Riven Wight

Shackles of Revenge

The stench of fish and polluted water filled the pacing man’s nose. His polished shoes clipped impatiently off the concrete walkway running through the bridge’s tunnel, their echo vying to be heard over the hungry burbling and slurps of the river flowing beside him. The couple greenish-yellow lights poorly illuminating the tunnel glinted sickly off the murky water, shedding light on its diligent work of eating away at its man-made confines.
The man’s form drifted in and out of the shadows between the light fixtures. Despite the muggy September heat, the tails of a gray duster coat flared behind him and swirled around his legs each time he turned.
He looked to the Rolex on his wrist for the thousandth time in the last minute. With time undaunted by his scowling glares, the watch still defiantly told him it was yet another minute until three.
Sometimes, he wished his co-conspirator would be early for once. He paused in the ugly splotch of one of the lights, watching the shadows. The distant city lights glared and warbled on the water just outside the tunnel, making the dark patches pooling beneath the bridge feel nearly as suffocating as the humid air.
The seconds ticked on. He looked again to his watch, eyeing the second hand as it drew near to three o’ clock.
Three seconds. Two seconds.
One second.
The shadows around him quivered unnaturally. In the blink of an eye, he drew a pistol from his belt and held it in front of him. He turned a surveying circle with practiced speed, searching for any sign a foe had found him.
An annoyed sigh sounded from the shadows behind him.
He spun around, the cock of his pistol clicking in preparation to fire.
“You certainly know how to greet people,” a rasping voice echoed in the man’s ears. A figure emerged from the darkness, the blackness obscuring most of its features.
The man snorted. “Good thing you’re not ‘people,’ ain’t it?” he growled as he holstered his gun.
The man could just make out a snarling smirk spread over the figure’s lips. “Just as much as you are. But I’m not here for your unwitty banter. You have news?”
The man eyed the figure and crossed his arms. “I’ve found your Hunter of Twilight.”
“Have you?” the figure purred, its smirk turning into a content grin.
The man raised an eyebrow. “No. I just lied to you.” He sighed as the figure’s expression faltered.
“Who is he, you prat?” the figure snarled. The shadows around it twisted with its emotions.
The man frowned and instinctively reached for his gun at the minor show of power, but ignored the insult. “She, actually.”
“And have you brought her head to me on a pike?” The figure’s face tilted, looking the man over as if searching for a severed head.
“I ain’t an idiot,” the man scoffed. “She’s smack-dab in the middle of the community. Her parents are some of our best hunters, retired or not. And their neighbors aren’t far behind. There’s no way I could kill her without being discovered, one way or another. I’m good, but not dodge-fifty-hunter-families good. And I ain’t compromising my position. Not yet, anyway.”
Though the man couldn’t see the figure’s eyes, he felt them boring angrily into him. His grip on his gun tightened.
A tense silence fell, broken only by the shlurp-slap of the river abusing the concrete.
“You’re certain she is the one?” the figure finally rasped.
“A hundred percent. You said there’d be something unusual about her. Took me a while to figure out, but she has a natural white streak in her hair. And I heard Cassara muttering something about her ‘destined aura.’” The corner of his lips quirked up. “She’s certifiable, that one, but I’d stake my life that she has psychic blood in her.”
The figure cocked its head to the side, considering. Another long minute passed. The man shifted his weight uncomfortably. A light further down the tunnel flickered eerily.
“Very well.” The figure nodded. “Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone, then.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
The figure’s head lowered, and a wicked grin spread over its thin, pale lips. “So witless, for one of your age.” The figure stepped closer until it was only just hidden inside the patch of shadow.
The man hesitated, but mimicked his companion, his hand ever ready to grasp his gun as he approached. On the same side or not, there was no way he would fully trust a monster.
The two continued to speak in hushed tones. The shadows around them unnaturally dampened their words, preventing them from echoing for anyone nearby to hear.
After a few minutes, the man leaned back and crossed his sleeved arms back over his chest.
“Sounds rather… risky to me,” he grumbled, chewing the inside of his mouth thoughtfully. “There’s no guarantee it’d work. And no telling how many could get caught in the crossfire. This is worse than playing with fire in an Arizona wheat field in July.”
The figure sighed irritably. “It’s that, or you can take responsibility and kill her! And the noxtren, at that! Unless,” mocking concern dripped from the figure’s voice as it continued. “you really want to defy the Sovereign’s orders?”
The man stiffened. “No,” he growled through his teeth. “Didn’t say that, you lout. Do what you have to do. I’ll play my part.”
“You had better.” The threat in the figure’s icy voice was palpable.
Before the man could reply, the figure stepped into the shadow licking at the wall, and vanished.
Grumbling foully to himself about ungrateful beasts, the man flicked up his collar, and strode out into the night.

