Liking things so far, ya'll. I'm gunna hold back until @Bloodtypesuper is able to get their first post up.
Anyways, how's life treating ya?
Anyways, how's life treating ya?
- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Raid
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 319 (0.08 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
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
Erm...well...in light of the current conversation, here's a long post.
I'm enjoying building/creating this community and tend to put a lot into my posting because of it. However, if at any point, my posts seem to contain...fluff and could be trimmed down in significant ways, please don't hesitate to let me know.
I'm enjoying building/creating this community and tend to put a lot into my posting because of it. However, if at any point, my posts seem to contain...fluff and could be trimmed down in significant ways, please don't hesitate to let me know.
“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.”
Take the dog for a walk
Marsh returns to Flannery’s as Barbra, a Non-Fiction Bookie, leads a group of men in a round of whiskey, you’re the devil. Someone plays the penny whistle. It emphasizes the discord within their voices, slurred with food and drink. She waves away Meghan and takes a seat on a barstool. The bartender leaves her with three fingers of whiskey, water, and a basket of unshelled peanuts. The low lights hide the most miserable drunks in corners as well as the chipped state of the tables and bar around them. Everyone’s cheeks in the pub are a touch too red to notice their scratched glasses could use another rinse through the dishwasher. She grins as Barbra with her straight teeth cajoles Trevor to pull out his accordion. The red plastic glimmers as they start off on the fly.
The song never had so many verses as it did that night. Trevor's arms trembled by the time Barbra signaled for the final chorus. Flannery’s roars with laughter before an elbow in a gut leads to fight. All the rugby and football games concluded for the night, bets abound as a skinny lad takes on a man who should have left his shirt. The stretch marks writhe across his belly like snakes. Marsh turns her empty whiskey glass upside down on the bar. She hoots when the boy lands in a hit to the jaw that has the drunk going down, empty peanut shells cracking beneath his weight. Money passes hands. The boy wipes the blood trailing down from his nose. Over his pale chest are the words, “I’ve lived a thousand lives.” She wants to kiss the curling end of the S.
Steeping tea is set before her. The crowd settles. The raucous, slandering chants replaced with the soft trills of Trevor’s wood flute. His finger handle the instrument as delicately as he does the books he restores as an Archivist for the Library. The night settles in around them as more and more Bookies trickle in from their duties across the district. The worst of the drunks are given coffee instead of their next whiskey or beer. Marsh glances at the clock above the dustiest bottles of alcohol. Quarter-passed eleven. Meghan sips his frothing beer, chatting with Evans, a man who’s beard is black from his ears to his chin, but gray and speckled near his mouth. She tests the temperature of her tea, bitter without honey. A waitress flicks off the Open sign in the window along with all the different beer and whiskey advertisements. Flannery’s doesn’t serve any of those brands. Aside from cracked bottles and rusting cans, that’s all that’s left of empires like Budweiser and Guinness. Only mock ups remain.
Those slumped over the tables or their drinks are given the option to walk out or be thrown out.
“Closing early?” she asks Gregor. If he was four inches taller, he might have been considered handsome, but a squat figure of 5’5” condensed all his features. His family owns Flannery’s. Some say they were the first to ever open it back before Zone Alpha and Beta existed and there were trips into the countryside to find relief from the stifling air of the city.
He scratches his head. He used to have hair when she started working in the kitchens. “Yea, there, M.K. It’s for the best.”
She hums, taking another sip of her tea. More men and women enter into the pub. The bartender starts serving rounds of coffee and beer. No-one orders whiskey. The grandfather clock chimes midnight. The voices hush. Marsh finishes her tea and stands. The skinny jeans cinches in her hips.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Library,” she says, “Let the Hearing begin.”
“We have voices!” The floor vibrates with the chorus of more than a hundred Bookies. It’s not the totality of the Library. By no means does she recognize everyone face. Nor can she note who’s missing.
“Any grievances to be aired?” Meghan shouts from his seat at a booth, cushions wore away years ago.
A man and woman step forward. A marital dispute. They handle it with a bare knuckled fight. The woman wins her divorce. “Try bringing her flowers next time,” a man calls from the crowd as the ex-husband slumps down with a broken finger.
