Post by |Slade| on Mar 17, 2009 19:40:53 GMT
Approved!
Full Name:Slade Wilson
Alias:Slade/Deathstroke
Age:41
Gender:Male
Personality:
Callous and emotionless, Slade has learnt to void himself of the clouding judgement of his emotions over time. This means that he makes decisions rationally, chooses his opportunities tactfully and is able to look past people's actions to their hidden motives- usually producing an accurate depiction.
Although this lack of emotion can make Slade powerful and quick to react in a social setting and difficult situation, he can channel useful emotions into the right setting to fuel himself, such as anger, contempt and revenge.
Highly manipulative and well trained in the use of psychological techniques, he is adept at turning enemies against one another or avoiding uneccesary conflict entirely. This also reverses well- he knows the playing field, and is not easily manipulated at all, being extremely cynical and slow to trust.
Unique Traits/Skills:
Having been a soldier, he possesses all the survival and combat skills that military training and experience provides. He also spent enough time at The League of Shadows to be a benevolent force there, learning high levels of skill in arts such as ninjitsu and jujitsu. He also has years of experience as an assassin. These combined skills make him formidable with both meelee and long-range combat.
Appearance:
Artist's impression from eyewitness accounts-
True Face-
Celebrity name: Ben Richards
History:
After spending a long time in the military, Slade became a mercenary, making many an enemy along the way. He had a family, a wife and son, that he tried to keep seperate from the lifestyle he led away from them. He met his wife in the army, she was an expert military combat advisor, but could still never find the courage to tell her what he was doing to support them.
A criminal calling himself the Jackal kidnapped Slade's son in order to blackmail him for revenge, and to force the name of a client out of Slade. Slade refused, and attacked the kidnapper. But His son's throat was cut in the process by Jackal, slicing his vocal chords and rendering the boy mute.
Slade's wife, shattered by the fact that her son was put in such danger and the results of Slade's foolish gamble, made an attempt on Slades life by shooting him. She shot him in his right eye, rendering him completely blind in it, making his eyepatch a defining feature of his.
Now that he had nothing left to gain, nothing left to lose, Slade has resorted to selling of his powerful combat skills and training as a well-paid assassin. Rumours that he trained in the same location as the Batman expanded into legends that he may be the one to kill him- which he revels in, even if the are just rumour. But he is known to be good at what he does, and his prolific body count has earned him the name Deathstroke.
Sample Post:
Swiping his katana upwards onto the baseball bat, it dug into the wood a few inches and halted it in its tracks. Strange. Slade had expected it to go right through. It was obviously getting old. Grabbing the end of the baseball bat and splintering it on the cut into two seperate pieces, he struck the man bluntly on the head with it and sliced the wrist of the hand he was using to hold the rest of his commonplace weapon.
"Stop it!" The man cried, cowering and holding his wrist as it leaked drops of blood onto his carpet. "What have I ever done to hurt you? Who even are you?"
Slade smiled beneath his mask. The rich ones always begged. No matter how much of it you earned, no matter how many notes you could fit in the briefcase, money was not going to stand between you and death. When you looked death in the eye, stood face to face with the inevitable end of your life, your money would do you no good.
"My name doesn't matter. But you pissed somebody off Gregory Taylor, and that's why I'm here. That's why mine is the last voice you'll ever hear."
Enough of the trivialities. He took a pistol out from a holster on his thigh and shot the man in the face, a copius amount of blood spilling out onto the carpet again. His arm, limp and lifeless, fell away from his bleeding wrist and let it flow again. Stabbing the katana into the man's chest, he turned on his heel. It was a fitting end to leave an old tool at the workplace.