It was a perfect night. Clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out even the light of the moon. They reflected the city lights, turning the heavens into a patchwork of gray and black as if someone had draped a giant quilt over the world.
The fumes of hundreds of exhausts defiled the air with their nauseating stench. The stench of humans. The sweet scents of a dying summer clung to a gentle breeze, trying in vain to ease the sickening odor of pollution.
But Kyair paid them little mind. Tonight, he was on a mission. The breeze tussled his lengthy black hair. It made it play about his pale face, the strands at the front tipped in a vengeful red. Perched atop an apartment complex, he crouched precariously on the narrow ledge of a half-wall surrounding the roof. His side pressed against a taller pillar. The shadows draped over him, making him look more like a shadow himself than the human teenager he appeared to be.
It had taken him years, but at long last, the murderers of his family were so close. His black gaze glared down at the gated community across the street. Where the main road turned into it, a large sign greeted any who entered with a cheery, “Welcome to Lion’s Ridge!”
Despite the late hour, the streetlights blazed proudly. Light bulbs yet shone through windows. As if the light could keep out the dark. A few kids and teenagers slunk about, defying their curfews as long as possible. Another person walked a dog, no doubt enjoying the slight chill the night had brought with it. Perfectly manicured lawns sat beside each other, with a cookie-cutter house to match. It looked like a perfect, human community filled with normal kids and a good school not far down the road.
Every one of Kyair’s muscles ached to rush in and hunt down the filthy hunters who had torn his family asunder. But he was not stupid. And this was no run-of-the-mill, “American Dream” private community. No. It belonged to the Hunter’s Society. Beyond those seemingly innocent iron gates resided hundreds upon hundreds of experienced hunters.
Even from here, he could feel the enchantments radiating around the community. Warding away supernatural creatures, barring entrance to anything that would mean the hunters harm.
Well. Almost anything.
A cruel smirk curled his pale lips. Foolish hunters, thinking they could keep something like him out. Their magical barriers were little more than minor nuisances.
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Concentrating. Feeling.
Human emotions vibrated through the air, saturating a plain of existence all their own. They tingled over his skin, floating freely, waiting for someone like him to reap their benefits.
In the apartment right below him, someone was having a sleepover and horror movie marathon. They were youthful emotions, and feminine. He could feel their collective, simultaneous shock and fear, smell it floating through the night like the most delectable soup the tongue could ever taste.
When this is all over, he thought, the contemplation sneaking into his mind, I should pay Italy a visit. Italians knew how to make a mean minestrone soup.
As it was, he was about to walk into the lion’s den—literally and figuratively—and poke the starving beasts with a burning stick. He had spent far too long planning his revenge to blow it on the first night. He would need all the strength he could get, and not even an entire barrel of the world’s best minestrone soup could provide that. And to feed on the hunter’s emotions meant risking early discovery. Not all hunters were as oblivious as humans when someone fed off their feelings.
With a mental call, he reached out to the emotions. His own aura swelled as it consumed the essence that the human’s terror and pain emitted. He felt the strength it gave his kind surge through him. The shadows quivered and flowed around him, joining in the ecstasy of empowerment.
When he felt his strength reach its peak, he exhaled and opened his eyes. Revoking his call, the emotions’ essence returned to being little more than another scent among the millions of others congesting the night.
His grin glittering in his eyes, his gaze locked onto the darkness lurking between two homes beyond the iron gate and its matching fence. With little more than a whim, his slim form melted into the shadows pooling around him.
The comforting, familiar chill of the gateway between shadows enveloped him. Millions upon millions of pathways tempted him, but there was only one he wanted.
Within the span of scarcely a heartbeat, Kyair stepped out into the alleyway he had been eyeing. Just like that, he was inside. He had done what most other creatures, even some of his own, would have struggled to do, passing the barriers as if it they did not exist where others would have had to pick away at them.
Now, he just had to find the hunters he sought. According to his source, there was a handful of families involved, each of them residing somewhere within this vast community. Each would get what they deserved, but there was one family he was most interested in, the family who had organized and lead the hunting party. The Prescotts.
Indignant rage flowed through him, a part of him demanding blood. At long last, he was closing in. He would make them suffer as they had made his family suffer. And there was nothing and no one that could stand in his way.
Hands clenched, his form sunk once more into the shadows. This time, his dark mass remained, staring out at the world as only a shadow can. His form hopped from one pond of shadow to the next, searching.
As much as he hated it, he would have to be cautious. Though he had bypassed the main defenses, many of the homes reeked with their own, individual wards. Wards that would warn the inhabitants of any disturbances. Even something as simple as a shift in a shadow could set them off. Some, to his annoyance, would take even him a while to break through.
But no matter how long it took, or what he had to do, he would find the hunters on his list.
It was indeed a perfect night. A perfect night to begin his revenge.

