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Skypool

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  1. Aric stilled where he sat, his breath caught somewhere at the edge of his throat. This place wasn't familiar to her either? She was just as confused as he was? How...how—he searched for the right word—convenient, he thought. His dark brow crinkled. His small hands drew themselves into fists, and suddenly, he felt the dirt interspersed between his fingers and caked under his nails with an undue intensity, and it wasn't as if though such uncleanliness was important, but the fact of it made it easier to think and to process. There was the dirt, and then there was the truth that the not-so-human creature above him was in the same predicament that he was. She was just as lost as he was. She was perhaps missing a Valentine kind of person as well. His breath unclenched. He studied the inquisitive features of his current companion in a different sort of light now. (If he had a better grasp of his feelings right now, he would observe that what he was feeling was relief.) "No, not me," he replied with a small shake of his head. "I get where you're coming from though because this... none of this is familiar to me either." He gestured to nowhere in particular because everything surrounding him, from the trees to the dirt, was strange to him. "I'm supposed to be in the middle of a swamp and waking up right about now to the smell of porridge," he went on to say, quite aware of how his voice broke at the end. Heat rose to his rounded cheeks. "Not here, wherever this is."
  2. He had always imagined flying to be a more graceful maneuver: a series of controlled drips and gentle turns, a smooth, continuous motion that was assured by the undulation of practiced wings. As it turned out, flying was not that, give or take the circumstance at hand. The creature, woman—whoever she was—suddenly propelled into the summer bright sky at his touch (his grabbing with his grubby, little hands) with a nervous trill: "Don't touch me!" Then, the duo was rocketing away from the inn. Her talons were curled around him, cold against his freckled skin. The wind, both the natural kind and the kind generated by the flapping of her wings, eddied around him. She landed almost a league away from the building, where music and the raucous roar of raucous men could still be heard through the open doors. Aric was lowered before she was. His right foot struck the ground steadily while his left fell beneath him. He snatched at the air for some sort of invisible support, but ended up tripping anyway. He landed with a solid smack on the hard earth beneath him. Dust rose as he fell. He coughed before looking up, saw that the bird-woman was just as disoriented as he was. She picked at her feathers, preened them down, and asked him a question between deep breaths. She was beautiful, he thought. She was a marvel that came straight out of an enchanted forest. She was a something that humans would always try and fail to emulate. Aric let out a low sigh between his gap tooth before answering; his nose bunched up as he tried to recall what had exactly happened in the moment before seeing her and then reaching out to her. "I dunno." He was serious, too. His brow, probably coated now with dust motes, furrowed. "You looked like you were in trouble, and I guess I just, er, had to." His downward palm scraped the ground beneath him. He looked down and then up again, met his interrogator in the eye. A different sort of note entered his voice. It was defiant. It was assured. (Perhaps it was even a little arrogant; he was only a kid after all.) "I had to make sure that you were alright." ((Likewise, but you're definitely okay.))
  3. ((Totally fine.)) Aric was finely attuned to the sound of injury. It was brisk, sharp, a staccato disturbance in a sea of ordinary ambience. A pop when all else is crackling. A high in the midst of lows. It had a way of hitting the air like a slap. SLAP. He, in the manner of the boy that he was, was always quick to respond. (He had been raised to be a healer, not a man, and that was just as well. His peers might have played with sticks and pretended that they were swords growing up, but he picked marigold in Valentine's garden, wondering which potion she was going to brew next.) Behind him, a tall bull of a man picked up his prey and threw her down just as quick; the boy didn't see that part, but heard the shriek that followed. When he whipped around, he saw what looked like an assemblage of ruffled feathers scurry towards the tavern door, alarm moving past her... beak? He changed his current path. He followed, pushing his way through the crowd again. He recognized the creature—what was she though? That he couldn't name. She had flown past him as he had slowly made his way down the stairs, one plod of a gimp leg at a time. She had seemed immensely disoriented then, and the same held true now. She teetered as she footed her way towards the door. Aric, a little slower, but a little more aware of his bearings than she currently was, leaned forward and caught the crook of her elbow before she could make it past the dirty threshold. He almost lost his balance there at the end, but retained it as his fingers curled. His uprightness was now totally dependent on her. A breathless greeting escaped his throat, hoarse, almost stolen away by the din of the tavern. "Hey, wait!"
