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Literary Hatchetman

STATUS: Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4… 6 yrs ago
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6 yrs ago
Current Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4…
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8 yrs ago
Example of a "Character Flaw": roleplayerguild.com/posts/32..
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Bio





"Character Flaw"

Keystone's Daydream

Checking for Mental Intrusion

The Power Of Pain Compels You

The Greater Good

Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady



Most Recent Posts

In 🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Ash Holloway
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room) -> H6 (In Front of W)
Skills: N/A


Victor was gone. Beatrice was gone. If you looked at it, a lot more than those were gone, starting over a year ago and shoving onward. But those two? They were still alive, but they were gone. One of them left by choice, or did both of them? Victor might have tried to at least pretend to be stable, or at least recognize his difficulty and ask for help. Maybe he knew all too well about his darkness, and on some level voluntarily removed himself from exposing people he knew and cared about to it. Of course, that could all be idle bullshit that Ash was feeding himself to feel better about the fact that a man he trusted implicitly had changed so much as to be dangerous and unrecognizable. And for Beatrice? Ash really had no idea. Looking over at the group to which she had said her goodbyes, the once Captain could not help but see that she was leaving behind friends. Close ones. It made Ash curious.

Somehow, now that quarantine was done and they were actually getting welcomed into the community, things became very real. This was no longer conceptual. He, along with others, had made their decision to try for a life here. In Ash's case, he had one hell of a reason to stick it out. Ash looked to Thana and gave a smile. Yup, that would be her. The lady had what appeared to be snatches of conversation with others of CMB, whether that was personal or business was hard to say, but owing to the newness of his presence in the community, Ash didn't press the issue. He wasn't sure if she was still "on the clock", or if the friendlier actions taken with Beatrice during the farewell signified her relative freedom, so to speak.

His question had been answered when Thana entwined her fingers in his and led him over to the Tram, where they both climbed aboard and got ready to take the tour. As he settled into the seat. Ash set his other hand on top of hers and leaned in, speaking quietly, "I was hoping to get a dance in tonight, unless duties call you away. If Doc insists you need more rest for that leg, I have no problem lifting you up and just swaying." There was a smile on his face, a rare thing to view for some. Yes, Ash had teeth. Imagine that. He also had a chance at a life. Imagine that, too.

Thalia Carmichael
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room) -> H6 (In Front of W)
Skills: N/A


Thalia had a lot to think about. She dotted the dampness away from her eyes, put there from the recent departure of Bea. Yes, she was a tough bitch, but it wasn't like she didn't emote. She was known for being a person of deep feelings. It just rarely showed beyond an outward fraction, and surely did not stop her from doing drastic things when called upon to do so. That Army Captain that Navy was interested in liked to keep things close. That was his way, it seemed. Being emotionally enigmatic probably helped him be a better soldier, but Thalia? She liked to let people know where they stood with her before the stabbing commenced. Most of the time. Or in this case, letting Beatrice know that she would be missed.

She didn't know how to feel about that, either. Thalia wished her well and obviously neither of them were the relationship type, but there was a tiny, hollow feeling of being abandoned. It was new for her. She didn't know quite how to deal with it. While trying to define and process, she felt a presence approaching her. Before she realized that it was her half-sibling, Joaquin, she had already tensed up reflexively. The aftereffects of being out in the world weren't going to go away overnight. To a degree, she hope they wouldn't completely go away, period. Those honed instincts kept her alive. That tension relaxed away to a dumbfounded expression of "wuzzafuck?" as Joaquin began to speak to her. Translating from Hermano to English as quickly as her brain allowed, she responded, "Verily, dear Brother, thou art a goober." he spoke in level, mostly uninflected tones, though a hint of Boston crept in. "I'll take you up on that agave though, Joaquin. Thanks." Not as heavy a drinker as she was back Before, she did miss it sometimes. As they walked out to the Tram, Thalia took an appraising look at her brother, marveling over the sheer fact of his presence. "Dama Muerte, what are the odds, huh?" This place was going to be home for a while.

The last place that she called home, semi-temporary though it was, was a smaller place than this surrounded mainly by a wall of pointed logs and open-air structures. Cook fires dotting regular sections where they roasted whole deer for hours. Steel, stone, wood. A place of new beginnings and old methods of survival. She missed it. Maybe one day, she would be allowed to start up something like that of her own. Today though, she was climbing aboard a tour vehicle, ready to see more of her new home. On board, Thalia chose an unused bench seat for herself and slid to one side. She was also oddly happy to be back out of air conditioning.

