Status

User has no status, yet

Bio


Just call me Prose.

I'm twenty four.
No Face accurately describes my appearance, I think.
I've been roleplaying for a long time.
Feel free to correct me on things.
I edit character sheets a lot.
My male characters will highly outweigh my female characters.
I reuse characters that I like.
I was in advanced writing classes at one point, it didn't make an impression on me.
I do best in high casual settings but I could probably do advanced if I put effort into it.
I hate writing personality and appearance sections, I'm bad at it.
It takes me at least four replies before my responses stop looking like garbage.
I refuse to write a first status until I can think of something good to say.
At every given moment, I'm worried that I'm annoying everyone in the thread.
I'm not as pretentious as my name might suggest.

Most Recent Posts



Los Angeles - Obscure Alleyway
@Count Cuddles & @The Harbinger of Ferocity


It happened in a whisper.
Scarcely a sound to introduce the approach of the massive creature. He registered the eyes before he registered the creature, actually became fixated on them for a moment which wasn't hard to do when he was being scrutinized. Golden eyes, frighteningly intelligent golden eyes. An entirely feline look of disdain that was accompanied by an orange and black striped body. A heavy, elegant body that was corded in muscle and much larger than any house cat that he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing.

He stared, and he stared, and he stared. Eerily, he didn't really react, just kept staring at the creature that had imposed itself into the alleyway. He had seen tigers before, in zoos and in documentaries but he had never been this close to a tiger before. A more primal instinct wanted him to react, to run or to back out very slowly. That more primal instinct was overridden by a sort of hazy hissing in the back of his mind, a sort of growing television static that seemed to only get louder and louder as he stood there and took it all in.

Well, he thought, almost sullenly. I'm going to need more whiskey for this.

Unfortunately, he had already finished his flask and he didn't think he'd have the time to duck by the nearest liquor store. He'd have to bare with this and hope his pleasant buzz was enough not to over-analyze it. He'd seen enough weird things in his life that a talking tiger shouldn't have surprised him but here he was- mildly surprised by a talking tiger. He focused on details of it, the long white whiskers, the burnt orange color of its coat, the hyper-intelligent eyes.

Eh bien, putain.” He said, sounding strangely detached. He was far too relaxed in his stance, completely unprepared for any attack that the creature might throw at him. “You're really a tiger. I don't believe I've ever been this close to a tiger before. Do you have a name?




Los Angeles - Obscure Alleyway
@Count Cuddles & @The Harbinger of Ferocity


Odd, he thought. He seems quite genuine.
First impressions meant a lot to Keandre, they usually decided how he'd treat an individual for their remaining time together. Usually it was very easy to make a bad first impression on him but he actually found himself liking Faultline. There was something unmistakably earnest and good about him. It was easy to imagine why the older man had wound up fighting crime, it was likely that he had a strong sense of morality and that struck Keandre as a hopeful concept. He had met a few very jaded heroes in his time, they wore down on his nerves more often than not.

It was the heroes that seemed truly dedicated to what they were doing that stuck out to him, the ones who genuinely wanted to see change. He had clicked very easily with La Buitre because her naivety and her innocence had made her such a good hero. She believed in everything she was doing, she wanted to be the change she wanted to see in the world. It seemed in its way that Faultline was similar, albeit, probably less sweet.

Keandre was one of those annoyingly jaded heroes himself, but that didn't stop him from appreciating the honest-to-God goodness that he saw in others. This revelation softened some of his defenses, he was still a bit wary but he was much less wary than he had been. “I fear you'll be disappointed to learn that the mask is as good as it gets with me.

He paused, lifted his mask a little again and drained the rest of his flask in one quick gulp. The whiskey burned all the way down his throat and warmed his cheeks. He was a little sorry to have finished off the flask so early in the day but that was the pain of addiction. He was lucky he'd never dabbled in cigarettes, he'd be hacking up a lung right about now. He tossed the silver flask into his messenger bag, a bit carelessly because it clattered loudly against something glass.

I am a bit new,” he admitted. “I am from France, if the accent somehow escaped you though, you do not seem daft, so I doubt it did.” His words were very blunt but it didn't seem as if he was trying to be unkind. It just seemed as if that was how he was used to communicating. “La France me manque. It was quite beautiful there.

A small part of him was still troubled by the idea of being watched. He didn't like things seeing him that he couldn't see himself. He had no way of finding their silent observer and that irked a corner of his mind. “I know you from the radio. Ils avaient beaucoup à dire sur vous."

A pause, then, almost casually. "Are you as concerned with the idea of being watched as I am? It is a very ominous prospect and one I am not keen to.