  4. ((Beautiful.)) Aric exited the room still in his bedclothes (a tattered, tan tunic with loosely fitting pants to match) and was not judged by the passerby for it. Compared to some of the other patrons lurking around the inn, sprouting gruesome appendages here or wearing odd assortments of garb there, the little witch looked positively normal, thank you very much. He kept to the paneled wall next to him as he walked, using it to keep steady, pushing against the treated wood to retain a shaky balance of sorts. He pushed, and the wall pushed back. It was a mutual agreement set forth by the laws of physics while the troubles in his mobility were simply dumb luck. His left leg came at a slower pace than the right, twisting and convulsing to eventually make a step. Sweat beaded down his forehead. If finding his way back home was going to be difficult (because that was what he had to do, right?), he would need a walking stick, and he would need one soon. Ache, long familiar and always there, had settled into his hip. He rubbed it as he went, and he went at length—the hallway stretched in a line for what seemed like forever—until finally, a landing appeared to his left, dipping down into a spiral of creaking stairs. Noise reached his ears from below, a tumult of voices interspersed with an upbeat tune that rose and fell in a playful crescendo. He looked at his leg, and then the stairs, and then his leg again. He we go again. He plodded down one step, wincing, and then another. Plod. His heart yearned to be wherever Valentine was right now, Valentine who had only offered her home to him a week ago today. Valentine, whose external composure masked the warmest person he had ever had the privilege to know. Plod. Common sense told him that he was in a bad situation, and yet, he couldn't stir himself to make a scene. The world continued to turn around him. Whatever happened next, if something happened next, would be up to him. Plod. Of course, that might not count for much. He was only thirteen and at this very moment, his heart was trying to thrum itself past his ribcage. It might just succeed. Plod. Plod. Plod. First though, he needed to get his bearings. He needed to figure out where exactly the Dragonscale Inn was on the map. Plod. He hoped it was close. Plod. He hoped beyond hope it was close. Plod. Aric had reached the bottom, where he almost bumped into a tall orc. "Wotch it," the orc growled, and he stumbled back. "Sorry." The orc didn't hear him though. He was already ambling towards the tavern part of the inn where all of the commotion was coming from. It was lit dimly, only supported by tall torches lining the widths of the four walls. Only a singular window, wide and rectangular, allowed any natural light in. Aric bounced on the balls of a feet for a moment, bit his lip, and then—against all better judgment—decided to follow. He found an opening in the crowd. He slinked into it.
  5. ((Gotcha. c:)) He dreamed that night. Vividly. Every image was cut in razor sharp precision, every shade of every color accounted for. There were a lot of blacks and tinges of somber blues. He heard red once. Red sounded like a slung scream, loud and piercing, hacking its way through the night fog to reach him. (Who was that? he wondered because there was a note in there that was all too familiar, low and gravelly. Distinct. Loved. It had sounded like Valentine, but couldn't have been her—not even in a dream, now could it? When had she ever been so uncomposed?) There were greens, too. The green of the trees, dark and silhouetted in the silver sprawls of the twin moons. The green he felt in his stomach, rising up the column of his throat ever so swiftly. With each movement his captor made—because in this dream, he was definitely being stolen away by some forsaken creature or another—bile, all too present and all too acidic, churned within him. He dreamed last night. Vividly. There was a cure for that though. The morning sun, bright and spearing his shut eyes through the slats in the windows, had a way with dispelling dreams, good and bad, and only leaving snatches of sensations. Aric Silas Lockwood, when he finally came to in the world, recalled nothing of the illusion but a singular, vestige of a feeling. Uneasiness, and then that faded, too, replaced more convincingly by shock, sudden and biting. This wasn't where he had fallen asleep last night. Merlin's beard, and then some. This wasn't his little room in Valentine's hut on the edge of the woods. That place (his home, he might have called it one day) was neat, of course, but had traces of his existence there. A vial of frog spawn teetered on his nightstand. His potion books were strewn by a color code on the cherrywood bookcase that usually greeted him in the morning with its permanence. This room was far too immaculate, far too devoid of any touches that suggested personality. The scent of fresh pine suffused through the air; someone had cleaned with it. A symbol was carved into the wall directly opposite of him. It was a brand. Aric propelled himself out of bed, sending blankets shuddering to the floor, nearly tripping on his own momentum. He caught himself on the dresser before he could fall. His bad leg curled beneath him. Merlin's beard, and then some. The urge to sit on the floor and cry was there, but he didn't succumb to it. He swallowed that particular impulse and looked for any indication of his whereabouts. A piece of parchment was situated on the mantle of the same dresser he had fallen against. He picked it up, held it against the golden light flooding in from the window. "Welcome to Dragonscale Inn. Complimentary breakfast is served from sunrise to when the sun ain't got no rising to do anymore."
