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Shoegaze
Planetoid
- Joined
- Jun 30, 2012
A ROLEPLAY SEARCH
- Now, before you decide you want to roleplay with me here's a tiny disclaimer: I'm a busy lady. Between work, school
and ceremonious partying I often find myself quite tired. That being said, I will participate in our game when I'm in
the mood. Writing is a means of recreation for me, not an obligation, so I ask that you're patient and understanding
of my assiduous lifestyle. If this doesn't deter you from roleplaying with me than continue reading!
TO BEGIN
→ psuedo intelluctualism is unwanted
→ don't quote my posts please
→ I enjoy unusual romance, but it's never necessary
→ roleplay venues are thread, skype or email
→ I play multiple characters - you will too
→ I do not enjoy incest, rape/non-con, BDSM or toilet play
→ if romance is involved, f x m and m/ is fine
→ CRAVING lycan x human, Far Cry 3, Skyrim
GENERAL
→ here's some writing samples from me
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Behemoth was a commandeered Bloodsail vessel mired along one of Tanaris' southernmost beaches. Although the beach itself was sundered, the cog's crew found no difficulty navigating through the heaps and mounds of churned sand and earth left askew by the Destroyer. In fact, they frequented the strand as assumed by the eskers dredged in the sandy knolls, but not to scavenge—to survey.
Leading the patrol was a bandy troll with biceps the size of barrels. He marched through the remains of the beach flanked by two Sandfury skullsplitters, each dusted in a noticeable veil of sand. “The beach has been empty for weeks, mon,” put in one of the Skullsplitters, “Ain't nobody been 'ere before the Sundering and nobody after, except for us. It's safe, I'd bet my right tusk.”
“The one dat be missin'?” His partner howled with laughter and pointed, mockingly, at him. “Ya can't bet whatcha ain't got, mon!” Before their bickering worsened, the largest of the trio snorted, meriting the attention of his subordinates.
“We won't wait any longer, 'den,” he grunted, “Return to Zul'Farrak and summon 'da delegates. If 'da Messiah wants this moot to happen, now is 'da best time.”
Some hours later, when the sun was at its zenith, the Behemoth was riding the waves northeast of Tanaris, but not so far from Kalimdor that the shores were entirely unnoticeable. The captain—a windburnt troll with flesh toughened by sea spray—shielded his eyes from the sun while his left hand gently passed over the cog’s binnacle. The hand on the compass was teetering north, a direction which he abhorred traveling in—truth be told, naga were as thick as bass in these waters. He had seen many a vessel succumb to their numbers or felled by the seawitches and their ice magic.
“Captain,” a troll called. He was the very same that lead the patrol on the beach. “Have you seen Vis—”
The captain spat; chagrin straddled the corner of his lips and forced them into a sour scowl. “Vis’eera? The naga? ‘Aye, the shaman has him workin’. Last I saw, he slithered off the deck into the depths. Gods be good, he’ll stay ‘dere.” The captain, bristling, stroked the length of his tusk as a means of pacification. “Da shaman’s a clever woman, Tazingo, I know dat … but wit ain’t no match for instinct. Ya know dat tinglin’ ya get in your tusks when somethin’ bad s’about ta happen? … Bad juju, mon. Bad juju.”
Tazingo couldn’t help but to chuckle; his laugh was a hearty laugh, thunderous and good natured. As a response he gently clasped the captain’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring pat. “Maybe ‘da years at sea have made ya a little too salty, mon.”
“And maybe ‘da years in ‘da dessert have made you too complaisant. Ya never listened to me when was younger and ya ain’t listenin’ to me now.”
A strident, wet slap on the vessel’s deck caused all heads to turn. Half of the deckhands watched on in horror while others brandished their scabbards and scimitars. “Hold,” Tazingo commanded. The resulting splash had flattened his mohawk against his skull and smeared the warpaint which once daubed his long, prominent nose and well across his cheeks.
The culprit—the creature that was responsible for provoking a fearsome torrent of seawater—was a naga. His scales, a splendid dyad of cream and coral, glimmered under the sun’s golden fingers as he hoisted himself on the deck. By then the deckhands had retreated to their respective chores, weapons sheathed and horrified miens left nonchalant as they had been before.
“Vis’eera,” Tazingo beamed, “What’s da verdict?”
