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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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 Posted: Sat May 26, 2012 1:05 am
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[↯Battle! / CLOSED ]____________________________________________________
•[Preliminary]•[Round 1]•[Round 2]•[Round 3]•[Final Round]
The streets were never quite silent, even under the shining full moon that illuminated the spatters on the wall.
Red, blue, green. Right through the rainbow.
She swung her legs distractedly, staring at the shapes on the wall. The candy in her mouth melted into a minty softness, sharp like the night wind on her skin. The rattle of a spray can alerted her to the arrival of the other three, and through sleepy eyes she could see them marvelling at the moonlit alleyway. Nothing new for the four of them, but breathtaking all the same.
Tomorrow, her art would just be grafitti on the wall. Youths nowadays, they'd say, no appreciation for society or culture.
If only they knew.
[Respond to this starter. DO NOT interact with the other roleplayers.]
____________________________________________________
Note :: Your character can be of either gender, unless "genderflip" is specified in the starter. |
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Posted: Fri Jun 01, 2012 11:27 pm
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The night was just as cold as it always was. From her perspective, nothing ever changed much. In the day, the same people wandered the streets, their heads filled with seemingly important information that was worthless to those who didn't know. Their eyes never met each other, from either fear or shame was her best guess, but she could never really tell. Tucked away in unused spaces, hidden behind her regularity, she would watch the blandness of day and never be seen. But in the night... Oh, in the night things were glorious! Silver streams over moonlight caressed each insignificant detail and made them shine like the brightest star. In the night, she was freed from the harshness of daylight and could become anything she dreamt of, and more! And in the night, they came. Those people with their colours that cascaded across any wall, as if it a master's canvas. Those dreamers, with their mind's eye guiding their hands to create whatever was in their hearts. Those free ones, who would never know the hope they brought to her as she watched them work from the shadows. Nor would they know how they gave her glittering new places to run to when her mind became frustrated with constricting reality. No-one would really ever know what they did for her, but it didn't matter. She was happy in her loneliness and loss. For her loneliness was that of a child who had found no-one else wanted to dream. And her loss was that of a girl who was really a princess, if only a princess of the night.
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Posted: Sat Jun 02, 2012 6:01 am
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Owls could be heard hooting in the distance. She walked through the streets, observing the city lights dancing off of the edge of buildings. Along with the lights, the brilliant full moon shone brightly above. There were many people bustling around, shopping, eating dinner, or even just taking a walk like she was. Most people she saw had jackets on. It was the city at night, of course it was cold.
She sat down on a park bench and thought about the city. Growing up in rural towns, she had never seen much of people or heard many cars. The city was new to her, as her father had gotten a new job in the city. She missed the country. It was quiet, peaceful, and she had loved taking care of all of the farm animals. The city was too noisy, too crowded, and it was impossible to find anything.
Sighing, she decided to go home. She picked up her small bag. Suddenly feeling happy, she started skipping down the streets. As she was passing, a small shop seemed to catch her eye. Curious, she stopped and poked her head inside. The walls were lined with beautiful antiques, so beautiful, that she had to just step inside and look.
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Posted: Sat Jun 02, 2012 6:22 am
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Posted: Sat Jun 02, 2012 7:19 am
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Posted: Sat Jun 02, 2012 7:49 am
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The moon hung in the sky by a string, lonely for companionship as it lit up the alleyways and corridors of the big, bustling city. Full of strange lights and sounds, the town felt like an entirely different animal when the sun went down - shadows filled the streets and shady people strolled the sidewalk looking for excitement and danger. Every now and then, a car alarm would cry out into the night, pleading for help...but all the good little boys and girls had already gone to bed. No one was left to bear witness to any wrongdoing, for it was in the wee hours of the night that all the city's miscreants came out to play.
