Interested!
Dark Light Member
STATUS: Been 5 years since I posted a status! 4 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 6 mos ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 3634 (0.92 / day)
- VMs: 8
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Username history
- Dark Light 11 yrs ago
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Otakuforreal,
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icmasticc,
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PrinceAlexus
Status
Recent Statuses
4 yrs ago
Current
Been 5 years since I posted a status!
6
likes
9 yrs ago
It's a Chuck Palahniuk quotes kinda night.
9 yrs ago
... Something new
11 yrs ago
I'm so Fuckin' broken...
Bio
Most Recent Posts
Love this concept!
Played some VTM before but never mage...
Will start working on a character tonight!
Played some VTM before but never mage...
Will start working on a character tonight!
If there was one thing Clay hated, it was getting used or walked over. It rarely ever happened twice. On this occasion however, be it because of the booze he had been drinking all day or simply the entrancing hypnotic movements of her hips, he didn't mind getting used as a step and would gladly allow it to happen again, and again.
It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and finish his drink as the near hypnotic effect wore off. With a groan his chair scraped across the floor sharply as he stood to his full intimidating height. He had been called many things throughout his life and while most were aptly true, a viking biker best painted a picture of his muscular, broad shouldered, tattooed body.
He had often romanticised about the ancient viking ways until he remembered that they hadn't discovered the motor engine yet and then the thought of using a horse as a method of transportation quickly made him happy to born when he was. Almost forgetting why he took his first staggering step, his pale blue eyes scanned the room and then he remembered. Spotting the dancer take a booth Clayton casually strode over to her, causing at least one or two others to hold their seats, having not moved as boldly as him.
With a boldness or perhaps arrogance, he took her ordered mead from the bar and went to her booth, giving a well practiced roguish grin as he arrived. His pale blue eyes found hers and were rimmed with the faint signs of intoxication, but by his gravely carefree voice, one could not tell.
"I haven't seen you around here before, and I'm sure I would remember if I had. Mind if I join ya?"
Before his question had even finished rolling from his lips, he seated himself across from her and placed down her drink.@Assallya
It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and finish his drink as the near hypnotic effect wore off. With a groan his chair scraped across the floor sharply as he stood to his full intimidating height. He had been called many things throughout his life and while most were aptly true, a viking biker best painted a picture of his muscular, broad shouldered, tattooed body.
He had often romanticised about the ancient viking ways until he remembered that they hadn't discovered the motor engine yet and then the thought of using a horse as a method of transportation quickly made him happy to born when he was. Almost forgetting why he took his first staggering step, his pale blue eyes scanned the room and then he remembered. Spotting the dancer take a booth Clayton casually strode over to her, causing at least one or two others to hold their seats, having not moved as boldly as him.
With a boldness or perhaps arrogance, he took her ordered mead from the bar and went to her booth, giving a well practiced roguish grin as he arrived. His pale blue eyes found hers and were rimmed with the faint signs of intoxication, but by his gravely carefree voice, one could not tell.
"I haven't seen you around here before, and I'm sure I would remember if I had. Mind if I join ya?"
Before his question had even finished rolling from his lips, he seated himself across from her and placed down her drink.@Assallya
This sounds pretty interesting, count me in.
Aliseth
Prison - external
Despite the recent applications of oil, Aliseth’s pristinely kept royal guard armor still clinked and scraped, hissing at him with every step. The status and security it provided-the sense of near invincibility from its layered leather and metal-did little to balance out the discomfort.
Unlike most, who would sleep in theirs if allowed, Aliseth had recently taken to wearing it only when absolutely necessary.
This was one of those occasions.
Not for its protective function, but purely for its aesthetic and symbolic value. He was little more than a display of Lunarian might.
Rumor had circled of a renowned Aurelian metallurgist-enchanter visiting this forsaken arse end of the earth. Aliseth had vowed to see what that man could do about his cumbersome attire, Stuck up sun lover or not.
Of course, there were always other means of ridding himself of it—means that edged closer to reality with every degrading duty, such as today's glorified babysitting. He had given up too much to be belittled like this.
Putting the armor on had taken longer than the walk to the prison and had required aid from his new fox-sitting assistant. The lonely odd guard was highly susceptible to orders and rarely asked questions, qualities Aliseth found both incredibly useful.
