anxietyrat
Straight outta the garbage.
OPEN UNLESS NOTED OTHERWISE.
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After a health hiatus, I'm back in business and seeking 1-3 partners to engage me in a roleplay revolving around post-apocalyptic or dystopic worlds. Platonic is fine, but for romance, I prefer m//. I consider myself literate to advanced, subjective as that is, yet you need not be. I'm not particular, so long as you can create engaging characters and move a plot along, I am content.
I'm a bit of a slow writer, especially intros, and sometimes I fall sickly and cannot write for brief spans, but I'll keep you up to date as best I can.
➥I'm 24.
➥I only have one significant obligation in my life.
➥I have no notable triggers.
➥I prefer angst and darker themes, with gritty touches.
➥I have no reply quota, take your time.
➥I RP the Third Person, past tense and First Person.
➥I have Discord and many other services for outside RPN RP.
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ideas
➥A is an experienced, hardened survivor who ends up tangled with B, a more helpless soul who holds the key to a cure for the disease that demolished the earth.
➥A is a rival gang to his once ex, after a dramatic split between the two. B has become high ranking, groomed to be the next leader. A is targeted to kill B.
➥Within a dystopic world, parasites prey, their existence hidden to man.
Muse A's shadow is sentient, a dying race of parasitic mimics that hide within the shadow of an individual. Muse A becomes aware of this curse, and, left aghast, struggles to come to terms as Muse B has little plans of going soon. Will Muse A must come to an understanding of Muse B's mysterious and forever elusive race, or, will they attempt to dislodge themselves from Muse B's hold?
➥Society is led to believe they live within a Utopia and Muse A falls under this umbrella, while Muse B, a wanted individual, knows the true nature of their world, and, in desperation, reveals this truth unto Muse A.
➥A, desperate, falls into a rag-tag gang within the wastes of the apocalypse, meeting B, the leader, who has a skewered moral compass that doesn't quite fit with A.
➥In a dystopic world, A is a higher up within the "food chain," while B is much lower, the straggling class. A is sent to eliminate B. However; A finds himself enamored by B.
➥A and B are two survivors who have, reluctantly, agreed to team up to survive the wastes.
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themes
angst; betrayal; survival; beasts; experiments; death; psychological; tension; rivalry to romance; platonic; romance; horror; gritty & dark; macabre; slight fluff; survival; thriller ; mystery ; the human psyche ; revenge ; moralistic complexities ; phobias ; toxicity ; musically inspired ; death ; romance ; platonic ; mental illness (but only if played accurately) ; addiction ; death ; noire ; mafia/gangs & crime ;
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pairings
➥Inexperienced survivor x survivor
➥Survivor x Immune Survivor (setting would be similar to Last of Us)
➥Drug addicted Survivor x Sober Survivor
➥Survivor x Experiment
➥Experiment x Experiment
➥Rival x Rival
➥Ex x Ex
➥Sadist x Masochist
➥Soulmate AUs
➥Someone struggling with their sexuality x Someone open, or perhaps, two characters struggling with their sexuality.
➥Criminal {thief, prostitute, etc.} x Morally upstanding individual
➥Bad x Good
➥Darker twists on the Red String of Fate
➥Serial Killer x Survivor
➥Serial Killer x Survivor that serial killer fancies
➥Addict x Former Addict
➥Addict x Addict
➥Your ideas!
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Samples
Oh, how new quarries oft led to unfurling opportunities, tantalizing as they were endless, entwined with the high of the pursuit and yet, Alexander found himself lacking any semblance of wonder nor traces of elation. Despite his sizeable distance from Boston, he had been the agent above all chosen for this case. Particularly one of profound renown- this, of course, should have incited an exhilaration of sorts. Perhaps it would have if he knew he could work with more autonomy, however, being sent to another district to take the reigns always pinched nerves and carried the tendency to make everything arduous for all those involved.
An inclination towards a particular shade of mania, if you will, for the job had its benefits, however, and he owed his position to this. Since, overall, Alexander had amassed a reputation of maintaining an unshakeable devotion that might border boundaries befitting the title of "unhealthy,"- although, that was something of which he would dispute with fervency. Regardless, he did not lack in proficiency, and the tenacity landed him a well-known case alongside a free ticket and stay in Boston miles from good, ole New Orleans.
Humoring the satirical, Alexander reflected upon receiving the call, specifically on how he was in a shoddy motel relishing the endings of a high induced by ecstasy mixed with shots of vodka. Remembrances of being curled around his latest indulgence, their bodies tangled with bare flesh more than brushing struck him. Settled adjacent to them on a bedside table his phone began to vibrate, and he had stifled a groan as his partner sniggered, blue eyes piqued with interest.
Dallying fingers trailed his chest.
"Important?"
Sobered in expression, he eyed the girl, her cascading tresses golden in hue and wild from their heated tumble, an appreciable curvature noticeable beneath the almost sheer sheet that veiled her body, her plump lips curved in a coquettish simper. Not the norm in regards to his type, but molly tended to blur the lines for him, and indeed blurred they were.
Damning himself for lack of foresight, Alexander finally fumbled for his phone, outreached fingers trembling- remnants from the high- and recognized the number at once- his boss, of course, rather timely, at that.
"Nothing you need to worry yourself about, it's work. Fortuitous for me, I’m sure."
A sardonic utterance, however, Alexander entertained little in the way of appeal in divulging his life with a lay that would trickle from recollection in a week's worth.
With a sharp inhale and a prayer to no god in particular for a collected composure, Alex endeavored to steady his pulsating heart- which seemed to reverberate in his ears in pounding thumps- and overall, not sound utterly wasted as he was.
"Hey, chief."
While a simple greeting, the words came slurred, thick like honey.
"Bad time, Alexander?"
Curt, surely not the response Alex hoped for in regards to the circumstances.
"Nothing terrible with your timing, Lucas, I've had a bit to drink, that's all."
Although, a bit to drink was, well, certainly an understatement.
"A bit?"
There was no excusing that especially probing tone, yet Alexander refused to budge.
"Yes, a bit. Now, it's rather late Lucas, and you only call like this when something needs doing."
With a suppressed giggle, the girl untangled herself from beneath his embrace, swaying her hips to entice as she sauntered to a nearby window, flicking the switch of a lighter and kissing a cigarette to the flame it bore.
"I've got a job for you; however, it is... far from our district."
Calculating, he gave no reply as he hoisted himself off the bed, meeting his affair o' the night to share in the vice of smoking, returning a sliver of a grin as she lit the cigarette he plucked with practiced fingers from the pack between them.
"How far?"
How far, indeed, and who would cover the subject of fees for such a trek?
Matters of a family were a non-issue, there was little he would pine over should he opt to leave. So, why not pursue an opportunity that lay ripe?
"Boston, that far, Alex, expenses paid."
Amusement laced Lucas' voice.
"You had me at expenses paid, alright, I'll take the case."
Not long after the call that eve, he jilted his fling early, floundered home, intoxicated, lavishing in a high, and went to his flat to collect what belongings would prove necessities and scheduled the flight, from there by the morn, he was Boston-bound.
All in all, an uneventful trip spent in the extravagant indulgence of first-class with expensive wines aplenty, yet, once he arrived, his demeanor grew solemn lacking the exuberance held during the evening he received the call. Thoughts of the macabre were gnawing at his core as he prepared to delve into the depths of these murders that afflicted the city like a sickness, permeating airs of dread.
Traversing the city, he noted the bolded print on the newspapers served to arouse further a sense of foreboding among the civilians with woven re-tellings written on The Terror case, queries formulating about when the killer would strike once again, and, in the midst of it all, Alexander found himself centralized within.
Finally arriving, stepping out of a taxi, he heaved an exasperated sigh, glancing towards the building where he would be conducting operations, although, not particularly on his own; not this time around.
Unwilling to dally, he trudged onwards, feeling as though he were trekking through thickened mud and slop.
Incognizant to the reception he would receive, the unknown left him nothing beyond a vast realm of pessimism.
Ambling through the doors, nonchalant, Alexander promptly met with a detective with a gruff visage, stoicism keeping his expression leveled.
"Who are you?"
A simple query, although one with tracings of vexation that Alex could scarcely grasp onto, endeavor or not.
"Alexander Thomas, I'm from the FBI, I'm here to assist in the workings of The Terror case, I believe I am to meet with a detective."
Blinking, as if processing the utterance, the officer crossed his arms, and, beyond that stoicism, Alex reckoned there lay buried intrigue.
When eyes trailed to his badge, Alexander flashed it, causing the man to nod, brusque.
"Right, come along, Myers is right this way."
Undeterred by the officer's mannerisms, Alex, quietened by way of rumination of this detective he would be working alongside with, trailed behind, feeling like a lost duckling in a vague sense. An unfamiliarity enveloped him like a gale, threatening to topple his composure, yet, he endured, expression leveled.
"Detective Myers, agent Alexander Thomas is here to see you, I imagine, of course, over the case."
Hints of a tautness Alexander did not quite understand laced his tone.
"Indeed, The Terror case."
Piping in, Alexander put his hands in his pockets, awaiting this detective with a creeping, sprawling interest.
An inclination towards a particular shade of mania, if you will, for the job had its benefits, however, and he owed his position to this. Since, overall, Alexander had amassed a reputation of maintaining an unshakeable devotion that might border boundaries befitting the title of "unhealthy,"- although, that was something of which he would dispute with fervency. Regardless, he did not lack in proficiency, and the tenacity landed him a well-known case alongside a free ticket and stay in Boston miles from good, ole New Orleans.
Humoring the satirical, Alexander reflected upon receiving the call, specifically on how he was in a shoddy motel relishing the endings of a high induced by ecstasy mixed with shots of vodka. Remembrances of being curled around his latest indulgence, their bodies tangled with bare flesh more than brushing struck him. Settled adjacent to them on a bedside table his phone began to vibrate, and he had stifled a groan as his partner sniggered, blue eyes piqued with interest.
Dallying fingers trailed his chest.
"Important?"
Sobered in expression, he eyed the girl, her cascading tresses golden in hue and wild from their heated tumble, an appreciable curvature noticeable beneath the almost sheer sheet that veiled her body, her plump lips curved in a coquettish simper. Not the norm in regards to his type, but molly tended to blur the lines for him, and indeed blurred they were.
Damning himself for lack of foresight, Alexander finally fumbled for his phone, outreached fingers trembling- remnants from the high- and recognized the number at once- his boss, of course, rather timely, at that.
"Nothing you need to worry yourself about, it's work. Fortuitous for me, I’m sure."
A sardonic utterance, however, Alexander entertained little in the way of appeal in divulging his life with a lay that would trickle from recollection in a week's worth.
With a sharp inhale and a prayer to no god in particular for a collected composure, Alex endeavored to steady his pulsating heart- which seemed to reverberate in his ears in pounding thumps- and overall, not sound utterly wasted as he was.
"Hey, chief."
While a simple greeting, the words came slurred, thick like honey.
"Bad time, Alexander?"
Curt, surely not the response Alex hoped for in regards to the circumstances.
"Nothing terrible with your timing, Lucas, I've had a bit to drink, that's all."
Although, a bit to drink was, well, certainly an understatement.
"A bit?"
There was no excusing that especially probing tone, yet Alexander refused to budge.
"Yes, a bit. Now, it's rather late Lucas, and you only call like this when something needs doing."
With a suppressed giggle, the girl untangled herself from beneath his embrace, swaying her hips to entice as she sauntered to a nearby window, flicking the switch of a lighter and kissing a cigarette to the flame it bore.
"I've got a job for you; however, it is... far from our district."
Calculating, he gave no reply as he hoisted himself off the bed, meeting his affair o' the night to share in the vice of smoking, returning a sliver of a grin as she lit the cigarette he plucked with practiced fingers from the pack between them.
"How far?"
How far, indeed, and who would cover the subject of fees for such a trek?
Matters of a family were a non-issue, there was little he would pine over should he opt to leave. So, why not pursue an opportunity that lay ripe?
"Boston, that far, Alex, expenses paid."
Amusement laced Lucas' voice.
"You had me at expenses paid, alright, I'll take the case."
Not long after the call that eve, he jilted his fling early, floundered home, intoxicated, lavishing in a high, and went to his flat to collect what belongings would prove necessities and scheduled the flight, from there by the morn, he was Boston-bound.
All in all, an uneventful trip spent in the extravagant indulgence of first-class with expensive wines aplenty, yet, once he arrived, his demeanor grew solemn lacking the exuberance held during the evening he received the call. Thoughts of the macabre were gnawing at his core as he prepared to delve into the depths of these murders that afflicted the city like a sickness, permeating airs of dread.
Traversing the city, he noted the bolded print on the newspapers served to arouse further a sense of foreboding among the civilians with woven re-tellings written on The Terror case, queries formulating about when the killer would strike once again, and, in the midst of it all, Alexander found himself centralized within.
Finally arriving, stepping out of a taxi, he heaved an exasperated sigh, glancing towards the building where he would be conducting operations, although, not particularly on his own; not this time around.
Unwilling to dally, he trudged onwards, feeling as though he were trekking through thickened mud and slop.
Incognizant to the reception he would receive, the unknown left him nothing beyond a vast realm of pessimism.
Ambling through the doors, nonchalant, Alexander promptly met with a detective with a gruff visage, stoicism keeping his expression leveled.
"Who are you?"
A simple query, although one with tracings of vexation that Alex could scarcely grasp onto, endeavor or not.
"Alexander Thomas, I'm from the FBI, I'm here to assist in the workings of The Terror case, I believe I am to meet with a detective."
Blinking, as if processing the utterance, the officer crossed his arms, and, beyond that stoicism, Alex reckoned there lay buried intrigue.
When eyes trailed to his badge, Alexander flashed it, causing the man to nod, brusque.
"Right, come along, Myers is right this way."
Undeterred by the officer's mannerisms, Alex, quietened by way of rumination of this detective he would be working alongside with, trailed behind, feeling like a lost duckling in a vague sense. An unfamiliarity enveloped him like a gale, threatening to topple his composure, yet, he endured, expression leveled.
"Detective Myers, agent Alexander Thomas is here to see you, I imagine, of course, over the case."
Hints of a tautness Alexander did not quite understand laced his tone.
"Indeed, The Terror case."
Piping in, Alexander put his hands in his pockets, awaiting this detective with a creeping, sprawling interest.
To leave the confines is to sleep with death, to stay in the confines is to wish for death.
Born abnormal, as they said. Perhaps presumptions stemming from stigmas attributed to being an orphan, or rather- Thom's favored theory- set framework structured by an overbearing adoptive "mother" whose compassion echoed hollow, bound by vanity entwined with pity that sickened him, doting only for appearances, not from tender seeds of love.
In regards to his parental relations, if that was all he knew, what would render desire to stay?
'There shall be nothing here to miss, and no one shall miss me.'
A thought- one dripping with vitriol, so saturated with a cynical venomosity acute enough that it wavered Thom's focus. All those about him appeared to align with the belief that he lived in a senseless reverie, sundered from reality, yet, if he were to have a say, they lived within an illusion molded by foreboding and mythos, and he grasped conceptions they condemned out of ignorance.
Since youth, Thom felt allured, magnetized, to the world that lay beyond the banal visage of the town, where no strict rules and regulations governed his life nor his dreams; where foliage grew dense, and a provocative sense of mystery flowered and enveloped like ivy. However, forever did the ability to elope eluded him until finally, chance revealed itself and two eves prior he slunk away when all fell into the embrace of sleep, set to venture, brimming with exhilaration in a stark almost humorous opposition to the present tense. Where, for now, Thom floundered with a sliver of regret, utterly lost, pining for the quench of fresh, unsullied water, perhaps accompanied by the warmth of liquor and a hearty meal. To at last curl into bed with promises of comfort a simplistic sleeping bag placed upon frigid earth could not provide.
Regardless of a situation not particularly fortuitous, Thom concluded ambling without aim within the woodlands proved ever more titillating than the mundanity he grew accustomed to. Often had he heard rumorous whispers that spoke of remote villages, landscapes distinct and foreign, beasts that devoured, their hunger perpetual, yet, all Thom unveiled thus far from within the forest were trees and their littered leaves- green growth as far as the eye could see.
Albeit, traces of life subtly presented themselves as if the undergrowth tucked away secrets of its own. However inconspicuous, Thom noted trodden paths- a sign of humanity, perhaps,- and marks upon the trees he could not decipher.
Coming to a fork amidst a clearing, wearied, Thom settled against a grand oak, whose limbs sprawled skyward.
Well, this is a lovely predicament.
With little in the way of forethought, Thom found himself calling out, his voice reverberating, fragmenting the ghostly silence that seemed to haunt him throughout his trek.
"Hello?"
Chiding himself at once for such a foolish action, Thom shuddered, a peculiar sensation of trepidation beginning to gnaw away at him. What amongst him could he have awoken; fluttering the eyelids of creatures with snarling maws, perhaps?
Moreover, Thom began to reflect if he had made a grave mistake, one of which would lead him to starve in depths where none of those he left behind would find, yet another statistic to be fodder for the local fairytales.
Born abnormal, as they said. Perhaps presumptions stemming from stigmas attributed to being an orphan, or rather- Thom's favored theory- set framework structured by an overbearing adoptive "mother" whose compassion echoed hollow, bound by vanity entwined with pity that sickened him, doting only for appearances, not from tender seeds of love.
In regards to his parental relations, if that was all he knew, what would render desire to stay?
'There shall be nothing here to miss, and no one shall miss me.'
A thought- one dripping with vitriol, so saturated with a cynical venomosity acute enough that it wavered Thom's focus. All those about him appeared to align with the belief that he lived in a senseless reverie, sundered from reality, yet, if he were to have a say, they lived within an illusion molded by foreboding and mythos, and he grasped conceptions they condemned out of ignorance.
