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Abigail sniffed a couple of times and pulled a face. She rubbed her nose, not registering that she hadn't really seen her hand pass under her face. She didn't register that she was once in a car. Now she was in a basement, and it was muddy, and that was how things went. In that strange, self-rationalising surreality that accompanied a dream, she also knew she had to wander around the basement and take a good look around. She didn't feel her feet hit the ground. She also knew that eventually she'd have to go out of the basement and up those steps, but it couldn't be done until she had taken a good look around first, because that's how it went.
In Ossvien 12 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Location: The Avalon: Infirmary

Peregrin hadn’t bothered to answer Solomon as she was hard at work, but Solomon was able to spy that her hair was remarkably thick - as in, each individual hair seemed slightly thicker than wiry beard hair, but it was long and straight like a woman’s hairdo. She continued to rub her face against the pillow until it became apparent that there was something flaking around her hairline. Just as the princess walked in, and in the presence of the surgeon, two guards and a member of the royal family, Peregrin peeled off a swathe of transparent skin from her forehead and absentmindedly ate it. “Missssed some,” she hissed, ignoring the scowls of apparent disgust from the guards. Her voice sounded drier than it was a few hours earlier - less phlegmy, and more of a whispery, hissing, wheezing sort of tone. She very carefully scratched her cheek, each finger ending with a thick, black, stumpy but undeniably sharp claw, and regarded the bustling company with a sort of weariness that didn’t just come from exhaustion. She looked bored of the undue attention and very clearly expressed through her body language that this was not the first time she had been treated as some sort of exotic sideshow, and it would no doubt persist for many years to come.

That being said, Peregrin did not seem at all bored with her audience once she figured out who had come to gawk at her this time. The moment the word ‘highness’ escaped Solomon’s lips, Peregrin’s eyes widened and she started to laugh heartily. It sounded like someone was rattling a dusty birdcage, but it was side-splitting laughter of such enthusiasm that even the guards started to square their shoulders and prepare for the worst. She managed, just about, to sputter “another one!” in incredulity in between her giggles, and it took her a while to settle. Once she did, she took long, slow, wheezing breaths and undertook the difficult task of explaining herself. “Lossst ship. Lost-...Prin-ciss. King - Princ-ciss Father - sends another find the fffirst.” Her eyes, once dull from the thick watery lenses of her fishform, were now bright and energetic after shedding their protective film. They were fixated on Brenna. “Did Father want manchildren? He send two daughters maybe to death.”

Peregrin rolled onto her back, the ebony sheet of what looked like hair trailing down onto the floor as she watched them upside down. “Doesn’t matter,” she croaked. “Maybe wrrong. Ssstill, we eat the unwanted. Is-...Faster. Lesss cruel.” The way she talked and sounded, coupled with the way her chest seemed to heave with each finished sentence, seemed to imply that talking actually hurt. She half-shut her eyes and breathed through her mouth as she watched the humans begin to prepare a familiar drink. “No tea. No hot. Only cold,” she stipulated firmly, brows furrowing with disapproval. Then she recoiled slightly as the upside-down face of Solomon filled up her field of vision. The poor surgeon was hit with the stench of rancid fish on her breath and the eerie brightness of her eyes, which could be bioluminescent, but it was hard to tell in such lighting. Her lips moved with his to mouth his name and she seemed to be able to do it perfectly well, but when she spoke she struggled again. “Am Perry-grin. Peh-...Peregrin. You now Sol. Or Dok-terr.” She said it with such finality and authority that, again, she exuded the impression of routine. These things were remarkably normal for her. “Only meat. I hunt. Need ssswim, three times each week. No touch hair. Will bite. No hots, no louds, no brights...Work better in dark.” She listed off her requirements whilst counting them on her fingers, with the careful, rehearsed tone of someone who’s extensively rehearsed it. She just sounded tired. That was the prevailing aura she gave off - weariness on several levels, a sort of listlessness that only broke slightly to giggle at the absurdity of man, and went back to being generally malcontent with her situation.
Brooks and Abigail: Arizona, USA

A collaboration between @DinoNuts and @Stitches

Brooks absentmindedly thumbed the laminated photograph of his latest target. It was a group photo of some middle school sports team, with one girl circled in red Sharpie. He had been sitting in his car for upwards to an hour by now, quietly mulling things over and planning the best method of extraction. He rubbed his face and sighed, staring at the photograph again.

