Cain the Innocent
New Member
Hi Everyone!
I am looking for a couple of new roleplay partners, and hope someone might be interested.
~A Little About Me~
I have provided some starters below! Most are a little out of date, but I hope you enjoy!
I am looking for a couple of new roleplay partners, and hope someone might be interested.
~A Little About Me~
- I am 25 years old, so I am preferably looking for partners above the age of 20.
- I am open to roleplaying sensitive topics, but do request they are treated with respect and nuance.
- LGBTQIA+ characters and relationships are very present in my roleplays as I am a member of the community myself.
- I am looking for mostly original content since I don't connect as much with fandom settings.
- I am an advanced roleplayer, so I'm looking for someone who can consistently provide multiple paragraphs when responding.
- I am a two to three posts a week kind of person, but am totally fine with less frequent or more frequent replies.
- Gritty realism
- Dark fantasy
- Sci-Fi of all kinds
- Slice of Life (Give me the drama, haha)
I have provided some starters below! Most are a little out of date, but I hope you enjoy!
I've walked in a thousand people's shoes, and not one of them has been grateful for it.
"Mama," Ariel whispers, his eyes wide in boyhood fright and paying rapt attention to where his mother stood over his father's bedside. "Where is papa's face?"
His mother doesn't answer for a long time, instead only turning her face to her son, a scrawny boy of only four. Her face is etched with the wrinkles of premature age, like those of a heavy chain smoker. Even though she is only the young age of twenty-five, and her lips are shrunken and angry, worn with time. Ariel has watched this slow procession for the entirety of his young life. Watched as her auburn curls went flat and then began to tumble from her scalp in brittle, gray strands. Watched as her steps slowed and eyes dulled. As she looked at him now, those barely flickering orbs were filled with unshed tears.
One tear fell, and then another. The woman's wrinkled and blemished skin healed, smoothing itself back out, and her hair began to grow back in, before roughly pulling itself back into her scalp until it was only an inch or so from her head and dark brown. Her hips rearranged in one short crack of breaking bone, and her chest flattened itself into the muscular torso of a man. Ariel's mother made no sound as the process continued, changing her as though she wasn't a woman at all, but rather a doll sculpted roughly from clay. Ariel was petrified, he wanted to run, yet he couldn't look away. For the person who now watched him from across the bed was no longer his mother, but his father.
The key to everlasting life lives within the blood.
After that, Ariel was quickly introduced to a life that followed what he was, and it was certainly not a human life. It turned out he took more after his "mother," and he, so like her, burned through a human skin in just under five years. Every time either of them stole a new face, it meant ending that human's life, and moving to a whole new place.
When he was nine, he made a friend of the young girl who lived in the apartment right next door. It was easy since he was in his second skin, which also happened to be that of a young girl with red hair and a generous helping of freckles. Gender didn't matter much when you were just looking for a face to steal that no one would remember. This girl was just another street rat, and he had actually enjoyed eating the ear his mother gave him.
It took such a little bit of blood and flesh to become someone else.
His friend's name had been Georgia, and she was the first human to see what separated Ariel from everyone else. They had been playing with a slinky and marbles on the stairs, and when Ariel stood up to get a glass of water, she tripped and fell backward, knocking her head on the metal handrail behind her. It tore part of the skin on her forehead clear open, and underneath was a small, nearly flat protrusion. But Georgia knew immediately what it was. A horn.
She went back to her mother, wailing about how scary Ariel was. Like a storybook creature, something that hid under her bed. By the time Ariel herself returned to her apartment to feel her mother's wrath for exposing them, the wound itself had healed, and from her head raised two small antlers, like those of a young deer. Neither Georgia nor her mother was spared. It was another two bodies to either eat or dispose of, and it was the first time Ariel had to change her skin to avoid being tracked and accused of murder. It was the first time her mother had ever killed right in front of her.
What defines a demon? Is it the way they present themselves, elegant and sly, or how they transform into once they're done pretending?
As Ariel grew, his mother began to show him how to gain control of everything else his inhumanity granted him. He was stronger and faster than any human could ever hope to be, and he could climb walls like a spider or lizard if he so desired, which made it only easier to break into houses when he needed to. Hardly anyone ever locked the second story windows.
He had never felt love, per-say, from his mother, and things only got worse when he turned 13 and his true abilities came to light. His mother was a magnificent killer, and most of her strength came from the ability to harden her blood so that she could take bullets in full stride and not even break out of a run if shot right between the eyes. If need be, it could force its way out from under her fingernails and sharpen like knives, perfect for cutting a throat in one clean swipe or slicing a stomach open without harming any other delicious intestines.
As for Ariel, he could read memories. Anytime he even so much as brushed someone, he got glimpses of their most recent activities. Where they went to lunch, where they were going, and what they had forgotten. If he drank their blood or ate their flesh, he could view their entire life from start to finish if he really wanted, viewing everything like a cinematic movie laid out in real time. It was a beautiful ability to be able to harness, one that brought him closer to the humans that he would never fully be able to understand. But it couldn't help him kill.
His mother's horns were brilliant ruby red and curled down to shield her face for protection whereas his antlers spiraled out and away from his face to expose his neck willingly to an enemy. She thought he was a pathetic disgrace, and told him as much.
He believed her.
The more he used his powers, the more the antlers forced themselves from under his skin, and the more obvious it became that he wasn't human. But over time he found that viewing the little memories he got from just skin to skin contact didn't make his horns anymore noticeable than any other day to day activity. His powers weren't meant to kill, and he made up his mind that he would never use them to do so.
He wasn't what his mother was. A demon.
The first time they came across another one their own kind, when he was just about 16, it only confirmed his thoughts. The skin covering the creature had been male, and he looked perfectly human, but his scent made Ariel know that he was anything but. His mother had growled a warning and even dared to show her horns to him, but the male had only smiled. When his horns burst out from under his skin, Ariel had actually felt himself whimper. They spiraled down and around his face, practically shielding it completely, before jutting put at his jaw in razor-sharp points. From under his skin shot out hundreds of sharpened spines and quills, and where Ariel's mother growled, he roared.
His mother never stood a chance. When that became obvious halfway through the encounter, Ariel sprinted and hid a little ways away in a nearby alley. He could smell when the male came searching for him, but for some reason, the monster could never really pinpoint where Ariel was hiding. It was the first time Ariel was grateful that he was so unlike anything he was ever supposed to be. Even his own kind could only read him as human. He was stuck between both planes.
Death is a friendly idea until you confront him directly.
New York was a world so familiar and yet so alien to Ariel. He was born there, and both his mother and father died there. It was the reason he had come back to the city. He planned to die there as well.
As walked the streets, he couldn't help but view the memories of the people, rushing to wherever their life held for them, that pushed past his much slower form. He had a new mask, a new face that he had chosen especially for his return to his birthplace. He had been living inside it for three years now, and it was completely healthy and comfortable. Which was a rarity these days, really. Everyone was on some medication or other, it seemed. Most for problems they only believed they had. Now he just had to wait it out. He wanted to see what he truly looked like before he put a bullet in his head.
Just the first streaks of white were working themselves into his hair, but the other signs of physical wear wouldn't begin to really show for another eight or nine months. In the meantime, he got himself a job at a small, hole in the wall coffee shop near his equally small apartment. It was nice, even though the coffee tasted horrible. But he had never really been a fan to begin with, but an aversion to human food was normal for something like him. After three months there, he saw (Y/N).
Well, smelled would be more like it. To him, it was the smell of new paper and citrus, but to another of his kind, it could be anything else. The entire reason that he figured that his kind didn't make themselves known was partly due to how disjointed the small communities were, but mostly because of the breeding problem. They ate humans and needed them to hide, but they also needed them to breed. It was impossible without a human host to have healthy children, and the humans that smelled the most wonderful were healthy ones that guaranteed equally healthy offspring.
It was then that Ariel knew that (Y/N) would die. They would be swiped up by some unknown beast, and they'd be used and either killed and thrown away, or devoured. As (Y/N) approached the counter, Ariel wanted desperately to tell them to run and to hide and close themselves off if they wanted to live, to explain the kind of danger they were in, but instead years of emotional training came into play. A smile came to part his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was as cheery as could be, though he was trying not to stare.
Behind (Y/N), the coffee shop door opened and closed. The acrid smell of burned wood hit him immediately, and he knew that the creature had followed (Y/N) in. Again, he did his best to ignore it.
"Good morning. What can I get for you?"
"Mama," Ariel whispers, his eyes wide in boyhood fright and paying rapt attention to where his mother stood over his father's bedside. "Where is papa's face?"
His mother doesn't answer for a long time, instead only turning her face to her son, a scrawny boy of only four. Her face is etched with the wrinkles of premature age, like those of a heavy chain smoker. Even though she is only the young age of twenty-five, and her lips are shrunken and angry, worn with time. Ariel has watched this slow procession for the entirety of his young life. Watched as her auburn curls went flat and then began to tumble from her scalp in brittle, gray strands. Watched as her steps slowed and eyes dulled. As she looked at him now, those barely flickering orbs were filled with unshed tears.
One tear fell, and then another. The woman's wrinkled and blemished skin healed, smoothing itself back out, and her hair began to grow back in, before roughly pulling itself back into her scalp until it was only an inch or so from her head and dark brown. Her hips rearranged in one short crack of breaking bone, and her chest flattened itself into the muscular torso of a man. Ariel's mother made no sound as the process continued, changing her as though she wasn't a woman at all, but rather a doll sculpted roughly from clay. Ariel was petrified, he wanted to run, yet he couldn't look away. For the person who now watched him from across the bed was no longer his mother, but his father.
The key to everlasting life lives within the blood.
After that, Ariel was quickly introduced to a life that followed what he was, and it was certainly not a human life. It turned out he took more after his "mother," and he, so like her, burned through a human skin in just under five years. Every time either of them stole a new face, it meant ending that human's life, and moving to a whole new place.
When he was nine, he made a friend of the young girl who lived in the apartment right next door. It was easy since he was in his second skin, which also happened to be that of a young girl with red hair and a generous helping of freckles. Gender didn't matter much when you were just looking for a face to steal that no one would remember. This girl was just another street rat, and he had actually enjoyed eating the ear his mother gave him.
It took such a little bit of blood and flesh to become someone else.
His friend's name had been Georgia, and she was the first human to see what separated Ariel from everyone else. They had been playing with a slinky and marbles on the stairs, and when Ariel stood up to get a glass of water, she tripped and fell backward, knocking her head on the metal handrail behind her. It tore part of the skin on her forehead clear open, and underneath was a small, nearly flat protrusion. But Georgia knew immediately what it was. A horn.
She went back to her mother, wailing about how scary Ariel was. Like a storybook creature, something that hid under her bed. By the time Ariel herself returned to her apartment to feel her mother's wrath for exposing them, the wound itself had healed, and from her head raised two small antlers, like those of a young deer. Neither Georgia nor her mother was spared. It was another two bodies to either eat or dispose of, and it was the first time Ariel had to change her skin to avoid being tracked and accused of murder. It was the first time her mother had ever killed right in front of her.
What defines a demon? Is it the way they present themselves, elegant and sly, or how they transform into once they're done pretending?
As Ariel grew, his mother began to show him how to gain control of everything else his inhumanity granted him. He was stronger and faster than any human could ever hope to be, and he could climb walls like a spider or lizard if he so desired, which made it only easier to break into houses when he needed to. Hardly anyone ever locked the second story windows.
He had never felt love, per-say, from his mother, and things only got worse when he turned 13 and his true abilities came to light. His mother was a magnificent killer, and most of her strength came from the ability to harden her blood so that she could take bullets in full stride and not even break out of a run if shot right between the eyes. If need be, it could force its way out from under her fingernails and sharpen like knives, perfect for cutting a throat in one clean swipe or slicing a stomach open without harming any other delicious intestines.
As for Ariel, he could read memories. Anytime he even so much as brushed someone, he got glimpses of their most recent activities. Where they went to lunch, where they were going, and what they had forgotten. If he drank their blood or ate their flesh, he could view their entire life from start to finish if he really wanted, viewing everything like a cinematic movie laid out in real time. It was a beautiful ability to be able to harness, one that brought him closer to the humans that he would never fully be able to understand. But it couldn't help him kill.
His mother's horns were brilliant ruby red and curled down to shield her face for protection whereas his antlers spiraled out and away from his face to expose his neck willingly to an enemy. She thought he was a pathetic disgrace, and told him as much.
He believed her.
The more he used his powers, the more the antlers forced themselves from under his skin, and the more obvious it became that he wasn't human. But over time he found that viewing the little memories he got from just skin to skin contact didn't make his horns anymore noticeable than any other day to day activity. His powers weren't meant to kill, and he made up his mind that he would never use them to do so.
He wasn't what his mother was. A demon.
The first time they came across another one their own kind, when he was just about 16, it only confirmed his thoughts. The skin covering the creature had been male, and he looked perfectly human, but his scent made Ariel know that he was anything but. His mother had growled a warning and even dared to show her horns to him, but the male had only smiled. When his horns burst out from under his skin, Ariel had actually felt himself whimper. They spiraled down and around his face, practically shielding it completely, before jutting put at his jaw in razor-sharp points. From under his skin shot out hundreds of sharpened spines and quills, and where Ariel's mother growled, he roared.
His mother never stood a chance. When that became obvious halfway through the encounter, Ariel sprinted and hid a little ways away in a nearby alley. He could smell when the male came searching for him, but for some reason, the monster could never really pinpoint where Ariel was hiding. It was the first time Ariel was grateful that he was so unlike anything he was ever supposed to be. Even his own kind could only read him as human. He was stuck between both planes.
Death is a friendly idea until you confront him directly.
New York was a world so familiar and yet so alien to Ariel. He was born there, and both his mother and father died there. It was the reason he had come back to the city. He planned to die there as well.
As walked the streets, he couldn't help but view the memories of the people, rushing to wherever their life held for them, that pushed past his much slower form. He had a new mask, a new face that he had chosen especially for his return to his birthplace. He had been living inside it for three years now, and it was completely healthy and comfortable. Which was a rarity these days, really. Everyone was on some medication or other, it seemed. Most for problems they only believed they had. Now he just had to wait it out. He wanted to see what he truly looked like before he put a bullet in his head.
Just the first streaks of white were working themselves into his hair, but the other signs of physical wear wouldn't begin to really show for another eight or nine months. In the meantime, he got himself a job at a small, hole in the wall coffee shop near his equally small apartment. It was nice, even though the coffee tasted horrible. But he had never really been a fan to begin with, but an aversion to human food was normal for something like him. After three months there, he saw (Y/N).
Well, smelled would be more like it. To him, it was the smell of new paper and citrus, but to another of his kind, it could be anything else. The entire reason that he figured that his kind didn't make themselves known was partly due to how disjointed the small communities were, but mostly because of the breeding problem. They ate humans and needed them to hide, but they also needed them to breed. It was impossible without a human host to have healthy children, and the humans that smelled the most wonderful were healthy ones that guaranteed equally healthy offspring.
It was then that Ariel knew that (Y/N) would die. They would be swiped up by some unknown beast, and they'd be used and either killed and thrown away, or devoured. As (Y/N) approached the counter, Ariel wanted desperately to tell them to run and to hide and close themselves off if they wanted to live, to explain the kind of danger they were in, but instead years of emotional training came into play. A smile came to part his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was as cheery as could be, though he was trying not to stare.
Behind (Y/N), the coffee shop door opened and closed. The acrid smell of burned wood hit him immediately, and he knew that the creature had followed (Y/N) in. Again, he did his best to ignore it.
"Good morning. What can I get for you?"
The circus has always been a place for the wandering, weary, and broken. It's body made up of people looking for something they can't seem to find on their own. For some, it's easier than others; a family for orphans, a job for the homeless, and a home for the immigrants who faced so much prejudice anywhere and everywhere else. People who are looking for something to believe in, something to complete them.
Just as daybreak had reached the sleepy town you had called home for (x amount of time), and the residents had begun to stir and awaken, the rumble of horses brought many heads to look out windows and doorways. Just entering the town was the spectacle of the summer- the circus parade. Wagons colored in bright whites, yellows, and golds marched along on cobbled streets, white horses flashing the bits in their mouths.
The performers alongside them were dressed in elaborate costumes fashioned with everything from bells, glittering mirrors, and long, dyed feathers. Painted across the wooden frames of each wagon was a swan, either white or black, with great, outstretched wings, the feathers tipped with gold leaf and the eyes reflective glass. At the front of each, the words "Svane Circus" are written in red, swirling font.
At the sight of such brazen color and wonder, the children of the town immediately begin to flock the caravan of visitors, excited for the days to come, where the sideshows and big top acts would bring in the farming families and visitors from several towns over; friends they only got to see three or four times a year. The parade marches through the entirety of the town with trumpets blaring, animals marching, and steam calliope whistling in the back. They complete the act once they reach the field reserved just for the occasion with a bang of sound, the trumpeters letting one last note play. Thus beginning the hard day of set up for the festivities that would begin the following evening.
The children were a loyal audience, playing around the area and daring each other to get as close as possible to the sweaty, half-drunken men before getting shoed off back into the town, only to emerge again half an hour later. The two ring, big top tent is eventually raised into the warm summer air, and most of the wagons are arranged in smaller, circular formations and covered with tarps to form the sideshows, which could always be counted on to be a mixture of horror and fascination. Torches are set, and before long, the smell of chili, popcorn, and sweets helps mask the overlaying scent of animals and sweat that was present before.
By sunset the next day, everything was ready to begin accepting guests. The once empty field is full of jugglers, clowns, and snake charmers. Young girls with flaxen hair dance with tambourines and ribbons, a worn cap at the base of their ever moving feet to catch the occasional penny or nickel. Brass jewelry glitters with a golden shine in the lantern and torchlight, promising the buyer a cheap price for something that looked so much like the real thing.
"See the living skeleton for only three pennies! Three pennies to see the living skeleton! He talks and moves with only bones to hold 'em togethar!"
"A dime to see the exotic and wild animals from the dark continent of Africa! Animals never before seen by the civilized man! Among them an African unicorn and man-eating beasts!"
"Just two pennies for a white cake, and just a penny for a oyster!"
"Try your luck with the spinning arrow! The grand prize is a half dollar! Just a nickel a play!"
The pitches of the ever hungry salesmen were almost all that could break over the din of the first crowd entering the big top, the anxious customers reading the posters plastered all over the canvas tent. They were promised horsemen, tightrope walkers, clowns, fire breathers and even sword swallowers from a far-off land. The main act was trapeze in nature and instead of featuring a brief glimpse of what the act would appear as, it instead portrayed two swans in flight, one the color of coal and the other white as snow.
Guests entered the big top one group after another, settling themselves on the wooden bleachers that spanned the entire length of the tent. Lanterns hung suspended by the beams holding the fabric in place, and torches rested by each of the two entrances, creating a fairly well lit albeit smoky room to entertain.
Once it was as full as it was going to be and everyone was seated, a finely dressed man wearing a large ruff made from dark feathers and a white chalk face walks into the middle of the ring. He bows lowly to the audience before holding a speaking trumpet to his lips, his voice warm and welcoming.
"Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to the Svane Circus! Prepare to be amazed by acts from the farthest reaches of the globe, from the distant corners of Asia to the brightly lit cities of Europe! You will see acts that will defy your wildest dreams! So keep your minds open and pay close attention, as we present our first act- the Horseman of Arabia!"
Once he finishes speaking, he steps back as a man dressed in a black outfit decorated with dark feathers and thin, golden chains rides in on two horses, his right and left foot each planted on a separate horse's back. They pull a tight circle around the ring, getting within a foot of the audience with their shining hooves and hot breath. The man performs the same operation once and then twice more- but on the third rotation, he suddenly leaps to just the horse to his right, both animals still at a full gallop. He raises his arms into the air as the spectators cheer, before reaching down to grab the horn of the horse's saddle and raise one foot into the air behind him, halfway to a handstand.
He performs several more tricks, including the full handstand on top of the horse's back, even if it wasn't moving as fast as before. Shortly after, his act is finished and he and the horses exit the ring to let in the clowns, whose comic and amusing antics have the audience laughing and pointing at their ridiculous and stupid endeavors. After the clowns came the fire eaters, whose twirling batons of heated flame and dragon themed costumes served to scare more than a few of the younger children.
After the fire breathers came the sword swallowers and cat tamers. As usual with both the acts came the collective gasps as the performer either swallowed his fifth sword or the woman stuck her head between the pointed maw of the lion. After them, came the bears on bicycles and balls, their muzzled faces and brightly colored clothes creating a mixture of pity and humor, but the crowd always leaned heavily on the humorous side of anything.
Finally, after all the waiting was said and done, the acts above their heads were set to begin. The first to begin was a young girl dressed in an outfit that was made to look similar to a swan or dove since the feathers on her arms were sparkling white and looked very similar to wings. She walked across the line in front of her with fear and trepidation at first, but she eventually made it across. It was later announced to be the girl's first successful walk across the line without the net beneath her. Following her was a woman who did a handstand halfway across, and a man who juggled the entire way. The older woman being the only one to dress in black rather than white.
Once they were completed the ringmaster quieted the crowd before gesturing above them to the trapeze rings and bars, his smile almost crazed with delight. It was the final act of the evening, the appearance of the white and black swan. As he finishes the introduction, two young men can be seen at the top of the ladder, one dressed in black and the other dressed in white. Ornate headdresses cover most of their faces, but even at a distance, you can tell that they're made to look as close to birds as possible. Long, pristine feathers span across their arms to form wings, and the mirrors and the other feathers covering their otherwise very lightweight outfits form a rather dazzling effect from below.
They begin with the basics, the black swan moving first, swinging lightly from one platform to another, followed by his lighter colored twin. They slowly begin to move faster, and the act becomes more and more dangerous. The white swan is the first to do a flip between the bars, and the black swan follows but does it twice instead of once. It soon becomes apparent that the white swan is much more conservative than the black, and once they begin to work together, the white is the one constantly being thrown and having to catch himself on the second set of trapeze bars.
At the end of the performance, both end up on the same bar, and they rest for a few seconds before the white swan drops suddenly, and the black swan catches him at what appears to be the last second. From there, the white swan twirls and spins, almost making the movements of a bird in flight. He then throws himself up into the air and the black swan catches him by the middle, allowing the white to spread his arms eagle style, his back bent to mimic the graceful movements of a swan.
After waiting a few seconds for impact on the viewers below them, the black swan helps the white swan back up onto the bar and they both complete a final swing and landing, much to the applause of the audience. The ringmaster then concludes the show, and eventually, one by one, the audience exits the big top. A little while later, the drunken men are kicked back into town, and the circus becomes silent for the first time that night.
The air was heavy and sticky sweet with from the earlier festivities, the breeze picking up the occasional loose scrap of paper from the ground. Y/N had managed to stay unseen until everyone seemed to move on out of the big top, but the second they're out onto circus grounds, a voice sounds from behind them.
"Can I help you with something?" The voice belongs to a young man in his early twenties, the bitter smell of cigarette smoke clear even from behind him/her. The voice doesn't bother to hide any of its annoyance. "You've been hanging around for awhile now."
Just as daybreak had reached the sleepy town you had called home for (x amount of time), and the residents had begun to stir and awaken, the rumble of horses brought many heads to look out windows and doorways. Just entering the town was the spectacle of the summer- the circus parade. Wagons colored in bright whites, yellows, and golds marched along on cobbled streets, white horses flashing the bits in their mouths.
The performers alongside them were dressed in elaborate costumes fashioned with everything from bells, glittering mirrors, and long, dyed feathers. Painted across the wooden frames of each wagon was a swan, either white or black, with great, outstretched wings, the feathers tipped with gold leaf and the eyes reflective glass. At the front of each, the words "Svane Circus" are written in red, swirling font.
At the sight of such brazen color and wonder, the children of the town immediately begin to flock the caravan of visitors, excited for the days to come, where the sideshows and big top acts would bring in the farming families and visitors from several towns over; friends they only got to see three or four times a year. The parade marches through the entirety of the town with trumpets blaring, animals marching, and steam calliope whistling in the back. They complete the act once they reach the field reserved just for the occasion with a bang of sound, the trumpeters letting one last note play. Thus beginning the hard day of set up for the festivities that would begin the following evening.
The children were a loyal audience, playing around the area and daring each other to get as close as possible to the sweaty, half-drunken men before getting shoed off back into the town, only to emerge again half an hour later. The two ring, big top tent is eventually raised into the warm summer air, and most of the wagons are arranged in smaller, circular formations and covered with tarps to form the sideshows, which could always be counted on to be a mixture of horror and fascination. Torches are set, and before long, the smell of chili, popcorn, and sweets helps mask the overlaying scent of animals and sweat that was present before.
By sunset the next day, everything was ready to begin accepting guests. The once empty field is full of jugglers, clowns, and snake charmers. Young girls with flaxen hair dance with tambourines and ribbons, a worn cap at the base of their ever moving feet to catch the occasional penny or nickel. Brass jewelry glitters with a golden shine in the lantern and torchlight, promising the buyer a cheap price for something that looked so much like the real thing.
"See the living skeleton for only three pennies! Three pennies to see the living skeleton! He talks and moves with only bones to hold 'em togethar!"
"A dime to see the exotic and wild animals from the dark continent of Africa! Animals never before seen by the civilized man! Among them an African unicorn and man-eating beasts!"
"Just two pennies for a white cake, and just a penny for a oyster!"
"Try your luck with the spinning arrow! The grand prize is a half dollar! Just a nickel a play!"
The pitches of the ever hungry salesmen were almost all that could break over the din of the first crowd entering the big top, the anxious customers reading the posters plastered all over the canvas tent. They were promised horsemen, tightrope walkers, clowns, fire breathers and even sword swallowers from a far-off land. The main act was trapeze in nature and instead of featuring a brief glimpse of what the act would appear as, it instead portrayed two swans in flight, one the color of coal and the other white as snow.
Guests entered the big top one group after another, settling themselves on the wooden bleachers that spanned the entire length of the tent. Lanterns hung suspended by the beams holding the fabric in place, and torches rested by each of the two entrances, creating a fairly well lit albeit smoky room to entertain.
Once it was as full as it was going to be and everyone was seated, a finely dressed man wearing a large ruff made from dark feathers and a white chalk face walks into the middle of the ring. He bows lowly to the audience before holding a speaking trumpet to his lips, his voice warm and welcoming.
"Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to the Svane Circus! Prepare to be amazed by acts from the farthest reaches of the globe, from the distant corners of Asia to the brightly lit cities of Europe! You will see acts that will defy your wildest dreams! So keep your minds open and pay close attention, as we present our first act- the Horseman of Arabia!"
Once he finishes speaking, he steps back as a man dressed in a black outfit decorated with dark feathers and thin, golden chains rides in on two horses, his right and left foot each planted on a separate horse's back. They pull a tight circle around the ring, getting within a foot of the audience with their shining hooves and hot breath. The man performs the same operation once and then twice more- but on the third rotation, he suddenly leaps to just the horse to his right, both animals still at a full gallop. He raises his arms into the air as the spectators cheer, before reaching down to grab the horn of the horse's saddle and raise one foot into the air behind him, halfway to a handstand.
He performs several more tricks, including the full handstand on top of the horse's back, even if it wasn't moving as fast as before. Shortly after, his act is finished and he and the horses exit the ring to let in the clowns, whose comic and amusing antics have the audience laughing and pointing at their ridiculous and stupid endeavors. After the clowns came the fire eaters, whose twirling batons of heated flame and dragon themed costumes served to scare more than a few of the younger children.
After the fire breathers came the sword swallowers and cat tamers. As usual with both the acts came the collective gasps as the performer either swallowed his fifth sword or the woman stuck her head between the pointed maw of the lion. After them, came the bears on bicycles and balls, their muzzled faces and brightly colored clothes creating a mixture of pity and humor, but the crowd always leaned heavily on the humorous side of anything.
Finally, after all the waiting was said and done, the acts above their heads were set to begin. The first to begin was a young girl dressed in an outfit that was made to look similar to a swan or dove since the feathers on her arms were sparkling white and looked very similar to wings. She walked across the line in front of her with fear and trepidation at first, but she eventually made it across. It was later announced to be the girl's first successful walk across the line without the net beneath her. Following her was a woman who did a handstand halfway across, and a man who juggled the entire way. The older woman being the only one to dress in black rather than white.
Once they were completed the ringmaster quieted the crowd before gesturing above them to the trapeze rings and bars, his smile almost crazed with delight. It was the final act of the evening, the appearance of the white and black swan. As he finishes the introduction, two young men can be seen at the top of the ladder, one dressed in black and the other dressed in white. Ornate headdresses cover most of their faces, but even at a distance, you can tell that they're made to look as close to birds as possible. Long, pristine feathers span across their arms to form wings, and the mirrors and the other feathers covering their otherwise very lightweight outfits form a rather dazzling effect from below.
They begin with the basics, the black swan moving first, swinging lightly from one platform to another, followed by his lighter colored twin. They slowly begin to move faster, and the act becomes more and more dangerous. The white swan is the first to do a flip between the bars, and the black swan follows but does it twice instead of once. It soon becomes apparent that the white swan is much more conservative than the black, and once they begin to work together, the white is the one constantly being thrown and having to catch himself on the second set of trapeze bars.
At the end of the performance, both end up on the same bar, and they rest for a few seconds before the white swan drops suddenly, and the black swan catches him at what appears to be the last second. From there, the white swan twirls and spins, almost making the movements of a bird in flight. He then throws himself up into the air and the black swan catches him by the middle, allowing the white to spread his arms eagle style, his back bent to mimic the graceful movements of a swan.
After waiting a few seconds for impact on the viewers below them, the black swan helps the white swan back up onto the bar and they both complete a final swing and landing, much to the applause of the audience. The ringmaster then concludes the show, and eventually, one by one, the audience exits the big top. A little while later, the drunken men are kicked back into town, and the circus becomes silent for the first time that night.
The air was heavy and sticky sweet with from the earlier festivities, the breeze picking up the occasional loose scrap of paper from the ground. Y/N had managed to stay unseen until everyone seemed to move on out of the big top, but the second they're out onto circus grounds, a voice sounds from behind them.
"Can I help you with something?" The voice belongs to a young man in his early twenties, the bitter smell of cigarette smoke clear even from behind him/her. The voice doesn't bother to hide any of its annoyance. "You've been hanging around for awhile now."
(This roleplay is based very loosely off a real town that is the subject of a documentary true-crime series ID called “Village of the Damned.” I strongly encourage checking it out, it’s pretty interesting, but that being said this will include graphic themes of murder, assault, and rape. If you are sensitive to any of these topics, please don’t read further.)
The town of Lorry had been part of the United States for more than a hundred years next January. Founded on January 7th, 1918 by a few farming families in rural Maine, the town has never risen above a population of 17,000, which is considerably more than when it started. Before 1980, it was the epitome of a sleepy American town, one that had community barbeques in its numerous parks, where caroling was common on Christmas, and all but just a handful of families didn’t affiliate themselves with the Methodist Church.