Since youth, Thom felt allured, magnetized, to the world that lay beyond the banal visage of the town, where no strict rules and regulations governed his life nor his dreams; where foliage grew dense, and a provocative sense of mystery flowered and enveloped like ivy. However, forever did the ability to elope eluded him until finally, chance revealed itself and two eves prior he slunk away when all fell into the embrace of sleep, set to venture, brimming with exhilaration in a stark almost humorous opposition to the present tense. Where, for now, Thom floundered with a sliver of regret, utterly lost, pining for the quench of fresh, unsullied water, perhaps accompanied by the warmth of liquor and a hearty meal. To at last curl into bed with promises of comfort a simplistic sleeping bag placed upon frigid earth could not provide.
Regardless of a situation not particularly fortuitous, Thom concluded ambling without aim within the woodlands proved ever more titillating than the mundanity he grew accustomed to. Often had he heard rumorous whispers that spoke of remote villages, landscapes distinct and foreign, beasts that devoured, their hunger perpetual, yet, all Thom unveiled thus far from within the forest were trees and their littered leaves- green growth as far as the eye could see.
Albeit, traces of life subtly presented themselves as if the undergrowth tucked away secrets of its own. However inconspicuous, Thom noted trodden paths- a sign of humanity, perhaps,- and marks upon the trees he could not decipher.
Coming to a fork amidst a clearing, wearied, Thom settled against a grand oak, whose limbs sprawled skyward.
Well, this is a lovely predicament.
With little in the way of forethought, Thom found himself calling out, his voice reverberating, fragmenting the ghostly silence that seemed to haunt him throughout his trek.
"Hello?"
Chiding himself at once for such a foolish action, Thom shuddered, a peculiar sensation of trepidation beginning to gnaw away at him. What amongst him could he have awoken; fluttering the eyelids of creatures with snarling maws, perhaps?
Moreover, Thom began to reflect if he had made a grave mistake, one of which would lead him to starve in depths where none of those he left behind would find, yet another statistic to be fodder for the local fairytales.
{i was doped on sleep meds when I wrote this, but it's the more recent, long writing I've done}
How fickle is fame, trickling like rare ambrosia; a fragment of which all craved in their innermost desires.
Fickle, indeed, fleeting. Let it be, let it rise and fall like waves.
Of course, Ethan Allaire had garnered recognition; a man brimming with acclaim, although beyond that, its importance dwindled, for his life-span spiraled in an endless loop, cyclic, perpetual. Immortality, as they so named it. However, immortality remained a myth, while he stayed a reality and it was, indeed, that immortality that kept him hidden away from the public, although, he continued to keep an eye on people as they yearned to do so in vice verse. Regardless of his disdain towards the public eye, when word came of a showing, one of the arts, Ethan could not contain his intrigue.
Beyond his dealings in the macabre, he held a distinct fascination with art within his mind, a hobby, per se. Following other artists became obsessional, addictive like a line or a needle, yet, not particularly detrimental, no, the detriment came in his other works, ones seen by all but rarely appreciated. Murders, animalistic but not without a shred of artistry, bodies stylized in a fashion with unspoken meaning, that was his art, and as such, the police, even the FBI, pursued him.
Ethan's intellect, however, proved useful and like a game of cat and mouse, he avoided the police, falling one step ever ahead; a game of chess he quite enjoyed.
When he was not playing this metaphorical chess with the police, he crafted dark, twisted pieces of work with paint, not blood, their birthed ideologies convoluted. Not to everyone's taste, yet, it attracted the attention of other artists, and from that his wealth in popularity grew, furthermore, he found himself planted on a throne of fame he did not ask for, as life tumbled by in its unpredictable nature.
To the present, Ethan, in preparation for the elegance of the gallery he intended to visit, had decked himself in a three-piece suit that emanated an abundance of wealth. Feeling ostentatious and frivolous as if on the waves of mania, he reserved a limo to drive him to the gallery and although it was an irregularity that he made such grandiose appearances, sometimes one must indulge.
Extravagant wine and appetizers came along with the limousine, offered in heaps; however, it was something more sanguine he sought. Fortuitously, before he could dwell on such a craving, he lived close to the gallery, and the ride was short, yet his presentation was grand.
A small amount of media, with an insatiable hunger for a personal detailing of his life, began to crowd him and, exasperated, he shoved through, declining comments with a curt nod, moreover, vexed the sharks came so early to hunt their prey. An hour early and the media had begun to swarm like a plague of rats. Typical.
The building in which he approached spoke of prestige, marbled and adorned; Verdi Hall, a source of brilliant minds and artists alike.
Indeed, exhilarated, seeking inspiration for his next victim in the works he would observe, Ethan made his way into the building, noting rather than bursting with the piercing gaze of the media, it remained serene, in a sense, where artists prepped and began setting up.
Seeking familiarity, Ethan, again, as was common, began searching for the director, Williams Bay, a search not prolonged at all, for he was the sort with the air to stand out amidst a crowd.
