- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Raid
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 319 (0.08 / day)
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Username history
- Raid 11 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
9 yrs ago
Current
GOLDEN WEEK.
Bio
Yo, folks.
Call me Raid. I don't care about pronouns. I'm kinda curious which one ya choose anyways.
I've been role playing since...jeez, I guess about a decade now. I've learned that I care more about: action, adventure, sci-fi, fantasy, plot execution and wicked characters. I'm pretty much always up to role play, though I work full time. I'm a once a week post kinda person unless I have a break from work. Then, it might be every day. I currently live in Japan, though I'm from the USA. So time zone wonkiness happens as well.
Call me Raid. I don't care about pronouns. I'm kinda curious which one ya choose anyways.
I've been role playing since...jeez, I guess about a decade now. I've learned that I care more about: action, adventure, sci-fi, fantasy, plot execution and wicked characters. I'm pretty much always up to role play, though I work full time. I'm a once a week post kinda person unless I have a break from work. Then, it might be every day. I currently live in Japan, though I'm from the USA. So time zone wonkiness happens as well.
Most Recent Posts
Haven't heard much from Fennick. So I'm not sure what he's/we go going on. If we don't end up collabing I'm probably gunna post last.
In
[Advanced] In which there is nothing. (Alice in Wonderland spin-off)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
I based this story off of Tim Burton's rendition of Alice in Wonderland. I suggest you be familiar with the movie if you wish to indulge in this role play. The Lewis Carroll books are entirely optional to have been read.
Other things of note:
***This plot is not complete. There are gaps existing, but that's why I'm looking for a partner, right?
Other things of note:
Although Alice in Wonderland has often been considered a children's story, I don't want this to be a lighthearted role play. I want our characters to experience horrors and disasters and fear. In a way, this is a fantasy-apocalypse story--if that is possible. I created a plot with constant movement, but what I really want it character development and character driven interaction.
I am looking for a more mature rp partner. That includes in both writing complexity and mentality.
I post about once or twice a week, depending on the nature of my work at that time. I expect a partner who will be patient enough to wait or able to keep up with this pace.
I am looking for a more mature rp partner. That includes in both writing complexity and mentality.
I post about once or twice a week, depending on the nature of my work at that time. I expect a partner who will be patient enough to wait or able to keep up with this pace.
***This plot is not complete. There are gaps existing, but that's why I'm looking for a partner, right?
Posted. Enjoy. Let's get some action going!
Just five more minutes.
Deepti cries. Pressing her hands into the cool, damp metal of the pod, she gives herself a minute. When she reaches twenty seconds, she starts mumbling the countdown to herself. Snot still dribbles down her nose and onto her lips, and her eyelashes are still wet, but no new tears bubble up in the corners of her eyes. For now, that is enough. She reaches out to touch the boy's elbow because she needs to feel skin. Something warm and dry and calloused. Her Pita's hands cracked in the winter time, but no matter how bad the wind off the Potomac got, he never wore gloves. Deepti would forget her mittens, sometimes, just so she had an excuse to feel the flaking skin.
But the boy pulls away and sneers, "What do you think you're doing?" His gaze drops away and Deepti's hand hovers in the air for a few seconds longer because she is always surprised by cruelty. (Like when she found her report on sustainability and the economical benefits of World War II in the girl's bathroom, soaking in a toilet bowl full of piss.) She nods and mumbles out an excuse. She doesn't even hear what she says. The boy isn't listening anyways. His fingers twist around each other and he breathes with his mouth open. Rapid intakes. Pause. A slow release. She shifts, wanting to create space between her and him.
She avoided the door out before, but staying inside with walls made of sturdy fabric makes her stomach twitch. It's too stiff, too artificial, for her senses to comprehend. Humans crave routines, familiarity. Nothing here reflects the myriad colors of soft cotton that encapsulated her heritage and life. Stepping out into the open air felt like crawling out of a cocoon. Briny air and slapping waves rock away her last hopes of this has to be a dream. It’s not.
Now what? Her teacher in Strategic Planning would have said that. Mr. Maalouf. The short man who speaks with a Nigerian accent even though he has never moved from his neighborhood tucked beside many of the Cheesepeak’s tributaries. Deepti would stand at the front of the ten person class as she explains the “now what” and “what’s next.” No matter what type of deodorant she would put on, the underarms of her uniform ended up soaked. She hated the explanation part. It makes her look down at her scruffs shoes or fiddle with her hand-me-down earrings. But Mr. Maalouf never asked, “Why does that work or doesn’t work?” He kept pushing (“now what, now what, now what”) until he stopped.
So Deepti moves to the next step—gather intelligence. So she steps towards the woman. The adult. Because even though she yells at Pita for not speaking English, he still knows things that she has yet to learn. With hands in fists she calls out to the woman. Red hair. Fair skin. Freckles. When her family in India asks about Americans, Deepti would describe to them this woman.
