OhGodOfWriting
Writing Addict
Hi there! I am a literate/advanced roleplayer seeking others of the same type. I prefer roleplaying with female writers, mxf. I enjoy romance and action, and almost every genre, though I much prefer OC characters and I rarely do (but would be willing to try) some fandoms.
Science fiction, modern, post-apocalyptic (not zombies), fantasy, medieval, steampunk...I'm open to it all. I can do human, furry anthro, robot, mythical creature, or some strange combination of all of them. xD (Though I am mainly hoping to do human right now.)
There needs to be at least a minimum of four real paragraphs in every post, though more is preferred during intros, heavy action, and when the muse is flowing. You must be able to post at least a couple of times a week, although I am able to do up to several posts a day.
I write maturely (although I prefer fade-to-black during intimacy) and there is usually some level of violence (although I avoid senseless and extremely detailed gore). I enjoy swearing, as well. If you have any qualms about any of this, please let me know, and I will be happy to censor myself for you.
I prefer roleplaying through email or thread, although I will consider PM if that is the only thing that works for you.
I can play male or female characters well, but I sometimes prefer playing females (if we're not doubling) because a) I roleplay my characters very descriptively, keeping few thoughts hidden, and I feel like to play males realistically my mind has to be constantly in the gutter >.< (no offense to the lurking menfolk) and b) a lot of people really suck at roleplaying females, and I don't like having to deal with it. xD However if you are a good enough roleplayer the second concern should not be a problem.
I am ALWAYS looking for more roleplaying partners. Please do not hesitate to contact me. Just do keep in mind that I am fairly picky and may not decide to pursue a roleplay with you. That does not mean that you are not awesome. ^^
***I will need to see a sample of a typical roleplay post from you before we even begin concocting a setting and a plot.***
Unless I already have an intro ready, it would be preferable if you did it. I am sorry to be so picky, but I have to screen writers before I invest in them. I've been disappointed too many times.
However, you deserve the same from me, so here are a few examples...
SAMPLES OF MY WRITING:
Intro for a pirate/fantasy roleplay (closed):
Hasty character description mid-rp for historical fiction Gladiator rp (closed):
Modern mermaid fantasy mid-rp post (closed):
Science fiction rp intro-ing female character (closed):
The following two are plot ideas...
Intro for a fantasy roleplay which takes place roughly in the medieval/dark-ages in a village. Main character is a shape-shifting guardian of an enchanted forest. (OPEN):
Idea for a post-apocalyptic and/or futuristic gladiator/hunger games roleplay (OPEN):
Thank you so very much for your time; I hope to hear from you!
Science fiction, modern, post-apocalyptic (not zombies), fantasy, medieval, steampunk...I'm open to it all. I can do human, furry anthro, robot, mythical creature, or some strange combination of all of them. xD (Though I am mainly hoping to do human right now.)
There needs to be at least a minimum of four real paragraphs in every post, though more is preferred during intros, heavy action, and when the muse is flowing. You must be able to post at least a couple of times a week, although I am able to do up to several posts a day.
I write maturely (although I prefer fade-to-black during intimacy) and there is usually some level of violence (although I avoid senseless and extremely detailed gore). I enjoy swearing, as well. If you have any qualms about any of this, please let me know, and I will be happy to censor myself for you.
I prefer roleplaying through email or thread, although I will consider PM if that is the only thing that works for you.
I can play male or female characters well, but I sometimes prefer playing females (if we're not doubling) because a) I roleplay my characters very descriptively, keeping few thoughts hidden, and I feel like to play males realistically my mind has to be constantly in the gutter >.< (no offense to the lurking menfolk) and b) a lot of people really suck at roleplaying females, and I don't like having to deal with it. xD However if you are a good enough roleplayer the second concern should not be a problem.
I am ALWAYS looking for more roleplaying partners. Please do not hesitate to contact me. Just do keep in mind that I am fairly picky and may not decide to pursue a roleplay with you. That does not mean that you are not awesome. ^^
***I will need to see a sample of a typical roleplay post from you before we even begin concocting a setting and a plot.***
Unless I already have an intro ready, it would be preferable if you did it. I am sorry to be so picky, but I have to screen writers before I invest in them. I've been disappointed too many times.
However, you deserve the same from me, so here are a few examples...
SAMPLES OF MY WRITING:
Intro for a pirate/fantasy roleplay (closed):
"The port was bustling as usual, despite the early hour. The air was cool, and the spray from the ocean made the wind taste like salt, even on land. It was a beautiful day, the kind perfect for a do-over. The ship the man chose was less auspicious, but he was drawn to the derelict, small vessel. It had been a real beauty once, but it had the look of something almost zombiefied now. It's name, "The Siren's Song," was barely legible on the aft end of the ship, beneath stained plate-glass windows which were no longer translucent. Barnacles were clustered too high on the hull of her, the sea trying to reclaim her. Her wood was water-rotted, gray, and certain pieces of it seemed misplaced. The masts leaned, the statue of a nude woman on the piercing prow was deformed, making her look a monster. Wide boards extended on port and starboard, trailing off into jagged, broken edges several feet behind the poop deck, suspended in the air. Her sepia sails were gathered and bound with ropes, anchored at the dock. These ropes, including the ratlines, looked sufficiently strong, if not a little more bloated and fuzzy than regular ropes. Yet she was majestic. Not something that could ever be as good as new again, but then, the man liked under-appreciated things. A hidden treasure, that somehow managed to eek into the seaworthy category, like an old well-made machine that had far outlasted its time. He saw it as a project, that he could actually do some good on board. Or maybe he just liked being a big fish in a little pond. He had a generally unassuming and humble air, but then, isn't it the people who feel ignored that most crave recognition?
If the man was driven by any of these psychological factors (and who isn't) he was unaware of it. Unusual looking as the ship he boarded, if not more so, he strode up the plank while he looked around for the Boatswain. He had heard that they were recruiting at the tavern, and set off right away. Due to a...disagreement...with his previous captain, he had chosen to stay at this port when he last docked. A couple of weeks of companionship and lounging in the pub was enough to drive him mad with boredom. He had stopped praying, and let himself get drunker and drunker, a difficult feat for such a burly man. Not pushing himself physically was beginning to drive him insane. He just let his cells soak up more and more alcohol, having to be tossed out of the taverns at night sometimes. He'd squandered all his gold and gotten his meager belongings stolen. He'd started some fights that he couldn't finish, and had far overstayed his welcome. At the pub last night, he heard the men talking about that new "crap hole" of a ship, as they had called it, and the freak of nature who captained it. He'd gone out at night to look at it, and as he stared at it the moonlight, two thoughts came to his mind, both of them wry. The first was, "I know how you feel," and the second was, "That looks like a ship I'll die on." That had decided it. Willing himself back into sobriety with the force of self-control that was so characteristic of who he was, he'd eaten, submerged himself in the cold ocean, and spent the night hydrating and sleeping when he could. Sleep never came easily to him. It hadn't for so long.
When he found the man with the manifest, he stopped in front of the man he towered over. "Koledy Hunt, reportin' for duty. What posts're still open?" the Boatswain looked at him through a scared face so beaten up, it looked like the facial features had been rearranged by a child. Maybe that's where Koledy recognized him from... "Uh, nothin'. Cap'n filled the good slots first come first serve. We'll take as many able-bodied sailors's we can, though. Still need a swabbie an' a rigger, but..." the Boatswain gave him another timid stare. "We're not goin' ta' make ye do that."
Koledy nodded. "Young men are best for those jobs, 'n you and me are old aboard a ship," the man agreed, hoping to ease the Boatswain's distrust of him. It was true that pirates lived short, danger-riddled lives. They were aged prematurely on the rough seas by conditions, warfare, and illness. Of course, avarice and hatred did not do much for a person's soul, either. "Where be the captain?"
"She stays mostly tah 'er cabin. Said she'll come out once we 'r ready to sail." The Boatswain leaned in. "Mind yer step 'round her, mate. There be dragons in these waters." The man found it hard not to feel contemptuous of someone who would say that about a woman and a captain. Everyone knew perfectly well not to step on the toes of a captain, and didn't need to be reminded. Shouldn't need to be reminded, no matter the gender. Contradictorily, he thought the Boatswain weak to fear a woman. With a simple nod, he moved off, staying topside, but examining the ship.
Though Koledy spoke of himself as old, and in years he was definitely past his prime to be a pirate and not a captain, he did not look it. At early thirties, he had been preserved rather well considering his lifestyle as a pirate. The secret to this was that he hadn't been at it for long. Not something he advertised. Though a few years was plenty respectable for one such as he, his previous profession was not, and would make him seem weak in his fellow outlaw's eyes. Dark chocolate brown skin gave him some level of protection from the sun, so he had not weathered so fast as the burnt-to-a-crisp palefaces. He had a frame that was naturally big, but not naturally muscled. His torso, while utterly devoid of flabbiness, looked almost shrunken in comparison with his powerfully built arms. They were long, with big, calloused hands, and though a cream poet's shirt hid most of this, his sleeves were rolled back to halfway up his impressive forearms. His physique was a practicality, not the result of intention. He did a lot of heavy lifting aboard ships, being one of the biggest, and the more muscular he got, the more people expected him to move crap for them all the time. Vicious cycle. It was actually pretty annoying.
He was tall, and his padded hairstyle made him seem quite a bit taller. The black English-African had a head full of thick brown dreads, bleached a few shades lighter than his skin by the sun. Each dread was abnormally fat, the thickness of three of his fingers, and they had blunt edges, as though they had recently been cut. Even freshly cut, they hung to below his shoulder blades, and he tied them back with a scrap of fluttery red cloth. What was truly interesting about his hair, though, was the amount of feathers that were tied into it. Most feathers were brown, black, or white, but there were also some vibrant parrot feathers in there, they were tied into his dreads, along with some beads and other jangley bits and bobs. Tied back like that, it gave the impression of a molting bird with its crest feathers down.
His attire was also odd, being that he wore simple loose black leggings with an egyptian-style covering. It was a large red piece of fabric, wrapped behind him and then tied in a drape in front in two narrow flaps that hung past his knees. His boots, instead of being pirate in nature, were instead more like Samurai shoes without the split toe, and their fabric wrapped in a textured way midway up his calves. The pants were tucked into these, and his shirt was tucked into his pants, beneath the sarong. His unusual dress gave him almost a kind of elegance, especially when worn by someone with such an intelligent, high-cheekboned face."
If the man was driven by any of these psychological factors (and who isn't) he was unaware of it. Unusual looking as the ship he boarded, if not more so, he strode up the plank while he looked around for the Boatswain. He had heard that they were recruiting at the tavern, and set off right away. Due to a...disagreement...with his previous captain, he had chosen to stay at this port when he last docked. A couple of weeks of companionship and lounging in the pub was enough to drive him mad with boredom. He had stopped praying, and let himself get drunker and drunker, a difficult feat for such a burly man. Not pushing himself physically was beginning to drive him insane. He just let his cells soak up more and more alcohol, having to be tossed out of the taverns at night sometimes. He'd squandered all his gold and gotten his meager belongings stolen. He'd started some fights that he couldn't finish, and had far overstayed his welcome. At the pub last night, he heard the men talking about that new "crap hole" of a ship, as they had called it, and the freak of nature who captained it. He'd gone out at night to look at it, and as he stared at it the moonlight, two thoughts came to his mind, both of them wry. The first was, "I know how you feel," and the second was, "That looks like a ship I'll die on." That had decided it. Willing himself back into sobriety with the force of self-control that was so characteristic of who he was, he'd eaten, submerged himself in the cold ocean, and spent the night hydrating and sleeping when he could. Sleep never came easily to him. It hadn't for so long.
When he found the man with the manifest, he stopped in front of the man he towered over. "Koledy Hunt, reportin' for duty. What posts're still open?" the Boatswain looked at him through a scared face so beaten up, it looked like the facial features had been rearranged by a child. Maybe that's where Koledy recognized him from... "Uh, nothin'. Cap'n filled the good slots first come first serve. We'll take as many able-bodied sailors's we can, though. Still need a swabbie an' a rigger, but..." the Boatswain gave him another timid stare. "We're not goin' ta' make ye do that."
Koledy nodded. "Young men are best for those jobs, 'n you and me are old aboard a ship," the man agreed, hoping to ease the Boatswain's distrust of him. It was true that pirates lived short, danger-riddled lives. They were aged prematurely on the rough seas by conditions, warfare, and illness. Of course, avarice and hatred did not do much for a person's soul, either. "Where be the captain?"
"She stays mostly tah 'er cabin. Said she'll come out once we 'r ready to sail." The Boatswain leaned in. "Mind yer step 'round her, mate. There be dragons in these waters." The man found it hard not to feel contemptuous of someone who would say that about a woman and a captain. Everyone knew perfectly well not to step on the toes of a captain, and didn't need to be reminded. Shouldn't need to be reminded, no matter the gender. Contradictorily, he thought the Boatswain weak to fear a woman. With a simple nod, he moved off, staying topside, but examining the ship.
Though Koledy spoke of himself as old, and in years he was definitely past his prime to be a pirate and not a captain, he did not look it. At early thirties, he had been preserved rather well considering his lifestyle as a pirate. The secret to this was that he hadn't been at it for long. Not something he advertised. Though a few years was plenty respectable for one such as he, his previous profession was not, and would make him seem weak in his fellow outlaw's eyes. Dark chocolate brown skin gave him some level of protection from the sun, so he had not weathered so fast as the burnt-to-a-crisp palefaces. He had a frame that was naturally big, but not naturally muscled. His torso, while utterly devoid of flabbiness, looked almost shrunken in comparison with his powerfully built arms. They were long, with big, calloused hands, and though a cream poet's shirt hid most of this, his sleeves were rolled back to halfway up his impressive forearms. His physique was a practicality, not the result of intention. He did a lot of heavy lifting aboard ships, being one of the biggest, and the more muscular he got, the more people expected him to move crap for them all the time. Vicious cycle. It was actually pretty annoying.
He was tall, and his padded hairstyle made him seem quite a bit taller. The black English-African had a head full of thick brown dreads, bleached a few shades lighter than his skin by the sun. Each dread was abnormally fat, the thickness of three of his fingers, and they had blunt edges, as though they had recently been cut. Even freshly cut, they hung to below his shoulder blades, and he tied them back with a scrap of fluttery red cloth. What was truly interesting about his hair, though, was the amount of feathers that were tied into it. Most feathers were brown, black, or white, but there were also some vibrant parrot feathers in there, they were tied into his dreads, along with some beads and other jangley bits and bobs. Tied back like that, it gave the impression of a molting bird with its crest feathers down.
His attire was also odd, being that he wore simple loose black leggings with an egyptian-style covering. It was a large red piece of fabric, wrapped behind him and then tied in a drape in front in two narrow flaps that hung past his knees. His boots, instead of being pirate in nature, were instead more like Samurai shoes without the split toe, and their fabric wrapped in a textured way midway up his calves. The pants were tucked into these, and his shirt was tucked into his pants, beneath the sarong. His unusual dress gave him almost a kind of elegance, especially when worn by someone with such an intelligent, high-cheekboned face."
Julius was aglow with this praise, quivering like an excited puppy about to wet himself. "Oh yes, he's very obedient. Docile as a lamb when he's not in the ring. Quite gentle with the ladies, so they say. He's done a lot of sparring in the outer lands, bit of a sand flea if you know what I mean. I thought he had promise, so I snapped him up, but of course his fighting needs to become more stylized. He needs to draw it out more. I'll tell my head trainer you said so. Until later, Lucius, Valeria," and he finally slipped away, bowing deferentially.
The gladiators had walked out of the arena, and slaves had run out to rake over the sands, covering up the small patch of blood, and neatening out the footprints. The crowd was abuzz as they discussed the fight and the new warrior, whom the women were already quite taken with. Some of the men complained that he wasn't brutal enough, but like Lucius, they thought he might have promise.
By the time the next gladiators came out, everyone was ready to watch again. There were several more pairs of fighters before the day's events were over, but few were as exciting as the first. None of the men were so handsome, nor so agile. It did become more bloody, one man getting pierced under the rib, and another having his death called for by the crowd. The sand absorbed his blood greedily, but it could not be raked away when the slaves came out afterwards.
When all was said and done, Julius' older slaves were loaded into a carriage completely enclosed in bars. The gladiators inside of it were not shackled, and they sat on benches beside each other and nursed their wounds. His brown horses pranced impatiently as the crowds swelled around them, leaving the arena en masse, but the driver held them steady. Julius' newest gladiator stood outside of the carriage, his wrists shackled so that the passerbys would feel safe. Most of the traffic were merely gladiators and their owners, however.
Up close, the gladiator looked quite different than he had from far away. He was far more muscular than he had appeared beside that rhinoceros of a man. He was taller than Julius, his owner, by several heads. His armor had been removed, revealing patches of skin that were slightly less dirty. His entire body was grimy and slick, and covered with fine, curly brown hair. He was virile and dirty and the perfect specimen of a man, as opposed to the overly-groomed and perfumed roman models of manhood.
The planes of his face were sharp and rugged. A short amount of stubble coated it. His full lips were chapped and cracked, though they somehow managed to still look soft, beneath his harsh noise, which was ever-so-slightly crooked from being broken. One long scar trailed from the top of his right cheek to below the corner of his mouth, looking more like a crease in his weathered skin than an injury. The scars on the rest of him were not always so inconspicuous, and they were numerous. He wore nothing but a cheap pair of sandals, not what a Roman would wear outside, and the dark brown burlap loin cloth, wrapped snugly around his muscular thighs. His belly button showed over top of it, coated in more of a concentration of hair. His ears were perfect, unmarred, and his straight brown hair, short though it was, managed to catch a breeze and become ruffled.
"Here he is!" Julius cried as they approached. "The gladiator who is going to make me rich!" The slave, with his graceful anatomy, did not bother to lift his eyes to his betters, keeping his gaze instead on the ground before his feet. That was until he saw the ruffling edge of Valeria's skirt, the wind conforming it to her shapely legs. He looked up, eyes trailing her from from foot to head as he did so. His expression did not change, it was blank, and passive, and just a little bit 'don't screw with me' under all that stoicism. Once his eyes reached hers, they did not wander back down to admire her pleasing figure. Instead, they remained locked on her face, his own showing no intensity. No, his face was relaxed, save for that tightness around his mouth which made it seem like he'd like to sucker punch Julius, who kept slapping at his elbow to get him to do or say this or that.
Yet his eyes...his eyes were a burning aquamarine, shocking as they peered out of his bronze skin and beneath darker eyebrows. Anything that they looked at could not help but to feel pinned into place, scorched with greenish-blue fire, the very hottest temperature of flame. Perhaps that was why he did not bother gracing many things with his unbroken gaze. This woman, he did.
Julius' voice droned on, cajoling his slave to "flex for them, say hello in your native tongue - no, say 'I'll cut off his head' or..." but no one really cared, and even Julius himself did not expect the gladiator to act on his every whim. If the slave attempted it, he would only be interrupting the profusions of his master, so his lips remained firmly shut, his eyes unblinking, only barely moving his body when Julius would give him an unwelcome poke to his bruised ribs.
The gladiators had walked out of the arena, and slaves had run out to rake over the sands, covering up the small patch of blood, and neatening out the footprints. The crowd was abuzz as they discussed the fight and the new warrior, whom the women were already quite taken with. Some of the men complained that he wasn't brutal enough, but like Lucius, they thought he might have promise.
By the time the next gladiators came out, everyone was ready to watch again. There were several more pairs of fighters before the day's events were over, but few were as exciting as the first. None of the men were so handsome, nor so agile. It did become more bloody, one man getting pierced under the rib, and another having his death called for by the crowd. The sand absorbed his blood greedily, but it could not be raked away when the slaves came out afterwards.
When all was said and done, Julius' older slaves were loaded into a carriage completely enclosed in bars. The gladiators inside of it were not shackled, and they sat on benches beside each other and nursed their wounds. His brown horses pranced impatiently as the crowds swelled around them, leaving the arena en masse, but the driver held them steady. Julius' newest gladiator stood outside of the carriage, his wrists shackled so that the passerbys would feel safe. Most of the traffic were merely gladiators and their owners, however.
Up close, the gladiator looked quite different than he had from far away. He was far more muscular than he had appeared beside that rhinoceros of a man. He was taller than Julius, his owner, by several heads. His armor had been removed, revealing patches of skin that were slightly less dirty. His entire body was grimy and slick, and covered with fine, curly brown hair. He was virile and dirty and the perfect specimen of a man, as opposed to the overly-groomed and perfumed roman models of manhood.
The planes of his face were sharp and rugged. A short amount of stubble coated it. His full lips were chapped and cracked, though they somehow managed to still look soft, beneath his harsh noise, which was ever-so-slightly crooked from being broken. One long scar trailed from the top of his right cheek to below the corner of his mouth, looking more like a crease in his weathered skin than an injury. The scars on the rest of him were not always so inconspicuous, and they were numerous. He wore nothing but a cheap pair of sandals, not what a Roman would wear outside, and the dark brown burlap loin cloth, wrapped snugly around his muscular thighs. His belly button showed over top of it, coated in more of a concentration of hair. His ears were perfect, unmarred, and his straight brown hair, short though it was, managed to catch a breeze and become ruffled.
"Here he is!" Julius cried as they approached. "The gladiator who is going to make me rich!" The slave, with his graceful anatomy, did not bother to lift his eyes to his betters, keeping his gaze instead on the ground before his feet. That was until he saw the ruffling edge of Valeria's skirt, the wind conforming it to her shapely legs. He looked up, eyes trailing her from from foot to head as he did so. His expression did not change, it was blank, and passive, and just a little bit 'don't screw with me' under all that stoicism. Once his eyes reached hers, they did not wander back down to admire her pleasing figure. Instead, they remained locked on her face, his own showing no intensity. No, his face was relaxed, save for that tightness around his mouth which made it seem like he'd like to sucker punch Julius, who kept slapping at his elbow to get him to do or say this or that.
Yet his eyes...his eyes were a burning aquamarine, shocking as they peered out of his bronze skin and beneath darker eyebrows. Anything that they looked at could not help but to feel pinned into place, scorched with greenish-blue fire, the very hottest temperature of flame. Perhaps that was why he did not bother gracing many things with his unbroken gaze. This woman, he did.
Julius' voice droned on, cajoling his slave to "flex for them, say hello in your native tongue - no, say 'I'll cut off his head' or..." but no one really cared, and even Julius himself did not expect the gladiator to act on his every whim. If the slave attempted it, he would only be interrupting the profusions of his master, so his lips remained firmly shut, his eyes unblinking, only barely moving his body when Julius would give him an unwelcome poke to his bruised ribs.
Unaware of everything save for the dreamy memories flitting briefly through his mind, even that soon began to fade, and though life returned to him, the vignettes of his life did not. Consciousness was still a long ways off, but for now, everything was black to him. When memory did return to him, it was different than when his life had 'flashed before his eyes.' Though he gave no external sign of it, consciousness was beginning to creep over him, like the fingers of dawn.
It started with the sacred remembrance of a mermaid's song. It was an eery sound, but so beautiful, one would go towards it willingly, even if it were death. He did not know how long he drifted, cradled in the bosom of those sonar notes, but it was without beginning and without end. It connected with his soul, touched him in a timeless way. It was the nurturing murmur of his mother's voice when he was still in the womb. It was the lifegiving blood of amniotic fluid. It was the earth that would take him when he died, and return his mortal form to dust. It was the closest he had ever come to hearing god speak to him. It was an alien language, one which made no logical sense to his mind, but it felt to him like the native tongue of his spirit.
His memory warped the sound, gave it more vowels, carried it in undulating patterns which rose and fell, cacooned him and then drifted back. As he listened, his awareness very slowly widened until he could feel sand beneath his fingers, and a sore ache all over his body. There was a sharper throb on his frontal lobe, and a sticky wetness there that was different than the chill damp on the rest of him. And a weight...a painful pressure, so unpleasant after that surreal drifting, as reality returned to him. He could also hear the sounds of birds, of wind rustling palm leaves. Further away, the whisper of waves lapping a shore, and startlingly close, the occasional scratch of microscopic rocks scraping together as something on top of them moved. These sounds were different than the song he heard in his head. He heard these noises with his ears, which forced him to differentiate, and begin to realize that this incredible music was a figment of his imagination, a memory he had never had.
Breaths came stronger through his lungs, raising and lowering his chest. They now made an audible, steady sound. As the sun reached his face, he felt the warmth, but did not stir. The light shone richly on his tanned skin, making it look deeper, and more alive. Before he had resembled a waxy corpse. The nymph had kissed life back into him, but now, the sun reanimated him with a caress. Where his skin was thinner, the light reacted differently. Through his exposed earlobes, it shone red, casting tiny pink reflections on the sand beneath him. It highlighted the pulse which jerked through an artery in his neck. It formed narrow shadows behind each vein on the back of his hand, a valley behind each mountain, as though every inch of his skin was a miniature landscape. His eyelids looked nearly white underneath the already-strong sunlight, and his eyes beneath them showed faintly through like dark, circular shadows.
Then, they began to move. These veiled circles roved from side to side in twitchy patterns, and his dark, thick eyebrows furrowed as if loathe to be woken by the unrelenting light. The mystical sound of that voice had faded away to nothingness, the siren song had left him bereft. When he began to let go of it, he suddenly heard one last note, one resounding chime of that unearthly knell, which ended the memory for good, but stayed with him for a long time, resounding through his soul long after he had forgotten it.