Shackles of Revenge

(Main Characters Posted Below)

Ava Gennings: Lydia's Best Friend

Full Name: Ava Marie Gennings

Age: 17½

Appearance: Of Irish heritage, it shows in her red hair, greenish-gray eyes, and fair skin. Though difficult to see, she does have a few light freckles on her cheeks, though she usually keeps them covered with makeup. She is also prone to using rather bright, unusual shades of lipstick. She stands at about 5’2” and is rather petite. Inspired by Lydia’s single white stripe, she decided to pick a small bit of her hair in roughly the same place, bleached it, and keeps it dyed turquoise. Looking at her, you would never guess that she comes from a long line of hunters. While she does have a few scars from growing up being trained as a hunter, she usually covers them up with either makeup or clothes. She also always has an abundance of temporary tattoos on her, which she has a shocking stockpile of in a drawer at home. She also often wears extremely colorful clothes that are loosely comfortable, and has a thing for flipflops.

Personality: Again, you would never guess she was a hunter. She is rather bubbly, and extremely energetic. Like Lydia, once she is old enough to legally make her own decisions, she plans on leaving hunting behind her, maybe become a makeup and costuming specalist. Or, at least, skip out on the fieldwork, and be more of a researcher. Maybe delve into and hunt down historical artifacts. She has not quite decided which yet, if not both, though she has gotten a good start in learning about each field, just in case. She is eccentric, and speaks her thoughts without thinking them through first. Really, she sees no point in putting on a filter. If someone can’t handle the truth, then that’s their fault. She is also a terrible liar on those rare occasions when she has to lie, but she usually avoids lying anyway. Again, what’s the point?

Hunter Society Connections: Ava comes from a fairly long line of Lion's Ridge members. Between that and her parents' high standing in the Society, they have had a home in Lion's Ridge Community for the past few generations. They have two houses on the board, one for Ava and her parents, and the other belonging to her grandmother. That Ava doesn’t have the desire to continue that legacy—instead wanting to play one of the more supportive roles—has gotten her plenty of crap from other Society hunters, kids and adults alike. Especially when they make the connection between her surname and a few other historical reds.
Mother: Brown/gold
Father: Dark blue
Grandfather (deceased): Red
Grandmother (retired): Purple

Mysterious Duo

A couple of shady people who meet in the park. They conspire to do away with one "Hunter of Twilight," and referenced someone called "The Sovereign." One wore a gray duster coat. The other showed a power over shadows. Other than that, nothing else is currently known about them.

Shackles of Revenge

Let me know if you want/need me to change anything! Or have any better suggestions for a more fitting song. Heh.

If you want, whenever you start your post, you're welcome to start later on Saturday. Also, what would you say to Lydia kind of being capable of sensing Kyair? Since they're both supposed to be, well, 'chosen ones.' Figure maybe they can kind of sense that in each other if they were close enough, but would have no idea what it was, let alone meant.

... I was going to say something else here, but now I can't remember what. Dang it.

Shackles of Revenge

Note: This is a Rough Work in Progress

Any hunter worth even a grain of salt has heard of the Lion's Ridge Society. Though they have ultimately stepped up as something as close to leadership as supernatural hunters come, originally, they began as a group of hunters dedicated to seeing to it that their own live comfortably outside the job. After all, with the dirty work they do, they deserve to live a happy life outside of hunting. Though only the most elite hunters of the era are offered a seat somewhere within their ranks, the various gated communities they have built and oversee allow any hunter to reside within their walls.
A surefire way for a hunter to know that they are in the presence of one of the Society or within one of their communities is the presence of their crest. It is a rather simple crest with a tattoo-style lion’s head, its face and main created from flowing segments, and surrounded by a feathery circle. Though typically black outlined with gold, its color changes to denote rank and other standings. The members always wear some form of the crest, be it jewelry or embroidered on clothing, some even having it displayed somewhere on a house. Their communities all have the symbol somewhere near their gates, usually in all black for its cheaper print design.

