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| Tweet Topic Started: December 16, 2011, 3:31 pm (680 Views) | |
| lacella | December 16, 2011, 3:31 pm Post #1 |
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*Custom User Title*
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OOC THREAD HERE It seethes and seethes, a river of darkness, putting forth lilies and snakes, and the ignis fatuus, and rolling all the time onward. The other river, the black river… Kabul, Afghanistan. Let us begin. It is a land of browns and yellows, of dirt and marble, of wild animals and faceless women. Now, it is filled with screams. It is filled with wailing, with tearing of clothes. Bombs decorate the stretch of streets like flowers blooming with smoke and fire. In the distance there is humming, fervent prayer, a quarter of the city on their knees. It is a melting pot of noise and bones, of lungs torn with tears and bloody arms stretched to Allah. The believers will die. We always consider the silver river of life, rolling on and quickening all the world to a brightness, on and on to heaven, flowing into a bright eternal sea, a heaven of angels thronging.—But the other is our real reality— Cape Town, South Africa. Here, the helicopters crowd into the dark night, shining their lights. The people are deer, waiting to be killed. An over-important voice flashes through several countries, alerting them of the coup that had staged a successful breach of social classes. The group had broken through a wall dividing the rich from the rest of the world, and slaughtered several guards while doing so. Now part of the wealthy suburbs were under their control. It was among the first of many attacks. It is your reality, nevertheless, the dark river of dissolution.—You see it rolls in us just as the other rolls—the black river of corruption. And our flowers are of this—our sea-born Aphrodite, all our white phosphorescent flowers of sensuous perfection, all our reality, nowadays… New York, USA. Here is where it will all end. Step. “People of New York, it is with great pleasure that we announce the annulment of the last religious institution within this great city!” Over the speakers, the Mayor’s voice crackled, popped. He looked out at the stream of people – the rich encased within barbed wire fences and beyond them, the people of the shadows. The poor, the homeless, and the majority. John Freemantle was not a tall man, nor was he good looking. He had grabbed the position of Mayor with his bare hands through a steady campaign that promised complete liberation from religion and tradition. Now he stood in the grey mist of afternoon, rain sprinkling on his hat. He continued. Step. “As of today, our city is free of the tethers that have held us back in our quest for the future. For man is not a creature destined, but destiny itself. We are destiny. Within us, within each of us, lies the future of the world. And today, I stand before you, humble; yet proud.” Step. “Humble because I am no longer chained to the notion of the old religions that proclaimed us access to false gods; proud, because Manhattan will be the first city to represent this knowledge. With the closing of the last church in New York, we have made our mark in history.” Step. Pause. “We, my friends, are the pioneers in what I foresee to be a long line of cities endowed with complete freedom—” Stop. Smirk. A thick smear of hot black dashed through the air and everything slowed, froze, a league of dead eyes sparked to life. In an instant, the black was met with a blinding gold, stinging and whipping its way through the motionless crowd, piercing the dark streak through its core, fine fingers splitting a hair. In the heavy afternoon, the earth moaned, trembled – “You will leave this place, Paroch.” A whisper, echolocated in the sky’s underbelly. “You will leave this place.” The same whisper intensified, overlapped, sunrays on a winter morning, glass flints pouring on the floor. “You will leave—” And in an instant, all was silent. The crowd shook, vibrating with confusion and fear. Two black-clad men left the scene. She is the flowering mystery of the death-process. When the stream of synthetic creation lapses, we find ourselves part of the inverse process, the flood of destructive creation… The earth has never been as it seemed. ![]() “Oh—Portia, I didn’t know you were back from school.” She stared. Clearly it was three in the afternoon. How did he not know this? “Why aren’t you with mom?” “At the Mayor’s speech thing? Not really my thing, sweetie.” A pause. “Well, go upstairs and I’ll get Nina to get you some food.” “Why can’t I eat here?” “Why not in your room?” “It’s the kitchen, dad. Kitchen is for food.” “Yes, but I thought today you might like something different, you know. Not everything has to be routine.” Yes it did, but for some reason he could never understand this. She stared for a while, then: “At three in the morning tomorrow, both Mars and Venus will be visible.” “Yes honey, that’s nice but—” “Richard?” A female voice crooned from the other room. Portia stood stock still, unblinking. Richard started—then sighed. “Richard—” “If you’re having an affair, isn’t it a little stupid to do it during the day?” A young woman, beautiful and pale-haired, lipstick like blood. “Oh, who’s this?” “Denise, just get back in the other room, I told you to wait.” She clucked her tongue, spinning on her heel. “Touchy.” Her hand grazed his chest as she disappeared back into the parlour. When he turned back, Portia was gone. “God. Nina. Nina!” His voice was loud, exasperated. His maid came running. “Go make sure Portia’s alright, will you?” “Of course, Mr. Hennessy.” ___ It would always be one of the great mysteries of life, the connection from head to heart. All these years, Portia knew that in its own way, family was important, that to some it was the be all and end all. You are born, sans choice, to certain people and spend the earlier years of your life with them—only to find another person and repeat the cycle. Particular things disrupted this process—a cheating spouse, for one. Portia knew that her mother would probably like to know about dad and Denise. But in her heart? In her heart, Portia wanted to bring in the stars. She wanted to tell her mother about Venus and Mars, and the stars. The Mayor’s speech should already have begun. She shut the gate behind her. She’d found an alternate means of escaping the grounds a long time ago, and nobody had bothered to try and follow her through a bunch of prickly bushes—a sorry excuse for a fancy garden. She’d make her way to Times Square, find the guards, get ID’ed, locate the seats reserved for her class and then find her mother and tell her about Venus and Mars. That was her plan. The weather was dismal. The rain was light, but everything was blanketed in a great big sigh of grey. The air was crammed full of it, the grey pulled through her hair and splashed through her shoes. She did not look at anyone as she walked, she made it a point not to. When she arrived— What? At first, there was a muted cry. Beside her, a female guard stumbled back, eyes wide with confusion. The muted cry reverberated until it could be found throughout several patches in the crowd. Then, the male guard beside her cussed. Everyone was curiously positioned, some bent over halfway, some with their faces riveted to the sky. Portia looked up. Nothing. Then, “It’s alright, people. Just a close call with lightning.” Freemantle’s voice hissed through the speakers, throaty, rasp. He cleared it. “For safety reasons, let’s bring this meeting to a close…” he droned on. The people around her seemed absorb his words into their frightened skin. Some straightened, some even attempted laughter—most of them were standing, hurriedly leaving. Soon, the loudspeakers were drowned out by the rush of people who wanted to go home—the atmosphere was strange, too strange. Nobody wanted to stay. In the rush of it all, a figure crashed into her, sent her sprawling on the cement. “Oh hey, sorry kid—” Edited by lacella, December 16, 2011, 4:03 pm.
