Status

Recent Statuses

8 mos ago
Current @Zelosse Don't be like Rudy Gobert, DPOY - Dumbest Player of the Year. Just don't.
2 likes
4 yrs ago
Just came back from being brutally, utterly wrecked at the 2016 Long Beach Dragon Boat Festival. Then nearly going broke after a full day at Disneyland.
4 likes
4 yrs ago
Congratulations Class of 2016! We finally made it out of the purgatory that is K-12 education! XD
1 like
5 yrs ago
Just placed 2nd with my robotics team at our tournament today. Only thing that kept us from 1st place was the dreaded L word: LAAAAAAAAAAAAG!!! T_T
5 yrs ago
What a day I've had! First a blackout no doubt caused by living near the Super Bowl stadium. Then a logical leap to work on my computer offline, aka clean a bit of dust inside only to nearly break it.
3 likes

Bio

What's up people, here's my intro, just deal with it. B)

Anyways, this is my first time forum roleplaying, closest thing I've ever done to this would be chatroom Mafia and organizing a Facebook faction page for gameplay, besides IRL PnP RPing. However I'm quite prudent and dedicated to being online everyday just to check for posts and such. I'm also very (overly?) assertive when it comes to dealing with game mechanics and GM rulings, and I will raise issue with the GM when I find one that's loose, unsatisfactory, or missing (I may come off as a harsh critic at times, though offering an assistant GM role would help XD).

From what this site offers, I'm interested in joining up a Free, Casual, or Advanced Roleplay thread. Specifically I'm interested in:
- High fantasy
- Cyberpunk sci=fi
- Deeply conflict driven
- Anything idealist/philosophical bound (then broken)
- Based on character origin/progression
- But I'm willing to try anything else if it sparks my interest!

Most Recent Posts

Fortunately, I was not punished by my hasty assumption that the door would swing inwards upon impact, which it does. I rush to hook my hands around it as it revolves, preparing to reverse its motion and slam it shut in the face of hell outdoors. Then I hear an actual voice reply to my aimless venting of fear. And for better or worse, I had hoped to die in the company of someone else out here who could respond to me in a language other than guttural, and leave me in a last, rational state of mind instead of bewilderment.

I hold the door long enough for a petite figure to slip in, and finally shut the lid on the encroaching fog. The howls subside under the rhythm of my heavy breathing, and my body thumps to the floor, leaning every which way in exhaustion. I look up to check on the state of my companion, Gloria was it? Wait, long blonde hair to the thighs, American accent, and that ridiculously weighty purple earring...

"...You're my flatmate, aren't you Gloria? The Yank-er Miss Hathaway, down the hall opposite side from my door?"

With that realization, time slows down as my head races in possibilities. They all lead to the same conclusion however, the creeping realization that I really, possibly could not be in a dream. I was never religious, though my parents did each sit on pews in their childhood before skipping Sundays, but now I draw on every bit of paranormal, supernatural knowledge I can muster, where math, science, and God knows economics cannot help me explain now this unfortunate twist in my life. Again, London is nowhere near the coastline for this dense a fog, nor did it reek of chemical pollutants attributed to smog. What canines would also exist in the entirety of Great Britain, less so let loose to terrorize the populace, unless the immortality memes about the Queen have just been proven to involve lycanthropy? What did I do to deserve an early glimpse of Hades?

I refocus on Gloria while still struggling to comprehend just the space we occupy even. The building walls here look complete instead of haphazard, jagged jigsaw pieces, but the walls dull any light, and seem to absorb the empty space around us further into the room edges cloaked in darkness. If not for the sheen of Gloria's blonde hair helping to outline her, my eyesight tracking indoors would have been compromised as much as the haze had done outside.

"I-I don't know where to pick up, from when we last met. But I think we could start by retracing our steps today. I honestly thought this is all just a dream, though not to count out the chance I could be having a dream with you in it, er..."

@Landaus Five-One
You called?
Then I hear the howling getting closer. I freeze to determine its direction, then realize my idiocy to now be in the position Tryg the Nord was, in the path of whatever chilling sound echoed behind me. Not to concede whatever advantage I could recall in hindsight, I creep forward in a game of chicken between the edge of a blade and some unknown, gnashing monstrosity, "A-Alright, now get a move on will ya?"

