Festive

Pinhead Fetus (a story made by tealrootssss)

@flat lovenote, I am curious, what will this story be about?

ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

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“Asli.”

A small, delicate hand waved through the trickling water of the creek that flowed and craved its own way through the forest, and parted the coverage of the leaves that shaded the two from the morning sun. Her hand twirled around in the clarity of it, the cold little droplets fell upon and quickly left from the girl's hand as she watched the ways it changed the light that shone upon it, how its movement changed the way it reflected, how it danced differently than simply an even flow. She had sat here for minutes, watching as it changed, yet with a slight weight that seemed to bear upon her shoulders.

“Hm?” Asli’s neck turned with a glance, sweat beaded off his forehead with the flick as he faced his sister, crouched down by the water. It was a quaint spot, a small reprieve, what both deemed as an escape from the burdens that stalked them in their waking hour, a small oasis where little pressure existed. One where usually a sister curled up beneath the shade of spruce and a brother struck the bark off one only a few paces over with one of the few things he had left from his birthland.

The sword in his hand fell to his side as he heaved, his breath heavy and low, the energy burned from him, likened to a candle melted down to its last bit of wax. “Oh? Finally speaking today, sister? I was scared you were too lost in that head of yours. Regale me, dear Hace, what is the matter?” A small smile fell upon his lips as he sheathed the sword at his waist.

“Why must you go?” Hace spoke, swiping a black curl from her eyes as her head shifted away from the flowing creek. There had been very few days where the two hadn’t been joined at the hip, yet it seemed as the days passed in but a blink and the year ran past them, these fleeting moments of peace in the woods grew less and less in frequency. And while she was always a girl of few words, she always wore a face that could say more than any syllable that came from her lips. Such was one who wore dejection, with eyes that peered toward his but didn’t hold it, and a mouth sat with lips that had entered into a slight frown, different from the bright smile she had always held.

“Why must I go? The same reason Mahzon stayed; I can’t lie in wait forever. I can’t stay here upon these lands and live off the spoils of the Baron ‘til I am decrepit.” Asli closed the distance between the two, placing himself upon a felled log that sat only mere feet away from where she was crouched. Asli’s eye fell down to his hand, tracing the thin band of gold inlaid with silver and a crimson-stained jewel in the center piece, the same on that his sister wore. It was a little memento of their brother, of the dynasty that now spilled their own kin's blood. “I guess I need to make something of myself. Something more than the boy walks in the shadow of the guards on patrol.”

“I suppose it is a better arrangement.”Hace stood as she spoke, patting the bottom of her skirt of the dirt she had tracked onto it when she stood. Soon, the spot beside her brother was filled, and her hands were sunk into her brother's satchel to retrieve the journal nestled within.

“Besides, I shan’t be gone forever. So don’t frown, Hace.” With a turn and cock of the head he flashed that same grin that in years past had been an infectious one to ignite her own.

“That’s the same thing Mahzon said.” Little had changed in the girl's face; the corner of her lips sank only lower as she stared out upon the creek aimlessly, almost looking through it as if she could see through the earth. A silence was born in the wake of her words. As if they were under the current of water, both held their breaths, their tongues tied with little clue of what to even mutter next. They sat like the air itself was solid, and they could do little to cut through it. Asli's mouth moved, opened, and closed as he fought to even find the words.

“Just take care of mother for me, won’t you?”

“He said that, too, Asli. He said that, too.”

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Quiet. There was little of it to be found at the academy. Throughout this meager time within these walls of limestone and brick, there was but an absence of it, along every turn, from his lonely trip through the gates and orientation to the journey led by the quite wordy woman whose name he had lost through the stream of sounds that flowed from her lips with little reprieve. ‘Tis but a type of noise he had almost forgot, such was one brought forth by the will of man and their pomp and regality. Little of such was found in the Osterland, among the rolling hills where cattle fed and man marched, was a staunch silence that pervaded the fields, where but it was only broken by the rustling of wind ‘neath the pale blue sky and the trickling of water that was hidden within the forests that dotted the map. Yet, within this room of worn wooden furniture, sterile as he had been the first of the duo to be living in such quarters, there was that silence. Where he felt he could hear his own breathing, where there were no eyes, no other ears, simply only him and the small buzz of activity from beyond the room.

Asli basked in the sweet embrace of the quiet for but only a second, heaving the baggage that had turned his knuckles white onto the desk. Yet he was not the only one who would be dwelling in such an abode; beyond the door, stationed above it, was a placard that read but two names: his own and one of another. Roelo de Barbroeck was the name he had seen, and it was not one he could truthfully say he knew. The surname, however, rang the slightest of bells in his memory. It was ducal in nature, with enough prominence, he surmised, to even trickle down into the knowledge of the nephew of a lowly baron, who had absconded from his birth country to that of his mothers. And although a third of his life within this plane had been spent in the empire, the fineries of its politics were lost on him, yet still the tales of prince-electors in both the dark realm of intrigue and upon the field of battle were still heralded to him by his mother. And while his people, such tales of them had seemed so utterly foreign, so far and distant from what he had lived before upon these lands. Now he knew it was all the same. Rather than brothers who held the title of prince taking the other's lives in the haram, they held titles such as duke, or count, or whatever regal name they hold themself to under the broader position of prince-elector who slaughtered each other in the realm of public opinion during a Kur; a different system, but losses are still counted, and despot is still made. He could only ponder on how the boy would present, how deeply he would hold to the name that stood as more than simply himself, how much of it he would make a defining trait of his character. Asli once knew many men who clung to the prestige of their name, the grandeur that encompassed it, many of whom he held the displeasure of calling his brothers, yet all of whom he knew of as naught but pompous pretenders. And by God, he hoped his bunkmate was not one of these men.

His hands flicked tarnished iron clasps that held the case shut as he opened one of the only two bags he brought along. Since the move, he had rarely kept many effects in his possession; the fact that most of his items that stood in his room at Grünestal stood as a testament to such. From first glance, it was plain by nature, but only what could be seen was his assortment of clothes, shirts, and breeches of browns, whites, navys, and blacks laid stacked upon each other. Gone were his days wrapped in a kaftan of dark greens and reds with a kuşak upon his waist. Now he stood in full Ansbourg parade dress, which a shako on his head, where in other lands could sit a fez, which he soon placed beside his luggage on the table.

