STYX-52

Human skeleton, human heart, divine inner workings; an otherworldly gas that melds together with residual radiation from a horrific, global catastrophe, a deceased man, and a little bit of mold to create a somewhat botched resurrection. Back from the dead and beyond proud about it. Everybody welcome THE STUPENDOUS STYX-52, your resident skeleton, friend, protector and crumpet fan.

## STYX-52

"THE STUPENDOUS STYX-52, THAT'S EXACTLY WHO IS!"

## Basic Information

### Aliases

STINKS, STICKS, ANYTHING YOU COULD COME UP WITH !!!

### Affiliation

THE BLIGHTS !!!!!! (currently)SHADESTUMP !!!!!!!! (formerly)

## Physical Information

### Origin

PHANTOM??!? (currently)UNDEAD!!!! (formerly)

### Weight

The global average human's skeleton weighs approximately 9.3kg (or 20.5lbs).

### Scars

A CRACKING MASK, BROKEN BONES HERE AND THERE !!

### Unique Features

A WALKING, TALKING SKELETON WHO EMITS GAS ISN'T NOTICBLE ENOUGH???

## Biographical Information

### Religion

THE DEAR PERDITION AND NIRVANA !!!!!! (formerly)

## Relationships

### Friends

EVERYBODY!!!!!!!!! + TALBOT GRIMES I GUESS !!!!!!

### Enemies

TITAN I DON'T LIKE YOU !!!!! STOP COOKING SO MUCH MEAT ALL THE TIME !!!!!!!

## FLOYD NEWMAN

Our face behind whoever STYX-52 is, is the opposite of who he is now. A lone, boring, barely interesting but incredibly intelligent man. He wasn't a scientist, a professor. He didn’t have a name to put towards anything. Despite being so boring all of the time, the love for eccentric animals, architecture, films and music had always interested such a weird person like Newman.

Sure, he was a bit of a lover. Devotedly handing out roses, chocolates in such a stereotypical style, akin to one handing out flowers at a school prom. It was a kind and sweet gesture; the way two fingers keep a deep purple rose’s stem clamped together softly, handing it to someone who loved someone else. A pathetic failure consistently working hand and hand in broken hearts and rejection.

Romance is never a defining factor of Newman. You look at how he talked: fast, high, movements of his hands working together in a skittish pattern to demonstrate a man falling apart. He looked like a conspiracy theorist proving the existence of UFOs, cryptids, otherworldly beasties. The erratic nature of his personality and hobbies allowed him to stand out in one of the worst ways possible.

Sitting alone, a quiet dinner. Forgetfulness striking. Or so Newman thinks. The putrid stench of human death crowds itself around the head of the lonely. A tightening of his chest - Has something died? - quick thought. You could see what was creating this smell, an ever-changing, almost human figure inching closer. The face of a rat, the effluvia of plague. A burning match. The offensive look, hunch and crack of a nonexistent corporeal form. The incomprehensible personification of death’s minions. A mutter for complete redemption from one more stolen life.

The being’s unfathomable form, bringing the match closer and closer to a dark smoke cloud. It connected to Floyd’s body, everything conceivable orifice. Every part of the small home, everything around it. Shroud’s final life, the match making contact with a divine, overwhelmingly flammable gas. The being disappears with Newman’s life. Complete combustion, expansion, burning of his soul and body. An unrecoverable body and a mysterious cold case.

## PERDITION AND NIRVANA

Purgatory’s waiting room. Matching ceiling and tiles, a char-grilled Newman stands in front of two goddesses. The ones your modern day, devout Christian grandmother pray to - But in the form of two pin-up drag queens. His hands fiddling against the clip-on bowtie in his hand, a remainder from the rat’s surprise BBQ. Floyd's scared expression only contrasted the calm look of the room. To say that he was calm was nothing more than a lie, if anything, he was more worried about whether or not he would make his way into Heaven and skip past whatever lied in the deep dark depths of Hell.

The ladies looked upon this depressing being with laughter, chortles. The story of people dying due to a Hound’s greed to ascend was a classic, and it never got old.

Nirvana (Heaven) almost looked up at the 6’3 corpse. Hands covered her face to hide a growing, reddened smile. Immediate judgment. Her chains clinked, glistening under fluorescence. Her significantly larger partner, Perdition (Hell), kept snickering at the misfortune and presentation of such a smaller being.

