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serce2

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  1. Raul: a new murderer. I can feel the wild-type pigeon getting closer. He's ambling along cautiously, one three-clawed foot in front of the other, trying to approach me without putting himself in danger. I struggle to get back on my own limbs, but they're long and dangly and I roll around like a dying bug. I try to remember what my own birds do if they get caught on their backs. It fails; the only time I've seen them rolled over was when they were dead. My panicked thoughts are interrupted by a hard pain to the base of my chest. My eye opens wide to the Wildy with a savage expression on his beady-eyed bird face. He quickly jerks back, scratching at the goop on his beak. It looks like blood, and for a moment I think it's my own, but then I realize that it's way too bright. Unless, of course, I was transformed into a bird with orange-reddish sticky blood. Wildy struck out his wing at my 'head', although he was still preoccupied with the itching goop. I felt nothing: I jerked my neck away well beforehand. Then, I kick my legs out. A large mass of warm, breathing feathers greets my talons. Wildy shakes, cooing/screaming in agony. A direct hit. My claws rake up. Pigeon meat is surprisingly soft, what the hell have I done, I just as well killed a-- a pigeon. In my minds eye I see my friends, sitting on their perches quietly. There's one missing. A falcon swooped down one afternoon, when I was at work, and plucked her right out of the sky. I tried to comfort them, saying things like 'she's in a better place now', and I reflected on the ridiculousness of spewing out all the things I've heard from movies and TV shows to a bunch of birds. But I could see that they understood. Despite our language barrier, they understood my soft, mournful voice. They knew I was just as sad as they were. Before I know it, I'm standing on my feet, shaking and unsteady. My wings are flapping erratically in an attempt to stay up. The wild-type pigeon is squinting, hopping back, his entire body straining to keep his chest away from the grass. "I'm sorry." I warble. Even if the pigeon can comprehend me, he can't hear me. He gave up on keeping his chest high; now he's laying down on the grass, puffed-up and shivering. Like a new addition to the aviary, one fearful eye is constantly trained on me. The gash isn't as deep as I feared. It didn't slice into any key arteries. Still, blood loss is serious, and I kick into 'pet-keeper' mode. Pigeons can lose about 20 milliliters of their blood and still be 'safe'. Fat, dark-red drops are rolling off of his feathers, but nothing replaces them. The brunt of the bleeding came from the initial hit. With a sense of subdued happiness (though he is my enemy), I can see that he would survive. Then, a small, nagging voice, straight from my stomach, says: Eat him. I ignore it. Instead, I stumble over to the bag. There was a loaf of bread still in there, right? Unfortunately, it was latched. I try to peck at it, but I can't aim and my beak misses. Again, it connects, but I can't get it around the clasp. Scratching doesn't work either. The fabric is too thick. Eat him, the voice says, one more time. I ignore it, one more time. I'll find food another way. There's an entire forest behind me. "There's seeds in there, if you can get to them." I say to the pigeon, and I start stumbling over to the woods.
  2. "I told you it's an abomination 'gainst nature." says something. "Really now, if it belongs to a human, as you say, then perhaps we should show some empathy. Or gratitude." says another something. "You city slickers always get soft around people. I mean, look at it. What human's gonna take it in?" Within a few seconds of regaining consciousness, I understand that they are talking about me. My reason slowly crept back, and with it came a sense of calm. I already accepted well beforehand that I was going to be a monster for the rest of my life. Short life. I couldn't quite see yet. My body was too weak to stand, though I feebly flailed and shook. "Greetings, strange bird." says the second something. So I am some sort of bird, then. That made sense; I can fluff out my feathers. They are sticky, disgusting. Warmth is spreading throughout my body, allowing me to curl my talons and regain some energy. The voice continues, "Ah, so you can hear me. If you can understand me, please unwind yourself. From here, you look like a wet pile of fluff." Weirdly, with only a bit of distortion, I can comprehend what they're saying. It's clearly not in English, and it sounds like... cooing, but for some reason I know the intonation and basic meanings already. I seem to have a really long neck. Except--it doesn't feel like I have anything of importance in my head. More of dead weight, really. The beings, whatever they are, step back and gasp when I raise my 'head'. "How disgusting." "Told you we should've left it alone." I can finally stand up, and my eye can see. A single eye, on my chest. The light is intense, but it doesn't blind me. Instead, it only intensifies my vision. In front of me are two pigeons, slowly edging away from me and fluffed up. Their beaks are open, ready to peck. But their necks... New colors. I have no way of describing them. It's like trying to describe "red" without using the word "red". The best my confused, overstimulated mind can explain, they're like purple but more... intense, but also not purple. "A monster. The city televisions talk about them all the time. They're former humans." says an Oreo-colored pigeon, the city slicker. I recognize the other pigeon as a truly wild, cliff-dwelling type. It--or I suppose, he-- never spent time in a cage or had parents in a cage. "Let's shove 'em down the cliff. The water'll take care of it." "I can't-- I won't kill a human!" shrieked city-pigeon, shrinking away from the scene. The wild one stopped her with a quick jab. "Not a human anymore, friend. And, c'mon, how good do humans treat you nowadays?" Wild-type advanced, sizing me up. He feints a jab, while the other bird flies away in fear. I trip over my long legs as I try to walk back like a human. I try to put my hand--wing--out like a human, too, but all I do is look silly. "I'll just get this over with," mumbles Wildy underneath his breathing. "And the city gal better not come around for the bag. I got a mate to feed." ((Fight will commence in my next post.))
