Festive

Festive's 1x1 Search

Good luck to this. Our tastes couldn't be more different but the OP's posts in the group RP that we've been in together have been superb.

@TokyoPewPew

Thank you, TPP! They do seem a bit different, lol, yet this post is a bit rough, so there will be more to come!

Festive's 1x1 Search

W E L C O M E T O A W O R L D O F P U R E I M A G I N A T I O N . . .
W E L C O M E T O A W O R L D O F P U R E I M A G I N A T I O N . . .

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T H E 1 x 1 S E A R C H
T H E 1 x 1 S E A R C H

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<sub>"Laughter is timeless, imagination has no age, and dreams are forever."

- Walt Disney</sub>
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"If you can dream it, you can do it."

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________________________ . I N T R O D U C T I O N I N T R O D U C T I O N ________________________ . . . . . . . . . . . . P L O T S & I D E A S P L O T S & I D E A S ________________________

____________________________________________________________________________________ . . . . Hello people! I've had some of these ideas for a bit now and have been wanting to put them out there to play, and here it is. As for some key info: I am in my 20s and would like to play only with people over the age of 18. My timezone is EST, and I am a college student, so my schedule may be a bit hectic sometimes, but I will always communicate. I am a multi-paragraph writer, usually with a minimum of 500 words but around 700-1000 on average. I also prefer to write in the third person past tense. I would prefer for my partner to be around that level for a smoother story and more for me to work with as well. I generally love to world-build and would love to hear any and all recommendations you have for the story or world, it creates the best experience for the both of us. _________________________________________________________ .

O R I G I N A L
O R I G I N A L

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The Red Cape Scare: Detatchment Y {M4A}

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_____________________________________ _____________________________________ O ' S A Y C A N Y O U S E E . . . O ' S A Y C A N Y O U S E E . . . ___________________________________ Ⓓ ⓔ ⓣ ⓐ ⓣ ⓒ ⓗ ⓜ ⓔ ⓝ ⓣ Ⓨ Ⓓ ⓔ ⓣ ⓐ ⓣ ⓒ ⓗ ⓜ ⓔ ⓝ ⓣ Ⓨ ___________________________________ 1 S T S P E C I A L F O R C E S 1 S T S P E C I A L F O R C E S O P E R A T I O N A L O P E R A T I O N A L D E T A T C H M E N T – U P S I L O N D E T A T C H M E N T – U P S I L O N T H E R E D C A P E S C A R E: T H E R E D C A P E S C A R E: D E T A C H M E N T Y D E T A C H M E N T Y ___________________________________ ___________________________________ ___________________________________ _____________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________ C O N C E P T C O N C E P T ________________________ Viral. Traitor. Commie. Liar. The world hasn't been the same since the Hanselmann Infection. Welcome to the burning 50s. Since about the 1870s, humanity has lived among a sub-species of itself: Homo S. Infectum; commonly known as the Viral. These humans are ones who through the parentage of those infected with the Hanselmann virus inherited DNA that expresses supernatural powers. This emergence of something new, something powerful, something different, has thrust humanity into a new period of hate, of fear. In the present, the world cowers as the Red Scare blankets the globe with its talons dug into the mind of each and every politician within the countries deemed as superpowers. Proxy wars spread like a plague across every continent, supported by the powers that be as they toy with the lives of its citizenry for that of economic ideological differences. Korea and the war that decimated its peninsula have brought forth the world into a new era of hate, one which pounced further on the ever-feared viral population. The “Red Cape Scare” as new outlets had slapped the title upon it after the world had come face to face with the destruction brought upon by the North Koreans’ use, for the first time in war history, of widespread all-viral unit, the soldiers being ones who brandished a signature red cape. But for the world, the clock only seems to tick closer to doomsday. The tensions, upon the shores of Korea, burn hotter with the passing days. Trees are uprooted, bases blown asunder, and forest fires rage as the North Korean army ships more viral squadrons out to the field. As the years pass hundreds of virals fight and die upon Korean soil as the war rages on. The damage inflicted upon these lands is evident as the landscape was warped and twisted by powers the mind couldn’t rationalize. As the numbers pile up more virals and normal soldiers are sent to take their place. This is the reality of the 50s. The future has never looked so dim. _________________________________________________________ P R E M I S E P R E M I S E ________________________ “You must have been one special soldier, huh?” Welcome to the newly created Detachment Y. You’re either one special bastard or have some friends in high places. As the premier all-viral saber squadron of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Upsilon, or Detatchment Y, your existence is almost unknown. Likened to a surgical knife slicing through an operation obscured like a phantom of the night, only few will ever wear the patch in which you will. War has always been one dirty game after another. As soldiers fight under the vast openness of the day’s sky, you have been assigned to clandestine jobs that go bump in the night. You will do the work only whispered about in backroom meetings. As the first group of Virals allowed to work within the special forces, you’ve been assigned to handle the most treacherous assignments of the government that no normal soldier could tackle. You green operators never have it easy; Korea will be a hell you’ve never experienced before. May your powers save you, as the government certainly won't. _________________________________________________________ P O S T S C R I P T U M P O S T S C R I P T U M ________________________ Who doesn't love a good superhero roleplay? This is a story I've had in this world sitting on the back burner for a little bit, and I saw this IC as a good way to put it out there. As for characters, that can be discussed more in DMs. Although, briefly, I am not looking for a set character type, gender, etc; any character you conjure up can work, although Detachment Y selects only the strong. This story is subject to a larger world, as mentioned above, and if you would like more details about certain aspects, please let me know. I'd be glad to answer! _______________________________________________________________________

F A N D O M
F A N D O M

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The G.C.P.D.: Major Crime Division {M4A}

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_____________________________________ _____________________________________ T O S E R V E A N D P R O T E C T . . . T O S E R V E A N D P R O T E C T . . . ___________________________________ ___________________________________ M A J O R C R I M E S M A J O R C R I M E S D I V I S I O N D I V I S I O N ___________________________________ ___________________________________ ___________________________________ _____________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________ C O N C E P T C O N C E P T ________________________ "Gotham city, the home of one of the richest families in the world yet there is still the homeless around every street corner." But every American knows the Gotham city; the dazzling jewel of the North East. As a cultural monolith for both the state of New Jersey and the country at large, it's escaped no one's purview. Thousands of tourists travel the strips sporting their "I <3 Gotham" wear while students face the hustle and bustle of the never-ending Gotham traffic trying to make it to classes. Buildings that pierce the white vissage of the sky with jutting weathered gothic facades extend further than the eye can see, casting but a light shade upon most of the streets of the city. It is one where the tourists caught in the "traps" of the citizenry's Gotham merchandise would hearld as a "City of wonder," one where the opportunities are as vast as the population that floods the street during rush hour. Yet, it's own people will tell you a very different story A story of dirt, grime, and decay. One where behind the fake perstine tourist attractions lies in a city whose homeless population is the highest in the country. One whose rent rates are so low due to the curse of crime, which holds certain neighborhoods in a deathgrip. One where area gangs fight the mafia in the streets. A city of bullet holes in windows. A metropolis of crime and poverty, where the upper few sit upon their laid-brick tower with a view of the sidelines. For now, it's a city with few heroes but many, many villains. And while it may have that new up-and-coming boy in black, how long he'll survive on the streets is unknown. Currently, for Gotham, its savior is its police department. Yet, despite being the protectors of the city, it is trapped in its own corruption. The mafia holds several ties with the street cops and higher ranking members How long will Gotham last under this new surge of crime? Well, that is something to be determined. _________________________________________________________ P R E M I S E P R E M I S E ________________________ “Congrats on your promotions! Remember, serve and protect.” The Major Crime Division, Gotham Police Department's Detective Bureau's largest and most premier unit. Besides the population of cops who work on the streets of Gotham, it is also the one with the largest risk of death. These detectives get into the mud, they sort through the sea of people who live within the city for the spill of evil within its waves. They take on the cases of the worst of the worst. By whatever force placed these detectives into their position, it is but a commitment one mustn't take lightly. Their lives hang in the balance, as does the justice for the people they hope to bring it to. For but as long as the Falcone family runs unabated, their woes will run Gotham into the ground. And for as long as the "penguin" hides in the shadows, his victims shall see no justice. And for as long the GPDC stays corrupt, none shall see the prevailing arm of the law. This is for you to change. For you to help fix your city. Stay on your toes, don't get killed out there, detective. _________________________________________________________ P O S T S C R I P T U M P O S T S C R I P T U M ________________________ Ahh, good ol' Gotham city. The home to the billionaire play boy philanthropist Bruce Wayne, and several villians who are practically terrorists. Gotta love this city, don't ya? This story, however, is one that takes a step back from the named heroes of Gotham, and will take a look at the unnamed one: the detectives. The men and women who prowl in the day in the pursuit of justice, those who aren't hidden behind a cape or cowl. The general idea of this story is that it will follow to detectives in the GCPD Major Crime Unit before both the rise of Batman or Jim Gordan into complete prominence; something in a similar vein to the show "Gotham" or the comic "Gotham Central." A police procedural drama, if you will. I have pretty rough ideas for a story and it is something I would absolutely love to craft with another person. _______________________________________________________________________

