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Entry tags:
application for snowblind
Player Information
Name: Aisu
Age: 29
Contact Info: PM to journal ; AIM: goldxlll
Other Characters: N/A
Character Information
Name: Max Rockatansky
Canon: Mad Max: Fury Road
Age: Roughly in his late thirties
Gender: Male
Canon Point: Post movie
Background Link: A Mad Max character bio and Fury Road specific wikia pages
Inventory:His clothes and various worn gear. Notably: holsters and pouches included but obviously no guns or ammunition to be found anymore; pack included but no longer carrying anything in it (I think it appears to be a water reservoir to be exact, but again obviously no water included). He has a leg-brace hand-made from scrap metal on his left knee due to an old injury. His scruffy leather jacket probably will not protect him from the cold by this point in time but he'll refuse to get rid of it anyway.
Personality:
gruff, tough, troubled, aloof, stoic, yet reluctantly honorable, caring, and not entirely past the point of redemption.
Some think of the man as Mad Max, a wild and crazy sonofabitch that drives and shoots like a maniac as he wanders the post-apocalyptic desert. Others know him as the Road Warrior that relies on no one and nothing but his own wits to make it out alive at any cost. Both are accurate descriptions of the same man. Formerly known as Max Rockatansky, the man who once had a family that loved him as much as he did them is now a troubled, gruff man whose sole priority is survival. He is stoic, tough, and more than a little rough around the edges; yet somehow he always manages to come off as a reluctant hero in the stories told about him. Though hard to set off, something about him remains honorable and when he sets out to do something he becomes stubbornly dependable, determined to see it done no matter the cost. A spark still within himself that hasn't gone out, he remains not entirely past the point of redemption when it comes down to it. Still, it's hard to find that deeply buried care that he once possessed as a sane man and for the most part he remains aloof and stubbornly anti-social for his own reasons.
At the beginning of this story Max tells the audience that he is uncertain who is more insane: the people around him or himself. These are clearly the words of a troubled man. But whether they are the words of a truly mad man may be questionable. What if they are simply the words of a man who has learned to survive against the odds no matter the cost, even at the expense of his own humanity in some cases. Perhaps then a better way to describe Max would be as the War Boys do: feral.
We see Max at the beginning of this particular tale as a feral man with long, unkempt hair and eating a deformed lizard raw just after having stomped on it with his boot. He does what needs to be done to survive. Nothing else matters. Yet he is haunted by his past. Voices call to him, taunt him, patronize him for leaving them behind, accusing him of failing to protect them from the crazy harsh world left after the apocalypse. A guilty conscience that will not let him have a moment of peace. He tries his best to ignore them and simply survives from day to day without attachment, alone and uncaring in the world. But they remain.
As the story progresses another side of Max slowly reveals itself. At first he has no care for anyone else in the world; he blatantly leaves behind anyone who can and will slow him down without batting an eyelash. Only due to the fact that Furiosa has rigged the War Rig to stop pumping fuel without the appropriate sequence to start the engine is he forced to bring along the helpless women. Even then he is so stubborn he refuses until Furiosa finally finds an option that appeals to Max's ego. He only cares about himself at this time, making a point not to care for others because of past disappointment in his life. Reluctantly, he allows them to join him but makes a point to keep his gun trained on one of them at all times, threatening to kill them should they try to overthrow him. He barely speaks and more often than not grunts affirmatives or negatives as if a feral beast who simply understands language. He keeps his distance and insists on being in charge not because he relishes it but because he simply wants to survive. That's all that matters. It's what the world has taught him. Even hope is only a quality that lies, pains the one that clings to it, and as he tells Furiosa it will only make its bearer go mad when things cannot be fixed. He says this line with obvious experience edged in his voice. The dead that haunt him never let him forget what hope and emotion did to him...
