0ber0n the Neko

[COLOR="DarkRed"]The following RP is for those who have become disillusioned with high and gothic fantasy. It will contain graphic violence, language, and possible sexuality. [center]-----[/center] [COLOR="DarkRed"]We were patriots then. We heard the speeches, sang the songs, and felt the beating of a single, red heart - the boots of war marched endlessly to the west. We fell in line and swore our oaths. We cut our hair and clenched our rifles tight as our regimented footsteps fought with fevered screams of warlust. The crowd waved red flags, wore red stars, and urged us onto victory. Victory, against the west! The shouts could be heard all around, and even as the bullets sailed past, with the sound of mortar and machinegun fire, we heard the battlecry. All we saw was red. Our hearts beat proud, red blood. There was red in every one of us, and even as we died, we died in pools of red. In those foxholes, we were brothers. On those fields of battle, we learned the meaning of "comrade". In every eye was fear, but not fear of death in battle. It was a fear of the country that we swore to protect, and the red, that insistent weight on every shoulder, that pride that shackled us to our rifles, that held them in iron grips and steely gazes. In the end, we all had seen the red. The flags sailed proudly over battlements once fiercely fought, over towns once under our siege. The red was in the stars, and on the bodies lying in the fields. We were patriots then. Then, when war was over, and we fought against ourselves. We fought with hunger, strife, and unrest. We watched breasts once bearing red stars breathe out hatred for the symbol we protected. We shot them dead, the enemy. But such deaths were never so clean. Something in us stirred, something of the red within us shook. We watched without the steely eyes of war as ones we'd once called brothers, comrades, died in our bullet-fire. We watched them burn the flags and break the stars, all the while propelled by the symbols they destroyed. We felt great, red eyes upon us until we realized that we were those eyes. The eyes upon us were not the eyes of brothers, but of vultures. And something, somewhere, broke. We were patriots then. But never again. [/COLOR] [center]-----[/center] Notes about the setting: Imagine WWII-era designs. Such words as "Spartan", "Utilitarian", and "Bleak" are appropriate. Imagine a black and white movie where the only chromatic color is red. However, technology is post-modern. Firearms are in wide use. Laser technology is not yet utilized for military purpose. Airships exist (and are more efficient and long-lived than current air-based technology today - there are airship cities, too.) The government is not necessarily communist, but there is a definite sense of nationalism. The dominant (and only) party is the Red Party. We will actually begin our story during the latter throes of the war, and continue onward into the post-war era from there. Your character is not a god-slaying kill machine. There is magic, but it's not really arcane so much as it is psionic. To clarify, magic is more of a psychic ability than an arcane talent. To clarify further, magic is stripped of most of its flourish, and is more battle or utility-oriented. Just be conservative about magic if your character has it. [center]-----[/center] Notes about character creation: I say this again, with emphasis. [B]Your character is not a god-slaying kill machine.[/B] Your outfit for the first leg of the story is government issue. I'll post pictures at some point in the not-so-distant future. Nothing like super-space-marine armor. If we're using a Warhammer 40k reference, think more about what individuals in the Imperial Guard would wear. You're a human. Boring, I know, but I don't want to see any vampires, d&d races, or creatures from human mythology (demons, angels, gods, etc.) If you have something [I]really[/I] creative, PM me and we'll figure something out. When I ask for a weapon, please specify if it is single-shot, semi-automatic, or automatic. Yes, you may have more than one. However, if you have magic, your weapons should reflect that (i.e. shouldn't be as good as someone without). Try to be creative and give your character a unique drive. Yes, both men and women can be soldiers. PM me if you're thinking about being more politically inclined. [center]-----[/center] Signups: Name: Age: Sex: Weapon: Soldier/Psionic Brief Physical Description: Brief Personality Description: Reason for Enlisting: One distinguishing feature about your character One way in which war has changed/will change your character [center]-----[/center] Final notes: All characters are the same rank in the same squad. (Keep an eye out for edits)[/COLOR]

The winds whispered softy to Isa, who didn't even turn around to address Ai. "Can I help you with something?" His voice wasn't threatening, and didn't betray even an ounce of annoyance. He turned to face Ai, needing but a moment to spot her in the tree. Her expression seemed to ask how he'd seen her, how he could have possibly heard her approach. Isa pointed steadily towards the ground below him, where the glint of a freshly cleaned scythe reflected moonlight onto the ground, a clear crescent moon shape that caught Ai off-guard. "Night-time betrays even its silent killers," he said, almost to himself.