Travelers: The Future's Last Hope {M4A}

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_____________________________________ _____________________________________ W E L C O M E T O T H E 2 1 S T . . . W E L C O M E T O T H E 2 1 S T . . . ___________________________________ Ⓣ Ⓡ Ⓐ Ⓥ Ⓐ Ⓛ Ⓔ Ⓡ Ⓣ Ⓡ Ⓐ Ⓥ Ⓐ Ⓛ Ⓔ Ⓡ ___________________________________ T H E F U T U R E T H E F U T U R E I S I N Y O U R H A N D S I S I N Y O U R H A N D S T H E F U T U R E ' S L A S T H O P E T H E F U T U R E ' S L A S T H O P E ___________________________________ ___________________________________ ___________________________________ _____________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________ C O N C E P T C O N C E P T ________________________ LOAD SEQ: TRAV. PROGRAM: VER ONE . . . BEGIN The year is 2016; Lyon, a city in part older than the country of France itself, is the third-largest city in the country. By the year 2022, Lyon and its neighboring cities will be uninhabitable. Nuclear waste and material will have been spread throughout the majority of southeast France, northwest Italy, and West Switzerland; this critical event will end the lives of hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of civilians, destroying vital infrastructure systems and the environment in the process. The catastrophe will cripple and subsequently end the nuclear power movement in the European Union. Legislation will be passed to place harsh restrictions on the industry, and public outcry will demand the total phaseout of nuclear power. Europe will once again become heavily reliant on the dwindling supply of fossil fuels, causing the European energy crisis when all supplies of fossil fuels are exhausted in the next one hundred years. The perpetrator of this atrocity? Pierre-Henri Druveau, a multi-billionaire magnate in control of the largest natural gas and oil companies based in France. Druveau has recently become the head of Europe’s largest trust of fossil fuel suppliers in Europe, and underground coalition of companies led by but one man who’s connections form a web throughout the length of Europe. Druveau is a man primarily driven by money. His greed knows no bounds as he corners the energy market. Yet with the rise of nuclear power across Europe the power and wealth has been slowly slipping from his hand. Through dark channels with even darker sources, Druveau has worked to propagate several demeaning and outright false information about the industry across the country. After substantial bribes to high-level officials in the Autorité de Sûreté Nucléaire, Druveau has even begun using the cracks of corruption in the French government to help tear the industry apart. Yet as regulation failed to crumble the industry and as nuclear went on the rise in France and throughout Europe over the years, Druveau sank himself deeper into the underworld. Throughout the year of 2016, several cyberattacks have plagued nuclear power plants across Europe, dampening their security services and causing leaks across southern France in particular. At the turn of the year, a train carrying several tons of nuclear waste from power plants across Southern France unknowingly leaked the vast majority of it into the environment. This sole event, which changed the tide of history, was caused by eco-terrorists hired by Druveau. _________________________________________________________ P R E M I S E P R E M I S E ________________________ “Welcome to the 21st, Traveler” This is where you come into the timeline. You and your time will be traveled back in time to Lyon, where Druveau is currently stationed under the guise of a business trip to discuss plans with his fellow magnates. Your job is to assassinate Druveau and to assist in the sabotage and exposure of the corruption across France. Good luck, Traveler. _________________________________________________________ P O S T S C R I P T U M P O S T S C R I P T U M ________________________ This is certain a doozy. Travelers has been a favorite show of mine for years, ever since I first saw it on Netflix. In fact, my first actual roleplay upon this site was a Traveler-themed one I dreamed up, relatively the same as this one, yet less refined. I would totally recommend the show to anyone; certainly a top tier of sci-fi fiction. However, my discussion over my love for such a show can continue later. This roleplay requires you to have at least a brief understanding of the often confusing world at points from the original show to run smoothly. Below, I will leave a lore dump regarding it, though if you find yourself having any questions, please DM me or ask them in the following replies to this thread. Brief Lore of The World "Travelers" is a 2016 television sci-fi show based on the premise of time travelers returning to the early 21st century to curb events that ultimately led to a future where humans are on the brink of extinction. The show utilizes the plot device of a highly advanced AI supercomputer located in the future, that uses a compiled archive of all the available information during the 21st century to locate events that are required to be stopped for the betterment of the future. In this universe, time travel occurs through a process by which a future consciousness is uploaded, sent through space-time, and downloaded within the brain of a candidate; replacing that candidate's mind with the one of a traveler. The AI, also known as the Director, is programmed not to take a life, forcing this process to require an event known as a T.E.L.L. (Time, Elevation, Latitude, and Longitude). T.E.L.L.s are accurate information that records the known point of historical death for a time travel candidate, thus allowing the Director to transfer the consciousness of a traveler into a host's brain moments before their recorded death. Traveler teams usually consist of 5 members: the team leader, historian, tactician, medic, and engineer. Each of these roles serves a different purpose; the historian raised since birth to retain large amounts of information pertaining to 21st-century events, including investments, T.E.L.L.s, etc, the engineer creates technology for the team from the future which is needed for missions, the tactician is trained in a wide range of combat/military techniques and serves as the tactical planner for the team, the team leader (the role which I will assume) and medic roles are rather self-explanatory. These traveler teams are expected to follow and stay loyal to the Grand Plan, the Director's plan to fix the future; the missions the travelers receive from the future on the deep web. Along with the Grand Plan, the Travelers are expected to follow 6 protocols: Protocol 1: The mission comes first. Protocol 2: Never jeopardize your cover. Protocol 3: Don’t take a life; don’t save a life, unless otherwise directed. Do not interfere. Protocol 4: Do not reproduce. Protocol 5: In the absence of direction, maintain your host’s life. Protocol 6: No inter-team/deep web communication except in extreme emergencies or when sanctioned. However, these protocols are often broken to advance the character developed and your personal character's story. There are a few extra protocols such as Protocol Alpha which requires all Travelers to do whatever it takes to resolve the issue at hand, and Protocol Omega the Director will no longer be intervening in this timeline (either the team has successes or the future can not be saved). Messengers are a vital part of the story, they serve as temporary hosts for the Director for the quick delivery of messages outside of the deep web. Adults cannot be used as messengers in the story; a fully developed adult brain is not able to withstand the shock of having a consciousness temporarily embedded into it, ultimately ending in the death of the messenger. The Director will typically use children as messengers, as their brains are malleable enough to be able to withstand the shock. _______________________________________________________________________

G E N E R A L I D E A S
G E N E R A L I D E A S

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Settings and pairings

OC x OC
The Last of US

OC x OC
SAO-inspired game, where players are trapped and must clear the game to leave it

OC x OC
Another game set in The Red Cape Scare world like "Detachment Y," yet instead of military action, it's a poltical drama and intrigue
(I have a bit of this planned out; DM me if you are interested.)