But the mad man changes as the story progresses and he slowly comes to trust and even rely on the skills of his fellow travelers as they race to escape from their pursuers. A grudging respect forms though he never says as much out loud. (Even as he begins to talk more out of a need for clear communication he still talks only as necessary. Perhaps though, there is one line that reveals the care he thought to long ago have thrown out of his repertoire of emotions: "I am so sorry" he tells Furiosa as he stabs her to relieve her chest cavity of air and save her life.) But it is clearly this respect and his own guilty conscience that resolves him to turn back to the women after they go separate ways; to return to them and offer them hope, and himself redemption. The mad man has not completely gone insane but needed a reminder of humanity; the feral beast remembers his former life of loyalty and honor, strives to offer protection and hope to those that need it the most. The harsh realities of life have dulled his emotions and scarred his mind into a troubled psyche but a remnant of his former role as police officer, protector and enforcer of the law, remains steadfastly intact within his deepest nature. Thus he becomes the reluctant hero of the story.
The essence of Mad Max in all his tales comes from this two-toned nature. With his stubborn stoicism and aloofness, always content to show just how much he prefers the company of none, and clear disregard for others in any caring capacity--Max becomes the epitome of an anti-hero reluctant to take on any role given to him by others. He wishes to survive and does not care if others cannot manage the same. It's easier that way. He avoids the emotional turmoil if he ignores everyone around him in this manner. But despite his best efforts he is still an oddly honorable man. His honor has skewed over the years and only reluctantly resurfaces at unpredictable times yet it is still stubbornly present. It causes him to become attached to those that remain around him for too long and forces him to admit, at least deep down, that he still yearns for redemption and hope. He failed to save so many in his past but perhaps the future can hold a new story, a new hope and life for humanity. Perhaps those that he does manage to save can bring about a new world one day.
Still, Max knows his place in this post-apocalyptic world and it is not with others. Despite his new attachment for the women he helped forge a new life for themselves, he cannot remain with them. He is a loner, a troubled man with a rough exterior and tough interior that does not belong in a world of peaceful society anymore. His former life cannot be brought back to life even if sometimes it surfaces for a brief glimmer of shining nobility--the hard experiences that drove him to be gruff, stoic, and aloof will not allow him to settle. He does not know that life anymore. So he leaves the others to forge their new lives without his feral presence and returns to his current way of life; that of the eternal road warrior.
Flavor Abilities:Nope. Max only has his long-tested wits from surviving in a post-apocalyptic world, his fighting and driving skills naturally acquired, and intelligence with mechanics and other odds and ends from working with his hands for so long. Basically, all normal human stuff, just hella tough for one.
Suitability:Max is accustomed to the "survival of the fittest" law of nature and especially scavenging to survive in a post-apocalyptic world with few modern supplies left to be found. The biggest change he would have to adjust to would be the freezing cold as opposed to the typical scorching heat of his world. However, that would be interesting to note in gameplay. Also, Max may eventually be led to work with others through persistent interaction and a guilty conscience that still plagues him. Despite, or perhaps due to, his flawed "anti-hero" personality he does not like to interact with others but a greater calling to do the right thing still haunts his subconscious and forces him to help others in need on rare occasions. Seeing how he reacts to others in this world, others clearly not used to it as he is, may have a deep and lasting impact on him. It may take some time but it would be an interesting drive to his character development within the game.
RP Samples:
I. Network sample
[The screen remains black as the operator was much more used to simple radio transmissions than video messages on a phone. Besides, it suited the road warrior to remain aloof far more than revealing himself to the public. It remains this way for some time though, in silence, and almost seemed as though it was a mistake or a recording of nothing still oddly sent to the network. Then suddenly those with the voice-to-text option got words scrolling across the screen as those listening to it finally got a voice speaking out.]
There are supplies in a building at these coordinates. [He then said the appropriate numbers for the coordinates.] I'll leave whatever I don't need for the next person to grab.
[The voice was gruff and seemed forced as if the man never spoke unless absolutely necessary. It begged the question why the rough sounding man bothered to share at all. Was it a trap? Was it misleading to send people in the opposite direction of a major depository? Yet the voice sounded too serious for such games. Perhaps it was the truth. Maybe the children crying out for help over the network earlier had softened the hardened man enough to speak out...
Either way the man lapsed back into silence and the message lingered on as if unsure whether the man would speak again. Then it abruptly cut off.]
