Sign Up Notepad. [M-LV]

[Ellerby]

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[size=5]Prologue[/size] [b]London, England. 1733.[/b] Cane McKenon shut his bedroom door and locked it. He sat down at his desk and took a match, lighting the candle beside him. Knowing that his parents were long asleep, he took out a golden-coloured quill he had been lucky to come across on the streets the other night and grabbed the paper and ink he had taken from his father's dresser. Excited to bits, the thirteen year old boy began writing a ghost story. This one would be sure to scare the pants off of his friends, as he intended it to. He related each character to one of his friends, to spook them even more. When it came time to describe the hauntingly lady of the story, he went into gruesome details. Her scraggly gray hair that sat upon her wrinkled scalp. He empty eye sockets and unhinged jaw. Her pale blue skin and a flowing white dress. Yes, the Banshee of the East was a scary individual to imagine in one's head. It was just as Cane put the finishing touches on the short story that he felt a faint cool breeze on the back of his neck. The hair on his arms stood up and he turned around, as if expecting someone to be there. To his terror, floating in mid air, was an exact real life version of his newly written Banshee of the East. She let out a terrifying screech and Cane was never seen again. The next day, Cane's father locked up the ink bottle, the golden quill and the parchments of paper inside a small wooden chest. He buried the chest deep underground in his backyard. Hoping to bury the Banshee of the East with it. And he almost succeeded, were it not for a handful of pesky college students in 2003.

[size=5]The Story[/size] [B]London, England. 2003.[/B] A class of University students from the United States studying paleontoligy are visiting London on an class trip. During the trip, a handful of the students wander away from the group and find a dig site in the backyard of an hold house. The group decides to come back at night to see what they're digging for. When they do come back, the digsite is gone. The crew had given up hope. This leaves the students free to dig up the backyard themselves. One of them finds a treasure chest. Inside of it is a yellow feather, some black ink, and a story. They bring everything back to their hotel and read the story in the morning. Deciding to have a little fun with the newfound artifacts, the students take turns writing their own spooky stories. The throw a contest to see who can come up with the scariest story before the end of the week. The rules are as followed; [list=1] [*]You may not show your work to anyone before it is done. [*]The story must be written with the Golden Quill and the Nether Ink. [*]You have one day with the Quill and Ink before you must pass it on to the next person in line. [*]Your story may only contain [b]one[/b] creature. Whether that creature is supernatural or an experiment gone wrong is entirely up to you. [*]All characters must, in the end, die. And each character must be based off of one of the writers (this includes yourself!).[/list] And so the contest began. Little did the students know that their stories would soon come to life. As soon as the words The End were written at the end of the final page, their creations would no longer be fiction. They were writing their own deaths.

[size=5]Additional Information[/size] This is a neat little RP that I've been working on in secret for quite some time. It's an RP based around escaping death and defeating your worst fear. You will play the role of one of the characters writing their scary story. The RP will run simliar to a tournament. I'll use the chapter system to an extent, but the way it'll run is very new to OtakuBoards (as in it hasn't been done before). Depending on the way the story is flowing through my preset pattern, I may cut particular strings (or threads, if you will), killing off a character here and there. That's right, your character can die. When the RP finishes, there may not be anyone left alive. At the same time, there may be five people alive in the end. It all depends on how you react to different situations.

[size=5]Signing-Up[/size] To sign-up, all you need to do is fill out the following form. [b]Name:[/b] The name of the character you'll be playing. [b]Gender:[/b] Male or Female. [b]Age:[/b] 18-24. [b]Appearance:[/b] Stay away from anime pictures, please. [b]Story-Snippet:[/b] This is what I'll be judging your sign-up on. Basically, you need to write a small snippet (3-6 paragraphs) from your character's story they wrote with the quill. Either a part where someone dies, or a part where the monster of the story is described in detail. The monster of your story can be anything. Axe-murderers, phantoms, haywire robots, swamp beasts... it's all good. Be creative.