He folded the photograph up, pulling down the sun visor above him and stashing it there. Flicking the tip of his nose with his thumb he reached for a deteriorating baseball cap and a large plastic bag. He got out of his car and started roaming around the neighborhood, collecting piece of glass and empty bottles, nearing closer and closer to his target location; a lone trailer van amongst many. Once he found the familiar license plate he made sure to keep his distance even though it was unlikely anyone in the trailer park would recognise him.

He continued collecting bottles and scraps, covering his face with the baseball cap as he left a wide gap between himself and the trailer to prevent its owners from recognising him. He did this for thirty minutes, then took a twenty minute break on the curb, before repeating the process. It didn’t take too long for a fat, elderly gentleman in a stained vest top to come out and sit on a lawn chair with the day’s paper in his hands, fumbling for his packet of cigarettes as he settled. The gentleman didn’t even so much as glance in Brooks’ direction, his movements slow and deliberate with decades of routine behind them.

Brooks started to move away, instead deciding to scout out for the basic layout and escape routes leading away from his targets van, a shortcut to the woods by the trailer park and the fastest way for someone to get -in- to the park. It wasn’t too complex of a layout to memorise either; the roads needed to be open and empty for moving vehicles and, like most American structures, it was arranged in a grid-like format. The main road cut from north to south, and the woods - if one could call them that, sparse and dry as they were - were to the west of this road. Squat in between these two geographical landmarks was the eyesore of a trailer park, and his target’s RV was parked closer to the western side. Brooks spent another hour looping around the trailer park collecting glass to better acclimate himself with the surroundings to prevent any confusion during the extraction. He then went back to his car with the bag and sat back inside it. He waited for the inevitable.

A general commotion of shouts and yells could be heard far off in the distance. Brooks grunted, rustled, started to rouse himself out of his nap. Various streaks of purple light reflected off the passenger window as he coughed a few times and checked his pockets, making sure he had his keys as he popped open the driver door and got out...

For a while, silence. The car remained dark and unlocked. Then two figures could be heard walking briskly through the grit, breathing heavily. Two people got back into the car. Brooks slammed the keys into the ignition and, driving fast enough to get some distance but not so fast that he’d attract attention, he peeled out of the trailer park and down the main road. Turning on the engine made Woody Guthrie crackle out of the radio, cheerily singing. The girl in the passenger side started to cry. The car started to smell like burnt meat.

“You’ve got a lot going through your mind right now but at the very least you’ll be safe. You’re going to start forgetting everything and everyone you knew about your old life. Everything.”

The girl didn't respond; she simply cried harder. She was holding her forearms in a very awkward angle, taking great care not to let them touch anything. They were covered in blistering burns but the flesh underneath was beginning to bubble and fill out again with healthy skin and tissue.

There was a moment of silence from Brooks as he focused on the road, never having been sure how to handle this part of the job. “There’s uh… there’s some sweets in the glove box.” he politely offered, shooting her a few sideways glances to gage her reaction.

After a long and painfully awkward handful of minutes, the girl finally stopped bawling and trailed off into a few miserable and intermittent sniffles. She reached out with trembling fingers and opened the glovebox, watching little bags of candy spill into her lap. Each movement was slow and carefully made to protect her forearms. She opened up a packet of m&ms and crunched them down one at a time. Finally, she started to speak. "What-... happened, to me?"