  6. M'kay. Finished up Aric's sheet. Would you like to start, or shall I?
  7. Oh, man, that sounds awesome. I'm definitely on board. (Flighty. I see what you did there. ) I'm going to go ahead and make a sheet just for my reference, but you can do whatever suits you. It doesn't particularly matter to me!
  8. Alrighty, perfect then! I'll get my character finished sometime before the evening ends, and then we can start whenever. I'm in no hurry.
  9. Oh, gosh, that's what I presumed we were doing, but honestly, it'd be really cool if we did. Perhaps the "virtual reality" is just powerful magic set forth by gods or powerful wizards. I dunno—whatever you prefer is fine with me! Take your time. c: No rush.
  10. Yup, yup, yup. I think I'm being drawn to creating a male this time around—short, still retaining a few of his boyish curves, but gods, is he kindhearted and all that warm, gooey stuff. I'll probably place him around his adolescent years—thirteen, maybe fourteen, if you would like to play off that. He'll probably be a very sensitive witch who has grown up in a quite matriarchal tribe. <3 Name: Aric Silas Lockwood Age: Thirteen Gender: Male Species: Witch Appearance: i. height - He's fairly short compared to other boys his own age. They were made to lug heavy flour bags around, and he has been coddled in the laps of witches his entire life, listening to their stories, learning tradition. ii. body type - Aric is neither over nor underfed. He is lean, but not thin. Filled in, though not chubby. He has the physique of a boy who has been cared for, maybe even spoiled. iii. eye color - Silver, brilliant and warm. They almost appear to be melting. They rival a full moon. iv. skin tone - Fair. v. hair - He has brown, curly hair that crowns his head in unruly tendrils. It's untidy, feathery, and rarely, if ever, combed. vi. face shape - When Aric was younger, his face was round and rather chubby. He looked cherubic then; it endeared him to others. Now, its structure is definitely more angular. It juts more than it curves (and yet, he'll always retain a bit of that softness there). vii. any prominent features? - A supernova of dark freckles bridges cheek to cheek. They give him a boyish appearance. In addition, he has a gimp leg, a defect since birth; on bad days, especially during the winter when the cold seeps into his bones, he has to walk with a stick. Personality: - Quiet. He's not much of a talker, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself and his spoken words select. Most people misunderstand this trait of his though. They think he's simply "slow on the uptake." - Kind. Need a shirt? Take the one off Aric's back. He'd gladly give it to you. - Polite. The witches of his clan have taught him to always be respectful, especially to adults. - Moody. He's prone to falling into deep existential depressions, this thirteen-year old. Bless him. - Dependent. He's a bit spoiled, has never wanted for anything much. This attributes to the needy part of his personality. If you're his caretaker, you're pretty much stuck with him. - Secretive. Moody he may be, but you may never know it. He bottles his emotions a lot. It's rather unhealthy. - Altruistic. He has a propensity for wanting to help people. It's in his blood. - Sensitive. He's the one who would cry over a dog dying in a movie. History: • He was raised in a matriarchal witch clan where there aren't many boys or men to begin with. It's made him more effeminate than perhaps a normal boy would be, and that's perfectly okay. Aric is loved, and that is all that matters to him. • Blood ties aren't too important in the clan. Villages raise children, not parents, so he isn't all too close to his biological family. He has lived a life of being passed from hut to hut while his mother and sister have done their own things for the most part. Powers/Abilities/Skills: • Offensive magic, though he can utilize it, isn't really his thing. He's extremely accomplished at healing and defensive spells, however. • The same principle applies to his potion proficiency. He hasn't really had a need to use harmful potions, so he doesn't have the toolbox to pull them off properly. Weaknesses: • Is not physically adept at all, and this is partially due to his leg, but it also has to do with the fact that no witch really has use for exploiting the strength of his/her body because they have magic to compensate. • Overuse of magic drains him. It could even be fatal to him. • Chocolate. He has a weakness for chocolate.
