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Oh good, you decided to drop gills, or Ambrose's changes would have been really redundant.

Huzzah! Posted. Sorry about that. I'm traveling AGAIN this week. This one was sudden and unexpected.
The ceremony was magical, and that was before any actual magic had happened. Ambrose followed the crowd like a lost lemming. His eyes fell between being transfixed on Freyja, the music, and his phone. Audrey’s stark [N] and Rowan’s dismissal of him started to hurt. Of course, he knew he should have been a bit more conversational with the former and expected nothing from the latter. Didn’t mean that his pride didn’t sting like alcohol applied directly to a wound. He pocketed his phone about the time the ceremony reached the crescendo.

When the force of the raft pushed ripples out and onto the shore, Ambrose went from highly amused to concerned. For a second he thought maybe New Hope was able to afford both pyrotechnics and hyrdotechnics, but it seemed more like the entire ceremony had gone awry. Logically, Ambrose assumed that maybe something happened with the raft. He inhaled, his chest tightening around the breath. Had he fucked something up? Was Freyja in trouble because of him? Was the entire town in trouble because he fucked up a raft? He glanced around to see everyone standing there, statue-still. It was eerie. He reached out to touch a woman’s shoulder and found that not even the fabric of her clothing moved with the force.

Music thrummed around him. It reminded him of cranking the bass up enough his chest reverberated with the sound. Yet, this was everywhere. The music flowed into him and through him. A chorus of voices singing something—haunting… macabre. “What is ‘yolk bicker’?” About that time, Brown shot off from his side and ran full force towards the lake.

Ambrose’s gaze followed the line of panic toward the lake that seemed to be reaching out, wanting to consume the people around it. Freyja was in trouble. His friend ran towards danger. The music pounded in his head. People were frozen around him. Ambrose went to take a step forward and follow in Brown’s footsteps, but his knees felt like gelatin and his heart seized in his chest. His lungs forgot how to function, and he couldn't get it past his tongue when he tried to force a breath down. The static and lights fizzled on the side of his vision. He didn’t want to be here. He wasn’t scared of what was happening around him, but of what was happening within him. This is why he had a hard time sleeping. The medication that he took to ward this feeling away kept him awake. He hated taking it. But he did, anyway. Anything to soothe the panic in his chest.

He looked up, arms shaking and breathing ragged, to see a tendril of the lake extended towards him. Fine. If this was it. At least it didn’t make any fucking sense. Ambrose shut his eyes tight and refused to open them.

His reality shifted and wobbled, and heat both worrying and comforting engulfed him until the atmosphere broke. It felt less as if he was in some watery purgatory and more on a solid surface. Ambrose lay prone only for a moment before he rocketed up with the speed of a dog hearing its food bowl filled. Air escaped his lungs for a second, he coughed, he wheezed, until he felt his throat open back up and he let in a gulping breath. Slowly, he opened his eyes not sure what he would see. And when he did see it, he was wildly unsure what he was looking at. This all looked… stupid.

“What the fuck?” he asked, still sitting. He then craned his head back to see a creature—a dragon—swiveling in the air. “What the fuck?” He glanced at the amalgamation of weirdos and freaks that surrounded him as he stood. “What the fuck?”

The conversation bubbled around him, and he recognized the voices. They were all people that he was familiar with, some more than others—and then there was Weasel. The fact that the Bilica was a monstrous ape made Ambrose laugh. He brought his hand to his mouth as he did, and an unfamiliar feeling hit him. He pulled his hand back to see that his digits were a blueish-greenish-purple with webbing between them. They were capped off by black, sharp nails. Ambrose yelled and tried to distance himself from his own hand. Upon doing so, he tripped over something else and landed back flat on his back. From underneath his form came a scaled tail with a fan-like fin on the bottom. A quick glance showed that he was mostly still intact. The same height and bulk as before but now the color of a Lisa Frank folder. He was barefooted, but his feet were equally webbed and strange. His ears felt weird against his head and touched them to find that they, too, were webbed. He honestly didn’t know where his ear was. This wasn’t it. Fingers slid down his neck and into a slit where it met his shoulder. It felt like trying to force yourself to vomit by siding your fingers into the back of your throat. He gagged. He didn’t know what those slits were, but his brain was more than confident with one word: gills. He was also greeted by long seafoam hair that curled around his face—and immediately found its way into his mouth. “Pfft…” he let out as he tried to get the strands off his tongue.

