Post by hangman on Feb 8, 2009 10:48:09 GMT -6
Hangman
alias: 'Hangy'? O.e
age: Six.
gender: Male.
breed(s): Irish Wolfhound.
height: ~ Hunded and fourty seven.
weight: Ninety-three inches.
physical: 5-7 paragraphs
character: 5-7 paragrpahs.
history: 5-7 paragraphs.
relations: Laundry, sister and scew up of the family. Ah! He may not be in contact with much of his blood these days but Laundry and he seem to share a special bond, having both been nurtured from the womb of a traitor and both managing to mess up something horrible during the most important day(s) of their life.
out of character name: Valid.
role play example: Incomplete but... maybe... it will do? O.o
"Oh, my dear little fiend..." She said softly, her lashes fluttering gently as they met porcelain cheeks before rising again, touching again, and repeating the cycle... a cycle that would end as surely as the day, the night, the pain... as surely as all things end, she would come to the point and cross the threshold and would then cease to be. The opening of her eyes to welcome in the grey matter of a sky and the rolling clouds above - any could be her last and she hated knowing that, hated. Her breath came out as wisps of white air as she breathed in shallow, half-hearted breaths. She felt so cold, so very cold. Despite the anger in her, despite the remorse and the agony and the sadness. She hated the snow. She hated dying. S-she... A tear gently rolled down her cheek, the dazzling droplet a glistening jewel as the light struck it in such a way it gleamed. Beautiful, but what else could a beautiful woman be but beautiful on her dying day? Anything else, anything at all, would defy her and the words we speak about her, no? As tears gently flowed and the snow began to fall and the ground beneath her remained consistently stained with a reddish tint, she did not scream in her pain but reveled in it. Blood (her own no less) was what she was bathing in, blood she could feel pealing away from her. Dripping, slipping, fleeing. You don't want to be with me any longer either? She wondered to herself. Her eyes wandering into the corners of her vision, past him, onto the horizon that seemed so fleeting. All the things she had seen, all the things she had felt... and then all the things she hadn't seen and all the things she hadn't felt. She knew deep down perhaps she felt agony over the idea of what she would soon miss, but what was agony to someone who had been so intent on this day? On this act? On this? It was what she had wanted... she knew it so. "My dear little fiend..." She spoke again, twisting her lips into a cookie-cutter smile as she returned her gaze to him. A once gorgeous face, exuding perfection where there was nothing but hideousness behind it, was shattered, broken, cut to pieces at the women's own persistent urging. Yet, he who fingered the shard of glass, held it like a warm gun... he dropped it now, its reflective, glittering edge sticking into the sticky ground at her side, blood from both victim and villain dripping from it. He frowned, somewhat, but not out of remorse or even feeling for his own brutalized hand. Casting his eyes to his blood-splattered knuckles, he saw the pattern on his hands, the difference between the skin that had been exposed to the spattering of scarlet and the areas that had not. The out of his hand bore her, the in of his hand... the deep cut... gushed him. Yet, between his middle finger and the digit to the immediate right, there the blood mingled together. Her blood and his own, they were both bleeding but his cuts would heal. Hers? He frowned somewhat but returned his gaze to her. Eyeing her curiously, his eyes the eyes that looked past the uneven incisions his own hand had put into a once doll-like face. Pieces of flesh hung off her, mortal scarlet poured from her, she gagged and she choked and she cried quietly as her chest heaved. Yet, at her suffering he did not gag or stiffen his nose at the smell she gave. Nor did he feel the bile rise in his gut or have his eyes flicker away in repulsion. Instead he watched her, his eyes the eyes that saw her now in a most pitiful and victimized state. Her face was marred, ugly, gruesome, yet it seemed he was a lad who couldn't tell the difference between beauty and hideousness. He looked at her as he had always had. He saw her, recognized her, perceived her. Now, simply with inept curiosity. "You don't know what you've done... do you?" She inquired, lifting a pale, dainty little hand to him. Ghostly fingertips caressing the edge of his face, the warmth in them rapidly dissipating at they sought out the curve of his cheek and the young jut of his jaw. Tracing his image with light hands she gazed at him through skyblue eyes so fondly, the smile that had been twitching at the corners of her lips fidgeting. He didn't understand, did he? She could nearly laugh at the fool before her. Could nearly ponder his innocence, idiocy, or simple, obvious imbalance. Looking into his dual-colored eyes her own seem the shift. At first she had looked to him with mild affection but quickly her expression changed into a more vicious one. Her nails dug into his skin, looking for a grip in his flesh. Wincing at the act he closed his eyes and felt it well and well again. Her small little hands ripping away a layer of skin as her hand fell and she came to rest in a not-so-peaceful way. Yet, peace was rare in and of itself. Death and Peace rarely came hand in hand, holding the carriage for their company to enter and settle themselves within. So was the case with her... maybe. Yet...
