Engel

[color=darkred][size=1]Spencer was standing in a n00b headquarters, eyes scanning the distance that spread out like the brim of a hat. Nodding approvingly, he stepped inside. Spencer reported to his n00b masters about the battle in The Arena, and then retired to his room. However, Spencer wasn't a n00b at all. He was, in fact, an Otaku that was under cover. Backstabbing, lying, cheating, and outnumbering the opposing bastard every chance he got was his way. He way of the Gurella Warfare. A n00b servent reported to his room, carrying a tray with meager food on it. "What is this stuff?" "O, tis teh brainz of cookedd Otakeus." His servant responded int broken speech. Spencer got up as if to send him away, but brought out his Sig Sauer and fired three rounds in quick sucession. "Traitor." He spat. He needed to report to the folks at The Arena.[/color][/size]

I decided, why not post a little horror story in honor of Halloween? So, I did, and not just a little one - a long one. I hope those who dare read it enjoy! - - - - - The Boxington Devil ~1~ The silver had been her mother’s – ornate designs spiraling the handles, family heirlooms. It was set out for the party, nestled by each china platter. But it was nothing compared to the centerpiece brimming over with foreign fruit and juice, and this nothing to the tablecloth with its oriental silk, and this nothing to the high-backed chairs and the hardwood floors and to the great chandelier with its blazing candles. The guests had come in that morning by ferry, the only practical way to reach Boxington Manor. It was a grand house with sprawling porticos and whitewashed walls, master of its own island at the heart of the bayou. To behold it was rare, so swallowed by the swamp it was, and as each guest arrived the world was met with a new gasp of wonder. Everyone had been invited – everyone with status – merchants and their wives, the local government with its top hats and canes, the rich with their inheritances. They had been shown to their rooms, passed the day with leisure in the house’s parlors, and finally dressed and gathered in the front hall that night to await their hosts for dinner. They fanned themselves and gossiped in the glimmering candlelight, debating the manor’s integrity. “I heard,” said one, Lady Robichau, in a whisper, “that he married her for her money.” “A good reason,” answered her husband. She hit him with her fan. “Darling,” he went on, taking her arm, “do you impugn me for stating the obvious? Come; let’s stand by the window. Perhaps it will help to cool your temper.” They went off. Others were talking by the stair banister. “My dear Sarah, don’t speak of yourself so! The spring of youth should not be tainted by –" “– Self-pity or self-doubt. Your favorite cliché, mother.” “It’s not a cliché,” rebutted Mrs. Villard. “It’s my own personal anecdote.” “And we’ve all heard it quite enough.” “But I’m right, you know,” said Mrs. Villard. “Why, one needs but to blink at her,” she gestured at Sarah, “to see her beauty.” “Mother, can you blame the girl? Under this roof it’s a miracle she still believes in marriage at all.” “Oh, no,” Sarah interrupted, “it’s not marriage that worries me. It’s no marriage that worries me. To be an old maid before one’s married; I don’t think I could stand it!” “And you won’t have to, my dear. Stop tormenting yourself.” “The spring of youth,” Mrs. Villard said. “The spring of youth…” But at that moment their conversation was halted when a servant stepped out onto the stair’s landing. The hall fell instantly into silence, for everyone knew his purpose and everyone was again whetted with anticipation. With a graceful bow he called out their names, and it was as if a trumpets fanfare had sounded when they arrived at last before their eager guests, out from two massive wooden doors – Lord and Lady Boxington. A hushed murmur ran through the crowd; all eyes locked on the hosting couple. Their presence was at first a creature of shock, so glorious and heavenly did they carry themselves. No doubt they appeared as royalty: their air was a force of elegance, and haloes seemed to radiate above them. Closer inspection would have revealed in them a small sense of disquiet, but this was smothered by their opulence and grandeur. Lady Boxington was a woman of age, her appearance reserved even in its magnificence. Her hair was drawn back in a jeweled bun, its gems glittering yellow, and in one hand she held a folded Chinese fan. Her caving cheeks were powdered, her lips painted, and her wrinkled hands had been smoothed by simmering wax. Her eyes, though sunken, bore an innocence and calm, and she wore a draping gown with an emblazoned flower print that trailed behind her as if fire in the wake of a goddess. Lord Boxington was beside her, his arm in hers. He was a young man, and unlike his wife he flushed with heart-pumping vigor. His features were defined and handsome, his black hair parted, and he wore trimmed sideburns to his jaw. A tuxedo with sharp cuts contained his sculpted musculature, and his posture was one of dramatic exaggeration, an emphasis on his masculine perfection. His eyes burned blue in fiery passion. “My dear, sweet friends!” he called out, reaching the floor. “How pleased we are to receive you here on this spectacular evening! I trust that your stay has thus far been pleasant, and your trip was not too depraved. The mosquitoes, I hear, can be monstrously unfashionable. But please, my wife and I dare not contain you any longer – into the dining room! We will eat yet tonight!” There was a general bustle, and the guests moved towards their appointed chairs in the other room. Even as they seated themselves their eyes were locked on the two hosts in dissection; yet this criticism was soon to perish when they finally realized the sheer opulence of the room’s setting. The centerpiece swam in exotic scents, the plates wore golden trim, and the white chandelier burned angelically, a flare and slice of heaven. Those who did try to uphold their social investigation soon found themselves pitted against imported silk, crafted porcelain, and flashing silver forks. The touch of luxury smothered them all, so that when the Lord twanged a spoon on a spindled glass he spoke to an already conquered audience. “As you all know,” he began, “we have gathered here today not for the mere indulgence of gluttony, but in a hopeful celebration. I speak, of course, of my dear wife, a woman of nobility, of character, and of a most supreme class. Gertrude, my dear,” and he turned to the Lady, “today is your day, tonight your night: your diamond jubilee has come! Another year to top your brow, another gem set in your crown! Have mercy on we, those less than divine, and allow us to spoil you, just this once, with cheer beyond belief!” His voice had risen to a reveling baritone, and the guests followed it with proper applause. A few servants came wheeling into the room with a covered pillow just at the pitch’s height. “But as we all know,” said the Lord, “birthdays can not run their course without presents.” The guests instantly fell into a deep and curious hush. “I thought,” continued the Lord, “that, after all, this is your diamond jubilee, and what would that be without diamond?” The servants handed him the pillow. “And then I thought, ‘Diamond? One diamond will never be enough.’” The guests were teeming. “And so,” he readied his hand on the cover, “I bought them all.” With a tug he ripped the cover away, and all the room gasped in amazement. It was fashioned of pure silver, a hundred, no, a thousand diamonds set into its coiling lengths and chains – a necklace to rival all necklaces, a collar pregnant with the jewels of the earth. “What do you think, my dear?” he asked. And she, ever so slowly, touched him on his cufflinked wrist and nodded her fragile head. “Then let us feast!” he cried, and the tension burst into cheer. He thrust the necklace back at the two servants as ten others rushed in from the kitchen. They carried platters and plates and pots and pans, all brimming with delicacies, and the dinner began with a bang. Portions were served, the piano played, the guests turned to each other for talk, and the room went ablaze with activity. “What do you think of him now?” whispered Madame Pampalon as the soup was being ladled into her fine china bowl. She eyed the Lord as he sat back in his seat. “A perfect gentleman,” answered her friend. “Those two were made for each other.” Across the table, Lady Robichau remarked to her husband, “I wouldn’t mind a necklace like that myself.” “Neither would I,” he said, plunging a fork into his salad. She hit him with her fan. And as the guests gossiped and talked through the night their general consensus turned itself – no longer a louse bent on money, Lord Boxington had transformed into a man of charisma and caring. He held his wife’s hand tenderly throughout the dinner and engaged those around him in splendid comedy and banter. How marvelous and congenial his true persona was! He won the women’s hearts and the men’s respect; he was sublime, he was polished, he was perfect. When he rose to leave during the second entrée (“Business, unfortunately, calls.”), they all mourned his absence with carefree complaints; they talked of him till dessert. “I hope that you aren’t still worried about marriage,” said one. “Oh, no,” chimed Sarah. “If I could marry someone as debonair as Lord Boxington, I’m sure my life would be a dream.” “You see, my dear, you needn’t worry about age at all. If the Lady could do it, you can, too. It’s personality – that’s what matters.” “And youth!” said Mrs. Villard, pointing her fork. “It’s all in the spring of youth!” ~2~ Lord Boxington, having just departed the party, made his way through the front hall and turned down a side corridor. He walked with a brisk nervousness, his shoes scuffing the carpet. Business, he thought, the guests flooding his mind. What imbeciles. The rest of the house was dark, lit only by a few sparse lamps, and a sense of vacancy haunted the atmosphere. As he passed the manor’s dim parlors he could barely discern ghostly figures in their gaping lounge chairs. But he rushed on, not daring to stop and confirm his fears. I’ve been kept long enough, he thought, by those absurd buffoons. Indeed, if he could have helped it there would have been no party at all; unfortunately, his wife had gone behind his back with the invitations. And though it had done wonders for him socially, dousing all doubt of his motives, it had been a merciless consumer of time. Even as he hurried on, blurring through the halls, his clock was ticking. Around a bend, across a rug, through an arch and down three steps: into the dark of the servants’ kitchen. He paused then, collecting himself after his run through the house, and turned to a door in one corner of the room. Just beyond was the abyss of the cellar, and nestled there – his goal. He opened it with a jerk, and out wafted the aging smell of dust and wine. Standing before the precipice of the stair, Lord Boxington inhaled deeply, bracing himself for the spiraling curl downwards, and then plunged. He circled rapidly into the depths, his shoes tapping against the cracked tile steps; he held one hand on the wall for guidance. Down, down, deeper and deeper, until he found himself in the buried expanse of the cellar. There he recoiled for a moment, blinded by the weak lanterns on the ceiling, and then looked out into the cluttered storage place around him. His two men were already there, standing far back by the distant wall: dredged from his shadowy pool of premarital relations, he had ferried them in the other day, still unaware of his wife’s party. “That you, old boy?” asked one. “Finally come to visit?” The Lord squinted back at them. “I say he’s drunk,” answered the other. “Life’ll do that to you.” He paid no heed to their remarks. “What are you doing out here?” he demanded. “You’re not being paid to lollygag around. Shouldn’t you be inside with her?” He pointed to a small, crusted door with brass locks. “No worries, my Lord,” mocked one. “We know what we’re doing.” “It’s all taken care of,” said the other. “The ties are tied, and the straps are strapped.” “Of course, we didn’t have any drugs – but that’s beside the point.” “Oh, and we managed a gag, as well.” “Can’t do more than that.” “It’s all waiting now.” They looked at each other with chesire grins. “So,” said Lord Boxington, “the situation is settled?” “As it ever can be.” “Then stand away – I won’t need you again till the end.” He gestured for them to remove themselves to the other side of the room; they did so with grudging indifference, and faded away into the shadows and the piles of discarded furniture. He was once more alone. Standing there in the cellar, Lord Boxington turned again to the crusted door with locks. Misery and apprehension clouded his mind, but a primal urge for survival drove him onwards. With one gallant stride he approached the door, its frame isolated on the barren wall, and took a grip on the handle. A thickening urgency hung over him, and when he at last stepped inside he was lost in the delirium of his scheming, finally unveiled before him. She was on a table, bound, as