Noxious

Staring Back with Chrome Eyes [Vampire Horror/Cyberpunk]

Someone could be an adrenaline junkie.

Staring Back with Chrome Eyes [Vampire Horror/Cyberpunk]

hmph. If you aren't inspired you aren't inspired, but if you are just looking for a little nudge I can most definitely try and help you out. Really you just have to think about what advancements you would want to fight vampires. ALSO, no one has yet to create a *magically inclined* character.

PM me if you want to chat. Either way good luck. :D

Staring Back with Chrome Eyes [Vampire Horror/Cyberpunk]

I'm going to go a knowledge seeker type. I'm thinking of going hacker that gets implants to eliminate a middle man, allowing her brain to hack wireless systems. This allows her an immense amount of knowledge, but the tech burned through her retinas. No bother, she implanted a wireless viewing device into the burnt out retinas, plus has access to the multitude of surveillance equipment littering the world. I am most definitely going to add in the negative effects of being wired.

Staring Back with Chrome Eyes [Vampire Horror/Cyberpunk]

You're amazing, so you have my interest also.

Rum and Madness

I want this RP back. Or a variation of this RP.

The Silver Leaves; A Northern Crusade.

Memories of the night before trickled in.
Her head pulled back in a hungry howl moments before she struck her first target. Their bodies collided and she wrapped her arms about the other rookie. She snarled down at him as his own fierce will met her cheek in the form of a tightly pulled fist.

Her head lashed to the side after the blow but she only seemed to turn wilder, pressing one arm against his throat while the other battled against his unpinned arm. He needed to tap out. She could smell the faint hint of fear strongly masked in valor as she snarled against the sweaty nape of his neck. She pressed her arm hard against his windpipe. Cowl, accept dominance—these thoughts burned through her eyes and mannerism.

His fist hit the ground, angry yet beaten, still riddled with giddy adrenaline. Submission. She darted into the woods to acquire more wounds, more submissions. The night screamed a warrior rapturous beat.

Her morning begun in an absorbedly languid manner. As soon as light began to nuzzle upon the dark skyline, lids perked open. The sun had not yet begun to sprinkle glints of expression across the ocean during the calm and muted time in the morning. The leaves above crinkled in her vision, glistening between a sleepy silver and a dawn dulled green. She knew there was no real chaos at this gate, a man stood alert and watchful not 15 feet to her elevated right. She sniffed at the air, smelling her comrades of the Forest Gate, the thick mold of the cyclical land, and the dew from the coastal night nuzzling in the breasts of the organisms around her. She wished the great city didn’t taint her track on Silver Leaves, and those present. Though, she was thankful that the smells did not hint at intruders. She wasn’t in the mood today for battle.

The birds rustled awake to catch that defiant time particular worm just as she too began to curl and ruffle her still tense muscles. Her eyes opened wide for the first time. Pupils twitched and accommodated quickly and her glance instinctually traveled the length of the branch and into the bucket they called home when guarding the Forest Gate, property of the Silver Leaves; specifically, Drui’Maori, a branch of the Silver Leaves designated to dwell in the outer forest expanse of the Silver Leaves.

She rubbed her hands across the warm bark, confirming her bearings before tensing her arms and popping her wrists. She rolled her shoulders against the large tree frame, ridging her back against a few bruised muscles. She licked a pointed tongue across her lip and tasted blood. She was fully awake now and the dull throbbing hangover tempted both memory and numbness, but she remembered. The hum of the night still vibrated through her body, aching now more than thrilling without the bass of adrenaline.

The game was tradition. Anyone who chose to join the Forest Guard, even if it was just transitional, played the game. They called it “Capture Their Flag”. They divided the Drui’Maori involved and split the “rookies” amongst the teams and played war. It kept them alert. It kept them aware. There was intelligence in the games that those playing most assuredly failed to grasp. Yes, there was a large enough percentage of the population of Silver Leaves that preferred isolation and the dense forest that populating the ranks of the Drui’Maori was not difficult, but it could become dull. Just like any section of Silver Leaves there was expected awareness. The games enforced an ongoing awareness. A practiced knowledge and tact. An enemy in the flesh to placate the forever mental game of waiting.

