skidcrow — Roleplayer Guild

It took a while for her to get moving, after however long spent lazing around in the hall, but once Bill got started there was no room for her to stop. Screams tore through the air and pounded in her ears to the beat of her own circulatory system, spurring whatever wires that were pulling her limbs along to tug faster and harder. She weaved through the crowds with as much ease as her flailing allowed her, silently scorning herself for every time she complained about her height, which was now providing her cover from whoever might want to take a bite out of her. At some point it began to feel like she wasn't even truly there, just witnessing her own life from an omniscient perspective in the sky. Her heart crashed against her chest like a violent storm at sea.

She just about managed to catch a glimpse of a few people taking refuge in the teacher's longue, all but leaping through a gap in the stampede and stumbling in after them. Her mind fell back into the confines of her body with it, giving her enough free will over her movements to pop a mint as another person ran inside and the door swung shut. A sort of numb shaking plagued her hands as she did.

The adrenaline rushed to her head, combining with the sensation of vomit rising up her throat to make her feel thousands of leagues underwater, being pushed against the ground by some unknown force. Her whole body was two seconds away from either astral projecting out of the room or bursting at the seams from the pressure. Maybe she shouldn't have skipped breakfast.
—————————————————𝗕𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗞𝗘━━━
—————————————————
━━━ march 6th 2019
━━━  teacher's lounge, stockbridge academy
━━━  everyone
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Other students perched themselves in different areas of the room, and Bill took the opportunity to do the same. She sat crosslegged by the trashbin in the corner—if anything broke through, it'd go straight past her for the people crowded around the fridge and vending machine, and she might just have enough time to run out behind them. Call it sociopathic, but she was fairly certain a 5'1" junior who avoided sports like the plague didn't have much on grown-ass cannibal psychos. She ignored any mention of the z-word that flashed across her mind.

Slowly, the others in the room began to unfurl the thick blanket of silence—barring the one crying in the other corner, she didn't recognise them—that wrapped around them. Rosemary Fitzgerald, whom Bill had no real say in recognising, how couldn't you, was first to speak. It began to trickle in after that. The crying kid mentioned having keys to an SUV before crying once again, what joy. Not that Bill trusted anyone in here behind the wheel of a large metal death trap. Her head whipped to a new speaker almost comically, one of 'Fitz's friends, not a bad looker, as she contested the call to arms. Bickering wasn't much help either.

Bill tried to just focus on remembering faces and picking up any names that came along after that, not attempting to speak up. She didn't go to any clubs, so she didn't know half these people, and she didn't have anything useful on her gear-wise or knowledge-wise. The room's attention was focused on Rosemary as she tried to take charge of the situation, with most interaction being voices of agreement or disagreement. Next to step up to the mantle was someone she actually recognised, being Alex Woulfe (unofficially Theatre Kid in Bill's mind) from her classes. However much she internally cringed at the thought of theatre, it at least paid off for him. He had her going up until the weapons part, or at least weapons that weren't guns she could use to kill things from a safe distance, where she wouldn't get trampled by freaks.

Unfortunately, melee weapons attached to small, shrimpy high schoolers seemed to be popular.

As with Alex, Mr. Jawline started out strong, trying to get a grip on what actually happened to the not-zombies, kinda like Mr. Not-In-Humans, then looped back to the worst fucking idea. Table legs for weapons. After directly saying a grown-ass man couldn't fend off a freshman. Kay, if what was said before was right, brought it around even further to using fucking table legs to fight off crazy cannibal zombie freak motherfuckers. Then an adorable little freshman who absolutely would get chewed up by zombies—fuck it, she guessed they were now—offered up his inhaler and bus card and holy shit that was LOUD.

Banging on the soda machine was someone Bill recognised from around school as being exactly the type of person to punch a soda machine in the figurative face. She watched the journey of a failed retrieval of the sacred dollar, to eating a depressing mush of a sandwich, to a successful retrieval of a diet soda, which was about the closest thing to peace she was getting for the next however how long. Disappointment naturally set back in once a history lesson morphed into a full plan to arm high schoolers with table legs against zombies. Table legs. Zombies. Braincells nonexistent.

Not even enough table legs, as was pointed out, before the room's attention was called to a girl stood silently sifting through cabinets. With no response whatsoever, the girl simply stared at a cabinet for a beat, before quickly grabbing anything useful and laying it out on the table. Like her soul left her body or something.

Luckily, the weird silence seemed to grip the room long enough for Bill to stand up—probably still drawing zero attention to her tiny ass—and take her first words, ensuring her mint was chewed down enough to not cripple her with a mint-induced lisp.

"Great... 'haul'... and everything," she stalled, staring meekly at the collection of granola bars and coffee ingredients, "but can we start with some fucking names? Inventing nicknames for all of you in my head based on the things I dislike the most about you is unusually depressing today. Also, the whole table leg thing is a fucking terrible idea."


It took a while for her to get moving, after however long spent lazing around in the hall, but once Bill got started there was no room for her to stop. Screams tore through the air and pounded in her ears to the beat of her own circulatory system, spurring whatever wires that were pulling her limbs along to tug faster and harder. She weaved through the crowds with as much ease as her flailing allowed her, silently scorning herself for every time she complained about her height, which was now providing her cover from whoever might want to take a bite out of her. At some point it began to feel like she wasn't even truly there, just witnessing her own life from an omniscient perspective in the sky. Her heart crashed against her chest like a violent storm at sea. She just about managed to catch a glimpse of a few people taking refuge in the teacher's longue, all but leaping through a gap in the stampede and stumbling in after them. Her mind fell back into the confines of her body with it, giving her enough free will over her movements to pop a mint as another person ran inside and the door swung shut. A sort of numb shaking plagued her hands as she did. The adrenaline rushed to her head, combining with the sensation of vomit rising up her throat to make her feel thousands of leagues underwater, being pushed against the ground by some unknown force. Her whole body was two seconds away from either astral projecting out of the room or bursting at the seams from the pressure. Maybe she shouldn't have skipped breakfast.	————————————————— 𝗕𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗞𝗘^{^━}━━ ————————————————— ^{^━━━ march 6th 2019 ^━━━ teacher's lounge, stockbridge academy ^━━━ everyone} ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━


Other students perched themselves in different areas of the room, and Bill took the opportunity to do the same. She sat crosslegged by the trashbin in the corner—if anything broke through, it'd go straight past her for the people crowded around the fridge and vending machine, and she might just have enough time to run out behind them. Call it sociopathic, but she was fairly certain a 5'1" junior who avoided sports like the plague didn't have much on grown-ass cannibal psychos. She ignored any mention of the z-word that flashed across her mind. Slowly, the others in the room began to unfurl the thick blanket of silence—barring the one crying in the other corner, she didn't recognise them—that wrapped around them. Rosemary Fitzgerald, whom Bill had no real say in recognising, how couldn't you, was first to speak. It began to trickle in after that. The crying kid mentioned having keys to an SUV before crying once again, what joy. Not that Bill trusted anyone in here behind the wheel of a large metal death trap. Her head whipped to a new speaker almost comically, one of 'Fitz's friends, not a bad looker, as she contested the call to arms. Bickering wasn't much help either. Bill tried to just focus on remembering faces and picking up any names that came along after that, not attempting to speak up. She didn't go to any clubs, so she didn't know half these people, and she didn't have anything useful on her gear-wise or knowledge-wise. The room's attention was focused on Rosemary as she tried to take charge of the situation, with most interaction being voices of agreement or disagreement. Next to step up to the mantle was someone she actually recognised, being Alex Woulfe (unofficially Theatre Kid in Bill's mind) from her classes. However much she internally cringed at the thought of theatre, it at least paid off for him. He had her going up until the weapons part, or at least weapons that weren't guns she could use to kill things from a safe distance, where she wouldn't get trampled by freaks. Unfortunately, melee weapons attached to small, shrimpy high schoolers seemed to be popular. As with Alex, Mr. Jawline started out strong, trying to get a grip on what actually happened to the not-zombies, kinda like Mr. Not-In-Humans, then looped back to the worst fucking idea. Table legs for weapons. After directly saying a grown-ass man couldn't fend off a freshman. Kay, if what was said before was right, brought it around even further to using fucking table legs to fight off crazy cannibal zombie freak motherfuckers. Then an adorable little freshman who absolutely would get chewed up by zombies—fuck it, she guessed they were now—offered up his inhaler and bus card and holy shit that was LOUD. Banging on the soda machine was someone Bill recognised from around school as being exactly the type of person to punch a soda machine in the figurative face. She watched the journey of a failed retrieval of the sacred dollar, to eating a depressing mush of a sandwich, to a successful retrieval of a diet soda, which was about the closest thing to peace she was getting for the next however how long. Disappointment naturally set back in once a history lesson morphed into a full plan to arm high schoolers with table legs against zombies. Table legs. Zombies. Braincells nonexistent. Not even enough table legs, as was pointed out, before the room's attention was called to a girl stood silently sifting through cabinets. With no response whatsoever, the girl simply stared at a cabinet for a beat, before quickly grabbing anything useful and laying it out on the table. Like her soul left her body or something. Luckily, the weird silence seemed to grip the room long enough for Bill to stand up—probably still drawing zero attention to her tiny ass—and take her first words, ensuring her mint was chewed down enough to not cripple her with a mint-induced lisp. "Great... 'haul'... and everything," she stalled, staring meekly at the collection of granola bars and coffee ingredients, "but can we start with some fucking names? Inventing nicknames for all of you in my head based on the things I dislike the most about you is unusually depressing today. Also, the whole table leg thing is a fucking terrible idea."

<Snipped quote by NuttsnBolts>

That's not quite correct. You need two posts to properly show off Casual.

Post #1: 

Anyone looking at Noel would see a beautiful young woman, but she was broken. She didn't look like a slave. Noel's silken white dress was the envy of the upper class, but it might as well have been a chain collar. She had been taken from her real parents at a young age. old enough to remember her origins, but young enough to be molded into what they wanted her to be. Her hopes, aspirations, and dreams had been beaten out of her every time she tried to escape. Few would blame her for trying to escape the prison that she lived in, but she was made to realize that escape was impossible, and just attempting would do nothing but subject her to greater levels of humility and and suffering. Her clothes hid her scars, and she was properly cleaned before being put in a room with her buyer. "What would you have me do, my lord?" She was committed to doing everything he asked.

Post #2:

Robert took off his shirt and handed it to her. "Iron this."@BrokenPromise

then you need the response that chews as much scenery as possible to try and compensate for the scraps thrown at them

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