The two went way back before Ethan became known for his works, of course, regarding painting, not the strokes of murder, for that, he came under a different perspective, given a nickname granted by the papers, unlike his real name which stuck like a pin in his works of art.
Shaking off the thought, Ethan spotted Williams's visage, noticing he was next to an individual he did not recognize, and, although that should ward no extra attention when many artists came searching for renown, Ethan found himself allured. Perhaps due to the glasses of wine, he indulged in during the trip here, Ethan presumed, suppressing the idea of discovering how his blood tasted.
Noticing Williams's wide-eyed stare, as if dismayed and disillusioned, in silence, he came to look at the artist's piece, and at once, became slack-jawed, almost bewildered by the beauty he saw.
Ghastly creatures with eyes that bore into one's eyes disrupted the flow of the painting, however, not in a way that took even a sliver of its instinctual attraction to him away, and as he turned to speak to the artist, he noted he took a seat next to the painting with nary a word.
How could one man concoct such wonder?
Then, Williams began, voice quivering like an arrow aligned on a bow and ready to shoot.
"This painting..."
"It's astonishing."
Whispering in return, Ethan put a hand on William's shoulder.
"I must speak with the artist."
Pivoting ever slightly, he sauntered towards the man, aiming to collect a semblance of composure.
"I've not seen your face nor your art, or the beauty it contains. I'm Ethan Allaire, although, I imagine you have heard the name."
The last of his utterance came with no pompousness to it, spoken as if a likely fact.
How fickle is fame, trickling like rare ambrosia; a fragment of which all craved in their innermost desires.
Fickle, indeed, fleeting. Let it be, let it rise and fall like waves.
Of course, Ethan Allaire had garnered recognition; a man brimming with acclaim, although beyond that, its importance dwindled, for his life-span spiraled in an endless loop, cyclic, perpetual. Immortality, as they so named it. However, immortality remained a myth, while he stayed a reality and it was, indeed, that immortality that kept him hidden away from the public, although, he continued to keep an eye on people as they yearned to do so in vice verse. Regardless of his disdain towards the public eye, when word came of a showing, one of the arts, Ethan could not contain his intrigue.
Beyond his dealings in the macabre, he held a distinct fascination with art within his mind, a hobby, per se. Following other artists became obsessional, addictive like a line or a needle, yet, not particularly detrimental, no, the detriment came in his other works, ones seen by all but rarely appreciated. Murders, animalistic but not without a shred of artistry, bodies stylized in a fashion with unspoken meaning, that was his art, and as such, the police, even the FBI, pursued him.
Ethan's intellect, however, proved useful and like a game of cat and mouse, he avoided the police, falling one step ever ahead; a game of chess he quite enjoyed.
When he was not playing this metaphorical chess with the police, he crafted dark, twisted pieces of work with paint, not blood, their birthed ideologies convoluted. Not to everyone's taste, yet, it attracted the attention of other artists, and from that his wealth in popularity grew, furthermore, he found himself planted on a throne of fame he did not ask for, as life tumbled by in its unpredictable nature.
To the present, Ethan, in preparation for the elegance of the gallery he intended to visit, had decked himself in a three-piece suit that emanated an abundance of wealth. Feeling ostentatious and frivolous as if on the waves of mania, he reserved a limo to drive him to the gallery and although it was an irregularity that he made such grandiose appearances, sometimes one must indulge.
Extravagant wine and appetizers came along with the limousine, offered in heaps; however, it was something more sanguine he sought. Fortuitously, before he could dwell on such a craving, he lived close to the gallery, and the ride was short, yet his presentation was grand.
A small amount of media, with an insatiable hunger for a personal detailing of his life, began to crowd him and, exasperated, he shoved through, declining comments with a curt nod, moreover, vexed the sharks came so early to hunt their prey. An hour early and the media had begun to swarm like a plague of rats. Typical.
The building in which he approached spoke of prestige, marbled and adorned; Verdi Hall, a source of brilliant minds and artists alike.
Indeed, exhilarated, seeking inspiration for his next victim in the works he would observe, Ethan made his way into the building, noting rather than bursting with the piercing gaze of the media, it remained serene, in a sense, where artists prepped and began setting up.
Seeking familiarity, Ethan, again, as was common, began searching for the director, Williams Bay, a search not prolonged at all, for he was the sort with the air to stand out amidst a crowd.
The two went way back before Ethan became known for his works, of course, regarding painting, not the strokes of murder, for that, he came under a different perspective, given a nickname granted by the papers, unlike his real name which stuck like a pin in his works of art.
