I would just like to point out, for posterity's sake, that my character hasn't looked at her hands since entering the station...
Innis
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A Hapless Harpy
- Last Seen: 3 yrs ago
- Joined: 8 yrs ago
- Posts: 114 (0.04 / day)
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Username history
- Innis 8 yrs ago
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Recent Statuses
7 yrs ago
I return! Now to get caught up...
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7 yrs ago
To my lovely writing partners, please bear with my slow responses! I just got engaged and now I'm headed across the Atlantic for a couple weeks. I promise I haven't forgotten you!
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7 yrs ago
The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. -Joseph Campbell
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7 yrs ago
I disagree. Your personal preference for one writer over another, does not change the fact that both may be good at what they do. Skill is not subjective.
7 yrs ago
Perhaps the answer is some conglomeration: A good writer is someone who can artfully combine proficient use of the English language with ideas that make the reader think or feel.
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Bio
I think I was probably a cat in another lifetime. I don't like noise, I don't like bright lights, and I don't even particularly like people, though there are one or two exceptions to that last one. What I do like are warm places, good books, hot drinks, and pleasant conundrums, you know the sort that might occupy a longish drive with interesting thinking. Antepenultimately, I enjoy words of a sesquipedalian nature, though only as a veridical aesthete; I don’t think these words have much of a place in the writing I’ll be doing on this forum. They mess with the flow of the prose if you catch my meaning. Supereminently, I’ll write with anyone that has a strong voice and a good grasp of the English language, and while I won't promise not to bite, I will swear I've had all my shots, so pm me if you've got any clever ideas or inchoate notions.
Most Recent Posts
The minutes directly after Elise Lefevre arrived at the train station were nerve-wracking, a tritone in every breath and no cadence within sight. She made her way to the center of the station hall, noticing that perhaps she wasn’t the only one commanded here in such a way. There were a few others looking about with various degrees of curiosity and concern, but the musician did not move to speak to them, instead keeping her hands stubbornly by her sides as she tried to still the anxious turning in her stomach.
To pass this time and occupy her mind, Elise examined the others, who she found were three young, attractive people that were probably near her own age, though the cellist was no particular ace at determining ages at a glance. Two men, two women, including herself. All young and healthy enough, but with little other clues to their purpose in this strange game. Elise wondered for a moment how these others had been coerced; she had little skill in determining much about them at this stage. There was still so little in the way of information, but plenty of motivation to keep her playing.
At 5:30, Elise felt her phone buzz again:
"Direct your attention to the center of the station hall. The man you see there, dressed primarily in black and holding coffee, is now your chiefest authority. Approach him, taking note of the three others who do. Give this man your name, your age, and your choice of degree at university. Once your identification is complete, he will present you with further instruction. Under no circumstances is he to be disobeyed.”
Elise kept her head turned down towards her phone while she collected herself. The woman was no stranger to fear; had she not been terrified of performing for years? She could master this, if only the images of her hands, bloody and broken did not keep returning over and over to her ringing head.
With a deep breath, Elise centered herself, imagining her feet pressing as firmly down into the earth with more force than it pushed up on her, finding balance. What was this, if not another performance? How many times had she performed flawlessly with a smile on her face and fear in her belly?
I can. I will.
She looked up from her phone and took six confident, even steps towards this dark haired man, her face serious but composed. He was tall and sharp, more in demeanor than appearance, in the way that Elise had found many of the most talented musicians were sharp; he seemed to notice every detail of his surroundings.
In her low, clear voice, Elise said almost casually, “Hello, My name is Elise Leone Lefevre. I am 21 years old and I have spent the last three years studying cello performance at London’s Royal Academy of Music.”
To pass this time and occupy her mind, Elise examined the others, who she found were three young, attractive people that were probably near her own age, though the cellist was no particular ace at determining ages at a glance. Two men, two women, including herself. All young and healthy enough, but with little other clues to their purpose in this strange game. Elise wondered for a moment how these others had been coerced; she had little skill in determining much about them at this stage. There was still so little in the way of information, but plenty of motivation to keep her playing.
At 5:30, Elise felt her phone buzz again:
"Direct your attention to the center of the station hall. The man you see there, dressed primarily in black and holding coffee, is now your chiefest authority. Approach him, taking note of the three others who do. Give this man your name, your age, and your choice of degree at university. Once your identification is complete, he will present you with further instruction. Under no circumstances is he to be disobeyed.”
Elise kept her head turned down towards her phone while she collected herself. The woman was no stranger to fear; had she not been terrified of performing for years? She could master this, if only the images of her hands, bloody and broken did not keep returning over and over to her ringing head.
With a deep breath, Elise centered herself, imagining her feet pressing as firmly down into the earth with more force than it pushed up on her, finding balance. What was this, if not another performance? How many times had she performed flawlessly with a smile on her face and fear in her belly?
I can. I will.
She looked up from her phone and took six confident, even steps towards this dark haired man, her face serious but composed. He was tall and sharp, more in demeanor than appearance, in the way that Elise had found many of the most talented musicians were sharp; he seemed to notice every detail of his surroundings.
