I seem to have abysmal luck when it comes to getting stories past the first post. So now, I've got a lot of cool plots, just sitting here, waiting for a new partner to come and lift them off their poor, sad little feet. So, please, pull up a chair and sit on it.
Each of these stories was abandoned for a reason, or I am still waiting (3+ weeks) for a partner to come back. That means that there are going to be some semi-specific criterion for you to come roleplay with me. None of them are too harrowing, I promise, they simply prove to me that you are ready to be dedicated to this story. I don't want to lose another partner.
This is a "cop show" kind of story that pairs and FBI agent with a man who can manipulate luck and probability. There is no overruling plot for it, except for the interactions between our characters. I think of it in terms of "episodes", but that does not mean that there will be times when we ignore something that happens. All it means is that there will be a series of smaller, seemingly unconnected mini-plots within our character's interactions. Rather like real life. Here's how I imagine the first "episode"
A man (a NPC, and of no real relevance after the first "episode") works for the mob as an embezzler. He has worked for several major corporations and hidden massive sums of money for himself. However, when the mob found out about this, he was forced to go on the run. Rather than lay low, the man continued to embezzle funds in multiple states, which drew the attention of the FBI. They now have evidence to suggest that he is in Virginia, and will be going to an underground gambling den. They plan a raid, and your character has been put in charge of this case. Unfortunately, this tip off was also given to the mob, and they plan to preform their own "raid" on the premises.
My character is at the casino. For the most part his ability only works when he is focusing on something. But if something is going to drastically affect him it will reveal itself. He therefore knows that the raid is coming, but find that the chance of "getting shot by the mob" becomes significantly higher whenever he thinks about finding a way to escape without getting seen. When the FBI enter the building, the chance of him getting shot becomes almost certain. Therefore, he takes his "luck" at a way out without getting shot, and goes willingly as an FBI captive. However, through a series of seemingly impossible things (cuffs coming undone, car stalling out, a series of red lights, and his arresting agent's shoelaces coming untied, tangling, and tripping him up) he manages to get away. The first episode would then consist of your character, who is now almost certain my character's escape means he has something to do with the embezzlement, trying to hunt him down, and getting confronted by a series of increasingly impossible situations (I have something in mind for him jumping off a fifteen story building. ;P) until she finally gets herself in a dangerous enough situation that he must come save her, and in the saving must get caught. However, she doesn't choose to arrest him, but rather asks him to come on as an unofficial consultant. End first "episode".
Here is the introduction I wrote for this story.
From the outside, the building looked fit for nothing but demolition. The old brick facade was cracked, and one dilapidated wall had already started to crumble away, linking two windows into a gaping, ragged hole. No windows had survived the passage of time, and most of them were boarded over and covered in red, black, and green graffiti. A couple fragments of glass still lingered, resiliently clinging to the pieces of decomposing wood to which they had long ago been mounted. In the daylight they gleamed dully, covered in the grime that could only be created through uncounted years in rank city air.
It was not the kind of place that any self-respecting man would want to find himself. And yet, twice weekly, men from all over the great state of Virginia would find themselves in these shadowed alleyways, carefully bundled up in the oldest jackets they owned, the kind of rags that they would otherwise never have let into their wardrobe, if they hadn't been needed for just such purposes. However, underneath the ragged hats and jackets, rich, brightly colored silk occasionally caught the dingy street light, and priceless gems holding musty fire in their center, drew the eye. They came to blow money the way only rich people, people who would never need to worry about where the next luxury would come from, could understand. After all, this building was owned by the most successful underground casino chain in the eastern US.
A passerby would not be able to tell from the outside, but one room inside the building was intact. And from that point onwards, everything changed. The broken old concrete walls were changed to carefully smoothed plaster coated in a layer of warm, rich paint. The cracked floors changed to a thick red carpet, carefully patterned to distract the eye without seeming overbearing. The lighting was soft and comfortable, and everything was carefully staged to give the impression of a luxury hotel. Down a long flight of dark wooden stairs covered in a red carpet runner, the walls opened into a massive domed room. Lights were artfully strung across the ceiling giving the whole room an even lighting and keeping any corner from being hidden in shadow. It was the perfect casino, with tables upon tables, and cameras blinking from every alcove. There was no place to hide and no way to cheat unnoticed. Or so they would like to believe.
It was the kind of place that you couldn't get into without knowing someone. The "hobo" huddled by the door eyed everyone who passed and a single word from him would lock the door from the inside. If that wasn't enough to chase away a curious bystander, the small pistol strapped to his back certainly would be. It was a place you couldn't get into without the right contacts or a great deal of luck.
It was a good thing that Ethan Sryker dealt in luck. He walked into the building moments after another couple, a limpid lady hanging on her man's obese arm. His chubby fingers gripped a bill, and he proffered it to the doorman. But just as the doorman reached out his own dirty fingers to grab the bill, a gust of wind raced through the passage snagging the bill and tugging it right out from between their fingers. Ethan laughed silently as he watched the bill quickly carried away. He slipped through the door as all three people turned, the doorman reaching out desperately for his reward. By the time they turned back, the door had already silently swung closed again.
Ethan shed his own dirty coat as soon as he entered the room revealing a neat black suit with a green tie that offset the color of his eyes. He ran light fingers along his stubbled jaw as he handed the suit over to a neat man in a red jacket who waited by the door for just such a purpose. And then he set off down the stairs, well polished shoes leading him into the room.
It was too easy. Had he wanted to he could have ripped off the casino for every cent it had, and they would never have been able to prove anything. After all, how could he possibly control how the randomly shuffled cards were put together, when there was no way to predict what card was coming next? After all, he couldn't possibly control where the roulette ball was going to come to a stop, and which slot machine would spew out the winning pattern, now could he? But he didn't want only one payoff; he wanted to be able to come back. He had entered the casino with a hundred dollars in his pocket. When he came back out, he planned to have over a hundred thousand. That would take care of the bills for the next couple months, he thought with a wry grin.
He was sitting at a high stakes poker table when he noticed the first flicker of something odd. He paused, staring at the thread of chance that had drawn his attention, until the person by his side coughed politely, reminding him that it was his turn to bid. Even though he was a thousand dollars into the game that persistent flicker shouldn't be ignored. He folded and stepped away from the table, leaving a hand that would doubtless have got him several thousand closer to his goal.
But how could he ignore the fact that, within the next fifteen minutes, there was a ninety-five percent chance the FBI were going to come bursting through the door?
Even as he stared at this visual representation of something his brain instinctively understood, the number flickered and bumped up by two percent as some unknowable situation that might have prevented their arrival passed without an issue. It was time to go. But as he walked calmly over to the counter, traded his chips for a nice pile of cash, and put his hand on the door, he noticed something else.
If he left in that way, right then, there was a sixty-eight percent chance he was going to get shot by a member of the mob. Ethan swore quietly, raking his fingers through shaggy blue-black hair. As he stood there deliberating over a sixty-eight percent and the likelihood of him causing the bullet to miss, the number jumped by six percent. He turned around, moving calmly back to a table near the exit. He reclined, looking serene, but behind calm eyes his mind was racing.
It looked like there was someone at this casino tonight, someone both the mob and the FBI had a reason to acquire. And, of course, the FBI would certainly take advantage of this situation to bust as many people involved in this operation as possible. If he wanted to get out without having to face down the mob, he was going to need to take advantage of the arrival of the FBI. He concentrated for a moment, and watched as the numbers flickered before his vision, so quickly that, had they not only been inside his head, they would have been impossible to follow. The chances of the FBI arriving in less than eight minutes were so infinitesimally small as to be completely discounted. That gave him eight minutes to figure out what it would take to get an unfortunate FBI agent to leave with him firmly in hand.
He walked over to a doorway, and took a full minute to make sure that when he stepped through it, there was no chance, not even the slimmest possibility, that he would be seen. When his action was certain he stepped into the back room, walked briskly down the corridor and into a side room. As luck would have it, there he found a rack of the suits worn by the wait-staff. What a fortunate coincidence. He chuckled softly, pleased with himself, and quickly traded out his own neat suit for a proper uniform. He firmly lifted on the latch on a nearby locker. What were the chances that the mechanism holding it all together would malfunction just as he did so, and that waiting for him in the corner was a gleaming gold name tag? For the rest of this evening, he would be Walter Bryce. There were worse names in the world.
He made his way confidently out into the corridor, counting on the fact that no one would care enough to recognize that he didn't belong and ensuring that those who did had something minor to keep hold of their attention. Even if he was caught the worst they would do would be to throw him out. Considering the FBI had the highest chance of being here in less than four minutes, they would probably wind up grabbing him anyways. It was all up to chance.
His grin was warm and friendly as he nodded politely to a passing couple. The woman was flamboyantly dressed in a vivid pink dress that v-necked all the way down to her belly and the man struggled to keep himself from running into anything in front of him as his attention wandered. Ethan settled a little ways from the door, in clear view for when the agents came bursting in and assumed a look of abstract busyness. The chances that anyone would bother him before the tactical team arrived were small indeed.
Ethan laughed softly, a wide smile spreading across his lips. It was going to be fun to see how much effort it took to get away from America's finest.
This one is easy. All I need from you in terms of writing is a character. Something as simple as Name: Appearance: and General Personality: will do. Other than that, patience. I'd like to get to know you before we start, and also get a taste of your writing ability.