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| LES SAUVAGES BELLE. | |
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| CinquantaSei | December 17, 2011, 5:50 am Post #2 |
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'Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy.' With an aged book in one hand and a broad umbrella held aloft in the other, Rebecca had almost entirely ignored the speech she had come to hear. A moment in history that reflected the sorry state of the world. It was something that Rebecca had wanted to hear, not out of support, but of curiosity and interest. History was all that she loved and history was something she wanted to see made. 'Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds, many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea, fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home.' From her seat in the stands, Rebecca half-listened. An abolishment of religion. A rejection of cultural ideals and historical values. A movement into change and away from tradition. It made some sense, to cut ones ties to the binds of religion for the sake of understanding. To a historian, it was still a great loss. Rebecca quietly hoped there would not be some deluded book burning. 'But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove-- the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all, the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun and the Sungod wiped from sight the day of their return.' For a moment, confusion seemed to reign supreme. Why the crowds now stared skyward, why the world seemed choked, Rebecca had missed. Had it all gone on too fast, or had the Odyssey simply drawn her attention too hard? It was time to leave now. She wanted to know why, but she did not have time to find out. It was time to leave now. Flowing with the crowd was her only option here. It was time to leave now. 'Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus, start from where you will-- sing for our time too.' Rebecca looked up for but a moment, locking eyes with a stranger on the other side of the fence. Brown hair, dark eyes that told of a hidden story of their own. There was a history there and Rebecca caught herself staring. Suddenly, she bumped something. No, someone. A girl, about 10 or 11, heading the wrong way. There was only one way to go, and she was heading the wrong way. "Oh hey, sorry kid! I should be more careful." Closing her book and placing it back in her messenger bag, she leant down to help the girl up. This was no place for a child to be alone. "Where are your parents?" |
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-Those who wander the sand and darkness- The Expanse - Character menagerie. Formerly Doomshifter | |
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| lacella | December 17, 2011, 9:45 pm Post #3 |
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*Custom User Title*
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The Odyssey. At the flash of this familiar book, Portia took the girl’s hand, something she would not have done for most people. “Where are your parents?” For a few seconds, she looked up and studied the girl’s face. It was not unkind. As the crowd pushed on, she opened her mouth to speak, when— “Babe, there you are.” A wry grin. “Sorry… late as always, huh?” She spoke anyway, not taking any notice of the newcomer. Her gaze was solid, exclusive. “My dad is at home having an affair with a tall blonde woman named Denise, and my mother is somewhere in class seats A9.” “Oh, who’s this?” The newcomer gazed down at her. She did not look at him. “Cute kid.” He reached to ruffle her hair—she dodged him, finally bestowing a gaze upon him. He was tall—very tall, with porcelain skin and ebony hair. They looked good together. The girl was pretty. Portia suddenly felt very alone. He hadn’t seemed to notice the dodge, now happily chatting away, leaning very close to the Odyssey girl. “Hey listen, I cancelled today’s plans with Harry, maybe we can grab some dinner later?” She thought she saw a sliver of fear in his eye. She turned around. She could not find her mother. What she did see, though… Solly? Robes of wheat edged with vibrant reds and oranges, mystical beads and that gentle, stern face of soap and leather… it was him. With an uncontrolled grin that broke through her stony little girl façade, she set off wordlessly. “I mean, only if that’s okay…” ___ As he spoke, he noticed the little girl leaving. He said nothing, though. He wanted Rebecca’s attention, completely. And he refused to admit it, but he was nervous. Technically, they were still together. Nowadays, the upper class were tighter than ever before, fewer in numbers, even in an incredibly populated place like Manhattan. Everything was held under a thin sheet of etiquette and social manners. It was what distinguished them from the Spectres who breathed in the Shadowlands, the outsiders mired in poverty. It was very British, very aristocratic. He prided himself on this. His relationship with Rebecca wasn’t ideal at the moment, so to speak. He’d been caught with another girl, but he was drunk and high as almighty at the time. She didn’t mean anything—but Rebecca? Rebecca was his future. As far as everyone else was concerned, she’d taken it in stride like the strong, understanding woman that she was. Behind closed doors though, he could feel her eyes digging into the back of his neck, a javelin of unspoken words. He fought through this, silently. He looked down at her now, awaiting her response. A Crawford should not fear a woman, right? Right? And Gavin Crawford was no different. He swallowed, the miserable sun illuminating his features—a sorry angel. “We can even order your favourite—anything.” He attempted another smile. Edited by lacella, December 19, 2011, 10:43 am.