  3. reserved character sheets go here: Name: Catherine Veransa Species: Human Gender: Female Age: 20 Appearance: Shorter than average, but only slightly. Her build is surprisingly stocky with her more graceful movements. Her skin is fairly dark; her straight hair even more so. She tends to wear her hairstyle fairly simple, except that at her ears her hair curls forward (think 1920's, but more exaggerated.) She's usually dressed in semi-casual clothes: simple, straightforward, relaxed. Personality: Fairly selfish, almost paranoid. She's more about living in the present, going to marches and riots to get her emotions stirred sky-high, even if she doesn't care about the subject matter. Stops short of being manipulative; while she tends to think only of herself, she doesn't analyze others, nor does she look for the most successful route. She's just... less empathetic than others. Catherine tends to make elaborate conspiracy theories of her life, even if she doesn't believe them; she just wants to find some sort of explanation for all of the mysteries she encounters. History: Her parents were and still are fairly well off, though their main source of income vanished when Catherine was born. They never told her what they did. They've had to take odd jobs, always managing to find one that'll pay enough, but they've had to move around. Due to this, Cat doesn't have many life-long friends, only her brother and a neighbor she sees occasionally. She was never enrolled in high school, as poor as education is currently, and her homeschooling didn't quite prepare her for adult life. Other: Name: Sunsill Species: Dire/Maschinen. Motorcycle Gender: Technically none, but does use male pronouns. Age: Fairly old for a machine like him; seven years! Appearance: Base Machine. Anatomy Reference. If no pic exists, well, he's still fairly alien-looking even for an animate machine. Like most Lindor-made motorbikes, Sunsill's wheels are held by folded-up legs, which can extend at will into clawed feet. His kickstand also serves as legs, but they're tiny and dulled. He has many sets of eyes--a pair on his mirrors, on his head, and his lights (these tend to be useless when they're on). His strangeness comes from his mouth. Usually, it is hidden, but it runs, jaggedly, from half way across one side of his cylindricalish-shaped head to the other, and when it opens up, there's no hint of engine fire, no anything but a gaping, black maw. His mirror-eyes also seem to strangely burn in a thin flame at times. Personality: Essentially a California dude in a metal body. Sunsill's a wanderer, looking for those fleeting experiences: the setting sun, the chaos of a storm, a meadow in the morning. He's being driven by some nostalgia for a place he doesn't remember, and he's not even sure that it really exists. Nevertheless, there's a hole in his metaphorical heart. Generally peaceful, he objects to fighting of any kind, though he's not die hard enough to die for his belief. Too idealistic for his own good. History: Created by a rather eccentric, art-driven Lindor who lived in a human city. He's been with a single human his entire life post-animation: a high priest in some religious/political cult. Because of his status and because of his rarity, he hasn't seen the road much and eventually escaped during a hectic moment Other:
  4. Credit and many thanks to Hydrothrax, Jim Pavlica, Mitya, VK, LightConcorde, and the sentient machine community at large. This is a reboot, and no longer a 1x1!! The plotline and worldbuilding have been reset. Humanity has fallen into fascism. It's the year 200X, and everything has changed for the worse since 9/11. Every speck of land is being contested by groups vying for more power, more riches. There are still some pockets of relative peace, where you can find food and work, but for every one of those pockets there are hundred of dying or barren cities, riot zones, decrepit wastelands, war factories. Unknown to humans, there's another intelligent species on Earth. Called the Lindor, they're incredible engineers, machinists, architects, etc. etc. They