I may actually have a partner for thisI've actually had an interest check for this one out for a while, but there is a lot, and when I say a lot I mean a lot, of reading that goes along with this, and I think it has scared most people off. This story takes place in an intergalactic empire. Our characters will be escaped convicts on the run on a sentient ship, facing all kinds of interesting adventures, while trying not to get caught again. This story will require you to play at least 4, preferably more, characters at the same time. Like my previous story, I'm going to call it somewhat "episodic", but it will be very free-form. It also allows for the potential of a very badass character, since your character will need some reason to be in maximum-security intergalactic prison.
Only contact me if you are a really dedicated sci-fi freak.
Rather than give you all the text and my opener here, I'm going to insist that you PM me. Then I'll be able to give it to you in pieces, and maybe not overwhelm you.
This one probably has the most stringent requirements. First, you will need to get through my walls of informative text. If you survive that (it isn't painful, I promise), you will need to create two unique alien species that are realistic. I am fine with them being entirely inhuman, but as a cognizant creature every individual within the species will still need to be capable of having unique motivations. It can be challenging to come up with a species that has that potential, and the more inhuman you get the harder it can be. Prepare yourself.
Closed. Probably indefinitely.I already feel guilty for putting this one on here, because I know that the partner I was working on it with was really looking forward to it before she vanished. Problem is, I'm desperately fond of this story, and I can't just leave it sitting. I want to start it so bad.
If you really, truly, completely care that much you'll have to prove it. But then I may work on coming up with a different plot in the same world.
This is a fantasy story, and it has a unique system of magic that I created myself. With my previous partner's help, of course. Before we start, I want you to take a look at the magic. If you don't like it, none of the story will work for you.
There are four paths of magic. This is a list of the four. It is a little out of order, because I wrote it as I wrote it. Get through it all, and if it doesn't make sense, please feel free to ask questions here. I'll notice and explain as best I can.
Physical: This is probably the most generally inclusive of the four, and is probably required study until students reach a certain level. I was originally thinking of this in an almost elemental perspective, except it probably wouldn't include fire, and would have an almost infinite number of "elements". This is probably the most practical and generally "magic-y" of the different categories, and I would imagine that more people would be masters in this than any other. I would also imagine that, before you could begin in any other category, you would have to have a basic understanding of the physical, to the point where you are just starting to break away from logical manipulations. It would probably start pretty narrow, with a single, pure element, and from there would begin to expand into less pure elements that are still close in substance. I doubt that the school would teach students how to manipulate certain banned substances, flesh and blood and bone being the ones that instantly come to mind, but trust that by the time a student cold naturally grasp these elements because they have enough of an understanding of the subject, the school would also have managed to teach them some moral boundaries.
Particle: If Physical would deal with molecules and atoms, Particle wold revolve around the things that are still defined by science, but aren't a "whole" atom. Light, electricity, energy, and dark matter. Before a person could begin to delve into this subject, they would have to have a general understanding of Physical manipulation. Particle manipulation gets more abstract than Physical, because it begins to deal with potential, especially the "energy" aspect of it. If a student cannot understand how to manipulate something they can see and feel, then they would never be able to grasp something abstract, if still logical. Almost any person could still make it to this category so long as they are willing to accept that things exist that can not be seen or felt, but are still most definitely there. However, if a student becomes too comfortable within the Physical aspect, becomes too set within the other-paths in their mind... I should probably explain that better.
Other-paths. Lets see... The mind has logical patterns that it follows, and it does its absolute best to understand things from this logical point of view. Any form of magic requires a certain capability to be able to break away from these logic-paths so as to conceive that such things can happen. That is why all magic starts incredibly logical, because it makes it easier for a student to slowly slip into the other-paths, because there is a logical transition. The other-path required for each category is either one level deeper or shallower into the abstract, which is away from the logical surface where all minds instinctively start. Because Physical is the easiest to work with, since you can see and hear and touch and understand things that are physical, it is the closest to the logical mind. If a person did not have an understanding of the Physical, they would not be able to touch the deeper level of the Particle, that is why it is necessary to learn the basics of Physical before moving on. However, if a student becomes too masterful in the Physical other-paths, they will no longer be able to conceive of the Particle other-path. It is too different from that which they understand, and their mind is too set that they cannot abstract it into the next level. The same is true from the Particle to the Psychological, and from the Psychological to the Perpetuum. It takes an understanding of the previous to abstract into the next, but if someone becomes too skilled in one, then the next becomes unobtainable. Of course, some people simply are unable to sink far enough into the abstract to reach a certain other-path. That is why there are so few masters of the Perpetuum. And, it is also possible to be able to conceive of an other-path, but not be able to dig deep enough into it to be able to "master" anything more than the basics. A student who this was true for would then have to choose whether to relinquish their ability to grasp that level to pursue mastery of the shallower level, or hold onto their understanding of that other-path and forever struggle with it in the hope that their mind might accept it. This can be dangerous, because if the mind is not capable and a person keeps pushing it the mind can break. You may grasp the other-path, but there is no certainty that you are still sane enough to understand that you now grasp it. Genius is a natural ability that can come with a person, and is not something that can be trained. The "genius" of a person defines how far into each other-path that person can get before they loose the ability to understand the abstract well enough to reach the next other-path.
Right. Onwards with the Particle. Electricity is pretty straight forwards. Energy would be the potential that something has. The ability for flesh to heal, the decomposition and formation of bonds, vibrations, and movement. This is one of the most abstract of the Particle other-paths, and once a person grasps this, they would have to be a true genius for them to be able to enter into psychological. Light is pretty straight forward. Dark matter... umm... dunno. Really, the Particle simply covers anything that can still be proven to exist, but does not have enough mass to measure. And as for how it can be manipulated, how creative can you get? I don't have much for it, this is the category I have the least understanding of, but I'm sure that we can work around this.
Psychological: There is nothing measurable in the psychological, because it simply deals with impressions. Consciousness, memory, interpretation, illusions, these would be the basis of the psychological. Used correctly (or perhaps incorrectly) a master of the Psychological could get another person to do anything, believe anything. A master of the Psychological could in theory rule the world. There is no doubt that an understanding of Psychological other-paths could allow you to understand another person, but there is more to it than telepathy and illusion. The Psychological can touch in on the true nature of something. And not just a person. That would be the most basic Psychological, because, as a human, people are something we can understand relatively easily. A true master of the Psychological could have an intrinsic understanding of inanimate objects, and of concepts as abstract as the wind, or life itself. And, with the right instinct, it would be possible to alter that basic knowledge of something, and change it into something else. While it would not physically change anything about the thing that was altered, it would still seem exactly the same, it would alter the very behavior of that thing in ways that logic simply cannot understand. A master of the Psychological could make the wind believe it was a rock, or the rock believe it was the wind.
Perpetuum (Combination of Perpetual and Continuum): While incredibly difficult to comprehend, the Perpetuum is easy to explain. Those who comprehend the Perpetuum understand space and time. Space can then be manipulated any way that the master pleases, while time is a lot more vague. The Perpetuum allows for an understanding of the history of any object, and a broad range of potential futures, dealing first in the most probable, and then moving into those that are merely Possible. A true master of the Perpetuum, while unable to change the past, can manipulate the future almost any way they please, because they understand the many connections between everything, and how one small stroke in one place can cause a certain event to happen. There are incredibly few true masters of the Perpetuum, and other people would doubtless call them crazy, because they have sunk so deep into the abstract that they understand things that others can simply not begin to comprehend. However, what separates a master of the Perpetuum from someone who is simply crazy is their ability to return to the land of the logical. Why they would want to leave a land of infinite possibility for the real world is anyone's guess, but they can. Masters of the Perpetuum have found a way to halt their own passage through time, causing them to be immortal for as long as they should choose.
There are those who have attempted to master one other-path and then figure out how to step into another, but none have survived the attempt with their sanity intact. The human mind simply does not have enough breadth to grasp the true illogic of two other-paths at the same time.
Like it? I hope so. I put a lot of time into that, and I am really fond of it.
This story would take place at the largest college of magic in the world. The University is also the best school of magic in the world, and if it cannot be found there, it does not exist. The application process is beyond rigorous, but if you get in and can survive the demanding coursework and high level of standard you are guaranteed a successful and prosperous life. The paths of the University start broad, but the higher level you get, assuming you can afford to pay the ever-growing tuition, the deeper you can delve into specific matters and the more skilled and expert you can become. That is not to say that the University deals only in magic skills. It ensures that all students who pass through the school have a grasp of chemistry, biology, physics, medicine, math, and rhetoric, and most studies in magic must be paired with at least one of the General Classes.
No one disputes that character A (who I shall arbitrarily name Annette) is one of the best students that the University has seen in a hundred years. She has a natural talent that allows her to succeed at anything she sets her mind to. She has a small group of close friends who will help her with anything, and while some other students envy her for her natural talent and quick rise through the ranks, most people truly respect her for her talent. However, she desperately longs to learn the perpetuum, and it is the only subject in which she has failed to completely enamor the master of the subject. And while she tries to pursue it honestly and pure-heartedly, there is no doubt that there is some bitterness within her for her inability to succeed in it. Annette's life is not perfect, she makes mistakes and pisses people off, but as a young girl she has done remarkably well with her life.
Character B (Bae. He's mine. ) is almost as far from Annette as it is possible to get. He is wild, rarely takes the time to bother with appearances or impressions, erratic as the sea in storm, with a mood as fickle as the wind. Those who know him make an effort to avoid him, those who don't know him deal only in rumors. He is uncouth, wild, fanciful, dangerous, innocent, wise beyond his years, and completely insane. It is a mystery to all as to how he can afford to pay his tuition, because it is doubtful that he even has a penny to his name. That is, of course, if he is even really a student, because somehow he never seems to attend any classes.