II. Third person prose sample
Trudging through the snow was a hard effort that occasionally urged a grunt from the hardened road warrior. He was used to desert sands and salt flats that expanded into the horizon like an eternal plain of nothingness. The lack of heat was not as welcome an experience now as it had been within the first few hours of his exposure to the cold. Now several days later, Max doubted the act of a hallucination and hated the cold more than he thought possible. At least the heat had kept him active, kept him searching for shade and water to survive. The cold seeped straight past his flesh and muscles and went into his bones, making his whole body shiver in a vain effort to produce warmth enough to keep moving one grudging step after another.
And that was another thing Max missed: the vehicles. As old, scarred, and wildly inappropriate as they had been in the apocalyptic desert at least they kept him from walking to every damn place. They had been his livelihood for so long it felt more insane not to have a wheel beneath his hands now than it did driving one of the battle-rigged vehicles into one another in a bid for dominance and survival. He knew engines inside and out, knew how to drive even better than that, and felt more comfortable cramped into the driver's seat of his car than he did standing full and tall on his own feet. Plus, at least a vehicle would shelter him from the biting wind even if the heater no longer worked.
Yet here he was trudging through an insane amount of snow as if the desert sands had turned into a wasteland of frozen water. He did not know how it had happened or why, but one thing was clear: he had to survive. That was always the way of it. No matter what else happened, Mad Max always survived to the end of the day.
Unfortunately, Max was out of his league in this watery abyss. He knew that his best bet was to find shelter before the sun set overhead, plunging the already cold earth into lower temperatures well below freezing. But luck did not seem to be on his side this time. His communicator beeped at him to indicate the time. He grit his teeth as he surged forward in a small burst of determined will to survive. He was running out of time. He would run out of time if luck did not reveal to him the building that he had hoped to find coming out into this sector. It had been a risk, calculated, but still running the odds in an unknown favor.
Max knew fear. He knew adrenaline-driven desperation. He knew hopelessness and defeat. He'd felt them all at one point in time or another. But he had gotten back from their brink of annihilation to beat them into submission and find a way to survive to the next day. The cold sapped his dulled emotions even further away from his already stoic deposition and left him too empty to even feel the usual pangs of fear as the odds of survival plummeted by the second. A resignation entered his gait as he continued through the snow out of habitual determination. One more step may just bring what he sought--just may prove that he would survive once more through the impossible.
But it did not come. Not this time.
Max's steps slowed to a crawl, the cold making him wheeze as breathing became harder and the numbness in his feet and hands spread up his legs and into his chest. "So, this is death at last," the gruff voice spoke as if in some final defiance of his fate. There was no one to hear him talk to himself out here--no one to note his madness seeping out into the world.
He let himself sink into the snow up to his knees, and stayed still for the first time in... well, in a very long time. What little strength he had left quickly dissipated then as he stopped moving, stopped generating his own heat. Eventually he fell the rest of the way into the snow. Oddly, it felt comforting to be surrounded, almost warming, to lie in the snow like this. He closed his eyes.
Flashes of light assaulted his eyelids. Images of lives long since passed, ghosts that refused to leave him. A little girl with wide, accusing eyes reached out to him and he recoiled on instinct.
Reluctantly, his eyes peeled back open. He grasped, painstakingly slow-moving in his condition, for the communicator tucked safely into his belt pouch. In one last effort of humanity, he opened a line of communication with the rest of the world--with the rest of the trapped souls lost wandering in this snowy desert. His lips cracked--that was familiar though always from heat and not the cold before--as he forced a few last words from his cold mouth.
He gave them, anyone who would listen, a warning. A warning that the path he had taken was not a viable option for survival. He stayed awake long enough to hear an affirmative from at least one person. It was enough.
He closed his eyes. No ghosts accosted him.
He died.
III. And additionally:
Two more prompts from the tdm, even if they're too late to garner replies.
Name: Aisu
Age: 29
Contact Info: PM to journal ; AIM: goldxlll
Other Characters: N/A
Character Information
Name: Max Rockatansky
Canon: Mad Max: Fury Road
Age: Roughly in his late thirties
Gender: Male
Canon Point: Post movie
Background Link: A Mad Max character bio and Fury Road specific wikia pages
Inventory:
Personality:
gruff, tough, troubled, aloof, stoic, yet reluctantly honorable, caring, and not entirely past the point of redemption.