Asli soon moved to packing away clothes that covered the rest of the items he owned. It was not much to see: a small assortment of closed boxes, pages of letters he had yet to read from his family, one each from his mother and his sister, and the many people he had come to forge friendships with in the barony, yet still none from his brother. It was a letter he had long lost hope of receiving, and that if any of his own letters made it across the sea, there was but a slim chance there was even anyone was receiving them but the old staff who likely tossed it. His tan hand fondled with the edges of the letters, bound in a twine his mother wrapped upon it, and surprised him with the day before he had set off for the heartlands. Asli didn’t know if he could read them yet, didn’t know if he was ready to face the words of more people he had left behind yet again. He ruffled the top of the letters once more, almost 10 in count. The one he averted his gaze from the most was the only one written in a script different from that of the others, written in a tongue he hadn’t spoken, read, seen, or even thought since years long passed. With the quick pull open of a drawer and grasp of the letters within his hand, Asli quickly dropped them within. Such was reading for another day.

With that, he removed the last effects from the bottom of the luggage, closing it back and placing it up against the wall beside his desk. It was little that stood before him now, only a few unmarked black casings and small bags of trinkets, yet these were the few that never left his side. Beads of rich browns carved of dead desert trees that ended in a small jewel wrapped in silver fell upon his hand as Asli emptied the little bag. Alongside it sat what appeared to be a gilded book encased in iron with a glass on its front. It had been quite a bit since he last prayed. The trip to the academy from Osterland was a long one, traveling without reprieve until they touched down within the city limits, simply for him to be thrust into a ceremony that flashed past in him a blur. Hell, even before his arrival, most days it had been hard to keep a schedule without court Sözadam constant hustling. Yet, it was one of the many things he missed. He missed the great grandeur of the temples lined words of scripture and whose windows bore colors of reds, blues, greens, and yellows. He missed the feast brought before them every prayer in reverence of Alparslan and his nine faris. Laachtalian lacked it all but in its stead they stood before stones laden in ornaments, painted and prim, that told stories of the dead, not beatified. It was different, strange, a custom he was only able to grasp the fringes of. No matter. He had abandoned the ways of his birth quite yet.

Asli’s hands gripped the prayer beads between his fingers, his hands open in a cusp, as the small book sat in the middle. He didn’t need to read it, he didn’t need to search its pages for the verse he desired; he knew exactly what he desired to pray on. So in this small piece of quiet, away from it all, from his home, from his mother, his sister, his brother, he embraced in this short little time he was afforded.

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

𝕸 𝖚 𝖗 𝖚 𝖛 𝖛 𝖊 𝖙 𝖔 𝖌 𝖑 𝖚
𝕸 𝖚 𝖗 𝖚 𝖛 𝖛 𝖊 𝖙 𝖔 𝖌 𝖑 𝖚

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𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Few young kin ever leave the glinting and gilded walls of the Imperial Harem; fewer do so with the life they had entered with. For within such walls of whispered pleasures and foretold blessings of coin beyond one's most greedy imagination was a structure of power much too similar to the lands beyond its confines. Wherein lay a pyramid based upon the birth and favor of a mother in a sea of scheming concubines all to eager to please. And for Asli Muruvvetoglu, the 10th son born from Sultan Hurjanic III Muruvvetoglu’s escapades to a mother who had lost favor from such a man years prior to his conception, it was a battle futile from the beginning. Yet, in a complex of people vying for the top, of mothers who wrought their hands through dirt for their son to be the heir, and of sabotage of brother against brother, his quaint family carved their own safe place within the walls. One safe from the prying eyes that scanned for but any sign of cracking, and the ears of those who would use any and all against you. It was the home for which the first decade of his life was spent, spent with a mother who had only lived for their survival, with a brother too entrenched in the life of fighting for his spot in the sun, with a twin sister who was but the opposite of him, but as a unit they stood. His mother had been the one who taught him to revel in the moment, to enjoy the sun as it shone onto your face from within the courtyard and the breeze that passed through the gates of the harem. It was his brother, who, though divided in age by a decade, he had played petty schemes upon his half-siblings with, who taught him to find such joy in the sword. Asli had been clever, rowdy, with a wit and tongue that even struck his brother down some days. However, the Sultan had begun to rot. A quiet rot, akin to a curse struck down upon him from the Gods, and the man who had known as his “father” began to falter. For the eldest sons of the sultan in a kingdom where an heir is never declared, blood shall soon fall at their feet. And Asli’s brother Mahzon didn’t allow such to be his kin’s, for when Asli was but only twelve, his father had succumbed to the sickness that reigned over his final years like a miasma, and he was subsequently shipped along with his mother and twin to lands in which she hailed. The Osterland was where he had grown into a man, for to Asli, it was a land far, far from those he had been born. One of green fields and rocky cliff faces as opposed to the sandstone walls and chalky dirt of the Capitallands of the Muravvettan Sultanate. He grew up under years of tutelage from the frontier guards, picking fights and joining their training when not herded to his mother’s side. Wielding the sword the same way in which his Mahzon had taught him, he still kept that temperament of years past. He had been loud, he had been boisterous, he had learned to care not for the words which others spout about him, yet he still held to watch what was said in the presence of prying ears. As for but even the young had understood the conditions of the harem, and those had yet to leave him. He could almost be called a snake, like his brother had taught him; he could slither his way into relationships with silky words and plush promises. If the harem taught one thing, it was how to manage people, how to keep up appearances. And when he had come of age, the academy was but the only option he had before him. For in a land he could call his own, yet so drastically different from where he was born, there were but few roads paved in stone.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ [ 𝑨 𝒔 𝒍 𝒊 𝑴 𝒖 𝒓 𝒖 𝒗 𝒗 𝒆 𝒕 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒖 ]

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𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Melancholia was what they called it, a disruption of the temperaments. For but his whole life, Asli had known his mother, Liesl, as a kind woman. The type to be able to hold a stranger near and dear to heart, to bend over backwards for those that she loves, yet throughout his life, there had always been a miasma cloud of locked away hurt and tears that fell in the witching hour of the night that followed his mother. She was a woman that rarely spoke upon her past, rarely mentioned the early years in which she had lived within the harem or how she had even become a concubine of the sultan in the first place, yet even on her darkest days when the plague of the mind had struck her bedridden, she would push beyond it for her children. Liesl would tell them tales of the journeys she had ventured to calm Asli and Hace from a fright that left them sleepless, and worked her best to make sure their upbringing was the best that they could’ve received. A selfless woman to her core, wherein the little hate she held in her heart only seemed to be centered upon herself. She lived for her children, for in this world where the clouds always seemed to block the sky, they were the few joys that broke through the coverage.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ [ 𝑳 𝒊 𝒆 𝒔 𝒍 𝒗 𝒐 𝒏 𝑯 𝒂 𝒖 𝒈 𝒉 𝒕 𝒆 𝒓 ]

