DruSM157

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

Logged back in just to be excited again. Huzzah

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

Posting this here for those who aren't in the server.

@Euphonium

Whoops. Totally forgot about the discord

💟 An RPG Valentine 💟

@Inkarnate yeah I know you love me. You sort of have to love people that you're practically common-law married to in friendship.

@Ladypug You're one of the coolest people I've met through my weird times here. Thanks for being a neverending fountain of positivity.

@McMolly one day I am gonna eat one of your fancy pizzas and there's nothing you can do about it. I will fly out to the middle of nowhere. Just for pizza. Nah, you're also a great friend. I will smash spiders for you any day. Thanks for getting me through Bloodborne.

@NuttsnBolts if there ever was an Aussie with a bird that I could be good friends with, it was always you. Love you bud. Thanks for putting me in my place when I needed it, and also going ham in Bloodborne with me.

@Sloth you are a good friend, a good memer, and an okay person. Thank you for being you.

@Mara you have been there for me as a friend when I was in some dark places. Thank you, you sassy child you.

And everyone else I missed because I haven't talked to you all as much, thank you for being a friend and stuff. I don't really hate anyone on the guild, but it helps that I have stayed out of most of the shit and don't really do anything but RP every now and then. So we all cool, you weird nerds you. Unless we aren't cool. Which I guess would make us spicy.

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

There's nothing spookier than trees and rain and hipsters in the hills.

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

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The apartment’s curtains remained drawn, and whatever light came from the morning sun was blocked by the artificial night created by blackout curtains and poor living conditions. In the near pitch-blackness of the room, a figure moved, shuffling with meticulous awkwardness towards a shadowy bookstand. Hands raised up to gain balance, and a low utterance of a grunt came out of the man’s chest as he fumbled with a light switch, creating dim light in the room.

The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, contorting his skin as he groaned against the light, trying to find something in the mess of his room. Finally, he sat on an old sagging loveseat, covered in old blankets. The flashing red light of an answering machine begged to be checked, and he seemed to agonize for a long time before finally groaning again, making his way towards it, and pressing the “play button.”

“Daaavid!” The prolonged “a” with the almost insufferable nebbish voice made it quite clear who was trying to contact him. “How’s my favorite master of horror? Are you missing Seattle yet? Because I have some grreeat news for you!” more extended vowels and the promise of good news? It was Eddie Howell’s signature pitch; dress up the shitty deal and hope that David was too fucked up on his meds to say no. “A very cute little company out of Vancouver want to adapt The Screamers for a tv mini series! This could really do well on paperback sales of-” Click.

“Message deleted.” The answering machine voice droned on as David Marlowe slumped into a wooden chair at his small kitchen table. Eddie had spent the past two years tryting to get David out of Baltham and back to the “real world”. He always said that hiding out wasn’t the manly thing to do; and that he needed to get back into the public and get another big book published. Besides, the whole “scandal” deal was long forgotten. But he knew it had been forgotten because he had been forgotten. The moment his name was out there again, the faster the shit would hit the fan all over again. The gurgle of the coffee maker caught his ear; that must mean it was almost noon if it was boiling another pot. That meant he needed to start working for today.

“Sorry Eddie,” David muttered to no one in particular, “but there’s no way i’m going back to Seattle. Ever.” He finally forced himself up with a hearty groan, and poured himself a black cup of cheap coffee. He sipped at it, contorting his face with distaste, then carried the steaming mug to a dark writing desk in the corner of the living room. There he looked over the old IBM Lexmark his father had given him when he published his first novel. Still queued up on the page were a few...scribbles and musings, but nothing was solid. David replaced the paper, centered it; and prepared to write.

Fifteen minutes later he stood up, his hands shaking. This had been a common occurrence for the past six months: he would start a paragraph, and suddenly in the middle of it all; simply freeze. But this time had been different: it had been worse. David began to struggle to breathe as he tried to bring his fingers down onto the mechanical keys of the typewriter, and he found himself unable to think at all for a solid minute. Was this it? Was he coming to the end of his career as a writer? Would he die, here in this shitty hovel unable to even finish a goddamn paragraph?