“As weird as this sounds, anyone got a scrunchie?”

B) What if he looked exactly the same, except carved out of like living granite or marble or something?

I think I figured it out. Since he's loveable and buff. His true self is an even purer form of that:

There's certainly merit in that idea, but I thought of something in a similar spirit.

A quick note, the patterns in her skin can change. It's kind of a mix of poison warning markings, like on snakes or frogs mentioned in the post, and a cuttlefish.


Oooooh. That's terrifying and badass.

I wrote entirely too much and I am extremely sorry. I pray you all can forgive me.

I really enjoy writing and do not expect/require any particular standard of length from anyone, for the record. I put this thing in the Casual section for a reason and that was just to have fun with people. This is quirk of me being me, not any sort of standard for the roleplay.


I loved reading that. It gave me quite the vibe. With your inspiration, I typed out the first half of my post in record time. Now I'm stuck on the back half just trying to decide what Ambrose looks like. Is he even hotter? Or do I go hard the opposite? His inner self is... SURPRISINGLY... more complicated. His outer self is just a hot, dumb rock someone put googly eyes on.
TRACE WHITLOCK
TRACE WHITLOCK
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"Need a hand? Ha. Ha. Fuck you."
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TRACE MARIE ROSE WHITLOCK
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APRIL 19TH, 2004 | 19 | WHITE & BRITISH INDIAN
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SINGLE | | BISEXUAL
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SUTTON LONDON | ENGLAND | UK

P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E
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M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S
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N O T E S
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S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S
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A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S
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H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || ARM MANIFESTATION (HECATONCHEIRES)
__PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION || ESOTERIC
__SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION || DYNAMIC

Trace is capable of spawning limbs out of the center of their back. Currently, they can spawn six in total. They are as long as Trace is and have the same marble hue as their skin. They have the same consistency as dense stones. They hit harder than flesh and bone, and each arm has the strength of a human at peak strength. They can also be combined into each other to make the power and size more exponential. Even going as far as creating one large arm capable of hitting like a truck.

They run purely off of instinct, much like one would control their hands to hold something but not each individual finger unless they put that much effort into it. This is something that Trace can do, but not for a long period of time and not for all six. They can be destroyed, and it doesn't harm Trace. Trace's ability might have the potential to grow in the number of arms, the power they contain, or both.

L I M I T A T I O N S || FINITE RESOURCE

Like most esoteric users, Trace has a limited amount of power that they can pull from. They can only form six arms a day, and once those arms are destroyed they can't respawn them until the next day. They also can't make more than six or change their length/width/power without combining them. Once someone knows the quantity and quality of them, it doesn't change. There are no surprises with the manifestation of their power, just in how they use them.

W E A K N E S S E S || FLESHY BITS

Despite Trace taking on the same pallor and consistency as their arms, they are not as sturdy as them. If one was to bypass the arms, Trace is just a normal teenager. They can be injured as easily as any other human. More so, there's no way for them to protect against anyone else's abilities. They don't have anything they can easily take care of. Except maybe wanting to carry all the bags in from a grocery trip at once.
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Y O U A W A K E I N T H E D E A D O F N I G H T, W H A T W O K E Y O U?

"Probably Terrence, my brotha, fuckin' his girlfriend--Tess. Because everyone in my fuckin' life has a 'T' name. I mean we're separated by a wall, but the flats in Sutton aren't known for their soundproofin'. Or any proofin' for that matter. If London had an earthquake, we'd already have our damn graves already dug. Anyway, unlike any otha horny boy, he doesn't wank off silently into a sock. The whole damn flat rattles. And my dad's bedroom is on the other side, and he snores louda than a construction site. So, it's up to me to silence this fuck around." They chuckle and run a hand through their colorless hair.