they had promised, with a rope coil through her teeth. Her hands and feet were tied to the table’s wooden legs; her back was arched. A lamp hung stilly above, and this poured a spotlight of gauze and haze across her stretching figure – she was mounted, the star of her own dungeonous carnival. Lord Boxington dared not draw near; the room’s illustration was far too vivid, far too real. He closed the door and remained by it. But though he felt caution, even pity, towards the woman on the table, a much more primal emotion had taken hold of him – she was nude, and this drove him back to the caverns of his lecherous memory. In the low light of the hanging lamp, his sick nostalgia boiled into view. How had it gone again? Up on the oriental carpets, under the glossy gleam of paint and gold, he had taken her hand – yes, taken her down to the cellar’s depths. The choice was beyond her; she existed to serve. And how marvelous it had been to finally sate his lust with her body. She had been pure, blood coming rapidly with his bare-chested thrusting. It had come the second time as well, and the third, and fourth; there, on that very table, he had ravaged her until his hair was ruffled and his flesh slick. The swelling of her stomach mattered not – anything to escape the prison of his wife’s wrinkled brows, and her sunken cheeks, and her grotesque, yellow teeth. The picture of her countenance haunted him even at his moments of climax, tortured him, berated him, fought to drive him into fits of wild rage! The barbarity of her flesh, the insatiability of his own! How often he had screamed in torment, his youth wasted behind the bars of another’s age. And there, lost in the memory of his own perverse agony, a new terror began to froth beside him in the present. What villainous contortions! She squirmed on the tabletop like a rat under a scalpel. The rope in her teeth contained her yelps; the bonds on her limbs denied her motion. Yet she flailed still, the pain of natural labor overwhelming. Fluids leaked from her. Lord Boxington felt vomit rise in his throat and stepped back even more, not daring to remove her ties – who knew where she might flee, whom she might tell? Instead he watched in agony, his composure pitiable, as his mate writhed on the table. And then, as if stamped in wretched finality, she belched blood across the floor and her insides ran down in it. A silence stained the air. Moving his fingers from his lips, Lord Boxington looked up at the limp woman on the table. Her thrashing had stopped, and her arms and legs had gone flaccid. Her stillness was that of a lamb on a butcher’s block. Carefully drawing a napkin from his breast pocket, the Lord smothered his nostrils and began to inch towards the table. Fighting revulsion, he scanned her for any sign of life: a vein was slowly pulsing in her neck. She lives, then, he thought, and a weight lifted from him. But then he glanced down between her thighs and gasped at the sight placed before him. Perfect in its innocence, it bore pink skin and rounded features. Its limbs were curled in, its tiny hands closed; its crying was quiet, a barely audible whisper. So soft was its skin that it looked like smooth wax; as if a ladybug newly landed, it moved with a silent, gentle cooing. It was an ideal baby. Lord Boxington reeled at the infant, unable to suppress his stomach any longer. He left a sputter of coarse yellow on the floor before looking back at it. There, in horrific purity, the symbol of his lust had been made solid. All at once the future came whirling madly into view: the child’s appearance, the other servants’ curiosity, the mother’s mind cracking, splintering, shattering under questioning – his own hellish part in the tragedy revealed! Why had he not thought of the implications sooner? He had barely been able to hide her plumping stomach, but to hide an entire human? Impossible! If she had only died in labor! His eyes twisted back to the baby, its noises growing as it gasped for air, and he fell to his knees in defeat. Coattails splayed lifeless in the dust, he could think of only one feasible option: he looked around for a knife. Misery clung to him in his search, diseased him as his nails scrambled across the cracked ground, and at last delivered into his hand the sad remnants of an old bottle. He tore off his cufflinks. But then, just as he had pressed the glass to himself, another idea flashed in his brain. He wobbled to his feet again. There, in the grotesque gauze of the lantern, the baby still cooed. With what a depraved mind he looked to it then, his blue eyes mad, clamoring over, raising the shard into the hazed lantern’s halo. He readied the plunge, his muscles gone stiff, and drove in an arc toward the new infant’s head; his conscious would not interfere. There was a crunch. ~3~ Later that night he stepped into the bedroom on tiptoe, slowly closing the door to prevent its moaning creak. After a delicate journey across the carpet to a chair on the room’s other side, then a sinking into its leather confines, the Lord let out his first breath in hours. He stared into the room’s dark, lit only by a dim bedside lamp, and then moved to undo the laces of his sopping wet boots. But he was not alone for long: a question soon came whispering on the air. “Is that you?” He turned a sour eye to the bed’s expanse and to his wife’s back. Despite his efforts she had woken, or perhaps never been asleep at all. “I’m here,” he answered, and then he tossed a boot onto the floor. Silence again fell as he undid his buttons and removed his clothes. He hung them on a corner of the wardrobe but kept his ears attentive, for he knew that another comment of usual dry wit would follow. “Darling,” she said. He almost laughed to himself. “I owe you a certain thanks.” But at that he stopped, and he turned to look towards her unmoving back. “…For what?” “All of it,” she sighed. His eyebrows arched, and he took a solemn step closer to the edge of the great, grey bed. “It was too bold of me to send the invitations without permission,” she went on. “You’ve been nothing but generous; I shouldn’t have tangled your affairs. Forgive me, won’t you?” The Lord moved to her side and looked down at her decaying figure, at her gentle eyes and the web of silk she had wrapped around her thinning hair. “Clau–“ “No,” he said, and he pressed a finger firmly to her lips. “You must always call me… my love.” There like that they remained, frozen in time as two fading silhouettes, the meaning of age washed away. Each slivered silver minute, and the summer’s glow of the hour’s gong, and the chilling bite of midnight, blended to create one perfect, timeless moment. He could have felt love for her then, but she rolled away and the hands began to turn again; out bloomed the wrinkles of hagdom, and she was once more but a living corpse in a cover. “You often,” she sighed, “remind me of him.” And at that he really did despise her, and in hate moved from her side. Off to the wardrobe he went again, and as she talked he ruffled his clothes and stared blankly into the mirror. “I can still picture it: your first arrival from the mainland, just a dreary young apprentice with your purse of potions and tinctures. How careful you were! Such a delicate young man. I often wonder, if you aren’t an angel sent to guide me in my hours of failing?” He stoically rang his pants. “My little doctor, always by my side,” she said. “Do bring me some water when you come to sleep.” When he finally finished with his clothes, their wrenched moisture running on the hardwood, he went to a little table with a pitcher and a glass. There he poured her water, and, with a curt look over his shoulder, poured her something else. “Here, darling,” he said as he took his place in the bed beside her. She drank with a few pecking sips, then set the glass aside. “Clau–“ she began, but he stopped her with a hush. “You must always call me… my love.” The lamp went out in a hiss. ~4~ The next morning, in the same spot that Lord Boxington had dumped his dreaded, dead infant into the channel of the swamp the night before, two servants discovered something peculiar in the trappings of their net. With a heave they brought it onto the dock, and there stood aback in a manner of curious horror. It was a great, gaping fish, with an appearance most readily akin to that of a bass, but so mutant in form as to truly be undistinguishable of any species at all. Its girth was gigantic in size, and its whole body seemed bursting at the seams with a stuffing of either muscle or fat, as if it had swallowed something altogether too large for its stomach. It had bulbous green eyes, fins and a tail of a material like heavy velvet, and an oily pattern of blue diamonds on its back. Already limp, the servants deduced that it had expired in a struggle with the net. And, perhaps most bizarre of all, it had a long, lax tongue which draped across the dock’s planking from its lips. “Do you suppose it edible?” asked one of the servants. “I do suppose, indeed,” said the other. “You don’t suppose it might be toxic, like a frog?” “Hardly,” said the other, and he moved toward it to perform a sort of autopsy. “For one, the coloration is neither diverse nor bright, such as to provide a warning. Secondly, it has neither ribbons nor blotches as patterning, but this rather helpless diamond motif. And as you can see here, its flesh is moderately slick, and exerts no sticking fluid, which might be supposed venom. I say it’s a perfectly palatable dish.” In this method of thought they both deemed their catch quite harmless, and suspected that it might make a fine addition to the kitchen. They did not suspect they had set any new record, but fancied the idea regardless, and were intent on weighing the fish presently to find out. Both took hold of each other’s hands under the belly of the creature (for it really was so large), and in that manner bore it up into their arms like a child in a cradle and made their way across the lawn. On their way they passed several fellow servants who all voiced the same amazement at the beast, not the least of whom was Peter, one of the farmhands. “I’d say, oh, a five and fifty pounds, eh?” “Not at all!” shouted Brutus, one of the original captors. “At least one hundred, and then some,” said Cassius, the other. “Probably ate something, though, eh? I say you lose ten pounds, smallest, when it’s gutted.” “Even if it loses twenty pounds,” replied Cassius, “the weight is still astronomical!” “So you say,” said Peter. “Back at the market, it’d fetch a pound, at most.” “Hardly!” “You say hardly, I say back home, it’d be bad luck enough to even taste. That’s where you lose the money – in the luck.” “I say it’s lucky enough,” said Brutus, “to possibly set the record.” “Well,” answered Peter, “you can use the wheelbarrow, anyhow.” So it was that the two found transportation for their catch; they presently wheeled the great fish to the side of the house, and there determined to weigh it on a set of scales. Wrestling it back out of the barrow, however, proved strangely impossible: with each grip they took, the fish’s flesh seemed to grow slicker and slicker, until it was altogether backbreaking to even lift its tailfin. “Perhaps we should just gut it, then,” proposed Brutus. “It has clearly eaten something which is weighing it down, and the removal of this, apart from lessening the load, would deliver unto us the fish’s truer measurement, as well.” “Yet to gut it in such an awkward position,” said Cassius. “We may have to slit it directly across the back, rather than the underside, due to its position in the barrow.” “Then let us make haste! Do you have a knife?” “I do.” Cassius unsheathed a lithe, bendable knife with a curved blade from his back pocket, and then pressed it to the fish’s hide. He began to bear down ever so lightly, but damaged a mere two scales before a sense of sudden mourning struck him. Attempting to trump this feeling he made one last weak slice, but then his willpower collapsed. “You, Brutus, take it from me,” he moaned. “I can’t bring myself to cut it.” “How preposterous!” exclaimed his friend, but he, too, on taking the knife, could never force himself to make a worthwhile incision. “It’s far too beautiful,” said Cassius as he gazed longingly over the oiled skin. They both agreed that nothing so gorgeous could be so prematurely wounded. “Then we shall simply have to empty it through the gullet,” said Brutus. “I’ll hold open the mouth so that you might reach inside and remove whatever weighty food has kept it from budging.” “A fine solution,” said the other. “But you can reach inside.” Cassius then took the fish’s plump lips in both hands and spread them wide, allowing Brutus to extend the entire length of his arm down its throat. However, just seconds before Brutus’s readied limb had made its fated plunge a great clamor arose to halt them both. Out from one of the manor’s side doors the Master Chef, in blazing white attire, dashed with a frying pan brandished in the air. With one definitive knock he sent Brutus to the ground, and then, begging for forgiveness from this atrocious deed, fell pleading to Cassius’s feet. “What barbarity!” Cassius shrieked, and his foot began