Perdition's presentation was nothing short of fantastic. A tall, slim goddess adorned with jewels and gold. She was known to be fairly kind, despite being the renowned leader of Hell, second in command to the powers that eradicate evil and sin from a living world. Her entire getup was akin to that of a stereotypical succubus. White horns wrapped around her face, every laugh coming out as a "*HOOOOR, HOOR HOOOOR HOOR!!!!!!"*

Nirvana took Perdition's entire look and almost flipped it around to be everything it isn't. She appeared a lot more modestly, yet somehow keeping a desirable presentation. She was *significantly* shorter than all of the people in the room, and her temper matched that height. Chains and bejeweled fabric hung over her shoulders, her gaze sharper than anyone in the room. Brutal.

“Nirvana?”

A call, hands meeting his own. An instant passing by, a cleanup of the skeleton. The woman of his dreams lying on a table, the visualization of her pure heart hovering above her chest. The telepathic calls of Heaven’s Lovely Mother calling for protection; save her, save yourself. Floyd did nothing but good in his waking life, his pathetic behaviors somewhat redeemable by a task given to new angels.

This new task given was to simply protect the woman he was just shown, no matter how he did it, as long as he could devout his life to keeping her alive, he would be given a badge or recognition within this otherworldly place. He needed that sort of boost, something to get him noticed by not just one, but by a lot of people. Childishly, he wanted to rise to the top of Heaven's ranks, and become the best guardian angel that anyone had ever managed to meet.

And that quickly failed. Between years of protection, a desperate plea to catch his living crush’s dream, It wasn't right to say that this lonely man WASN'T attracted to this lady he swore to protect. Just down the road in the living life, Floyd’s feet missing the edge of a curb. Along the pavement, he walked, tripping. His heavenly hologram reveals itself to frighten this girl. A hand slipping and letting go of his protector’s item: a fragile lantern to exterminate threat. And in her desperate attempt to find out what this being before her was, she tripped in the same matter as Newman, directly into Heaven’s divine gas, and succumbed to a painful poisoning, eventual, premature death.

Before long, faced within a darkened courtroom, Perdition and Nirvana holding onto each other’s thighs, waists, calling from the judge’s bench. A gavel aimed for his head, ARES-00’s arm fastening itself to Newman’s shoulder, the human mask staring needles into his skeletal heart. The rest of the HOUNDs made their way behind the security of the jury box. Left with what looked like the remains of a high school class pet as a lawyer, and the deathly pale, bloody stare from the lady he once protected, the goddesses of heaven and hell sentenced Floyd to the grueling task of one hundred million souls to redeem himself to Heaven’s warm embrace.

To be methodical with each of an angel’s movements, the childish act of falling over due to swooning over a woman, killing her in the most comedic way possible, the harrowing laugh erupted from the two women who ruled over such a vast concept. Every single gaze that lied upon his body called for the personal crave of a second death. It wasn’t long before the cries from the jury box erupted, everything around the room brightening to a blinding level. The call from the two goddesses gave Mr. Newman a new life. Despite now being sentenced to Hell, he was cradled; told that everything would be alright. And that this new life would bring nothing more but true happiness to him.

## NUMBER 52

A lot of the next part remains to be a blurry part in everyone’s history. The visuals of Hell, characterized as an underground city akin to those written in generic cyber fantasy, presents itself as a colourful, painful blur to anyone who had ever managed to step foot in such a place. It wasn’t long before STYX-52 eradicated a soul here, a soul there, without making any real movements towards the goal of one hundred million souls.

It's safe to say that Floyd Newman was never given what he asked for, nor was he given anything that he was promised.

He was given a lantern, one that was visually similar to that he held during his own divine occupation. Black and purple. The dark and foul smelling gas that leaked from cracks in the glass. It smelt like pestilence, methane, death. Incredibly similar to the scent that eradicated his insides.

The HOUNDs use a specific form when traversing the living world. Almost all appear as gaseous holograms consisting of whatever compounds are available at the time, as well as a slight mix of divine power. The otherworldly gas that stays in the overworld is impossible to pick up with science, molecules appearing completely the same as carbon and oxygen. It is unknown what can change the color of the gaseous compound to allow it to be visible to human eyes, but has been written to change depending on lighting and somehow, whatever class of HOUND the attacker is.