At the beginning of this story Max tells the audience that he is uncertain who is more insane: the people around him or himself. These are clearly the words of a troubled man. But whether they are the words of a truly mad man may be questionable. What if they are simply the words of a man who has learned to survive against the odds no matter the cost, even at the expense of his own humanity in some cases. Perhaps then a better way to describe Max would be as the War Boys do: feral.
We see Max at the beginning of this particular tale as a feral man with long, unkempt hair and eating a deformed lizard raw just after having stomped on it with his boot. He does what needs to be done to survive. Nothing else matters. Yet he is haunted by his past. Voices call to him, taunt him, patronize him for leaving them behind, accusing him of failing to protect them from the crazy harsh world left after the apocalypse. A guilty conscience that will not let him have a moment of peace. He tries his best to ignore them and simply survives from day to day without attachment, alone and uncaring in the world. But they remain.
As the story progresses another side of Max slowly reveals itself. At first he has no care for anyone else in the world; he blatantly leaves behind anyone who can and will slow him down without batting an eyelash. Only due to the fact that Furiosa has rigged the War Rig to stop pumping fuel without the appropriate sequence to start the engine is he forced to bring along the helpless women. Even then he is so stubborn he refuses until Furiosa finally finds an option that appeals to Max's ego. He only cares about himself at this time, making a point not to care for others because of past disappointment in his life. Reluctantly, he allows them to join him but makes a point to keep his gun trained on one of them at all times, threatening to kill them should they try to overthrow him. He barely speaks and more often than not grunts affirmatives or negatives as if a feral beast who simply understands language. He keeps his distance and insists on being in charge not because he relishes it but because he simply wants to survive. That's all that matters. It's what the world has taught him. Even hope is only a quality that lies, pains the one that clings to it, and as he tells Furiosa it will only make its bearer go mad when things cannot be fixed. He says this line with obvious experience edged in his voice. The dead that haunt him never let him forget what hope and emotion did to him...
But the mad man changes as the story progresses and he slowly comes to trust and even rely on the skills of his fellow travelers as they race to escape from their pursuers. A grudging respect forms though he never says as much out loud. (Even as he begins to talk more out of a need for clear communication he still talks only as necessary. Perhaps though, there is one line that reveals the care he thought to long ago have thrown out of his repertoire of emotions: "I am so sorry" he tells Furiosa as he stabs her to relieve her chest cavity of air and save her life.) But it is clearly this respect and his own guilty conscience that resolves him to turn back to the women after they go separate ways; to return to them and offer them hope, and himself redemption. The mad man has not completely gone insane but needed a reminder of humanity; the feral beast remembers his former life of loyalty and honor, strives to offer protection and hope to those that need it the most. The harsh realities of life have dulled his emotions and scarred his mind into a troubled psyche but a remnant of his former role as police officer, protector and enforcer of the law, remains steadfastly intact within his deepest nature. Thus he becomes the reluctant hero of the story.
The essence of Mad Max in all his tales comes from this two-toned nature. With his stubborn stoicism and aloofness, always content to show just how much he prefers the company of none, and clear disregard for others in any caring capacity--Max becomes the epitome of an anti-hero reluctant to take on any role given to him by others. He wishes to survive and does not care if others cannot manage the same. It's easier that way. He avoids the emotional turmoil if he ignores everyone around him in this manner. But despite his best efforts he is still an oddly honorable man. His honor has skewed over the years and only reluctantly resurfaces at unpredictable times yet it is still stubbornly present. It causes him to become attached to those that remain around him for too long and forces him to admit, at least deep down, that he still yearns for redemption and hope. He failed to save so many in his past but perhaps the future can hold a new story, a new hope and life for humanity. Perhaps those that he does manage to save can bring about a new world one day.
Still, Max knows his place in this post-apocalyptic world and it is not with others. Despite his new attachment for the women he helped forge a new life for themselves, he cannot remain with them. He is a loner, a troubled man with a rough exterior and tough interior that does not belong in a world of peaceful society anymore. His former life cannot be brought back to life even if sometimes it surfaces for a brief glimmer of shining nobility--the hard experiences that drove him to be gruff, stoic, and aloof will not allow him to settle. He does not know that life anymore. So he leaves the others to forge their new lives without his feral presence and returns to his current way of life; that of the eternal road warrior.