rising; but the Chef was a master of manipulation, and with a single jingling pouch quelled the entire situation. “You must excuse my manners,” the Chef began as he once again took to his feet. “I had to stop you before it was too late – I have a proposition, and a delicacy, to be made, and make!” The Chef then delivered an account of how, as he had stood scouring vegetables for that night’s dinner, a flood of gossip swept through the kitchen to inform him of a perfect culinary rarity just fished from the swamp. Being excited over its weight rather than its taste, however, its two captors had decided to instantly flay and preserve it for shipment to the mainland and the office of records. Under no pretense of elegance, the Chef had charged to the scene, upsetting numerous maids on his way, in order to halt the certain massacre of his mind’s already piquing vision of an entrée. “So you see,” he concluded, “I did it for justice, and for beauty!” “We intended on delivering it to you, anyway,” said Cassius. “But now I’m afraid you must be charged for so rude of an attack.” Brutus groggily awoke and rubbed his head. “Such is the price for art,” the Chef lamented, and he surrendered the pouch completely. “But might I ask,” said Cassius, “why you so insist on retaining its whole form? Is not gutting necessary in the preparation of such a food?” “Gutting,” said the Chef, “would ruin the surprise. I intend to cook this fish whole, and serve it whole, though it will be spiced on the top. The recipe may seem odd to you, but it is a foreign tradition, and meant to infuse the creature with all the flavors of its last meal. Being either carnivorous or herbivorous, it may only ingest the purest of matter in its natural surroundings, making everything its gut contains an exact compliment to its gut itself. Nothing on its inside may be disturbed – and certainly no amount of its flesh may be flayed!” And with that the Chef dismissed Cassius from his hold on the fish, wheeling the barrow himself through the side door from whence he came and away from the reach of its two captors. “I suppose no record’s to be set, then,” sighed Brutus. “No,” replied Cassius, “but I’ll take a safe guarantee over a farfetched chance any day.” He jingled the pouch once again. Inside the manor, the fish passed through gloomy brick corridors and by great belching furnaces and steaming water pipes. Still more servants strayed from their duties, their faces peeping through doorways and around corners, to catch a glimpse of the Chef’s fabulous monster; washers abandoned their dishes, maids their brooms and buckets, tailors the rungs of clothing they had still to repair, and stable boys, bridles about their necks and polish in their hands, stared with eyes of amazement; the creature’s onlookers surrounded it like the walls of a parted sea, ready to break and swallow it from all directions at any instant. Into the kitchen the fish at last reeled, and now with sudden ease did the Chef and his many followers and apprentices bear it onto the long table in the room’s center. It landed with a massive thud, sending the chopped vegetables beside it into the air, and shaking the hanging meats in the larder. “Spices!” the Chef cried. “We must have spices!” All about a flurry arose as cooks looked here and there, plundering the pantry and throwing cabinets ajar in a search for every seasoning at hand. They brought forth bottles of vinegary liquid, and small tin boxes filled with powder; they brought dried peppers and casks of wine; glass jars rattling with cloves, vials of exotic cinnamons, bags of crushed lemon and plates of minced herbs; crockery brimming with morsels of chocolate, earthenware pots filled with every type of spice imaginable; and brimming vats of pickled meat, should the strange ingredient by chance be needed. The Chef went instantly mad over the corpse, dashing it here and there with spice, injecting it with flavored fluid and pounding its fins with tenderizing hammers. He stuffed garlic in-between its scales, ran wreathes of parsley round its neck, lined its lips with berries and spared no crevice its fair share of ginger. Meanwhile, the lesser cooks stewed a stimulating broth from the juices of shrimp, crawfish, and plantation peppers; they melted butter into it, poured in quantities of honey, and lavished it conclusively with two or three sprigs of mint. This, then, they filled a grand clay vat with, in which the fish would be shortly immersed. After all preparations had been completed, the Chef carefully sank his culinary masterpiece into the liquid of its marinating broth, then ordered the door to the oven opened. It took no less than three of his cooks to pry the massive metal portal asunder, embers of hot red whirling from it in escape; and then, with the composure of a funeral march, the grandiose dish was steadily borne toward its fate. The oven’s heat was so excruciating that no person could bear to stand by it for more than an instant, yet into its flare the monster of the vat was driven. Ornamented as if a conquering general or victorious king, that beast slid back into the oven’s brimstone interior, logs exploding beneath its perch on a lofty iron grate. Then, in a swoon half of excitement and half of terror, the cooks again sealed the great metal door and locked the fish away in the confines of a hell on earth. Their Master Chef was full of glowering approval. The dish would be done in five hours. ~5~ For the second night in a row the two Boxingtons descended the grand staircase into the throng of their guests. Reigning gossip still clung to the remembrance of the diamond necklace, so spectacular on its cushion, and to the perfect manners of the young Lord. He invited the guests to take their places once more in the dining room, and promised an even greater surprise than that of the previous night. This sent all of them into a giddy state of laughter, and his wife, to conceal her own blushing, put her fan before her cheeks. A steady stream of piano music drifting in the air, all of the guests moved on to take their seats – all save one. A prim and proper lass of blooming seventeen had removed herself from the crowd, and she now stood smiling in a corner of the front hall next to a hanging tapestry. This was Sarah and, her mother and Mrs. Villard having already taken to the dining room, she made no attempt at diverting her worshipping glances toward the Lord. “My dear child,” he said, approaching her as still more guests drained to their seats, “I would ask for your name, but find myself too shocked at the possibility of your displeasure. Has the weekend not been suited to your enjoyment?” “Oh, no,” she beamed. “No! Then we must attempt a remedy immediately! Tell me what you desire, and it shall be yours.” Sarah flushed as blood rose to her cheeks, and then made an awkward curtsey. “My Lord,” she laughed, “you misunderstand me. I have not had any displeasure this weekend. It has all been quite lovely.” “Yet you still ‘have not’ something,” he went on, a curled finger under his chin. “I have an idea – take your place beside me this evening. It’ll all be in good fun, and most convenient when I reveal my latest surprise.” “It would be an honor,” she smiled, and with that he led her into the dining room. “Friends, fellows, ladies and gentlemen!” the Lord exclaimed on reaching his seat at the head. “Our weekend has drawn to a close, though I hope it shall live on in memory for some time to come!” All of the guests nodded in agreement (one poked Mrs. Villard). “My wife and I have had a fabulous time, and look forward to inviting everyone back for another social joust in the near future; we will certainly look for any excuse afforded to us. But let me not drag us so quickly to the end of things – this night has barely begun!” At that the kitchen doors again burst open, but instead of ten waiters with individual dishes, this time ten emerged under the labor of a single mammoth platter topped in a dazzling silver dome. Its absolute reflection stunned all present, and with immense care it was settled into the middle of the table. The Master Chef himself had arrived to do the unveiling. “I have heard tales,” Lord Boxington whispered, “of monstrous creatures lurking in the swamps at night, of horned alligators and witches practicing the dark arts in their wretched hovels. But never –“ and he said this with absolute gusto “– have I heard of a dish so glorious, so appetizing, so unequivocally rare as the one before us tonight!” The silver dome was torn asunder, and there, in the midst of the entire company, sat the garnished mass of the peculiar fish! Its skin has been turned scarlet by the cooking, its diamond pattern a shade of Arabian purple, and its fins had both shriveled and spiked so as to stand erect as perfect bristles. Only its eyes had remained unscathed, but these had pooled into an even deeper shade of green, their murky gaze locked upon the Lord, locked upon his very soul. Everyone gaped wildly at the dish, perhaps out of hunger or perhaps bewilderment, and the room seemed exactly frozen in time as the Chef procured a gleaming metal blade. Even the Lord had not quite expected so exotic a creature, despite the servants’ tales, and he shared his guests’ astound in every aspect. Slowly the Chef inserted his blade into the fish’s spine and, with a brief succession of jagged tears, divided the beast in two. Down across the table its sides fell in crisp reverberation, and the contents of its stomach were at last made bare. There, coiled amid entrails and spiced vegetables, a limp pink thing lay curled. Though partly digested and fully cooked, its appearance was unmistakable, and its flesh a perfect smoothness likened to wax. The guests at first drew back in shock, but then instantly rose to achieve a better view. It was a gargantuan red grouper. Silence filled the air for but a moment before the Lord, relieved of something he was not even aware, let out a merry, resonating laugh. “My friends!” he cried. “My friends, my friends, the dish is undeniably peerless! We shall have two meals in one!” Like a champagne bottle uncorked, hundreds of chuckles, shrieks and giggles flooded the atmosphere and glanced the lofty ceiling. But just then, to everyone’s further surprise, a lively tune bubbled up in order to heighten the merriment. “My friends,” the Lord chortled, holding his stomach, “you must excuse me for this quite unconventional tune, but you see, the only way to end a singularly unique weekend is with a singularly unique song. I invite you all to dance, dance, dance as you’ve never danced before!” And with that he took Sarah’s hand in his and swept her into a skipping jig beside the table, for the lively tune was no other than a jolly Irish melody, a band playing just on the other side of the room. So rare in high society is the opportunity presented to throw the trappings of class mannerism aside that as a result the motley crowd joined immediately in on the jig. Around and around the dinner table they spun, the Chef meanwhile portioning the fish in the center, as pure joy left their lips unrestrained. And a lyrical voice rang out as well, directing their dance with such playful verses as have never been rivaled before or since: Ye maids of Dunhallow who're anxious for courtin', A word of advice I will give unto ye: Proceed to Banteer to the athletic sporting And hand in your names to the club committee. And never commence any skirts on your programme 'Till the carriage you see flying over the hill, Right down thro' the valleys and glens of Kilcorney, With our old darling sportsman the bold Thady Quill. For ramblin', for rovin', for football or courtin', For drinkin' black porter as fast as you'd fill, In all your days rovin’ you'll find none so jovial As our Muskerry sportsman, the bold Thady Quill. At the Cork Exhibition there was a fair lady Whose fortune exceeded a million or more, But a bad constitution had ruined her completely And medical treatment had failed o'er and o'er. “Our Mother”, said she, “sure I know what will ease me, And cure this disease that will certainly kill. Give over your doctors and medical treatment, I'd rather one squeeze out of bold Thady Quill.” For ramblin', for rovin', for football or courtin', For drinkin' black porter as fast as you'd fill, In all your days rovin’ you'll find none so jovial As our Muskerry sportsman, the bold Thady Quill. Their dance continued far into the night, interrupted in segments so that they might partake in actual eating, but never lessened in spirit. It is said that even across the swamp, in towns as distant as forty miles, the magic of that party was carried by the wind. Fishermen on their brigs, farmers in their fields, and even witches by their cauldrons – none failed to take part in the cheer-filled and eternal reverie of the glorious Boxington Manor. The End --- -- - As always, I hope it was fabulously enjoyable. I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback (especially on this story, since it jumps around so much and deals point blank with what the reader is expecting). Hopefully I haven't failed so miserably in presentation, and the 'surprise' worked out all right. Thanks for reading!