The townsfolk were tightly knit and communal, and even as the population grew, there was never any reason for someone to be worried about walking home on late nights or to bother locking the doors as families turned in for the evenings. Until June of 1980, the town only had a police force of 13 people, and had never even seen a murder. The summer would set off a fuse that would plague the community for the next ten years.
The spring of 1980 warmed quickly, and led into a summer that was increasingly pleasant and mild. Walks through the parks or on the numerous nature trails on the outskirts of the community were common, although wildlife sightings were uncharacteristically low for the time of year. On the 17th of June, a Miss Terry Brandley was walking her chocolate Labrador on Meadows Trail, when she stumbled upon a paper bag tied neatly with red ribbon on the left side of the trail. Her dog was immediately curious, and Terry, being of similar curiosity to the dog picked up the bag for closer inspection. The bottom of the bag was completely soaked through and as soon as it was raised, it gave out and spilled its contents on the trail directly at Terry’s feet. She found herself suddenly face to face with a severed head. Her screams caught the attention of a nearby jogger, who quickly ran home and phoned the police.
The head belonged to Christina Lawrence, a young mother of three and wife to John Lawrence, a teacher at the local elementary school. When police visited the Lawrence home, they received no response, and when they forced entrance they found the gutted remains of the three Lawrence children, Patty, George, and Michael, and the cold body of their father, but no trace of Christina’s body. It would never be recovered.
The largest man hunt that had ever been seen in any of the surrounding areas mounted on Lorry, with little to no success. The small town that once no one had cared to know about was swarmed with police, reporters, and never-ending streams of volunteers desperate to find the body. When the investigation was three months in, another tragedy struck the town. 3-year-old Anne Marie went missing from her mother’s house when she was playing in her backyard and her mother had gone in to get a cup of coffee. Soon the television reports played out scenes of fathers and older women crying, asking what exactly had happened to their once safe neighborhoods and trust in one another. How could they look each other in the eye when at least one among them was a serial murderer?
2 months after the disappearance of Anne Marie, authorities apprehended a high school senior whose given name was Edward Flawen, but would only ever answer to McAnester. He was the one who taken Anne Marie and slit her throat, and was only caught because the letter he had mailed containing a lock of the girl’s hair, one of her mittens, and all her baby teeth had been traced back to his home. He had grown up in Lorry, and was described by his neighbors and family as a quiet boy with good manners that went to church every Sunday. He had kidnapped the child purely for sadistic purposes, but would only admit to her murder in a simply delighted manner. He swore up until he was put to death that he had nothing to do with the Lawrence family murders, and there was never any evidence to connect him to the other crime. He never revealed where he had disposed of the child’s body.
Lorry lay quiet for another year after that, and the Lawrence case, devoid of evidence or any leads, fell cold and by the wayside. November of 1981 saw the next horror to befall the small Maine town, still not even close to recovering from its last bout of heartbreak. Two cheerleaders, Mikayla Allen and Penelope Reynolds, never arrived home after practice one evening and were missing for three days. On the 7th of November, the Minister found them buried under snow in the Church’s garden, raped and bludgeoned to death.
The loss of the two girls, right about to graduate and hidden on the most blessed place in Lorry caused a panic, and in one fell swoop, the reporters were back with their cameras and this time the FBI became involved. Splashed across every headline in the country was the new name for the town of Lorry, “The Village of the Damned.” The final blow came when the autopsy report was made public- both of the girls were missing their tongues.
The case brought attention back to the Lawrence family, and again the question was raised- Did Lorry have a serial killer living amongst them?
This time around, the case was solved quickly. 21-year-old Harold Parskers, who would only answer to Carsons, was apprehended and found guilty of the pre-meditated murder of the two girls. The young man had moved to Lorry with his family when he was 3 years of age, and there was no indication that he would have turned to such behavior according to his friends and family. Any question of retrieving the tongues Harold ignored, and he was silent on the matter up until his death in 1983 when he committed suicide by hanging himself in his prison cell.
Two years after the deaths of Mikayla and Penelope, Lorry tried desperately to fall back into the rhythm it so desperately needed, even with the summer memorials that honored the eight victims of the “curse” that seemed to befall the town. That was when Trent Garrick murdered his wife and mother before taking his life in the early winter of December 27th. It was as if an evil had settled over Lorry, one that no thought they would be able to be free of. The case was closed as quickly and as quietly as possible.
1986 saw the suicide of Clarence Errick, who was only in fifth grade at the time. There was some brief speculation that the parents were involved, but nothing was ever proven. In the time leading up to his passing, he had taken to writing the name “Romanstead” on every homework assignment that he turned in. 1988 saw arson claim 7 lives in three different homes over a period of seven weeks. The man responsible, Adam Pollouk, only responded to his last name throughout questioning. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, but was beaten and then killed in prison only a year into his sentence. Police, desperate to find some kind of connection, could only determine that each perpetrator was male, had spent most, if not all, of his life in Lorry, and took a different name right before or after committing the offense.
All was quiet for another four years, and Lorry finally dared to breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed the worst was behind them, and they finally could begin the arduous journey of putting the past behind them. But alas, the worst horror of all befell the town in on July 7th, 1990. A complaint was filed to the police department by a Mr. Kent Richardson, due to the smell coming from his neighbor’s house. The man that owned the property, a Wayne Klopper, was all too willing to let the Police do a search of his property, and introduced himself as Simmons to the officers. What was found in the house would cause many families to move from Lorry permanently, and more than a few officers to leave the force.
Parts of 14 different women were found in his home, the size of the remains ranging from fully intact but horribly mutilated bodies to just a pair of eyes in the refrigerator. The smell was due to a sheep that Klopper had slain in the backyard, because, in his words, he “didn’t have the energy to go and find himself another girl.” Wayne was immediately taken into custody, and from there not only admitted to the killing of the 14 women, none of which came from Lorry, but also to the Lawrence murders. Grateful to close the books, he was sentenced to death but was shot and killed when being taken out of the back of the courthouse by the father of Christina Lawrence. Only 7 of the women Wayne killed were identified, and officials are still looking for the families of the others.
Once Klopper was killed, it was as if a dark force had been lifted from the town in its entirety. Some five years later the town had finally fallen back into a light and uneasy pattern, and people slowly but surely began to put things behind them and try to move on. Five years after that, life had brightened once again, and people began to move back into the small town. There was a memorial placed in the park on main street, one of a mother holding a little girl, with the names and dates of death of every victim of the string of tragedy that happened in the 1980s.
Lorry became a bustling town of 20,000 and is known mostly as a fun place to take the family on long weekends or for vacation. It continued that way until July 2017, when a Julianne Gregory, a young mother of three, went missing from her home. She was found a week later, on the 14th, by a jogger on one of the newly paved trails. Julianne’s head was found partially wrapped in tinfoil, and when police went back to notify the Gregory family, they found that the father and the three children were missing as well.
In a matter of days Lorry was thrown back into a panic, and soon there was police from every available county in Maine headed to the location, and every resource possible was made accessible to the small town. Among them was a young detective by the name of Christian Herrin from New York, who had recently had success apprehending a serial killer in his hometown of Gresson. Despite the menial amount of time he had spent on his police force, he had succeeded where his superiors had failed, although the techniques he had used had slipped into some gray area. There were rumors of physics and predictions, not to mention the fact that he had kept as much of the case concealed as he could, choosing to use the media as little as humanly possible.
However he did it, Lorry was quick to ask for his help, and he was quick to respond. Unlike the Lawrence family case in the 1980s, the case was quick to conclude. A young man by the name of Victor Richardson was apprehended after the body of Julianne was found in his home, but when he was first questioned swore up and down that the rest of the family was still alive. If he was let free, he would give the information easily once he was a safe distance away, and the family wouldn’t be harmed. If they didn’t, he would make sure the family died as painfully as possible, regardless of the fact that he was sitting in a prison cell in a straight jacket. Now in desperate straits, Herrin and the other officers turned to the community for help in breaking open Richardson by any means necessary.
So this roleplay can go one of two ways, and the history of the town and the ways that the murders and interrogations are conducted will be altered depending on your choice.