Both of these people have secrets that they will never share. She may be the daughter of a penniless farmer, forced to sink to levels little better than a servant to pay her tuition. She may be the daughter of a king, may have been blessed by the fey when she was young. She may have dragonfire residing in her heart. He, well, he has a secret too, and I have a really good one for him, that I'd rather save until it comes out in the story. But these two are fated to meet. And their meeting may not be plesant. All that is certain is that nothing is certain with these two. He is finicky and capricious, she stubborn and convinced she can do anything. And even the fates are not sure of what adventures might come from their union.
And this (if you haven't already gotten tired of reading) is the opening post I wrote. Enjoy.
It had been a day reminiscent of the sharp feel of tangerine and the sweet taste of lanthanum. Even the great oak had dared only drop a single leaf, which dropped straight down to settle on the edge of the old brother bench in the absence of wind. It wasn't until late in the day that the wind had picked up enough to politely take the hand of that leaf, and lead her in a gentle waltz through the courtyard, to twirl around a wall and out into the street. But then the finicky date let his partner's hands fall, and she dropped sadly into a pile of her fellows, to commiserate their loss together until scattered apart by the heavy-booted foot of a passerby.
The University as a whole was vain enough to believe that it needed no other name of identification. Even the buildings reeked of put-upon elegance, and they blinked slowly down onto the winding paths and small gardens that surrounded them. They had the grace not to loom, but that was more out of a desire to maintain reputation than it was out of any sort of consideration for the little things that passed below. The roofs were much more friendly. They were content to stay still, soak up the brightness of the day and share it with whomever came along. That was why he spent most of his time on the roofs. They welcomed his presence with silent warmth, and they so rarely got to spend time with company. The wind was also friendly with the roofs, and couldn't help but bring up the voices from below to share with its friend. That friendliness was unknowingly extended to those who came to offer companionship. Now, as the sun reached down ribbons to the tops of the mountains, the wind nipped at his hair and clothes, playing at being a puppy begging for the attention of a dear friend. He stood to oblige it, and for a moment it chased its tail excitedly, lifting his light cotton shirt away from his chest, and pulling a hem of his cloak towards the edge of the roof. He tucked a strand of strawberry blonde hair back along the crown of his head, patting it down devotedly even as the wind grabbed several more and threw them across his face. He devotedly tucked back three more strands, but when he made it back to the strand he had originally tucked away his face broke into a wide grin. He shook his head back and forth wildly, flinging his hair out, where it came to rest in a wild halo around his head.
From the street, the University campus could seem confusing. Buildings seemed to have popped up from nowhere, causing the path to have to veer sharply off to the right to avoid a collision. But everything still contained that elegance, and nothing could truly be called out of place. It was, after all, there. He had watched many a student become turned around in its passageways, and had followed them on their course until they wound up right back where they had started, bewildered. But from the roofs, the University made a form of perfect sense that was normally only reserved for the wildest places. It was walking along the top of the mountains, and coming across a couloir. For a moment there was only frustration at finding yourself trapped, but it was so beautiful that your anger had to bleed away. It didn't take long to tempt these couloir into friendship, and then they would be willing to come together for a moment and carry a friend across without disturbing those who passed below, and relied upon the space for safe and timely passage.
And so he chased the wind across the rooftops, unconcerned as to where his footsteps led him, and it took him a while to realize that he was not truly chasing the wind, but rather that they were partners and cavorted together in perfect harmony. However, soon he came once more to stillness, and the wind raced onwards, leaving its partner behind. There was a familiar sound coming from below his feet, and he could not help but pause and listen to it. He had danced his way all around the campus and back to its center, where the great oak grew next to an intricate old stone tower. The roof here was the tallest in the campus, and from here it was possible to see to everywhere. Of all the buildings, this one reeked the most, and those who looked at it for too long would find themselves staring into the very face of time. It had been here since the University had begun, and it would sit in its solidness for the rest of the University's existence, and maybe much beyond them. It was stubborn enough that it would do its best to last, even after it was no longer needed. Just below his feet a giant brass bell echoed with the sweet, harsh reverberations of the passage of time. It defined the lives of the people who lived here, and already the countless students would be leaving their prison to hurry on to the next one. They raced through the empty spaces of reality, filling them with laughter and chatter, and an undefined eagerness that nothing else in the world could match. He moved his way slowly to the edge of the rooftop and dropped down, flipping into the open cavity in the tower that built up the sound before sending it racing all the way around on the breath of the wind. The deep vibration of the bell shook his body, and he leaned forwards into it, clapping his hands over his ears, and adding the shiver of his own body to the echoes inside him.
It is so beautiful, my dear friend. And I hope it is worth it.
It was less than a memory, more than a fantasy, and it left him with an impalpable echo of sadness, that almost seemed to overwhelm the clammer of the bell. He uncovered his ears, and the last strike of the bell washed over him like a wave. He let it carry the sadness away, but it succeeded far too well. They gayness that had brought him to dance with the wind was carried away as well, and now he was left with a simple, quiet nothing. It was almost like surfacing, and the depth of the world seemed to fade away. He no longer knew how he was going to get down from here, but he was sure that if he sat here for long enough it would come back to him.
He hadn't expected the hatch to open. A head popped through, covered in a mop of brown hair. The man blinked around the space, missed the figure standing next to the window, and hopped the rest of the way through the hatch. His fingers slid along the bell with a fond reverence, before carefully rewinding the mechanism that had caused the bell to ring. If he forgot, the rope would rewind itself, but the flavor of his joy was more than enough of a reason to do it by hand. He touched the bell again, sparking the tiniest reflection of its deep gong, and the bell touched a smile to his lips. It was then that his eyes locked onto the figure, and he let out a gasp, recoiling away from the bell, and quickly moving back to the hatch.
It was time to go now, and now that it was time, time came back to him. He slipped out of the space the same way he had slipped into it, and moments later he was racing back across the rooftops. He paused once he was a few rooftops away, and glanced back at the tower. For a moment he saw a figure, wreathed in shadow, with a sad look on its face. Perhaps it was an echo of himself, carried along with the ebb and flow of his emotions. Perhaps it was someone else, who had missed a chance by only a moment. Perhaps it was both.
The day may have belonged to the rooftops, but the night belonged to a much darker sort of friend. The tunnels also connected everything in the University, but they did it in a skulking manner, and were not something that welcomed any form of brightness. But they had their warmth too, the steadiness of the earth that did not welcome change, even of something as simple as temperature. And, most importantly, they had the silence of noise, where it was possible for him to loose himself, and, for a mere moment, become someone else.
And that someone else looked around for a moment, and a small smile flickered across his face. He walked with the timeless elegance that the buildings strove towards but never quite reached. And then he sat, ran his fingers lightly though the ground, and settled back to sleep.
Ah, I was so proud of that... perhaps you can see why I so want to continue? This story requires a reply. PM it to me, and we will go from there.
I've started this story twice, and had it fail both times. Humph. So it has more than an opener, which I will dutifully copy-paste into the story should we start it. It is, after all, my four part opener, and is necessary for character establishment.
My character is a man who was taken by a secret branch of the military that was working on genetic manipulation. When the public got wind, they closed down and destroyed all their failures. Problem is, my character wasn't a failure. A single piece of DNA survived his execution, and he reformed from that. Preferably in Philadelphia, because it is a fascinating city. He meets your character, takes her coat (cause he's naked...) and they separate. Two days (and three establishing posts) later, they meet again, when your character is being attacked. My character saves yours, but gets shot in the head in the process. Doesn't die, of course. And from there... well...
Here's the opener.
The guards marched him down the corridor in procession, two in front, two to his sides, two behind. This was the last step, the last part of this project, and they weren't going to let it get messed up now. He couldn't even see the corridor, couldn't rely on anything other than his feet to guide him forward. They had wrapped the upper half of his head in a fabric so thick it would be impossible to even attempt to see through it, put him in a straightjacket and wrapped him in heavy chain. One section ran through his mouth, the cold metal biting into his tongue and making it impossible to speak.
He might have been a failure, but they were taking no chances, no chances that they might have missed something. There was no way out, none except the way they were marching him forward. And he let himself be carried forwards by the inexorable pull of the soldiers. He had tried to fight briefly when they first came for him, because he knew that they had no clue who they were escorting. If one of them had slipped up even a little bit he could have been off. Free, for a little while, until They caught back up with him, and destroyed him anyways.
It was nothing but cruelty when one of the guards tugged off his blindfold as they shoved him into the metal cylinder. They didn't know him, didn't know that he had once been one of them, before all of this had begun. Now he would be barely recognized as human. His flesh had been cut to ribbons, especially around his face, his nose and lips were missing, his eyelids each carefully removed by the hand of a skilled surgeon. They had wanted to force him to do... something. Something to prove that all the time and money they had spent on him had been worth it.
But the guards, they wanted him to see the fire coming, wanted to see the monster's eyes as he realized he was going to be burning in hell. And at first, it was just as dark as it had been with the blindfold. Little fireflies of imaginary light rippled before his eyes, vanishing as soon as he tried to look straight at them. And then the glow began. It took him a moment to recognize that he could now see the outline of the bridge of his nose, glowing a deep orange-red. And slowly, the shadows that had hid his body from his own eyes began to recede, the chain glowing ominously.
Had this been the way out he was looking for? The glow was increasing even as he stood there, the pace of his breath increasing and echoing around the small room. He had wanted out almost as soon as he had gotten in, but there was no out by that point. There hadn't been an "out" for a very long time. And so he had decided that he would not cooperate, even as the pain continued to increase. He would not give them what they wanted, and the idealism that had filled him when he had initially volunteered was effaced by brutal treatment. He fell to his rage, using that to keep him sane, to stay focused on that one thing. He would not cooperate. He would make the whole project worthless to them.
