I have to decide on a character idea to go with, but, I'm more than likely in.
Noxious Member
ᴅ ᴇ ᴀ ᴅ ish
STATUS: I wanted lemon for the vodka so we built a greenhouse across from the library where all the books on summoning the apocalypse and proper hallucinogen etiquette sit. Sweden is lovely this time of year. 8 yrs ago
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- Old Guild Username: Noxious
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8 yrs ago
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I wanted lemon for the vodka so we built a greenhouse across from the library where all the books on summoning the apocalypse and proper hallucinogen etiquette sit. Sweden is lovely this time of year.
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8 yrs ago
Writer's block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol. -Steve Martin
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9 yrs ago
I want to leave this world the same way I came in; screaming and covered in someone else's blood.
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9 yrs ago
You would rather have a Lexus, some justice, a dream or some substance? / A Beamer, a necklace or freedom? -Dead Prez
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I should have a post up tomorrow!
In
Cinis or: how I learned to stop worrying and worship the elder gods.
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8 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
I'm keeping an eye on this, but don't *necessarily* count me in just yet. I have to see how I am with time constraints in other RPs.
Or those who choose to use the status bar as a place for spam could just post in spam.
I second this.
A B O A R D T H E S H Y P // T H E C A N A L
The twisted amalgamation of pixie and shadow despised confinement in its myriad of forms; interment, hospitalization, forced limitations, and bonds [especially bonds]. The consuming feeling that washed over in reaction to such wasn’t a weak compulsion that caused the girl to skulk and tremble. Rather it was one that baited a repressed inner ferocity better left buried within the web of a shattered soul. Something woven together by the mutation and union of two nefarious counterparts. And it was this unassailable block in her character that the simpleton goons tempted when they informed her to “strap in”. Having replicated this conversation previously there was little conviction and the flash of distaste received only a shrug as they left her to her whims, as childish as they may appear.
There was something else too, something that had soured her previous gleeful disposition and perched upon delicate features since the briefing-- an entwinement of contemplation, turmoil and sorrow tangled inextricably. The labyrinth of her agitation, an emotion not hijacked but purely created, beckoned both chatter and acknowledgment to curl into the inky recess. She allowed a traipsing through self without complete detachment from reality. Thankfully, no one seemed inclined to chat. Two of the bo-shuriken were removed from their place at her wrists. They idly twirled about between slender and arching digits, mingling with wisps of shadow and phasing in and out of focus in her attempt to steady sub-conscious ruminations.
The sudden lurch in the shyps steady rhythm brought her back into focus in a feat of clarity usually only accomplished by the nasal candy dipping from around her neck into the covetous possession of her cleavage. The initial drop in altitude was severe enough to heave her forward onto the floor, fortuitous in terms of warning for what was to come. She’d been forced from bed by the burly palms of orderlies enough that gravity stood little chance when instincts had her spearing above her head with the two bo-shuriken and gouging in with obstinacy born unto both facets of being. Military grade points buried themselves past the metal barrier of the chair that had pitched her from habitation. Slender claws tightened about the makeshift anchors to the degree of eliminating blood flow that ordinarily emerged in a pale rose tint. As the shyp’s gravitational center shifted again with grotesque vibrations and melodies, joining the already piercing buzzers, cadaverous coiled fingers untensed and allowed her to rotate her entire constitution 180 degrees before digits returned to their latching grasp. A prickling began between her hearing as xcavairn started in with a grating cackle, the cruelty of a friend in times of woe.
“Such an assh----” She’d momentarily reverted to tonalities gritted between teeth instead of within their abode; but thoughts, words and meaning shattered as the shyp slammed into the water. Aeon infused durability: test seventy four. Her modest stature lurched, barely maintaining her grip, and then rebounded while settling with such force that her rib cage collided with the seat and the oxygen was thoroughly sucked from within and leaving the girl momentarily breathless. It was likely at least one of her ribs had cracked, a slight nuisance that she failed to notice once she caught her breath and surveyed their surroundings. The clutter, disarray and emotions sweeping about the personnel and weapons hold barely registered, not while there was frigid water saturating everything.
