Kalleth

The Seven Vices of Vicaria [Casual RP] [Mature Content]

Pictured below is Vicaria, at the height of its power, some fifty years ago...

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The Divine and Holy Theocratic Empire of the Heavenly Realm of Vicaria, is no more. You should've seen it my children, it was glorious. A monument to a time when virtue and paragons of virtue were prominent, champions of our faith, and holy rites were human rights. The temples towered over every hill, and our sacristies were the beating hearts of our nation. Legions were raised to fight for our cause, and across cultures, our faith was strong. Prophets spoke of times of plenty and profit, and their words were proven true. Our scriptures were copied down by our scholars and scribes, ruminated upon, and read aloud by Kings, Emperors, and Gods under our very own roofs. The empire was strong and healthy, but when sickness took root, we were too slow, too confident in the genuine goodness of our fellow men. Even tyranny would have been preferable to what came to pass...

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The razing of an outpost by barbarous heathens in modern-day Vicaria.


Our vast and sprawling empire is sorrowfully reduced, to a single province from whence our Empire sprung long ago. The petty Kingdom of Vicaria, erstwhile capital of the empire, is a weak and grasping thing, full of holes and many thousands of cracks. Our Holy Scripture must now be translated into baser tongues, our sacred fathers and daughters of the faith are driven to roaming the streets more and more desperately. All the while unbelief and blasphemy bleed our kingdom dry of her heavenly virtue. Thieves and brigands own our streets, gamblers and braggarts claim the day, whilst whores and thugs have stolen the night from us. Even the most pathetic of our people are driven to laze about and suck at the gangrenous teat of what remains of our empire, never lifting a finger to help the state. There are seven vices in Vicaria, seven daggers thrust into our breast, that drive us to these measures. We must employ levied soldiers and mercenaries, and we must storm our towns and villages, hold inquisitions, burn away what is diseased, to cleanse our kingdom in preparation for its second coming. Our rebirth must be one of virtue, not vice.

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"-So as you can see, my brothers and sisters, my sons and daughters, these miscreants and scum, these villainous bastards of evil, whoresons and devilbrides all, must be put to death." Father Jacobs proclaimed, his speech complete. He turned to the aforementioned whoresons and devilbrides, some of whom looked very, very tempting in their current state of undress. He licked his lips greedily, and walked along the platform, examining each one of them and introducing them to the crowd.

"This one," Jacobs began, "is known as Salim of Raydir! He was caught stealing from the coffers of the Church! For this heinous crime, he shall be put to death!" The crowd roared its approval, and Jacobs nodded, though he looked away in distaste from the boy in question. Far too thin and spindly for Jacobs to... tend to.

"And this one? He is an erstwhile knight, grown fat and drunk on the wealth of our holy divines! He has stolen not only from our revered protectors, but also from each and every one of you! He has stolen from your own favour with our gods! Aleksandr IIX will die, his greed given up for our entire empire's deserved glory!" Jacobs' eyes lingered longer on this one, his form much more suited to the... caress of God."

"Lastly, and of particular note, besides these other sinners and sold souls, is this one. This defiler of women, beater of the broken, and blasphemer of the blessed! He is worth less than the shit-smeared dirt underneath your feet. He is a vile, gods-damned heathen whose only solace will be in the FIVE PITIFUL SECONDS IT TAKES TO CHOKE THE LIFE OUT OF HIS CORRUPT BODY!" Jacobs roared, spittle flying into D'ren's face. The priest was close enough to bend down and kiss the man, and if it hadn't been for the damned constable, Jacobs could have stolen several moments alone with the deviant, to take his pleasure. There were of course, others in the gallows, women even. Whores, cutpurses, and histrionic hysterical sluts who had the lust in their eyes even now, tied up as they were. Their tears and cries of passion showed themselves to be so, Jacobs knew well. Despite their presence however, Jacobs felt that he would rather take this D'ren and ravage him with God's wrath. Men were more satisfying to break, and definitely far more satisfying to leave broken, waiting or even pleading for death.

