TiThanks, but I fear it maybe harder to include them in the future.
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Dylan Stroud
“Why of course,” Dylan purred, saddling a stool next to her. He tapped a slender finger upon the bar and met the tender’s gaze, “And a crimson rush for me, darling.” Using the colloquial term for blood and well drink, one of the wonders he discovered in Meridian. The man nodded, and began preparing their drinks.
Then his attention was fully on the lady before him. Now he could see a brilliant streak of cobalt through her hair, an unnatural delight against her burning locks. She was an amalgam of self-assured fire and arcane mystery. Glistening teeth showed through his crooked grin.
“The stars have left me all alone, and the moon is a fickle lover,” their drinks came, and Dylan nodded his thanks, barely turning from her, “I am here for company, much the same reason as anyone else, I would imagine. I search for singular souls amidst this surreptitious situation.”
A new track came upon the jukebox, this one terribly scratched, causing a groan from a large part of the patrons. Dylan broke his intense stare and took a sip from his drink, the taste on a single malt whiskey and the coppery pang of blood not entirely unpleasant, but still caused him to purse his lips.
When he looked back at the woman, it was with furrowed brow, as if pondering a deep thought, chin resting upon clenched fist.
“‘My hopes are dying, while on dreams relying, I am spelled by art’,” He intoned, “Whole truth told: I am a poet, searching for his muse. However, lady luck must have smiled upon me, for I think that perhaps I have found her.”
He straightened up, shaking his reverie, and split his face with a fanged grin, his eyes seeming to twinkle, “Just listen to me go on!" he gave a theatrical sigh and chuckled, his voice turned to treacle and chocolate, "Tell me, my dear, where do your interests lie?”
“Why of course,” Dylan purred, saddling a stool next to her. He tapped a slender finger upon the bar and met the tender’s gaze, “And a crimson rush for me, darling.” Using the colloquial term for blood and well drink, one of the wonders he discovered in Meridian. The man nodded, and began preparing their drinks.
Then his attention was fully on the lady before him. Now he could see a brilliant streak of cobalt through her hair, an unnatural delight against her burning locks. She was an amalgam of self-assured fire and arcane mystery. Glistening teeth showed through his crooked grin.
“The stars have left me all alone, and the moon is a fickle lover,” their drinks came, and Dylan nodded his thanks, barely turning from her, “I am here for company, much the same reason as anyone else, I would imagine. I search for singular souls amidst this surreptitious situation.”
A new track came upon the jukebox, this one terribly scratched, causing a groan from a large part of the patrons. Dylan broke his intense stare and took a sip from his drink, the taste on a single malt whiskey and the coppery pang of blood not entirely unpleasant, but still caused him to purse his lips.
When he looked back at the woman, it was with furrowed brow, as if pondering a deep thought, chin resting upon clenched fist.
“‘My hopes are dying, while on dreams relying, I am spelled by art’,” He intoned, “Whole truth told: I am a poet, searching for his muse. However, lady luck must have smiled upon me, for I think that perhaps I have found her.”
He straightened up, shaking his reverie, and split his face with a fanged grin, his eyes seeming to twinkle, “Just listen to me go on!" he gave a theatrical sigh and chuckled, his voice turned to treacle and chocolate, "Tell me, my dear, where do your interests lie?”
Dylan Stroud
An explosive buzz tempered the hum of conversation, and demanded Dylan look up from his work, the world materialising around him anew as his eyes left the page. The thrumming electric lights, the stone floor, the aged armchair in which he found his form sprawled upon its beaten upholstery. Dylan stretched. There was something feline about his movements. When he yawned, the sharp incisors added to that parallel, and his eyes were half-closed and slow to blink.
There seemed to be much excitement. He pocketed his tiny notebook.
Attacks by the rebels, no matter how frequent, always seemed to revitalise the young and foolish, filling their heads with such notions of glory. More often than not they found their tale concluding. Many of them left hurriedly, on the hopes they could get to the infraction before the fighting ended.
Boots clapped the floor as Dylan made his way over to who might have been the most stoic man in the room.
“Lancelot, darling, do not drink yourself into a stupor,” He said, gently resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Events may unfurl tonight that require your attention, and I will be otherwise occupied.” And with that he breezed of, seeming to walk with infinite grace and purpose. It was almost ruined by his frayed jeans and baggy, grey-wool jumper.