OC x OC
A Harry Potter world Ilvermorny game or a general exploration of the American wizarding world. For this one, I would like to completely change up a lot of the lore regarding wizarding in America because, by all means, it isn't the best written...

⇜ Deicide ⇝ [Dark Fantasy Isekai]

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______________________________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________________________ --> Who Are Your Gods Fear. Fear. Fear. What is that, though? From his body, he could tell it was one he had long since felt. Through the holes in the armor that lay upon his body, he felt the breeze. It is likened to a drop of rain upon one’s skin on a day in which winter had cursed cold. The hair which lined his legs and arms stood upon their ends as it rolled across his body, as shadow of the man, the thing, covered his own and permeated his body with a noir tint. Bumps across his skin rose as those feet which he had but so rashly moved were transfixed upon the spot he stood. As if his armor had locked upon his body, he couldn’t move but an inch as, within a flash, the being who wore the facade of a man revealed itself to be anything but. Wearing horns as dastardly as what he could only attribute to demons. He stood there for but a moment, his mind using all the will he could conjure through the cloudy visage that coated his mindscape to force movement through the shock. With only a measly step back, the creature vanished from his view in almost an instant. His head whipped as he heard the voice of the thing speak in a tone which lacked but all sense of peace “𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬.” ”Dishonor and demonry in but one man, if I sought to bring you harm the cover…sheath, of this weapon would not be one which stood on. Yet, please, continue your threat upon this person of which I can’t say I know anything of.” His grip grew only tighter upon the hand of the dagger as such a show of force was displayed. Yet, for a man who couldn’t tell you where he received it or how he even knew what such a thing was, there was but a sense of trust he felt he could place within it. But even as another voice entered the fray, his sight never left the creature off to his side. Meko, he learned, was the name of the accursed creature his eyes were bewitched to see. However, the words of the younger man were mostly lost as his heart increased in its speed. His body still held that feeling from the approach, that fire that lit his soul up in a display of sparks which only grew as the tension rose. Another voice followed the one the younger man, a woman, an old one. His view shifted away slightly as voice sounded off commands to the “black blood.” Power seeped from her being as she came fully into view; one would be but ignorant to ignore it. He could tell she was one who had lived but a long life; it was but the one thing he knew for certain that he had as well. Illium was the name of the town or city, he could not tell from the ruins which surrounded him on each side. And but as she finished, he couldn’t help but catch the last words. ”...𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐬.” Gods? Who were the Gods? His head fully shifted to the view of the older woman as her speech finished, for in her words he had but just now become enraptured. You must end it. You must end it. You must end it. Too many voices, too many words. Too many ideas were expressed in short phrases and words that he had no clue what they meant. Too many languages which he did not know why he understood spouted forth in his mind at the register of her words. There were but too many utterances at once to parse through what the voices he was yet to know where they even came from were saying. ”You speak of knowledge in which I know little. For, as those who surround me, I have but no idea of even the name which I once held. I see the extent to which my blade has threatened your folk, yet I shall tell you that by no means will harm come to you by it. And as the man before, I wish to know of these Gods you speak of.” He utters, his body fully facing the older woman. ______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ An unknown land, in an unknown time ______________________________ The group of out-of-time randoms ______________________________ ROAFGFT │ Who Are Your Gods ______________________________ ______________________________

⇜ Deicide ⇝ [Dark Fantasy Isekai]

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______________________________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________________________ --> Requiem of a Forgotten God, a Forgotten Tribe "Why..." "Please stop!" "Oh why lord..." "Curse you all!" "Save us God..." "Why are you doing this..." "Oh ██████ please save us-" He didn't know what he was hearing. He didn't know who spoke the oh-so-familiar words within his mind. They were but a whisper among a sea of thoughts he couldn't understand. A myriad of voices which called to him from but the deepest reaches of a place he had no knowledge of. A cacophonous backdrop of his conscious that ever played as his eyes crept open. Raw, guttural voices with deep-seated malice utter their muted vitriol. Cries of the weak lamented in their sorrowful wails. Voices from a time lost. Voices from a time long ago in which he could not place within his thoughts. It stood as but a low call from something, a low call for some purpose, one lost in his current present. In fact, he couldn't place but a single thought. He couldn't find a name. He couldn't find an age. He couldn't place where he was. His mind did naught but rack as he felt pulled from the voices; placed back on steady ground as he came to reality. For but a land he knew naught the sight stood as both utterly foreign yet panged with familiarity. As he came to a knee and his eyes as dark as the dirt under the night sky fully opened, a glimpse of the sight before him came into full view. It was razed. However, a word he shouldn’t have known little about, he could tell it matched the sight. For to him, it all too resembled a land cursed by the might of an ember. Hazy in sight as formations of the darkest black and gray permeated what once were streets, what once were homes, what once where shops. Charred wood that once stood as building supports laid felled in the dirt. Sparks of the inferno that once ripped and tore through the air crackled away with its dying breath in depths of wood as dark as charcoal. It was a sight that was but disgusting. Vile. One that despite his lack of everything, his lack of his own history, had stoked his own fire. As his feet became firmly planted on the ground, his arm snagged against the armor which he wore. It was but now that he realized the condition. It was such a pair that he had felt but so familiar with that its tattered condition had only now registered. What once from the fragments of memory that still crossed his mind was a pristine steel suit not lay in scraps. A suit mutilated by the likes no sword could have done. Bursting holes divide the runes that were etched into the metal, in parts the steel that felt firm was aged, and rusted, while others were singed and malleable. For but a man who couldn’t remember his own name, plenty of shards of what were memories crossed his mind. Lives in different eras. Lives by which no normal man could live within the fleeting existence of the human lifespan. Inconsistent. That’s what they all were. A long life is but useless when you know not of who you are. His nails dug in upon the handle of the blade he had awoken with as his ears adjusted to the noise that spewed forth around him. Lost. Confused. Dazed. He knew not of where he was. He knew not of who these faces that surrounded him were. He knew not of anything. Yet the voices that chimed from the depths of his mind grew but a bit louder. His face grew a bit hotter. His grip grew a bit tighter. "Save yourself…" His feet moved without but a second thought. Past the man whose eyes he could not see. Past the woman who glowed but too brightly. Past the overly giddy laughs of a woman who appeared out of time. Almost innately, his grip equalized on the handle of the dagger. His feet were drawn to a stop as he stood before the shack which stood on its very foundation. "T̷̯͗̓͆͘͠ộ̶̟̻̘͔͉̺͕͔̮̑͌̃̿̏̎͘͝ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘y̵̢͕̥̘̻̭̅͝ộ̶̟̻̘͔͉̺͕͔̮̑͌̃̿̏̎͘͝u̴̴̧̡̩͈̮̙̻̻͔͎̠̫̾̅́́̏̀̎̾͐̒̒͊͐̾̂̂͠͝,̵̡̛̪̋̒̃͗̚ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘į̴͕͔̄ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘g̷̙̳̱̊͛̕ͅi̴̭͉͊́̅̕͜͝v̵̯͖͇̖̽ȩ̷̦͕͈̱͈̅̈́̌̒́̑́̕ͅ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘m̴̨̅̊̓̒̈̊̈́̓̏͠y̵̢͕̥̘̻̭̅͝ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘ş̴̓̓̅͑͐t̸̛͓͚͖͓̓ŗ̴̛̺͚̳͓̪͓͗̾̇̎͊̕ͅȩ̷̦͕͈̱͈̅̈́̌̒́̑́̕ͅṅ̸̼͎̖̠̦̻̍̂́͗͗̈́ͅg̷̙̳̱̊͛̕ͅt̸̛͓͚͖͓̓h̸̴̡̛͇̮̳̲͕͕̲̪͕̫̽̾̔̌́̿͂̒̒͊͐̾̂̂͠͝,̵̡̛̪̋̒̃͗̚ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘m̴̨̅̊̓̒̈̊̈́̓̏͠y̵̢͕̥̘̻̭̅͝ ̵̯̰̱̜̞̜͓̱͌̈̆̀̈̈́̋̕͘ş̴̓̓̅͑͐ộ̶̟̻̘͔͉̺͕͔̮̑͌̃̿̏̎͘͝ṅ̸̼͎̖̠̦̻̍̂́͗͗̈́ͅ" ”Reveal yourself from out of the shade. What is this land charred by the ember?” ______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ An unknown land, in an unknown time ______________________________ The group of out-of-time randoms ______________________________ Nil │ Requiem of a Forgotten God, a Forgotten Tribe ______________________________ ______________________________