  11. Tru, but I suppose that means we need to come up with a default point, hehe, which is why I'll jump down to your last question now. I think it would be awesome to have fantasy elements; we'll be having our cake and eating it, too, that way. Perhaps our characters could start off in a generic starting town—a bustling place with a tavern and a lot of peasant-based NPCs, maybe? I was leaning more towards the first option (with the bodies being located in the real world). It would allow some internal strife amongst our characters. "Holy crap. What are they doing to our bodies?"
  12. If we ever get bored with the game plot, at least we have an awesome backup plan to look forward to. c: A paragraph at a minimum would be fine with me. I'll try to vomit out long posts when I can, but simplicity will probably triumph detail more often than not. I definitely won't go under a para though. How about worldbuilding? Where do you envision our characters to be once we begin?
  13. My sentiments exactly. Let's see though. The dystopia one would really allow us to get in touch with our characters. It would be sensitive and moving; our abilities as writers would be put to the test. The game one, however, would give us more freedom as far as the plot goes. Worldbuilding would be flexible here, too. I can easily see myself doing either, but if I had to choose on the fly, I would probably go with the game, if only for its accessibility. How about you?
  14. • I wrote a short story for my school's literary magazine recently, and it was about a dystopian society in which people are only allotted a certain amount of words per day. If they go over that limit, the collar that is surgically engrafted around their neck immediately kills them. That might be a cool dystopia for us to try out. We'd have to get creative in terms of dialogue though (which might not be entirely ideal). • I really like the trapped within a game one. Reminds me of Sword Art Online. Off the top of my head, our characters could have been chosen to be part of virtual reality program because their mental/physical faculties have attracted the attention of some prestigious corporation or another. Once in the game, they're stripped of their memories of ever consenting to the experiment because the moderators of it want to test how well the characters adapt to whatever setting they're thrown in. • Nothing's coming to mind for the modern fantasy one, but I'm definitely not against it.
  15. Sounds perfect to me! I won't be the most prolific of posters either until my next break. (Sigh.) What sort of roleplay are you leaning towards? I'm honestly game for just about anything.