[Ozymandius Jones]

[SIZE=1][B]Name:[/B] Arnie Bender
[B]Gender:[/B] Male.
[B]Age: [/B]20.
[B]Appearance: [/B]Typical geek, tall and skinny with a large nose in a long face. He has scraggly reddish brown hair, and grey-green eyes hidden behind thin-lensed glasses. He has the first (somewhat pitiful) attempts at a goatee going on, but it only serves to make him look more grungy. He wears plaid shirts and blue jeans, mostly, not very creative in dressing. His build is tall and lanky, clumsy, with large hands and feet.

[B]Story-Snippet:[/B]
[INDENT][I]Shift clink. Clank shift whirr. Whirr...[b]whirrrrrrrr[/b]...[/I]metal grinding on metal grinding on bone grinding on plastic. Creaks and clanks and clunks, and an occasional jangle. The sounds filled the air, overwhelmingly loud...even before Grimegear stepped - clanked-plodded-screeched - into view. The Watcher gasped at the sight.

"....what...is it?"

Even its creator had to shrug a bony shoulder.

"Grimegear."

As if that explained anything.

Towering, four times as high as the petite creature who had created it, Grimegear was a mechanical deity of gold and bronze and ebony - or would have been. Something...something had gone wrong, interior wires and framework visible, pseudo-flesh of silver bent, twisted and ripped to spine and spike out in blades.

A mechanical whirr, and it turned a sharp, featureless face towards the Watcher - and white-blue eyes blazed, a grin of light appearing to split the smooth silver even as the silver tarnished before his eyes.

"Creator...[i]what is it[/i]?!"

"I already told you." Light-grin spread wider, flashing and reflecting off of its own surfaces.[I] Shift-whirrr-clank-hiss...[/I]It had jaws now, wider than jaws should ever be, still toothed with blazing-pure light...

"It's Grimegear."

[B][i]Snap.[/i][/B]

[I]No jaws should ever be that strong...[/I][/INDENT][/SIZE]

[Onix]

[COLOR=SlateGray][SIZE=1][B]Name:[/B] Xander Cole
[B]Gender:[/B] Male
[B]Age:[/B] 21
[B]Appearance:[/B] [URL=http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y48/UnbornLordXion/XanderCole.jpg]Xander[/URL]. As shown here, he usually dresses in an exceptionally casual manner; it's dirty, worn in blue jeans and plain t-shirts all the way for Xander Cole, master of the Lazy Look. He stands about 5' 10" and, while not shown in that particular photo, can usually be caught with either a cigarette or a toothpick between his lips.

[B]Story-Snippet:[/B]

[indent]He crawled back slowly, eyes stretched so wide they felt like they'd tear right open, mouth pulled in a grimace of utter terror. The creature before him lurched forward, batting a chair aside with one powerful stroke from its arm, sending splinters exploding through the air. The dim, flickering lights over head illuminated it sporadically, but it didn't matter how much of the thing he could see at one moment. It was burned in his memory forever.

Eyes narrow and black, light holes filled with oil in its skull shaped head. A mouth sown shut that still managed to rasp out words and curses and inhuman snarls. The gaping socket of where a nose used to be. Scars across its flesh, puckering the unnaturally flushed skin with pale streaks of ugly white. A finger joint dangled from one ragged, torn ear.

It lifted a ropy arm high, ugly yellow talons glittering at the end of iron strong fingers, and it lashed forward with impossible speed. He felt those claws tear through his shirt, and dig into his flesh, the hot run of blood blossoming on the vestiges of his shirt. It pulled him forward until he could smell the death on its breath, a sickly sweet mixture of vomit and the copper tang of blood. It reeked of decay, of ashes, of strong liquor.

[B]"What are you?"[/B] he choked out, staring into its black glass eyes, pupilless, sightless, yet piercing into his very core. He was a frightened child in a department store, an old man face to face with the Grim Reaper, a fresh soldier thrust onto the field of battle.

[B]"RAGE,"[/B] it growled in a voice to deep to be real, and he could hear within that roar a thousand gun shots, a thousand bomb blasts, a thousand cracks of a belt and a thousand screeches of a drunken mother. There was everything wrong within that bellowed word, everything hateful and cruel and destructive.