The stars were absent from the sky that night. Brooding clouds smeared the heavens, and hid its gems from view. A chill wind bit through Dylan’s clothes, but encouraged no shiver. Stalking from shadow to steeple, he made his way through the city via rooftop and alleyway, hidden, if not for the tiny embers and trails of smoke from his cigarette.
There was distant popping and thunderous crashes that rang through the hollow city, emanating from the city’s northern region.
Perhaps this is why his feet took him that direction. Before he got too close, though, he changed direction, winding his way towards the centre of the city as he listened to the twin melodies of death and triumph.
Making his way into the rebel section was simple enough with an access key. Some here knew him as an informant, a double-agent, others as a friend. Most didn’t know him at all.
It was not long walking before “The Ancient Cavern”, an establishment from which music and conversation bled, invited Dylan inside. He stomped out his cigarette. Inside was musty, but comforting. An old jukebox sang crackling records from the corner, forming a counterpoint with the gossiping huddles of fervent whispers. Those of the patrons that were not in huddled groups were staring deep into their drinks, except for a young lady with startling orange hair. Instantly, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Those which did not blend in with the crowd usually had the most interesting stories.
Approaching from behind, he could smell her: sweat and coffee underneath honeysuckle soap.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping up beside her, and, with a sidelong glance, “Might I buy us a drink?”
An explosive buzz tempered the hum of conversation, and demanded Dylan look up from his work, the world materialising around him anew as his eyes left the page. The thrumming electric lights, the stone floor, the aged armchair in which he found his form sprawled upon its beaten upholstery. Dylan stretched. There was something feline about his movements. When he yawned, the sharp incisors added to that parallel, and his eyes were half-closed and slow to blink.
There seemed to be much excitement. He pocketed his tiny notebook.
Attacks by the rebels, no matter how frequent, always seemed to revitalise the young and foolish, filling their heads with such notions of glory. More often than not they found their tale concluding. Many of them left hurriedly, on the hopes they could get to the infraction before the fighting ended.
Boots clapped the floor as Dylan made his way over to who might have been the most stoic man in the room.
“Lancelot, darling, do not drink yourself into a stupor,” He said, gently resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Events may unfurl tonight that require your attention, and I will be otherwise occupied.” And with that he breezed of, seeming to walk with infinite grace and purpose. It was almost ruined by his frayed jeans and baggy, grey-wool jumper.
The stars were absent from the sky that night. Brooding clouds smeared the heavens, and hid its gems from view. A chill wind bit through Dylan’s clothes, but encouraged no shiver. Stalking from shadow to steeple, he made his way through the city via rooftop and alleyway, hidden, if not for the tiny embers and trails of smoke from his cigarette.
There was distant popping and thunderous crashes that rang through the hollow city, emanating from the city’s northern region.
Perhaps this is why his feet took him that direction. Before he got too close, though, he changed direction, winding his way towards the centre of the city as he listened to the twin melodies of death and triumph.
Making his way into the rebel section was simple enough with an access key. Some here knew him as an informant, a double-agent, others as a friend. Most didn’t know him at all.
It was not long walking before “The Ancient Cavern”, an establishment from which music and conversation bled, invited Dylan inside. He stomped out his cigarette. Inside was musty, but comforting. An old jukebox sang crackling records from the corner, forming a counterpoint with the gossiping huddles of fervent whispers. Those of the patrons that were not in huddled groups were staring deep into their drinks, except for a young lady with startling orange hair. Instantly, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Those which did not blend in with the crowd usually had the most interesting stories.
Approaching from behind, he could smell her: sweat and coffee underneath honeysuckle soap.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping up beside her, and, with a sidelong glance, “Might I buy us a drink?”
Name: Dylan Stroud
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Name: Dylan Stroud
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Like, a collaboration between players via PM to create a post? They are used, though in my opinion they end up creating a long and arduous-to-read wall of text most of the time.
Interested also.
Your last interaction was with Zesiro, so it might be worth waiting for Eyeris to post.
