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Topics - Verse

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Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / Our Blood in Light
« on: September 12, 2018, 08:30:16 pm »
He found them on the streets of abandoned cities, dragging their tails through human dust and defeated dreams of civilization. Spines reflected in lights they couldn't see but his visor picked up. It was a broken piece of soft-glass, expensive and hard, covering half his face and one eye. He'd have to use metal mesh for the rest. It wasn't like he meant to take dragon-grade force to his head if he could help it, anyway. The soft-glass was for information, compatibility for all the different things he needed to oversee. He couldn't worry about how his rifle connected to his guiding system, so he'd rather use this shrapnel to tie it all together.

Keyzer had this childhood dream too. Grow up tough, hunt monsters, be a hero. Be like the old knights. Somewhere in the middle he'd hoped for better things, and then just-- something comfortable. But the libations he subscribed to and the creeping procrastination wall-papering the inside of his skull didn't let him stay on a good job for too long. Eventually even the most convinced do-gooder did their good in other directions.

He could fight though. And he was tenacious when things were physical. So Chaser it was. Little him would be so impressed.

They said there were Immortal Class dragons around the trees dwarfing the skeletons of skyscrapers around here, and he believed them. But he'd probably have to join a party for that, or settle for failure and his own ash-cloud, shot into the fog-lands. Nobody would read his rune. Keyzer was here for smaller fare, a quick payout. The old human haunts crawled with Krill Class. He wanted something worth the trek, something to fuck up the suspension of his rover. There were a handful of pings out tonight, which meant there were at least double that hunting, since people still thought they had to be incog to poach off others. Keyzer at least had the decency to be potential backup if something gnarly came around. His ping was bright pink, because fancy.

He saw a blue shadow and it didn't see him. The gun on his back pressed against an old wall. Looking around the corner at the sauntering beast, he frowned. A bit ambitious for just one Chaser. Heavy body, about four times his own not counting the tail. Long legs meant agility and the neck was nimble. This one probably fed off larger things. It meant its blood was bombastic, though, and he could probably use the payday. Yellow eyes rolled behind mesh and crimson glass.

He followed it for two blocks, weighing the grenade in his hand. It was meant to stun big, soft prey, but he supposed it could flip something with scales like this one, too. How the fuck was this krill class? Would the wire in his scooter even hold up for the ride home? He'd like at least one sniper on this. Keyzer shook his head when a good hideout came along, and the dragon positioned itself perfectly. He didn't want to do this.

He threw the fat cylinder and it rolled with its dulled metallic ruckus under the animal. The long head looked around. Keyzer grinned and ducked under the provided dumpster while the sound of air swallowing itself spread for most of the city remains, if anyone was listening. He jumped ontop of the metal box just in time to see the beast thrown, tail up and belly showing. In the air it couldn't possibly avoid his shot. He pulled the rife and shot when the sticks lined-up on his glass. The ballistic ammo was powerful, but the compensating charge to keep him level cost some of the firepower. He still hit it dead center. The explosion was orange and green, and it sent the already suspended dragon into the building with spewing smoke.

Keyzer vaulted off the trash-bin, sinew and flesh in his legs saturated with dragon blood infusions. he landed running. He kept shooting charges as he advanced on the still settling mayhem - electric attacks were easier on his shoulder, and he also really liked the sound the rifle made. Before he could arrive at what should have been an opened belly and rent for months, the long head shot out from the mushroom dust, and bit at him. He cussed, he was sure, and pushed his weapon in front of him, sacrificing it to the teeth that were part of the outer shell of its head.

While the whine of metal was disheartening, it stopped his march into its mouth, and he was able to play at roughhousing to get it back before he let go and launched himself to the side. He was sure sipping into the building was a mistake, but he was hunting spura-krill class alone, so maybe that's just how things were going tonight. The beast ran after him, and he exited through the nearest gaping window, leaving the beast to destroy the interior of the old shop while he rolled to a stop on a knee, having drawn his sword and knife during the fleeing tumble. He breathed with some excitement and some doom and cut open one of the pouches on his vest, a bit of jerky stuck on the knife's useful end. He nestled the treat underneath the guard of his helmet, and pinched it between his teeth while the dragon discovered which way he'd gone.

It was like chewing a running generator, and it made lighting between his molars, but it would provide him the strength to fell this unholy, ugly acquaintance, or the juice to die properly. When his lips shut, the light surges continued beneath his skin, giving away the outlines of his cranium with every crush. The monster stuck its head out.

Freestyle Roleplay / God Catcher [Fin]
« on: December 08, 2017, 10:29:21 am »
The unit was usually rented, its place right there on the riverfront where the sea deities swam, collecting the run-off from the poisonous factories and turning it into beautiful sweet water again. Smaller companies rented this kind of space, with staggering insurance, to make singular Catches, but Almin Tarker had seen enough success drawing titans from the ether, The Eonverk, to own the gigantic, valved storage. His ace-in-the-hole, Crosser Clau, thought it was vanity that had driven Almin to purchase the admittedly usable space, since the cost could only be justified by renting it out when it wasn't directly in use, or being prepped, anyway.

It was this vanity, though, that had made them both so prolific in the trade of shackling the Gods themselves and passing them to the next buyer for astronomical profit. It was said the Eonverk was the consequence of human kind's beliefs, but there was no doubt a bit of beauty had gone from the world when Aphrodite had been Invoked and then put in an iron belt. Crosser wasn't sure what it all meant, only that he believed it. And that was his counterweight to Almin's vanity.

Crosser, counted among the Inciters, had an open heart, and could believe and conjure faith better than a brimming church, which - combined with a decently built God Catcher Device - could produce from the Eonverk almost any manner of God. It came with crippling doubt also, but he had enough money from the Tarker company to drown that out in the pills of this new era, and its liquid libations too. More than that, he'd find recovery in other bodies, which he didn't mind paying for either. It wasn't hard to find free fare, though, with Crosser's long limbs and face that was both soft complexion and a sharp chin. An edge to the magenta eyes and the dark lashes, which were complimented by the mess of exotically colorless hair. Today he wore the black and gray robes and straps of an ordained Inciter.

Almin's claps spread and died in the large locale, having only the circle of interlaced machines and their control pannels to the side to bounce off. He was shorter by perhaps a finger, but still towering over most, which he used to his advantage in business meetings. He wore a suit, mostly white, and tied his brown hair back. His features were a bit more traditionally carved. He could not afford the artistic wilting of an Inciter. He had to look healthy and strong, gladiator in good tailoring,  for the corporate lions that were his adversaries. "He arrives at last, my golden goose!" he called out to the ceiling though it was directed at his childhood friend in holy garb. The workers finishing the set-up of the God Catcher weren't deterred by the scene. They had seen Gods compressed into nothing but the metal of their chains, two men acting like fools was nothing special.

"You should be glad I came at all." Crosser muttered, wiping the ball of his wrist over blooden lips that had kissed other mouths of flesh and glass today. "This is the third one in as many weeks, Almin. Why do you need so many Gods? Did you even sell the last one? How can you find bidders flush enough so quickly?" But it was only airs. Crosser's heart was thriving, though exhausted. Many dreamed of being Inciters, and those who earned the title could go years without work. Thanks to his relationship with Almin, Crosser was prolific in his trade, which afforded him an attitude toward other companies, and this hateful familiarity with Almin.

"Comon. You're my harpoon, and we're at sea, looking for the Hydra or the Kraken." Almin said and hung an arm around Crosser's shoulders. He waved to the machine around them. "This. This is my ship." It was a bit moot drawing on mythology these days. All fantastical things could be pulled from the Eonverk if the Inciter believed. Still, Almin wouldn't be who he was without this grandeur. "'sides, Ex. Your skills are improving because I use you more than you use that dame at that satin place you like so much."

Crosser shoved his friend with a grin. It was hard and it pushed the brunett a few paces back. They were these kind of friends. "Yeah, yeah, Almin, I'm your whore." he gave and rolled the cylinder in his right hand, his Bearer was already stretching out small metal arms and turning itself to different symbols. It listened to and resonated with his heart. It was mainly because of the Bearers that Inciters had to earn their title, since they became formidable weapons, also. "How about you get out of my office and I'll see what you found for me."

Almin nodded and went willingly, large, playful strides and hands locked behind his back comically. "Same as the last few times, Ex, I don't have a specific God for you. We're just directing the instruments of the Catcher and you'll have to find what you find." Blind fishing. Crosser was getting good at it, even if it was a risky thing, economically, to venture on for a company. It was inevitable, though, since humanity's myths were running out. And they'd been on a roll, lately.

"Well, then." Crosser said and flung the constantly changing Bearer into the air. He was obviously excited, himself. "Fuck you very much." he said upon catching the trinket again. Almin flicked his finger and a controlman started the sequence that lit up the pile of metal in the circle with Crosser. It was also changing, awaiting the form of the God it had to contain. Eventually the floor inside the ring of machines glowered, and the light contaminated Crosser's eyes, too, which carried their innate pink. Inciters had followers too, and now Crosser looked the part of a holy thing.

They lost him to his method for an hour or two. He wasn’t stoic, not a statue, some of his idiosyncrasies alive in the body while his heart followed the thread of the God Catcher to a specific patch in the Eonverk. “Fragments,” he said at one point “you’ve sent me to the pelagics, Almin, you idiot.” Some idiosyncrasies are more volatile than others. But the Inciter did not exit, he continued to turn on his heels, holding up the morphing Bearer like a lantern with cogs and spines.

It was during the third hour that the controlman gasped at the readings pertaining to Crosser’s physical health. “Sir! Look! He’s encountered something. His stress is almost solid!” With that, Crosser fell to his knees on the lit floor, the illumination making long shadows from his chin up to his temples, broken by the pretty fires eating his eye sockets. He didn’t look distraught in a way that suggested bodily harm.

“It’s… This isn’t a God. It’s… her.” The Inciter said, mouth open and staring into nothing. He turned his head to where Almin stood, an impossible implication, since sight in the Eonverk mean blindness on earth. “You—you lead me to her?” he asked draining desperation on his expression.

“Sir, I’m starting the extraction. His heart. It’s not responding to him. It’s building something on its own!” the controlman reached for a purple lever on the panel, but Almin, who wore a determined line on his mouth, shoved him to the floor.

“Get her, Crosser! It’s now or never!” he shouted and flicked a button, which would hail the deity in Crosser’s sights.

“No, I can’t. She’s ours…” Crosser tried, but had already stood up with the Bearer stretched out like a sword to ward off some oncoming thread. The light of the floor swallowed him before it started subsiding again. It revealed an Inciter with spectral eyes, color of the sweetest hues in nebulas, set in a formation of fear and longing and faltering determination. Usually there was war in the body of the Inciter when meeting with their target God. Crosser had hesitation in his, initially. The metals started quaking in their pile on the floor, already trying to fit whatever deity he’d come across. Almin’s mouth was pulsing as he lost himself to the scene. There was no hesitation in him.

“Get her, Ex.”

Freestyle Roleplay / affliction affection
« on: August 14, 2017, 11:10:59 am »
Kazenaga Hyuki had a couple of blessings, and the ones he lacked shaped him into a better boy. His mother, who raised him alone, spoiled him with plenty of home-cooked dishes when he came home from school, and trusted him enough to extend his curfew. With their limited economy, he was left to fend for himself when it came to pocket money, and he'd started early with his part-time job as document delivery boy. The fresh air, food and exercise saw the mouse of a boy shoot into a lanky, strapping young man by the time letters found their way into his math homework.

