SkyeOfStars
Scrawl Banditta
Lurking KrogHiHi :D, never been on a forum like this, at least not for a long LONG time. Hoping to find a western roleplay since I am kinda thinking so hard about cowboys and cowboy aus, so I'm hoping to find something like that but honestly? I want something high effort. Preferably horror but gosh I would take anything so long as people are also passionate about it. Anyway here's a rp example for your reading pleasures lmao
Monday, January 1st, Sunrise, the edge of the world.
Somewhere in a distant land, the sun was rising, casting its warm light across the remains of an Apocalypse. Amongst this rubble, stands a historian. He stands over the tombs of many, which is not unusual for him. Death himself had nearly ridden into this here land, along with his acolytes. The four horsemen of the world’s end. Famine, War, Pestilence and Death. With this very soil being their great catalyst, the end of times would have been here, in this little town. Which was everywhere, and yet nowhere at all. Its remains sit in front of Anthony’s feet, the dust and ash washing away with the morning wind.
The four Horsemen had been waiting for this day for a long time. They had been creeping in the corners of the earth, influencing who they could, and letting them walk as a miniscule representation of the horrors to come. They are the ones the world knows as Avatars of the Apocalypse. Mirrors with reflections of the end of the world. With boots and a reasonable hat planted on their head, they rode on to different lands, bringing catastrophes and miseries as they rode.
The ones of Famine brought flame and desperation. Filled with an incomprehensible rage. They would burn crops people relied on to live, introducing starvation to the masses. They would kill their animals they needed for food. They would watch as their bones crept up from under their skin, pushing themselves against it to show just how hungry they really were, and know they had succeeded. Sometimes they would steal the very food off their plate to ease a hunger that did not exist, solely to know that the people did not eat anything. A fire that burned inside of them, that could manifest to their will. They are on fire, and they may spread that fire. The smoke blinds your senses and logic. They represent the yellow rider, the first horseman. Famine.
The ones of War usually would keep the company of the sickness. Pestilence and War rode together, and thus, so did their avatars. Unlike Famine or Death. The ones of War came in many shapes and sizes, not coming in one clear shape of rage and fire, like the ones of Famine. They feed on Blood and the violence of their acts. Or perhaps, the simple suffering of those enduring it, whether it be the victims or the soldiers themselves. Blood spills all the same to those who crave it. A great bloody murder sweeps through towns and villages and cities in the name of a righteous cause, in the name of an empty sense of Patriotism. The soldiers who watch the enemies' children cry out for their murdered mothers, they tell themselves it’s for the greater good. The enemy with the smoking gun after shooting a teenage soldier in the back tells himself the same. And as these avatars walk past the corpses of brothers and sisters and children and killers-a thousand stories bleeding and being forgotten on the stones of violence, with mourning widows and mothers, they feel a sense of victory. You represent the red rider, the second horseman. War.
The ones of Pestilence ride right behind those of War. They are much quieter with what they do. They come to those filled by grief, the survivors, and let their turmoil and guilt rush their defenses, and watch them pass on with a slow, slow deterioration of themselves. The ones of Pestilence and of the sick watch as a virus spreads through a warm exchange- one to keep hopes up, or the rhythm of the mundane and of the normal. They watch as the ones with the brightest eyes dim and rot from the inside out. They feed off the suffering they spread, besides just the sickness. They kill and rot the hope and the good health of anywhere War goes. A ghost town is what is to become of the places they pass through- or worse. One can be long dead before their body shuts down. That is what these avatars feed off of. You represent the green rider, the third horseman. Pestilence.
Lastly, the ones of the Death. Each of them is unique, but they all bring the same. They walk amongst the corpses and the spirits of those who have died. Either by the hunger of those who do not eat, of those who've been killed in the heat of battle, or those who have their life sucked out of them by the ill. The lives and the stories of those who were lost to time’s cruel hands will be mourned by the ones who ride in last. These avatars come before one’s death, to send a message that confirms their worries that keep them up at night, and some come during the process. A fat pastor who talks about love as you starve in his church. A comrade that watches you choke on your own blood. A doctor that stands in the back of the room as your life slips out. Or perhaps after you pass, they will be the one that buries you. The ones at graveyards, the ones that ride far and farther to find a corpse of you. They only ever watch, never interfere. Death’s cold hands are to grip you eventually. It is all a matter of waiting until their time runs out. They do not need to feed, for they are not hungry. They do not need to kill, for they care not for the violent. They do not get ill, for they are above such things. You represent the purple rider, the final horseman. Death.
When the wind whispers, once four avatars meet at the catalyst, the thump of horses are to follow. Not of any human, nor anything remotely mortal. The end of the world will ride across the globe, and will ride into the point of doom. And it will all be over. A great dance of the end times. And then, only then, will the son of all that is bad and all that is sinful rise, marked by his experiences of the terrible. The Prince of Hell, the white devil. The Antichrist.