Shaking off the thought, Ethan spotted Williams's visage, noticing he was next to an individual he did not recognize, and, although that should ward no extra attention when many artists came searching for renown, Ethan found himself allured. Perhaps due to the glasses of wine, he indulged in during the trip here, Ethan presumed, suppressing the idea of discovering how his blood tasted.
Noticing Williams's wide-eyed stare, as if dismayed and disillusioned, in silence, he came to look at the artist's piece, and at once, became slack-jawed, almost bewildered by the beauty he saw.
Ghastly creatures with eyes that bore into one's eyes disrupted the flow of the painting, however, not in a way that took even a sliver of its instinctual attraction to him away, and as he turned to speak to the artist, he noted he took a seat next to the painting with nary a word.
How could one man concoct such wonder?
Then, Williams began, voice quivering like an arrow aligned on a bow and ready to shoot.
"This painting..."
"It's astonishing."
Whispering in return, Ethan put a hand on William's shoulder.
"I must speak with the artist."
Pivoting ever slightly, he sauntered towards the man, aiming to collect a semblance of composure.
"I've not seen your face nor your art, or the beauty it contains. I'm Ethan Allaire, although, I imagine you have heard the name."
The last of his utterance came with no pompousness to it, spoken as if a likely fact.
Sandchapel.
Quaint, if not for the stirring of tension beginning to brew, cracking sharp like a whip on hide, igniting the air with both trepidation and scorn alike.
Although, in admittance, he expected as such, ought it been different, he would be questioning his sobriety.
In the center of it all, a man, wearied, marred with scars that each wove tales of their own, adjusted himself upon a stout and particularly flighty, dappled horse.
Attempting to assuage the mare's stress, Williams ran calloused fingers through the wispy strands of her mane, proceeding through the town, averting hostile gazes all the while. However tentative the town's folk might be, he knew his visitation was to their benefit. For he held information pertinent to the Marshal's efforts against the nefarious Roaming Water's gang and yet, Williams had to deliberate whether the Marshal would heed him regardless.
Would his ego's hunger crave the satiation to be a step ahead of the gang above all other's dissuade the natural aversion lawmen have to criminals like him?
We shall see, was the glaring answer to that internal inquiry.
Although despite being veiled beneath a stoic demeanor, there lay wrath so profound it enwrapped and haunted his waking thoughts, etching away at the center of his stability.
Thirst for retribution fueled his ideologies, his motives; Roaming Water, who he once pledged loyalty to, trod past an unspoken line, spilled blood, made things personal.
Now, she would reap the seeds of contempt she had sown.
Moreover, he would be a herald of ruination until her gang flickered out like dying flames.
Meanwhile, as Williams became spellbound by the intensity of his memories and aspirations, suddenly someone yanked away the reigns in his clutches, inciting the young mare beneath him to rear, bucking, so he almost came plunging towards the ground.
Scanning for his aggressor, Williams eyed a lanky man, greased hair cascading to his shoulders and a toothpick suspended from his lips.
Furthermore, he bore an expression of utter distaste, glowering and beaming with contempt.
Sneering, the fellow twisted the reigns around his wrist.
"Don't reckon you belong here, don't even rightly reckon you're wanted here."
With the jeer, the man hovered a hand over his holster. A glaring affront, indeed. While Williams anticipated hostility, he knew not that it would accumulate and seethe in the body of the man before him so much that he would dance with danger.
"You 'ought to take your leave, mister."
Keeping still, Williams combatted an inclination to wrap fingers around his pistol, to find comfort in the familiarity of its cold, ivory grip.
One must handle this with grace regardless of any potential peril, he reiterated to himself. Otherwise, he would lose both his quarry and chance alike.
If he were fortuitous, this conversation would not end with a spree of bullets, yet, with a granted entrance and guidance to the Marshal.
"Keep to your own business, partner, 'bout to change some tides when it comes to Roaming Water and her band o' bastards."
Taut in tone, Williams stroked his horse's neck, willing her to ease up, and swept his eyes across the full visage of the town.
"I suggest bringing me to your lawmen, you see, I've got debts to settle and not much time nor patience. It'll help ease that troubled mind 'o yours if I'm with your men o' law, I reckon. Then I can take care of mine, and you yours."
'Stay on those toes of yours, Roaming Water. All your days, your hours, your very minutes are numbered; so long as I grace this Earth, I'll chase you to the ends of it.'
Quaint, if not for the stirring of tension beginning to brew, cracking sharp like a whip on hide, igniting the air with both trepidation and scorn alike.
Although, in admittance, he expected as such, ought it been different, he would be questioning his sobriety.
In the center of it all, a man, wearied, marred with scars that each wove tales of their own, adjusted himself upon a stout and particularly flighty, dappled horse.
