Recent Statuses

4 yrs ago
Current To all I'm in RPs with: I apologise if my replies are sparse. Life isn't kind.
5 yrs ago


My name is DJ.
I am a roleplayer.
A roleplayer of roughly a good decade now.
I write a lot of things, and am able to roleplay a lot of things.

Random Things about me
- I run a small YouTube channel.
- I listen to a helluva lot of music. Love music.
- I'm from Singapore. It's a little island in Southeast Asia.

Anywho, I've not been RPing for a long long time, but here I am, hopefully to make a few friends and RP some.

Arena Stats

2 Wins / 2 Losses / 0 Draws
1200 points

Most Recent Posts

Damn, so many roleplayers I know in this thread.

I may not be applying for a spot, but I'm definitely gonna be reading this one.
Well. Good to see you again Hex.

Since there seems to be a lot of people already, I'll watch this topic for now. I always enjoyed reading your roleplays.
We gonna continue this?

Five Springs Church, Central Araminta

As Sawyer entered the church and the others followed him, he saw a mousy young lady standing ahead of the group and stopped. His first instinct was to raise his camera to take a photo, which he did; framed expertly against the backdrop of old, rotten pews, cold, moss-covered walls and the light rays streaming in from gaps in the ceiling of the abandoned church. A picture to remember. Then he chuckled as he grinned and rubbed the back of his head rather sheepishly, letting his camera fall back onto his chest. As the young lady explained that her name was Brianna, he blurted out his apology.

"Sorry. Force of habit. You're the one that called us here, eh?"

Sawyer took a back seat as the others asked questions and made idle banter; some not believing the situation they were in, others taking it with a grain of salt, generous in their belief but skeptical of her intentions. Then there was mention of a Witch. A mythical being, although grounded in reality the subject of many 90s young adult novels and fiction. Stuff he'd read about, growing up in such a religious town like Araminta, as the product of the devil's influence in the writers of today. Blasphemous. Sinful. And yet, standing in that abandoned church as a writer himself, Sawyer saw the irony in the situation. Not very deeply religious himself, but here he was, investigating something that railed against every religious bone in his body, of which there were few. Mostly overruled by those of curiosity and concern for the wellbeing of his fellow man. He was here to investigate and to follow this story to its logical, or even illogical conclusion.

So even as some of the group were inclined to disagree with Brianna being able to help them, Sawyer shook his head and chuckled, mostly to himself.

"I uh, I'm not sure what the game is here, but y'know me. I'm always hungry for a new story to write. Consider me-"

And then the noises came. A loud thumping on the closed church doors that rocked them in their hinges, dislodging dust and dirt from the frame as a loud growl issues from the other side, muffled by wood and stone. It startled David out of his mood, and he followed the noise as he backed away from the door, watching where that big something-or-other was thumping its way up the front of the church, up onto the roof. Then it came crashing down on top of them, lost within a flurry of dust and loose stones and ceiling tiles. David leaped out of the way, hugging his satchel and camera to his chest as he tumbled away from the chaos of the roof caving in. He was behind Amanda, the police officer, as she pulled her personal firearm from its holster and pointed it at the spreading cloud of thick dust, but only heard that same loud growling. The journalist couldn't resist the opportunity and raised his camera to take a picture, framing Amanda against the backdrop of dust, her gun pointed at the uncertainty of the monster within the cloud of dust.

But after that, he turned off his camera, held his things close to his chest and scrambled backwards, letting his survival instincts take over as he tried to put as much distance between himself and...whatever that thing was.
Hope everyone's had happy holidays! Late Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all!


David's apartment, Downtown Araminta. January 3rd, 6:02 AM

The beeping of an alarm clock heralded the start of another morning. David's sleep-addled hand scrambled for the yowling clock and turned the alarm off, before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he rose.

The man's morning routine wasn't simple; thirty push-ups, forty push-ups and a two mile run from his apartment to Williams River and back again. All done to wake up his body and get the blood pumping. A warm shower to relax. Then a simple but hearty breakfast of toast, eggs and coffee as he read the morning papers. Ironic for a journalist to read the very same paper he wrote for, but his reason was that he rarely, if ever, knew what his colleagues wrote for their columns. Work in the office was mostly segregated by column, even though they worked in a big shared space, so even though he knew everybody in the paper by heart, he rarely knew what they wrote. Such was the case today; his friend Eric Thorn was in charge of the headliner for today's copy, a gripping two page story about the mayor's latest bid to urge the populace to report any suspicious behaviour to the police, in the wake of yet another killing believed to be related to the Horde. The paper was making a killing on the serial killer story, but inwardly David always wondered when the buzz would die down. After he'd finished eating, it was time to get dressed for work.