[size=1]Name: Spencer Status: Otaku Location: Hardwired (Play It) Team: Team Yokoi. (Can't find better gamers then there.) Appearance: [URL=http://www.skatinghazard.com/chadmuska/chadmuska12f.jpg]Click here.[/URL] Weapons: His skateboard which is Zero sponsered, with red as a base outline of thew word "Zero" which is in black, with a personal design of a skull with the words "Deciphered Cipher" on it. , a black and white Gibson Eletric Guitar, and a Sig Sauer.[/size]

“Don’t worry, she’ll eat it.” “What was that?” “Oh, nothing.” His eyes flashed up towards the dark rafters of his downtown loft as he came back from the kitchen. He had been preoccupied with the ceiling all evening, throwing nervous glances up at the shadows above them. But Natasha didn’t care. It wasn’t very often that an anti-social girl like her got a date with a handsome man, no matter how odd he may have acted at times. “What is this?” She pointed to a small bowl of syrupy substance. “Eggs.” “Hmm?” “Caviar. Fish eggs, you know. A delicacy, but some people don’t like them. Try ‘em out.” The small spheres crunched and splattered within her mouth, getting in between her teeth and tickling her tongue. With one swallow, she lit up and started to eat the whole bowl. “Have you ever desired children?” he asked as she ate. She shrugged. He continued. “I love children. I always wanted them. Hundreds of them, if that were possible. Just think of it. All those beady little eyes glaring up at you, eagerly awaiting you to feed them, nurse them.” His eyes grew round as she finished the bowl of food, and they darted up towards the ceiling and back down to her face. She began to feel sick in the stomach, and got up to go to the bathroom. As she ran, she glanced up at where her date had been looking all evening. It was dark for sure, and she couldn’t be positive, but she fancied a shape clinging above her. It wasn’t possible, because it was the size of a large dog, but it looked like a spider…