Hank Wright
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room) -> H6 (In Front of W)
Skills: N/A


Ordinarily, Hank would be right there along with Wayne, guffawing alongside his companion of many years now. The idea that he use his powers of personal observation and interpersonal awareness to accurately gauge the mental traits, immediate intent, and longstanding potential issues within the people of Mexico Beach and/or apply it to newcomers was almost a laughable thing, until he realized that his own sudden thoughts on the matter reinforced the concept. He could have audibly facepalmed, instead taking the sarcastic musings of his good friend with a wry and derisive chuckle. "...alright, fine there, Maldonado. But it's got to be a sign of the Apocalypse that people are going to look to me for a shining example of mental health. Humanity must be desperate."

Why not, though? Maybe he could mold upcoming psyches in this brave, new world to enjoy the little things in life, because really, that's all they had left. Soon, there would be an army of recliner-sitting, plaid shirt wearing smartasses with a penchant for domestic beer, red meat, and condensing complex feelings into simple, monosyllabic grunts. The world might be a better place for it. He gave it a shrug, boarded the tram alongside Wayne, and laced his fingers behind his head in an attempt to look faux casual. "Wellllp, this has been a hell of a day so far. What's next?" Though there was an amount of sarcasm present in his voice, it accented his honest desire to get himself situated in the community and put out his shingle doing whatever it was he was eventually going to do. That and fishing.
In 🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Vladimir Alexandrov

Location: Gretna Green, Church
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English, Mamushka


Flipping and tumbling, tumbling and flipping, thus began the acrobatic bounding of The Great Bazhooli committing to motion that which sung out from the noble breast of all Rusyn Trained warriors of light. Yes, the Mamushka was strong with Vladimir. Not too strong right that second, as if he had truly been affected by the powerful blow of the fell and fetid creature, be it only a temporary instance of timing. The grace and balance of Vlad was enough to have him retain the ability to traverse the distance from his landing spot to the side of the altar, though without opportunity to hurl pointed fragments of (possibly) sanctified wood at the creature, nor the dramatic pauses for proper levies of insult.

Perhaps that last part was for the best, considering the formidable job already being pounded into the creature by the women of varying Trained sources. Vladimir was happy enough to have the Circus represented among this number. And he had done his part, identifying something potentially useful or exploitable in the future, though it gave him a shudder to consider having to deal with something like this in the future. Were he a very lucky man, this thing was unique and it was being handled. Nevertheless, fortune favors the prepared. The gallant and artistic steps, flips, and cavorts of the strange Russian man finally found him at the the side of the church's altar, one hand bearing a blade and one hovering over a second, awaiting chance to plunge it into his foe or, in the event of Constantin's vision manifesting in the proper direction, giving the evil thing a semi-proper blessing. How he did wish the redheaded lady-knight was still around for this piece of the puzzle.
In 🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dr. Swamp
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Attic (Laboratory -> Laboratory Stairs)
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 2
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎


Dr. Swamp nodded toward Amaranthine in a conciliatory manner. His own contributions to society came in the form of scholarly pursuits; just as she had many talents that he did not, he had his own ways and methods about him. All the same, the curiosity expressed earlier about the laboratory had not been sated. Whomever the master of this place was, he or she was able to accrue works of knowledge unparalleled to his experience. Possibly to anyone else's experience, either, so far as he knew. Swamp's eyes went to the table he had been working upon, noting its construction and details of its workmanship, then comparing it to the other furnishings. He noted the papers and noted the tools, took a glance at anything with lettering upon it. After a moment he stopped, straightened, and proclaimed, "This is getting more interesting, Chanteuse."

"Indeed, indeed it has been some time..." agreed Swamp. Longer than he would have thought the houseman would have been away, but apparently their presence in this place wasn't as loathsome a prospect as he imagined it might be, all things considered. It further reinforced his observations from the room.

