So I've come out of seclusion and I'm ready and waiting for some more RP in which to be a soul-consuming, element-flinging megalomaniac, and once again, the other threads have petered out somewhat due to lack of direction/impossibility to break into.
So I'm creating this thread. It will be far easier for new people to break in, due to the chaotic environment I'm going to set it up in. To new people reading this - FEEL FREE TO BREAK IN WITH YOUR CHARACTERS AT ANY TIME! If you're not trying to commandeer the storyline too much and you're not interrupting a climactic moment, we want you in! The best RP is sensible RP. Remember that and think carefully about what you post before you post it. Having said that, we're a crazy, forgiving bunch - you can't really mess up. (And if you decide that you're God and break our storyline, we'll simply edit your posts. :P)
So, I'll make two posts after this one, one for plot summary and one for active characters. Read both before creating your character and joining in.
Also, if you had a character in RP Place Two and you wanted to keep them, you're welcome to do that. It's no problem - in some cases, the characters were too good to lose. :)
THE RP SCENE
You stand in a shadowed street of a city gone wild. The cobblestones are cracked, the windows shattered, the houses crumbled and fallen. A great civilization once stood upon this site, and the ruins that remain behind are testament to the wonders of their world. Ancient temples, huge bazaars, palaces and catacombs dot the landscape, and you can't help but marvel at the ruined landscape.
But there are still people here. The civilization fell a century ago in an event called the Sundering, when the rulers of the great Empire lost control of the powers they sought to bend against their enemies. They were torn apart for their arrogance, but the site of their folly still resonates with power. The city is now populated by a peculiar mix of good and evil, all attuned to the energies of the place, each with unique and individual ways of expressing the power that hums from every stone, spills from every stream.
The people are a varied lot, some living semi-ordinary lives, trading in old shops, walking the streets by daylight. Others engage in bloody and open warfare with each other, driven by bloodlust and avarice over the hidden secrets of the city. Others seek desperately, searching for sources of power within the walls, driven by their hunger for still more power.
Your character can be any one of these people. Your character can be anything.5/9/2009 #1
Plot Summary5/9/2009 #2
??? - Jasion Drake
A boy coated in grime and bedecked from head to toe in magical items. Clearly a treasure seeker.
Xanthee - Graveside Rose
A leader of one of the larger gangs. Beautiful and dangerous, but apparently takes orders from her mysterious feline companion.
Donza - Sieg-Saufer
Of the Order of the White Lion. Polite. Archaic speech patterns.5/9/2009 . Edited 5/11/2009 #3
Thunder rumbled overhead, skies tinged ashen grey with soot. The air sang of the coming storm.
Beneath the clouds, a bent figure tore furiously at the bare soil, giving occasional sobs of effort as he did so. The crumbled walls around him did something to mask this hidden garden from the broken street, but he still glanced around fearfully from time to time. It would do him no good to be discovered now, so close to what he sought.
The boy - for it was a boy, with dirty locks of hair and a hungry expression - had clearly abandoned fashionable principles for practicality long ago. He was dressed in a close fitting black shirt and breeches of a dark brown. Both items were coated with grime and soil, testament to long hours spent grubbing about in filthy locations. Around his neck, talismans hung. His ears were full of earrings, and when he opened his mouth to take a breath, there was a gleam from within his mouth, as if a precious gemstone had replaced a tooth. He was barefoot, and his toes wore rings. In short, he was bedecked from head to toe in arcane apparatus, and a heavy satchel cast aside hastily was no doubt packed to the brim with more.
The boy gave a triumphant shout as he held aloft his prize, something that glimmered brightly in the dying light. As if in answer to his shout, a hue and cry was raised just over the wall. The boy leapt into the air in fright and promptly popped his treasure into his mouth - without so much as cleaning it off first. A forced swallow later, and the treasure was in his stomach. There would be no chance a roaming gang would take it from him now.
The boy loped off, staying low to the ground, almost dragging his knuckles. His eyes burned with a peculiar triumph, and his panting had a happy tinge to it.5/9/2009 #4
The streets were never safe, specially not when the night fell. Thats when the creatures made themselves known. All of different colour and all of different standings. They were the gangs of the city. Not a night went by without one of them making themselves known and causing more fear of the darkness.
Tonight was her night. She was a queen of her standings and a master of her trade. Xanthee.
A beauty of the dark and a killer of the night. She was leader of one of the larger gangs though her mind was not always with her as the orders she gave came from a small feline always by her side.5/9/2009 #5
Donza leaned against the counter as he looked around for his client. His hand was hanging characteristacally near his zweihander's hilt as he took in the sounds of the guild. Ever since the Empire fell, it had been like this... he closed his eyes, sighing. A moment later, he heard someone approach.