"I usually run into Trevor on the couch. We usually share an eye roll or two. I then would pound on the door, tellin' them to stop chokin' the cats. Tess usually says something that a dumb c--un--nk would say like: 'You're just jealous.' Yeah, like I would be jealous of some bitch fuckin' my brother. It's not Game of Thrones, here. And if that don't get 'em, I just turn up the thermostat. No one wants a slip 'n slide for a bed." They point at you, gliding the tip of their finger from your toes to the top of your head. "Yeah, you stopped writin' a while back ago. Can't blame you. My storytellin' skills are top-notch." They wink.

A D I S H E V E L E D S T R A N G E R A P P R O A C H E S Y O U A S K I N G F O R H E L P, H O W D O Y O U R E S P O N D?

"I give 'em a pound or two." They shrug. Considering how much they've spoken if asked about anything makes this short sentence seem weird to you. So, you inquire further. "Look, when you are lady presentin', and a stranger comes up to you askin' for help you just give 'em what you got and get the fuck out of there. They like to square their shoulders and lift their chins up, tryin' to spook yah into believin' that they will hurt you if you don't help. And if you don't, the nicest thing they'll do will be to call you a cunn-k and spit on you. The worst will be chasin' you down a dark alley and... you know. I like my organs on the inside."

They exhale, their bravado washing back onto their face. A smirk lights their red-painted lips. "That bein' said, and if this off the record, I'd fuck 'em up. I can, now, you know? Predators need an ass beatin' or two. Show 'em what it's like to beggin' for mercy on the ground." They lift up their hands, remember who they're talking to. "But, uh, just give 'em a couple of pounds. Then you don't have to do shit."

A N I N T R U D E R A L A R M H A S B E E N S E T O F F O N C A M P U S, H O W D O Y O U R E A C T?

"Look, I've already dug myself a grave here, so why not go out with a bang? I mean... with these answers. With the intrudas, I'd just use that time to hop out the window and have a smoke off campus. It's stressful bein' cramped up with all these..." they flatten their hand and shake it in the air as if they have no polite word for it, "...wankers.

"Would I be caught? Probably. Would I cave durin' interrogation? Maybe. Just matters how they decide to torture me, you know? I can put up with a lot of real shit music. My brothas back home absolutely loved that screamin' shit. That bein' said if they decided to crank up some Taylor Swift I'd be out.

"Don't get me wrong, it isn't because I dislike her music. It's just because they could do betta, you know? Play some out of tune garbage. Play those tones that make you wanna throw up. Don't play sad, rich, white girl music. It just tells me your heart ain't innit. I'll be puttin' us both out of our misery with givin' up the secrets." They shrug. "Which are none, because you wankers tells me nothin'."


C H A R A C T E R S H E E T A D D - O N S:
C H A R A C T E R S H E E T A D D - O N S:
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D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E
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Trace used to be a light brown-skinned human with black hair, brown eyes, and the ability to blush. When the viriumosis engaged with their hypergenes and triggered their change, they became wildly different. Their skin is marble white with dull pink undertones and blue veins. Their hair is a spider-silk white that has lost any whisper of volume that it might have had before. Their gums and nail beds are a postmortem shade of blue. While their stark pallor, not replicated in nature, would draw attention--it's their eyes that are a beacon of their hyperhuman state. Milky white and perfectly polished like two marbles. They have no vision problems, well except for having to wear shades more often than not. But staring at the sun is bad for you, anyway.

Their outfits and makeup only highlight this stark nature. Dark eyeshadow covers their lids while they wear androgynous or femme-leaning clothing in shades of black, gray, dark purple, and more black. While they are stuck in their school uniform most of the time, they try to make sure other aspects of their appearance are their own--without breaking the dress code. They're really tired of getting reprimanded for that. In the day-to-day, their style would be called "preppy goth."

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P E R S O N A L I T Y
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Trace is like a piece of pumice, that smells slightly of lavender and jasmine, that you run across your skin until it bleeds. They grew up around a rowdy set of boys that were barely fenced in by their father. Not that he couldn't be intimidating and strict when he wanted to be. But Thomas I was just happy to have his children. And, as such, Trace isn't without kindness. They respected the patriarch of their family even if they sometimes give him the teenage glower.

