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Die Shize
Member
The Laughing Man
STATUS: Hey. It is a new day today. Maybe I will roleplay. Yay. 3 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 6 mos ago
- Joined: 3 yrs ago
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- Die Shize 3 yrs ago
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Hey. It is a new day today. Maybe I will roleplay. Yay.
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Welcome aboard!
Character:
Veron Blacktear
They called them vermin. Rats. For the Verm were birthed from the Great Rat. There was a great history lesson in there somewhere, but history was lost to time, a pale echo that no one cared to hear anymore. No one would listen even if the tales were echoed. Perhaps that was the lesson. Indifference. Ignorance. In the end, the truth was the lie, right? Only the lie was true. History was written by the winner anyway. That was the phrase. So even if the Last Rat spoke, and someone listened, there was never any certainty that whatever dripped from his lips was true or false to begin with, for he himself was neither true or false. He simply…was.
Like others of his kind, like so many of any kind, he was born in the womb. His Broodmother, some nameless creature, had given him into his clan. It did have a name, for broods and clans were groups and groups mattered. Individuals were less important. Only…this one had to disagree…and so he was banished from brood and clan, from cave and realm, from nest and home.
Some called him vermin. He wasn’t much different from the rest of his kindred, only in the context of many he was vermin in the sense of being a beast, a beast in the sense of being cruel, wicked, some ghastly, sadistic, destructive thing. He was Verm. He was Rat. Yet he was greater than his brothers and sisters, the lesser versions of their species, for he was Veshkei.
He made his own clan to his name, and his clan had rats with names, but they were nameless to him, forgotten and forsaken. Only one remained. Only one ever truly mattered. Only his name. Only me… He remembered as he blinked in naked shadow, where darkness had swallowed the light, where one eye was right, and one eye was wrong. I never forgot… He recalled his name, the only name worth its weight when it came to surviving the end times. It was the first name and the last name, for he was the first and the last.
He was Veron Blacktear. And his was a name that the denizens of Lagrimosa had come to fear before their land was ripped root after root, and the remnant of a dead civilization was spat out, bathed in the blood of his enemies, reborn in the afterbirth of a broken universe.
The Mad Rat, they called him, and maybe he was half-mad. Could he be blamed? As he gazed skyward, laying on his back in grass, naked, save for a lonely eyepatch, he wondered. His right eye was open, unblinking, once an orb black all over, obsidian, like the Verm, like his kind. Yet, amid his endeavor to survive, to escape, he had…changed.
He was something different today. He retained his tail and his horns, his skin was grey, yet it had no fur, and his face was more like a man’s than a rat’s. His right eye was still black in pupil, yet silver in iris, and white in sclera. As for the other, well, that was forever hidden. Some said his left eye was as red as blood, striped like a cat’s, and shined with malice.
Some said. A voice in his head said. I say…get up, Veron Blacktear… And so he did, but not for naught. He listened as much as he watched, and heard music, melody, strings of harp, and it had heart. He heard birds chirp, critters creep, smelled trees and beasts, blood and wood, but it was the music that had taken him in, so he followed it, and there he stood. There.
The creature by the lake, the musician, was no tiny thing. In his naked flesh, Veron stood seven feet tall, courtesy of his Shkei species, but what was she? His curiosity danced into the breeze like the notes from her strings, and one would have to forgive him. The creature before him was a woman who still had her head, whereas Veron had left behind a gravesite filled with the heads of men and women and children of which he had reaped in order to simply…be.
“You play that well,” said the rat to the spider. His deep voice came from a safe distance away, but whatever the power of either creature, well, distance and how much it mattered remained to be seen. “You are arachnid.” He stated the obvious. “Unless my eye has been deceived by some spell.”
@Spooder Girl
Veron Blacktear
Music OOC
The Mad Rat
They called them vermin. Rats. For the Verm were birthed from the Great Rat. There was a great history lesson in there somewhere, but history was lost to time, a pale echo that no one cared to hear anymore. No one would listen even if the tales were echoed. Perhaps that was the lesson. Indifference. Ignorance. In the end, the truth was the lie, right? Only the lie was true. History was written by the winner anyway. That was the phrase. So even if the Last Rat spoke, and someone listened, there was never any certainty that whatever dripped from his lips was true or false to begin with, for he himself was neither true or false. He simply…was.
Like others of his kind, like so many of any kind, he was born in the womb. His Broodmother, some nameless creature, had given him into his clan. It did have a name, for broods and clans were groups and groups mattered. Individuals were less important. Only…this one had to disagree…and so he was banished from brood and clan, from cave and realm, from nest and home.