Isa stood gazing at the fire, smiling grimly at the day's bounty. He hefted the two quivers slung across his back, almost as a form of reassuring himself they were there. A cold silence swept over the group as each member silently brooded over the next course of action. Isa finally broke the silence, clearing his throat as he produced an arrow from one of his quivers and stepping forward. "It's very clear, now, that we're facing a persistent and potentially dangerous enemy. However, the less we know, the less we can prepare for the next time they attack. I propose we find the next town with a decent apothecary and have them analyze the poison on these arrows - to see if we can track them down by their venom alone." He stepped back, as gingerly as he had entered. As the group considered the alternatives aloud, some arguments heated, and others docile, Isa kept his eye on Selenia, his cold stare flickering gently in the firelight. She seemed absorbed in conversation with the chosen of the air, though the discourse seemed unfriendly at best. Though, try as he might, he couldn't help but gape at the lithe figure that had just minutes ago stood at his side, fighting off hordes of the unknown foe. A capable body and an able mind, not to mention... "Beautiful," Isa said, unbidden. The sudden noise from Isa drew looks of confusion from those closest to him in the circle, but nothing more. One meeting with Isa's eye was all the warning they needed not to press the issue. He withdrew into his cloak, eyes lit by the campfire's flicker as he eased his way away from the crowd and into the woods surrounding the camp. For here it was that nature offered up its beauty for his contemplation, in the still-dawning night under the watchful orb of the moon. Cold winds drifted through the trees, like lost spirits in the dark, whispering tales from the north, distant sounds that are largely ignored by those who do not heed them. A howl and the rich rustling of leaves seemed to wash over Isa like waves of rejuvenation, for this is the life of the wilderness, the life of the lonely. Yet, even though his mind was clear, it still contained the gentle, unassuming face of Selenia, borne - as it were - on the distant tides of his mind. Try as he might, the image remained, constant and unyielding like the glaciers of the northern seas.

Though the melee continued, Isa paused a moment when he heard Ai's voice rain down from the sky, "Don't let them shoot you with their arrows, the tips are poisoned!" An arrow buzzed swiftly by Isa, missing him by a hair's breadth. It struck a rock behind him, making a pathetic sound before dropping harmlessly to the ground. Isa snatched it up, moving quickly through the trees and searching for the archers. He heard the eventual sounds of swift, merciless death as Ai quickly gutted several of them, riding on the winds that presumably defined her choosing. Isa heard a heavy thump as an archer fell nearby. He sped over to the fallen stranger, eagerly snatching up his quiver. He placed the felled arrow inside, waiting for the next body to fall. Another scream, another rush of a body through branches, and another set of arrows for Isa. This continued for some time before the sounds of battle died, and the dark host seemed to flee. That is, what few were left. Isa, by then, had two quivers full to the brim with poisoned arrows. He rushed to regroup with the others.

