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@DJAtomika @ZB1996 - Since you're the only two remaining that have characters involved in the Reactor mission, are you working on posts or have ideas for some before I post next for it? In my post I'm including all characters, those are that "active" anyways, so none get left behind, but it'll be a decent overhaul to assist the progression of the plot. Just let me know!
[ . . . ]
these keys are black and white [ like my heart ] ; but the sounds we make are full of colour [ like my soul ].
these keys are black and white [ like my heart ] ; but the sounds we make are full of colour [ like my soul ].
They will take nothing short of perfection, as is their custom. They glean through candidates with a comb of finesse, fine picked, grating and propelling those they scrutinize with a brutal sort of elegance, to ensure that none but the absolute best are permitted onto their pier. The vertical echelon of the musically inclined is a steep, rigid plantation, one that is fixated and bedecked with thorns and crusted in glass. In the classical world, they adhere to the men before their age, they endeavor to repeat and respect their genius scores, the instruments their mediums to appeal to the masses as they ping, pluck and play the leftover songs of the dead. The classics are heralded with near fanaticism in this particular era, as the industry of music is waning, pulling away from the older generation and appealing to harsh tones, darker and much more seedier settings that are a far cry and pull away from the genre that is becoming nearly lost in time. In that, various companies that once took in maybe five students per year, have opened their slots and expanded their horizons, searching yonder and far to find those that can uphold to the classical battle field that is D'Cahors.
[ . . . ] W E L C O M E // P R E M I S E // C H A R A C T E R S . [ M ] - rated for sensitive themes, subjects, materials, and language.
The objective of this plot deals into music, primarily, and how it effects people and appeals to their emotional states. Usually meant to soothe and relax, there is a deeper, darker means behind those that perform for the crowds gathered at the stages. D'Cahors is a company that is known for their classical prodigies and nearly famous in their concerts and gallas that display their finest of musicians. Nothing comes without some sort of drawback, what else is expected when someone becomes a slave to the score, their muse, and even the music. This story is meant to dig into that, the angst, trauma, and appealing underground of the musical world that is always cruel to those that thrive. But do they really thrive?
Character interaction is key and development is necessary to ensure that our motivation remains, now a multitude of characters are more than likely to be present, in fact I encourage that, so various concepts are acceptable. Is music the only option? Of course not, D'Cahors is known for the classics, but subjects of dance and art are permitted to the halls, they are culturally refined and advanced and pride themselves on their diversity. The emotion of Colours will border on darker themes, to explore the potential depths of insanity of those who take the path of musicians, dancers, and artists.
Further discussion will cement the objective of our story, but the premise is pretty concrete and with the day-to-day flop of life, the characters will drive the story forward more than anything - so keep that within mind.
Character interaction is key and development is necessary to ensure that our motivation remains, now a multitude of characters are more than likely to be present, in fact I encourage that, so various concepts are acceptable. Is music the only option? Of course not, D'Cahors is known for the classics, but subjects of dance and art are permitted to the halls, they are culturally refined and advanced and pride themselves on their diversity. The emotion of Colours will border on darker themes, to explore the potential depths of insanity of those who take the path of musicians, dancers, and artists.
Further discussion will cement the objective of our story, but the premise is pretty concrete and with the day-to-day flop of life, the characters will drive the story forward more than anything - so keep that within mind.
[ . . . ] C O N S I D E R A T I O N .
β’ I do not care for your age, that is to be at your discretion, but understand that the rating is intended for mature audiences.
β’ I do not care for your gender, I play female and male perspectives equally.
β’ I can post weekly, as my schedule usually only permits a day or two to write. Be considerate of that and I will do the same.
β’ I thrive on communication and effort.
β’ I am only considering one partner for this endeavor and thus will inquire for a posting sample; preferably not an introduction post. * This story was meant for a small group, but I feel like the dedication of one partner is well enough for the moment.
β’ Post here - and [@] tag me - so that I can be notified and I will PM you from there for details.
β’ I do not care for your gender, I play female and male perspectives equally.
β’ I can post weekly, as my schedule usually only permits a day or two to write. Be considerate of that and I will do the same.
β’ I thrive on communication and effort.
β’ I am only considering one partner for this endeavor and thus will inquire for a posting sample; preferably not an introduction post. * This story was meant for a small group, but I feel like the dedication of one partner is well enough for the moment.
β’ Post here - and [@] tag me - so that I can be notified and I will PM you from there for details.
youβre ripped at every edge but youβre a masterpiece. and now Iβm tearing through the pages and the ink.
[ . . . ]
[ . . . ]
@Wade Wilson - I honestly forgot about my little corner of the Guild here, heh. You have a pretty solid image and purpose, so it will be easy to grasp. I'll accept this on the terms that I do have other graphics to finish first before I start on this. In that, I estimate I can get this going late Sunday evening and see where it goes.
@Wade Wilson - So, you're saying that the entire concept of the world is difficult to grasp, or are there specific elements you're unfamiliar with? It appears to be the former but I'd love to be sure before we attempt to "Crash Course" the structure of the story and all therein.