have indirectly created all of the machines of the human world. Generally, they live away from civilization, but they're being hunted by a increasingly wiser Dictatorship. Still, freedom exists. Safety exists. The spread of tyranny seems to have slowed, even stopped. How can this be? One day, a siren's call went out. It rang throughout the world, as every Lindor settlement called for help. Maschinengeist. Their machines came to life. ----- Only things with a basic wiring system and computer are capable of being sentient. I might allow this rule to be bent for good characters. In any case, anything from a small toy to a skyscraper is allowed (however, there's a soft ban on architecture). Machines, as in vehicular or industrial machines, are referred to as Maschinengeist(er) or Dire(s), while common household objects are called Tsukumogami. There are oddities, which will be added as the RP progresses. The Character Sheet is meant just to be an outline or rough draft. I keep track of characters, what they've done and how they've changed, down in Current Information. There's no character limit at the moment. Name: Species: Gender: Age: Appearance: Personality: History: Other: Current Information Time Characters: Humans Catherine Veransa --Human girl Lindor Inanimate Sunsill --Sentient motorbike Lightning --Sentient airplane Places Featured Mentioned
  5. Raul: listening to the ocean. I don't hesitate to get up. I pick up my backpack by a single strap, and seamlessly bring it to my shoulders without missing a step. The feather's spread has reached my foot, so I can feel the discomfort of a sore, burnt foot--but it's either pain now or death later. The woman drops her laundry in a scream when the lizard escapes the bag and runs. Surprisingly, he manages to keep up with me, hobbling over the stones with an ease I didn't expect. Soon enough the woman becomes a speck, and I stop looking behind. It was a straight path to the forest from here. The sun's getting rather low on the horizon, marking the end of the work day. To my right, whenever there was a gap in the buildings, I could see where civilization stopped by the ocean. If I got on a hill, I could probably see the water from here. But I can't detour, not when I hear the police sirens wailing, hunting for me. They're drawing ever closer, but they won't find me. Or him. I've dodged the NYPD a couple of times, not by something illegal but just to get out of their biased sights. Laid-back Barcelona doesn't have anything on me. It takes about ten minutes of sheer endurance to see the trees. I'm underneath the highway now; I catch my breath in the darkness of the tunnels. It's fairly cool and humid. A biker passes by on the right, but they don't even glance at me. A sign out in the daylight points me to the Parc, and behind me, the city's skyline is lit up in preparation for night. I recognize the importance of this tunnel. It's the marking point of my choice. I can go back, lose myself in the neon and the skyscrapers, the life I've always known and that I'll always love and miss, or I could go out to the cliffs and survive the next morning. If it was up to me, I would return, but I'm not exactly alone anymore. Not when I've come so far. The trees block out the setting sun, chilling the air and making me shudder. Joggers are returning home, listening to their iPods. I'm a dead giveaway with my feathered, clawed hands, when I'm in the sunlight. Now the shade keeps me safe. I turn right. I can see the ocean. The cliffside and the beach is abandoned. To the north-east, the sky becomes a deep purple. To the south-west, it's a brilliant red. Far, far away, well past the city, a storm thunders over open water. Fitting for the last thing I'll ever see as a human. Now that the lizard's free, I can rest. I give in to pain. My backpack falls to the ground. Adrenaline crashes; I curl up on some dirt and cry. Imaginary needles prick my skin. Veins burn. It's not a sharp pain. Not exactly. It's everywhere, a constant white noise that intensifies when I try to sit up. My vision blurs...