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𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ In the days of yore, when both were but only boys and stood upon the same mosaic floors, there was not but a single day Asli hadn’t been by his brother’s side. Mahzon had been many things: a protector on the darkest of nights, a mentor in the times beyond mandatory instruction, and a man who cared for him more than the paltry number of times their father had even been in his presence. Though Mahzon had always been an ambitious man, he had been one of the oldest sons in the harem and fought to keep himself in the eye of a father who cared not for him. He toiled in the background of the imperial court for years to learn to rule, to lead, yet in the days of his father’s moments upon this plane, he made the decision to send his family away. To send the ones in which he held most dear over any crown away, he protected not only them but himself. It had been a long, forlorn time since Asli had last seen his brother, since he had last received a letter from him. A Sultan has still yet to be crowned, and as but barely any whispers from Orient cross into Laachtalia, he can only wonder about the status of his dear brother.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ [ 𝑴 𝒂 𝒉 𝒛 𝒐 𝒏 𝑻 𝒆 𝒗 𝒓 𝒂 𝒕 𝑴 𝒖 𝒓 𝒖 𝒗 𝒗 𝒆 𝒕 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒖 ]

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𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 𝖕 𝖗 𝖔 𝖋 𝖎 𝖑 𝖊 _________________________________________________________ Hace was never a very loud girl, even from birth when she came from the womb with Asli crying til his lungs ran dry, she held still, silent in the chaos that surrounded her. And yet despite differing from her brother in ways obvious to any who lays an eye upon the two, the bond the two hold only grows stronger. She was one of the few who could keep her brother in check in his great expansion of freedom upon the Osterland frontier, with a quiet voice but a strong will. In ways she was akin to a reflection of the stories they heard of their mother; she was that girl who sought to learn everything new, whose eyes snuck looks beyond the confines of the boat and upon the open seas as they departed the Sultanate, who explored the backwoods of her uncle’s holdings as Asli regalded her with stories of history from long ago, and who dug her head into the breadth of books held in the library.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ [ 𝑯 𝒂 𝒄 𝒆 𝑴 𝒖 𝒓 𝒖 𝒗 𝒗 𝒆 𝒕 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒖 ]

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Festive's 1x1 Search

how dare you wait until i'm in five rps to post this

@TokyoPewPew

It won't be going anywhere LOL

Festive's 1x1 Search

Bump [Original idea section updated: Three new stories added, ranging from southern gothic, historical fantasy, and dark academia]

Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

“You know, my brothers and sisters?”

A voice bellowed out, soft but loud, projecting across the room over the ever-persistent hum of the now-yellow fluorescent bar lights that hung from the roof, and pops and cracks of the coffee machine running just off yonder in the corner. Before the crowd of unevenly lined plastic foldable chairs occupied with those from all over, stood a man behind a worn wooden podium whose hair, once golden, now cluttered with streaks of grays and dulled yellows, dressed in a garb of white frilled with Purple. Eyes of stark green glared across the hall, decorated with flags of the same colors he wore, banners of stripes and crosses lined the walls within his gaze. The air was permeated with the aroma of days-old coffee and the stench of stagnant air from years of disuse as a smile grew upon the speaker's old lips before speaking again.

“Last night, I spent the whole damn evenin’ rackin’ my mind about what I was gonna say tonight. Thinkin’ about exactly what our naturally ordained position in this world is, despite how painfully obvious it may be. Where exactly do we fall in the almighty’s godly order?”

Near the back corner of the hall, one of the many people standing in the crowd due to the underwhelming amount of chairs was a man whose face looked so much like the speaker before them all. Yellow locks were slicked back on his head with arms crossed, slightly covering the name tag with Lucius written in sloppy Sharpie. Yet Lucius was still in jail. With him locked up in one of the few specialized hype facilities in the South, the man who stood among the ranks of the congregation was naught but an impostor who wore the skin of one of their people.

And such was an art Dominique had grown prideful of. To become another, to embrace them and all their tics and idiosyncrasies, was more than simply copying a face or body; such was but the easy part. While copying the minutiae of his facial features and figure only took hours, becoming Lucius took long months in an office watching and rewinding clips of interviews to see exactly what made the man tick, how he thought, how he moved in a room – every facet of his personality. Many a lone night slumped over a desk whose surface was obscured by federal case files strewn about, having been combed through to memorize the small details of his life. All those hours led to this day: the knighting.

“Well, to know this, we must look at who we are. We are a people, who at every chance have been hindered by the goddamn tyrannical grip of this government we call a ‘democracy.’ We are the people who have been left destitute by false kings who have no heavenly merit. We are the ones who have been left in chains. We are those who have been shackled by the powers that be, who just can’t handle the purity of our folk. My people, we are those who have been intoxicated by a cocktail of snake oils to destroy our gifts. The gifts given to us by God. By which, through his heavenly providence, we have become his chosen few. We are the ones ordained to inherit this Earth, yet upon these lands, they treat us as lesser. They call us freaks in the streets. Our young are collared and leashed for what is simply their divine right.”

Dominique leaned their weight against the wall behind them, taking a sip of the dark brew of coffee that was in their hand. It hadn’t been easy infiltrating the Knights of the True Testament despite the identity he had absorbed. Lucius Johnston, the man whom Dominique played, was the cousin of the orator who spouted a false creed to the crowd: Robert Johnston. Originally brought in on several counts of aggravated battery, Lucius was soon “released” after Dominique had taken his place in a joint operation between the FBI and HELP. Dominique, at this point, had been around the group for months, feeding information to the Feds as they watched the group’s rhetoric spread like wildfire in the fringes of the South. And tonight? Tonight was the time they’d finally be trusted as a knight. The time they finally began to gain the power that they would use to burn the group down to naught but ashes.

“And I’ll confess to y'all, for you are my kin, I was once a man who saw color. Who looked only upon the shell of a man to determine his purity. I was a man whose eyes hadn’t yet been awakened to God’s truth, and I thought what made us pure and supreme was marked only by one’s skin, his blood, and the heritage of his people. But now? Now I know I was wrong. Now I know that I was looking at the wrong things. We aren’t pure because of those facts; we aren’t pure because of our genes. We aren’t pure because of our blood. We are pure because of the power that is coursing through our goddamn viens, people! We are pure, through the divinity god struck into us all on that very night! We are pure though that flame in our very being ignited by the blessings from above. Our power is the proof of our purity!”

As the last line fell from Robert’s lips with three successive bangs of his fist against the wooden podium, a cacophony of woos, cheers, and clapping erupted. With the peak to this sickening melody of hate, Dominique kept their face from twisting as they continued to observe the crowd. The K.T.T. twisted the reality of what their powers really were, twisted the view of who hyperhumans really were into something hateful. They preach like false prophets, spinning a tale of faux divinity to the masses. They fought against oppression, but in the same vein, fought for it.