"Yes," Donza replied politely, cracking an eye open. It was an elderly man, covered in the markings of a shaman.
"Are you Donza of the Order of the White Lion?" the shaman asked in a weary voice. Donza nodded, and the old man continued, "I have been lucky enough to hear of you and your Order. Fighting to defeat the gangs... it is the hope the people need. But congradulations are not my purpose here today,"
"Then pray tell, kind elder. What matter doth plagues thou?" Donza asked, his tongue using the language he was taught by his brother. The shaman reached into his robes, and pulled out a chain, with an odd charm hanging on it.
"What a noble tongue you have. Have you heard of the Chevalier?"5/9/2009 #6
((Will post in the next two days, deep in a fanfic at the moment that's just getting to the good smut. Reserved.))5/11/2009 #7
((I've never done this before, so please tell me if I do something wrong))
Swords clash against swords, their well-worn edges dulled by the blood of their wielder’s victims. Lances thrust into, axes hack through, and arrows pierce everything that gets in their way, friend or foe. Weapons with unknown names sing through the death-laden air, doing their jobs as well or better than their named brethren. Men and women scream their agony to the uncaring streets as the enemy forces tear into each other.
Amidst the death and destruction, one beacon of life shines. A young man in blood-stained white robes scurries from wounded combatant to wounded combatant, caring little for what side they fight on. Where he stops, men who were seconds from death rise and, as if to mock his efforts, rush back into the fray. He stops at the side of a dying civilian woman and lays his hands over her ruined abdomen. Blue light courses down the intricate tattoos on his forearms and ignites the woman's wounds. When the light recedes, she is healed.
She stares up at the young man, taking in his delicate, blood-smeared features and once-blond hair. He smiles gently and gestures for her to get off of the impromptu battlefield. Not even bothering to thank him, she rushes to follow his advice, disappearing quickly. He sighs and goes back to his work, flitting from body to broken body, losing himself in his work.
Eventually, the fighting stops, though his work doesn't. After one particularly draining healing, he looks up to find a woman standing not far away. He knows her to be the leader of the winning side; Xanthee, Queen of the Night. Their eyes meet for one quick, burning moment before he turns away to find a new survivor to heal. She matters little to him. What does matter are the sparks of life flickering and fading around him. The next time he looks up, she is gone, like a shadow in the night.
One man is coherent enough to watch his wounds disappear, and stares at the young man in wonder.
"What is your name, lad?" he asks as his savior begins to move to a new body.
"Andlyn." is the answer that comes out of the night.
The healed man stands and walks away. No thanks is asked for, and none is offered. The blue light flares, and the young man says no more.5/21/2009 #8
I'm new at this, so I'm really sorry if I'm bothering you, feel free to tell me to leave if you want me to! The sky was dark and fearsome, the wind howling above the stormy streets. The cloud covered heavens were black as a bruise, the swirls of mist were heavy and low, full with substance. Small flakes of snow began to droop out from the thick air, and yellow light from the tavern's latticed windows pooled on the frost covered cobbles. Noise and drunkenness spilled out into the quiet street, contained in a silencing charm. The other magic folk that she knew dwelt in these quiet unsuspecting cottages that snoozed either side of the inn wouldn't be able to hear any of the noise that the owner of the establishment tried vainly to contain, just as they wouldn't be able to hear an elven's sleeping breath from inside thick stone walls. But she could hear the raucous jeers that echoed from the ale-place. She had always been sensitive to magic, and sounds in general. She had heard tell of this place before; it was host to a number of dubious characters, and you would be sure to find a number of equally dubious artefacts. Many a folk had warned her about it, well really speaking they told others and she eavesdropped on their conversations (nobody talked to her, she tended to keep to herself), and they told their feminine, squeaky friends that it would be a sure death wish to even cross the threshold. She stood outside the wooden door and pretty exterior, very traditional, olde-English. But on closer inspection she noticed that grime and blood caked the rough walls, and stains of drinks that couldn't be just ale littered the floor and even splashed up to the thatched roof, whose golden hay seemed dusty and over-used. The sign that proclaimed the inn's name creaked and moaned in the gale that was picking up, the illustrated ink-pot engraved onto the smoky wood flashing and changing with the colours of the rainbow. It did not look the sort of place a nineteen year old girl wanted to venture in, unprotected and in-escorted. But it was freezing, she was starving and exhausted, and it was the only place open at such a late hour. All she wanted was to eat a hearty meal, have a drink, and if they rented rooms, sleep. And she wasn't exactly a normal magical nineteen year old, with their poufy skirts that ballooned out in pastry gowns. It wasn't like she was unprotected