Isa smiled, nodding to Selenia as he produced a vial in each hand from his coat. "This may prove interesting after all," he said, unstopping both and, with a swift motion, made two icy daggers of considerable size. However, the liquid constituting the weapons seemed entirely other than water. Isa ran towards one of the men, dodging a sword-swing as he thrust one of the icy daggers into the assailant's arm. The incision was neat, despite the seemingly makeshift quality of the weapon, and the man's arm went limp almost instantly. Though discouraging, the use of one arm wouldn't seriously hinder the man. However, as a tingling sensation crept up his arm into the rest of his body, he realized very soon that this was not a fight he'd walk away from. Even in the dark, the panic was instantly recognizable - marked not by a cry of pain, but a cry of helplessness as the stranger crumpled to the ground, paralyzed. Isa leapt out of the way as two swords arced clumsily towards him, neither finding any purchase. He turned to Selenia again, retracting the ice once more into one of the vials, and fishing through his coat for another. "Was that..." Selenia began, parrying a blow. "Poison," said Isa, impassively, as he drew out a glowing yellow liquid. He thrust the vial at one of his assailants, who tried to bat it away before it cracked open on his face. What came next was undoubtedly unpleasant, and accompanied by spirited and frenzied screams. Isa had little time to contemplate the effects of the phosphorous compound before another sword swung deftly at his head - too short, but not by much. It was hard to judge distance in this darkness, but the assailants were untrained, and their swordsmanship most certainly could have used more practice. Most likely, these were hired thugs, and not a sizable threat. However, this very clearly communicated something to Isa as he stabbed another stranger with a vial of poison that would likely have the victim writhing in serpentine pain for hours, until it finally reached his heart and killed him. (It was a new recipe, and the agony might actually give way to death at any moment. Frankly, as long as the heart stopped, given the circumstance, it wouldn't matter much how long the pain continued.) Someone wanted them dead. As the scream of agony and the rustle of a body convulsing in the dry grass subsided, Isa decided that they knew little about the group's capabilities, and would most likely pose little threat at all. Perhaps he'd make them pay him back for the reagents he'd used to craft his poisons. "How many more do you see, Selenia?" Isa asked, turning his eyes to hers. "We should wrap this up quickly if we intend to find a resting place tonight."

The path was worn and well-known to Isa, who had tread this treacherous path in winter's deep snows. He took a measured step down onto gently sloping earth. The ground was softer here, and provided easier purchase for the feet of the weary. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing a few humanoid shapes remaining on the mountain's peak. [COLOR="RoyalBlue"]"Selenia,"[/COLOR] he said, not turning his sight to the path, [COLOR="RoyalBlue"]"is anyone following us, or are we going to have to wait for the rest of our contingency at the bottom?"[/COLOR]

[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]"We serve to gain nothing by running from the wolves, as we know they lurk just beyond the trees,"[/COLOR] Isa said, walking to the edge of the peak, [COLOR="RoyalBlue"]"Let us make corpses of this lupine threat, and perhaps the pelts will be worth the hunt."[/COLOR] He looked back at the group, expectantly. [COLOR="RoyalBlue"]"We can say our 'hello's on the road. We will only find answers in haste."[/COLOR] With that, he crawled down the rock face and proceeded slowly down the mountain.

Isa stepped forward once again, regarding everyone suspiciously. "[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]If I may interject, perhaps we should continue with the matter at hand?[/COLOR]" he said in a voice that was not loud, but surprisingly carried over the din of laughter. Everyone stopped and looked at him, a question on their eyes and lips, unspoken. "[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]We were called here for a reason. This is not a family reunion. Did you not hear the peril in the voices of those who chose us? Can you not sense the omen and the [i]weight[/i] in their words?[/COLOR]" he said, as a cold wind blew over the group. His eyes still swept over the supposed chosen. "[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Perhaps it is time for them to speak.[/COLOR]" Del stepped forward. "[COLOR="Teal"]That's enough, Isa. I'm sure they understand. However, you speak true. Levity has very little place here, and your laughter is but escapism from the task at hand. We have a task to explain to our chosen, now. Who will do the honors - as I do not suppose myself the leader of our circle of eight?[/COLOR]" A few drew breaths of impending protest, but Isa stared them down, not unkindly, but as a warning. He waited, like the rest, for the request to be spoken. He was not one for idle games of chatter sweet, and knew that this was no mere camping trip. Somewhere in his heart, he felt the pangs of regret, of knowing that some might not return. A softness met his gaze as he let it fall upon the group once more, knowing that though they'd never treat him with the same reverence as they would more flamboyant reincarnations, there was always a chance he would see a few breathe their last. He closed his eyes a moment, opening them once he heard one of the circle begin to speak.