[B]"Kill me,"[/B] he pleaded, staring into the eye of anger, and seeing every act perpetrated within its name locked inside those two black, boring holes.

It complied, and he screamed as its clows burrowed into his heart. He had heard that such deaths were instant, that victims killed so suddenly felt no pain. But in those last few seconds as blood still managed to reach his brain, just before shock would wipe him out forever, he knew that that was utter ********.[/indent][/SIZE][/COLOR]

[Aberinkula]

Ahh a simple sign-up. Good story work to White. Anyways, without further edue.

Name: Tom Ryan Smith.
Gender: male
Age: 22
Appearance: He is very handsome. His hair is black, short, and without flaws. His hairline meets his forehead in a well fashion. With the sideburns well kept. His face is oval which shows any hair style is good for him. His eyes are crystal blue with a tint of turquoise. His nose is not too long, and it is not too short. He has red lips, which are not huge like some others. He wears blue clothes. A blue tank top, blue jeans and even blue hand gloves. His arms are well clean with no hair too long or too short. He stands roughly 5 foot 10 inches with no slouch. He weighs 120 pounds. He is very speedy. His pants reach his shoes and the backs reach the ground. His pockets have packs of gum neatly organized. By flavor, and how long the flavor lasts. Constantly chewing gum for hydration during the hot weather. His shoes are Nike with red soles, shocks and laces. He wears tethered pants, which are a bleached tone. He has kept well clean and organized. He is comedic and wise.

Story-snippet: George Harriet was walking down a very dark hall. A weird man murdered two of his very close friends. George could not explain the man to the authorities. However, he could to himself.
He did not want to think. He kept on walking. He then heard footsteps. He ran and ran until he could not any more.

Heavy breathing crept down the hall like a kitten. George could taste the fear. He remembered his friends? murders. Not a pretty sight.

He saw in his mind his friend Hazleton. Down his back, blood ran. An ax was deep into hid chest. Blood was squirting everywhere. The man that did it was prying open Hazleton?s chest. Digging for Hazleton?s heart. Blood was covering his back. Perched on his head was a knife. His eyes scraped from his head. The ax had cut off his hand. The stench of death rolled of him. The man, who did this, was a maniac. Soon he fell to the ground. Spikes perched from the ground pierced him. Blood kept on leaking out of him. He was surely overcalled. The maniac let out a couple of word to George as he watched. ?You... are next.? The man said. The creature as George referred him to, stepped away.

George could no longer stand. He took from his pocket a knife. As the man got nearer, George stabbed himself in the heart. No longer could he stand it. George writhed in pain. The maniac soon drove his ax into George?s back. He removed the heart and put it into a jar.

[CENTER]_________________________[/CENTER]
Any problems just Pm me.

[Nothing]

[FONT=Garamond]Name: David Morte
Gender: Male
Age: 19
Appearance: David wears the mosk of youth and individuality, favoring artistic clothing he designed himself to much of anything else. He's tan with a clever face and messy black hair that sticks up in tuffs about his head.

Story-Snippet:

...what awoke Kevin that night was not his reoccuring paranoia, but instead a faint, throaty sound, like the growling of an angry cat. Slowly, with the heaviness of slumber he went to the window, and as he had before, turned on the outside light. The patio furniture remained undisturbed, but the noise continued, groaning now, perhaps a cat had been injured. He was about to turn off the light and go back to sleep, when he noticed on the edge of the halo created by the outside light, a fleshy shape, almost like a human, but somehow...wrong. Whatever it was, Kevin decided that the growl had resounded from it.

