Glad to hear it, both of you! There'll be a lot more detail in the OOC, I'm excited to get started.
Captain Jenno Member
Waltzing for Zizi
STATUS: "Gee Sam, this seems like the kinda case that requires the gentle, safe-cracking touch of the sociopathic, sausage-fingered freelance police." 9 yrs ago
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ButtsnBalls
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9 yrs ago
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"Gee Sam, this seems like the kinda case that requires the gentle, safe-cracking touch of the sociopathic, sausage-fingered freelance police."
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9 yrs ago
Blue in Dallas
Bio
Rain pattered dismally against the office’s windows, made liquid brass by the faint glow of the streetlamps below, and streaked against the glass like tears. Once, the words “Jennofski & Jennofski” had been painted in gold across these jalouises… but now there was only an outline, a ghost that had lingered, long past its time, when the acid rain had taken the rest to its grave.
The Octo P.I. could sympathise with that.
But as long as he remained, those names would never be forgotten. Not in this, the office that had been his home, his sanctuary, and his prison.
A perfectly preserved memory, kept sealed within the bell jar of personal tragedy.
OctoP.I. sighed, deeply.
“Of all the octopode's profiles in all the world… you had to read mine.”
Hi all, Jenno here! Or Captain. I'm your resident blues harpist, and part time octopode! (But let's keep that between you and me, eh? Nobody suspects a thing.)
If you want to know anything just drop me a line via DMs and I'll get right back to you!
The Octo P.I. could sympathise with that.
But as long as he remained, those names would never be forgotten. Not in this, the office that had been his home, his sanctuary, and his prison.
A perfectly preserved memory, kept sealed within the bell jar of personal tragedy.
OctoP.I. sighed, deeply.
“Of all the octopode's profiles in all the world… you had to read mine.”
Hi all, Jenno here! Or Captain. I'm your resident blues harpist, and part time octopode! (But let's keep that between you and me, eh? Nobody suspects a thing.)
If you want to know anything just drop me a line via DMs and I'll get right back to you!
Most Recent Posts
In
A JoJo's-Bizarre-Adventure-'em-up: Stand Proud - Pleasant Valley Sunday.
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
In
A JoJo's-Bizarre-Adventure-'em-up: Stand Proud - Pleasant Valley Sunday.
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
JoJo's Bizarre Adventure is an action-oriented series of manga and anime seasons based around the prolific Joestar family, and in the latter part of the series the focus comes to be around them fighting with metaphysical manifestations of their will and fighting spirits, Stands. Chocked full of musical pop culture references and creative over-the-top action, it's fun for a very specific part of the family. This roleplay will follow the basic themes of Part IV, Diamond is Unbreakable, in the sense that it's an action/slice-of-life that rotates around a small, fictional town where everyone knows one another. It'll even lean on the themes of The Arrow and a supernatural serial killer, albeit one that's far more active and a bit more subtle, and both are connected to a bigger conspiracy.
But it'll be a little different because of the Dark Secret mechanic I'll be implementing. Essentially, every one of your characters will have a direct hand in the plot, perhaps without even knowing it. When you're making your character, there'll be a section on the CS labelled Dark Secret. The premise is that you'll leave it blank, but PM whatever heinous secret your character would rather nobody else, especially not their new allies, ever heard. Then I'll tailor it into the main plot, changing minor things so that the story overall is also your character's personal story.
That all said, here's a brief draft of the plot:
June 20th, 2000: slated to be another quiet day in the idyllic, beach-side town of Pleasant Valley, California. That was when the killings started.
Havana Reddy was a perfectly healthy, twenty year old woman. She had a loving husband, and a soothing career as a yoga instructor at the local gym. She was found dead in the late afternoon, without a mark on her, her broken make up mirror clutched in her hand. Her eyes rolled back and her jaw locked, in agony.
At first the police suspected foul play, but there were no traces of poison, no signs of a struggle or forced entry... there were barely even signs of a natural cause of death.
It was eventually listed as a non-suspicious death by the local authorities: Havana Reddy was buried a week later.
And to most of the residents of Pleasant Valley, that was it, case closed. It was a case of instant but unsuspecting death: a rarity, but it happened. A dozen times a year, in the US alone.
But to a small fringe group of Pleasant Valley's locale, it was something different altogether. Because whilst most civilians knew Havana Reddy as a spritely but otherwise unremarkable woman, this small group knew her instead as the wielder of an incredible power: The emotion manipulating Stand, Midnight Oil.
She was one of perhaps one hundred Pleasant Valley locals to cross paths with a mysterious, antiquated arrow that had been introduced to the town in early 1999: one prick from its rusty tip, and a person can be made unto a God... or else killed, instantly.
And because of this shared power, every other stand user knew Reddy's death was no accident. So sudden, so quick: this must have been the work of an enemy stand.
But these same people were scared. If they used their stands to investigate, the public might discover them. Worse yet, the killer might target them!
And so nobody said a word... but the killings continued. It's now October 22nd, 2000, and Damien Bourke- Stand: Celtic Spring- has just been declared dead of "un-suspect circumstances."
Finally, a small group of stand users have gotten together in order to apprehend the killer before their numbers inevitably come up.
Just one problem: they're the graduating class of Pleasant Valley High, a group of young troublemakers who aren't going to make particularly good friends of the proper authorities or Pleasant Valley's seedy, stand-orientated criminal underbelly.
So much for another normal Pleasant Valley Sunday.
I'll probably have the OOC up within a couple days, since the uni semester is coming to an end relatively soon.
But it'll be a little different because of the Dark Secret mechanic I'll be implementing. Essentially, every one of your characters will have a direct hand in the plot, perhaps without even knowing it. When you're making your character, there'll be a section on the CS labelled Dark Secret. The premise is that you'll leave it blank, but PM whatever heinous secret your character would rather nobody else, especially not their new allies, ever heard. Then I'll tailor it into the main plot, changing minor things so that the story overall is also your character's personal story.
That all said, here's a brief draft of the plot:
June 20th, 2000: slated to be another quiet day in the idyllic, beach-side town of Pleasant Valley, California. That was when the killings started.
Havana Reddy was a perfectly healthy, twenty year old woman. She had a loving husband, and a soothing career as a yoga instructor at the local gym. She was found dead in the late afternoon, without a mark on her, her broken make up mirror clutched in her hand. Her eyes rolled back and her jaw locked, in agony.
At first the police suspected foul play, but there were no traces of poison, no signs of a struggle or forced entry... there were barely even signs of a natural cause of death.
It was eventually listed as a non-suspicious death by the local authorities: Havana Reddy was buried a week later.
And to most of the residents of Pleasant Valley, that was it, case closed. It was a case of instant but unsuspecting death: a rarity, but it happened. A dozen times a year, in the US alone.
But to a small fringe group of Pleasant Valley's locale, it was something different altogether. Because whilst most civilians knew Havana Reddy as a spritely but otherwise unremarkable woman, this small group knew her instead as the wielder of an incredible power: The emotion manipulating Stand, Midnight Oil.
She was one of perhaps one hundred Pleasant Valley locals to cross paths with a mysterious, antiquated arrow that had been introduced to the town in early 1999: one prick from its rusty tip, and a person can be made unto a God... or else killed, instantly.
And because of this shared power, every other stand user knew Reddy's death was no accident. So sudden, so quick: this must have been the work of an enemy stand.
But these same people were scared. If they used their stands to investigate, the public might discover them. Worse yet, the killer might target them!
And so nobody said a word... but the killings continued. It's now October 22nd, 2000, and Damien Bourke- Stand: Celtic Spring- has just been declared dead of "un-suspect circumstances."
Finally, a small group of stand users have gotten together in order to apprehend the killer before their numbers inevitably come up.
Just one problem: they're the graduating class of Pleasant Valley High, a group of young troublemakers who aren't going to make particularly good friends of the proper authorities or Pleasant Valley's seedy, stand-orientated criminal underbelly.
So much for another normal Pleasant Valley Sunday.
I'll probably have the OOC up within a couple days, since the uni semester is coming to an end relatively soon.
Ah, oh yeah, that's right. Happy Thanksgiving from across the pond, my friends.
Alright, post's up! Sorry again guys.
In Jeorvo...
There seemed a substantial division between the attendees of this soiree. In fact, it was almost a perfect split. Half of the guests seemed in their element, and walked with the air of old, old money. They wore their scarves as one might have worn their medals, and chatted, even laughed, with perfect strangers, like a ruling elite, willing themselves ignorant of the fact most of Jeorvo starved outside of this manor’s grounds.
The other half didn’t seem so natural, by comparison. Beneath the watchful azure eyes of the panther, they seemed to shift uneasily, as though they were there by mistake, as though they were doing something very wrong by being present. Their scarves seemed to make their constitutions falter, as if they carried a great weight: many wore clashing clothes, of a decidedly less sophisticated design.
Of these groups, the woman who approached Elise Callan belonged, quite clearly, to the former. She was a small woman all of alabaster, with high cheek bones and eyes which sank into darkened rings. Her lips were thin, and pale. Her nose was small, and her body lithe and svelte. She was the result of high breeding, that much was obvious. Features like hers rarely came from anything but noble cousins marrying one another, trying to keep the wealth within the family.
And she wore her scarf as if to emphasise that fact, in a rosette knot, wrapped tightly around her slender, delicate neck.
And yet, despite the clear influence of wealth, she dressed quite disconcertingly: in what once might have been an ostentatious lace bridal gown, before she’d worn it into raggedness. Bits of decorative lace hung from it like wilted weeds, and portions were torn or else thinned to the point of being transparent, particularly on her back.
But despite it, she carried herself with an inherent regal air, as she stood over Elise from the side of the couch.
She smiled down at her, her pale lips curled into a small, polite greeting. And it might have been convincing, too, if it weren’t for the sharp, pale blue of her eyes, like still water frozen deep. They flickered with the sort of disdain the nobility reserved for people who rose above their stations.
“Good evening,” she greeted, in a voice that was small and soft. Her accent was a strange one, laced with too many foreign influences to count, but certainly not native to any region of Coake.
“My name is Akelda Serkan,” she began, extending her hand politely downwards, with such delicacy that it looked as though she expected they would courtesy to one-another, “And I do not believe I know yours, but you must be a very formidable warrior to be here,” she said, in such a way that seemed to wordlessly imply ”because you are clearly not here on any other merits.”
Likewise, the man who came to greet Sir Isaac Dorovich was clearly also of rich blood, but of a different and less sickly breed. Whereas there was little doubt Akelda’s parents had shared a last name before their wedding night, this gentleman’s skin was a healthy tan, and his hazel eyes were alight with an intimate appreciation of all things decadent. His family weren't gentry, they were wealthy through trade.
He was just an inch or two short of Isaac’s stature, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in indulgent style: his ever so slightly portly figure was wrapped in an exquisitely tailored white suit, so very clean and bright it seemed almost to throw shadows at the outfits of others, making them seem dull by comparison. He walked with a cane, a dark hardwood staff crowned with the ivory likeness of a bowing crow, scrimshawed to the tiniest detail.
His hair was blackened- he was very clearly fighting the onset of grey- and combed back, and his features were soft, and doughy. He looked friendly, and spoke in warm, familiar tones as he closed the distance between himself and Sir Isaac.
“Ahh, thank goodness, another man of clear sophistication! How are you doing, chap?”, he offered the hand which didn’t clutch his cane with a sportive air. It became clear he’d probably made his money through social currency, networking.
“Antionis, Antionis Agrippa! I’m in the book trade!”, he’d added, as he’d extended his grip, “Tell me about yourself, my man!”
Fate might have been kindest to James Terna, though. He wasn’t so much approached, as he did happen upon his conversational partner. She was a woman not late out of her teens, but labour had aged her a little. She wore her mousy hair in a functional ponytail, and glanced up from the wall she’d taken to leaning against just in time to spot James’ wonderment.
She wasn’t dressed particularly sophisticatedly, either: a set of old denim overalls and a button down shirt. She wasn’t wearing her scarf. She’d been staring down at it with a sort of anxious scepticism, like she suspected it would, at any moment, leap at her and choke her like a serpent.
When she spoke to him, her voice was deeper than one might’ve expected, coarser: “It’s a sight, alright. What’s your story? Country boy, or do you just not get out much?”, she’d asked, perhaps a little more rudely than she’d intended.
There seemed a substantial division between the attendees of this soiree. In fact, it was almost a perfect split. Half of the guests seemed in their element, and walked with the air of old, old money. They wore their scarves as one might have worn their medals, and chatted, even laughed, with perfect strangers, like a ruling elite, willing themselves ignorant of the fact most of Jeorvo starved outside of this manor’s grounds.
The other half didn’t seem so natural, by comparison. Beneath the watchful azure eyes of the panther, they seemed to shift uneasily, as though they were there by mistake, as though they were doing something very wrong by being present. Their scarves seemed to make their constitutions falter, as if they carried a great weight: many wore clashing clothes, of a decidedly less sophisticated design.
Of these groups, the woman who approached Elise Callan belonged, quite clearly, to the former. She was a small woman all of alabaster, with high cheek bones and eyes which sank into darkened rings. Her lips were thin, and pale. Her nose was small, and her body lithe and svelte. She was the result of high breeding, that much was obvious. Features like hers rarely came from anything but noble cousins marrying one another, trying to keep the wealth within the family.
And she wore her scarf as if to emphasise that fact, in a rosette knot, wrapped tightly around her slender, delicate neck.
And yet, despite the clear influence of wealth, she dressed quite disconcertingly: in what once might have been an ostentatious lace bridal gown, before she’d worn it into raggedness. Bits of decorative lace hung from it like wilted weeds, and portions were torn or else thinned to the point of being transparent, particularly on her back.
But despite it, she carried herself with an inherent regal air, as she stood over Elise from the side of the couch.
She smiled down at her, her pale lips curled into a small, polite greeting. And it might have been convincing, too, if it weren’t for the sharp, pale blue of her eyes, like still water frozen deep. They flickered with the sort of disdain the nobility reserved for people who rose above their stations.
“Good evening,” she greeted, in a voice that was small and soft. Her accent was a strange one, laced with too many foreign influences to count, but certainly not native to any region of Coake.
“My name is Akelda Serkan,” she began, extending her hand politely downwards, with such delicacy that it looked as though she expected they would courtesy to one-another, “And I do not believe I know yours, but you must be a very formidable warrior to be here,” she said, in such a way that seemed to wordlessly imply ”because you are clearly not here on any other merits.”
Likewise, the man who came to greet Sir Isaac Dorovich was clearly also of rich blood, but of a different and less sickly breed. Whereas there was little doubt Akelda’s parents had shared a last name before their wedding night, this gentleman’s skin was a healthy tan, and his hazel eyes were alight with an intimate appreciation of all things decadent. His family weren't gentry, they were wealthy through trade.
He was just an inch or two short of Isaac’s stature, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in indulgent style: his ever so slightly portly figure was wrapped in an exquisitely tailored white suit, so very clean and bright it seemed almost to throw shadows at the outfits of others, making them seem dull by comparison. He walked with a cane, a dark hardwood staff crowned with the ivory likeness of a bowing crow, scrimshawed to the tiniest detail.
His hair was blackened- he was very clearly fighting the onset of grey- and combed back, and his features were soft, and doughy. He looked friendly, and spoke in warm, familiar tones as he closed the distance between himself and Sir Isaac.
“Ahh, thank goodness, another man of clear sophistication! How are you doing, chap?”, he offered the hand which didn’t clutch his cane with a sportive air. It became clear he’d probably made his money through social currency, networking.
“Antionis, Antionis Agrippa! I’m in the book trade!”, he’d added, as he’d extended his grip, “Tell me about yourself, my man!”
Fate might have been kindest to James Terna, though. He wasn’t so much approached, as he did happen upon his conversational partner. She was a woman not late out of her teens, but labour had aged her a little. She wore her mousy hair in a functional ponytail, and glanced up from the wall she’d taken to leaning against just in time to spot James’ wonderment.
She wasn’t dressed particularly sophisticatedly, either: a set of old denim overalls and a button down shirt. She wasn’t wearing her scarf. She’d been staring down at it with a sort of anxious scepticism, like she suspected it would, at any moment, leap at her and choke her like a serpent.
When she spoke to him, her voice was deeper than one might’ve expected, coarser: “It’s a sight, alright. What’s your story? Country boy, or do you just not get out much?”, she’d asked, perhaps a little more rudely than she’d intended.
Oh gracious, of course! God, my apologies, I'd totally forgotten! This week has been absolute Hell. Between chasing up sources and writing the Paris stories, the South Korean protest suppression, the explosions in China, I'm lucky I can remember where I live.
You can expect a Jeorvo post in the next 24 hours, thank you so much for your patience! And apologies to Baklava for my slacking.
You can expect a Jeorvo post in the next 24 hours, thank you so much for your patience! And apologies to Baklava for my slacking.
I am incredibly worried about Vivid, they haven't been seen in well over three months.
Finally managed to write up a post, apologies if it's short or the quality has dipped any: it's 5am and I'm being worked like a dog, I'm afraid! I can't wait until world peace comes about, just because the news will be simple and boring.
Oh. It was on.
Brande considered himself an honourable swordsman, and lived his life by the swordsman’s code: take no innocent life, show no ill-will in victory, uphold the weak and undo the wicked - the standard, soldier-with-no-country spiel.
He didn’t believe in sneak attacks, or unnecessary deaths. And although he might once have been young and foolish, wandering had tempered his spirit to the point he no longer saw his sword as a tool of vengeance, so much as it was the chisel with which he had shaped himself.
But nobody. Nobody laid their hands on his blade.
Orcs had taken everything else from him. They’d never take this.
He would kindly have given them the clothes from his back, to spare a young woman so severe a punishment for so meagre a crime. Nay, he would have taken a beating in her place, were it an option. Not for some ill-held sense of chivalry, but so another needn't suffer as he already had.
But the moment ‘Shuzug’ laid eyes on Esmeralda, any swordsman’s code became foreign to him.
He met Zanna’s green eyes, and held her stare for a moment: the collected calmness of his own grey irises seemed to dissipate before her. No longer were they cool and still, pebble-like in their docility. Now they smouldered like fresh ash, as the fire in his belly grew.
He exhaled, sharply. And smiled crookedly.
One sharp movement, a metallic uppercut which tore through the air with such sudden speed it was almost soundless: in an instant, Brande had Esmeralda’s tip pressing into the flesh of Shuzug’s throat, right beneath his chin. Not quite hard enough to pierce the orc’s flesh, but hard enough to make an indent where it sat, and no doubt make breathing very, very uncomfortable.
He hadn’t run him through, yet… but that was a simple mistake to fix.
"If you so much as try to think about moving, I’ll spot the migraine brewing on your face and cut your throat out like I’m gutting a fish," he recited, accent thick, tongue fast. He’d heard his father say it once, perhaps it had been the very night Serafina Heights burned.
His eyes darted to the other orc, Varfu, but his sword-hand didn’t waver.
"You make an interesting suggestion, but here’s my counter," he began anew, expression calm, but eyes alight, "You drop the lady, nice and slow, otherwise your friend might just get his wish. Because he’ll get my sword, alright. Right through his jugular and up into his brain stem. Understood?”"
"Nobody needs to die here, not today. I hope you're smarter than your cousin over here," Brande thought to himself, pushing Esmeralda's tip in further, mutely, to illustrate his point.
Brande considered himself an honourable swordsman, and lived his life by the swordsman’s code: take no innocent life, show no ill-will in victory, uphold the weak and undo the wicked - the standard, soldier-with-no-country spiel.
He didn’t believe in sneak attacks, or unnecessary deaths. And although he might once have been young and foolish, wandering had tempered his spirit to the point he no longer saw his sword as a tool of vengeance, so much as it was the chisel with which he had shaped himself.
But nobody. Nobody laid their hands on his blade.
Orcs had taken everything else from him. They’d never take this.
He would kindly have given them the clothes from his back, to spare a young woman so severe a punishment for so meagre a crime. Nay, he would have taken a beating in her place, were it an option. Not for some ill-held sense of chivalry, but so another needn't suffer as he already had.
But the moment ‘Shuzug’ laid eyes on Esmeralda, any swordsman’s code became foreign to him.
He met Zanna’s green eyes, and held her stare for a moment: the collected calmness of his own grey irises seemed to dissipate before her. No longer were they cool and still, pebble-like in their docility. Now they smouldered like fresh ash, as the fire in his belly grew.
He exhaled, sharply. And smiled crookedly.
One sharp movement, a metallic uppercut which tore through the air with such sudden speed it was almost soundless: in an instant, Brande had Esmeralda’s tip pressing into the flesh of Shuzug’s throat, right beneath his chin. Not quite hard enough to pierce the orc’s flesh, but hard enough to make an indent where it sat, and no doubt make breathing very, very uncomfortable.
He hadn’t run him through, yet… but that was a simple mistake to fix.
"If you so much as try to think about moving, I’ll spot the migraine brewing on your face and cut your throat out like I’m gutting a fish," he recited, accent thick, tongue fast. He’d heard his father say it once, perhaps it had been the very night Serafina Heights burned.
His eyes darted to the other orc, Varfu, but his sword-hand didn’t waver.
"You make an interesting suggestion, but here’s my counter," he began anew, expression calm, but eyes alight, "You drop the lady, nice and slow, otherwise your friend might just get his wish. Because he’ll get my sword, alright. Right through his jugular and up into his brain stem. Understood?”"
"Nobody needs to die here, not today. I hope you're smarter than your cousin over here," Brande thought to himself, pushing Esmeralda's tip in further, mutely, to illustrate his point.
How about the rest of you?
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