Phi
oh baby baby it’s a wild world
These are Phi's samples, mostly characters that never really got a chance, but still have a soft spot in my heart.
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
One x One {phi's samples}
- Thread starter Phi
- Start date
Phi
oh baby baby it’s a wild world
Einar & Thrudur
Norwegian siblings in a half-fantasy historical period, the original plot involved them discovering a harpy and trying to help her.
---
Einar. The name he was given at birth and the destiny he seemed to carry since that very day: one who walks alone. As if it were an honor to be so thoroughly different to those around you that you were doomed to always be either one step ahead or one step behind the others. The weight of this destiny hung heavy around his neck, pulling his shoulders into a rounded hunch as he outgrew his childish body too young, growing taller and more muscular than his peers in a body that felt like a garish costume. His name proved to be a curse Einar could never quite shake and at some point, he stopped trying entirely.
Thrudur, born when Einar was still a small child, took to her name in quite the same way, with quite the opposite effect. Power and strength, daughter of Thor fit her like a glove. The growth spurt passed over her, leaving her delicate in comparison to her brother, but she was all muscle and grit inside and out. Ever since they were kids, she had a history of greatness, competing in swimming races every summer, helping neighbors sew fields and pull in hauls from the sea, and never complaining even when the hours were long or the cold rains rolled in. Even after working from sun-up to sundown, Thrudur could be counted on to drink profusely, be the last to leave a gathering, and generally be the warm-hearted center of attention at feasts.
Einar rather preferred his solitude. He had never been the strongest nor most talented child, and he spent most of his life suffocating under his father’s expectations for his firstborn son. His pure size and the propensity of his body towards strength spared him some of his father’s most scathing critiques, but he never felt comfortable in his life, never feeling as if he was where he belonged or who he was supposed to be. Despite his imposing looks, he stumbled often, dropped or crushed things by accident, and was generally clumsy in his body.
But at least one thing he could do with grace. Any moment he could manage to get away, Einar would walk to the edge of the small sprawl of the coastal village, following a snaking path ground by his own footsteps up into the rocky cliffs that overlooked his hometown. The path was steep and rocky, and it didn’t lead to anywhere anyone wanted to go. There, he knew, no one would disturb him. And it was there he did his best work.
Page after page he had filled with this same scene, the same square miles of coastline, the same swirling depths. Charcoal was his preferred medium, as it was easy to come across; he had learned which twigs to feed to the fire to produce the perfect blend of softness, the darkest darks. Some days, the waters were peaceful, like a never-ending piece of glass. Others, the waves were capped in a heavy foam, resentful and dangerous, throwing themselves against the cliffside. By now, he could draw all these scenes by heart, knew exactly how to wipe at the page with the sleeve of his tunic to portray the thickest froth.
There were probably a few who knew of Einar’s folly, but no one dared mention it, not even his usually fearless little sister. Thrudur would never admit she was worried about her brother but she could acknowledge the swirling shame that blossomed in her stomach when she heard him slip out of the house again, and knew where he was going. Such a selfish folly, when they had to ration candle wax in the long, dark days of winter when the shallows were frozen solid and their neighbors shivered in their beds. Being a fisher was a source of pride to her – it was hard work, and dangerous at that, but it was honest, and everyone in their family as far back as their father could remember had been fishers here, in this town. Almost everyone they knew was the same, the men, women and even the children too, and nearly every home had at least one solid wooden boat pulled up into the garden.
The honor of living on this particular island, following a traditional way of life was passed down to Thrudur from their father. His aging eyes and weak step were a constant reminder to her that someone had to step up. Clearly, it wouldn’t be her brother. Maybe that’s why she decided to say something that morning, sitting in the pre-dawn haze in the kitchen around a skinny candle, eating a piece of coarsely ground brown bread with salted herring, when her brother suddenly pushed in the front door with a gust of icy wind. Or maybe she was just annoyed about her meager hours of sleep she had achieved the night before and the hangover pressing on the sides of her skull.
“Where have you been?”
The question stopped Einar dead, the cold morning wind causing the candle to flicker on the table. It’s a question he’s been waiting for, but also thought would never come, a delicate truce unexpectedly broken. A lie he’d hoped he’d never have to tell.