From having been the receiver of bigger kid's frustration, a bit of a punching bag, he now dabbled in bully prevention. He was still a few kilograms short of being able to hold his own against the gaggle of ruffians that roamed their high-school, but offered enough of a target to divert and hold the attention of their knuckles and the toes of their shoes, most of the time. Somehow the bitter of being beaten up was washed by the solace of protecting someone else. With the picturesque idiosyncrasies of his over-active conscience came a small fame that uttered itself as gossip in the girl's locker room. His dark eyes and red mouth helped. It all resulted in an average of three letters of confession a semester and never needing to look far for lab partners.

Lately, though, the girls that confessed and those that would dissect critter with him, found themselves either sick or in unfortunate accidents that left them unable to attend school.

”Don’t you find it worrisome, Kaze?” Toruzuki asked, dropping his backpack as he turned to the lengthier Hyuki son. Kaze shrugged without losing his cargo. He was partial to a messenger bag, gray strap crossing the chest of their blue school uniform. He bent to collect Toru’s name-brand holder.

“I visited Yuri and Haru.” He started as he dusted the outer pocket off and handed it back to his friend. “They both attributed it to clumsiness.” But even he seemed a bit skeptical.

“Yuri, who already has a scholarship for marine biology, broke two fingers, and Haru, our track and field pride, broke her leg. Both of them connected to you by heartstrings.” Toru said and hung the bag back on his right shoulder, ill-advised. Kaze frowned as they kept walking.

“Yeah. Are you thinking this is something from your detective animes?” he asked, and didn’t have the teasing tone he intended.

“Crimes are real, Kazenaga Hi-ju-kee.” Toru warned. The smaller boy gasped when a private gust of wind upset Kaze’s black hair and laid a few knife-edges worth of it over his eyes. “And you’re the target!” Toru continued, pointing lithe fingers at the end of his outstretched narrow right arm. Kaze caught the bag before it could hit the ground this time, and also Toru, who almost fell with it. “You’re the bish and center of the plot!” Toru accused as he was being help upright. “Look at your hair! Traditionally you’d be a deep-voiced side character, but your mouth is pretty and…”

“Bak-” Kaze started as he forced Toru to wear the bag with both its straps. “aa. Don’t talk nonsense. It trivializes their pain.” He brought his point home with a light slap on the back of Toru’s blonde hair. For some reason or the other Taru blushed at this. Kaze huffed and then ruffled the blonde mop affectionately. “You’re a nerd, you know that, Taru?”


That was Thursday, yesterday. Taru had ended up spending the night and complaining about seeing someone outside the window when they turned the lights down after playing video games and reading mangas. He’d even woken Kaze up twice to complain about nightmares. They had Friday off, which would have been another day of otaku activities picked by the brighter, but far more whiney little boy, if Kaze hadn’t promised away his noon-time already.

“You know, this is looking more like a shjou manga, now.” Taru said with a pout, watching Kaze step into his best sneakers. He dressed simple, because he didn’t really have any really nice clothes. Taru had an opinion on his Pokémon shirt, so he’d chosen a plain blue t-shirt instead, over his dark jeans. “Bish going to the hime’s house.”

“She might object to you calling her that. She just wants to pay me back for helping her out sometimes.” Kaze said as he corrected his jacket and even checked his hair in the mirror. It was the same dramatic array of black, waving spears as it always was, touching his ears and obscuring his forehead. Admittedly, the protagonist of Taru’s current series sported a similar style. Maybe a buzz cut would be better, then. Mom would be devastated, though. She took great pride in this one formation she could cut for him. “And I wasn’t raised to say no to food, so.”

“You’re utterly unconvincing. But you’re right. That’s why I’m staying to eat leftovers and not leaving for at least two hours.” Taru stated. Kaze shrugged and quickly shoved Taru’s chest with the heel dos his shoe, tripping the stunted male over the lifted threshold before dodging out. Taru was left wailing on his ass as Kaze ran down the street, laughing.

Kaze wasn’t as naïve as his drawn and inked counterparts. He looked up at the house he was visiting on request of the owner’s daughter. He smiled with his right cheek bubbled, shoulder on the street sign as he looked the building over. She hadn’t been presumptuous, but his other guy friends were right to have pummeled him a little for this. A writeoff-day lunch at her place. He knew how it might look, even if their relationship had been the very definition of casual, friendly until now. He sighed with some anxiety and opened the gate. He supposed she was cute, and that he found himself helping her even when he could leave it to someone else.


The floor was carpeted and warm, like the inside of his eyes, and the contents of his stomach. He tried to sit up when he recognized the salt and acid prelude on his tongue, but the jerk only lifted him enough to slam his chin back into the shallow depth of the fibers. His second attempt went better, now that he knew something was wrong with his head. It still felt like carrying a whale carcass on bird bones. He moaned, pushing himself to sit against the wall. Breathing came hard at first, lovely mouth open, sucking at the air that tasted like other people. Those breaths were intimate, and when he could see through the haze he realized he wasn’t alone in the room.

The light was evenly compromised, and he could see the bars running horizontally over the glass beyond the pretty curtains. For some comfort that ended up not being worth the titanic effort, he lifted his palm to his brow and sighed. He looked at the other bodies, and despite not being able to hear them breathing, assumed they were in the same predicament as he, and not dead. He gathered himself for another moment, swallowing back dread – the taste and the feeling – and crawled over to sit by the closest girl body. He shook her by the hip, and would have relented the touch if he wasn’t still recovering.

“Hello? Do you know where we are?” he asked. “Are you okay?” How could she be? Though the agony was lifting, he had a hammering, poisonous maelstrom behind his forehead, sucking and clawing at the vault of his cranium. “I think this is what waterboarding feels like. Someone must have checked my browsing history.” He joked and dropped his head, shaking it.

OOC Discussion / YaNdErE
« on: August 10, 2017, 08:35:29 pm »
Have you ever felt like no body cares about you?

Well, sometimes that's not entirely bad

Welcome to true love.

Fantasy Roleplay / Majik Morose
« on: July 18, 2017, 10:32:39 am »
The weather held on to summer best it could, but the grasp of hot, oppressing rays were weighted by the promise in the air that would be written with well-grown droplets on the wind that hadn’t come yet. And then a well-known, returning story would remind them there was a fantastical lake not too far away, and that rivers liked to embellish any seasonal tale - some blue, some gray, to fade their parched wilt. Hadn’t it been good though, with the summer vegetables on tables that smelled like they were freshly sawed, and beast’s blood, drying to glass in the clearings that would be battlefields.

Elvan was cornered. The worn leather that softened the edges of the metal protecting his joints allowed for swift movement, but this beast was Spawned from a lynx. Overdeveloped torso and front paws made for enough murderous intent to challenge his lively dodging. The artifact had seen better days. The spear hummed in his hand, bright green lengths wrapped in metal - a guarantee that magic was present - but the Kin was long dead, and the residual blessings in this Husk wouldn't stand for many more battles. Still, the spear had been sought after by the knights when it just arrived, but that was a decade ago, this year. There was a small wail when he stopped the claws swatting at him from the side. He had locked the spear against the sharp curvatures, but the magic in the spear was complaining as his boots made lines in the earth. When the other paw came at his back he hoisted himself up on the spear to let the force of the attack throw him and the weapon into the air.

The sun that hadn't gone yet caught on the silver ring that the spear became around him, spinning with him as an axis. The verdant center vibrated in the failing casing and his hand felt the radiation. If he let go that would be the end of something, likely the town that trusted him, but absolutely his own road to becoming a Knight. When the cat leaped, agile for its monstrous size, eager for the morsel suspended in the air, he kept his aim on it despite his revolving world. He put the sole of his boot to its lower teeth before the jaws could clasp and pushed himself to land on the ground before the Spawned. With his footing back he finally threw the crackling weapon to lodge into the exposed abdomen of the landing feline enemy. He rolled out of its deft impact and the resulting billow of grains.

The cat, tall as the trees when on all its fours, was angered rather than deterred and swatted at him again unbothered by the javelin. Elvan lost some of the ends of his long hair to that swipe as he rolled into the beast to get away from the claws again. This close his reflexes were useful again, and he pressed himself against the base of its arm while it thrashed wildly to get at him with its long limbs and teeth. It was dizzying work, but he was able to learn its patterns and match it, aggravating it by holding on to the tufts of gray and white for leverage as he jabbed into sensitive places. A boxing match with a medium beast without a gestalt to protect him. A knight’s work is always madness.

Eventually his legs became too heavy to respond in time, and one of the cats turns sent him out of its circle of intimacy, rolling the knight in training into a tree where he heard cracks that he hoped was the bark. He crawled around the trunk just in time to see it erupt from the pressure of the cat’s maw. He grabbed the longest enamel weapons in the two rows. He was hoping the pressure of its bite wouldn’t match its ability to open. He was right, and might have been able to hold the mouth closed for a while if he wasn’t so spent already. The monster lifted the insistent man and tossed its head into the crown of a tree to shake the irritating restraint off. By the third acquaintance with cutting branches and rattling leaves, Elvan’s grip was slipping off its teeth. He thought of a priestess and a comrade when he finally lost the grip that was keeping the beast from eating him.

A dull burst reverberated through the toothy enemy and then stretches of light cut through its skin. Elvan could smell the sear of flesh before it convulsed and fell, skull landing on top of him. Exhausted, he used most of his last efforts to pull himself from underneath the lifeless head and stand. Its hind legs and rump had been separated from the triangular torso. He sighed and fell to his knees as blood steam charred the atmosphere. Some artifacts were volatile when they faded. By the ruckus the spear had made today, he’d taken a chance. Elvan wiped some sweat off his soft features and breathed in deeply through his sharp nose. Silver eyes were heavy when he put his hands on his knees, black hair released from its usual band hanging off the shoulder of his armor and shielding his cheek. Too often a hard victory looked so much like defeat.


Two townsmen came to greet him when he returned to the small gate. They weren’t very keen on asking about his health, they’d seen him worse off and not cared, but they were inclined to know where the felled beast was, pointing at the long fang he’d brought back. It had come out rather clean when he bent it out of its  growing direction. Elvan knew they needed to money they could get from selling the remains, and told them where he’d left the two halves of the cat. They ran off even as the he asked them to wait until the next knight’s shift started in half an hour.

Elvan found himself by the city fountain soon, most of his armor resting by his feet while he sat on the stone rim, retrieving fists of cold, clear comfort for his face. He laughed to himself as he wiped his chin, tilting his face to the sky. Not bad for the constant knight in training. And then the sense of duty that comes with such a mission weighted on the bright expression until it was the same set that always had the women in the square wondering what they might do to give him solace. He’d rather they have a replacement for the artifact that perished with the Spawn, than warm bread and blushing expressions.

Elvan was a long thing outside his armor, and while his bones spoke of a noble bloodline, that had seen ages when it could afford to mix the prettiest individuals to make their heirs beautiful, he preferred himself ready to defend the town, especially when the fragility of their borders were used by the Steelback Council to sell their own ‘protection’. The sullen lilt to his demeanor hardened slightly at that, as he slid his shoulder pad back on.

Hype / 7 days until CASTLEVANIA!
« on: June 30, 2017, 10:49:33 am »
Spoilers as far as rumors go:


You guys don’t even know how hyped I am for the Castlevania series on Netflix. It’s going to be 4 episodes 30 min each, this shit got me typing like a fuckboy hahahahaha nude pix?

It’s basically just a 2 hour movie which is by no means a reason for complaint, it just means it’ll be Disney length but instead of dancing and singing around every issue it’s going to be adult time 2 hours. It also means I can take pee-breaks and do push-ups to calm me down when the intro runs. Who am I kidding I’m probably going to sing along in every intro and outro and if there aren’t lyrics because they decided to be too classy for that then I’ll just invent nonsense Japanese ones. Noooo too much goodness, I don’t know babe. Nudes

There is a fair chance it’ll suck because I hyped it up in my head. How can animestyle high budged 2d movie with pretty gothic vampires go wrong though hahaha I can’t even live now. It’s said to be like game of throne by its creator and director which is disconcerting but hopefully the director means the ratings and seriousness instead of general plot ahhhhhhhhhh this is a good time to be alive. U up?