“And I’ll be damned if I let these heathens dictate how we live. For those untouched by God’s power are below us. We are his kin, we are his people, we are pure! There is no black, there is no white, there is no nation, there is no flag by which we are bound, there is only the pure and the impure. The divine and the discarded. And I know if anyone on this Earth will be cleansed, it will not be us. As God made us his soldiers, and it is our time to reclaim what is truly ours.”

The clapping continued yet the disgust burned a pit in Dominique’s mind. It was a shame to see how easily so many people were brought into hate.

“Y’all are too kind, I am just tellin’ our people’s truth. Thank you, thank you. Now y’all will see my face back up here in a little bit for the knighting. Mingle around for a little bit while we get everything prepared now.”

And with Robert left from the stage, the vitriol he spat now heralded and reinforced in the mind of the congregation as “God’s word.” Dominique exhaled a soft sigh as they once again brought the coffee up to their lips. This was not going to be the last of the long nights.

Yet before long, the black pager they held was tucked beneath their shirt began to vibrate.

911*86*60*401773

“What the fuck..?” They uttered softly, almost as but a whisper, as Dominique began to head to the nearest exit. The heart in their chest started to beat ever harder as they left out into the darkness of the Mississippi night. The soft breeze nipped at Dominique’s skin as the coverage of trees swayed overhead. There was not a single payphone for miles as Dominique’s eyes scanned out tree line. And in but an instant, they heard it. That sound which was unmistakable, the grip of dirt and loose stone under tire, the soft roar of an engine as it sped up the only road which led onto the property. Before they could get a word out, federal agents, equipped with gear as dark as the night sky they were beneath, swarmed the surrounding area, with the squad of HELP agents who accompanied them quickly ushering Dominique away.

Dominique’s back fell into roughly cushioned seating that lined the back of the van be had been brought into.

“What the fuck was that, Kane? I’ve spent more than half a year with these bastards you fucking pull me out like that? The Feds, too? You just destroyed my cover.”

“Lower your tone, Dominique. Do you believe I wanted it to go this way?” Kane wiped the sweat from his forehead as his eyes shifted away from the surveillance screen. “Straight from the top, we only got the call a few hours ago, you’re getting pulled to a different team.”

“Are you serious?” A scoff fell from Dominique's lips as he stared at Kane.

“Yup. Hell, this is just as much of a shock to us; this could’ve gone on for way longer. The Bureau decided to move forward with the arrest of Roberts; it’s beyond our jurisdiction now. We offered them a replacement agent but you can probably guess what they said about that.”

“You know, them arresting Roberts isn’t going to make anything better, right?” Dominique sighed.

“I do, and I am sure some people in the Bureau do as well. There is nothing either you or I can do about it. There’ll be a plane waiting for you tomorrow to take you back to Alpha Base. We still have some loose ends to tie up here. But in the meantime, let's get you back to the hotel.”

_{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Canadian Air Space}

Times of Trouble #1.007: Faceless

_{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: Nil

And there, upon that plane, had possibly been the most comfortable Dominique had been across these long months. The method of the K.T.T. hiding among the rural towns long abandoned by most after decades of economic strife and decline, overgrown farmland, and forests that dotted the Mississippi countryside meant forgoing that common luxury of comfortable bedding. Yet it wasn’t the first time Dominique had lived like such, and it wouldn’t be the last. Their body conformed to the seat as they lay back fully into it. Their hand delving into the reachers of the inner pocket of their jacket to retrieve the wallet they rarely carried beyond their off hours. As they unfolded the wallet and flipped up the flap in the middle, their two IDs shone beneath the soft light above their plane seat.

It had been a little bit since they had worn such faces, although the way to construct them was like a blueprint seared in their mind. They were faces as old as they could remember, the ones they had always clung to as their own. But always, that lingering thought that such faces were only constructs created on half-guesses and estimates pervaded their mind like a weed on a clear field. You can only remove them if you cut them at the root, yet this one was buried so deeply that Dominique had not even fragments of a mental image of who they originally were. It was a forlorn dream. To find such a face lost to time, such a body lost to time.

Dominique tapped their fingers in a cascading motion against the seat flip-up table as they settled on a face to take, softly releasing the wallet down onto the table as they decided. And in but an instant, a heat grew across Dominique’s body. It was a soft burn they had come to know all too well. Like small tacks being poked against every inch of their skin, dulled sharp pain brought forth those once yellow locks of hair upon their head into longer streaks of black that fell upon their shoulders. The hue of their eyes had deepened into the darkest of browns, as the mass upon their body shifted with the change of stature. The clothes Dominique wore upon their body now felt sizes bigger as the heat slowly dissipated. No matter the time between each transformation, it was a sensation that could never be forgotten.

Dominique held their fingers up to their face, slimmer they appeared and smaller than the size they were only minutes ago. HELP would only let them on base in one of those two forms, yet there were still days when they had gotten past in the skin of another.

Dominique laid their head back into the chair, eyes slowly slipping into darkness under the weight of all the time they had spent in the field. All that had now been lost. All the time in which they had struggled to play a man so utterly different from themself was now gone, as they had to shift back into their normal self. A scorn was still held in Dominique’s heart, yet such professions of anger would have to wait until they landed. Their flight still had hours left.

And in the quiet hum of the plane’s engine, Dominique found himself alone in the darkness of their own mind. For now, there was no more part to play, no more voice to copy, no more other life to live besides their own, and although it was only but a fleeting moment of solitude, this was when Dominique felt whole.

Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

D O M I N I Q U E N G Ô
D O M I N I Q U E N G Ô

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^{_{Are you sure you know the face you're looking at?}}