All of that aside, now that Amaranthine had mentioned it, it was getting colder in this room. Moreso than he preferred, especially with the amount of blood he had already been deprived of so far that evening. It was curious that he didn't fully notice that before "Yes. Perhaps we should. The lab coats that we procured should give us some additional protection, as will this lamp," he surmised, holding the device aloft. "Though I believe we would fare better in more insulated environs. I recommend the stairwell behind Door Number One," he said, walking to the first door they had opened after Quinton had left. "I doubt that we can get anything more from the Lord's remains nor the room itself." But that library... Swamp was not done with this place yet. For now, for his sake as well as the Chanteuse's, he had to leave it be.
In 🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
James Grady
Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: Peccary Form


Oh, the wonder of piggy senses. Sometimes, it felt like being psychic. Oh sure, James figured that having a porcine sense of smell would be more of a liability than an asset in a subway. Or anywhere near a public restroom. Or near a water treatment plant. Okay, so that wasn't the point. This wasn't the first time that he'd turned into a boar, obviously, but it was the first time that he'd taken on a rider. The combination worked for him, too. Andromeda wasn't so tall as to shift his center of gravity much, and if she leaned forward while she held on, speed could be comfortably reached. James couldn't imagine doing this with someone as large as Gilbert, for instance. He'd be one low bridge away from testing his claims of immortality. It'd be funny, though.

As they made their way down through the corridors, James gave the occasional chuff or snort, though remained silent for long stretches at a time except for the small, regular clacking sounds of his hooves upon the stone beneath them. On the occasions when he did make an audible noise, it was usually preceded with a pause and sniff at the air, a perk of his ears, or a sweeping motion of his snout upon the ground as if detecting something and trying to suss out what it might be. It was probably a good thing, considering the nature of the haze around them and his new, lower eye level thanks to his scrofal physiology.

It was the smell of sulphur that caught his attention first. It was slight, possibly something from the fire, but as they continued it got stronger. By the time they had gotten to where both Emendators agreed was the place, it was almost overwhelming to his porcine senses. It was probably for the best that The Watch insisted that he shift back to his charming and overly handsome (just ask him) human form, considering.

James gave a little shimmy, as he said that he would, before reverting from Wild Boar to Domestic Blackneck. His first act as a human was to give a light cough and say, "Mmm, now Miss Andy? Next time you get to ridin' me, grip with them knees more, k? Way you was grindin' them heels bout had me..." He stopped, taking a glance around with the sudden understanding of one possible translation of his words, be it without context. "Oh, fuck all-a y'all," he whispered, loud enough to be heard by everyone. He wanted to say more, maybe even some form of apology to Andromeda, but his attention was suddenly snapped away by the wafting of voices on the air. He recognized three of them.

He cracked a smile upon hearing Nancy giving someone the business. Another Emendator in their midst would be awesome.

He looked highly confused but suddenly mirthful at the gravelly and unmistakable voice of a serious badass he knew in life. If he was correct, he had a LOT more questions than answers.

And he was purely overjoyed to hear the sound of his good friend and fellow troublemaker, thought lost to them, bitching about SCHRODY. Though there was a smaller puzzle there. He had yet to get a straight answer about that cat. Was he with them? But to hell with the cat - Alicia hadn't been taken up, or whatever the hell they called it. And she was with her father, possibly? Stranger things had happened. Twelve seconds ago he was a boar, for instance.

"Well, hot damn..." he marveled, anxious to see what was going to happen next. One thing he needed to address first, though. Okay, second. The hog riding advice already came first. But second! "Hey um... Anybody else smell sulphur? Like, lots of it, burnin'? Or it that a oinky thang?"

Gilbert Summers
Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: History, Observation


Gilbert generally accepted that this was, indeed, the way the needed to go. He also agreed with his colleague and fellow Emendator that this was also, indeed, where they had to be when he made mention of it. And sure enough, the tunnels all lined up with this fact, from the tiny indicators intrinsic to the tunnels themselves to his own memory of them, compared to his memory of the city of Cairo, above. Emendator GPS, if you will, functioning properly from knowledge of where they started, how long they had traveled, and cues from the tunnels themselves. There was only one problem with the whole situation, but it was massive.

