(As with most proper nouns in board game design, all these names are placeholders and subject to change if/when something better [or someone optioning the design] comes along.)
Project Cross-Flux is a big game design that will take some time to actually fill out, so in the meanwhile, I'll release characters, classes, and other design elements with placeholder art to be a tease.
Years past firming up to his max consistency, when the well-liked residents of Gelatown typically set off for fame and fortune to be found exploring that darkest, dankest dungeons, Bob has instead largely disappeared from public and social life. Carving out a comfortable corner for himself as a mason and occasional roofer, he retreated from his few friends, falling into a quiet rut of the daily grind. Drawing as little attention to himself as possible, Bob found that essentially hiding in plain sight does little to calm the uncertainty of one's own identity. He continues his work, mortar, then brick, then mortar, then brick; but with an added, silent longing for someone to break his rhythm, to give him the push to find himself beyond the borders of his birthplace, within which he is becoming increasingly walled.
Fresh off his latest medal ceremony, new-comer crime fighting phenom The Rusted Bullet admired Bristol's latest magnet-based re-design of the suit. Made the application process a snap. All the quicker that the efficiency-driven deputy could get back to his primary objective: clicking cuffs and scuffing skulls. The headlines are spilling a lot of ink these days about how ol' Rusty spills a drop or two of the softies' inner reds. If only they knew how much he really just wanted to help, but didn't see any other way. If only they know the softie inside the hard, metal exterior worried just as much about each pump or spill of red too, and whether he truly was using each of them to their utmost potential of do-goodery for the people of the city. When the shooter's loaded, who should aim The Rusted Bullet?
Her self-imposed exile to the lifeless shores of The Black Coast had cost Zarrin plenty. Once the heir to her father's chemical empire, upon his death, she absconded with her share of the inheritance to explore the continents, leaving her brother to run the family business. Years of sampling the local formulae and reactions, studying multiple ancient chemical lineages, and isolating essential elements of life were slowly worn away by the oppressive, recurring presence of that black goo. On every stop, she found at least a bit of it, and many more stories of how it contaminated biospheres to grow itself. Her new mission, that which consumed far more of her journeys, was to trace its origin, devoting herself to end its spread if it took her life's work. Eight years of surviving the sickening muck on its own turf however, this dark coast coated thick in its unrelenting grasp, has driven Zarrin to the edge of her patience with the more insidious forces of nature, the edge of her sacrifice for others. If the latest breakthroughs in alchemical science can't stop this sludge from spreading, or even pry it off the surfaces it grips, everything else is a lost cause.