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| Zyclin | December 17, 2011, 10:57 pm Post #4 |
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“For, behold, the Lord will come with fire, and with His chariots like a whirlwind, to render His anger with fury, and His rebuke with flames of fire.” Twenty years ago, Mosola thought, Bishop Sisk spoke only of salvation, of forgiveness and glory. He spoke of love. An understandable shame that this morning, his last sermon, he punctuated the long breath of New York’s Episcopal Church with an exclamation of wrath. Mosola bowed his head. “For by fire and by His sword will the Lord plead with all flesh: and the slain of the Lord shall be many.” Bishop Sisk had lived the life of an optimist. Mosola had known him since the early 80’s and Sisk never spoke an ill-word in the Lord’s name. Today, they emptied from him like the flood. These were not archetypal fire-and-brimstone murals of Hell. Bishop Sisk’s words mentioned neither devil nor demon. Instead, the bishop painted a portrait of Armageddon guided by the steady brush of God himself. Not a war of Hell, but a massacre by Heaven. “They that sanctify themselves, and purify themselves in the gardens behind one tree in the midst, eating swine's flesh, and the abomination, and the mouse, shall be consumed together.” The bishop paused, lifted his slate-gray eyes from the Bible, and stared down at what remained of his waning flock. “Saith the Lord.” With trembling hands, the bishop shut the King James Bible resting on the podium. Its ancient pages clapped together—the only sound among the silent thousand in the pews. Bishop Sisk backed away from the microphone as if it were a poised serpent. His shoulders rolled a heavy shrug with which he slipped off his priestly robes of black and folded them across his arms. He laid the slab of black satin carefully at the base of the cross and, without a word, vanished through the door behind the pulpit. While the rest of the congregation lifted onto tired feet, Mosola refused to budge. Men and women (most of them so old that death creaked in their knees and throbbed in their knuckles) shuffled into the three aisles that divided the massive sanctuary. There were few words for the occasion, and so they exited out onto the gray New York streets in silence. It took twenty minutes for the church to clear, and then there was only Mosola, gripping his palm staff, and the organist depressing the closing notes of a hymn. After a while, Bishop Sisk staggered into the room in a charcoal suit. Though he had seemed able to stand through the lengthy service, Sisk relied on a cane as he made his way to the front pews where Mosola waited. He pushed a bowler hat down over his ears. “Mosola, my old friend. Let’s go watch the final branch of spirituality be pruned from my city,” Sisk said. His voice seemed weaker without the amplified throw of the P.A. system. “I am sorry,” Mosola spoke slowly, not taking his eyes off the carpet. Despite his milky complexion, his English was heavy with a robust, South African accent, “that your church is being closed.” “I can do the Lord’s work on the streets,” Sisk said. “Let us not doddle here.” Mosola stood. The strand of oversized rosary beads that hung around his neck rolled from one side of his chest to the other. His robes, the color of burnt wheat, were smooth and without a single wrinkle. He feigned not to notice when Bishop Sisk studied the ivory feather hanging from the head of Mosola’s staff. “Julien is meeting us at City Hall,” Mosola said as he trudged towards the huge oak doors at the back of the sanctuary. Sisk followed, walking on worn shoes and a chipped cane. Mosola was astonished by the sheer number of people crammed into Times Square. New York City, Mosola thought. How fitting that here, in a city built by folks who believed that even miracles could be synergized down into manageable chunks, in New York, mankind would finally turn their back on the old nostalgia of Eden. This would be the day that humans shunned the mysterious workings of the Lord in favor of their own prescribed and tested methodology. The elder of the Order of the Saints leaned his weight on his staff. He could hardly track what the mayor was saying and looked instead at the hollow, smiling faces of the newly-damned around him. They wore the same smile as the people of Cape Town when the coup swept through the city to slaughter the old guard. The same smiles that Mosola saw every night in the streets of Johannesburg where young thugs left women with wet thighs and bleeding lips in the alleys and the older generations resigned themselves to playing hapless sheep fenced into the liquor dens. Twenty years ago, the two priests would be greeted with shy grins and bowed heads. But today, in 2020, a man bumped into Mosola and shrugged him out of his way. “Wake up, old fucker” was all the man grunted as he pushed deeper into the crowd. If only, Mosola lamented, he was dreaming. Unfortunately this nightmare was as real as the chilled air that swept down the square and caused the old monk to shiver in his robes. “We, my friends, are the pioneers in what I foresee to be a long line of cities endowed with complete freedom—” the mayor rattled on, but his words were lost to a violent lashing of light and dark in the sky. A whisper lilted above the scene and a knowing chill crystallized in Mosola’s bones. If it weren’t for the muttering of the crowd, one would hear the wood grain of his staff straining in the monk’s clenched fist. Bishop Sisk had said something in the seconds following the show of lights but Mosola didn’t hear it. Instead, his eyes were turned to the sky. “And the armies which were in Heaven followed Him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean,” Mosola recited the words with a dry tongue. “What?” Sisk asked. “You must go to your church and pray, Bishop,” Mosola said and reached out to push the man into the flow of the fleeing crowd. The bishop departed and Mosola was left to watch the clouds swirl and converge on the vacuum wherein the light and dark had clashed. The world was no longer humming along towards an inevitable end. It had skipped in an instant to the stiff zenith of its judgment. It stood on its toes at the starting line of a war in which nations and their bombs would count for nothing. It came to a contest the outcome of which, perhaps, Mosola considered, God no longer cared. Edited by Zyclin, December 17, 2011, 10:57 pm.