Still, all complaints about the armor and that strange man vanished from his mind the moment he saw them.
Four Aurelian Royal Guards stood outside his destination, still as sentinel statues. Four of them!
The sight filled him with unexpected dread. 'Who could be inside to warrant such a presence?'
His eyes narrowed as he looked again. A lone Lunarian guard stood among them, amongst the opposing pillars of steel and iron, conversing with—
- The princess.
Aliseth’s sure stride faltered. He almost stumbled, the surprise hitting him like a blow to the gut.
'What? Here. Why?'
He didn’t have time to understand. He walked on, chin lifted, shoulders squared. Confidence worn like his second skin. His true armor.
The last time he had seen her, it was the back of her head disappearing into the darkness as she fled.
His gaze instinctively scanned the gathering again. No sign of Elara. The thought flitted through his mind, already dissolving as the Aurelian guards turned, all eyes locking onto him.
One stepped forward, chin raised in silent command to halt.
Even the falling snow seemed to obey, pausing with him, giving way to a heavy, notable silence.
Even without his psychic magic, Aliseth could feel it—hostility radiating from the Aurelian’s fiery gaze. Even if hidden in his gaze alone.
It was not surprising, not compared to finding the princess here. Only the most faithful and devout were chosen as royal guards. That meant they had spent their entire lives being told who the true enemy of their ward was.
And no matter recent orders, shifting alliances, or even iron discipline, that hatred and training was hard to forget.
Aliseth
Outskirts of town
""
Aliseth was two steps away from vanishing from the towns lantern light, two steps away from becoming lost into the darkness of the forest, when a sudden call came out from behind him halting his steps.
"Royal guard Kain!"
Hurried footsteps crunched through the snow, gradually growing louder.
Aliseth paused, frozen at the lanterns edge. Half in shadow-half in light.
"Aliseth, finally." said a young man on laboured breaths, as he came running up and stopped. Folding over as he fought to catch his breath, creating small ghostly clouds with every warm exhale. He wore the leathers and fur of a messenger and had the tell-tale satchel of one strapped over his left shoulder.
"What is it?" Aliseth demanded, his curiosity quickly growing impatient.
"... Was told. Give this. To you."
The young man said, pulling out a sealed note from his satchel and handing it over. Only then finally finding his breath.
Aliseth took the note and stepped towards the nearest lantern where he inspect the seal under the dancing firelight. Once satisfied or convinced of it authenticity he quickly tore it open. As his eyes scan the parchment a serious frustration grew across the features of his face.
The messenger instinctively took a step away.
Aliseth's fierce eyes leapt from the note and fell upon the poor young man. His gaze held there for drawn out moment, then snapped away.
"Tell him it will be done." with that flat reply Aliseth politely handed the note back and started walking back the way he came, not offering the man a single coin for his hard work, no matter how good his theatrical display of effort was.
'choices' Aliseth thought to himself. 'What was it he had said about them only hours ago? why was he still letting others make them for him?'
Then he thought of Elara. 'Where was she now? What choices had she made?'
It was so far beneath his station that this letter was a deliberate insult. Guard duty. Him. A royal guard. At the prison of all places. He couldn't believe it.
Date: Unknown
Time: Unknown
Location: Unkn—Clayton’s workshop.
Interaction: Open to anyone
Oblivion—
—Oblivious.
There was something peaceful to be found in the deep, dark depths of the abyss.
A sweet silence. The serene solitude.
The still, endless, total, absolute nothingness.
It was a peace reserved only for those counted amongst the dead.
Unfortunately for Clay, he couldn’t consider himself as one of them—not yet.
No matter how close he might feel.
And as history has taught us time and time again, peace is only ever temporary.
There were no exceptions here.
. . . .
A single stray beam of light filtered through a cracked window high above, glimmering as it descended, dancing through unsettled dust. It searched purposefully until it found Clay’s innocent, unsuspecting face. Landing on it with all the force and ferocity of a thousand suns.
A guttural groan of protest escaped the lycan’s dry, cracked lips as he tossed his head, vainly trying to escape his unseen tormentor. But every sluggish movement brought on its own unique kind of torture.
