' as we're going to get.

Biography:
Simon grew up in his father's shadow. Every day he was reminded of his greatness, and every day he was told to be just like him. Vice-Admiral Ruyter: at five years old Simon suffered his first and only loss, to a dead man. "Your father would have done this," his mother would argue, "Your father would have never done that." Again and again he fell short, unable to catch up to a man who died before he ever had the chance to hate him in person.

It wasn't a surprise when Simon joined the marines. It was a surprise when he climbed the ranks as quickly as he did. At sixteen he achieved the rank of Commander; a feat almost unheard of. Desperate for commendations and eager to climb the officer ladder, Simon made a name for himself as a ruthless pirate killer. Every rolling head, every cuffed hand was a gold star on an already shining record. Having proven his ability on and off the field, the young up and comer was approached by the higher ups to join and and eventually lead the East Blue branch of the newly formed Anti-Pirate Troop, or APT for short.
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Weapon:
A single blade of no special make or name. While it's quality is high, it doesn't possess any of the special properties that make a meito, a meito. Which suites him just fine, as he prefers to use his hands to do most of the dirty work.

Fighting Style:
Simon was taught how to fight by the marines, up to and including swordsmanship and the marine's own brand of self-defense. Which is admittedly plain. It's here where he makes the biggest strides to improve. In fights he typically uses his devil fruit ability to create openings or make his opponents defeat themselves when they prove especially weak or boring.

Fighting Style Weakness:
Simon has grown complacent thanks to his own devil fruit. It's the two to his usual one-two. Without it, he has no real way to combat an especially strong foe. A weakness he'll be quick to correct, once it smacks him in the face and makes disparaging remarks about his mother.

Devil Fruit: Osama-Osama Fruit

Devil Fruit Type: Paramecia

Devil Fruit Ability:
The user of this fruit has the ability to control the actions of others through the power of word, depending on the strength of the other's will.

Devil Fruit Weakness:
Self-evident, if no one can hear the commands, then nothing happens. By plugging your ears, the fruit's powers are nullified. You need to hear the person's voice in order to fall prey to its powers. Another setback is that anyone is susceptible to a given command, not just the intended target. If the command, "Jump in the water," is given, anyone in earshot follows it. If, however, the target possesses a particularly strong will, they can shake off the fruit's suggestive powers.

Devil Fruit Techniques:

* Simon Says: Every command begins with this phrase and usually ends with the enemy face down in defeat.

Special Techniques:
TBA

[shutN]

General Information

Name: Franc Condon
Nickname: The Crowned Con
Bounty: 0
Gender: Male
Age: 19
Race: Human
Occupation: Pirate
Position/Rank: Captain
Birthmarks/Scars: Scars, as deep as they are ugly, run down his back, as if something was chasing them. His past, perhaps.

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Pysche Information

Likes:

• Money
  
• Beli
  
• Paper with monetary value
  
• Fools
  
• Freedom
  
• The "Open World"
  
• His 'belongings'
  
• Dreams
  
• Parlor Tricks (Magic)
  
• Gambling

Dislikes:

• The World Government
  
• The Marines
  
• Spending/Losing Money
  
• Anything and anyone that endangers his property, up to and including his crew.
  

Personality: Franc is curious. Franc is cheerful. Franc is a greedy, arrogant kleptomaniac with little to no common sense or empathy. He'll steal your pants, try them on, and leave you naked: all because you just had to take that bath and leave your clothes unattended and up for grabs. In other words, he's dumb, but not stupid. It's the skinny, the flip, the flop, the rough package that is Franc Condon.

C u r i o u s
The world, to him, is an amazing playground. Everything, from boats to indoor plumbing is new and exciting. It's an experience, a memory he was left out of in prison. As such, if something peaks his interest (and it will) he'll drop everything he's doing to 'check it out'. These treks can last minutes, days, and even weeks if said curiosity snowballs into a full blown adventure of sights and sounds. More often than not, he'll end up lost as a result.

Franc is a tourist. His eyes are the clicking camera and his cape is the bright and colorful tropical shirt. All he needs now is a hat to complete the ensemble. Bling~ That crown will do nicely.

C h e e r f u l
Smile, smile, the world is grand. Smile, smile, frowns are for those on land. Franc smiles. A lot. He exudes happy. He gives off an aura of cheer. Even when he's robbing you of your last beli, leaving you nothing but the stereotypical barrel to cover your indecency and shame. It's almost infectious: him, having fun with everything, and he tries so hard to get his crew in on it. As if dragging them to a manhole and pointing at it enthusiastically will somehow make it magical to them.