All hell is breaking loose in the mountains, literally. Oh what to do, what to do.
huehue.
huehue.
K I N A B A L U S U M M I T. // June 6. // A n d s o i t b e g i n s.
There was a universal belief in the rituals of combat: never come between the predator and her prey.
The nether creatures amassed within the clearing wailed in a piercing crescendo, objective, protesting in fury, and crying out from the loss of their quarry being snatched away from their quivering grasp. The apparitions endeavored to crawl after their target, continuing to pool and descend from the infernal maw warped and jagged with hideous fire, crooked rock hardened and warped into the impression of jowls bedecked into the thousands with blackened teeth. The projection of hellfire and death roared, propelling the inky tendrils of despair to increase, swelling in size and intent, spiraling in a whorl of wretched shadows to deliver the promise of the void. Magdalena's warped and distorted appearance snapped and flinched, the cords of her empathetic shadow disrupted and slinking in retreat, pieces still attached to at least one of the Guardians, where as the fleeing threads came to and illustrated the intent laden with their hearts.
She tasted fear, terror, the tangible notions peppering her molten mouth with harsh clarity. The taste of hopelessness, frustration, inability and failure arising to further encourage the pallet of her tongue bathed in the riches of their emotions; a glutton sated temporarily. She inhaled sharply, the igneous rock broken over her eyes and crown, spiraling and smoking with hidden flame betrayed nothing of her features, the one burdened with agony beneath all the raging spirits constantly spiraling in a whirlwind of utter chaos. Her body buckled, the mortal soul still existing within crippled under the sheer weight of her own power, her own life, her heart was a burning organ within the depths of her horrific appearance. The furnace that was her innards were blackened and tainted with ash, soot billowed forth, the air tainted with a smog both thick and ominous, descending rapidly with the herald of both lightning and thunder amplifying the current feud.
"Why do you deny her wish. She has tempted her Fate, she must arise to answer her thrown gauntlet." The distorted voice intoned, demanding, calling to the desires of the sythe-wielder for just a moment.
Any answer she would have received was disrupted by the impending spears of light, the spears glimmering in holy retribution that sired the shadows to cry out, rebelling, denial, all sorts of severity cresting high as Magdalena awaited the spears to impale; there were so many. She laughed, arms thrust out wide, the manic eruption of her amusement warped and deepened, becoming the vibrating chortle of a hideous monster both mocking and inviting.
"Is what you wish too, boy? To tempt your own Fate?" The core of her spirits began to shift, sliding into the better acquired impression of hounds, dogs of fiendish siring that howled and screeched, mouths layered over one another, bulbous eyes manically glaring at the Guardians before they began to bay for blood and penance. Magdalena watched as those spears of light fell, impaling some of her shadows, laying waste to the hounds, there was fire laden in those spears, she could feel the heat as some of her shadows cried, human sounds that inflicted her being and rang out in the clearing. As if living mortals suffered these righteous wounds, spurred from the mouths of ruby cores. The creature that was the veteran Guardian and then not shot out her palm, flinging her fingers forward that poised and arched, the bends of her gestures mimicking claws akin to a beast as the shadows remaining formed perfectly in imitation. There were no eyes to bid or examine, nothing that provided perspective to what she intended, but the shadows continued to conform, her deepest touches of despair intent on their prey and the hideous face of a monstrous creature arose, spiraling down into a neck with fissures of boiling magma that descended, bubbling and dropping in thick spheres of demonic lava.
"Allow me to free you from the shackles of your Destiny! For you will never reach the mines now!" She cried, her body descending, falling, dropping to the earth where her body began to convulse, the trails and tears of magma multiplying, swelling and building, becoming a force that was literally spent from her very soul as wails split the air, ringing outward and beyond, touching the hearts of the Damned as something not of the world was preparing to unleash.
And beneath it all, as waves of lava began to spill forth, was the broken shell of a woman begging to be released from her own Fate; the one they kept her alive, kept her form dying and had stolen all that was good and wonderful in her heart till naught remained but stone and ash.
The nether creatures amassed within the clearing wailed in a piercing crescendo, objective, protesting in fury, and crying out from the loss of their quarry being snatched away from their quivering grasp. The apparitions endeavored to crawl after their target, continuing to pool and descend from the infernal maw warped and jagged with hideous fire, crooked rock hardened and warped into the impression of jowls bedecked into the thousands with blackened teeth. The projection of hellfire and death roared, propelling the inky tendrils of despair to increase, swelling in size and intent, spiraling in a whorl of wretched shadows to deliver the promise of the void. Magdalena's warped and distorted appearance snapped and flinched, the cords of her empathetic shadow disrupted and slinking in retreat, pieces still attached to at least one of the Guardians, where as the fleeing threads came to and illustrated the intent laden with their hearts.