Was this the way out? The heat was starting to become uncomfortable already, and he couldn't stop the scream that built up from inside of him as the wisps of smoke began to curl around him. He had stopped trying not to scream a long time ago. It only made them think they weren't doing enough.
"No!" he strangled out, tongue working heavily around the chain. He didn't want to die, couldn't believe this would really be the end. He had wanted his noncooperation to lead to his own freedom, not this. But, as the heat grew and he began to scream louder and louder, he realized this was the only freedom he was ever going to get.
And then it went dark.
For a moment, there was nothing. But it didn't stay as nothing. He had long ago given up on God, had come to admit that there would be no place for him in the afterlife. He was stranded and alone, but if death was the end then this couldn't be death. But nor could he say that he was alive anymore, either.
He knew he had been cremated, and that there should be no way to survive that, but he had never been cremated before, so what did he really know about it. But there were no distinctive thoughts, only the instinctual knowledge that he was not gone. He was still on earth, still present, and he only needed to figure out what it would take to get back to normal. Because there had to be a way back. This was not freedom, but a torment almost worse than those he had been forced to face before. Because there was nothing here, only this pointless existence.
And then, how long had it been? It could have been mere moments, it could have been years. He figured it out. It was the exact same thing he had felt growing inside of him through all of that pain. It was the thing that They had so desperately wanted him to reveal. And though, at the moment, he could not define it, it would be enough for him to come back, because he understood it. And then he really would be free.
A bird became the sacrifice. A magpie, looking for scraps of food, that saw only one little, tasty morsel. But he was the morsel, and, like a tiny bacteria, he took the bird over, converting its cells into his own. And from there, it only took moments to grow himself a new human form.
Life looked like a park, and freedom sounded like Philadelphia.
He had been there once, as a kid. His grandparents had moved to Philly for a few years, before heading back south because his grandfather had complained that the cold got into his bones. His mother and father had taken him and his little sister up here, and they had played tourist for a few days.
It was colder here now than when they had visited, and the wind caused shivers to ripple across his naked form. But the ground still retained a little bit of heat from the day, and so, for a moment, he lay still, breathing in the smell of freshly cut grass and listening to the occasional car that skidded by. But he could not stay here. He didn't know how long it had been since he had been burned, didn't know how long he had stayed in that halfway point between mere existence and physical reality, but he doubted that anyone would take kindly to his current nudity.
And so he pushed himself up, taking a deep breath and trying to pull some memories of this city from those long ago memories. He looked around, and it was easy enough to place his current location. Fairmount Park was the only place he had ever been where a cultivated park would not have some form of housing in sight.
The moon was still low in the sky, and there were hours of nighttime left. Hopefully he would be able to find a place to sequester himself until he could get some clothes.
For this one... you need to give me a plot! Hah! I don't mean that quite literally, but you need to give me a reason for our characters to spend time together after he gets shot, and something exciting that could happen. I have an idea, but I'm not going to tell you until you give me one first. Which, by extension, means you need a character as well.
This story takes place many years after an apocalypse has already happened, so this won't be a story about trying to survive when you don't know the rules. Our characters will still be trying to survive, but the rules are well known.
After many years, humanity was finally able to collect itself into small, isolated, and self-contained pockets, but the greatest danger doesn't come from without anymore. It comes from within. There are very few people who can escape the physical mutations anymore, but that hardly matters to most of society. It has become a fact of life, and some of them have even learned to put their mutations into use for the city. The problem is that, along with the physical mutations that are so commonplace, there are mental mutations. Mutations that leave a person as nothing more than a raving beast, without logic or any hope of redemption. They kill anything that they don't associate as themselves, surviving through base instinct. And time has shown that those mutations almost always come in conjunction with the physical mutations.
The city is a fortress from the outside, surrounded by two walls, and a massive military force existed in between the two walls. The weapons system was effective, and any hoard that tried to overwhelm the city would get shot down in the mile long field before the forest began. But there was nothing the city could do to protect itself from the inside, and so it had been decided, long ago, that anyone whose mutations went beyond a acceptable level, that seemed too close to the brain, or who had a sudden drastic change, even years into their lives, would be removed from the city. They would be given a basic survival pack, should the physical mutations not lead to a mental mutation, but they would never be allowed to return to the city, and would be shot on sight if noticed, just like any other zombie. And, despite the pain it brought to the families of those forced to leave, the rule was enforced to perfection. It had been over twenty years since the last attack had happened within the city.
But for those who are outside the city, there was no real hope. Either the mutations would come for them, or the zombies would get them. There was no future, only day to day life. Of course, there had been attempts to set up a city that would welcome anyone who made their way there, but it was wiped out before long, forced to face attacks from within as well as without, for most of those who were kicked out of the city were destined to join the hoard eventually.
When I started this story, we created more characters than my partner felt comfortable working with. We had twenty.
Therefore, what I am most looking for in a partner is the ability to easily and fluidly handle multiple characters, remember who they are, and portray them consistently, accurately, and, most importantly, powerfully. This is not a particularly nice story, by any means. Once our characters are forced outside the wall, they are going to face some very harsh situations that is going to call for some very hard choices, and I want you to be able to portray the turmoil in their minds, the many and multi-layered emotions they will experience, and the constant fear that will cover most everything.
I have no goal for the "final destination" of this story, so I'm also hoping for a partner who is ready to work with this story, and really help me figure out where we plan to take it. There is a lot of possibility in this.
I have a set of characters already planned, but I am perfectly willing to throw all but one or two of them out and work with you to build up a whole new cast, so that the characters can fit together, and work with and off of each other.
The next piece is the opening post. You are free to read as much or as little as you choose. You don't technically have to read any of it, but it may give you a sense of the story as I know it currently. I am willing to work with almost anything though, just so long as you are ready to write.
In the light of the slowly rising sun the city began to come awake. People slowly emerged from their houses, blinking in the young sunlight. The first rays of morning touched the fields, where the farmers had already begun their work. A woman raised her eyes to the sun, closed her eyes, and bent her head forward. She reached down and picked up a handful of soil, holding it to her nose for a moment. The soil slowly trickled through her fingers. She stood slowly, then paused to disentangle the pea stem that had wound itself around one of the spines on her arm. A guard approached the section of field where the woman was working and, pointing his gun at her, gestured for her to follow. She nodded slowly, and followed the man through the fields. They paused briefly before the interior wall, before the heavy iron door was opened to allow the guard and his prisoner through.
On the far side of the wall the military compound was already in full swing. People raced back and forth, in the distance a bout of gunfire echoed through the canyon created between the two walls. The woman followed her captor willingly, only stumbling occasionally. Once more she looked to the morning sun, and her eyes began to gleam as moisture collected in the corners of her eyes. Looking away, she lifted up the hat that had been hanging around her neck and settled it gently on her head, making sure that the spikes that covered her scalp would not puncture the thin material.
The guard led her to the second wall and opened the tiny door buried in the wall. She would have to walk for several meters before she would be able to straighten on the other side of the wall, the side that no one went to if they wanted to live.
The woman crouched and began to walk through. On the far side of the wall there was a pack waiting for her. It was full of some essentials such as food, water, a knife, and a fire starter. Next to it was a small pack that she had packed the day before, small memorabilia that would not slow her down. She put the smaller pack into the hiking pack, shouldered it, strapped the waist buckle around her hips, and began to walk unsteadily forward. The treeline began about a mile away, and, as her vision blurred, she tried to ignore the corpses that littered the field. Gross creatures, mutated beyond recognition for the most part, some missing limbs or a head. And then, occasionally, a pair of human eyes would stare out of a twisted face, and a small tear would leak from the corner of her eye. This was her life now. She would need to find a way to survive alone in a hostile world, the strange mutated once-human zombies hiding in every dark crevice. Alone, because the society she had lived in since birth knew that she had mutated too far, and might become another member of the mad zombie hoard. They couldn’t risk it, and there was no use in fighting. If she didn’t go, they would kill her. At least out here, she had a chance.
When she reached the treeline she paused briefly, turning to look back at the towering outer wall that had been the edge of her world. Now it was the only place she could never return to.
She glanced warily at the treeline, looking for any movement she couldn’t explain. Seeing none, she took a deep breath, reshoulded her pack, and took a small step forward.
Ashton turned around and took one last look at the building that had been her home. She was leaving now, despite the fact that her grandfather told her she didn’t have to.
Didn’t have to. Of course she had to. The mutations had been growing in severity. She ran the tips of her fingers along the brick wall next to her. They made a scraping noise, and there were streaks in the wall. She dusted the brick off her fingers and continued forward. The scales had been one thing. She could deal with that. But when the fangs grew in after five years of no change she knew she was lost. Things were just going to get worse, and she wasn’t going to put this society, this safe haven for humanity, at risk just because of her selfishness, her desire to live.
She had hidden a survival pack in the military compound a week ago, ensuring it was somewhere no one but her would look. The morning sun beat down on her head, and she pushed her way through the crowds that swarmed the streets, moving to do their duties, to perform their contributions to society. She was going to do this too, just in a different way.
It shouldn’t be this easy to sneak out. Then again, the guards weren't concerned with keeping people in. They only worried about keeping things out. She picked up her pack without even slowing, ignoring the occasional soldier who asked her what she was up to. These men knew her. They weren't going to stop her.
She slipped through the tunnel in the wall, emerging into the grassland. This was the most risky part. If the guards on the wall saw her, they would shoot her. They would assume she was a zombie.
Better dead than a murderer of innocents. She began to walk forward.
Less than five hundred feet out she paused and looked up at the top of the wall. A man was standing there, his gun aimed at her. Ashton tensed, ready to run, then resigned herself to death. She raised one hand and waved at the guard. He slowly lowered his gun, and for the first time, she noticed the giant horns curled around his head.
He had come. The only man who knew that she would be leaving. The man she had been in love with for so long. He would protect her this one last time.
“Goodbye, Ashton” he whispered under his breath. His name did not matter. She would never see him again. It would be best to just forget his name forever.
Elijah paused for a moment, allowing himself five seconds to catch his breath. His small legs quivered, and two of his hands pressed against the wall next to him. The other two hung limply, small child’s hands quivering.
Three. Two. One.
He forced himself to straighten, and began to move forward. As he rounded the corner of the alley he had been hiding in he walked right into one of the guards who had been chasing him. the guard froze, startled by his sudden appearance, and then went for his gun. They had been chasing Elijah all morning, trying to force him out of the city. They said his mutations had gone too far, that he was a danger to everyone, and there was no one left to fight for him.
Elijah closed all but two of his eyes, and then sprang forward. His hand clamped over the man’s mouth and nose, and when Elijah drew it away the man’s face was covered in a fine airtight webbing. the man tried to inhale, then both hands began to scratch at his mouth and nose. The gun clattered to the ground, and the man fell to his knees, trying to tear the webbing off his face.
It was no good. No one could remove his webbing once he placed it, no one except himself.
This man will die unless I help him. Elijah realized suddenly. But if he helped him, then Elijah would be caught, and thrown out of the wall. He would die too.
The man collapsed forward, still desperately trying to inhale. His eyes ran, and he stared pleadingly at the twelve year old boy before him.
Elijah's hand reached forward, quavering, and with gentle fingers he pulled the webbing away from the man’s face. The man took one gasping breath, then his hand darted out and latched onto Elijah. He tried to force his arm out of the soldier’s grip, but the sticky pads on the the man’s hands didn’t let go, and Elijah shrieked as his skin began to rip as he tugged.
He went limp. There was nothing else for him to do. They were going to throw him outside now. Outside, with all the monsters waiting to rip him into tiny shreds.
The man spoke to him softly as he dragged Elijah towards the military compound. “You made the right choice kid. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but if they had found me dead they would have killed you on sight. Out there you’ll at least have a chance. Not much of one, but a chance. In here you’ll die.”
The man paused, and looked Elijah in the eye. “I’m grateful to you for saving my life, kid. If you think you can carry it, I’ll put something extra in your pack. It may help you survive.”
The pack was already almost too heavy for him, but when the man raised his eyebrows at him, Elijah nodded. The man took the pack, and came back with another one. When he put this on Elijah's back he almost collapsed, but he forced his legs straight and nodded to the man. Elijah knew that this was a military pack, and had all the tools that a higher level army man would get if he was exiled from the city. The man was risking his position in the army to give Elijah this pack, and, even though this man had captured him, Elijah really was grateful. Lacing two of his hands under the pack to try and help his already aching shoulders, Elijah took a hesitant step forward and hugged the man around the leg. The soldier tensed, then ruffled Elijah’s hair.
“Try to survive, alright?” Elijah nodded, and bit his lip to keep himself from bawling, then, every step a struggle under the weight of a pack that was almost as big as he was, Elijah walked through the tunnel in the wall and began to stumble his way across the field.
He would not stop. He would not empty the pack of whatever goods were hidden in it, no matter how heavy it was. He would survive.
They came for her at the end of class. It wasn’t as if Allyria hadn’t been expecting this, ever since she realized that she could actually control her mutations. Still, somehow, she hadn’t expected it to be so public. When the group of soldiers entered the hallway, the students parted for them, allowing them to travel at a brisk march down the corridor. Their eyes scanned the crowd restlessly, and when one of them finally spotted her, he pointed. The others rushed forward, and two of them latched onto her arms. The small group of friends that had been around her, chatting amicably, took one horrified look at her and scrambled away from her as though she had the plague. And, in some respects, she did. This one wasn’t contagious, but it was almost as certain of a death sentence.
Before she was tugged away from this group, Allyria’s eyes briefly met with her best friend’s. He averted his eyes too quickly for normal, and it became immediately apparent to Allyria that he had told. He always had been scared of the zombies, but, somehow, Allyria had thought that he wouldn’t tell on her. That he would keep this one secret.
No one looked her in the eyes as the soldiers frog marched her out of the school, but as soon as the doors closed behind her she heard the sudden roar of gossip flooding the hallways. She blushed, then realized that she really shouldn’t care. It wasn’t as if she would be seeing any of these people again. She would never be able to work with these people, committed to finding a solution for the future by the many and varied paths of science.
Maybe if Allyria hadn’t been such a good scientist she wouldn’t be in this situation now. If she hadn’t understood biology and chemistry so perfectly she wouldn’t have understood the potential when the tentacles covering her whole body had first appeared. If she hadn’t been such a researcher, Allyria would have felt no desire to see just how far she could go when she realized she could control the growth of the tentacles, and if she hadn’t loved understanding everything her growing grasp of biology wouldn’t have increased Allyria’s control over the tentacles on her body. And if she hadn’t known all this, she would never have shown her best friend what she could do with these unique mutations of hers, and the soldiers would not be frog marching her towards the wall.
But there was no mutation that could change the past, and there was no point in thinking on what could have been.
For a moment Allyria considered trying to fight her way out of the soldiers’ grasp, but it didn’t take her long to discount this idea. The news of her exile would be all over town before the evening was out, as it was for anyone who was even remotely famous in this city. There was no place here that she would be able to hide, and if she injured one of the soldiers now they would kill her on sight next time. The only place left for her now was outside the wall, and, in their own way, these soldiers were trying to help in that respect. So, why run? It was only logical to let them escort her to the edge of the city and give her a survival pack.
Allyria took a deep breath before she set out, and then took a brave step forward. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would find a place out there that wouldn’t reject her, and then she could continue her research.
Well, you never know.
When Nathaniel finally woke fully, for about half a second, he thought that everything was better. His head had stopped pounding, the burning sensation had left his body, and it didn’t feel like he was going to start trying to cough out his lungs again. He must be over his illness now.
And that was when the world fell on him.
His hands snapped up to the place on his head where his ears should have been, pushing into his head, trying to block out the sense of every single thing that was going on around him. He could feel the hearts of the soldiers outside beating in rhythm, he could feel the blood flowing through their veins, he could feel the slight tightening of their muscles, the vibration as they shifted weight or tightened their grip on the rifles. He could feel the details of every single stone on the wall, could feel the crunch of thousands of boots marching on gravel. He could see it all, could feel it all, could hear it all, and it was crushing him. He was enveloped in the enormous weight of knowing absolutely everything that was going on around him, for at least a quarter mile in each direction.
Nathaniel began to keen, a high pitched shriek that did nothing to help, but it was the only sound he could make to express the overwhelming feeling of what was going on all around him. There was no way to express his knowledge of everything.
His shriek was carried to the guards outside. He could see their eardrums recognize the noise could see it being carried to their brain along the many nervous pathways, could see their brain process the information, could see it decide to react. The guards jumped, a vibration of muscles all over the body, they turned and looked at each other, and every tiny movement Nathaniel could recognize.
His shriek slowly petered out as his brain began to process this flood of information, began to learn how to cope. As he calmed, he realized that something must be wrong.
Nathaniel had always known that his senses were above average, but this was more than anything he had ever experienced. This was more than normal, therefore there was something that must be abnormal. And the only possibility was that something had become abnormal with him.
But it was too late to take back his scream now, and one of the guards, a young private who had always really looked up to Nathaniel, opened to door. the tiny wave of air the door had displaced rushed over Nathaniel, and he sensed/smelled the old wood of the door, the metal of the private’s gun, his sweat, shampoo, soap.
The private’s heart rate had sped up, every blood cell coursing through his body at an increased rate. Excitement. His beloved Major had finally awoken.
His brain sparked, a signal raced along his brain and to his mouth, tongue, cheek, jaw. The private was about to speak.
Nathaniel knew what the words would be before they even left the private’s lips.
“Major are you alright?”
Countless possible responses flitted through Nathaniel’s brain in less than a second, but it was already too late. The private’s eyes locked onto Nathaniel, the cornea reflected the image, and the signal went all the way to the brain. There was no stopping it now. The brain interpreted the signal, and the response was once more carried to the mouth.
The private began to scream, a scream of pure primordial terror.
Nathaniel allowed the wave of the scream to roll over him, and, for the first time since he had fallen unconscious, Nathaniel was able to see himself.
And it was no wonder that the private had screamed. (Description problems. Here)
Nathaniel felt the private’s brain spark off the thought that he should reach for his gun, and he realized that if he didn’t want to die he would have to ensure that no one else entered this room. the private could probably be reasoned with, but some of the more fanatical zombie hunters in the army, like the young corporal posted outside his door, would shoot him instantly, and he would not be able to dodge every bullet.
Nathaniel’s throat began to undulate, and he knew he was producing a sound, because he could see the waves of it entering the room. When they hit the waves of the private’s scream they perfectly canceled each other out. Hopefully it would be alright.
By this time the muscles of the private’s hand had finally acknowledged the signals of his brain, and his hand was closing around his gun. Nathaniel felt the metal scrape against its leather holster, saw the bullet chamber into place, felt the click reverberate around the room.