⇜ Deicide ⇝ [Dark Fantasy Isekai]

They might just be a little late to the party

⇜ Deicide ⇝ [Dark Fantasy Isekai]

@Festive I never asked, so I hope you don't mind me stealing borrowing that code :P

@SilverPaw

You're all good LOLL

Dark Fantasy Isekai

Hey there I have to say that Im interested in the concept, is the game still accepting cause I can have a character up fairly quickly

@Archangel89

The OOC link should be on the first page, I know there are a couple slots still open

⇜ Deicide ⇝ [Dark Fantasy Isekai]

All My Rage.

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_______________________________ N A M E : N A M E : "He can't seem to conjure up what it was..." A G E O F D E A T H : A G E O F D E A T H : "His age pushes over 1000, yet he can't place an exact number." R A C E : R A C E : "He is a human, that's known for sure." G E N D E R : G E N D E R : "There is no doubt that he is a male." P S Y C H O L O G Y : P S Y C H O L O G Y : "Despite the smog that covers his brain the brashness and impetuousness shine through. He stands stubborn as he forces himself to try to play blocked memories of the past. Confusion, loss, anger, course through his mind as he stands in a land on the brink." Memories of the past find themselves locked away... _______________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________ W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R : W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R : {M A N Y L I V E S L I V E D B Y O N E :} {M A N Y L I V E S L I V E D B Y O N E :} For a mind so full of memories of years past, not but one stands evident as full. Fragments of glipese upon different lives in different ages flood his mindscape as he can only catch but fleeting looks at once full experiences. Distorted calls and singing within a language of old but to his mind a warmth spread when it crossed his concious. Memories meld and mix in a hazey convocation as sights of spears made of crude iron and wood turn to blades of tempered steel, turn to the wood of a smoothbore. Different memories, different times, different lives. Although he had not but a clue of who he was, he could tell he was a man who has lived a long, long time. [1] When he awoke, the dirt and grime that surrounded him was naught but sparse. The armor he wore, ruined by a glimpse he couldn't see through the fog, sat roughly upon his body while within his hand he grips but an almost pristine iron dagger. His mind draws upon blanks on its origin, it his body seems to know it inside and out. The blade still as sharp as the day it was forged as he ran a thumb across it. For some reason, it was an item so familiar