Herbert
@Eyeris
The widening of those brilliant emerald eyes gave rise to a thousand thoughts, like flies to a fetid corpse. The girl’s comforting words shuffled to the back of his attention as all the dread of the great blue expanse came crashing back like colossal wave on the shore that was his sanity. The nameless terrors of the deep. The untold fathoms above. The crushing pressure. He was drowning in fear. Darkness closed in around him. Blood thrummed in his ear. Muscles resisted his will. His chest was being crushed. A scream choked him.
Air. He needed air. Breath came ragged and fast. His wild eyes focused on Dzel, on how she held her tiny frame with unique assuredness. Oddly, the aura she radiated must have affected him in some way, for he gave a curt nod. A pink tongue flicked across his thin lips, and he wiped his sweaty palms dry and took her hand.
There were question floating around his brain, but his body was full of catecholamines and his heart beat remorselessly; survival first, questions later.
With barely a word, he would follow Dzel as best he could.
@Eyeris
The widening of those brilliant emerald eyes gave rise to a thousand thoughts, like flies to a fetid corpse. The girl’s comforting words shuffled to the back of his attention as all the dread of the great blue expanse came crashing back like colossal wave on the shore that was his sanity. The nameless terrors of the deep. The untold fathoms above. The crushing pressure. He was drowning in fear. Darkness closed in around him. Blood thrummed in his ear. Muscles resisted his will. His chest was being crushed. A scream choked him.
Air. He needed air. Breath came ragged and fast. His wild eyes focused on Dzel, on how she held her tiny frame with unique assuredness. Oddly, the aura she radiated must have affected him in some way, for he gave a curt nod. A pink tongue flicked across his thin lips, and he wiped his sweaty palms dry and took her hand.
There were question floating around his brain, but his body was full of catecholamines and his heart beat remorselessly; survival first, questions later.
With barely a word, he would follow Dzel as best he could.
Herbert
The sobbing man flinched at the touch of the tiny hand. Then he sighed deeply. Lifting his head from the ground, he sat up, and stared at Dzel with shimmering eyes.
“It is self-indulgent,” Herbert said, wiping the back of a hand across his eyes, “quite a pathetic lapse on my part.”
The corners of his lips turned upwards almost imperceptibly, “Things should not change so quickly though.”
A dry laugh then escaped his soggy lips. “Of all the people, I might be the least deserving of a second chance, I have done dreadful things, beyond redemption, I must be, but…” His brow creased, his vision went blurry as he tried to recall, “My mind is fractured.”
He sighed again, slouching forwards and dropping his gaze, “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. And yet, perversely, I find myself craving the burden of knowledge, proof of my sins.”
Despite this though, a small kernel of fantasy began to develop, entertaining the possibility of self-recreation. Yet, he knew it could never be, encharmed as he was with a maiden so radiant and pure, and so deceased. She would always curse his mind. She was the one constant in a world where everything had become dreamlike and he could not separate reality from aberrations of the mind.
“I fear there is no place for me in this world.”
Light flashed. After the fleeting pulses of pink illumination, the darkness seemed grossly oppressive.
“What was that?” Herbert asked, not looking at Dzel, but the steel all around from which the magic runes had glowed.
The sobbing man flinched at the touch of the tiny hand. Then he sighed deeply. Lifting his head from the ground, he sat up, and stared at Dzel with shimmering eyes.
“It is self-indulgent,” Herbert said, wiping the back of a hand across his eyes, “quite a pathetic lapse on my part.”
The corners of his lips turned upwards almost imperceptibly, “Things should not change so quickly though.”
A dry laugh then escaped his soggy lips. “Of all the people, I might be the least deserving of a second chance, I have done dreadful things, beyond redemption, I must be, but…” His brow creased, his vision went blurry as he tried to recall, “My mind is fractured.”
He sighed again, slouching forwards and dropping his gaze, “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. And yet, perversely, I find myself craving the burden of knowledge, proof of my sins.”
Despite this though, a small kernel of fantasy began to develop, entertaining the possibility of self-recreation. Yet, he knew it could never be, encharmed as he was with a maiden so radiant and pure, and so deceased. She would always curse his mind. She was the one constant in a world where everything had become dreamlike and he could not separate reality from aberrations of the mind.
“I fear there is no place for me in this world.”
Light flashed. After the fleeting pulses of pink illumination, the darkness seemed grossly oppressive.
“What was that?” Herbert asked, not looking at Dzel, but the steel all around from which the magic runes had glowed.
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