Los Angeles - Streets
@Shard & @Count Cuddles & @The Harbinger of Ferocity


Strange as it was, Keandre found this idle chit chat to be a comforting break from what had become normal for him. Mornings were often slow, spent in cafés, waiting for something to happen. Sometimes there was crime to fight and fires to start. Sometimes he would idle for hours between Café Belle Vie and the sandwich shop down the road, it depended on his luck. Nights were very different. Nights were often hectic affairs spent in a bar a few blocks away from his home. Sometimes nights ended with faceless men and flickers of laughter. Sometimes his nights ended with terrible hangovers and puke dried into his bed sheets, it depended on his luck.

Often times, Keandre had very bad luck but that was alright. He'd gotten used to his strange new existence, it was a bit more productive than his life in France and he kind of enjoyed knowing he was doing society a favor. However, it had done well in supporting his tendency to stray from socializing and having such a nice and… mostly normal conversation with another hero was new. It was new in a good way, it gave him something else to think of. He knew he'd likely leave this conversation worrying about this kid getting himself hurt but that was something to think about over a glass of whiskey later.

He worried enough for La Buitre too. He hadn't started this whole hero thing until he'd been nineteen years old, it was a bit concerning that these kids were running around Los Angeles without any parental guidance. Of course, Midnight had some guidance in the form of Faultline but he was still a kid and that would serve to weigh on a corner of Keandre’s mind. “Alone,” He said, using his right hand to guide him to a wall that he could comfortably lean against. He braced his boot against the wall, seeming very relaxed, but it was also a convenient position to kick off of if something attacked.

He took another nip from his flask and continued, “Je préfère être seul. I have not really made many friends since I have moved here but that is not always such a bad thing. I handle myself well enough, which is to say that I am not dead yet.” He paused a moment to consider this before tapping his nail against his porcelain mask. “There is still plenty of time for me to die tragically however-

He didn't react very strongly to the revelation that they were being watched but he did stop talking, arching a brow at Midnight. He knew he could probably scare whoever or whatever it was out of hiding with a large enough blast but that wouldn't be very subtle. He watched Midnight, only becoming distracted by the approach of another man. He was the older party, that much was evidential. His suit had just as much flair as his partner, it made Keandre wonder if he was under-dressed. It was like showing up to a costume party in a t-shirt.

Faultline, he thought. And now I've met the whole team.

Éclater.” He responded, gaze flickering to the extended hand before taking it in his own and giving it a firm shake. The Frenchman had a slight slur to his words, an almost imperceptible lilt in his voice that made it quite clear that he was a little bit drunk. “We were just marveling about how we believe that we are being watched.




Los Angeles
@Shard


The faint sound of approaching sirens hummed in the air, he listened to it with a careful ear. The police were no friend to vigilantes, in fact he'd gotten lucky in dodging them more than a few times. His particular style of fighting crime often involved the more destructive elements. It wasn't as if he could quite help it, pyro-kinesis was just an inherently destructive ability. He needed fire to manipulate flames and even fire that he was wielding was fire that was destroying everything around it. It would be a lie to say that he did much crime fighting that didn't end in a lot of fire damage.

He had gotten lucky here, he hadn't had to do much at all and Midnight’s style of fighting didn't cause much chaos. It was quick and it was clean, it didn't even seem as if he had killed the alligator-man. He seemed to be thoroughly incapacitated but he was living, and that matter to some people. It was one thing to be a vigilante, it was another thing to be a vigilante and a murderer. Keandre tried to stray from that himself, though that was not to say that many villains left fights with him completely in tact.

Éclater.” He responded to the inquiry about his name, taking care to enunciate it. Many times his name had been butchered in pronunciation, not that proper pronunciation of the French word for “Burst” should have been his main priority but… C’est la vie.I may suggest you walk in front of me, but yes, we should go before things start to heat up around here.

He fell two steps behind the kid because it served him to keep him in vision of his left eye. He carefully extended his right arm, stretching his fingers out. Keandre didn't like sidewalks, moving through a bustle of people with one eye was precarious, especially if the vision of that one eye was also somewhat limited. He didn't like having to feel for other people or worrying about them running into him. It was a pain, it was an extreme pain.

They mentioned me on the news, not so long ago. Not by name but by action.” He said. “I believe they référé to me as “more of a nuisance than he's worth”, something along those lines.

That was the only kind of description a serial arsonist vigilante deserved, really. He drew the flask back out of his pocket, tilted his mask and took another long swig. He wasn't expecting anything but notoriety, the day people started recognizing him in a positive light was a day that he likely would not live to see. They'd miss him if he was gone, probably. Perhaps they wouldn't miss the wreckage he left behind at all. All this existentialism was heavy. He ought to stop thinking about this until he was drunk enough to work through it.