his body kept track of the movements for it that for him was hidden behind the fog of his mind. [2] He doesn't know what he feels, but he can feel it. A burn. A scorch mark upon his soul. A fire that rages with the screaming shouts of but hundreds of voices with an anger that fuels it further. Red tendrils light up his veins as the ire consumes him. Sparks of power glow from his body as it taps into a power so familiar he can call it, yet for distant it refuses to follow his call, refuses to spark its energy any further. It stands as a mystery for as when the red tendrils fade from view, he can feel the power slowly being ripped from him. [3?] [VYKI•] H̸̖̭̗͊͌́̾̉̓I̷̡͐̒̿́̂ͅS̸͉̝͗̊́̆̾̂͜ͅ ̶̛̯͖̥̉́̾̆͜H̶̯̘̒̉̕Ë̸̻̫̯̝̙́̈́̎̏͋́͜Ȃ̶͕͎̳̝̜͋̓Ḏ̶̙̈́͆̽̕͠ ̸͔͑̈́̃̓̉͑B̵͖̝̑͆̿͝Ṷ̶͖̫̀R̴̜̦̦͋̋̍Ñ̶̢͉̺̠͖̆̊̑͝S̵̙͘ ̷̬̭̠͉̫̓͗̽́͘͜A̶̝̻͗̃́̆̓S̶̳̰̟̒ ̶̡̟̯̎Ţ̶̘̓͊̌̄Ḩ̴̮͓̆̃Ẽ̶̘̥̤̖͉̍͛́̂͊ ̸̗̦͋̽͝T̶̖̟̹̬̫̘͊̓R̴͇͍̙̒̎̀͐̇Ḯ̶̧̫͍̦̫̾̓̒̚Ė̵̖̹̀͝ͅS̶̚ͅ ̶͙̃̅͑T̵̢̺̥̣̗̚O̶̦̱̪̗̞̞̔͆͑̒ ̸̡̖̾̊̐͝F̵̼̬͗Ö̴̭̯̹͉̌Ŗ̶̩͍̦͍̹̋̓̓C̴̤̟̜̄̈́̕E̷͕̜͒ ̴͚̤̮̟̺͈̽̌̅̐͌͝Ţ̷̡͙͍̟̒͝H̵̰̙̽̏̎̾̋̕E̶̼̲̠̯̝͖̒̍̈́̀ ̷̮͒͝T̴̨͙̱̝̼͓̀̌͌͑̿̒Ḧ̸̜͕̫̟́̉̓̀O̶͖͉͋̾̒̏̆Ů̷̠͓̗͎̬̌̄͝G̶̡̦̀̽̐̾͝H̸̥̣͎̱̗͉̎͘͘T̵̪͈͕͇͊͐̀̊̌͠ ̸͖̘̽͑͑͠A̷̜̳͇̟̜̩̓͘C̵̢̲̲̩͕̊R̶͇͆O̶̹̺͕̫͐S̵̻̏̏͋̈́S̵͉̫̟̝͉̾̏͑̀͜ ̵̧͔͖͎͋̈̽̑̓͜H̶̫͈͖̪̾̈̀̍͝I̸̱̗̱̿̒̀S̷̗̤͚̎͋͛̉̈͝ͅ ̴̞̑̀̓̓̔Ḿ̵̧͉̟̬ͅI̷͍͕̱̋͌̚Ñ̵͙̣̖̳̰D̵̡̛̥̫́̃͂͠ͅ.̵̡̭͇̩̤̄̿ ̷̩͖͆̏͆͗͘À̸̡̢̼̙̑̎̑̔ ̶͚͋F̷̛̛͔̗͆͛̔͠I̷̗̱͈̱̖̞͌̑̉̓͠R̸͕̗͉͑̔͒E̷̫̓ ̷͎͍͎͇͑́̓͊̌A̷̡͙̻̳̥̽ͅN̵͎̹̥̓̏̔̆ͅD̷̝̣̞̤͓͗͠ ̵̰͍͝F̸͖͈͎͑̄͋͝Û̸̹̥̓̔R̵̦͕̅̑͠Y̶̦̊̽̒͊̓̚ ̵̫̞̻̟̗̝̃́͋̍̏̚Ś̴̨̨̬̫͍͙́̈Ḛ̸̊̎Ą̴̯͓̭͉̘̆̔̎͝͝R̶̡̤̹̹͂̎̓͠S̵̳͈̬͆͌̽̏̚ ̵̻̐̈̿H̵̡̻̬͛̀Í̶̼̣͒͆͑͂Ş̸̲͖̼̇̐ ̵͈̃̑L̶̥̖̤̯̯̑̒̔͐O̴̢̗͖͓̖̔̊́̇B̵̜̦͉̉͂̽̇E̷̮̫̲̗̹̋̒͐͘S̸͙̯͔͍̄̉̈́̌̚ ̴̡̭͉̬̚W̶͈̲̼̭̃͗I̶͍̪̜̭̜̯͆̽T̶̡̤̙̺̦̍̈̐̔͘H̶̳͔̗̻̫͋̂̀̐͠ͅ ̶̨̮̟͍̜̿́̂̈́͑A̵̬͂̀ ̶̯̝̔P̴̦̈͒̓̓͜͝Ȃ̵̤͈̗̏͑̓Ì̴̠͕̟̕ͅͅͅN̶̑͂̿͗ͅ ̵̡͓̖͖̖̗̅̃͐͑Ų̶͓͐̿̌̂̕N̷̘̪͇̿͛͜ͅŜ̸̨̫̩̺͔̻̀̋̓̾͝E̴͓̬͉̽̊̂̍Ḛ̵̝͗̓̓̍Ň̷̛̮̬̖͗̈́͒.̵̤͇̒̂̋̈ ̷̮̝̙͓̬̍N̵̜̖̮̊͛̕Ō̵̱̈́̇ ̴͙̫̤͂̎͂T̸̝̪̝̰̈́̎H̷̠̀O̸̡̱͐̀́̅̕U̶͇̜̔̈G̷̮̗̙̲̈́̓̓̓̑͘͜H̶͔͎̠̜͐̒̿͝ͅṪ̸̠͉̹̼̐̕͠ ̸͈͔͈̹̃͑̔Ş̴͖̙͚̦̣̑̀H̷̡̛̞̀̀͛̈́A̵̙͕̼͛͜͝L̴̡̍͘L̵̮̙̣̞̖͍̋ ̸̢̬̤̼̣̺́̽͋̾̈́͝P̶͕͋̈́̇̊̂Ą̶̜̯̯̖̽͋̂̈́͝S̸͉̩̠̭͓͚̊͋̑̑S̴̨̪͓̩͌̏͝ͅ.̷̡̺̊̃ ̵̠̻̙͑Ṅ̵̟͖͖̦̩̆͌͐͗̚Ǫ̸̙̱̦̖̳̎ ̶̣̻͕̬̓̓̈́̕T̵͓̝̫̍̑̊̿H̷̻͙̖̩̘͒͊́͜O̴͖̤̙͎̥͔̓̓Ǘ̵̯̓͐͒G̵̡̿H̶͖̼̅T̷̠̻̪̥̺͒̈́̋͠ ̵̺̊Ṣ̴͖̲͓̟̃͊̆H̵̛̱̺̺͉̎A̴̮̪͇̠̒̓̏͗ͅL̵͇̈͘L̸̛̘̞̾ ̵̲̓̓͝P̶̬͔̙̯̳̈́A̸̞̠̒͑͊́͘S̷̞̃̒̎̕S̸̱̫̞̀̅̓̅.̸̭͕͎̲̜̀ ̴̱́͑̄N̸̥̲̥̼̈̎́͐͆͜Ŏ̴̞̭͇ ̷̹̀̕͝T̸̛̟͍̒̔̐̚H̷͇͈́̌̾̅̽̽Ǫ̷̟̞̈́̃͌̕͝ͅU̵̱̪͙̘̽͝G̵͍̠̫̓̈́H̷̯͋͒́̑Ť̶̥͕ ̴̙͉̤͇̖̃͒͘S̵͙̠̉̔̔̕͜Ḥ̵̤͛A̴͍͈͖̚L̴̨͉̀̈́̌L̶͓͚̤̝̈́̚ ̷̤̱͂́͛͠ͅP̴͇̺̀̆A̶̰̍̉̈S̵̗̭̉̽́̇́ͅS̶̲͉̳͔̬̈͊̉̔͐̕.̴͚̣̰̒ ̷̨̮̎̽̕N̸̝̩̝̝͝O̷̝͇̥̘̒̅̕͝ͅ ̵̧̙̔Ṯ̸̻̑̎̈́̀H̸̤̣͂̐́͗͊̎Ọ̶̠͈͍̌͠ͅU̸̡̔̀G̵̭̓̿͠H̷̤̏́̔̏T̸͙͔̫̰̠͙͒͂̃̔̀ ̶̪̹͔̎̿̊̈́̽S̶̟̫̾H̸̹͇̙̲̉̂̌͘Ḁ̵͚̊͐̐̋̕͘L̸̖̺͋̀L̷̢̉͑ ̶̘̳̪̀̆̚͜P̸̢̡̆̍͌̈́̐̕Ą̸͈̯̱̾̅̿͠Ș̴̹͒̕S̸̢̠͒̕.̶̨̜̠̲͇̻̄̀̅͒̽ ̴̜̳̰̙̈́̀̾Ǹ̶̪͒́̅͝Ò̶̡̬̭̻͚̓͌͒ ̵̩̓T̸̨̢̧̛͓͒̈́͂͜H̷̛̲͎͖͖̀̈̽͝ͅO̴̢͉͖̔Ų̶̨̹̙̻̑͗̚͜͝G̸̜̳͈̈́̿͜H̷̫̗͇͎͕̍͊̄ͅṮ̶̦͙̞̟̣̈ ̵̰͉͑̀͑̊̚S̵̭͖͌̈́́̓͘͠H̶͍͚͚̼͉̄͂̇̀̾͜Å̵̜̞͎̳̋L̷̨̈́̾̎̚L̶̨̡͈͋͌ ̶͉̩̓͜͝P̶̨̆̀A̵̜̿̉̐Š̴̤̓̈́̈́̈̓S̴̛͙̖͓̀́̽́̂.