Beyond that, Trace is bound to speak their mind. Secrets are not something that they can keep. You'll know what they know when they know. They also hold no punches when it comes to their opinions. That doesn't mean that they don't like you. Hell, they can receive as good as they can give. The only thing that gets their hackles up is classism, bullying, and violence for the sake of violence. It has a time and place. And Trace isn't scared to get violent when the time and place are right.

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S K I L L S & T A L E N T S
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S K I L L || ATHLETICS

Trace was once on a fast track to joining a female footballer team in England. While they may have not gotten into London, one of the other teams would have definitely taken them. Despite that dream being derailed, they've kept up with their athleticism. They're still more than capable of playing the game along with many other physical activities. They may hate any form of gym, but they can do their laps while breaking a minimal sweat.

T A L E N T || INTIMIDATION

Look, they may stand shorter than average, and the whole pale thing definitely has been mistaken for being like porcelain. But once Trace opens their mouth, starts assessing a person, and then throws hands (literally), they can go from taking up a small part of the room to dominating it. It's definitely a byproduct of growing up with boys, being from the working class, and then being relentlessly persecuted.

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S U P P O R T I N G C A S T
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"Look, I'm not saying that I have friends in the MI6. But I'm not not saying that."
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WHITLOCK, THOMAS I || FATHER
WHITLOCK, THOMAS I || FATHER
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Thomas Whitlock was not born in Sutton London. He actually grew up in Birmingham with rich parents. One might know to look at him that there was something off about the current class he occupied. He served a good portion of his youth and young adulthood in the Royal Marines. He now works as a security contractor for a handful of jobs that are parliament adjacent. He met and fell in love with Pari at a party that one of his coworkers was hosting. It was love at first sight. He gave up all previously assumed notions of his class to love her. He had five children with her and was devastated after she passed. Not that one could tell to look at him. Always stoic. Always telling jokes with the most serious of tones. It's hard to tell. It's no surprise to assume that he definitely pulled strings to get Trace out of legal trouble and then the country. There are rumors that he does work with HELP on occasion.







R E L A T I O N S H I P S H E E T
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NEUTRAL || FRIENDS || BEST FRIENDS || § TENSE § || CRUSH || ENEMIES


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"Quote about Relationship."
NEUTRAL
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S U R N A M E, G I V E N || R E L A T I O N S H I P
S U R N A M E, G I V E N || R E L A T I O N S H I P
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Brown’s laughter ambushed Ambrose’s senses. He’d gotten distracted looking at the lights and the booths. This had been the first time he’d attended the festival, and he had to admit that for such a small, homey town, they’d gone out of their way to make things seem larger than life. Brown’s laughter caused Ambrose’s smile to ignite even further, going from a close-lipped smirk to showing off thousands of dollars of dental work and whitening treatments.

“A fool? That tracks. Audrey calls me the town idiot, constantly. I figure that you mean in a more positive way like a court jester, than the moron that shits in the well. Not that we have a town well to shit in. Though I imagine that this fair has at least a port-a-potty or two. Though, I guess that’d be more the town box that everyone shits in.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I think the analog—nope—anthology—comparison has gotten away from me.”

At the mention of Brown’s friend, Ambrose shrugged. “Wow. Are people getting drunk there instead of here? There are shiny lights here. There are just beer farts there. Well, I say let’s have fun without him. I’m sure I can beat whatever games they have lined up.” He lifted his arms up in a strong man pose and patted his bicep like it was a Pomeranian that had just learned how to fetch. He eyeballed one of the classic carnival games of hitting the hammer down on the target to make the weight go up to the bell. “Oh. There we go. Maybe we’ll win something. You can give it to Rowan or to your friend. Try to soothe his beer fart-burnt nostrils.”