She relaxed her muscles and curled upward until she was sitting on the branch, creating the gentle clicking caw of the Randabird to entice her fellow watcher. He nodded in affirmation, but didn’t turn back towards her. He was watching something. His demeanor almost appeared tense. She rose to grab the branch above her and peek over his head with her added height. Her form was crisscrossed with stains of greens and grays, some permanently tattooed circular and linear centric patterns, while other colors could be attributed to stitched clothing and the grime of two days watch. She would have giggled then, if that was something her people did, but the sound that escaped her was an ecstatic chipper all the same. She rushed to the veteran Drui’Maori Guhlaures’ side.

“Now?”

The seasoned watcher looked down at the odd little wild’har. There was still blood staining the mahogany of her cheeks. Neither of them were sure if it was hers. “Perhaps they realized you skipped orientation?” A gentle smile flirted with appearing on his brutish countenance, but then his expression went stern, exerting a bred dominance. “It’s changing of the guard, not for us to question. Good luck.”

As they headed back to camp the mood seemed somber, but knowing glances shared among the group hinted that they were anxious, still the wired adrenaline junkies. Lin’s rival from the previous night lunged a playful push at her side. He connected and she barely stepped for a save, glaring back at him with a joking smile that barely masked the dominant “haha-okay-you got me-don’t you do it again” inflection.

They were all tired. They had switched to a schedule that was not nocturnal, nor was it diurnal. It was something that they were not promised or forced into. As sleep and death, loathed and relished. There were four of them in all that had been relived in the changing, Lin and two others were rookies. The veteran made his way towards the mess hall so the other three subconsciously followed. The two boys talking steadily while Lin walked just a step before them. They seemed to be speculating on the reason for their sudden recall. Lin watched her surroundings; sniffed at the air: the wafts of the mess hall, the body fluids that couldn’t be burned out of the surrounding land. She allowed her gaze to roam, briefly assessing those around them, ranking her status, ranking their status together. Her thoughts rarely varied beyond physical verses.

As they entered the mess hall the Veteran's direction changed towards the higher ranking enclave. Lin and her two companions walked into the mess hall as a unit, still thriving off the games, off the woods. Their senses were still attuning to the obvious social nature of the mess hall and with the added dominant influence of Lin the pack like mannerisms riddled the group. Once they had some food they allocated a table, none sitting in a common fashion but rather a variety of stances. Crastel, the smaller human that made an excellent tracker and was sneaky as a mouse, knew his place among the more brutish new friends. He crouched over his plate. His exhaustion showed more than the other two. Dalk, the glory hungry idiot who left her cheek still aching straddled his seat, picking at his food as well as Crastel’s, when the latter became distracted with exhaustion. Lin leaned with the wall against her back, resting against long beaded dreadlocks that hung from her head. She knew she would need to sleep soon, she could feel it in the weight her body pressed against itself.

She watched for Iano while picking at her food. The other two dared not touch the unguarded plate that rested on the table in front of all of them. She was thinking about last night. She was thinking about war. She was thinking about food and sleep, but she wasn’t thinking about why they had come back earlier than expected…even though that is all her companions seemed to be talking about. She wasn’t listening anyways.

Fairytale Noir: New Arcadia

stagprince said
I put dibs on Goldilocks and Papa Bear!!! I'm writing up an app for them both right now and I'm already halfway done heh

Hahaha. I wrote a mini blurb about Goldi suffering from narcolepsy and going to meeting to deal with her breaking and entering issues. I'm excited to see what you come up with. So many ideas, so little time. You are welcome to have Goldilocks living in the Forest, but then you have to worry about the Wolves. ;)

The Silver Leaves; A Northern Crusade.

I'm going to post up tonight. Sorry *cough cough* I got sick, but this is priority one my lovelies.