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P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ NAME: | Dominique Ngô _______________________________________________________________________ STATUS: | Active _______________________________________________________________________ INDEX DATE: | 1990-9-23 _______________________________________________________________________ DATE OF BIRTH: | 1965-12-21 _______________________________________________________________________ ALIAS(ES): | John (Alternatively Jane) Doe _______________________________________________________________________ RESIDENCE: | Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada _______________________________________________________________________ CITIZENSHIP: | Vietnamese, Canadian _______________________________________________________________________ CLEARANCE LEVEL: | Special Agent B A C K G R O U N D B A C K G R O U N D ________________________________________________________________________________________ Vietnam. A land cursed by a war in which no man won, where no man left its fields without but many scars laden across themselves. And a member of the citizenry, Dominique Ngô was a person who hadn’t been one of the few to escape its trials. Born the bastard child of a French academic and a Vietnamese farmer, only but a few miles north of Hue, the world in which they emerged into was not one that should not have been faced by a child but so pure. With a loss of their mother after birth whose face they had never been given a chance to see, for but most of this short time within their life, that is only remembered in clouded fragments of half memories, it was only two within the household they live; a lone father and the child in which they bore responsibility. They lived in a landscape of napalm fires that burned the fields in which their father tilled, but till his back gave out. They hid within the compartments, tucked away in hidden spots from soldiers of both sides' war that waved either the red or yellow banner depending on who passed. As the years passed and the war only continued to rage on in the Vietnamese countryside, it was not long before Dominique’s father had decided to flee the country. As the North made its final push in the year of ‘75, Dominique had been placed upon a boat of refugees headed to Canada. Alone, they stood in their voyage across the sea, as there had only been but one spot available upon the rickety ship which ferried those across the ocean to a land where they would find a new life. It was a journey not for the faint, the waves were unforgiving to those aboard as it tossed and turned their vessel, not made for such a journey in the first place. Dominique was a child, alone in a vessel so unfamiliar, surrounded by faces so unfamiliar, heading for a land so utterly foreign from all they had lived till this moment. And in but only a few days into their trip, they felt a change. Their body went hot as they sat in the darkness of the cabin, their stomach groaning as something shifted. Skin twisting and turning and molding into something so unfamiliar, hair grew into long locks upon their face, as even those small intricate patterns that marked one's hand were contorted into a different pattern. Dominique left the boat a different person than when they had boarded it. With a face so different not even they recognize it as their own. Wearing a skin that wasn’t theirs, in a land so new that nobody but themself even knew it was so. For Dominique, their life had held no clear path forward, no light guiding their trek, not a hint of the north star in the night sky. The young child learned through the trials of homelessness the art of survival, the path hidden in the grime to make little out of nothing. To scavenge for scraps to feed the ever-growing pit within their stomach was a task often hard to accomplish. To learn the tongue of this new land which their father sent them to for opportunities greater than those they would’ve had back home. As the days passed, the pursuit of more aided Dominique to learn their ability. To shackle the dragon that terrorized their life, and to master its control were endeavors that took years of their life to even begin to start. By the age of sixteen, Dominique, after a stint of several petty robberies using their abilities, was picked up by the likes of H.E.L.P., who had received a tip about a young local hype. After being taken under the wing of the organization, Dominique was enrolled in specialized schooling to continue on the rest of their adolescent life under the watchful eye of H.E.L.P., who assisted them in gaining mastery over their ability. R E C R U I T M E N T R E C R U I T M E N T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Following their graduation from secondary schooling in Canada, Dominique continued their education at the University of British Columbia, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology before attending the John Jay College of Criminal Justice and achieving a master of Arts in Criminal Justice. And throughout such time, continually improving upon their control over the ability that first stood as a confusing hex upon their life. Eventually, returning to the organization that helped pull them out of the struggle initially, Dominique applied and was accepted as a probationary. C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U ________________________________________________________________________________________ Dominique’s career within the ranks of H.E.L.P. has been one that was dwarfed compared to the likes of their comrades. Quick on their feet, sharp in the mind, and familiar with the workings of the organization, Dominique quickly moved on from their days as a probationary agent. Since their formal induction to the rank of special agent only two years prior, the brevity of their career does not define the accomplishments they have made in such a short time. The pinnacle of undercover investigation within their division, Dominique has contributed heavily to the case in which they are assigned, for who is better at surveillance than who has no set face, no set voice. For when a case gets hot, there is no better disguise than that of the people searching for you. Dominique is an agent mostly known only by name and the light-hearted tricks they play upon their comrades. A career laden with an often tense relationship with authority and a stubbornness unmoved by its will. Despite their problems with those of higher rank, the effectiveness of their ability and performance on the field has been an undeniable factor in their tenure.

P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N _________________________________________________________ [STANDARD FORM ONE] _________________________________________________________ [STANDARD FORM TWO] _________________________________________________________ P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N _________________________________________________________ RACE: | Vietnamese _________________________________________________________________ SEX: | Interchangable _________________________________________________________________ HEIGHT: | Variable [STAN. FORM ONE] 5'11" | [STAN. FORM TWO] 5'7" _________________________________________________________________ WEIGHT: | Variable [STAN. FORM ONE] 164lbs | [STAN. FORM TWO] 142lbs _________________________________________________________________ HAIR COLOUR: | Variable [STAN. FORM] Brown _________________________________________________________________ HAIR LENGTH: | Variable [STAN. FORM] Short _________________________________________________________________ EYE COLOUR: | Variable [STAN. FORM] Brown _________________________________________________________________ HANDEDNESS: | Right A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S _________________________________________________________ H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || S O M A T I C A T O M I C R E C O N F I G U R A T I O N __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION || Esoteric __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION || Dynamic __POWER SCALE || 02 __THREAT CLASSIFICATION || Σ Dominique Ngô is a hyperhuman who presents the ability of Somatic Atomic Reconfiguration, commonly referred to as shapeshifting. This ability, as documented through the observations of one [REDACTED], allows the user to reconfigure the molecular structure that composes their body, allowing Ngô to manipulate all facets of the human appearance, including but not limited to through current observation: hair (and its facets), eye color, skin color, body shape, height, weight, and other bodily features. The process by which Ngô can reconfigure the atoms in their body involves the use of the stored HZE ions concentrated within. These special particles attach to the body's atoms, breaking the chemical bonds that hold them together to allow movement of them into different orders, as well as being the spark that recreates these bonds to produce different combinations in order to achieve Ngô’s desired change. And if the body does not possess enough mass to produce the desired changes, it will use energy to extend the HZE ions to pull the elements that the human body is constructed of out of the environment to compensate for the deficit. L I M I T A T I O N S & W E A K N E S S E S || E T E R N A L V O R A C I T Y & O V E R H E A T I N G The process of using their ability requires a vast amount of energy from Ngô to complete any such rearrangement. The amount of energy needed is not uniform, however, it is based upon the amount of change to the molecular structure, which has occurred under their direction, scaling exponentially as Ngô requires surrounding atoms to add more mass to their body or remove mass from their body. The consequences of this facet of their power ignite their metabolism into overdrive, requiring copious amounts of sustenance in order to gain the required amount of energy to complete a transformation successfully. However, the amount of food required heavily relies on the amount of changes to their atomic structure performed as mentioned prior. The reconfiguration and building of bonds of the atoms within their body are exothermic reactions. In light of such a fact, the changing of appearance by Ngô continually heats up their body, with the amount of heat built up depending on how big the changes are. The heat produced is usually negligible for transformations which occur in distant intervals from each other, but in situations in which Ngô manipulates their atom structure multiple times within a short time period this heat will build to levels which become detrimental, spurring symptoms of sickness and, on rare occasions, even heatstroke.

Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

Dominique Ngô

D O M I N I Q U E N G Ô
D O M I N I Q U E N G Ô

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^{_{Are you sure you know the face you're looking at?}}

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P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ NAME: | Dominique Ngô _______________________________________________________________________ STATUS: | Active _______________________________________________________________________ INDEX DATE: | 1990-9-23 _______________________________________________________________________ DATE OF BIRTH: | 1965-12-21 _______________________________________________________________________ ALIAS(ES): | John (Alternatively Jane) Doe _______________________________________________________________________ RESIDENCE: | Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada _______________________________________________________________________ CITIZENSHIP: | Vietnamese, Canadian _______________________________________________________________________ CLEARANCE LEVEL: | Special Agent B A C K G R O U N D B A C K G R O U N D ________________________________________________________________________________________ Vietnam. A land cursed by a war in which no man won, where no man left its fields without but many scars laden across themselves. And a member of the citizenry, Dominique Ngô was a person who hadn’t been one of the few to escape its trials. Born the bastard child of a French academic and a Vietnamese farmer, only but a few miles north of Hue, the world in which they emerged into was not one that should not have been faced by a child but so pure. With a loss of their mother after birth whose face they had never been given a chance to see, for but most of this short time within their life, that is only remembered in clouded fragments of half memories, it was only two within the household they live; a lone father and the child in which they bore responsibility. They lived in a landscape of napalm fires that burned the fields in which their father tilled, but till his back gave out. They hid within the compartments, tucked away in hidden spots from soldiers of both sides' war that waved either the red or yellow banner depending on who passed. As the years passed and the war only continued to rage on in the Vietnamese countryside, it was not long before Dominique’s father had decided to flee the country. As the North made its final push in the year of ‘75, Dominique had been placed upon a boat of refugees headed to Canada. Alone, they stood in their voyage across the sea, as there had only been but one spot available upon the rickety ship which ferried those across the ocean to a land where they would find a new life. It was a journey not for the faint, the waves were unforgiving to those aboard as it tossed and turned their vessel, not made for such a journey in the first place. Dominique was a child, alone in a vessel so unfamiliar, surrounded by faces so unfamiliar, heading for a land so utterly foreign from all they had lived till this moment. And in but only a few days into their trip, they felt a change. Their body went hot as they sat in the darkness of the cabin, their stomach groaning as something shifted. Skin twisting and turning and molding into something so unfamiliar, hair grew into long locks upon their face, as even those small intricate patterns that marked one's hand were contorted into a different pattern. Dominique left the boat a different person than when they had boarded it. With a face so different not even they recognize it as their own. Wearing a skin that wasn’t theirs, in a land so new that nobody but themself even knew it was so. For Dominique, their life had held no clear path forward, no light guiding their trek, not a hint of the north star in the night sky. The young child learned through the trials of homelessness the art of survival, the path hidden in the grime to make little out of nothing. To scavenge for scraps to feed the ever-growing pit within their stomach was a task often hard to accomplish. To learn the tongue of this new land which their father sent them to for opportunities greater than those they would’ve had back home. As the days passed, the pursuit of more aided Dominique to learn their ability. To shackle the dragon that terrorized their life, and to master its control were endeavors that took years of their life to even begin to start. By the age of sixteen, Dominique, after a stint of several petty robberies using their abilities, was picked up by the likes of H.E.L.P., who had received a tip about a young local hype. After being taken under the wing of the organization, Dominique was enrolled in specialized schooling to continue on the rest of their adolescent life under the watchful eye of H.E.L.P., who assisted them in gaining mastery over their ability. R E C R U I T M E N T R E C R U I T M E N T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Following their graduation from secondary schooling in Canada, Dominique continued their education at the University of British Columbia, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology before attending the John Jay College of Criminal Justice and achieving a master of Arts in Criminal Justice. And throughout such time, continually improving upon their control over the ability that first stood as a confusing hex upon their life. Eventually, returning to the organization that helped pull them out of the struggle initially, Dominique applied and was accepted as a probationary. C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U ________________________________________________________________________________________ Dominique’s career within the ranks of H.E.L.P. has been one that was dwarfed compared to the likes of their comrades. Quick on their feet, sharp in the mind, and familiar with the workings of the organization, Dominique quickly moved on from their days as a probationary agent. Since their formal induction to the rank of special agent only two years prior, the brevity of their career does not define the accomplishments they have made in such a short time. The pinnacle of undercover investigation within their division, Dominique has contributed heavily to the case in which they are assigned, for who is better at surveillance than who has no set face, no set voice. For when a case gets hot, there is no better disguise than that of the people searching for you. Dominique is an agent mostly known only by name and the light-hearted tricks they play upon their comrades. A career laden with an often tense relationship with authority and a stubbornness unmoved by its will. Despite their problems with those of higher rank, the effectiveness of their ability and performance on the field has been an undeniable factor in their tenure.

P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N _________________________________________________________ [STANDARD FORM ONE] _________________________________________________________ [STANDARD FORM TWO] _________________________________________________________ P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N _________________________________________________________ RACE: | Vietnamese _________________________________________________________________ SEX: | Interchangable _________________________________________________________________ HEIGHT: | Variable [STAN. FORM ONE] 5'11" | [STAN. FORM TWO] 5'7" _________________________________________________________________ WEIGHT: | Variable [STAN. FORM ONE] 164lbs | [STAN. FORM TWO] 142lbs _________________________________________________________________ HAIR COLOUR: | Variable [STAN. FORM] Brown _________________________________________________________________ HAIR LENGTH: | Variable [STAN. FORM] Short _________________________________________________________________ EYE COLOUR: | Variable [STAN. FORM] Brown _________________________________________________________________ HANDEDNESS: | Right A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S _________________________________________________________ H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || S O M A T I C A T O M I C R E C O N F I G U R A T I O N __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION || Esoteric __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION || Dynamic __POWER SCALE || TBD __THREAT CLASSIFICATION || TBD Dominique Ngô is a hyperhuman who presents the ability of Somatic Atomic Reconfiguration, commonly referred to as shapeshifting. This ability, as documented through the observations of one [REDACTED], allows the user to reconfigure the molecular structure that composes their body, allowing Ngô to manipulate all facets of the human appearance, including but not limited to through current observation: hair (and its facets), eye color, skin color, body shape, height, weight, and other bodily features. The process by which Ngô can reconfigure the atoms in their body involves the use of the stored HZE ions concentrated within. These special particles attach to the body's atoms, breaking the chemical bonds that hold them together to allow movement of them into different orders, as well as being the spark that recreates these bonds to produce different combinations in order to achieve Ngô’s desired change. And if the body does not possess enough mass to produce the desired changes, it will use energy to extend the HZE ions to pull the elements that the human body is constructed of out of the environment to compensate for the deficit. L I M I T A T I O N S & W E A K N E S S E S || E T E R N A L V O R A C I T Y & O V E R H E A T I N G The process of using their ability requires a vast amount of energy from Ngô to complete any such rearrangement. The amount of energy needed is not uniform, however, it is based upon the amount of change to the molecular structure, which has occurred under their direction, scaling exponentially as Ngô requires surrounding atoms to add more mass to their body or remove mass from their body. The consequences of this facet of their power ignite their metabolism into overdrive, requiring copious amounts of sustenance in order to gain the required amount of energy to complete a transformation successfully. However, the amount of food required heavily relies on the amount of changes to their atomic structure performed as mentioned prior. The reconfiguration and building of bonds of the atoms within their body are exothermic reactions. In light of such a fact, the changing of appearance by Ngô continually heats up their body, with the amount of heat built up depending on how big the changes are. The heat produced is usually negligible for transformations which occur in distant intervals from each other, but in situations in which Ngô manipulates their atom structure multiple times within a short time period this heat will build to levels which become detrimental, spurring symptoms of sickness and, on rare occasions, even heatstroke.