  16. Hiya. c: Anyone up for a casual 1x1? School has been particularly draining this year, and I would love an outlet that involves writing. My skills could use some good, ole' fashioned sharpening, too. Roleplaying fulfills that perfectly. Possible Topics: • Pokémon - I'm always a pushover for Pokémon. • Greek Mythology - The Iliad is probably my favorite poem ever. Something along that vein would be fun to try out. • Harry Potter - Always. • Star Wars - I've never RP'd Star Wars before, but I'd be willing to bet that it's very entertaining. We could do something post-TFA or perhaps during the time before Kylo Ren commits mass murder, hehe. Possible Genres: • Dystopia • Fantasy • Sci-Fi
  17. Fandom: Jurassic World Rating: K+ Summary: Short drabble peering into the beginning of Claire and Owen’s less than satisfactory first date. WC: 585 Link(s): Tumblr A/N: Is Clawen trash. Send help. On a side note, it’s my headcanon that the result of their first date was a fault between both of them. I think Claire might have decided from the moment he showed up wearing board shorts, that it wasn’t going to end well, and once she makes up her mind, she makes up her mind. Also, Owen should not have been wearing board shorts, like, bruh. That’s for the second date. — "You wore board shorts to our first date." (7-2-15) — It’s 6:15. He’s late. Five minutes tardy would have been perfectly acceptable; she would have accounted for the mud that continues to cling to the roads from last night’s shower and shrugged it off easily. Ten would have been cutting it close, but still excusable. Perhaps he had forgotten something in that hut-he-calls-a-home and ran back for it. Mistakes happen unfortunately, but they happen. She can forgive that. But fifteen? Fifteen? Fifteen grinds at Claire Dearing’s easily exhaustible and always pinched nerves, sets her manicured nails to tapping the marble counter impatiently. Fifteen makes her question this decision, and she prefers not to question her own decisions unless she has to. (If she does that and does it often, then she has to question the infallibility of the whole system she has drawn up for herself, and that would call for an existential crisis.) 6:16. There’s a knock on the door, the light rap of the calloused knuckles she has studied admiringly for the last few months under the guise of reading reports on customer satisfaction. Her earlier frustration is exchanged for anxiety again; she lets her imagination run amok. What if she’s underdressed? What if she’s overdressed? What if he’s disappointed? Of course though, she chides herself for that one. Claire has never made herself up for any man, not even this one. Elegance is simply her chosen aesthetic, and she is, as some crudely put it, hot. With that assurance in mind and smoothing down her sleek, black dress one last time, she heels her way to the door and opens it to the sight of Owen Grady, raptor whisperer extraordinaire and her date for the night… in board shorts. Board shorts, and they’re the obtrusive kind—a bright, ugly orange with white drawstrings dangling long and loosely beneath his brown polo shirt. She’s going to kill him, and no court on earth will convict her because what sort of person wears board shorts to a first date? “Hello, Mr. Grady,” she says stiffly, her nose upturned. She can almost feel her lips thinning. Owen is roving her over with those rich, brown eyes of his. It’s admiring. It’s boyish. If he wasn’t wearing board shorts—dear Lord, she can’t get over them—she would be flattered. “Owen,” he corrects, but she can already feel herself tensing to rebel against being on a first name basis tonight. Even so, his next words can’t help but warm her heart. They send thrills to the parts of her she had hoped were long dead, the places that don’t eschew sentiment. Sentiment, she had decided after a vicious string of bad relationships, hurt more than ambition. “You look stunning, Claire.“ He winks at her, flashes that crooked smile she thinks—there isn’t enough data yet to know—that she loves. This is why she had fallen for him. This is why she is standing in the threshold—seventeen minutes later than she had intended to—now. Owen says these little things with so much conviction, yet, so much ease, that she cannot help but pause and consider him. When he says her name slowly, like he savors the very word on his tongue, he makes it a crime not to. Even still, sentiment, she had decided long ago, hurts more than ambition. “I’m well aware, Mr. Grady.“ She pulls out her work voice; tonight, he’s her employee, and with employees, you have boundaries. “We should be off. We’re ten minutes into the time I’ve allotted for dinner.”