2018 will be season/movie two and I’ll be equally hyped I hope.


The voice cast has someone cast as Alucard. Warning, I didn’t look too much at the actor’s profile pic but he is not as pretty as Alucard by Ayami Kojima, but who is right? But that means the most beautiful vampire in the world after Reneseme Edward and Bella’s child will be in the series! Wooooooooow this mustn’t be the end of all good things, but how does one top iiiit? People who have children will feel so silly for going for parental bliss now that there’s an upgrade on Netflix.

Everything will be so beautiful. I haven’t watched the trailer so anyone of you who has seen it must NOOOOOOT include spoilers here or I will ban myself. I don’t have the authority to do that but I’ll stop posting for like, two weeks and that’ll make you feel really bad so don’t spoil, or VenomousEve will wonder why I left without saying anything, and Ara will wonder why my porn searched went way up and my writing on para went way down. So don’t spoil. Here is the trailer for your quiet enjoyment, though

it’s right there on the imdb page.

Just kidding this is an ironic thread I’m not interested in Castlevania.

Just kidding again, who wouldn’t be interested in alabaster gods and their hunters?

Are you a Belmont or a Tepes? Let’s make teams! I want to win.

Please post your hypedness here without spoilers, pictures and fanart and even fanfics and poems are welcome!

hahaha, nudes lol I bench I like your eyes shortie hollah

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / Burdens
« on: April 10, 2017, 09:37:26 am »
Their closet was a heart-felt display of good momentum. In the morning, when he was in a hurry for a meeting, running later than was afforded anyone else, passing the open doors to their chamber of clothes and shoes centered him. Sitting on his knees now, weekend bag by his side and scanning the lacquered wing-tips and capped toes of his usual footwear, he drew deeply at the serenity of their effortlessly coexisting articles, superficial and secret. In a sense this room was a contract that lent him solace because it bound him to Helena. He didn’t know what to take from here, today.

There had been a routine phone-call yesterday, late hour. So late he’d been blinded by the screen when he accepted. Helena had stirred and he’d taken care to speak softly, one hand on her hip, over the cover. Father had no such obligation when he painted a well-known story with deeper colors, outlined in denser shadows. I am tired of this now, the voice said without syllables and Lerham Lancaster knew this was the lucid part of his city-dream. The acute focus of something that would become a fond memory. He must have gone along with the conclusion of that call with such alarming, seething rebellion that it lifted Helena from her sleep.

He suppose making love could be an offered comfort, but she’d not meant to help him in that way at first. She wouldn’t deny him if he moved for it. He was better at the act than explaining the patches of his emotional quilt that were tattered, she knew this better than anyone, as that kind of seamstress. Still, their current entanglement afforded him some artful diversions she’d not allow in the first iteration of their relationship. So he’d kissed her where she liked until it would have been awkward of her not to respond. It was awkward, also, to run along that kind of sear while thinking of his family in the large house he’d just recently flown. At the cruelest of the pleasure, before it became a wrecking vibrato in them both, he’d turned her so he could hold on to the back of her neck with his teeth so he wouldn’t say something damning.

There had been nothing left to dream than the anger he’d inherited and the cost to his conscience that it generated. There were images of loving something so much, and holding it too close. And the shattering. Helena tried to reconcile the son that obeyed and the brother that protected, but there there’d never been any conflict at first, not really, because he was wholly both, separate. Like creatures living their lives in forests that never touched. But then there was this him, still forming after adolescence, that wanted something for performed duties, no, he’d want something regardless. Familiarity from father, perhaps acceptance as a peer – it was simple thought it couldn’t be easy – but from sister, that he owed his world, that’s when the dream ate him. He awoke by Helena, against her hair, with a sense of being smothered while breathing too fast.

Lerham liked to pick his outfits. A mother that was gone had inspired him. Her little dandy, spinning in ridiculous frocks and swinging sawed off, remade canes. She’d clapped from her bed and he’d felt accomplished, striding out on loud leather heels. Today he was not so playful, reaching out and pushing a pair off the rack until the boots fell into his lap. Everything smelt like Helena and everything rung of her wisdom. He held his breath and wouldn’t listen. It was impossibly early, but they weren’t strangers to the hour. He tended to the expanses of the Lancaster economical entity that required a face, which had him active at inconvenient times. She had people who needed her in a more profound way, which sometimes did not respect sleep.

He was wearing sturdy clothes, coming out. Leather and black, but none of it was crisp. Son coming home from the glass and concrete to the wood and flowers. He didn’t want to look too well put-together. It was a bit of an affront to seem too happy when seeing his sister. Helena was still home, but he knew that. The bed was made and she was her beautiful self in the morning hurrying in to be lemonade bright around her. His brown eyes were warm, candy hued, looking at her. He’d not assaulted his hair with all that much product today. No suit and tie, combed to the side and back, like when he’d met her the first time, in her office to speak of—much the same thing he was leaving for now.

“It’s just a couple of nights.” His right shoulder shrugged to bring attention to the bag hanging from that hand, as though she’d miss it. He’d go home sometimes, so why was his voice different today? Some darkness fell over the burnt sugar of his irises and he brushed the hair back into the wave he preferred. When it wasn’t smeared and kept in place, its charm was unruly. He was a bit apprehensive about coming closer, but he also wouldn’t leave without proper contact. He did miss her when he had time to think of her. In many ways, Helena was his solace. It was a pity he’d be opposed to that, on occasion. He hoped that could be part of his flavor, the kind, needing heart with the escapist spirit. Why did he always escape to the family estate?

He didn’t want her to wield her sense, the way she could express it, or have him see it himself. If not his sister, he was protecting the cracks in him, the hiding, gradient mosaic, loved like any old hurt is. That kind of pathology sees to itself, and is happy to build its own defenses, which leaves the outside man to seek out significant others that take the edge off. He’d always felt that Helena would save him if he let her. Today, he thought, saintly, that she had other faulty people to deal with. Such a bright hero, and not coward, son Lancaster. He smiled at her within a sigh. “Maybe come over for dinner or lunch?” A compromise, since returning them to bed now, even with her favorite attentions, wouldn’t serve to change the subject. Father says sister needs me.

Hype / manventures
« on: February 27, 2017, 07:49:51 pm »
I am home alone this week since ara works late. I have decided to chronicle these events. Be advised, this is the first step on a journey I have yet to make. I expect things to get real. I also expect things to get fake.

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / The Colorful Stone Kings
« on: February 18, 2017, 09:59:51 pm »

It is the age of magic, finally.

It came as our last age, as result of someone inventing a fuel that made us better as a species, as a movement. Without having to go through the effort of moral uprooting and replanting, he had the fortune of goodness, that we applied to the planet. All waste was gone. But our best loved child, War, grew angry under this good age, and she stirred us, like growing children do, against each other.

Somewhere someone ripped open a new concept to bleed onto earth. It was that simple. If the best natural force was at our beckon and call, the winner must have something more. And in twisting our newest tool and weapon, we contorted it into something that was not native to our world, or even the world as it extended outward, endlessly.

War still has her tantrums, and we are still doting, adoring caretakers, but there is nuances on earth now, and they are made bright by the gems that decide our power.


The magic has an aesthetic now. Colored stones, usually adorned and framed in metal. Magic runs rampant, and people wield it. Most treasured is the offensive arts, because they decide the fate of any nation. But any direction of magic produces a kind of mineral, and that is what the stones are. Sometimes they fall form the sky, or sometimes they are birthed from wounds like stigmata. Wherever magic is prevalent it leaves traces in the form of gems. Oil on water is particularly powerful, and clear ones are completely drained of their potency to summon magic at all. The gems are an effective way of controlling magic.

The world is made up by courts, and the courts are at war with each other, usually. That doesn't mean they have separate agendas toward other places, when they can work together. I hate you, but we'll see you next month, when we strike a country far from us, yes?

And then the look of the world. We have too much of the old materials, and are inlove with the pretty of our stones. There is no need for technology to remind us of how we used to waste so we could have, so we've escaped into a mid-evil continuum of decor. Knights with blades, pregnant with all manner of stones, and armor with colorful schemes or hen egg-sized treasures. The buildings too, the castles, have silver vines and gemstone fruits. It is beautiful, we think. So the bricks and iron pillars and concrete slabs have been re purposed into great fortresses, and we don't loose ourselves to screens anymore. We honor our families, however vague that endeavor is, and try to stay alive by earning a keep, as always.

And we go to school.


Carxer rode the stairs quickly, down. He was a dapper princeling of The Howlingbird Court, with his long black hair that remained wild despite the band that tried to hold it back. Violent heritage, and he had the blithe minerals to prove it. Native to his lands, not far from this esteemed Eseleth Academia, the stones were gunmetal gray, matte, with brilliant ruby highlights. He wore two small ones hanging from his ears, and - some liked to say - their reflection on his lips.

Carxer was a soft boy, the family's gentle flower in a field of barbwire tumbleweed. But among Howlingbirds that was not saying much. A poet with brittle bones to them, who war like it is breathing, could still be a sharp and insufferable someone to most other Courts. He wore casual armor today, which was barely metal on his joints. Most of his tunic showed, and all of his leather boots. Tall for his age, with sword and spear limbs, and black eyes with red rings. What kind of poet he could be, reading with a face like that.

The storm of his hurrying came to stop, and he raised his arms far over his shoulder protection. The halls and its bustle said it was morning, and he was in a good, rambunctious mood, it seemed. He could not worry about how his Court had expanded its lands into some of the disciplines here, and how people from there might hate him for it. Well, he could not always worry about it. "I have a challenge for you." and little petals swirled around his form, red like the stone's shadows. The ruby light gathered into his right wrist, and when he clenched that hand into a fist the light exploded out, like a star exhaling. Surely they would look at him now. "A duel! And if I win you will let me write off your sheets concerning today's manifest in Collaron history." A court that had the same role in magic as did Pandora for the continents. It seemed the Howlingbird only wanted to get off easy from doing homework, which explained the slight fear in his eyes, that had red where there should be white.

"And if you win." he said to the crowd, who may or may not be listening. "Well, then I suppose you're gods and don't really need anything from me."

He was a jester. And most of them knew there wouldn't be famous Howlingbird outrage if they didn't take the challenge. There was an issue of pride, though, and he knew some of them well enough that it might work.

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / Rush Revel [Fin]
« on: January 18, 2017, 08:44:01 pm »
Fall was as insistent as the scab on the corner of his mouth. A smarting presence, and an unwelcome preference. Dionysus who had started to wear his lighter than black but deeper than brown hair sweapt across his forehead, parted his lips to strain the cover of the hardened blood lid over the new wound. Cold air came across his teeth and tongue. Son of an empire of spirits. Mother fermented rice, father waited for barrels of oak and cherry. Beauty of the east in the taut skin, but the complexion was lifted by western, curved bone. Eyes the same paradox as his hair, inclined more toward the green of his father.

His journey through schooling - here in the gathered buildings meant to teach children from all social tiers that they could be something if they listened to their seniors - had been spotless; a quick fox on the fields, a sharp tooth scarping teachers many times in class, an absent lover to inspire sticky fingers of those that liked to love him by themselves. But the elegance and perfection had gone away with the glossy hair, held back by lush products. Everyone had their guesses on his lost inheritance and and the sluggish hardness in his new eyes.