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 {Superhuman Military Action}

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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! _______________________________________________________________________

Trouble on the Bluegrass Hills {Supernatural Southern Gothic}

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𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨?
𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨?

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___________________________________ =================================== T H E S I N S O F T H E F A T H E R . . . =================================== Trouble On The Trouble On The 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔰 ℌ𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔰 ℌ𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔰 =================================== . . . S H A N ' T B E H E L D A G A I N S T T H E S O N “𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔊𝔬𝔡.” =================================== =================================== =================================== ===================================

_______________________________________________________________________ =============================================================== P R E M I S E P R E M I S E ________________________ ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢𝔫. 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢𝔫 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔰. 𝔊𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔨 𝔪𝔢𝔫. 𝔄𝔫𝔡, 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔨 𝔪𝔢𝔫 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔰. But like many good times, the prideful roar of the 20s has been snuffed out with yet only a whimper. A piteous cry sounded off, likened to a ripple across the country, as stocks fell to the nadir of their value and the market being left torn asunder to all those involved. Such brought forth an era of loss, one of suffering under the cruel grip of poverty, for but only that of the common folk, the one's whose hands toil in the dirt to bring value to such stocks, whose bodies lay laden in sweat to bring forth profit for little gain of their own. And for those who lay their heads 'neath the star-speckled sky of rich violets, blacks, and blues, in weary bluegrass mountains of inner Appalachia, experience naught but the brunt of the consequences for such a time. And as mines crumbled under the burden of but little demand and many workers, they are shut down as operations come to but a standstill, and the loggers who once ruled the area leave for thicker forests, an economy is left in collapse, a people are left in ruin; a destitute mountain range, with but little left but tales. Appalachia is naught if not a region of stories and tales. Folktales told around the burning glow of a pit fire, of a moth the size of man. Stories of those who come knocking in the wee hours of the night, in the skin of those that you know or but a stranger seeking entrance into your abode. For in these morsels whose souls stay upon this plane their eyes glow with but the deepest of reds, as vermillion as blood, and teeth as sharp as a blade. Any yet for all their power, you are the determiner of your fate. As your momma once said, don't answer the door to strangers; you never know if they bite. ========================================================= P R E F A C E P R E F A C E ________________________ “𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 '𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖎𝖓'𝖙 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖇𝖑𝖚𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖐, 𝖓𝖔𝖜. 𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖇𝖑𝖚𝖊𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖘𝖘, 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑.” Saddled betwixted the rolling mounts of Pike county, Kentucky, which pierce the horizon for but as long as the eye can see, and thickets of fir and spruce whose trucks extend to but width of three men in a line, stands the town of North Havan. A remnant of old money lost in the purge of the depression, which cast down upon the town, likened to that of holy fire descending from a force beyond but what anyone could comprehend. The mines which but brought Havan into prominence had lost the spark which the fuel they dug from the Earth fed. The logging mills, which once defined South Havan lost in the great fire of 1929, which made that whole side of town naught but ashen ruins. It is a town marked by it's divide of the rich and poor, and high and the low. And as well as one in which stories of heralded dangers abound in but every nook and cranny. It is but a town bearing the nickname of the society in the "blind spot of God." Where the Klan hides and rules in the woods. And where sometimes, you may even meet a soul that shouldn't be on this plane, that shouldn't be at your door. 𝖄𝖆 𝖇𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝕲𝖔𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖞𝖆 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙, 𝖇𝖔𝖞. '𝕮𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊. ========================================================= P O S T S C R I P T U M P O S T S C R I P T U M ________________________ Ever since I had first seen the movie "Sinners," I have been struck with inspiration to play a story based around a similar supernatural Southern gothic story. And I thought such a concept would fit amazingly with the region of Appalachia, one rich in its supernatural folklore and cryptids which go bump in the night. Currently, however, it is a decently rough idea of a world I would love to build out with someone else and explore the complexities of this era of US history, especially in the area destroyed by the depression with that angle of supernatural forces at play. ===============================================================

Blood Upon The Crown {1910s-esque Historical-Fantasy}

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_____________________________________ ───────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎─────────── A N D A S T H E S U L F E R A N D A S T H E S U L F E R H U N G I N T H E A I R H U N G I N T H E A I R ──────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎────────── 𝙱 𝙻 𝙾 𝙾 𝙳 𝚄 𝙿 𝙾 𝙽 𝙱 𝙻 𝙾 𝙾 𝙳 𝚄 𝙿 𝙾 𝙽 𝔗 ℌ 𝔈 ℭ ℜ 𝔒 𝔚 𝔑 𝔗 ℌ 𝔈 ℭ ℜ 𝔒 𝔚 𝔑 ──────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎────────── T H E Y H E A R L D E D I T A S T H E T H E Y H E A R L D E D I T A S T H E " W A R T O E N D W A R S" " W A R T O E N D W A R S" ───────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎─────────── ───────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎─────────── ───────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎─────────── ───────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎───────────

