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Current Roleplay Status:

Uh woah it's been a while, Gaia.

Available until further notice due to country-wide quarantine.

Ask for my Discord - Gaia's layout frustrates me.

Last Updated: May 19, 2020

Dumping roleplaying business here.

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Jojen _____⊲ Weapons Master



Night had descended quickly on the sea ship. Inky tendrils had earlier strangled the life of a dwindling dusk as it dutifully thrashed in death throes of orange, yellow and red. It took the better part of an hour for darkness to silently wrestle it into submission beneath the horizon. For snatches of time, the world overhead was a bleak and lifeless void. But doom would not hold for long. The vacuous hollow left in the darkening skies pined for the familiar radiance of light. It would prove too much for the celestial body to deny. Soon, its pale crescent would shyly crest the distant murky waters. With all the charm of an inexperienced lover, it wearily inspected the scene for prying eyes. Finding none – or at least none that it cared to offend – it burst free from cover, skittishly climbing the zenith and refusing to calm until it entered the reassurance of a twinkling embrace.

Ah, such an elegant, strained romance between darkness and light.

It is a delight and a necessity to life to behold. Even land-squatters and ocean dwellers alike pay homage to their eternal dance. Their levels of productivity would peak in the day and they would bed down for some sheep arithmetic by night.

All but a certain Weapons Master, that is.

Stowed away several levels beneath the quarterdeck of the ship, Jojen found she could work her magic best by night.

No, seriously. Hers is the real deal. Ask any crew member who had the misfortune of straying too close to her makeshift forge. They would tell you that being on the receiving end of a white-hot shard of sparkling airborne steel is anything but pleasant.

… What?

Alloys aren’t the best-behaved choice of weapons material, I’ll have you know.

They’re an amalgamation of different minerals forcibly made to make the beast with two backs amidst the roaring flames of the forge. Once they’re drawn out from the coals to kiss the biting cold of an anvil’s belly, they are anything but cooperative. You’d be angry too! Now throw in a pinch of elven enchantment and you’ve got yourself a recipe for either a bite of steel that’ll come alive in the right hands, or .….. send a poor sod off to the medic for an untimely perusal of her eye patch collection. Enchanted metallurgy is no laughing matter. So to liven matters, Jojen always made sure to laugh generously and frequently whenever she wasn’t stoking coals or folding steel.

Tonight, she would not laugh. Not until her special assignment could be shelved away by the captain’s leave.

It had been a fortnight since Solaris had commissioned her for a special piece. Their last boarding raid had resulted in the loss of her prized dagger, forged in all the glory of Valyrian steel. Although the captain’s primary weapons of choice were that of ranged projectiles, it certainly never hurt to keep a pointy piece on one’s person at all times. It didn’t take much convincing, nautical ranks aside. Jojen was all too happy to comply. Nothing made her days more complete than the deafening ring of an oversized mallet in the palm of her hand.

She worked diligently now by moonlight, aided by the genetic birthright of night sight. Perspiration glinted in a wet sheen across her angular features and body. Shirtless but for the bindings circling her upper torso, each twist of her dominant arm overhead to bring the mallet anvil-bound sent a rivulet of sweat to trickle down the slender curve of her neck, kissing the hollow of her collarbone before falling away into the darkness. The tiny room reverberated with the rhythmic song. Every now and then she would pause long enough for a swallow from a water skin and an incantation. She wiped her lips against the back of her hand before proceeding. The last time she had been careless and recited the spell with dampness still clinging to her lips.

It nearly cost her a jaw.

She would not tempt fate twice, the fickle siren.

Leaning down until her lips hovered over the angry, hissing steel, she breathed a twinkling vapour of blue, caressing the surface until it pulsed weakly in response. Only then did she pop the iron grate of the forge and slip the eight-inch steel length into the flames for tempering. With that all squared away, Jojen retreated a step, performed a lazy guestimate of where she had last left her stool, and then flopped down into an unceremonious heap. She was pleased to find that her aim had not forsaken her. Given the night’s toils, she wasn’t sure how well-received a floor splinter to the a** would be. Reaching back, she yanked at the bit of ribbon that kept her honeyed hair in place and gave her unruly mane a shake.

“Seven Hells, it’s hot in here.” She griped.

Even with the porthole ajar the furnace was gobbling up the night air like some freshly-weaned infant. Then again, being at the back end of the ship didn’t help either. Absentmindedly, she gazed upwards at the wooden planking of a ceiling and mused on whether the captain, whose quarters weren’t far above, was beginning to regret relocating her workshop after the last incident.

What?!

I’m telling you, that barrel burst into flames all by its lonesome. It’s not my fault my kindling decided to join the party, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a filthy liar.


Zairea
Roleplay: Aire al Agua [Journey Book Roleplay Guild]
Date: Aug 10th, 2012
Theme: Pirate, Yuri, Steampunk
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Yuri
Word Count: 916

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                                                      __ VIKTOR STANISLAV ♜
                                                                      When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.
                                                                  THERE IS ALWAYS SOME MADNESS IN LOVE
                                                                  BUT THERE IS ALSO ALWAYS SOME REASON
                                                                  IN MADNESS
                                                                  _________☭━━━━━
                                                                  ooc :: [ Sorry for the hold-up, friends. PC has been doing a week-long death rattle. ]

                                                      The world oozed about in a slow murk. Every step he took lacked the usual harsh wooden echo. Instead, they squished noisily underfoot with all the makings of a bog.

                                                      Wait … what?

                                                      That observation alone was enough to give Viktor pause.

                                                      Ash-white whiskers marking his brow puckered in a marriage of confusion and strain as he attempted to focus his swimming vision, but to no avail. The floral wallpaper peppered with vibrant roses continued to churn with the delightful viscosity of molasses. Was it from all the whiskey he downed the night before? There was an old wives’ saying that a thimbleful of whiskey helped soothed an infant toothache and set its course for a heavy sleep. It was a token of wisdom for unfit mothers, to be sure. But Viktor could scarcely fool himself into thinking his shot glass was a thimble unless he had thumbs the size of table legs. You can take a man out of Russia, but you sure as hell couldn’t beat the appreciation for fine spirits out of a Russian. An alcoholic’s defense at its best.

                                                      Feeling a pint of remorse at quaffing his nightly pleasure as much as he did, then doubling back and groaning at how even his descriptive choice of regret was outlined in alcoholic terms, he unstuck his feet and lugged himself up the melting staircase. He was beginning to grow concerned with losing his footwear in the syrupy floors. No matter how hard the cogs in his mind turned, he could not for the life of him make sense of the situation. Perhaps the alcohol was hallucinogenic? But who in their right mind would spike a bodyguard’s drink when there were whores aplenty in the brothel.

                                                      Whores. The Rosette Brothel.

                                                      A sudden sharp cry sliced through the fog of his mind and snagged his attention. He blinked instinctually. Without so much as a warning, the quagmire of the brothel hallway morphed into that of a lavishly-decorated bedchamber. There was a faint recollection of the room’s particular décor. Red drapes, red carpets, red canopy, red sheets …….

                                                      A red women lying prone across the red sheets, beneath the red canopy.

                                                      His heart plummeted from his chest and took up residence somewhere amidst his intestines. There clearly was no such thing as red women. Then again, liquid staircases were a rather rare sighting too. Cautiously, he inched towards the bedside.

                                                      Blood.

                                                      It was everywhere. The sticky red substance was slathered across her prostrate form from head to toe. Thick, copious globs matted her honeyed hair and the baby-pink ribbon that struggled to hold everything in place. The voluptuous hills and valleys of her naked form glistened beneath the lamplight. Like some twisted bit of still-life art.

                                                      Like someone had viciously pulled her inside out.