Mother had cut lithe antlers into his forehead, starting from the inward points of his eyebrows. Beautiful twin pattern that scarred into pale seams. She meant to remind him that the recent things he felt were to be contained, better to be a victim than an avatar of hunger, but really, the antlers had gifted him an eternal, sophisticated scowl. That was why his hair was there now. So he was going to endure this place, like the starved and dying does a bustling bistro, and then he would be free, without the name he'd been born into, cast so far out, but also without a leash that kept him close to what he mustn't have.

A girl that had judge him all those other years had just left him on the yard. He liked to pretend to listen to music through the white chords between his shells and the black plate, but really, there was no song, just his hands holding up the device so he could stare at mother's monster, and father's nothing. The girl had confessed, said something about his new change, and drawn her feelings in gothic, stumbling earnest on a piece of paper that smelled like the leather of her bag. He'd put the letter back into her jacket and waved her away, wondering what kind of fight the mole on her neck would offer if he tried to pluck it with his teeth.

He sat back and waited for a ride that he'd never called for, to a hidden home his father owned but had forgotten. Dion stretched his lips again, and watched his black reflection hollow out. The phone shook when he did. This wind was cruel, ambitious. The shadow mirror in the quiet machine finally showed the scab breaking. With slow elation his pushed his jaw lower to invite the blood out faster. There was a line down to his chin, soon.

He'd hazed people like himself when they'd shown signs of bloody maturity. He supposed the would be receiving such attention this year.

Freestyle Roleplay / sung
« on: September 23, 2016, 07:43:12 pm »
A fence protecting the riches of grass, grown from emerald to the kind of gold animals eat. There are no horses in the city. Or unicorns, yet. Asphalt patiently waits from the other side of the diamond pattern wire, like the eyes of soldiers staring at rebels through their shields. Tonight we’re lamp lit, street variety, though the bulb is ashamed to have the street’s name and is hanging on a metal arm far above the clad ground. On that ground, a chair. Gravel is nowhere to be seen, gravel is mean. Gravel is in the air like a threat can be in the air. He sits. Deer legs in cotton rips, bloody edges. Cow jacket and split open wolf brow. Breathing like his lungs are the only organs that aren’t hurt. Breathing like there is gravel in the air.

Suddenly a child again, watching his sister crying – same wolf brow – while delivering the flat of a book to the rear of man, naked deer legs. The air has yellow glitter, like sulfur can hang in the air. He’s in mother’s lap. The book makes human music on father, and he calls into the sock and that turns into a spray around the silver tape. Mother explains why father is happy but crying. Sister is unhappy but crying. A glass, did you know, falls slowly when you watch it. There aren’t many glasses to prove it, in the sulfur home. The sulfur home has wheels, and stands between the road and expanses of grass.

Chalk white. Here was the future with its clean. He was running out from his work of a professional organ farmer, latches on his ribs underneath the shirt. He was compatible to everyone in this year. Speaks to others with equally expensive complexions. The walls were ceramic but sprayed to look like brick. This neighborhood was always like that. Design of grit, for wit. Petrol and fumes, ethereals, not real. There was a tall machine, building tall, by one of the walls. His card made the diodes wink and whistle. Rumbles in the machine, and thuds. It shook and produced a cylinder. She was contorted, inside, packaged, legs weaved and palms pressed. Pretty face and too gaunt.

He breathes out the gravel and falls off the chair, fitting cut-through knees into cotton holes onto the street. All day, when the cow was clean and the brow was whole, he’s been feeling ill. Yesterday, when he’d worn felt, he remember Someone who thought he was a beautiful as he felt. A smile for her, and kiss for him. Sweaty, culinary, until she was also raw. And when she left there were pearls on her welted cheek and a message in print on her skin, his teeth. So he sits on the ground underneath shameful lamp light and breathes in the gravel.

Chalk white. He lifted the cylinder and turned it, examining her in her liquid. Her eyes were open so he could see their color. He was happy with his purchase and put her down. A twist of the lid and she spilled out with the clear thick of whatever mother’s brew had kept-up her suspension. She slept on the washed sidewalk, pelted by night and neon. And then she woke with a breath that sucked in her life water. Then she coughed and grew her hair from barren scalp. Lashes too, until they curled and threaded in to touch her lids. She looked up at him. Endowed swan with customization options shining on her arms and legs and stomach and neck. The limbs read of colors, stats and charged insults. Red, 32, wench. She sat on her heels, hands in her default eggshell lap, head back so he could read Mother, Sister, Nurse, Secretary, Dog, Dead But Still Warm, on her throat in vibrating blue. He scrolled on her until there was Asunder so he could pinch the skin. She shook and transformed.

He screams in the gravel air. Thick, pink tears from eyes that blink over black, black. He remembers her teeth-print skin and clapping her until she’s satisfied and mortified. Through the hair that stick to the sweat on his forehead ivory shoots out. A coiling peak. At least, there are no horses in the city, still.

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / Ash and Roar [Fin]
« on: June 10, 2016, 03:43:30 pm »
And after the journey in the shining, black car with its tell-tale red eyes – her first warning - through the town that made hard candy, and the town that sold dirty, clean produce, into the forest with leaves so green they were teal and bark so dark it was old blood – another warning – and lemon-light sunshine on the other side that would fade along with the loss of greenery

there would be a last town, her last town, with a short wall without gates.

The people were weary of her vehicle, careful not to cross the street, hanging their heads in a practiced reverence and with a stiffness in their necks that looked like fear. One boy, another body dressed in dark clothes, opened his eyes wide when he saw her. Were they expecting someone else in the backseat? Dirty men and women – a mining town, after all – came out of a bus and were weighed with sorrow, not fatigue. A cheek or two were cried clean. The car left through the back of the small wall. Another forest, this one with white roses woven in wreaths around the trees. The flowers were fat, and the dew looked like pearls on the smooth petals.

That exquisite favor from nature extended to but halted at the manor that stood inside a higher wall. A strange mix of new, polished materials and old architecture. The smoke that had dissipated but never left the town was not here, even in spirit. If she had her eyes with her, she would notice that every other bar in the gate was rusted, while its neighbor was coated in immaculate black, as the car took her onto the stone yard. A gaggle of people, house help, surely, with their white shirts exempt from the dark dress code she’d seen so far, flocked around her door. Some of the maids cooed upon seeing her face when the tallest, rather young authority in front opened for her. He promptly shushed them with a sharp look from his blue eyes and bid her come out. He explained to her how very welcome she was to Oleander Manor, and that his name was Nathan Brandston, at her call.

Her dress, laid out on the bed of the lived-in room somewhere in the bowels of the main house, was fitted perfectly to her. It was a pretty thing, in that it had colors on its flowers. Well made, intricate, light, and utterly inappropriate for the event. There were parts of it that were worn. Somebody had loved and left this article repeatedly, and it hung on her better for it. The invitation had specified she wear what was on the bed. The tone had been stern. The world was stern, with night overtaking the hour. This knowledge was a few minutes old in this room without pictures and windows.

Nathan Brandston knocked on her door and lead her deeper into the house. He was a kind fellow, handful of years passed her own age. His chit-chat was world class and his jokes, though staged, were well meaning. If she hadn’t noticed already, there was a hole where information about this event should be, the way he carried on.

The room was in the cellar, and it was a generous size considering its underground location. She saw the candles, a decadent display, wax the length of a person, standing on the floor, crowding the spaces that weren’t the carpet leading up to three rows of benches. Beyond the provided seats, glowering in the overflow of firelight, hung a body, wrapped in a hard dress, leather or plastic or both. In the garment, iron rings connected to iron chains that were attached to the far walls, and one chain stretching from her spine to the ceiling. She was posed floating, upward, but with a lingering hand down. Her vision was bound, a black, eyeless mask, and her mouth was covered with a guard that followed her face after having grown from the continuing neck of her restrictive garb. If not for that guard without holes on her lips and nose, she might have looked alive, still. Her hair was free. Nathan did not look disturbed by the transfixed human, the angel suspended on chain-link wings.

He sat below her hand, on his knees, a wave of flames built around one side of him, around them. The shadows on his face, licking at his ears, wagered an age between herself and the Brandston butler. “That is Sir Kvell, older brother of the late Lady Ansa.” Nathan whispered. “Your brother.” Kvell's eyes were stubbornly black, though salted with the surrounding wealth of candles. Not even his suit, which was a shadow trying to gossip about his lengthy build, was as dark as those eyes, staring up at the leather bound hand, and the woman that held it out. A few fangs of black hair pointed to his cheekbone, which was underlined by crying’s blush. His air was angry, the jaw pulsing, a boy’s rebellion, with a broken posture. A delicate gargoyle, loved by the chisel. Kvell hadn’t known many things like this loss.

“Go to him. Say something to him.” Nathan begged her, touched her shoulder for it. “He is almost dead from grief. They were close.”

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / A rave of returning ravens
« on: April 01, 2016, 10:05:07 pm »
She was a barren god. And then she had two children, because of spite. She broke bark from the world tree and wrung shapes out of stone from the world floor. In their hearts she kept her coagulated blood. She baked them in the light of three colored suns and made their hair from the stings that holds a star to the smallest moon of its furthest planet.

The children were not made or allowed to love each other, but they did. There was jealousy among the other gods. Eou's heart dried out and then his sister crumbled. After a grieving period of a Forever, their mother asked a monkey from the dirtied planet to help them with the understanding the monkey had of old magic, and new, sparkling crafts.

Eou pulled himself out from the thick mass. The skin was still forming around the dug-out hole in his side, where fine hydraulic pillars were in place of a rib cage. A mess of recently rotten, now recovering monkey organs could be seen behind the pumping metal as skin descended to cover the tell-tale atrocity. The edge of the raised pool was littered with outlets and attached wires. He he held on to one and wretched over them, trails of blue and green drowned in clear mucus roiling out his lips.

A manufactured strain of jelly-fish had started to feed off the plastic content in Earth's seas. The new element had been discovered and hidden by Someone. The God Mother had asked Someone for help.

Eou wiped his mouth, his slathered face. And then felt it with his solid fingers. Sharp bones under soft skin. Wicked with a mask of kindness, a silent, treacherous beauty. His first weapon. The machinations inside him whirred and crunched loudly at first, the skin, now whole, vibrating with the ruckus. He felt spent and new. He noted this flaw in the monkey suit he'd been given as he looked down on his knuckles and his backhand. Mother wasn't close. And his sister, where was she?

The room awoke around him as though to delay having to answer what he wanted to know. Orbs on the ceiling and on the walls were reflected off chrome. He felt alone in this, his second creation, and could sense a heavy sadness turn to something urgent, volatile behind the hydraulic arms. Then he counted the shadows, and learned which ones were from objects, and which ones must be from other things. Eventually the light became kind, or his eyes learned this spectrum.

"Where is she?" he asked, unused leg lifting over the edge. Eou didn't know about the anger and fear in his learning eyes then, but it was magnificent, dancing like too much violence around his pupils. He broke a few wires tumbling to the floor, long body still slick with the unholy, amalgamated potion that had brought him back from starlight death. He didn't know anything about this closed universe of a room, or why there was a void in his stomach, but he knew this creator must be crueler than the god that had taken him and his sister from mother, because at least that god had let them them be snuffed out together. He was on his knees, trying to see the creature through these limited, screaming senses. He rushed the sensory wealth, he always rushed. At first the creature was as large as any new world. And then it smelled like a monkey, took a shape not unlike the designs the gods would pick for themselves. Vanity.

"Do you know what god I was?" he threatened with a throat evacuated of jelly-fish blood. "You don't know what god I will become if you don't tell me where she is."

Fan-Based Roleplay / Belfry Bayou Bullets Bangs
« on: January 17, 2016, 10:34:08 pm »
There were uproars everywhere. Riots in Buldhaven, that usually favored a seething, slow decay. In Metropolis, more inclined to crisp explosions and shining destruction, there was a wave of robberies. And here in Gotham, that had always been bustling with desperation and clawing darkness, there was every conceivable transgression from one person to another. Everything on a higher volume, like trying on your older sibling's headphones.

