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Night
Apr 18, 2009 9:09:03 GMT -6
Post by Daeiel on Apr 18, 2009 9:09:03 GMT -6
((All righty, then! Toborri really needs a few more RPs to tempt possible members, so I started one for Narnia, we have a Dragon and a Medieval one going, Sci-Fi and Vampires are left! I'm not a particular fan of Sci-Fi, so....does anyone mind if I start one up in here? I have an idea for one that might prove to be interesting.....))
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Night
Apr 18, 2009 17:37:04 GMT -6
Post by Aly on Apr 18, 2009 17:37:04 GMT -6
(( You go for it! And you don't have to wait for the "go ahead". If you have an idea for a roleplay, characters, other thread, etc. then jump right in ))
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Night
Apr 19, 2009 11:57:11 GMT -6
Post by Daeiel on Apr 19, 2009 11:57:11 GMT -6
((Well thank you for your reassurance and confidence, but I'd feel a whole lot better if I had permission first, so that way I'm not invading...))
Our Society is utopian, hissed the beguiling voice on the radio, Everything is perfect, harmonious, sublime....join while you still can....[/i]
That was a message from Rochester Bloodsoak, representative of the Night party, which is making its first appearance in a political race. A rather newfound vibe, the Night party is rapidly gaining popularity with no traces of slowing down....
Melinda Gregson switched off the old radio-set, not in the least interested in politics, especially not hissing, whispering politicians such as Rochester Bloodsoak. Everything about him screamed 'unpleasant', although his face was beyond handsome, which would explain all of the bumper stickers and election pins young teenage girls had stuck everywhere. Rochester Bloodsoak might as well have been The Beatles, as far as Melinda Gregson was concerned.
Shaking her head and 'tutting' at their adolescent nonsense, Mrs. Gregson retreated to the back kitchen where the kettle was boiling. Tea-time was near at hand, as it was only two minutes till four-o'-clock. Melinda retrieved the necessary crockery, pouring steaming water into her lovely china tea-pot.
"Roger, dear! Time for tea!"
Melinda replaced the kettle, set a little plate with a few cookies from her porcelain cookie-jar, and emerged into the front parlour of their house on 14th Harley Street, Essex, England.
Roger, her recently retired husband, did not answer.
"Roger, dear! I said it's tea-time!" Melinda poured her husband a cup before indulging herself, daintily nibbling on a little butter-cookie.
Roger hissed, which was not at all like Roger.
Melinda raised an eyebrow at this strange behavior. "Roger, was that you, or was that Grimsbey?" Grimsbey was the Gregson's extremely disgruntled old cat.
"It was me, my dear," replied Roger, his voice quite changed. No longer ringing of ages of pipe-smoking or the harsh croakiness of advanced years, Roger's voice was lovely, like silk or smooth water.
Melinda did not know quite how to answer, but her usual good-humoured constitution quickly recovered. "Then why are you hissing? For Heaven's sakes, one might think you were a snake or something of that unpleasant ilk. Now come down this minute and have some tea. I haven't seen you all day."
Roger emerged from the up-stairs, his step lighter than his usual old trudge. "You'll have to forgive me, Melinda. I was up late at that political rally last night."
"Why, Roger," exclaimed Melinda, "I'm positively shocked. Since when have you taken an interest in politics?"
Roger's face appeared from the stair-case, devoid of wrinkles or age spots. In fact, it appeared as it hadn't since 1954, when he was a hardly yet a man. Melinda's breath vanished, her tea-cup dropping from her hand and shattering on the floor.
"Since the Night party, my dear..." spat Roger, very uncharacteristically. A beatific smile which meant absolutely no good etched its way across his renewed face. "In fact, I wish you'd join me..."
Roger leapt at his wife of the Golden Fifty Years, his teeth scraping across the nape of her neck.
Our society is utopian,[/i] wheedled the radio-tainted voice of Rochester Bloodsoak, Our society is utopian....[/i]
((How be dat?))
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Night
Apr 20, 2009 22:21:52 GMT -6
Post by veryan on Apr 20, 2009 22:21:52 GMT -6
((That was awesome, Daeiel! Now allow me to join in on ze fun!!))
The young Master Ackley had never felt so alive. Never before could he distinguish the breath of his aunt in the upstairs shower, the patter of each droplet as it fell from the head, or the scuttle of a supposedly invisible insect as it furtively skirted the numerous obstacles that littered the kitchen floor. Even the most mundane of motions brought to him a cacophony of sounds and produced an insufferable -yet intriguing- chorus from the strains of mediocrity.
And Fletcher Ackley basked in every moment of it. Reclining upon his usual leather sofa, the son of the late Lord Ackley sipped his tea with a smirk, while the radio rolled in the background. The message was one his ears had absorbed many times, yet it never ceased to light his orphic features with a smile.
Master Ackley, it seemed, had devoted himself to the cause of Night. A newcomer to the world of politics, as he had just come of age, Fletcher had recognized the teachings of Rochester Bloodsoak for what they were: truth. The world of which he spoke could indeed be everything he promised, and no doubt more, and Fletcher had taken the bait without hesitation.