_______________________________________________________________________ ────────────────────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎──────────────────────── C O N C E P T C O N C E P T ───────────────────༒︎༻ Aalegra was an old land, wherein mountains weathered and eroded to that of the stature of hills stood, where the ground was wrought by agriculturalists of days past, fed and watched as men rose into kings, and kings rose into emperors, and as empires fell into republics. Such was a land that had seen the shattering of bone and the ripping sinew, whereupon flint-tipped spears had evolved into swords which fell with the import of a strange power that brought only more blood upon Aalegra's shores. It was but a land of many firsts, yet many lasts. For within Aalegra’s lands, peace was only but a rarity as man raged on. For centuries, it burned. Like a constant draft upon a flame, it flared and sparked. Brother had slain brother, father had fought son; those who stood as the same people were pitted against each other in a battle of greed for even but the smallest piece of fertile land. Yet, in the now, the flame has laid dormant as yet another pile of coals. With the turn of the century, peace found its place, and with the turn of the year, it will mark a decade of prosperity. Though like many flames, even the smallest of sparks can turn into an inferno. As machines capable of killing from above are released into the skies, and vehicles with the strength of boulders are retrieved fresh off the assembly line, deaths smoking signal has never been so clear. Once again, blood has stained the crown. ───────────────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎─────────────────── P R E M I S E P R E M I S E ───────────────────༒︎༻ “Dear Recipient: You have been cordially invited by the imperial family of Caezenov to the 5th semi-annual turn of the year ball.” Peace upon Aalegra is a brittle one, held together by a loosely woven web of loophole-riddled treaties and alliances hidden behind closed doors. The ball hosted by the Caezenov Empire every other year stands as a testament to this peace upon the land, one where the rulers scattered across Aalegra can come together in celebration of this period of growth. This year, in particular, is a special one: it is the first turn of the decade, 10 years since the start of this new century. Given such a monument year has arrived, almost all families of prominence have been afforded an invitation to the celebrations, including those in lands the Caezenave had once shattered. As Kings, Dukes, Prime Ministers, consuls, and more arrive, other forces lurk in the back. Rumors which has been disregarded as hearsay of reactionaries on the prowl spread in the back alleys of the city as more and more aristocracy flood within. For on such a grand night of peace, who would dare to spark the fire? ───────────────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎─────────────────── P O S T S C R I P T U M P O S T S C R I P T U M ───────────────────༒︎༻ Ah, historical fantasy, don't you just love it? The setting of this story will be around a European-esque continent on the brink of its own First World War. Caezenov Empire is a relatively new power upon the lands, yet in their strides to consolidate their aggressive expansion has continued to pile beyond it's limits. Like a burgeoning mass, it presses against the thin layer of film that holds the flimsy peace in place. Doscen hide in wait in Caezenov lands as they sniped and fragmented what used to be their homeland, as their new rulers bend the knee to the emperor. The Conderation still keeps a watchful eye on the Caezenovs despite the rot that is consuming them from the inside. It is a period similar to that of the 1910s, radios and cars are breaking into prominent use, and gone are the days of swords and shields, as now planes rule the air and tanks roam the land. Electrification grows as the world inches closer to modernization. The idea is that at the ball, the family of the emperor is to be slain, which will send him down a war path that his country may not survive. It is a setting that I see can be played out in many ways; that of us playing nobility from the Doscen region, who are now are the forefront of the emperor's fury and must band together in a seemingly futile attempt to save their lands from an attack they had not initiated, or the we could play as the rebels fighting against a power that burned their towns and forced out their people, or even as figures within the empire itself, navigating the political landscape that was brought on by the war and the emperor who has fallen into a mad state. There are a myriad of directions to explore, even those outside the empire itself and in the confederation and its allies against the empire. I would love to build out this world with someone and explore the potential nuances of such a setting. Let me know, thank you! ────────────────────────༒︎༻♱༺༒︎────────────────────────

The Red Cape Scare: US Military Academy - Camp Hozlt {Superhuman Dark Academia

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_____________________________________ ___________________________________ D U T Y , H O N O R , C O U N T R Y. . . D U T Y , H O N O R , C O U N T R Y. . . ___________________________________ Ⓒ Ⓐ Ⓜ Ⓟ Ⓗ Ⓞ Ⓩ Ⓛ Ⓣ Ⓒ Ⓐ Ⓜ Ⓟ Ⓗ Ⓞ Ⓩ Ⓛ Ⓣ ___________________________________ U N I T E D S T A T E S M I L I T A R Y U N I T E D S T A T E S M I L I T A R Y A C A D E M Y - H O Z L T , A C A D E M Y - H O Z L T , W Y O M I N G W Y O M I N G 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: C A M P H O Z L T C A M P H O Z L T ___________________________________ ___________________________________ ___________________________________ ___________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________ C O N C E P T C O N C E P T ________________________ "This we'll defend" The history of the United States military is not one that can be reframed through rose-tinted glasses. From the days of soldiers wearing patchwork uniforms and sporting weapons that failed half the time to the modern era of weapons that fire at rates unimaginable and uniforms pristine and professional, it has always been a standing force of ruthlessness. An army that made use of every weapon at its disposal, from the shotguns in the trenches of World War I, to the nuclear bomb upon the cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, to now with their very own viral population. It was the 1950s that saw the construction of full brigades of viral soldiers, trained specifically for their specialties. And it was the same year that saw the first commission of a viral NCO into the rank of an officer. Yet even now, as the military stands integrated, virals are still sectioned off to their own units for "operational security." The world will forever fear a power it hasn't mastered, and thus sets the standard for the virals who but only seek to serve the land they were born upon. _________________________________________________________ P R E M I S E P R E M I S E ________________________ “Ask not what your country can do for you...” But few know what to expect when they pass through the brick and mortar walls which line Camp Hozlt. Hozlt, Wyoming, wherein lies an institution which has freshly opened its doors to the inaugural viral class of 1960; Welcome, Cadets, your time won't be easy. Originally founded as a military base in 1890, Camp Hozlt has undergone recent renovations for its conversion into the military school that stands there today. As an offshoot of the original military academy in West Point, Camp Hozlt is a school specifically catered to virals who wish to serve our country. A school wherein viral's are provided a space to master and train the abilities that they have been provided at birth. Yet, the conditions that the cadets are shackled with are ones that go beyond the restrictions seen within West Point. The jurisdiction of freedom does not extend into Camp Hozlt. For but as you are under the military's hand, you shan't escape. As but the only time a cadet is allowed to leave the town of Hozlt is at the end of their 4 year stint. Godspeed, Cadet, because every once in a while, a cadet will disappear. And in this day and age, nobody cares about a missing viral. "...Ask what you can do for your country." _________________________________________________________ P O S T S C R I P T U M P O S T S C R I P T U M ________________________ Here is a little bit of a twist from the same world as last time! I've always loved the genre of dark academia, and mixing it with that of superpowered individuals sounds even more intriguing to me. A dog-eat-dog school of college-aged students all competing with each other to show simply how they stand above the rest in a world that seems to hold them down at every opportunity, with a background of disappearing students and certainly unethical military research in the background. I would love to delve deeper into the story of two students enrolled in such a school. Let me know! _________________________________________________________

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

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The Last of US

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

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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.)

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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...