The Victorian

Master Training High Master

Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 9 Wins!


Alignment: Hero

Team: Solo Hero


Strength: Standard

Agility: Superior

Mind: Standard

Body: Standard


Personal Wins: 9

Personal Losses: 3

Don King

I met Jules Verne for the first time in Paris in late 1871. I was pursuing the notorious madman Akbar Al'Sharif, a rogue agent using stolen time travel technology who had hijacked a Russian nuclear submarine from the 1960s and had planned to use it to blackmail the British Crown, though to what ends I can only guess. I met Jules in some bar or other. He knew me, though I had never met him before - not that unusual an occurrence in the life of a time traveler - and the two of us got to talking. I have a tendency to talk too much when drunk, and I can't be certain what I might have said to him that evening. I can guess though, because in the next few years a highly fictionalized version of my battles with Al'Sharif were published in the novels Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and its not-quite-sequel The Mysterious Island. I met him for the second time in 1862, though it was the first time for him. I must have told him about my experiences with the eccentric Doctor Mandolin and his quest to reach the Earth's core, because 1864 saw the publication of his novel A Journey to the Center of the Earth. And then there's Herbie, better known to the world as H.G. Wells. Jules was just a passing acquaintance, but Herbie, I thought he was my friend. There's barely a book that bloody bastard wrote that isn't based on something that happened to me. Take War of the Worlds for instance. His story of Martians invading London is fiction, but not complete fiction. There was enough detail for me to recognize my experiences in the English village of Bilston; the alien that crash landed there only to later die from exposure to a common Earth illness and my successful efforts to cover up the incident. The creature had hardly been warlike, though I can't fault Herbie for taking a few creative liberties. However, I can very well fault him for taking my life and turning it into fodder for his fiction. And to think he later passed my experiences off as his own in order to gain membership in the Council, a troublesome organization with ludicrous political aspirations whose other members included my former (future?) instructor Sherlock Holmes (driven mad by drug use, no doubt, to become willingly involved in such a scheme), a young Aleister Crowley shortly before he became involved with the Freemasons, and my old compatriot the eccentric inventor Doctor Mandolin, so senile by this time he probably thought that Herbie was me. That's the only explanation I can come up with to explain why the Doctor didn't expose him for the fraud he was. To make a long story short I broke up the Council and put the fear of God (and of myself) in dear Herbie's heart to ensure he'd never do anything so foolish again. I even fed him some tidbits from my adventures to keep his writing going until his death nearly fifty years later. If it is true that only the good die young, Herbie was a bigger bastard than I thought. And what about me? Who am I? My real name isn't important. Call me the Victorian. I was born in London during England's so called Victorian period, and so I was assigned this code name in my early days as an agent for . . . ah, but that would be telling! These days, my superiors have me stationed here on Khazan, though I've yet to receive any orders from them, so I've no clue what I'm doing here. I've been passing the time by fighting in this so called Fantasy Powers League tournament, gambling away my winnings at Khazan's many casinos. I hope I receive my orders soon. I'm getting restless.

The Victorian is a man who lives life to its fullest. A gambler, a ladies man, a heavy drinker, all of these habits that have gotten him into deep trouble at one time or another. Also something of a sentimentalist, though he isn't very open about it, he loves his gun Bessie as though it were a woman, and treats it with greater respect then he does his superiors. His superiors only tolerate him because he's the best agent they have. He always seems to come out on top in even the direst of situations, through a combination of practiced skill and sheer luck. He's the envy of all who know him and he could care less. He cares only for his own pleasure, and for getting the job done, whatever that might be.

A Master Pugilist

     Martial Arts: Standard


When you are an agent of . . . for privacy's sake, let us refer to it as "The Organization," you receive only the best training. Studying under Randy Quinn, a former bare knuckles boxing champion who went undefeated in his career, the Victorian showed great aptitude as a hand-to-hand fighter. Indeed, it wasn't long before his skill exceeded Quinn's. It is just this sort of ability for fast learning and the picking up a multitude of skills quickly that makes the Victorian the agent that he is.


A Skilled Gymnast

     Acrobat: Superior


The Victorian also studied gymnastics under the tutelage of Harold Veers, a three-time Olympic Gold Medal champion. Just as he had in his studies with the boxer Randy Quinn, the Victorian picked up this skill quickly and, before long, exceeded the skills of his teacher.



     Eldrich Blast: Superior

  • Ranged Attack Only
  • Ranged and Melee Attack


Bessie (named, one would presume, for a former lover, though no one knows for sure) is the Victorian's ever present sidearm, a regulation blaster gun with some decidedly less-than-regulation modifications, not the least of which is its fancy engraved gold casing which the Victorian added because "my Bessie is a pretty girl and a pretty girl should always look her best." Don't let anyone ever tell you that the Victorian isn't the sentimental sort. The way he fusses over it, one would almost think that damned gun of his IS a girl.


A Crack Shot

     Marksman: Supreme


No point in carrying a gun if you don't know how to use it. Standard story: the Victorian studied under an old west gunman by the name of Clarence O'Toole and eventually came to exceed his skills. The Victorian is particularly proud of his marksmanship skills because he so loves to use his Bessie and to use her well.


A Keen Mind

     Detective: Superior


To acquire his detective skills the Victorian studied under no less than the best, Sherlock Holmes himself. Holmes was drafted into the Organization following his disastrous experience as a member of the Council. The Organization cleaned him up (he was a drug-addled mess by the time they got their hands on him) and put him to work training new recruits. The Victorian studied under him, and then later (or earlier if you prefer, time travel can be so confusing at times,) broke up the Council, though even the Victorian agrees that he'd never have succeeded had Holmes been at the top of his game at the time. Sherlock is one of only two teachers the Victorian studied under whose skills he was unable to exceed. No one is perfect apparently, not even the Victorian.


Great Tactical Skill

     Tactician: Standard


For his tactical skills - the ability to plan well ahead of time, as well as to alter those plans on the fly as need be - the Victorian studied under decorated WWII General Henry Dervish. Though not as well known as men like Patton or Eisenhower, those who know of him say he contributed more to the American war effort than all other Generals combined. As with Sherlock Holmes, the Victorian was never able to exceed Dervish's skill, though he did learn a great deal from the man about the importance of making a plan and sticking to it, but never making the plan so rigid that it cannot be altered in an emergency.


The Pocket Watch

     Super Speed: Superior


What looks at first glance to be an ordinary pocket watch is in fact another device that is standard issue to agents of the Organization. Called the Pocket Watch (no one ever said they were particularly imaginative, the boys who run the Organization) it can slow down time by just a small fraction, enough to give its user a slight edge in speed; possibly enough to get them out of a tight situation where dodging an incoming attack just a fraction of a second quicker than would be normally possible could mean the difference between life and death. This is the closest the Organization lets its agents get to the time travel technology they control and jealously guard from misuse.