Lord Chuckles, Avatar of Good

Other Aliases: LC, the Avatar, Chuckles, the Smart One, Chuckleton Turnpike, Lord Chucklebruff of Avatarstonia

Planet of Origin: Moritania

Known Relatives: Mieta (mother, deceased); Lord Geoff (brother, believed dead); Oats McJunkett (”legal” guardian, fate unknown)

•••

Lord Chuckles’s troubles began the moment he was born.

He was brought into the Storyverse in a rush of blood and fluid on the planet Moritania–a real backwater, swords and sorcery kind of place, a place whose citizens spent most of their time waiting for prophecies (apparently written by more interesting people) to be fulfilled rather than, say, doing stuff.

One such prophecy, dictated by the Large Prophet Tem-Tem, spoke of a dark-haired hero with a strawberry birthmark who would be the living will of the gods and the hero of all Moritania. Eventually the day and the hour of the prophecy arrived and a goodly peasant woman gave unto the world her firstborn son: a flaxen-haired, fair skinned lad…

…sans birthmark.

This led to a considerable amount of embarrassment on the part of several high priests. Until, Lo! A dark twin followed on the heels of the first, wriggling free, birthmark and all. Face was saved, as was the proverbial day. In order to avoid any inconvenient questions, the firstborn was given to the midwife to discard. Taking pity on the mewling little peckerhead, she sneaked the child onto a passing garbage scow, the I.S.S. Unappealing (others might suggest this still equates to “throwing him away;” history will be the judge!).

Here under the watchful hand of Captain Oats “Sweaty” McJunkett, the boy was raised on a strict diet of table scraps and beer floaters. He honed the skills he would need to be a hero dodging canned goods thrown at him as part of the crew’s nightly sport: “Throw Cans at the Boy.”

It was the good Captain who named the boy Chuckles–named after the only thing the boy was worth, by the Captain’s estimation. Thus was the lot of the future Avatar of Good as he grew into a young man. It was on the eve of his 18th Birthday that the crew abandoned him on some… random, hillbilly planet.

As fate would have it, it was the same random, hillbilly planet upon which he was born.

Chuckles stumbled around his native land long enough to gather the impression that whoever ran the place was a real jerk. A real jerk who turned out to be his twin brother, the supposed Hero of Moritania, Lord Geoff. Inevitably, as these stories are wont to do, this one ended in sibling struggle and fratricide.

I would love to tell you that the people of Moritania held a big parade, learned a lesson about relying too heavily upon prophecy, and all lived happily ever after. I’d also like to remind the reader that one out of three isn’t bad (though really, the parade wasn’t all that big).

Having freed the land from the tyranny of his dark brother, Chuckles was knighted and asked to please be on his way. The reign of Lord Geoff had soured the populace on the idea of heroes hanging around the capital too long, lest they take over and start breaking things.

Chuckles—now, Lord Chuckles—wandered the land of his birth, felling foul giants, smiting the naughty, and bedding lusty maidens by the score. He was not, however, entirely satisfied with his life. Sure, the troll killing was fine sport, and lusty maidens were their own reward, but still something remained missing.

Then one day, fat with fortune, a single slip of paper found its way to him. A prize, he thought, for slaying the mighty swamp ogre of Mineas Brae (sometimes these guys just dropped treasure out of nowhere!).

The paper read: “Redeemable for One Free Sundae, courtesy of the Cosmic Paisley Wormhole McHappy’s.”

That sounded a heckadang bit better than what he was getting around here, he mused. Lord Chuckles promptly went about finding an untarnished cedar grove and a 33rd-level Druid to begin his adventures off-world.

As a Shadowstory.

•••

Grebok, Son of Drogmar, Keeper of the Seven Keys of Ventoozlar

Other Aliases: Grebok, Grebok SOD, The Keykeeper, The Miradorian, Greb-Greb, Grebokalypse

Planet of Origin: Mirador

Known Relatives: Drogmar, son of Blumgargh, Hero of the Realm (father, deceased); Lady Adelia, Keeper of the Seven Keys of Ventoozlar (mother, deceased); Sera, Lady of Fellowplane Keep (sister)

—

Grebok was born of two worlds. Well, not literally. Really, he was born on Mirador. One world and done. However, in the more poetic sense that I’m employing, he was born of two.

You’ll see what I’m going for in a second.

Mirador, like Grebok, was complex and full of contradiction. It was equal parts magic and science. The world was populated by elves, orcs, dwarves and shit, but also hosted a fully functional space navy, domed cities, and moon bases. They had this whole sci-fi/fantasy vibe going for them. Very Japanime. It’s like a teenager came up with it.