There was a blue symbol on a chest in a broken window. He usually liked the rooftop, but colleagues of his would agree that being in the open when observing wasn't always the best approach. He had seen this before. Three guys, magic number, cleaning out an apartment close to the street. It wouldn't get them enough to appease their greed, not from this neighborhood. They were doing this out of impulse, out of opportunity, or they had a system. Every little bit helps. Last time he'd fought a crew like this they'd had a big guy, a tank. These people seemed even in gait. That told him enough to make a plan to neutralize them.

The window, what was left of it, shattered and his body flew out, boots hitting the opposite wall hard enough to offer friction for his stomp. He proceeded to shoot toward the wall he'd come from, and from there he repeated the maneuver. He landed on their van, wide impact, to minimize the dent, maybe it was a rental. They looked up. How many times had he looked down on a pair with shaded eyes holding a tv, like that? The man carrying the box, five steps ahead of them, almost to the back doors of the vehicle, underlined with some swear words that this vigilante was not The Bat.

Grayson shrugged, grinning, teeth glowing light in the one bulb above. "I'm not." Bruce was hard to come by these days. Bigger missions. He wasn't visiting for Bruce, and they weren't stealing to meet the Batman, but somehow the Gotham Knight was still here, legacy alive. "But I know some tricks, too." he said as he stepped to the edge of the metal roof. He showcased a simple dive onto his feet, inches from the one with the box. Another riot, with the blue wings in the center. They'd been careful to set the tv down before, so none of the wares were hurt. When he'd cuffed them, he'd taken the time to put everything back in the apartment. When he left the two-colored lights were already approaching.

Nightwing watched them, finally from the rooftop. He wasn't Batman, so he smiled.

OOC Discussion / The Human Inks ooc
« on: October 04, 2015, 02:42:17 pm »
It wants to be a novel. You can make anything and anyone you want. You can controll Dying Him and Hungry Her. You can only be inspiration and a thank you note when I reformat it.

Freestyle Roleplay / The Human Inks
« on: October 04, 2015, 02:39:24 pm »
"So, you want to eat my flesh?" he asked, brown eyes alive, turning red with the high of the confusion breaking through his indifference.

"You were going to waste all of it on pills or domestic blades, anyway. Why can't I have it?" But she really just meant for him to be quiet and give in.

He had the kind of slope on his nose that made him look direct, symmetric. Deep cheeks and concave orbs underneath his eyes to adhere his features onto beauty. And all these details, all the hollows and peaks, were smudged and sometimes erased compeltely by the soft glow of his complexion, a would-be white that became an acctuall gray in countenance if not in shade. He used this blessing like an infant with an arsenal. The contrast between the fair mask and the dark brows cut holes in women's hearts, and bled infatuation to cool into pools of bitterness in their stomachs. His neck connecting to his balled shoulders by prominent collarbones made some men uncertain, and others sure. He was a ballistic thing, wreaking his little havoc with everyone by throwing his picturesque misery around. What could be more beautiful than a beautiful thing being unaware and sad?

Or so she'd say. And no one else. And not really she either, because no one asked her.

"I don't think I want to offer you physical parts of myself. A chunk here, a chunk there. Fuck. Sounds like that would hurt. I like my comfort." he said. It was the first semblance of a joke he'd made in ages. It was funny because he meant it. Him putting meaning into anything was a good punchline, at this point.

She laughed at him and it made her mouth, the only particularly good looking thing about her, become less of of an oversized, lush thing and more of a gyre. He, who had opened himself up and taken medicine for resons contrary to medicine's purpose, was not frightened.

"I doesn't have to be meat. It just has to be your flesh." she said with some coy sweetness. The tone rung like insanity in the woods that made him look more like a being and her more like a beast. That blade of a brow raised, the right one, over his assortment of beautiful details. She'd not seen him intressted in anything in months. She'd not talked to him in ever.

"What is meat if its not flesh?" he asked. His gait relaxed reluctantly, as though fighting his interesst in the conversation.

She produced a reciet from her jacket pocket. It was for the pen she also handed him. She kept her distance, as far as her arm and her guess on the length of his would let her. He took the trinket and note and looked at them. "Blood soaked parts of yourself. I want to eat it. I don't care if you cut it loose or make it." she said.

"And how do I make it?" he asked, head tilted, fingers wrinkling the reciet around the pen.

"Write yourself down. And the blood, well, there's a blade on the back of that pen if you pull the cork. Genious." And more expensive than she could afford. The clerk had been worried when she bought it. She didn't know if it was for her echonomy or her intentions.


"Yeah. You wrote a letter to the world, didn't you, last time you tried to leave. Some of that self, some other self, as long as its real." she said greedilly.

"And in return?" he asked, but was already writing on the back of that reciet, so passionate he looked angry. Would he even hear her now, if she replied?

"My life, my virginity, balls of my hair. It would all be worldly things, and you were about to leave, anyway. I can only take. This is a mercy thing, from your side, not a trade." she said with a sigh. She wished she had something that would assure this treasure for her.

"Here." he said and waved the long paper at her. Her eyes were as moist as her tongue. "Would you like to read first or would you like the blo..."

"The blood!" she called, comming closer thorugh the rustling floor. "It wouldn't be worth anything if its just ink. I'll read it stained." she said, both hands out. He bit the cork off the pen, and then bit harder into it when he cut the palm that held the paper between two fingers. He curled a fist and put red to the white. When he gave it to her its dry places were warm with his hold while the soaked places were hot with his fuel.

She pulled it open eagerly, her little parcel.

When I was a child, and mother wouldn't marry me, I drew her picture and ate it. She had to take care of me after that.

She smiled at the words.

"Fitting. Awumh." The paper was dry, but it wasn't sharp for long enough to cut the inside of her cheeks. It wouldn't tear, not really, just shrink into a harder mass. Eventually it hurt to chew. He tasted like everything a person is made of. She swallowed so hard her ears cracked. It made its way down slowly, painful. She would masturbate on this pain later.

"I'll keep this if you want this trade, this mercy, more." he said, waving the pen with its cork back. She nodded and was about to answer something direct and obessed, as she had so far, but started coughing on the bit that had not fully descended yet. Eventually she was on her knees, swallowing against the air flickering upward thorugh her. She wouldn't let it up, and she was winning.

He was gone when she had the sense to look. There was no stray drops of his blood when she dug where the marks of his shoes distrubed the old leaves.

Fantasy Roleplay / Eaver
« on: August 02, 2015, 09:04:13 pm »
The tavern had its roots in iron lining. Spines and spears, rusted but repainted in black. There was wood, too, mostly. They'd tried to make it pretty, a glass vase here, a painting there. Somebody loved this place, and perhaps that was the ingredient that kept it standing, kept it sane, in addition to all the spells in the corners, hoping to be strong enough to call upon the mercy and decency of the stronger magicians.

Alsyon Deck did not own this place. Perhaps that was out of his own choosing, since he had the means. He'd come across many gem studded silver bars, and hoarded them. Fortune grows, if you know how to throw it back for more. He'd forgotten that art, weaving wealth out of wealth, but now had trusted people to do so for him. At first it had been small coins, and then it had been big deceits. He had been a good boy, truly, but he'd left that gentle child behind. An honest merchant here, a family empire there. They all fell like leafs in autumn, leaving his coffers swollen.

Now he threw small coins at tavern waiters, and waved with high bills to get more of their good wine. His scarf was blossoming in silver flora, and his jacket was an expensive blue, deep like the effort it had taken to make. Black trousers, of course, leading down to sturdy but polished shoes. A night out might call for more than finery. In fact, didn't he insist on that? Where his collar ended there lived the image of black vines with thorns of different color. All the way up to his jaw the tattoo grew. His hair was as black as those vines, and his eyes were was green as the vines should have been.

Tonight he was drinking to his own glory. He had been participating in these games for quite some time. It was good to be able to hold your liquor when talking business. It was a point of pride. And so he threw challenges to anyone who'd take him on. In the rowdy environment, where smaller gatherings were competing for dominance of volume, the mood in the Cloud Ridge Tavern could be considered merry. Alsyon liked something merry that he could stain. The dark lined, green eyes sparkled with some of that expressed malice as he put another drink to his lips.

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / The Woodland Wounds
« on: July 21, 2015, 09:26:14 pm »
The sun was barging in, cut up by the metal dividing the windows of the buss. Same buss most took to school. The teacher tried not to hear the clank of wine coolers and bigger bottles every time the yellow vehicle ran a bump. This group of teenagers were already a hard bunch to control, having them pour out their alcohol when they’d thought they’d been clever would probably incite mutiny. It was an unspoken tradition, to let them behave this way. Small town, small town rules.

Then sun wasn’t so warm anymore, but the summer air still held heat from the midday that had passed. Green, fat trees spelled the season out on the way to the lake. Perfume, some people had put in the effort, and hairspray. Chipper talk and theatrical brooding in wake of a good connection. It was shaping up to be a good evening. A sister with a harsh history spoke with another sister, who was becoming increasingly like her. He hadn't said, yet.

He deliberately did not play with his phone. The knee of the leg with all the rips in the denim was lifted to support his forearm. A black shirt for the occasion, over a ribbed t-shirt, wound taut around his narrow frame. He’d rolled the black sleeves and completely neglected the buttons. Brown hair in his green eyes. Torgrim knew what he was, because he’d promoted the image ever since he’d seen it on a particularly lucky search. He’d held a few conversations, even initiated one since they’d left the bus stop. He’d laughed loud and joked dark. Torgrim wasn’t the kind of guy to pretend he wasn’t having fun when he was.

He put the leg with no rips out first. The weather really was perfect, and this year there’d been no mosquitoes at the lake. Their own strange little miracle. Soon he was jogging around, backpack left by the back wheel. Food and lavations. He was supposed to help people with setting up tables and such, but he’d rather see the breeze about a rush. The trees chattered as he made his way down something that couldn’t be a path. He wouldn’t wander far. He just wanted to smell the algae. Ever since he’d had floaters on his arms he’d liked the different aromas here, anywhere. Mom called him her little blood hound. Chin lifted, he dragged in a deep helping. There was no lake in the air. He let it out with a sigh and narrowed his eyes. The beloved body of water wasn’t far, he should be able to sample it by now. Disappointed, he pulled up a woodchip and held it to his nose instead. It smelled right, dry.

Torgrim was a lonely, long silhouette in the forest. Growing fast but not growing up. Not lost but not home. Self-neglect on his cheekbones and strength on his shoulders. His usual appeal was a more ballistic kind of charm, but if Mrs. Walters who owned the bookstore or Dana Friedman in his class had seen him then, they might have noticed an honesty that had not been there when he’d turned their heads and ruffled their hair.

A wave broke against the beach for no one to see. The water was clean. A blueish sheen, that deepened to black where usually it would be brown. The ghost of Vera Covall was in the liquid. It was a beautiful place now, strangely so, with her as an ingredient. There would be a bitterness to the sweet water and the temperature would be alluring. She was the mother of a million swimming things, hoping to become a million other things. The lake was hungry.

Eventually Torgrim came back, stretching and then grabbing the back of his neck with both hands as he walked around, trying to find a good spot where no one would ask him to help. He settled by his backpack, and sat against the buss, pulling out a bottle of water, the only on he'd brought. The other bottles contained a far more precious liquid.

OOC Discussion / The Woodland Wounds - Horror rec
« on: July 19, 2015, 06:02:52 pm »
The Woodland Wounds

Summer had come after wet spring. There were things on the horizon, except for the orange and blue: solace, work, rest, family ties as strained as bridge cables, heat.