Fairytale Noir: New Arcadia

Little Red

Name: Manya Hood; aka Red, Little Red, Wolf Manya, Wolf M

Age: 22



Skills/Traits:

She’s handy with a 9mm and she isn’t too bad with improvisational weaponry either. Rumor is she once decapitated a man by wrapping a guitar string around his neck and pushing all her body weight off his shoulder blades after riding him about the room howling like an idiot. Her true life passion culminates in a big bang; semtex to bouncing bombs, petrol to pipe, smoke to Molotov, she dabbled in them all. Lawfully inept. While she isn’t necessarily loyal, she is dependent…and dependency is much more dependable. Boosted physicality and multiple limitations expanded on below. She is well connected and well protected within the deep confines of Forest, on a lower floor of the Towers, a sordid place where B.B. Woolfe himself is rumored to reside...along with other terrifying denizens of Forest used to keep kids praying at night.

Personality:

There are 3 levels of Red’s personality. With the assistance of the drug, from which she loaned her name, RED she can be calm, low key and almost sweet. She is most likely to not remember occurrences outside of this state. Another downfall at initial dose is an almost Xanax like Zen, which is inappropriate in the Forest. The in between stage is house trained. Conniving, manipulative, with her true business savvy shinning threw. This phase can be susceptible to paranoia and drastic mood swings. The last of her personalities is vicious, cruel and imaginative in all the wrong fields. Self-control isn’t apparent and most memory blocks occur during this time. She also becomes susceptible to hallucinations. Her personality always contains an undercurrent of righteousness. She believes she is one of the evils required to eliminate the rest and allow the marginalized to flourish.

History:

The older people recalled a time when the neighborhood of Forest Trails was thriving and beautiful. The shop windows didn’t require thick metal bars and the landscaping didn’t consist of discarded condoms, needles, and broken 40 oz. bottles. The high rises had attendees and cops didn’t mind stopping to help out a lost kid, but the cops rarely came this way anymore and the high rises had officially been deemed section 8. If there was any order left it came down from the Wolves, run by B.B. Woolfe, or from the rebellious goody goodies that operated out of the Sherwood building.

So I guess Red’s story started there, but then again, this story really starts with Grandma. Grandma wasn’t really anyone’s Grandma, as far as Red knew anyways. She was just an older lady that accepted a bit of cash to watch the younger children whose parents couldn’t be bothered with such things. Grandma didn’t bother too much either, but she was present physically and that seemed to count for something. It counted for the government checks.

You’d think growing up in this kind of environment would make a young girl hyper aware, but Manya wasn’t much for details. She seemed to wander about with her head in the clouds. Little Manya. Sweet little thing. Cute as a button. She played hopscotch over the homeless, whistling sweet tunes as she brought Grandma’s prescription. You see, Grandma rarely left the house. She padlocked the door, drew the shades, departed her mind with the help of a little crystal and relied on the children in her care to do her bidding. But Grandma wasn’t a bad person, per say. She could be a little rude and little distant, but Manya didn’t think she deserved to die. Manya was actually quite fond of the elderly lady.

But Manya was too young to understand the complex relationships that dwelled in the darkness of Forest, which bred in Forest. No one talks about it, so it’s hard to say when Grandma’s selective blindness began to cover the teeth and claws sneaking about little Manya. The Wolves no longer counted on Grandma to pay her heavy debts, but put the weight between the thighs of a girl whom grew more and more divided with every passing day. For years the girl lived in a dark hell, where the safety of home at times reeked of crystal and the sweat of wolves, with a caregiver occasionally baking cookies and helping with macaroni art and then Grandma would cower away and the Wolves would come. Manya learned to change too. Her mind twisted about her environment inserting seeds of a fairytale. The Wolves were her home. Later, in the institute, they would try and tell her that these men were bad. What did they know? The cops who took her away---they were bad. The Judge that sentenced her, he was bad. The Wolves were her family, but I get ahead of myself.