She tasted fear, terror, the tangible notions peppering her molten mouth with harsh clarity. The taste of hopelessness, frustration, inability and failure arising to further encourage the pallet of her tongue bathed in the riches of their emotions; a glutton sated temporarily. She inhaled sharply, the igneous rock broken over her eyes and crown, spiraling and smoking with hidden flame betrayed nothing of her features, the one burdened with agony beneath all the raging spirits constantly spiraling in a whirlwind of utter chaos. Her body buckled, the mortal soul still existing within crippled under the sheer weight of her own power, her own life, her heart was a burning organ within the depths of her horrific appearance. The furnace that was her innards were blackened and tainted with ash, soot billowed forth, the air tainted with a smog both thick and ominous, descending rapidly with the herald of both lightning and thunder amplifying the current feud.
"Why do you deny her wish. She has tempted her Fate, she must arise to answer her thrown gauntlet." The distorted voice intoned, demanding, calling to the desires of the sythe-wielder for just a moment.
Any answer she would have received was disrupted by the impending spears of light, the spears glimmering in holy retribution that sired the shadows to cry out, rebelling, denial, all sorts of severity cresting high as Magdalena awaited the spears to impale; there were so many. She laughed, arms thrust out wide, the manic eruption of her amusement warped and deepened, becoming the vibrating chortle of a hideous monster both mocking and inviting.
"Is what you wish too, boy? To tempt your own Fate?" The core of her spirits began to shift, sliding into the better acquired impression of hounds, dogs of fiendish siring that howled and screeched, mouths layered over one another, bulbous eyes manically glaring at the Guardians before they began to bay for blood and penance. Magdalena watched as those spears of light fell, impaling some of her shadows, laying waste to the hounds, there was fire laden in those spears, she could feel the heat as some of her shadows cried, human sounds that inflicted her being and rang out in the clearing. As if living mortals suffered these righteous wounds, spurred from the mouths of ruby cores. The creature that was the veteran Guardian and then not shot out her palm, flinging her fingers forward that poised and arched, the bends of her gestures mimicking claws akin to a beast as the shadows remaining formed perfectly in imitation. There were no eyes to bid or examine, nothing that provided perspective to what she intended, but the shadows continued to conform, her deepest touches of despair intent on their prey and the hideous face of a monstrous creature arose, spiraling down into a neck with fissures of boiling magma that descended, bubbling and dropping in thick spheres of demonic lava.
"Allow me to free you from the shackles of your Destiny! For you will never reach the mines now!" She cried, her body descending, falling, dropping to the earth where her body began to convulse, the trails and tears of magma multiplying, swelling and building, becoming a force that was literally spent from her very soul as wails split the air, ringing outward and beyond, touching the hearts of the Damned as something not of the world was preparing to unleash.
And beneath it all, as waves of lava began to spill forth, was the broken shell of a woman begging to be released from her own Fate; the one they kept her alive, kept her form dying and had stolen all that was good and wonderful in her heart till naught remained but stone and ash.
[ β ]
d a n n y s t o n e m.
here we are. you're pins, i'm needles. . . lets play. . .Alexia would never know it, but when she left, when destinations called to her spirit, she always ran.
Danny sometimes believed she could fly, if she ran fast enough, if she pounded into the earth with all the might her body would allow, if her feet and falls could carry her yonder - out of his reach. He sometimes thinks she can cross the ways of the Hopeless, all she had to do was run, never look at back.
Leave him behind.
Danny would be the first to confess that he could not allow that to happen, what memoirs from his childhood that were not deluded in sheets of rain and grey terror were bright, broken blues of steelish sin, the sort that was crippled and worn but shone all the more beautiful in their woe. He still tasted her on his tongue, her mouth was of ash and sweetness, a taste he could not decipher no matter how often he had slipped within her. Her lips were chapped, she picked at them with her teeth, he could pick up the remains of clove and black on those teeth, and the drug had amplified all of that. His senses were in a whorl of want and need, his body thrumming alive in music, the rhythm of hunger and chords of promise that terribly fixated his heart in delusion. Sweat beaded on his neck, the slope of his jaw, made the ink crawling over his torso and body slick and alluring when he spun, grabbed a woman to his flank swaying in lace and skin and gnashed teeth and mouth onto hers and dragged her off into the darkest corners, hidden by black and walls and bodies, her laughter pitched, her cries ecstatic when Danny's bestial love making roared into a symphony of aggression. He didn't even bother with the luxuries and premise of being gentle or even coaxing, she was swept into the same euphoria as he was, and those eyes of drowned emeralds were blue instead, her black hair was shades lighter - rosewood. And when he grunted, sputtered out a name, and she clawed into his still clothed shoulders, he saw a swinging braid, a thin back draped in a jacket leaving him behind.