In her low, clear voice, Elise said almost casually, “Hello, My name is Elise Leone Lefevre. I am 21 years old and I have spent the last three years studying cello performance at London’s Royal Academy of Music.”
We'll be eagerly awaiting your decision. :)
Greetings, Guildies!
I am interested in finding a partner for a literary two-step, a waltz of words, or as the kids call it these days, a 1v1. My interests are many and varied, though usually of a darker nature, and I prefer dancing with writers above the age of 18 due to the possibility of mature content. The level of writing must be, of course, advanced, so be prepared for in-depth plots and characters, longer posts, and exemplary writing. As a personal preference, I'd like any potential partners also to be able to play a number of characters, in order to increase the size and scope of our stories. I am much more comfortable playing female leads when dealing with any sort of romantic pairing and I'm not into same sex romance. I am here for the story, for a pairing of artful language and clever plot, with the pinch of newness one gets from working with another mind. If this sort of literary tête-à-tête appeals to you, then I shall eagerly await your private message.
Sincerely,
A Hapless Harpy
A Hapless Harpy
Take a Gander Among a Few Ideas:
Dark Fantasy: I don't have much of a plotline for this one, but I'm interested in finding a party willing to weave a tale of suspense and intrigue. I imagine a world of rival thieves and assassins, of kings and mages, of forbidden love and murder most foul.
An Unlikely Pair: I'm in the mood to start a King and Commoner rp, full of court intrigue and set in a mid-fantasy world (no elves or dwarves, but some magic).
Ready, Set, Race!: Welcome to the hedonistic future, a place where utopia has had rather adverse consequences. In America 2162, nothing matters but entertainment, the next fix, the next bit of excitement to break the monotony of pointless existence. It's a small wonder then that the Races have become so popular. These fast, grueling lightbike races have become one of the primary industries of the entertainment industry. If you can survive and win, you'll earn fame and fortune. If not, you might just end up in a race for your life.
I'm also interested in hearing any ideas from the science fiction, fantasy, steampunk, cyberpunk, and dystopian genres. If you'd think we'd make good partners but don't see a plot you like, PM me anyway. I would love to devise something with you.
If you are interested:
1. PM ME.Please do not post here.
2. Let me know which of my ideas you are interested in -OR- Give me a description of your ideas, as brief or detailed as you please.
3. Tell me a bit about you: your preferences and what you want out of this rp.
Alia of the Knife
It was just a little thing, but Alia of the Knife could not help but feel a certain amount of pride when Ignis’s eyes found her. He was talking of talent despite outward appearance, and it was nice to have someone away from Oriens finally realize that. Looking as small as she did was really an advantage in a fight, after all. Her opponents almost always underestimated her.
It was, for this reason, Alia felt for her new friend in the face of the big warrior’s arrogance, but she could not agree with Kailea. Alia most certainly feared death in battle; she had seen too many die, some even to her own blades, to forget just how easily one could be removed from this life, and the little knife fighter didn’t think much of talk about an afterlife. No, Alia did not have much, but she did have her life and she would not be so quick to lay it down. The woman was determined not only to make it out of this filthy rich but also with her body completely intact.
It would help that she was already quite fast and good at disappearing, but Alia swore then she’d be even faster every fight if she had to. Anything to make it out alive.
So caught up was she in her own thoughts, Alia missed the pyromancer asking to leave, but she did hear Ignis finally speak up again.
The noble nodded. "You may take your leave, yes. However, you must reconvene with us at the Arena in town by sundown. Entrants must make themselves known before tomorrow, and I would rather not be wandering the streets in the darkness."
Alia took that as her cue to leave as well. There was really not too much point in waiting around here any longer, and it’d be nice to recharge some before meeting at the arena. Without further ado, the little woman turned towards the big gates marking the exit from the estate.
Liv sat staring listlessly over the head of the man sitting opposite her in one of the trucks carrying human volunteers for the scav mission. The metal of her left shoulder struck the metal of the truck’s protective cage, click click clicking repetitively. The mechanic really didn’t mind the sound; it gave her some reassurance that what she was seeing was real, that she had not slipped off into insanity.
Outside, Liv could see the mix of jungle and ruble she had fought through with her family to reach the Refuge, but the distant screams of her sister were silent today as if Liv had relived them so many times the memories were starting to lose their power. She wouldn’t forget though, she wouldn’t let herself. Robin deserved that much.
Under the cover of crossing her arms, Liv placed one of the pointed tool attachments on her bionic arm against the soft, firm flesh of her abdomen and drew a long, thin cut to feel something, anything at all at the sight of the lush wilderness that had witnessed her family’s deaths. The dark color of her tank would hide the blood. Nip it in the bud. Drown it in mud. Let it spill in floods, floods, floods.
When the trucks stopped for a few moments, Liv was the last off. She stepped off into the soft loam and walked to the edge of the cleared road, staring defiantly into the heart of this tangle of vegetation. Nothing moved, nothing blinked. This place did not acknowledge her or any other human. They had become trespassers on their own planet.
