"I am Scourge of a thousand realms, Breaker of countless wills, Defiler of numberless women and Harbinger of the Final Madness. You may call me... Frank."

This towering, ashen-skinned figure is immediately and irrevocably /wrong/ to any sane being who lays eyes upon it. Though not outwardly horrifying, there is a faint, unsettling assurance that he should not be, that he simply should not exist. In those possessed of lawful blood, beyond any mere mortal credo, this disquiet would likely mount to an utter revulsion. Those of Slaadi blood may find his presence more tasteful than most, but Frank is not a Slaadi, and his chaos is not theirs.

With a head vaguely reminicient of an illithid, albeit possessed of a firmer structure, many would immediately mark him for one of the psionic monsters. It is an expressionless visage, at first glance, though one might hypothesize the facial tentacles to be rather revealing of Frank's features. The eyes burn with a dull, yellow light, the glowing slits offering an intensity and quiet malice that is unnerving to make direct eye contact with. The tentacles themselves are similar to a mind flayer's, the underside lined with small suctiony nodules and having an pinkish-tint. These suckers have a slimy, odd liquid that seeps from them - it is cold, scentless and tastes vaguely salty. Beneath the tentacles rests a maw of teeth, sharp and perfect for piercing flesh or, indeed, crunching bone, should enough force be applied. There is a tongue behind it, long and tubular, though it is rarely brought forth.

His skin is rough and firm, utterly lacking in hair, and stretched over a muscular frame. Frank's impressive height makes his bulk seem slightly less intimidating at first glance, but the sheer definitiion is nigh on perfect and casts away any suspicions that one might have of his being an illithid. While his torso is covered in criss-crossed, faded scars, his stomach is typically wrapped in thick, gauzy cloth. Despite his size, he does not seem slow - in fact, the abberation moves with deceptive speed and finesse.

His back has a large tattoo, reminiscient of an inverted Omega symbol. The border is a thick, black tentacle, separated by an inch from the body of the symbol, that appears to wriggle and writhe when viewed out of the corner of an eye. In the center is an eye, partially lidded, penned in black. The iris is exquisitely detailed, though the pattern of rods and cornea never remain the same between two glances.

Similar tattoos exist on his biceps - they mimic the border of the massive image on Frank's back, slithering idly while not directly observed, and are lined with a series of dots. The tattoo is continuous around his bicep, forming a ring that, despite the gradually thinning tip of the tentacle, never seems to have an end or beginning.

The aberration has, thus far, seemed peculiarly well formed - and this continues below. Following the sculpt of his muscles down, one would find something questionable between his powerful thighs. The offering itself is perhaps standard, in this land - two shafts, both almost as thick as his meaty wrist, and lengthy to boot, coming in at /easily/ a foot and a half in length, if not more. It arguably depends upon his tastes for the moment. The shafts are smooth, themselves, with a few veins bulging at arousal and leading up to a dark, gleaming crown, circled by several soft nubs that excrete a concotion reminiscient both of his pre-seed and of the fluid from his tentacles. The nubs continue for half an inch down the shaft, in a non-uniform arrangement around the girth. The resevoir from which his pipes draw lie below the shafts, two bulbous, swollen nuts that are generat copious amounts of virile, amorphous seed, capable of breeding with any species and adding its own touch of aberrant corruption. Their capacity seems hardly restrained by mortal reasoning, and Frank can quite likely control exactly how much he outputs at any given time.

Above his toned rear swishes a thick tail, tubular almost to the end before tapering slightly and widening into a bulb of sorts. This opens, with four flaps of flesh, pushing forth a shiny, wet ovipositor - it would appear that the tail is not used for balance or sense, but is instead another opportunity for him to spread his issue. Offspring from these eggs cleave much closer to the nature of the Far Realm - aboleths, squid-like horrors, and other betentacled abominations hatch at a startling rate.

His offspring mature fast, mentally and physically, and have an instinctual bent towards the chaotic - though this is by no means an absolute.

Typically, he wears pants - they end at his feet, and have a hole to accomodate the thick tail that pokes through. They are Calimshite in design and fabric, a soft but robust material. When they don't end in boots, Frank rises on massive, clawed feet, reminiscient of a dragon. How he wears boots without destroying them likely comes down to the fact that his form is only presented as it is due to his own pleasure.

"You succeed only in delaying the inevitable. We will take this world for our own, and shatter it to Our liking."

Frank is an aberration. Frank is not his real name. Frank hails from a realm beyond mortal ken, one of incomprehensible, shapeless figures, writhing masses of amorphous tentacles and scores of aberrant monstrosities let loose upon the Prime Material. Frank is bound by his Mistress, a tiny slip of a Calimshite girl. How he ended up in this predicament is anyone's guess, including Frank's.

His mind is a shifting sieve - a psionic would gain nothing from prying, and may risk a backlash of psionic energy so frightful that it could leave them temporarily senseless. He can communicate in Common, if with a bizarre and unpleasant accent, but much prefers to lightly invade the minds of all those naturally within earshot - in these instances, his words have a charming, deep quality, clearly audible and well-spoken. This mental touch threatens no deeper access - merely a telepathic transmission of his words.

The touch of his tentacles is an entirely different matter. When the flexible, drippy lengths apply their suckers to a hapless victim, an immediate and aggressive mental invasion begins. Poison thoughts slip into his prey's mind, allowing him to bend the mind as he sees fit - whether to inspire terror, or pleasure, or whatever else his whims may dictate. The wet secretion is also a toxin of sorts - it serves to increase the body's physical and mental sensitivity, amplifying a target's receptiveness to sensations real and imagined.

His fluids are a peculiar mix. They lack an outwardly addictive quality, but much like the excretions from his tentacles, serve as a nerve stimulator. They're an excellent lubricant, as well - slimy, viscous, and abundant. Reactions to contact vary from person to person - alignment has little to no effect on it, but if one were composed of particularly lawful or chaotic essence, they would experience a burning, horrid irritation, an itch that cannot be scratched, or a soothing, delightful tingle. The average response to those regular mortals who are not yet accustomed - or forced - to enjoying the slimy ejections of Frank is a more pronounced sense of unease than what is gained by looking upon him.  


"Your world exists as a plaything to Us. I shall make use of that."

_____________________

My lights apply only to SRP - I thoroughly enjoy regular or casual roleplay of all varieties, too.

Let's say that the GREENS are a wide, and expansive list, expansive enough that I had to remove the brief list I put down in order to make room for Yellows, Reds, and Notes. I enjoy SRP/ERP, Casual RP, Serious RP, whatever you name - you're more likely to discover a new green than a red. Just ask.  

Yellows include futas/shemales/hermaphrodites for this character, watersports. The former depends greatly on mood, the latter requires a deal of trust.

Reds are server bog-standard. No graphic death/mutilation/massive gore, no scat, nothing that violates server rules. Men, also, for this character.

As a note, I am /extremely/ tell friendly.