His leash was lax, often relaxed long enough to allow her freedom, to run a certain length until he would snap it back, let it grow taut in his hands, burning his flesh and he'd spin her back with pills, with promises all laden out in her fixation and want, the drugs he had to use to keep her near. Danny didn't love her, Danny didn't love anything. He was possessive man, he had a possessive nature, he was a dark Prince crowned in thorns, from neck to feet, laced thick into the deadened vines bedecked with ebony talons. He left the girl, adjusted his clothing and deposited a baggie full of promises at her quivering body and returned his attention back into the crowd continuing to sway, all lost, prisoners to the song and music. Danny's eyes of quaking black lifted then, spun into harsh clarity. He had attended Passion on various occasions, he had seen Wither play, he had seen that vocalist up there - strumming, belting his voice out, calling to them; to her - often dip into the office where he knew Yumi was always waiting. He had heard the rumours, but the only testimony provided was his happenstance speculation, and he could hardly blame the man! In The Badlands, you needed something - someone - to hold onto, to keep you tethered, wanted, needed. Alexia was that for him.
But.
He had seen the way she had looked at him, and never had an expression been graced to his perspective, never had he viewed those lips parted in mute wonder, her eyes akin to voids of emotional awe - as if she had been hearing music performed for the first time ever. There was light in those eyes, peering through the cracks, like dapples of moonlight through the clouds clogged with rain and storm. As if he had all the answers, and a part of Danny had feared she would have agreed to his offer to meet them. What would he have done if Alexia had gone to him?
He wasn't sure.
Danny blamed him tonight, the melody was ripping him apart, shredding the remains of his soul, permitting him to undergo these conceptions erupting and blooming across his mind with the provided clarity that threatened to propel him asunder; rent, spent, and raw. Haunting crescendos fled away into his being, forcing him into a mania, a frenzy of elation as customers approached him with shuddering limbs, palms thrust outwards, fists clenched around bills and more bills, some of them pocketed with coin. Danny's gestures were quick, efficient, all fronts and impressions of the business man despite the frantic glimmer in his eyes, the constant twitch in his shoulder, or the pout of his lip tucked beneath bone, gnawed on till freshly pink and skinned. This was all done on repetition and practice, Danny dealt daily, he proffered all he kept shoved and cramped in his pockets every hour of his woeful eternity and then some. He peddled dreams and promises in the shifting forms of powder, liquids, pills, he peddled his own flesh to those who found his body decorative and appealing. In the Northern District, creatures like Danny swathed in ink and dejected in looks and expressions were beautiful and horrifying, tempting with their frail souls.
His pockets were heavy with cash by the end of the set, and whilst he blamed the boys of Wither, he also cheered for their professionalism and assistance to his daily supply and demand. Danny had everything imaginable, there was nothing he didn't sell, he would sell his own soul if it was not already marred with a tattered price tag - slashed at a discount for all the wear and tear in his restless spirit. His smile widened at that, a terrifying simper befitting to the Cheshire nickname that very look carved into his reputation. Then a hand clapped over his shoulder, a pressure of familiarity given from the clasp of a would-be stranger. His skin prickled, shuddering beneath the hot breath against the shell of his ear, he was taller than this man, but his nature was defined not in height - in that, he could have been leagues taller than Danny.
"So, he needs my services, eh." He slung his arm over another woman, her face enraptured, but not by Danny's weight, but by the presence of another man as he departed from them.
"That's Cadian," she breathed, clutching her hands, as if in prayer, fingers over one another in her fumbling daze. Black leather, shaggy hair, molten eyes. Danny canted his head to one side, if not for his knowledge that he was frolicking around with Yumi, he would've played after him. Not my type, he thought with a chuckle, but his name carries weight, that could be used.
"Do all you girls look at him like that?" He asked, brow raised, his lip thrust out in a petulant pout. Her face flushed, coming to rest her fingers over her bow shaped mouth.
"Well, uhm. He's kind of like... A Rockstar."
"Yeah, all stars fall and fade you know. They don't last long, not in The Badlands."
He sauntered up to the bar at that, his stride unhurried, he had been sought out, a commonality, but slightly enhanced by the man who had come to him. "Cadian, you obviously know me." Danny began, selecting a stool next to him, his elbows resting back onto the bar, body facing towards the room swaying to a different tune, almost relaxed now that Cadian wasn't plucking them into a frenzy of lust. He craned his neck back enough, casting a look over at Yumi stationed behind the bar, his lash fluttering in a wink and a mock kiss before he slid his gaze to the right, black fringe obscuring little of his view. "So you know what I'm all about. But what would a Rockstar like you, want from a simple dealer like me, eh? Something to amplify your performance," his lips curled at that, almost a leer of teasing intentions. "Something to make you forget maybe." He leaned in closer, sliding across the bar.
"Or are you looking for a little bit of light and clarity in this horrible world. Something to make the dark... Not seem so dark anymore."
Danny sometimes believed she could fly, if she ran fast enough, if she pounded into the earth with all the might her body would allow, if her feet and falls could carry her yonder - out of his reach. He sometimes thinks she can cross the ways of the Hopeless, all she had to do was run, never look at back.
Leave him behind.