The howling abruptly stops. My senses naturally go into overdrive to pick up even the faintest replacement uttered by the beast, and I swear there is a new droning or rumbling noise, connected or not. I stop short of Tryg, inexplicably frozen in his stance, from fear or indecisiveness? Well, the bloody lot that was worth throwing in, thinking any sod with a bit of steel could protect me, or at least prove a distraction. I turn my head back one more time for confirmation of the less pitiful of my choices, and meet several, glowing golden eyes.

My mind goes blank, and my legs start churning. I recall unceremoniously shoving the Nord to the side, leaving him to be swallowed by the fog or more. The howling starts once more, and seemingly bounces all over the place as my fear interprets it emanating from the choking, dense fog itself. As my energy begins to dwindle, my legs stumble in random directions and everything starts swerving around me, or perhaps the pitch dark ground tremors with the sound waves of a cacophony in pounding heart and nightmare fuel.

Coming into view, two figures in vague yet humanoid shapes appear. I right myself within that field of vision, but instead focus on the sharper image of some sort of doorway, a better haven than again negotiating for protection with someone that could be worse than a Viking. I rush past the two and throw the last of my strength into bull rushing the door, gasping, "Oh, f-fock, they're coming! They're coming!"

@WXer@Landaus Five-One
I just let my eyes blink in confusion for a few good seconds. Didn't realize my brain could make such bloody, brilliant excuses for dream logic. If only I would've been that wise to my parents before, maybe I could have gone out with the lads more often than be sat down marking checkbooks. I would have to be dreaming up those hypothetical mates as well.

Removing one arm from a pocket, I imagine it becoming the length and point of a switch, with the sturdiness of a dark wooden cane supporting a Victorian figure, and extend my pointer finger at Tryg the Nord, shaking. Again I feel a weight in raising my arm where a dream would erase it, or should I believe the loony, yet self contained proposition that this is an actual world? Regardless, there is no room for trust however many levels deep this inception goes. I counter in motion his advance, rounding about his side not wielding the sword, not replying until I cross around at right angles then further.

"Right, and the Queen will come on air any moment now, and explain why London or wherever in hell is covered by this damn fog. L-Look'ere, you can walk up to me all casual with steel to boot, but it's still every man for himself. You best stay in front and away from me, if you plan on cutting something or someone else. A-And if we happen to cross the line into Birmingham, I swear the mates I know there, they will give you a happy slapping to remember, if you dare focking mess with me Tommy R."

@Rethel34
I look up at the clear voice ringing through the fog. What accent is that, Nordic? Well, the better non Briton people to meet than any other sodding immigrants. I must have synthesized the accent in my brain from the occasional encounters I've had with Nords, Swedes, and Danes around Birmingham.

The figure belonging to the voice comes into view, black top with a gray jacket, garish looking khakis standing out in the grayer fog, and an outlandishly expensive looking pair of wide frame glasses to top off their fashion statement. I stand back up, brushing off the condensation from my more presentable hoodie and trousers, then stuff my hands into my hoodie pockets.

"Well now, Vikings innit? Some modern day invasion of our shores, explaining this fog that should be closer to the coast, and you're the messenger? Get on with it then, this dream couldn't drag on any longer. I got macroeconomics at 5, so if you could bop me on the head, that'd do me a favor at least."

@Rethel34
Rule number one of surviving in a lucid dream and possible nightmare: get out of the building. Every corner of a hallway could hide a bogeyman waiting to lunge forth, and within each shadow could lurk a hypnotizing specter spellbinding you before eating your face off. Outside, you get space and distance to put between you and any imaginary pursuers materializing out of your paranoia.

My body feels...normal though, as I carefully place a palm against the broken frame of the jagged glass doors to push them open. Neither lightweight like I'm floating, nor heavy with the weight of tension like a monster breathing down my neck. I just wander forward, my eyes scanning then drifting themselves as I fail to recognize any landmarks within the Thames' Edge campus that I passed by. The fog limited clear visibility around me to the size of my flat bedroom, and droplets of moisture soon clung to my skin and clothes chilling me slightly.

I suddenly hear a scream in the distance, inhuman maybe...? Rule number two is definitely to avoid anyone and everyone screaming bloody murder to not share their fate. Except, fock, I now notice I stand in a space identical at all angles, in all directions nothing but the same cobblestone like ground with indiscernible pattern leading to indiscriminate gray air. I have to violate my principles this time to gain some sort of bearing, not like I ever dreamed of walking in the fog before.

