@Ariamis But idk how he’d collapse space through physical contact. Maybe I could neuter the “line of sight” limit?
Karkinos
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enfant terrible
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In
Beyond the Looking Glass: A CYOA Magical Girl Roleplay [Completed]
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6 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
I gtg for three days, but ya'll can bunny Candelabra in case the thing outside does something
Candelabra doesn't have an immediate response. She's disoriented by a "rules of nature" that, through connotation, she would never apply to a shopping mall. And she can't insert herself from there as the figures she can hardly discern go on about their own misunderstanding. The girl reaches an epiphany: they don't know who one another are. And it may have been obvious that this is another world entirely, but Candelabra, someone who barely saw the full span of her own home when she could, was just beginning to recognize the full extent of their abduction.
The worst part was she couldn't share any of this, maybe turn the discussion into one speculation and answer-seeking - she can't speak. It was times like this it became so inconvenient, and it forced her attention to drift to other things, like a hint of red in the limited vision her helmet allowed.
"'Stars?'" cries the register. "Nngh, someone go kill that thing. I'm already sick of these zombies."
The worst part was she couldn't share any of this, maybe turn the discussion into one speculation and answer-seeking - she can't speak. It was times like this it became so inconvenient, and it forced her attention to drift to other things, like a hint of red in the limited vision her helmet allowed.
"'Stars?'" cries the register. "Nngh, someone go kill that thing. I'm already sick of these zombies."
In
Beyond the Looking Glass: A CYOA Magical Girl Roleplay [Completed]
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
. . .
In
Beyond the Looking Glass: A CYOA Magical Girl Roleplay [Completed]
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
One more??
(Started working on mine yesterday and plan to finish today)
(Started working on mine yesterday and plan to finish today)
Ye Ol' Convenient Munition — ding; the doors of the storefront whip open, and a girl steps through, her expression dark, her nose... gone — either smashed in, or ridden of altogether. She strides forward, her feet stick-sticking on the ground, her hands resting in translucent black sweatshirt "pockets." Her straight-ahead stare never wavers; she seizes her prize:
A visored helmet hanging on the wall. Decoration, but Candelabra promptly sits it on her head. She wanders around with this new visage as it clearly proved a detriment to her vision — she staggers into a weapon rack, removes herself with effort as the hilt of a longsword drags the floor, its blade impaled through her torso.
Candelabra's shoulders shake in a fit of silent giggling.
She swings her arms in a facetious march, albeit with such horrific spacial awareness that herself, or her sword, must have bumped into someone on the way to the front of the store. This was not with the intention to leave, for two reasons: the BO outside had gotten ridiculous, and the sounds of butting heads was growing from competitive to violent, to the point where someone had nearly flattened her under the girth of the Christmas tree, something that would take her a good few minutes to recuperate from. Bothersome.
Candelabra never doubted a day at the mall could be so chaotic. It must've been Black Friday. Did that correspond with the holidays?
Regardless, if she was going to trail the group of familiar faces as she currently was, the least she could do was cover their expense. It was the polite thing to do.
Through the visor, she recognized the vague semblance of check-out, ringed the bell mainly because it was there, then spat a medallion out into her hand like a rotten tooth, laid it on the counter.
"What is this?" a rasping voice called out to her. "I don't think I can take this."
Candelabra, not understanding, lets another medallion roll from the back of her throat, down her tongue, onto the counter.
"How are you doing that?" asks the voice, suspicious. "Still, I can't take this money."
(Candelabra is unaware she is interacting with a literal cash register right now.)
A visored helmet hanging on the wall. Decoration, but Candelabra promptly sits it on her head. She wanders around with this new visage as it clearly proved a detriment to her vision — she staggers into a weapon rack, removes herself with effort as the hilt of a longsword drags the floor, its blade impaled through her torso.
Candelabra's shoulders shake in a fit of silent giggling.
She swings her arms in a facetious march, albeit with such horrific spacial awareness that herself, or her sword, must have bumped into someone on the way to the front of the store. This was not with the intention to leave, for two reasons: the BO outside had gotten ridiculous, and the sounds of butting heads was growing from competitive to violent, to the point where someone had nearly flattened her under the girth of the Christmas tree, something that would take her a good few minutes to recuperate from. Bothersome.
Candelabra never doubted a day at the mall could be so chaotic. It must've been Black Friday. Did that correspond with the holidays?
Regardless, if she was going to trail the group of familiar faces as she currently was, the least she could do was cover their expense. It was the polite thing to do.
Through the visor, she recognized the vague semblance of check-out, ringed the bell mainly because it was there, then spat a medallion out into her hand like a rotten tooth, laid it on the counter.
"What is this?" a rasping voice called out to her. "I don't think I can take this."
Candelabra, not understanding, lets another medallion roll from the back of her throat, down her tongue, onto the counter.
"How are you doing that?" asks the voice, suspicious. "Still, I can't take this money."