The students had gone through the year. The promises of autmn and a hard-as-ever winter, inside the span of which Vera Covall had gone missing, presumed dead, and then the light drizzle and fluffing greenery of summer's threshold. A few revalastions tucked away in their minds for adult life, a few naiveties supported by fellow youths or equally blue eyed grown-ups. Nothing had been extraordinary, because everything is in high-school.

Their town wasn't far from the loud metropolis, so there were buses to take them if they wanted. One hour's drive. They were called The Peace by people from Lander City, but they knew themselves as Pineland. A dear lie, because there were not needles on their trees, no Christmas in their flora. Enough space in The Peace to host both a pride over values and a shame over their woodland heritage. Teens were delighting in complaining over the handful of coffee houses and the small mall. Adults, in turn, moaned over their backs after shifts at the mill that also provided wood for a door factory.

There was inspiration in Pineland's proximity to nature, and there was degeneration in its adherence to tradition. And that was all you'd have to say, because if you missed something of significance in describing its spirit, you hadn't neglected something of significance, anyway.

A buss, to day, was taking a class to the lake, surrounded by cherry trees. Grad night. Usually they would get to host it in the town hall, but this year a powerful pretty had noted that blossoms had come on the trees, and stayed. Perhaps they could celebrate with petals in the air? Her lips spoke enough sense for the teachers, and her breasts had enough sense to convince the boys. Plenty of girls adored her for the adoration she had from others, and the rest were apathetic enough to see her will be done, despite their other options.

They didn't know that there was something left from Vera Covall in the lake where she'd drowned in a romantic fit on the ice that broke. Didn't know what haunted her molecules and fed off her material. In the buss, they were friends, eachother's support, classmates, well needed enemies.

They would become dinner guests at eachother's banquets, culinary drawn to eachother the way puberty already sews children together.

They hadn't thought of blood as ruby wine, or bone as brittle condiment.

There would be many new things for this cull of students, in the summer water.

Welcome to the recruitment thread of this summer horror thread. This will be a flash thread where your character will be killed by the poster after you if you fail to post within the set time limit. Please join!

For more in-dept stuff, look here Buh!

Questions? Thoughts?

We shall be kicking off in, or stepping out of the buss, and you can be anything, from a new student to a teacher, or even a lumberjack or chaperon!

This shall be a horror of parasitic variety, which means the parasites in the water will be taking over your character slowly, making them feel and do strange, horrible things! Let's test the ratings of this site!

The Pineland Lullaby. When something's boring, locals call it Lul. Lately it's also come to mean morbid or gross.

I aint got no pines
But the ones in my back
Counting all the times
I’ve been blue, I’ve been black
In the night

Holding on for payday
Holding out for my drink
Going out on Sunday
But it’s not what you think
In the light

Maybe by the daybreak
Sink my teeth in some meat
Would go down to the cool lake
But I’d rather you sleep
In the night

OOC Discussion / Horror?
« on: June 29, 2015, 07:50:14 pm »
I was thinking parasite, inspired by but not limited to Maxim parasyte the anime.

Maybe our characters have been infested by an alien life form, and are trying to hide it from eachother, and are slowly taken over, doing horrendous things to each other. Also, when people flake, they could be autokilled by the parasyte, or become full blown villains.

Also toying with a dinosaur idea. Epic adventure or darker.

I only stipulate that there isn't too much build up to fun events after the initial presentation. We should be rolling.


Fan-Based Roleplay / Vampire Hunter D: Nesting Doll
« on: June 08, 2015, 10:11:35 pm »
At a distance it would appear like a crawling place. Water, of course, veins of the land, but not in an overreaching abundance. Make-shift stores with cloth overhang for protection, as well as stone base quarters, made to stand great tests of the weather. The lifeblood of the creatures here, more prominent in their priorities than what river and brook could provide, was gold, credit, currency. Where it gathered, a kind of sheen would amass, on the polished windows, on the brass details. People with that lifeblood liked to bleed it, so that others would know.

That life had its hand in stirring and flavoring the atmosphere. The scents around the hopeful, trading people shifted in incense, and sometimes a metallic wind for the very successful. People sought to surround themselves with the mineral tinted air even more than that of cooked food. Who wouldn't want coffers so filled their treasure could be felt with every breath? It was this promise that drew the human animal and all its distant relatives and competitors to the market outside of the castle city.

The high stone and its protective walls resounded with the good life generated by the trade center. And yet, lately, there had been a kind of animosity between the stoic towers, built on the backs of humans for the comfort of nobles, and the lively merchants outside. Instinct made the opportune weary of walking in to the city inside those walls, even though it was exactly residence within that had siren-called many to the surrounding market in the first place.

Oleyo knew a little about the phenomenon that kept the lucky at bay. He had spoken to people who had lost family to the white walls and their promise. The guards ontop, plentiful, had their backs to the outside. Their armor suggested the city was doing well. Oleyo was a tall man seated and bent over a large, long glass machine. The cycle encasing his legs and protecting his face from the winds drank light rather than recanted it. The machinery inside, akin to that of machinated horses, the cybernetic animals, did show off strands of purple and green when the combustion worked. Behind the casing that only exposed his back, Oleyo himself was turned into a smeared silhouette.


A section overhead folded forward to let him show his face, delicate ash on his lashes around black eyes, so he could speak with the single guard stationed on the outside of the main entrance into the city. The man looked the hunter over without registering him as such. Oleyo tapped his boot against the ground as he waited to be approved. He didn’t have to balance the bike for long before the man nodded. It seemed the guard was taken aback by Oleyo’s vampire pallid and surgical pretty to contradict a sleepy, sympathetic expression. The guard gestured for the inside and Oleyo went, the battery humming to provide quiet momentum.


He stopped by a tub of water. The horses already tied by it, several of them with high-end parts, didn’t stir when the machine receded around the newest addition to the increasingly secret city. Oleyo stood from the now gaping machine, and pulled the plate around his right arm with him. It was his main weapon, and the glass shield soon crept up his arm to perch itself on the shoulder, leaving his fingers free. The other shoulder and arm were draped by a giant gray scarf. There seemed to be something underneath with the same bulks as the glass plate. Under the scarf, which trailed after him on the ground when he walked, he wore a white armor, leather, reinforced with bejeweled metal guards here and there. His long green hair, mingling with the gray fabric guarding his neck and back, did not seem to deter or even register with the others in here as he cut through them. His weather bitten attire did not impress despite its quality. People of were used to exotics here. It was a smooth enough introduction of himself, and now, when his intentions should be interpreted as inconspicuous to anyone suspicious enough to watch him, he pulled the scarf to hood his face.

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / Hull Shift
« on: March 15, 2015, 08:26:30 pm »

The ship was quietly on its way. Disguised as a launch of several satellites, The Uptroune Connected had docked in the black universe not too far from the pull it escaped near their once fruitful planet. A long thing with hopeful skirts of glass, made to reap a harvest of rays that wouldn't come. As it was, the Uptourne could only eat the reflections of real sunlight, and its useless, filtered remains. The Talevo techniques on board were able to make use of that and the cargo of batteries. It would be a meager saunter toward the edge of the Cycle Eater's range, after which the real sun would be available to fuel them, but by the grace of some other divinity than Talevo itself, The Uptourne would make it.

Its passengers may not, or the mission would fail.

En Klau had woken up with a cold in his body. He had come onto this ship pregnant. They'd disallowed other entities than those connected to The Cycle Eater through Talevo, so he'd sown his Au Oba with his own magnetic soul. They'd stripped him of other anchors before the inserting him into the gel-bag that would hold him for the aggressive launch. Well outside earth's reach, after the wake-up, he'd noticed a chill in his being due to sharing his energies with Au Oba. She had been awake and wasting his resources on the two day trip, during which The Uptourne Fragments had become The Uptourne Connected.

There was more than enough energy of all sort to revitalize his fading song and chilled body, but there was no such energy invented that could deal with his livid Au Oba when she did not want to relent her tie to his own magnetic pattern. Her stubbornness was part of his OCD and part the willful, meaningless declarations she had liked to adhere to in life. Sometimes she would jump into machines, and wear other things than him, but her anchor had always been in the place of his spine that he could tell but not feel. He'd not planned for that when he brought her. Nothing that could tether the remaining fields of a human had been allowed on Uptourne, of course, not when the wasting of their souls was what the mission needed. He'd had the foresight to pasteurize her and him well enough that he could be extracted the closer they got to The Cycle Eater, but he'd not thought to mix in the same fail safe for her. How could he? He'd want her to live, somehow, when he was gone, perhaps in all the dreams available on Uptourne. She would be another thing circling the sun, alive from its radiation. An Earth in all her right.

He was walking through the canteen, and saw it as it was designed for human eyes, without a customized layer of hollow skin. Ironide hands had forged pretty details onto the walls, from the first Victorian period and its Baroque inclinations. Giant windows to show stars, always stars. The naked glass, bent to make up half the ceiling, brought a minimalism, his most hated and arguably the most hubris laden of all the design directions, to the otherwise lush life of precious metals and obsessive carvings. Artists had wanted to be here for the salvation of earth, as well. The roses and twists were their own children, sent to the sun in their absence.

He ordered a hamburger from the 1970's. Beef aroma, not so much spices. Small. He sat down somewhere in the middle. So many seats. Banquet hall. They'd thought it was grandeur, making more chairs than there were people on board. The only thing he thought grand here, in this gold cut and enamel plastered echo hall, was their loneliness, even on the fullest day. Au Oba had wanted a glass of 7up. He'd complied when she spoke inside his head. At least it had been her sweet voice, a handful of years younger than her last voice. She was wearing it now, the drink, and it sizzled in every joint when she moved.

A liquid ghost, held up by will, she let bubbles be her hair and eyes. The light lived on the surfaces. So she was a day, sitting with her legs crossed on his table. He took a bite of the burger. His eyes fluttered at the taste. He'd ordered bloody, but they'd given him well done. It didn't taste bad, nothing did after growing up on blubber and lard, but it wasn't right. He should write a report.

Her soda lips didn't move. Her glass hadn't been large enough to make a solid form, so she'd only used the liquid for her skin. It made her look like a beautiful bubble. He didn't like when she made herself a grown woman like this. Something about the ring of bubbles masquerading as her navel was intimate, scary.

"Do you like the 70's, Ki Oby? Would you buy me a dress from then?" she chimed. He could buy her everything. Pritm would make anything for them. They'd have the world as long as they paid with their lives, their frequencies. Their songs. And being here, they'd already made the last deposit. Earth was just waiting for delivery.

"I would." he said, spraying crumbs to soak and then circulate on her. She looked her CO2 eyes down at the floating bread powder making its way to her left breast, where she'd imagined her heart today. "But then you'd have to wear it with a bipedal drone, silicone suit." he reminded. He thought of bloodied remains. Half her face showing the snow behind her. He knew what would come next.

She tossed her right arm at him. It detached and coiled in the air before it crashed and chilled his face. He licked his lips as the Sprite sprite became mostly vapor in front of him. "You are a bastard, Ki Oby!" she said with her oldest voice. "Wear a silicone suit, do I? Why? Why, Ki Oby! Was it because you had to keep your battery animal even after it had suffered head trauma?" Her head distorted in a three dimensional image of his Tiger's silhouette. It was hard to see. Through him she changed the canteen to their courtyard of smooth ice and pink snow. Pieces of the Tiger was everywhere. He turned the hollow skin off, returning the room to its real, hard image. "I don't want a dress!" she screeched before she jumped on him, the soda splashing his clothes when she returned into his body, snug in his field. She tied herself hard to him, which made him angry with himself and defensive at the same time.