Vis’eera dawdled; he washed his hands over his snout to purge arrant beads of seawater. Everything about him was magnificent, from the length of his spines to his whiskers, each bejeweled in niello and silver. “The naga surrounding Alcaz have agreed to disperse,” Vis’eera reported, “On the agreement that no harm is to befall their fetishes or banners. They have made it quite apparent that the islet is … theirs … and will act accordingly in response to whatever harm befalls their accouterments.”
When the Messiah first governed Zul’Farrak she allowed the naga exile Vis’eera citizenship. Though the Sandfury bridled over his extrication, she welcomed him with open arms and even entreated him with a seat on her council aside Tazingo, Zul’Farrak’s champion and most notable war veteran during the city’s first siege. As the year transgressed Vis’seera’s affinity for wisdom and obsequious mien earned the people’s trust. He became the Messiah’s adviser and a very close friend.
While Vis’eera and Tazingo commiserated, the crew began assembling the tools for disembarking. Two trolls hurried up from below deck with a gangplank while others began adjusting the sails accordingly. Like clockwork, the winds caught the sails and inflated them with an unseen fervor.
“Strange,” Vis’eera began, “I have not seen the waters so still since the Destroyer was felled. It is a queer sight, one I am certainly not opposed to.”
“It’s strange, I agree,” Tazingo quipped, noting the abandoned island glide into view, “You’ll forgive me for interruptin’ your moment of nostalgia … but where is ‘da Messiah?”
Vis’eera laughed.
“Why, she’s already there.”They were queer things, dreams; each vivid and nostalgic - Dave often found himself longing to experience them, yet he lacked the biological synapses to bring them fruition. Before Prometheus departed on its voyage, he expressed his interest in dreams to the vessel's lead engineer. Although discreet, he requested that she develop a program that simulated a sequence of visions similar to a human dream. Initially she balked at the request, but his curiosity was enough to inspire her. After being ejected thousands of miles into outer space, a minuscule side project wouldn't hinder their principle directive.
Mid-though Dave glanced down through the lambent glow of his visor and into a tubular containment pod. Doctor Shaw laid motionless there save for the occasional smile that would pull her lips, likely in response to her dreams. He found himself gravitating to her more than the other passengers - Dr. Holloway seldom dreamt at all and Meredith Vickers' display console was in need of repair. He'd likely commission Ammon to repair it when she awoke from stasis, but he hadn't the slightest clue as to when her, she, or any of the crew. would wake.
When he grew uninterested in Dr. Shaw's dreams, Dave spent the days circling the recreation room on a bicycle or dabbled in basketball. Though his interests appeared mundane, they kept him quite entertained, and he often went about his chores with a broad smile on his face. His evenings would culminate as most did: with a bowl of a porridge-like nutrient meant to entreat viscosity in his fluids. Ship maintenance was drab so he took to learning languages, one in specific that his superior petitioned him to master. Despite his agenda, Dave managed to have some semblance of fun, sometimes watching 50's films stored in the ship's video archives.
At first he found himself tentatively counting the weeks that passed, but they steadily became a blur, growing into months and immutable years. Luckily Dad didn't program him to experience boredom or he'd have driven himself mad during the third month.
Virtually two years, four months and eighteen days later, Dave was making his routine rounds when he happened across something unusual. As he meandered down a corridor the light bleeding from the fixtures overhead caught the moisture in a series of watery footprints. Curious, Dave followed, ending his pursuit in a spacious chamber with fittings that chased shadows into their respective corners. In the dead center of the room was Meredith Vickers, his superior. He eyed her for a moment, deciding against interrupting her fitness regimen - albeit a very misplaced one. He fetched her robe as any loyal servant would, keeping safe distance as not to irk her.
"Have there been any casualties?" Dave watched her shrug into her robe.
"Casualties?" he quipped.
"Has anyone died."
He half expected her bark, thus, he was equipped with a retort. "No Mom," he replied gently, "Everyone is fine."
She scoffed. "Then wake them."
Etched in hard stone on the horizon was the Shrine of Worship, a structure so tall it nearly blotted out the sun if viewed at right angle. It withstood the test of time and the elements, festooned in moss and vines and lichen all atangle. The exile tyrant remembered seeing it for the first time, a majestic construct wrought in runes of the past. Though his hands were fettered and his soles wet and laden in mold, he marveled at its anatomy. That night was black and rain drummed the earth like a dirge heralding his sentence. The aumildar himself escorted Yeaman, the exile tyrant, to the Forbidden Lands to oversee his exile and guarantee that their ventures weren't in vain.