He was still grinning to himself when his aged aunt shuffled into the room, her disheveled appearance belying any connection to the rather lofty position of her birth. "Turn off that thing," she commanded, jabbing a long, gnarled finger in the direction of the radio.
Fletcher's responsive smile was disarming, but his depthless dark eyes dared the woman to challenge him. He held her gaze for a moment, never wavering, before he finally rose. "As you wish, dearest aunt."
Lydia Ackley appraised her only nephew with admonishment, clearly dissapointed by the unflagging confidence which lingered around his person. She knew the boy had changed, had gained some unexpected allies in this upstart party. The heir of Ackley had always possessed a very perceptive mind, but concern mounted within Lydia for his judgment, for she was very much cognizant of the ease with which men could mold the minds of youth.
Still, she was not in a confrontational mood, and so stood aside to let Fletcher pass. She knew he would find some other means to access the broadcast, likely from a fellow member, but made no move to stop him. For above everything else, Lady Ackley endeavored to keep her allies, no matter how tenuous the bond.
However, even she could not have fathomed the perceptive powers of her nephew, or the awareness of the world that Night had granted him. Fletcher's sneer, which she took to be one of defiance, mocked her nescience, throwing in her face that which she did not know.
Lydia may have wondered about the influence, but she could have never guessed the reward that Fletcher's promise of loyalty had earned him.
((Was that okay? Did I mess up any of your plans?))
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Night
Apr 21, 2009 20:25:19 GMT -6
Post by Daeiel on Apr 21, 2009 20:25:19 GMT -6
"I need the polls ASAP!!"
"Coming, Mitchell, coming!"
"Who has the sports article for this week?"
"Me, Todd!"
"Who's me?"
Alexandra Brightfire, better known as Lexi, waved her hand to her junior-editor for the Cambridge University Times. "Me is me, Todd!" she answered, complete with a beamingly bright smile.
"LEXI!" screamed Mitchell, the real editor.
"Yes?" Lexi calmly gathered the papers on her excessively cluttered desk, not bothering to glance her manager in the eye.
"I thought you and Elise were doing the voting polls!"
Elise, the poor, flustered girl who'd shrieked 'Coming!' earlier, shook her bedraggled journalist's head. "No, Mitch. It was just me this week."
Mitchell placed his Scots-Irish red-head into the palms of his large, moistened-with-anger hands, shaking his head to-and-fro. "And you absolutely did a God-awful job of it. Lexi," here he managed to raise his frustrated countenance out from behind his large-fingered hands, "You can do it, can't you?"
"Do what?" Lexi pulled her blonde hair pack into a pony-tail, so as to keep it out of her face, as she pulled her reading-glasses off of her pretty nose.
"Nothing much. Which is why I don't know why you bungled it, Elise..."
Elise hung her head in shame.
"Basically, the job needs you to nose around the campus and find out who's voting for whats-it for Prime Minister and such."
"Ah." Lexi unwrapped a piece of chewing-gum, popping it into her mouth as she fished for her car keys. "Anything else?"
"The sports article...." interjected Todd.
"On the cricket match. Yes. Already done." Lexi pulled the crisp, freshly-typed article from her multi-coloured purse and handed it to the young editor-in-chief.
"Oh. Thanks!" Todd's overly-wearied constitution became somewhat alleviated as his last task for the week was handed in early. "Thanks, really, thanks!"
Lexi smiled, snapped her gum, and turned back to her editor. "And you want the poll-thing turned in by...?"
"Tonight, since it was due on Monday!" snapped Mitchell with a venemous glare at Elise.
Elise's head hung even further.
"Tonight, then. Good-bye!" Lexi flashed a last smile, turned on one converse-ed heel, and left the newsroom. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Our society is utopian, you know...." whispered the young, pale, extremely handsome man on the news.
"Yes, yes, that is your slogan. But tell me, Mr....?"
"Red. Xavier Red, or just X. A lot of people call me X."
"Very well then, Mr. Red..."
"X," corrected the young man. He looked to be about twenty years old or so.
"Whatever. So, you are the publicity man for Mr. Bloodsoak and the Night Party?"
Xavier Red smiled, crossed one leg over the other, folded his hands, and nodded. "Yeah, I do his stuff. Most of it's graphic arts, but he's got a great slogan. Lot of fun to do things with, you know?"
The reporter, a fadingly pretty middle-aged woman, was a bit taken aback at the youthful informality with which Mr. Red addressed her. He was, after all, the propaganda agent for a rapidly growing political figure, the Goebbels to Bloodsoak's Hitler, if one were to be bold. It did not directly affect her, at any rate, so, after stomaching her slight discomfort, she progressed with the interview. "So, you will be running alongside Mr. Bloodsoak in the Night party for a seat in the House of Commons?"
X shook his head, casually flipping his bangs out of his blacker-than-night eyes. "Nah. Politics aren't exactly my thing. They're more his thing, you know. Utopian society, and all."