(OOC: I apologize for my lateness. I need to skip the travel scene, as it's where I'm getting stuck) The trek up the mountain was simple. Isa had made it many times. Being nearby was a mere luxury, as tall stones and steep slopes rarely presented him with any difficulty, regardless of the situation. His eyes swept to the summit, where stood several humanoid shapes. He climbed up, hands finding easy purchase in the wall of stone, hoisting him up and onto the peak of the mountain. Isa walked towards the group, taking his place just outside their circle. Del sent him an approving look, turning back the the apparent comedy of the man dressed in black. "Where are the others?" Isa replied, his voice distant and uninvolved. "They have been called - it's all a function of when they choose to appear," said Del, looking over those whose reincarnations had not yet appeared. "It's a pity they have chosen to take their leisure, as time [i]is[/i] of the essence." Isa chose not to respond, he only entered into the group, looking over his fellow reincarnations with an unchanging, icy glare. "I am Isa," he said, bowing his head slightly. The vials inside his cloak clinked softly as he receded to Del's side.

Shall we all start in one city, or is travel fairly easy to work out for all of us?

[quote name='MistressRoxie'][color=#9933ff]Just a simple question, nothing to heavy, drama-inducing, or "omg, halps me with my bf/gf prob!!" My friends and I were just talking about dating at dinner today, so the topic is in my head. Just wondering if you prefer to know someone very well before you date them, or if you prefer blind dates. Had any bad (or good) dating stories (blind or otherwise), please feel free to share.[/color][/QUOTE] Hmmm... Dating is a lot more fun than going out, I have to say. I'd much rather date a girl I don't know very well as a means of getting to know her better. There's this school of thought out there that dictates that you can only date your best friends because they're the ones you know the best. I think this is ludicrous. Though, I haven't had a very solid dating history, so I suppose I'm not the right person to say anything!

[quote name='Sandy']Aren't you guys worried that McCain's last name means "Son of Cain"? I thought that would matter very much to at least funda... excuse me, [I]evangelicals[/I], and vampire roleplayers.[/QUOTE] As a vampire roleplayer, I can honestly say that his name had nothing to do with my vote for him. Also, what's the deal with this "OH BUT HIS NAME MEANS THIS!" spiel? My name means "Lord of the household". Does that mean I should be president? [quote]Not in that order though. Seriously, we need to free Cuba after pulling out of Iraq.[/QUOTE] Free them from what?

[B][I]Name:[/I][/B] Isa [B][I]Age:[/I][/B] 19 [B][I]Gender:[/I][/B] Male [B][I]Personality:[/I][/B] Isa is intense. Not intense like the heat of searing flames, but intense like the steady movement of a monumental glacier through the northern waters - powerful, unrelenting, and unforgiving. Isa speaks little, but his words are often beautiful and cold, like a wintry day so soon consumed by night. His voice carries the burden of icy years, and his silence carries the chill of the newfallen snow. Beyond the layers of frost and rime, his heart is heavy with sorrow, chilled by a hope that one day past tragedies will be forgotten. [B][I]Appearance:[/I][/B] [URL="http://fuzzyblowfish.com/sandman.jpg"]http://fuzzyblowfish.com/sandman.jpg[/URL] [B][I] Reincarnation:[/I][/B] Del, of the Ice [B][I]Power:[/I][/B] His pact with the unyielding glacier has brought him superhuman fortitude and longevity. His pact with the spirits of the frost has brought him the power to freeze any liquid, and also to sustain its solid state. His pact with the blizzard snows has given him the power to call the might of ancient snowstorms into a single, chilling blast springing forth from his palm. His pact with the north, the winter, and the chilling breeze has brought him speed and agility that far surpass the mortal man's. [B][I]Weapon:[/I][/B] An innumerably large number of handcrafted vials of multicolored liquid. He also carries several waterskins on his person at all times. [B][I]Bio:[/I][/B] A winter's chill crept through Isa's body as he trudged through the windswept snow. The wind shrieked through his hair and cloak, howling like a mad spirit between the oak-branches. The snowflakes swept past his face at blinding speed, and yet he traveled on. Darkness fell, and yet the world was still white for all the snow. Each step towards the summit sank deep into unmarred snowdrifts, every footfall measured, calculated, every leg outstretched with unflinching rhythm and unyielding intensity. The wind could howl and screech, awaking the nightspirit with its horrid wail, but Isa's ears were deaf to its agony. Onward he climbed, each step bringing him closer to the summit. The wind cried out for him to turn back, a futile gesture to Isa's focused mind. Soon, his dark eyes fell upon a circle of stones, pulsating blue and radiating the cold of the relentless snowfall. Isa did not yield, not even in a gesture of reverence for the awesome sight, for fear his legs would fail him on the way. He entered into the circle, almost continuing beyond it in his desperate momentum, but an invisible force held him rapt in the center. The winds around him died, the snow around him fell silently to the ground. [i]"What question would you have us answer, Del of the ice and cold?"[/i] The stones spake, a voice that seemed to mimic the tortured wails of the wind, but at a whisper. The hush of the voice was almost soothing to Isa's now throbbing head, but held with it the painful reminder that to rest would mean death. Isa drew a breath of frigid air, and asked the question. The stones answered. The force holding him fast relented, and he felt his feet continue with their momentum, heavy with a new kind of burden. With clockwork precision and measured steps, he climbed steadily down the mountain-face no longer mortal. Downward he trod, step by step. The stones had spoken, calling him by name. Del, of the ice and cold.