In his anguish, a sudden dry cough tore its way from his lungs, awakening him with more unrelenting pains as the jagged, rasping breath broke free.
Everything ached. Every movement, every blink, every breath. His mouth was parched, his throat raw, his head filled with a relentless thunder. As the fit subsided and he drifted closer to the world of the living, he was met with a punishing cacophony of sounds lashing at his sensitive ears.
A fly with a personal grudge against him beat its wings maliciously overhead. A nearby stranger’s soft sleeping breath roared like a chainsaw in his ears. Even the building, disturbed by the slightest shift, didn’t creak—it wailed, loudly, with the voice of a thousand lost souls. Somewhere in a distant realm, beastly hounds howled for his soul, splitting his skull with every cry.
There was no escape.
Blinking heavily, trying to banish the blurry blobs and smudged shadows clouding his vision, he accepted the truth.
He was in hell.
Not the fire-and-brimstone kind from ancient sermons. Something worse. Drier. Louder.
Crafted from stale air, old carpet, and regret.
He could do little but lay there, defeated, and breathe.
Each breath heightened his awareness of the smells around him, every one of them settling on his tongue like a punishment.
The air was thick with the sharp tang of familiar ale. The slow rot of something long overdue for the bin. Smoke, old and bitter, soaked into every fibre of the furniture.
A ghost of cheap perfume—sickly and sweet—clung to the air like an unwanted memory.
And beneath it all, around him, on him, the heavy musk of body odour, sweat, and poorly considered intimacy.
His own breath tasted of it all, adding to his own personal hell, a noxious, acidic cloud that could fell a lesser man.
The ground beneath him was merciless. He could feel the fibres of worn carpet pressing into his bare skin. He was on the floor. Naked.
A weight rested heavily on his chest, warm and suffocating, pinning him down. Black, silky tendrils of hair danced across his skin as he thoughtlessly shoved it aside, letting out a soft gasp of exertion as he free himself, only to find more restraints twisted around his legs.
With a bit more care, he untangled the limbs entwined with his own, gently placing them back beside the naked body they belonged to.
The woman murmured but didn’t stir. He couldn’t see her face—turned away and buried beneath the mop of wild, unruly hair—but from the rest of her, she didn’t look familiar.
Not that he was surprised.
Gritting his teeth, squinting his eyes, Clayton Radshaw fought gravity itself as he finally sat up, instantly expanding his known collection of aches and pains. The spinning world took most of his focus and it felt like he’d left his stomach somewhere far behind.
Motion, it seemed, was not going to be his friend today.
He took a slow, deep breath, even something as simple as that birthed new anguishes in his skull. The aches and trembles slowly subsided and he began to acclimate to his senses.
Again, he breathed deep and slow, letting out another groan. Using the luxurious mattress of the large, expensive bed beside him, Clay pulled himself off the cold, hard floor and sat on its soft, comfy edge. Life slowly came back to his limbs.
That’s when he noticed the second womanly shape, curled up beneath the sheets, with a head of blonde hair sticking out the top.
Anger was his first response, jealousy that someone had used his bed while he slept on the floor. But he was far too hungover to blame someone for something that was probably his own doing.
He closed his eyes and searched in his groggy mind for that elusive, lost serenity.
Then he noticed it—a smell that had slipped by him earlier. Subtle, drowned out by the others, but unmistakably there.
Suddenly, he was alert.
Wolf!
He might describe it to a human as "wet dog," but it was more than that. As was often the case, human language lacked the capacity to describe things it couldn’t comprehend. But Clay knew it. He knew it well.
A wolf had been—or still was—here.
The realisation sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins, vanquishing the weight of fatigue and snapping his senses into sharp focus.
Suddenly, he was awake and standing.
His nose twitched as the taste settled on his tongue, his mind compartmentalising, isolating, diagnosing the new information.
Just like that, he was a coiled spring. Muscles taught, skin itching, the wolf within clawing for freedom, ready to leap to his defence.
He let out a sudden, soft, derisive snort.
No.
It wasn’t his defence it wanted.
It just wanted to fight. It yearned for violence.
Clenching his fingers of his free hand into a tight fist, Clay smirked.
He could understand that.
But if there was a fight to be had here, the wolf would have to wait its turn.