A Quick Color to Status Guide

For a member of Lion’s Ridge to advance in rank, they must prove themselves worthy in multiple skills, from combat in multiple forms to knowledge on various topics. While the organization originally only had a few members, as it grew to expand beyond providing comforts to hunters and into a leadership position, they saw the need to accept more members and create ranks to better delegate workload, oversee the communities, and even keep an eye on other hunters not apart of their Society. However, not all colors denote rank, but also certain commodities or services.

White— Lowest rank. Typically footmen who often get used to deliver messages too important or classified to risk other means of communication, or hunt requests. Also given to some of those who do not usually go on hunts and are more of tactical support. Because yes, they even have those in their payroll.

Orange— Given to higher workmen/women who are often paid for hunting jobs. These are your typical hunters who are held in high regard, but they are still not the highest ranking hunters apart of the society.

Brown Outlined in Gold— Worn by the highest-ranking common hunters. These hunters are the ones who can really get the job done. They have the greatest track record and know how to get a hunt done quickly and quietly. They get the greatest pay for their successes and are called upon for some of the most difficult jobs the Society gets wind of. Note: There are hunters out there who are not members of the Society, but could easily have this ranking, or even surpass the skills of those with it. It is also not uncommon for members of the Society to reach out to them in times of need.

Dark Blue—An overseer of a community. Typically at least two per acre of land within one of their communities. They tend to be some of the more trusted of hunters in the Society. Their job is to attend to the needs and listen to the people of the community they are in charge of and take necessary action. They are also in charge of inspecting the barriers and wards placed around the communities, and maintaining the safety of the hunters inside. It is not uncommon for someone bearing a blue crest to one day end up with a red. They also have the ability to go to a Society hunter in the community and send them on a hunt if they hear of some trouble somewhere.

Light Blue—Messengers between the community overseers and right-hands of the leaders. It’s their job to report anything and everything exceptionally odd, as well as information on the number of hunters living in the communities to the right-hand(s) over their area. In a way, it is both a step up and step down from being a community leader.

Red—Essentially the right-hand members to the leaders. They are the most trusted of the leaders of the Society, and are in charge of making sure that their rules and orders are upheld. There are more of their numbers than the leaders themselves. They also report to the leaders of anything they find significant enough to bring to a leader’s attention.

Gold Outlined in Black—The actual leaders. They are the only ones who have inherited their color, being descendants from the society’s founders from 1902. Despite it being inherited, they still have to prove themselves worthy to bare this crest. Only the best of the best can bear the standing of being a leader of the Society, making them formidable foes to the monsters they hunt. As according to their rules, only the descendants—even if distant—can become a leader within Lion’s Ridge. There are roughly ten true leaders per country with one of their communities, so it is often considered a rare honor to meet someone brandishing their crest in glittering gold.

Silver with Outline—For one reason or another, like with any job, a hunter can retire. But they will never not be a hunter. With retirement occurring often due to old age or injury, a retired member of Lion’s Ridge Society is still held in high regards and is allowed to wear the crest in silver outlined by the color of their rank or other standing when they retired. Leaders’ are outlined in either gold or black, and higher-ranking hunters in brown.

Green—Often displayed on a business or residence, a green crest denotes a devoted herbalist. As with any hunter who instead provides services instead of doing hunting jobs, to gain the honor of bearing this color crest, one must be the best of the best, or come from a line of employed herbalists.

Purple—Often called Wisdom Keepers or Peace Bearers, those who bear purple play an important part in their communities. It is up to the Wisdom Keepers to maintain the many barriers placed around their communities. This group consists of those knowledgeable in protective symbols, and even a few hunters who came into possession of various protective or even psychic abilities somewhere within their lifetime. There are often quite a few of these living in each community, their numbers somewhere between ten and forty depending on the size of the community. This is another one often displayed on a business or home.

Pale Green—Hunters are, to say the least, extremely paranoid. Some places even have their own grocers who check and triple check that the food they sell is not poisoned. Some communities even have a small market situated inside its borders, insuring that no one could possibly tamper their food. Displayed on a business or even a home-turned-business to avoid the potential legalities of having an official, state-registered business. If you get your food from somewhere with this color symbol, you know it’s safe.