With it, his nostrils flared as he suddenly drew in a breath through his nose instead of his parted lips, and then he coughed. Eyes still shut, body still limp against the ground, a couple of small coughs wracked him, making his torso jerk slightly. He turned his head, grimacing harder, and then slitted his eyes open. There was so much pain in his throat, from all the leftover salt, but the sunlight lancing into his head hurt him too. His head wound throbbed so much, it seemed like an atmospheric pressure which actually pulsated against him from above. His eyesight was blurry at first, offering him only a sense of light, and of cheerful colors of blue and green.
Needing to breathe more than he needed to see, Sterling lifted his head and tried to roll to the side, but did not make it very far before he swayed. He had never felt so nauseous, nor more in pain. It was incredibly disorienting. Nearly panting from the exertion of the motion, he winced against the light and slowly looked up, forcing his eyes to adjust to things that were less close than the grains of sand coating his wet sleeve.
That was when he finally glimpsed her. A woman so beautiful, his first response was to believe that he was dreaming. That notion only lasted a moment, as the pain was far too realistic and specific to be of the stuff of dreams. Yet she looked like a mirage, a figment of his imagination, transposed over this dreadfully real environment, the product of a nasty head injury. Her hair was white, with iridescent lights in it, almost as though each individual strand were see-through and refracted the sunlight into rainbows. They did not make hair that color. And what girl would actually wear her hair that long?
Her skin was so pale, as if it had never seen the sun, but here she was, sitting buck naked under the full blaze of it. Skin that white belonged to a redhead, and would have picked up UV rays faster than a pretty hitchhiker. Her skin almost hurt to look at, though his eyes were still overly sensitive to the light. Why, he wondered, was he hallucinating nude women? More importantly, why was he here? When he wondered this, his mind conjured up a brief, confusing image of a storm at night, black waters, and a rush of sound, but he had to grimace and shut his eyes to it. The memory was too chaotic and overwhelming right now.
All he could concern himself with was that very moment. It was already too much for him. Thankfully he also did not remain fixated on the woman, and missed her scales, and better still, her gills. Even what he could glimpse of her nakedness could not hold him now. Laying on his right side, leaning on that same forearm, he brought his free arm around slowly to press the heel of that hand - covered with sand and dirt - to his face, wiping it over his left eye and leaving a smear of sludge there. As he flexed that shoulder, he felt stabbing pains shooting down his spine. Dear lord, what had happened to him?
/Shipwreck./
The word came to him and reverberated through his mind. Shipwrecked how and with whom, he had no immediate recollection. Sitting up slowly and with a groan, he began to feel out his legs and arms, realizing with relief that nothing was broken. The vegetation wrapped and tangled around him was a hindrance, which he began to pull off with an irritation which gave him strength. His muscles protested against this use, and his head pounded with a vengeance, but he ignored it until he was mostly free, and then gingerly touched his head injury. Pulling his fingertips away, he saw sticky, fresh blood, and he frowned.
This human flesh wound reminded him of his mysterious companion (who, if still there, was likely not an imaginary person) and he looked over at her, choking out a raspy, "Are you alright?" His voice was not the velvety, deep concoction that it usually was. It sounded rusty with disuse and possibly too much nicotine, but this was not the case. His vocal chords felt like beef jerky: dried, salty, and inflexible.
He realized that the rest of him was in fine working order, however, as he looked at the woman. Half-dead and mostly drowned, he could still appreciate her exposed femininity. Apparently all that was necessary for him to be able to think sexually was a pulse. She appeared unhurt, in fact, she appeared downright /perfect./ Except for a bloodless cut on her ribcage, which did not look so good. His brows furrowed again in concern, but supposing her to be very self-conscious of her naked state (or if she was too disoriented to be, then he should be on her behalf) he said, "here," and began unbuttoning his flannel shirt. His fingers were stiff and clumsy, and it took him awhile to get all the buttons undone, and even longer to then peel it off of his torso (to which his body protested most adamantly, decrying abuse). The black v-neck tee shirt he wore beneath it was mostly unscathed, but wet and clung to him as his flannel shirt had done. He held out the proffered article of clothing, and did his best not to look upon her points of interest, being more of a gentleman than was usual for boys his age.
It started with the sacred remembrance of a mermaid's song. It was an eery sound, but so beautiful, one would go towards it willingly, even if it were death. He did not know how long he drifted, cradled in the bosom of those sonar notes, but it was without beginning and without end. It connected with his soul, touched him in a timeless way. It was the nurturing murmur of his mother's voice when he was still in the womb. It was the lifegiving blood of amniotic fluid. It was the earth that would take him when he died, and return his mortal form to dust. It was the closest he had ever come to hearing god speak to him. It was an alien language, one which made no logical sense to his mind, but it felt to him like the native tongue of his spirit.
His memory warped the sound, gave it more vowels, carried it in undulating patterns which rose and fell, cacooned him and then drifted back. As he listened, his awareness very slowly widened until he could feel sand beneath his fingers, and a sore ache all over his body. There was a sharper throb on his frontal lobe, and a sticky wetness there that was different than the chill damp on the rest of him. And a weight...a painful pressure, so unpleasant after that surreal drifting, as reality returned to him. He could also hear the sounds of birds, of wind rustling palm leaves. Further away, the whisper of waves lapping a shore, and startlingly close, the occasional scratch of microscopic rocks scraping together as something on top of them moved. These sounds were different than the song he heard in his head. He heard these noises with his ears, which forced him to differentiate, and begin to realize that this incredible music was a figment of his imagination, a memory he had never had.
Breaths came stronger through his lungs, raising and lowering his chest. They now made an audible, steady sound. As the sun reached his face, he felt the warmth, but did not stir. The light shone richly on his tanned skin, making it look deeper, and more alive. Before he had resembled a waxy corpse. The nymph had kissed life back into him, but now, the sun reanimated him with a caress. Where his skin was thinner, the light reacted differently. Through his exposed earlobes, it shone red, casting tiny pink reflections on the sand beneath him. It highlighted the pulse which jerked through an artery in his neck. It formed narrow shadows behind each vein on the back of his hand, a valley behind each mountain, as though every inch of his skin was a miniature landscape. His eyelids looked nearly white underneath the already-strong sunlight, and his eyes beneath them showed faintly through like dark, circular shadows.
Then, they began to move. These veiled circles roved from side to side in twitchy patterns, and his dark, thick eyebrows furrowed as if loathe to be woken by the unrelenting light. The mystical sound of that voice had faded away to nothingness, the siren song had left him bereft. When he began to let go of it, he suddenly heard one last note, one resounding chime of that unearthly knell, which ended the memory for good, but stayed with him for a long time, resounding through his soul long after he had forgotten it.
