User has no bio, yet i consume the greedy. i rob the thieves. i kill the killers. nobody wants me. if you don't have me, nobody will want you. what's my name?
hello! i am looking forward to this roleplay as it will be my first if i am accepted, do you know when those of us who applied will have applications accepted/rejected?
Thank you for your interest! So far, only eleven people have reached the end of the puzzle, of which three have let me know they're not interested, with two other interested parties being unable to reach the end of the puzzle so far. With that in mind, the RP will go up whenever I get 2-3 more accepted applicants, including yourself!
I left these notes just for you. Not "you, the clever reader who might find this". YOU you. The one touching the keys. Your eyes open for a moment, and then shut again. You draw in a deep, sour breath, and stretch out on a surface far too hard and wide to be your bed. Somewhere in the deepest, basest, reptilian part of your brain, you're made instantly aware that the place you're waking up in is totally unfamiliar. The air is too hot to be your bedroom, the lights are too cold to be yours, and the bags under your eyes too stinging and heavy for you to have been sleeping in your own bed. Instinctively, you pull your head back and furrow your brow, trying to recall last night's events as your eyes come into the focus of wakefulness. You feel faintly hungover, and the itchy surface you begin to writhe around on is almost certainly the cushion of a couch, though you don't remember the last time you went to any sort of party. As your eyes remain open for more than a full second, an unfamiliar panic grips you. An all-consuming, instinctive panic, somewhere in the back of that same lizard brain of yours. Four sets of eyes look back at you. I left these for you because I know you. Actual you. Everybody deflects their discomfort when they hear that by demanding to hear their name like a street magician's trick. Each is attached to a person who seems just as terrified as you, in a room you now realize has a floor padded with dozens of layers of rugs and carpets, each dirtier than the last. Each person is all covered, just as you realize you are, in a layer of soil and grime. Each is chained to the wall by the wrist. You instinctively pull your hands up defensively, but you cannot -- yours seem to be chained the tightest. You scream for a moment, and as a wail of horror rings out in the room for what you realize must be the fifth time, you begin to cry, causing one of the women in your small company to begin crying as well. You immediately begin to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios and begin to feel sorry for yourself, before recalling the reason. The other people in the room feel miles away at this point of your panic, as you delve further into the memory you have tried countless times to bury, alter, or forget entirely. You know exactly what you did, and why some depraved vigilante would want to torture you. The people in the room suddenly feel much, much closer as you look back up. But I know you better than an ID card ever could. I know the real you. What you've done, where you've been, who you are. It doesn't paint a pretty picture.
What had they done to deserve such a fate?
Check his bio. If you can find the application, you can apply. RP will include mature themes, puzzle solving, and minor use of stats/dice rolling. Good luck!
You know, finding something in the raw of a post isn't that hard. I am genuinely curious as to how you managed to fit all the skulls in there without messing up the formatting of the actual post though.
I know, hence the cheater-warding skulls! And you can just stick them in a set of [img] brackets.
I left these notes just for you. Not "you, the clever reader who might find this". YOU you. The one touching the keys. Your eyes open for a moment, and then shut again. You draw in a deep, sour breath, and stretch out on a surface far too hard and wide to be your bed. Somewhere in the deepest, basest, reptilian part of your brain, you're made instantly aware that the place you're waking up in is totally unfamiliar. The air is too hot to be your bedroom, the lights are too cold to be yours, and the bags under your eyes too stinging and heavy for you to have been sleeping in your own bed. Instinctively, you pull your head back and furrow your brow, trying to recall last night's events as your eyes come into the focus of wakefulness. You feel faintly hungover, and the itchy surface you begin to writhe around on is almost certainly the cushion of a couch, though you don't remember the last time you went to any sort of party. As your eyes remain open for more than a full second, an unfamiliar panic grips you. An all-consuming, instinctive panic, somewhere in the back of that same lizard brain of yours. Four sets of eyes look back at you. I left these for you because I know you. Actual you. Everybody deflects their discomfort when they hear that by demanding to hear their name like a street magician's trick. Each is attached to a person who seems just as terrified as you, in a room you now realize has a floor padded with dozens of layers of rugs and carpets, each dirtier than the last. Each person is all covered, just as you realize you are, in a layer of soil and grime. Each is chained to the wall by the wrist. You instinctively pull your hands up defensively, but you cannot -- yours seem to be chained the tightest. You scream for a moment, and as a wail of horror rings out in the room for what you realize must be the fifth time, you begin to cry, causing one of the women in your small company to begin crying as well. You immediately begin to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios and begin to feel sorry for yourself, before recalling the reason. The other people in the room feel miles away at this point of your panic, as you delve further into the memory you have tried countless times to bury, alter, or forget entirely. You know exactly what you did, and why some depraved vigilante would want to torture you. The people in the room suddenly feel much, much closer as you look back up. But I know you better than an ID card ever could. I know the real you. What you've done, where you've been, who you are. It doesn't paint a pretty picture.
What had they done to deserve such a fate?
Check his bio. If you can find the application, you can apply. RP will include mature themes, puzzle solving, and minor use of stats/dice rolling. Good luck!
Physical Appearance Boone is bald, tattooed, muscular, and big. He is well over six feet tall and has the sort of battered meatiness to his face most boxers have at the end of their career. Boone looks like he's been curling weights and eating canned protein for nearly thirty years because he has, during which time he has also gone to great lengths to painstakingly cover himself from head to toe in threatening tattoos, mostly of weapons, predatory animals, and death-related iconography. When he smiles -- which is often -- one can see that he has had all of his visible teeth capped in silver, save for his right front tooth, which is missing. Boone's easiest-to-miss detail, though a hard one to not stare at once you've noticed, is that he is missing his right pinkie finger from the second knuckle up, a tell-tale sign of his criminal past. For all his muscle and tattoo ink, his wardrobe seems to consist solely of nonthreatening pink polo shirts.