While they have over eighty communities located worldwide, their pride and joy resides within one with their name sake. Located in the mid-western United States, many of the retired members of Lion’s Ridge Society reside here, among some of the other active top hunter families outside the Society. Their first gated community, Lion’s Ridge Community is the grandest and largest to sport their crest.
Needless to say, Lion’s Ridge Community has had the most effort put into it and is by far their most luxurious creation. Designed for the most paranoid of hunters, this vast community is difficult to get into. Normally, only the most prestigious, well-known hunters can get in. Unless, of course, you know a guy who know a Society member who owes you a favor.
So, without further ado…

The Neighborhood

Community Barriers

Amenities

Shackles of Revenge

PG-13 / Supernatural, Horror, Fantasy, Action / @Polarize / Random Readers Welcome

Note to any random readers: This is likely to be a semi-short roleplay, and is a sort of prequel to a future small group roleplay, intended to better establish the relationship between two particular characters.
Because we're awesome like that.

Have Some Music

(Still woring on finding something that really fits. But for now, you've got this.)

Tragedy. Pain. Death. Despair.

Each a part of life. Each passing through the world, showing a blind eye to none. Human. Hunter. Supernatural. In their eyes, each are equal, each as worthy as the last to their subjection. But they do not always willingly choose their victims.

Sometimes, they are brought before their time by others. Others lusting for blood for the sake of blood. Others rushing in without thinking, bringing about their own suffering. Others exacting their revenge. People and monsters searching and seeking their own glory.

Even on modern day Earth, there are no exceptions.

A creature of darkness has been wronged, his family slaughtered. It has taken him years, but, at long last, he has stumbled upon a lead. A lead he is willing to follow to the end. A lead he has on good authority to be true. But trust is so easily misplaced.

For a young hunter residing in a hunter community with her parents, his revenge could tear apart the lives of those she loves. If, of course, she cannot stop him. If she cannot locate someone who can help her. If she cannot find the courage to face her worst fears. But fear is a powerful, overwhelming emotion.

Sacrifices must be made. Sacrifices with consequences that the young duo could never hope to imagine. Consequences that could one day very well prove deadly.

If, of course, they both live that long. And with conspiracies and fowl plots twisting in the bowels of their societies, who they call their allies could prove just as deadly as facing each other.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Well. She did just run him over with her car, so him coming “on too strong” is the least of her concerns, and not too far from what she would expect! Also, edited her reactions to him. Just within the last couple paragraphs. Forgot to reread and double check. Sorry about that!

Absolutely. Please, if I ever overlook details (I have that habit with longer posts. Like you may have already witnessed, if you saw the last post before the edit), or go too far on anything, do let me know! And will do, if I ever have some kind of particular story element I’d like to suggest adding/taking control of!

As a warning to you, then, the last couple days have been a bit of an irregularity for me. Typically, it takes me a lot longer to get replies that long up. Maybe every two days to once a week, if I get busy or my inspiration jumps elsewhere. I’ve been excited to do a restart, too, so that helps. ;-) So yeah. Fair warning: I average at “slow” for posts.

^,^ And thank you for your understanding!