[color=seagreen][size=1][Changes (M-VSL) OOC: This is going to be kind of like Survivor, but instead of going for money, you're fighting for you lives...and sanity. IC: The Pacific Ocean shined under the plane, rolling along. The 747 was on a trip to some far away island, currently unnamed. It was on a chain of islands, each connected by thin strips of land. Although it was a rather normal looking plane from the oustide, its interior was lavish, everything top quality. Only ten people had been going on the trip. A man peered out the window, into the water below. It was nighttime, the sea shaded. His blue eyes peered at the ocean, as if looking for something wrong. There was. A ripple...a glint...a vision. He blinked, and it was gone. "Meh..must be getting delirous..." He rubbed his eyes with his hands, and looked again. He saw it again. It was shaded crimson, standing out in the cool night. It shot straight up, twirling. It looked like...fire...but how? It lanced into the sky, piercing the clouds and to the moon. It struck with a silent explosion, and lanced back at the sea, a golden red. The moon hung in the air as if nothing happened. As the beam connected with the earth, it sent out a gigantic crash...the water flew to tremendous heights, and settled. As humanity slept, the world changed. The plane was suddenly brought down, all eletronics cut. They crashed...into a large island... ________________________________________________________ Alright...so something...bad happened, and the world has greatly changed. As our heroes land on the island, they find nature disturbed. They meet the locals...who are anything but human anymore. They now must fight for survival in the new and dangerous world. ________________________________________________________ Sign ups: Name: Modern, please Age: 12+ Gender: Self explained Apperance: Picture or description Items: Three maximum. Can be anything REASONIBLE. e.g: You can't have fourty cluster missiles. You can have guns, just not no MK-47s. Bio : (Optional) That's all...kiss your sanity goodbye.[/color][/size][color=red][size=1] ~Tash, Angel of Flames~[/color][/size]

[color=seagreen][size=1]Name: Spencer Zephyr (Note...my last name is fake to avoid identity fraud. Can't be too careful) Age: 14 Gender: Male Apperance: [URL=http://rpnetwork.org/forums/uploads/av-476.gif]Spencer. He doesn't wear that, but a rather normal attire that consits of black cargo jeans, a T-shirt, and a fancy dress shirt over it. On that day, he had wore black Exit cargo jeans, with a white long sleeved shirt and a black t-shirt over it. On other days, he wears pretty much the same attire anymore, but with varying colours. Spencer also wears a black band with the words "Livestrong" on it, a necklace with a sword-cross on it, and a small post earing. Boyfriend/Girlfriend: Jenna Feathers Bio: See introduction...lol. [/color][/size]