Even in the dark, Kevin could make out the shadows cast by mud and grime caked onto the thing's arms and legs, which spasmed in jerky movements as it made its way across the yard. Something shined on the thing's face where its eyes might have been, though the creature was too far away to tell for certain. Something about it, something unexplainable made the hairs on the back of Kevin's neck stand up, but as disgusted as he was, he couldn't help but watch the thing wander across his yard. The midnight cold created a mist on the window, and Kevin reached up to wipe it off, just enough to see the thing more clearly. It was stranger than he had first percieved, disproportioned, and strangely hunched over. But as Kevin examined it, he realized suddenly that it had suddenly stopped moving, and without looking, Kevin sensed that it was now entirely focused on Kevin himself.

It jerked around to face Kevin, revealing to him that what he had seen shining was wire, a thin metallic wire that barred its terrible eyes, and a grate across its gaping maw. Kevin started and immediately switched off the light so as to hide himself. For a minute, there was silence, even from the throaty groaning he had heard. The thing seemed to have run off. Kevin was about to turn back to bed, but just before he could, he felt something against his face. A warm, moist something, that Kevin recognized almost immediately.

Breath.[/FONT]

[madwitch5]

nice story white!

Name: Sam Sefer
Gender: Male
Age: 19
Appearance: Sam has black hair and blue eyes he loves to dress in black hoodies and baggy pants.

Story-Snippet: Sam sat down in the college library and opened up a book,as he began to read when he heard footsteps shuffling in the library. He looked up from his book "hmmm probly just kids" he said to himself and began to read again, Sam slowly got drowzy and drifted off to sleep in a matter of minets (sp). He was awoken by a slam on his chest that sent him flying across the library, when he regained his strength to pick himself up he winced at what was infront of him "Oh my god! it cant be its its the warewolf from my story!" the werewolf began to run twords him. Sam shuffled to his feet and ran ran for his life and luckly he made it, he brought the werewolf thrue a maze of books untill it was tiered out when Sam heard the werewolf stop he pushed a self over causing a chain effect and killing the werewolf.

OOC: i hope you liked my profile plz let me join your RP :catgirl:

[Zen]

[b]Name:[/b] Mike Olivo [b]Gender:[/b] Male [b]Age:[/b] 19 [b]Appearance:[/b] Mike is a tall, fairly slender young man. He stands around 6'11'' and weighs in at a lean 160 lbs. Mike enjoys keeping himself in shape through a variety of martial arts activities, so his muscles are fairly toned. He is usually seen wearing large, oversized clothing. Dark blue and brown jeans which often fall off his bttom are a favorite fashion item for him as is a large brown shirt with a dark navy blue hoody. He normally wears a pair of white and dark blue Umbro sneakers. His hair is a trimmed dark black which he keeps lifted in the front. His eyes are clear brown and his skin tone is a deep tan. He has a faily handsome, if not sloppy, looking facial structure, which he keeps normally unshaven with a scraggly mustache and small amounts of chin stubble. Sharp, thin sideburns follow his jaw bone down his face. He often carries himself in a care free, lethargic demeanor. [b]Story-Snippet:[/b] Mike wandered through out the old, decrepit house. The decaying corpse of what used to be a warm, hospitable home for some individual, or family. A large industrial flash light in his right hand was the only source of light in the abandoned place. Light fixtures hanging from the ceiling hung cobwebs and insect nests over his head. The walls were styled in a tacky old wallpaper, though the details of the design were difficult to notice in the moving darkness. Mike wasn?t sure why he had decided to enter this place. Maybe it was his latent curiosity, or possibly he just wanted to test his own bravery and to overcome something which had intrigued him for ages. Whatever the case was, he was here now, and all alone in the house which, by legend and fact, was once home to the victims of a cruel and merciless murderer. A psychopath without a conscience or remorse. Mike?s mind rationalized with itself to stave of fear. Death was death, and life ended on this Earth once a person died. [i]No such thing as ghosts[/I]. He uttered mentally as he listened to his echoing foot steps in the hall way. Each and every creek and crack in the floor caused his hair to stand on end, even though he wore an expression of calmness. He had been walking for a while, and began thinking to himself that maybe there was nothing of interest in his place. That he had only wasted time and emotion on the children?s horror-house. As he came to the end of a long hall way, he brought the flashlight up to see view a large, classy-looking painting of a young, beautiful woman garbed in an expensive 1940's dress. Spider-webs and dust has formed on the frame and edges of the work of art, but Mike was still able to enjoy the piece. He couldn?t help but notice the young woman?s beauty. Dark, curly hair which seemed to bounce on the girl?s shoulder and off the picture. Deep, dark eyes which looked directly upon the observer Mike gave a slight smirk and shook his head out of disappointment as he turned around. He cracked his neck and looked down the dark hall way which he had come down. He raised the flashlight in his hand to look down into the darkness and then felt his heart fall from his chest and into an abyss of fear. He looked upon a single pale woman standing grudgingly in the middle of the hallway. Her hair matted and hanging by the sides of her face like dead snakes. She looked into Mike?s eyes, gazing upon his horror with eyes like deep, reflective pools of black water. Her skin was pasty, pale, nearly slate grey in tone. A deep, disgusting slash wound across her throat spilt deep red blood and gore onto a white, old fashioned dress she wore very gauntly. Mike stumbled back in sheer terror. The woman stepped forward, and then disappeared, and within a split second, reappeared right in front of him. Mike gritted his teeth and held in a shriek. He then recognized with a deep sense of fear who this woman was, the one in the painting. The legends.... they were true. But Mike couldn?t. He wouldn?t let himself die. No, not to a ghost, not to a spirit. Not to something that couldn?t exist. Gripping the flashlight tightly in his hand, he raised it above his head just as the pale, ghastly woman began raising her hands up, reaching for Mike?s neck...