1. Supernatural Route
-The deaths in Lorry are caused by a supernatural entity possessing and influencing the townsfolk through their deepest and darkest desires.
-This path allows your character to have spiritual abilities such as clairvoyance or to act as a spiritual medium. The best paths for your character in this one would be a spiritually inclined person, a member of the church as a priest (male or female), another officer or someone related either the Gregory family or one of the original victims.
2. True Crime Route
-The deaths in Lorry are caused by copycat killers or a underground, cult-like community. (Your choice)
-Your character can still be a psychic in this option, but it will carry less weight than the other path and will be handled with much more scrutiny. The best options for this path are another officer, someone related to one of the victims, a reporter/other member of informational media, or a private investigator.
The town of Lorry had been part of the United States for more than a hundred years next January. Founded on January 7th, 1918 by a few farming families in rural Maine, the town has never risen above a population of 17,000, which is considerably more than when it started. Before 1980, it was the epitome of a sleepy American town, one that had community barbeques in its numerous parks, where caroling was common on Christmas, and all but just a handful of families didn’t affiliate themselves with the Methodist Church.
The townsfolk were tightly knit and communal, and even as the population grew, there was never any reason for someone to be worried about walking home on late nights or to bother locking the doors as families turned in for the evenings. Until June of 1980, the town only had a police force of 13 people, and had never even seen a murder. The summer would set off a fuse that would plague the community for the next ten years.
The spring of 1980 warmed quickly, and led into a summer that was increasingly pleasant and mild. Walks through the parks or on the numerous nature trails on the outskirts of the community were common, although wildlife sightings were uncharacteristically low for the time of year. On the 17th of June, a Miss Terry Brandley was walking her chocolate Labrador on Meadows Trail, when she stumbled upon a paper bag tied neatly with red ribbon on the left side of the trail. Her dog was immediately curious, and Terry, being of similar curiosity to the dog picked up the bag for closer inspection. The bottom of the bag was completely soaked through and as soon as it was raised, it gave out and spilled its contents on the trail directly at Terry’s feet. She found herself suddenly face to face with a severed head. Her screams caught the attention of a nearby jogger, who quickly ran home and phoned the police.
The head belonged to Christina Lawrence, a young mother of three and wife to John Lawrence, a teacher at the local elementary school. When police visited the Lawrence home, they received no response, and when they forced entrance they found the gutted remains of the three Lawrence children, Patty, George, and Michael, and the cold body of their father, but no trace of Christina’s body. It would never be recovered.
The largest man hunt that had ever been seen in any of the surrounding areas mounted on Lorry, with little to no success. The small town that once no one had cared to know about was swarmed with police, reporters, and never-ending streams of volunteers desperate to find the body. When the investigation was three months in, another tragedy struck the town. 3-year-old Anne Marie went missing from her mother’s house when she was playing in her backyard and her mother had gone in to get a cup of coffee. Soon the television reports played out scenes of fathers and older women crying, asking what exactly had happened to their once safe neighborhoods and trust in one another. How could they look each other in the eye when at least one among them was a serial murderer?
2 months after the disappearance of Anne Marie, authorities apprehended a high school senior whose given name was Edward Flawen, but would only ever answer to McAnester. He was the one who taken Anne Marie and slit her throat, and was only caught because the letter he had mailed containing a lock of the girl’s hair, one of her mittens, and all her baby teeth had been traced back to his home. He had grown up in Lorry, and was described by his neighbors and family as a quiet boy with good manners that went to church every Sunday. He had kidnapped the child purely for sadistic purposes, but would only admit to her murder in a simply delighted manner. He swore up until he was put to death that he had nothing to do with the Lawrence family murders, and there was never any evidence to connect him to the other crime. He never revealed where he had disposed of the child’s body.
Lorry lay quiet for another year after that, and the Lawrence case, devoid of evidence or any leads, fell cold and by the wayside. November of 1981 saw the next horror to befall the small Maine town, still not even close to recovering from its last bout of heartbreak. Two cheerleaders, Mikayla Allen and Penelope Reynolds, never arrived home after practice one evening and were missing for three days. On the 7th of November, the Minister found them buried under snow in the Church’s garden, raped and bludgeoned to death.
The loss of the two girls, right about to graduate and hidden on the most blessed place in Lorry caused a panic, and in one fell swoop, the reporters were back with their cameras and this time the FBI became involved. Splashed across every headline in the country was the new name for the town of Lorry, “The Village of the Damned.” The final blow came when the autopsy report was made public- both of the girls were missing their tongues.
The case brought attention back to the Lawrence family, and again the question was raised- Did Lorry have a serial killer living amongst them?
This time around, the case was solved quickly. 21-year-old Harold Parskers, who would only answer to Carsons, was apprehended and found guilty of the pre-meditated murder of the two girls. The young man had moved to Lorry with his family when he was 3 years of age, and there was no indication that he would have turned to such behavior according to his friends and family. Any question of retrieving the tongues Harold ignored, and he was silent on the matter up until his death in 1983 when he committed suicide by hanging himself in his prison cell.
Two years after the deaths of Mikayla and Penelope, Lorry tried desperately to fall back into the rhythm it so desperately needed, even with the summer memorials that honored the eight victims of the “curse” that seemed to befall the town. That was when Trent Garrick murdered his wife and mother before taking his life in the early winter of December 27th. It was as if an evil had settled over Lorry, one that no thought they would be able to be free of. The case was closed as quickly and as quietly as possible.
1986 saw the suicide of Clarence Errick, who was only in fifth grade at the time. There was some brief speculation that the parents were involved, but nothing was ever proven. In the time leading up to his passing, he had taken to writing the name “Romanstead” on every homework assignment that he turned in. 1988 saw arson claim 7 lives in three different homes over a period of seven weeks. The man responsible, Adam Pollouk, only responded to his last name throughout questioning. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, but was beaten and then killed in prison only a year into his sentence. Police, desperate to find some kind of connection, could only determine that each perpetrator was male, had spent most, if not all, of his life in Lorry, and took a different name right before or after committing the offense.
All was quiet for another four years, and Lorry finally dared to breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed the worst was behind them, and they finally could begin the arduous journey of putting the past behind them. But alas, the worst horror of all befell the town in on July 7th, 1990. A complaint was filed to the police department by a Mr. Kent Richardson, due to the smell coming from his neighbor’s house. The man that owned the property, a Wayne Klopper, was all too willing to let the Police do a search of his property, and introduced himself as Simmons to the officers. What was found in the house would cause many families to move from Lorry permanently, and more than a few officers to leave the force.
Parts of 14 different women were found in his home, the size of the remains ranging from fully intact but horribly mutilated bodies to just a pair of eyes in the refrigerator. The smell was due to a sheep that Klopper had slain in the backyard, because, in his words, he “didn’t have the energy to go and find himself another girl.” Wayne was immediately taken into custody, and from there not only admitted to the killing of the 14 women, none of which came from Lorry, but also to the Lawrence murders. Grateful to close the books, he was sentenced to death but was shot and killed when being taken out of the back of the courthouse by the father of Christina Lawrence. Only 7 of the women Wayne killed were identified, and officials are still looking for the families of the others.
Once Klopper was killed, it was as if a dark force had been lifted from the town in its entirety. Some five years later the town had finally fallen back into a light and uneasy pattern, and people slowly but surely began to put things behind them and try to move on. Five years after that, life had brightened once again, and people began to move back into the small town. There was a memorial placed in the park on main street, one of a mother holding a little girl, with the names and dates of death of every victim of the string of tragedy that happened in the 1980s.
Lorry became a bustling town of 20,000 and is known mostly as a fun place to take the family on long weekends or for vacation. It continued that way until July 2017, when a Julianne Gregory, a young mother of three, went missing from her home. She was found a week later, on the 14th, by a jogger on one of the newly paved trails. Julianne’s head was found partially wrapped in tinfoil, and when police went back to notify the Gregory family, they found that the father and the three children were missing as well.