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| CinquantaSei | December 18, 2011, 7:49 am Post #5 |
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Rebecca had always been a woman of forgiveness. She believed in second chances, in moments of weakness, in redemption. Though she was not religious, her patience for people was almost saintly. Why, she thus questioned herself, could she not forgive this action? Rebecca was not a woman of jealousy or envy. But, the thought of someone who had pledged his love to her, defiling that relationship with idle lust! It was something that sickened her to the core. Yet, she was still a woman of forgiveness, of second chances and redemption. Perhaps he had learnt. Perhaps he would always stay the same. Gavin would get one more chance, one more moment to show that he recognised his errors. As Penelope had faithfully awaited Odysseus for 20 years, she would endure this one trial instead. Rebecca let him speak his piece. She barely heard the child as she left. "Gavin, you..." she trailed off, trying to find the words, "You're selfish, inconsiderate. You've betrayed my trust. To punish you would be just, but..." Rebecca frowned, fidgeting quietly. Though she had quoted its main theme, she did not want her life to become like the tale Medea. Bloodshed was not in her veins. Revenge did not fit her personality. Reconciliation was the only option. Despite herself, she spoke with vitriol. "I will give you one chance, Gavin. One chance is all you get, to show me that you care about me. Ruin this night and I will never talk to you again." She broke her glare and stared at the ground. Clutching her handbag tight, she spoke softly, reluctantly about what their dinner plans should be. They began to walk away together, the oddness of the speech's abrupt end and the lost child all but forgotten. |
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-Those who wander the sand and darkness- The Expanse - Character menagerie. Formerly Doomshifter | |
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| lacella | December 18, 2011, 8:59 am Post #6 |
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*Custom User Title*
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Portia weaved through the labyrinth of trenchcoats and ties, her gaze riveted on the lionesque monk. Through all those dark suits, he stood out like a beam. She reached him just as the city’s last bishop departed. In excitement, her thin arms clasped around his waist, her heart-shaped face glowing up at him. “Hi Solly. Did you know Venus and Mars are in the sky tonight? Can you and your friend come and watch it with me?” Never mind her mother, nor her cheating father; today, Portia would go with Solly to City Hall. She had to. It had been years. ___ “Whoa!” Strong fingers grabbed at the door. He’d almost fallen flat on his face. Flashing a goofy, albeit charming smile, he nodded apologetically at a group of giggling young women. He searched for Rebecca. He found her situated at what was possibly the furthermost table from the restaurant’s entrance, stood there gazing up at her. Second storey. The maître d’ asked for his details and soon enough, Gavin was pulling out a chair. She looked beautiful. He had to make this work. Everything depended on it. “You look incredible,” he said, a sudden onslaught of shyness. “Thanks for coming… um. I thought about what you said today, you were right and, so, yeah. I hope you’re in the mood for a horse-ride carriage and some dance moves tonight, because I’ve made arrangements, and…” He cleared his throat, a little lost in her steady, almost distant gaze. “You’re really pretty—” Way to go, Crawford. Real smooth. She’ll wanna marry you in no time, let me tell you. Edited by lacella, December 19, 2011, 8:17 am.