Ambrose did check his phone about then, curious to see if Rowan had gotten back to him. It showed that they were unread. He narrowed his eyes at that. Then again, their relationship was just based on him paying her to make it seem like he was an academic. She probably assumed that he’d forgotten how to tie his shoelaces or something and muted him. No. Rowan was nice. She wasn’t like some of the other people that his mother had hired to try to make her son the shiniest diamond in the shit mine. Rowan was probably just caught up in the festivities and hadn’t seen her phone yet. Ambrose soothed his ego with that.

Though mentioning Audrey earlier reminded him that he hadn’t heard from her during this entire day. She was probably off doing something exciting, but what was more exciting than him? Nothing. So, he shot her a quick message before returning his attention to Brown.
[🍆?]

Sounds great! I'm out of town at a work thing, and I've been exhausted. I am hoping to get an Ambrose post out tonight just for the lulz.
Sawyer hunched over the desk in their quarters, pince-nez glasses clinging to dear life on the end of their nose. On top of the flat surface sat their hololight pad. They waved their hand over it, flipping forward a few images. They then referenced something written on actual paper in a—what was it called—leather-bound book. They hated touching it. It felt disgusting under their digits. Every time they pressed down on the pages to flatten them, they gagged a bit. They swallowed down the bile in the back of their throat as they went back to hololight pad. They compared it to a glass-tech board that they’d hung on the wall. It was pretty much the equivalent of a space-age markerboard except it took their scribbles and turned it into legible words. It also translated it, if that needed to happen as well. They pulled out their pulsing multi-light pen and tapped the end until they got to a fluorescent purple. They stood and drew a line between two articles.

“Well, Barty, touching that paper was worth it. I finally found a solid correlation between an old Imperial Law and the current ban on certain ‘fair trade’ music.” The robot cat, despite being made entirely of metal, paused in the licking of her stomach to eye Sawyer. She let out a pixelated yowl before returning to bathing her non-existent fur. The lawyer didn’t care, though. They instead turned back to the desk, took a seat again, and gingerly closed the book. It shut with a trembling grunt. “This thing is as old as Imperial rhetoric. One hard sneeze and it’ll lose its shit.” They chuckled at their joke, the scraping of Bartholomew’s metal tongue on her metal body filled the room.

It was about that time the ship shifted hard, and Sawyer fell face-first into their desk. The hololight pad shot off in a different direction, pinging against the wall and sliding across the floor. The glass-tech board was fine, having weathered Sawyer banging it across every archway to get it in their quarters. Bartholomew engaged her magnetic feet to stay in place like real cats did—Sawyer assumed. Most everything could be salvaged and rearranged, even the book. It slid off the table before thudding heavily on the ground. It was entirely intact. Sawyer exhaled, leaning down to grab it. Another twist of the ship, and it collided with Sawyer’s face, erupting into thousands of sheets of loose leaf paper—covering them in that horrid sensation.

Sawyer held back the vomit in their throat but knew it would be only a matter of time until their last dinner released itself from one of their stomachs. So, they bolted into the hallway, pages of the book coming after them like a trail of dust. They ran a hand over their shoulders and down their front, their long tail whipping to and fro, shaking the papers around with even more ferocity. They gritted their sharp teeth and oriented themselves toward the helm of the Guernica. Bartholomew trailed after them, having used her magnetic feet to scale the walls and follow them on the ceiling.

They burst into the helm of the ship, not knowing if their pilot was there or not but not caring. If they were yelling at no one, they could just repeat it later. For now, they had to let something out. “I swear to the space dust and the moons abound that you cannot pilot this damn rust bucket.” They threw their hands up, their perfectly tailored gold and black suit catching the light and scattering it around in a prismatic fashion. Why they were wearing that to research a case would baffle anyone. They looked more like they were about to attend a business meeting or a very corporate ball. “Are you driving it with your ass?”

𝙏𝘼𝙂(𝙎) @TGM (If Ellisia is there)
𝙇𝙊𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 The Helm
@psych0pomp You telling me Ambrose knows who David Cronenberg is?


Hey. He's got like two things, and one of them is pop culture. He's a bit of a cinephile. He's not a cultured cinephile. He's not going to Cannes Film Festival or anything. But, when he says "Netflix and Chill," you'll be watching Netflix. Also, it's a fun way for him to reference life through a universally understood lens.
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