  6. Raul: The lizard hisses as I pick him up. I mumble out a sorry as I reach the window. First, I drop both the lizard bag and the backpack on the ledge below. I watch anxiously as the former almost falls off, but it stops sliding in time. It's not too bad a drop, but the thing's tiny. Next, I myself climb through. It's a small fit for me, and I scream as the metal bars dig into my burned skin. Concerned tones come from the rooms adjacent. Someone rattles the doorknob. I grit my teeth and fully exit the building. I haven't forgotten that I sleep on the second floor, but what other choice do I have? My hand catches the ledge in time; I swing and barely pull myself up. From my tough position, I swipe my arm across for both bags. I never thought I'd say this, as a hardened New Yorker, but I'm glad that I'm in the sketchy part of town. It's all still touristland, however all of the recent pickpockets means I'm alone. The alley is fairly narrow, but nice: bricks line the streets, sunlight reflects off of the wood to give a golden glow. Some people left out potted plants. My phone's battery is quite low, so I close all other apps in favor of my map. It's probably the fifth time I had to open it up today. I look for the closest forest, something big enough that we can hide in. There! Two hours away, the Parc de la Serralada. I look at a few pictures. It's huge. I can see pictures of the ocean, and of forest stretching for miles and miles, all the way out into the countryside. Two hours away. Two hours assuming I don't change into whatever this red feathered thing is. I start running through the alleys. Avoid the main roads, but if I must, walk through them with a sense of purpose. I can barely catch my breath, and a few minutes in, I'm feeling exhausted. Adrenaline doesn't let me down, though, my legs keep moving on and on. In my head I see the shoreline, where hopefully I'll spend my final minutes as a human. That's a horrible thing to think about, but in my situation, it's what keeps me going. Every once in a while I check up on the lizard. About an hour and ten through, I take a break as soon as people stop milling around. I should keep pushing on, but my throat's parched and my phone's dead anyways. The sun's beginning to set. I can hear the sounds of the highway, a sign I'm almost there. I open up the bag as wide as possible, split a piece of jerky and throw the creature one piece. Water has never been so pure, even the crud 1 euro bottles. I offer a small bit on the bottle cap. "I'm really sorry for just grabbing you." I look at the former beggar, not sure if he still understands. "I wasn't sure of anything else to do." I show him my hand. The spread isn't as bad as I thought, but now it's gotten to my thumb. I can feel a claw pushing out, a status quo underneath the panic. Blood is pooling underneath the skin. "I think I was infected even before I took you. This city is going to go to hell. Maybe it's what humans deserve." I lift up a small bit of my shirt. It's almost all blotchy and red, but there's not as many feathers as I expected. Footsteps on cobblestone. A woman carrying a bundle of clothes. I move to zip up the bag, before feeling guilty for all of the lizard's suffering. Instead of leaving him in darkness, I offer up my hand. "We're only a few minutes away. Ish. I guess it's fair to give you some open air." The woman passing through takes a glance at me, then a double take. "You're the guy in the news." She looks at my hand and gasps. Her hand goes to her phone. For once in my life, I flash a cocky smile. She's not gonna take freedom away from me. "Come on, lizard. Let's run."
  7. I'm planning on rebooting this RP in a month or so. It will be open instead of a 1x1 this time. Worldbuilding will be reset to its basics. Please let me know if you're interested.
  8. Raul: Home-bound. I push open the doors to the hostel rather roughly. The wood slams against the wall, causing the people outside to shake their head in a sort of disgusted amusement. At least it's safe. The hallway is poorly lit, some lights flickering in and out, threatening to plunge me into darkness. I hear muffled sirens, so I hold my breath and bring the lizard closer; but it passes by, back to the scene of the crime. I practically throw the former beggar onto my bed. It's well made, my suitcase right underneath. No one else is around. I lock the door and open up my laptop, ready to book an early flight back home. Forget about the breeder; my sister was right. I hesitate before texting her. She doesn't need to know I'm in danger. As I sit down, I notice something in my pant's pocket. It's the rye bread from earlier, somewhat dried out by now. I tear off half and pick out some seeds, leaving both by the lizard. Is that what they eat? Old seeds? I don't know; I've never had the appetite for reptiles. The clock is ticking. I can only hope they didn't get a clear enough view of me. Eventually, though, they'll check the cameras and see me head here. It was stupid to grab the mutant. Now, I need to move tonight. I have enough--barely--to cover for the transfer expense. As I'm typing away, though, I feel something soft in between my fingers. Red feathers are poking through. I don't think about it, but I can feel it in the back of my head. A thought dropping in the back of my consciousness, slowly bringing my stomach with it. In a daze, I move to unlock the window leading to the alley. I won't tell anyone, not my family or the breeder, if I even have the time. Better they think I'm dead than--. The forest beyond the city is my only shot at saving my life. Not just mine, his too. I take a precious moment to change out of my hoodie into a long-sleeved shirt. In the mirror, my skin is already torn up and burned, with that weird oil coating it in a red sheen. The worst damage has feathers beginning to grow. It hurts when I touch it, a sharp throb that doesn't go away. I pick out a backpack, pack some extra bits of jerky, birdseed, and bread, before picking up the lizard one more time. I attempt to climb through the window. It's a solid drop, but I can get into the alley system this way. One last look at my hands: slowly growing, slowly spreading. That's what I get for a good deed, huh?