either. Unescorted yes, but unprotected? Not so much. She weighed the rough brown bag of golden coins lightly with her hands. They chinked and sang against each other, scraping against the weathered material that enclosed them. She would go in, she decided. Stepping into the pool of bronze candlelight that preceded the entry, her fine form was revealed. Her eyes glittered under the woollen hood of her thick cape, the colour of the stormy November sea, raging blue, screaming green, froth white, vein purple, hinted with the autumn's brown leaves. Full bow-shaped lips, soft and pink as a rose petal, defined but not sharp cheekbones, smattered with freckles. Her skin was lily white, the colour of milk, and it seemed to glow, translucent, in the shimmer. She was stunning. Pulling back the navy hood of her cape back, her long nut brown fell to her waist in rippled, wavy curls, red-brown, mahogany intercepeted by auburn. Her eye-lashes were long and covered with the now rapidly falling snowflakes, making them a beautiful dewy black, but she didn't seem cold. She made a clucking noise with her tounge, a foreign language, odd and unheard of before. Thin whisps of shadow began to seep from the nooks and crannies around her, floating towards the mysterious girl, whispering and chattering in the same language as the girl had spoken. They began to curl themselves around the two glittering daggers, that hung from her thin woven brown belt that fastened over the soft ocean-coloured dress she wore, studded with sparkling sea-green emeralds, and the perfectly crafted wooden bow and leather quiver of fine oak arrows strung around her back, the bow covered in intricate carvings. They soon appeared invisible, and she muttered a strange thanks. She placed a hand on the oak door, and entered the bustling tavern. Inside, it was a veritable melting pot. Ogres crowded around the dart board in the corner, jostling one another, while a mean-looking goblin took bets outside an iron door with a sign above ominously naming it the "Duelling Room." The interior was magically enlarged, so near enough one hundred and fifty tables fit inside, some long, rectangular and regal, others small, round and squat, but all were full. Many seemed full of strangers, meeting and learning about one another for the first time. Harlots snaked about, many, all of different breeds. She saw a wolf woman with a humanoid body, barely covered in tiny clawed shorts and a jasmine and gold top. She was stroking her large, pine coloured tail suggestively around the chin of a drunken and guffawing knight, stil clad in shining silver armour. Demons and succubi sat drinking steaming red liquid in glasses that appeared to be made of crimson claws, and a pretty elven band played lutes and sang in the corner on a raided platform. A woman of the moonfolk race sat rigidly on her chair, and she seemed to be hosting a form of a poker game, her elegant midnight blue cloak sleeve sweeping chip after chip from her long-faced companions. Her pale blue ears twitched happily as she weighed an expensive looking silver locket in her hand, which she had won from a dim-witted princess, who held her pretty blonde head in her hands. A group of merrows chugged from conch cups, and were drunkenly wailing sea chanties near a locked door labelled storehouse. The girl even saw a silken haired unicorn, waving its ivory horn menacingly at a retreating yeti. And in a corner in the midst of the chaos, was the bar. Pushing her way over to the honey wood structure, she gasped with relief and almost fell flat down with gratitude on reaching the bar through the heaving and swaying crowd that surrounded it. She had been jostled, jumped, punched in the stomach and elbowed in the rib, not to mention her pride being severly bruised. She was woken from her thankful praise by a soft chuckle. She looked up to see the bartender, a stooped old man with a shock of silver hair, who looked at her kindly over his wire-framed glasses. "Y'alright, lass? I be guessing you'll be renting a room. You look like you need a decent meal too." He paused for a second. "Calm ye'self down Fergus, she's only got to the bar!" he gave himself a pretend slap on the wrist, and she chuckled. "What can I get you, lassie?" "W-what do you have?" she asked, still slightly shocked from the jolt to her rib. He passed her a menu, and she quickly selected a small clover and heather brew, and asked him for a room. "A fellow Irish girl I see! Will ye be wanting breakfast and dinner as well?" "Yes, please." "Seeing as I like you, I'll give it to ye half price. What's your name, girly? Got to have it down for the room, see." "Caoimhe. Caoimhe O'Knocknan." "Rightio. Go grab ye'self a table, and I'll soon be out with ye dinner and ye room key." She took her small silver mug and sank down on a tiny three seater table. The table next to her were loud and racy, and discussing a battle that occurred earlier between a warrior queen and some unlucky side, but the room was too noisy to eavesdrop properly. The inn was filling up, and people were disappearing into shady curtained rooms, and various doors that appeared on all sides of the room. Someone was smoking a hookah, and it was making Caoimhe's throat burn. People were plopping down on tables all over, making niceties with strangers. Caoimhe lay her hand on the rough grain of the table, and wondered when someone was to come and sit next to her.9/17/2012 #9
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