"Coming, Nem're?" Syis asked, then, putting herself in the scene. The soles of her boots crunched on the gravel she came nearer, peered at the dead woman, then put an eye on the little gentlemen she had undoubtedly been directing her speech to. Hands in the pockets of her black hoodie she ran a pink tongue over white-enough teeth, clucking her tongue before rolling her shoulders and breaking the tragedy and serenity of the scene before her again, "Expecting her to rise up and smack you some, boy? If not, put your dick back in and c'mlon', will you?" A foxish grin trickled onto her older-than-he features before she gave into a shrug. "Just hurry it up." She added after a wistful moment, tossing her head to throw loose strands of hair from her eyes before trudging back towards the black-top road. Leaving the lad crouched next to the corpse. The corpse he opened his eyes to and gazed at a little longer. Running his unharmed hand along the scratch marks placed on his cheek he titled his head, eyed her with a most confused look, then glanced at the fleeting image of Syis, retreating.
age: Seventeen this year.
where'd you find us?: Roleplay Collection. ;]
experience: Many years? Eh, a while. u.u
alias: 'Hangy'? O.e
age: Six.
gender: Male.
breed(s): Irish Wolfhound.
height: ~ Hunded and fourty seven.
weight: Ninety-three inches.
physical: 5-7 paragraphs
character: 5-7 paragrpahs.
history: 5-7 paragraphs.
relations: Laundry, sister and scew up of the family. Ah! He may not be in contact with much of his blood these days but Laundry and he seem to share a special bond, having both been nurtured from the womb of a traitor and both managing to mess up something horrible during the most important day(s) of their life.
out of character name: Valid.
role play example: Incomplete but... maybe... it will do? O.o
"Oh, my dear little fiend..." She said softly, her lashes fluttering gently as they met porcelain cheeks before rising again, touching again, and repeating the cycle... a cycle that would end as surely as the day, the night, the pain... as surely as all things end, she would come to the point and cross the threshold and would then cease to be. The opening of her eyes to welcome in the grey matter of a sky and the rolling clouds above - any could be her last and she hated knowing that, hated. Her breath came out as wisps of white air as she breathed in shallow, half-hearted breaths. She felt so cold, so very cold. Despite the anger in her, despite the remorse and the agony and the sadness. She hated the snow. She hated dying. S-she... A tear gently rolled down her cheek, the dazzling droplet a glistening jewel as the light struck it in such a way it gleamed. Beautiful, but what else could a beautiful woman be but beautiful on her dying day? Anything else, anything at all, would defy her and the words we speak about her, no? As tears gently flowed and the snow began to fall and the ground beneath her remained consistently stained with a reddish tint, she did not scream in her pain but reveled in it. Blood (her own no less) was what she was bathing in, blood she could feel pealing away from her. Dripping, slipping, fleeing. You don't want to be with me any longer either? She wondered to herself. Her eyes wandering into the corners of her vision, past him, onto the horizon that seemed so fleeting. All the things she had seen, all the things she had felt... and then all the things she hadn't seen and all the things she hadn't felt. She knew deep down perhaps she felt agony over the idea of what she would soon miss, but what was agony to someone who had been so intent on this day? On this act? On this? It was what she had wanted... she knew it so. "My dear little fiend..." She spoke again, twisting her lips into a cookie-cutter smile as she returned her gaze to him. A once gorgeous face, exuding perfection where there was nothing but hideousness behind it, was shattered, broken, cut to pieces at the women's own persistent urging. Yet, he who fingered the shard