In the direction of continued screams, I finally approach another building with similar structure to the one I left and grumble. Maybe I should just stand in front of here, have a seat on the ground, and wait for something to eventually approach and mess with me. Or keep moving and risk braving the possible labyrinth beyond. Deliberation keeps me burning time until I can wake up from all this eventually.
The lecture enraptured me. Not all lectures had to lull your brain into inactivity rather than as intended. There's a method to avoid giving off those signals that put even the wary to sleep, but I wouldn't know it myself. The professor, a graying gentleman wearing wide rimmed glasses and bow tie straight out of last century, looked at first the old coot who also fibbed as much. Until the words that came out of his mouth sounded like a reconstruction of all the economic texts I'd ever read, building blocks for a near utopia. Keynes, Malthus, Ricardo, Smith, all channeled their spirits into one man's utterance, bridging the pure ideals of yesteryear, an age closer to when my senior professor was born, to our increasingly twisted present world I must now learn to preside over its corruptible systems. Until now, my teachers were neither educated nor skeptical in their approach to fill my mind with the mainstream propaganda my mind could already, inevitably sponge from listening to some daft BBC news. The only commonality was still having to weed out the liberal agenda stuck down both the government’s and most British educational institutions' pants, Thames' Edge being no exception.

No worries. If there's one thing to take from online meme culture to the real world, anything can be co-opted for any political platform. Anything.


A buzzing in my pocket breaks me from my post-class reverie. I pull out my mobile, fully expecting the contact name across the screen. What's she gone and twisted her knickers for now?

"Yeah Mum?"

"Tommy, how have you settled down over there in London? Alright?"

"Yeah. That's all you're asking?"

"Actually, I have a few issues I need to discuss with you."

I roll my eyes, and sink my body and mind into cushier depths, in preparation for a long one.

"Go on then."

"Your Dad's secured another interview, but the site's a bit ways out of the city on the outskirts, about 40 to 45 minutes driving. Have you calculated the portion of our expenses to maintain the car?"

"Not for that amount of time on a one way trip, no. But if the wages are worth enough, you can dig a bit into our nest egg just this month," I sigh, and go into lengthy detail how high those wages should be exactly to justify the added expense, the price trend of petrol in Birmingham to predict sustainability, and petrol stations located along the route to the job site Mum describes, with the help of our Google overlords. I plug in my earbuds to swipe on the screen while speaking, which pick up the faint, hurried scratching of a pen. At least she's better than Dad's bold attempts at memorizing ledgers like limericks, with the part of his brain that isn't fossilized yet.

"Right on, now the pantry we frequent the most has been facing shortages, so they say."

I tap on the mobile screen inadvertently, before replying, "There's no way around it. Once they're out, you can buy your favorite veggies at the greengrocer, only if on sale. At least I won't need you to cook my meals now. But that job Dad's found better be worth more than enough."

"True enough. Oh, and one more thing, the dryer's broken down again."

"Oh for fock's sake!"

The exclamation leaves my throat before I glance around, catching the curious eyes of a couple passersby. Then I hunch forward, pinching the bridge of my nose harder than the burning sensation of my cheeks, "It's the same part that keeps getting loose, wait for Dad to get home, he'll know."

"But your Dad's business clothes are inside, I need them dried and ironed by tomorrow for the interview."

"Well I don't know what to do all the way from London, maybe ask the bloody neighbors for once, they can already guess our situation anyways."

A long silence follows. If I were at home, I could excuse myself to my room to cool my head. But here, 2 hours away from Birmingham, a phone was my only efficient connection to close the distance between my family and I. Disconnecting from it would be leaving them to hang, without the pulse I provide to keep my Mom and Dad in stable conditions.

"...I'm sorry Tommy, I should start learning all the little things you used to do for me while you were around."

"I'm...sorry as well, for getting cross at you Mum. I have a lot of things to learn at university myself."

"That degree you're studying for, Economics was it? Are you sure you can make a living off it after you graduate?"

"Yeah Mum, you'll know when I show you my first paycheck."

"A ways away that will be."

I finally bid farewell and hang up. Somehow I feel drowsy, a little more exhausted than right after class. I stand up from my seat outside the lecture theater it was held, and resolve to head back to my flat. Maybe a nap before next class should be in order.