An Archivist comes forward. Everyone groans.
Marsh clears her throat and asks, “What is it, Paulie?”
Paulie’s lips quivers, but he sticks his chin out. “I bring forward old grievances and new warnings.” He’s slim and tends to list to one side. Getting caught in the crossfire between D11 and D12 sporadic street fights will do that to you. “Our dear Tyro, you above any other, must understand what I have to say. The lack of education within our ranks is appalling.”
Several men shift against the walls. The skinny lad of the earlier fight spits onto the floor.
“We protect a wealth of knowledge and yet, most of our initiates can’t read more than their name, their favorite liquor, and the junk food they consume.” Paulie’s lips twitches. “If we continue in this way, we will find ourselves unable to understand the very material we protect. We will loose our understanding of how precious it all is. I applaud the pursuits to digitize as much of our material on an offline server to protect it from government corruption, but it is not enough—”
“Paulie, how old are you?”
He blinks. He was always good at speeches, practiced before his mirror. “Tyro? I beg your pardon. I don’t—”
“I’m 26.”
His hands dip into his trouser pockets before he collects himself and pulls them out again. “I’m 53, Tyro.”
“I learned how to read when I was 9.”
He responds. “I was 25, Tyro, when I first picked up a book and was able to read it, cover to cover.”
“When did you join the Library?”
He swallows. “When I was 17.” His shoulders slump.
Casey comes in from the back. He arms tense, crossed against his chest.
She hums. “Miller,” she calls to member of the Collection. He rubs at his eyes. His crew deals with any physical messes that needed handling and last night’s fire meant he hasn’t slept in more than a day “When did you start reading and when did you join the Library.”
“Joined at fourteen. Didn’t even look at a book until 30, M.K.” He slurps down his coffee.
“Barbra?” Marsh rests against the stool.
“Joined at 17.” The enforcer shrugs. “Can’t read more than my name and the booze I like, but those are the most important things, aren’t they?”
A few people laugh. Paulie’s neck turns red.
Marsh raises a hand. Focus returns to her. “As Librarian, my husband directs our energies towards one goal. But each one of us chose this life.” She looks down at her hands. “And it means—” she pauses to reorganize her thoughts. They wait. “We are given few choices.” Marsh tilts her head. “You’re right, Paulie, there is a benefit to reading, understanding the nature of the things we house in the Library, but to take away one more choice?” She shakes her head. “How could I allow that to happen?”
His head is bowed. “I understand, Tyro.”
She rubs at her forehead and doesn’t respond. Paulie slips into the back of the crowd. Trevor pats his shoulder.
“Meghan, if you would please give us the update on last night’s fire.” Marsh watches the crowd from beneath her eyelashes. Miller groans.
“Three vinyls: Strawberry Alarmclock’s Incense and Peppermints; Aplocalyptica’s World’s Collide; America’s greatest hits. One of the English translated Art of Wars. You know, the one with the freaking Dali Lama quote inside the cover.” A few chuckles from the Archivists. “The last book in the Harry Potter series go destroyed.”
“The autographed ones?” a Page asks.
Meghan nods. The woman groans. He continues on. Marsh doesn’t listen. She watches. Casey keeps shifting, trying to stay in her eye sight. Miller wrestles a bottle of whiskey from the bartender when two of his crew stumble in, bringing the smell of wet wood and boots black with soot.
“The building’s shot, too. We’ll need to relocate everything.”
Meghan steps back. People stand in a half circle around Marsh. The closest ones to her is the boy, his nose stuffed with tissues to stop his nosebleed, and the bartender. Even they were more than an arms length away. The quiet stretches. A few prospective initiates weave in and out of the meeting, carrying messages and orders.
“Well?” It’s the boy. M.K levels her gaze at him. He shifts. “What do you want from us, boss?”
She smiles at him. “Finish your Friday night work. Sleep in tomorrow. Make love to your partner. Binge on a tv show from the 2000s. For now, I want you to rest.” The voices surging around her are a mix of relief and dismay. You can never please everyone. “We’ll reconvene at Sunday’s brunch.”