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| LES SAUVAGES BELLE. | |
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| Run | December 19, 2011, 8:09 am Post #7 |
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The sea of faces that looked upon John Freemantle, on the top of the makeshift stage in the middle of Times Square, were bright with amazement and with hope. If we took into consideration the simple sentiments that these people had, the effacement of religion from the streets of Manhattan did seem a rather appropriate move. What had been his motive? Political, financial, or the social well-being of the people of Manhattan? Or was it to ride the waves of the new and popular ideologies that had flowed through the oceans of the world, across the Atlantic, from the earthshaking revolutions in the Middle East? “As of today, our city is free of the tethers that have held us back in our quest for the future. For man is not a creature destined, but destiny itself. We are destiny. Within us, within each of us, lies the future of the world. And today, I stand before you, humble; yet proud.” But it sounded like a neo-religion waiting to be established. A future within each one of the people who have come out today: there was something foreboding within such a powerful statement. Julien thought so to himself, his hands shaking in his robes out of fear for the future. He clenched his fist, and they shook with the same intensity as his open hands, but this time it was out of spite and of anger for this person who had been so proud to leave behind religion. “Humble because I am no longer chained to the notion of the old religions that proclaimed us access to false gods; proud, because Manhattan will be the first city to represent this knowledge. With the closing of the last church in New York, we have made our mark in history.” Julien was standing near the edges of the flocking crowd, not wanting to draw attention to the black assault rifle that only precariously camouflaged itself against his black robe and the glinting metal on the top of his javelin. He had been moving carefully to avoid the suspecting eyes of the Mayor’s security detail. Although Julien opposed the Mayor’s views on every level, the weapons he brought today were not going to be drenched in the blood of a politician. Julien had his hood up and so he had limited vision of his surroundings. It was raining, almost like the heavens were mourning. The rain felt soft against Julien’s face, like angel’s tears running down his face, and he held his hand up to touch these faces that looked down upon New York, consoling them for losing their way. But one hand gripped his skyward hand and another locked his arms in a firm vicegrip. “You’re coming with us. Don’t resist.” A spark of black and white flashed across the sky and stunned the onlookers. Julien, taking advantage of the quick distraction, kicked with his left foot the man who had seized his hand. He hit him square on the belly, putting his opponent in extreme pain on the New York City pavement. With his one free hand, he grabbed the other man’s head, eyes covered by the webs of Julien’s fingers, mouth held shut by the tight seal that Julien formed with his palm. Purify. A blast of light emanated from Julien and blinded his captor, who staggered to the ground in complete disbelief. Before the spell on the crowd could be broken, Julien ran down the length of 7th Avenue, past the onlookers and the women with their brightly-colored shopping bags, past the limousines and the cabs, past the stores and their patrons and heretics. The distance from Times Square to the City Hall was almost a third of the entire length of Manhattan. Julien, however, had run farther and in worse conditions than a slight fall of rain. |
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| skie | December 21, 2011, 10:21 pm Post #8 |
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Earlier that morning… William opened his eyes to the gray light of the new day. For a moment he considered staying in bed. What was better? The nightmare he just escaped or the hell he currently resided in? Nothing could be worse than the past. At least here he had some semblance of control. Groggily he lifted himself out of the sheets and emerged into the chill air. He pushed the bedridden hair off his forehead and rubbed his hands across his unshaven face. Slowly he made his way to the balcony of the five story abandoned apartment complex he had occupied. A bucket stood out here alone, and he gave it a kick to check the contents. Empty. There had been no rain last night. No water for him this morning. Shaking out what remained of the sleep within him William put his hands on the railing, between the vines that threatened to overtake what humanity had left here, and he looked out over the land that once bustled with human activity. The Shadows. Lost now to their own greed, lust, and pride. He hated this place, but only so much as one could hate their own home. For this was his home. This was all he knew. Emptiness. Nothing. The streets and homes abandoned as many of the rich escaped to the utopia in the distance, what used to be downtown New York, leaving the rest behind to do one simple thing: Die. He took a moment to gather in the tall buildings within the haze, wondering how the world could be so cruel, when he noticed a pillar of smoke rising from the outskirts. Curious, but nothing more, he made his way back inside. He clothed himself and gathered a few necessities. Everything was old and worn. Old jeans. Old black t-shirt. Old black boots. Old brown jacket with and old black hood. Old thin gloves. Old what-used-to-be-red scarf to cover his face. William couldn't remember where he got any of this stuff, only that it was the same outfit he wore day-after-day. There was no need to go changing your clothes so often. No need to impress in this world. The only need William had was the one to conceal his identity, and he did so with all this covering his body. Anonymity was important in the shadows. If you were easily recognizable, that meant you were easier to find, and he never wanted to be found. He grabbed a few more items as he made his way out of the apartment. A couple of Knives he placed on his belt. A water canteen that was half full. A satchel full of various items he might need should he get stuck out there. And lastly, a bow with a couple of arrows. Perhaps he could get some hunting done today. --- "Meemaw" he called aloud in the empty alleyway as he tapped on the door. "Food meemaw! I need foo -" The door opened with a rush. A skinny old lady with gray hair and a stern look on her face stood in the doorway, hand on the hip of the flowery dress underneath the layers of jackets and shawls. "Will you stop that infernal racket William! What if someone hears you?" She said in a frustrated whisper. "Meemaw. There's no one here anymore. Besides everyone already knows who you are." It was true. Susan Thompson was a savior in these parts of the shadows. Giving aid to those who ever needed it. Food. Shelter. She had no discrimination amongst the specters or the forgotten. Of course she was no saint. The reason she remained alive in the shadows was because she was a good negotiator, a tough soul, and wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty once in a while. But there was something that was bothering her this morning, Will could see it on her face, so he though he might try to cheer her up. "Look." He raised his arm to show that he was carrying to hares, "I got us some rabbit." This almost did the trick, but she was still wary as she looked around the alleyway quickly before shooing him inside. "Come one then. Let's get you some breakfast." Once they got inside and were confidently away from the outside world Susan returned to her old self. She snatched the rabbits out of his hand and dragged them to the kitchen as William made his way to the front room. He could hear her down the