                                                      Someone like me.

                                                      Who?

                                                      Viktor felt bile beginning to rise in his throat, burning his tonsils and curdling his taste buds. Staggering back, he found to his dismay that the floor had reverted to its mucky self. It caught his ankles like a playful lover and threw him into a sticky embrace. He unceremoniously toppled onto his rear end in a panicked tangle of arms and legs.

                                                      This can’t be happening. You’re dead. I KNOW YOU ARE.

                                                      He had scarcely enough time to pull his hands free before his horrified gaze rose to meet that of an upright, familiar red face. Its lips split with a sad smile, its lower right half swollen and bleeding anew. Terror clawed at his innards as recognition dawned on him. The otherworldly woman drew a rattling breath and spoke a single wet whisper.

                                                      “Do you love me now?”

                                                      “NO!!”

                                                      The world narrowed into a pinpoint before exploding in sound and colors other than gory red. It was deafening and disorientating. He bolted upright and sucked in a desperate breath in a ragged gasp.

                                                      … A dream. It was all a dream. None of it was real. None of it …..

                                                      Perspiration beaded his forehead and trickled down his bare chest, catching here and there on the sinewy swells of abdominal muscle. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession despite the passing minutes of a post-nightmare. A chill went unnoticed as it caressed the dampness of his form. The drapes had been left ajar, leaving a shaft of painfully cheery sunlight to seep into the room. Sheets were gnarled around his legs like cotton vipers poised to strike. He kicked them away in a huff. Forcing himself to squint into the morning light, he guessed that it was sometime shy of eleven – far past his usual rising hour and bound to raise the ire of his employer. Then again, how often did he suffer from a homicide a year-past? The recollection instantly soured his mood.

                                                      No.

                                                      Today, he would take his time and give it as good as the Duchess could dish it. If he was lucky, the whores would misstep or a patron would drink himself stupid. It would give him an excuse to crack some heads together and take his mind off of bleeding women.

                                                      With that decided, Viktor began the slow and weary process of disentangling himself from the bed and kicking open the dresser to find something to throw on. Judging by the growing sounds of drunken merriment outside his door – the sooner, the better.


                                                      Zairea
                                                      Roleplay: The Rosette Brothel
                                                      Date: Aug 8th, 2012
                                                      Theme: 1850's America, Historical fiction
                                                      Gender: Male
                                                      Sexual Preference: Het
                                                      Word Count: 976

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                                              Reflected in an icy hazel sheen, the classroom had become a sluggish blur of inactivity. The overhead projection was a distorted, dismal white square, glowing with an eerie incandescence in the dark pits of his pupils, as if it was slowly being absorbed by the darkness that circled it, swallowed whole by a cavernous emptiness. They were eyes that saw without truly seeing. It was as if they were the final resting place of dead stars – bodies of sulphurous gas and heat that once shone with unparalleled brilliance. But somewhere along the way as the years wore on, something had happened. It was a catalyst that would trigger a supernova, something so unspeakably violent and psychologically paralytic that it changed him for all time. No longer were there burning passions or love for the simpler things in life. As if there were any to be had. And even if there were, even if he once did, he couldn’t recall. All that was left was a twin, vacuous void, constantly devouring the time, effort, care and devotion of everything and anything they set their sights on. He was destruction on two legs.

                                              And he loved it.

                                              More images.

                                              The glowing, previously blank slate flickered once to reveal the Greek Pantheon. Darius slowly slid his gaze towards the suited figure at the brunt of the auditorium. It was pacing feverishly and throwing its lanky arms skyward in one wild gesture after the other. Bearded lips were flapping this way and that, spewing memorable dates for when ancient philosophers and theologians once stalked the earth. Aristotle. Plato. Euripides. It was one crotchety dead man after the other, words from the lips of an equally if not more crotchety man.

                                              How fitting.

                                              Again, the screen shuddered under the weight of the next image. But no sooner had the slides come into focus, he blinked them away. Unlike his fellow classmates whose droopy lids signalled the beginnings of sleep, his flitted upwards as soon as they completed their descent. In the likeliness of an old-fashioned slideshow, the glossy image in his eyes had changed. In place of the projected screen depicting a marbled bust, a luxurious waterfall of golden locks had taken its place – the same individual his gaze had been revisiting all lecture-long. He followed its cascading curls, noting how it spilled over slender shoulders and slight frame a scant two rows before him. Chestnut orbs dilated sharply at the dangerously familiar sight. Its undulating waves caught the dim lighting in a way that made the blonde skeins stand out in stark contrast against others seated around her. Like a diamond in the rough. He knew this carnal sensation as it began to inundate his senses. Abruptly, Darius sneered under his breath at the unusual line of poetic thought, a row of pearly whites gleaming menacingly beneath a curled lip.

                                              Diamond in the rough. As if. That would suggest that she was of some value to the world. But she was of no use alone – not without him. And he would see to that.

                                              A dull but incessant whirring of the central AC overhead continued well into the lecture, punctuated only by the restless rustling of notepaper, universalized by all students as a hapless attempt to at least appear engaged in the lecture. And it might have succeeded, had the boy not flimsily stifled a gaping yawn that could’ve swallowed a cantaloupe whole. Again, Darius curled the far corner of his upper lip in contempt. It was the same boy that had ventured to ask Charlie for a midday pick-me-up. He knew – he’d been tailing the pair for a week, now. A further investigation by means of pick pocketing the boy’s Blackberry only confirmed his suspicions. Better yet, it had even yielded a time and place for their covert rendezvous. Well, no matter. It may not have been the typical drowsy afternoon remedy that Darius was accustomed to partaking in when she once shared his bed, often dropping by their flat unannounced and forcing himself on her, but it would eventually lead to it. Wasn’t that the point of coffee dates? To gauge the efficacy of your come-ons, to determine if you’re able to flush out your quarry, let alone determining if it’s worth conquering?

                                              Overhead, images of the Pantheon, Plato and Euripides flashed by without as much as a thought to accompany their passing. Greek myths and plays. While he had been musing over his past sexual conquests, the lecture had drifted to orbit around Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Darius tore his gaze from the back of the boy’s head long enough to give the slides a once-over. He liked this allegory. It was a sickly tale that mimicked the tormented political life of the philosopher who created it. Trapped in a cave underground, it began with a metaphorical Plato and his fellow cellmates being force-fed silhouettes from a fire, thrown against the rocky walls. They were cooed to by their captors that these waning shadows, mere husks of obscured light, comprised the matrix of reality. Having spent their entire lives underground and sorely lacking a frame of reference, they had no choice but to cling to that feeble truth. But Plato had gradually wizened to the nature of their ploy. He plotted and escaped, climbing up a winding tunnel that allowed him to break the surface of the upper world for the first time in his life. There, the glorious sunlight blinded him, searing into his mind and soul the passion of reason, the intuitive power of genuine reality. Elated, Plato soon scurried underground once again to spread his discovery, risking capture and punishment by his past jailers. However, they didn’t even have to lay a finger on the man. Instead, incensed and overwhelmed by his description, his fellow cellmates killed him on the spot. The professor had lowered his voice with deliberate precision when he revealed the final twist. Most students replied with a disengaged squirm in their seats.

                                              But not Darius.

                                              He was in the throes of an icy chill that shot from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck. He shook in tightly-wound anticipation of what special relevance the allegory had to what he was about to do.

                                              The room was a jostling mess of bodies and seats snapping back into place as the class drew to a close. In one fluid motion Darius had collected himself and his tablet, sliding it away into a sleek leather messenger bag at his hips, never once letting the blonde-headed woman stray from his sight.

                                              Charlie. Have you seen the shadows on the wall for what they are? Are you desperate to escape my cave?