[color=deepskyblue][size=1]Alex sighed, and walked around the Commons. He was bored. Plucking at the black band on his wrist, he started to go to his locker to get ready for his first period, Gym. However, some Seniors on the football team "accidently stepped into him". "Ooh...sorry Alex...heh...." One spoke. Alex gave him the finger, and started to walk away. One of them tapped his shoulder, and as Alex spun around, he wound up a punch, only to see Alex grab his fist, and bend it backwards. He groaned in pain. "Ah...stop! PLEASE!" Alex let go, punching him in the stomach. He let out an oof, and flew back a few feet. "Don't try to mess with me. I've had a bad day." Alex stated, not caring if he hurt him or not. They'd done that before the comet came, and now they were still thick enough to do it after. "ALEX SAPPHIRE TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE IMMEDATELY!" He shrugged and made his way there.[/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1]Ogre Battle: Knights of the Netherworld In the quiet aftermath of the Revolution, Magnus has become king of Palatinus, and has quelled the attacks of the Northern Barbarian tribes. Palatinus has become a place of great splendor once again, markets filling each town, ruins of old temples for Harnella, Fenrir, Ishtar, Asmodee, every god found. However, like the crumbling, decaying ruins of temples, nothing lasts forever, not even peace. In the West, where the final battle had taken place, a young woman, about twenty five, lies on the ground. Her blue Indigian hair is neatly spread across her body, and her green dress lays over her legs. A rather fat Noble walks around, his greedy eyes looking for articfacts lost in the battle. Picking up some Goth, the currency of Palatinus, he smiles. However, when he comes across the body of young Mari, he gasps, and withdraws. But, a small infant crawls from under her dress, and rises into the air. It speaks in a rough, brutal, guttral voice. "This body is much better than my last...I have been resurrected for the fourth time, this time as a Demigod! AHAHAHAHA!" He notices the Noble, and stares at him. "You...fat glutton...why are you here? Well...be proud...for you have witnessed the birth of your new god..." He cackled, and raised one small fist up. "Xelath Rai Zanthos Xeath!" And a ball of shadow encricled the Noble, and crushed him inward, fire leaping from the inside of the globe. Rashidi smiled a cold grin. It was time to put his plans into motion. Rashidi now looked like a twenty year old, rather handsome, Indigian. His blue hair was feathered out, and he had only his Royal Garments, and light Plate Mail on. He stood in the Central Division dismissal hall for the Acadmey graduates. Rashidi had been taken in by Magnus, and raised as his own. Magnus' son, Orannis, was his best friend. "Ash, Ashton, Demonthenis, Ecros, Orannis, Rashidi! You have all been assigned to the Central Division Guard. Go to the castle and wait for further instuctions." They nodded, and turned to leave when a huge explosion took the lives off all but Rashidi and Orannis. "EVERYONE! OGRES ARE HERE! FLEE TO CASTLE TALPEA!" A guard shouted, before being crushed into oblivion by a giant hammer. Everyone fled to Talpea, and met with the King, the Central Division deserted. Everyone that was there is now in the Western. They had to take care of the Chaos Gates that had been uncovered, and put a stop to the maker of the Chaos Gates... ~~~ Sign ups: Name: Can be oldish, or can be Modern Age: 13+ Gender: Err...no explaination needed Apperance: Picture or good description Class: Male Classes: Fighter: Your average Sword&Shield guy, good little punks who can do some damage if used right. Wizard: Staff, spellbook, and green robe is all this guy needs to cast some serious spells. Knight: He's a pumped up Fighter, and can use bigger and better swords, along with Plate Mail. Beserker: A walking tank. He uses sparse armor, but one handed axes are his weapon of choice. Fencer: Sporting a Bastard Sword, and a Jin Gaza, he's the Japanise Swordfigher in this game. He's basically like a Knight, but stronger on the offense. Ninja: He's stealthy...and he uses twin Cat Claws. A good, fast fighter. Female Classes: Amazon: Your average Bow&Arrow girl, she is the ranged attacker. Bascially does as much damage as a Fighter Sorceress: Staff, Spellbook, and good looks are her weapons. A bit stronger than a Wizard. Archer: Think a pumped up Amazon,and you've got it. Valkryie: The Spear&Shield warriors, they fight for their elemental god. Can use a bit of spells too. (*NOTE:* There will be more things...remember, you can't all be gods.) Element: Fire, Earth, Wind, Water. Weapon&Equipment: One weapon, and whatever your person has on. Short Bio: A telling of what has gone on in their life.[/color][/size] So...if you have any questions, or want to play a certain character, PM me

[color=darkred][size=1]Oh how Alex wanted to put his little sword though that arrogant, smug faced ass faced back. Watch him suffer for killing his brothers, his sisters. And for trying to tempt Iris. He twirled his finger in a circular motion under the des, and watched the dirt and other earthly mateirals swarm in a spiral. It hardened, and Alex grabbed it, putting it in his cargo pockets. Alex used some of the dirt and mud from the classroom and the ground outside the window to form a hand that looked just like his, down to the very color and ridges of the fingers. he had it write the notes, and he turned slightly to Iris. [b]"Heh...Jules is gonna say that I shouldn't be "worring" about you today. So...where after school are we gonna go? How about Pierre's?"[/b] He smiled slightly, white teeth shining.[/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1]Alex read the note in the hall, and nodded. His next class...he and Iris were in many of the same classes together. He smacked his head on his locker, wondering why he never tried to talk to her before. His locker slammed shut when he did this, making him have to do the combonation again. Alex groaned. It was going to be a long day. He turned into hallway M, as he ran his fingers across the cool stone. Even with the looming feeling of dread, he felt like today was just a normal day, walking along, listening to the drone of the lifeless teachers, admiring Iris from afar....he smiled. He hadn't realized how many times he'd did that. Alex turned into the History classroom, looking around. [b]"I'm [i]TWO THOUSAND[/i] years old...I know what happened before our teacher's great great great grandparents...."[/b][/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1]Alex wrote down what the teacher wrote on the chalkboard, and then looked back at Iris. The teacher had a bad memory, but was funny. He said in a Forrest Gump type of voice, [b]"I gotta pee..."[/b] and the class broke out laughing as he left the room. Alex quickly grabbed his stuff, and motioned for Julian to follow him. He sat down quickly by Iris, and smiled.[b]"Been a long time, Iris, since we talked. I kinda wish I would of before...hadn't realized how much I missed you."[/b] The teacher walked back in, and began to write more things down. Alex wrote something on a piece of paper, and slipped it into her hand. [i]I can't feel my broken wings But will you be my voice and sing for my absolution, for my resolution? You and I...are we god's last evolution? I cry when angels deserve to die Feel my mother, my brother and anguished cries I try to stop the bleeding, try to stop the flow Please, my life, my loves, don't go....[/i] On the bottom of the note, it said, [i]I feel funny today...I don't know why I wrote that. Oh well. See you after class?[/i] And Alex smiled and went back to his work.[/color][/size]