Attempting to assuage the mare's stress, Williams ran calloused fingers through the wispy strands of her mane, proceeding through the town, averting hostile gazes all the while. However tentative the town's folk might be, he knew his visitation was to their benefit. For he held information pertinent to the Marshal's efforts against the nefarious Roaming Water's gang and yet, Williams had to deliberate whether the Marshal would heed him regardless.
Would his ego's hunger crave the satiation to be a step ahead of the gang above all other's dissuade the natural aversion lawmen have to criminals like him?
We shall see, was the glaring answer to that internal inquiry.
Although despite being veiled beneath a stoic demeanor, there lay wrath so profound it enwrapped and haunted his waking thoughts, etching away at the center of his stability.
Thirst for retribution fueled his ideologies, his motives; Roaming Water, who he once pledged loyalty to, trod past an unspoken line, spilled blood, made things personal.
Now, she would reap the seeds of contempt she had sown.
Moreover, he would be a herald of ruination until her gang flickered out like dying flames.
Meanwhile, as Williams became spellbound by the intensity of his memories and aspirations, suddenly someone yanked away the reigns in his clutches, inciting the young mare beneath him to rear, bucking, so he almost came plunging towards the ground.
Scanning for his aggressor, Williams eyed a lanky man, greased hair cascading to his shoulders and a toothpick suspended from his lips.
Furthermore, he bore an expression of utter distaste, glowering and beaming with contempt.
Sneering, the fellow twisted the reigns around his wrist.
"Don't reckon you belong here, don't even rightly reckon you're wanted here."
With the jeer, the man hovered a hand over his holster. A glaring affront, indeed. While Williams anticipated hostility, he knew not that it would accumulate and seethe in the body of the man before him so much that he would dance with danger.
"You 'ought to take your leave, mister."
Keeping still, Williams combatted an inclination to wrap fingers around his pistol, to find comfort in the familiarity of its cold, ivory grip.
One must handle this with grace regardless of any potential peril, he reiterated to himself. Otherwise, he would lose both his quarry and chance alike.
If he were fortuitous, this conversation would not end with a spree of bullets, yet, with a granted entrance and guidance to the Marshal.
"Keep to your own business, partner, 'bout to change some tides when it comes to Roaming Water and her band o' bastards."
Taut in tone, Williams stroked his horse's neck, willing her to ease up, and swept his eyes across the full visage of the town.
"I suggest bringing me to your lawmen, you see, I've got debts to settle and not much time nor patience. It'll help ease that troubled mind 'o yours if I'm with your men o' law, I reckon. Then I can take care of mine, and you yours."
'Stay on those toes of yours, Roaming Water. All your days, your hours, your very minutes are numbered; so long as I grace this Earth, I'll chase you to the ends of it.'
A cigarette lay between my fingers in suspension, and I catch you looking at me as if knowingly, while we tango in a limbo where smoking is a lesser form of fodder to the beast that got us here in the first place.
And on the bed, we sit apart as opposites, you likely clinging to mere slivers of sobriety and me, strung out and coming down, as if tugged by gravity, aching yet again for the taste of intoxication.
"Will it always be this way?"
A defeated utterance murmured from you in a tone monotonous. Moreover, I find myself inclined to query, despite our rift, if it trickled from the confines of your beautiful mind by mishap, released through inebriation. Furthermore, the question carries its weight in perpetuity akin to the monster that stalks us; a question you ask almost every eve now.
Inhaling, so sharp my lungs burn, I bite my tongue, and if that sentiment were literal, I would be bearing down until scarlet rivulets seeped from it and the acrid taste of metal encompassed me.
Speaking would render no aid, there is nothing left to say that would accommodate you; after all, I've ripped a hole beyond recovery in our canvas and its vastness yawns between us like an opening maw, lined with the fangs of our failings.
And on the bed, we sit apart as opposites, you likely clinging to mere slivers of sobriety and me, strung out and coming down, as if tugged by gravity, aching yet again for the taste of intoxication.
"Will it always be this way?"
A defeated utterance murmured from you in a tone monotonous. Moreover, I find myself inclined to query, despite our rift, if it trickled from the confines of your beautiful mind by mishap, released through inebriation. Furthermore, the question carries its weight in perpetuity akin to the monster that stalks us; a question you ask almost every eve now.
Inhaling, so sharp my lungs burn, I bite my tongue, and if that sentiment were literal, I would be bearing down until scarlet rivulets seeped from it and the acrid taste of metal encompassed me.
Speaking would render no aid, there is nothing left to say that would accommodate you; after all, I've ripped a hole beyond recovery in our canvas and its vastness yawns between us like an opening maw, lined with the fangs of our failings.
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