In a matter of days Lorry was thrown back into a panic, and soon there was police from every available county in Maine headed to the location, and every resource possible was made accessible to the small town. Among them was a young detective by the name of Christian Herrin from New York, who had recently had success apprehending a serial killer in his hometown of Gresson. Despite the menial amount of time he had spent on his police force, he had succeeded where his superiors had failed, although the techniques he had used had slipped into some gray area. There were rumors of physics and predictions, not to mention the fact that he had kept as much of the case concealed as he could, choosing to use the media as little as humanly possible.
However he did it, Lorry was quick to ask for his help, and he was quick to respond. Unlike the Lawrence family case in the 1980s, the case was quick to conclude. A young man by the name of Victor Richardson was apprehended after the body of Julianne was found in his home, but when he was first questioned swore up and down that the rest of the family was still alive. If he was let free, he would give the information easily once he was a safe distance away, and the family wouldn’t be harmed. If they didn’t, he would make sure the family died as painfully as possible, regardless of the fact that he was sitting in a prison cell in a straight jacket. Now in desperate straits, Herrin and the other officers turned to the community for help in breaking open Richardson by any means necessary.
So this roleplay can go one of two ways, and the history of the town and the ways that the murders and interrogations are conducted will be altered depending on your choice.
1. Supernatural Route
-The deaths in Lorry are caused by a supernatural entity possessing and influencing the townsfolk through their deepest and darkest desires.
-This path allows your character to have spiritual abilities such as clairvoyance or to act as a spiritual medium. The best paths for your character in this one would be a spiritually inclined person, a member of the church as a priest (male or female), another officer or someone related either the Gregory family or one of the original victims.
2. True Crime Route
-The deaths in Lorry are caused by copycat killers or a underground, cult-like community. (Your choice)
-Your character can still be a psychic in this option, but it will carry less weight than the other path and will be handled with much more scrutiny. The best options for this path are another officer, someone related to one of the victims, a reporter/other member of informational media, or a private investigator.
(As a heads up: This starter does give a bit of personality to your character, so if you’d like to change any of his or her reactions or the bits of backstory and preferences I threw in, let me know before we start roleplaying)
“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”
(Y/N) had never been one to get behind a specific kind of music. They liked pretty much everything, and took each genre for the specialities it had to offer. With that being said, they had never really liked attending concerts. There was far too many people, far too much unwanted touching, and the music seemed to lose something personal when hundreds of other people were experiencing it with you. Raymond, (Y/N)’s on and off friend, used to be the same way. He was just a little younger than (Y/N), and with hair that normally resembled a dyed, dried out corn husk, and dark eyes always lined in even darker makeup, he gave off the very stereotypical “metal head” vibe. The amount of weed he smoked didn’t help disprove that persona either. That being said, Raymond listened to pretty much anything, even things that (Y/N) wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of.
Just recently, he had discovered what he described as “the most amazing, wonderful band in the entire world,” and had spent the past month trying to convince (Y/N) that he was right. Ray had always been surprisingly chipper and clingy, which was the biggest reason they never stayed close friends for very long. The songs the band had released so far Raymond played on repeat whenever he was with (Y/N), but they couldn’t ever see what the big deal was. It was just over-glammed rock with jumbled lyrics that (Y/N) couldn’t ever really make into words.
However, if Raymond could be called anything, it was stubborn. The week of (Y/N)’s birthday, they received Raymond’s gift, which was just what they expected. Inside the envelope that should have held a halfway sentimental card, laid two gold trimmed concert tickets. With only a half hour of pleading, and several promises to do his best to keep people from constantly bumping into them, Raymond had finally worn his friend down.
The night of the concert Raymond picked (Y/N) up as he promised to, and the entire car ride over to the Auditorium Theater was filled with ceaseless chatter, something that (Y/N) did their best to ignore. They parked a little away from the theater, and the walk only helped (Y/N) start to feel more and more uneasy. Even the warmed summer air felt a little off, as though tainted by some faint and unrecognizable scent. Raymond led them to the back entrance instead of the front, where his older brother, Carmen, was already waiting. He happened to do the lighting for the club, and when he saw (Y/N), he gave a friendly wave and an almost flirtatious wink.
“Long time no see, (Y/N). Ray hasn’t been giving you trouble, has he?” Carmen moves the poison he’s burning from between his teeth to between two fingers, the smoke dancing around him in blurred silhouettes. “I can’t believe you showed up to this thing in the first place…. But if you had to pick a band, this one is a definite show stopper. The lead, Omega, is something people haven’t seen in awhile.”
With a flick of his wrist, Carmen opens the door to the backstage, and leads them through a couple of hallways until they reach a reserved area right at the foot of the stage. When it dawned on him that it was where they would be sitting, Raymond almost gives his brother a hug, before Carmen’s glare makes him freeze and drop his arms slowly, like a doll whose joints were a bit too stiff.
“There was a very last minute cancellation, and you paid the right price, so it’s all yours. Show starts before you know it. Enjoy,” Carmen gives a slow, over dramatic bow to (Y/N) before disappearing into the darkness of backstage again, hoping not to catch too much crap for leaving his post unattended for so long.
If Raymond was bad before, he seemed to mellow out a little now, and after quite a few minutes of waiting in silence, he gives his friend a very apologetic smile. “You’ll have a good time. I promise.”
Before (Y/N) can even decide whether or not they want to reply, the house lights dim, and the lights on stage flare up, a mechanical voice over the speakers announcing “Omega and the Industrial Angels.” The cheer from the audience is deafening as the lights dim just enough to see the band make their way on stage, the main attraction obviously the lead singer who walks on before anyone else. It takes a minute for (Y/N) to register that he’s even a man, simply because he looks like no one they had ever seen before.
“Good evening,” He announces into the microphone, his red, heavily made up lips curving into a smile. His voice is light and refined, while still managing to hold its masculine edge. It sounds nice to (Y/N), but they can’t quite grasp why everyone else in the room went dead silent just to enjoy it. “My name is Omega, and I’ll be your host.” With no more than that, he points behind him to the rest of the band, and they string together the opening notes before he begins to sing. The noise from the audience picks up again right after, Raymond practically squealing with joy. The song was just as (Y/N) remembered it being- High glam rock with lyrics that sounded like Omega was saying everything in reverse.
The singer himself, however, was really something to behold. He was tall, and the white, heeled boots that covered his feet and swept up his legs served to make him only taller. His hair was the color of drying rose petals, and it fell to his shoulders in wispy, nearly translucent strands. When it caught the light, it glowed, surrounding the angled features of his face in a halo of red. His skin was milky, unblemished white, far too pale to do without make up, but the blue of his veins didn't seem to appear at all. It sharpened the contrast of the blood red lipstick, accented the flashing white of his teeth.
He didn't look human, his movements as graceful as liquid, but rather like some ethereal creature, enjoying its first steps onto solid ground. His outfit only gave more evidence to the idea, and was something borrowed almost exactly from a Ziggy Stardust photo shoot. Blue leather hugged his long, too thin limbs, but the collar and shoulders flared outwards into glittering shreds of what looked almost like glass. It gave Omega wings, and as he moved, (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel like he was trying to fly away. He really was an industrial angel- one shaped by the underbelly of American rock.
Tearing their eyes away for just a little, (Y/N) surveys the audience around them, eyes widening when they see the range of ages contained in the small theater. What really concerned them, however, was that everyone held the same expression. They looked overjoyed and completely in the moment, but their eyes only ever focused on the singer before them. None of their glassy stares could really be seeing anything at all. When (Y/N) turns to find reassurance from Raymond, (Y/N) found he wouldn't even respond to his own name. Suddenly on edge, their gaze flicks back to Omega for a few moments, only to find the the vocalist staring right back at them.