“Oh god, stop standing there like an idiot. You know I know… And shut the damn door before your father freezes to death in his bed.” Thrudur hardly looked up from her bread.
Sheepishly, Einar let the door close heavily behind him. His arm was pressed tight to his jacket, supporting the bound notebook pressed between his tunic and the wind-breaking leather. When he spoke, his voice sounded much softer and smaller than one would expect from a man who towered over six feet, with a muscled upper body pressing against his tunic in defined bulges, a man with a curly orange beard already streaked with tinges of white.
Thrudur shook her head impatiently, casting a silent shame in her brother’s direction in a way only family can. With the last bite of her breakfast, she wiped crumbs down the sides of her overalls and pushed the chair back loudly across the floor. Destiny was a fickle thing, but why try to skirt the inevitable? Einar came into this world to walk it alone, and he would walk it alone for the rest of his days. Always either a step ahead or a step behind, and often, he wasn’t sure which.
Norwegian siblings in a half-fantasy historical period, the original plot involved them discovering a harpy and trying to help her.
---
Einar. The name he was given at birth and the destiny he seemed to carry since that very day: one who walks alone. As if it were an honor to be so thoroughly different to those around you that you were doomed to always be either one step ahead or one step behind the others. The weight of this destiny hung heavy around his neck, pulling his shoulders into a rounded hunch as he outgrew his childish body too young, growing taller and more muscular than his peers in a body that felt like a garish costume. His name proved to be a curse Einar could never quite shake and at some point, he stopped trying entirely.
Thrudur, born when Einar was still a small child, took to her name in quite the same way, with quite the opposite effect. Power and strength, daughter of Thor fit her like a glove. The growth spurt passed over her, leaving her delicate in comparison to her brother, but she was all muscle and grit inside and out. Ever since they were kids, she had a history of greatness, competing in swimming races every summer, helping neighbors sew fields and pull in hauls from the sea, and never complaining even when the hours were long or the cold rains rolled in. Even after working from sun-up to sundown, Thrudur could be counted on to drink profusely, be the last to leave a gathering, and generally be the warm-hearted center of attention at feasts.
Einar rather preferred his solitude. He had never been the strongest nor most talented child, and he spent most of his life suffocating under his father’s expectations for his firstborn son. His pure size and the propensity of his body towards strength spared him some of his father’s most scathing critiques, but he never felt comfortable in his life, never feeling as if he was where he belonged or who he was supposed to be. Despite his imposing looks, he stumbled often, dropped or crushed things by accident, and was generally clumsy in his body.
But at least one thing he could do with grace. Any moment he could manage to get away, Einar would walk to the edge of the small sprawl of the coastal village, following a snaking path ground by his own footsteps up into the rocky cliffs that overlooked his hometown. The path was steep and rocky, and it didn’t lead to anywhere anyone wanted to go. There, he knew, no one would disturb him. And it was there he did his best work.
Page after page he had filled with this same scene, the same square miles of coastline, the same swirling depths. Charcoal was his preferred medium, as it was easy to come across; he had learned which twigs to feed to the fire to produce the perfect blend of softness, the darkest darks. Some days, the waters were peaceful, like a never-ending piece of glass. Others, the waves were capped in a heavy foam, resentful and dangerous, throwing themselves against the cliffside. By now, he could draw all these scenes by heart, knew exactly how to wipe at the page with the sleeve of his tunic to portray the thickest froth.
There were probably a few who knew of Einar’s folly, but no one dared mention it, not even his usually fearless little sister. Thrudur would never admit she was worried about her brother but she could acknowledge the swirling shame that blossomed in her stomach when she heard him slip out of the house again, and knew where he was going. Such a selfish folly, when they had to ration candle wax in the long, dark days of winter when the shallows were frozen solid and their neighbors shivered in their beds. Being a fisher was a source of pride to her – it was hard work, and dangerous at that, but it was honest, and everyone in their family as far back as their father could remember had been fishers here, in this town. Almost everyone they knew was the same, the men, women and even the children too, and nearly every home had at least one solid wooden boat pulled up into the garden.