The only thing that interrupted his routine today was the buzzing of his mobile phone during his breakfast. Normally, he didn't check anything on the device until after he was done eating, but today was an exception. The number that buzzed him...well it didn't seem to even have a number, just a text message that appeared on the screen. As David read the message, a familiar feeling welled in his chest, equal parts curiosity and dread. The old church? What did that place have to do with anything? And something about Ghosts? In all his years of seeing strange things as a photographer and journalist, this was by far the strangest. But a promise(?) was a promise(?) and so David went on with the rest of his routine and went to work like nothing had ever happened.

However, his nagging curiosity got the better of him. He had a plan that would both cover his ass and hopefully land him a new story to publish the next week. Near to lunch, David finished proofreading the writing he'd done on a smaller column for the January 7th issue of the paper and closed up his laptop, packing up his things to leave. Eric stopped him with a hand on his shoulder as he stood from his chair.

"Hey David, goin' somewhere?"

David smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah. For lunch. What's up?"

"You got that look about you that says you're about to go do something and not tell anyone."

"Yeah well-" He sighed, shook his head and grinned, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated, Eric. Long story short, I'm following a lead after lunch. I might not be able to come back to the office after."

Eric raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "One of those hush-hush things eh? This gonna be a front-page scoop or what?"

"I don't know. Only way to find out is if I follow up on it."

"Fair enough I guess. Got anything else that needs doing?"
"Nah. Just let the kids continue working on our website. I'll be back tomorrow to finish proofreading your piece and you can maybe get the guy we're interviewing for the page 5 going up on the sixth to come in tomorrow too?"

"You got it pal. Have fun doing...whatever the hell you're going out to do."

Five Springs Church, Central Araminta. January 3rd, 12:32 PM.

David pulled up to the church on his faded blue scooter, his signature camera hanging loosely from his neck and his brown leather satchel on his back, all very iconic things about the veteran photographer. There were already a few cars present at the place, parked in the church's old parking lot. The building was ancient, before his time, but he'd covered it for a historical piece in the papers a few years ago. The old dirt path leading up to the front of the church was still there, as was the rusting chain link fence demarcating the area. He'd taken many photos of the grounds and the building, both inside and out, and as he trudged up the worn path, a few familiar faces came into view.

David wasn't sure where he'd seen Officer Amanda Blackmore before, only her face and her name were prominent. He couldn't place if it had been at one of the first Horde killings or the massive pile-up on Main Street, but he vaguely knew her, if not personally then just by recognition alone. Probably had taken a picture or two of her on duty and then the picture had ended up as a page 3 or a page 4 report. Maybe. He couldn't be too sure. Jaden, Clara and Tristan were complete strangers, although there was something about Tristan, a familiar ring to his worn, young features that struck David with a sense of familiarity. One of the Horde killings? Was he related to one of the victims? There'd been so many in the last few weeks that he just couldn't keep track. Jaden and Clara as well, although it was their faces, not their names, that lingered in the back of Sawyer's memory.

Sawyer knew Astraea more by reputation than actually meeting her. One of Araminta's few poets and writers, he'd stumbled upon her work while looking for something that he could feasibly call 'Araminta's Art Scene'. And while Astraea's work wasn't, how d'you put it, conservative, her work stood out to him as a cry for creativity in a city stifled of such promising works. The piece he'd written about her had shed positive light on her work while not overtly calling out why some of the citizens didn't like her, instead he'd woven a story about needing to have understanding and tolerance in their community.

However, it was the last face that gave him pause. Archie Malcom Anderson. Local businessman, one of the city's few mechanics and a recent widow. A few months before the Horde's first victim, David had covered the tragic car accident that had claimed the lives of Archie's wife and daughter. The man who'd struck his vehicle had been arrested on DUI and two counts of involuntary vehicular manslaughter and had been sentenced to life. Since then, David had seen Archie in several bars around town. The man had changed, and not for the better. But the fact that he was out here...he'd received the strange text too. As did the rest of the people here. David briefly wondered how this mysterious sender had drawn a policewoman, a poet, one of the city's best mechanics and the town's lead photojournalist to an abandoned church as he approached the motley group, camera in his hands.