Father Jacobs turned to the crowd, and the roars of approval he had expected were not forthcoming. Instead, a muffled applause echoed weakly in the square of the town. His lips turned down in a scowl and he turned to the executioner, an even rougher looking man than most of the criminals and heathens being hung. "Kill them. Bring me the bodies."

Men vs. Women Race to 1000

-16

Closed

"Did it ever occur to you that I like to hit the gym too you little snipe?"

-Is what Jordan thought in his head. This kid might not know it, but he had balls, being so standoffish when Jordan was just trying to help. The gym teacher hadn't enjoyed his bouts of counselling prep for this job, and had often fallen back on his prior training in the military, but he now found himself straining to remember what he'd been told to do in situations like this. It was difficult to tell whether that comment had been motivated by hatred, or hurt, or exhaustion. All he could scrounge up was the unhelpful "Try to make a connection with the student, and build bridges." And how the hell do I do that? This kid's a pyromaniac when it comes to burning down bridges! Jordan decided to go with the middle play, and go from there.

Jordan tore a chunk of banana bread from the loaf, and extended it in offering to the student. "I forgot my manners, but what's your name? In case you missed it earlier, I'm Jordan."

Jordan waited for him to either accept the bread and respond, or do the cliché thing and bat it out of his hand like a child. And once the piece of bread was in hand or on floor, Jordan continued.

"I was having trouble deciding if you really were as angry as you said you were, and appeared to be, but now I'm thinking I'll stop analyzing you, and just ask you. What's wrong? Was I really so far out of line, trying to help you with your punches? I get not wanting to be pestered sure, but from one man to another, what's a helpful word of advice?"

Jordan decided to leave him with that, and, needing to work out a little stress himself, jogged over to the storage room and dragged out another bag. He hung it, steadied the mass of sand, and smiled to himself. He took a breath, clenched his fists tight, and then relaxed his fingers slightly. His feet naturally slid into place, giving him a solid footing, so that when he bent his knees, it was as though he'd settled into the perfect place to throw a punch. Far too formal for a real scrap, but definitely ideal for training, and certainly helpful for getting into the right headspace. Jordan drew back his arm, and then let it come back to his side, his breathing in sync with the arm movement, and he did this two more times. On the third draw, he activated, like a shot from a gun. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and his fist collided with the bag, in a single instant the energy of his arm driven through his shoulder taken from his core fed up from his legs which were rooted to his well-planted feet on the gym floor. The sound of a THOOMP! echoed through the gym, and the bag rattled on the chain, bouncing and shaking slightly.

Without missing a beat, Jordan had drawn his arm back to his side and thrown a second punch with his off-arm, the sound not quite so loud, but still clear. He punched, and punched, and punched. The sand yielded far quicker than stone, and his calloused knuckles thanked him for that, but Jordan laughed wildly, and punched more and more. His punches were like thunderclaps, he felt his whole being concentrated on that small two by four centimetre space, a weapon of pounds per square inch that could level a man. The years melted away, and Jordan could remember the glory days as though he were living them. His squadmates were laughing, clapping him on the back, and he heard the pounding of the guns, the screeching of jets overhead, and most of all, he remembered the covert operations in exotic lands, where he'd cursed any god that came to mind, all while being a mere handsbreadth from discovery, only to receive the signal and let bloody havoc loose. It was heaven. It was hell. It was happin-

Jordan's knuckles clicked as he hit the sandbag, now solidified to stone, and he saw his own bag was smeared with streaks of crimson. He stopped, breathing hard, sweat trickling down his face, and rose out of his stance. His blood was up, but in a flash, the years came back, he remembered his injury, nothing as simple or matter-fact as creaking knuckles, nothing anywhere near as mundane as that. The time settled down onto his shoulders again, and he felt exhaustion rear its head for the umpteenth time that day. Am I getting old? ... Nah, I'm just getting overexcited. Jordan cracked his knuckles, and turned on his heels, fetching a pail of water, some soap and a rag from the office. He set about wiping down his bag, changed it back to sand, and dragged it back to the storage room. He squeezed the rag out, and wiped his face. If the student had stayed, Jordan would pick up his banana bread, polish off the last few bites, and nod to him, before going back to his office. His notes weren't quite ready yet. Sleep could wait another half an hour.

