Then I have ultimately succeeded in what I set out to do!
Can't wait for that first post. I'm already jotting down snippets of potential narratives for Simone's introduction.
Also, in regards to the NPCs, I'll have them finished possibly by tonight or tomorrow.
Rockette
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𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
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ｓｉｍｏｎｅ ａｒｃｈａｍｂａｕｌｔ
[see-moan are-chem-bolt]
ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ғɪᴠᴇ [x] ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ
ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ |
Shut it down, decimate the already disintegrated cognizance of herself, rebuild upon what the world [they] want you to be. Because a desiring mind, a selfless reflection, and a kindly heart will get you killed. Simone Archambault is a contemptuous manipulator of public conceptions and perseverance. With a shouldered distrust and selfishly taxed heart covered in a film of ruby sin and ice, she is a compiled [broken] figure on the faceted surfaces of a shattered jewel that was forced to polish and shine and gleaming and she smashed it under her heel deliberately. Initial impressions are forever shadowed and hidden under the fact that Simone is a tad unapproachable, be this a rumination on extraction and prestige or something more personal in terms of how others tolerate her is unknown, but with her sort of stance and figure it is just better to assume her into the gathering of reflecting appellations.
She’s a bitch.
She uses people.
She’s Simone.
There are, however, only miniscule amounts of pleasurable association with Simone during random intervals and rare occurrences of when she’s basking in the euphoria of psychological assaults on the criminalized mind. She’s a scholar in human natures and expectancies, she’s a harsh demeanor wrapped in the fineries of opulent and yet unscrupulous dominions of family and she’s just simply better than everyone else in her own deduction. Vain incarnate and narcissistic in regards to her own visage and intelligence, she carries high expectations to peers and any associates deemed worthy enough to have her belittling personality and blustery towards representation of the self.
But in the underlining details of her soul is a deeper understanding and will to do whichever she simply has to which ties to her political, government associated and knowledgeable repertoire that leads impressions to a direct influence. Moral implications and opinionated curses in regards to preserving the human right to be free and without oppression doesn’t register in her calculating and debasing tendencies; she does things as she does for her own personal gain. Selfishness doesn’t smudge guilt or compassionated reflection in her laden heart full of garnet regrets and Simone thrives on her own hidden agenda.
It is in the events of her Erasure submission that her mind and heart is shoved into the risky, hellacious bitch that will tear down any who oppose her and leave behind a wake of authentic, and unadulterated carnage that simply gets the job completed without a shrug or care as to what remains. Her understanding of human nature and cynical presumptions regarding them is a balm to what she faces within the layered soul of someone deemed dangerous and unfortunate enough and to what she confronts in her everyday life without the mask of an Agent. Simone finds a twisted satisfaction in exposing the raw nature of their own damages and her persecution in regards to uncivilized individuals begets a sort of dark obsession.
She’s a bitch.
She uses people.
She’s Simone.
There are, however, only miniscule amounts of pleasurable association with Simone during random intervals and rare occurrences of when she’s basking in the euphoria of psychological assaults on the criminalized mind. She’s a scholar in human natures and expectancies, she’s a harsh demeanor wrapped in the fineries of opulent and yet unscrupulous dominions of family and she’s just simply better than everyone else in her own deduction. Vain incarnate and narcissistic in regards to her own visage and intelligence, she carries high expectations to peers and any associates deemed worthy enough to have her belittling personality and blustery towards representation of the self.
But in the underlining details of her soul is a deeper understanding and will to do whichever she simply has to which ties to her political, government associated and knowledgeable repertoire that leads impressions to a direct influence. Moral implications and opinionated curses in regards to preserving the human right to be free and without oppression doesn’t register in her calculating and debasing tendencies; she does things as she does for her own personal gain. Selfishness doesn’t smudge guilt or compassionated reflection in her laden heart full of garnet regrets and Simone thrives on her own hidden agenda.
It is in the events of her Erasure submission that her mind and heart is shoved into the risky, hellacious bitch that will tear down any who oppose her and leave behind a wake of authentic, and unadulterated carnage that simply gets the job completed without a shrug or care as to what remains. Her understanding of human nature and cynical presumptions regarding them is a balm to what she faces within the layered soul of someone deemed dangerous and unfortunate enough and to what she confronts in her everyday life without the mask of an Agent. Simone finds a twisted satisfaction in exposing the raw nature of their own damages and her persecution in regards to uncivilized individuals begets a sort of dark obsession.
Oooo Danny & MST! Nice to see you two, this'll be a treat. <3 & thanks a bunch.
Anyways. Now that my headache has alleviated, I'mma catch up on this shit and finish my crap finally.
Ha, cold weather. Down south where I unfortunately live, this bi-polar weather is just ridiculous. Hot one day and the next it drops to freezing.
Not complaining though, I fucking love the cold.
Anyways. Now that my headache has alleviated, I'mma catch up on this shit and finish my crap finally.
Ha, cold weather. Down south where I unfortunately live, this bi-polar weather is just ridiculous. Hot one day and the next it drops to freezing.