You wouldn’t believe how incredibly naked you feel when your skeletal chest is exposed for hundreds to see. It isn’t just STYX-52 who has this feeling, every single new HOUND feels the same.

A decline became noticeable in STYX-52’s behavior, and during a conversation with Perdition;

“I don’t think I can do a hundred million, it’s agonizingly absurd--”

“You talk like us, 52. Where are you now?”

“Nine forty one.”

“Nine hundred and forty one? Are you purposely taking your time?”

“It’s as fast as I could possibly go, great goddess.”

“Who are you?”

“Who- STYX. Number 52 - Who are you?”

## BECOMING STYX-52

We’ll skip over this part; explanations of a skeleton’s descent into complete madness. Our friend, buddy, realized something was wrong on the same day as his 200 thousandth kill. Going through the entirety of living in the afterlife, the divine gas felt different - Made up of primarily what was available, it felt organic. It glowed, almost. It hurt to touch other organic matter, the descending soul of human evil, the air floating around him.

STYX-52 really began to feel something wrong, between a loud laugh of another secured kill, a muttered prayer, it set the lantern down. Standing over a bloody mess, the skin from the evil’s neck mostly residing underneath fingernails, eyes rolled back, motionless. A human thought came to the careless skeleton’s empty head.

“HELLO?”

He chirped, squatting down, hovering above the man’s chest. The human pain in his hands shot through the entire system as he reached for the deadman’s wrist, holding it up to a non-existent ear, checking for a pulse. There was one, but it was barely holding on. A realization hit as it looked towards the back of the corpse’s hand. A moldlike entity cultivating, almost pulsating against human flesh. Purple and blue - Surely, this sort of substance couldn’t be THAT bad!

And as any smart person WOULDN’T do, STYX-52 comedically placed the tip of his mask to the growing matter. Giving it a good sniff. Or sense?

Bad idea,

“A VERY VERY BAD IDEA!!!”

It was only a matter of seconds before this gaseous being lost its balance, whatever this organic matter - if it even was organic - hit divinity like a truck. A yelp, human reaction emanating from a trembling soul. STYX-52 fell backwards, directly onto the man freshly killed. Dissipating, dissolving skin.

Whatever this mold was, the theory lied that whatever happened decades ago was the leading cause of this phenomenon. A heavy feeling in the air. Synthetic matter. Non humans. He had heard talk about two souls that had managed to defy death more than once, despite decaying. Under close inspection by investigators of purgatory. STYX-52 had heard distant chat from other Hellfolk and from human beings, dubbing this cataclysmic event as the Aberration.

Only a dumb man wouldn’t take notice of the extreme lack of conversation, growing international conflict, lack of everything around them. The world was a desolate wasteland and was only growing back thanks to survivors and mutated beings. The goddesses labeled these inhuman abominations as Aberrants, something that was only fitting to an event called the Aberration.

These seconds of tripping and falling over onto a dead body felt like hours. It was a transfer of consciousness. It came to the gas’ comprehension soon enough, when human eyes made their way into a snapping motion. STYX-52 was the pilot to a deceased flesh sack. And this mortal body would only take years of sped up decomposition to eventually turn into nothing but a skeleton. Eyes made their way to a dulled out lantern, stained purple glass reflecting back a deathlike stare. A plague doctor’s mask, the exact same donned in Hell.

Nothing was breathing, nothing was smelling, but everything was feeling. Skip over this part - Three years on, skeletal! STYX-52’s realization that he was back in the living world came when he realized that any sort of soul transfer back to the nether regions turned futile. Back to square one!

## BEING STYX-52

Dear goodness, where would one even want to begin with what Mr. Newman had turned into?

STYX-52 is a loving, caring, overtly annoying piece of divine, radioactive gas and human remains. Its overbearingly loud and eccentric personality coupled with a powerful accent combined into one gorgeously endearing character. He stood tall; taller than some. Most. It was hard to say or pinpoint exactly what made his height shoot up. Considering that the real skeleton that he walks around and parades in was nothing more than 6 feet tall. Gas? Who knows!

His personality didn't move south, rather, it went upwards, backwards, to the moon and back, and all around the place. However staying true to a loud-mouthed creature. Just as much as a romantic as his first life, however coming off a lot more smoother, less force used to find love as he felt as if it came naturally (It doesn't!). It talks with a heavy amount of alliteration, emphasising descriptors and giving almost everyone he came across a nickname; an adjective using the same starting letter as their first name.