Flavor Abilities:
Suitability:
RP Samples:
I. Network sample
There are supplies in a building at these coordinates. [He then said the appropriate numbers for the coordinates.] I'll leave whatever I don't need for the next person to grab.
[The voice was gruff and seemed forced as if the man never spoke unless absolutely necessary. It begged the question why the rough sounding man bothered to share at all. Was it a trap? Was it misleading to send people in the opposite direction of a major depository? Yet the voice sounded too serious for such games. Perhaps it was the truth. Maybe the children crying out for help over the network earlier had softened the hardened man enough to speak out...
Either way the man lapsed back into silence and the message lingered on as if unsure whether the man would speak again. Then it abruptly cut off.]
II. Third person prose sample
And that was another thing Max missed: the vehicles. As old, scarred, and wildly inappropriate as they had been in the apocalyptic desert at least they kept him from walking to every damn place. They had been his livelihood for so long it felt more insane not to have a wheel beneath his hands now than it did driving one of the battle-rigged vehicles into one another in a bid for dominance and survival. He knew engines inside and out, knew how to drive even better than that, and felt more comfortable cramped into the driver's seat of his car than he did standing full and tall on his own feet. Plus, at least a vehicle would shelter him from the biting wind even if the heater no longer worked.
Yet here he was trudging through an insane amount of snow as if the desert sands had turned into a wasteland of frozen water. He did not know how it had happened or why, but one thing was clear: he had to survive. That was always the way of it. No matter what else happened, Mad Max always survived to the end of the day.
Unfortunately, Max was out of his league in this watery abyss. He knew that his best bet was to find shelter before the sun set overhead, plunging the already cold earth into lower temperatures well below freezing. But luck did not seem to be on his side this time. His communicator beeped at him to indicate the time. He grit his teeth as he surged forward in a small burst of determined will to survive. He was running out of time. He would run out of time if luck did not reveal to him the building that he had hoped to find coming out into this sector. It had been a risk, calculated, but still running the odds in an unknown favor.
Max knew fear. He knew adrenaline-driven desperation. He knew hopelessness and defeat. He'd felt them all at one point in time or another. But he had gotten back from their brink of annihilation to beat them into submission and find a way to survive to the next day. The cold sapped his dulled emotions even further away from his already stoic deposition and left him too empty to even feel the usual pangs of fear as the odds of survival plummeted by the second. A resignation entered his gait as he continued through the snow out of habitual determination. One more step may just bring what he sought--just may prove that he would survive once more through the impossible.
But it did not come. Not this time.
Max's steps slowed to a crawl, the cold making him wheeze as breathing became harder and the numbness in his feet and hands spread up his legs and into his chest. "So, this is death at last," the gruff voice spoke as if in some final defiance of his fate. There was no one to hear him talk to himself out here--no one to note his madness seeping out into the world.
He let himself sink into the snow up to his knees, and stayed still for the first time in... well, in a very long time. What little strength he had left quickly dissipated then as he stopped moving, stopped generating his own heat. Eventually he fell the rest of the way into the snow. Oddly, it felt comforting to be surrounded, almost warming, to lie in the snow like this. He closed his eyes.
Flashes of light assaulted his eyelids. Images of lives long since passed, ghosts that refused to leave him. A little girl with wide, accusing eyes reached out to him and he recoiled on instinct.
Reluctantly, his eyes peeled back open. He grasped, painstakingly slow-moving in his condition, for the communicator tucked safely into his belt pouch. In one last effort of humanity, he opened a line of communication with the rest of the world--with the rest of the trapped souls lost wandering in this snowy desert. His lips cracked--that was familiar though always from heat and not the cold before--as he forced a few last words from his cold mouth.
He gave them, anyone who would listen, a warning. A warning that the path he had taken was not a viable option for survival. He stayed awake long enough to hear an affirmative from at least one person. It was enough.
He closed his eyes. No ghosts accosted him.
He died.
III. And additionally: