Looking for more active discussion? Join our Discord at https://discord.gg/x2s7fY6
Best Of
Re: Meta Discussions - OOC Nonsense
I said this before, but let me say it again: if you're making burner discord accounts to harass people over a niche text-based game with zero stakes, it's time to log off and get some help. Go touch some grass, talk to another human being (who doesn't play Aetolia), do literally any thing else with your life. To say "this is the behavior of losers" really does an injustice to how cringe and pathetic this is.
Tetchta
10
Re: Meta Discussions - OOC Nonsense
For what it is worth since I like to name and shame, and would love to do so.tell me i'm not the only one who quickly reviewed all the avatars in their server
The Discord Avatar was a little chibi female character with dark hair, tan skin.
They claimed to be in a discord with this person, owned by a member of the Spirit tether (Which I have confirmed with people in that discord, that these conversations didn't take place)
Lin
7
Meta Discussions - OOC Nonsense
Hello Community,
Recently I experienced what I thought was an interesting, I suppose "rumor mill" conversation which took place, involving my character and some of my affiliations. Overall this conversation left a terribly bad taste in my mouth, but it also was the sort of conversation which could bring harm to others and their reputation, which I found even more foul.
By no means am I a stellar example of innocence, I have said things in the past that were harmful OOC, and I certainly regret many of them, but in returning to Aetolia, I also learned that making people feel bad in a game we are all trying to enjoy is not only counter-productive, but harmful to the community as a whole. Can we take things back we have said, no. Can we work hard to try and be better people and be supportive and kind in the community, absolutely.
When it comes to attacking someone for things on an OOC level, the metagaming and nonsense that this perpetuates is sometimes the most harmful, because it damages trust in the community and also drives a wedge between what is already a small community by creating a feedback loop of this person has said and did X thing, without the grounds of proof to substantiate this.
In this most recent interaction it deeply effected the roleplay of my character but also those around me, and when asking for proof of this information, I was not provided any, so I chalked it up to numerous things, be it rumors, emotions or otherwise in a dislike for a character or their history. This kind of meta-aggressive behavior should not happen. Full Stop.
I thankfully have people in the community I can confide in to receive an unbiased and fair consideration when these sorts of thing come to fruition, and while I might not be close to the subject of this aggression, being a small community as we are, I am able to discuss fairly with mature people who are and get to the bottom of things. I was pleased to know that the things said were not true, no proof was able to provided, and overall it was contributed to someone being petty or harmful. However, that does not take away the wounds of the accusations, and that is an important part of this.
The only thing I want this post to do by making it, is to be honest about this experience, and do something I have been doing since returning to the game. Think about how things you say OOC can be construed and be harmful to not only the roleplay of the character but to the players it effects. I know there are many I have said harmful things to in the past, but apologizing or anything of that sort will never change that those things were done, and I have worked on letting these people see things as they are now and base their feelings on those interactions. I hope that we can all do that and take that perspective with us, be mature, and try to be better today than we were yesterday.
Keep IC, IC and keep OOC, OOC.
Let's just have fun and be kind to our community, there is no sense allowing the bad to fester and harm things. Nipsy=Monster, me the player Middle aged man trying to not have a headache after work. Etc. I appreciate you all and have had a wonderful time interacting with new and old faces in a new capacity, I want to continue this and hope you do the same.
Lets not be butts.
Thanks.
Recently I experienced what I thought was an interesting, I suppose "rumor mill" conversation which took place, involving my character and some of my affiliations. Overall this conversation left a terribly bad taste in my mouth, but it also was the sort of conversation which could bring harm to others and their reputation, which I found even more foul.
By no means am I a stellar example of innocence, I have said things in the past that were harmful OOC, and I certainly regret many of them, but in returning to Aetolia, I also learned that making people feel bad in a game we are all trying to enjoy is not only counter-productive, but harmful to the community as a whole. Can we take things back we have said, no. Can we work hard to try and be better people and be supportive and kind in the community, absolutely.
When it comes to attacking someone for things on an OOC level, the metagaming and nonsense that this perpetuates is sometimes the most harmful, because it damages trust in the community and also drives a wedge between what is already a small community by creating a feedback loop of this person has said and did X thing, without the grounds of proof to substantiate this.
In this most recent interaction it deeply effected the roleplay of my character but also those around me, and when asking for proof of this information, I was not provided any, so I chalked it up to numerous things, be it rumors, emotions or otherwise in a dislike for a character or their history. This kind of meta-aggressive behavior should not happen. Full Stop.
I thankfully have people in the community I can confide in to receive an unbiased and fair consideration when these sorts of thing come to fruition, and while I might not be close to the subject of this aggression, being a small community as we are, I am able to discuss fairly with mature people who are and get to the bottom of things. I was pleased to know that the things said were not true, no proof was able to provided, and overall it was contributed to someone being petty or harmful. However, that does not take away the wounds of the accusations, and that is an important part of this.
The only thing I want this post to do by making it, is to be honest about this experience, and do something I have been doing since returning to the game. Think about how things you say OOC can be construed and be harmful to not only the roleplay of the character but to the players it effects. I know there are many I have said harmful things to in the past, but apologizing or anything of that sort will never change that those things were done, and I have worked on letting these people see things as they are now and base their feelings on those interactions. I hope that we can all do that and take that perspective with us, be mature, and try to be better today than we were yesterday.
Keep IC, IC and keep OOC, OOC.
Let's just have fun and be kind to our community, there is no sense allowing the bad to fester and harm things. Nipsy=Monster, me the player Middle aged man trying to not have a headache after work. Etc. I appreciate you all and have had a wonderful time interacting with new and old faces in a new capacity, I want to continue this and hope you do the same.
Lets not be butts.
Thanks.
Nipsy
8
Re: Drawings of Aetolia
What would you do if you ran into her in a dark woods?Have a very confused boner most likely.
by the irreplaceable Eleanor
Re: Drawings of Aetolia
What would you do if you ran into her in a dark woods?
by the irreplaceable Eleanor
by the irreplaceable Eleanor
Sibatti
7
Memories that Serve
Summary: A sentimental young woman presents her sacrifice to the Throne of Corruption
Participants: @Maeve , Reave, & Chakrasul (Surprised us!)
Note: Also want to thank @Elene for the initial idea! And the players who contributed to the memories.
--- The throne room -------------- 0:11:2 ---
This cavernous chamber opens wide with a high ceiling and circular walls, and a
dust-ridden atmosphere clinging low to the floor and close to the walls. The
walls are aged with cracked paint that must have once been a whitish hue but
greyed through time. Thick pillars of marble are scattered throughout the room
reaching from floor to ceiling. The floor has a dark red carpet thick with dust
extending from the throne to the doorway to the south. To the eastern edges of
the throne, a small wooden hatch can be seen - leading to some unknown place
below. Beyond the throne to the north is another doorway, standing ajar. On
either side of the doorway are two large stained windows, one depicting the
kingly figure of a man, the other depicting a woman as beautiful as the moon. A
large, black-marble altar rests here. Beautiful and repulsive, a tapestry of
Corruption's conquests hangs here. The Throne of Corruption stands here, its
obsidian magnificence a shadowed praise to the Dark Lady. A delicate, spiral-
etched athame has been cast aside here. A large book sits on a wrought iron
stand. There are 2 flame-shaped sigils here. A well of despair sits here,
offering the liquid within. Resting here is a pale rose letter streaked with
filaments of red, its form bulging with some item contained within. Creeping
crystalline vines cluster upon pillars, floor, and walls, every hue of green
reflecting prisms in those same shades. A magnificent statue of Chakrasul is
placed carefully within the room. A large mural is hung on display above the
southern doorway. Abandoned, a platinum chain with jade and onyx prayer beads
lies here, gathering dust. Laid out in an extravagant display, a feast of ninety-
nine hearts is here, displayed upon jade serving platters. An endless onyx
spiral creates a monument here. A jade sculpture of Corruption gazes outward at
its surroundings. A worn prayer mat woven in hues of jade occupies a space on
the ground. Spilling from a gilded frame, a lavish tapestry hangs here. A cherry
wood carousel statuette of duskywings turns idly in the breeze here.
Reave stands at the threshold of this cavernous chamber, seemingly struck by sudden hesitance. The seeping chill of her atmosphere far from a concern to her active mind. Tugging a fur-trimmed cloak with gilded adornments closer to her form with a fist, her grey eyes consider the steps one must traverse to the foot of the throne. In her peripheral, dust swirls and glimmers in the air, moving in a current around the dark environment. It felt much too big and daunting as she leaves her position and exchanges it for lively motion. Her time and energy spent closing the distance.
A cerise memory crackles across the surface of her mind: Gentling her hold upon the young woman's collar, then releasing it altogether, Redolence continues to murmur in her ear. "I understand that disguise is part of your armor - I know this well. However, ensure that you are doing everything you possibly can, and not shirking your own descent simply because it is -inconvenient-".
Heels clicking loudly along the frigid stone floor, Maeve strolls into the room, halting just to the right of you as if awaiting a cue. Her blue-gold eye roams over the familiarity of your pale side profile, then drops to take in your garments and the way in which you hesitate here on the threshold. Expression bereft of smile, for once, but as intense as you've perhaps ever seen it. She moves as you move, a step behind, trailing along behind like a glittering, malevolent shadow. Nothing is said.
Maeve's right eye gleams hungrily, shifting from gold-laced cerulean to an eerily glowing red. The cavern that is her left socket is suddenly lit from within, sparking briefly with echoes of ghostly green flame that slither through the tiny crystals housed there.
Dark red carpet masks the sound of Reave's movement as dust eddies around her boots. Breathing deeply and rallying herself, she continues forward until something catches her eye. Something shadowing her. The familiar click of heels and sway of fabrics. "Viyveti," Her murmurs spill forward, portraying an unusual reverence in the unfamiliar territory, "I almost did not sense you." Acknowledging Maeve with a slight incline of her head, her last statement follows in a louder, crystaline voice as if to conceal the uncertainty she feels.
A silvery memory levitates across the surface of her mind: Fishing out an obsidian, emerald-ribboned gift box and briefly examining the jade hues on the front, Havoc adds, "A way out of Despair is Might...you could be angry, sure, but I think...acceptance is also a different kind of Might. A reclamation of your own reins to transcend the issue, rather than confront it..."
Attention not on you, but upon Corruption's Throne now as you both move forward - you with the paced steps befitting the moment, Maeve to the casual, aggressive beat of tapered heels. Her dusk-laden purr breaks the silence just after your acknowledgement, and finally those lips curl briefly upward. "Temiyti." A solitary eye shifts back in your direction, studying you keenly with much unveiled interest as the Consanguine runs a slim hand along a length of jade and onyx prayer beads. "You look as though you walk to a guillotine."
The tension which lingers seems almost suffocating, creating a desire within Reave to dematerialize into phase. "I've never done this before," She directs towards Maeve with a cant of her tousled head, raven curls falling into her frame of vision, "If I am a touch serious, I assure you it is only because I wish to show my steps are steady and my intent is pure." Her words were short and concise as her gloved hand pats a delicate, spiral-etched athame secured in her weaponbelt, betraying the bevvy of nerves she was experiencing. After that, there was a lingering silence as her posture takes on an aloofness.
A silvery memory levitates across the surface of her mind: "Too much focus on a ghost..." A slightly sad flicker ripples across Havoc's mein, though perhaps toned just slightly more towards something sympathetic, before he murmurs quietly, "The past is the past, and the shades therein can often serve as weights that weigh us down, fill us with Despair at the loss. Fear at the possibility of it happening again. Sometimes even Avarice, for something to fill the wound in our psyche and help us forget about it."
Stepping around the many offerings littering the floor, Maeve nears a magnificent statue of Chakrasul, that admiring eye roving slowly up the effigy of the Goddess, fair. A murmur trickles from her mouth, "As you should." Strangely subdued, reverent, even, the Consanguine turns upon a heel, dust stirred by the sweep of a silken hem across the sea of red that sprawls over the seat of sovereignty. Glittering hungrily, the crystals of Corruption set within her left socket seem to react to something - be it a presence, latent energies in the atmosphere, or the poignancy of the moment. She then becomes still as the statue she stands near, countenance set in a patient expression whilst she waits.
A thought enters your mind:
[Whorls of jade bloom in your mind. Coiling. "You are endless", a voice
croons.].
Something flashes in Reave's grey eyes, much too quick to read. Though, for some reason, the response from Maeve left the young woman feeling cold. She sets her lips to a firm nothingness as the colours around her filter in a lifeless manner, the details becoming less clear, "The other week you asked about my intentions," She states slowly, gaze never leaving Maeve, "I do admit I have often failed in my sincerity as many of my actions stem from self preservation. However, I wish to prove to Her that She has all of my passion in my service to Her. I wish to show Her that I'll continue to descend and be pushed to my own limits," Her hand drifts to her heart, pressing firmly, "With this heart, I have coveted, indulged in my weaknesses, deferred my love, and enacted malice on those I hold dear." She gives Maeve a chime or two to absorb her words before continuing, "It has been broken and rebuilt many times over. And while I cannot offer Her it permanently, as I have an oath to not embrace undeath, I wish to give it to Her symbolically." Inhaling slowly, her doubt flees from her vision, "I beseech Her to accept this," A pause, "Regardless, my blood and my memories will spill here today."
An azurite memory sparkles across the surface of her mind: Vesper crosses her arms over her chest, tipping her chin back to stare at the ceiling as some of her anger dissipates, leaving behind a cooler sort of speculation. Her foot still bounces, the pensive cast to her face giving a thoughtful edge to the motion. "I think that.. you should always expect your bluffs to be called, and your offers to be taken at face value..."
A subtle shift, her head cocks to listen, and Maeve observes your wavering figure with an expression that has grown intense. Your admissions, confessions, come as no surprise to the woman, it seems, as she merely bears witness to their telling with the staidness of a priest within a confessional. That blue-gold eye follows the path of your hand as it drifts to your heart and presses firmly upon the chest beneath, then flicks back upward to rest upon your solemn grey eyes - the depth of emotion and sincerity found there apparently finding approval as she dips her chin in acknowledgement.
Pivoting as she moves, Reave walks towards the empty throne in a purposeful manner as exhilaration rises in the inevitability of death. Thud. Thud. Thud. Her heart was all she could sense in the somber atmosphere as anxiety causes her mind to fray at the edges. At some point she stops moving forward, instead sits down and crosses her legs beneath her. Her pale features appear ghostly beneath the dim light as she reaches for a Selunic weaponbelt and removes a delicate, spiral-etched athame from its confines. As she sits there in meditative silence, she turns the blade within her right hand. The edge was sharp and shiny, without the scratches and rust of an older make. Rarely used one could say. With her left hand, she grips a length of jade and onyx prayer beads, unfurling its length as her slender fingers march effortlessly downwards. She takes a moment to breathe in deeply and then out again as her eyes close and she sinks completely into the state she was pursuing.
A cerise memory crackles across the surface of her mind: Stepping away slowly, Redolence only has eyes for the young woman, the emerald in her left socket igniting with emerald fire as her right eye, half crimson, slowly fades back to its ordinary gold-traced blue. "You have to want it, Reave. None can -make- you go."
An azurite memory sparkles across the surface of her mind: "...then I don't think there's anything else I can say."
Her queer half gaze following your movements, your descent, Maeve tracks you with eye only - leaving you alone as you take the final necessary steps in this surrendering to Lady Chakrasul. She, like everything else in the room, fades into the shadows surrounding Corruption's Throne, becoming naught but a shade at the edge of perception.
Something deep within Reave's chest grows tight and continues to wind itself 'round and 'round, garroting until her breath escapes her. Her knuckles push white as she clenches a delicate, spiral-etched athame by its handle, "As this blade takes my sacrifice," Her tone was soft, but seemingly still reaching every corner of the cavernous throne room, "And these cherised memories which have defined me spill to the floor. May You know all I have done was in pursuit of You. May You know my adoration." As this promise leaves the young woman, her left hand falls from a length of jade and onyx prayer beads and conjoins with her right on a delicate, spiral-etched athame's handle while threat reflects itself on the sharpened edge. Raising it purposefully, She drives a delicate, spiral-etched athame through her heart in a forceful manner, plunging to the hilt while sharp lights of white explode into her vision and her surroundings burn away into a scream.
A jade memory strikes across the surface of her mind: "As if you won't be screaming, Love..."
Deciding to end your own existence, you concentrate on relaxing your musculature
permanently.
You have been slain by misadventure.
(I return from the mirror to find Chakrasul has taken the Throne)
--- The throne room -------------- 0:11:2 ---
A large, black-marble altar rests here. Beautiful and repulsive, a tapestry of
Corruption's conquests hangs here. The Throne of Corruption stands here, its
obsidian magnificence a shadowed praise to the Dark Lady. A delicate, spiral-
etched athame has been cast aside here. A large book sits on a wrought iron
stand. There are 2 flame-shaped sigils here. A well of despair sits here,
offering the liquid within. Resting here is a pale rose letter streaked with
filaments of red, its form bulging with some item contained within. Creeping
crystalline vines cluster upon pillars, floor, and walls, every hue of green
reflecting prisms in those same shades. A magnificent statue of Chakrasul is
placed carefully within the room. A large mural is hung on display above the
southern doorway. Abandoned, a platinum chain with jade and onyx prayer beads
lies here, gathering dust. Laid out in an extravagant display, a feast of ninety-
nine hearts is here, displayed upon jade serving platters. An endless onyx
spiral creates a monument here. A jade sculpture of Corruption gazes outward at
its surroundings. A worn prayer mat woven in hues of jade occupies a space on
the ground. Spilling from a gilded frame, a lavish tapestry hangs here. A cherry
wood carousel statuette of duskywings turns idly in the breeze here.
Maeve kneels gracefully before Chakrasul here, eyes downcast.
Duskywing butterflies flit lazily around the form of Chakrasul, Goddess of
Corruption as She sits imperiously on Her throne.
Slowly fading into view, Chakrasul sits imperiously upon Corruption's Throne, Her eyes intent upon Maeve as the smallest of smiles curves at Her lips.
You incline your head politely to Chakrasul.
After lifting her head from a reverent incline, Reave stands in attention of the throne and its occupant.
In a soft, throaty purr, Chakrasul utters to Maeve, "What I have heard so far agrees with that." She does not elaborate further, merely watching with a focus that is almost physically uncomfortable.
Reave drops her glance, aware of the conversation she had disrupted from her return from the mirror. She settles into a state of a spectator, clasping her hands in front of her as a length of jade and onyx prayer beads clatter together. She appears quite disheveled and exhausted as her dark curls frame her vision.
An uneasy sense of emotion hedges into your mind as the throaty whisper of Maeve imparts, "Oh no, darling Temiyti, our Lady has graced you with Her Presence after so sweet a sacrifice. You have the floor."
"Lady Chakrasul, I have offered my sacrifice to You. Whether or not You are pleased is the question, but it is not mine to ask or demand," Reave speaks to her surroundings, though her grey eyes do eventually lift themselves to gaze upon Chakrasul.
A savage gleam enters Maeve's eyes, lips curling up slightly in a fleetingly
malicious smile.
A pointed tongue emerging from her mouth, Maeve licks her lips, single eye flush
with red again as something beyond perception incites the Consanguine.
The smile playing upon Chakrasul's lips holds a definite suggestion of menace, of malice, though She remains motionless upon Corruption's Throne. Her silence is palpable, thickening the air about you, though after what might have been an eternity, She says simply, "I am pleased."
Crossing her fingers over each other, Reave almost began to believe there might be something wrong, but a smooth voice of acceptance encircles her, "And finally, if I may also be bold enough to ask, what did you think of my carousel?" She observes Chakrasul for a moment longer before her grey gaze drops to the miniature carousel spinning idly as if a current caught it. Her curiousity holding fast behind the halo of dark curls. It gave her some reprieve as she was not too eager to say much more in the presence of Chakrasul.
A dark hand lifting to stroke along a length of jade and onyx prayer beads, Maeve's mouth is beset with a queer half-smile that reveals a fang. Strolling to your side, she takes pause beside the small Syssin, free hand reaching out with avaricious fingers to play along a black curl. "She is pleased, but we must move ever downward, denza. Do not let your progress halt here, hm? Pleasure can so quickly turn to displeasure in the wake of idleness." A tug upon that curl. "I
trust you have already begun considering just which of Her Gifts you will drink with a greedy heart next?"
(LOOK CAROUSEL)
Standing taller than it is wide, this scaled down wooden sculpture depicts a
carousel. One spiraling ring of exquisitely detailed butterfly figurines is
housed within the hexagonal shelter structure. The canopy, core, and base source
themselves have been meticulously whittled from a single piece of polished
cherry wood, additional sections fashioning the figurines affixed to the core
rather than the base. Swathed with delicacy as well as realism, pale white
painted feminine arms extend outward and form the supporting members for six
duskywing butterflies. Tapered off at the elbow, each arm is elegantly poised in
a raised arc and positioned along a helical course rather than a level plane -
allowing for each butterfly to surmount themselves on the tip of the offered
forefinger. While soft in its creation, the detail of the arm is precisely
finished with expert attention paid to the carefully manicured fingernails and
lifelike lines mapped along the palm of the hands. Light grey pigments, followed
closely by darker greys that blend in a gradient into iridescent greens cover
the spread wings of the elaborately carved butterflies as they alight themselves
on their perch. Soaring above, the carousel's canopy unites the composition with
a meticulously painted landscape of dark vinery wrapped in pink and jade
blossoms. The centermost beam in the midpoint of the carousel has been carved
sturdy, but hollowed out at its core. The hollow core fits soundly upon a
larger, solid cherry wood base to allow the top fixture to be spun to display
the full effect of its every pristine detailing.
Standing to descend from Corruption's Throne, Chakrasul takes one deliberate step after another until She approaches a cherry wood carousel statuette of duskywings. Running a finger lightly across one butterfly, She gives you one brilliant, blinding smile, though the malice that emanates from Her remains as a crawling sensation upon flesh. She repeats simply, "I am pleased," in that same husky murmur as Her previous statement, and graces Maeve with the slightest nod of approval before She simply vanishes from where She had stood.
Expression mirroring that of her Lady's briefly, the Consanguine's eye hungrily laps up every inch of the Goddess as She approaches the carousel. There is an edge in the way she holds herself, her regal bearing faltering ever so slightly. When the Goddess simply vanishes, Maeve turns to you, reaching out to cup you cheek in a short-lived caress. "Well done, denza."
Participants: @Maeve , Reave, & Chakrasul (Surprised us!)
Note: Also want to thank @Elene for the initial idea! And the players who contributed to the memories.
--- The throne room -------------- 0:11:2 ---
This cavernous chamber opens wide with a high ceiling and circular walls, and a
dust-ridden atmosphere clinging low to the floor and close to the walls. The
walls are aged with cracked paint that must have once been a whitish hue but
greyed through time. Thick pillars of marble are scattered throughout the room
reaching from floor to ceiling. The floor has a dark red carpet thick with dust
extending from the throne to the doorway to the south. To the eastern edges of
the throne, a small wooden hatch can be seen - leading to some unknown place
below. Beyond the throne to the north is another doorway, standing ajar. On
either side of the doorway are two large stained windows, one depicting the
kingly figure of a man, the other depicting a woman as beautiful as the moon. A
large, black-marble altar rests here. Beautiful and repulsive, a tapestry of
Corruption's conquests hangs here. The Throne of Corruption stands here, its
obsidian magnificence a shadowed praise to the Dark Lady. A delicate, spiral-
etched athame has been cast aside here. A large book sits on a wrought iron
stand. There are 2 flame-shaped sigils here. A well of despair sits here,
offering the liquid within. Resting here is a pale rose letter streaked with
filaments of red, its form bulging with some item contained within. Creeping
crystalline vines cluster upon pillars, floor, and walls, every hue of green
reflecting prisms in those same shades. A magnificent statue of Chakrasul is
placed carefully within the room. A large mural is hung on display above the
southern doorway. Abandoned, a platinum chain with jade and onyx prayer beads
lies here, gathering dust. Laid out in an extravagant display, a feast of ninety-
nine hearts is here, displayed upon jade serving platters. An endless onyx
spiral creates a monument here. A jade sculpture of Corruption gazes outward at
its surroundings. A worn prayer mat woven in hues of jade occupies a space on
the ground. Spilling from a gilded frame, a lavish tapestry hangs here. A cherry
wood carousel statuette of duskywings turns idly in the breeze here.
Reave stands at the threshold of this cavernous chamber, seemingly struck by sudden hesitance. The seeping chill of her atmosphere far from a concern to her active mind. Tugging a fur-trimmed cloak with gilded adornments closer to her form with a fist, her grey eyes consider the steps one must traverse to the foot of the throne. In her peripheral, dust swirls and glimmers in the air, moving in a current around the dark environment. It felt much too big and daunting as she leaves her position and exchanges it for lively motion. Her time and energy spent closing the distance.
A cerise memory crackles across the surface of her mind: Gentling her hold upon the young woman's collar, then releasing it altogether, Redolence continues to murmur in her ear. "I understand that disguise is part of your armor - I know this well. However, ensure that you are doing everything you possibly can, and not shirking your own descent simply because it is -inconvenient-".
Heels clicking loudly along the frigid stone floor, Maeve strolls into the room, halting just to the right of you as if awaiting a cue. Her blue-gold eye roams over the familiarity of your pale side profile, then drops to take in your garments and the way in which you hesitate here on the threshold. Expression bereft of smile, for once, but as intense as you've perhaps ever seen it. She moves as you move, a step behind, trailing along behind like a glittering, malevolent shadow. Nothing is said.
Maeve's right eye gleams hungrily, shifting from gold-laced cerulean to an eerily glowing red. The cavern that is her left socket is suddenly lit from within, sparking briefly with echoes of ghostly green flame that slither through the tiny crystals housed there.
Dark red carpet masks the sound of Reave's movement as dust eddies around her boots. Breathing deeply and rallying herself, she continues forward until something catches her eye. Something shadowing her. The familiar click of heels and sway of fabrics. "Viyveti," Her murmurs spill forward, portraying an unusual reverence in the unfamiliar territory, "I almost did not sense you." Acknowledging Maeve with a slight incline of her head, her last statement follows in a louder, crystaline voice as if to conceal the uncertainty she feels.
A silvery memory levitates across the surface of her mind: Fishing out an obsidian, emerald-ribboned gift box and briefly examining the jade hues on the front, Havoc adds, "A way out of Despair is Might...you could be angry, sure, but I think...acceptance is also a different kind of Might. A reclamation of your own reins to transcend the issue, rather than confront it..."
Attention not on you, but upon Corruption's Throne now as you both move forward - you with the paced steps befitting the moment, Maeve to the casual, aggressive beat of tapered heels. Her dusk-laden purr breaks the silence just after your acknowledgement, and finally those lips curl briefly upward. "Temiyti." A solitary eye shifts back in your direction, studying you keenly with much unveiled interest as the Consanguine runs a slim hand along a length of jade and onyx prayer beads. "You look as though you walk to a guillotine."
The tension which lingers seems almost suffocating, creating a desire within Reave to dematerialize into phase. "I've never done this before," She directs towards Maeve with a cant of her tousled head, raven curls falling into her frame of vision, "If I am a touch serious, I assure you it is only because I wish to show my steps are steady and my intent is pure." Her words were short and concise as her gloved hand pats a delicate, spiral-etched athame secured in her weaponbelt, betraying the bevvy of nerves she was experiencing. After that, there was a lingering silence as her posture takes on an aloofness.
A silvery memory levitates across the surface of her mind: "Too much focus on a ghost..." A slightly sad flicker ripples across Havoc's mein, though perhaps toned just slightly more towards something sympathetic, before he murmurs quietly, "The past is the past, and the shades therein can often serve as weights that weigh us down, fill us with Despair at the loss. Fear at the possibility of it happening again. Sometimes even Avarice, for something to fill the wound in our psyche and help us forget about it."
Stepping around the many offerings littering the floor, Maeve nears a magnificent statue of Chakrasul, that admiring eye roving slowly up the effigy of the Goddess, fair. A murmur trickles from her mouth, "As you should." Strangely subdued, reverent, even, the Consanguine turns upon a heel, dust stirred by the sweep of a silken hem across the sea of red that sprawls over the seat of sovereignty. Glittering hungrily, the crystals of Corruption set within her left socket seem to react to something - be it a presence, latent energies in the atmosphere, or the poignancy of the moment. She then becomes still as the statue she stands near, countenance set in a patient expression whilst she waits.
A thought enters your mind:
[Whorls of jade bloom in your mind. Coiling. "You are endless", a voice
croons.].
Something flashes in Reave's grey eyes, much too quick to read. Though, for some reason, the response from Maeve left the young woman feeling cold. She sets her lips to a firm nothingness as the colours around her filter in a lifeless manner, the details becoming less clear, "The other week you asked about my intentions," She states slowly, gaze never leaving Maeve, "I do admit I have often failed in my sincerity as many of my actions stem from self preservation. However, I wish to prove to Her that She has all of my passion in my service to Her. I wish to show Her that I'll continue to descend and be pushed to my own limits," Her hand drifts to her heart, pressing firmly, "With this heart, I have coveted, indulged in my weaknesses, deferred my love, and enacted malice on those I hold dear." She gives Maeve a chime or two to absorb her words before continuing, "It has been broken and rebuilt many times over. And while I cannot offer Her it permanently, as I have an oath to not embrace undeath, I wish to give it to Her symbolically." Inhaling slowly, her doubt flees from her vision, "I beseech Her to accept this," A pause, "Regardless, my blood and my memories will spill here today."
An azurite memory sparkles across the surface of her mind: Vesper crosses her arms over her chest, tipping her chin back to stare at the ceiling as some of her anger dissipates, leaving behind a cooler sort of speculation. Her foot still bounces, the pensive cast to her face giving a thoughtful edge to the motion. "I think that.. you should always expect your bluffs to be called, and your offers to be taken at face value..."
A subtle shift, her head cocks to listen, and Maeve observes your wavering figure with an expression that has grown intense. Your admissions, confessions, come as no surprise to the woman, it seems, as she merely bears witness to their telling with the staidness of a priest within a confessional. That blue-gold eye follows the path of your hand as it drifts to your heart and presses firmly upon the chest beneath, then flicks back upward to rest upon your solemn grey eyes - the depth of emotion and sincerity found there apparently finding approval as she dips her chin in acknowledgement.
Pivoting as she moves, Reave walks towards the empty throne in a purposeful manner as exhilaration rises in the inevitability of death. Thud. Thud. Thud. Her heart was all she could sense in the somber atmosphere as anxiety causes her mind to fray at the edges. At some point she stops moving forward, instead sits down and crosses her legs beneath her. Her pale features appear ghostly beneath the dim light as she reaches for a Selunic weaponbelt and removes a delicate, spiral-etched athame from its confines. As she sits there in meditative silence, she turns the blade within her right hand. The edge was sharp and shiny, without the scratches and rust of an older make. Rarely used one could say. With her left hand, she grips a length of jade and onyx prayer beads, unfurling its length as her slender fingers march effortlessly downwards. She takes a moment to breathe in deeply and then out again as her eyes close and she sinks completely into the state she was pursuing.
A cerise memory crackles across the surface of her mind: Stepping away slowly, Redolence only has eyes for the young woman, the emerald in her left socket igniting with emerald fire as her right eye, half crimson, slowly fades back to its ordinary gold-traced blue. "You have to want it, Reave. None can -make- you go."
An azurite memory sparkles across the surface of her mind: "...then I don't think there's anything else I can say."
Her queer half gaze following your movements, your descent, Maeve tracks you with eye only - leaving you alone as you take the final necessary steps in this surrendering to Lady Chakrasul. She, like everything else in the room, fades into the shadows surrounding Corruption's Throne, becoming naught but a shade at the edge of perception.
Something deep within Reave's chest grows tight and continues to wind itself 'round and 'round, garroting until her breath escapes her. Her knuckles push white as she clenches a delicate, spiral-etched athame by its handle, "As this blade takes my sacrifice," Her tone was soft, but seemingly still reaching every corner of the cavernous throne room, "And these cherised memories which have defined me spill to the floor. May You know all I have done was in pursuit of You. May You know my adoration." As this promise leaves the young woman, her left hand falls from a length of jade and onyx prayer beads and conjoins with her right on a delicate, spiral-etched athame's handle while threat reflects itself on the sharpened edge. Raising it purposefully, She drives a delicate, spiral-etched athame through her heart in a forceful manner, plunging to the hilt while sharp lights of white explode into her vision and her surroundings burn away into a scream.
A jade memory strikes across the surface of her mind: "As if you won't be screaming, Love..."
Deciding to end your own existence, you concentrate on relaxing your musculature
permanently.
You have been slain by misadventure.
(I return from the mirror to find Chakrasul has taken the Throne)
--- The throne room -------------- 0:11:2 ---
A large, black-marble altar rests here. Beautiful and repulsive, a tapestry of
Corruption's conquests hangs here. The Throne of Corruption stands here, its
obsidian magnificence a shadowed praise to the Dark Lady. A delicate, spiral-
etched athame has been cast aside here. A large book sits on a wrought iron
stand. There are 2 flame-shaped sigils here. A well of despair sits here,
offering the liquid within. Resting here is a pale rose letter streaked with
filaments of red, its form bulging with some item contained within. Creeping
crystalline vines cluster upon pillars, floor, and walls, every hue of green
reflecting prisms in those same shades. A magnificent statue of Chakrasul is
placed carefully within the room. A large mural is hung on display above the
southern doorway. Abandoned, a platinum chain with jade and onyx prayer beads
lies here, gathering dust. Laid out in an extravagant display, a feast of ninety-
nine hearts is here, displayed upon jade serving platters. An endless onyx
spiral creates a monument here. A jade sculpture of Corruption gazes outward at
its surroundings. A worn prayer mat woven in hues of jade occupies a space on
the ground. Spilling from a gilded frame, a lavish tapestry hangs here. A cherry
wood carousel statuette of duskywings turns idly in the breeze here.
Maeve kneels gracefully before Chakrasul here, eyes downcast.
Duskywing butterflies flit lazily around the form of Chakrasul, Goddess of
Corruption as She sits imperiously on Her throne.
Slowly fading into view, Chakrasul sits imperiously upon Corruption's Throne, Her eyes intent upon Maeve as the smallest of smiles curves at Her lips.
You incline your head politely to Chakrasul.
After lifting her head from a reverent incline, Reave stands in attention of the throne and its occupant.
In a soft, throaty purr, Chakrasul utters to Maeve, "What I have heard so far agrees with that." She does not elaborate further, merely watching with a focus that is almost physically uncomfortable.
Reave drops her glance, aware of the conversation she had disrupted from her return from the mirror. She settles into a state of a spectator, clasping her hands in front of her as a length of jade and onyx prayer beads clatter together. She appears quite disheveled and exhausted as her dark curls frame her vision.
An uneasy sense of emotion hedges into your mind as the throaty whisper of Maeve imparts, "Oh no, darling Temiyti, our Lady has graced you with Her Presence after so sweet a sacrifice. You have the floor."
"Lady Chakrasul, I have offered my sacrifice to You. Whether or not You are pleased is the question, but it is not mine to ask or demand," Reave speaks to her surroundings, though her grey eyes do eventually lift themselves to gaze upon Chakrasul.
A savage gleam enters Maeve's eyes, lips curling up slightly in a fleetingly
malicious smile.
A pointed tongue emerging from her mouth, Maeve licks her lips, single eye flush
with red again as something beyond perception incites the Consanguine.
The smile playing upon Chakrasul's lips holds a definite suggestion of menace, of malice, though She remains motionless upon Corruption's Throne. Her silence is palpable, thickening the air about you, though after what might have been an eternity, She says simply, "I am pleased."
Crossing her fingers over each other, Reave almost began to believe there might be something wrong, but a smooth voice of acceptance encircles her, "And finally, if I may also be bold enough to ask, what did you think of my carousel?" She observes Chakrasul for a moment longer before her grey gaze drops to the miniature carousel spinning idly as if a current caught it. Her curiousity holding fast behind the halo of dark curls. It gave her some reprieve as she was not too eager to say much more in the presence of Chakrasul.
A dark hand lifting to stroke along a length of jade and onyx prayer beads, Maeve's mouth is beset with a queer half-smile that reveals a fang. Strolling to your side, she takes pause beside the small Syssin, free hand reaching out with avaricious fingers to play along a black curl. "She is pleased, but we must move ever downward, denza. Do not let your progress halt here, hm? Pleasure can so quickly turn to displeasure in the wake of idleness." A tug upon that curl. "I
trust you have already begun considering just which of Her Gifts you will drink with a greedy heart next?"
(LOOK CAROUSEL)
Standing taller than it is wide, this scaled down wooden sculpture depicts a
carousel. One spiraling ring of exquisitely detailed butterfly figurines is
housed within the hexagonal shelter structure. The canopy, core, and base source
themselves have been meticulously whittled from a single piece of polished
cherry wood, additional sections fashioning the figurines affixed to the core
rather than the base. Swathed with delicacy as well as realism, pale white
painted feminine arms extend outward and form the supporting members for six
duskywing butterflies. Tapered off at the elbow, each arm is elegantly poised in
a raised arc and positioned along a helical course rather than a level plane -
allowing for each butterfly to surmount themselves on the tip of the offered
forefinger. While soft in its creation, the detail of the arm is precisely
finished with expert attention paid to the carefully manicured fingernails and
lifelike lines mapped along the palm of the hands. Light grey pigments, followed
closely by darker greys that blend in a gradient into iridescent greens cover
the spread wings of the elaborately carved butterflies as they alight themselves
on their perch. Soaring above, the carousel's canopy unites the composition with
a meticulously painted landscape of dark vinery wrapped in pink and jade
blossoms. The centermost beam in the midpoint of the carousel has been carved
sturdy, but hollowed out at its core. The hollow core fits soundly upon a
larger, solid cherry wood base to allow the top fixture to be spun to display
the full effect of its every pristine detailing.
Standing to descend from Corruption's Throne, Chakrasul takes one deliberate step after another until She approaches a cherry wood carousel statuette of duskywings. Running a finger lightly across one butterfly, She gives you one brilliant, blinding smile, though the malice that emanates from Her remains as a crawling sensation upon flesh. She repeats simply, "I am pleased," in that same husky murmur as Her previous statement, and graces Maeve with the slightest nod of approval before She simply vanishes from where She had stood.
Expression mirroring that of her Lady's briefly, the Consanguine's eye hungrily laps up every inch of the Goddess as She approaches the carousel. There is an edge in the way she holds herself, her regal bearing faltering ever so slightly. When the Goddess simply vanishes, Maeve turns to you, reaching out to cup you cheek in a short-lived caress. "Well done, denza."
Reave
6
Sapience's Sphincter - A tale of friendship.
Please be warned that the content of this log is NSFW and has various adult themes and words. If you aren't comfortable with reading profanity or vulgarity - please do not partake!
This is just a little slice of life roleplay that I really enjoyed. Nothing fancy, just a lazy back and forth with two really, really strong writers. Hope you enjoy reading through it as much as I enjoyed being a part of it.
--- Bottomless pit ------------- 4:11:0 0 ---
The noonday sun shines down, tinged grey by its passage through the thick clouds above. Surrounded by dark grey sand is a large, ominous pit that descends deep into the earth. The loose sands on the edge make for dangerous footing, but a few solid stones have been positioned along the sides. A few ragged plants jut out from the walls of the pit, growing down into the blackness that seems to have no end. The foaming ocean sweeps over the shoreline, cascading into the pit during high tide. A chromatic column commands the area, chaotic candescence churning at its core. Ominiously silent, a red and white warhound stands here, teeth bared. Ominiously silent, a sandy warhound stands here, teeth bared. Ominiously silent, a red warhound stands here, teeth bared. Cayn subjects a flat stone
by the pit's edge to his weight, sat there smoking and blackness-gazing. He wields a lit faded,
pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end in his left hand.
Naos stoops to pick up a stone a few paces back from the edge of the pit, something small enough to fill the palm of his hand. With an underhanded toss he lobs it into the blackness and immediately cranes his neck to see, standing on tiptoe to watch its descent. He doesn't get -too- close to the edge though, he's not -that- stupid. "Second time I've found you here, Mudd. This where you come to cry?" Any excitement from the toss is gone, and his focus slides over to Cayn.
The icy skewer of Cayn's sole functional eye slices aside to find you as soon as the scuff of your boots across the sands is carried to the brute's ears. From his grounded ring-side seat at the arena of blackness, he leans forward a little too, but there's nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. The seashell-or-whatever that you just hucked in there is simply swallowed and disappeared. As the hairier of the pair settles back into his original languid position, smoking arm draped over a bent knee, he tosses back an easy, "While whacking off at the same time usually, yep." Ah yes, the old cry-and-jerk. Classic. He's not doing either right now though. In fact, he looks... Pretty chill. A rare thing.
Ruqayya arrives from the northwest.
She is a typical Mhun, easy to overlook with her diminutive stature. Reminiscent of the Mhojave dunes on a moonless night, her dark hair is just as arid and bundled up carelessly atop her scalp like a dusty cactus fruit. Her hairline is the border past which the sun touches, her complexion aglow with life in the russet shade of desert rock. Simple but proportionate is the landscape of this digger's face, the topography ranging from a scruffy ridge of brows to cavern-dark eyes, a humbly sloping nose to lips like a parched canyon, set neutrally enough that her face rests with a blank look. Just from looking at her, she gives off the impression of one who hasn't bathed in weeks.
(hanging from the shoulders) : a ruined black cloak
(student hazard) : a suit of academy splintmail
(bloodstained and battered) : a reinforced charcoal surcoat
(worn over the shoulder) : an antiquated pirate shoulder pack
(ripped through wandering) : a tattered dress
(barely holding together) : a pair of rugged folded down boots
Naos rolls his shoulders in a quick shrug, a very, 'it happens' kind of acknowledgement to Cayn's over-sharing. "You ain't gonna jump, is you?" Emory takes a few steps closer to the edge, still carrying himself like he has far too much to lose when it comes to the very dark, potentially very deep hole. "Can't think of any other reason you'd be playin' coy around Sapience's asshole." He finally reaches his own sturdy seeming rock along the rim of the pit and squats down onto the balls of his feet, trying to catch a further glimpse over the edge.