No one had to talk about that day 7 years ago to remember it. When the good hunter of the Arcadia law enforcement arrived to respond to the call of a young girl, there was no one in the house with enough humanity left to save. He removed the body of young Red, but it wasn’t Manya anymore. There had been a snap, an awakening, a birth and a death. Multiple deaths actually, and only one of them was metaphorical. Grandma’s head was bent upward, eyes large in surprise. A resinated glass pipe was broken into her jaw where little shards twinkled from her gums giving the appearance of rather large canines. The bodies of two wolves were originally thought to be hacked apart, but the Autopsy revealed that death had occurred after multiple gunshot wounds and the fire axe wounds transpired post mortem.

The state ruled the child mentally unfit, but they didn’t call it a sentence, they simply placed her in the care of the L. Carroll Psychiatric Institute. Initially they diagnosed her with dissociative amnesia. At times it seemed the little girl didn’t remember any of the accident and she asked after Grandma. Other times she clearly understood that she had slaughtered Grandma and showed no remorse, nor even any consideration for the emotion. On a few instances she was incoherent and violent. The amnesia seemed to have no pattern of existence and talking about the event immediately triggered a change in incarnation of Manya. They eventually diagnosed it as Dissociative Identity Disorder and prescribed her pills that made her only two steps from catatonia. Her release at the age of 15 went mostly unnoticed by the good citizens as she slipped back into the hands of the Wolves. The whole situation wasn’t necessarily legal, but then again, they couldn’t just keep her sedated forever.

She was placed in the care of some older Wolves. They were not relevant. Everything they did was just orders handed down from above and they cared as little for her as she for them. But they switched her medication to RED, and for that she was as grateful as the tormented little thing could be. They trained her to defend herself, but soon she wanted more. She wanted her people to have an option for safety, but if not, then she wanted everyone to stare out fearful from bared windows. Maybe then they would care about the woes of the Forest. Only then would they care. B.B. took this seed of goodness and blossomed it into a Freedom Fighter ideal. He had always had a knack for blowing houses down and why shouldn’t he pass this on? She learned how to build bombs, minor at first. Even a firecracker could be beautiful and destructive, when well placed…but soon she had surpassed even B.B. and was acquiring contacts in an array of fields from EMPS to radioactive materials. The latter was still a touchy subject of which she was exceedingly secretive. It is rumored that she is only studying the dirty bomb ideals and has yet to actually cross that governmental line that may put her on Most Wanted.

The acquisition of the surname Hood can be entirely blamed on the all-around Captain Save A Hoe personality of Mr. Robert “Rob” N. Hood. They met in court mandated N.A., Red later realizing that Rob attended the meeting as community outreach and not as an actual member. He said things like “make love” and brought her pancakes in bed. They were young. Reckless. Married at the Enchanted Forest Inn and divorced at the civil works Sherwood building all inside a year. Red believed that B.B. Woolfe had threatened Rob and perhaps he had; but it was deflective of her to ignore the deep rooted issues she carried around like a basket. The place where they divorced became the real beginning for Rob, he practically runs the place now; fighting a by any means necessary war against civil issues. In the end, they were just different types of rebels.

She kept the last name but otherwise moved on. She found plenty to keep busy. She accepted a full time position amongst the Wolves. If you rely on someone for sanity; better a willing servant than a chained slave. Weapons, sex, homicide; doing and selling. She rose in ranks, gaining turf and minions within the Wolves. B.B. liked her. She was forever chained to the RED, and he held the leash, so what was not to like? Plus, there was something that twinkled behind her sweet façade, a secret that he felt was like only he knew. Of course, Rob Hood had seen the same glimmer…and so had Grandma….and perhaps even the Fox.

RephurExterDisosix (RED):

Common use is a hallucinogenic, though it was initially intended for use as an antipsychotic. Its side effects include heightened metabolic and muscle development, as well as isolated surges in certain senses. Either increasing or persistent gaps in memory. One dose usually lasts for a period of 24-48 hours, though dosage is dependent on desired effect and user.

I don’t mind if someone wants to NPC interaction with the Wolves at any point. If you decide to create your own Wolf just PM me and I can switch some stuff and/or enlighten you on my vision. Really that goes with all my NPCs.

Impersonating YouTube Comments

Doivid said
nah he was joking, it's cool.and even if he wasn't the word doesn't bother me.

This is why I need to stop spamming and drinking.

u.u;