Danny would be the first to confess that he could not allow that to happen, what memoirs from his childhood that were not deluded in sheets of rain and grey terror were bright, broken blues of steelish sin, the sort that was crippled and worn but shone all the more beautiful in their woe. He still tasted her on his tongue, her mouth was of ash and sweetness, a taste he could not decipher no matter how often he had slipped within her. Her lips were chapped, she picked at them with her teeth, he could pick up the remains of clove and black on those teeth, and the drug had amplified all of that. His senses were in a whorl of want and need, his body thrumming alive in music, the rhythm of hunger and chords of promise that terribly fixated his heart in delusion. Sweat beaded on his neck, the slope of his jaw, made the ink crawling over his torso and body slick and alluring when he spun, grabbed a woman to his flank swaying in lace and skin and gnashed teeth and mouth onto hers and dragged her off into the darkest corners, hidden by black and walls and bodies, her laughter pitched, her cries ecstatic when Danny's bestial love making roared into a symphony of aggression. He didn't even bother with the luxuries and premise of being gentle or even coaxing, she was swept into the same euphoria as he was, and those eyes of drowned emeralds were blue instead, her black hair was shades lighter - rosewood. And when he grunted, sputtered out a name, and she clawed into his still clothed shoulders, he saw a swinging braid, a thin back draped in a jacket leaving him behind.
His leash was lax, often relaxed long enough to allow her freedom, to run a certain length until he would snap it back, let it grow taut in his hands, burning his flesh and he'd spin her back with pills, with promises all laden out in her fixation and want, the drugs he had to use to keep her near. Danny didn't love her, Danny didn't love anything. He was possessive man, he had a possessive nature, he was a dark Prince crowned in thorns, from neck to feet, laced thick into the deadened vines bedecked with ebony talons. He left the girl, adjusted his clothing and deposited a baggie full of promises at her quivering body and returned his attention back into the crowd continuing to sway, all lost, prisoners to the song and music. Danny's eyes of quaking black lifted then, spun into harsh clarity. He had attended Passion on various occasions, he had seen Wither play, he had seen that vocalist up there - strumming, belting his voice out, calling to them; to her - often dip into the office where he knew Yumi was always waiting. He had heard the rumours, but the only testimony provided was his happenstance speculation, and he could hardly blame the man! In The Badlands, you needed something - someone - to hold onto, to keep you tethered, wanted, needed. Alexia was that for him.
But.
He had seen the way she had looked at him, and never had an expression been graced to his perspective, never had he viewed those lips parted in mute wonder, her eyes akin to voids of emotional awe - as if she had been hearing music performed for the first time ever. There was light in those eyes, peering through the cracks, like dapples of moonlight through the clouds clogged with rain and storm. As if he had all the answers, and a part of Danny had feared she would have agreed to his offer to meet them. What would he have done if Alexia had gone to him?
He wasn't sure.
Danny blamed him tonight, the melody was ripping him apart, shredding the remains of his soul, permitting him to undergo these conceptions erupting and blooming across his mind with the provided clarity that threatened to propel him asunder; rent, spent, and raw. Haunting crescendos fled away into his being, forcing him into a mania, a frenzy of elation as customers approached him with shuddering limbs, palms thrust outwards, fists clenched around bills and more bills, some of them pocketed with coin. Danny's gestures were quick, efficient, all fronts and impressions of the business man despite the frantic glimmer in his eyes, the constant twitch in his shoulder, or the pout of his lip tucked beneath bone, gnawed on till freshly pink and skinned. This was all done on repetition and practice, Danny dealt daily, he proffered all he kept shoved and cramped in his pockets every hour of his woeful eternity and then some. He peddled dreams and promises in the shifting forms of powder, liquids, pills, he peddled his own flesh to those who found his body decorative and appealing. In the Northern District, creatures like Danny swathed in ink and dejected in looks and expressions were beautiful and horrifying, tempting with their frail souls.
His pockets were heavy with cash by the end of the set, and whilst he blamed the boys of Wither, he also cheered for their professionalism and assistance to his daily supply and demand. Danny had everything imaginable, there was nothing he didn't sell, he would sell his own soul if it was not already marred with a tattered price tag - slashed at a discount for all the wear and tear in his restless spirit. His smile widened at that, a terrifying simper befitting to the Cheshire nickname that very look carved into his reputation. Then a hand clapped over his shoulder, a pressure of familiarity given from the clasp of a would-be stranger. His skin prickled, shuddering beneath the hot breath against the shell of his ear, he was taller than this man, but his nature was defined not in height - in that, he could have been leagues taller than Danny.
"So, he needs my services, eh." He slung his arm over another woman, her face enraptured, but not by Danny's weight, but by the presence of another man as he departed from them.
"That's Cadian," she breathed, clutching her hands, as if in prayer, fingers over one another in her fumbling daze. Black leather, shaggy hair, molten eyes. Danny canted his head to one side, if not for his knowledge that he was frolicking around with Yumi, he would've played after him. Not my type, he thought with a chuckle, but his name carries weight, that could be used.