He savored the freeze of the soda as he stuffed the rest of the burger into his mouth. It was a task that hurt his jaws. He sighed through his nose as he looked down, his nose and hair dripping onto the table. He'd worn a white t-shirt today, to show off his collarbones, and tailored dress pants, blue. He'd seen them once in an old file, on a tall woman.

The Talevo, at its Genesis, was a communications principal to make effective, incredibly so, the relationship between the expression of human though, and available technology. Thomas Lament developed the Talevo as a game engine. This ended the infantile war of consoles and other computerized equipment. People made a game of handling information.

The Talevo's next growth spurt let countries make a game out of war. We played it so well we became universally recognized. We then had to play against other worlds.

In its adulthood, the Talevo was our only weapon against interstellar racism. When we successfully declined subjugation, the foremost hellions of the Woven Systems sent something Dr. Lament called The Cycle Eater toward our Sun. Obliterating any nurturing star is a great felony by WS treaty, but denying singular planets sunlight is not. For a few decades the Talevo became a mother that rationed out the last of our resources. We knew cities closer to the core, we knew ice palaces that upset the moon. We took all our energy from storms. When we were becoming comfortable in our misery, the Lament Company declared our planet terminal.

This is the story of retribution. And if it is not, it could still be the novella of salvation.

The remains of Dr. Lament composed a scope capable of reading The Cycle Eater satellite. We learned that algorithms controlling the obstructive satellite were closely related to Talevo. Translation was fairly easy. In the release to the population, The Lament Company said that affinity could be established between the alien sunshield and our minds, if we used newer versions of Talevo as a catalyst for the link. They said it meant the up until now indestructible machine our enemies sent could be undone by frequencies of human individuals. All that was needed was proximity.

The good Doctor, in his lessened state, borrowed from all fractions left on Earth to make a vehicle. Individuals were picked after their frequency, as it could be read by Talevo, to destroy The Cycle Eater. The Uptourne was to be launched toward the sun, with our hope as cargo.

These are our closing words.


Welcome to this angstilly hopeful space farce! You character can be from any of the available places on this new earth.

Titan Castle

Scientific stronghold of the Lament Company. It is the most desired place to live. The upper crust are sometimes given the title of royalty by the rest of the population. They take applications from all other places, but accept very few.

Ice Cities

Icelings are people with a thick mane of very soft hair. Mystics with a strong root in religion where they believe Talevo is a voicebox of a polytheism, where everyone has their own guiding song. This belief was strengthened by The Uptourne project. Icelings are the rarest of Earth people, with only three known Ice Mega cities. They govern some strange animals honed to survive on mother earth's cruel face.



The power plants placed in stormy areas. Accessed through tunnels in the ice. They are masters of hardware and pride themselves as mechanics. Strong build. They usually use Talevo to control machines but are prone to humanoid motion patterns. They are usually referred to as Ironied by themselves. Racial slur: Sparky.


Most of the population live between Craftverks and the core, in the earth. People from the surface call them Moles but they call themselves Lambs. They have the most contact with Titan Castle. They try to dig out great halls where they recreate old Earth. It is mostly by their hand that the planet has become terminal.

You of course have some freedom with your character's birthplace. We're working through the usual fantasy/sci-fi trope of racism.

You are to play an individual chosen to take the voyage on Uptourne because your frequency marries well with The Cycle Eater. You will have been taught or already posses skills needed on the ship. You might be a doctor, a mechanic, a Talevo user (as in a controller of tech, like reading data or steering), a horticulturist or anything else.

Remember to be thoroughly amazed by the sunlight, as The Cycle Eater has robbed us of that. The visible sunlight will set some of the poetic frame of this thread.

Uptrourne is the accumulation of what earth has to offer, and since it is a one way journey, they've made the ship vast and comfortable. Imagine whatever luxuries you want. The grander it is, the better the loneliness is underlined. The lower hull is a bit of a wreck, as it wasn't supposed to stay attached through launch, but its ruin is a bit of a reminded of the severity of the mission and will serve to lend some grit to our scenes.

There will be attacks on Uptourne from WS but nothing Talevo can't handle. Most of the peril will come from your character's affinity to the code in The Cycle Eater. The more our proximity destroys the satellite, the worse we feel. Your character will become sicker the closer we get to the satellite. When you guys inevitably drop out, it'll be explained as exposure sickness. You can also chose to write your character out by yourself this way. Somber, eh? Mix that with people from different places with innate friction, love-ways and stress of leaving earth, we have an awesome plate to pick from.

So! Who's got ideas? Who wants in?

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / B9
« on: May 28, 2014, 07:01:01 am »
There were no vibrations in the glass. Yesterday a team of lacrosse players had been passing by and a particularly muscular, life-hopeful, young male had swung his tool, producing a rock at high velocity. The glass had not wavered. Even the dull sound had been disappointing to the crowd of otherwise happy men. The speed and impact had been nulled by the flexible fibers in the window, the energy transfered quickly to the break-boxes tastefully hidden in the frame. It would take more that mischievous impulses to scratch the Kevlar Weaver.

The bricks had been fortified with an interlocking film of ruby dust to accent and sometimes glower the rocks dug up from sacred ruins. A quantity of Tradition was important here. It mattered less what traditions. The design of the academy was reminiscent of Florence and Victoria. Some pillars were wispy, some of them were of giant girth. When everything would hold, you could build in all shapes. Rapier sharp and mountain steady. It was evident it in the iron fences with strangely clean patterns of rust, seen it in the running, blue lights emanating from curves. Arches and murals where the motifs had mercury and sapphire eyes.

Cobblestone indoors. Like many others Iolma Dendrit made up for the pretty but harsh floor of the cafeteria with silicone padding to his flat leather soles. Technology, Man's most beloved child and slave, was lurking beneath every surface that claimed at being ancient, elegant. Where the stones underneath his feet connected, you would sometimes see a flash of color as information rushed through the thread spaces. They had echo machines in the high corners of the the ceiling, despite everything in Pullma being made to properly treat audio. The Kevlar Weaver played at being stoic through the centuries, but it was the newest thing as far as building were concerned. Nothing but the best for the best.

Iolma had time to sit in the mostly empty dining hall while the servers got busy behind the counter and beyond, in the kitchen. He'd acquired a box of juice. Blue eyes were staring at the liquid treat now, blue eyes perched above the light plastic of his mask. Today its shapes were rounded, a little wall covering the low of his face and all around to the back of his head. The ridges in front made his mouth look like the grill you might put on a truck to plow away snow. He punctured the top of the drink with a straw.

Kella Cloudius was not so serene. He pelted the floors with his own shoes, his uniform flailing with what little slack the tailoring allowed. He was holding a metal cylinder attached to a leather strap, and the silver container bounced by his side as he hurried. His eyes were a rarer shade of Iolma's, colder and lighter. Purple, sometimes. A purple someone had poured from. A watered out color. His cheeks drowned the face in red to pink as he took the corridor and slid in a bend.

He was supposed to be in the infirmary, another shift treating some of the Colt coming in with minor injuries, instead of attending Bolvor Interception class. He'd realized he was late for a med delivery then, a personal alarm going off to warn him. So here he was, passing the open doors of the dining hall and waving at the distinct outline of Iolma, sitting by himself. The Dendrit kid, or Subject Dendrit as he'd affectionately come to be called among the medical staff, should not be exempt from any combat training unless his augmentations were somehow implied.

Kella didn't linger long on the injustice and instead wished he could join in on the snack time in an empty room that was usually brimming with hungry youth. He raised his speed instead, suddenly wishing for the velocity of at least a Noble. He could feel vibrations underfoot. Must be a Komodo or an Out Beast letting loose in one of the Silent Vaults during class. Showing off or sparring with another like themselves. He wanted to see it. Delivering his cargo was more important than the sensationalism of the school's best.

OOC Discussion / Benign - anime drama in the futurescape
« on: May 22, 2014, 08:53:54 pm »
Because they are not

your weapons must be

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / The Oldest Fires
« on: March 24, 2014, 07:21:45 am »
He had scripts on his skin, underneath the white collar above the maroon tie.

A grown man, sans his leather jacket, laid on the black stone of the polished table. The room was held up by glass, held up by the very day, lending a glower to the gray floor itself. The space stretched around the elevator at the center. The building of their building had catered to the whims of his family, and despite it's minimalism, the whims had been decadent. They paid the ransom of kings, riches derived from their real estate and mining kingdom - home and rock - so they lived in castles, in towers. Delicate features, smooth, pointed a sharp nose at the unlit lamps. He had chrome eyes.

He had bruises on his knees, and asthma in his lungs.

The boy swung the ax, splintered the wood. Felt the hard vibrations from the shortcomings of his technique. Winter ate at the autumn colors, undressed the ground and frosted the trees of morning. The boy swung his head, casting his black hair back, thick with sweat. A knitted vest and slacks on, things that grown men wear. His hands wanted vengeance for the insult from the trunk. Angry wrinkles on his innocence. The boy swung his mood, gathering power, making heat. When the tree took the iron this time, he couldn't pull it out. His breath failed him and couldn't help him call for his brother. The boy swung forward, on his knees, in pursuit for oxygen.

He had nothing on his shoulders, and life's wind was blowing him forward.

Youth colored his moods, he danced with them, throwing money like words. More than words, as he'd thought himself to charm others with poetry, and not drown them with academia. The house, filled beyond the ability to echo, hosted his tantrums and carried his beautiful reflection on its mirrors and windows. The world would forgive; if he bent the fast cars it would forgive, if he started the fight it would forgive. The house in the forest with the tree he hadn't felled. Every boy gets to play at being a prince. His game was prolonged by affluence that followed his last name. He started the scrips on his skin.

He was soaked in confusion, suffering from the halt in his glory.

She was beautiful, and that was his problem. Art major in a white dress, as though her hair wasn't black enough. Green eyes and silver computer, sitting in the fold of her arm. When she corrected her glasses it was the hammer of her judgment. He was almost too young to be young, yet. Life had only just shown itself. In her kisses it had shown itself. He wasn't a major in anything, he owned too few years. She didn't have the numbers in her accounts, she was starved and pretty, and still he couldn't sway her to stay. Because of her a girl in University and a girl abroad and any girl with a smile for him would suffer, later. Today he suffered, instead.

He was here, in the Now.

Sael Orville sat up slowly in the empty boardroom. This floor had been evacuated, but the table remained. It had been transported by helicopter five years ago. Sael had been the pushing force to see its need gone. He wanted the family company to be run by the family. He corrected the red tie and leaned on one propped arm as he looked out at the city. There was some value to a view like this, but he couldn't appreciate it now. The tops of other buildings and the low of the world and its signature waters reminded him of father. A stoic light in the midday and a ceaseless, natural flow. Steady, alive - as father always had been. Sael clucked his tongue. No. That was the problem.

All his life he'd been a heir, the one with less claim, but just as much responsibility. You can't change the order in which you were born, and with the taste of a carefree life still sticking to his palled, he'd never wanted to. Heir, as it turned out, meant other things than money and enjoyment. This dragon of a company needed at least two heads, now that he'd insisted they lop off the others and control the body themselves. Brother had tried to be rational about it. Sael was not known for his business mind. He was nothing if not sentimental, belligerent. Sael got off the table. His office faced his brother's on the top floor, where father's had been. He supposed he needed to go there and look things over. Funeral tomorrow.

He supposed he'd have to move back to their house too, in an official capacity. The long limbed youth did not like paperwork. There would be a lot of it for his assistants in the future, he imagined.

He didn't visit his office, remade and outfitted for half a million dollars. Instead he got on his motorbike, one object in his dwindling collection of rebellions. The Orville youngest wouldn't run out, though. He liked this angel of the world better, rushing by with its filth and shine. Beside him, outside him. Their home was outside this city, but close enough to belong to it. Edwin Orville, a man of the city people, as they'd said about father. Sael threw his helmet on the stone in front of his childhood home. At least he remembered to leave the keys in the bike, so they could move it where it stood by the fountain.