With it, his nostrils flared as he suddenly drew in a breath through his nose instead of his parted lips, and then he coughed. Eyes still shut, body still limp against the ground, a couple of small coughs wracked him, making his torso jerk slightly. He turned his head, grimacing harder, and then slitted his eyes open. There was so much pain in his throat, from all the leftover salt, but the sunlight lancing into his head hurt him too. His head wound throbbed so much, it seemed like an atmospheric pressure which actually pulsated against him from above. His eyesight was blurry at first, offering him only a sense of light, and of cheerful colors of blue and green.
Needing to breathe more than he needed to see, Sterling lifted his head and tried to roll to the side, but did not make it very far before he swayed. He had never felt so nauseous, nor more in pain. It was incredibly disorienting. Nearly panting from the exertion of the motion, he winced against the light and slowly looked up, forcing his eyes to adjust to things that were less close than the grains of sand coating his wet sleeve.
That was when he finally glimpsed her. A woman so beautiful, his first response was to believe that he was dreaming. That notion only lasted a moment, as the pain was far too realistic and specific to be of the stuff of dreams. Yet she looked like a mirage, a figment of his imagination, transposed over this dreadfully real environment, the product of a nasty head injury. Her hair was white, with iridescent lights in it, almost as though each individual strand were see-through and refracted the sunlight into rainbows. They did not make hair that color. And what girl would actually wear her hair that long?
Her skin was so pale, as if it had never seen the sun, but here she was, sitting buck naked under the full blaze of it. Skin that white belonged to a redhead, and would have picked up UV rays faster than a pretty hitchhiker. Her skin almost hurt to look at, though his eyes were still overly sensitive to the light. Why, he wondered, was he hallucinating nude women? More importantly, why was he here? When he wondered this, his mind conjured up a brief, confusing image of a storm at night, black waters, and a rush of sound, but he had to grimace and shut his eyes to it. The memory was too chaotic and overwhelming right now.
All he could concern himself with was that very moment. It was already too much for him. Thankfully he also did not remain fixated on the woman, and missed her scales, and better still, her gills. Even what he could glimpse of her nakedness could not hold him now. Laying on his right side, leaning on that same forearm, he brought his free arm around slowly to press the heel of that hand - covered with sand and dirt - to his face, wiping it over his left eye and leaving a smear of sludge there. As he flexed that shoulder, he felt stabbing pains shooting down his spine. Dear lord, what had happened to him?
/Shipwreck./
The word came to him and reverberated through his mind. Shipwrecked how and with whom, he had no immediate recollection. Sitting up slowly and with a groan, he began to feel out his legs and arms, realizing with relief that nothing was broken. The vegetation wrapped and tangled around him was a hindrance, which he began to pull off with an irritation which gave him strength. His muscles protested against this use, and his head pounded with a vengeance, but he ignored it until he was mostly free, and then gingerly touched his head injury. Pulling his fingertips away, he saw sticky, fresh blood, and he frowned.
This human flesh wound reminded him of his mysterious companion (who, if still there, was likely not an imaginary person) and he looked over at her, choking out a raspy, "Are you alright?" His voice was not the velvety, deep concoction that it usually was. It sounded rusty with disuse and possibly too much nicotine, but this was not the case. His vocal chords felt like beef jerky: dried, salty, and inflexible.
He realized that the rest of him was in fine working order, however, as he looked at the woman. Half-dead and mostly drowned, he could still appreciate her exposed femininity. Apparently all that was necessary for him to be able to think sexually was a pulse. She appeared unhurt, in fact, she appeared downright /perfect./ Except for a bloodless cut on her ribcage, which did not look so good. His brows furrowed again in concern, but supposing her to be very self-conscious of her naked state (or if she was too disoriented to be, then he should be on her behalf) he said, "here," and began unbuttoning his flannel shirt. His fingers were stiff and clumsy, and it took him awhile to get all the buttons undone, and even longer to then peel it off of his torso (to which his body protested most adamantly, decrying abuse). The black v-neck tee shirt he wore beneath it was mostly unscathed, but wet and clung to him as his flannel shirt had done. He held out the proffered article of clothing, and did his best not to look upon her points of interest, being more of a gentleman than was usual for boys his age.
"NO! No! Jonathan! Oh my god, oh my god," sobbed a woman at the end of the line. The one holding her jerked her hair roughly in an attempt to shut her up, and her protests were reduced to a sort of hyperventilating breathing-whimpering. Her mouth was contorted in horror, and her eyes were wide with terror. She was helpless, her long white throat exposed, her hands grasping the wrists of the one who held her as if to scalp her. It was not the sort of scene one could witness and ever be the same after. Neither for her, nor for them.
For her, these had been her friends. If she did not intimately know all the people in this line, then she at least knew them by acquaintance. Jonathan was a first-rate medical officer. He had asked her out a few times, and though she had turned him down, they remained friends in that sort of awkward way when one party has a crush on the other, and they both know it. Her best friend, Josie, had been in the communication room. Onboard were her bosses, her flings, her petty enemies. Onboard had been her life, and her future. To witness the slaughter of so many - to know there was nothing one could do while those around them died, and death crept ever closer to oneself...it was a nightmare from which a person could never fully awaken.
Yet to inflict this type of nightmare on another was almost a worser fate. To look into the dark eyes of this woman, to see her suffering and do nothing to stop it...that was a scar that would be left on any heart still beating. That obviously did not apply to Madam. The woman tried to watch her soulless enemy from the corner of her eye, as she could not move her rigidly-held head. She spared no glances for the cyborg, or any other personnel who were party to this firing line. Madam was the specter of death, and she kept her gaze upon her as best she could.
At any other time, this undone creature might have been a great beauty. She had large almond-shaped eyes, and a sheet of thick, dark brunette hair which had formerly been in a high, sleek ponytail, but had since become quite mussed, and reached the small of her back in tears and tangles. Smooth skin was blotchy and red with anxiety, and her expressive brown eyes were no more than pools of anguish, which far from being pleasant to look into, were like looking into the depths of a condemning hell.
She was clad in the uniform of her station. Thick, spongy white fabric of high-tech weave in a top and pants combo, edged in a touch of navy blue and silver. Brown combat boots were her own contribution, as well as sparkling diamond earring studs in each ear, one of which was splattered in blood not her own. Strapped to her hip was a white holster which had once housed a gun, but that had been either lost in the fight or forcibly removed by one of these lackeys.