"Do all you girls look at him like that?" He asked, brow raised, his lip thrust out in a petulant pout. Her face flushed, coming to rest her fingers over her bow shaped mouth.
"Well, uhm. He's kind of like... A Rockstar."
"Yeah, all stars fall and fade you know. They don't last long, not in The Badlands."
He sauntered up to the bar at that, his stride unhurried, he had been sought out, a commonality, but slightly enhanced by the man who had come to him. "Cadian, you obviously know me." Danny began, selecting a stool next to him, his elbows resting back onto the bar, body facing towards the room swaying to a different tune, almost relaxed now that Cadian wasn't plucking them into a frenzy of lust. He craned his neck back enough, casting a look over at Yumi stationed behind the bar, his lash fluttering in a wink and a mock kiss before he slid his gaze to the right, black fringe obscuring little of his view. "So you know what I'm all about. But what would a Rockstar like you, want from a simple dealer like me, eh? Something to amplify your performance," his lips curled at that, almost a leer of teasing intentions. "Something to make you forget maybe." He leaned in closer, sliding across the bar.
"Or are you looking for a little bit of light and clarity in this horrible world. Something to make the dark... Not seem so dark anymore."
[ β ] [ β ] [ β ]
a l e x i a f i t c h.
here we are. you want this? then come on...This kind of feels like drowning.
The church had been filled with the clashes of thunder and lightning both, furious, and then suffocated the cries of a woman swathed in pain, regret, and shame. No amount of pleading could see the storm elsewhere, and no amount of prayer or wishing would see the night to still and freeze, suspended in time. Alexia's lips parted around a swollen whimper, teeth impaling a crescent of bone into her shoulder that climbed up the slope of her neck beaded in sweat, her pants tumbling from her lips whilst hands tore at her skin - her soul quivering beneath a fracture shell. Her purchased goods were gnashed somewhere in her pocket, she wanted to reach into her jacket, take another, let the euphoria and numbing qualities to renew as the pain and violation became more profound and all the more real. Alexia's eyes widened, the dark walls of The Confessional pressing inward, warping into the faces of the angels and saints worshiped here, all mocking and their expressions sick and twisted, slick wood stained in her taint. She screamed, and a palm slapped over her swollen and bitten mouth silenced her cries, not that it would have done any good. The storm had increased in a terrifying tempo, crashing against the church, echoing across the halls and pews and snuffing out her denial and cries to make it stop.
Patrick was near relentless, his sounds were growls and snarls, harsh tones that resulted in bitten skin and a clawed spine. Alexia was just as physical, only her frantic marks were in her attempts to pry herself away from his lap. He clasped tighter, snarled within her ear to quit moving, and watched as she began to weep. Her tears only made him more desperate, her anguish fed him, sired the monster of sin his father tried to tame and kill for so many years. But, his early death saw his endeavors wasted, and Patrick was permitted to tend to his obsessions. He clamped his teeth over her shoulder once more, his body spent entirely and only then did he allow her depart. She fumbled backwards, falling, clothes tattered, her hands clutching for her jacket and bringing it flush against her marred skin as she panted, tears running and suddenly bolted from the Church. Patrick allowed her to run, he knew where she lived, it didn't matter. She was trapped in The Badlands, she was trapped in her own nightmare of flesh, his flesh. He laughed, a terrible sound of amusement until a timid voice spoke from outside The Confessional.
"Uhm, Father..." One of the many orphans housed within the Church, all mousy brown hair, wide eyes and terrible clothes. She was trembling, her eyes averted from his state of undress, hands tearing at themselves.
"Fetch me new robes girls, then you may seek confession as well."
"Yes, Father."
That night saw Alexia collapsed in the street, weeping over and into her hands, the rain merciless as the cold sliced her down to the bone. She cried into the gutter, her loneliness and regret turning inward and impaling her heart, letting it bleed out onto the street with her screams that rivaled the thunder crashing over head.
"Don't touch my soul with your filthy hands!" She cried, her voice sputtering out in a careening wail of despair as she struggled to stand, her hands pulling tight on her jacket to shield her from the rain until she desperately dug into her pockets, procuring pills - totaled to three - and slammed them past her lips with little ceremony or care.
Make it go away.Makeitgoaway.MAKEITGOAWAY.
She ran further down the street, sprinting through rain puddles, her entire body soaked and heavy, weighing her down, and she didn't care. She didn't stop to breathe or think, she skid over corners, slid across sidewalks, shoved her way through alley ways where couples gathered and trash festered along side them. The pill were beginning their blessed spell, her quivering her body spent into nothing now, she was nothing, there was nothing. No pain, no shame, no regret. No rain.
The Eastern district was like all the rest, they all looked alike, she thought, ducking through a gap in the chain link fence and turned right down the adjacent alley. She lived in a loft around here, her floor reached by the stairwell with the ladder already pulled down for easy access. Her window, three stories high, suspended in the middle where a widow lived below and a couple lived above who committed adultery almost nightly on one another. It took a heaving effort to pull herself upwards, her pills numbing her fingers even until she came to her window, easily shunting it open with only a soft grunt to vocalize her frustration until she slammed it closed behind her, the pane shuddering. The storm had quieted, briefly, and was almost unnervingly quiet here in the walls of her place. A sanctuary of nicotine stained walls, every bit of this hers, her possessions, her home.