From a distance, a voice rings out like a rough shard being jabbed into the ears, growing louder as its source draws near, "... aaaand I don't haaave any more woooorms... worms, worms, woooorms..." Not -too- tonedeaf but definitely not pleasant. The form of Ruqayya arrives at a lethargic meander, only to halt abruptly as soon as she realizes that Cayn and you are, in fact, sentient. Lips sucked inward, she holds her head shamefully down and trudges closer to the pit herself, boots sinking into the sandy dirt. Neither of the two men are approached; she is here to do her own business, it seems.
Cayn see-saws out an indecisive 'ehh..' That in no way rules out the possibility. His shoulder makesa lazy half-shrug of its own, a blank space reserved for a more definite answer. "Only just got spat back out of it last week..." He muses almost to himself. Up comes the stick of
smouldering herbs for a harsh drag, filling his lungs. On the exhale, laced in smoke, he finishes, "We'll see, I guess." When that annoying shrill comes along, Mudd first looks directly upwards, ready to blame a passing gull. But no, it's Ruqayya, and he realizes that just as she comes into view. "...Can't go nowhere without some skirt chasing after you, huh, Emory?" He tsks, annoyed. Because clearly, the appearance of strange girls is your fault, always. A smoker's rattle clears his pipes before he calls across to Ruqayya, "...You gonna try to fill it up with piss, kid? Maybe we can tag-team it -- must be a whole sea of mine down there by now."
Naos' attention is drawn towards the sound of the strangled cat - or Ruqayya if you want to be technical - even as Cayn poses the facts of life to him in the form of a question. His eyebrows make an intrigued climb up his forehead at the mention of a tag-team, and the slight tilt of his head might even suggest that Emory considers something related to just that for a moment, though a quick shake seems to send the idea tumbling from his mind. "Don't blame me for this one, ain't seen the bitch in my life." He spits messily out through his teeth, vacating a thin stream of dark, inky liquid from his mouth as he looks Ruqayya up, then down. "Wouldn't kick her out of bed, though," he admits.
Ruqayya doesn't bother to pause her step at Cayn's crass invitation, a meager snort puffed out her nostrils. With the back of her hand, she swipes across the whole of her nose, face scrunched up like she were stifling a sneeze. Thank the gods, the sneeze doesn't go through. In a half-hearted mumble, she tells him, "Can't today. I left my cock at home so that nobody gets hit by me swinging it around." A flat look moves over you after his comment, following a blatant roll of her eyes and a mutter under her breath. She finds herself a spot away from the two men to squat on her ankles, skirt carefully wrapped about to keep herself decent. From here, she peers down into the darkness of the pit, tentatively taking a whiff to see if there truly -has- been progress turning it into a well of pee.
"I would," Cayn clips back to you without pausing to ogle Ruqayya or think about it. With a lift of his bristly chin, he sneers, "And I'd tell her and all my other tiny little grandkids to shut the
fuck up or else eat bardiche." There's a half-hearted attempt to send a scattering of ash down into the pit to float in the urine well, but the whole lot just plops straight onto the foul-mouthed old fucker's boot. He doesn't bother to shake it off. There's a grunt of something suspiciously close to amusement when Ruqayya explains the whereabouts of her detachable cock, and Mudd slyly side-eyes you as he suggests, "Maybe you oughta try that sometime." Menage a trois is supposed to be at home anyways, it's in the name! The brute shifts a bit, rearranging his legs so he can straighten one out and wriggle the pins-and-needles away, all while being nosy at Ruqayya some more. "Hey how old're you? Twelve-ish, right?"
'Grandkids?' Emory mouths, looking back to Cayn. "Cai been shittin' out little ones?" He blurts out. He looks.. A little dejected. "Don't get me wrong, she looked like she /fucked/, no doubt about, but I wouldn't have minded gettin' in there before shit got all turned inside out." Naos chucks another stone over the edge, obviously lamenting his unfortunate timing. He looks back to Ruqayya even as he's fumbling blindly for anymore stones that might be near to hand. "You a funny little gash, hey?"
Peering about where she's half-sat, Ruqayya makes a scrutinizing perusal of the dirt before she deems it to her satisfaction. Without further ado, a teeter backwards sends her behind plopping down nice and comfy on the cushion of sandy earth. "Nuh," she answers Cayn without looking his way. Her boots accidentally erode the edge of the pit as her legs straighten, tattered skirt just barely doing its job. Not like there's much to see there, anyway. She isn't a leggy sort. "I'm actually in my eighties but blame it on the magic of grub masks," she follows up all matter-of-factly at Cayn, pronounced with a healthy peppering of sarcasm. You receives a wry little 'hah' as she goes, "And you think -you- are. That's just.." Head shaking. "Marvelous." Something makes her shiver for a moment, her study interrupted by a hasty rub up and down her arms. She squints upwards as though to the wind.
Ruqayya just thought:
Ruqayya blames the weird noises on the wind. Because. That's what it usually is. Unless it's wailing spirits or grieving prisoners or whatever other lovely inhabitants Bloodloch has.
Where many fathers might take great umbrage about their belovid daughters being spoken of in such an undignified manner, Cayn... Doesn't give a shit. He just twiddles his cigarette and foists an uncaring, "Dunno," onto you where he's sat nearby. "But I didn't even know about Cai until she showed up in 'loch. So, who knows? I figure, amount of whoring I did, I've probably got at least thirty grandkids out there in the wide world." A liberal application of his glacial gaze weighs you up for a second before he decides, "And *you've* probably got at least a hundred." Whatever it is in the weather that sets Ruqayya ashiver gets him too, a light shudder that makes him shake his free arm out like a hind leg after doing the business he mentioned earlier: peeing. After that, he's content to just sit back and watch you and the girl sass one another while he finishes his cigarette. Just a merry trio of assholes crowded round Sapience's deep dark asshole. What a pretty picture.
Naos' been drawn back to the fascination of the hole at this point, his level of attention to the conversation plummeting as soon as mention of Cai leaves the picture. He shuffles another inch forward, then another, still crouched low on his toes, until he's balanced a half-step from the edge of his own stony lifeline. He spits again, this time managing to get some serious distance at the expense of some of the black spittle dribbling down his chin and neck. Not too fussed, he drags an already grimy sleeve across the offending bodily fluid, watching his inky expulsion fall slowly into nothingness.
Ruqayya is quite content to keep to herself as the limelight falls back to the least likely thing to ever be lit up: the assho-- ahem, the pit. As Cayn continues to duke it out on you and the latter puh-tooeys his responses back, she gets right back into her original purpose. Legs folding in, she scoots a little closer to the edge of the pit just before the soil starts to give way. No regard is given to any manicure she'd been sporting - and she'd been sporting none - as she digs her digits into the earth. Perhaps the most stereotypical thing for a Mhun to be doing anywhere, ever.
Well, who can blame anybody for tuning out when sour old bastards start talking about - bass drum -CONSEQUENCES. At least Cayn's prattle about his glory days doesn't last long. And neither did the glory days. C'est la vie, amirite? Since the entertainment just dried up with the two neighbouring smartmouths mutually shutting up, Mudd settles for watching you make some yuck happen in the form of spit. "Nice," he approves as that glob goes soaring. The stub of his cigarette chases after it, flicked off into the abyss. Anyone paying close enough attention would mark the way he's eying your shoulder, slithering all over the younger guy in unconscious calculation. So close at hand... How precarious a perch... It wouldn't take much... He shivers again and this time not from the breeze.
Then Cayn starts shoving up onto his boots with a sigh. There's the clinking of his belt buckle, some careless tugging at laces, and then tinkle-sprinkle. While the stream is strong, it actually does make it into the pit. The rest just ends up getting blown across his left shin by the coastal winds -- and in your direction, whoops. Oblivious, Mudd squints across at Ruqayya while he empties his bladder, but doesn't pipe up to ask wtf she's doing over there.
"Oh fuck the fuck off." Emory moves like quicksilver, or maybe just a man getting urinated on by another man, and comes surging to his feet. He plays the most dangerous game of hop-scotch he's ever played, hopping one sturdy looking stone away from Cayn, then another, finally moving out of range enough to avoid most, if not all, of the wind-borne stream. Naos' trusty sleeve comes to the rescue yet again as he roughly scrubs at his face with the back of an arm. The wetness, mixed with the dirt and grime he wears indifferently across his face, manages to make a faint, muddy streak across his features. "Prick," mutters under his breath. His glare of accusation isn't the only emotion he wears though, as it wars with a even mixture of curiosity, then appreciation, as he catches sight of Cayn's endowment. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.