hallway as she called out excitedly, "These will make for a great stew for dinner. I can't wait to skin them. Perhaps I could make you some new gloves for when the winter comes around." On and on she went, and William barely listened as he made his way to what used to be a popular coffee spot in the old days. There were still some tables and chairs. Countertops where the cash registers used to be, but now instead of cappuccino machines and coffee makers there were a lot of antiques. Books. Lanterns. Dolls. She had made herself more or less at home in this place. There were cots on the second floor, so others could sleep if they had no where else to go. The windows, of course, had all been boarded up, to keep her operation as private as possible. She had basically turned this place into an ancient western saloon, and for good reason, it was one of the few places in the shadows that still had running water and electricity. William had barely sat down when she came strolling in with a bowl of what she called "cream-of-wheat" that was made just the way he liked it. "Eat up." She said as she placed the bowl in front of him with a metal spoon, and he dug in without any argument. "Did you hear about the attack this morning?" She yelled back at him as she made her way back to the kitchen. "No I didn't." He yelled back at her between mouthfuls. "What attack?" She came back in with a glass of water and set it on the table beside his bowl. "The rebels have made an offensive. Blew a great big hole in the wall or what have you. Rumor has it that they've occupied parts of the city." "That explains the pillar of smoke I saw this morning." He said under his breath as he took a sip of water. It was hardly any of his concern. William was more curious about the fact that Susan still moved around as fast as she did. Sure she wasn't really that old, but in the shadows anyone over the age of 40 is pretty much lucky to be alive, and she was pushing 65. She must have been pretty when she was younger, but in these lands one always looks older than they ought. He looked at her with concerned eyes. "Is that what has you all fidgety this morning meemaw?" She wasn't really his grandma. When they first met, long ago when he was close to dying and all alone, she took him in much to his reluctance. He lashed out by calling her "grandma" as an insult, but when he realized she could dish it out just as much as she could take it, the name started to take on a more affectionate meaning. Out here this was as close to family as he was going to get. "I'm not fidgety you rogue. I'm just being cautious. Everyone is getting antsy out there and that makes the world a much dangerous place than it already is." As she said this she grabbed a wet rag and started to dab at his face. Even she had grown to enjoy this relationship, despite the fact that they both generally distrusted the rest of the world, it was here that they could forget the shadows and be themselves, or whatever it was of themselves they could remember. "Look at you. When was the last time you cleaned yourself?" "I took a shower two weeks ago." He tried to brush her away so he could finish his breakfast. "My word. Thirty years ago I would have slapped you straight to jersey if you said that to me. Go get yourself cleaned up. There's running water next door." She pointed to a hole in the wall that once divided this place from a quaint little apartment. "Goodness you need to find yourself a nice girl." "There are no more nice girls meemaw." He said as he downed the last of his breakfast and water. Getting up he gave her a kiss on the cheek and a wink. "I'm looking at the last one alive." |
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| Zyclin | December 22, 2011, 11:09 pm Post #9 |
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A breath of air. That was what Mosola needed in this stifling bustle, and that was what Portia was—the cool burst of spirit that reminds you you’re not suffocating. The old monk’s eyes snapped away from the sky and settled instead on the child. A smile broke across his lips. “Why, no, Portia, I did not know that.” Mosola said, “And hello to you.” Grounded again in the world flowing past him, Mosola watched the mayor’s stage vacate. Over the melting pot of body odors and breath, the world was doused in a perfume of petrichor. “Portia, dear, you should not be in such a crowded place without your parents,” Mosola scolded. “What are you doing out here?” Though his words were stern, his heart was light with pleasure. What was it about the girl that made the saintly old man soften? The age, Mosola thought. Such a long and vibrant life lies at her unsuspecting toes. She would soon begin to discover more about the universe than any old monk could ever know. Mosola, meanwhile, was two months past his sixtieth birthday and, according to family tradition, could meet a cold and vicious reaper on any given day. Despite himself, he clutched his staff with a tremulous chill of mortal fear. This reminded him that time had become his most precious resource; something not to be wasted. He was to meet Julien, the Saints’ elder from Poland, at City Hall shortly. The butt of his staff grinded against the pavement near his ankle. Bishop Sisk was gone from sight and the congregation of startled New Yorkers had thinned to dwindling dozens. “Portia, I’ve promised to meet a friend,” Mosola crouched down on one knee. The stiffness in his ancient joints took him by surprise. Resting a callous paw on Portia’s shoulder, he smiled. “Would you like to walk with me? Your house is along the way and I’m sure your parents worry for you.” It was late afternoon by the time Mosola and Portia had strolled across the city. The old monk walked with purpose down the street that led to City Hall. The ermine clouds that Mosola knew in South Africa were not present here in New York. Instead, the cumulous billows that lumbered above the skyscrapers wore an ill-hued arsenic color and irradiated a similar haze. Smog, he thought; the same that choked the skies of Johannesburg. Like fireflies, neon signs began to flicker on and off in the windows he passed. The innocence of daytime was fading. Bakeries, alteration shops, and florists began to lock their doors and pull the metallic veil of security gates over their store windows. It was understood that these places operated under the good graces of daylight and were vowed to silence at night. With dark windows and marble walls, they looked like a row of sun-bleached skulls spattered in patches of graffiti. And over Mosola’s shoulder, new signs sparked to life in the valley of high-rise buildings and apartments. Liquor. Ice cold six packs. Wine. Live dancers. The hum of glowing neon taunted Mosola’s convictions. Here in the concrete jungle, he felt like Jesus in the forest, and every liquor store or bar he passed was a serpent coaxing him towards a life that was murkier, easier, and, he feared, more in touch with the human condition. Young men in dark clothes began to tread through the dying commotion of the sidewalks. Businessmen who had stayed late at the office were hurrying to the subway stations and bus stops. The shadows were growing long and they knew that soon, night would hand over the city to the young men in hoods and dark bandanas. Mosola peered back over his shoulder to be sure Portia was at his heels. The girl would be safe with the monk, but he knew that she should be delivered home before dark. The pair of them stopped when they arrived at the granite steps of City Hall. Eight columns stood in front of the building’s entrance, but their once regal marble had faded to muted gray and was marred by hair-width fissures. Mosola stood on the opposite corner of the City Hall building. He leaned against a jagged wall. Julien would meet them here soon. “I’m getting to be an old man, Portia” Mosola said with his booming Afrikaner brogue. “All this walking has taken my breath.” Edited by Zyclin, December 22, 2011, 11:22 pm.