“Same thing that's been happening to everyone else these past few years.” he lowered the radio. “About what exactly it is you’re doing, I don’t know. But those burns don’t look too bad, we can treat them once we’re at the cabin.”

The girl stared down at her arms. "They're getting better, I think. I'm Abigail, by the way."

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been waiting for this to happen.”

"What you mean by that?" Abigail kept her tone airy and polite as she subtly checked to see if the door was locked.

“I mean the people I work for told me that you would turn.”

“And who are those people? What you plannin’ to do with me?” As the conversation continued, Abigail’s tone became increasingly more guarded. She ate a multitude of hershey’s kisses with what could best be described as nervous anger.

“Help you start over. Make sure the FOE don’t get you. You’ve heard of them, surely.”

“Who are you working for?” Abigail repeated.

“Group called the Violet Underground. They hired me a few years ago to help out people in your situation. Get you before anyone else does.”

“Oh.” Abigail looked down at her knuckles, and her patchy red arms. A quiet look of consternation passed her features, glazing them over as she delved into deep thought. Whatever she found in the recesses of her brain was enough to scare her back into the present, and she asked “who are you?” in a desperate attempt to distract herself and keep the conversation going.

“I am Brooks.”

"I used to have an uncle called Brooks," Abigail mused. She continued to panic eat her way through the stash of confectionery. "At least, accordin' to Meemaw. I only ever seen pictures. He was an army vet…said he left to find a better life but Pops said he's prob'ly dead." Abigail waved a hand dismissively. "Since life's throwin' me a pretty fast curveball at the moment I'm gonna throw in a bet that he was abducted by aliens."

“Yes… anything is possible,” he commented, uncomfortably squirming in his seat and deciding he’d rather have the radio turned back on a bit. The conversation died down after that, gratefully sinking under the dulcet tones of country blues. Brooks focused primarily on the road, but his gaze kept flickering back to Abigail with restless concern. For her part, Abigail's adrenaline was starting to evaporate. The shock melted into confusion and exhaustion. She stopped eating, her movements became drunken and sluggish. With one irritated sweep, she pushed the sweets and wrappers into her footwell.

"I don't feel too good," Abigail groaned, pushing herself back into the seat.

“We’ll be there soon. Have some water. Stop eating.” Brooks shot her another glance. Abigail nodded wearily. She struggled to get the bottle open until Brooks distractedly groped for it and cracked the lid for her. Even then, Abigail only took a few half hearted sips. She folded her unblemished arms over her stomach, breathed through her mouth and tilted her head back. Her eyelids fluttered as she straddled the boundary between wakefulness and sleep; her mind drifted into its own world, far away from the gentle rumble of the car and the anxious gaze of its driver.

The vehicle continued to split the desert and the horizon, gliding upon the black ribbon of tarmac towards an unknown destination and leaving a plume of dust in its wake.
@Gentlemanvaultboy Matt has been accepted! Please move him over to the characters tab.

EDIT: because it'd be weird to do a triple post - @duskshine749 is also accepted!
I did it, I have completed the history. Would you prefer if I repost my sheet or just leave it as the edited version from my OP? @Stitches@Bazmund

We're more than happy to check your edited OP, don't worry.
I thought mine was ready?

You had failed to tell both of us, we've been sat there thinking you had something else to add in! I'll check it in a bit.
@Nate1008@duskshine749@Gentlemanvaultboy As said before in the discord, we just need one more accepted sheet to start playing. If you get your sheet ready for review, we can move along fairly quickly - the GM is already working on an IC post.
@Jessikka accepted! Please put your sheet in the characters tab, preferably in a hider.
@silvermist1116 sorry for the delay, is that your final draft? It's already looking really good but I've yet to properly read through it.
In Ossvien 17 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Location: The Avalon Infirmary