Los Angeles - Café Belle Vie
@Shard


He watched silently as the little girl approached Midnight, seeming starstruck by the prospect of meeting the young hero. It was touching, in its way, but it also made him glad that he had gone relatively unknown. Not many people knew Éclater, not unless he'd done something to help them or he'd had the pleasure of punching them in the nose. He didn't tend to stick around to exchange pleasantries, he didn't tend to introduce himself upon entering a battle.

He had been very low-key in his work, trying to stray from the public eye. It wasn't that he thought it was bad to be known or acknowledged for his work, he just preferred his privacy. Hooking up with blokes in bars became a lot more complicated when they started recognising you as the weird ass guy who ran around in a porcelain mask committing arson. Arson was arson, even if it was for the “better good”.

And what was the “better good” anyway? He pondered almost constantly, never quite sure what he was fighting for, never quite sure why. That was the million dollar question, it was the only question that he'd never been able to answer. He'd met sympathetic villains before, he'd related with some of them quite a lot and it often made him wonder if he could have gone that route too if he'd been in a different mindset at the time. Of course, here and now wasn't the best time to start thinking about all that nonsense.

As Midnight and the girl became occupied in their photo, he took another long swig on his flask. He was by far the worst person to represent ideals of a “better good” and in a way, he knew that, but he was also doing this out of the kindness of his heart. That was kind of good, wasn't it? The sheer fact that he was willing to put his life on the line for little to no gain was some kind of good. If one could forget all of his bad examples and indulgence of his impulses, he was actually an alright hero.

He waited politely for them to finish up, or at least, it seemed polite, he just didn't have much to interject. He'd already come off as a glory hound by jumping into this fight, there was no need to incriminate himself more by greeting Midnight’s fan. He waited for them to finish up, stuffing his flask back into the pocket of his hoodie.

Midnight, huh?” He feigned curiosity because he'd already checked the watch at his wrist and it was far too early to leave for lunch. He didn't expect the kid had much interest in talking to him either by the wariness in which he'd been watching him, so, he figured, why not keep talking? “I heard your name on the radio. Where's your ah- partenaire?

He paused, rolling the word over in his mouth. “Partenai- Partner. Where's your partner? Faultline, is it?




Los Angeles - Outside Café Belle Vie


He watched idly, almost boredly as the battle came to its conclusion. He hadn't come out here for an active attack and luckily this hero had saved him the trouble. He had to admit that the kid seemed to know what he was doing and he seemed to know how to do it well. There was a dull thud as the alligator-man hit the ground and suddenly it was over and he was staring into the eyes of the other hero. His eyes were the only part of his face visible through the porcelain mask, one pale green eye and one blind blue eye.

He blinked, the porcelain mask on his face gave nothing away, not that his expression probably would have either. He didn't feel particularly strongly about this situation, it was just another fight. He had barely had any part in this fight and he didn't think that it really quite mattered that he was here at all. So, he did what any self-respecting, functioning alcoholic would do in his situation. He fished a silver flask from his pocket, he unscrewed the cap, slightly lifted his mask and took a swig.

The other hero was dressed like something akin to a storybook knight, or perhaps a more high-tech parody of a storybook knight. He estimated that he was younger than him, shorter at the very least. After meeting La Buitre, he had stopped being surprised by younger heroes running amuck through Los Angeles. She had been competent enough on her own and he supposed this kid was too, or at least it seemed that way. He was more of a heavy-hitter than Keandre, at the very least.

He was partially leaning back against the building, strangely relaxed despite everything that had just happened. “Bonjour, I'm Éclater.” He greeted, horribly casual for a guy in an unnerving porcelain mask. “Pardon the intrusion, I have been doing this for awhile and I haven't run into you. I tend to assume the worst, but you appeared to handle yourself well.




Los Angeles - Café Belle Vie


Well, that was hard to ignore. The uproarious response from the café patrons washed over him, panicked voices and people getting close to the windows to watch the young man outside. He was barely focusing, mind numbed by the radio show he'd become infatuated with. Of course, that was the bad thing about Keandre, he didn't react nearly enough. About two minutes passed before he freed his ear bud from his ear and put his phone on sleep mode.

He didn't think this kid needed his help but he also didn't think anyone else needed his help either. He drew in a very deep breath, he exhaled in a very long sigh. He wound his ear buds around his phone, slipping it into his messenger bag and rummaging around with his free hand for his mask. That was the problem with this whole hero thing, he had to conceal his identity somehow but he didn't want to be one of those colorful dumbasses running around in full gear.

No, Keandre had settled on the most minimal effort costume that he could get his paws on, as if that was surprising in the slightest. It glinted in his bag, scarred fingertips clasping it from the side. A smooth, porcelain, featureless, black mask. It hid his face almost entirely, it made him look strangely inhuman, like some kind of faceless dark anomaly.