Is all of this happening inside the walls of Helia? Because, if it is, I can't join in until you leave.

I am going to send in my vote for - and I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but - McCain. There are going to be problems pulling out of Iraq. If a democrat is in office when we stage the withdrawal, they're just going to get blamed. Hillary's domestic policies are absolute rubbish, and Obama isn't experienced enough to organize a withdrawal of this scale. Romney is just Reagan 2, except instead of being an actor, he's a mormon. I've heard people rant and rave about how good a senator he is, but he's pretty vague when it comes to foreign policy. Huckabee? No. Ron Paul is a bigoted psychopath. I have no idea why the internet loves him so much. McCain, while he mudslings with the best of them, is an ex soldier and POW. I like his plans for domestic and foreign policy (though I would much prefer the more liberal ideas if they were doable), and I think he'd be a good president, at the very least. Don't get me wrong. If I didn't believe in voting, I wouldn't. The candidates are terrible, and it seems like a question of lesser evils. But McCain seems like the viable choice for me. 1) McCain 2) Obama 3) Romney 4) Paul 5) Clinton

[quote name='Shinmaru']Well, I wouldn't say I have difficulties suspending my disbelief with fiction (and, hell, I like anime too :P), but with Oldboy, it was a bit too much for me (as it should be when [spoiler]hypnosis is used as a plot device[/spoiler]).[/QUOTE] Oldboy was amazing. I loved how everything was shot, and the storyline, too. I don't think the hypnosis was a cop-out. It seemed like it fit pretty well with the story, considering [spoiler]eating an octopus whole and then passing out just doesn't seem like the kind of thing that would win a woman's heart.[/spoiler] Of course, I could be wrong, and this could be the problem with my approach to women. Maybe I should [spoiler]spend fifteen years in a hotel room, honing my martial arts skills and masturbating to pop videos.[/spoiler] [quote name='Heaven's Cloud'][COLOR=INDIGO][b]3:10 to Yuma[/b] – One of the best western movies I have ever scene. Bale and Crowe both shine but the real treat is the under current of suspense that keeps building as the movie progresses. [b]Shoot Em Up[/b] – This was a lame movie, but I think its lameness was intentional. The movie is more or less a satirical take on the modern day action flick, but it isn’t spoofy. Actually, I thought it was fun to watch once. Once. [b]Chinatown[/b] – Film Noir at its best. This is a classic, the plot is interesting, and Jack Nicholson is incredible. If you haven’t seen this movie yet you should go rent it.[/color][/QUOTE] Hell yes, 3:10 to Yuma. What an awesome flick. Have you seen the original? I thought Shoot Em Up was actually pretty excellent. I don't know what it was that drew me to it- I just thought it was well done overall.