G r e e d y / A r r o g a n t / K l e p t o
Money equals freedom. Money equals happiness. Money makes the world go round, and if there's anything Franc likes, it's a world that spins. No-Island has taught him the value of money and the value of strength. With it, you could buy loyalty. With it, you could even buy your own freedom, or the freedom of others. Everything has a price tag. Everything has a value, and if there's anything Franc wants, it's everything. Greed drives him forward, it fuels his actions and carries him to the top, to the throne of the Pirate King.

Arrogance, or confidence? The line blurs for Franc. He's so self-assured, it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. The way he carries on, as if these goals of his aren't possibilities, but eventualities. Might happen? Try will. He will be the Pirate King. He will find One Piece. He will kick your ass. And he will own a solid gold toilet. He's got a list of these things, and it just keeps getting bigger as the days get longer.

Remember that pants comment? Years back, in the beginning of the personality? He stuffed them into 'himself'. The pants. Franc takes things. He picks them up and shoves them in. His devil fruit power is the biggest enabler alive. Something shiny? Valuable? Or just plain cool? Goodbye! Plop! In it goes, into the endless void that is Franc. Only to be pulled out again when the need arrives. Which could amount to little more than, "Look what I 'found'!"

Biography:

No-Island. It was a prison island, an island of the damned, a stain on North Blue where the forgotten lived. Franc Condon was born and raised on this island, as a prisoner. Why? To serve his great grandfather's three-hundred consecutive year sentence, like his father and grandfather before him. Just born and he was already a convicted pirate. No-Island was populated by prisoners who inherited their parent's crimes. Crimes so great, so ghastly in the eyes of the World Government, that death didn't pardon them. Instead, they were carried on to their offspring, until such a day that it was served, in full.



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Combat Information

Weapon: Punchy and Fisty (Left and right fist, respectively) and pretty much anything that can be held and waved, dangerously, in an opponent's direction, or shot out of his body at high speeds.

Fighting Style: Franc is reliant on his devil fruit, to a degree. He uses it to arm himself, create openings, or just do all the dirty work for him. Pre-devil fruit he used an unrestricted style. A style by the name of, "Open World." The world is his weapon, and he uses it with reckless abandon. Chairs? Swords? Sinks? If it's around him and can be picked up, you can bet he'll use it as a weapon. Post-devil fruit, nothing has changed, save for the fact that Open World just got a little more open, with his insides serving as an endless armory.

Fighting Style Weakness: While not one to shy away from punching, bare-handed, Franc is reliant on his surroundings to make the most of his abilities. He needs objects, he needs stuff and things to truly shine. Without a room, without a city, without a whole lot of anything, he'd be left standing there, holding a chair. Which just looks silly.


Devil Fruit: Zaiko Zaiko (Stockpile, Stockpile) Fruit [Comforted by the fact Blame had to die for this fruit to be up for grabs]

Devil Fruit Type: Paramecia
Devil Fruit Ability: This fruit gives the user the ability to store a seemingly limitless number of items in his or her body; a body that connects to a pocket dimension of sorts, where items can be sorted and acquired, and pushed out or launched at-will. In other words, what goes it can come out, at the user's discretion. To give an example of the uses of this fruit and possible combat applications: a cannon juts out from the user's chest. Just the barrel. It then fires and retreats back to the safety of the 'pocket world'.
Devil Fruit Weakness: Items are limited to in-animate ones. People and animals cannot be inserted into the devil fruit user. Size is another limiting factor, as the portal of entry is only as big as the person who acquired the ability. That is to say, the user cannot fit anything wider or taller than him or herself. So no ships or houses.

Devil Fruit Techniques:

• 1
  
• 2
  
• 3

Special Techniques:

• 1
  
• 2
  
• 3[/ist]

[shutN]

Crew Name: The Pirate Kings (Subtle much?)
Ship: TBA
Crew Morality: Good
Crew's Goal: Get One Piece, Become King, and have more fun than you can shake a stick at. And I'm talking about a really, really big stick.

Members:

• Captain: {link to profile}
  
• First Mate: {link to profile}
  
• Navigator: {link to profile}
  
• Cook: {link to profile}
  
• Shipwright: {link to profile}
  
• Historian: {link to profile}
  
• Swordsman: {link to profile}
  
• Sharpshooter: {link to profile}
  
• Musician: {link to profile}