Alrighty! I’ll keep an eye open. And please, feel free to offer suggestions and corrections my way as well! I LOVE learning about areas that I should consider working at.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Inside, Anora sat in a padded seat the elder of the two EMTs nodded to. Once everything was quickly settled, the younger banged on the front of the ambulance, letting the driver know they were all set, then the two set to work, the younger muttering something Anora did not quite catch.
Movement rushed around the ambulance, both inside and out, in a blur. Anora clutched her backpack to her chest, hardly breathing as she watched the EMTs work. She inhaled through her nose at the sight of his scarred chest, scars that went beyond just being hit by a car. But worse was the state of his limbs. She bit her lower lip and looked away, listening to the monitors’ warnings about his poor vitals.
Be okay, be okay! she pleaded silently. The phrase repeated in her head in a loop.
If only there had been something she could do, some healing aspect to her powers she could have extended to him. Instead, she could only watch and listen. Her brows furrowed as the monitors’ frantic beeping and humming began to slow. Not by much, but enough for a small hope to bud in Anora.
She looked up just as the younger EMT, Phill, dropped a blood-stained revolver into a bin. She blinked at it in surprise.
W-who is this guy? she wondered, breaking her hopeful mantra. She glanced once more to his chest covered with crimson, ink, and healed wounds, trying to ignore the state of the rest of him.
Phil reached to grab an instrument from a cabinet, blocking her view, and Anora looked away once more.
The minutes it took to get to the hospital felt far longer, but at last, she felt the ambulance come to a stop. She looked up at the sound of the doors unlatching, and stared for a short moment at the staff gathered there.
Anora did not wait to be told twice to get out. She stood, one of the few chains draped across her black jeans momentarily snagging the edge of the seat she had been sitting on, and hurried out of the way.
She slung her backpack over a shoulder once more, gripping the strap tightly as the man was transferred for a second time.
Once he was safely loaded, she hurried after the nurses carting him away, refusing to break her promise until they made her stop to wait in a waiting room just outside the ER. Running a hand through her long black hair, she stood there for a long moment after the nurses and doctors had disappeared inside. A receptionist finally bade her to sit down—or, at the very least, move away from the double doors.
Swallowing hard, Anora sat in one of the stiff, pleather chairs, once more holding her bag in her hands. She stared at the tattoo-style skull she had painted on its front, its white grin standing out against the black fabric. The dried, flaking crimson still dusting her hand caught her attention. She removed it from the bag, staring it it as she flexed her fingers.
Blood. His blood. Blood she had spilled.
The knot in her stomach tied a couple more loops, the image of him on the sidewalk burned into her head. It overlapped with his twisted form in the ambulance.
Unsure if she would be sick, she quickly located the sign for the restrooms and half-ran to the nearest one. If he died, she did not know if she could live with herself.
Thankful the bathroom was a single-seater, she locked the door, dropped her backpack to the floor, and braced herself over the sink. She took a few deep breaths, trying to convince herself that the man would be okay, and that she would not throw up. Somehow, against all odds, it had looked like he had been improving on the way there. Though, with the amount she knew in the field of medical studies, she could be completely wrong.
She took another breath. With a trembling hand, she turned on the water of the faucet. Avoiding looking in the mirror, she let the water get warm. She quickly washed the red from her hand, and did her best to clean up the dark stain at the knee of her jeans. But no matter how clean she managed to make it, it felt like it was still there.
She splashed some water on her face, wishing she could wash the afternoon away. She exhaled slowly, then dried her face, a few beads of water dripping from the front of the bleached tips of her hair.
Doing her best to calm herself, though to little avail, she tugged down the hem of her black t-shirt, and adjusted the hoodie she kept tied around her waist. With another shaky exhale, she returned to her backpack. Instead of bending over to pick it up, she simply opened her hand as if ready to grab it. In the blink of an eye, purple mist speckled with gold formed at her palm, curled around her backpack, and, like a rope, pulled the backpack’s strap into her hand.
Back in the waiting room, the minutes ticked by in an eternity. Every time she glanced at the clock, only seconds had passed, but she swore it had been hours. All thoughts of food had left her mind. Not that she could have kept it down, anyway. Perhaps it was a good thing she had not eaten that morning.
Inevitably, the police came in to question her. At first, she was afraid they would arrest her, that she would not get the chance to make sure the man was okay for herself, but, miraculously, they did not. Instead, they got her statement and information, checked that she was not drunk, and told her to not leave town. There would be consequences, of course—her car had already been impounded, and the possibility of a revoked license was not off the table, depending on if her story checked out or not—but that was the least of her concerns. All that mattered was they let her stay.
The police’s presence did nothing to make the time pass. For all she knew, the man was on his deathbed, and she did not even know so much as his name.
She tried to distract herself, pulling her favorite pen from her pocket and going back over the now faded lines of some intricate Celtic knotwork on her left hand. But even drawing did not have its usual calming effects.
At last, the knot in her stomach turned into more of a hunger. Hesitantly, she stood, ready to hunt down a vending machine. Before she could decide where to start looking or who to ask, a doctor entered the lobby. She watched him, holding her breath as she had every time anyone had exited the ER.
The doctor’s overworked gaze swept over the couple others waiting. Recognition entered his eyes when it settled on her.
Finally! Fearing the worst, she gathered her backpack and stepped toward the doctor.
She felt herself nearly melt at the first words that left the doctor’s mouth. He was fine. Caught up in her relief, she nearly missed the rest of what he had to say.
“Wait.” Her brows furrowed. “He’s… being discharged? Today?” She gawked at the doctor. “How’s that even…” she shook her head. “Thanks,” she muttered.
Not waiting for a response, she rushed off to find a room marked with an ‘8,’ properly shouldering her backpack as she went.
In her haste, she accidentally rushed passed the room. Catching her mistake, she back-paddled, the heels of her tall, platform boots skidding on the tiled floor and body twisting awkwardly as she hurried back to the room.
She heard his voice before she had time to get a good look at him. For a moment, she could only stare, his question going unanswered.
No casts. No IVs. Besides a couple scrapes and looking a bit disheveled, he looked hardly worse for wear. She was no medical professional, but she knew enough to know that that was far from normal. As glad as she was to have an image of him in one piece and not coated in red, he should have been dead. Yet there he was, sitting up, arms crossed over his chest as if it was just another day that ended in a Y.
Then there were his eyes. Even half-closed, as if somewhere between awake and asleep, they seemed to glow from the inside. To top it off, they were pink. She had never seen anyone with pink eyes before. At least, not while she was awake.
Realizing she still needed to answer his question, she took a deep breath, not daring to go further than the doorway. She had already hit the man. She did not need to add imposing on him to that list.
“Anora,” she answered uncertainty. She searched his face for any signs of anger at what she had done. She licked her lips and swallowed at the hatred she practically felt emanating from his stare. “Anora Feldington,” she continued quietly, glancing to the floor. “Most just call me Nora.” She inhaled through her nose and took a tentative step further inside. Despite her fear of how he would take her apology, she dared raise her violet gaze, but her eyes did not quite meet his. “I-I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t see you. On the road.”
She eyed him suspiciously, warily. To be in as good condition as he was now, either this man had someone up above watching out for him, or he had some kind of magic up his sleeves. There was no way she could have imagined the damage she had done to him.
She shifted uncomfortably beneath his stare. “How… how are you…”
She was unsure if she wanted to ask how he was feeling, or how he was alive. Or even if she should, given the circumstances. There was not exactly an etiquette book about how to interact with someone you just ran over. Instead, she let the question hang unfinished between them, and gripped her backpack straps tightly, expecting the worst.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Ha! No worries. I don't expect a post a day/every other day or anything. Especially with the current length, if it sticks to that. Take as much time as you need. I hope your brain gets some good rest!