He shrugged off his suede jacket, stuffing it in the bag before pulling up the hood of his hoodie. When he was sure that no eyes were on him, he strapped his mask on. Sure, it wouldn't be a flawless exit and some people were likely to wonder what happened to the tall red-headed guy that had been slumming it over a cup of coffee (without paying his tab, no less!) but that was hardly his problem.

He nudged his way through the small gathering of people near the door. “Quelqu'un a omis de m'informer d'une fête.


Loss Angeles - Outside Café Belle Vie
@Count Cuddles & @Shard


When he stepped out of that café, he focused his thoughts. He keyed them into one singular goal and that was to somehow help this kid take down this villain, he knew that he wasn't much of a heavy-hitter but he had been doing this long enough to create some maddeningly good distractions. “Over here, friend! I have something for you!

In the blaze of the sunlight, he looked quite normal, save for the disturbingly featureless porcelain-doll face. Just a tall, well-built young man in a hoodie and jeans, a beige messenger bag was slung over his shoulder. The opening flap of the messenger bag was clustered in colorful and clattering buttons. Most of them seemed to have band names, others seemed to have quirky little sayings, there were a few in French.

His hands were covered in pale, marbled burn scars, they spider-webbed over his fingers. His right hand was moving, clenching and unclenching. His fingers curling and uncurling almost involuntarily, he was focusing very intently, aiming where he wanted his blast to go off. Not too close to the villain, not too far either, not too big. Just enough to startle him.

He smiled faintly behind the sober lips of his porcelain mask. The air was hot enough, he released his power, like unfurling smoke. The sound was loud, ringing, like a gunshot and it cracked through the air. A blast of heat that seemingly came from nowhere at all, it wasn't too large a blast but it would likely be startling nonetheless.

It was a pocket explosion of extremely hot air, not quite a fire, that was too much focus and he didn't think he'd have the chance to go tossing matches around. He also thought he might look genuinely ridiculous doing that.

Hopefully the little blast would be enough to hold the alligator-man’s attention and give Midnight an opening to better strike.



Keandre’s Apartment - Los Angeles.


Dizzy.
The stumbling steps that bruised his knees and bumped his elbows. He was dizzy and his head was aching steadily.
Nights were long and often full of senseless alcohol consumption, last night had been long and full of senseless alcohol consumption. He didn't remember what had happened, not really anyway. It was a dazed blur of fumbling hands and gasping laughter. He couldn't remember what he'd been fumbling for, he couldn't remember what was so funny.

Someone had come home with him, he did remember that through the haze. Fumbling hands and punch-drunk laughter wasn't lost on him, he remembered the taste of their mouth. They'd been drinking vodka, it burned on the back of his tongue. They weren't here now, he could see the sheets were mused on their end, cold. They'd left during the night, he didn't remember it happening.

He rolled to his feet, stumbled, pitched forward and caught himself on the wall. “Fuck.” He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his blind eye. “Fuck me. Pourquoi est-ce que je me fais ça?

-

Los Angeles - Café Belle Vie.

He had taken a seat near the window that faced the street, keeping his good eye focused on the world outside. The weather was nice and his coffee was warm, steam trailed upwards from the mug in thin curls. He rapped the cup with his index finger, listening to the clink of his nail against the porcelain. It was a plain white thing, nothing particularly exciting about it.

The liquid in the cup was a diluted brown, swirling with lighter undertones. He could rarely stomach coffee if it was black, he liked to double down on creamer. Strangely, he didn't really feel like drinking it at all today but schedule dictated that he'd have to sooner or later. Schedule ruled his mornings, dismay ruled his nights.

He picked up the cup, deeply inhaled the steam wafting off of it. He set the cup back down, he tapped it again. He listened to the soft and insistent clink, clink, clink and tried to occupy his mind with the tinny voices drifting through his ear bud.

It may have looked merely as if he was listening to music to an outsider, a single ear bud in his right ear and his phone lying on the table. As it turned out, he was tuned into more than a few different radio frequencies. He'd idly change them every so often, listening for something interesting. So far, he hadn't had much luck save for a bit of talk about a bank robbery. Boring.

A shooting outside a hotel. Not too long ago.
Too far, he lamented to himself, why would I ever bother going that far to look at a bloody mess?
He kept tapping his index finger, he kept listening. He finally sipped his coffee. It tasted syrupy and disgusting. He considered ditching it for a moment. He didn't. He remained in his seat, he kept sipping his syrupy coffee. The tinny sound of the radio channels continued in his ear. He was hopelessly, helplessly, irrevocably bored.

He kept his good eye on the window, he kept listening. Something worth pursuing was bound to show up. Probably.
I'm interested!
-
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet