Life in Stasis

Outmoded

Sorry for the delay again. Had another appt. on Friday. This one went much better but left me exhausted.

Outmoded

"Not to worry," Sasha said with a gentle smile. "Don't we all get a little carried away from time to time? Passion is the blessing of youth."

Come back tomorrow? The man's brown eyes narrowed. Patience was a virtue often preached to him, alas it was rarely practiced. He could wait a century for something, but when he wanted a thing, he seized on it voraciously. Alice didn't know it, but she was waving a bite of juicy steak in the nose of a starving man, and now she was asking him to wait.

In the grand scheme of things, all the world was meaningless except for the fraction right in front of Sasha. Right now, this was all he cared about. He was a single-minded thing, when there was a thing to focus on.

It was very possible, Sasha mused, that this 'trouble with the door' business was merely a cautious excuse. He was a tall, dark haired man casting a shadow on a petite woman in the corner of some darkened English street. She had every reason to be wary. However, Sasha felt his politeness merited more than suspicion. He had no ill-intentions, and he would not tolerate assumptions to the contrary. Even if they were wise.

"But here, if you're having trouble, allow me."

Edging in between Alice Lynch and the tailor shop, Sasha reached with a long arm to grasp the door handle firmly, and twisted. With a rather loud KLANK, the latching mechanism in the door snapped at once. His head cocked to the right as something tumbled loosely within the hollow wooden confines of the lock's housing and he released the door. It swung open effortlessly, leading into the shadow of a quiet shop.

"Ah, I'm sorry—" He glanced back at Alice with a jolt. "I didn't mean... was that lock broken, or something? Perhaps that's why you were having trouble?" Granting the woman space to breathe, Sasha placed his hands on his hips in the universal gesture for 'it's broken, I don't know what to do'. "You'll have to call a locksmith in the morning, I suppose."

The Path to Godhood

Sorry this took so long!

And just to clarify once my character enters it won't be in first person. That was mostly for the introduction.

I was struggling with starting the story. I spent all last week in a languor feeling sorry for myself, and I barely managed another post I already owed. The first post I wrote for you was utter crap. It's still there in my drafts like a crumpled piece of paper in the bin, partly because I just haven't bothered to delete it, and partly because I like to keep everything I write for posterity. But every time I opened the doc, that repugnant mess would stare at me bleakly and dare me to do better.

And sadly I couldn't.

And then I started playing Neverwinter Nights to sort of gather some better inspiration about a fantasy setting. I was stuck on a singular idea and it was a bad one. So I made a new one.

I also saw this picture.

And it gave me ideas.

Now you have a post.

TL;DR, feel free to post your character sheet in the sheets section. I'll add mine when it becomes relevant.

The Path to Godhood

---

Yost

Midafternoon

A fortnight they’d been at this.

First, the ancient oak tree in the center of Yost’s city square had very suddenly shed all of its leaves and died. It was a bit of a fixture, having survived a fire that destroyed much of the city some twelve years ago. Upon its sudden death, likely due to some tree parasites or disease or whatever it is that trees get, there was a sort of mass mourning.

There was a small ceremony. A crowd amassed in the square to hear a speech given by the Lord Mayor, followed by some poignant stories about the tree and being some sort of favorite haunt in their childhood and other such rubbish. As it was told, there was even a band of minstrels playing some soft, sweet melody. All this in the shadow of a dead tree.

A tree. A tree. In a city literally built within a forest, with trees much like it on all sides. Humans are unpredictable, yet highly ritualistic creatures, forming arbitrary attachments to passing things like moths drawn to only very lucky or unlucky flames. They are dangerous, disgusting, smelly brutes and… well.

I’m getting carried away. Where was I?

Yes, for a fortnight.

So then, on the eve after the great dead tree ceremony, the wolves came. They wandered into the city square through all its empty streets, passing beneath illuminated windows and skulking in muddy alleyways from their dens deep in the forest. And when they came to the tree, they began circling it.

That was all.

Circling the tree, round and round, bewitched by something about its sloughing bark or its naked branches. Who could say? By morning, they were still doing it. Three of them, padding in a trampled circle of dirt around the oak’s base, utterly transfixed. Naturally they were shot, skinned, and disposed of before noon. That’s what humans do. But the rest of the pack came that night, and began circling anew. That’s what nature does. Once the humans think they have control of something, it comes right up, smacks them right in their faces, and jerks up its forearm.

I like nature.

They were killed too, of course, but not before this event was witnessed by others not armed with bows and arrows. Word began to spread that the tree was cursed. This was confirmed when, by next morning, the city’s dogs had been called to the tree! All sizes, from big galoots to little rat terriers, padding in a circle.

Now, no one wants to kill dogs. Remember the bit about arbitrary attachments? Evidently one canine is not just as good as the next. But I digress.

The dogs were reined in and dragged back to their homes, where they pawed at fences, whined at all hours, slipped through open doors and became just a general pain in everyone’s neck. All over that damn tree.

Two weeks of this now. No one knew what to do. Chop it down? That seemed harsh. Burn it? Detestable, considering what it represented to these human twits. Curse at it very loudly, cry and scream, and hold one’s head in their hands? That seemed to be what everyone agreed to do, because it was all they did. Yost was a well-off city, thriving off its exports of lumber, ore, and textiles, and most of its residents were able to enjoy long, comfortable lives. But in the face of something like this, they seemed helpless. If I were there it would have all been rather gratifying, but it was just as fun to hear about.

Well, the Lord Mayor finally had a solution. Two elven priests, a male and a female (though who could tell them apart), happened to be passing through, and after much begging and a fat pledge of coin, they agreed to perform an exorcism of the tree. An errant demon, they explained. Frightening but altogether harmless, and seemingly uninterested in humans. Casting it out of the tree should put an end to the canine fixation on some old dead oak.

But this was only a diversion. They hadn’t come for the tree, it was nothing to them.

They came for her.

“Bring to us Marelli Beltran,” they requested of the Lord Mayor. This was along with the coin too, of course. “We have business with her.”

“The Beltran girl?” A notable person. Mostly from her odd appearance and, supposedly rumored, the mysterious circumstances of her origins. Otherwise, she was perfectly pleasant as far as anyone else was concerned. Perhaps, the Lord Mayor thought, she was half elven. It might explain her white hair. “Relation of yours? Or… do you simply need something mended?”

“Never met her,” the female priest replied.

“This is between the City of Veyhollow and her,” the male priest added. What he didn't add was that she had never been to Veyhollow either.

The Lord Mayor had no choice but to agree. Marelli would be sent for.

The willowy elves, clad in their silvery robes and ivory jewelry, both settled on a bench outside the city hall. Just down the curved path to the city square, the dogs that got loose from their owners could still be seen circling the infernal tree. While the male priest opened a book in his lap, the female quietly watched them.

And they waited.

Outmoded

“Pardon?” Sasha leaned back, put off guard by the question. “To me? Nothing outrageous, just…”

He abandoned the thought. It took him a moment to realize that Alice wasn’t asking about what happened to him. She was talking to the coat. As she went on, she had even ascribed a gender to it. A piece of fabric.

It took a few seconds for Sasha to realign himself.

“Snow,” he uttered at last. “It’s September.”

Well, at least the approach was effective, albeit unintentionally thoroughly. All he’d wanted was his foot in the door. Space to ask a few questions and ascertain her identity without doubt before he moved on to the next phase. Ah, what did it matter? He wasn’t about to look a gifthorse in the mouth.

“It’s only a tear,” Sasha continued, not sure whether he was attempting to console the girl or rein her back into reality, where humans lived and not coats. “It can be mended. Hopefully?” He thumbed toward the tailor shop. “So, are we to go back in, or…?” Foot in the door, foot in the door. “See, I don’t quite feel comfortable leaving at this point. You’re looking at me like I just smothered a kitten. I’m rather afraid you’ll abscond with my clothing to rescue it from me.”

The brightly colored flank of a patrol car caught the corner of Sasha’s eye, which he watched in periphery for a hot minute. There was nothing he really had to fear from policemen. He was only having a conversation. Still, the guilty conscience often fears ill-intentions can be read in the skin.

“My name is Sasha,” he extended. “If I haven’t thoroughly offended you with my misfortune.”

End + Sleep

<Snipped quote by @Stitches>

Proper biology is for nerds. Also I had a C in high school biology.

But yeah sure, draw away! I know Stasis's interpretation had less streamlined chitin, which also works fine, so small variances are okay, and I'd love to see what you'd been picturing for your character.

