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- Jig 12 yrs ago
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Bio
Section #1: Jig Being Right
It has come to my attention, that I am primarily right and drunk.
Jig is completely right.
Jig is right.
[11.01.50] Gowi:
Jig is right. Feel free to send that along.
[Jig is] 100% correct.
Jig was right 8 months ago, and is still right.
I love you, Jig. It's because you're Always Right™.
Once again, Jig is absolutely right about this.
Where is Jig when I need to vent about politics?Drunk.
The mighty Jig is of course right.
Section #2: Jig's RP's
I'm not post-dating RP's I've been in that died out of nowhere and I've basically forgotten about, so here are my present ones.
Current:
Previous:
Wolf Manor (GM)
Wink Murder (GM)
Project Rehab (Player)
The Kidnapping (Player)
Wink murder: Who Killed Mr. Jig? (GM)
Finite Incantatem (Co-GM)
New Dawn Rising (Player)
Most Recent Posts
Btw, I edited my post a bit. Turns out, most of take#2 was actually better than take#1 so I've smooshed them together to make a superpostofawesome.
(but do throw up a placeholder if you don't get time to post ^^)
That is the great thing about going to uni. Even if you're a weirdo, there are other, weirder weirdos that are weirder than you. :P
In my head, it's like Footloose but classier.
Now, something interesting happened here. I wrote up my post prior to realising that we had some order now and posted it except my browser crashed and that was that. Except, having rewritten half the post and deciding not to post for a little while, apparently my browser rescued it and has posted it anyway. So, basically, it's fate, and, if you want to go first, you have to argue with fate. Or, rather, the mods. xD
Apparently it should be Biggie next, then.
Now, something interesting happened here. I wrote up my post prior to realising that we had some order now and posted it except my browser crashed and that was that. Except, having rewritten half the post and deciding not to post for a little while, apparently my browser rescued it and has posted it anyway. So, basically, it's fate, and, if you want to go first, you have to argue with fate. Or, rather, the mods. xD
Apparently it should be Biggie next, then.
A little bit; once I post, it'll be Biggie's turn to post next. Then again, he can always do the same placeholder thing we've been doing before.
All this is assuming Bliss hasn't got some devious machinations that set an order.
All this is assuming Bliss hasn't got some devious machinations that set an order.
If it's okay, I'd like James and Benji to be called consecutively (in either order, but I imagine I'll post before Biggie).
Benji had just about scrambled back to the manor when the doorman spotted him, and politely indicated that he should really be in the ballroom, and probably get a move on. He said something vague in response, and did indeed make toward the ballroom - that said, he didn't hurry. Hurrying wasn't really on the agenda. He didn't drink wine, and was already a little tipsy. Presumably, a combination of the earlier tiredness and the revolting wine. Hadn't he necked it? He'd necked it. Apparently, he never learned. The moment he got inside, a waiter was, well, waiting for him, re-explained the same situation and guided him, physically, through the crowd to the side of the stage where the guests were being rounded up.
David, Nathalie and their secretary were also present. When they were all assembled, David started talking, but Benji had already tuned him out. When you'd heard one person smarming, you'd heard them smarm a thousand times. Instead, he sheepishly tried to meet Nathalie's eyes in a way that suggested the word 'bathtub'. She didn't seem to see him, and so Benji supposed he ought to try to listen to David, but he didn't really have the concentration. All he was really picking up were the rhetorical confirmations of acceptance David seemed so fond of, all the "yeah?"s and the "right?"s. Whatever he was saying, Benji wasn't too inclined to agree with anyway. He was beginning to feel like a doll, overdressed in clothes he no longer felt he'd really chosen and, being marched onto the stage to be gawped at, he was suffering a bit of stage-fright that he'd never felt before. Still, you didn't exactly refuse the man whose manor you were stood in, wearing the clothes he had paid for. Benji felt that might be impolite. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered ever more violently as the band cued them onto the stage with a final sting.
He felt dizzy and light-headed. Was it really too late to just opt out? And then Nathalie Woll winked at him again, a sly shot back across the line meant purely for him. Instantly, he straightened up and adjusted his bow tie (though, being pre-tied, there was very little adjustment needed): he perked up immeasurably and, after a brief moment of horror, confirmed that his perking up was, fortunately, a purely emotional phenomenon: his lower half had not betrayed him, and was not behaving in any sort of manner that failed to befit the occasion. He never really drunk wine, but the sedation was welcome.