[color=royalblue][size=1][b]OOC:[/b] Well...Touchstone and Sabriel were in three books...gotta give Sam, Lireal, and...well....spoilers for the plot their time. I'll be playing Lireal, but someone can play Sam. I'll get my sign up sheet up in a few.[/color][/size] [color=red][size=1][b]Name:[/b] Lirael [b]Age:[/b] 17 [b]Gender:[/b] Female [b]Apperance:[/b] [URL=http://www.wam.umd.edu/~kldulan/myweb/Lirael.JPG]Lirael. The dog is the Disreputible Dog for those who didn't know.[/URL] [b]Side:[/b] Old Kingdom [b]Weapon:[/b] Nehima: The blade that begged not to be forgotten, it ironically was. Chater spelled, it is a dangerous longsword. It has become more powerful from the fusing of the Panpipes, and when it strikes, a note of Kibeth rings out to the dead, making them want to Walk the Path. She also carries a small dagger for personal use. [b]Magic:[/b] Free Magic, Charter, Bells [b]Acc:[/b] The Bells, three pieces of a special paper, and the Disreputible Dog's collar[/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1][b]Abhorsen: Hand of Destruction[/b] [i]A cold, wet fog rolls in from the West. Its grey body crushing the blue day, obstructing view. However, this fog wasn't natural. It was magicked, spun of Free Magic and air from atop a high hilltop. In the middle of the fog stood a sorcerer. He had a bronze mask on, and his eyes were like coals. Legions of men-more acurately, what used to be men-and shadows stood in Five Hundred platoons. It was the biggest army ever amassed in the Old Kindgom. He looked out aprovingly, his features hidden under the bronze mask. Yes, he had done well. His master would reward him. He sniffed the fowl air, smelling though the damp smell of the fog. There. It was living. His bronze mask was contorted in a cruel grin. Heavy furs covered his body, which was unsual, because it was hot out. White, tassled hair lay matted on his head. The reason? He was one of the Dead. A greater dead, to be more precise. He had been a necromancer, and a Free Magic Sorcerer. He attacked the human, killing it. He'd retrive the spirit later. Now, he must move ahead...[/i] Lireal sat uncomfortibly on top of a stone throne, looking around, wishing the Disreputible Dog was there. She sighed. Ever since the battle with Orannis, her depression had lifted, but some still hug over her. For instance, the loss of her hand. But, as she flexed the artificial hand made by Sam, she smiled. It had been perfect. She may not say it to anyone but him, but she did love him. Sam stepped though the marble archway, smiling. His trowel of the Wallmakers, one of the Great Charter Lines, fit him perfectly. However, the news that ran in the arch after him would wipe the smiles off of them both. A messenger held a Charter Spelled paper in his hands, running straight for the throne. [b]"LIREAL! LIREAL! SABRIEL AND TOUCHSTON-AHHHH!"[/b] He fell, dead. A small Gore Crow looking Dead had jumped from his chest cavity, killing him. It died soon after, ending up on Sam's blade. They read the letter. Touchstone and Sabriel had died in battle wit the massive army that was marching for the castle. It was, once again, death of the Charter...[/color][/size][color=royalblue][size=1] Ok, so this is after the last book of the Sabriel series, Abhorsen. For first timers, this is what the Charter, Free Magic, Necromancy: Charter Magic: When the Five Great Charter stones were forged at the beggining of time, all magic was "charted", now unable to hurt the user. If baptised with the Charter Mark at birth, the child is a "Charter Mage". You have to draw symbols, use certain whistle pitches, etc to do the spells. Free magic: Uncharted magic used only by the Abhorsen and Necromancers. They are spells of distruction, never healing. It will burn your throat, scald your hands, almost kill you if you speak these verses. Use with caution. Necromancy: The art of bringing corpses back to life. Only used by necromancers. You must enter Death in order to bring back the Spirts of the dead. Abhorsen: The Protector of the Living. He/She uses the Seven Bells of the Necromancer in different ways, to banish the dead. The Seven Bells: These are the seven bells: Ranna, the first, the smallest bell. Ranna the sleepbringer, the sweet, low sound that brings silence in its wake. Mosrael, the second, a harsh, rowdy bell, the waker. The bell whose sound is a seesaw, throwing the ringer further into Death as it brings the listener to Life. Kibeth, the walker, a bell of several sounds, a difficult and contrary bell. It can give freedom of movement to one of the Dead, or walk them through the next gate. Dyrim, a musical bell, of clear and pretty tone. Dyrim can return the voice that the Dead have so often lost, but Dyrim can also still a tongue that moves too freely. Belgaer, another tricksome bell that seeks to ring of its own accord. The thinking bell, the bell most necromancers scorn to use. It can restore independent thought, memory, and all the patterns of a living person, or slipping in a careless hand, erase them. Saraneth, the deepest, lowest bell. The sound of strength, the binder, the bell that shackles the Dead to the wielder's will. Astarael, the Sorrowful. The banisher, the final bell. Properly rung, it casts everyone who hears it far into Death. Everyone including the ringer. THat's it...SIGN UPS! DUH: Name: Oldish, please Age: Anything above nine Gender: Err...you should know this Appearance: Picture or description Side: Independant, Old Kingdom, Necromancer Weapon: Melee weapons, until we reach Allencelsstare. Two max. can be Charter/Free Magic spelled. Name if you wish Magic you know: Free Magic, Charter, Bells Acc: NOTE: for necromancers, Bells go here. other than taht, Three acc. Done...[/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1]This is the disucssion thread, so guess what you're going to do? Discuss, ask questions, talk about the RPG, etc. So, post anything you need/want to know here.[/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1][b]OOC:[/b] Sorry for the delay... [i]The stars twinkled, waning in the twilight. They seemed to blink, a beacon for savoiur, or apocolyspe. From that day forward, the world was going to be changed. Who would win? No one knows. Why are they fighting? Few know. All we know for sure is that its going to be a change.[/i] ~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~ Alex was headed for school, and was late. He only had enough time to eat a bagel, drink a glass of milk, and grab his bookbag before he was going to be out of time. [b]"Damn...my car's broken down!"[/b] Alex cussed. He sighed. He didn't want to risk it, but today there were a few big tests, so he had to. The earth began to part when he was in his backyard, holding his finger at the ground, and Alex slipped into the crevace, and a whoosh sent him on his way though the small tunnel. He laughed, it was so fun, even if he could be cought. It was unlikely, but still. He popped up about thirty feet away from school grounds in a small patch of earth, and dusted himself off, stepping in the school building. He knew today was the day that the start of the World Change was going to happen, but he seemed more focused on his schoolwork.[/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1][b]Name:[/b] Alex Sapphire [b]Age:[/b] 16 [b]Gender:[/b] Male [b]Appearance:[/b] Alex is a mysterious young man, his silver hair feathered outwards, showing off his beautiful young face. Silver-blue eyes catch the eyes of many girls, but he pretends not to notice most of them. Most. Alex stands 5'10, and a good, thin but strong 134. Alex's complexion is about medium, a nice tan on him. For clothes, Alex wears usually the colors of blue, silver, green, or black. One of his favorite combonations are black and blue, reflecting the usual color of his soul. He also likes the silver green look, and the black and green. Blue and silver is his least used, but he likes it still. Alex's usual black and blue outfit is a simple black t-shirt, with the words in gangster esque font "Chicago" on it, another simple, but effective medium blue button up collar shirt that lays open. Black cargo pants that can zip off into shorts complete this outfit. For green silver, its pretty much the same, green the undershirt with the writing in scribbled like handwriting "I kidnapped myself and held ransom for one million dollars. And all I got was one million kicks in the *** and this T-shirt". And a silver button up shirt. However, the shorts/pants are white in this one. Black and green is the same as the above two, the writing on the green shirt "As a matter of fact, the world DOES revolve around me." Black overshirt, and black pants that zip off into shorts yet again take this. Blue and black...he wears a blue long sleeved shirt with no writing on it, and a black dress shirt, but not button up, over it, with a bit of a fancy collar. Alex wears a diamond post earing in one of his ears, and wears a black band around his right wrist. [b]Personality:[/b] Alex is a cool, level headed kind of guy. His handsome looks catch the eyes of most girls, but he usually ignores them. His cool demeanor offests the people who try to pick on him or his friends, (Which he has few of) and then he usually lets his wild side take over, pulling out the thing he likes to call his fist and letting it meet their nose. Though, Alex isn't always like that, most of the time, for people he cares about, he shows his love to them. [b]History:[/b] Alex was born to a wealthy faimly, and being the only child, he was spoiled, if not a little lonely. Having all the things he had, the sense of being alone faded when he started getting used to people in general. When the comet came, his legs and arms went numb, losing all feeling until the comet passed. The next day, when he was walking to school, some little kids who though it was fun to harrass him pulled their usual gig. Alex was getting pelted with stones and other things, but time seemed to slow, and he dodged them all, and then came the cap pistols. He dodged them like they weren't there. It was strange. [b]Power:[/b] Able to bend/break the rules of gravity and time (Like Neo in the Matrix) [b]Power Holder:[/b] The black band on his arm.[/color][/size]

[color=slategray][size=1]"Well, who do we possess..." Steven asked aloud. They all looked around, and different people began to come to their minds. When everyone seemed to have made up their minds, Steven looked around, and told then, "Let's meet here when we're done." They all agreed, and went to do what they had to do. Steven was going for the kid Alex Sapphire. He always had been his friend, so he decided that it would be best. As Steven approched the school building, he saw Alex. He walked forward, whipsering, "Sorry, Alex...". Steven, not knowing exactly what to do, walked into Alex, and tried to step fluidly with him, and trying to reach his conciousnes. It worked. Alex understood, and let him. It was time. Steven stepped on his way back to the mall, looking around for his friends.[/color][/size] OOC: Guess what...its up! Sign ups are still opened, and will be till the end of Friday.