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

*Reads the OOC first. Thinks, “Uh oh, a godmodder.” Reads the IC. Raises an eyebrow.* As far as I can tell, you didn’t actually take control of Anora. You just put out there the “If she does this, then this will happen, but if not, this happens,” to quicken the progression of the scene. Let me know if you have any objections to me taking charge of getting him en route to the hospital. I’ll go back in and edit if need be. I’m not entirely sure how all that works, so I mostly winged it. Heh.

This isn’t my first rodeo, my friend! After reading all that, I’m beginning to wonder what kind of RP partners you have recently had. I’ve been writing for almost sixteen years now, and roleplaying or writing stories with other people for nearly just as long. Which I don’t say to boast, just to tell you that I know what I’m doing... mostly. I make plenty of mistakes, but I’ve got this. All you really told me, was to play Anora and her surroundings like the place and person she is in the story, not a 2-D world typed up in cyberspace. Which is pretty much a common-sense rule of writing, if you want your settings and characters to feel as if they are real people, not just words on a screen/page. “A character is a caricature!” It’s always a bit harder when you haven’t had much time to “spend” with your character, but I can manage. In short, I had no other intentions than to play her and any following situations as realistically as what is in my capabilities! :-)

“I know I’m making you carry a bit of the reigns.” Isn’t that pretty much what RP partners are supposed to do? Each always moving the plot forward in one way or another? I have been the sole GM in many roleplays, and even the DM of a D&D campaign, so I can and am accustomed to carrying an entire plot myself so long as the other player(s) put forth the necessary effort, be just a player doing what is necessary to keep the story moving forward and keep all involved engaged in the plot, as well as a bit of both in the events of major aspects falling to me every now and again in a plot that is otherwise not of my making. I quite like doing all of the above. My character knows as much about the world you are about to weave as I do, and I do not have control over any subplots at the moment, so I should not need any backstory for a while. But if that changes or I stumble upon anything to ask about, I won’t be shy to ask questions!