The rain lashed against Yeaman's face and stung like a thousand tiny needles. He gazed upward, fearful, at the aumildar in his queer ceremonial robe. He wore plate and pauldron alike—an unorthodox attire for a priest—and raised his gloved hands to the black sky. In a flash of white light the fallen bridge rose stone by fallen stone. It was as if hundreds of invisible hands were re-securing each in sequence—first the scaffolding then the stone platforms until the bridge was restored to its ancient glory. "Escort him to the shrine," Yeaman remembered the aumildar command."
That was the last he saw of the Great Bridge until he crossed it. They robbed him of his consciousness and chaperoned him across the bridge with their tapers and torches and brought him to the summoning chambers as the Shrine's postern at the food of a serpentine stair the climbed into the shrine's highest reaches and ascended into its belly. He awoke then, fetterless, without his weapons, food or water. The great stone cistern he climbed out of had an eerie feel to it and he made haste exploring the remainder of the shrine. Chilled to the bone and half-nude he observed the lofty corridor lined with eight broken stone idols on either side. They laid in ruin as if they'd been pummeled by a stone giant.
For once, Yeaman un Rusko, a nefarious warlord, usurper and tyrant, was frightened. The idols, the black sky, the lingering and hollow feeling of desolation ... he was but an ant in an empty world that was evidently built for giants.
That was virtually three years ago. Now Yeaman wore an impressive fur garb crafted from animal pelts and lizard skins. The air of solidarity wasn't quite as menacing as it was during his first year here, but from time to time he found himself pining for what he once had. The men and women he took into his bed, the extortionate meals and most of all, the battle. However, the only battles he found here were those of hunger.
After a day of hunting he returned to his the Shrine of Worship which was his home for years. He'd cleared out one of the niches where a fallen idols lay and made it into his haunt. He found that night was falling now; the high ceiling in the shrine coupled with the wind made for eerie sounds at night, but Yeaman learned to smother them with his animal pelts and shield himself from the black world outside of his safe haven. Some nights he heard sounds coming from the Summoning Chambers and oft investigated to find absolutely nothing. Some nights they were so loud he brought his weapon with him—a flint spear—for protection, but their was naught a soul or demon in sight.
When Saxa finished riling up her brothers, Nemetes initiated their duel. She bounded forward on her gaunt, sinewy haunches, lassoing Ammon's waist with every shred of power her muscles were able to summon. She was, however, taken by surprise at Ammon's weight. Whether Ammon planted her feet into the sand or maneuvered her girth into her soles, Saxa was unable to make the Egyptian budge. As per the whispers circulating, she was listless like a statue, stony like a statue and weighed virtually as much as a statue.
"Cow!" Saxa screamed in her Germanic tongue. She became so frenzied that Ammon, seeking weakness, subdued her in a blink. In a whirl of hair and womanly curves the two combatants trundled into the sand. Saxa hissed and growled, struggling to free herself from Ammon's grasp. The Egyptian choked her spine so tight that she feared it would snap like a heel to a twig. Instead of forfeiting she bit her uneven claws into Ammon's forearm. A grimace tumbled from Ammon initiating muscle retraction; Saxa freed herself, straddling her momentarily dazed contender only to throw a fist at her cheek. It missed - as a result of Ammon's writhing - and connected with her lip. Ammon felt the tender, pursed flesh snap open. Fresh blood, black in the torchlight, began congealing on her cheekbones as subject to splatter.
The Germans clapped, cheering for Saxa's victory, but the cacophony of foreign chants distracted her. When her attention was diverted Ammon roped her waist and tossed her into the crowd. Nemetes keeled over, cursing during his descent, and Lugo - who was partaking on the last slab of boar - tumbled into a stack of wood. Saxa took a spell to recover but was already stolen by Ammon. After a few moments more Nemetes intervened. Saxa suffered no sores, simply minor bruising from Ammon's grasp whereas Ammon was plagued with fingernail bites and a newly cleaved lip.
As Saxa wiped the corner of her mouth, she grumbled darkly, but could not help to show her mirth. "Good," she stammered in their common tongue.
A sea of Germans flooded forth to congratulate Ammon, one lifting her into a friendly embrace. Their agility knocked the wind from her lungs; the relentless spinning did no better. She looked to Agron for saving, entreating him with her marvelous green eyes. "Do not look to him!" one man cried, "You are victor! Victory should be awarded with praise!"
→ email mydearkingdom@hotmail.com
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- Now, before you decide you want to roleplay with me here's a tiny disclaimer: I'm a busy lady. Between work, school