I think it's time for us to start skipping people. Cut to the chase, as there isn't any posting going on. Seriously.

Go for it, man. Nobody's stopping you.

OH HELL YES. (My favorite Neil Gaiman book.) Name: Barrett "The Baron" Saturday (Baron Samedi) Mythology: In Vodou (or voodoo), Baron Samedi is one of the aspects of Baron, one of the loa. He is a loa of the dead, along with Baron's other incarnations Baron Cimetière, and Baron La Croix. Baron Samedi stands at the crossroads, where the souls of dead humans pass on their way to Guinee. As well as being the all-knowing loa of death, he is a sexual loa, frequently represented by phallic symbols and noted for disruption, obscenity, debauchery, and having a particular fondness for tobacco and rum. Additionally, he is the loa of sex and resurrection. Gender: Male Appearance: A tall, slender, dark haired and dark skinned gentleman who's never seen without his tuxedo, top hat, and winning smile. Appears to be in his early thirties, but has the dark, cold eyes of a man well versed in the cruelties of life. Personality: Barrett is a dashingly handsome, worldly fellow with a taste for trickery. He can be seen in all company, whether swooning with the drunks outside the local pub, or waltzing with the dilettantes at a white tie gala. For some strange reason, people feel inclined to like him, relating to him like an old friend. With his fun-loving, hedonistic attitude, what's not to like? But when the party's over, Saturday's nowhere to be found, and everyone's left with a crushing sense of emptiness that none can truly describe.

Want to assume everyone's arrived?

I hope my post wasn't too presumptuous. Let me know if it was, though I think the idea might be useful for your ends, Premonition.

Wrest sat silently upon the grassy lawn of a windmill on the outskirts of Helia, the holy city. He watched as those who entered through the city gates were checked for travel passes, a seeming necessity in these Burning Times. The Prophetists feared their holy city would be tainted, should any heretics be allowed inside. Now, one could not come by a pass unless specifically authorized by a local Prophetist authority, and the gift was rare enough among the faithful. For Wrest, branded a heretic, it was an impossibility. A young woman, lithe and strangely out of place on the springtime hill, sat beside him and leaned a head on his shoulder. "Wrest, you come here every day. Don't fume over the fact they won't let you in. The Burning Times will pass. Soon they'll let us return, just wait." Wrest did not reply. He merely sat and watched the flow of people in and out of the city. He knew that once the night fell, the gates would close and the lines dissipate, leaving only silence. Highwaymen and thieves were out at night, and travel was considerably more dangerous. They knew many of the pilgrims bore gold and other precious things to give as offerings unto their god. It didn't help that cars and other niceties of the kind were not allowed within 10 miles of the city walls. "Wrest? Are you listening?" asked the woman, leaning into him. "They'll stop persecuting us eventually, Wrest. They have to. The burnings in the square will stop one day, and all the Prophetists will see their folly. Just you wait..." she said, weakly, as a roar erupted from beyond the city gates. The mad crowd beyond tugged eagerly at a man bound in rags and chains, fixing him to a wooden cross in the midst of the town square. They bound his wrists and ankles with rope, pouring kerosene onto his body. A chant emerged from the crowd, indistinguishable at the distance, but Wrest knew the hate and excitement of the voices, the zealotry and vigor that made his blood run cold. Finally, a man dressed in red robes (the garb of the Prophetist clergy) would stand before the cross, lighting it with magical flame. Wrest turned away, looking to the woman beside him. "Isa, let's return home." OOC: Apologies for the brevity. It's late.

Never regret drowning in an estrogen sea. At some point, you'll realize how awesome that is. I'd love to hear some of your material should it ever get recorded. I've got a project going, but I get the feeling it will require more than just yours truly to turn into something recordable. Just try to get something I can let my creative juices flowing into. Reading responses for my creative writing class may just be the end of my interest in an english major, and I have to remind myself somehow the reasons why I want to keep going with it.

Mike Patton (of a million different projects)

I'm just excited to play the cynical pagan. He'll be quite different than characters past.