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| lacella | December 28, 2011, 1:58 pm Post #10 |
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*Custom User Title*
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“I was looking for mom,” Portia replied, rapt with the attention he finally gave. Solly was an old friend, and though her parents were not religious, they trusted him, and well they should. He asked her if she’d like to walk with him and she reached out to touch his long hair. She grinned, and nodded. They walked and arrived at City Hall. She smiled at his statement, looking wise as the young ever could. “Age is but a number, Solly.” Suddenly, she remembered. “You never gave me an answer, tell me you and Julien will watch the sky with me tonight. Please?” At the glint in his eye, she knew he’d say yes. ___ 8:02 PM “Three hours and fifty-eight minutes.” A nod. He stared into the speaker’s eyes, an uncanny shade of pale beige. His hair, cropped close to his head, was the same shade. And yet despite the creamy warmth of colour, he was cold as the Siberian wastelands. Luc tore his eyes from the man and stood, head bowing low. “I will assemble our team, your Excellency.” Being in his very presence was hypnotizing, electrifying. The Ascendant was a creature of beauty, every line of his physical being, flawless. He seemed to have no age, no true gender. As of this moment, his face was hidden, veiled in black. Only the dim lamps buzzed, cast their light upon his dark robes. Luc knew there were guns in there somewhere, an array of weapons that could strike any man down. But he seemed so graceful, gentle. The door was shut quietly behind Luc. “Sixteen and Twenty-Five, do you read me? Sixteen and Twenty-Five. This is Four. We have three hours and fifty-five minutes. Approximately two hours from now, you will descend. Over.” ___ 11:59 PM You are in a club, amongst the rich and powerful. You wear expensive clothes, heavy perfume. The walls are deep crimson, gold. Naked women twist and stretch above you, limbs dipped in glitter. The laughter is thick, burlesque, draped in overpriced alcohol and A-list whores. You walk through the crowd. On your left is a moan, a soft moan, a hand on your shoulder. You turn, unsuspecting. Your shoulder is warm, wet. Red. The moan belongs to a dead man. There are black figures. There are dead people. It is a massacre. You are walled in, panic rising to mix with the bile in your throat. You are walled in. There are moans and groans, bodies falling silently to the floor. Your chest is tight, you cannot breathe. One by one, people fall. You do not know who or how. You turn and lock eyes with an aged face, one distorted by horror. You realize it is your reflection. Behind you is a black figure. Everything is too late. ___ 11:57 PM Three Paroch – one at the bar, one on the balcony, one on the dance floor. “Now.” It was indistinguishable and soundless, a dagger unsheathed, a silent handgun. Through the crowd, Luc moved stealthily, supernatural speed at his beck and call. One by one he released the souls of these damned mortals, his blade stained with redemption and forgiveness. His lips, dried and stained, a pale white. “May you be released from the world that curses you,” He whispered, over and over in a low rumble of a plea. Five bodies – six. Seven. Eight. “May you be released from the world that curses you.” Then, a blinding white light. He stopped, lifting lifeless eyes to meet the oncoming beam. “Watcher.” Edited by lacella, December 28, 2011, 2:13 pm.