If the private fired where he was pointing right now the bullet would hit the wall two inches above his right shoulder. But the men outside would not miss if they heard the explosion, and Nathaniel doubted that he could make a noise to cancel out that loud of an explosion.
The private fixed his aim.
Outside this small room the army was proceeding. Several new recruits practiced their shooting, and the echo of the path of their bullets reached Nathaniel. One man in combat had realized that he wasn’t going to be able to win this mock fight, and his heart rate had tripled, adrenalin coursing into every part of his body, his muscles tensed, vibrating. A signal sparked in his brain. He was going to try jumping on top of his opponent, but even with his mutated legs he wouldn’t be able to make it. Nathaniel could see his trajectory, and unless his velocity drastically increased this strategy would end with him knocked unconscious on the ground. One man had just thrown a pebble against the wall, aiming for a small painted target, it had missed the target entirely, and his friends were starting to conceive of laughing at him. They would do it, but right now it was only a signal in their spinal column, traveling to their diaphragm, jaw, neck, and tongue.
“I’m sorry if I’ve scared you, Private Allan.”
Nathaniel was glad to recognize the fact that, despite every change he had gone through, his voice had stayed the same. It was still soft, but firm, slightly high for his age, the voice of a man who could sing if he so chose, could mesmerize those who chose to listen. His body could make any sound he chose, but it still reflexively returned to the voice he called his own.
Allan’s heart was racing, but at the sound of his voice, the private calmed down a little bit. The muscles in his eyelids tightened, his eyes widening for just a second, and then his brain sparked off an idea. His eyes snapped shut.
Nathaniel knew what he wanted, and he obliged. the private wanted to remember the Major he knew through the sound of his voice.
“I suppose it would be a bit shocking. I’m sure that I look very different from how I did when i fell unconscious on the wall.”
A memory sparked in the private’s brain, and Nathaniel seized on it.
“You were the one who found me, weren’t you. You saw me collapse when you were on patrol, and came to help. I’m sure I was already burning up at that point. You didn’t know what to do. If you ran for help this section of the wall would be left unguarded, but you couldn’t just leave me there. You cared for me all night, and kept my watch too, until someone finally noticed that a private hadn’t returned from patrol.”
One of the new recruits hit the center of a target, and a cheer was building in his throat. His watching Sergeant already had a reprimand prepared. The young man with the mutated legs was being carried off the arena, his brain sparking weakly to keep his heart beating and lungs breathing, every other part of him unresponsive. The man throwing pebbles finally hit the center of his target, but his friends were too busy laughing for their brain to process the fact that their eyes had seen him hit the center of the target on this throw.
“I hope that the higher ups didn’t think you did the wrong thing, but I want you to know that I am grateful. Thank you Private Allan.”
The private shuddered for a second, the muscles all over his body tensing, and then relaxing. His eyelids fluttered open.
He gasped again, but forced himself to keep looking, to study Nathaniel’s face, and slowly his brain came to accept the sight of his hero.
“I’m sorry I screamed, Sir. I hope no one heard.”
“They didn’t.” For a moment Nathaniel considered telling Allen he had canceled the scream, but he realized that probably wouldn’t help the situation.
One of the guards outside had a signal racing from his brain to his mouth.
“Is everything alright in there, Private? Is he awake?”
Nathaniel’s body tensed, and he felt something beginning to bubble up within his own body. He repressed the signal, and waited for the Private’s answer. He could always finish the signal later, if it was needed.
But he needn’t have worried. Nathaniel relaxed as soon as he recognized what the signal from the Private’s brain would say.
“No, it looks like he had a nightmare. I’ll stay here for a moment to make sure he’s ok, then I’ll come back out.”
The young man throwing pebbles had missed again, and his friends were about to start throwing pebbles at him. The soldier with the mutated legs had woken up, and a blush was rushing to his cheeks.
“Major,” he said quietly. Nathaniel’s throat moved, countering out the sounds. He would know, but no one else would hear. “we need to get you out of here. The army won’t accept this. They’ll drive you out. They may even kill you on sight, because they won’t recognize you.” Some of the blood cells in his body collected in his cheeks.
Nathaniel nodded and stood up, allowing the sheet to uncover the rest of his body. His sense of everything suddenly increased exponentially, and a groan escaped his lips. Covering must muffle his ability.
The private, once his brain processed what that sound probably meant, bounced up and raced to Nathaniel, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him. A flicker of repulsion flitted through his brain, but Nathaniel saw him consciously repress it, and bring his other hand forward to wrap around Nathaniel’s chest. He didn’t bother to correct the Private. The man wanted to feel useful after all.
He helped Nathaniel put on his uniform, and, as everything was once more muffled to a manageable level Nathaniel let out an imperceptible sigh. He put on gloves, a scarf, a hat, hiding as much of his body as he could. He could still recognize the people around him, but now couldn’t actually see the individual cells in their body. Couldn’t see the signals flitting from cell to cell. It unnerved him, to not know. Somehow, in the past few minutes he had grown used to his “sight”.
But, for now, he needed to hide himself from others.
“I’ll get the guards away from the door, then come back and get you when they are gone.”
He hadn’t known that the Private was going to speak until he had actually done so.
“I’ll know when they are gone,” Nathaniel said. “Where should I meet you?”
He couldn’t cancel out the voice waves anymore either.
The private was silent for a moment, thinking. Nathaniel didn’t know about what.
“By the storage shed. I can build you a new military pack.”
Why was the current pack gone? Nathaniel couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled the gloves off his hands. Just a moment, then he’d put them back on. He pulled the scarf away from his face.
A boy. A twelve year old boy. The private had given the military pack to a twelve year old boy, and now he was tearing himself apart for it, because his beloved Major needed it. And he had given it away. He had failed.
Nathaniel spoke before he thought about it. “The boy needed it more than I did. Don’t beat yourself up.”
The private flinched, staring at Nathaniel. Nathaniel hurriedly put his gloves back on, and pulled up his scarf, before he could say anything else that was unwise.
“Yes, sir.” There was a new tone in the Private’s voice from the last time he had spoke. Fear.
Nathaniel silently cursed his own foolishness.
When the Private walked out of the room Nathaniel took off gloves, pulled the scarf away from his face, and took off the hat for good measure. But he needn’t have worried. The private wasn’t going to betray him. He told the guards that there was something wrong with Nathaniel, and that they should go get the doctor and the next in command. The men ran off instantly.
Nathaniel put the hat back on, and the scarf, but left off the gloves. No one looked at hands, and he felt it was more important to know what was going on.
He followed the private to the storage room, where he quickly put some basic weaponry and ammunition into a survival pack. It wasn’t as in depth as the military pack, but it was better than just the knife that was in a normal survival pack.
Perhaps it was unwise, but Private Allan was clenching his hands really hard, and his brain sparked off the occasional distress signal.
“The boy needed it more. I can survive out there, but he was just a child. You made the right choice.”
This time the words comforted the private.
Someone outside noticed the slightly ajar door to the storage room, and his brain sparked off the idea to go investigate.
“Someone is coming in,”
The private froze for a moment, then began to pack even faster. He seemed to have decided that he didn’t care how Nathaniel knew this. He would just trust his Major, as the army taught him to.
The door creaked open, and the soldier’s eyes fell first on the private, who was continuing to try and fit weaponry into the bulging pack.
“What in bloody hell do you think you are doing Private?”
Nathaniel turned slowly, ensuring that the soldier would see the insignia on his shoulder.
When his eyes caught sight of that symbol, his brain sparked off panic, and the soldier’s eyes darted about wildly. “I’m sorry, Major. I didn’t notice you. Please, forgive me.”
His roaming eyes locked onto Nathaniel's hands.
There was no stopping a signal racing up a nervous column.
Why hadn’t he worn the gloves.
The soldier swallowed, trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything odd, but the desire to knock the hat off Nathaniel’s head had already coursing through every part of his body.
Nathaniel forced himself to act as though he didn’t care about the tensing muscles in the soldier’s body. He turned away to face Private Allan.
“That will do. Now it is time for you to go, Private.”
“Don’t make me turn that into an order.”
The soldier was going to spring any second, and Nathaniel had to make sure there was enough of a distraction to let the Private get away without being recognised.
“Things are probably going to get ugly in here”
The Private gulped and ran just as the soldier lept. His hand collided with the brim of Nathaniel’s hat, and sent it flying from his head.
He might have been able to cancel out the scream, but there was nothing he could do about the echo of the gun from the soldier’s hand.
The Private stumbled, then kept running, accepting Nathaniel’s decision, just as he had promised himself he would earlier.
Nathaniel tore off the scarf and the jacket. He was going to need every sense he could get.
The soldier was going to fire again. Nathaniel’s brain locked onto the trajectory, and he moved just enough so that it would miss him. No excess movement.
By the time the fifth gunshot had echoed around the chamber every guard in hearing distance was racing towards the storage room. Nathaniel had to get out of here.
That small signal in his body that he had repressed earlier. Suddenly he remembered it. Now he let it go. The signal flashed from cell to cell within his body, causing the cells to create an invisible vapor and release it into the atmosphere around Nathaniel.
When he saw the responses flashing in the soldier’s brain he understood. The vapor was a hallucinogenic.
Nathaniel pushed his way past the soldier, ripping off his shirt as he did so. This time, the increasing flood of information was a welcome gift.
Guards had already gathered outside when Nathaniel burst free. His sudden appearance would have been enough to terrify most of them, but with the hallucinogenic mixed into the air there was complete pandemonium.
Time seemed to slow down as the rush of nervous signals filled Nathaniel. He no longer thought, he simply reacted. Tiny shifts to avoid the bullets flying everywhere. One man died instantly when a bullet exploded against his cranium. Others screamed as bullets pierced their arms, legs, and abdomens. Everyone began to shoot, completely convinced they were under attack by a hoard of zombies.
A bullet that had been flying right for his heart only grazed his chest, but a rush of blood poured out anyways. Another small signal in his body, and a gelatinous substance began to ooze from every pore around the wound. It completely sealed the wound using little fibers that were mixed in to every molecule of gel, leaving a stretch of clean, new skin.
And with that Nathaniel stopped dodging every bullet except for those that would seriously damage him.
One flew into his thigh, and he screamed, but kept running as the fibers knit his body back together. And around him, soldiers died screaming.
Nathaniel could feel the waves of chaos spreading as those further off ran to see what all the noise was about, and got mixed in to the hallucination.
He reached the tunnel in the wall, and realized that he had left the pack in the storage room. There was nothing he could do about that now. He shuffled through the tunnel, then broke once more into a sprint when he reached the field on the far side of the wall. He ran, and ran, and as his muscles tore themselves apart the fibers knitted them back together. He wasn’t getting tired. He sped up.
When the sniper bullet entered his field of sense he had less than half a second to dodge. His brain immediately recognized how fast the bullet was moving and where it was headed for. His heart. He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to dodge completely. He twisted, and the fifty caliber bullet tore its way through his shoulder.
Nathaniel screamed. It echoed across the field, and raced over the walls. Everyone who heard it instantly froze, struck by a deep, irresistible terror.
The hallucinogenic finally faded from the air, and the soldiers came back to their senses. He was sure that many fainted when they saw that they were pushing their gun into the temple of a fellow soldier, finger millimeters away from pulling the trigger.
There would be a death count later, but Nathaniel already knew the numbers. 52 dead, 117 wounded. And it was all on him.
Nathaniel ran, allowing himself to forget to think. He enfolded himself in the sense of the forest. The complete, overwhelming sense of life.
He wouldn’t wake back up until dawn.
There are some nasty little mistakes in there that I really don't like. If we ever actually start this, I'll edit it fairly extensively.
For this story, you need characters. That's it. But they need a detailed physical description.
Warning- Potentially mature for gore. I don't consider it that bad, but read at your own discretion.
This story takes place millennia after a nuclear blast destroyed a good chunk of the world. The human population is small, and lives in tribal, self-contained societies. For the most part, it is a dog-eat-dog world, where those who can survive do, and those who can't are thrown to the side. This story takes place in America, mostly because it has a nice range of potential in terms of climate, even though most of the world is desert. I'll let my opener tell the rest.
As far as plot goes, I don't really have much. This is mostly about survival and psychological, so I'm not too concerned with planning all the details out. If you have any ideas, suggest away.
It was the first cool day in weeks.
When Dilana was still little, back when she had still believed that she would be taken care of for as long as she desired, back when she had trusted that, in its heart of hearts, the world was good-natured, her family would gather around a small lamp, and tell stories that had been passed down from generation to generation. Some of them were silly little stories, designed to entertain her young mind, but some had been more somber. More truthful. And then there were the beautiful stories, the stories of the "old earth". There was not a single person alive now who remembered when the nuclear attack had come, or remembered what the unscorched earth had looked like. But that didn't stop the stories from being told. When she listened to those stories, Dilana almost couldn't believe them. Those words told of rolling land, covered in so much green that your eyes would water, of frozen rain glowing white in the sunlight, and of water as blue as the sky, rolling down the land, clean enough to drink, right from the bed.
Had the bombs not come, there might still have been trees here. Their colors might be changing from a pure green to sand yellows touched by sunlight, or blood just beginning to dry. Those were the things she could relate to. She had seen enough sand and blood in her lifetime to ensure that she never forgot the color. But the only trees she saw were scraggly little things, changing instantly from a weed yellow to brown when the season went cold. They were the hardy ones, the ones that survived, and there was no room for beauty in their existence. There was no room for beauty in the lives of any who longed to survive the years. Imagining the trees glowing with all the colors of a sunset was little more than beautiful fantasy. It had no importance in her life.
The city was in disrepair, even though it had sustained no physical damage. The ebb of time was more than enough to have worn it away, and where there had once been strong support, now only pillars of sand would hold the walls in place. The shadowed people who lived in the city had neither the time, materials, or motivations to make repairs. They made do with what survived, just as they made do for their own survival.
If someone was not paying close attention, Dilana might seem to stand out from the people she passed. It was drifting on towards dusk, and the sky had changed to the color of murky water. The people who remained had taken shelter, and they peered out at her with a distant suspicion, before putting up whatever they had found to block the windows. Like all the people she passed, Dilana was tanned and dirty, even though her skin was still as smooth as the day she was born. Her hair was hacked short, but it was still glossy, and rode about her head in a black halo. Those were the things that, to a casual observer, might make her appear different from all the rest. There was still beauty visible in her form. She did not have the wasted look that had become so common. But it was her eyes that truly marked her as similar to the people she passed, for they were dead eyes, flat and listless despite their bright amber color. Eyes that no longer even bothered to look at the world around them. She wandered through the filthy alleyways with the unconcern of the walking dead, waiting for their body to finally fail. The only time she paused in her meandering path was when a single, small leaf blew across her path. She paused briefly, staring at it blankly. Something flickered in her eyes, but she turned away from the possibility it offered, uncaring that it meant she was retracing her path.
She hadn’t really intended to wander into the city. It wasn’t out of a fear for her safety, such concerns were about as far as it was possible to get from her thoughts. Rather, she had believed that, out there in the wild, the desert might finally have its way, and she would crumple to the ground and finally become nothing more than a pile of bones. In a city, there was the potential that her lifeless journey might get interrupted by something. She had set out from that city of broken dreams what felt like years ago, with nothing on her but a ratty pair of clothes. She had been certain, so certain, that if she walked in the heat for long enough her body would finally simply give up, and she would fade away. That was what she had been looking for when she set out. She set out to find death.
But it remained as elusive as it ever was, walking always just one step behind her, never quite catching up. Even if she was polite enough to wait for it, and give it a chance to take that last necessary step to complete her journey, it was always one step behind.
The dogs had found her at one point too. She had greeted their slavering faces warmly, and smiled into their mad eyes, finally convinced that death had stepped up to the task before it, and had decided to complete its job. They tore into her body, ate her warm flesh to their hearts content, ignoring her blood-wrenching screams with the dispassion of serial killers. And, when they were done, bundled off into the distance with bulging bellies and tongues lolling, she had gotten back up from the bloodstained sand, allowing her flesh to ripple back into its proper position, and resumed her pointless trek. She hadn’t bothered to try and stop the tears that leaked down her face. It wasn’t as though she needed to conserve the water, and the desolation bit into her heart in a way she thought she was long past feeling.
The glass on the street was a surprising bit of good fortune. She didn’t notice it until she stepped on it, the sharp edge curving up from the concrete biting into the sole of her foot and briefly drawing blood. Likely it had belonged to something whole only a little while ago. If it had been laying there for long, someone else would undoubtedly picked it up. Anything that could be called even remotely useful was never left to lie, because a person never know when he might need it, and if he didn’t take it someone else surely would. She knelt down slowly, but her knees still hit harshly against the ground. Her fingers scrabbled briefly with a corner of the piece of glass, working to pick it up off the ground. Eventually she managed to work it into the palm of her hand, and she pinched one edge between two delicate fingers.
As soon as she had grabbed it and stood back up, Dilana realized she did not know what exactly she intended to do with it. Now that it was biting sharply into her hand, briefly denting the skin, she remembered that it was pointless once more. She traced experimentally along the line of her wrist with the sharp edge of the glass, pressing lightly at first, but slowly and slowly increasing the pressure. Suddenly, the edge broke through her pale skin, causing a brilliant bead of blood to swell within the indentation, roll from the edge of her wrist, and land in a pile of dust and sand.
Blood and sand. These were her world now, a world that no longer remembered the brilliant, living green of trees in summer, and their flame of color in the autumn. Only blood and sand remained.
For this, strange enough, I need a bastard. The person who winds up getting "paired" with my character needs to be willing to rip her to shreds for his own gain. I suppose if you have something specific in mind that would work well in this general universe I could go for it. But what I am not looking for is someone to "save" her, and teach her to enjoy life again. She needs to learn to fight to survive on her own.
Well, this one doesn't actually have an opener. What it does have is a character in a situation that took me nearly as long to write as an opener would. So I'm going to count this in the list. Besides, I think it is an absolutely wicked idea, and I want to play it.
This story is very loosely based off a manga, so it is set in a situation somewhat like feudal Japan. There is an emperor, and he is the extreme authority of the land. What he says, goes. However, this land has some swords that were made long ago by the gods. These swords bond to a person's soul, and each sword has some sort of magical ability. The emperor, fearing the power of these swords, issues a decree that all the swords are to be gathered and locked away, since they cannot be destroyed. He is offering a massive reward for any swords that are brought in. The catch is, once a sword binds its soul with a person, that sword cannot leave the person without killing him. Therefore, no one with a sword bound to them would ever relinquish their weapon, because it is equal to suicide. In an attempt to get those with swords to work with him, the emperor has also decreed that any person with a sword bound to them that brings in three other swords will be pardoned, so long as they swear fealty to him. He then orders them to go bring back more swords, trusting that eventually someone will kill them.
Multiple swords can bind to a single person, should they choose to abandon their previous owner. However, luckily, a secondary (tertiary, quaternary, etc.) sword can be unbound from an individual without killing him. Swords look for those who are most compatible, or will move towards achieving their own goals. This is because each sword has an alignment, and seeks to do either good, evil, or neutral. Many "evil" swords will bind to those who have other swords already, because they will have the greatest power. A sword that is not a primary sword also takes on a secondary appearance, different from its original sword form. This can be any other type of weapon, but every sword must have an original form of a single or dual hand sword, or a dagger.
In this story, your character would have given his or her (I'm arbitrarily going with her, because my character will be male, and it is fun to have a little romantic tension, but it can be a guy if you want) three swords over to the emperor and is now hunting for more by the emperor's order. She has been sent after a rogue sword wielder, who had evaded all attempts at capture and left a trail of destruction in his wake. However, when she catches up to him, she is unable to kill him. Rather, she is bound to travel with him and aid him in his fights until she can find a way to kill him. He is, of course, being pursued by hunters from all over the country, both with and without soul swords of their own. He believes that there is a reason the swords are in the world, and that by locking them up the emperor is going against the "will of the universe".
If any of the pictures do not work, please let me know.
Except much, much sharper. The whip on the end would be longer, and would have three of the tails. More like this
The blade that originally chose Keyrn, back when he was still a very little kid. At five years, on his name day, Keyrn found Nevermore. An incredibly old blade, Nevermore saw an untapped potential within the little boy, and bonded itself to him. From there, it was an unfailing and cruel taskmaster to the boy. At seven years old, bandits raided his village and murdered his father, raped his mother, and left her to die. Two months later the blade forced him to kill his now fully insane mother, and leave. On the road, Nevermore set up a system of training that drove the boy nearly to death. In his youth, there was no doubt that Keyrn hated his blade. However, at ten years old, Keyrn suddenly hit the point that Nevermore was looking for in him. Keyrn came to understand that Nevermore's training had changed him from a human into practically a demigod, and he would only continue to get stronger. From that point onwards, he pushed himself almost as hard as the blade pushed him, and they developed the kind of close relationship that the blade had not experienced in millennia. Now, Keyrn and Nevermore work as a flawless team, almost as a single unit, with an almost perfect understanding of each other and, by extension, themselves.
Nevermore was originally a blade of endurance, of the ability to survive against all odds. However, over time, it has grown into a wide range of other "practical" magics, most of which revolve around improvements to the physical form. What truly makes Nevermore a skilled and powerful blade is its ability to understand the human consciousness, and turn someone who should be an enemy on their head through actions and words. In its own way this is a magic, but it does not involve being inside the target's head. Rather, it is an instinctual understanding of what drives a person and what holds them back. This knowledge is instantly imparted to Keyrn.
Pardon the elf... Valkyrie would also be a much larger bow than the one portrayed in this image, and would be taller than Keryn.
Originally looked like one of the sides of the bow, with a long handle. Would have been a greatsword originally.
Despite its appearance, Valkyrie is not an evil sword. It follows a pattern of harsh but fair justice, with no second chances. Valkyrie was Keryn's second sword, and came to him after its previous owner "failed". It abandoned her, killing her instantly, and waited to be picked up. This was actually the tenth owner that Valkyrie had been paired with in as many weeks. It expected nothing from the eight year old boy who picked it up, and was drastically surprised to realize that he already had a sword, and it was not going to be able to abandon him until it found someone directly. Unfortunately for it, Keyrn followed Nevermore's instructions, and fled deep into the wilderness to "tame" Valkyrie. The first time the boy "failed" it, Valkyrie refused to speak or manifest for a year. The subsequent "failures" evoked punishments shorter in duration but harsher in direct damage. Over time, however, Valkyrie grew to understand that there was no black and white in the world, but it was rather a matter of perspective. It chose then to align itself unfailingly with Keyrn's perspective. Upon his death, Valkyrie plans to commit the closest thing to suicide that the blades know, and destroy its physical presence in the world.
Valkyrie is a sniper now, and its magic causes it to never miss its target. It had always been a swift and light blade, even when it was a greatsword, but working with Keyrn has turned it into a bow, through and through, and it could never imagine going back to being "confined" to a sword. Valkyrie still has some remaining talent in illusion, but this ability has weakened as Valkyrie has become more talented as a bow.
I know what I was thinking of, but I can't find it. Take the middle left, with the double blades and add a staff in the middle. Rather than purple and pale blue, it is orange and pink. Except a much darker and richer color. Like a sunset. Irithil also has multiple blades coming from the end, making it look like wings sometimes.
Originally a dual-wield sword, with the blades each about the length of a forearm.
Irithil is the only blade that Keyrn possesses that actively aligns with good. Especially compared to the rest of the blades that Keyrn possesses, Irithil is very young and feminine. A bit of a flirt, sometime a bit of a fool, it is nonetheless a powerful blade in the making. While Irithil is a good blade, and will not do anything that it considers wrong, it is also very loyal to, and probably somewhat infatuated with, Keyrn. Because of that it does not abandon him, even though it may object to some of the things he does. For the most part, it has adapted a policy of "see no evil", because it cannot stand to part from him, even though he does not follow its advice.
A mage's blade, Irithil produces a massive variety of close and long range, if relatively weak, offensive magic, including shapeshifting its blades. It is also one of the few known blades in the world to posses powerful restoration magic. This ability has granted it Valkyrie's eternal favor, since it also keeps Keyrn from aging.
Unfortunately, I have no image for this one, because it is a very unique idea. It starts as an orb, but curved blue daggers come out of it, in a fan. It goes all the way around, and then adds a second layer to that. It can probably add infinite layers, but that has never been necessary. When the layers go all the way around it looks like a shield. The daggers look like this in shape.
Would have been a dagger originally, like the ones it produces.
Thaltheur is, and always has been, a blade of protection. Despite its small size, Thatheur has incredible blocking power, and a quick if relatively mild retaliation. Thatheur's previous owner was killed by another sword hunter, but its incredible loyalty actually served to reanimate its former master's corpse, and kill the hunter. It lay there with the corpse of its dead master until Keyrn picked it up. By that point, Thaltheur had gone about as insane as a sword could get, and he tried to kill Keyrn for the first while. However, Thaltheur's loyalty has slowly shifted over, and now it refuses to abandon Keyrn. Unlike most swords, Thaltheur can actually manifest without Keyrn's direct action, protecting him from sneak attacks that he might otherwise not notice.
After its ordeal, Thaltheur's power has continued to grow quite exceptionally, and it is now managing to manifest as partial body armor rather than just a shield. On top of its incredible protection, Thaltheur has a mild telekinetic ability that has also been growing stronger.
Blades that actually emerge from his back. Create three-sixty degree protection, and can actually become longer if needed. I couldn't find a real image, this was as close as I came. But it wouldn't be so bony. And I imagine eight points instead of six.
The sword would have originally looked like the top one, with the colors of the left one.
The only blade in Keyrn's possession that is actively evil. It is also the only blade currently in his possession that has killed its previous owner to be with him. Marolltach found Keyrn when he was at the peak of the number of blades he possessed. In the conflict with his former owner, Marolltach refused to fight, and when forced to by his previous owner he left and melded with Keyrn. Since then, it has been actively working to drive the other blades away from Keyrn, so that it can have him all to itself. The only blades to remain are those who are powerful enough to resist Marolltach's pressure, or who have an immense loyalty to their wielder. There have been times when Keyrn has considered turning Marolltach over to the king, but he does not trust, even with the king's strick precautions, that Marolltach wouldn't manage to corrupt someone. That, and it is an incredibly powerful blade. Keyrn keeps Marolltach under incredibly tight rein, and almost never lets it manifest.
Marolltach is a blade of shadows and corruption. Unless it is actively working otherwise, anything it touches will wither and die. Beyond that, Moralltach is blindingly fast, and strong enough that it is very hard to block even with a soul sword. Moralltach has slight hypnotic and psionic abilities, allowing it to directly impact the mind of an opponent, usually causing the opponent to hallucinate that which he or she most fears. These hallucinations can be, and usually are, deadly. One of the main reasons that Marolltach transferred over was because Keyrn was able to resist one of these hallucinations enough to keep fighting.
Basically, this. Except there are two.
Comes in pairs. Was originally dual wield knives that looked like the blades on the ring.
Keyrn's most recent blade, Sulmasc is the only blade to have entered the king's hold and still manage to escape. It is unknown how it did this, and Sulmasc is not sharing. Not an actively evil blade, nor can it be called good. Sulmasc is simply apathetic, and will help with anything asked of it, but is not proactive in any way. Despite being incredibly witty and sarcastic for a blade, Sulmasc mostly remains silent. Sulmasc's loyalty is still in question, and is the only sword that Keyrn would not trust his life to. He does not doubt that, as soon as Sulmasc finds someone acceptable, it will transfer away from him. Moralltach has been aiding that effort by focusing almost all of its malignant intentions on Sulmasc, although it seems entirely unaffected.
As the type of weapon implies, Sulmasc manifests as a wheel of wind, and a wheel of fire. It is even possible for Sulmasc to completely change its form into the pure elements. It can also control and create wind and fire around it.Have a picture.
For this roleplay, I need three things. Your character, her sword or swords, and the time to figure out why these swords are in the world. Come with an idea, but expect to need to work it through with me. It sometimes takes quite a bit to satisfy me.
Like my writing style, but not so fond of these specific ideas? PM me anyways. I love story creation, so long as you don't abandon me. I don't want to have to add another to the list...