Adrenaline began to work itself into every fiber of her being, coursing through her and gracing her movements with a darting twitch as she scanned the enclosed space. Something was splintering, as if the icy water ruptured a piece of her mind and coaxed her towards frenzy. She attempted to ground herself, lashing out for other’s emotions to stabilize but the chaos within and without battled against her. It was too late for cohesive thought, for civility. And it was a chilling display as those pale vacant eyes shifted into something pleading, a child lost and vulnerable and then a web shattered across her pupils like molten gunmetal devouring their hue. Dark brows were pulled downward as her features drifted towards profane exaltations.
Spider-like digits suddenly ripped the bo-shuriken from their placement and used them to scale the wall, or was it the floor? Ceiling? It mattered not as she divested her entirety into escaping the water. As the ship righted and began to truly flood, Amentia stabbed higher, a pointless struggle of animalistic intuition that would yield no conclusion of peace. The others were paid little attention, until she saw their means of escape… through the water. Lips curled back into a cringing feral hiss. The tenobricity of shadow licked and tainted her pale skin, carving itself from her silhouette into her being-- a cornered predator latching onto its last option.
She pawed at the faceless perpetrator, claws useless after her early assault had removed the privilege and terminated the nails down to the quick. She was powerless again. A frail heiress erased from memory and history with little recompense to lash out at the dull grays of the world that strangled her, determined to extinguish the blossoming decay of civility. Then she was alone, leather straps confining her beneath water as her throat grew sore from abhuman howls littered with malicious threats and omens of disease and termination. There was no time, not in dreams, not in nightmares, and definitely not in the asylum. A ticking clocking would only provide stability to those it influenced, and there was no such creature within these walls.
The hallway yawned before her, and her soaking feet swarmed with the shadows that engulfed each treacherous corner. A light flashed overhead, a strobe signaling the release of each latch on every pen of the damned. They swung wildly into the hall, once again dark and bleeding hues of ebony, crimson and juniper devouring all other coloration. She attempts to move forward but the flimsy white gown, still dripping and algid, tangles about her and suffocates like a straight jacket. She wants to squeeze her eyes shut, to be gone from this place, this heathen fairy-tale where the monsters capture the princess and the world rejoices in its loss, but there will be no such reprieve. Her sight blazes true, the wicked must play witness, must view the slaughter and torment of purgatory. The promise of eternity bound here sears itself like a lobotomy behind her eyes and the smell drifts from her own nostrils of brain matter infected and cauterized.
A girl, so helpless, precious, skips from one of the doorways. The movements are slow, as if looped to provide minimal progression in an action that appears to recall the opposite. Amentia squints, trying to decipher a dwelling recognition as the girl grows closer. Then the image flickers and the girl is standing at her side and facing the wall so that it is still a struggle to place the child in convoluted and hazy memory. There is something familiar. Was she not forced to stare into the abyss of that very wall? Count for time out, the elusive key of purgatory that dangled just beyond one hundred. And she would choose the imperfections of abuse displayed prominently upon the walls to keep her numbers straight; abuses towards both the property and those within its servitude. But why could she never move beyond eighty three? There were numbers beyond this but they stole them from her.
She had briefly forgotten the child and now as she turned back towards the flickering form it was facing her and she knew whose face it held. You had to look beyond the bleeding and gouged pits, bottomless voids where eyes should have been placed, but she knew. It was her. She once again attempted to reach out for herself but the fledgling versions mouth twisted into a noiseless scream and arachnids poured from the cavity. From their abdomens spun radiant silk that lit past her captivity and warmed a soul she thought had grown still and cold with death.
The small child extended her hand and Amentia was finally able to take it. She smiled, and it was mirrored on her own face. A soothing feeling of rising took her from this place, and for the first time, she felt a tinge of sadness at the departure.