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| LES SAUVAGES BELLE. | |
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| Dramatic | January 4, 2012, 11:59 pm Post #11 |
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A white light. "Watcher." Taking aim, a breath escaped her lips. Cool and collected, she let go without hesitation... watching the arrow as it headed towards its victim. Luc's hand grabbed ahold of it as Lyla swiftly moved on, stabbing the next most vulnerable Paroch on the balcony. Taking both of her daggers, jabbing it into his back as she lifted his, now, lifeless body, throwing him down on the dance floor. Her movements flashed of light, her finesse, impeccable. Lyla climbed on top the railing, looking down at the other two before fixing a stray strand of hair. She leaped, spinning her body off of the ledge at an impossible speed, throwing both her daggers towards the two. As she landed, Lyla pulled out her main and favorite weapon, her whip. Twirling it above her head for a few moments before a Paroch soldier advanced, she whipped it down stopping him in his tracks. The beautiful Dominican woman, not looking a day over 23, turned her head towards Luc where she warned all of them, with little patience evident in her tone. "Leave now." |
The Game of Cat and Mouse
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| TheNinjai | January 5, 2012, 2:44 pm Post #12 |
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Member
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*The ruckus, and the snobs, of such rich filled bastards encompass this “damned” club the late evening. Why do people always search for the devil’s sins when they should realize, the Gods of our ancient times are always watching and they do not show mercy for the deceitful and non worshippers?* Byrin thought about these people as he knocked back some whiskey waiting for his cue to act for the name of the Paroch and The Ascendant. Taking another swig at the whiskey he was served, Byrin could see Luc in the glare and reflection of his glass as he made through with his stealthy ways and chanting his prayer. “I will have more time to think about the new world some other time,” Byrin quietly spoke out, although, his voice seemed like a whisper with all the noise involved. As he made his way back to his position around the dance floor, keeping his hands steady, ready. Unfortunately, action was not taken quick enough as a white light pierced through the slammed open door way. *Great, Watchers* Byrin thought to himself quickly moving to make a defense, but had to fix his footing as the Paroch on the balcony flew to ground level. Noticing a shimmer in the air, as the lights of the dance floor shined and glared, a dagger was flying right towards him. He could see this at the corner of his eye when he turned to look at the balcony, *Crap*, Byrin pulled the trigger to one of his Silenced Baby Eagles with 9mm FMJ bullets, firing through the back left side of his jacket as he fell face forward to the ground. The bullet ricocheted off the surface of the blade, as to not shatter it, and the bullet went in a different direction to make the ceiling light non-functional. This action left on the dance floor lights, as a second silenced bullet flew to ceiling to reassure his action. As Byrin met the ground he could feel the tugging force of the dagger, as he allowed the re-directed weapon to miss his body but stab his coat to the ground to make it seem like he was hit. With the lights dimmed down to only the floor lights, Byrin slowly, alert, looking around for the speedy bastard. Keeping his position but noticed a whip had almost hit him, *damn* must’ve have known it missed. “No!” he shouted, not realizing he actually denied her words to stand down, pulling the dagger and quickly getting in a low stance throwing the dagger at this watcher. “You shall not stop the Paroch’s movement,” Shouting again pulling his guns out switching to fully automatic, still using 9mm FMJ bullets, but not firing rite away to see if the dagger made contact or not. |
![]() †( Ninjai )† For Thee MЄŁλL FANTASY Characters | |
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| Wicked | January 12, 2012, 12:09 am Post #13 |
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The Derp Queen
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There had been a time of peace, when smiles reigned supreme and happiness was a given. Life was simply, not tampered by the test of technology, lust of money, body, and power. She would have looked upon the earth and seen hills of rolling grass, sprinkled with her lovely primroses, thyme- all the splendid plants that helped her heal others, helped her keep those who cherished life alive to prosper on Gaia. But, now, that was all gone. In its stead was a darkness that only they could penetrate, towers of sinful prosperity blocked out the sun, and hide the feeble minded, shielded them against the prowling hell that awaited. It was thick in the air, the knowledge that this was a doomed world, and to taste it, to breathe it in pained her. It stung, like a untreated wound just beneath the heart- just nearly missing the fatal mark, but hurting all the same. There was a betrayal of her trust that no one really cared about, because it was irrelevant, but it still showed in Alil’s eyes as she looked down upon the children of earth, those she tried desperately to save when they would not save themselves. All she wanted to do was heal their scars with hands meant to bring and maintain life, not death. Her crossbow raised, Alil discreetly made her way through the musty club, trying hard not to let out a wail at the despair she was witnessing. She stepped over corpses, blood trailing onto the bodies of those who were awaiting the same fate. She yearned to come to their side, to place her warm hands against the cold flesh and fix everything, but her ocean blue eyes were sealed on her mark: a Paroch who was distracted by her fellow Watcher’s attack. Lyla’s entrance had pulled away all the attention from the other who would bring up the rear. With Alil’s help, both Lyla and she would bring this futile fight to an end. With a discreet snap just loud enough to catch any keen ear’s attention, Alil released her tranquilizing arrow, bathed in a toxin she’d made herself meant to paralyze its target. It shot through the air just as the Paroch tossed a dagger through the air at Lyla. Her eyes flickered, watching as it sailed through the air in time with her arrow, knowing with confidence that her partner would be able to deflect it without much effort. She slung the crossbow behind her, the sash keeping it snug against her poised back as she assessed the damage, eying the last Paroch to see if her arrow had hit it’s mark- it almost never failed her and once more, it lived up to its promise. The fine arrowhead dug into the man's flesh, and she could almost visualize as the toxin seeped into his bloodstream, targeting and shutting down his central nervous system as faithfully as it always did. She used a concentration capable of paralyzing for an hour, roughly more or less depending on her target's body size, but never enough to still the heart. Centuries had passed and still she could not bear the thought of killing, and was automatically deemed as the defense of the Watchers. Everyone had learned through their meetings that she had too big of a heart, so much so it was concluded to be a weakness among them. If the arrow failed her, she would have to fight head on, and just the thought sent a pang through her. The Paroch were sad creatures in her mind’s eye. They were lost, and she could not bring anything back for them with her hands, but she could not spell out their deaths. It would have been easy to do so, just by looking at the bloodshed about her, but instead she was lost in grief- not rage. Could there ever be hope that peace would sweep over without more blood? In the red, she saw the river of so long ago, bathed in the lost lives of her village, of those she’d kept safe for so long. Could she not do the same here? Edited by Wicked, January 12, 2012, 9:42 pm.
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| That Butler | August 6, 2012, 6:12 pm Post #14 |
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Bad Jew
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This roleplay is closed due to inactivity or by request of the Game Master. Please contact one of the Roleplaying Moderators to have it reinstated.
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5:40 PM Jul 13