@Oddsbod

Yeah my version's a bit chunkier. It was just a dumb sketch though, I wanted to be able to visualize my character.

Here's a more updated sketch than the version I showed Oddsbod, with less spikiness and more legs. The color is meant to be darker but I didn't want to drown out the detail of the lines. If I'd actually tried to color the thing I'd have made it clearer.

dumb crap

As I said to Oddsbod, looks like a hideous lovechild between Robocop and Giger's alien. But the idea I was getting at was a spidery look to the "helmet".

End + Sleep

@Stitches@Life in Stasis

So, I was playing around with quick carnelian sketches, and then had an idea for reworking the carnelians to lose the chitin armor. I've got the two versions here, is there one you think works a bit better? Is the new one more interesting, or would you prefer to stick with the original version?

Current version, with chitin

No chitin

@Oddsbod

Very cool sketches, but I prefer the original (the first design you did is awesome, love how willowy they are). I really don't want to alter my character again. This is another really significant change.

End + Sleep

@Oddsbod

Are we going to wait on the new applicants before starting the RP or are you still working on the IC post?

Outmoded

Alright! Sorry for the delay. Ended up losing the post entirely and had to retype it. Fortunately I like the second version better.

Please don't feel obligated to match post length. I believing in writing enough, not in setting minimums. Most of this is just starting exposition anyway.

Outmoded

Alice C. Lynch. Alice Olson Lynch. Alice…

Ah, there she was.

His pupil flared as the picture slid into view on his phone’s screen. Alice’s facebook profile gradually scrolled under the touch of his thumb, revealing her photographs, friends, interests. All the little things that made humans human, now conveniently reduced into a high accessible webpage.

In the dark of his rundown flat, the smartphone’s dim blue glow provided the only light in the room, illuminating the edges of his face. He was reclined on the remains of an old leather chaise, inhaling the smell of must and raw wood while mice scampered and scratched inside the walls. Outside he could hear the sounds of daily life, of cars rumbling past and clipped small talk between strangers at the street cart stand at the end of the block.

She wasn’t half bad. A mousey thing in outdated fashions, charmingly Victorian, though with a little more flair than anyone dared show in those days. A woman showing her corset was liable to be charged with indecent exposure, but recent retro fashions did expand creative on the idea. She seemed fixated on it.

So this was there Alasdair’s bloodline had ended up. Locally and within grabbing distance, anyway. Fitting. Yves would have loved her. Pathetic sod.

Irrelevant, it wasn’t her he was interested in. Only her heritage and her name.

He shut off his phone and laid his head back in the dark, afforded to him by the boarded windows and patched holes in the wall. Naught left to do in the moment but wait. Come nightfall, he would finally get somewhere after all this effort.

---

“Wait!”

A tall silhouette moved beneath the haloes of yellow streetlamps, jogging from around the corner. He was reflected in the puddles in the cracks of the sidewalk, collected from the afternoon rain—which was likely to reprise itself, given the weight of the air and the murky cloudcover overhead.

The tailor’s shop was a quaint little shop nestled between others of its kind along a classical street, the sort lined with rustic old buildings with gothic windows, black, steepled roofs, and discolored brick facades. One of the last bastions for a dwindling trade in this era of mass production.

Sasha Dmitriyev appreciated it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to see a proper tailor.

But now she was closing up shop, stopping just to lock the outer door. Alice Lynch, matching her profile picture. Alice Lynch, in fashions as retrograde as her profession. Alice Lynch, the key to Alasdair’s resurrection.

Sasha drew within speaking distance, a young man not too young in a long brown coat. He donned buttoned shirt beneath, cinched with a belt that was tied in lieu of a modern buckle. A look seldom seen these days.

Something long and black draped over one arm.

“You’re closed? Already?” Sasha gasped as he drew near. He glanched at his watch, flicking back his cuff. It was half past nine. Of course the shop was closed. Most of these humble little shops weren’t even open past six. “Look, I need this coat repaired by tomorrow. It will only take a minute.”

He held his arm, displaying an old tailcoat. Frayed threads from a dramatic tear along the inner seam were evident. Sasha wondered if perhaps he wasn’t laying it on a little too thick to garner Alice’s interest. No, he thought. Everyone is too desperate for attention to be wary these days.

“Can you help? Please?”