"They don't know anything! Please, don't kill any more of them! They don't know the trade routes! That wasn't in their security clearance, please, /let them go,/" she begged, bravely and perhaps foolishly, her slender body thrashing slightly with her words, fingernails digging in perhaps subconsciously to the one who restrained her. Perhaps she should not have made her comrades so disposable, but disposable they were to their enemy, anyway. Regardless, she was turning the heat from them to herself, or at least intending to, by demanding Madam's attention.
Tears still tracked silently from her eyes over the man's gruesome death, rolling down her slick face and pooling on the fabric that covered her collar bones. Water resistant as it was, it was already becoming damp. Yet she forced herself to pull it together, for the good of the other six remaining survivors. One could see her struggle, a tiny caged bird fluttering and beating its wings against its prison in fright, while the tiger licks its lips before it. Still, she tried to put authority into her words, layering the panic.
"I - will try to help you, if I have guarantee of their safe return to GOV. I am familiar with the computers, I can save you hours in getting past the - in getting past the firewalls. These are /civilian workers,/ /innocent lives,/" she continued to plead.
"Lucy, no," an older woman one person over whispered. If this 'Lucy' swore to stay and help, there was no way the young woman would live. Moreover, to betray GOV to this band of thugs? To save their lives? Even if some of them were nonmilitary personnel, they all had taken an oath to GOV. Their lives were in service to the greater good. Lucy knew that, they all did. It didn't mean they didn't want to live, or would not have guiltily accepted her sacrifice.
Lucy's eyes tightened in heroic defiance. It was only six lives, after hundreds had been lost today. She would not give up defending her allegiance nor the people who served it, until she drew her last breath.
For her, these had been her friends. If she did not intimately know all the people in this line, then she at least knew them by acquaintance. Jonathan was a first-rate medical officer. He had asked her out a few times, and though she had turned him down, they remained friends in that sort of awkward way when one party has a crush on the other, and they both know it. Her best friend, Josie, had been in the communication room. Onboard were her bosses, her flings, her petty enemies. Onboard had been her life, and her future. To witness the slaughter of so many - to know there was nothing one could do while those around them died, and death crept ever closer to oneself...it was a nightmare from which a person could never fully awaken.
Yet to inflict this type of nightmare on another was almost a worser fate. To look into the dark eyes of this woman, to see her suffering and do nothing to stop it...that was a scar that would be left on any heart still beating. That obviously did not apply to Madam. The woman tried to watch her soulless enemy from the corner of her eye, as she could not move her rigidly-held head. She spared no glances for the cyborg, or any other personnel who were party to this firing line. Madam was the specter of death, and she kept her gaze upon her as best she could.
At any other time, this undone creature might have been a great beauty. She had large almond-shaped eyes, and a sheet of thick, dark brunette hair which had formerly been in a high, sleek ponytail, but had since become quite mussed, and reached the small of her back in tears and tangles. Smooth skin was blotchy and red with anxiety, and her expressive brown eyes were no more than pools of anguish, which far from being pleasant to look into, were like looking into the depths of a condemning hell.
She was clad in the uniform of her station. Thick, spongy white fabric of high-tech weave in a top and pants combo, edged in a touch of navy blue and silver. Brown combat boots were her own contribution, as well as sparkling diamond earring studs in each ear, one of which was splattered in blood not her own. Strapped to her hip was a white holster which had once housed a gun, but that had been either lost in the fight or forcibly removed by one of these lackeys.
"They don't know anything! Please, don't kill any more of them! They don't know the trade routes! That wasn't in their security clearance, please, /let them go,/" she begged, bravely and perhaps foolishly, her slender body thrashing slightly with her words, fingernails digging in perhaps subconsciously to the one who restrained her. Perhaps she should not have made her comrades so disposable, but disposable they were to their enemy, anyway. Regardless, she was turning the heat from them to herself, or at least intending to, by demanding Madam's attention.
Tears still tracked silently from her eyes over the man's gruesome death, rolling down her slick face and pooling on the fabric that covered her collar bones. Water resistant as it was, it was already becoming damp. Yet she forced herself to pull it together, for the good of the other six remaining survivors. One could see her struggle, a tiny caged bird fluttering and beating its wings against its prison in fright, while the tiger licks its lips before it. Still, she tried to put authority into her words, layering the panic.
"I - will try to help you, if I have guarantee of their safe return to GOV. I am familiar with the computers, I can save you hours in getting past the - in getting past the firewalls. These are /civilian workers,/ /innocent lives,/" she continued to plead.
"Lucy, no," an older woman one person over whispered. If this 'Lucy' swore to stay and help, there was no way the young woman would live. Moreover, to betray GOV to this band of thugs? To save their lives? Even if some of them were nonmilitary personnel, they all had taken an oath to GOV. Their lives were in service to the greater good. Lucy knew that, they all did. It didn't mean they didn't want to live, or would not have guiltily accepted her sacrifice.
Lucy's eyes tightened in heroic defiance. It was only six lives, after hundreds had been lost today. She would not give up defending her allegiance nor the people who served it, until she drew her last breath.
Intro for a fantasy roleplay which takes place roughly in the medieval/dark-ages in a village. Main character is a shape-shifting guardian of an enchanted forest. (OPEN):
A pearly mist lay like a blanket along the foliage-cushioned floor of the forest. Like most mornings there, although the temperature was warm, there was an overlaying chill which seemed to be directly correlated to the mist, like a freezing rain in the middle of a summer day. It was disconcerting, a cold that got into the bones and made one shiver, while the mist crept up your legs and drenched you to the heart. The forest creatures seemed to go about their regular business, apparently unaware of the air of unnatural creepiness that hung over the woods: an invisible veil. Birds sang to the morning, high in the branches, out of sight, in this snow white forest. Enchanted-like, no animals could be seen, although their pleasant noises could be heard. If a sign of an animal was glimpsed, it was short-lived. The pointy, sharp-eyed face of a young fox was caught by surprise beneath a bush, but only a second later, the tip of its fluffy tail was disappearing with a swish. A squirrel eating its breakfast in the nook of a branch froze and then vanished, scurrying around to the other side of the tree. It's nails on the water-darkened bark made noise of its retreat for longer than seemed normal, as though sound was amplified here. A trick of the mind, similar to what happened to the ears when one was afraid in the dark.