He stopped underneath the entrance, an odd look on his face. Gilbert took in a deep breath, intent on explaining his foreboding feeling when James abruptly turned back into James and addressed Andromeda, and then the rest of the group with an imperative that, if taken followed literally, Gil would be hard pressed to look anyone present in the eye ever again. But he listened. He listened to the voices that manifested suddenly, processing those familiar to him giving a smile at hearing Nancy and Alicia. If all went well, it was possible that they were getting reinforced, though the manner of its arrival had him at a loss. As he had mentioned before, this was new territory for him. It was very rare that he got to say that. Very.

When James mentioned the smell of sulphur, Gilbert immediately stiffened up. He drew his Winchester rifle from his back and looked glanced about his surroundings. "That might be a bigger problem than what concerns me, Mr. Grady, though I will speak mine anyway: We are not under the Qasr El Nil Armory, nor the barracks at all. We are in the right place. The Barracks are not here." This would ordinarily be the time that he made some sort of comment about the situation, saying that it was very curious or fascinating, filling him with a sense of wonder at the natural and/or supernatural world. Not this time, not in the field with new Paradoxes among them, not with the scent of sulphur in the air, and not with the uncertainty of hearing voices of the unfamiliar mixed with voices of the supposed dead. He cast an eye upward, then turned attention above them all with an almost studious look. "And did anyone else notice that the ceiling is disappearing?"
In 🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Reginald Keystone


Location: Athribis (Underground)
Skills: Observation


Senility is a horrible thing, especially in one who had lived a life as momentous as the Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone. Indeed, the wondrous and varied things that the man had experienced in both his long career as a frontline officer, and later a Knight of the Skies in the service of King and Country; not to mention the wealth of education stored underneath his cap and the nobility bred into him as a member of the Aristocracy. Throughout his time serving in the African Campaigns of the last century and start of this one, he was exposed to the wisdoms of the native peoples there. One such pearl he'd heard oft quoted but never fully appreciated the meaning thereof until this very second was "When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground." It seemed to Reginald that, instead of his library burning down, the books might have been checked out in huge stacks and simply never returned, leaving him with an embittered old soul inside who kept constantly telling visitors to "shush!", despite their best efforts to help.

To wit, after a brief exchange with their more increasingly combative Gene resulting in a bit of a saliva-based faux pas, Reginald reached for his pocket handkerchief. He was a gentleman after all, more important a concept in the face of adversity than in times of ease. Before his hand fully clasped the item in question within his pocket, Reginald started to hear voices. He'd heard of people with this difficulty. I was more common in the Service than many were led to believe, some instances horrifyingly bad and others completely benign. Even helpful. But the good Lord Major was pretty sure that any voice featuring his late nephew, now apparently dead twice (and burnt to a crisp to boot), was not a symptom of decent mental stability.

Reginald forced his mind to make recollections of things from the past, long ago and much more recently, to ensure that his brain was still functioning as it should. He even ran a couple of mathematical equations common to engineering with random numbers that popped into his head. Memory was fine, reasoning was fine, he seemed to have a grasp on reality. The problem was, reality didn't quite have the same firm hold upon him. The Lord Major perked an eyebrow up, twitching his vision toward the ceiling. "I say," he said in quiet voice, regarding the gradual fading away of the stone and earth above them, "...it might be coming time for me to retire..." Such a thing was a anathema to the Lord Major. Retirement was for those who had give up the possibility of dying in glorious service. Or those who had become more a danger to his troop than he had a right to be.

The attempt at gathering the kerchief was halted, instead his hand found the flask in his pocket. With practiced motions, he one-handed the cap from it and took a pull, then put it deftly away. In a voice that was far more calm that it had a right to be, Reginald inquired of the group, "Quaint curiosity, mind you; but does anyone else detect the ceiling evaporating away before their very eyes?" He gave a determined nod, "I believe that time may be a factor."

Haring Reddish


Location: Benha (Sun Deck)
Skills: N/A


Corporal Reddish's face began to contort with something that resembled exaggerated confusion as Mosi spoke. It was the oddest sort of conversation from her end, both argumentative and agreeing with him in the same span of breath. But not just a "Yay" or "Nay" to one side, the other, then both; but actual reasoning behind either possible side of the equation with no small amount of supposition added in for good measure, while out there in the distance, whatever it was was still moving. Reddish began to wonder about the implications of continuing the conversation with her. Not to get him wrong, he was ever the fan of lively debate on a subject, if he felt passionate enough to study into it but detached enough not to take the challenge personally, but he'd seen more than plenty so far that reminded him of the uncertainties of war. Chief among this was that, if one wishes to continue breathing and does not have safe spot to jump into, one keeps moving.