The honor of living on this particular island, following a traditional way of life was passed down to Thrudur from their father. His aging eyes and weak step were a constant reminder to her that someone had to step up. Clearly, it wouldn’t be her brother. Maybe that’s why she decided to say something that morning, sitting in the pre-dawn haze in the kitchen around a skinny candle, eating a piece of coarsely ground brown bread with salted herring, when her brother suddenly pushed in the front door with a gust of icy wind. Or maybe she was just annoyed about her meager hours of sleep she had achieved the night before and the hangover pressing on the sides of her skull.
“Where have you been?”
The question stopped Einar dead, the cold morning wind causing the candle to flicker on the table. It’s a question he’s been waiting for, but also thought would never come, a delicate truce unexpectedly broken. A lie he’d hoped he’d never have to tell.
“Oh god, stop standing there like an idiot. You know I know… And shut the damn door before your father freezes to death in his bed.” Thrudur hardly looked up from her bread.
Sheepishly, Einar let the door close heavily behind him. His arm was pressed tight to his jacket, supporting the bound notebook pressed between his tunic and the wind-breaking leather. When he spoke, his voice sounded much softer and smaller than one would expect from a man who towered over six feet, with a muscled upper body pressing against his tunic in defined bulges, a man with a curly orange beard already streaked with tinges of white.
Thrudur shook her head impatiently, casting a silent shame in her brother’s direction in a way only family can. With the last bite of her breakfast, she wiped crumbs down the sides of her overalls and pushed the chair back loudly across the floor. Destiny was a fickle thing, but why try to skirt the inevitable? Einar came into this world to walk it alone, and he would walk it alone for the rest of his days. Always either a step ahead or a step behind, and often, he wasn’t sure which.
Phi
oh baby baby it’s a wild world
Kolby
Has dreams that are actually prophetic of the encroaching apocalypse, lives in a world run by corporate mega corporations where the divide between rich and poor is insane, doesn't realize she's in love with her best friend (lol).
---
There was that terrible, terrible sound, a metallic screech like two cogs getting stuck on one another, pulling past each other, ripping steel off its hinges. A sound so loud, so terribly soul-shattering, that her hands came up to her ears reflexively, her chin pulling down to her chest, her whole body curling into a ball. And yet, no one else seemed to hear it. She screamed, curled against her knees, elbows covering her ears, her body pressed against a brick wall. And yet, people continued to just walk on by. Having conversations over headsets to unseen partners, hundreds of identical, business-suit clad people, walking past, speaking to no one, as the sky split open. A horrible, terrible, splitting of the world, a rip in reality, and no one saw it. No one noticed. Or no one cared.
“Kolby. Kolby.. KOLBY...” And with a gasp, she drifted from one nightmare into another. Someone was tugging on her sleeve impatiently. Her eyes felt sticky and she effortfully pried one lid from the other, blinking into the dark. Jasper stood over her, illuminated through the neon glow that seemed to seep into every crevice of the apartment. The surrounding buildings were heavily laden with advertisements that blinked at every hour of the smoggy day and never-quite-dark night. It wasn’t abnormal that Jasper would rouse her, though Kolby had almost perfected the cocktail of booze and daytime naps that allowed her to never truly sleep deeply enough for the nightmare to surface again. She knew that when she did sleep, she would often scream. And thrash about, all flailing limbs and racing heartbeat. Once, she kicked Fynn so hard in the stomach, she went flying off the futon. Fynn. She was never angry either – always had a wet washcloth ready, pressing it to Kolby’s forehead ever so softly, wiping away the fretful sweat. Fynnie.
But Jasper was wide-eyed. This was urgent. Kolby struggled to sit up, trying to catch her breath over a heart still pounding, trying to drag her consciousness back into this world. The real world. “Kolby, this is serious. Kolby. Listen to me.” Jasper was always nervous. Kolby had been crashing at his and Max’s place for nearly a year, the longest she’d lived anywhere since she was a child. Jasper was slight where Max was broad, sneaky and manipulative where Max was all muscle and intimidation. The two of them shared the master bedroom. Kolby and Fynn slept on the couch in the living room, which was also the kitchen and the entrance. Well, that’s how it used to be anyway. For months, it had just been Kolby.