Barbra shouts, “Our voices have been heard!”
The crowd replies, “And will be again,” before clumping into their crews. Gregor stands by the bar with a bat in hand, convincing any lingers that they should find their entertainment elsewhere. Flannery’s is closed.
The song never had so many verses as it did that night. Trevor's arms trembled by the time Barbra signaled for the final chorus. Flannery’s roars with laughter before an elbow in a gut leads to fight. All the rugby and football games concluded for the night, bets abound as a skinny lad takes on a man who should have left his shirt. The stretch marks writhe across his belly like snakes. Marsh turns her empty whiskey glass upside down on the bar. She hoots when the boy lands in a hit to the jaw that has the drunk going down, empty peanut shells cracking beneath his weight. Money passes hands. The boy wipes the blood trailing down from his nose. Over his pale chest are the words, “I’ve lived a thousand lives.” She wants to kiss the curling end of the S.
Steeping tea is set before her. The crowd settles. The raucous, slandering chants replaced with the soft trills of Trevor’s wood flute. His finger handle the instrument as delicately as he does the books he restores as an Archivist for the Library. The night settles in around them as more and more Bookies trickle in from their duties across the district. The worst of the drunks are given coffee instead of their next whiskey or beer. Marsh glances at the clock above the dustiest bottles of alcohol. Quarter-passed eleven. Meghan sips his frothing beer, chatting with Evans, a man who’s beard is black from his ears to his chin, but gray and speckled near his mouth. She tests the temperature of her tea, bitter without honey. A waitress flicks off the Open sign in the window along with all the different beer and whiskey advertisements. Flannery’s doesn’t serve any of those brands. Aside from cracked bottles and rusting cans, that’s all that’s left of empires like Budweiser and Guinness. Only mock ups remain.
Those slumped over the tables or their drinks are given the option to walk out or be thrown out.
“Closing early?” she asks Gregor. If he was four inches taller, he might have been considered handsome, but a squat figure of 5’5” condensed all his features. His family owns Flannery’s. Some say they were the first to ever open it back before Zone Alpha and Beta existed and there were trips into the countryside to find relief from the stifling air of the city.
He scratches his head. He used to have hair when she started working in the kitchens. “Yea, there, M.K. It’s for the best.”
She hums, taking another sip of her tea. More men and women enter into the pub. The bartender starts serving rounds of coffee and beer. No-one orders whiskey. The grandfather clock chimes midnight. The voices hush. Marsh finishes her tea and stands. The skinny jeans cinches in her hips.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Library,” she says, “Let the Hearing begin.”
“We have voices!” The floor vibrates with the chorus of more than a hundred Bookies. It’s not the totality of the Library. By no means does she recognize everyone face. Nor can she note who’s missing.
“Any grievances to be aired?” Meghan shouts from his seat at a booth, cushions wore away years ago.
A man and woman step forward. A marital dispute. They handle it with a bare knuckled fight. The woman wins her divorce. “Try bringing her flowers next time,” a man calls from the crowd as the ex-husband slumps down with a broken finger.
An Archivist comes forward. Everyone groans.
Marsh clears her throat and asks, “What is it, Paulie?”
Paulie’s lips quivers, but he sticks his chin out. “I bring forward old grievances and new warnings.” He’s slim and tends to list to one side. Getting caught in the crossfire between D11 and D12 sporadic street fights will do that to you. “Our dear Tyro, you above any other, must understand what I have to say. The lack of education within our ranks is appalling.”
Several men shift against the walls. The skinny lad of the earlier fight spits onto the floor.
“We protect a wealth of knowledge and yet, most of our initiates can’t read more than their name, their favorite liquor, and the junk food they consume.” Paulie’s lips twitches. “If we continue in this way, we will find ourselves unable to understand the very material we protect. We will loose our understanding of how precious it all is. I applaud the pursuits to digitize as much of our material on an offline server to protect it from government corruption, but it is not enough—”
“Paulie, how old are you?”
He blinks. He was always good at speeches, practiced before his mirror. “Tyro? I beg your pardon. I don’t—”
“I’m 26.”