STYX-52 believed in total peace for all. After reanimating, it saw life as something that should be cared for, and something that should be protected. A lot of his time working under Nirvana's rule made him feel as if he should protect others in any way possible, even if they appeared or acted bad to him in any sort of way. He didn't see real evil until it was put up to his face, and even then, while still wanting to complete his redemption tasks for the goddesses above, he wouldn't eradicate until the time was right. He wouldn't harm a fly, and would worry about stepping on certain flowers if he knew they would never grow back. It was careful, gentle, mindful of its inconstant behaviours.

After years of being inside a flesh suit, whatever was left on the bones eventually decayed and disintegrated back into Terrian (Aberrant)'s earth, just how things should be. Parading as a skeleton was much easier than looking like a rotting corpse, and was more socially accepted in a place where mutants ran wild. STYX-52 kept to himself, somewhat, keeping nomadic for a significant amount of time on this new plane. Nearly 180 years since his death and he still believes that he can find the remains of his original house - wanting to have that final steak dinner of his in the same dining room.

He settled on a self-made abode in the middle of a muddy swamp. Bad idea; the stench of those frogs linger within the mask and will continue to linger for as long as it lived.

These years allowed readjustment to a growing society, where this being eventually stumbled across a quaint, quiet town. It was something from before the Aberration. You could tell easily by the architecture, the history that was carved into the dark wood, desire paths, the ghost that spoke kindly from his own office. He had the opportunity to learn more about this place, eventually calling the small Shadestump home. Naturally, he gained a banjo, cowboy hat, something to fit into the aesthetic in the most humorous way possible.

The beginning of friendships begin right here. An undying, devoted, waggish love towards the small town's Sheriff. Casual conversations with a moth sibling, and a little bit of playful ruckus shared between the two. Distant memories of an arachnid boy and their good friend, a great, friendly giant. The INSUFFERABLE flea that did EVERYTHING to annoy STYX-52 in every way possible. And every single other person who had set foot within a 2 mile radius of this giggly mass of bones.

And yet, despite living away from Heaven and Hell for just over 50 years, it couldn't help but want to succeed in finalizing a redemption task. A hurdle that encompassed his life for as long as STYX-52 thought about it. One hundred million souls, it drove a man into further stress and pain the more and more that man even wanted to think about it.

## BLIGHT-52

What's a life without a little bit of deviousness in the form of raiding the emperor's things? Despite a treaty being signed by the Emperor and the Sheriff of both Inferno Empire and Shadestump, that would NEVER stop someone as silly and goofy as STYX-52. Besides, the raid was nothing more than a single man job, and mostly consisted of opening and closing belonging before finding a unique gem, something CLEARLY from another realm and something that should NEVER be touched or played with EVER.

Over time, STYX-52 started to notice abnormal things happening. There was something beyond peculiar about this gem. It wasn't that it was otherworldly, or that it never came from the risen ground of Heaven or sunken depths of Hell. No, this gem *talked*, it almost glowed, it made STYX-52 feel colder than it already was. After never learning anything the first time, STYX-52 beak pressed against the surface of this gemstone, but didn't feel anything. One's first course of action was to set it up in a basement, treat it like a human being; stay hospitable. And that's exactly what this birdbrain did. It talked with the gem, often. It talked about it's previous lives, how it came to be, what it endured over time. The somewhat doubtful existence of Heaven and Hell. What its goals were, what redemption meant. How hopeless STYX-52 felt, how he felt as if the goddesses he once loved never wanted anything to do with him again.

Every single conversation with the gem made STYX-52 feel more and more human, almost as if the events of his life never panned out in the way that he did. There was a deep security that he felt when talking to such a random object, even if it was spreading a different dimension's flora. The nice feeling of having something to talk to. The security of not being judged. He assumed. This deep rooted trust to a disembodied voice had only set him up for complete manipulation. Blind devotion. Whoever this voice was connected to, STYX-52 saw it as a godlike figure.

The night of Shadestump's occasional event, the Blood Bowl, rolled around. As the story goes, the beloved Sheriff was taken before everybody's eyes. Snatched and lost. Those attending were met with the face of a familiar voice, a threat. The Blighted Man - Talbot Grimes.

The gazed shared between the two allowed STYX-52 to believe that every promise made by this cosmic entity would come true. He was disarmed, he followed with such minimal hesitation. And again, blinded by devotion.