of glass, held it like a warm gun... he dropped it now, its reflective, glittering edge sticking into the sticky ground at her side, blood from both victim and villain dripping from it. He frowned, somewhat, but not out of remorse or even feeling for his own brutalized hand. Casting his eyes to his blood-splattered knuckles, he saw the pattern on his hands, the difference between the skin that had been exposed to the spattering of scarlet and the areas that had not. The out of his hand bore her, the in of his hand... the deep cut... gushed him. Yet, between his middle finger and the digit to the immediate right, there the blood mingled together. Her blood and his own, they were both bleeding but his cuts would heal. Hers? He frowned somewhat but returned his gaze to her. Eyeing her curiously, his eyes the eyes that looked past the uneven incisions his own hand had put into a once doll-like face. Pieces of flesh hung off her, mortal scarlet poured from her, she gagged and she choked and she cried quietly as her chest heaved. Yet, at her suffering he did not gag or stiffen his nose at the smell she gave. Nor did he feel the bile rise in his gut or have his eyes flicker away in repulsion. Instead he watched her, his eyes the eyes that saw her now in a most pitiful and victimized state. Her face was marred, ugly, gruesome, yet it seemed he was a lad who couldn't tell the difference between beauty and hideousness. He looked at her as he had always had. He saw her, recognized her, perceived her. Now, simply with inept curiosity. "You don't know what you've done... do you?" She inquired, lifting a pale, dainty little hand to him. Ghostly fingertips caressing the edge of his face, the warmth in them rapidly dissipating at they sought out the curve of his cheek and the young jut of his jaw. Tracing his image with light hands she gazed at him through skyblue eyes so fondly, the smile that had been twitching at the corners of her lips fidgeting. He didn't understand, did he? She could nearly laugh at the fool before her. Could nearly ponder his innocence, idiocy, or simple, obvious imbalance. Looking into his dual-colored eyes her own seem the shift. At first she had looked to him with mild affection but quickly her expression changed into a more vicious one. Her nails dug into his skin, looking for a grip in his flesh. Wincing at the act he closed his eyes and felt it well and well again. Her small little hands ripping away a layer of skin as her hand fell and she came to rest in a not-so-peaceful way. Yet, peace was rare in and of itself. Death and Peace rarely came hand in hand, holding the carriage for their company to enter and settle themselves within. So was the case with her... maybe. Yet...
"Coming, Nem're?" Syis asked, then, putting herself in the scene. The soles of her boots crunched on the gravel she came nearer, peered at the dead woman, then put an eye on the little gentlemen she had undoubtedly been directing her speech to. Hands in the pockets of her black hoodie she ran a pink tongue over white-enough teeth, clucking her tongue before rolling her shoulders and breaking the tragedy and serenity of the scene before her again, "Expecting her to rise up and smack you some, boy? If not, put your dick back in and c'mlon', will you?" A foxish grin trickled onto her older-than-he features before she gave into a shrug. "Just hurry it up." She added after a wistful moment, tossing her head to throw loose strands of hair from her eyes before trudging back towards the black-top road. Leaving the lad crouched next to the corpse. The corpse he opened his eyes to and gazed at a little longer. Running his unharmed hand along the scratch marks placed on his cheek he titled his head, eyed her with a most confused look, then glanced at the fleeting image of Syis, retreating.
age: Seventeen this year.
where'd you find us?: Roleplay Collection. ;]
experience: Many years? Eh, a while. u.u
WIP IT! >D Hahaha, I'll fly ya a message when its done MzStafferlady =]