“Fuck it,” He muttered to himself, walking over to his couch. He grabbed the remote to his television, letting the hum of the LCD screen tv flash bright vibrant light into the room. The news was on.

“-horrible accident today as several police officers were involved in a shooting-”

The channel suddenly changed to daytime soaps, then to crappy game shows, and finally to infomercials, until finally David hit the power button again, stood up and made a shocking announcement: “I have to get out of this fucking room.”

He washed, brushed his teeth, fixed his hair and threw on a jacket. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime; David Marlowe was going outside. At lunchtime.

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⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

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From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. H.P. Lovecraft.

The Whisper From the Dark. The Sudden Drop. Bloodcurled. You’d be hard-pressed not to find some of these kitschy horror novels in every bookstore in the northwest for good reason: David Marlowe was a hot commodity. Whilst ever-combatting the local art critics on what is “literature” and what is “trash”, David Marlowe was simply quite happy to exist as a relatively popular horror novelist; never hitting the high heights like Stephen King or Dean Koontz, but also never fading into obscurity. He lived a comfortable, albeit lonely life.

Growing up in suburban Seattle, David settled into writing during college, being published in magazines and in short story collections until his first breakthrough novel, The Screamchasers, hit the bestseller lists. He found himself doing book tours, working on C-Movie Hollywood hack deals and making enough money to live comfortably without working a “real” job. Shortly after his third novel, The Whisper From the Dark was published, David found himself in the middle of both a scandal involving a local politician's wife and death threats from overzealous fans. The stress nearly led to him having a complete nervous breakdown, and he sold his house, his car and most of his belongings making his way to a small apartment complex near the Sweet Bay Hotel. There, amidst heavy medications for his newly developed night terrors, David began an existence of quiet obscurity, still writing, but now keeping hidden from the public view.

Several locals claim that they know that THE David Marlowe lives in town, but most would be hard-pressed to even find the man. Now only leaving home at night, and keeping a few local contacts, David is more of a hermit with a typewriter than your average citizen. Even now every few years another book is published to moderate acclaim; even to keep paying rent and to keep himself fed, but never enough to truly be regarded as one of horror’s all-time greats.

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Physical Traits

David is tall enough, standing at around 5’10, but due to his lifestyle change and thanks to the drugs he takes, he’s begun to grow a slight paunch in the stomach region. Still, David is broad-shouldered enough to still be considered “strong”, however the past few years have led to his once youthful strength to become diminished. He can lift and run, but his stamina has greatly been reduced. His hair is cut short, black with grey tinges forming on the edges. His hair has also begun to thin.

David’s clothes can be considered “bookish”. Glasses, tweed coats or all-weather jackets, slacks and nice shoes are his usual clothing when he has to leave. His once clean-shaven face is now considerably bearded, and whilst he does trim weekly, it has a habit of becoming wild and stringy, especially if he goes a day or two without washing.

Full Name

David Harrison Marlowe

Gender

Male

Ethnicity

Caucasion

Sexuality

Heterosexual

Age

34

Motives

David is continually chasing that one great story; the one that will cement him into the horror anthologies for the rest of his life. His books sell well enough and he has a fairly sizeable fan community, but beyond two books making the bestseller list, he’s never had “true” success like the industry giants. He constantly tries to find new ways to pull out the horror from his mind, but in recent months, he has constantly hit wall after wall.

He’s found various things to blame: and the latest has been his medication. He will occasionally try to come off his medication, only to be plagued with nightmares and anxieties that leave him almost catatonic, until he is forced to take them again to be normal again. Not that he ever feels normal anymore.

Occupation

Published Author

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⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

Sample writing piece is in the same post as my CS. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go back to dying.

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

What a great time to get the flu and be barely able to move

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

@DruSM157@Inkarnate

hmu with that font you two are using for the cs

@Euphonium

I dunno I just steal ink's stuff