“My name is Deepti Persaud,” she begins. The raft shifts. She wobbles, but refuses to touch the whether-proof canvas that bulges out of the center of the raft like a red tent that belonged in a forest surrounded by bird calls and deep evergreens, not in the middle of splashing ocean. “Please.” She grabs on to her elbows to steady herself. “What’s your name?” Not logical, not essential, but for a thirteen year old who hasn’t even experienced her first menstrual cycle she needed to know this woman’s name.
)o(
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Maybaleen swears as the man gags and spews yellow mucus down her leg. “Yeah, nice to meet you too buddy.” She’s wants to shout again. Maybe not for help, but to release this pressure in the bottom of her lungs. As her grip on this sick man slips she thinks about Harrison. No matter how drunk or sick or weak she was, she would never drop Harrison. Never. She pushes that same resolve to the forefront of her mind and she wedges her body up against this stranger’s body. She bunches his t-shirt as she grapples for purchase. Team Georgia blares at her in bold, black lettering.
Laughter bubbles up in her. It’s like the first time she laughed after Kim’s murder. Hysterical and desperate and ending in a hiccup. “If my daddy knew I was helping a Georgia fan, I think he’d pour all the whiskey down the sink!”
The man moans. His right hand catches in her hair, pulling at it. She winces and swears again. Preacher Shelly would just chalk it up to her evil ways (but he was the one that came out to Tiny Dancer to enjoy the show).
“What’s wrong with him?” She doesn’t see the man’s face who’s speaking. The tattoo on the back of his hand attracts all of her attention. The flower reminded her of the pansies she planted around the mail box of her single-wide. Delicate faces craning up out of the shade and into the sunlight. She pauses too long. Maybe she didn’t expect anyone to actually come?
She huffs, “Sea-sick?” She looks around the sick man’s body to her helper. More tattoos. She speaking more to the butterfly on his neck than to the actual person. “God Almighty, I’m a waitress! She braces her free hand against the sick man’s hip. She thinks about the curving roads up to Kim’s house. Nausea would creep into her throat and he would roll down his windows. Maybe this man needed to windows rolled down to…in a sense.
“Help me get him outside, will ya?” she asks, shuffling forward. The canvas like fabric ripples as wind blows over them. Her underwear rides up; she shifts in discomfort. What the fuck was she wearing? More vomit dribbles out from the cracked lips of the tanned man. He’s gotta be a Mexican, she thinks, but grumbles instead, “Better out than in.” That’s what she tells Harrison when he has the stomach flu. She rubs man’s back. Soothing circles over coiled muscles. “Feel free to lead the way if ya which way’s out, hon,” she says to the tattooed man. The boots pull her feet down and the dead weight of the man teetering between them tugs her back. “Come on, this man is heavier than Thanksgiving’s turkey.” She blows her bangs from her eyes. When did she let them get so long?
But the boy pulls away and sneers, "What do you think you're doing?" His gaze drops away and Deepti's hand hovers in the air for a few seconds longer because she is always surprised by cruelty. (Like when she found her report on sustainability and the economical benefits of World War II in the girl's bathroom, soaking in a toilet bowl full of piss.) She nods and mumbles out an excuse. She doesn't even hear what she says. The boy isn't listening anyways. His fingers twist around each other and he breathes with his mouth open. Rapid intakes. Pause. A slow release. She shifts, wanting to create space between her and him.
She avoided the door out before, but staying inside with walls made of sturdy fabric makes her stomach twitch. It's too stiff, too artificial, for her senses to comprehend. Humans crave routines, familiarity. Nothing here reflects the myriad colors of soft cotton that encapsulated her heritage and life. Stepping out into the open air felt like crawling out of a cocoon. Briny air and slapping waves rock away her last hopes of this has to be a dream. It’s not.
Now what? Her teacher in Strategic Planning would have said that. Mr. Maalouf. The short man who speaks with a Nigerian accent even though he has never moved from his neighborhood tucked beside many of the Cheesepeak’s tributaries. Deepti would stand at the front of the ten person class as she explains the “now what” and “what’s next.” No matter what type of deodorant she would put on, the underarms of her uniform ended up soaked. She hated the explanation part. It makes her look down at her scruffs shoes or fiddle with her hand-me-down earrings. But Mr. Maalouf never asked, “Why does that work or doesn’t work?” He kept pushing (“now what, now what, now what”) until he stopped.
So Deepti moves to the next step—gather intelligence. So she steps towards the woman. The adult. Because even though she yells at Pita for not speaking English, he still knows things that she has yet to learn. With hands in fists she calls out to the woman. Red hair. Fair skin. Freckles. When her family in India asks about Americans, Deepti would describe to them this woman.