The rocker’s eyes match the hues of his hair, but right around the pupil the red changes to a brilliant blue, making the gaze more unsettling than anything. The makeup that surrounds his eyes is made up of two large blue wings that cover his upper lid and the lower, extending past his eyebrow and coming to end somewhere above his ears that was obscured by hair. His gaze follows (Y/N) for nearly a minute, but as the song draws to an end, Omega looks away to give a short, nearly nonexistent bow.
The next song starts up almost immediately after the first closes, and (Y/N) uses the blanket of noise to slip out a side exit, trying to shake off what they'd seen. Raymond had driven, and was obviously planning on staying until the end, so it didn’t look like they would be leaving anytime soon. (The location where they spend the next block of hours is completely up to you- it’s character preference.)
As the night drew on, (Y/N) gradually began to relax, right up until Raymond made his way over, in a ditzy half walk, half run. His eyes were completely aglow, and he didn’t even really seem to notice, or care, that (Y/N) had left the concert at all.
“You’re not going to believe this, (Y/N), but Omega wants to speak with us!” Raymond can hardly contain himself, but once he catches (Y/N)’s expression, he back tracks a little and begins to try a completely different tactic. “Please? I would do anything for this. I really, really would. It won’t be for that long, I promise. Please? For me?”
“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”
(Y/N) had never been one to get behind a specific kind of music. They liked pretty much everything, and took each genre for the specialities it had to offer. With that being said, they had never really liked attending concerts. There was far too many people, far too much unwanted touching, and the music seemed to lose something personal when hundreds of other people were experiencing it with you. Raymond, (Y/N)’s on and off friend, used to be the same way. He was just a little younger than (Y/N), and with hair that normally resembled a dyed, dried out corn husk, and dark eyes always lined in even darker makeup, he gave off the very stereotypical “metal head” vibe. The amount of weed he smoked didn’t help disprove that persona either. That being said, Raymond listened to pretty much anything, even things that (Y/N) wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of.
Just recently, he had discovered what he described as “the most amazing, wonderful band in the entire world,” and had spent the past month trying to convince (Y/N) that he was right. Ray had always been surprisingly chipper and clingy, which was the biggest reason they never stayed close friends for very long. The songs the band had released so far Raymond played on repeat whenever he was with (Y/N), but they couldn’t ever see what the big deal was. It was just over-glammed rock with jumbled lyrics that (Y/N) couldn’t ever really make into words.
However, if Raymond could be called anything, it was stubborn. The week of (Y/N)’s birthday, they received Raymond’s gift, which was just what they expected. Inside the envelope that should have held a halfway sentimental card, laid two gold trimmed concert tickets. With only a half hour of pleading, and several promises to do his best to keep people from constantly bumping into them, Raymond had finally worn his friend down.
The night of the concert Raymond picked (Y/N) up as he promised to, and the entire car ride over to the Auditorium Theater was filled with ceaseless chatter, something that (Y/N) did their best to ignore. They parked a little away from the theater, and the walk only helped (Y/N) start to feel more and more uneasy. Even the warmed summer air felt a little off, as though tainted by some faint and unrecognizable scent. Raymond led them to the back entrance instead of the front, where his older brother, Carmen, was already waiting. He happened to do the lighting for the club, and when he saw (Y/N), he gave a friendly wave and an almost flirtatious wink.
“Long time no see, (Y/N). Ray hasn’t been giving you trouble, has he?” Carmen moves the poison he’s burning from between his teeth to between two fingers, the smoke dancing around him in blurred silhouettes. “I can’t believe you showed up to this thing in the first place…. But if you had to pick a band, this one is a definite show stopper. The lead, Omega, is something people haven’t seen in awhile.”
With a flick of his wrist, Carmen opens the door to the backstage, and leads them through a couple of hallways until they reach a reserved area right at the foot of the stage. When it dawned on him that it was where they would be sitting, Raymond almost gives his brother a hug, before Carmen’s glare makes him freeze and drop his arms slowly, like a doll whose joints were a bit too stiff.
“There was a very last minute cancellation, and you paid the right price, so it’s all yours. Show starts before you know it. Enjoy,” Carmen gives a slow, over dramatic bow to (Y/N) before disappearing into the darkness of backstage again, hoping not to catch too much crap for leaving his post unattended for so long.
If Raymond was bad before, he seemed to mellow out a little now, and after quite a few minutes of waiting in silence, he gives his friend a very apologetic smile. “You’ll have a good time. I promise.”
Before (Y/N) can even decide whether or not they want to reply, the house lights dim, and the lights on stage flare up, a mechanical voice over the speakers announcing “Omega and the Industrial Angels.” The cheer from the audience is deafening as the lights dim just enough to see the band make their way on stage, the main attraction obviously the lead singer who walks on before anyone else. It takes a minute for (Y/N) to register that he’s even a man, simply because he looks like no one they had ever seen before.
“Good evening,” He announces into the microphone, his red, heavily made up lips curving into a smile. His voice is light and refined, while still managing to hold its masculine edge. It sounds nice to (Y/N), but they can’t quite grasp why everyone else in the room went dead silent just to enjoy it. “My name is Omega, and I’ll be your host.” With no more than that, he points behind him to the rest of the band, and they string together the opening notes before he begins to sing. The noise from the audience picks up again right after, Raymond practically squealing with joy. The song was just as (Y/N) remembered it being- High glam rock with lyrics that sounded like Omega was saying everything in reverse.
The singer himself, however, was really something to behold. He was tall, and the white, heeled boots that covered his feet and swept up his legs served to make him only taller. His hair was the color of drying rose petals, and it fell to his shoulders in wispy, nearly translucent strands. When it caught the light, it glowed, surrounding the angled features of his face in a halo of red. His skin was milky, unblemished white, far too pale to do without make up, but the blue of his veins didn't seem to appear at all. It sharpened the contrast of the blood red lipstick, accented the flashing white of his teeth.
He didn't look human, his movements as graceful as liquid, but rather like some ethereal creature, enjoying its first steps onto solid ground. His outfit only gave more evidence to the idea, and was something borrowed almost exactly from a Ziggy Stardust photo shoot. Blue leather hugged his long, too thin limbs, but the collar and shoulders flared outwards into glittering shreds of what looked almost like glass. It gave Omega wings, and as he moved, (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel like he was trying to fly away. He really was an industrial angel- one shaped by the underbelly of American rock.
Tearing their eyes away for just a little, (Y/N) surveys the audience around them, eyes widening when they see the range of ages contained in the small theater. What really concerned them, however, was that everyone held the same expression. They looked overjoyed and completely in the moment, but their eyes only ever focused on the singer before them. None of their glassy stares could really be seeing anything at all. When (Y/N) turns to find reassurance from Raymond, (Y/N) found he wouldn't even respond to his own name. Suddenly on edge, their gaze flicks back to Omega for a few moments, only to find the the vocalist staring right back at them.
The rocker’s eyes match the hues of his hair, but right around the pupil the red changes to a brilliant blue, making the gaze more unsettling than anything. The makeup that surrounds his eyes is made up of two large blue wings that cover his upper lid and the lower, extending past his eyebrow and coming to end somewhere above his ears that was obscured by hair. His gaze follows (Y/N) for nearly a minute, but as the song draws to an end, Omega looks away to give a short, nearly nonexistent bow.
The next song starts up almost immediately after the first closes, and (Y/N) uses the blanket of noise to slip out a side exit, trying to shake off what they'd seen. Raymond had driven, and was obviously planning on staying until the end, so it didn’t look like they would be leaving anytime soon. (The location where they spend the next block of hours is completely up to you- it’s character preference.)
As the night drew on, (Y/N) gradually began to relax, right up until Raymond made his way over, in a ditzy half walk, half run. His eyes were completely aglow, and he didn’t even really seem to notice, or care, that (Y/N) had left the concert at all.
“You’re not going to believe this, (Y/N), but Omega wants to speak with us!” Raymond can hardly contain himself, but once he catches (Y/N)’s expression, he back tracks a little and begins to try a completely different tactic. “Please? I would do anything for this. I really, really would. It won’t be for that long, I promise. Please? For me?”