The Historian closes his book, and lays aside his silver pen. Long ago, he had once been one of these avatars. And as he was made for, he rode into the Catalyst town, to walk past the dead and gone. And now, it is over.
As the sun hovers over him now, he begins his ride to somewhere else, and he decides he shall begin this story, from the very beginning.
Monday, January 1st, Sunrise, the edge of the world.
Somewhere in a distant land, the sun was rising, casting its warm light across the remains of an Apocalypse. Amongst this rubble, stands a historian. He stands over the tombs of many, which is not unusual for him. Death himself had nearly ridden into this here land, along with his acolytes. The four horsemen of the world’s end. Famine, War, Pestilence and Death. With this very soil being their great catalyst, the end of times would have been here, in this little town. Which was everywhere, and yet nowhere at all. Its remains sit in front of Anthony’s feet, the dust and ash washing away with the morning wind.
The four Horsemen had been waiting for this day for a long time. They had been creeping in the corners of the earth, influencing who they could, and letting them walk as a miniscule representation of the horrors to come. They are the ones the world knows as Avatars of the Apocalypse. Mirrors with reflections of the end of the world. With boots and a reasonable hat planted on their head, they rode on to different lands, bringing catastrophes and miseries as they rode.
The ones of Famine brought flame and desperation. Filled with an incomprehensible rage. They would burn crops people relied on to live, introducing starvation to the masses. They would kill their animals they needed for food. They would watch as their bones crept up from under their skin, pushing themselves against it to show just how hungry they really were, and know they had succeeded. Sometimes they would steal the very food off their plate to ease a hunger that did not exist, solely to know that the people did not eat anything. A fire that burned inside of them, that could manifest to their will. They are on fire, and they may spread that fire. The smoke blinds your senses and logic. They represent the yellow rider, the first horseman. Famine.
The ones of War usually would keep the company of the sickness. Pestilence and War rode together, and thus, so did their avatars. Unlike Famine or Death. The ones of War came in many shapes and sizes, not coming in one clear shape of rage and fire, like the ones of Famine. They feed on Blood and the violence of their acts. Or perhaps, the simple suffering of those enduring it, whether it be the victims or the soldiers themselves. Blood spills all the same to those who crave it. A great bloody murder sweeps through towns and villages and cities in the name of a righteous cause, in the name of an empty sense of Patriotism. The soldiers who watch the enemies' children cry out for their murdered mothers, they tell themselves it’s for the greater good. The enemy with the smoking gun after shooting a teenage soldier in the back tells himself the same. And as these avatars walk past the corpses of brothers and sisters and children and killers-a thousand stories bleeding and being forgotten on the stones of violence, with mourning widows and mothers, they feel a sense of victory. You represent the red rider, the second horseman. War.
The ones of Pestilence ride right behind those of War. They are much quieter with what they do. They come to those filled by grief, the survivors, and let their turmoil and guilt rush their defenses, and watch them pass on with a slow, slow deterioration of themselves. The ones of Pestilence and of the sick watch as a virus spreads through a warm exchange- one to keep hopes up, or the rhythm of the mundane and of the normal. They watch as the ones with the brightest eyes dim and rot from the inside out. They feed off the suffering they spread, besides just the sickness. They kill and rot the hope and the good health of anywhere War goes. A ghost town is what is to become of the places they pass through- or worse. One can be long dead before their body shuts down. That is what these avatars feed off of. You represent the green rider, the third horseman. Pestilence.
Lastly, the ones of the Death. Each of them is unique, but they all bring the same. They walk amongst the corpses and the spirits of those who have died. Either by the hunger of those who do not eat, of those who've been killed in the heat of battle, or those who have their life sucked out of them by the ill. The lives and the stories of those who were lost to time’s cruel hands will be mourned by the ones who ride in last. These avatars come before one’s death, to send a message that confirms their worries that keep them up at night, and some come during the process. A fat pastor who talks about love as you starve in his church. A comrade that watches you choke on your own blood. A doctor that stands in the back of the room as your life slips out. Or perhaps after you pass, they will be the one that buries you. The ones at graveyards, the ones that ride far and farther to find a corpse of you. They only ever watch, never interfere. Death’s cold hands are to grip you eventually. It is all a matter of waiting until their time runs out. They do not need to feed, for they are not hungry. They do not need to kill, for they care not for the violent. They do not get ill, for they are above such things. You represent the purple rider, the final horseman. Death.
When the wind whispers, once four avatars meet at the catalyst, the thump of horses are to follow. Not of any human, nor anything remotely mortal. The end of the world will ride across the globe, and will ride into the point of doom. And it will all be over. A great dance of the end times. And then, only then, will the son of all that is bad and all that is sinful rise, marked by his experiences of the terrible. The Prince of Hell, the white devil. The Antichrist.
The Historian closes his book, and lays aside his silver pen. Long ago, he had once been one of these avatars. And as he was made for, he rode into the Catalyst town, to walk past the dead and gone. And now, it is over.
As the sun hovers over him now, he begins his ride to somewhere else, and he decides he shall begin this story, from the very beginning.