Speaking of sedation, was wine really this strong? A single measure of wine, even on a tired and medium-empty stomach, shouldn't cause him to feel like this. He had to fight against a swaying sensation, and his limbs were feeling loose, like he didn't really control them but they were helping him out as best they could. The sudden slackness, especially before a hundred or more eager Swedish faces, did not make him feel any less exposed, and, if he'd had the dexterity to pluck at his collar, he would have had to fight the urge. Loose and feeling increasingly limp, he felt more and more like a shop-window dummy on display, and the clothes really didn't help: nobody actually wore dinner suits. Not really. Certainly the Doctor whose name he'd forgotten looked cool as a cucumber, dressed well but not so well as to stand out. Instead, he simply contrasted the starkness and intensity of Benji's tuxedo, throwing all the light onto him.
He's allowed his mind to drift (David was speaking again), but suddenly he heard his own name roared to the crowd; his proper, full name with the "min" at the end and everything. They knew how he kept his sitting room but didn't know how he referred to himself? Maybe they just didn't care. Not knowing what to do, he half-heartedly waved at the crowd with a lifeless hand.
At least the James guy stood next to him was wearing a dinner suit as well. Wait, that wasn't better. Nothing said 'mannequin' like a uniform, and the two of them, Benji and James, dressed black from head to toe but for white shirtfront, may as well have been mass-produced. A worse mental image came to mind; decorations on top of a wedding cake - two grooms. Each other's grooms. The thought was chilling, but inexplicably comical, and he couldn't help but giggle; as James' own name was called out, Benji was snorting into his lapel, trying to keep his composure.
Music. The band had started, and David was waving at them to get off the stage. The stage door was very far away, and the dance floor very exciting; Benji simply walked up to the edge of the stage, crouched, and dropped himself to the floor. Much more efficient. He even almost aced the landing, staggering only slightly as he got himself back up. The band was playing old-school dance music; proper rock 'n' roll (before rock 'n' roll was about men who had never heard of rock 'n' roll with big hair and platform boots), jazz, and blues. It was hardly a rave, but with chandeliers and pristene-white tablecloths as far as the eye could see, Benji thought this was probably as close to a rave as the manor came. Fortunately, he had been provided with his own personal light show as faces blurred and the party lighting showered the room not just in their usual variety of lights, but also in glimmers and glows he knew from experience, that weren't really there to be seen. It didn't make them any less pretty, though.
Benji loved to dance. Any casual onlooker would have found this evident. He danced with women and with some men, a flailing mass of surprisingly-coordinated limbs. At one point, he was to be caught shouting something inaudible to a particularly patient and professional member of the band. It would have taken somebody sober to keep tabs on how long he had spent dancing before he eventually took a breather; not through tiredness per se, but through the boringly sensible realisation that through the what-ever-it-was in the wine and the frantic dancing, he ought to rehydrate. About fifty per cent of his total body liquids had converted themselves to perspiration, and his forehead and, in particular, his armpits experienced that sickly-lukewarm sensation of sitting in one's own sweat.
Water. Water.
Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink, since he couldn't actually find any. And then he did. After about five minutes of searching (distractions notwithstanding) he found a pitcher of iced water on top of one of the tables,siezed an empty wine glass (with just a splash of leftover red at the bottom), filled it to the top and necked it.
David, Nathalie and their secretary were also present. When they were all assembled, David started talking, but Benji had already tuned him out. When you'd heard one person smarming, you'd heard them smarm a thousand times. Instead, he sheepishly tried to meet Nathalie's eyes in a way that suggested the word 'bathtub'. She didn't seem to see him, and so Benji supposed he ought to try to listen to David, but he didn't really have the concentration. All he was really picking up were the rhetorical confirmations of acceptance David seemed so fond of, all the "yeah?"s and the "right?"s. Whatever he was saying, Benji wasn't too inclined to agree with anyway. He was beginning to feel like a doll, overdressed in clothes he no longer felt he'd really chosen and, being marched onto the stage to be gawped at, he was suffering a bit of stage-fright that he'd never felt before. Still, you didn't exactly refuse the man whose manor you were stood in, wearing the clothes he had paid for. Benji felt that might be impolite. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered ever more violently as the band cued them onto the stage with a final sting.