̵̼͓̜͇̺͑̏̉̚͜ ̸̛̱̲̥̜͈̽̃͗̍̉N̶͙͔̹̼̆́͜͜͝Ȍ̴̩̬̺́̿̿́͌ ̴͕̃̔́T̶̟͗̐H̷͉̮̠͎̀̿Ǫ̵̺̥̺͕̣̿Ṷ̶̢̊͂̏̔̕̕G̵̭͛̆Ḩ̸̱̠͕̻̹̏̾̉̚͝T̸̡̬̲̲̏͜ ̷͙̭̞͓͉̃Ṡ̵̱̖̤̟̙̇H̷̜́́͝Ǎ̶̙̱̿͗͜͠Ḽ̶̜̯̍͑̚͝ͅL̶̮̟̦̦͑͊͜ ̵̛̖̤̾̑P̷̛͖̩̻͗̎͒̾̓Ä̴̤̩͒͜S̸̼̲̤͉͓̓S̸̪̬͍̟̲͙͗̏̊͝.̸͈̹͉̤͎̔͛͌̈́̍͂N̶̡̰͒Ô̶͇͇̭͍͌̃̀ ̵̩͓͑T̵̠̲̼̉̇͐͑̀̋ͅḦ̴̭̥̖̝̺́͜Ó̸̩̬͌͒̓̅Ų̷̣͉͛̿́G̷̙̱̮̒Ȟ̸̡̙͉̺̊̂̓͐̚͜ͅT̷̞͗̇̇͝ ̷̡̅̓̓͂̍S̸̲̘̥̭̰̙̽͊Ȟ̵͔̩̥͐À̸̩̙͊̌͊̕̚Ļ̷͚̺͑͜L̷͈̬̟͉̿̽̐̌͘ ̴̫͑͌Ṕ̴̨̝̭̯̗̎̅̊̌̕Ą̴͔̜͕͛̿͌̈́͜S̴͕͉͇̬̜̥͐̽͘Ṣ̷͕̺̭̫̍.̵͎̟͖͗ ̸̡͚̩̇͠͝N̸̢̑͊͝Ǫ̷͖͕̻̰̝́͊͑̾ ̶̳̀̾̒̌T̸̼̫̻͔̺͌̂H̷͈̀͂̇́̆Ò̷̢̩͋͑͛́̕Ṵ̶̕G̶̢̦͈͕̳̺̐́̌̕H̶̪͊̍̅̚T̴̟̯͂́̇͂̉̔ ̷̡̱̜̦̞͊̔̐̽̇͜͝S̸͔̖̳̈́͊͗͗̚͝H̷̺̲̼̬̥̆À̷͔̤̆L̶̢̻̗̗̍̒͊L̴͉̰̙̅̈́̾͘̚͠ ̴̥̦̦̂͆̆̚̚͜P̶̡̞̟̋̀̂̋͜Ä̷̢̝̼͕̠̿͊S̶͖̀͋̈́S̴͓̅̽̀.̷͕̹̩͗̂ͅͅ ̶̧̞̪̙͕̓͗̿͝ͅŅ̴̡̛̜̱̥̦̄́̈́O̶̦̝̥͔̻̿͝ͅ ̴̙͖̓̇̈́͠T̸̲͙̰̭͑́̈́͋͜ͅH̶̯̠͘Ö̷̳́̅́̾͋̽Ù̸̜̭̍̍͛̒̑G̴̱͂͒͠͝H̵͈͚̖͐̐̆͌̆̍T̷̨̺̝̘̭̗͛̒ ̵̤͓͎̐͐͘S̵̰̍͑͊̾̓͜H̶̺́̀A̸̡̭̭̓̎̌͜L̶̥̂L̸̖͙̲͎̤̜̏͋̈́ ̸͈̟͒Ṕ̸̛͙̱̏̓̊̕A̷͓̣͝Ś̷̢̼̮̯̰̥͋̆́̕͝S̶̛̰̥̘̲̃̀̿.̶̡̯̠͕͉̀͂̄̎̄ͅ ̴̝̲͠Ń̴͓̳̟̻͝͠Ó̶̼̖͎̗̒ ̸̳͕̣͇͛͝T̷͔̫̗̹̋͂̐̏͐H̷͖̯̼̼͉̉̌̋̚͠O̵͔̺̦̗͊͋̿̀̈́͝U̷̘͆̒̀G̵̤̣̈́̄H̶̙̼̅̓̕͘Ţ̶̧͔͚̹̼͛͛̂̀ ̵̫͇̃͠ͅS̵̩̼̰̾̽̉̀H̷̠̤͙̏́́̚͝ͅĄ̶̭͙̠͝L̵̢̛͔̮̺͈̐̆̀̓͘ͅL̴̡̮̟̔̑͑̑ ̸̦͌̔P̴̠̺̜̝̬̃̑̎̊͌A̵͚͖̲͙̔̽̎̕͝Ŝ̷͇̠͚̊̈́Ṩ̶̞̜̝͉͛͜.̵̨̯͍͓͒͑͂̂͗̆ ̷̨̦̞̞̭̘̾̔̒̕N̶̞̏͝Ó̷̱̎̋͠ ̴̨̣̲͔͓̞̿Ț̵̨̱̹̼͠Ȟ̴͍̬̖̪̟͝Ȯ̶̪̞̌̽͝͝U̵̮͕̻̗̘͎͌G̵̠͉͓̻̉̇̓H̵̛͉̳͊̓̓́̚T̷͚̯́̃̿͆̀̔ ̶̢̧͉̞̇̎͂S̸̡͉̪̖̟͑Ȟ̵͎̹̗͜Ã̴̗͕̫͇͎͌̓͜L̸͕̆̇͋̓L̷̠͋͌̍̃̌ ̶̜̞̩̎̊̍̐͒͠P̸̨͔͎̥̭̰̈́̆͝Ā̷̰̾̕S̴̯̱̝̜͌̈́͑̅̌̎͜S̴̯̟̺͚̼͝.̶̣̽ ̵͉̮̂͊̑́̕N̴̢̛̺̺̪̑͜Ö̴̩̬́ ̸͖̺̼̮͇̟͗͛̎̅T̷̟͌̄̈́̅̾H̸͖͌̽̏͜Ȍ̴̡̗͎̬̥U̷̡͈̦̐͐̇́̇͊G̶̺̘̻̀͆̕H̵̪̹͓́̂̾̎͑͠T̵̙͎̄ ̷̝͔͙̙͕̏̾͑̈́S̸͉̦̗͗̏Ḧ̷̱͑͆̏͝Ä̸̫̜̃̿̽̊L̸̢͙̟͇̜͕͌L̴̗̠͈͐͝ ̴̪́̾P̶͇̯͍̞̬̕͠A̸̧͚̬̓̉S̴̛̺̙͕̃̑S̵͖̄̿̉.̸̩̽̎Ň̵͖͋͠Ŏ̷̢̟̘̙͓͑̃̌̋̋ͅ ̷̡̯̭̝̺̪͂̆̇͛͝T̶̹̩͎̔͋́̅H̴̹̼̓O̸͕̙̬̰̤͇͐͛͐̚Ư̵͔̝̈͗̽̀G̶͔͖̍͜H̴̭͚̫̙̼̠̄̊̃T̵̼͓̅ ̵͔̯͖͚̟̌S̷̛̟̈H̴͓͈̍̂A̷̜̒̇͂͐̇̕Ĺ̶̦͑͜L̸͚͛͋͑̀̕ ̸͓͕̠͒P̴̢͉̳̠͓͆͘Ḁ̸̤̝̹̃̌̂̈͝Ş̷̢͖̠̺̃̊S̶̠̲̣̰͂.̸̧͖̱̗͗̉̈́̔ͅ ̵̢̈̈́̃̌N̸̡̢͙̗̔̅͘͜Ơ̵̘͉̿̈́̄̍ ̴̱͓̿̎͝T̶̘̠̀̀͊͝͝Ḩ̷̧͍̬͔͉͆͐̇Ǫ̵̼̖͓͉͑̅̏U̶̧͍̺̹̙̤̽͐̚͝͝G̵̮͕͉̥̈̇̌͝H̴̺̳̑̇̈́̍̃̕T̶͉̐̈́̚ ̴̜̮̋̓̈́́̾͜S̵̪̉̒̋͆̊̊H̴̥͈͚͙͕̲͆̋Ä̷͍̔̐̚L̵̝͍̓̋̆L̷̹̋̔̀ ̴͉͇͒̂̿̄̓͒P̷̗̍̈́̈́̕Ȧ̸̛̻S̸̖͉̹̈́͌͛̍̀͜͝S̶̡͎̞̩͈͗͜.̴͔͉͛̎̉ ̷̮̮̓̽͋̾̅N̴̨̢̻̥̙̊̃̿̔́̑Ớ̶̭̼̻͋́͆̚ ̵͇̟̞͆͘T̶̰͚̅́͑̄͘ͅḤ̵̤̈́͘͠Ơ̷̖̖͕̜͙̾̒̀U̵͔̹̙̇͛͘G̶̢̩̜̜̠̀̒̑H̷̳̱͙̟̋̂͋T̸̳̦̀̈́̔̈ ̵̹̗̈́S̵͔͍͓̜͆̃ͅH̷̨̲̙͐̂̋͋̽͜A̴̡͇̯̽̿̎̎̆̈͜L̸̘̓̒̄L̸͕͌́̆̈̇͠ ̸̢̛̳ͅP̷͖͖̈͜Ä̶͕͘S̸̡̗͓̰̝̽̐͐̄̑̕Ş̸̝̭͖̖͉̿̀̽̔͗͠.̸̮͋ ̶̝̼͍̞͙͊N̴̬͚͕͙̝͖̔̔̌O̴̳͙̱͖͆ ̷̛̛͇̙͊̃̃͜͠T̸̥̖̯̻̜̥̄̌̅H̷̙̭͎̭̰̖̔O̸̤̭̼͒͊̚Ủ̴͈̞̯̮̎Ǧ̸̥͔̣̩̀H̴͓̩̓̋͠ͅT̸̼͈͛̂͌̄̒͠ ̷͚̾͝S̷̛̠̪̄̾̄͝H̴̲̙̀Ǎ̶̯L̶̡̓̒͜L̴͙̙̘̗̰̺͗̚ ̶̢̺̟͇̔̃͜͠P̷͓͈̈̌́͆ͅA̴̤͙͈͎̙͘S̷̡̤̣̞͇͌̔̐͐͌͜S̶̟̪̬̰̗͂͆̀.̷̢̨̤̻̝̫̑̏͋̈́́̊ ̶̛͍̰̋͐̃̾͗N̵̡̩͍͉̥̈͜Ṓ̵̡̜͉͇͜͝ ̴̰͘͘T̵̥͐͌̍̒̎H̷̲̳͙̤̽͜O̸͓̟̹̰̱̒U̴̥͓̔̇̇G̴̞̪͂́̅͑̅͊H̸̱͚̼̤͓̥̿͗̚̕T̶̟̆́͌͝ ̶̬͓͐̎Ŝ̷͈̓̆̓Ḩ̴̨͇̠̟̻̅A̶̫͕͈̱͗Ḷ̸̫͉̹̎̾̀̓̽̂ͅL̶̝̱̹͕̏͜ ̸̯̘̄̈́̿̒P̵̡̣͙̩̗͖̔A̸̛͉̞͔͋̈͝S̷͈͉̗͊̽̿͝S̸̹͚̙͚̥̬̀.̸͚͙́̆͝ ̸̝͈̺̐̈́̿N̵͍̣̟͓͕͚̊͆̅̽Ó̷̪̭̰̳̩̺ ̶̧̦̈̇T̷̢̰͉̠͝H̸̨̯̝̲͔̒̀͒̑͘Ō̷͎̞̖̏̈̇U̸͈̞̙̲͓̼̐̓̈́́́͐G̴̳̫̋͌̀̂͆͝H̷̗̀͂̀̇̄̌T̶͔̠̆̀͗̊ ̷̘̱͙̑͂S̵̨͉̲̾͌́͂H̶̳̠͐͂͛͘Ą̶̠̝̰͉̀͗̏L̸͕̃̐̎L̸͇͊̃ ̴̨̥͈̞͒͂̕͜͠P̷̳̤͋̊̆̑̔A̵̟̯̋͑̆̔͋Ṡ̶͖͕̈́̓͒͗͘ͅS̴̡̢͖̞̣͐̄͌͝ͅ.̸̘̘̬̲̬̗̋́̊̑̐͘N̷̛̜͖̩̺̿̓ͅͅƠ̸̜̦̠̞͉̾͂ ̴̥̝͋̑̐T̶̛̩̳̻̔̃͜H̴̢̱̬̱͇̑͋̿̽͊̀Ö̷̼͔͒̈̃̄Ủ̷̮͘G̵̣͐̑̐H̴̨̙̍̃͌̏T̴̤̪̦̪̼̅̍͛ ̶̩̭̙̩̦̬̊́͑̍S̵̤͗͆H̶̱̜̥͇̑̾͑ͅͅȂ̷̡͖̺̣͈̀ͅĻ̵͓̜̤̙̺̃̓͂̿͛͠L̵̡͕̠̩̞̓́͂̄̈́ ̷̲̈͐͜P̸̘͘A̴̼̺̋̽̏̿S̸͔̯͉̖̒͑̌̌̕̚S̶̹͚̜͔̫̥̉̐̿͝.