"But it is true that you do plan all his rallies, and his campaign events, and such?"
"Oh, sure, sure!" Xavier ran a thin, deathly pale hand through his silky black hair and nodded. "'Cause, you see, that's more my thing, you know?"
"And there's one tonight, correct, Mr. Red?" questioned the reporter.
"Yeah. Come as you are! We're going to be out in Essex again, so come on out! Support the Night party! Utopian society and everything!"
"Thank you, Mr. Red."
"Hey, no problem!" answered X with a coy wink. "I hope to see you there...."
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Night
Apr 24, 2009 22:26:24 GMT -6
Post by veryan on Apr 24, 2009 22:26:24 GMT -6
Despite the repercussions, as some would call them, inherent to his new existence, Fletcher would not have sacrificed them for all the fame the world over. Aside from giving him an unparalleled advantage over nearly every other biped who dared to cross his path, they enabled him to finally fully appreciate the power that raged beneath his ivory hands.
The Vanquish S had been a twenty-first birthday present to himself, but Fletcher truly believed that he had not grasped the depth of its potency until this very moment. He could hear each of the 520 horses pulling against each other, feel their leaps in response to the lightest pressure on the gas, and detect the wind as it whipped across the sleek obsidian framing.
The Aston Martin was a dart of obsidian fury, overtaking every other vehicle that dared to slip into its path. And Fletcher had found that very little effort was required to direct it. With only two of his fingers on the wheel, he effortlessly maneuvered it through the traffic. The awesome vehicle seemed to respond to his very thoughts, which only increased Fletcher's reverence for it.
But, as with even the most perfected of mechanisms, the Vanquish required fuel to feed its steely prowess. Cognizant of his trophy's demands, Fletcher directed it to a station just off the highway. It appeared empty, but, as he expected, immediately filled when passersby recognized both the car and its ostentatious owner.
His unflagging confidence bolstered, Fletcher swept his dark hair away from his face and flashed a sly grin at the crowd. Cameras flashed, several girls squealed, and Master Ackley reveled in every moment of it. Through his nose he inhaled a perfect bouquet, nearly tasting them upon his tongue. Each sent a shiver of excitement down his spine, and his mind convulsed as he imagined the inevitable ecstasy.
But Fletcher was not a mindless killer. Barbarism fell to the wayside before his composure, sated by the notion of what awaited it. Fletcher was headed for the rally. Fletcher would receive that which he craved.
And, as he sped past Cambridge, he could not help but wonder how many of his Alma Mater's population would be in attendance, and how many of them would enjoy the experience.
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Night
May 11, 2009 13:53:03 GMT -6
Post by Daeiel on May 11, 2009 13:53:03 GMT -6
"If I understand you correctly, Mr. Bloodsoak, you are not forming a coalition with the Green Party?"
Rochester Bloodsoak's eyes, not quite black, not quite red, bored through the reporter's camera lense as his ivory lips creased into a quarter-smile. "No, no I think not. My focus is on Society, theirs is on saving England's badgers and such."
The reporter had no idea why he had been chosen to interview this man; every second he spent with this snow-white man sent goose-pimples up and down his body. "I detect some bitterness in your tone, sir. Is that correct?"
"Perhaps, my good man. Perhaps..."
Rochester Bloodsoak's smile was enough to drill through diamonds. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So, who are you voting for?" Lexi's bright face was coated with her most disarming smile as she addressed the rugby team's captain before her. Dominic Hatcher's appearance had changed over the fall; no longer the ruddy, blonde youth, young Master Hatcher's skin was now pale enough to rival snow, his once bleached-yellow-coloured hair now dyed the deepest onyx.
"Bloodsoak." breathed the athlete.
Lexi's lips pursed as she considered this. "Why?"
"Because he's right...." Dominic's smile could have matched most horror movies as his face, now far handsomer than Lexi had remembered, leaned in closer.
"Right by whose standings?" questioned Lexi, her journalist nature not in the least deterred.
"Mine," shrugged Dominic. The matter did not seem to be a very pressing one.
"All right, by yours. Is that enough to vote on?"
"It sure is, girlie. It sure is." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"X, you are a genius."
X cracked his customary enormous smile, his nightshade bangs flopping into his face. "Yes, I am, aren't I?"
Sam Hein, X's counterpart, winked. "No wonder you're Bloodsoak's favourite, you little rascal..."
X cracked another brilliant, shining smile. "When you've got a face like Bloodsoak's and a populus like Britain's teenage girls, graphic tees and autographed photos are really the only way to go."
Mr. Hein smiled, though not such a brilliant one as X's. "Have you rung him with the new designs?"
"Nah. Roch trusts me. He knows I'm no idiot and everything I come up with is positively first-class."
Sam began to chuckle. "It's a damn good thing that ego of yours hasn't swollen up, either."
X looked hurt for a fraction of a second before he joined Sam in a ridiculously hearty laugh.
((Forgive the pun: Samhein was an arcaeic UK term for Halloween.))
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