?[color=white]Leon looked at her, and knew by her expression she was missing something. Tears were on his face, freshly added. He put a bandaged, buy still bloody hand on her's. [b]"Go have fun...my fault...I'll get it.."[/b] Leon said this with a pained expression, the wounds flaring up again. She nodded, and turned to leave. Ando was in the doorway, and asked if he was ok. Leon's only answer was a small, bloody piece of paper with a small poem written on it. [i]I think I'm fallin' for you I think I'm fallin' again Falling from your grace Falling into my place I'll let you into my fragile heart But please, love, don't pierce it Like the poison dart Free me, my Love Feel me, my heart Hold me, my lover Love me, my friend Fallin' again and again Don't hate me, my love For my small imperfections Don't be so harsh Just be with me, happy Fallin' for the perfect place In your wedding gown of white lace I tell you, "Don't worry, I won't be long" And in the end, was I wrong?[/i] Leon broke out in sobs as he pointed to the bottom where it read [i]To Emily[/i]. He never knew her before, but he felt something for her. It was definite[/color]

[color=white]Leon cussed out loud as he was walking though the halls to his dorm room. It was all just a distraction. Leon knew he didn't want to fight to get her, he wanted to work his way into her heart. But that stupid Imric probably screwed everything up. He walked into his doom, beating his head on the wall hard. He was such a fool, and that stupid Jon with his stupid M'lady...tears welled up inside of him, but Leon stopped beating his head, and ran out the door, car keys in hand. [i]No...let Jon go this time. Just explain when she gets back.[/i] He stopped, and went back to 12G, where he began to make something to eat, and ended up cutting himself with the knife, over and over, hands trembling. Why was he so afraid to lose her?[/color]

[color=white][b]"Fine...let's begin. However...while I was abused, I took lessons from my parents. And used it against them to get free. So don't expect my to go soft."[/b] Imric grinned his grin, that obnoxious grin. Leon was ready to fight for Emily. He'd been ever since he met her. It was...strange. Leon rested his Rod against his shoulder, and bowed. He grabbed it, and twilrled it around, then lept into attack. Leon sprung like a Tiger, fast, deadly, and graceful. As he sailed though the air, he began to dart the end of the Rod at Imric's body, the end powerfully lunging for him. When Leon hit the ground, he jumped a short hop in the air, swinging his rod for Imirc's feet, then pulling it up the inside of his pant leg[/color]

][color=white]Leon agreed, and voiced it. However, he wasn't going to be bested by Jon. No, his comptetor spirit was flaring up. The school had much sparring equipment, so Leon, jacket still on, walked over to a rack of Duel Rods. Picking one up, he twirled it around effortlessly, and smacked the ground with it. It was sturdy. He had taken Li Seung style rod classes, and was proficent with it. [b]"So...anyone wanna duel? I can show you some moves I can do..."[/b] Leon when and put his loud speakers on, the song "Heart-Shaped Box" by Nirvana on. He cracked his knuckles over his rod, and cracked his neck. He was ready. Leon looked over at Emily, to see if she was watching. [i]For you...[/i] Leon was a small bit surpised as he deticated the fight to her. [b]"Come on..someone who has enough guts to challenge the newbie."[/b][/color]

[color=darkred][size=1]We still need one more angel...I'll try to get someone. Also, I"ll probably start it today. Thanks for signing up![/color][/size]

[color=darkred][size=1][B]Name:[/B] Steven Yugo [B]Age:[/B] 16 [B]Gender:[/B] Male [B]Description:[/B] [URL=http://www.bloody-roar.com/img/chara/yugo/profile_yugo.jpg]As always, ignore the text.[/URL] [b]Person Who You're Possessing:[/b] [URL=http://www.bloody-roar.com/img/chara/cronos/profile_cronos.jpg] Alex Sapphire. Alex wears a light blue shirt with a green button up shirt over it, white cargo pants, and silver-black shoes with shock absorbers. His eyes are blueish silver. Alex has a small post earing in his ear, a diamond.[/URL] [B]Boyfriend/Girlfriend:[/B] None [B]Bio:[/B] Steven was born into the average household, two cars, two kids, two parents and one roof. Steven was always intrested in sports, but he wasn't the jerk jock type. He loves to read and write, he often talks to people on AIM, and is quite fond of any game, board or video. He always had a crush on Emily, but never revealed it to anyone until she died. He's always felt skittish around girls, so he never asked anyone out. He also loves Imi, and Katie, but they love each other. XP, looks like I'm a single guy again![/color][/size]

[color=royalblue][size=1][b]OOC:[/b] Sonata gave me permission to start this. After the fateful day when the car sailed over the cliff, and the teens sent to their untimely demise by Emily, strange things started happening. For one, no one ever looked for the bodies of the teens, or the car that they had been in. Because there was none. Another, a teenager about the same age as all of the now dead, is being haunted by a voice that says, [i]"Come to me, my lover..."[/i] And after hearing the voice, she has a strong impulse to take something and cut her vein, or slice her neck. But she's managed to overcome the powerful voice. For now. Steven and Co. stood in the plaza of the Glenbrook Mall, and were trying different things that the group wanted to do. However, no matter how crazy the event, no one noticed them, but only complained about a coldness. So, in almost pure angst, and a little concern, Steven went to slam into a guy who had ripped off a salesman, who was now distraught. However, when he went to smack into him, he passed right though, and the guy gave a compuslive shudder. With a shocking realization, Steven looked at his hands and saw the truth. [i]FLASH![/i] The car, steering wheel jerking, flew off the side of the cliff. [i]FLASH![/i] A cold and unwavering laughter not too high above them. [i]FLASH![/i] The face of the teen, who although had no face to them, was important, because that was the one who Emily was haunting now. The group realized they had to save this young teen, but how? They knew it somehow, but they didn't like it. It had to be possession.[/color][/size][color=purple] Ok, to get a few things straight. One, this is [i]almost[/i] all Sonata's idea, with a few things thown in by me. Two, yes, you'll be possessing people. Three, relationships can change from last time, or differ now. For instance, Imi might now decide she likes Steven, so she breaks up with Katie, etc. Sign ups: (NOTE: All people from the past MUL will only have to copy and paste their sign ups, and add two things) [b]Name:[/b] Modern, no Ulric the Bold. [b]Age:[/b] 14-18 [b]Gender:[/b] *Stares* if you don't know this, I'm not too sure you should be here. [b]Appearance:[/b] Picture or good description [b]The Person you're possessing:[/b] What they look like, do they know you? Those are the only two things for that, but go ahead and add something if you want. [b]Boyfriend/Girlfriend:[/b] You can have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, or be single. You can PM someone on the OB to take up this space. [b]Bio:[/b] Short telling of their life so far. Th-Th-that's all folks![/color]

[color=white][size=1]Leon looked over at Emily, and heard her say their other roomate's name. Lauren. Leon felt his scar, and with a pang of rememberance, he looked at Emily, and smiled a small smile as the though of he drove his abusive past back. [i]Meat Eating orchids forgive no one just yet, cut myself on angel's hair and baby's breath, a hyem on your Highness leaves me black...[/i] [b]"Hey, Emily! We still have some free time, so what you wanna do? You probably know the campus better than me, huh?"[/b] Leon looked at his shoes while he said this. He'd never even hardly worked up the courage to say something to a girl as beautiful as her, but he had now, so no taking it back. Leon was just stunned by his own courage.[/color][/size]