But, there was no time to admire the little things, the objects that spoke to Alexia, she shredded her clothing, allowing them to pool at the window, her energy suddenly crumbling, the secondary stages of her intakes for the night causing the edges of her vision to blacken and blur, shadows teasing the borders of her consciousness. There were scratches and claw marks carried over her backside, down her thighs, there were impressions of teeth on her shoulder, her breast, her neck, her hair was erratic and damp and her nail beds were bloody.
And yet, before her, she saw molten eyes and arms spread wide, he had followed her to her place of peace.
"How did you know?" She breathed, the hallucination refusing to answer, despite her desperate inquiry, her mind and heart vulnerable. She threw her jacket over her shoulders, stepping forward, almost there. . .
And Alexia collapsed onto her floor, naked, bruised and afraid.
And alone.
The church had been filled with the clashes of thunder and lightning both, furious, and then suffocated the cries of a woman swathed in pain, regret, and shame. No amount of pleading could see the storm elsewhere, and no amount of prayer or wishing would see the night to still and freeze, suspended in time. Alexia's lips parted around a swollen whimper, teeth impaling a crescent of bone into her shoulder that climbed up the slope of her neck beaded in sweat, her pants tumbling from her lips whilst hands tore at her skin - her soul quivering beneath a fracture shell. Her purchased goods were gnashed somewhere in her pocket, she wanted to reach into her jacket, take another, let the euphoria and numbing qualities to renew as the pain and violation became more profound and all the more real. Alexia's eyes widened, the dark walls of The Confessional pressing inward, warping into the faces of the angels and saints worshiped here, all mocking and their expressions sick and twisted, slick wood stained in her taint. She screamed, and a palm slapped over her swollen and bitten mouth silenced her cries, not that it would have done any good. The storm had increased in a terrifying tempo, crashing against the church, echoing across the halls and pews and snuffing out her denial and cries to make it stop.
Patrick was near relentless, his sounds were growls and snarls, harsh tones that resulted in bitten skin and a clawed spine. Alexia was just as physical, only her frantic marks were in her attempts to pry herself away from his lap. He clasped tighter, snarled within her ear to quit moving, and watched as she began to weep. Her tears only made him more desperate, her anguish fed him, sired the monster of sin his father tried to tame and kill for so many years. But, his early death saw his endeavors wasted, and Patrick was permitted to tend to his obsessions. He clamped his teeth over her shoulder once more, his body spent entirely and only then did he allow her depart. She fumbled backwards, falling, clothes tattered, her hands clutching for her jacket and bringing it flush against her marred skin as she panted, tears running and suddenly bolted from the Church. Patrick allowed her to run, he knew where she lived, it didn't matter. She was trapped in The Badlands, she was trapped in her own nightmare of flesh, his flesh. He laughed, a terrible sound of amusement until a timid voice spoke from outside The Confessional.
"Uhm, Father..." One of the many orphans housed within the Church, all mousy brown hair, wide eyes and terrible clothes. She was trembling, her eyes averted from his state of undress, hands tearing at themselves.
"Fetch me new robes girls, then you may seek confession as well."
"Yes, Father."
[ β ] [ β ] [ β ]
That night saw Alexia collapsed in the street, weeping over and into her hands, the rain merciless as the cold sliced her down to the bone. She cried into the gutter, her loneliness and regret turning inward and impaling her heart, letting it bleed out onto the street with her screams that rivaled the thunder crashing over head.
"Don't touch my soul with your filthy hands!" She cried, her voice sputtering out in a careening wail of despair as she struggled to stand, her hands pulling tight on her jacket to shield her from the rain until she desperately dug into her pockets, procuring pills - totaled to three - and slammed them past her lips with little ceremony or care.
Make it go away.Makeitgoaway.MAKEITGOAWAY.
She ran further down the street, sprinting through rain puddles, her entire body soaked and heavy, weighing her down, and she didn't care. She didn't stop to breathe or think, she skid over corners, slid across sidewalks, shoved her way through alley ways where couples gathered and trash festered along side them. The pill were beginning their blessed spell, her quivering her body spent into nothing now, she was nothing, there was nothing. No pain, no shame, no regret. No rain.
The Eastern district was like all the rest, they all looked alike, she thought, ducking through a gap in the chain link fence and turned right down the adjacent alley. She lived in a loft around here, her floor reached by the stairwell with the ladder already pulled down for easy access. Her window, three stories high, suspended in the middle where a widow lived below and a couple lived above who committed adultery almost nightly on one another. It took a heaving effort to pull herself upwards, her pills numbing her fingers even until she came to her window, easily shunting it open with only a soft grunt to vocalize her frustration until she slammed it closed behind her, the pane shuddering. The storm had quieted, briefly, and was almost unnervingly quiet here in the walls of her place. A sanctuary of nicotine stained walls, every bit of this hers, her possessions, her home.