The first thing anyone would hear of Sawyer's presence would be his shoes crunching dirt up the path, followed by the snap-click of a camera shutter as David went on a knee and snapped a picture of the group in front of the church, framed just right that it would do good as a front page spread. He smiled as he turned off his camera and made his way to the group.

"Hey fellas. Guessing this isn't some kinda planned event? My phone says otherwise but, y'know, best to check with everyone, right?"

He watched as Archie strode up to the door of the church and pulled it open, the creaking of the hinges echoing into the silence of the afternoon. Naturally, his inquisitive side gave way and he grinned as he approached the man and clapped him a good one on the shoulder.

"Archie. Been a while, my man. Don't mind if I take the first step?"

And so it was that David Sawyer took his first, precarious step past the threshold and into the abandoned church, camera up and ready.
"God damn, Helena. Good thing you're okay though. Shit, what's the world come to man? This whole damn city's on fire, ain't nobody doing a single god damn thing about it."

Cole took a swig from his bottle of Coca-Cola and shook his head, exasperated by the story. Helena was a friend of his and to hear that she just went through what he'd been aching over for a long time now. His brother's death had been almost a year ago, but the emotional wounds in his soul were still open and sore, and every time he heard something like this, his heart ached a little more for his lost sibling. It didn't help that he'd also been a victim of petty crime just last week, and as the invisible "let's share our crime stories" ball was passed around the table, it reached him. Cole ran a hand through his hair as he took another swig from his Coke before he began to regale his friends with the tale of his most recent encounter.

"Aight so, last week right? I'm at the 7/11, on a night shift. I'm on the register, as usual, right? Middle of the Tuesday night, nothing's bound to happen, right?"

"So then, I'm just sending out a tweet on my phone, it's like, 2:30 AM, right? In walks these two fuckers, a big white guy and another scrawny black dude. I should've known they were 'bout to start some shit; the white fucker had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like he was holdin' onto something. Other guy walks up to the counter, starts talking to me, y'know. Guess he was distracting me or some shit, thought I didn't have the stones to fight back if they were gonna start shit. So they didn't know that we had a small TV behind the counter, had the CCTV cameras and shit on it. I saw the white guy sneaking off to the drink coolers. Popped open one of them and grabbed a few beers. Thought I didn't notice."

"I waited for the other guy to walk to the door before I called him out. Y'know, asked him where he was goin' with those beers stuffed in his pockets. That set 'em off. The dude in front of me pulled a knife, waved it in my face, yelled at me and wanted me to get the money out of the register. I'd seen girls with more stones than this guy, y'know? Anyway, I wasn't having any of it. I ignored the knife in my face and told his friend to put the beers back. Sneaked my hand under the counter to grab my baseball bat. Got a hold of it just as the dude with the knife in my face turned around to make sure his idiot friend wasn't followin' what I told him to do. Took my bat and smacked the knife outta his damn hand. Got the dude super pissed off. He tried to leap over the counter to get to me and I punched him in the gut with the tip of my bat. Pushed him off the counter and shouted at the two of 'em to leave, which they did. But I made sure to run after the guy holding the beers with my bat. Made him drop everything and he ran out of the store screamin'."

"And that was the rest of my night. Had to clean up all the glass 'n beer that got on the floor, called 911 'n stuff. Hopefully the CCTVs got something usable. Otherwise I would've done all that for nothing."

Cole crossed his arms and huffed, shaking his head at the thought of someone being able to best him. He'd clawed his way out of the criminal hellhole that he'd been in, only to encounter the same sort of menace that he used to be. Except now he had the experience to back up his words. Two bit thugs meant nothing to him, even as a lowly cashier for a 7/11.

"I'd tell y'all another story, but like, you guys have probably seen it already. On the news a year ago. When my brother got shot."

He shrugged. The pain still echoed through his mind and body, but he'd gotten over it enough to talk about it, at least.
I'm working on my post right now, but I'll probably have it ready tomorrow.
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