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20 days ago
Current Fun fact: John Table's password is apparently "I_Am_John_Table"
2 mos ago
ML would certainty bring peace to the status bar
2 mos ago
So your pancreas is cringing? Jealous
2 mos ago
My status: static
2 mos ago
I'm never gonna stop finding it funny how inappropriately named the status bar actually is when you consider how it's used


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In Enthralling 23 days ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
When the young lady spoke, he felt disarmed, having poured days of labor into looking like someone you wouldn’t have time to talk to. With effort, he unstuck his tongue from the alarmingly dry roof of his mouth and reached for words. He was planning on playing the role of a complete nobody, a disposable extra. He felt his eyeballs roll like pinwheels as his brain buffered and lagged before picking a stock character to impersonate.

“Yeah. I d’know why they call it that, but I’ve been at ‘em since before I could shave. My old man used to tell me that if you wanna get anywhere you gotta toughen up. Mind you, I was a scrawny thing. Y’gotta eat nails for breakfast, he tells me. Then that’s about when ma’ went, so that’s how we toughened up. By now I figure I drank enough of the damn things to be as tough as a whole hardware store. Patroned by a kindly demon in the bottle, we are,” he says, slurring his words a bit to lean into his inner lush.

Seeing the sparkle in her youthful eyes, he felt the muscle under his tongue crouch like it wanted to pounce, to scream get away from me but that didn’t really seem like the right approach. Maybe it’d be in character to lash out but it’d also be a super effective way to get a fuckton of attention and a swift escort off the grounds, maybe even a police escort if he was particularly unlucky, which he figured he was, any time that it actually mattered.

“Gonna be honest with you: I haven’t read a book in fifteen years and I don’t know what that word means. I’m here to look at the pretty girls in pretty colors. Nice,” he paused to cough into his rolled fist, “dress, by the way. But the closest I ever really been to an art show before was the bathroom stall down by the 7-11. To be totally honest with you, I think I should probably just go but maybe a few more nails will keep me here,” he said finishing his drink off before slipping it down the length of the bar like a hockey puck and triple-patting the table to call for another, being as intentionally obnoxious as possible before checking around to see if the professor had arrived. Seeing nothing, he turned his attention back to the girl.

“So how about you? Are you a part of the show or do you just really like museums?”
In Enthralling 25 days ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
In life, Matthias Van Aarde had been a restless soul. No doubt, he could've finished a marathon without ever setting a single foot on the pavement with the way he ran his mouth. The way things were looking though, that silver tongue would be staying in its holster. After all, it's a fine line to walk when your objective is to be invisible by merit of your own pitiable, repugnant appearance.

His ruddy, golden locks had been key to this particular penetration. He'd spent days flitting his fingers through his follicles, fastidiously fastening extensions in an effort to convincingly discolor his bangs into a grungy peanut butter chocolate cocktail, obscuring his face behind the carefully curated mop. He didn't mind saying that his efforts to disfigure his hair-do made the stylists who'd prettied him up for the billboards downtown look downright incompetent. He was pretty sure he actually saw some of them in the crowd, actually.

Dozens of perfectly posh people had sloshed through the backside of the Heritage Museum, dizzying and disgusting him, taxing his patience. He'd done little more than spinning his wheels, biding his time from the comfort of his sturdy wheelchair. Everywhere he went, the pretty people gave him a wide berth and looked away, turning up his nose as though his disability were either contagious, repugnant, or some combination thereof. That wasn't a surprise, in fact, that was the point, but never before had he so desperately wanted to see an ugly face. If he could just spot the slightest hint of Branwell's garish getup, he'd be elated.

He had no such luck.

Had one of the others gotten to him first? He wondered, as he rolled up to the bar, deciding that the smell of whiskey on his breath could really sell the illusion of being an invisible, burnt out onlooker. As he approached, he noticed a young girl, just as stylish as the rest of them, choking on a shot of something. A surge of empathy flowed through him as he felt her sandpaper throat attempt to hack up the very drink that had dried it out. It was kinda gross.

He suppressed the urge to throw up himself. After all, that would draw attention. After she was recovered from her drink, her eyes took a tour of the vicinity, a portion of the room that unfortunately included him. Their eyes met.

Was the repulsion he felt visible on his face? He stiffened his cheeks just in case, pretending not-to-care even harder than usual. There would be no talk of it so why would it matter? And so he finished rolling up to the bar, in sync with his rolling eyes, before tossing his hair back with a hedonistic hurrah and triple-patting his palm on the bar, making his wishes known: "I'll have a rusty nail if you got one."


The Enthralling is a collective of necromancers founded centuries ago, some even say millennia. Their number is unknown, but their methods are well understood. Under the eye of their most senior, most powerful members, The Lords of The Dead, they swagger through the world, stacking the fallen like dominoes. By and large, exceptionally few people are aware of their existence because of their uniquely treacherous discipline.

When The Enthralling kill someone, they are enthralled. If that sounds like a vague description, it’s because it’s extraordinarily versatile. The amateur and unskilled often kill someone before ordering the rotting husk to perform a task but the more creative of their number took a trick from the modern world and wholeheartedly adopted the practice of
automation. By creating comprehensive sets of rules that can range anywhere from labor to preventing their own decay on a cellular level, the forward-thinking Enthralling can make a reasonable imitation of a living, albeit quirky automaton. After all, it’s fairly hard to test if a shambling passerby is, in fact, dead inside or has simply been defeated by life.