[Justin]

Name: John Fastwater

Gender: Male

Age: 19

Appearance: John stands a very average 5' 9", with chin-length blondish-brown hair. He has caramel brown eyes, sharp Native American features, and an equally Native American skin tone. He normally wears a wife-beater with a fitted black T-shirt over it, fitted, though ripped, jeans and running shoes. A flint arrowhead hangs from a lether string on his neck.

Snippet:

John rounded the bend in the trail at a full sprint. It was 6:23 AM, and he was nearly finished with his mile-long morning run before breakfast. While these woods weren't like the pine forests of his home in northern Alabama, he'd learned to enjoy their comfort nearly as well.

It was in the middle of his thoughts about home, the free-running creeks for which his family was named, the pine scent that permeated every fabric in his home, the cicadas singing in the evening that he was jarred back into the wooded hills of California. There was an unusual crack off to his left. The crack of a misstep. His grandfather had raised him in as near to the Choctaw way as a boy could be raised in this modern age, and in his raising, John had been taught that sound. Most of the time it was nothing--a deer, or even a fox. Back home the worst it could would've been a cougar or black bear, but here; there's different animals here.

Very soon, though, he came to realize it was no animal. There was another sound, distant at first; he almost thought he was hearing things. Then it got louder. He knew that sound; it was something else Grandpa had taught him: War drums. Suddenly he was surrounded by the sound of drums. He could peel the sound off him, it was so thick. It was so loud. He found himself on his knees, tears fell to dried leaves on the trail but the sound of their impact was cut off by a piercing noise that snapped John into a reality with no more drumbeats.

John lifted warm, aching eyes to see his stalker: Dressed in a coyote headdress, with indigo war-paint streaked across his face, there stood what appeared to be a Choctaw warrior. He opened his mouth a let loose another blood-curdling warcry. As he did, a plague of mosquitos emerged from his unnaturally wide, gaping mouth. Though, still stunned, John watched in horror as the plagued of insects grew so thick around him he could taste them in his mouth. It was only moments later that he took in his last image through the swarm: A bloody, beaded hand reaching into the swarm and snatching him by his very scalp. His next feeling was worse than the incessant biting. A feeling like his forehead was being cut by fire. Then it was black.

-Justin

[Ellerby]

[b]Accepted[/b]
Ozymandius Jones
Onix
Nothing
The Boss
Kam

[b]Declined[/b]
Split Keyblader
madwitch5

[center][b][size=4]Sign-Ups Closed.[/size][/b][/center]