| [BGCOLOR=#7a2721]WABANDONED STARTERSI[/BGCOLOR] RAINThese are either abandoned starters or a reply to a starter before it was abandoned. I’m always keen on picking these openers up once again! Let me know if one piques your interest. __________________________________________________________________________
shapeshifter ღ human ▌
A girl befriends an animal shifter in an ancient forest.
RAINDarkness blanketed Lorelei, ensconcing her in the reverberating staccato of the forest. It was not complete umbrage fortunately. Starlight breached the thick canopy overhead, speckling her surroundings with glimmers of moonbeams just enough to glimpse if shadows of woodland creatures which lived amidst the fauna. Night crickets blended with the whistling of the wind in a nocturnal sonata often played by nature’s orchestra. The undertones of crackling branches and shifting leaves accompanied the subtle tune like the bass beats of her heart.
Perhaps another human would have been petrified in her position, alone and cold as she was, but Lorelei lacked the affliction of fear. In its place, elation took root in her system, compelling her to weave through the thick trunks of aged sentinels like the children of the forest her mother used to tell her. Lore had to thank it to the grand, ebony wolf for the lack of trepidation every time she entered the forest. Had it not been for Koda, her savior, she would not have been fearless as she was now, traversing into the deep forest the townsfolk warned travelers against. With his protection, he showed her the beauty in the forbidden foliage no sane human would dare venture into.
Her walk down memory lane ended when her feet began to throb in protest, yanking her out of her reverie. It had been an hour since she entered the forest deep, and still there was no sight of the wolf. Had he forgotten their rendezvous tonight? She hoped not. Tonight, a meteor shower would occur, their soothsayer said so, and she wished to watch it with the lupine. This desire prompted her sneak away from her home, clad in naught but a maroon cloak to cover her thin, white shift.
“Koda!” Lorelei called out into the vicinity, her lilting voice echoing through the natural orchestra like an unwelcome acoustic, disturbing owls and foxes alike.
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murderer ღ Death ▌
In the Victorian era, a murderer kills countless people in an effort to attract and court Death. From this thread.
RAINOphelia Cromwell considered herself to be quite an intelligent, if not a touch cynical, young lady. However, as young ladies were wont to be, Ophelia was predisposed to lapses of passion and curiosity which, coincidentally, were traits chaperoned by temerity. Such attributes emerged when she fled the comfort of her warm abode and its slumbering inhabitants and into the arms of her paramour at the stroke of midnight. Thoughts of her parents’ wrathful ire and subsequent disappointment, although profound, did not adequately hamper Ophelia from departing, and was promptly cast aside. Her father was especially protective of her, paranoid by the homicides distressing different parts of London. The possible dangers the night could foist upon impetuous maidens such as Ophelia were disregarded in favor of basking in William Brown’s carnal embrace. Fraternizing with a married man of thirty and two was a scandal Ophelia sought to avoid, particularly when she was her family’s firstborn. Moreover, their clandestine rendezvous was an affair which inadvertently heightened their desires. It was an hour fraught with heady and concupiscent lovemaking in the darkness of a locked Brown & Co.’s Furniture Store, an abundance of surfaces sullied with their sweat and essence.
After their coupling culminated, the shop was locked, and the twosome was out in the drizzling path to her street. William’s lingering kiss upon her lips left a lasting smile on her visage as she stepped away from the protection of his umbrella and in to the rain. Ophelia had insisted that he leave her a few blocks away from her house for extra precaution; she was a bright young lass after all, and she deemed it would be less conspicuous if she ventured back to her home in the shadows of the night without him. The streets she knew by heart, at this point in time, were empty and void of any stragglers. It was hardly a journey for an unescorted maiden. No danger would befall her, surely, and his woes were utterly unfounded. Fortunately, for Ophelia, William acquiesced under the belief that his lover was a capable and sensible dame who would not hesitate burying her heel on her offender’s groin as a means to escape. They parted reluctantly after promises of reuniting once more were exchanged and of taking care were proclaimed much to their anguish.