                                              Slowly, silently, he began to make his way along the aisle, gliding at a pace that guaranteed the auditorium emptying out by the time he reached her. Primal, animalistic. It was as if he was stalking prey that had already had its hamstring lopped clean. Now it was only a matter of following the blood trail, knowing fully that his quarry could only straggle so far. His boot strikes became more audible as the steady stream of bodies leaving the room ebbed to a trickle.

                                              Closer.

                                              He rounded the corner of the last seat that opened into the primary vein separating the two halves of the auditorium. She was ten paces from him now.

                                              Closer still.

                                              And then, a fortuitous accident. The device took a hard bounce before pirouetting into his right toe. Darius savoured the karmic intervention with an inward laugh. You always find your way back to me, don’t you. He bent to retrieve it while dark optics probed hers, prompting hers to meet him in a challenge of defiance. By the time he straightened to his full height, he was a formidable sight, towering over her slight frame. Still, he kept his “dark passenger” in the back seat. Not now. For the time being, he would be taking the wheel, coasting gently until he could find a more .. secluded place without the pretence of idle banter. And so, as he had done countless times before, a bewitching smile crept across his lips.

                                              “Hello, Charlie.” First contact. At least, the first since the breakup was finalized. He wanted to add momentum to the gravity of her situation. To achieve just that, he swallowed up the remaining distance between them in two long, lightning-quick strides. Standing nearly toe-to-toe, he knew this violated the boundaries of her comfort zone. He wanted to. The more uncomfortable she was, the less reasonable she would be. Deftly, he slid the phone into her front pocket, pushing it with his fingertips until it had hit bottom. By which time of course, his palm had firmly caressed the upper region of her thigh. Cheek lightly grazing hers, he scalded the shell of her ear in a single, heavy exhale. She felt warm, soft.

                                              Vulnerable.

                                              Then as quickly as he had come, he slid his hand from her pocket to his own, like a viper retracting its fangs after a strike. It was only a matter of time before its venomous intent took effect. Dawning the mantle of feigned nonchalance, he cocked his head slightly to the side, innocently appraising her delicate features as if the breach of trust had never taken place.

                                              “You’re a sight for sore eyes, dressed as you are.”

                                              Suddenly, a c***k made itself apparent in his armour – a wisp of inky darkness seeping into his dead eyes.

                                              “Where you goin’ all prettied up.”

                                              And it wasn’t a question.



                                              Zairea
                                              Roleplay: [Private]
                                              Date: Apr 17th, 2011
                                              Theme: Abusive Boyfriend, Modern
                                              Gender: Male
                                              Sexual Preference: Het
                                              Word Count: 1,597

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                                              If looks could kill, his would have long since obliterated the doe-eyed blonde, several lifetimes over. It was a visible cue that he was done with pleasantries. Done with false pretences, finished with painfully polite conversation. It was nothing more than a thin sheen of veneer that hid the reprehensible scars of their festering past. Senselessly hollow, no amount of small-talk could purge the unhealthy miasma burgeoning between them. But where was the fun in that? To Darius, the fumes were a familiar reminder of home. Choking, suffocating. It meant he was still very much in control of this relationship. Yes, “relationship.” He refused to make reference to it in a past tense because in more ways than one, it wasn’t over. Not for him, and most certainly not for her. Even if she wished it otherwise.

                                              Towering over her slight frame, it was a ongoing struggle to wring out every drop of self-restraint not to fall into an old pattern of behaviour, to take that first step down an increasingly slippery slope of manipulative violence. Instead they simply stood an arm’s breadth from each other, a potent mix of resentment and sexual tension thickening with every passing moment. Or was that just his aura he was picking up on? She certainly didn’t look the part. In fact, she looked as if she wanted nothing more than to melt into the walls and become invisible.

                                              Disappear.

                                              You can’t hide from me.

                                              The bottomless voids of his eyes gradually slid from her trembling lips to the tiny basin nestled in the centered crook of her collarbone. The familiar sight struck a chord in his memory, spearing his attention with a nostalgic shard of a flashback. Instantly, his vision blurred into a grainy haze of recollection. He could see the same vulnerable curve of her neck in a monochrome blear, exposed, vulnerable, shrinking away from his touch. In his mind’s eye she had found her way into one of his dress shirts – the ones she often wore after an overnight stay. They were oversized on her petite physique with sleeves that swallowed her arms whole. He studied the details of his surroundings in the periphery of his vision. The dim interior lighting meant that they were in their old apartment. Her cheeks were tear-stained – a picturesque icon of fear, self-loathing and a twisted variation of adoration

                                              It was a beautiful sight.

                                              The flashback continued in the makings of an old, silent film. It was an odd, out-of-body experience, watching a projection of himself from afar. Suddenly there was a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs as he watched himself wrestle her to the ground. Sounds of protest were lost in a muted gaping of mouths opening and closing in succession. It wasn’t long before he had her pinned soundly to the cold, unyielding floor. Her wrists were slender and delicate enough to be contained within a single muscled palm pressed forcefully into the ground. In the sudden lull they both struggled to catch their breaths. She appeared distressed as a spectre of pain ghosted across her pale features. Her body remained immobile beneath his prone form. Then, as his present consciousness walked a slow circle around the pair, dead-locked in a contest for dominance, his line of sight fell on her manicured French nails, ragged and chipped at the ends. A symbolic represented of unappreciated beauty having fallen prey to her own imagined flaws.

                                              But today, she was hiding them well. He hadn’t seen her nails in this pristine a condition from before they started taking their relationship seriously.

                                              Or more precisely, when he seized control of her life.

                                              It was upon that realization that the full weight of reality came rushing back in a roar. In a twinkling, the auditorium flared back into focus and with it, the image of her now perfectly manicured nails.

                                              A frightening scowl warped his rugged features.

                                              He didn’t like what he saw.

                                              Before the situation could dangerously deteriorate, an unfamiliar voice sang out to interrupt the lethal silence. A pair of defiant eyes darted to the figure angling for Charlie’s back. Max Callaghan. He was a man of average build, average academic achievements and a less than impressive wit to boot. Sandy blonde hair, baby-blue eyes. Dressed in baggy jeans, sneakers and a red polo shirt, the boy looked unassuming and completely oblivious to the situation he had intruded upon. Slowly, deliberately, Darius slid his gaze to lock with hers. They weren’t pleading a question – they were forcing a statement on her at gunpoint.

                                              THIS is who you’ve chosen to replace me?

                                              Pathetic.

                                              Diverting his attention to the bystander, he allowed an abruptly sunny smile to break through his cloudy demeanour, truly looking as bipolar as they come.

                                              “You betcha. I’m just a guy she used to know,” he said while reaching over to administer an amicable pat to her shoulder. Unbeknownst to their conversational guest, the pat very quickly became a menacing squeeze, fingertips digging into her flesh. Again, he leaned in to breathe a sultry whisper into her ear.

                                              “Nothing special. Am I right?”

                                              But for now he would conserve his energy. After all, there was preparatory work to do. When it was all said and done, there would be plenty of time to .. “chat.” Saying nothing more, he slipped both hands into his pant pockets and maintained a bright smile until the pair had disappeared from view. No sooner had they rounded the bend when a foreboding darkness reclaimed his facial expression. The artificial smile was quickly swallowed up by its inky tendrils.

                                              Alone at last.

                                              Darius spun fluidly on his heels and made a beeline for the doors illuminated by a red “exit” sign. His footfalls commanded attention as they struck the tiled flooring, their dying echoes remaining long after its maker had vacated the room. He knew this passage would shave precious minutes off of a trek to the nearest parking lot – the same slat of concrete that our beloved Max Callaghan parked his prized BMW in. Oh yes, Darius knew. He knew the make and model of Max’s car. The license plate, the high-gloss polish. Hell, even the moronic fuzzy dice the boy hung off the rear-view mirror wasn’t unfamiliar to a man accustomed to being very, very thorough. Chances were that those dice may be the only salvageable item once he was through with it. Seconds after he had burst through the doors and into the corridor, he banked right and out through a second pair, emerging from the bowels of the building into the glorious afternoon sunlight.

                                              Damn. A little rain and overcast wouldn’t have hurt. At least, for what he wanted to do today.

                                              His pace quickened when a nearby couple came into view a good hundred yards from where he stood. Sandy blonde hair, vibrant gold locks. Yes, it was the two of them. Right on time. Smiling darkly for the first time that day, Darius slunk into the herd of automobiles before him, sifting his way through them until he came across the deep blue beast of his intent. Shiny. Under direct sunlight, the car looked almost alive. Jet-black orbs darted upwards once more to check on their location. The two had long-since entered the tiny café and placed their orders. They looked to be nervously make each other’s acquaintance, scouring the room for a private place to sit.

                                              How quaint.

                                              Head set on a swivel, checking for witnesses and finding none, he began rummaging through his messenger bag. Searching for tools of his trade. It was a routine he had combed through so many times that it was beginning to take on a ritualistic feel. “Troubled man can’t keep his gossamer of a girlfriend from slipping in and out from between his fingertips, coming and going like the tide, so he targets would-be romantic beaus.” Darius scoffed an inward laugh. This one was lucky – at least the only thing being “broken” was his car. Seconds later, he fished out a pair of supple leather gloves and a half-depleted roll of duct tape.

                                              Why a half-finished roll? Well. There are, say, numerous uses for it that don’t involve taping up tears. On occasion, you need it to keep things .. “still."

                                              But back to the task at hand.

                                              Given the circumstances, he didn’t think Max was wise enough or nearly as suspicious to dust the vehicle for fingerprints. But then again, why risk it? Even if the boy didn’t seem like the type to “cry wolf” for foul play, Darius wasn’t about to feed him ammunition in any case. Working quickly, he wormed his digits into their leather sheaths. He tore three palm-sized lengths of the sticky gray film and pressed them side-by-side to the driver’s window. Giving his hands a preparatory flex, he drew a calming breath. Once this process began, he would have only minutes to react before someone noticed him.

                                              Alright, you ********. If what’s mine is yours, then what’s yours is mine, yeah?

                                              With a single, side-angled blow, Darius swung viciously at the center of the duct tape target. His fist connected against the pane with a loud crunch. Not surprisingly, it shattered. The tape however caught the broken shards that were still adhered to its sticky surface. This way, he could conveniently peel it away without the mess of cutting himself on jagged glass. However, the down side was that as a newer model, the car came equipped with a blaring alarm system that modelled the Zeppelin air raids on London. Its piercing wails were beginning to grate on his last nerve. Thrusting an arm through the jagged opening he blindly groped about until he found the right switch along the inner panel of the door. Flicking it promptly unlocked the sleek door. It was tempting to glide his fingertips over a neighbouring button that would have disarmed the wailing, but he wanted it to draw attention to itself. The reason became clear once he reached in and disengaged the emergency brakes. This was followed by a quick shift in gear from “park” to “neutral.” Moving like a vaporous shadow, he slinked out of the car and gave it a lightning-quick visual once-over. Then, circling around to its head, he slammed a foot against the metal hood and gave it a mighty push. Slowly but surely, the blue beast began a downhill roll from its parking space and into the adjacent road, gathering speed as it butted its way into oncoming traffic.

                                              Screeching, rubber burning out in putrid streaks along the tarmac.

                                              Metal biting into metal, lumbering automotive beasts spinning out and smashing into the shoulders of the road.

                                              Screams. Loud, high-pitched, anguished.

                                              By the time the commotion had reached its climax, Darius had retreated a safe distance into the very same coffee shop from before. Tape and gloves tucked away into his messenger, it was all a matter of waiting it out until the pale-faced patrons, having heard of the collisions down the hill, spread word until it reached a certain someone’s table. Obscured by the corner of a far wall, dual vacuous voids appraised the man as he shot upright from his seat in disbelief, wildly gesturing at the distraught barista if she was sure before sputtering apologies at his coffee date and hurriedly flailing his way out of the room.

                                              Perfect.

                                              He wouldn’t give her time to react. The moment Max vacated the premises, Darius slipped around the corner and into view, sauntering his way across the room and into the still-warm seat across from Charlie. Without so much as a word, he looped a forefinger through the ear of the previous owner’s untouched coffee mug and took a long swig. In that time his eyes never once left Charlie’s. It was almost as if to imply that the violence just a quarter of a mile downhill was committed in her name. She was to blame for what happened. If only she minded the men she chose to keep company with.

                                              He expelled a gratuitous exhale, hot and heady from the piping beverage. Resting both elbows on the tabletop, he coyly arched one brow over the other, cradling his chin in the backs of his hands with fingers laced together.

                                              “So,” he mused playfully, as if this were like any other day. “He seems nice.”



                                              Zairea
                                              Roleplay: [Private]
                                              Date: Apr 23rd, 2011
                                              Theme: Abusive Boyfriend, Modern
                                              Gender: Male
                                              Sexual Preference: Het
                                              Word Count: 2,063

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                                              The gentle beginnings of morning had long since worn into a rustic brilliance of mid-afternoon. Swathed in a radiant sheen of sunlight, every inch of the countryside seemed to be bursting with life. Playful ripples fanned out in the long grass that stretched for miles and miles in any given direction, interrupted only by the occasional lone tree, one of which he presently sought shelter under from the direct glare of the sun. It forced him to narrow his gaze into a slight squint. When it finally dawned on him that leering at the dirt mound of a bus stop wouldn’t bring its passengers about any sooner, he slid his line of sight skywards instead.

                                              And what a breathtaking sight it was.

                                              Uninhibited by clustered city skylines and towering metropolitan skyscrapers, the open expanse of deep azure remained unmarred in what truly resembled an inverted sea. But unlike its land-bound cousin, there were no unruly waves to break and crash against one another, fighting like disgruntled kin. No. This was calm and serene as they came. The only noticeable movement in its cerulean hues was the odd cloud inching by at its own pace – your veritable sky sloth in a gentle jungle of blue. Endlessly calming. He could lose himself for hours in its embrace. Better yet, without the extensive light pollution from the city, the night sky would soon be illuminated by thousands upon thousands of twinkling dimples of light. He lived for those kinds of moments, simple pleasures. Inwardly, he pondered if she would feel the same.

                                              Emmett’s eyes slid to a close as he drew a deep breath. A passing breeze tousled the ends of his chestnut mane, as if it were an old friend musing with him. Absently, he rolled the single reed of straw from one side of his mouth to the other. The crisp country air was an enigma to savour, but today, it did little to smooth over the ragged edges of his frayed nerves. Although it didn’t come as a complete surprise to him, he knew their houseguest for the summer wouldn’t be your run-of-the-mill city slicker looking for a weekend getaway. His father was doing his friend an alleged favour. Why it was considered a favour to drag his friend’s daughter, kicking and screaming from the inner bowels of a bustling metropolis, he would never know. Then again, maybe the fresh air would do her some good. They say that if you stay long enough with the right temperance, the country can change you.

                                              How would it change her?

                                              He didn’t have to ponder for long. Soon, the jarring, high-pitched squeals of engine breaks coaxed him out from his musings. Pushing off the tree with a shoulder, he unfolded his arms and began making his way to the vehicle, gravel crunching underfoot all the while. Most of the passengers looked travel-weary. Emmett didn’t blame them – a four hour bus ride was kind to no one. As he weaved into the crowd, he fished about in his pant pocket for a crinkled slip of paper. On it his father had scrawled a single word:

                                              “SLOAN.”

                                              .. What was a “sloan” anyways?

                                              A city brand, maybe?

                                              If it was, he supposed it would be sewn into the girl’s jacket along the shoulder blades or breast pocket. It sure wasn’t the name of the bus, which was his initial perusal. That only left one option – a name.

                                              But what kind of name was “Sloan?”

                                              Strange, these city-slickers, he joked to himself.

                                              Mentally sorting through the crowd, he couldn’t help but notice that most of them were middle-aged, and then some. Emmett was sure the girl would be closer to his age than anything else. Absently, he reached back and scratched the nape of his neck. Maybe it wasn’t so hot an idea to bring two geldings for the ride home. What if she broke a hip or somethin’? But alas, to his relief, the final straggler hopping off the dusty vehicle looked to suit the profile. He was about to close the distance between them as the others dispersed, but then thought better of it, moving to pull the straw from his lips and toss it aside first. The last thing he wanted was to fit neatly into yet another cowboy cliché. Crumpling the paper into the recesses of his pockets, he strode over to her and lightly placed a hand on her shoulder from behind, considering her attention was averted elsewhere in a similar search. A sunny smile creased the corners of his lips.

                                              “Howdy ma’am. You must be .. Sloan?”

                                              He braced himself inwardly for the indignation of he was mistaken. Well, actually, he was clenching his intestines in case “Sloan” really was a brand name he was trying to peg to a person. If it really was the case, he supposed he would be resigned to live out the rest of his days as a hick after all.


                                              Zairea
                                              Roleplay: [Private]
                                              Date: Apr 19th, 2011
                                              Theme: Cowboy, Modern
                                              Gender: Male
                                              Sexual Preference: Het
                                              Word Count: 829

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                          An innocent flick of a switch.

                          A dull mechanical whir.

                          Activation detected. Launch sequence initiated in,

                          3 . . .

                          2 . . .

                          1 .

                          Almost inaudible, it began in the center of what is considered to be the automaton’s central nervous system. Made in the image of mankind, its beginnings of “life” stirred in its cerebral and prefrontal cortex. Of course in this instance, there was no spongy grey matter, tightly packed and floating in a gelatinous fluid, nor was it encased in a sphere of bone, muscle and tissue. In its place resided a series of motherboards soldered into one cohesive, continually-evolving piece of hardware. Beneath layers of germanium and silicon, pressed and heated into a sleek polyimide film designed to replicate the texture of human skin, lay millions upon millions of electrical circuits. They mimicked the biological synapse in the human brain.

                          Actively learning, actively engaging with its environment.

                          And all specially hand-crafted for your personal enjoyment, for sixty-six payments of just $19.99! For all ages – no assembly required.

                          AMIBIOS <C> 2055. AMERICAN MEGATRENDS INC.
                          ASIS A8V ACPI BIOS PERSOCOM__#36957. N SERIES.
                          PCU : AMD Athlon <tm> 69 PROCESSOR.

                          Press DEL to run Setup.
                          Scanning resident ID# . . .
                          VERIFYING . . .

                          Verification COMPLETE.

                          Checking COMRAM . . .

                          Initializing motor cortex . . .

                          . . .

                          . .

                          .

                          System tune-up COMPLETE.

                          ENGAGE.

                          A two-toned completion jingle rang out merrily from the two-way speakers of the android’s ears. From where it stood, head hung downwards until its chin met the center of its synthetic collarbone, the unseen pistons in the nape of its neck whirred to life. It lifted the head of gangly chestnut locks until it was nearly level with the peculiar individual with which it shared the room. Within the same breath, its honeyed orbs flared vibrantly to life. Beneath its glossy sheen, thousands of binary strings shot to and fro, drinking in its surroundings like a drowning man to a shoreline. It blinked once. Then twice, almost as if experimenting with its newfound ability to control both its autonomous and motor system. Finally, it glided to a halt on the petite woman. Internally, scans were zipping every which way. Instinctively, it clasped both sinewy hands together at its slender abdomen and dipped into a deep bow from the waist down.

                          “Hajimemashite, sempai. Watashiwa--”

                          Of course, it had been made and assembled in Japan. Where else would you be able to get your hands on the highest end electronics in the world?

                          It paused. Its voice was deep, yet succinctly feminine. Clear, yet soft to the touch.

                          It glanced upwards to take in a stack of magazines piled neatly on a nearby coffee table. Its pupils abruptly contracted.

                          IDENTIFYING . . .

                          LIST :
                          [1] Elle
                          [2] Vogue
                          [3] Glamour
                          [4] Cosmopolitan

                          DEDUCING –
                          Subject’s native language : ENGLISH.

                          Let’s try that again.

                          Straightening to its full height, towering a good head above the vibrant-haired woman, it cooed once more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss. I am model number ‘36957,’ a member of the latest ‘N series.’”

                          Abruptly, a sunny smile creased its unnaturally flawless features, brightening its expression until its facial recognition software recognized it to be “happiness.”

                          "If you have an alternative name you would like me to be addressed by, please verbally input it, now.”



                          Zairea
                          Roleplay: [Private]
                          Date: Apr 21st, 2011
                          Theme: Futuristic, Android, Cyberized dolls
                          Gender: Female
                          Sexual Preference: Yuri
                          Word Count: 635

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Obscured by a shadowy veil, a grim smile began to play across a woman’s lips.

“My, my. What do we have here?”

From behind the slumped and bloodied figure, unbeknownst to her, a pair of slender hands emerged from the depths of inky darkness. They looked disturbingly disembodied from their owner. The appendages seemed to float idly in space without a meaning or purpose. However, their intent became clear once their suspended animation ended with a slight twitch of the right forefinger. Without so much as a warning, they darted around the woman’s neck. Within seconds they had the girl in a vicious, strangling chokehold. Not enough to crush her windpipe, but just enough to keep her from drawing a breath, stemming vital blood flow to her brain and autonomous system. It wasn’t long before the bandaged woman, slick with her own blood, began thrashing in a fit of self-preservation. The force of their struggle sent the injured woman sprawling on her back, assailant pinned between it and the floor.

Perfect. Right where I want you to be.

Slithering her arm around until the patient’s neck was caught in the crook of her elbow, the nameless woman squeezed in a frightening display of strength, a boa constrictor crushing the life out of its meal. But it wasn’t her intent to eat the poor girl. No, far from it. She grunted faintly while using her free hand to fish around the pockets of her lab coat. It was a race against time – take too long and the girl would genuinely suffocate. A flash of silver glinted menacingly when she withdrew her hand, syringe in tow. Positioning her thumb against the plunger, she angled the needle downwards; waiting for a pause in the woman’s desperate wrenching to ebb. When it did, she wasted no time in plunging it deeply into the pulsating vein lining the side of her neck, bulging with the strain of spent blood. The girl instantly went limp in her arms.

Ariadne expelled a heady sigh of relief.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, she brought a cheek to rest against the crown of her now heavily sedated specimen, cradling her unresponsive form as if it were a life-sized ragdoll. Hands that were committed to violence only minutes earlier suddenly softened with her demeanour. She brought her fingertips to touch the other’s delicate jaw line. Exploratory, they trickled down her chin and across the curve of her neck, past the lurid purple bruises that were beginning to clot now. After a moment of muted silence, Ariadne unexpectedly giggled to herself. It was a lilting chortle that seemed so out of place, given the violent encounter. Just a tad inhuman.

“Naughty girl. How far did you expect to run in your condition? Now I’ll have to redo your stitches. Silly.”

She stroked the soft violet hair with a perverse affection. Then, collecting herself from the floor, the lab coat-clad individual disappeared behind the rusty metal door, dragging her prize along with her, leaving a slick trail of crimson in her wake.

The iron hinges groaned in great protest before slamming the metal slab to a close.

Alone at last.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -



Hours had come and gone. Although whenever Ariadne got her hands on a live specimen, their passage would always go unnoticed. The human anatomy fascinated her. Or more precisely, the female anatomy. Men were certainly the more durable half of the species, but their sculpted bodies lacked the soft, yielding qualities of female flesh. The differences were as clear as night and day as she gazed wistfully at the woman she had long-since strapped to the stainless steel table. Illuminated by the harsh glare of an overhead surgical lamp, the unconscious woman was as beautiful to Ariadne as they came. Slender, weak.

Vulnerable.

Quirking a half-smile, she turned her back to girl in order to mull over a metal tray of surgical tools. Which one would she use? She needed something exceptionally sharp to test the progress of the serum she had been injecting her pet with for weeks now. Caught up in her daydreaming, something stirred. She cast a nonchalant gaze over her shoulder to see that the girl was beginning to come to. Not wanting to miss the show, Ariadne circled around until she stood at the foot of the table, twirling a razor-sharp surgical scalpel in dizzying circles, all with frightening precision.

“Are you awake now, my pet?” She slowly leaned closer. “Did you sleep well?”


Zairea
Roleplay: [Private]
Date: Apr 24th, 2011
Theme: Experimental, Sadism, Medical, Master/Slave
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Yuri
Word Count: 815

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The rain had been unforgiving. Instigated by gusting winds, together, they pelted the cobbled sidewalk in angry, diagonal sheets that looked as if they would at any moment defy gravity and begin raining skywards. To a certain passerby’s most unpleasant discovery, it did. Enlisting the help of a concave pothole, a single unearthly gust lifted a swell of stagnant rainwater and sent it flying towards shadowed features.

Suddenly, silence.

Absolute.

Silence.

It wasn’t the sort of absence of sound that sometimes punctuated heavy rainfall. Had the billowing storm clouds overhead grown weary of puffing their ominous cheeks, the silence would have been short-lived and the downpour quickly reinstated. No. This was an unnatural disquiet. And if there had been witnesses to the anomaly in that dimly-lit street, they would have understood why this was so.

Every droplet of rain in a half block radius had inexplicably frozen in place, held in lilting, suspended animation. The same precocious puddle that had leaped upwards was jilted in mid-splash as well, damp tendrils locked in motion – a scratch on the record of time. A dark blot was visible against the fish-eyed surface of the hundred globules – a pair of charcoal gray mittens with their palms turned upwards, as if they were holding up the weight of the sky, keeping the rain from their gravity-driven descent. Standing hunched beneath flicking neon lights, concentration compacted the silhouette like a tightly-coiled spring, the figure gasped abruptly into the night. Charcoal mittens and their subsequent arms flung downwards under the weight of her realization, akin to touching a hot stove. Gallons of water that had been accumulating around and above her tumbled down in release with a deafening splash. No sooner was this done than the rain resumed its cacophonous cadence.

Partially obscured by a now sodden hood, a pair of pale lips pressed into a thin line of irritation. Powers or not, all she wanted was to stay dry. Was it too much to ask?

Nonetheless. Now that she had practiced water bending, even if it was accidental, they would have a lock on her location. Spinning deftly on her heels, she pulled on the handle of the nearest door and fled the dampness of the night. It belonged to the local bar, complete with atmospheric music, a dance floor and patrons. But more importantly, they would serve as cover. Violently wading through a sea of bodies without causing a scene would be oxymoronic. If they wanted to find her, it would be on her terms – a discreet game of cat and mouse. Crimson pupils taking in their surroundings, she drew a calming breath and wordlessly melted into the crowd.


Zairea
Roleplay: [Walk-In]
Date: Oct 7th, 2011
Theme: Anything
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Yuri
Word Count: 445

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There is no worse feeling than having drenched clothing clinging tenaciously to your limbs and back like an overweight koala. Or in more traditional terms, as a second and most unwelcomed skin.

Water had always been her element. This was true in more ways than one. Whether it was spending months at a stretch loitering around seaside resorts or always having a flask of the liquid at hand, she had an unwavering trust in the element and how her kinetic abilities would manipulate it to her advantage. But the greatest irony to her water bending was that she abhorred having her clothing drenched in it. Yes, it was occasionally useful to bend water from it and defend herself. But tonight she was exhausted, cold and more importantly, reckless. It was a potent combination bound to bring her much grief. The fact that she had chosen a bar stocked to the rafters with spirits probably wasn’t helpful either, especially considering her penchant for stiff drinks.

High-top sneakers squishing loudly with every step, she slowed to a grinding halt at the end of the polished oak bar, facing a pocket of the room that wasn’t as well illuminated as others. It would be some time before Dai Li agents would get a lock on her location and secure a perimeter; she might as well spend the remainder of her stay in dry clothes while plotting the next move. But to do so required water bending – a martial art reminiscent of Tai Chi that helped open the pathways of energy in her body, channelling her psychokinetic abilities to shape water at will.

But how? It wasn’t exactly socially permissible to break out into a kung fu stance in the middle of a crowded dance floor, let alone playing with magic water. How would she even begin to explain it away? A fun party trick with floating water?

.. Actually, she mused that it would be a fun stunt to pull at a social gathering. But now was hardly the time to make light of matters.

Raking slender digits through a waterfall of ivory hair, she impatiently brushed her bangs from obscuring her line of sight, freeing her unsettlingly red orbs to scan about. No one seemed to be paying her any heed. With her sense of caution reasonably sated, she turned her back to the others and drew a slow breath. Palms held open with digits pressed tightly together, the length of each pinkie finger resting against her lower abdomen, she pulled another breath while her palms gradually rose to greet her solar plexus. Beckoned by the familiar repetition, the internalized energy began gathering and heating at the bottom of her stomach. Once it gained enough momentum, she rotated her palms until they were facing the same direction she was, and began slowly pushing away from her, elbows extending all the while. It was a basic form that mimicked the relationship between the moon and tide, pushing and pulling, always in harmonious balance with one another. On cue, globules of water began squeezing themselves from the fabric of her clothing, floating outwards in the same direction as her hands. She smiled at the convenience of her abilities.

Just as the last few drops were divorcing themselves from her, an unfamiliar voice startled her from her concentration, causing her to jump and suck in a violent breath, hands instinctively clasping at her chest.

“AAAAAAAAAAH -- y’don’t say now.”

.. Really? That’s the best answer you could come up with? Very nice.

Comically, just as the tide must return to the shoreline, the sudden inward movement of her arms caused the water to slam back into her torso. Granted, she wasn’t as soaked as before. Just .. all the way down the length of her front. She spun around and while working valiantly to smooth over her shocked features, began frantically wriggling out of her half-wet cardigan. Her voice came only after much ineffective arm-flailing. Even then, it had trouble standing alone without being chaperoned by nervous laughter.

“A-ahaha, yes. I would be remiss to turn away such generous hospitality.” Sheepishly, she took both the towel and jacket. After some thought, she added: “An Irish coffee would be a God-send, if possible?”



Zairea
Roleplay: [Walk-In]
Date: Oct 7th, 2011
Theme: Anything
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Yuri
Word Count: 712

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She had never been a very well-accomplished liar. Had she been hooked up to a polygraph, the readings would be spiking more than a hedgehog on a caffeine drip. But if there was one skill she excelled in, besides freezing levitating water and sending razor shards hurtling at Dai Li agents, it was in reading people. By the time she had managed to untangle herself from her cardigan and clutch the offered towel and jacket to herself, feebly obscuring the odd distribution of water that patterned her shirt and jeans, she had already drank in the sight of the raven-haired woman and her cerulean streaks as she made her way to the bar with her order. In the few seconds that passed, time seemed to suspend itself in her mind’s eye as both pupils dilated in concentration.

Warm, kind, hospitable to a point that straddled the fence dividing obligation and concern. The woman struck her as the sort that was comprised primarily of dedication to her work, even if it meant being self-sacrificial to a fault. And being in this line of business, a certain level of attentiveness was required to tend efficiently to one’s patrons.

Her brow creased faintly. Would this prove problematic in the long run? She traced the other’s gaze when it darted to the adjacent window, likely checking the direction of rainfall in unspoken response to her odd manner of soaking.

Yes. I suppose it would be. But now wasn’t the time to shirk generosity in the name of suspicion. With the way things had been going lately, she wasn’t especially picky. Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers.

The owner was making her way back with a piping hot mug in tow. Realizing she looked more hanger than human the way she awkwardly clutched the two articles of cloth, she straightened to attention and played the part, idly tousling her hair with the towel in the way she imagined most civilians without bending powers would. The jacket she had slipped into moments earlier was finally beginning to warm itself against her icy flesh. When the drink was offered, she bowed her head in thanks, curling her fingers around the mug handle and cradling it close to heart before taking a tentative sip. It took everything in her power to keep her eyes from rolling back in utter and complete relief. The beverage was a hot release that spread delectably down her throat, warming her travel-weary nerves and coaxing their jarring edges into submission. She hadn’t realized just how cold she was until that point. As she dipped back into ecstasy for another sip, she paused at the unprecedented mention of “kid.” It impassioned her to draw back from the mug and arch a brow in intrigue. She hadn’t been called a “kid” in years. Just as she teetered on the brink of a witty retort, she pursed her lips and immediately caught sight of the foamy white moustache she had obliviously given herself, courtesy of the whipped cream. A silly smile played across her lips. Soon, that too gave way to a chorus of light, lilting laughter.

“.. Well then. I guess I really am a kid, huh.”

Wriggling a hand free from the jacket’s oversized sleeve, she dabbed at her upper lip with the back of a forefinger. Once she had freed herself from the sticky, sweet menace, she warmly extended a hand towards the woman. “You may. I’m known as Lyra. Thank you for your kindness and hospitality.” She quirked an impish smile. “A couple more rounds of your finest spirits and you might come to learn the rest of my name. Although from the looks of things, monopolizing my business won’t be necessary. This is quite a cozy place you have here.” Slipping the towel from the crown of her head, she set it gently onto a nearby barstool before pausing and glancing back at the woman.

“Your establishment wouldn’t happen to have .. a back door, would it? In case the mood strikes me for a smoke,”she added somewhat hastily.


Zairea
Roleplay: [Walk-In]
Date: Oct 7th, 2011
Theme: Anything
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Yuri
Word Count: 730

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Username: Zairea
Name: Darius MacLeod
Nickname: I wouldn’t. Many have tried, all have been publically spurned.
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Place of Origin: Dublin, Ireland.
Job: Musician. The lead guitarist, to be precise.
Hours: Full-time
Shifts: Both. A little overtime never hurt anybody, yeah?
Personality: Darius is a man accustomed to chaos. In fact, he’s usually at the epicentre of it. Over the years he’s garnered a dubious reputation for his smooth-talking ways and unconventionally coy charisma. Caught out alone on the street without a roof to weather the night? He’ll shamelessly charm his way into your bed sheets. Strapped for cash? He’ll gush about mutual bond and stock statistics like Niagara Falls until you’re certain beyond a doubt that lending this man your life’s savings will make you an instant millionaire. Cocky? I think so. And that’s exactly what Darius is counting on to feed a rather ugly addiction – drugs. But being an aspiring musician of the “suffering-in-silence” sort, he is prone to his thoughtful moments, motes in time where he isn’t angling for his next extortionist ploy or chatting up the closest voluptuous vixen. Some would even go so far as to say he’s suffering from a common human ailment – loneliness. He probably wouldn’t put it past him. But try to get him to admit it? He’d sooner put out a campfire with his face, thanks.
Appearance: Battered and worn by one too many close encounters with drug lords and cartels on the street, Darius is a battle-hardened wolf in sheep’s clothing. Although he towers above most at a height of 6’4’’, his sinewy limbs are fleshed out with knotted cords of muscle, honed over the years in the interests of self-defence and sometimes, self-preservation. His is a life fraught with difficulty, living with one foot on the dirty asphalt of the street pavement, the other from house-to-house as he croons his way into unsuspecting women’s homes. Much like a canvas, his body is a piece littered with angry brushstrokes – scars that criss-cross every which way, each whispering of an encounter best forgotten. But to Darius? They were war trophies. There wasn’t a moment where he wouldn’t hesitate to spill his guts and gory details about their acquisition. And speaking of gut-spilling, the most remarkable addition to his collection resides diagonally from his left collarbone down to his right hip. It looks as if a flash of lightning had fleetingly kissed his torso. Mysteriously, this is the one scar he refuses to discuss. Push your luck and you’ll be in for some frightening scowls.
Attire: A typical collared, white dress shirt with the first two buttons towards his neck left undone. If you’re lucky, he’ll make a feeble attempt to match the well-primped décor of the café by strapping on a tie; albeit loosely so it dangles partway down his chest. Sort of like a classy noose. Dark-coloured slacks or jeans often adorn his lower body. As if he wasn’t odd enough, his favourite footwear of choice juggles between high-topped sneakers and Converse. If you ever catch him in dress shoes, it’s a good indication he’s out on a “hunt.” What exactly that word entails is entirely up to your, as he would put it, “vacuous” imagination.
History: Darius has a fairly shady past that takes some coaxing to lure out into the open, although he’s more liable to spill details if you bribe him over a whiskey sour. Although I’d approach with caution – if he takes a liking to you, you’ll be up all night struggling to work your way free from his tendrils.
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Zairea
Roleplay: Le Cafe Obscur
Date: Apr 22nd, 2011
Theme: Cafe, Slice-of-life
Gender: Male
Sexual Preference: Het
Word Count: N/A

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∂αяιυѕ // мα¢ℓєσ∂

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A soft, merry jingle sliced through the peaceful ambience of the café, courtesy of the silver bell placed strategically against the upper corner of its main doors. Normally it would be a welcomed interruption that ushers in yet another paying customer.

But today?

Naw.

It was just Darius, your overly-amorous lead guitarist whose presence alone made most regulars subconsciously clutch their wallets closer to themselves. Or conversely if you were of a feminine persuasion, cinch the collar of your shirt/blouse/top tight to ward away roving eyes. And wisely as well – it wasn’t as if he could plead innocence, given the innumerable witnesses and liable testimonies. Often there was no telling whether an amicable embrace “good morning” meant exactly that, or came with an unwanted and often costly side of pick pocketing. It was worse still if you were a woman, or God-forbid an attractive one. If you were misguided enough to keep your personal funds in your back pocket you would most certainly .. “experience” the feeling of being stolen from, in more ways than one. The remarkable part of all these shenanigans was that if you did fulfill the latter criteria, probability dictates that in nine out of ten instances, Darius could still find a way to coax you into having an intimate dinner by candlelight with yours truly, by which point you would be considered a lost cause.

But enough with all this blind ego-stroking.

After all, what was the man doing, sauntering in three hours after the established opening hours?

If you had a keen enough sight to detect the hint of violet-esque bruising beneath the hollows of his sockets, or that despite his overall fatigued appearance that his pupils were unnaturally dilated, leaving only a circular trace of jade to rim the voids of his eyes, you would see that he was a man with a bare handle on the inner turmoil raging within the confines of his body.