Due to the daunting workload of designing scripts capable of imitating human behavior, the Enthralling generally keep relatively few thralls in the routine of engaging with the associates they’d known intimately in life. If carefully instructed, however, thralls can make for excellent spies. In fact, many thralls hold positions of great influence.

On the other hand, the more abstract thinkers among The Enthralling can command the flesh, bone, and sinew to reassemble itself in an entirely distinct shape, even incorporating the remains of multiple thralls, assuming the designer in question has the creative capacity to work out the new anatomy and physiology of their aberrations. More practically, some opt to retrofit their thralls into living tools, such as a scalpel made of muscle and sharpened bone, taken out of a thrall that had once been a surgeon, or even a leather jacket that protects its owner.

Much subtler is the fact that the Enthralling are in possession of the very souls of their victims. While the default destination for the souls of a thrall is the very headspace of their master, from there they can be dropped off to any point of their choosing, including
The Library of Souls, an archival storage facility maintained by The Lords of The Dead, from which souls can be borrowed for a time in exchange for the service of maintaining them, much like a bank.

When a soul is within the headspace of one of The Enthralling, they can engage in a dialogue that only their keeper can hear, while they, in turn, see through the eyes and hear through the ears of their master, if allowed to do so. A keeper may choose to consciously allow one of the souls sharing their headspace to seize the reigns of their body, as is sometimes the case if they possess a special sort of skill or body of knowledge, while a particularly dedicated soul may, in some instances, non-voluntarily overtake control of their keeper’s body. If a soul is bound to an inanimate object, the object may slowly take on increasingly human characteristics, such as a car that smiles or behaves erratically. Avoiding inadvertent
hauntings is a primary reason why The Library of Souls is generally seen as such a bargain.
I gotta say, it's nice to be here

TL;DR: this dude named Alcott drinks a berserkirs hallucinogens that put him in his berserkir state, assumes that it provided godhood on par with The Monarch's and, not satisfied with a mere taste of power, proceeds to abuse his station as a prince-priest to experiment on the impoverished soldiers in his care with ambitions of seizing the throne himself. It'd possibly result in something like a primitive version of nazi meth.

Nic slipped into the elevator with the rest of the crew, lamenting the loss of life by biting his lower hard as if he were trying to cut a steel cable with his teeth. Seeing the puddle of person that had so recently been one of his own kind compelled him to start holding his breath, locking his lungs tight and throwing away the key, just in case he'd inhale their remains on accident. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Archie, diagonol to Lynn luminescent skull, as they were joined by a couple of beta male Spire employees. Making himself as large as possible, he finally gave a yawn, raising his arms and shuddering violently as the shock of fresh air flash-froze his waterlogged brain, stretching out until the workers settled in, staring at the door.


"That'll wake you up!" the first Spire worker shouted.

"Just another day in paradise, eh," the closer drone huffed, elbowing Nic in the ribs. "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

Nic felt a navy blue surge through his nerves as his entire intestinal tract reared up on it's hind legs and whinnied. He felt every muscle in his body tense while his fingers rolled tighter than the newspapers his father used to beat his mother with.


It suddenly became apparent exactly how inconspicuous he wasn't, as he tasted a bead of sweat slump into his mouth. He felt the tang of gasoline torching his taste buds as the sweet stink of napalm wafted into his nostrils, down from his sticky, flaky, upright, inch-long einstein hair. Underneath the labcoat, he felt the plastic residue and breadcrumbs itch like his arms were overrun with roaches.


He took a gander at the Spire worker to his left and got to work dissecting the man as if his eyes were scalpels. Bad posture. Hasn't shaven in days. The subject must've mistakenly thought that maybe if he used enough Axe body spray nobody would be able to smell the bourbon on his collar. He was wrong. Based on a cursory glance, the man had spilled more on his own labcoat than Nic could hope to have ingested off of an entire platter of the Jell-O shots at the bonfire.

What a shame, he thought as the doors slid open with a ding, and the worker drones haggardly skittered down the hall to who-knows-where. Actually, Nic knew exactly where they were going: the floor's safe room, right next to their lounge.

Right after that, the crew casually power walked down the hall to their own destination, where they were faced with a locked door. Taking a quick look at it, he recognized that its manufacturer matched the very same doors he'd helped his father install in the militia compound's armory back in Nebraska.

"Lynn, Natalie, do you think you could break it down?"

"She should be able to if she gets two inches deep right here," Nic said, producing a Sharpie and waving a faint black circle onto the steel, "and doesn't sever the wire here," he said, laying an X an inch to the right. "That'll keep it locked."
"I"m pretty sure it's got propane in it, dad," Bobby said, blowing a clean puff of sweet, cinnamon-scented steam Hank's way. "I don't see how you could get any charcoal in there. It's so small," he said, waving it in front of his face. "Grandpa told me that he went around the world and checked and there are only so many great men who could make something like that work but they're all on our side. He made sure of that."

At that moment, Bobby felt his thigh tremble. He took a swig of the ultra-sweet craft beer to boost his blood sugar before realizing that it wasn't his diabetes. GH was just keeping up their streak on Snapchat. "Hold on a minute, dad. I gotta check this. It might be important."
Fidget spinner in hand, Bobby stepped off of his Italian imported moped and made his way to the fence where the boys had congregated. Hitting his Juul during the walk, he rubbed a sympathetic hand on his own aching lower back, which had been his ticket home on medical separation from his service in the National Reserves. Days like these, little was more refreshing than cracking open a nice, cold one.

"Well," Bobby croaked as he pulled an ice cold can of craft brew out of his fanny pack, "I hear she has a weird-shaped thumb, Mr. Dauterive."
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