Some called him vermin. He wasn’t much different from the rest of his kindred, only in the context of many he was vermin in the sense of being a beast, a beast in the sense of being cruel, wicked, some ghastly, sadistic, destructive thing. He was Verm. He was Rat. Yet he was greater than his brothers and sisters, the lesser versions of their species, for he was Veshkei.
He made his own clan to his name, and his clan had rats with names, but they were nameless to him, forgotten and forsaken. Only one remained. Only one ever truly mattered. Only his name. Only me… He remembered as he blinked in naked shadow, where darkness had swallowed the light, where one eye was right, and one eye was wrong. I never forgot… He recalled his name, the only name worth its weight when it came to surviving the end times. It was the first name and the last name, for he was the first and the last.
He was Veron Blacktear. And his was a name that the denizens of Lagrimosa had come to fear before their land was ripped root after root, and the remnant of a dead civilization was spat out, bathed in the blood of his enemies, reborn in the afterbirth of a broken universe.
The Mad Rat, they called him, and maybe he was half-mad. Could he be blamed? As he gazed skyward, laying on his back in grass, naked, save for a lonely eyepatch, he wondered. His right eye was open, unblinking, once an orb black all over, obsidian, like the Verm, like his kind. Yet, amid his endeavor to survive, to escape, he had…changed.
He was something different today. He retained his tail and his horns, his skin was grey, yet it had no fur, and his face was more like a man’s than a rat’s. His right eye was still black in pupil, yet silver in iris, and white in sclera. As for the other, well, that was forever hidden. Some said his left eye was as red as blood, striped like a cat’s, and shined with malice.
Some said. A voice in his head said. I say…get up, Veron Blacktear… And so he did, but not for naught. He listened as much as he watched, and heard music, melody, strings of harp, and it had heart. He heard birds chirp, critters creep, smelled trees and beasts, blood and wood, but it was the music that had taken him in, so he followed it, and there he stood. There.
The creature by the lake, the musician, was no tiny thing. In his naked flesh, Veron stood seven feet tall, courtesy of his Shkei species, but what was she? His curiosity danced into the breeze like the notes from her strings, and one would have to forgive him. The creature before him was a woman who still had her head, whereas Veron had left behind a gravesite filled with the heads of men and women and children of which he had reaped in order to simply…be.
“You play that well,” said the rat to the spider. His deep voice came from a safe distance away, but whatever the power of either creature, well, distance and how much it mattered remained to be seen. “You are arachnid.” He stated the obvious. “Unless my eye has been deceived by some spell.”
@Spooder Girl
Music OOC (Recurring)
The woman had asked, and a voice had called back in answer, in earnest, even as the former readied her weapon to blast back at an attacker or an infected, whichever. Nothing else mattered at this moment but protection, survival, even if it meant forfeiting a life she might otherwise save.
These words? Nonsense, really. Recited poetry. Regurgitated creed. Little and less. Long since lost and bereft of definition. Save who you can. Slay who is damned. An old friend had taught her, and Charley had wandered this dead earth as its daughter who defied the birth of its curse.
Words. Words are wind.
“So you say…” Charley responded to ‘no infected’. Alas, she had heard those words before, only for infected to almost get her killed moments later. A name came the next moment. Quinn Finch. Obviously she did not recognize it. Didn’t much care for a 25th fucking birthday either. Leg. Friend. Fever.
Charley pursed her lips, determining a decision as much as her position in these circumstances. She was not so callous as to abandon someone who genuinely needed help and would not hurt her in turn. Hell, might just help me. We'll see.
She debated the situation as the tarp opened just then. Training her weapon, finger on the trigger of a rifle not to be trifled with, another woman came into view, though no telling if infected.
“Dollar,” Charley offered across the distance. “That’s my horse’s name.” She ruffled his mane. “Good boy. What about you?” Rifle aimed. “You a good girl or you gonna make me wish I left this world and hell by shooting myself?”
@Atrocious
Music OOC (Recurring)
Charley had been to enough rough 'n' tumble places to recognize dangers when they stared her in the face. Vehicles on the street to her left, abandoned, while a stretch of emptiness looked at her forward, beckoning her onward, deceptive, like the very asphalt might take the breath from her chest and call her an asshole for falling for it or into it.
On her beast, her steed, the woman trotted forth, one hand on reins while the other hung at her side, waving in the breeze, ever ready to reach the handle of rifle or pistol, whatever the occasion might call for in her untamed adventure.