̷̨̖̾̈ ̶͚͓̾͋͘Ņ̸͍̤̜̠̩̎̅O̷̡̤̗͉̼͙͛ ̴̖̆T̷̝͙͍͉̯͚̉̈́̊̌̕H̶̨̟̐̐O̶̬̝͚͉͎̽U̵͚͉̹͋̆̅̾G̷̡̹̎̓̿͊̌̚H̴̜̐̓T̸̳́̋̔͊ ̴͕̦̩͚͍̳́͛͑͆̃̈́S̸͈͍͊͊H̸̢͔̔̋Ȁ̸̹̖̬͒͐̀̈́͘͜L̷̳̓L̷͇͆̈́́ ̵͖̖͉̝̼̘͠P̸͚͉̾Á̸̭̩̪̤̪͚S̴̖̤̼̭͖̃̉́͋̌S̸̡͇̗͔̏.̵̢̜̠̌̂̑̀̔͘ ̷͖̤͝N̴̗̣͑͜Ǒ̵͍̺̳͈͎̿̿͜͠ ̵̢͈̠̐̽̾͠Ṭ̸̦̾̈͘͜H̸̡̧̫̮̪̳̔́̉̓̏͐Ớ̸̧̗̳̹̺̪U̴̖̗̭̎̑͑̄̆̇G̴͙͍͔̱̔͑̂͝͝H̶͈̓͌̀̀͒̚T̶̹̺̑ ̵̻̭̍̊͛̈́͝S̸̲̤̽͐̌͊̕͝H̷̭̉̅͋͗̎A̴̲̖͓͙͙̚͝L̴̛̠̽͛̑L̵͙̬̣͓̬̊̾̆ ̵̠͈̬̹͓̀P̵̘̘͓̠̩̈́͝A̵̲̻̤̺͊̊̍S̴͚̘̦̐̒͝Ş̶͖̥̓.̷̨̗͙̪̻͙͐̑̏̔ ̸̻͙̜̩̙͒̉ͅN̵̨̙͍͚̱̫̽͑͠Ō̵̞̻͎̟͗̈̽́ ̴̧͓̣̺͖̯͒̍̚̚Ţ̸̖̩͇̝̮̊Ḩ̵̠͎͓̎̆́̃̚Ò̷͔̯̹͔̓̍Ŭ̷̫̙͌̋͛͠Ģ̴̹̻̗̈́̿̇͠H̴̛̖̻̭̓̈̓͊̍Ţ̵̏ ̸̧̛̥͍͓̝̣͌S̸̢̛̝̜̫͎̄̃̎͘͝H̵̛ͅA̷̱̪̝͖͙͛͝L̷̛̟̉͌͌L̸͈̩̼͊́͂̽̚ ̶̡̱̣̒̌̂̂̀̏P̶̡̩͙̟͖͑̋̔̓A̶̧͔̮̫̘̅̊͛S̷͙̻̲̱͍̪̃̏͆͑S̵̨̝̝̦̆̈́̊̈.̶͇̮͒̓ ̴̹͚͊̋̈́N̷͓̮̅̍͐͐͠Ǒ̴̻͚̝͙͔͆ ̵̢̟̫̫̮͑̏̋͝T̴̪͎͉̤̾̓̚͝H̵̜̖̯̼̠͚͐̏Ȯ̸̡̨͕̱͊̐͝͝Ů̶̺̗͍͉̺̯͒̈G̷̡̦͔͕̻̞̑́̏̍͠H̵̨͍͙̩̼͇̉̇̽͂͋T̸̗̯̥͎͈͋̓̈́̉ ̷̩̭͙̜̱̎̊̍̈́͐͠ͅS̴̨̝̦̏̓̉̓̈H̶̹͓͖̬͑̉́Á̶̢͓̲̖͋̊͛̄̀͜L̵̡̈́̅̽̔͝L̴̛̬̽ ̵̻̲̙͍̻͒P̴̨̺̹͕̳̆Ȃ̵͉͊͗S̶̨̧̞̮̅́S̶̨̻̀̀̀.̸̨͇̼̅͑̾̕͠ ̸̨̆̄̽͠͝N̴̡̠̮͖͚͍͋Ő̷̥̖̮̉̉̔͝ ̴̬̞̬̆̅̃̑̌̚T̴̹̣͇͈̈́̌̓H̷̳͉̯̣̹̩̆̆́̅Ǫ̶̺̾͆̋U̴̟̹̺̘̱͑͒̄͝Ģ̸̮̯͍͈̀͜H̴̹̓́͒͝͝T̶̫̩̔̅͛͌̈̾ ̷͔̮͕͎̗̏̀̀̇̍S̶̢͠H̷̹̼͎̮̥͒̓̚A̵̧͖̍̔L̵̫̍̃L̶͎͚̳͐̃̈́̊ ̵̠̂̽P̴̛͎̳̏A̶͚̜͎̦͛͐͛͊ͅS̴̢̺̠͗S̵͙̥̅̃̍̋̄.̵̲̣̘̑́̈́̈́̃́͜ W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R : W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R : {F O R A S I H O L D T H E H A T E O F M Y T R I B E , {F O R A S I H O L D T H E H A T E O F M Y T R I B E , I S H A L L M A K E T H E G O D S F E E L I T S R E C K O N I N G :} I S H A L L M A K E T H E G O D S F E E L I T S R E C K O N I N G :} Many say the Gods are not such beings one should cross; however, for man who has but naught to lose, no such regard is held. For as his God, Comjir, had been forsaken to die upon the holy fields, he was the only surviving worshiper left to enact but only pain on these Gods who had wronged his own and had wronged himself. And so began his journey, to slay those who stood as idols for Gods who but turn their back on their godly brother in the persuit of power. Idol after idol had been felled by his hands. Temples for these wicked God burned and demolished at his word. Yet, in his journey, there was but one idol who escaped his grasp. One idol who got away. One idol who had managed to best him. It is but always the cowards who use cheap tricks. He was caught in a trap, surrounded by idols of wicked gods, once good men trapped in the talons of evil. And but for him? The man who defied the Gods? By their might, he was left on that field alone. Torn. Broke. Shattered. As blood spewed forth from his lips, one last thought crossed his mind: "One day they shall cower." He can't seem to remember the tricks he once knew... _______________________________________________________________________________