Not complaining though, I fucking love the cold.
I just got smacked in the back of the head with a box coming home - so I'mma be a little slow[er] with my character submissions & catching up with the newer shit.
Headache commencing...
Until then!
Headache commencing...
Until then!
Well.
You can always run into Baby Jinx on the random ass bridge I put her on?
Iunno.
... I feel like our avatars are just staring at each other.
You can always run into Baby Jinx on the random ass bridge I put her on?
Iunno.
... I feel like our avatars are just staring at each other.
She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there. With her palms cupped to her kneecaps and her ligaments locked, scuffed combat boots perched precariously on cracked sediment; herself positioned curiously over the ominous, pallid haze below.
But, it was her only focal point available, given height enough so that she could avoid the smog that continued to fester in the pale death that it was. Though Baby Jinx wasn’t entirely sure what it was, or even did, only that she’d lost an impromptu companion or two foolish enough to venture within the ivory horseman’s domain. She supposed she should’ve been a little sad at their bereavements, but, she withdrew her weaponry scissors from their security within her bag, there was no more room for foolish individuals that didn’t listen.
And then she began to twirl the snipping blades around her finger. Contemplating.
The ropes were slack, without tension from their ascenders as she tested them with a little prodding from her booted feet. It had been, what, ten hours now? Since last night when the trio had stopped, dumping miscellaneous possessions, stretching arms high and hearing spines crack. Baby Jinx had been fortuitous to come across their former duo, the partnership easy between the two in the way they bantered, quipped, and even found a jovial pleasure in slaughtering their once upon a time neighbors and friends. At least she never had to kill anyone, not yet.
They had secured the ropes to a car left abandoned and already ransacked for what little supplies had been available, looping knots to the maze of piping and construction underneath their bulks. They went together, to their deaths, and told Baby Jinx to stay behind, guard the ropes and maintain observation of the supplies whilst they went exploring into the snowy hue of Hell. They didn’t figure her no older than they, despite her actual seniority over the two, but she was tiny, fragile, bony-esque and didn’t have to use her bat to bludgeon anyone.
Clean was the word that came to mind when she began roping the lines around her arm and hand, dropping them to the asphalt and denying them their life lines. Not that they would come back, after all, it was agreed upon: any longer than eight hours, just leave. She supposed she had been trying to hope against hope in that they would come back, shimmying up the lines with something valuable; information, uncontaminated food, other survivors.
But no.
Maybe she was a little lonely, after all, ten hours was a long time without another voice other than your own and she had wasted enough time lying back on her thefted jacket with the faux fur and gazing up at a glaring, overbearing sky. It wasn’t a comfortable warmth, no, but a heat so intense that Baby Jinx was sure her skin was burning away layer by layer the more she left herself vulnerable to the harsh light. Shade, shelter, that was what she needed when she began pilfering through their left behind belongings, frowning when she didn’t find a lighter.
“Well, hell.”
Her admission was a light, almost candied sort that gave impression to saccharine intentions and an innocence that was only verbalized rather than portrayed accordingly. But the slur of her cursed tongue contradicted that and smeared her even more just as the scarlet lipstick that burned across her cheek in a blemished ode. Baby Jinx sighed and reached back to wind the pale threads of her hair into a lopsided knot, trying to ignore the burning on the one side of her scalp where she had shaved the portion away - for shits and giggles.
Which had seemed a good idea at the time.
Her sigh was one of hopeless, and dreary emotion when she had come up empty handed from scouring their packs, the only thing note worthy was the almost empty canteen the fellow girl had possessed and Baby Jinx didn’t waste anytime in consuming what precious hydration was left. She swiped her hands against her lips and tossed it aside where her jacket was spread aloft. Loneliness never had plagued the carefree inclination of Baby Jinx, and her moniker spoke of a bequeathed nature; proffered by teasing voices, striking her alias from birth and the reincarnation meant to be endearing. But that almost seemed empty now, her fingers scratching against the ropes as she stuffed them into her bag, and she couldn’t remember her actual name anymore. As perplexing as it was, Baby Jinx had never really considered herself anyone but the Gothic-laced doll of the underground.
Funny how when the world went to shit, that she ended moving up in the world. Literally.
But there wasn’t anything up here, and it wasn’t as glamorous as she formerly assumed, no. It was just dead like everyone around her and perhaps that in its self warranted enough sadness despite her decision to leave her companions behind. She wasn’t a survivor, not really, just a scrapper sorts that scurried on down the bridge way in a slight jog, combat boots loud and a sun beaming harshly down on her back. Her bag banged against her hip with the weight of chains and rope and other objects she deemed worthy, and she didn’t know where she was going exactly - Baby Jinx didn’t plan anything, even in this world.
And it was changed, wasn’t it? Bearing true colours now that once painted its underbelly where she used to live.
She stops for a moment and looks out at the fog, she swears she can hear something. Footsteps, maybe. But she doesn’t stop long enough to see the man jump to an adjacent building.