(Candelabra is unaware she is interacting with a literal cash register right now.)
Lowkey naming the ferry
Also changed the bit in the sign-up about the pendant. It's her badge now, so most people would know Minot's some type of investigator when they saw her.
And uh about the Discord, if it'd help other people, I'd lurk, though rn I'm more comfortable being just on the boards
Also changed the bit in the sign-up about the pendant. It's her badge now, so most people would know Minot's some type of investigator when they saw her.
And uh about the Discord, if it'd help other people, I'd lurk, though rn I'm more comfortable being just on the boards
Prior to the other arrivals, the chair across from the table's newest occupant appears to be claimed, the area before it strewn with an amassing of marine memorabilia — the cliche compass and ship-in-a-bottle — intended to give atmosphere to the Lady Undine's lounge area. Dragged from the center of the table in the process of close inspection.
Speak of a demon, and it shall summon — Inspector Minot appears, punctuated unceremoniously with the reverberation of flushing water in the background. A door with a hanging ring buoy just beyond her hangs subtly ajar. And Minot's face spells the revelation of doing business on a boat when the bathroom is a last-minute addition. She's seen the ugly truth of this vessel. Also, heard a bloodcurdling scream prior, though reaction to it among the other passengers seems minimal at best.
The inspector returns to her end of the table. The badge at her neck clinks on its chain as she makes haste in collecting her things — a ballpoint pin, and an envelope labeled "TRIOS." It is growing clear the disgruntled look on her face is unrelated to the bathroom; she surveys the newcomer, the man with the gouged eye, and still assumes the visage of dealing with shit.
"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?" she answered the man's question with a wryness implicating she, too, thought it was a rhetorical one.
Hurried despite her hardness, Minot would leave the lounge on that note, pen in hand as she strode to the door — envelope still on the table. Perhaps it was too early even for her.
It wasn't hard to register the apathy in regards to the scream. Though it was hard to tell the demographics from a look-around the lounge area — you had to mind anomalies, because there was reasonable chance of anyone being one; the concept of "majority" was difficult to discern in a generation so permeated by mystical practice. Most philosophers would pin it on magic, anyway — the Apathy as palpable and wholly-logical, maintained by mankind in the presence of a spontaneous, law-defiant force. The wholehearted embrace of such spontaneity would necessitate a moral readjustment, essentially conditioning individuals to become less attached to the people around who could turn to ash or into frogs at a moment's notice.
And yet, this was only a theory, one that reinforced a special brand of nihilism, as Minot perceived it. The idea that you were a victim to the whims of an uncaring universe; the implication that emotions, connections, and bias were dooming — this all stemmed from someone whose choice career required the greatest degree of practicality. Biases was what made people fascinating. And the inspector was sure humanity was all-in-all good, as much "evil" as she'd seen. No bad deed consumed an individual. Perhaps, naturally, she had to elevate herself in status and projected moral standing, as the high-and-mighty detective, to see so optimistically. That was her bias.
In addition, the concept of "the Apathy" acted to imbalance the detriments and benefits of magic. In that context, it was corruptible by nature, entirely undermining the point of magic as a whole: to elevate mankind, and to stand in where technology failed.
Without magic, they would have had to stop the ship. Instead, a member of the crew, easy to mistake for a cabin boy, had thrown down his mop, prepared a sloppy summoning circle in bucket-water. All the same, the quick reaction had allowed him to swap his supplies with the couple overboard. They were lying supine, winded, on deck by the time Minot arrived. Scooped from the bay and sopping, the crew surrounded them, ogling down — the woman was still conscious, face red with the hard, combined effort of spitting salt water, gasping for air, and begging breathlessly, near imperceptibly.
"Give 'er some air!" the captain squawked, a distance away.
The inspector would parrot the sentiment as she stormed into the crowd, sending dumbfounded mariners back from the couple, asides from the resident mage, in the process of supporting the woman onto her feet, at her request.
"Mercy. Is there something you need?"
"M-my daughter...! Sh- up there!"
Speak of a demon, and it shall summon — Inspector Minot appears, punctuated unceremoniously with the reverberation of flushing water in the background. A door with a hanging ring buoy just beyond her hangs subtly ajar. And Minot's face spells the revelation of doing business on a boat when the bathroom is a last-minute addition. She's seen the ugly truth of this vessel. Also, heard a bloodcurdling scream prior, though reaction to it among the other passengers seems minimal at best.
The inspector returns to her end of the table. The badge at her neck clinks on its chain as she makes haste in collecting her things — a ballpoint pin, and an envelope labeled "TRIOS." It is growing clear the disgruntled look on her face is unrelated to the bathroom; she surveys the newcomer, the man with the gouged eye, and still assumes the visage of dealing with shit.
"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?" she answered the man's question with a wryness implicating she, too, thought it was a rhetorical one.
Hurried despite her hardness, Minot would leave the lounge on that note, pen in hand as she strode to the door — envelope still on the table. Perhaps it was too early even for her.