⇜ Deicide ⇝ [Dark Fantasy Isekai]

All My Rage.

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_______________________________ N A M E : N A M E : "He can't seem to conjure up what it was..." A G E O F D E A T H : A G E O F D E A T H : "His age pushes over 1000, yet he can't place an exact number." R A C E : R A C E : "He is a human, that's known for sure." G E N D E R : G E N D E R : "There is no doubt that he is a male." P S Y C H O L O G Y : P S Y C H O L O G Y : "Despite the smog that covers his brain the brashness and impetuousness shine through. He stands stubborn as he forces himself to try to play blocked memories of the past. Confusion, loss, anger, course through his mind as he stands in a land on the brink." Memories of the past find themselves locked away... _______________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________ W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R : W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R : {M A N Y L I V E S L I V E D B Y O N E :} {M A N Y L I V E S L I V E D B Y O N E :} For a mind so full of memories of years past, not but one stands evident as full. Fragments of glipese upon different lives in different ages flood his mindscape as he can only catch but fleeting looks at once full experiences. Distorted calls and singing within a language of old but to his mind a warmth spread when it crossed his concious. Memories meld and mix in a hazey convocation as sights of spears made of crude iron and wood turn to blades of tempered steel, turn to the wood of a smoothbore. Different memories, different times, different lives. Although he had not but a clue of who he was, he could tell he was a man who has lived a long, long time. [1] When he awoke, the dirt and grime that surrounded him was naught but sparse. The armor he wore, ruined by a glimpse he couldn't see through the fog, sat roughly upon his body while within his hand he grips but an almost pristine iron dagger. His mind draws upon blanks on its origin, it his body seems to know it inside and out. The blade still as sharp as the day it was forged as he ran a thumb across it. For some reason, it was an item so familiar his body kept track of the movements for it that for him was hidden behind the fog of his mind. [2] He doesn't know what he feels, but he can feel it. A burn. A scorch mark upon his soul. A fire that rages with the screaming shouts of but hundreds of voices with an anger that fuels it further. Red tendrils light up his veins as the ire consumes him. Sparks of power glow from his body as it taps into a power so familiar he can call it, yet for distant it refuses to follow his call, refuses to spark its energy any further. It stands as a mystery for as when the red tendrils fade from view, he can feel the power slowly being ripped from him. W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R : W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R : {F O R A S I H O L D T H E H A T E O F M Y T R I B E , {F O R A S I H O L D T H E H A T E O F M Y T R I B E , I S H A L L M A K E T H E G O D S F E E L I T S R E C K O N I N G :} I S H A L L M A K E T H E G O D S F E E L I T S R E C K O N I N G :} Many say the Gods are not such beings one should cross; however, for man who has but naught to lose, no such regard is held. For as his God, Comjir, had been forsaken to die upon the holy fields, he was the only surviving worshiper left to enact but only pain on these Gods who had wronged his own and had wronged himself. And so began his journey, to slay those who stood as idols for Gods who but turn their back on their godly brother in the persuit of power. Idol after idol had been felled by his hands. Temples for these wicked God burned and demolished at his word. Yet, in his journey, there was but one idol who escaped his grasp. One idol who got away. One idol who had managed to best him. It is but always the cowards who use cheap tricks. He was caught in a trap, surrounded by idols of wicked gods, once good men trapped in the talons of evil. And but for him? The man who defied the Gods? By their might, he was left on that field alone. Torn. Broke. Shattered. As blood spewed forth from his lips, one last thought crossed his mind: "One day they shall cower." He can't seem to remember the tricks he once knew... _______________________________________________________________________________

Corsair Adventures (Invite Only)

Vincent Yates

_{(FC: Reilly Dolman; Dialogue: #694A71)}

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_______________________________ _______________________________ N A M E N A M E ________ Vincent "Vince" Yates A G E A N D B I R T H D A T E A G E A N D B I R T H D A T E ________ 24 Y.O. ┃ Dec., 13, 2000 P O S I T I O N ? P O S I T I O N ? ________ Bartender ┃ Nightlife Guide N A T I O N A L I T Y ? N A T I O N A L I T Y ? ________ American H O M E ? H O M E ? ________ Olympia, Washington E D U C A T I O N ? E D U C A T I O N ? ________ Bachelors of Fine Art (Photography), University of Miami R E T U R N I N G ? R E T U R N I N G ? ________ Yay (ThirdTour) E X T R A S ? E X T R A S ? ________ Nil

_____________________________________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________________________________ E X P E R I E N C E E X P E R I E N C E ________ While newly christened in the sector of tourism, he is but a man who knows his way around the jobs that he has undertaken while working with the company. Since he had received his first bartending gig at the age of nineteen as a freshly minted student and resident in the city of Miami he had been called to the expanse that was the city night scene. His time serving at bars throughout Miami and other parts of Florida across his summers form university provided him with a long list of contacts across the state. Whether it's mixing up a drink he has never heard of before or finding the best spots in a city he has never been to, Vincent can get it done. P E R S O N A L S T A T E M E N T P E R S O N A L S T A T E M E N T ________ "I'm your guy if you need to know the ins and outs of a city within a day. Best spots to eat? Shop? Get down to activities to which my business does not belong in? Just ask. Plus it's always nice to have someone around to mix up that special little drink you've been for a while. I put my all into my craft, each drink a bit of my heart and each city explored with passion. Y'know this place has always been able to scratch that little itch of adventure that traveling around Florida solely couldn't. I love it here, and I'd love to make the last of my one last voyage.