His hands dip into his trouser pockets before he collects himself and pulls them out again. “I’m 53, Tyro.”
“I learned how to read when I was 9.”
He responds. “I was 25, Tyro, when I first picked up a book and was able to read it, cover to cover.”
“When did you join the Library?”
He swallows. “When I was 17.” His shoulders slump.
Casey comes in from the back. He arms tense, crossed against his chest.
She hums. “Miller,” she calls to member of the Collection. He rubs at his eyes. His crew deals with any physical messes that needed handling and last night’s fire meant he hasn’t slept in more than a day “When did you start reading and when did you join the Library.”
“Joined at fourteen. Didn’t even look at a book until 30, M.K.” He slurps down his coffee.
“Barbra?” Marsh rests against the stool.
“Joined at 17.” The enforcer shrugs. “Can’t read more than my name and the booze I like, but those are the most important things, aren’t they?”
A few people laugh. Paulie’s neck turns red.
Marsh raises a hand. Focus returns to her. “As Librarian, my husband directs our energies towards one goal. But each one of us chose this life.” She looks down at her hands. “And it means—” she pauses to reorganize her thoughts. They wait. “We are given few choices.” Marsh tilts her head. “You’re right, Paulie, there is a benefit to reading, understanding the nature of the things we house in the Library, but to take away one more choice?” She shakes her head. “How could I allow that to happen?”
His head is bowed. “I understand, Tyro.”
She rubs at her forehead and doesn’t respond. Paulie slips into the back of the crowd. Trevor pats his shoulder.
“Meghan, if you would please give us the update on last night’s fire.” Marsh watches the crowd from beneath her eyelashes. Miller groans.
“Three vinyls: Strawberry Alarmclock’s Incense and Peppermints; Aplocalyptica’s World’s Collide; America’s greatest hits. One of the English translated Art of Wars. You know, the one with the freaking Dali Lama quote inside the cover.” A few chuckles from the Archivists. “The last book in the Harry Potter series go destroyed.”
“The autographed ones?” a Page asks.
Meghan nods. The woman groans. He continues on. Marsh doesn’t listen. She watches. Casey keeps shifting, trying to stay in her eye sight. Miller wrestles a bottle of whiskey from the bartender when two of his crew stumble in, bringing the smell of wet wood and boots black with soot.
“The building’s shot, too. We’ll need to relocate everything.”
Meghan steps back. People stand in a half circle around Marsh. The closest ones to her is the boy, his nose stuffed with tissues to stop his nosebleed, and the bartender. Even they were more than an arms length away. The quiet stretches. A few prospective initiates weave in and out of the meeting, carrying messages and orders.
“Well?” It’s the boy. M.K levels her gaze at him. He shifts. “What do you want from us, boss?”
She smiles at him. “Finish your Friday night work. Sleep in tomorrow. Make love to your partner. Binge on a tv show from the 2000s. For now, I want you to rest.” The voices surging around her are a mix of relief and dismay. You can never please everyone. “We’ll reconvene at Sunday’s brunch.”
Barbra shouts, “Our voices have been heard!”
The crowd replies, “And will be again,” before clumping into their crews. Gregor stands by the bar with a bat in hand, convincing any lingers that they should find their entertainment elsewhere. Flannery’s is closed.
I'm working on one right now. It'll move the time line along sooooooooooooo.
Yeah.
Also, new blood. Yea? Nay?
Yeah.
Also, new blood. Yea? Nay?
Swank, man. Looking forward to your character.
Wicked.
Immagunna sit back and wait til everyone gets their first posts up before I'll post my character. Like I said, there won't be interaction, per say, but he'll be there.
Also...what's up with our Lancer?
Immagunna sit back and wait til everyone gets their first posts up before I'll post my character. Like I said, there won't be interaction, per say, but he'll be there.
Also...what's up with our Lancer?
That's such a bizarre malfunction.
Huh?
You mean you can't access the character tab?
You mean you can't access the character tab?
Lol,
you won't have to. My character's profile is up. xD
you won't have to. My character's profile is up. xD
haha Oh, hell yeah I am! I wouldn't have joined if I didn't think I'd like it.
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