"I'm leavin'," Naos finally decides. He doesn't sound too torn up about getting peed on. He's probably worn worse. He turns away from the pit, planning his route back towards solid, not-sandy ground.
Be it the sound of tinkling or the glitter of light through the yellow stream, something draws the Mhun's attention back up. We can all give thanks that they are not on opposite ends of the pit, for that would be such a scarring sight. Rather, Ruqayya catches the quarter angle view, and once again her dark eyes dull into a 'kill me now' sort of stare. Chapped lips press into a fine line before a very dead-inside smile at the urinating man and the plight he gives to his acquaintance. But unlike you, she does not check out his equipment. "I hear that's one word for it in the common tongue," she dourly quips after you calls it out. Prick. That is what it is. Still with an arm half-sunk into the soil, she looks it over like it had suddenly grown foul. Not knowing what to do with herself for a moment, she just grabs a handful of that dirt and smells it because gods forbid if Cayn might've sprinkled some on the topsoil, too.
Yes, unlike Ruqayya, Mudd didn't leave his cock at home today. This prick's prick resides within thecoarse wilderness of overgrown black hair downstairs, doing what it does, and shameless in it. "Mm?" Cayn prompts as he transfers his attention from Ruqayya to you to discover the source of his bitching. Oh. He coughs, like he just swallowed his cigarette instead of casting it away. But it was just a cough, of course, and that's not a smile underneath his beard. Once recovered enough, half in the act of stuffing his bits and pieces away again, he rasps out an in no way believably innocent, "Bye-bye, *Ser*..." And he slings a salute to your departing back. With his gloved hand. Not anything else. Promise. As for poor Ruqayya's patch of dirt, who's to say if it's been watered today or any other day? Mudd's urine may have been spread as far and wide as his seed, after all.
It takes Naos two stepping stones out from his previous perch before he's walking comfortably once more across the sand. "Later, Mudd." He doesn't look towards Cayn at all, he doesn't need to, he's already seen more than he's paid for. What a win. "Enjoy your cry and wank." For Ruqayya he tosses a grin, a jerk of his head, and a lazy, "Later dirt-girl." You know, because she's Mhun.
This is just a little slice of life roleplay that I really enjoyed. Nothing fancy, just a lazy back and forth with two really, really strong writers. Hope you enjoy reading through it as much as I enjoyed being a part of it.
--- Bottomless pit ------------- 4:11:0 0 ---
The noonday sun shines down, tinged grey by its passage through the thick clouds above. Surrounded by dark grey sand is a large, ominous pit that descends deep into the earth. The loose sands on the edge make for dangerous footing, but a few solid stones have been positioned along the sides. A few ragged plants jut out from the walls of the pit, growing down into the blackness that seems to have no end. The foaming ocean sweeps over the shoreline, cascading into the pit during high tide. A chromatic column commands the area, chaotic candescence churning at its core. Ominiously silent, a red and white warhound stands here, teeth bared. Ominiously silent, a sandy warhound stands here, teeth bared. Ominiously silent, a red warhound stands here, teeth bared. Cayn subjects a flat stone
by the pit's edge to his weight, sat there smoking and blackness-gazing. He wields a lit faded,
pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end in his left hand.
Naos stoops to pick up a stone a few paces back from the edge of the pit, something small enough to fill the palm of his hand. With an underhanded toss he lobs it into the blackness and immediately cranes his neck to see, standing on tiptoe to watch its descent. He doesn't get -too- close to the edge though, he's not -that- stupid. "Second time I've found you here, Mudd. This where you come to cry?" Any excitement from the toss is gone, and his focus slides over to Cayn.
The icy skewer of Cayn's sole functional eye slices aside to find you as soon as the scuff of your boots across the sands is carried to the brute's ears. From his grounded ring-side seat at the arena of blackness, he leans forward a little too, but there's nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. The seashell-or-whatever that you just hucked in there is simply swallowed and disappeared. As the hairier of the pair settles back into his original languid position, smoking arm draped over a bent knee, he tosses back an easy, "While whacking off at the same time usually, yep." Ah yes, the old cry-and-jerk. Classic. He's not doing either right now though. In fact, he looks... Pretty chill. A rare thing.
Ruqayya arrives from the northwest.
She is a typical Mhun, easy to overlook with her diminutive stature. Reminiscent of the Mhojave dunes on a moonless night, her dark hair is just as arid and bundled up carelessly atop her scalp like a dusty cactus fruit. Her hairline is the border past which the sun touches, her complexion aglow with life in the russet shade of desert rock. Simple but proportionate is the landscape of this digger's face, the topography ranging from a scruffy ridge of brows to cavern-dark eyes, a humbly sloping nose to lips like a parched canyon, set neutrally enough that her face rests with a blank look. Just from looking at her, she gives off the impression of one who hasn't bathed in weeks.
(hanging from the shoulders) : a ruined black cloak
(student hazard) : a suit of academy splintmail
(bloodstained and battered) : a reinforced charcoal surcoat
(worn over the shoulder) : an antiquated pirate shoulder pack
(ripped through wandering) : a tattered dress
(barely holding together) : a pair of rugged folded down boots
Naos rolls his shoulders in a quick shrug, a very, 'it happens' kind of acknowledgement to Cayn's over-sharing. "You ain't gonna jump, is you?" Emory takes a few steps closer to the edge, still carrying himself like he has far too much to lose when it comes to the very dark, potentially very deep hole. "Can't think of any other reason you'd be playin' coy around Sapience's asshole." He finally reaches his own sturdy seeming rock along the rim of the pit and squats down onto the balls of his feet, trying to catch a further glimpse over the edge.
From a distance, a voice rings out like a rough shard being jabbed into the ears, growing louder as its source draws near, "... aaaand I don't haaave any more woooorms... worms, worms, woooorms..." Not -too- tonedeaf but definitely not pleasant. The form of Ruqayya arrives at a lethargic meander, only to halt abruptly as soon as she realizes that Cayn and you are, in fact, sentient. Lips sucked inward, she holds her head shamefully down and trudges closer to the pit herself, boots sinking into the sandy dirt. Neither of the two men are approached; she is here to do her own business, it seems.
Cayn see-saws out an indecisive 'ehh..' That in no way rules out the possibility. His shoulder makesa lazy half-shrug of its own, a blank space reserved for a more definite answer. "Only just got spat back out of it last week..." He muses almost to himself. Up comes the stick of
smouldering herbs for a harsh drag, filling his lungs. On the exhale, laced in smoke, he finishes, "We'll see, I guess." When that annoying shrill comes along, Mudd first looks directly upwards, ready to blame a passing gull. But no, it's Ruqayya, and he realizes that just as she comes into view. "...Can't go nowhere without some skirt chasing after you, huh, Emory?" He tsks, annoyed. Because clearly, the appearance of strange girls is your fault, always. A smoker's rattle clears his pipes before he calls across to Ruqayya, "...You gonna try to fill it up with piss, kid? Maybe we can tag-team it -- must be a whole sea of mine down there by now."
Naos' attention is drawn towards the sound of the strangled cat - or Ruqayya if you want to be technical - even as Cayn poses the facts of life to him in the form of a question. His eyebrows make an intrigued climb up his forehead at the mention of a tag-team, and the slight tilt of his head might even suggest that Emory considers something related to just that for a moment, though a quick shake seems to send the idea tumbling from his mind. "Don't blame me for this one, ain't seen the bitch in my life." He spits messily out through his teeth, vacating a thin stream of dark, inky liquid from his mouth as he looks Ruqayya up, then down. "Wouldn't kick her out of bed, though," he admits.
Ruqayya doesn't bother to pause her step at Cayn's crass invitation, a meager snort puffed out her nostrils. With the back of her hand, she swipes across the whole of her nose, face scrunched up like she were stifling a sneeze. Thank the gods, the sneeze doesn't go through. In a half-hearted mumble, she tells him, "Can't today. I left my cock at home so that nobody gets hit by me swinging it around." A flat look moves over you after his comment, following a blatant roll of her eyes and a mutter under her breath. She finds herself a spot away from the two men to squat on her ankles, skirt carefully wrapped about to keep herself decent. From here, she peers down into the darkness of the pit, tentatively taking a whiff to see if there truly -has- been progress turning it into a well of pee.
"I would," Cayn clips back to you without pausing to ogle Ruqayya or think about it. With a lift of his bristly chin, he sneers, "And I'd tell her and all my other tiny little grandkids to shut the
fuck up or else eat bardiche." There's a half-hearted attempt to send a scattering of ash down into the pit to float in the urine well, but the whole lot just plops straight onto the foul-mouthed old fucker's boot. He doesn't bother to shake it off. There's a grunt of something suspiciously close to amusement when Ruqayya explains the whereabouts of her detachable cock, and Mudd slyly side-eyes you as he suggests, "Maybe you oughta try that sometime." Menage a trois is supposed to be at home anyways, it's in the name! The brute shifts a bit, rearranging his legs so he can straighten one out and wriggle the pins-and-needles away, all while being nosy at Ruqayya some more. "Hey how old're you? Twelve-ish, right?"