The steps I take on the way amplify the symptoms of sleepiness. First my eyes droop, then my shoulders fall forward, my feet drag across the ground in a shuffle, and numbness begins to set in from my fingertips. I barely jam them into the door handle of the student accommodation building, and tug it open before slipping in, just to collapse on the floor. My eyes voluntarily close to shut out the nauseating visions of the world swimming around me. The next I open them, I look up to see foreboding walls protrude in all directions like a jagged jigsaw, and through the formerly glass doors a scene of nothing but gray, unyielding fog.
I'm dunked on by a dense spray of freezing saltwater, moments before I wake up.

Wait, that's not right. Now my clothes and even messier hair are sopping wet, chilling me to the bone. Blasted ocean, never wanted a reason to head south towards the Atlantic or Channel for this matter. Which is peculiar that I would know the sensation of tasting sea salt on my lips, and feeling the weight of dampness in the first place. Right, my name is Thomas Robinson, and I'm most probably lucid dreaming, to an extreme degree I haven't experienced before.

I let out a sneeze, then scan the scene about me, from the wide blue cloths pulling against massive posts in the wind, to the three cylindrical towers lined down center row. The slippery floor rumbles a bit, as from the depths I feel a tremor followed by cracking sounds, and I make out a jagged pillar of ice in the fog pass by the railing on the side. Only then I realize I must be on a ship, not in the middle of the Atlantic or Channel but some Arctic hellscape.

A section of the wall from a shrouded building ahead turns outward to become a door, and a figure clad in the same blue as the ship's sails steps out. One by one, shadowy figures I missed lurking outside step indoors following the first figure, before I steal in right behind them, hoping to not be noticed and further wet. Just in case of anomalies like me walking into a freezer or gas chamber next in the dream sequence, I keep one foot out the door to bolt, into the bloody ocean if need be.

What immediately strikes me is the piece being hummed by the figure clad in blue, a proper instrumental arrangement I'd imagine comprised of piano and strings, yet no classical composers I know of ring a bell. Except all that comes short for naught, holy hell, is that what a senile Pinocchio looks like in my head--mate, not the childhood haunting I want to be in right now. Never mind the old coot's rambling, god those eyes right about bulging out of their sockets, talking about spares when you better get a mirror and sewing kit first yourself. Nah mate I'm out, if this ship's sailing nowhere, I'm gonna jump into the sea myself and get somewhere.

I move when the lights suddenly go out inside the room, but as I run for the railing and over, my surroundings begin to blur and distort like a waking transition, the solid weight of water in my clothing becoming lighter yet airy. The last things I notice when I turn my head back, are a strangely familiar head of long strawberry blonde hair, another of spiky black hair, and a sparkling card floating off the desk in the room bearing Roman numeral XIII.



I haven't set an alarm clock for morning in a long time, so I wake with a jolting start to the beginning notes of Musette in D Major from my mobile.

I shouldn't need it after the first week of university anyways, my internal clock will adjust soon enough to new schedules like I trained it to. Everything in my life must be routine, accurate and precise, for time is a finite resource. Sleep as long as possible, get up, pants on, business in the bathroom, hoodie over, bag shouldered, then out the door. The faster I do the latter activities, the more efficient results important stuff in my life outputs, like sleep and studying.

I open the fridge in the commons kitchen and pull out a loaf of bread, then take out a jar containing the baked, rather stewed beans I cooked the weekend moving into student accommodations. No complaints from the flatmates yet about my extensive use of the kitchen, though having taken advantage of everyone else still ferrying their boxes of extra rubbish to and fro. I only caught wind of two names myself, a Gloria with an accent likely Yankee still adjusting, and a Tyler, hopefully another good Briton lad, like there have been many in that camp since the vote. Right, that reminds me to check the local food pantry after classes, since my scholarship doesn't automatically undo poverty.

After having my beans on toast hot directly from the frying pan, I wash up and head out. Through the drab and harshly lit hallway, down the clanging metal steps, jogging out heavier than they should be doors, past students waving on the freshers, past another running student with two loose bangs flying in the air, past a table of students dealing cards to one another, past one sitting at their laptop in a campus common area I just enter, and even past a peculiar bunch of three, tall, short, and stunted. I know where I need to go and what I need to do, according to my class schedule and planned education. Why I'm doing this is an inefficient waste of thought, I fink.


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