Waist-high ferns obscured the bases of evergreens with trunks so large, one would not be able to span them with their arms. Their rough textile skins were a dark reddish brown, and if fingers touched them, they would be springy, so full of water the chunks of bark were almost soft. They had, after all, been soaking in a heavy mist all night. Their crowns soared to the heavens, almost obscuring a morning sky still an expressionless light soot color. Spindly needle-coated branches were threaded with raindrops that slipped off when touched; explosions of isolated rainfall when an animal gave a start or a passer-by pushed through. Fat orbs of water sat on the wide fern leaves like mini fortune-telling glass balls, casting bewildering reflections of a 360 degree forest on their mirroring surface. When the slippery foliage was pushed through and then released, as the leaves slithered back together, hardly any drier from the encounter, they seemed to whisper menacingly "you will never get out, you will never get out, you will never ever get outtttt..."
Indeed there was a claustrophobia about this hushed, dreamy place. Then suddenly, with almost no warning, the intruder would get to a place where she could see into a clearing. The ferns dwindled to a more reasonable size, and the more narrow trees held back to skirt a small circular glade with short grass and tiny-petalled wildflowers. It would be what was in this clearing that would draw her up short. A large stag was grazing peacefully, but he was more unlike any other stag than this forest was unlike any other forest. His pelt was a touchable chinchilla-grey, lightening to silver where the light hit it. Eye-confusing gold highlights seemed to undulate over the muscular counters of the sleek coat. The ends of each shaft of his hair was hollow, allowing light to pass through it, creating an ever-shifting silver glitter like a Bengal cat's fur. This look was intensified by the droplets of water that coated him, glimmering like translucent diamonds. His dainty hooves were a murky brown, and the fur above them was wet, and parted, the only thing that made him appear real. He took a step so that his long neck could reach another bite of grass. The step took him through the path of a bunch of wildflowers, and the petals stuck to his damp ankles. His white teeth made a lush tearing sound, though his chewing was nearly silent.
He had long, sparse black eyelashes that lanced over half-closed eyes that did not bother to look up. This deer was not on his guard. There must not be many hunters that ventured this deep into his forest, or any people at all. The fur on his muzzle was cloud-white, as was the fluff on his chest, and the smooth contour of his underbelly. His tail gave a switch, revealing that flash of white, that flag of warning he didn't have the sense to put up yet. One large, soft ear flicked away a tiny bug, which must not have been satisfactory because he then shook his whole great head, droplets dancing from his six-point brown antlers. He was about to go back to grazing when he must have heard a noise, or caught a strange smell, for his velvety nose suddenly whipped up, and his large, gentle midnight blue eyes zeroed in on the intruder. His face was remarkably intelligent for a cervine, and it showed utter shock. Enough shock to freeze him there for only a moment, unless she started to advance on him.
Waist-high ferns obscured the bases of evergreens with trunks so large, one would not be able to span them with their arms. Their rough textile skins were a dark reddish brown, and if fingers touched them, they would be springy, so full of water the chunks of bark were almost soft. They had, after all, been soaking in a heavy mist all night. Their crowns soared to the heavens, almost obscuring a morning sky still an expressionless light soot color. Spindly needle-coated branches were threaded with raindrops that slipped off when touched; explosions of isolated rainfall when an animal gave a start or a passer-by pushed through. Fat orbs of water sat on the wide fern leaves like mini fortune-telling glass balls, casting bewildering reflections of a 360 degree forest on their mirroring surface. When the slippery foliage was pushed through and then released, as the leaves slithered back together, hardly any drier from the encounter, they seemed to whisper menacingly "you will never get out, you will never get out, you will never ever get outtttt..."
Indeed there was a claustrophobia about this hushed, dreamy place. Then suddenly, with almost no warning, the intruder would get to a place where she could see into a clearing. The ferns dwindled to a more reasonable size, and the more narrow trees held back to skirt a small circular glade with short grass and tiny-petalled wildflowers. It would be what was in this clearing that would draw her up short. A large stag was grazing peacefully, but he was more unlike any other stag than this forest was unlike any other forest. His pelt was a touchable chinchilla-grey, lightening to silver where the light hit it. Eye-confusing gold highlights seemed to undulate over the muscular counters of the sleek coat. The ends of each shaft of his hair was hollow, allowing light to pass through it, creating an ever-shifting silver glitter like a Bengal cat's fur. This look was intensified by the droplets of water that coated him, glimmering like translucent diamonds. His dainty hooves were a murky brown, and the fur above them was wet, and parted, the only thing that made him appear real. He took a step so that his long neck could reach another bite of grass. The step took him through the path of a bunch of wildflowers, and the petals stuck to his damp ankles. His white teeth made a lush tearing sound, though his chewing was nearly silent.
He had long, sparse black eyelashes that lanced over half-closed eyes that did not bother to look up. This deer was not on his guard. There must not be many hunters that ventured this deep into his forest, or any people at all. The fur on his muzzle was cloud-white, as was the fluff on his chest, and the smooth contour of his underbelly. His tail gave a switch, revealing that flash of white, that flag of warning he didn't have the sense to put up yet. One large, soft ear flicked away a tiny bug, which must not have been satisfactory because he then shook his whole great head, droplets dancing from his six-point brown antlers. He was about to go back to grazing when he must have heard a noise, or caught a strange smell, for his velvety nose suddenly whipped up, and his large, gentle midnight blue eyes zeroed in on the intruder. His face was remarkably intelligent for a cervine, and it showed utter shock. Enough shock to freeze him there for only a moment, unless she started to advance on him.
With a vast majority unable to aspire to the lifestyle of the wealthy in New City, the poor had to come up with their own means of entertainment, mimicking the stories and adventures played out in the highly advanced, virtual reality video games many of them enjoyed. Without the technology, they used people. The slumlords created and upkept arenas where players could spar under an alias. Despite its seedy nature, the rich sometimes ventured down into the dangerous areas of the city to watch the games, or even, rarely, to fight. In general, there was a surprising amount of fair play and equality when it came to these fights. Players were rarely severely injured, and no one "owned" them, although they usually had coaches and mentors who knew their secret identities. Winners won money and fame, though for most, it was merely what they did for fun, or rather - what they lived for. Those not athletic or brave enough to participate watched all the games they could, living vicariously through the thrills, and cheering on their favorite player. Though there were many famous fighters, there were also many smaller "cult favorites," with how many there were, and the smaller arenas that dotted the slums, where the poverty-stricken clustered, like mice to cheese. **Feel free to request this one, but you will basically have to be an insanely good writer for me to try this one with you, considering how vast, intricate, and action-packed it ought to be.**
I wanna roleplay