'Grandkids?' Emory mouths, looking back to Cayn. "Cai been shittin' out little ones?" He blurts out. He looks.. A little dejected. "Don't get me wrong, she looked like she /fucked/, no doubt about, but I wouldn't have minded gettin' in there before shit got all turned inside out." Naos chucks another stone over the edge, obviously lamenting his unfortunate timing. He looks back to Ruqayya even as he's fumbling blindly for anymore stones that might be near to hand. "You a funny little gash, hey?"
Peering about where she's half-sat, Ruqayya makes a scrutinizing perusal of the dirt before she deems it to her satisfaction. Without further ado, a teeter backwards sends her behind plopping down nice and comfy on the cushion of sandy earth. "Nuh," she answers Cayn without looking his way. Her boots accidentally erode the edge of the pit as her legs straighten, tattered skirt just barely doing its job. Not like there's much to see there, anyway. She isn't a leggy sort. "I'm actually in my eighties but blame it on the magic of grub masks," she follows up all matter-of-factly at Cayn, pronounced with a healthy peppering of sarcasm. You receives a wry little 'hah' as she goes, "And you think -you- are. That's just.." Head shaking. "Marvelous." Something makes her shiver for a moment, her study interrupted by a hasty rub up and down her arms. She squints upwards as though to the wind.
Ruqayya just thought:
Ruqayya blames the weird noises on the wind. Because. That's what it usually is. Unless it's wailing spirits or grieving prisoners or whatever other lovely inhabitants Bloodloch has.
Where many fathers might take great umbrage about their belovid daughters being spoken of in such an undignified manner, Cayn... Doesn't give a shit. He just twiddles his cigarette and foists an uncaring, "Dunno," onto you where he's sat nearby. "But I didn't even know about Cai until she showed up in 'loch. So, who knows? I figure, amount of whoring I did, I've probably got at least thirty grandkids out there in the wide world." A liberal application of his glacial gaze weighs you up for a second before he decides, "And *you've* probably got at least a hundred." Whatever it is in the weather that sets Ruqayya ashiver gets him too, a light shudder that makes him shake his free arm out like a hind leg after doing the business he mentioned earlier: peeing. After that, he's content to just sit back and watch you and the girl sass one another while he finishes his cigarette. Just a merry trio of assholes crowded round Sapience's deep dark asshole. What a pretty picture.
Naos' been drawn back to the fascination of the hole at this point, his level of attention to the conversation plummeting as soon as mention of Cai leaves the picture. He shuffles another inch forward, then another, still crouched low on his toes, until he's balanced a half-step from the edge of his own stony lifeline. He spits again, this time managing to get some serious distance at the expense of some of the black spittle dribbling down his chin and neck. Not too fussed, he drags an already grimy sleeve across the offending bodily fluid, watching his inky expulsion fall slowly into nothingness.
Ruqayya is quite content to keep to herself as the limelight falls back to the least likely thing to ever be lit up: the assho-- ahem, the pit. As Cayn continues to duke it out on you and the latter puh-tooeys his responses back, she gets right back into her original purpose. Legs folding in, she scoots a little closer to the edge of the pit just before the soil starts to give way. No regard is given to any manicure she'd been sporting - and she'd been sporting none - as she digs her digits into the earth. Perhaps the most stereotypical thing for a Mhun to be doing anywhere, ever.
Well, who can blame anybody for tuning out when sour old bastards start talking about - bass drum -CONSEQUENCES. At least Cayn's prattle about his glory days doesn't last long. And neither did the glory days. C'est la vie, amirite? Since the entertainment just dried up with the two neighbouring smartmouths mutually shutting up, Mudd settles for watching you make some yuck happen in the form of spit. "Nice," he approves as that glob goes soaring. The stub of his cigarette chases after it, flicked off into the abyss. Anyone paying close enough attention would mark the way he's eying your shoulder, slithering all over the younger guy in unconscious calculation. So close at hand... How precarious a perch... It wouldn't take much... He shivers again and this time not from the breeze.
Then Cayn starts shoving up onto his boots with a sigh. There's the clinking of his belt buckle, some careless tugging at laces, and then tinkle-sprinkle. While the stream is strong, it actually does make it into the pit. The rest just ends up getting blown across his left shin by the coastal winds -- and in your direction, whoops. Oblivious, Mudd squints across at Ruqayya while he empties his bladder, but doesn't pipe up to ask wtf she's doing over there.
"Oh fuck the fuck off." Emory moves like quicksilver, or maybe just a man getting urinated on by another man, and comes surging to his feet. He plays the most dangerous game of hop-scotch he's ever played, hopping one sturdy looking stone away from Cayn, then another, finally moving out of range enough to avoid most, if not all, of the wind-borne stream. Naos' trusty sleeve comes to the rescue yet again as he roughly scrubs at his face with the back of an arm. The wetness, mixed with the dirt and grime he wears indifferently across his face, manages to make a faint, muddy streak across his features. "Prick," mutters under his breath. His glare of accusation isn't the only emotion he wears though, as it wars with a even mixture of curiosity, then appreciation, as he catches sight of Cayn's endowment. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.
"I'm leavin'," Naos finally decides. He doesn't sound too torn up about getting peed on. He's probably worn worse. He turns away from the pit, planning his route back towards solid, not-sandy ground.
Be it the sound of tinkling or the glitter of light through the yellow stream, something draws the Mhun's attention back up. We can all give thanks that they are not on opposite ends of the pit, for that would be such a scarring sight. Rather, Ruqayya catches the quarter angle view, and once again her dark eyes dull into a 'kill me now' sort of stare. Chapped lips press into a fine line before a very dead-inside smile at the urinating man and the plight he gives to his acquaintance. But unlike you, she does not check out his equipment. "I hear that's one word for it in the common tongue," she dourly quips after you calls it out. Prick. That is what it is. Still with an arm half-sunk into the soil, she looks it over like it had suddenly grown foul. Not knowing what to do with herself for a moment, she just grabs a handful of that dirt and smells it because gods forbid if Cayn might've sprinkled some on the topsoil, too.
Yes, unlike Ruqayya, Mudd didn't leave his cock at home today. This prick's prick resides within thecoarse wilderness of overgrown black hair downstairs, doing what it does, and shameless in it. "Mm?" Cayn prompts as he transfers his attention from Ruqayya to you to discover the source of his bitching. Oh. He coughs, like he just swallowed his cigarette instead of casting it away. But it was just a cough, of course, and that's not a smile underneath his beard. Once recovered enough, half in the act of stuffing his bits and pieces away again, he rasps out an in no way believably innocent, "Bye-bye, *Ser*..." And he slings a salute to your departing back. With his gloved hand. Not anything else. Promise. As for poor Ruqayya's patch of dirt, who's to say if it's been watered today or any other day? Mudd's urine may have been spread as far and wide as his seed, after all.
It takes Naos two stepping stones out from his previous perch before he's walking comfortably once more across the sand. "Later, Mudd." He doesn't look towards Cayn at all, he doesn't need to, he's already seen more than he's paid for. What a win. "Enjoy your cry and wank." For Ruqayya he tosses a grin, a jerk of his head, and a lazy, "Later dirt-girl." You know, because she's Mhun.
Naos
6
Re: Mildly Irritating: Aetolia's Pet Peeves
I haven’t been logged in for a minute, but after reading and comparing attitude and approach to other text games that have a higher focus and standard for Rp and story telling, I can only conclude this community as a whole has a cognitive disconnect between what is story telling and what is personal experience.
Xenia
9
Re: Mildly Irritating: Aetolia's Pet Peeves
The Sardara thing -I know, right?
Aside from the fact that Whirran doesn't specifically target only 'inexperienced' people ( and as far as I'm concerned, Whirran is himself a bignoob, kek), I think it's disingenuous (at worse) and very un-self-aware (at best - let's choose this interpretation, yeah?) to think that Whirran is the perpetrator abusing people. The guy has been ganked so much I ask him if he's even enjoying himself.
I do not even see Whirran as an IC villain. He is like a teddy bear.
If he were a real villain, he wouldn't get mad at me for eating the innkeeper during his patrols.
Sheryni
6
Re: Announce post #3309: City Riddle Contest Results!
Saying the word "nevermore" is valid pk cause.
Czcienn
6