Liv was the first back on the truck. She sat stiffly, waiting for the comforting rumble of engines and click click clicking of her metal arm on the roll cage to resume. Sooner or later, something would break and Liv would be needed to fix it. Perhaps it was bad that she hoped that would be soon. Dark as a new moon. Alone in the gloom, we wait for our doom.
Outside, Liv could see the mix of jungle and ruble she had fought through with her family to reach the Refuge, but the distant screams of her sister were silent today as if Liv had relived them so many times the memories were starting to lose their power. She wouldn’t forget though, she wouldn’t let herself. Robin deserved that much.
Under the cover of crossing her arms, Liv placed one of the pointed tool attachments on her bionic arm against the soft, firm flesh of her abdomen and drew a long, thin cut to feel something, anything at all at the sight of the lush wilderness that had witnessed her family’s deaths. The dark color of her tank would hide the blood. Nip it in the bud. Drown it in mud. Let it spill in floods, floods, floods.
When the trucks stopped for a few moments, Liv was the last off. She stepped off into the soft loam and walked to the edge of the cleared road, staring defiantly into the heart of this tangle of vegetation. Nothing moved, nothing blinked. This place did not acknowledge her or any other human. They had become trespassers on their own planet.
Liv was the first back on the truck. She sat stiffly, waiting for the comforting rumble of engines and click click clicking of her metal arm on the roll cage to resume. Sooner or later, something would break and Liv would be needed to fix it. Perhaps it was bad that she hoped that would be soon. Dark as a new moon. Alone in the gloom, we wait for our doom.
Despite the cymbal roll of rain pattering of the window, Elise Lefevre woke to the soft ping of her phone receiving a message. She lay still for a couple moments longer, the pale skin of her cheek pressing against the rough velcro of her wrist braces. Last night, in another life, the sky had been clear.
Now it poured.
To flashes of lightening, Elise carefully unwrapped the straps on her braces. First left, then right. Her phone buzzed once more as she pulled them off. First left, then right. It buzzed a third time:
"By 5:30AM, arrive at Liverpool Street station. Failure to be punctual will be met with consequences. Bring one spare change of clothes only, sanitary essentials, and the other bare necessities such as prescribed medication. Do not disappoint us.”
The number was unfamiliar, but Elise did not for a moment doubt who had sent it. In her mind, blood welled up from beneath the phone in her hands and dribbled to the floor. Drip… drip…
Elise dropped the phone to hold out her hands before her, stretching them to double check. The movements calmed her anxiety somewhat, as they usually did, so she finished the regime and hurriedly packed what she was told to, if with the small addition of her wrist braces and hand sanitizer.
In her bathroom mirror, Elise saw the same girl who had charmed thousands with music just the night before, only now her concert makeup was smeared in swatches across her skin, a farce of what she had been. Hastily, the slight woman scrubbed off the remnants of her past life and swept out of her apartment, catching one last glimpse of the instrument standing forlornly in the hall as if it too dreaded her departure.
The taxi ride was torture. Elise’s mind replayed over and over the events of the previous night, while her hands stretched every tendon in a quest for calm. And still, the minutes on her watched creaked onwards. 5:11…5:16…5:20…
At the station, Elise tried to conceal her anxiety behind a calm demeanor. The cellist wanted—no needed— to perform well before the Employer. She would do anything to go back, to wind back the clock just a few hours, to not have stepped into that taxi cab. Only now, Elise wasn’t sure what that anything was. She had arrived at the station. The time was 5:26.
Now it poured.
To flashes of lightening, Elise carefully unwrapped the straps on her braces. First left, then right. Her phone buzzed once more as she pulled them off. First left, then right. It buzzed a third time:
"By 5:30AM, arrive at Liverpool Street station. Failure to be punctual will be met with consequences. Bring one spare change of clothes only, sanitary essentials, and the other bare necessities such as prescribed medication. Do not disappoint us.”
The number was unfamiliar, but Elise did not for a moment doubt who had sent it. In her mind, blood welled up from beneath the phone in her hands and dribbled to the floor. Drip… drip…
Elise dropped the phone to hold out her hands before her, stretching them to double check. The movements calmed her anxiety somewhat, as they usually did, so she finished the regime and hurriedly packed what she was told to, if with the small addition of her wrist braces and hand sanitizer.
In her bathroom mirror, Elise saw the same girl who had charmed thousands with music just the night before, only now her concert makeup was smeared in swatches across her skin, a farce of what she had been. Hastily, the slight woman scrubbed off the remnants of her past life and swept out of her apartment, catching one last glimpse of the instrument standing forlornly in the hall as if it too dreaded her departure.
The taxi ride was torture. Elise’s mind replayed over and over the events of the previous night, while her hands stretched every tendon in a quest for calm. And still, the minutes on her watched creaked onwards. 5:11…5:16…5:20…
At the station, Elise tried to conceal her anxiety behind a calm demeanor. The cellist wanted—no needed— to perform well before the Employer. She would do anything to go back, to wind back the clock just a few hours, to not have stepped into that taxi cab. Only now, Elise wasn’t sure what that anything was. She had arrived at the station. The time was 5:26.
I'll get something up tonight or tomorrow, boss. :)
I am definitely interested.
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