Amid her backpack, Charley carried all manner of things, from bottled water to ration packs, flashlights to spare batteries, ammunition and knives, whatever tools and utensils to stay alive, and there was no difference amid her person.
She carried a pocket mirror. It was useful to signal but, in that very instance, as she ruffled her fingers through the feathery mane of her horse, the desperation came from somewhere else. The woman caught on in an instant.
Sunlight in the sky, high and mighty, oblivious to the torment of the denizens of this planet beneath it, reflected off the woman’s visage as she squinted. It could be someone in need. It could also be a trick.
“What do you think?” The horse just whinnied in compliance as if already making up its mind. “Agreed. We’re too close for it to make a difference.” There was no blockade at her position so she had the freedom to make a decision to risk it.
Either way, she would find out one way or the other whether Atlanta was a city to seek shelter, and what better way than at the perimeter? “Bueno, amigo.” Charley snapped the reins. “Yah!” The horse cantered forth, galloped, into the city, toward the direction that the reflection had come from.
Horse and rider rounded street and alley. Charley cradled a rifle in her arms as she barked, if quietly. “Injury?” She beckoned at whatever makeshift entrance in the street. Too hidden to see anyone or anything from either end of the section. “If infected, better make your peace.” She clicked spit between her teeth. “Or I can send you to it in one piece.”
@Atrocious
Music OOC (Recurring)
Maybe it was his nervousness, but talking did distract him from the environment he was in, allowing for pockets of responses from his mistress. A mistress beside a gentleman, that was; a woman by a man, and not much else to it.
The problem with speech was people often mistook the briefest of pauses for an instance to interject, especially when it came to a sniff, but the reality was people didn’t always make a reply the split second after someone said something. Sometimes the reply to more than one sentence came afterwards.
Granted, Brad had been more focused on speaking than how word structure might look if it was written amid lyrics, but he did focus on Spider Lake Trailhead being less ominous of a forest than a city’s spaghetti junction—but even that was ominous.
Brad would have offered chocolate that very moment amid a nibble of nut and raisin but suddenly bacon had stolen his brain and then in the next instant Eva had landed on her ass. Was he supposed to catch her? He’d debate it later.
“You okay?” He blinked down at her, his thumbs dipped into the straps of his backpack. “My buddy said to always check your footing.” He offered his hand at last. “And bring snackpacks for midnight pudding.” Crap. Forgot those too.
Some time later the pair of adventurers found a small forest clearing of which to set up camp. It was by a creek that Brad promptly used to wash his face, drying his face on his jacket and his hands on his jeans, then his jacket and jeans at the campfire after slipping on a leaf and landing on his ass in the creek.
At the fire, he sat in a white T-Shirt and red plaid boxers with a stick to the flame with a marshmallow at the end of it. “You know, a marshmallow is like life,” he advised Eva. “It’s fluffy in the beginning, you can shape it like Play-Doh, but when it touches the reality of fire, well, it gets dark and dim and it burns and OH SHIT MY MARSHMALLOW” Brad’s began to burst into bright flames as he gazed, horrified.
@Blesses Blight @Czelsc
Music OOC
Sometimes words took a turn of hindsight, in retrospect, for better or worse, or whatever the heck, as Brad just stood there crossing one brow and raising the other, then reversing either, remembering other words only moments earlier after he’d already finished speaking.
To Brad’s offer of a Slim Jim for some much needed breakfast, Eva had mentioned she preferred her meat to be real, which left her third date questioning whether tonight would finalize with some well-deserved action.
That other guy? Brad didn’t catch his name but what the hey. Just gave a big, kind, friendly smile anyway to which the man with the Mustang returned. “Nice bike.” He repeated his thoughts aloud that time.
“Aight den.” He said as he turned to Eva. “Let’s get to trekkin, I reckon!” He snapped his fingers like a man who had suddenly discovered treasure. “Trekkin’. Reckon. Might put those rhymes in my lyrics? Whaddya say we discuss it on the way as we make the magic happen and—”
The rest would be lost to any watcher or pervert as the pair walked along and disappeared from the parking lot to the trail veiled by mist and other shit. “Spider Lake Trailhead.” Brad nodded as he chewed on trail mix, offering his partner a raisin sandwiched between a pair of peanuts if she wanted it.
“Sounds ominous.” He sniffed, picking up the scent of dampness, like morning dew, only moldy, amid decaying foliage. Shit. Why’d she pick this place again? Does she hate me already? He scratched an itch on his stomach.