Ignoring the nameless, naked woman slumbering in his bed, his blue eyes only briefly passing over her voluptuous curves, Clay gave her just enough attention to rule her out as the source of his concern.
He took a slow, staggering, wince-inducing step toward the metal railing that marked the edge of his open loft bedroom, which overlooked the cold, industrial concrete floor below. He’d been living in his workshop so long that work and personal life had long since merged, and the chaos of that union was evident in every corner.
Stepping over the second woman still sprawled out uncomfortably on the floor, Clay continued toward the rails. His clumsy attempt at stealth wasn’t about kindness or silence, it was about appeasing his own aching head.
At the end of his short, uneven trek, he was surprised to find—almost as if by magic—a nearly empty bottle of whisky in his hand.
Not one to question the gods, Clay wet his lips and took a deep swig from the bottle, welcoming the expected burn as it ran down his throat.
It smelled like the hole in his memory.
And tasted like resposibility for all the bad decisions he couldn't remember. (well most of them)
With a pleased gasp, he blinked heavily once more—just as a definite sound from the workshop floor below caught his attention.
Naked as the day he was born, long dark hair wild and dishevelled over his shoulders, bottle still in hand, Clay leaned out over the metal railing. His sharp blue eyes swept across the cluttered concrete floor, across his kingdom.
Something was down there.
A thief? A client? Someone here on business?
The cops? A pimp?
A local gang member, sniffing about, thinking of trying to expand their turf—again.
Honestly, who knows who he might’ve pissed off recently.
It could be anyone... <-- hint hint, nudge nudge
Clay cracked his knuckles, adjusted his grip on the bottle and grin excitedly.
Time: Unknown
Location: Unkn—Clayton’s workshop.
Interaction: Open to anyone
C L A Y T O N R A D S H A W
Oblivion—
—Oblivious.
There was something peaceful to be found in the deep, dark depths of the abyss.
A sweet silence. The serene solitude.
The still, endless, total, absolute nothingness.
It was a peace reserved only for those counted amongst the dead.
Unfortunately for Clay, he couldn’t consider himself as one of them—not yet.
No matter how close he might feel.
And as history has taught us time and time again, peace is only ever temporary.
There were no exceptions here.
. . . .
A single stray beam of light filtered through a cracked window high above, glimmering as it descended, dancing through unsettled dust. It searched purposefully until it found Clay’s innocent, unsuspecting face. Landing on it with all the force and ferocity of a thousand suns.
A guttural groan of protest escaped the lycan’s dry, cracked lips as he tossed his head, vainly trying to escape his unseen tormentor. But every sluggish movement brought on its own unique kind of torture.
In his anguish, a sudden dry cough tore its way from his lungs, awakening him with more unrelenting pains as the jagged, rasping breath broke free.
Everything ached. Every movement, every blink, every breath. His mouth was parched, his throat raw, his head filled with a relentless thunder. As the fit subsided and he drifted closer to the world of the living, he was met with a punishing cacophony of sounds lashing at his sensitive ears.
A fly with a personal grudge against him beat its wings maliciously overhead. A nearby stranger’s soft sleeping breath roared like a chainsaw in his ears. Even the building, disturbed by the slightest shift, didn’t creak—it wailed, loudly, with the voice of a thousand lost souls. Somewhere in a distant realm, beastly hounds howled for his soul, splitting his skull with every cry.
There was no escape.
Blinking heavily, trying to banish the blurry blobs and smudged shadows clouding his vision, he accepted the truth.
He was in hell.
Not the fire-and-brimstone kind from ancient sermons. Something worse. Drier. Louder.
Crafted from stale air, old carpet, and regret.
He could do little but lay there, defeated, and breathe.
Each breath heightened his awareness of the smells around him, every one of them settling on his tongue like a punishment.
The air was thick with the sharp tang of familiar ale. The slow rot of something long overdue for the bin. Smoke, old and bitter, soaked into every fibre of the furniture.
A ghost of cheap perfume—sickly and sweet—clung to the air like an unwanted memory.
And beneath it all, around him, on him, the heavy musk of body odour, sweat, and poorly considered intimacy.
His own breath tasted of it all, adding to his own personal hell, a noxious, acidic cloud that could fell a lesser man.
The ground beneath him was merciless. He could feel the fibres of worn carpet pressing into his bare skin. He was on the floor. Naked.
A weight rested heavily on his chest, warm and suffocating, pinning him down. Black, silky tendrils of hair danced across his skin as he thoughtlessly shoved it aside, letting out a soft gasp of exertion as he free himself, only to find more restraints twisted around his legs.
With a bit more care, he untangled the limbs entwined with his own, gently placing them back beside the naked body they belonged to.
The woman murmured but didn’t stir. He couldn’t see her face—turned away and buried beneath the mop of wild, unruly hair—but from the rest of her, she didn’t look familiar.
Not that he was surprised.
Gritting his teeth, squinting his eyes, Clayton Radshaw fought gravity itself as he finally sat up, instantly expanding his known collection of aches and pains. The spinning world took most of his focus and it felt like he’d left his stomach somewhere far behind.
Motion, it seemed, was not going to be his friend today.
He took a slow, deep breath, even something as simple as that birthed new anguishes in his skull. The aches and trembles slowly subsided and he began to acclimate to his senses.
Again, he breathed deep and slow, letting out another groan. Using the luxurious mattress of the large, expensive bed beside him, Clay pulled himself off the cold, hard floor and sat on its soft, comfy edge. Life slowly came back to his limbs.
That’s when he noticed the second womanly shape, curled up beneath the sheets, with a head of blonde hair sticking out the top.
Anger was his first response, jealousy that someone had used his bed while he slept on the floor. But he was far too hungover to blame someone for something that was probably his own doing.
He closed his eyes and searched in his groggy mind for that elusive, lost serenity.
Then he noticed it—a smell that had slipped by him earlier. Subtle, drowned out by the others, but unmistakably there.
Suddenly, he was alert.
Wolf!
He might describe it to a human as "wet dog," but it was more than that. As was often the case, human language lacked the capacity to describe things it couldn’t comprehend. But Clay knew it. He knew it well.
A wolf had been—or still was—here.
The realisation sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins, vanquishing the weight of fatigue and snapping his senses into sharp focus.
Suddenly, he was awake and standing.
His nose twitched as the taste settled on his tongue, his mind compartmentalising, isolating, diagnosing the new information.
Just like that, he was a coiled spring. Muscles taught, skin itching, the wolf within clawing for freedom, ready to leap to his defence.
He let out a sudden, soft, derisive snort.
No.
It wasn’t his defence it wanted.
It just wanted to fight. It yearned for violence.
Clenching his fingers of his free hand into a tight fist, Clay smirked.
He could understand that.
But if there was a fight to be had here, the wolf would have to wait its turn.
Ignoring the nameless, naked woman slumbering in his bed, his blue eyes only briefly passing over her voluptuous curves, Clay gave her just enough attention to rule her out as the source of his concern.
He took a slow, staggering, wince-inducing step toward the metal railing that marked the edge of his open loft bedroom, which overlooked the cold, industrial concrete floor below. He’d been living in his workshop so long that work and personal life had long since merged, and the chaos of that union was evident in every corner.
Stepping over the second woman still sprawled out uncomfortably on the floor, Clay continued toward the rails. His clumsy attempt at stealth wasn’t about kindness or silence, it was about appeasing his own aching head.
At the end of his short, uneven trek, he was surprised to find—almost as if by magic—a nearly empty bottle of whisky in his hand.
Not one to question the gods, Clay wet his lips and took a deep swig from the bottle, welcoming the expected burn as it ran down his throat.
It smelled like the hole in his memory.
And tasted like resposibility for all the bad decisions he couldn't remember. (well most of them)
With a pleased gasp, he blinked heavily once more—just as a definite sound from the workshop floor below caught his attention.
Naked as the day he was born, long dark hair wild and dishevelled over his shoulders, bottle still in hand, Clay leaned out over the metal railing. His sharp blue eyes swept across the cluttered concrete floor, across his kingdom.
Something was down there.
A thief? A client? Someone here on business?
The cops? A pimp?
A local gang member, sniffing about, thinking of trying to expand their turf—again.
Honestly, who knows who he might’ve pissed off recently.
It could be anyone... <-- hint hint, nudge nudge
Clay cracked his knuckles, adjusted his grip on the bottle and grin excitedly.
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