“My name is Deepti Persaud,” she begins. The raft shifts. She wobbles, but refuses to touch the whether-proof canvas that bulges out of the center of the raft like a red tent that belonged in a forest surrounded by bird calls and deep evergreens, not in the middle of splashing ocean. “Please.” She grabs on to her elbows to steady herself. “What’s your name?” Not logical, not essential, but for a thirteen year old who hasn’t even experienced her first menstrual cycle she needed to know this woman’s name.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Maybaleen swears as the man gags and spews yellow mucus down her leg. “Yeah, nice to meet you too buddy.” She’s wants to shout again. Maybe not for help, but to release this pressure in the bottom of her lungs. As her grip on this sick man slips she thinks about Harrison. No matter how drunk or sick or weak she was, she would never drop Harrison. Never. She pushes that same resolve to the forefront of her mind and she wedges her body up against this stranger’s body. She bunches his t-shirt as she grapples for purchase. Team Georgia blares at her in bold, black lettering.
Laughter bubbles up in her. It’s like the first time she laughed after Kim’s murder. Hysterical and desperate and ending in a hiccup. “If my daddy knew I was helping a Georgia fan, I think he’d pour all the whiskey down the sink!”
The man moans. His right hand catches in her hair, pulling at it. She winces and swears again. Preacher Shelly would just chalk it up to her evil ways (but he was the one that came out to Tiny Dancer to enjoy the show).
“What’s wrong with him?” She doesn’t see the man’s face who’s speaking. The tattoo on the back of his hand attracts all of her attention. The flower reminded her of the pansies she planted around the mail box of her single-wide. Delicate faces craning up out of the shade and into the sunlight. She pauses too long. Maybe she didn’t expect anyone to actually come?
She huffs, “Sea-sick?” She looks around the sick man’s body to her helper. More tattoos. She speaking more to the butterfly on his neck than to the actual person. “God Almighty, I’m a waitress! She braces her free hand against the sick man’s hip. She thinks about the curving roads up to Kim’s house. Nausea would creep into her throat and he would roll down his windows. Maybe this man needed to windows rolled down to…in a sense.
“Help me get him outside, will ya?” she asks, shuffling forward. The canvas like fabric ripples as wind blows over them. Her underwear rides up; she shifts in discomfort. What the fuck was she wearing? More vomit dribbles out from the cracked lips of the tanned man. He’s gotta be a Mexican, she thinks, but grumbles instead, “Better out than in.” That’s what she tells Harrison when he has the stomach flu. She rubs man’s back. Soothing circles over coiled muscles. “Feel free to lead the way if ya which way’s out, hon,” she says to the tattooed man. The boots pull her feet down and the dead weight of the man teetering between them tugs her back. “Come on, this man is heavier than Thanksgiving’s turkey.” She blows her bangs from her eyes. When did she let them get so long?
Don't forget the side of weevils. ;)
Dext, could you use permalink for the posts with the CSs and create a link on the first OCC post so that the characters don't get lost in the ooc?
Also, I'm a bit confused about the posting limit...thing. So. A character is involved in posting 5 times...(whether collab or not) and that's it for them until the next section?
And, in more relation to the plot, is there a time line to which Ialdia was rediscovered to when the first people went over to where our characters are now? (Has it been ten years or fifty years, kinda thing.)
And for all of those who characters are from Aega, can we talk about what that place actually has got going on? Cause I think we all might be picturing different things and I rather sort it all out now rather than stumbling around it in the actual postings.
Also, I'm a bit confused about the posting limit...thing. So. A character is involved in posting 5 times...(whether collab or not) and that's it for them until the next section?
And, in more relation to the plot, is there a time line to which Ialdia was rediscovered to when the first people went over to where our characters are now? (Has it been ten years or fifty years, kinda thing.)
And for all of those who characters are from Aega, can we talk about what that place actually has got going on? Cause I think we all might be picturing different things and I rather sort it all out now rather than stumbling around it in the actual postings.
Sounds dandy to me! Depending on my schedule/how I feel I'll either have a post up tomorrow or on Saturday! Happy to really be getting this one going.
Dude, characters who are grumpy-pants are the best. And most fun to play, too.
but he's sap-tastic! I like the detail of him finding his dad's hunting knife, too.
And it's always good to play characters that push you outside of yourself (I think). Besides, I'm sure they represent something about yourself or you would have never made a character like them...maybe.
And it's always good to play characters that push you outside of yourself (I think). Besides, I'm sure they represent something about yourself or you would have never made a character like them...maybe.
Yupp. Family has a tendency to do that. I have a pretty large one and they don't really understand the whole writing thing. I tend not to get any writing done when they're around because they make me feel so damned guilty about it.
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