I appreciate you doing that with the cussing. It’s been a long while, so I figured you would have forgotten, and I have heard what kinds of mouths people in your profession tend to have. I’m a dying breed of oddity in that kind of world, so I understand the difficulty of remembering that preference for a single person (or couple people, if you know anyone else) out of dozens, if not hundreds.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Anora could have driven the streets of this side of town with her eyes closed. She knew the path to the supermarket by heart, having even walked the few miles there on many occasions when she wanted the exercise.
Going the speed of traffic, Anora sighed. Only half paying attention to the cars around her, she glanced in her rearview mirror. So far, the day had been the same as any other. Sure, it had only been a few minutes since she had had that morning’s rushed, subconscious session of “believing six impossible things before breakfast,” but still. Not the most promising of star—
A sickening thud and stomach-churning, jerking vibration went through her car, wrenching her from her thoughts. With a shocked, horrified gasp, she instinctively slammed on her breaks, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt, but it was too late. The world seemed to slow around her, turning the half a second it took for the now broken body of a man to go flying across the street and into a lamppost into minutes.
It took her brain and body a couple moments to catch up with what had just happened. She stared, petrified, the seconds that ticked by feeling more like a hazy eternity. Her stomach lurched, and she felt sick; she had just hit someone!
“No,” she breathed. Her hands begun to shake despite her tight grip on the steering wheel. “No, no, NO!”
In a panicked haste, she unbuckled and jumped from her car. The angry honks from cars further behind whose drivers had not witnessed what had happened fell on def ears. A couple cars from the other lanes going opposite her had stopped. A crowd had already begun to gather, many with cellphones to their ears or snapping pictures and videos, but it was only the mangled body that held Anora’s gaze. She stared at it almost impassively, her mind refusing to fully take in the gory sight.
There was no way he could be alive.
“Please don’t be dead!” she plead quietly. She skidded to a stop and fell to her knees beside him, accidentally kneeling in a portion of the pool of blood that had begun to soak the concrete.
He looked even worse up close. She felt bile rise in her throat. She gasped and swallowed when she noticed he was still breathing, still impossibly conscious.
Realizing his gurgled rasps were an attempt at speech, she tried to shush him, but could barely get out enough air. Her body trembling, she gently placed a hand on his better shoulder, too afraid to put any real pressure on him else risk causing more pain.
“D-don’t speak,” she choked out. She licked her lips, trying to ignore the crimson dripping over his face. Already, the sirens of an ambulance sounded not far in the distance. “I-I-It’ll be okay. Just… just don’t try to move.” She was only vaguely aware of the hoarse words that left her mouth.
This did not feel real. Could not be real. She had to still be dreaming, still asleep in bed. But a cruel voice at the back of her mind assured her she was not.
Despite her order, the man still struggled out wheezing words. She leaned forward with bated breath, trying to make out what he was saying amidst the growing background noise.
“I-I—” she stuttered at his request. She leaned back, scrunched her eyes shut, and clenched her teeth when he coughed up a mouthful of frothy blood. She tried to swallow again, trying to keep herself from vomiting, but her mouth had gone dry, and her throat constricted. “I-I’m not going anywhere,” she breathed, opening her eyes at the urgency in his voice. “I promise.”
She again looked to him. This time, their eyes locked for a brief moment, her violate gaze filled with terror and confusion, and his distant, as if he looked not at her, but at her soul. She gasped, drew her hand away, and sat back on her feet in surprise at the sensations and emotions that spiked through her before his eyes closed.
She stared, gaping, trying to figure out what had just happened, when a quiet voice echoed in her head.
For the first time, she glanced up, trying to figure out who had spoken. At last, she noticed the murmuring crowd circling them. People from the stopped vehicles had gotten out. Some stared at them with horror, some with shock, and some with appalled hatred.
The roaring sirens of an ambulance speeding down the street forced them scattering back to the sidewalk. Anora got shakily to her feet, some of the man’s blood dusting her palm and soaking the fabric of her jeans at her right knee.
The EMTs wasted no time. The moment the ambulance had stopped, two men hopped out and started shouting orders at each other and the bystanders.
One, a burly man with the beginning whiskers of a beard, rushed toward Anora and the injured—or perhaps dead—man. “Miss, return to the sidewalk,” he instructed Anora brusquely. “We’ve got it from here.”
Anora shook her head, scarcely aware she had moved. “Please. Can… can I come with?” she asked, watching distantly as the man’s youthful companion pulled a stretcher from the back of the ambulance.
The EMT glanced up at her as he carefully examined and moved the man’s lifeless, bloody body. “Are you family?”
“No. I…” She clenched her fists, trying to stop their trembling. “I’m who…” She could not bring herself to say it. “Please,” she pleaded as his partner set up the stretcher. “He—he wanted me to… I-I promised I wouldn’t leave him,” she finished softly. “I need to… I have to…”
I have to know if he’ll make it, she finished silently, incapable of forming a complete sentence.
The man glanced toward her BMW, a streak of red staining its right-hand headlight. Hesitantly, he nodded. “Alright. As long as you’re not a minor.”
She exhaled heavily. She gave a quick nod of thanks, then, adrenaline rushing through her, ran back to her car as they began to carefully transfer the man’s broken body onto the stretcher. As quickly as she could, she grabbed her backpack from the backseat, slung it over a shoulder, and returned to the ambulance as they loaded the man inside.
Don’t die, she thought as she hopped in after one of the EMTs. Please don’t die!
This was not the kind of adventure she had been hoping for.