Morcegh (and guests)

Morcegh (and Malaria and Wimbledon) are a group of characters in the Non-Canon battle The Byzantine Consternation

Biography:
“Fuck it up.”

The Grandmaster’s hands were steepled in a sharp arch, and Morcegh stared at them glumly. It was marginally better than looking at the grinning skull that sat where a face should be, and infinitely better than looking at the fur coat whose messily stitched skins still twitched every now and then. It sat there, obscuring the worst of the Boss’s skeletal body under a dark furry mass, which Morcegh would have been grateful for if he was capable of feeling gratitude for anything at all.

“I don’t suppose I have a choice,” the bat said mournfully, rubbing his snout with a dull claw. It always itched when something bad was about to happen, which is to say constantly.

“Don’t be an idiot, Morce. Look at me. Look at my face. You can’t, can you? This is what those fucking ingrates did to me.” The Boss leaned in towards the bat, who pulled away in dismay. “This is what I get for playing nice with those sons of bitches. I let the winner live, even throw in a little favor or two, and what’s the first thing he does? He fuckin’ kills me is what he does! That sorry bastard’s gonna fuckin’ pay when I catch up to him. And while I’m doing that, you’re gonna wreck this thing to fuck. We clear? No one shows the Boss up at his own game. No one.”

Morcegh didn’t bother to point out that the Boss had already been shown up multiple times over a great number of battles, all of whose Grandmasters had somehow managed to not get themselves killed, or at least not in as quite an embarrassing manner as the Boss. The Grandmaster was still dangerous even in his current state of nebulous undeath, though, and Morcegh wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to test him. God forbid he get turned into something worse than a bat. A sponge, perhaps. At least he could fly in this state, not that that was any help.

“I’m going to get killed,” he reminded the Boss, who was now fiddling angrily with a pen that was as expensive as it was hideous. “Slowly and horribly, no doubt. I can’t actually do anything like this. I suppose I could flap at the rest of them and hope it distracts them for a while before they pull my wings off.”

The Boss grunted. “You’re not going to be doing any fighting, Morce. I’m sending Wimbledon and Malaria with you. They’ll handle the action, you just sit tight and make sure they don’t get caught.”

“Oh.” The distaste in the bat’s voice was almost palpable. “Them. Of course.”

“I wouldn’t need them if you hadn’t gotten yourself turned into a flying rat.”

“That was hardly my fault.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter, Morce. You’re a bat and those two are going with you. Just fly around and wreck everything you can find, that’s all you gotta do. Networks, rounds, contestants, all of it. Fuck it up. I want everything in ruins by the end of this shitstorm, we clear?”

Morcegh sighed. It sounded more like a squeak, and for a second he caught the briefest image of the Grandmaster rendered in soundwaves. He would have retched if he hadn’t seen it all before. “We’re clear, Boss.”

“Good.” The skull grinned at him from atop the collar of the twitching coat, ivory teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light. “I’m counting on you, Morce. Now get out there and cause a disaster.”

Description:
Morcegh is a giant bat, six feet from snout to tail with a wingspan roughly quadruple that. His fur is a sort of generic grayish brownish dun and hasn’t seen a bath in a suspiciously long time, but is thick and fluffy under the layer of dirt. His eyes are a gloomy black and his doglike face is permanently fixed into an expression that clearly says that its owner wants to be anywhere but where he is. There isn’t much to distinguish him from a normal bat except that he’s big enough to lift and carry a man and is a constant downer, all the time.

Having once been not a bat, Morcegh is admittedly rather depressed about the change, but this is indistinguishable from his normal mindset. If it’s happening to him, it’s worth complaining about. End of story. That said, he has a weird sort of morbid tenaciousness that’s kept him going this long and will hopefully last him the battle.

As Gentlemen, Malaria’s and Wimbledon’s appearances are subject to change, but for the moment they're a moth and a beetle respectively. Malaria is shy, Wimbledon is rude, and neither is a particularly good person. They’re not especially fond of Morcegh and even less so of each other, but are unlikely to outright betray one another unless there’s a fairly good reason and no chance that the other would be able to get them back.

Weapons/Abilities:
Morcegh himself has no special abilities other than being a bat. His head is the size of a mastiff’s, though, and his jaws are packed with large and unnecessarily sharp teeth, apparently for eating any giant insects he comes across. The claws on his feet are equally unpleasant, as are the two huge ones on his wings. Morcegh is also a nimble flier when he wants to be, capable of doing midair hairpin turns and flips and shit, though that’s assuming he can work up the energy. He can echolocate if he wants to but usually doesn’t.

Malaria’s and Wimbledon’s abilities would best be described as “contagious” and “explosive”, with a bit of overlapping in between them. Being Gentlemen, they’re also rather knowledgeable about the modus operandi of various Grandmasters and are savvy to the tropes of a typical battle. Their influence over Morcegh and each other is shaky at best, only cemented by the fact that they’re both very good at what they choose to do.