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7 yrs ago
Happy 10th Anniversary, RolePlayer Guild! Its been one hell of a ride (Definitely didn't misspell that as "help" the first time, and have to re-post it)
4 likes
7 yrs ago
Thank the lord for the Roleplay Guild. Otherwise I might actually have to pay attention in lectures
3 likes
7 yrs ago
"Remember the times you could have pressed quit - but you hit continue" Hope everyone's having an alright day. If not, I hope things pick up for you
3 likes
8 yrs ago
You shot Church, you team killing fucktard!
3 likes
8 yrs ago
My sister saw me watching the Co-Optional Podcast and thought I was skyping my friends. How ridiculous! I don't have friends.
4 likes

Bio

The Dyslexia is strong with this one.

Most Recent Posts




Fashionably late to the party, as always.



I'm exceedingly sorry everyone, but I've grievously under-estimated quite how many assignments my lecturers were going to lump on top of me, and I'm fighting like crazy to get everything in ontime, so I don't think I'll be able to allocated the time and effort I wanted to to this game.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to bow out, but I hope everyone has a grand time, and muchos fun is had by all!


Des yeux qui font baisser les miens
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche
Voila le portrait sans retouche
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens.


Lothaire crouched in the darkness, his lean form shrouded through obfuscation, melding him into the very shadows in which he dwelt. Although he had every intention of killing her this night, the Baali found himself rather content to sit and watch Rachelle Rousseau as she worked, the soft tones of Edith Piaf drifting tenderly out of a nearby radio.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Qu'il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose
Il me dit des mots d'amour
Des mots de tous les jours
Et ça m'fait quelque chose


She glided daintily through the room, floating from place-to-place with such delicate grace that she seemed almost spectral in nature. Dressed in a lavish set of lingerie, with her long golden locks falling over her shoulders like flowing water, Rachelle danced towards her masterpiece; a long, polished blade clasped in one hand.

Lothaire recognised Rachelle’s latest work of art as Elijah, the man from the other night at the Ahmanson Theatre. His smart suit was gone, and he hung, naked as the day he had come into the world, from a series of glossy steel hooks and chains, which were fasted to the ceiling of Rachelle’s luxury apartment. His eyes had been removed, leaving sickly red sockets in their place, and twisted gouges were dotted across his bare flesh.

Rachelle took a single elegant step forwards, pressing the sharp of the blade beneath Elijah’s throat, and drawing forth yet another stream of trickling carmine.

Lothaire watched the Toreador delight in her meager display of pain, and it almost elicited a chuckle from him. Even her very concept of suffering was laughable. What she envisioned as agony was but a pinch, a minor, insignificant annoyance. Her mind was rooted in the arbitrary limits of what the tangible, material shell could comprehend, but he would shower her in darkness and hellfire, the likes of which even night terrors could only barely fathom.

Readying himself, Lothaire leapt from the shadows, soaring towards her, but Rachelle whirled effortlessly beneath him, striking upwards with her blade, so that the pair came crashing to the ground, biting and clawing and stabbing and roaring in a monsterous cacophony of tooth and steel and claw.

Had she know he was there, the entire time? Had she simply been waiting for him to strike, so that she might launch her own onslaught against him?

“You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are, my dear boy,” Rachelle cackled, her eldritch strength burrowing into him with each slash of her knife, shattering his senses, and rocketing his body with freakish bouts of pain “and now you’ve gone and made such a silly little mistake!”

“You will regret crossing me, Rachelle,” Lothaire promised, his voice calm, seemingly emotionless, with only the faintest quiver of rage that would remain inconceivable to all but the most perceptive of ears “and you will die screaming.”

The Baali kicked upwards, his body jolting with supernatural might, and Rachelle was forced off of him, flying across the room, her knife falling from her fingers, and crashing into the blackwood bookcase which housed the tomes and novels she had collected throughout her unlife. The Cabinet collapsed as the vampire came slamming into it, splintered wood and tattered paper raining down onto the floor in a mess of flakes and fragments.

“You’ve spent far too long in the shadows, Lothaire,” Rachelle hissed, pulling herself up out of the ruined bookcase, and darting back towards the Balli, her eyes burning with hunger “you don’t know what it means to stand near the heart of a roaring flame!”

As Rachelle leapt forwards, Lothaire extended one arm, grabbing her by the throat, and hoisting her up into the air.

“Is that so? Allow me to show you what it means to truly burn.”

Suddenly, the air around both vampires began to crackle and smolder. Hissing, screeching embers seemed to leap out of nothingness, gnawing and skimping across Rachelle’s skin, whilst the aura which encircled her became hotter, and hotter, and hotter. The vampress spat in frustration, kicking and scratching as she fought to be free of Lothaire’s grasp.

“You trickery and blood magics won’t work on me, Tremere!” She snarled, sweat coating her forehead.

The air itself began to shriek, and blaze, tides of boiling wind billowing across Rachelle’s flesh, and clouding her vision with vapour and sweat. She roared in defiance, whilst Lothaire’s grip wrapped tighter and tighter around her.

Suddenly, through eyes that were veiled with mist, Rachelle witnessed the form of Lothaire Loyonia bend and burn, his outline twisting and twirling, loosing shape, and breaking away into an inferno of clamorous, conflagrigating bursts of booming terror. Pale fleshed rotted and crumbled, flaking away and giving birth to skin that was as black as the very depths of the night itself. Horns, curled and magnificent like those of a ram, burst through the beasts’ forehead, sprouting out of its skull like weeds from the dirt, and rocketing upwards.

“No...no!” She heaved, her words pouring out of her “You’re not real! You don’t exist! None of you exist! You’re just a...j-just a story!”

The beasts’ mouth opened, and a flare of ghastly, terrible flames rocketed outwards; bathing Rachelle in blistering agony.

She screamed in terror, and then Lothaire broke free of the illusion, Rachelle's demonic hallucination fizzling out into nothing, just in time for the Baali to sink his fangs into her neck, and begin sapping her of the very energies which fueled her unlife.

Do not be scared, Rachelle.

A voice seemed to whisper in her ear.

Now, two become one, and you will serve at the table of the First House. You will blaze bright.

Brighter than ever before.

Brighter than ever before.

Brighter than ever before.


Here's a fun art project I worked on over the weekend, which portrays my Ventrue, Nicolaus as well as his sire, Kivaria, who may or may not surface one day...



@Kingfisher She's great! I love the angle you took with this character, as you don't see overweight characters on here very often! You've got my approval. @Blitz, ball's in your court baby.


Thanks very much! I'm really glad that you approve :)
Very much interested! I'll try and get a CS up for the Lost Ones ASAP

-EDIT-

aaaaaaaand, here we are!



"What a lovely n-"

The crack of gunfire interrupted the voice. It had been melodious, even sing song, before it had been interrupted.

Baby there's a Shark in the Water

"Now, that was quite rude."


I managed to convince myself that was going to be Gary, and I got unreasonably excited


“Soooo, waddaya think?”

Lothaire placed the 12 gauge shotgun down on the bed in front of him, turning to address his contact.

Robert Gurendel was unmistakably Nosferatu; with a face that looked as though it had been hacked apart, and then badly stitched back together again. Twisted, goblin-like, ears sprouted off of the sides of his head, and his rancid mouth was stuffed full with teeth that were reminiscent of some old horror movie monsters. Gurendel wore a plain grey hoodie, underneath a faux leather jacket, and the repugnant stench of the sewers clung to him like vulchers to a rotten carcass.

“It certainly looks like it will do the job,” Lothaire gave a curt nod “but I’m more interested in the ammunition.”

Lothaire and Gurendel held their meeting in a run-down roadside motel, with peeling wallpaper and beds that were stained with god-knows-what. It was the last place one would expect to find Lothaire Loyonia, which was exactly why they used it. The Baali had traded in his tailor made suits for jeans and a hoodie, and had gone so far as to switch out his usual cologne for a much cheaper body spray. These slight deceptions, partnered with his use of obfuscation when need be, all worked towards making sure that Lothaire could carry out his business without interruption.

Of course, there was always an element of risk involved in these dealings, so the vampire tried his very best to keep them to a minimum.

“Right, the Dragon’s breath rounds,” Gurendel reached down with his long, gnarled fingers, flicking open the briefcase he’d brought with him, and fishing out a bright red shotgun shell “you can always count on ya boy to deliver.”

Lothaire graciously took one of the shells from the Nosferatu, spinning it softly in his fingers.

“You’ve never given me any reason to doubt your credibility, Robert, and I’ve always found our dealings to be both pleasant and professional.” Lothaire gave the Nosferatu a nod of approval as he spoke.

“Ey, you too, man.” Gurendel grinned, showing of his movie monster teeth.

“That said,” Lothaire chimed in “I unfortunately feel obliged to emphasize just how regrettable it would be for you to try and deceive me in this particular transaction.”

“My word is gold, boss,” Gurendel promised “trust me on this.”

“I’m inclined to believe you, Robert.” Lothaire smiled.

The use of his Presence discipline wasn’t needed for these meetings. Robert knew not to fuck with Lothaire Loyonia.

“You’ll be takin’ the stuff then, Mista’?”

“I do believe so.” Lothaire gave the Nosferatu a slight inclination of his sculpted head.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Robert said, with a grin that Judas in hell might have been proud of.






The Los Angeles night was humid, bordering on muggy, but to the dead man everything just felt rather unremarkably chilled. The Skull and Serpent wasn’t exactly what Lothaire would consider an enjoyable night out, however he had a very specific purpose for calling at this particular bar, that was part of a much larger scheme of his.

Slipping furtively into the back alley behind the Skull and Serpent, with his recently acquired shotgun resting inside a barrel bag, Lothaire made his way cautiously over to one of the bar’s large dumpsters, carefully moving the shotgun out of the bag, and sliding it underneath. Once he was done, Lothaire tossed the bag over one shoulder, and made his way round to the front of the bar.

Lothaire had come dressed in a leather jacket and crisp black chinos; all part of a getup that gave the impression of one trying their best to blend in with the general vibe in this part of LA. The Skull and Serpent had become quite a popular mixing pot for Los Angeles’ more macabre community, and its strings were being pulled by a kindred who had started to take a rather unwelcome interest in Lothaire, which was precisely why he had decided to give the bar a visit.

The Skull and Serpent itself had a rather battered, rundown appearance, but whether this was due to neglect or a deliberate aesthetic choice by the owners was a matter of contention. The line outside the bar had whittled down to virtually nothing, and it wasn’t long before Lothaire was standing in front of a smartly dressed bouncer, who bore an incredible resemblance to a gorilla that had been shaved, and then stuffed into a suit, against its will.

“You on the list?” The gorilla grunted, peering down at the clipboard in its over-sized monkey hands.

“ I should be,” Lothaire gave a courteous smile “Stefano Cervantes.”

Lothaire had accumulated a rather impressive arsenal of false aliases over the course of his unlife, but the use of the same fake name that he operated under at the Ahmanson theatre was very much a deliberate choice of his. The proprietors of the Skull and Serpent were lackeys of Rachelle Rousseau, and Lothaire had every intention of making her aware of his presence here.

“Go on in.” the gorilla huffed, giving Lothaire just enough room to slip past him.

The interior of the Skull and Serpent was much like its exterior; disheveled, and unabashedly gothic. The lights were dim, the furnishings dark, and a series of twisted chandeliers were draped down from the ceiling. There was pleasant buzz of patrons, but the crowd wasn’t so big as to be uncomfortable. They were all black clothes, black hair, and black lipstick; with smatterings of occult jewelry, and skin like bleached porcelaine.

Lothaire couldn’t help but wonder how many of these customers would embrace the night if they truly knew what lurked out there in the darkness, and how many would cry and shit themselves.

The vampire ordered himself a simple glass of water from a bar that was decorated with all manner of eerie ornaments, before taking a seat at one of the few empty tables.

At the other end of the bar, a young woman with a winged rose tattooed on her exposed right arm was reading spoken word poetry into a microphone.

“With each cold, and rasping breath,
I sway closer, and closer to death,
And at the risk of sounding blunt,
I want to feel you inside my-”


Once Lothaire realised that the poem wasn’t his cup of tea, he retreated back into his own thoughts, shutting out the rest of the world around him. He took a small sip from his water, slowly counting down a generous three minutes.

That ought to be enough time.

The vampire nonchalantly stood up from his chair, slipping through the crowd, and back out into the night.

“Done already?” the gorilla grunted, as Lothaire stepped passed him.

“Just going for a cigarette.” Lothaire called back over his shoulder, wandering round into the back alley that he had arrived in.

The vampire took a few easy steps back down the alleyway, when he heard three sets of footfalls creeping up behind him.

“Lothaire Loyonia.”

Suppressing a smirk, the vampire spun on his heel, and turned to face the new arrivals.

In the centre of the trio, flanked by two thugs in beanies and wife beaters, stood a tall, dark figure, with swept back, dingy hair, and flesh like sculpted ivory. His eyes were slender, his goatee neatly trimmed, and he had a jawline that looked like it could cause some serious damage in a knife fight.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Lothaire asked, feigning confusion.

Lothaire knew the middle figure. He was Sebastian Alvarado, childe of Rachelle Rousseau. Lothaire could sense the slight aura of presence emanating off of the Toreador, as his well-dressed form came striding forwards. Alvarado was the only vampire of the trio, but there was every possibility that the others could have been ghouls.

“I’m afraid so,” Alvarado's voice was firm, and unwavering, like rough stone “my mistress tells me that you’re becoming something of a problem, and that cannot be tolerated.”

The Toreador swept forwards, and Lothaire made no attempt to counter as the vampire’s supernatural might smashed him across the face, sending the Baali stumbling to the floor.

The trio chuckled as Lothaire crashed to the ground, landing right next to a large dumpster.

In a blur of movement, Lothaire’s hands darted underneath the dumpster, fishing out his newly acquired 12 gauge shotgun. Alvarado’s eyes went wide with terror, just as a roar of blazing flame rocketed out of the end of the weapon, thundering through the air, and smashing into the Toreador. The Vampire’s form smoldered and shriveled as the Dragon’s Breath shells slammed into him, his necrotic shell lighting up with a fierce gush of fire, before crumbling into ashes, and plunging onto the ground.

“MotherFUCKER!”

One of the thugs made a move for his gun, but in a second Lothaire was up on his feet; using every ounce of his vampiric strength to ram his hand straight through the man’s rib cage. The thug’s chest exploded in a gust of bloody crimson, his lifeless body swaying, and crashing to the floor.

The final thug stumbled backwards, his body shaking and quivering. He made a move to run, but Lothaire grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hoisting him up off of the ground with his gore-covered hand.

“Tell your mistress,” he hissed “to STAY OUT of my way.”

How's everyone going with WIP posts and characters?

The RP will continue to chug along at whatever pace we can all manage, but updates would be helpful :)


Got my next post in the works. Just waiting for a few others to get their 1st up
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