He felt dizzy and light-headed. Was it really too late to just opt out? And then Nathalie Woll winked at him again, a sly shot back across the line meant purely for him. Instantly, he straightened up and adjusted his bow tie (though, being pre-tied, there was very little adjustment needed): he perked up immeasurably and, after a brief moment of horror, confirmed that his perking up was, fortunately, a purely emotional phenomenon: his lower half had not betrayed him, and was not behaving in any sort of manner that failed to befit the occasion. He never really drunk wine, but the sedation was welcome.
Speaking of sedation, was wine really this strong? A single measure of wine, even on a tired and medium-empty stomach, shouldn't cause him to feel like this. He had to fight against a swaying sensation, and his limbs were feeling loose, like he didn't really control them but they were helping him out as best they could. The sudden slackness, especially before a hundred or more eager Swedish faces, did not make him feel any less exposed, and, if he'd had the dexterity to pluck at his collar, he would have had to fight the urge. Loose and feeling increasingly limp, he felt more and more like a shop-window dummy on display, and the clothes really didn't help: nobody actually wore dinner suits. Not really. Certainly the Doctor whose name he'd forgotten looked cool as a cucumber, dressed well but not so well as to stand out. Instead, he simply contrasted the starkness and intensity of Benji's tuxedo, throwing all the light onto him.
He's allowed his mind to drift (David was speaking again), but suddenly he heard his own name roared to the crowd; his proper, full name with the "min" at the end and everything. They knew how he kept his sitting room but didn't know how he referred to himself? Maybe they just didn't care. Not knowing what to do, he half-heartedly waved at the crowd with a lifeless hand.
At least the James guy stood next to him was wearing a dinner suit as well. Wait, that wasn't better. Nothing said 'mannequin' like a uniform, and the two of them, Benji and James, dressed black from head to toe but for white shirtfront, may as well have been mass-produced. A worse mental image came to mind; decorations on top of a wedding cake - two grooms. Each other's grooms. The thought was chilling, but inexplicably comical, and he couldn't help but giggle; as James' own name was called out, Benji was snorting into his lapel, trying to keep his composure.
Music. The band had started, and David was waving at them to get off the stage. The stage door was very far away, and the dance floor very exciting; Benji simply walked up to the edge of the stage, crouched, and dropped himself to the floor. Much more efficient. He even almost aced the landing, staggering only slightly as he got himself back up. The band was playing old-school dance music; proper rock 'n' roll (before rock 'n' roll was about men who had never heard of rock 'n' roll with big hair and platform boots), jazz, and blues. It was hardly a rave, but with chandeliers and pristene-white tablecloths as far as the eye could see, Benji thought this was probably as close to a rave as the manor came. Fortunately, he had been provided with his own personal light show as faces blurred and the party lighting showered the room not just in their usual variety of lights, but also in glimmers and glows he knew from experience, that weren't really there to be seen. It didn't make them any less pretty, though.
Benji loved to dance. Any casual onlooker would have found this evident. He danced with women and with some men, a flailing mass of surprisingly-coordinated limbs. At one point, he was to be caught shouting something inaudible to a particularly patient and professional member of the band. It would have taken somebody sober to keep tabs on how long he had spent dancing before he eventually took a breather; not through tiredness per se, but through the boringly sensible realisation that through the what-ever-it-was in the wine and the frantic dancing, he ought to rehydrate. About fifty per cent of his total body liquids had converted themselves to perspiration, and his forehead and, in particular, his armpits experienced that sickly-lukewarm sensation of sitting in one's own sweat.
Water. Water.
Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink, since he couldn't actually find any. And then he did. After about five minutes of searching (distractions notwithstanding) he found a pitcher of iced water on top of one of the tables,siezed an empty wine glass (with just a splash of leftover red at the bottom), filled it to the top and necked it.
*sulk*
First she drugs us, then she locks us in.
What even is this.
What even is this.
Ginger and I will be collab-ing together next, so it's up to the good doctor, and the sober ones to squabble amongst themselves.
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