  18. After being told that the box was a literal representation for his life, Bailey was rather reluctant to part from it (a reasonable reaction in his humble opinion). Even though he didn't necessarily agree with the ocean analogy, the kid called Alex had a point: if something were to happen, whether by coincidence or intent, they would all be done for, dead—piles of smoldering ashes if the building burned. He knocked on the wooden box at the thought. Even so—because Kara seemed adamant about it, not because he wanted to—he replaced the handicraft where he had found it, set it carefully back in the rusted locker with the doubtful steadiness he had pulled it out with. Out of the corner of his eye, Kevin's striking hair disappeared up the stairwell, a girl in tow, Alex behind. He followed suit with finicky hands caught deep in baggy pockets; no one, he hoped, could see the nerves playing across them like a symphony. His right index finger struck his trusty hand sanitizer bottle in the orchestration, prompting the sudden, but familiar urge to lather everything in it, just to feel safe, and more importantly, clean again. The seventeen-year old had his neuroses; there was no doubt about that. Today though, he seemed intent on ignoring every one of them. He kept walking, kept following, kept ignoring the positioning of his index finger because there were bigger and greater things awaiting him, things more important than his daily practices and routines. On the roof, for instance, a helicopter was comfortably perched, wind whipping around its rotors noisily. With a sly wink and a jovial pat on the back, Kevin handed him a microphone and a set of headphones. "Helicopter regulations, y'know?" Bailey clambered in and strapped himself into one of the more accessible seats. The wind tousled his hair. Cold seeped into his bones. He was unsure—so, so unsure—but here he was anyways. He put his best actor smile on at the same time he did his headphones. "Hello, I'm Bailey. Pleased to meet you all."
  19. Totally fine with that. _ @Lukos - Ah, hate that you're thinking about leaving, Lukos, but I understand. Let me know when you definitively want to be taken off the list and whatnot.
  20. Almost finished—I have one of each egg, and I think I'm going to hunt for another Coast.
  21. No problem, Narvix. - As an aside, I would prefer that bumps be kept to a minimum if possible. In the case that we've gone a week without posting, then sure; feel free and encouraged to give the thread a little juice, but for me, it's summer. For others, it might be the school year. It's fine if we're a little lax. c: In the case of individual absence though—if a person has been inactive for a few weeks or so—let me know, and I'll start doing activity checks.
  22. Bailey listened with rapt attention as the duo—the woman called Kara expressly—drummed out an explanation that seemed vague at best to him. He had been raised by dialogue and stage directions far longer than he had his parents; he based the most of his extracurricular life on foundation, something the simple task of, you know, saving the world hardly provided even when it did come with assigned tasks. Kara spoke of it as easily and assuredly as she would an item on the grocery list, as though it was her routine, where grabbing discounted Starbucks on the way to a lecture was his. Thoughtful and anxious, he examined the earring again, letting the sharp tip of the clef press into the flesh of his thumb as the red-haired sister finished her speech with considerable aplomb. She gave the group an ultimatum. Lock up your powers or use them. Help save the world or don't. There was a fine distinction between what he should do and what he needed to do; he chose what he wanted to do. Bailey deftly unclasped the earring that had already been in his left ear and replaced it with the clef. It was quick. It was irresponsible. It felt warm. It felt right. Besides, no one else has chickened out yet, so neither would he. His fingers clenched themselves over the old piece of jewelry almost emphatically. He chose what he wanted to do, and what he wanted do was take part in saving the world. (Shakespeare's mother. That sounded so cliché.) In the few moments that followed, the girl who sported a punk haircut and style dropped her box to the exasperation of Kevin, who, up until that point, had kept a casual, rather nonchalant front—an easy smirk was seemingly a habit to his lips. His quick save and subsequent sigh spoke of an internalized sort of panic though; with a gruffness that was quickly become trademark, he succinctly explained that the boxes were somehow tied to their life forces now. Dent the box, and you deal damage to yourself. Break the box, and you die. Wonderful. Bailey gripped his all the tighter. Kara, decidedly fazed but less keen about showing it, went on to establish some ground rules for the next few weeks. They would be training and getting their assignments and so-on-and-so-forth. She talked around the fact that they would be facing enemies and then clarified who they were when a pretty girl with curly hair asked. "Our enemies are people in a small organization known as Imperium. Imperium is comprised of traitors of our cause and non-powered beings they managed to recruit. As of right now, it's estimated that their numbers are slightly larger than our own and it is known that they have a minor hub located somewhere in this city. Where that exact location is, is unknown," she said. He frowned. Traitors implied that they had powers of their own as well. In the back of his mind—he didn't dare consider it as a viable thought—he wondered what had disillusioned them.
  23. I hope you feel better, Switch, and really, don't worry about posting until you do. No rush at all. I think Distortion Games is going to be a slow roleplay, and I'm perfectly content with that. c: