|
Introduction and Example RP Posts.
Current mood:
eccentric
New site. It's always a pain in the ass to make this kind of transition, and taking risks on new people is never easy. So let me smooth the process and provide four examples of the kind of posts and roleplays that I've done in the past, and that I'm interested in doing in the future. These are from each completely different settings starring very different characters; just a glance into each of the places I've crafted.
Each of these are the opening post of their setting, to provide grounding.
~*~ The Realm Atavistic (Monster Hunter 'verse, opening post)
It takes a couple hours of sunlight for the chlorophyll to filter enough energy for the mountain to rise. But when it does -
- low over the Ozarks, the rolling hills of mountain-bones ground down to nubs, to river valleys and forested dells, green slopes unending, cast down like jacks in disarray, covered with oak and kudzu, ash and maple. Through this jumble slides a hill in motion, drifting low between the rises, barely visible as just one more rise of green; until you get close enough to see that these trees stand on an island aloft, a wide mound of earth almost two hundred feet wide, studded with trees and flowering plants, the soil held in place by thick twining roots. Beneath the flying mountain is a mouth, a gaping orifice lined with tendrils as long as the trees they pluck branches and limbs from, feeding the fresh greenery into the maw - along with whatever birds, squirrels, and other wildlife might happen to be too close, ground down into a feeding-paste the beast swallows hungrily, endlessly. Its oblong body, like an oversized frilled bladder, floats low over the treetops as it grazes on the forest like a goat would blades of grass. It's difficult to glimpse, but in the early morning light, flickers of gleaming orange glisten against the morning light, reflective of tiny orbs set far back in that crusted, earthy skin.
Yama Kurai: the Floating Peak Dragon, eldest of Elder Dragons, come to rest among the bones of its forebears.
Between the trees on its back are strewn low structures, braced against scales so old the dirt between them has given bloom; a wide, low barn to the left, over a scar crossing long and high over the amorphous beast's maw where the dirt has dragged clean and the scales torn loose to bear slick flesh against the sunlight, only just starting to scab over with kudzu. A watchtower girds the right side, with a long loop of rope crossing under one feeding tendril and the beast's entire body, with a windmill set into the back, barrels set about the back to catch the rain from the clouds they ride through. A vegetable patch grows fitfully, no farmer's touch here but adequate for the purpose; and a smithy huffs smoke up and safely out of the dragon's way, where it won't irritate its delicate nose and cause it to buck the entire arrangement off.
This morn, as the placid mountain feeds its ever-sharp hunger, its occupants are rousing; one, like nothing so much a draconic caterpillar, an orange-and-green morass of thorned scales, highlighted in toxic colors, slumbers in a passive lump towards the Yama's head, out on the fringe where no branches can block its loafing in the sunlight. It appears entirely content to ignore everything else going on. The other, a blue-scaled, winged variant with a craglike horn nearly a third of its own body length, brays annoyance as the saddle settles around its shoulders but holds still nonetheless, attuned to the needs of its herd - the Pyrenean, the Ram-Wyvern, guardian of its chosen flock, recessed, beady eyes flicking about as its deep nostrils huff the new scents of the area, sniffing for wyvern musk and finding none - this is no predator's range, yet.
Below and beside, a salt-haired, tall fella tightens the saddle-straps, steps aside to check his gear - a bandoleer strap of various packs and pockets, gut-strip canteens of various liquids sealed tight, and a monster blade his own size and weight, gleaming and sharp, already mounted onto the Pyrenean's side; he hops onto its back with a grunt, and the wyvern honks in recognition, squaring its stance and flapping out its wings, ready to take off, raring to go.
"Let's see what's going on here, Tupe," he murmurs, whiskey-rough voice easy on his partner's ears, and with a shriek the partners throw themselves off the side of the floating mountain, off to investigate this new territory they've invaded.
~*~ Zohar III Exegesis (Original Sci-Fi, opening)
The ISV Maolan Bui isn't going to make it.
When the ship had reentered realspace, it had landed on top of a patch of floating hydrogen gas, being blown idly on the solar winds. Unfortunately, a sparking circuit had been exposed to space through an open panel knocked ajar by micrometeorites, and that spark crossed through the hydrogen and ignited it in a furious explosion that had ripped the port bay in half and nearly the entire ship itself. Storage and the garrison were lost immediately as they cracked off the main hull, separated from the fusion plant and doomed without functioning power for their escape pods, if they even survived the explosive decompression that emergency-close bulkheads couldn't save them from. Death came to them, still in cryosleep. That at least was gentle.
Luckily, the fuel lines collected in the aft-side reservoir and had to do a changeover through the central torsion line - which meant that while the ship was still cracked in half, the explosion didn't chain its way all the way through the quarter-mile long ship, and instead halted just short of halfway up its length. Emergency bulkheads sealed off the lost sections and prevented the loss of more atmosphere, but it was a deathblow to the ship, no question. Not least because they'd lost the engines and were now drifting towards a nearby moon.
Forward engineering is situated about three-quarters of the way up the length of the Maolan Bui, which is the only reason that Angstrom wakes up, probably. The explosion splatters him all over the inside of his tank, and he bubbles furiously in confusion for a moment before he deploys into his maintrig and pressurizes it. The bipedal frame stiffens and then begins its shuffling walk down the walkway from his tank. The environmental breach alarm is shrieking at the nearest engineering panel, and he wishes the rig could run so he could get to it faster.
Of course, he doesn't have to be right next to it to see that the entire back half of the ship has faded red, and he froths in panic before he yanks the rig around to the right and heads for the torsion line, where the fuel is condensed and prepared for shipment to the main engine away from the converter. If it or the engines proper had gone off, they and everything within a half-parsec would have been free-floating radicals already. As it stands, the condensor is blaring alarms, and he hits the emergency vent as fast as he can get to the giant red switch, releasing all the concentrated fuel straight out into space with a bang that knocks the ship sideways with a groan of polymer. Angstrom's frame bounces off the wall hard with the jolt, and he trills in fury before setting the walker to trot up the hall towards the evac pods. Then he hears the crack and hiss of the environmental seals failing right before air starts sucking out of the compartment, and he has to blast loose his thruster pack to make it to the next compartment before he gets sucked out into vacuum.
He's in the throat of the ship now, alarms screaming in every direction at the new breach - the bulkheads here don't hermetically seal, which means the entire area is on a time limit as it leaks atmosphere. He bumbles down the central shaft for the closest pod, the entire opposite row already deployed, and only two left on his side. He manages to slam into one and light the startup procedures as he tries to calm down, keurith vibrating frantically. This isn't how he wants to die, dammit. He's getting out of here before it all goes to hell.
The ejection pod is cramped and it takes a moment to fit the walker into the depression there - the fit is tight and inflates to seal around the body, meant to hold the body safe against the jarring impact of reentry or cosmic collision. He taps the engine on and hesitates, glancing at the emergency feed. There's still a few crew signals on board, but they're pretty much f***ed, except for one heading his way at high speed.
~*~ Grain, Cast West (Quasi-Historical original, ~1183 timeframe in the Holy Roman Empire)
His horse is soaked in sweat, and Jussain is little better. He dismounts when his ragged company of twenty reaches the last hill before the Magonides river. Beneath him, in this hidden little dell, is Auen, the small fief he'd been deeded for valorous efforts against the Hungarians, on the far east edge of the March of Carinthia. He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes roll over it.
It's perhaps a half-hour's ride on horseback; a series of selions built over low, rolling hills, a double row of buildings that almost pass as a village; the river is partially diverted into a millpond with a trio of small, brick-and-mortar buildings that use the water to drive their mills. A building situated at the base of the hill, near the compost, is undoubtedly the butcher's; last, the manor itself rests near the headwaters of the river where the tributary breaks off; lastly, a small crowd of huts and thatches announcing the presence of servants and bondsmen.
Servants. By God, Jussain still doesn't really believe it himself. The knighting ceremony had been a blur, blood still smeared on his brigandine from where he'd fought desperately with his men to prevent the Magyars from retreating across the river Lech. Near a third of his own men had been felled. The straggling handful behind him - twenty-two souls, all told - is what's left.
Heavy breath precedes the trudge of his closest man - Leonard Kasphur, shield slung up over his shoulder besides his short, ugly blade; he'd won it gambling, some barbarian design heavily swept forward. "How many, do you think?" he asks, one hand raised to keep the evening sun out of his eyes.
Jussain shrugs, the corner of his lips curled down. "Perhaps - five, six hundred? Say three to a selion, seems fair."
"More n' half of those are owned by bigger families and rented out," Leonard says with a shake of his head. "Still, fair guess."
"Too late to introduce ourselves," Jussain says with a shake of his head. "Let's head for the manor. We'll bivouac there until we know more. At the very least I've got a roof and food for all of you."
"Sounds fine in my book," Virgo calls from somewhere in the middle of the back. He'd be singing something bawdy, normally, but it's been a long march. "Almost as good as sitting down."
The low rumble of assent to that drives Jussain to a nod. "Food first," he says. "Head for the manor. I'll ride ahead and see what I can get rustled up."
His heels touch on either side of his destrier, and it wearily speeds up to a canter as he makes for his new home. He draws some attention from the serfs, the children going from rough-and-tumble playing to getting yanked back into houses, out of sight - especially the daughters. His teeth click behind his pale lips. He can't blame them, not with the Magyars having driven a permanent fear of horse-riders into them. Instead of focusing on that, he squints at his new residence.
It looks like a dining hall, a backroom that probably has bedrooms and storerooms, another large structure to the side he can't immediately identify, and then a chapel to the side. No walls, no towers, not even a motte; it has to be older than a century, before the horsemen rode west, then, and the recent patching on the ceiling proves that point - it'd been burnt down at least once before.
How reassuring.
Nevertheless, the alderman is already there, greying and smiling haplessly, almost pleading, as Jussain dismounts his destrier and leads it to the small fishpond near the entrance to the estate.
"Welcome home, mi'lord," he says, obsequious, and the newly-ordained man finds the taste of that hated title even less pleasant on the other end.
~*~ The Lamp at the Door (Modern Fantasy, original elements)
It's Beaumont who figures out who they're bound to, usually, but Raim always gets the first tinge of their presence, like prickly cold sunshine on his back. He's always thought it's an effect like synesthesia, the brain attempting to interpret inputs that it doesn't have the wiring for. He's used to the sensation showing up periodically, but this time it's so immediate and intense that the hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms stand up. It's someone who wants to be, viscerally, face pressed to the other side of the glass. Raim cringes and leans against the push-bar of his grocery cart.
"You alright?" Beaumont says, carrying over a brief selection of fruit. It's expensive, especially at this grocery store - one of those earth food places that costs more than he's comfortable with, but the food is reliably of good quality, no bad bruises or ruined fruit, and less preservatives that give him headaches and a plastic aftertaste - so it's just a banana bunch, some grapes, and a batch of clementines. A twelve-year-old, boredly wandering down the aisle, starts and jumps back, staring at the fruit as his friend sets them down. "Look like a goose walked over your grave."
"Somebody the next aisle over has a strong passenger," Raim replies with a twist of his lips. "Angry baby times are ahead."
"Isn't that the wine aisle?" Beaumont inquires.
There's a clatter of plastic as something rebounds off a shelf, propelled at uncomfortable speeds. The pinpricks of sunlight burn bright on his face for a second and Raim grimaces, ducking back from the phantom heat. "No, household goods. Though I'd understand if this drove somebody to drink."
He rattles his fingers over the handlebar of the grocery cart for a moment, indecisive, and then starts pushing it down towards the end of the aisle. "I'm going to go see if I can calm it down. Shouldn't be a minute."
Beaumont hums, noncommittal, but falls in behind Raim, grabbing a set of grapes off the misted display wall as he goes. The twelve-year-old creeps behind them, eyes fixed on the bunch as he sets it in the cart.
Raim turns the corner and takes in the scene with a faint frown. There's dishsoap in a puddle about a third of the way down the aisle, and a woman standing with her cart looking upset. He takes in himself - blue jeans, flannel shirt, morning hair - but it's the grocery store and no one comes here with an excess of dignity, and it's not like this is at the office anyways. He rolls forward, head bent against the invisible brightness he can feel on his skin, and says, "Hey, take it easy."
Not to the woman - to the presence attached to her, the prickling sunshine. It's not coherent enough to have a body or an identity, yet, but he can feel it concentrating, and he manages to catch a bottle of detergent before it can come off the shelf. There's an omnipresent rattle as movement surges down the aisle, unsettling the squeeze-bottles, though the heavier containers remain unmoved. The handle is warm like it's been left out in the sun, and Raim closes his eyes and lets his fingers curl around something that's not quite there, delicate and under his palm, like -
- the fingers of a woman. No ring. Paint-splotched, callused from work with easel and brush.
"You'll see all the colors you want, soon," he assures, and the presence soothes a little to the sound of his voice. The uneasy stir in the air settles, like a long exhale on the back of his neck, and Raim grins a little at a curl of amusement that pokes at him, like a distant promise. He opens his eyes, and stares at the other woman in the aisle. Blinks, comes back to himself.
He's still just standing in the aisle, awkward, and there's dishsoap soaking into his tennis sneakers. Too tall, brown haired and fresh out of long-limbed gangliness, glasses perched awkwardly on his nose in front of bright blues. There's something of a lemur in the way Raim walks - graceful in the way he moves around himself, effortless in the oddest positions and stretches. Comfortable in himself, but not with others.
"Sorry, you just looked like you were having trouble," he says, uneasily, and steps back out of the spreading puddle. His shoes slap wetly on the tile, drawing a grimace out of him. "Heard it from the next aisle over. She should behave for a little bit now."
Beaumont, behind him, adds some paper towels and Gain to their cart. The kid that's been stalking them from behind gapes at the purple detergent as it soars over her head and parks itself in their cart. He chuckles at the awestruck look on the tyke's face, as she stares.
|