Head & Neck Cross between eyebrows Teardrop under left eye Stick figure angel under right ear Stick figure devil under left ear "CUTTHROAT" across neck "SWING" above "TRUE" on back of neck Bomb on back of head
Torso Broken noose around lower neck/shoulders Pair of eyes on pecs Jian below right pec Barking chained dog's head below left pec "613" in large gothic font on right side Black Chinese dragon on left side "BETTER YOU" above "THAN ME" on abs Crucifix over a ying-yang on chest Spider around navel
Back Enma Daio portrait covering back
Right Arm "GOOD GET DEAD, RATS GET FAT" above rat perched on jawless skull on bicep Scythe and 13 tallies on forearm Oni's face on back of forearm Prayer hands on inner forearm UFO piloted by martian on back of hand "HAIL" on knuckles
Left Arm "Sick Lee '82 - '01" above "RIP" on bicep Scorpion on upper forearm Biscione on forearm Topless cowgirl holding two pistols on inner forearm Heart with "NHK" on back of hand "MARY" on knuckles
Right Leg A boy peeing on planet labeled "SIHNON" on upper thigh Holstered pistol on side of thigh Three coffins in row on back of thigh "24 YEARS" above spiderweb on knee Pair of boots on shin Shark chasing smaller fish on back of calf
Left Leg Fanning geisha pointing at Boone's groin on upper thigh "KNEEL FOR NONE" above star on knee Line on shin labeled "BOOT DEEP" "LIVE FAST, DIE YOUNG" above hoverbike on back of calf
Skills Boone was trained to fly starships in prison using a flying simulation module, also known among those in-the-know simply as "Sim-flying", popular within Alliance training facilities, amusement parks, and the game rooms of particularly wealthy, doting parents of the core planets. Despite having no experience with actual ships, Boone has logged over twenty years of sim-flight time on nearly every class of transport ship, from city-sized Blue Sun Super Freighters to the smallest Peregrine Class a buyer could want to squeeze themselves into. Accordingly, Boone is an excellent pilot with a working knowledge of dozens of types of ships.
Before Boone was a sim-flying jailbird, he was a high-ranking member of some sort of shadowy interstellar mafia, and accordingly, has a long list of unsavory skills, ranging everywhere from fighting to money laundering to body hiding, though this does not include marksmanship. Boone couldn't hit a target in his best days with anything that didn't spray ten bullets per second, and he has not improved twenty-something years out of practice. Additionally, while he is a huge, strong, and experienced fighter, he has sworn a vow of non-violence and refuses to take a life or inflict even potentially lethal harm on a person.
Personality Boone is almost sickeningly sweet, a clash with his appearance that most find more off-putting than if he acted like a surly outlaw. He sleeps with a well-loved teddy bear, tends to a small bonsai tree named "Chuck", exclusively refers to people as "Mr. Firstname" or "Dear", and pursues domestic hobbies such as knitting and baking with the same passion as his intense prison workouts. He does not drink, smoke, or curse, which stems from the firm Christian convictions he picked up in prison, and frequently quotes relevant bible passages. He is an optimist able to see the silver lining in anything, from a bad meal (Only bad meal's a missed meal!) to getting robbed (They must need it more than them that don't rob!) though this does not extend to his fear of reincarceration, which borders on paranoia. Boone oftentimes acts like he is still in prison, asking the captain for permission to go to the bathroom, hoarding items under his bed, and crafting strange prison-replacements for things freely available to even the humble standards of China Doll's crew. Additionally, though Boone has grown oddly comfortable with tight, confined spaces for such a giant man, he has a strong phobia of wide-open spaces and refuses to do space walks.
History You would never guess it (and he would never tell you) but Boone was born on Londinium -- the poorest, most Alliance-neglected ghetto on Londinium -- but Londinium, nonetheless. He had no father, but a hard-handed mother who unsuccessfully tried to keep her son off the streets for as long as possible. Boone started out as the largest of "The Fly Boys", a youth gang on stolen hoverbikes, eventually collecting debts for local bars and bookkeepers throughout his adolescence, graduating to being jumped into a more serious street gang -- the No Hearts Killers -- and later leaving even them for the big leagues of Londinium's organized crime, the Red Fang Clan.
Under the Red Fang, Boone continued working his way up the criminal ladder until his imprisonment at the Urvasi Penal Colony at 24, resulting in a 20 year prison sentence, eventually increased to 24 years for fights and infractions in prison. During this time, two very big things about Boone changed: The focal point of his life became flying starships, and he gave himself up to God. Now, Boone is a strange walking paradox, as threatening-looking as a person can be, but reading aloud to his bonsai all the same.
Rimbo Timbo Tambo of the Thousand Color Brigade has rolled a 2 out of a possible 6. Let's see you top that! I also vote to start sailing and generating those sweet net profits.
User has no bio, yet [color=222222]i consume the greedy. i rob the thieves. i kill the killers. nobody wants me. if you don't have me, nobody will want you. what's my name?[/color]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">User has no bio, yet <font color="#222222">i consume the greedy. i rob the thieves. i kill the killers. nobody wants me. if you don't have me, nobody will want you. what's my name?</font></div>
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