Baby Jinx is taking off down the bridge, distancing herself from her former friends [if you could call them that] because she has to find something, somewhere, a place that she can call a home once more. A place, somewhat, safe.
But, it was her only focal point available, given height enough so that she could avoid the smog that continued to fester in the pale death that it was. Though Baby Jinx wasn’t entirely sure what it was, or even did, only that she’d lost an impromptu companion or two foolish enough to venture within the ivory horseman’s domain. She supposed she should’ve been a little sad at their bereavements, but, she withdrew her weaponry scissors from their security within her bag, there was no more room for foolish individuals that didn’t listen.
And then she began to twirl the snipping blades around her finger. Contemplating.
The ropes were slack, without tension from their ascenders as she tested them with a little prodding from her booted feet. It had been, what, ten hours now? Since last night when the trio had stopped, dumping miscellaneous possessions, stretching arms high and hearing spines crack. Baby Jinx had been fortuitous to come across their former duo, the partnership easy between the two in the way they bantered, quipped, and even found a jovial pleasure in slaughtering their once upon a time neighbors and friends. At least she never had to kill anyone, not yet.
They had secured the ropes to a car left abandoned and already ransacked for what little supplies had been available, looping knots to the maze of piping and construction underneath their bulks. They went together, to their deaths, and told Baby Jinx to stay behind, guard the ropes and maintain observation of the supplies whilst they went exploring into the snowy hue of Hell. They didn’t figure her no older than they, despite her actual seniority over the two, but she was tiny, fragile, bony-esque and didn’t have to use her bat to bludgeon anyone.
Clean was the word that came to mind when she began roping the lines around her arm and hand, dropping them to the asphalt and denying them their life lines. Not that they would come back, after all, it was agreed upon: any longer than eight hours, just leave. She supposed she had been trying to hope against hope in that they would come back, shimmying up the lines with something valuable; information, uncontaminated food, other survivors.
But no.
Maybe she was a little lonely, after all, ten hours was a long time without another voice other than your own and she had wasted enough time lying back on her thefted jacket with the faux fur and gazing up at a glaring, overbearing sky. It wasn’t a comfortable warmth, no, but a heat so intense that Baby Jinx was sure her skin was burning away layer by layer the more she left herself vulnerable to the harsh light. Shade, shelter, that was what she needed when she began pilfering through their left behind belongings, frowning when she didn’t find a lighter.
“Well, hell.”
Her admission was a light, almost candied sort that gave impression to saccharine intentions and an innocence that was only verbalized rather than portrayed accordingly. But the slur of her cursed tongue contradicted that and smeared her even more just as the scarlet lipstick that burned across her cheek in a blemished ode. Baby Jinx sighed and reached back to wind the pale threads of her hair into a lopsided knot, trying to ignore the burning on the one side of her scalp where she had shaved the portion away - for shits and giggles.
Which had seemed a good idea at the time.
Her sigh was one of hopeless, and dreary emotion when she had come up empty handed from scouring their packs, the only thing note worthy was the almost empty canteen the fellow girl had possessed and Baby Jinx didn’t waste anytime in consuming what precious hydration was left. She swiped her hands against her lips and tossed it aside where her jacket was spread aloft. Loneliness never had plagued the carefree inclination of Baby Jinx, and her moniker spoke of a bequeathed nature; proffered by teasing voices, striking her alias from birth and the reincarnation meant to be endearing. But that almost seemed empty now, her fingers scratching against the ropes as she stuffed them into her bag, and she couldn’t remember her actual name anymore. As perplexing as it was, Baby Jinx had never really considered herself anyone but the Gothic-laced doll of the underground.
Funny how when the world went to shit, that she ended moving up in the world. Literally.
But there wasn’t anything up here, and it wasn’t as glamorous as she formerly assumed, no. It was just dead like everyone around her and perhaps that in its self warranted enough sadness despite her decision to leave her companions behind. She wasn’t a survivor, not really, just a scrapper sorts that scurried on down the bridge way in a slight jog, combat boots loud and a sun beaming harshly down on her back. Her bag banged against her hip with the weight of chains and rope and other objects she deemed worthy, and she didn’t know where she was going exactly - Baby Jinx didn’t plan anything, even in this world.
And it was changed, wasn’t it? Bearing true colours now that once painted its underbelly where she used to live.
She stops for a moment and looks out at the fog, she swears she can hear something. Footsteps, maybe. But she doesn’t stop long enough to see the man jump to an adjacent building.
Baby Jinx is taking off down the bridge, distancing herself from her former friends [if you could call them that] because she has to find something, somewhere, a place that she can call a home once more. A place, somewhat, safe.
Oman. All the stuffs to reeeeeead.
That's the spirit !
^
/whine
/whine
YandereNoodle said
I can't stay away. I love the idea. May not be quite up to par, but I'll try ;D
Also, saving this spot for my CS
Advanced isn't all that.. advanced, we just embellish and exaggerate a lot.
Just write like you normally would.
You'll do just fine!
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