“Ominous. Sound like a good band name? Jack thinks my violin is a perfect piece for our folk rock image.” He shrugged as he slipped an M&M between his lips. “Not that I like to define my band, that is. It’s more like ‘rock folk’ meets ‘folk rock’, Omnia meets Beethoven meets Ozzy Osbourne and— Shit.”
Brad paused their walk, snapped his fingers, frowning down at his missus in the makin’. He looked like someone had just walked over his grave and stomped on it the next second. “I forgot to bring the bacon.”
@Blesses Blight @Czelsc
Music IC
Fifteen minutes later—or was it fourteen?—sixteen maybe?—the red Mustang arrived in the parking lot otherwise on time. Windows down, music loud, a single occupant, a man, who sang along to the song as if the world was his and he shouldn’t give a damn because there was only one girl in it for him.
Parking his girl—other girl, that is—Susan, her name was—that Mustang—its driver rolled the windows up, switched the music off, took the key out of the ignition, got out, backpack on back and a blue leather jacket, and yawned with his arms to the sky. “Hi!” He looked left, looked right. Spotted another guy. Nice bike.
“Did you have breakfast?” He asked Eva. “I had some peanut butter toast. Burnt it. Kinda rushin’ out this mornin’. I got this Slim Jim though.” He offered half of it to her. “Sorry, buddy.” He didn’t have enough to share with the other person. The stuff in his backpack had to be maintained.
“We ready?” Brad asked Eva happily, if cluelessly. The trees looked misty. Creepy…
@Blesses Blight @Czelsc
Character Sheet Outline
Character Name: Brad
Character Type: Victim
Appearance:
Gender: Male
Height: 6’2”
Eye Color: Green
Distinctive Features: A charming smile as self-ascribed and a scar where the sun doesn’t shine
Background: Born in the city, almost broke his back working on the ground, learned to play the violin, met a woman, can’t remember whether it was his music, construction work or his grin that won her over but whatever
Personality: Happy-go-lucky, but serious when he needs to be, especially for his mistress…maybe
Skills and Abilities: Can stroke the bow if not quite pluck the bow and arrow. Is good with his hands and can dance. Loves Tetris. Absolutely sucks at it.
Equipment:
-Backpack/Person
-Jerky bars
-Power bars
-Fruit bars
-Banana
-Canned fish
-Sandwich
-Trail mix
-’Smores ingredients
-Hotdogs
-Kit-Kat
-Water
-Two cans of beer
-Hotdogs
-Flashlight
-Headlamp
-Compass
-Knife
-Multi-tool
-Paracord
-Tape
-Lighter
-Matches
-Music player
-Pen/Paper/Sharpie
-Bubble gum
-Cell phone
-Clothing
-Deodorant
Character Goals: To make out!
Role in the Story:
Another random little hiker in a creepy forest whose third date (future fiance if he gets his way) decided it would be a good idea to explore a creepy forest. He decided to bring food and drink. His friend advised to take some survival items besides. You can fit quite a bit in your backpack and on your person. He’ll need it because he has little experience in forests except getting drunk with his friends and forgetting it the next morning. It happens.
Character Name: Brad
Character Type: Victim
Appearance:
Gender: Male
Height: 6’2”
Eye Color: Green
Distinctive Features: A charming smile as self-ascribed and a scar where the sun doesn’t shine
Background: Born in the city, almost broke his back working on the ground, learned to play the violin, met a woman, can’t remember whether it was his music, construction work or his grin that won her over but whatever
Personality: Happy-go-lucky, but serious when he needs to be, especially for his mistress…maybe
Skills and Abilities: Can stroke the bow if not quite pluck the bow and arrow. Is good with his hands and can dance. Loves Tetris. Absolutely sucks at it.
Equipment:
-Backpack/Person
-Jerky bars
-Power bars
-Fruit bars
-Banana
-Canned fish
-Sandwich
-Trail mix
-’Smores ingredients
-Hotdogs
-Kit-Kat
-Water
-Two cans of beer
-Hotdogs
-Flashlight
-Headlamp
-Compass
-Knife
-Multi-tool
-Paracord
-Tape
-Lighter
-Matches
-Music player
-Pen/Paper/Sharpie
-Bubble gum
-Cell phone
-Clothing
-Deodorant
Character Goals: To make out!
Role in the Story:
Another random little hiker in a creepy forest whose third date (future fiance if he gets his way) decided it would be a good idea to explore a creepy forest. He decided to bring food and drink. His friend advised to take some survival items besides. You can fit quite a bit in your backpack and on your person. He’ll need it because he has little experience in forests except getting drunk with his friends and forgetting it the next morning. It happens.
OOC:
Character:
Kyn Mati
The ship descended. A simple vessel. Created for the public. To ferry passengers to and fro. Didn’t matter what status. Didn’t matter the passenger as long as they could pay their way, ke? One woman did. She wasn’t much of a politician. Wasn’t even much of a soldier. But she wasn’t one to be so easily reckoned with.
“Where ya goin’ after this, kopeng?” Asked a passenger adjacent from her.
The woman looked at him for a moment, deciding whether to trust in him.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The stars harbor my trust. The rest is distant.
“En’t a steppin’ stone to me, beratna,” she dared whether he’s a brother.
It was hard to tell. Sometimes the guy or gal on your left or right is a friend.
A fellow Belter. ‘Beltalowda’ as the term went, to refer to them—us Belters.
Then again, wolves fought wolves and not all dogs got along. To last breath.
She remembered the sentiment of another’s word in this dangerous universe.
“Maybe you gone for Pallas Station after this, yeah?” Her passenger questioned.
She watched, she listened. “Not so distant, I reckon. It good for mining business.”
He isn’t wrong. Pallas boasted a strong mining economy. “For Inners, ultimately.”
He chuckled. “We all pay our way, sister.” She smiled. “As slaves. As we bleed.”
The guy can take her reply any way he wanted. He was not her brother. Not really.
The vessel approached the space station and it isn’t Pallas. If not much different.
Not really. One home in the Belt’s as good as any other, some Belters will agree.
No mining outpost, though, Mira Station was a trade zone—of cheese and beef.
That’s another saying amid its inhabitants. Cheese was a commodity on Ceres.
Another saying, another story, another station, that spread around and between.
An inside joke, maybe, that more than a Belter knows. Yet Mira Station’s different.
Not completely, surely. It has its own politics. Its dealings beside trade agreements.
The transport ship touched down on ground, as far as the station would allow.
“To pochuye ke?” Her fellow passenger asked of her. She shrugged in a reply.
“Mi pensa.” She grinned. He did too. “Da diye de.” She replied. Eyes into eyes.
He fell silent. So much for beratna. Her gaze on Mira Station. Freedom. I vow.
Character:
Kyn Mati
Music OOC
The ship descended. A simple vessel. Created for the public. To ferry passengers to and fro. Didn’t matter what status. Didn’t matter the passenger as long as they could pay their way, ke? One woman did. She wasn’t much of a politician. Wasn’t even much of a soldier. But she wasn’t one to be so easily reckoned with.
“Where ya goin’ after this, kopeng?” Asked a passenger adjacent from her.
The woman looked at him for a moment, deciding whether to trust in him.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The stars harbor my trust. The rest is distant.
“En’t a steppin’ stone to me, beratna,” she dared whether he’s a brother.
It was hard to tell. Sometimes the guy or gal on your left or right is a friend.
A fellow Belter. ‘Beltalowda’ as the term went, to refer to them—us Belters.
Then again, wolves fought wolves and not all dogs got along. To last breath.
She remembered the sentiment of another’s word in this dangerous universe.
“Maybe you gone for Pallas Station after this, yeah?” Her passenger questioned.
She watched, she listened. “Not so distant, I reckon. It good for mining business.”
He isn’t wrong. Pallas boasted a strong mining economy. “For Inners, ultimately.”
He chuckled. “We all pay our way, sister.” She smiled. “As slaves. As we bleed.”
The guy can take her reply any way he wanted. He was not her brother. Not really.
The vessel approached the space station and it isn’t Pallas. If not much different.
Not really. One home in the Belt’s as good as any other, some Belters will agree.
No mining outpost, though, Mira Station was a trade zone—of cheese and beef.
That’s another saying amid its inhabitants. Cheese was a commodity on Ceres.
Another saying, another story, another station, that spread around and between.
An inside joke, maybe, that more than a Belter knows. Yet Mira Station’s different.
Not completely, surely. It has its own politics. Its dealings beside trade agreements.
The transport ship touched down on ground, as far as the station would allow.
“To pochuye ke?” Her fellow passenger asked of her. She shrugged in a reply.
“Mi pensa.” She grinned. He did too. “Da diye de.” She replied. Eyes into eyes.
He fell silent. So much for beratna. Her gaze on Mira Station. Freedom. I vow.
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