With a palm atop her bonnet to prevent it from being whisked by a tempestuous squall, Ophelia briskly strode through the rain whilst clutching her shawl close to her chest in an attempt to stay dry. There was an alleyway a few steps ahead, one she often took if time was not on her side, that would let her cut through to her area. It was dark and beleaguered with rancid waste, deterring even vagrants from residing in its nooks and crannies. There was no trepidation in her heart as her boots rippled the puddles she splashed into, the fringe of her umberous dress speckling with mud; what had seized her heart was an inherent need to reach home lest she was caught by her parents and by the merciless storm. Yet, with all her intelligence and passion, Ophelia failed to take into account the possibility of being pierced in the head and stabbed in the heart.
It happened swiftly, like a snake, and quietly, like a shadow.
The blonde damsel had no time to react. It was a blur, the clattering shower screaming on behalf of the woman entangled in the grotesque feat. She lost her visual faculties, the moonlight which dimly illuminated her path flickering out as the blade gored the back of her head, dispersing a spray of blood once it was withdrawn. Ophelia’s circumstances deprived her of the opportunity to acknowledge the knife that protruded on her bosom and wounded her heart thereafter. Sanguine tainted her flaxen locks and her alabaster skin, resulting a macabre masterpiece of a remorseless killer. Before she knew it, she was dead with no recognition of who her murderer was.
Perhaps if Ophelia had not tempted fate by refusing sleep in favor of more lubricious activities with her lover or by declining William’s wish to escort her to her doorstep she would not befall such a tragedy. Her perpetrator was unhinged and unassociated to her for all intents and purposes; the damsel was merely a victim of his whims and a token of his twisted affection. Arranged primly on the filthy alley floor, poised and proper as the dead can be, she served as naught but a messenger of a love letter to a nonexistent being. The fissure on her chest feebly effused her blood in protest of her fate. Had Ophelia been alive, a slew of profanities would have left her rosaline lips in response to the lunatic who interacted with her corpse conversationally before he absconded.
Fortunately, Death found Ophelia easily.
Death loomed over the fallen blonde, an inky capelet with its hood overhead concealing her countenance and a maroon parasol screening her from the rain. She arrived on the third hour, the dead hour, precisely and scrutinized the victim with a sneer, scorning whoever slain Ophelia Cromwell before she was due. Unforeseen deaths had been occurring frequently in London—an event that Death abhorred—yet this was the first occasion wherein she visited and regarded the scene. “It was not your time.” She groused with a decidedly English diction saturated with accents from lands afar and unknown to men, her gloved digits caressing Ophelia’s lifeless cheek. “You were due at the ripe old age of fifty and nine not twenty and one.” Her musings were inaudible in the pelting rainfall, eliciting an exasperated sigh from the statuesque brunette. The slip of paper beneath Ophelia’s bonnet attracted Death’s attention however, plucking and reading it almost curiously. It was not long before she glowered at the harmless letter. “Fool.” Who in Death’s name is this twit? Was he behind all these deaths? I have no time for these needless theatrics.
Disinterestedly, the missive was crumpled and tossed in the gutter. Humans were fascinating creatures, yet oftentimes she questioned their sanity and capacity to exist, specially this Watkins culprit who seemed rather deranged and eager to meet Death. She hoped the bobbies could apprehend Ophelia’s murderer sooner rather than later lest his fantasies afflict the grand balance of things and prompted her to intervene, a chore Death would prefer not to be saddled with. Nevertheless, Death need not squander her thoughts over mortal tribulations. All she was tasked to perform was to collect the souls of the deceased when their time was up or ended. Interfering otherwise was out of her jurisdiction and quite tedious for the lady. And Death desired, above all else, to keep things simple.
“Ophelia Cromwell,” Death uttered mutedly as she strode away from the cadaver and to the end of the alleyway, her parasol twirling idly in her grasp, “you’re coming with me.”
At the crack of dawn, the rain had diminished to a light drizzle. Ophelia’s next visitor was an old man, a baker with a shop right against the building the incident occurred, who was in the midst of disposing his trash in the alley. After recovering from the horror that seized him, he scuttled away to alert Scotland Yard. Poor man was rattled out of his wits at the sight of a bloodied lady against his shop’s wall. Once the peelers arrived, the alley was cordoned off from the prying public, the area exclusive to the constabulary.
“Bloody hell.” Detective Inspector Margaret Brown mumbled as she crouched before Ophelia, examining the gash on her bosom. Two males stood by her, one a doctor and the other chief inspector. The redhead inspector had been roused from her sleep on an early and dewy Saturday morning by a gofer her husband let in. Suffice to say, she was not a morning person and was less than thrilled to attend to her responsibilities on a weekend. “This is deplorable. Time of death?”
“She died between the hours of midnight and two by a… uh, a stab in the head.” The doctor responded, carefully cupping Ophelia’s chin to display the location of the injury to the inspector. “It was quite swift and clean. And instant so to speak. There were no signs of a struggle, but the killer took the liberty of stabbing her heart even if she was lifeless by the time the knife left her head.”
Margaret pursed her lips as she regarded Ophelia’s pallid and bloody features. The girl was familiar, though she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. “Did the witness recognize her?”
“Aye.” The chief inspector pipped, gesturing to the perplexed baker conversing with a constable nearby. “Said she was one o’ the Cromwell’s down the street: Ophelia Cromwell, their firstborn, he says. She bought bread in his bakeshop every morn since her eighteenth name-day.”
The inspector stood and dusted her frock, a grim expression on her face. These circumstances reminded her of the other unexplained deaths plaguing London whose murderers were still on the loose. While evidences had been assimilated, none exhibited any relevance to one the other aside from arbitrary slaughter. They were men and women, rich and poor, old and young, good and bad; thus why it proved difficult to form a bond, if there even was, between these kills. If there was only one killer, Margaret deduced that they were slaying at random. It was a horrible thought.
“Bring Ms. Cromwell to the morgue for identification and scour the area for other witnesses. I want anyone who may have noticed suspicious activity to be questioned. I need a lead. I want to know why Ms. Cromwell was out and about past bedtime without an escort.” Margaret instructed to a constable she flagged down prior to addressing the doctor and the uniformed inspector. “I detest bringing bad news, gentlemen. Let’s pay the Cromwells a visit. I doubt they’re even aware that their daughter isn’t in her bedroom.”
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mafioso ღ hybrid ▌
The heir of the Sciacca mob family inherits his father’s legacy and his pet guard.
RAINNadia Zaheil smelled death exuding from Don Giorgio Sciacca. It was faint, yet it was present nonetheless. When the scent exacerbated and his health degenerated, he sequestered himself in his penthouse, receiving no one save for his entrusted second-in-command, his lawyer, and his doctors. And… her: his dog. None of his captains or his own blood was permitted to visit the patriarch. He would not have it if the subject was broached, his reasoning often “it is better to be alone than in bad company”. However, if that held true, the Don should have severed his connections with the rest of his crime family. Nadia endured the aroma of mortality as she entertained and cared for the notorious Don Giorgio Sciacca in his dying days, occasionally fulfilling his final marks and wishes whenever he slipped into unconsciousness.
Yet in the end, Nadia was unable to attend the Sciacca head’s burial, the deathly fragrance along with his presence was gone forever. Giorgio’s lawyer prohibited her from paying her respects, her appearance too bizarre to grace a funeral. It was a poor excuse, she knew; for her presence had always been by the patriarch’s side regardless of who he faced. Nevertheless, she obliged. The training ingrained in her by the very man who passed away took precedence over her predilections. Instructed to remain in the penthouse until Giorgio’s successors arrived, Nadia squandered her time ambling about the luxurious residence akin to a restless pet anticipating its owner to return. She was lost and distraught; the reason she lived expunged, the love of her life departed. Where she stood now was uncertain and how she moved forward was unknown.
Her selfish woes were the least of her concerns however when the resonant ding of the elevator heralded an unexpected visitor as she dithered in shallow slumber, the sable-furred ears crowning her dusky locks twitched at the noise. Men escorted by the lawyer had come and went earlier in the day to inherit the patriarch’s belongings, but this person arrived in the dead hour. She procured her gun beneath her pillow and left Giorgio’s bedroom to investigate in naught but her intimates, exposing her lithe physique and her inky tail. Giorgio garbed her according to his whims and desires, whittling down any vestiges of self-consciousness she may have felt to please him and to a point wherein she could duel in dishabille. It was a hard habit to break despite of his death.
Aside from the foyer of the penthouse, the only light illuming the vicinity was the moonbeams and the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The dim radiance sufficiently revealed the presence of a man with an unsettling scent that she couldn’t quite place. It was somewhat familiar though she was unsure, masked as it was by cigars, liquor, and female perfume. In spite of that discovery, her hesitations had no place in her profession. With noiseless and nimble steps, she rooted herself behind the intruder, the muzzle of her Colt inches away from the back of his head.
“You have two minutes to explain your business with the Sciacca family,” Nadia disengaged the safety of her pistol, its click stridently audible and her intentions crystal clear, “before I put a bullet through your skull.”
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monster ღ human ▌
A monster that lives on lust is captured and locked in a secret government facility manned by one sole scientist. From this thread.
RAIN“Mademoiselle, you have a video conference with General Addams and his colleagues.” An English accented voice echoed throughout the room, its source indeterminable. “Shall I patch him in?”
“Please, Jarvis.”
Perhaps the laboratory wasn’t an adequate place to conduct the meeting but the call arrived on such short notice that Dr. Esme Kaur had no time to prepare. Hauling her documents to the conference room was a hassle the woman preferred not to do, especially when there was a dangerous foreign being in her facility. Instead, she smoothed her lab coat and peered at the widescreen before her. Briefing with her superiors was always a nerve wracking agenda.
“Good morning, Dr. Kaur.” A man with a severe face and snow white hair greeted the good doctor as the feed connected. He was dressed in decorated regalia that befitted his station in the United Nation’s Bureau of Defense and surrounded by men garbed in similar fashion. “I hope you like what we brought to you.”
“Well,” Esme glanced at the incapacitated creature confined in the cube aways from where she stood before clearing her throat, “it’s certainly a leap up from the usual. I loathe to ask what measures your men went to catch this one.”
“Went through hell and back, believe me. My boys have been using these field trackers Arms equipped them with the past year. Just a pilot run to see if it’d work and detect something. All’s quiet usually. It wasn’t last night for the squad in Breckinridge. Trackers went nuts for a whole minute but the boys followed its signal.”
“That’s when you found it.”
“Not just that worm, Dr. Kaur. The Beyond. It’s a roamer.” General Addams’s eyes glittered in spite of his grave tone. The men who lined the table behind the general either donned expressions of shock or discomfort much like what the doctor on the other end felt. “There has been no sightings of the Beyond for years. Yes, I know. I’ve forwarded the footages of its capture to your chips. You’ll see that what I say is true. Unfortunately, the roamer managed to close the rift before it was captured.” There was visible agitation in the general’s demeanor which led Esme to believe that he would have killed it if he didn’t think that it could part the curtains to the Beyond again. “Dr. Kaur, we have no clue what it is except that it’s not human. It may look like it but it’s not. Exercise caution. We don’t know what it’s capable of. That’s where your knowledge comes in. Patch it up, study it, see if it’s something we can use. Most importantly, see if it can open up a rift. All that we know is already in the files I sent you. We’ll speak again in a week.”
In the ten years that Dr. Esme Kaur worked for in the United Nation’s Bureau of Defense, never had she seen a creature more impressive than a chupacabra until today.