But, there was no time to admire the little things, the objects that spoke to Alexia, she shredded her clothing, allowing them to pool at the window, her energy suddenly crumbling, the secondary stages of her intakes for the night causing the edges of her vision to blacken and blur, shadows teasing the borders of her consciousness. There were scratches and claw marks carried over her backside, down her thighs, there were impressions of teeth on her shoulder, her breast, her neck, her hair was erratic and damp and her nail beds were bloody.
And yet, before her, she saw molten eyes and arms spread wide, he had followed her to her place of peace.
"How did you know?" She breathed, the hallucination refusing to answer, despite her desperate inquiry, her mind and heart vulnerable. She threw her jacket over her shoulders, stepping forward, almost there. . .
And Alexia collapsed onto her floor, naked, bruised and afraid.
And alone.
[ β ]
@ZB1996 - Oh no, I'll be sad, well sadder, to see you leave! Like Priskins said, don't hesitate to contact us and we can sort out the details. I hope everything pans out smoothly though in your departure, we'll be wishing the best for you. β₯
@Archangel89 - Sure thing, what's the face claim, unless you'd rather me use the original photograph you provided.
@Archangel89 - Sure thing, what's the face claim, unless you'd rather me use the original photograph you provided.
Primarily so. My levels of stress are usually doubly compounded by a lot of factors in my life, but I have various mediums and sources to vent and expend what I'm struggling with. At the moment, writing is my primary source, I feel like I can convey and fall into it better, sort of getting lost once I get into that mode where I type away so angrily sometimes and refuse to stop until I need to read back.
Hehe, I guess that does ring true. Our parents were busy people in our youth, and my sister struggled during that time due to the joint custody she had with her biological father and our mother. Between their work and everything else, I was all she had at one point. But, it does work having her as my employee, I instilled the belief of Home is Home and Work is Work into her. I can't give her special treatment which she had to learn rather quickly when she first began - but I know I can count on her now.
Oh no, I would never ask that we shorten our posts or lessen them in any regard. Having to wait two or three days for a post is entirely fine by me. Seeing as we communicate regularly in OOC, I'm not worried, nor will I fret if some days carry on. Personally, it just makes the reveal all the sweeter. And there's no better feeling when you're eagerly awaiting for something, and viola, there it is.
Hah, I want to come join your weekend. I don't have anything planned, other than work. At BDUBS, we don't rest, between our "casual dining" and sports bar, there's always something. Even with the Holiday, I believe we're still open on regular hours and families go out during these sorts of luxury days, so I imagine we will be quite busy and packed as usual. And it's the summer, we're hiring on new hands to fill in the gaps and busy hours, especially because some of the girls want three days off in the week for their summer - which I totally get, most of them are young twenty-somethings, and High Schoolers that want to enjoy their time. So we're compromising with them and hiring new hands. Interviews are lined out for next week, so it'll be rather busy.
I would love nothing more though than attending a traditional bonfire though and getting drunk, grill lit up. Before I was promoted, those were my typical weekends.
edit.
My post kind of got away from me, but I couldn't stop it.
It ended in a terrible way for me, I almost felt bad for doing that to her.
But.
The song I used for this post is called Needles and Pins - by Deftones.
Hehe, I guess that does ring true. Our parents were busy people in our youth, and my sister struggled during that time due to the joint custody she had with her biological father and our mother. Between their work and everything else, I was all she had at one point. But, it does work having her as my employee, I instilled the belief of Home is Home and Work is Work into her. I can't give her special treatment which she had to learn rather quickly when she first began - but I know I can count on her now.
Oh no, I would never ask that we shorten our posts or lessen them in any regard. Having to wait two or three days for a post is entirely fine by me. Seeing as we communicate regularly in OOC, I'm not worried, nor will I fret if some days carry on. Personally, it just makes the reveal all the sweeter. And there's no better feeling when you're eagerly awaiting for something, and viola, there it is.
Hah, I want to come join your weekend. I don't have anything planned, other than work. At BDUBS, we don't rest, between our "casual dining" and sports bar, there's always something. Even with the Holiday, I believe we're still open on regular hours and families go out during these sorts of luxury days, so I imagine we will be quite busy and packed as usual. And it's the summer, we're hiring on new hands to fill in the gaps and busy hours, especially because some of the girls want three days off in the week for their summer - which I totally get, most of them are young twenty-somethings, and High Schoolers that want to enjoy their time. So we're compromising with them and hiring new hands. Interviews are lined out for next week, so it'll be rather busy.
I would love nothing more though than attending a traditional bonfire though and getting drunk, grill lit up. Before I was promoted, those were my typical weekends.
edit.
My post kind of got away from me, but I couldn't stop it.
It ended in a terrible way for me, I almost felt bad for doing that to her.
But.
The song I used for this post is called Needles and Pins - by Deftones.
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