But were they amiable disputes? Perhaps a romanticized explanation – a tormented soul, torn between prior obligations and the passionate embrace of another?

No such luck.

The only “raging” influences for him to rise to arms against would be the stimulants he took hours earlier to provide a little mid-morning “pick-me-up,” warring mightily against the oral tranquilizers he consumed minutes before in order to take the edge off of those very same stimulants, ones which caused his hands to tremble uncontrollably. It was like using water to put out a grease fire – he only made matters worse, never mind the collateral damage.

Still. A man’s gotta eat and a guitarist needs his hands to play.

Sliding a finger into the noose of a tie he hung nonchalantly around his neck, he loosened it even further with a solid yank, as if it were even possible. By this time he had managed to weave his way through half the sea of tables before him – a veritable maze, determined to keep him from the stage at the head of the room, complete with overhead lighting and unnecessarily tall stool for him to croon from. The croissant he had commandeered with a bit of flattery from the neighbouring bakery still remained nestled between two rows of pearly whites as his gaze snagged on that of Tea, the loveable and sometimes laughable café waitress. Since he was unable to vocalize his morning salutations thanks to his breakfast choice, the man opted instead for a licentious wink in her direction. Of all the waitresses employed in the establishment, she was one of the few unvisited marks on his “hist list.” He briefly toyed with the idea of bumping her up in priority. But before that – the first order of business for the morning. Shrugging the padded case from his shoulders, he extracted his weapon of choice for the day – a rich, dark mahogany acoustic. It had taken him a solid week to talk the saleswoman into letting the beast go for a reasonable settlement.

Darius’ brow momentarily furrowed in recollection. Was tonight one of the nights he was required to pay her a visit and strike off yet another “instalment” from the total sum? He would have to check.

Propping himself on said stool, he allowed a leg to spill over the side while the other tapped rhythmically to an unseen melody, idly biding his time while he tuned the instrument up. The café wasn’t particular packed at this early hour, but he reasoned that the patrons who were present wouldn’t object to a little music to go with their coffee.

Crimson pick poised between a thumb and forefinger, Darius drew a slow, calming breath. The very same one he would pull before each appearance. It had become a soothing ritual of sorts. And today, it would help jump-start a softer melody.

So he began, flooding the space with the simple pleasures of a finger-plucked tune.


Zairea
Roleplay: Le Cafe Obscur
Date: Apr 22nd, 2011
Theme: Cafe, Slice-of-life
Gender: Male
Sexual Preference: Het
Word Count: 817

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                                              Tyson anxiously craned his neck outside the luxuriously wide bay window of their shared home. The clouds were gathering ominously overhead, as if congregating in some secret plot to quite literally “rain on his parade.” A sinewy hand wearily wiped its way from the crown of his head down to his angular chin. Of all days for it to rain, it had to happen on the one where his life would be forever intertwined with the woman he loved.

                                              Still. Rain or shine, this was going to happen.

                                              It had to, before he lost his nerve.

                                              The past month had consisted of nothing more than sneaking around, waking up at obscenely early hours of the morning to plan a covert engagement party, staying out at equally obscene hours of the night to meet with a wedding planner and smooth over the details. And now, the culmination of all his hard work was about to come to fruition. As soon as she came home from what she thought to be a usual grocery run, he would drop heavily to one knee and pour out every drop of his heart and soul in hopes of coaxing her into nuptial bliss, as if pouring libations on a sacred ritual that would signal the beginning of a whole new life together.

                                              But for that to happen, she had to be here. Physically.

                                              Abruptly coming to the conclusion that staring with unblinking eyes beyond the window would not in fact bring her home sooner, but only send shards of pain shooting up his retinas, he gave them a tired rub and resumed pacing the rich oak flooring of their home. To help pass the time, he eased a hand into his pant pockets and began fingering the edges of the velvet box concealed within – and within that, a splendidly-worked diamond engagement ring, encased in a band of white gold.

                                              That was what she would want, wouldn’t it? I mean .. the saleslady assured him that she would be floored by it.

                                              Little did he know that there wasn’t much time to nurse his burgeoning fears, in more than one sense.

                                              When the bolt on the door turned with a resounding click, shutting with equal finality behind a silken, feminine greeting, he combed a hand through his raven mane and drew a calming breath. Unable to keep his nerves from showing, he could only manage a crooked smile when she came into view. His hand remained deeply embedded in his pocket.

                                              “Welcome home, sweetheart. Did you get everything?”


                                              Zairea
                                              Roleplay: [Private]
                                              Date: Apr 19th, 2011
                                              Theme: Supernatural, Ghosts, Deceased loved one
                                              Gender: Male
                                              Sexual Preference: Het
                                              Word Count: 425

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                                              A corner of his brow twitched faintly. Something was seriously amiss. He didn’t know what it was, or why it was there, but it was filling the room with tension so thick that he felt as if he had to wade through it just to get to her. It would have been easier to gauge the severity of the situation if she would just meet his eyes. He could always tell what she truly felt when he dipped into those limpid pools of sapphire hues. They were the epitomized windows into her soul – they could never lie.

                                              But she wouldn’t look his way.

                                              What’s going on .. ?

                                              Still, he forced a sunny smile in place of the worry scrawled hastily across his features. Surely, his overactive imagination was getting away from him. Making note of her arms and hands, bare from the usual grocery bags, he quirked a soft chuckle while crossing the living room. He intended to keep pace with her as she disappeared into the corridor. “Well. Those imaginary bags look heavy. Want me to take a load off for you?” But such poorly wielded humour didn’t hold up long against the brunt of what was genuinely bothering her. The moment she froze in place, he had to catch himself mid-stride. From where he stood at the mouth of the hallway, she suddenly seemed so far away. Distant. Swallowed up by the impending darkness of night outside their once cozy home. Unaccustomed to such gloom, Tyson had to fight back the urge to hit a light switch and beat its dark tendrils back. But he knew their problems couldn’t be solved with a simple press of a button.

                                              “You don’t love me, do you?”

                                              They were daggers straight to his heart.

                                              Instantaneously, the blood fled his features and extremities. It left a tingling sensation of dread. In those fleeting minutes of undead silence that passed them by, Tyson felt as if he’d died and lived several lifetimes. Lonely ones. His lips moved faintly, mimicking the act of speech when in fact, no words could come to his rescue. What could he say? Could he thrust the engagement jewellery in her face now and hope it would bribe her back into the arms of holy matrimony? If she no longer felt the same passionate pull for him as he did for her, what kind of life would that be? Worse yet, what kind of man would he be to impose plans on a woman who was neither here nor there?

                                              His mouth felt like a second Sahara. By the time he had worked his tongue free, she had already begun to speak.

                                              That was when the floodgates of relief burst open. Against his better judgement, Tyson expelled a heady sigh of relief and laughed aloud. Hands braced against his knees, he bent over to spill a chuckle onto the rich mahogany floor before straightening to his full height, finally free of his imaginary burden and fears. Looking back on things, he probably would have done better not to laugh in the face of her fears in case she mistook them for dismissal. But then again, none of us can go back in time.

                                              “Jesus Mir,” he breathed, moving towards her in a noticeably relaxed gait. “You scared the living daylights outta me. Of course I love you, babe. You know that.” Large, sinewy hands reached over to gather hers in a gentle grip.

                                              “I’ll explain over coffee. I promise you – you’ll have a good laugh over it. C’mon.”

                                              Zairea
                                              Roleplay: [Private]
                                              Date: Apr 20th, 2011
                                              Theme: Supernatural, Ghosts, Deceased loved one
                                              Gender: Male
                                              Sexual Preference: Het
                                              Word Count: 591
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