Before her, in a glass cube, was what seemingly appeared to be a mundane human sans all the wounds that marred its—his?—body. Yet Esme knew that his appearance was a disguise. The footage that was sent to her moments after its arrival in the facility granted her a glimpse of its real form in the thick of its capture in the outskirts of Breckinridge, Colorado. Every thing was recorded from the eye-cams of the squad that felled it, even the ingress to the Beyond. From a monstrous appearance, it managed to morph into a human male and close the tear it emerged from amidst the hale of bullet fire from the Armed Force’s special operatives before it was tranquilized, seized, and transported to Area X.
Legends and literatures spoke of creatures like this in one form or another. Hawaiians had their goddess Pele, Africans had ilimus, Indonesians had leyaks, and Scotsmen had selkies. There were an abundance of myths about beings that could take on the form of a human to benefit their needs and walk amongst men. Although Esme researched and read these stories in and off work out of duty and intrigue, this was the first time she truly had something concrete and physical of this caliber in her presence as opposed to textbook passages. A part of her was thrilled, but a small part of her was also terrified. Despite being a part of a department that specialized in this aspect of society, the biologist lived by the principle of not believing in something until she saw it with her own eyes.
As chief biologist of the Research and Development for Astrobiology and Cryptozoology division, Dr. Esme Kaur’s clinical fascination towards the creature overruled most of her emotions. Her job was to examine what was brought to Area X, determine its abilities, and attempt to use it to the UNBuD’s advantage. Prior to present, brownies, chupacabras, death worms, and other minor creatures were delivered to her doorstep. They were interesting enough at first yet they were ultimately useless to the UNBuD if they weren’t sentient or threatening. Such was the reason why her superiors thought it best to let her live and run Area X, a highly classified detachment in Colorado Plateau, alone and to her discretion. In truth, Esme hadn’t really minded. Area X was contained—one sprawling building atop subterranean floors—and equipped with all that she needed to maintain the facility and accommodate its unusual guests. Besides, she always had Jarvis, Area X’s artificial intelligence, to accompany her.
“I believe it’s awake, mademoiselle.” Jarvis announced, his voice ostensibly omniscient in the lab.
Esme crouched, her white coat fanning behind her on the floor and concealing a figure-hugging cream dress, inspecting the roamer and its wounds within its enclosure. The cube that housed it and the anti-field generator that sedated it was fortified with tech and magick, locking in and suppressing any creature that didn’t belong in this world. Above the cube was a number of robotic arms of varying sizes that Esme could maneuver through Jarvis or her tablet.
“Hello,” Esme greeted in a neutral tone that belied her wonder and apprehension of the man-like monster, “welcome to Area X. I’m operating under the assumption that you’ll understand me since adopting human form wouldn’t be half as convincing if you didn’t understand or act human. I’ll be your host during your stay here… somewhat. Before I start with anything, I’ll extend a courtesy unless you’d like to be called ‘34’. What would you like me to call you by?”
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| RAIN | [BGCOLOR=#7a2721]IOLD PLOTSW[/BGCOLOR]
[BGCOLOR=#b3652b]WMuseI[/BGCOLOR] // painter ღ musician or sculptor ღ dancer
LIGHT~DARK ROMANCE. DRAMA. ANGST. BETRAYAL.| modern
RAINYou are a reclusive yet renowned, thirty-something painter in the brink of losing your artistic motivation. In line with the mystery and darkness you are enshrouded in, you also suffer from depression and self-harm (or other terminal illnesses). By chance, you encounter a woman performing her craft in the streets, sparking your interest and captivating your eye. She is a struggling artiste attempting to reach for the stars. You give a proposition to her wherein, instead of trying to make ends meet in the sidewalk, you hire her as a model for your art. Her fame begins to rise while she works for you, inciting envy, hatred and possessiveness. This triggers the self-destructive tendencies that have laid dormant when you are with her. Infatuation warps into an unhealthy obsession.
[BGCOLOR=#b3652b]WSolaceI[/BGCOLOR] // paraplegic brother ღ schizophrenic sister
HURT & COMFORT. DRAMA. ANGST. BLACKMAIL. INCEST. TRAGEDY.| modern
RAINA disastrous car accident renders a family of four parentless, leaving only the brother and sister as the sole survivors. The incident heavily wounds the brother to a point that he is paralyzed from the waist down, while the sister suffers from a head injury that results to schizophrenia. Alone and without parents, they are both cared for by a reluctant relative who evicts them as soon as the brother is eighteen. An unhealthy sort of love between the siblings bloom whilst they comfort and support one another through life.
[BGCOLOR=#b3652b]WLumiereI[/BGCOLOR] // addict writer ღ nurse
HURT& COMFORT. DRAMA. ANGST. ROMANCE. ADDICTION.| modern
RAINYou are a writer with a tortured soul, fallen from grace, losing his creativity to create his next book. Yet, with the help of drugs and other vices, you are able to derive inspiration for your novels from these detrimental indulgences just before you could finish your title. The side effects of this is an inchoate emptiness that leads to a drug overdose meant to purposefully end your existence. It doesn’t go as planned, however. You wake up to a nurse caring for you despite how resistant and stubborn you are in remaining incapacitated. Your persistence in antagonizing and refuting her help summons an innate dislike to fester in her. Though, as fate would have it, she is assigned to be your personal aide at home once you are discharged. Her aversion to you continues until she stumbles upon your journal while you are asleep; your story unravels before her eyes, shedding a new light to the shadows that have blanketed you all this time. Determined to change your poisonous habits, she begins to fall for you bit by bit while you distance yourself from her due to the emotions she has incited within you. Feel free to go wild with your writer (e.g. writing on walls, writing on skin) and his quirky tendencies.
[BGCOLOR=#b3652b]WEnchantmentsI[/BGCOLOR] // sheikh ღ gypsy
ADVENTURE. ROMANCE. COMEDY. | arabian fantasy
RAINA nomadic gypsy is traveling through the desert alone when she inadvertently trespasses in your land. Immediately, she is seized and brought into questioning. Despite her innocence and due to the corrupt nature of the inquisition, she is proven to be a spy. When she is brought forth to you, a powerful sheikh, you begin your own line of questioning while completely disregarding the accusations of your council. In hopes of being absolved of the allegations she is persecuted with, she proves her innocence by performing before you. The private show mesmerizes you to a point that you add her to your harem much to her vehement refusal. Though, quickly, you find out that the other females in your harem no longer appeal to you, and that you are uncharacteristically smitten with the gypsy.
[BGCOLOR=#b3652b]WSea WindsI[/BGCOLOR] // harpy ღ mermaid
ROMANCE. DRAMA. | medieval fantasy
RAINAfter noticing you, a fallen harpy, on the shore, the mermaid comes to his aid to heal his mortal wounds. Her inability to walk on land is remedied after trading her voice to the sea witch in exchange for a trinket that grants her a pair of legs which she would use to hasten the harpy’s recovery. When you awaken to her siren song, your injuries are almost nonexistent; however, your mystery healer, the woman whom you sighted during slivers of consciousness, is nowhere insight. It is only days after that you meet her once again, wandering along the shore. You are taken with her despite her muteness and you even introduce her to your fleet. A courtship ensues until the trinket is lost during an event in your land, revealing her true form and releasing her voice before the winged folk. The need for water and the appearance of her fishtail baffles you though it doesn’t faze your feelings for her. Yet, it is your species that appalls her, chasing her out with verbal daggers and physical battering. They are against your relationship with the mermaid, prohibiting you from seeing her lest they take your wings away. Her family finds out when she returns bruised, and they too are against the relationship between a mermaid and a hapy. Slighted, the mermen wages war against the harpy-people to avenge their hurt daughter against her wishes.
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