"Champaign!" he called, the mock enthusiasm cold to the ear of the staff. "Or something stronger. And who do I have to rim to get a sandwich around here?" His hair was lovely and finger long, out of place from having been protected by the ceramics of his helmet. He did look every bit as the antagonist he was, standing in leather among the scurrying people, trying to ready the home for his fathers last audience in the morning that would come.

Freestyle Roleplay / Famine Fever
« on: February 02, 2014, 04:20:30 pm »
It had been a warm winter. Very little frost on the great windows of newly risen sky gracing houses, for business and affluent people. On the city floor, the cracks had barely been offered any snow to eat, the cardboard homes of those without an address blessedly intact for a long time. It was as good as things could be, and they were still gloriously decadent, with glasses that were coated in chrome lacquer, while they were rancid also, in dirty, yellow-lit hospitals and rust ridden stair houses.

Lately, this year, in the soul song of this puddle of people there had been an unusual amount of life-high arias with abrupt conclusions. Mercury surfaces recanted crimson happenings, and the images, often folded and bulbous here - where architects battled to be new and obscene while they hid behind past ideas of polished metal - had been macabre for most of this supposed winter. The dumpsters were growing fat on gray meat, arms and feet - and the river was swelling with a new, unsavory kind of food for its marine populous. All under the unseeing eye of the prey people.

It was as though the waning of summer had come with a kind of wind that wasn't so kind at all, though warm like living veins are warm, and hungry, too. A gust that had coiled in the alleys and stayed between the dry bricks of the unloved, but habited blocks until the damp of autumn. A spirit maybe, lingering to make sure that which was sung was not so classically pleasant as it was primal, mixed up in the city's sophistication and myriad of pretty, well-planned lifestyles. A conductor then, with a new vision for the composition of this cutthroat but earnest farce.

Ellian was part of this infiltrating honesty. He was lent to the city from older stories. The desert plains and whatever adjacent jungles. Something sapien and erected that had been made out of evolution alongside a hidden tribe of giant cats. His tall bones were light, standing on the the store building that was in turn fifteen men deep into the night. The pillar of his neck was starved in design, fine, growing from bladed shoulders and supporting a softly curved, sharply tipped jaw. Dark lips large and closed, dark hair, wild and oily, with golden reflections in it, little traces of hay. Gold eyes, croissant gold, and bushed black brows to contradict everything feminine, and draw in mind everything feline.

This store, his platform, was closed, dead for the night, but the building next to it was leaking, bursting, bleeding neon life. The club was much taller than Ellian's perch. Only the lowest floors were pregnant with the thump-thump-drum and mating adrenaline. The rest of the house of feast was accommodating to other kinds of festivities. Banquet house, one of many in Solaris City. The Eaters had come to Solaris, and Ellian - who'd cannibalized his Pride had sniffed new blood all the way from foreign, breath-hot places - was one. Centuries of basic sin had made his soul lush with rot. His essences were rich from lapping at the sun. His liver was unspoiled. When he stepped down from an iron latter and placed the thin rubber soles of his boots on the pavement, he was as much of a treat to the hungry in the Sanguine Eden establishment as their bodies would be to him.

The invitation had folded edges, a piece of hardened cloth attached to it with a silver snap button. The scent on the fabric was iron and spice, what else? The thick paper said his name and the word Flesh in large italic. The guard, as tall as Ellian but many time thicker nodded at the proof of entrance. The eyes of the lion, always struggling to exist between a rage of hunting strong things and a calm of watching the world age lit with something polite as he passed the usher. Artificial smoke and incorrect sunlight.

He found himself at a booth soon, by a large pitcher of water and no glass.

OOC Discussion / The Devour: a paragraphite marathon
« on: January 24, 2014, 09:48:29 pm »
Welcome all ye curious! This is going to be a competition with unseen like betwix us RPers!

The plot is fairly simple. Things that eat other things are converging due to a concentration of, well, edible foes. Now this doesn't have to be a fighting plot, even if it can be. There's bound to be some tension, I think, because of the competitive nature of this thread.

You can chose between these category of eater

Of flesh - gnaum! Just the succulent human dish in general.
Of essence - where power is sucked out, leaves the victim withered of energy.
Of soul - a stealing of the self, and any ability to pass on into the afterlife.
Of blood - the sodium and iron soup. Please.
Of liver - A bit of a combination between flesh and blood. I saw a documentary on killer whales and thought there was a poetic angle on it, okay?

So, you can be any and all creatures of your making that live off and thrive on these things. You must pick one. And your character must also posses these things so that your fellow rpers can take it. Now, relationships can be friendly, bitter, dramatic, romantic - I prefer them to be volatile in one way or another, be it emotional of physical - but the possibility should always be present that they can turn on each other.

Now the entire meaning with this is that you forfeit your character to a number of rules when you submit to the thread:

There is a post order.
When the one before you have posted, you have 48 hours to respond.
If you do not post within 48 hours after the one before you in the post order has posted, you become subject for eating.
Subjects for eating must be eaten.
If the poster after the subject for eating does not eat, he or she will be eaten by the poster after that.
Every post must be five paragraphs.

I personally think Krystal Itzune had a particularly good shot at winning, but hopefully she'll give us a fighting chance. This a is a challenge to other aspects of your RPer abilities other than your skills with words. It is meant to be fun and gruesomely beautiful. Blood in rain at some point, please. Now, would you guys like to talk details or ask questions?


Fantasy Roleplay / Röd
« on: January 22, 2014, 06:35:11 pm »
Something pure, no, something essential, something complete in him, not clean, was wrought in two pieces when she called him by their bond. The person that had once known her through a daze of hunger, an addict with a ward, woke hard. Not ward, perhaps. He had never hated her like the addled hate some benevolent hand, as he'd hated mother on occasion, leashing him when enough was enough, keeping him from his vice. Gretel without an L had always endeavored to make him happy. It was the hunger's fault it could not be calmed down; not by her kindness, and not by her willingness to sacrifice to it. It came back with intent, the suction in Hansel's heart exercising its own right to long for something, after neglect and abuse in the dark woods, loosing always to the greedy body.

He felt starved for her, a symbol now - standing outside the light while being much more of it than he - grown and shaped into something the wolf craved, and the person missed. In their childhood she had embodied a power, a state of mind that he was welcome to whenever she could give it. Now that craft had raised her, and she took its resemblance onto her strong limbs, and longer strandfall. He didn't know if she'd started caring for pretty, but pretty had come to her. When he dropped his shoulders in borrowed clothes, she could see the monster baring it's neck like a challenge, and her brother resign to whatever fate she'd deal. His cunning could be both a lure and sincere.

The clearing and its alabaster film flickered with the magic that shared the scene between them, distorting him cruelly. It was not sweet, this magic, even when it was fueled by so much welled up, strong love. Maybe because the love itself could not be sweet, when his was caked in regret, and hers was reinforced with determination. It was not what it had been when he had adored her through his waning life, and she had supported him with such unwavering attachment. Reflection off the blade joined the scene, and made a streak that managed to show itself on his already illustrious complexion, but became overwhelmed in his hair. Hansel leaned into the blade's ray, eyes rolling into his lids. The thought of such a fitting punishment enticed him, the boy attached to her thirsty for redemption, and the monster wanted to be sensual for her. It was an intimate thing, fighting, and it would never be forgotten by her if she triumphed.

"Hansel maybe." he said and caressed the light provided by her weapon once more with his chin before he looked at her again. It was a darker wine now. "Not brother. I don't think we have much relation, anymore. So much new blood in me." It was a vile thing to say with kind lips, and the tremble in his eyes, lit up by childhood summer for a small moment, tried to express the real sentiment of that inwardly aimed comment. "You have become every bit as beautiful as you've always been." Hansel was allowed to say, when the beast had meant to comment on her well developed flesh.

He came toward her, and the air moved his hair like their brook used to move clouds of dirt in its clarity, during decisive and sudden currents. His words contradicted his hand, raising. The seduction was such a big part of him now, since it alone had provided him with the victims that lined the hollow they'd both cared for once. His palm was moonward, fingers spread convex, strung out for her acceptance, elbow shaking. The beast must have his arm, then, because his eyes had all the sincerity of his meaning.

"Don't come here, Gerete." and then, as though there could be hope. "Leave your forgiveness at the edge of this clearing, please, and I'll collected when you've left."

Freestyle Roleplay / Reach
« on: November 11, 2013, 01:03:02 am »
He was not himself. In the thinning rags and then scents of the things that others expelled from themselves and their homes, he was not. A moving slumber; in the shadows that morning cut and the blanket of stars later. His body stayed in the rich areas. Affluence of people, not metal, or lately, numbers in computers. Affinity to the human beast like the human beast was drawn to bovine and poultry and sweet water. Officers could move him, never peering underneath the holes of his hood, he would comply, and others like him could pretend to converse, he would grunt in response. But every part of him that was him was resting, strung up in a comfortable stasis because the world couldn't draw him in any direction anymore, only support his existence. He still ate from the blind spots in world surveillance, sometimes the meat was rotten and the blood was hard - but he didn't feast. There was no course worth engaging his palled.

And then the sleep ended.

Miriam could taste the sun, a brave streak falling through the rips of the cloth veiling his head, to lay patiently on his man-eating lips until he breathed. A new age with strength to quicken him from the small rebellion of absence. It was an eager age, greedy to let itself be known; toxic, inventive, free and constrictive. So he stood up and became aware of the weeds, drying in the same sun, and patterns of rust spelling out the vintage of the box that held fresh garbage. Hands came off their automated state to tug at the cover for his head, until the spent garment came down like - what would would be a likeness appropriate for this era, that he could relate to himself? - bought, confused soldiers.

The fast undone hood soon revealed a smiling face, untouched by the distance from today and the time he had laid down. Excitement lifted the skin from the bones, to have his details be svelte but not starved, like his old self. Hair was also beneath the hood. It was the only wealth that he had left, spilling sinfully down and coiling luxuriously inside his clothes, tumbling like one shadow from his scalp. Then, suddenly, he was not so glorious, the magic of glee receding into his bones and leaving him the result of his protest by stillness.

He took a drink from boy that fled from him, but chose an empty path, and then a woman who thought he was beautiful in the boy's clothes. With his sharp eyebrows and his deceptively large mouth she was right. The two meals meals made him more so, putting blush where there had been bruises and arctic life around his pupils instead of gray, muddy waters. Miriam was burning underneath Jacob's clothes. The boy and Amanda were dancing in his veins. The warmer he became - and his kind was warm, warmer than a mother, warmer than love - the more he felt it.

In sneakers that were well worn - no socks, that'd be too intimate to steal so soon - he made his way through the concrete world, and got acquainted with mannerisms through observing meetings between strangers, friends, and then family. It seemed the freedom of this world made things hard for its children, leaving them little protocol to stand on. He thought it was a wonderful idea, though. In his new hood, bright red, and a pair of sheers in its pocket - a tool he'd always liked - Miriam slowly soaked up the social changes on his way toward his favorite blood.

It was a good Tuesday, that he'd decided to wake, hours after lunch. Oh, this line had been so interesting last time, not just delicious. It was their fault that he'd been so disappointed, when their fountain ran stagnant. A generational sweetness, he'd deducted, and decided to wait. Now the stream was bubbling again, and his soul was receptive. Three times he'd courted this family. He wondered if his involvement had become a story that trickled down. It didn't matter. Miriam would walk in through their measures, he wouldn't be a very good touch of death if he couldn't recognize and fool surveillance when he saw it, and see about her.

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