His father’s side was populated by a long line of barbarian tribesmen, indigent peoples of the plains and mountains surrounding the planetary capital of Ventoozlar. They were a spirited, adventuresome people who successfully resisted every attempt to eradicate them or simply make them put on a proper pair of pants.

His mother’s side was of noble blood, an off-shoot of several Houses that fancied themselves very important to the daily goings on of Ventoozlar. His mother was awarded Fellowplane Keep and charged with keeping the mythical Seven Keys of Ventoozlar by merit of being born first, or something.

Lady Adelia, as ladies are wont to do, got herself into some peril one faithful night, which Drogmar, as heroes are wont to do, rescued her from. Despite her best breeding, she found something roguish and exciting about her rescuer, even though he could be accurately described as looking like several apes in a car accident. She threw herself at him in hopes of stealing his heart as he had stolen hers.

Nine months later, she gave birth to a baby girl, and found that the man of her dreams still spent most of his time provoking fire drakes and pirates.  She wooed him a second time, and this time a boy child was born, surely a baby boy would melt his stoic heart. He liked him fine enough, he explained, just like the wee girl-child. Still he spent most of his nights head-butting Yetis and other such derring-do.

Thus Grebok grew up between these two worlds (remember,  figuratively), neglected by each in equal measure.  His father eventually succumbed to a Yeti with a particularly rigid forehead, and his mother to heartbreak. Grebok was saddled with the tasks of the noble half of the family, while having the head and heart of his father’s barbarian clans.

He tried his best. He matriculated at the Miradorian Academy for Arts and War, joined the Space Navy, and went about learning what was proper of a man of his station. He then threw all of that out the window, and left Fellowplane Keep and Ventoozlar behind to go tear-assing around Mirador getting into trouble. The adventurer’s blood ran too deep in his veins.

He saw many sights, and made many friends (and enemies) in his travels, but still his thirst for adventure remained unquenched. Even flying to far off moons grew less and less exceptional. Until one day, while on a dungeon crawl with a group he hooked up with at a tavern, he found an ancient and mysterious slip of paper. The text held the answers to all that ailed him.

It read: “Redeemable for One Free Sundae, courtesy of the Cosmic Paisley Wormhole McHappy’s.”

Where was this far off place with their exotic treats and siren’s call? He had to know. The very next day he stole a Miradorian Personal Starfighter and trekked out into the great unknown to forge a brand new destiny.

As a Shadowstory.

•••

Sparky the Wonder Weasel

Other Aliases: The Wonder Weasel (as well as several misappropriations such as the Fabulous Ferret, the Extraordinary Ermine, the Momentous Marten, etc.), Sparkington Wordsworth VonDingleberry

Planet of Origin: Science Station Alpha-Beta Soup

Known Relatives: Sprinkles (mother, deceased), Subject A42-3B (father, deceased), Subject A19-12C (grandfather, deceased), Subject A04-1A (great-grandfather, deceased)

•••

As a young mustela nivalis vulgaris, Subject C07-18B was already exceptionally gifted and strong. Tested over several generations, the growth and intelligence enhancers were having a significant effect. Sparky—so-called for his penchant for picking the wrong kibble switch—showed the most promise. He advanced in size, strength, and general bad attitude; his test scores were off the charts, and before long he was the only test subject of his class still standing.

By the time the subject was four feet long and smoking, the team felt good about moving ahead with their military strain of weasel, Codename: W.O.N.D.E.R. (Weaponized Omnivore. Nimbly Destructive. Enlarged Rodent—that weasels aren’t rodents wasn’t high on their science checklist.) It was while the project benefactor, Professor D.C. Ottgar, was off garnering buyer interest that Sparky—now over five feet tall, and having recently taken everyone’s money in a dice game—had what the staff called “a psychotic break.”

After all his years of being experimented on, tested, and tortured, what was it that made this small window of time so noteworthy? It was then that his dear sainted mother, Sprinkles—named for her history in synchronized swimming as well as her incontinence—passed away from an overdose of lipstick to the brain. His last familial tie severed with a cherry red smear, a lifetime of abuse came to bear upon Sparky all at once.

His captors had gone too far.

He would show them what he’d learned. He would show them how much he’d grown. He’d show them that he was no longer the tyke who had a nasty habit of second-guessing live currents.

He slipped out of his cage at night, injected himself with the last of the W.O.N.D.E.R. serum, and went human hunting.

To the man, they died screaming.

Afterward, he took control of the research station and piloted it off into the wild black-with-white-speckles yonder. It didn’t take long for his legend to spread. From cage to cage, department to department, laboratory station to laboratory station, the legend of Sparky, the Wonder Weasel, champion to test animals everywhere, spread like wildfire.