Then came the voices. Of course they did. First the Lord Captain, then Mr. Benaszewski. Having processed a lot of this paperwork himself, Reddish was fairly certain that at least one of them was dead. It was also possible that one might see a tiny twitching of his eyelid as his brain struggled to process things.

Briefly, ever so briefly, Reddish's memory flashed back to a time long in his history. He had blackened his face with burnt cork and had just crept into an earthwork defense set up by the Teutonic peoples of Europe, with whom he shared a bloodline. It had been four days since he had eaten anything, and things were looking pretty desperate. There was this fuzzy orange tomcat that helped keep the rats at bay in his trench that they had set up as a sort of mascot. The hour he had considered roasting and eating the little bastich to relieve the pain in his stomach, it was time. That time happened to coincide with a smell of searing meat wafting in from across the battlefield. Later that night, he returned to his trench with a ham under his arm and covered in the blood of seventeen different men, none of whom he bore any personal animosity. You did what you had to do to survive. Period.

Reddish blinked it away just in time to hear Mosi's assessment of Vera fraying at the edges. He didn't see a bit of it, though he felt a bit frayed around the edges himself. Even if something was happening, there wasn't thing he could do about it. Reddish took a cursory step toward the stairs, saying, "One bullet might not. Twenty might, I'd bloody wager. I'm after supplies, who's with me?" Truth being that he would be an unprincipled cad to leave these women without defense, sans Josephine's pistol. Either way, he would be guilty of breaking some form of code of gentlemanly behavior, so he did rather wish they joined him. Sadly, he was still blissfully unaware of Vera's status at the moment, though gave her some regard for the moment's hesitation to check for himself again.
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Lady Amalthea
CSs posted, thanks.
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In 🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Caesar & Keystone

Location: Grimm, Indiana (Outside of El Asilo/The Nuthouse!)
Skills: Shotgun
Skills: Pistol


Keystone wasn't the type to suffer fools, even if he was the one being foolish. Naturally, he didn't think that he was being particularly foolish, preferring as he did the concept of removing himself from this place and going elsewhere. I mean, there were noncombatants to think about, not to mention that there was a THING FROM A HENTAI HORROR MOVIE coming after them all. That might have been enough for most people, general principle alone. Now, Keystone was no coward. He'd proven this on many occasions. This was just throwing him for a loop, as was the mostly calm civility that most everyone was showing to one another, like the aristocracy from way back in the day sharing cucumber sandwiches and sipping tea while placing wagers while their armies of peasants killed one another. From a safe distance, of course.

Come to think of it, the big guy really could go for a decent plate of cucumber sandwiches. With curried mayonnaise. Maybe a couple with sundried tomatoes for a little extra oomph. But no, he was holding a 50 caliber hand cannon on an Eldritch Horror, hoping that the damn thing was going to listen to reason. And by "reason" he meant "hastily delivered ammunition". And by "delivered" he meant "Fuck all I'm gonna shoot this bastich".

Just before he pulled the trigger, an astute listener might have heard him rationalizing the situation and focusing on something to get mad about simultaneously by inquiring out loud, "Bloody 'ell's my cucumber sandwiches, right?" Any possible response might have been drowned out by the bark of his pistol.

Meanwhile Caesar had very little in the way of misgivings or concern for his own life, quite possibly, but like his more burly compatriot, he did wish to attend to the lives of others. His manner of doing that was a little different than Keystone's. While the younger man would have preferred discretion and controlling the circumstances of their encounter, Caesar favored the messier, if more direct route. He gave a glance toward Priya, advising her "You talk too much," with a growl before emptying the chamber of his shotgun into the beast above.

Any further attempt at conversation on his part was stymied by a further piece of advice, this from the old man's daughter, to Duck and Cover. It was heeded by both men, as the dead chick hurled the improvised explosive like a champ into the hole, bowling over the hideous thing with a sense of slapsticky charm. Caesar risked a half second to appreciate the throw - he certainly couldn't have done it better, himself, before Keystone grabbed him and pulled him down behind the vehicle they were using as cover.

There was something about a really good explosion that brought people together just as much as it blew others apart.

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