“Kolby. KOLBY. Jesus Christ.” Jasper flicked on the lamp perched on the wobbly side table, spotted with rolling papers and rings from drinks without coasters. He began to pace, two steps to the left, two to the right. “Kolby, this is really bad. We really messed with the wrong people this time. -You- really messed with the wrong people. Kolby, Max doesn’t think anyone saw us, just... you.” Kolby had known Jasper to be the nervous type since the first day they met, shooting pool at a dive bar, always hopping from one foot to the other, stealing glances at the door.
“Kolby! Max doesn’t want you here anymore. He says you’re a liability.” Jasper rubbed his tiny, pale hands together and in an instant, Kolby saw only the sweet, tiny hands of Fynn, who had always been fidgeting with something. A pencil, a cigarette. Always rolling something back and forth across soft fingertips, chewing on the tip of a pen.
Jasper took a breath, strengthening himself. “You need to get out. Like, now. Before Max wakes up.” And having spent his authority, “I’m sorry, Kolby, you know how Max is. And you could bring trouble here for us. Real trouble. You’ll find somewhere else to go, won’t you?” He held eye contact, a rare occurrence that clearly made him quickly uncomfortable, before skirting away, pixie-like, back towards the bedroom he shared with Max. “And, Kolby... watch out for yourself. Someone like that...” He inhaled sharply before slipping back inside the dark room where Max’s snoring could be heard.
Shit. Kolby knew it wouldn’t be forever but living with Max and Jasper had been nice. They had a favorite table at the bar downstairs, had shared everything they could nick, made meals together sometimes. At least, it was nice when they were four. As three, it was different. Fynn and her were never “together” like Max and Jasper were, never kissed, and only started sharing the bed from necessity. But in the winter, Fynnie would curl up against her, under the covers, shivering, pressing her angular little frame into Kolby’s warmth. She would unbraid and brush out Kolby’s long, dark hair, careful not to pull. She understood Kolby, without having to talk.
And Kolby always thought that Fynnie might come back one day. Might remember this address and come check on her. Or at least get tired of that brute, the bouncer with the thick arms and hairy chest, decide it wasn’t worth being his toy just to have an apartment with a hot water heater and a loaf of bread in the pantry.
But fine. Fynn would have come back by now if she had wanted to. If she had cared. And now, Kolby had other trouble to worry about. So she picked up her black hoodie from where it was discarded on the floor, zipped it up to the chin and tucked her hair into the hood. Her pants would be around here somewhere too, black and baggy with too many pockets. Everything else, the worn-out blanket that was still soggy with her boozy nightmare sweat and the other assorted bits that belonged at least mostly to her, she stuffed in her backpack. Standing in the glow of the mostly empty fridge, she grabbed all that was left, two bottles of beer. “Fuckers.” She muttered under her breath, taking the last of the tobacco and a half pack of crackers. So, basically, cleaning the place out.
Kolby dropped the key on the kitchen counter and let herself out into the smoggy summer night. She had nowhere to go. And Jasper was probably right, there probably was someone after her. Not that she was sure that she cared. I mean, if the world was ending, which it was, did she really want to be around to see it?
Has dreams that are actually prophetic of the encroaching apocalypse, lives in a world run by corporate mega corporations where the divide between rich and poor is insane, doesn't realize she's in love with her best friend (lol).
---
There was that terrible, terrible sound, a metallic screech like two cogs getting stuck on one another, pulling past each other, ripping steel off its hinges. A sound so loud, so terribly soul-shattering, that her hands came up to her ears reflexively, her chin pulling down to her chest, her whole body curling into a ball. And yet, no one else seemed to hear it. She screamed, curled against her knees, elbows covering her ears, her body pressed against a brick wall. And yet, people continued to just walk on by. Having conversations over headsets to unseen partners, hundreds of identical, business-suit clad people, walking past, speaking to no one, as the sky split open. A horrible, terrible, splitting of the world, a rip in reality, and no one saw it. No one noticed. Or no one cared.
“Kolby. Kolby.. KOLBY...” And with a gasp, she drifted from one nightmare into another. Someone was tugging on her sleeve impatiently. Her eyes felt sticky and she effortfully pried one lid from the other, blinking into the dark. Jasper stood over her, illuminated through the neon glow that seemed to seep into every crevice of the apartment. The surrounding buildings were heavily laden with advertisements that blinked at every hour of the smoggy day and never-quite-dark night. It wasn’t abnormal that Jasper would rouse her, though Kolby had almost perfected the cocktail of booze and daytime naps that allowed her to never truly sleep deeply enough for the nightmare to surface again. She knew that when she did sleep, she would often scream. And thrash about, all flailing limbs and racing heartbeat. Once, she kicked Fynn so hard in the stomach, she went flying off the futon. Fynn. She was never angry either – always had a wet washcloth ready, pressing it to Kolby’s forehead ever so softly, wiping away the fretful sweat. Fynnie.