@Zelosse

The Annals of House Cade [Game of Thrones / ASoIaF RP]

Unless @Kassarock wants to respond to my post, I'm ready to go.

The Seven Vices of Vicaria [Casual RP] [Mature Content]

Still a thing, I'll put up the opening today. Then I'll mention all of you. :D

Closed

@Zelosse Trust me, Sandy is going to give the champ a run for his money!

Closed

@Zelosse

Jordan had found Catherine's speech and the subsequent freak-out by that student to be equal parts interesting and also hard to read. Still the sense of rebellion the boy emitted was palpable, yet shallow. Fuck the whole lot of you? Jordan thought it was certainly showy, but maybe not quite sincere. Especially seeing as he'd watched the boy storm out of the audience hall as though the devils themselves were at his heels. A true rebel wouldn't be fearing punishment, might actually embrace it, if he came seeking it the way that boy did. Surprisingly, this out-of-place action was so fascinating he found himself entirely forgetting about Catherine in the process. Jordan walked out of the audience hall in search of food, thoughts still turning over in his head.

***

Jordan was munching on a loaf of banana bread as he went over tomorrow's first class and its objectives. Safety protocol, double-checking the locks on his shed, and starting with basic drills, essentially. The sound of the door to the gym opening caught his attention, but only for a second. Jordan thought the curfew was far too early, and though almost never used his work office in the main administrative building, the gym's tiny office in the student building was practically Jordan's second home. Jordan kept munching banana bread and jotting down notes, but then he heard the punches.

They were strong, inexperienced but with plenty of latent power. Just the sound of knuckles meeting leather gave Jordan a general idea of the trainee's technique. Driven by emotion; irregular tempo but quick pace. Not power strokes, but furious. Jordan set his notes aside, keeping hold of the loaf, and he crept out of his office. The student in question, had their back turned to Jordan, but he recognized the rebel just by how he held himself. And those mats of thick black hair were distinctive too. In the half-light, Jordan saw that the blue punching bag had stains on it. Jordan walked up behind the boy and confirmed his observations. The boy's stance could use some work and his form was sloppy, but the necessary building blocks were present to make a strong athlete indeed. Maybe even a soldier.

"I never liked to use gloves either, felt like I was punching air. Of course, your hands are gonna sting like nothing else tomorrow morning. Did you notice the weak point in your stance?"

---

Jideh had realized when Hargor had brought up room arrangements that he'd forgotten his luggage outside the greenhouse. While the other students rushed to find their rooms, he found his way back to the place he'd left his luggage and lugged it all the way back to the student building. Acquiring a key and thanking the woman profusely, the youngest Basrah child settled into his dorm room. His personal affects, some herbology books, his gardening paraphernalia, a few pots filled with earth, and his clothes of course, all had a place in the room. His pots were lined up with the window in such a way that they would receive sunlight for most of the day. Changing into PJs, Jideh decided the best start would be an early one, and he turned his lights off. If his roommate showed up, he might get up and say hello. Otherwise, Jideh was tuckered out, and like the plants he loved, needed rest in order to really bloom tomorrow. The bed was really comfy. Jideh's thoughts turned to his family and the farm as he sank down into sleep...

The Second Whenever Cross-Site Hunger Games: Revolution Edition

Events:

[player1] grows manly beard.

[player1] slutshames [player2] by criticising their ability to whistle.

[player1] is stalking [player2], but [player2] lets loose a sickly sweet silent fart that knocks out [player1].

[player1] denounces the church of ponies, only to be assaulted by [player2], [player3], and [player4]. [player5] calls back the other three and before they leave, kicks [player1] in the groin.

[player1] spams the nearest player, causing [player2] to fly into a catatonic rage. The two swap more and more toxic insults until finally the conflict boils over into the real world. Dinh gets tired of your shit, and kills both of you with butterfly rainbow mutts. Clouds of spam spiral up into the sky, showing everyone in the arena the futility of resisting the will of Dinh.