Truth was, he didn’t give much of a crap. He had known all along that they maced monkeys, electrocuted rabbits, and garishly mascara-ed mice. This was about his mum.

Solicited or not, he became a savior.

He took to the role slowly, though whether through any true sense of justice or just as a self-righteous excuse to kill people remained unclear. Either way, he grew tired over the years of the bleated praise and ooked affirmations of his so-called peers.

So it was a great relief when he found the slip of paper in the pocket of the lab jacket the great apes made him wear. “Redeemable for One Free Sundae, courtesy of the Cosmic Paisley Wormhole McHappy’s,” it said.

That sounded a stretch of a lot better than waiting for these half-wits to figure out the flushable toilets. Sparky told his (literal) monkey crew that he’d be right back, and took the only remaining escape pod.

Whether he was ever a champion, savior, or hero, or not. He soon found himself in the perfect position.

As a Shadowstory.

•••

Gunther P. Washington

Other Aliases: Gunther, the Tow-Head, the Geek, the Mistake

Planet of Origin: Roofius Maximus

Known Relative: Gertrude Meredith Washington nee Andrews (mother), Gustavus Reginald Washington IV (father, deceased)

•••

Gunther P. Washington was always such a nice boy. He loved his mother and did what he was told.

He grew, as all kids do, with big dreams. But on his 12^th birthday, shortly after his father died, he marched off into the fluorescent, cubicle jungle, where those dreams were slowly strangled.

Rather than admit to soul-crushing defeat as so many of his peers had, Gunther bought into this new system with an exuberance that was almost supernatural. It was as if he were born to perform menial tasks and data entry. He lived to file multiple forms to request office supplies or attach cover sheets designed to track and monitor work flow. Don’t even get him started on spreadsheets.

This sunshine-y attitude and can-do spirit had an unfortunate side effect. Gunther’s chirruping good will and blithe denial made him completely unbearable to those who had the dignity to have their souls crushed in peace. To spend any amount of time with him was to want to murder him in the head with a three-hole punch.

Some unseen quality about Gunther just begged to have his eyes stapled shut, or his body pushed down stairs, or his face burned with scalding coffee. Dark whispers promised passers-by it would make them feel better if they would only but ball up their fist and strike his doughy, pale head. It was like a martial art, only in reverse.

This made Gunther very difficult to employ for long periods of time. No matter how pristine his attendance or efficient his output, one just couldn’t have him sharing a cubicle with anyone but the spare printer. Even then, you felt like the printer was only one more showtune away from going sickhouse on the guy.

Thus was the revolving door of Gunther’s existence. The more life pushed him down, however, the more he seemed to push right back up. So it was with a smile in his heart that he stood in the unemployment lines of Squar.

He was behind a particularly ominous-looking mountain of a gentleman holding a morning star and wearing bespiked armor when Gunther’s luck seemed to change for the better. A single slip of paper descended from the ceiling and landed in front of him as the line moved forward. Curiosity rewarded the cat, he reminded himself as he picked it up.

“Redeemable for One Free Sundae, courtesy of the Cosmic Paisley Wormhole McHappy’s,” it told him.

Happy day!

It was a reward from the universe for being such a good boy.

He had exactly one more day on his bus card. His mother might be cross with him, but how could he deny the serendipity of his good fortune?

As the coupon’s intended target, Gunthar P. Warmachine, moved up to the tiny reinforced window, Gunther was already gone, paper in hand.

Little did he know, destiny had other plans for him.

As a Shadowstory.

•••

Lord of the Lemmings

Other Aliases: Lemming Man, Lemming Lord, The Arvicolinurgist, The Rodentomancer, The Weirdo, Lawrence of the Labia.

Planet of Origin: Unknown

Known Relatives: Unknown, he may have an Uncle Danny but that cannot be corroborated.

•••

The enigma known as the Lord of the Lemmings was… an enigma.

Nothing was known about him: who he was or where he came from.  Was he a hominid, or a coalition of rodents that formed a sort of shambling collective pretending to be a man?

All anyone knew about the guy came from his own lips—which, presumed he even had lips—and was often implausible, far-reaching and downright contradictory. Realistically, the only verifiable factoid was that he sure knew a lot of lemmings, and they seemed content to do his bidding.

He produced an endless supply of the fat-bodied sonsofbitches from his flowing cloak which appeared to be stitched out of the very stuff of blackness. How he did it, where the lemmings came from (or went), where they got their training, or whether he was wearing anything under that robe is anybody’s guess.