It wasn't hard to register the apathy in regards to the scream. Though it was hard to tell the demographics from a look-around the lounge area — you had to mind anomalies, because there was reasonable chance of anyone being one; the concept of "majority" was difficult to discern in a generation so permeated by mystical practice. Most philosophers would pin it on magic, anyway — the Apathy as palpable and wholly-logical, maintained by mankind in the presence of a spontaneous, law-defiant force. The wholehearted embrace of such spontaneity would necessitate a moral readjustment, essentially conditioning individuals to become less attached to the people around who could turn to ash or into frogs at a moment's notice.
And yet, this was only a theory, one that reinforced a special brand of nihilism, as Minot perceived it. The idea that you were a victim to the whims of an uncaring universe; the implication that emotions, connections, and bias were dooming — this all stemmed from someone whose choice career required the greatest degree of practicality. Biases was what made people fascinating. And the inspector was sure humanity was all-in-all good, as much "evil" as she'd seen. No bad deed consumed an individual. Perhaps, naturally, she had to elevate herself in status and projected moral standing, as the high-and-mighty detective, to see so optimistically. That was her bias.
In addition, the concept of "the Apathy" acted to imbalance the detriments and benefits of magic. In that context, it was corruptible by nature, entirely undermining the point of magic as a whole: to elevate mankind, and to stand in where technology failed.
Without magic, they would have had to stop the ship. Instead, a member of the crew, easy to mistake for a cabin boy, had thrown down his mop, prepared a sloppy summoning circle in bucket-water. All the same, the quick reaction had allowed him to swap his supplies with the couple overboard. They were lying supine, winded, on deck by the time Minot arrived. Scooped from the bay and sopping, the crew surrounded them, ogling down — the woman was still conscious, face red with the hard, combined effort of spitting salt water, gasping for air, and begging breathlessly, near imperceptibly.
"Give 'er some air!" the captain squawked, a distance away.
The inspector would parrot the sentiment as she stormed into the crowd, sending dumbfounded mariners back from the couple, asides from the resident mage, in the process of supporting the woman onto her feet, at her request.
"Mercy. Is there something you need?"
"M-my daughter...! Sh- up there!"
Alright, fine I'll take the bait
...what could a crowd of zombies do to a little slime girl?
...what could a crowd of zombies do to a little slime girl?
The first floor of the basement lays out before her - a shopping mall! It truly feels like Christmas beneath the concrete holding room with a massive tree to boot, its lights glaring off the store windows, row after row.
The excitement of consumerism hangs heavy and palpable in the air, and while the crowds are a tad overwhelming, and everyone looks like they've dragged themselves straight out of bed - well, for little Candelabra, she's far too sunken into her own head to mind. In fact, she would have preferred to stay put.
But she found herself on the floor - this was the second time of collapse. On one hand, it was embarrassing; she was in public - there were people in droves, flooding the storefront, coming in from all sides. But, on the other hand, Candelabra was unused to company, and introducing a foreign concept turned up to eleven would only make it entirely unrelatable. In addition, she was sulking. So the sullen girl of slime stayed put.
When she heard the ding of closing elevator doors from behind - (And was that a disconcerted grumbling?) - she made no protest. A prone Candelabra face-planted the floor.
Was it obvious to the surrounding world that Candelabra wasn't paying attention? With the curiosity she could muster, this was the extent of her hearing:
SMASSH!
Crrr-UNCH!
(Snap! Snap!)
"This way!"
"Alright. Show us what you got...!"
Maybe it was a little exciting, like an action-horror movie. Something B-tier on the late-running monster movie marathon of a sci-fi channel. Something you watched when you were too bored or depressed to care. And Candelabra was too young to be that depressed.
The excitement of consumerism hangs heavy and palpable in the air, and while the crowds are a tad overwhelming, and everyone looks like they've dragged themselves straight out of bed - well, for little Candelabra, she's far too sunken into her own head to mind. In fact, she would have preferred to stay put.
But she found herself on the floor - this was the second time of collapse. On one hand, it was embarrassing; she was in public - there were people in droves, flooding the storefront, coming in from all sides. But, on the other hand, Candelabra was unused to company, and introducing a foreign concept turned up to eleven would only make it entirely unrelatable. In addition, she was sulking. So the sullen girl of slime stayed put.
When she heard the ding of closing elevator doors from behind - (And was that a disconcerted grumbling?) - she made no protest. A prone Candelabra face-planted the floor.
Was it obvious to the surrounding world that Candelabra wasn't paying attention? With the curiosity she could muster, this was the extent of her hearing:
SMASSH!
Crrr-UNCH!
(Snap! Snap!)
"This way!"
"Alright. Show us what you got...!"
Maybe it was a little exciting, like an action-horror movie. Something B-tier on the late-running monster movie marathon of a sci-fi channel. Something you watched when you were too bored or depressed to care. And Candelabra was too young to be that depressed.
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