@Crumbs All right, first character sheet is up.
Mammon Member
The Chief Mourner
- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Mammon
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 75 (0.02 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Mammon 11 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
A life half-lived.
Discord Mammon#6954
Discord Mammon#6954
Most Recent Posts
I'll read over everything again and then start on my character sheets.
I have emerged from the shadows.
Hey, warm welcomes and all of those other social niceties.
We'll roleplay together soon. Probably one on one, but if you have or find a roleplay you want me to join... Well, you know where to find me.
We'll roleplay together soon. Probably one on one, but if you have or find a roleplay you want me to join... Well, you know where to find me.
All right. I'm interested, though finals are rapidly approaching.
I updated the original post to reflect the new characters.
Reiki took his seat in front of Mizushima-san wordlessly. He had no introduction for himself to the class, to the teacher, or to Rin. He instead stared gloomily out the window, letting the day drift by. He was half-asleep, anyway. School was the only time he could find truly restful sleep--dreams without the whispers of the dead. Reiki Tsukihasa sighed wearily as the bell for lunch rang, dismissing the class to eat either their packed meals or to convene in the cafeteria for food.
Instead, he put his face down on his desk.
No one talk to me. No one talk to me. No one talk to me. No one talk to me, he repeated mentally, like his own personal mantra.
It seemed to be working. Though his eyes remained closed and veiled, he could tell by the chatter and footsteps of students that many were leaving the room without paying him any mind. Soon the classroom was silent with the exception of the ticking clock and chirp of midday birds.
Finally, peace!
Slowly, he drug head up from his desk and instantly locked eyes with the one person remaining in the room. "Mi-Mizushima-san?" The name left his mouth with distanced curiosity. "I know what Yukimura-sensei said... But I don't babysitter." Reiki rested his chin on his hand, and his elbow on the desk as he turned back to the window. "I'll find my own way, so... Go eat lunch with your friends."
She had shattered his illusion of solitude. The transfer student closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
Will I ever just be alone?
Instead, he put his face down on his desk.
No one talk to me. No one talk to me. No one talk to me. No one talk to me, he repeated mentally, like his own personal mantra.
It seemed to be working. Though his eyes remained closed and veiled, he could tell by the chatter and footsteps of students that many were leaving the room without paying him any mind. Soon the classroom was silent with the exception of the ticking clock and chirp of midday birds.
Finally, peace!
Slowly, he drug head up from his desk and instantly locked eyes with the one person remaining in the room. "Mi-Mizushima-san?" The name left his mouth with distanced curiosity. "I know what Yukimura-sensei said... But I don't babysitter." Reiki rested his chin on his hand, and his elbow on the desk as he turned back to the window. "I'll find my own way, so... Go eat lunch with your friends."
She had shattered his illusion of solitude. The transfer student closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
Will I ever just be alone?
I'll reply later today.
Griah Sandwysper stood in the center of a defeated camp, windblown sand buffeting her face; the wind always followed her where ever she went--a sun-warmed breezy reminder of her connection to the Great Worm. Bodies lay swollen in the desert sun, picked by vultures and a feast for the lesser worms. Many of them were half-buried in sweeping sand. Sandstone bricks were scattered, crumbled and burned. Whatever--or whoever--had passed through here surely had a great source of power. The Stormcaller and her followers--cultists of the Great Worm--began to search the bodies, but all of them had been looted. Only the rotting bodies themselves served as testament to their struggle.
She covered her mouth with a light linen scarf. "Create a funeral pyre for the bodies. Offer them up to the Great Worm."
-------------------------
Brom had already supped his fill. He was drunk and over-full, and the young prince had grown tired of listening to his brother flirt with Seralle, his brother’s bride-to-be. His drunken haze had affected his manners, and Brom propped his head up on his hand, both of his elbows resting on the table.
“Mmfph, I thought the Southerners were supposed to be great entertainers,” Brom Arten muttered to himself. “But I’m tired of their songs and I’m sick of their honeyed foods.” He pushed his plate away and stood up. Brom bowed to Seralle, and then to Brogan. “I’ve grown tired from all this merriment… I think I’ll test out the craftsmanship of these Southern beds!” He laughed drunkenly at his own joke before excusing himself from the feast.
The younger son of the Kingbreaker stumbled through the castle, lost in his thoughts. ‘I can’t believe Seralle actually likes my brother!’ He sulked. ‘The way she laughed at his jokes… And she finds him smart?! Unbelievable! …If only I had the chance to spend time with her alone… I could convince her-… Convince her-…’ Brom shook his head, appalled with himself. ‘What am I saying? Brogan is rightfully king—my family, my brother! He deserves to marry Seralle…’ The sounds of hushed voices roused him from his lovesickness.
‘Is that… Grey the Stolen? Who is he talking to?’ The northern prince stopped and leaned against the wall, eavesdropping. He could barely make out what they were saying.
“You know as well as I do that he’s not fit to rule. Something has to be done. Talking to him isn’t enough; he’s far too thickheaded for that… You know how royalty is. So sure of themselves… So positive they’re right… He needs someone to… Remind him what the important things are.”
She covered her mouth with a light linen scarf. "Create a funeral pyre for the bodies. Offer them up to the Great Worm."
Brom had already supped his fill. He was drunk and over-full, and the young prince had grown tired of listening to his brother flirt with Seralle, his brother’s bride-to-be. His drunken haze had affected his manners, and Brom propped his head up on his hand, both of his elbows resting on the table.
“Mmfph, I thought the Southerners were supposed to be great entertainers,” Brom Arten muttered to himself. “But I’m tired of their songs and I’m sick of their honeyed foods.” He pushed his plate away and stood up. Brom bowed to Seralle, and then to Brogan. “I’ve grown tired from all this merriment… I think I’ll test out the craftsmanship of these Southern beds!” He laughed drunkenly at his own joke before excusing himself from the feast.
The younger son of the Kingbreaker stumbled through the castle, lost in his thoughts. ‘I can’t believe Seralle actually likes my brother!’ He sulked. ‘The way she laughed at his jokes… And she finds him smart?! Unbelievable! …If only I had the chance to spend time with her alone… I could convince her-… Convince her-…’ Brom shook his head, appalled with himself. ‘What am I saying? Brogan is rightfully king—my family, my brother! He deserves to marry Seralle…’ The sounds of hushed voices roused him from his lovesickness.
‘Is that… Grey the Stolen? Who is he talking to?’ The northern prince stopped and leaned against the wall, eavesdropping. He could barely make out what they were saying.
“You know as well as I do that he’s not fit to rule. Something has to be done. Talking to him isn’t enough; he’s far too thickheaded for that… You know how royalty is. So sure of themselves… So positive they’re right… He needs someone to… Remind him what the important things are.”
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