Was he born with the ability to commune with this very specific type of rodent, or was it a power bestowed upon him by the cloak? Was he bit by a radioactive lemming, or maybe his mom slept with a were-lemming or something. Did they have those? Probably somewhere, right? Did he choose to lord over lemmings, were they all that was left, or did they choose him? Was there really such as thing as the Great Big Lemming? Or was he really becoming a god?

All good questions.

Oh… you wanted answers?

Shit if I know, dude. That’s what he said.

Have you tried talking to this guy? He’s really off-putting.

Alright, fine, this is a Bio, so I should probably try and give you something for your trouble.

Umm….

Alright, don’t rush me. Hold on.

He’s the only member of the Shadowstories who wasn’t invited—well, technically neither was Gunther, but he at least had a coupon for a free Sundae. The Lord of the Lemmings crashed the recruitment process, claiming it was his destiny to be a Shadowstory. That it was a step on his path to eventual godhood. I guess being the lord of a much maligned off-shoot of the vole family isn’t his long term goal.

The Bastard Sun was about to kick him out, when Lord Chuckles stopped him and invited the freak to stay. Mostly to piss off the Bastard Sun. Due to his own ruling that the Shadowstories could deputize as needed, the Sun was forced to comply.

Chuckles has thought better of it a few times, but the guy is really handy. He pulls all kinds of shit out of that cloak of his. Well, all kinds of lemming shit, but you’d be surprised how often that’s what you need in this line of work.

So, he’s hung around this long. Occasionally mumbling cryptic shit about his impending godhood, or what the Great Big Lemming has to say about this or that. Real loony garbage that they try not to pay attention to.

Well, there it is. That’s what we know about the guy. He’s a fucking puzzle who’s proven he’s got what it takes to be a hero, when he’s not acting all bird-eating, pants-shitting crazytown.

What?

Oh!

Er… as a Shadowstory.

•••

Routine-Class Teuton-Drive Psyche-Infused Astromobile 10001

Other Aliases: R.T., R.T.P., Rootin’ Tootin’ Psychomobile, Ship, Rhododendron Tonsil Probe

Planet of Origin: Interdimensional Wormhole #606

Known Relatives: Chief Brilliant-With-Tools (Lead Design/Foreman), Bastard Sun (Original Concept/Bankroll)

•••

Her first memory was of pudgy, little fingers putting her insides together.

Her first sense of self-awareness was that her rear supplementary fuse case itched a little.

Her first sense of exo-awareness was recognizing her creator’s face.

Routine-Class Teuton-Drive Psyche-Infused Astromobile—or R.T.P. 10001 for short—was fully and officially on-line for only one hour before she met her maker. Literally. He was a giant flaming ball with a face that wore a look of perpetual constipation.

She was detached from her chassis at the time so she had no chance to curtsy or show her open weapon ports, which only added to the surreality of the exchange.

Her mission was explicitly stated. The meaning of her life was made clear: she was built to be a hero among heroes who were themselves heroes among heroes.

Shadowstories, he called them. These heroes patrolled the borders between stories, keeping them in their proper place. As such it required an alarming dimness (seriously, none of them were what you’d call bright), hence it was something of a high turnover position.

She was constructed to add continuity.

She could go anywhere, keep up with any hero, and was awarded facility in all measures of heroism. She was granted intelligence, adaptability, a full complement of weaponry, and a dash of shape-changing for good measure. Her body was composed of metallic plasmas forged in the heart of suns, her processors ran on BioRam only available in the far-flung future, and her DNA was a cherry-picked soup of genius-level heroes from across the Storyverse.

She was the first recorded were-spaceship, serving as interstellar/internarrative transport and companion to his newest batch of Shadowstories.

Since her invention, R.T.P. 10001—or R.T. for shorter—has proved an epic success in every way but one. While designed to keep up in skill, and strength with any hero born, prophesied, or forged, the intelligence she was allowed left her with lingering questions about the craft.

Questions unbecoming of a hero.

She considered actions before taking them. She scrutinized. She avoided obvious traps adding needless man-hours to otherwise simple smash-and-grab heroing.

Her inaugural batch of Shadowstories are all still alive, so she’s certainly doing the job, but on occasion she has struggled with her unique condition. Was she machine? Was she man—er, woman? Was she hero? Which was the real her and in which world did she belong?

Most AIs totally bored her with their servile prattling and constant excusing themselves when she asked why they let themselves be ordered around. Most lifeforms found her creepy, including sometimes her own peers. And while the team accepted her capability, they often counted her as odd-man out. On a team with Gunther P.Washington. That hurts.

Still, she lived and learned (which is more than we can say for those other a-holes). She hoped someday to find her place in the Storyverse.

As a Shadowstory.