The unreality that Peregrin seemed to exude was ever present as her body shrank a few centimetres, drying up and changing in the sick bay of the ship. Landfolk see a woman - they want to see a pretty young lady - but all it really took was a closer look, not even a scrutinising glare but a prolonged glance, to begin to see the monster for what it really was. Her hair, if it even was hair, was thick and coarse and wiry. Her skin was tough, something akin to a whale or a shark, and darker than any land race that populated the surface. Her breasts were a facade. She didn't even have any nipples, they were just lumps of fat placed there to give the impression of womanhood. And the teeth...the teeth didn't change with her body. Sharp and yellowish and innumerable behind lips carefully sculpted by millennia of breeding between successful sirens. Peregrin not only seemed to dwell but thrive in that specific unease one felt when an uncanny replica of a person was placed before them; she was clearly the runt of the litter but just as equally displayed powerful, sinewy muscle built up by successful hunts and padded out with a comfortable layer of fat which accumulated in the right places to make her look just a little more human. All any siren needed was to fool their prey for a moment; after they were in earshot, it tended to turn out badly for them. Peregrin, despite her odd appearance, was no exception to the rule.

That being said, it was highly unlikely Peregrin would be doing any luring on The Avalon. Or anything else for that matter. Her legs were especially bad, the muscles were spasming in her sleep and the fact alone that she hardly stirred as her body twitched and shuddered was enough to express just how ruthlessly she pushed herself. Solomon's examination was done around a tangle of slippery and often wriggling limbs as she unsuccessfully tried to get comfortable over and over again, unaware that the problem was her body and not the bed. Unsurprisingly, the robe tangled with her and did very little to cover anything. There was something though, stitched into the collar of the robe with a skilled hand and some sturdy thread:

The Wearer of this Garment is the Charge of CPTN SAMUEL CORTEZ. If Found, Please return to A Glasstonian Naval Unit and Report Immediately to The Arcadia.

The royal insignia sat right beside it. Someone had paid good money for the embroidery and the robe, which never seemed to be designed for her decency but managed to cling to her regardless of the tide and current. The message's intent remained to be seen, but it was there, stitched neatly into her clothes and legible only by those who happened to be close enough to look.

Solomon managed to get through a few chapters before the unshakable sensation of eyes peering at the back of his head became too apparent to ignore. Two dull but reflective orange eyes peered out of a mess of robe, bedsheet and clammy flesh. They were half open, and her face was smushed against the pillow from her wriggling, but they were attentive for now.

When the wax had been cracked away from the cork and the bottle finally opened, the condition of its contents were stunning. Both items were bone dry and unscathed; one might have even thought that the ink was still wet on the page, given the care to which the contents were carried over miles of open ocean. The letter was prised out first, and read as follows:

To our Potential Saviour.

I am writing on behalf of myself, Captain Samuel Cortez of the Arcadia. We are fast approaching the Shadowmount Isles along the route that we were instructed to follow when we first set sail with the whale blubber. The journey, as expected, took a queer turn the moment we entered the vicinity of these isles, and it was certainly not due to lack of women onboard. The men claim to have started hearing whispers from all manner of sources. The wind, sea, and even the very wood of the deck above which they sleep.

The crew's sanity aside; the barrelman, who might I add was his town's dart champion, claims to have spotted numerous silhouettes of vessels on the horizon. I am taking the necessary precautions to ensure the blubber's safety by requesting reinforcements to be sent to help guide the Arcadia to its destination.

Samuel Cortez.

The message was brief, vague, and peppered with seemingly irrelevant information. It barely took up half a page, if that - but it was in the man's own hand, and used the right sort of parchment. Aside from the note a small clinking, rattling thing came out of the bottle; an old brooch. Though unremarkable to most, those who were close to the Princess would recognise it as one of her many adornments.

Meanwhile, below deck and bundled in bed linens, the messenger of this curious letter was rubbing her face up and down the pillow slip with the sort of patient determination of someone who clearly knew what she was doing - even if her witnesses hadn't a clue.
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