  9. Raul: Running... I take my time leaving the park. The air is just a bit fresher away from the busy roads. A patch of flowers in particular catches my eye, though I don't care to stoop down and smell them. It's a shiny yellow patch, and unlike the garish bouquets elsewhere, this one is covered in leaves, with the flowers peeking out from their cover. Around them, a little higher up, are some berries. They look questionable. This side of the park seems to have plenty of them, though hidden from the average, oblivious tourist. I pull up my phone and bring up my map. It's still way too early, and I'd rather not be up all night if I meet with the breeder tomorrow. I should find somewhere cheap to eat, too, and try and bring my budget back into balance. The city's fairly well organized, so as long as I glance down every once in a while, I should be fine. My head is sweating. I wipe it off only to find some more red slime, which I flick into the grass. The pigeon flock is back in the streets, hustling for dropped fries. I wince at their desperation; there's no way I could hand one of those greasy American foods to my ladies. Once in a while, yes, my birds would sample my plate when I brought them down into the apartment, but it was only ever a treat. Not like this, where all they eat is pure garbage day in and night out. When I snap my attention away, I see a crowd. Plenty of people have their phones out, some taking videos and some calling. Getting closer, I can see through the rows of people what the fuss is. Now, I have to say, Oh God. I see a man changing. It's the beggar from before. Looks like my sister had a right to worry. It takes me a moment to recover from the shock, and by then the beggar has completely changed. While I'm pushing down bile, I make a plan. I don't want to be infected. I have a life in front of me, and I could just leave that poor guy be and never worry about him ever again. But the guy, the thing really, is so small and so helpless. It's winter. I was walking home, and I saw a dead pigeon bleeding into the snow. Her wings are splayed out. I was apathetic. It was a long day at work, and I didn't want to deal with New York's endless violence. However, when I passed by her, miraculously she opened her eyes. She was breathing heavy, her head was starting to roll back, so I reached out and picked her up. I carefully tuck back her wings and put her in my coat, trying to avoid the blood--- I learned this trick well back in the city. If you want to get somewhere, you just make it until you fake it. "Excuse me, animal control coming through! I got to get this thing to the pound." Mentally, I rehearse the words until they sound just like a Spaniard. The crowd parts ahead of me without even looking. I dash toward the former beggar and scoop the thing up. It's a reddish lizardish. There's a leaf at the back of its tail. My few precious seconds are almost up, people are starting to get suspicious, so I dart through and run. Thank goodness I was walking in a straight line all day. If I didn't mess up my exit, I should get back to my room in five, adrenaline-fueled minutes before the police find me. I'm pushing aside people on the streets with my free hand, my hood as far down as possible. Just get home, get this thing to safety.
  10. Raul: Humans are cruel. Pigeon laughter echoes around as a flock takes off. I scowl at the kid who ran through just a few moments ago, who’s laughing with just a touch of malice. I also know I shouldn’t feel pity for the birds. They’re street rats and they look nothing like my lovely rock doves. They’re leaner. Meaner. But it was still not fair to the pigeons that they rest their feet on the warm plaza just to be chased away in a second. I raise my cup of coffee to hide my disapproving stare, but find that there’s no more to drink. As it is, I’m well over my measly budget, and now the last few days of this vacation will be spent in awful migranes and exhaustion. The in-flight coffee will seem like heaven then. I can feel the judging eyes of my waiter as I get up out of my seat and leave my tiny bill. I pick up a chunk of rye bread and head out toward the flock. It’s afternoon. There’s no shadows, aside from underneath buildings. It’s also quite crowded. They call it a siesta, where work grinds to a halt for family. If only New York had anything like that! I would feel like I owned the world if I could have a break in the afternoon. I tear off a small piece of the bread. Seeds fall between my fingers, while a few enterprising doves try to snatch up their food early. My arm arcs back and throws the crumbs all over the place, and soon a flock quickly forms, full of grays and whites and the occasional brown. My phone rings. It’s a Nokia flipphone, and my sister is calling. We begin a conversation, careful to keep it short and sweet to avoid the phone bill. She’s fine, I’m fine, until she cuts in with: “Hey, heard you’re in Spain.” Here we go. “You shouldn’t be blowing off like this, Raul.” Her voice is bittersweet. “I sent you enough for the entire year.” I say with a grimace. “Mami’s gotten sick. Doctors say it’s might be West Nile.” I am worried, sure, but this is supposed to be my vacation, damnit. “I’m going home in a week. It’s not the end of the world.” “Maybe, but what if Mami's disease is more?” My sister drops her voice, into something between a gentle whisper and a warning. “The Poland disease.” Ah, yes. The mutation. People whisper about it. I haven’t seen it. There's no denying the photos on social media, but the most my life's been affected by it was the lone beggars on street corners. There was one with a hurt arm as I walked into a park, who I glanced at out of the corner of my eye, crying about a thief--possibly not a threat. I had no money to spare, none at all, and one man's misfortune doesn't mean I had to sacrifice what little I had. "If something happens I'll catch an early flight. Nothing's going to happen." I shut my phone. I don't really know where I'm going. Just killing time before I meet with the breeder, in a day's time. Airline tickets come cheap on some days, and beggars can't be choosers. I couldn't really afford switching my flight over, despite the promise, as the cost of transferring would cut me close to debt. If something happens--well, I better hope that the world doesn't fall apart in a single week. The park is surprisingly quiet. It's full of trees here, a small island of greenery. There's a large pool of water underneath my feet. According to my phone, I'm quite a few kilometers away from my hostel; however, I have all the time in the world to get back. So much time. Too much time. My hand is suddenly really itchy. Like a bug was walking on it. I scratch at it and feel coolness. Red goop falls from my fingers when I lift my hand up. Ugh. I flick away the slime into the water and wipe my hand on the grass, my hand tingling all the while.
  11. ((I've had some time to think about character development. I still don't have Joanna's end personality yet, but most of the others I have something in mind. May add another character.)) She exhaled in relief. They wouldn't be enjoying the suffering of another poor being. It was a little surprising to her that the game could not feel or think, but another idea occurred to her as the group made their way past huge doors into the open cafeteria. Huge windows let in blinding morning light, and the walls and floor were covered in faded child's murals of machines and Lindor together. The room was fairly empty. "Could you make anything come to life?" She said, more to herself than to the Lindor. There was a small kitchen where machine attendants were slowly preparing meals. Shelves lined either end, filled with every food possible. Joanna watched as an eight-legged one stirred several saucepans at once, in different directions or speeds. There were a few Lindor milling around, having to push through the more synchronized mass of metal. At the counter were cards and some pencils, with a sign saying "PLEASE WRITE YOUR ORDER". She wrote down her request and found a seat away from the sunlight, a basic stool around a large table. From here, she could comfortably see the one patch of wall that was completely blank.
  12. The woman disappeared into and out of shops, doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. After less than a quarter-hour of watching, Len grew bored and started to amble off home. His thoughts turned to his father, the great adventurer that came home empty handed. His mother, the brooding old crone. Only his brother drew any affection from his current mood. He took after Papa, unlike Len. His brother would be grow up to be like the man in the center of the crowd, and Len, looking up, was just the fringe. A half second passed by before he recognized the figure. Here we go again with the town crazy. The dragon killer. For all Len cared, the slayer could've just bought the horn. Not deserving of attention at all, no thank you. Len, however, swung when he heard the woman from earlier. She seemed to shine with passion and fury, of which the crowd closed in on. At first the townsfolk were amused, but he knew what's going to come next... He angled his way toward her, keeping one eye on the crowd's current state of aggression. A tap on the shoulder might net him a black eye in the afternoon, but it was better than simply leaving her. "Come on, it's not worth it." Len said to the lady, a low, cautious tone in his voice.
  13. ((He doesn't actually have the stamina ring, only a plain silver one. I was just using it as an example. Sorry if I confused you!)) The street tasted like waste, and the grit got everywhere on his tongue. The steadily rising sun just gave him a headache. Len wiped his mouth with the hem of his shirt and a grimace at the bar's closed doors. If he tried enough, he could still taste the cheap beer underneath all the pebbles. This was his first fight. He had no idea what came over him, just that some merchants he knew had stopped in town and decided to gossip in plain view of him. A thief, they said, he was the one who took my silver last week. The irony of it; traders that one moment routinely stiff their customers, can, in the next breath, complain about a miscount. They knew very well too that he was nowhere near the markets. In fact, he was at the town's square that afternoon. Some rich lunatic rode into the village on a horse easily double the size of the local farmers', telling anyone who would listen about the deaths of sheep and how it was all the work of the local dragon. There was a look in that man's eye that Len didn't like. It was a haughty glitter, one that told of cruelty and power. It was the tax-collector's glitter. The king's glitter. While he was reminiscing all this, Len wandered the streets. He didn't want to return home so soon, but his family didn't need anything and he had only a few coins left to be splurged. The main market was beginning to open up and carts were bouncing on the slightly-nicer brick. He thought then that he might pick up a handful of strawberries for himself, as a way to forget the day's sins. People already crowded the windows of the metal district, cooing over a nice piece of shiny here and there. There was one lady that stuck out. She was walking with a purpose in mind. With a shawl that matched the sky, she was better dressed than the peasants around her. It then occurred to Len that she was a stranger, though she seemed to know where she was going. He knew better than to go up and bug her, but he merely wanted to see... What was she up to?
  14. Name: Lennart ("Len" for short) Sweet Sex: Male Age: 17 Appearance: Len's a very shifty-looking, pale man. Despite his height and build, his face is strikingly young, though not quite a babyface due to its sharpness. His hair has grown long and at times goes messy, no matter how many hours he tries to tame it (and he spends a lot of time on his appearance). His irises are a very dark brown, enough to give the illusion of total blackness when he wears a hat. Usually wears the plainclothes of the working class, and his best suit, unworn, is black with a small trim of red. Normally, Len goes barefoot, leading to the occasional scrape. Though hidden, his most expensive item is a small ring of silver. History: ((gonna flesh this out as the RP goes on--these are brief notes)) He's running. Running away from the home where he's supposed to marry a girl from a slightly richer family. His own loves and cares for him, but they'd do anything to get out of the field. He himself has no job to speak of, as rumors spread around his hometown that he's a criminal. When a so called "dragon slayer" waltzed into town and began shouting his , Len recognized the same haughty look; the one that shows that there's a deeper truth. Suspicious, he packed his bags and left his house in the middle of the night to find this legendary dragon. Other: ((I'll wait for your approval for this, but is it possible for Len not be actively magical, but instead enhance magic, if it makes any sense? Like, to put it in DnD terms, if he was to wear a ring that grants +2 stamina, it would give him +3 instead.))
  15. ((Yesss! I'll get my sheet up tomorrow. I'm playing the young man, right? Yeah, I've seen that's your preference. If someone else wants to RP, I'd step down. I should warn you that replying 7 days a week is impossible for me as I have both school and work. Just a few questions: is the worldbuilding and plot defined, or are we making it up as we go along?))
  16. ((I need some writing practice, if you don't mind a partner who's prone to burning out.))
  17. ((Oh jeez I've been away for faaaaar too long. I swear I'll edit this post soon with actual RP content--just letting you know I'm back and re-energized.)) "I saw a cafeteria down there, before I got mobbed. Think it's early enough before the crowd?" Joanna said, blushing at the memory of all that attention. She started walking down the hallway, trying to reverse the path the two guards took her. She promised herself not to shift her eyes; once more and she'd be stuck for eternity, hoping to hound the black figures and catch another truth. Later, Joanna reassured herself, she'll get all the answers she needs. In the meantime, perhaps, she'll learn something from these two Lindor. "Mrs. Schmitt--my boss, don't know if you've met her--had a collection at her house. Of video games. Most of them were Dictatorship-approved titles, but a couple in the back were preserved in glass. Never paid attention to their names, all I know is that they were old." A thought occurred to her as she made her way down a flight of stairs. "Do... do video games know they're being played? Like, are they the same as 3455 and Fifi and Sal?"
  18. Ooh, yeah a map might be best. Get ready for terrible MSPAINT splotches when I catch a moment from school+work, As for the questions... On the ship: Everyone has their own rooms. In fact, it's like one person to every three rooms. A lot of the ship is just empty space, as it's meant to be a huge cargo ship once the squad gets back. The meeting room on the ship is found in the helm, and most of our characters will get rooms very close to the helm. Perhaps a hallway over or two. Only exception would be engineers, who would sleep closer to the engines found in the back. In the Colony: I was thinking a circular layout, and a kind of open-campus feel. I would say the entire thing is about a mile in diameter. The majority of the buildings are basic, down to their structures, and each class has a building to sleep, do work in, etc. etc. The school everyone went to pretty much is the impromptu government building/meeting room, but you go into previously-locked rooms. Since the greenhouse, school, artists quarters all use a significant amount of light, they're all clustered together.
  19. ...---~~~ -|- ~~~---... Silence of The Stars It's quiet out there. Active Characters: Ali Pecora- A Leader Charlotte Williams- A Biologist Arya Syllvar- An Artist Lukas Martine- A Soldier ~~~~~~~~~~~~ . . . . . Ali took a long look through the display screen. He wasn't quite sure of what he was seeing, though that could be attributed to his weak eyes. A splash of gray light. Nothing to discern or draw conclusions from. An unsure glance upward showed the Director's beaming face, a complete stranger in vision. In sound, Ali knew him well. A rich, if a little tired, voice, often conferring with the young Leader about Colony politics and of humans and how best to ensure their survival. "Sir D, what should I make of this?" Ali said, reaching with bony fingers toward the screen. Light drew him like --pardon the old Earth expression-- moths to a flame. He knew well enough what a flame was, but moths were a mysterious concept. The Director swept his hand at the rest of the room. "We, my dear Pecora, what we make of it." As if on cue, a man stood to attention and stepped into the dim light. According to the Colony's computers, this was Lukas Martine. Despite being only 5 years older than Ali, the soldier seemed a lot older. More like their teacher in school than a fellow colleague. He bowed his head and moved to the side of the screen. "We've called in the other kids. Lukas here happened to be one of the first to take up the call." The Director paused to peer at Ali. "A thousand years operating at an energy deficit; this will ensure my legacy!" "But, sir, what is it?" He became visibly excited. "The red splashes over here, the blue over here, and in the center----- !" Ali cocked his head. "Red? Blue? All I see is grey." The Director appeared to contemplate it for a moment, visibly taken aback. Then he switched his attention to the doorway. "Ah, we'll figure it out later."
  20. Now! I touched up upon my leader character earlier, setting up the intro post as we speak.
  21. Due to work and school, the IC will be delayed to October 3rd. Thank you for your patience.
  22. Bumping your bump, Felix. whoo leader character almost finished. If no one else comes in, we're starting Oct. 1st. Character entrances are still possible all throughout Phase 1, so hopefully new people join in by then.
  23. ((Aaaah finally got this post done.)) The windows beside them started to give off a chill. Snowflakes fell with more vigor. Joanna took a last, hungry glance at the forest, knowing that she needed to move ahead and forget it for the time being. Emotions deeply repressed started to rise. She held back a flood of them, about to spill out of her mouth and tell the truth about the helmet. Fear and frustration and a pleading feeling for them to just hold on for a second and hear the Voice out. And others. Others she couldn't name, couldn't describe. She'd never felt this intensely before, and her years of training were barely enough to keep a calm composure and the truth. Joanna had a suspicion that the helmet made her more receptive, like a rebel against thoughts that weren't hers. "I was thinking of... enjoying our time? I think we've made it clear we're about to go on a long and difficult journey. This is probably the last time we can watch the world go by, for once." She turned to Eon with a considerably less serious look. "I've heard of video games! Well-connected families often gave their kids some." Joanna paused, taking the time to go through her memories. "I think as a kid I had something, but it broke and then-" She gestured to the world outside. "Whatever we do, I have one request. We go and get some nice hot chocolate."
  24. Bumping. Lyca, you're accepted. Still looking for more people! I'd like at least one more RPer before we start, but if necessary we can make this into a 1x1x1.
  25. Added to the character sheet, and finished mine. I'm going to flesh Lukas out more in-game. I've PMed Lycanious, and am currently waiting for their reply. I should also note that once the RP gets five characters, we'll most likely start. If no one fills in the other spots by then, they become NPCs. It seems like no one's interested in becoming the leader, so including Lycanious's scientist, all we need is one more character. This thread is most likely going to become the OOC.