She was once again encompassed by darkness, and at first it was hard to distinguish where the other world ended and reality started. She had returned to a bit of normality, losing the infection of consuming aeon and panic. She still didn't look pleased, especially not as the cold water splashed against her face, though it was an omen of reality. Fingers circled back and forth through the water to keep her afloat and she felt a dull ache in limbs momentarily sore from the loss of adrenaline and the tumultuous fall from the sky. Another sure sign of reality. Pupils adjusted, expanding into her blanched iris and allowing her to pick out the bobbing heads of her fellow SOLDIERs and she heard Samm yell something about enemies at the shore. She tried to train her focus, but the distance was too great and so she deemed it beneficial to await orders or cues from one of the others that she began to make her way towards.
There was something else too, something that had soured her previous gleeful disposition and perched upon delicate features since the briefing-- an entwinement of contemplation, turmoil and sorrow tangled inextricably. The labyrinth of her agitation, an emotion not hijacked but purely created, beckoned both chatter and acknowledgment to curl into the inky recess. She allowed a traipsing through self without complete detachment from reality. Thankfully, no one seemed inclined to chat. Two of the bo-shuriken were removed from their place at her wrists. They idly twirled about between slender and arching digits, mingling with wisps of shadow and phasing in and out of focus in her attempt to steady sub-conscious ruminations.
The sudden lurch in the shyps steady rhythm brought her back into focus in a feat of clarity usually only accomplished by the nasal candy dipping from around her neck into the covetous possession of her cleavage. The initial drop in altitude was severe enough to heave her forward onto the floor, fortuitous in terms of warning for what was to come. She’d been forced from bed by the burly palms of orderlies enough that gravity stood little chance when instincts had her spearing above her head with the two bo-shuriken and gouging in with obstinacy born unto both facets of being. Military grade points buried themselves past the metal barrier of the chair that had pitched her from habitation. Slender claws tightened about the makeshift anchors to the degree of eliminating blood flow that ordinarily emerged in a pale rose tint. As the shyp’s gravitational center shifted again with grotesque vibrations and melodies, joining the already piercing buzzers, cadaverous coiled fingers untensed and allowed her to rotate her entire constitution 180 degrees before digits returned to their latching grasp. A prickling began between her hearing as xcavairn started in with a grating cackle, the cruelty of a friend in times of woe.
You are not going to like this.
“Such an assh----” She’d momentarily reverted to tonalities gritted between teeth instead of within their abode; but thoughts, words and meaning shattered as the shyp slammed into the water. Aeon infused durability: test seventy four. Her modest stature lurched, barely maintaining her grip, and then rebounded while settling with such force that her rib cage collided with the seat and the oxygen was thoroughly sucked from within and leaving the girl momentarily breathless. It was likely at least one of her ribs had cracked, a slight nuisance that she failed to notice once she caught her breath and surveyed their surroundings. The clutter, disarray and emotions sweeping about the personnel and weapons hold barely registered, not while there was frigid water saturating everything.
Adrenaline began to work itself into every fiber of her being, coursing through her and gracing her movements with a darting twitch as she scanned the enclosed space. Something was splintering, as if the icy water ruptured a piece of her mind and coaxed her towards frenzy. She attempted to ground herself, lashing out for other’s emotions to stabilize but the chaos within and without battled against her. It was too late for cohesive thought, for civility. And it was a chilling display as those pale vacant eyes shifted into something pleading, a child lost and vulnerable and then a web shattered across her pupils like molten gunmetal devouring their hue. Dark brows were pulled downward as her features drifted towards profane exaltations.
Spider-like digits suddenly ripped the bo-shuriken from their placement and used them to scale the wall, or was it the floor? Ceiling? It mattered not as she divested her entirety into escaping the water. As the ship righted and began to truly flood, Amentia stabbed higher, a pointless struggle of animalistic intuition that would yield no conclusion of peace. The others were paid little attention, until she saw their means of escape… through the water. Lips curled back into a cringing feral hiss. The tenobricity of shadow licked and tainted her pale skin, carving itself from her silhouette into her being-- a cornered predator latching onto its last option.
Don’t worry little one, I’ll take care of you.
And then it all went black for a moment.
And then it all went black for a moment.
She pawed at the faceless perpetrator, claws useless after her early assault had removed the privilege and terminated the nails down to the quick. She was powerless again. A frail heiress erased from memory and history with little recompense to lash out at the dull grays of the world that strangled her, determined to extinguish the blossoming decay of civility. Then she was alone, leather straps confining her beneath water as her throat grew sore from abhuman howls littered with malicious threats and omens of disease and termination. There was no time, not in dreams, not in nightmares, and definitely not in the asylum. A ticking clocking would only provide stability to those it influenced, and there was no such creature within these walls.
The hallway yawned before her, and her soaking feet swarmed with the shadows that engulfed each treacherous corner. A light flashed overhead, a strobe signaling the release of each latch on every pen of the damned. They swung wildly into the hall, once again dark and bleeding hues of ebony, crimson and juniper devouring all other coloration. She attempts to move forward but the flimsy white gown, still dripping and algid, tangles about her and suffocates like a straight jacket. She wants to squeeze her eyes shut, to be gone from this place, this heathen fairy-tale where the monsters capture the princess and the world rejoices in its loss, but there will be no such reprieve. Her sight blazes true, the wicked must play witness, must view the slaughter and torment of purgatory. The promise of eternity bound here sears itself like a lobotomy behind her eyes and the smell drifts from her own nostrils of brain matter infected and cauterized.
A girl, so helpless, precious, skips from one of the doorways. The movements are slow, as if looped to provide minimal progression in an action that appears to recall the opposite. Amentia squints, trying to decipher a dwelling recognition as the girl grows closer. Then the image flickers and the girl is standing at her side and facing the wall so that it is still a struggle to place the child in convoluted and hazy memory. There is something familiar. Was she not forced to stare into the abyss of that very wall? Count for time out, the elusive key of purgatory that dangled just beyond one hundred. And she would choose the imperfections of abuse displayed prominently upon the walls to keep her numbers straight; abuses towards both the property and those within its servitude. But why could she never move beyond eighty three? There were numbers beyond this but they stole them from her.
She had briefly forgotten the child and now as she turned back towards the flickering form it was facing her and she knew whose face it held. You had to look beyond the bleeding and gouged pits, bottomless voids where eyes should have been placed, but she knew. It was her. She once again attempted to reach out for herself but the fledgling versions mouth twisted into a noiseless scream and arachnids poured from the cavity. From their abdomens spun radiant silk that lit past her captivity and warmed a soul she thought had grown still and cold with death.
The small child extended her hand and Amentia was finally able to take it. She smiled, and it was mirrored on her own face. A soothing feeling of rising took her from this place, and for the first time, she felt a tinge of sadness at the departure.
...but where would you be without me...
She was once again encompassed by darkness, and at first it was hard to distinguish where the other world ended and reality started. She had returned to a bit of normality, losing the infection of consuming aeon and panic. She still didn't look pleased, especially not as the cold water splashed against her face, though it was an omen of reality. Fingers circled back and forth through the water to keep her afloat and she felt a dull ache in limbs momentarily sore from the loss of adrenaline and the tumultuous fall from the sky. Another sure sign of reality. Pupils adjusted, expanding into her blanched iris and allowing her to pick out the bobbing heads of her fellow SOLDIERs and she heard Samm yell something about enemies at the shore. She tried to train her focus, but the distance was too great and so she deemed it beneficial to await orders or cues from one of the others that she began to make her way towards.
I'll be posting tomorrow as long as nothing crazy happens.
I posted and I'm going to go ahead and apologize, it was a little rushed and not my best, but I really didn't want to hold you up. My next one will be better.
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