But Jasper was wide-eyed. This was urgent. Kolby struggled to sit up, trying to catch her breath over a heart still pounding, trying to drag her consciousness back into this world. The real world. “Kolby, this is serious. Kolby. Listen to me.” Jasper was always nervous. Kolby had been crashing at his and Max’s place for nearly a year, the longest she’d lived anywhere since she was a child. Jasper was slight where Max was broad, sneaky and manipulative where Max was all muscle and intimidation. The two of them shared the master bedroom. Kolby and Fynn slept on the couch in the living room, which was also the kitchen and the entrance. Well, that’s how it used to be anyway. For months, it had just been Kolby.
“Kolby. KOLBY. Jesus Christ.” Jasper flicked on the lamp perched on the wobbly side table, spotted with rolling papers and rings from drinks without coasters. He began to pace, two steps to the left, two to the right. “Kolby, this is really bad. We really messed with the wrong people this time. -You- really messed with the wrong people. Kolby, Max doesn’t think anyone saw us, just... you.” Kolby had known Jasper to be the nervous type since the first day they met, shooting pool at a dive bar, always hopping from one foot to the other, stealing glances at the door.
“Kolby! Max doesn’t want you here anymore. He says you’re a liability.” Jasper rubbed his tiny, pale hands together and in an instant, Kolby saw only the sweet, tiny hands of Fynn, who had always been fidgeting with something. A pencil, a cigarette. Always rolling something back and forth across soft fingertips, chewing on the tip of a pen.
Jasper took a breath, strengthening himself. “You need to get out. Like, now. Before Max wakes up.” And having spent his authority, “I’m sorry, Kolby, you know how Max is. And you could bring trouble here for us. Real trouble. You’ll find somewhere else to go, won’t you?” He held eye contact, a rare occurrence that clearly made him quickly uncomfortable, before skirting away, pixie-like, back towards the bedroom he shared with Max. “And, Kolby... watch out for yourself. Someone like that...” He inhaled sharply before slipping back inside the dark room where Max’s snoring could be heard.
Shit. Kolby knew it wouldn’t be forever but living with Max and Jasper had been nice. They had a favorite table at the bar downstairs, had shared everything they could nick, made meals together sometimes. At least, it was nice when they were four. As three, it was different. Fynn and her were never “together” like Max and Jasper were, never kissed, and only started sharing the bed from necessity. But in the winter, Fynnie would curl up against her, under the covers, shivering, pressing her angular little frame into Kolby’s warmth. She would unbraid and brush out Kolby’s long, dark hair, careful not to pull. She understood Kolby, without having to talk.
And Kolby always thought that Fynnie might come back one day. Might remember this address and come check on her. Or at least get tired of that brute, the bouncer with the thick arms and hairy chest, decide it wasn’t worth being his toy just to have an apartment with a hot water heater and a loaf of bread in the pantry.
But fine. Fynn would have come back by now if she had wanted to. If she had cared. And now, Kolby had other trouble to worry about. So she picked up her black hoodie from where it was discarded on the floor, zipped it up to the chin and tucked her hair into the hood. Her pants would be around here somewhere too, black and baggy with too many pockets. Everything else, the worn-out blanket that was still soggy with her boozy nightmare sweat and the other assorted bits that belonged at least mostly to her, she stuffed in her backpack. Standing in the glow of the mostly empty fridge, she grabbed all that was left, two bottles of beer. “Fuckers.” She muttered under her breath, taking the last of the tobacco and a half pack of crackers. So, basically, cleaning the place out.
Kolby dropped the key on the kitchen counter and let herself out into the smoggy summer night. She had nowhere to go. And Jasper was probably right, there probably was someone after her. Not that she was sure that she cared. I mean, if the world was ending, which it was, did she really want to be around to see it?
Users who are viewing this thread
Similar threads