Among them was a youthful looking lad of about seventeen, walking the beat with a backpack in-tow over his shoulder. His clothes were faded and stained with brick dust and spray paint. The grating sound of his sneakers across the chalky pavement was like sandpaper, adding a touch of grunge and grittiness to the somber darkness of night. Glancing about cautiously, his eyes glimmered like an animal's in the hollow light of a nearby streetlamp as he checked for any authority figures. Once his concerns had been satisfied, he ducked into the adjacent alley and descended into the shadows it coveted. This was his time.
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Posted: Sat Jun 02, 2012 9:00 am
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With little interest in the nights gloomy sky, he continued to walk, the moon shining as dully to him as if it were nothing but a pinball. He walked continuously down alleyways, the smell of wretched hatred and loneliness rather comforting to the man. His rather dark attire stood out amongst the others around him in these forgotten homes of the ignorant and nastily blessed, his single red scarf shone like a knife amongst them all. His melancholy expression opened questions mingled throughout the onlookers, staring as he began to cross the street through traffic. His silver eyes held the light of the moon within themselves.
The intricate moving throughout the city is as if it were held by a man playing us as a marionette. He thought ludicrously, biding past the darker parts of the city to the park. This colorful area had become a home to him, the people his family, for the most part. The man sat down on the bench, bringing his red scarf to his mouth and his fedora down on his eyes. The quiet night seemed to slow as he sat there, his ears beholding the sound of the town and all it's madness, possessing and caressing him.
The man began to laugh in an obnoxious fashion. with a sleight of his hand, he pulled out his watch and stared as his and everyone else had begun to lose time. He marveled at the fact and he thought of the ways this could possibly bring him closer to the world. He then began to ramble in his head and shook it in disbelief, thinking he was merely thinking to hard. Jason, he thought to himself smiling, However did you get here? He grinned to the pinball moon, wondering where it would take him next.
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Posted: Sat Jun 02, 2012 10:38 am
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The sun beat down upon her face as she walked by the wall, which she could've sworn had not been so colorful the night before. The blue, the green, the purple, it was all so beautiful.
"miscreants," she heard a man say as he passed by, presumably talking about the newly painted wall.
"jerks"
"punks"
"kids"
as people walked by they all said the same thing, but she knew the difference. This wasn't just the markings of some gang-bangers or vandals, she saw the art in this work, and she knew that the artist was trying to say something. She tried to interpret it, but knew that in the end the artist was the only one who would know the meaning behind their actions
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Posted: Sun Jun 03, 2012 10:21 am
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Posted: Sun Jun 03, 2012 1:23 pm
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He was no longer sure why he came. At first it had been for the thrill of it. He was from a military family after all; disobeying his father's orders was like his forbidden fruit. Sweet and filling at first, but after a while it just broke him. Tore him up, shredded him to pieces inside. It was awful.
For a while he had come because he thought the others needed him. They got their freedom from their artwork, and their unity from praising one another. He knew that no matter how free you wanted to be, if there was no one to share that freedom with you were just a lost soul in the wind; a boat without an anchor. So he stayed for the sake of the others; thinking that the group would fall apart if one of them lost their nerve. That if one of them just stopped, all of them would. Maybe that was true of before, but he didn't think so now. He was fairly certain that if he disappeared and never came back the others would move on as if nothing had ever happened. That they would continue to make their artwork; continue to be free.
As he raised his own can he knew that to him, this was not freedom. This was another thing in life that caged him. Caged him and broke his spirit, making him wilt not only in the daylight, but during the night as well. He wondered if the others could tell how miserable he was.
His design was taking shape now. An eye, with finely sculpted lashes and a dull, wide, grey pupil. He always took the longest on his, because he was the only one who worried about design. To the others, splashes of color was everything. It was a symbol of freedom, a symbol of something that could not be tamed. But he liked designs, because, to him, they were the only thing that mattered. Still, he usually used color for their sake. Because they liked it, and they liked it when they could say they liked it. It was their unity; their shared freedom.
Tonight, however, their was no color. Just the black outline of the eye, the white of the cornea, and the grey of the pupil that stared out at the other three as they finished their work. He could not bring himself to use anything else, to lie to himself. It was not worth it, he realized, since he would not be back tomorrow night. He would not be back because this was not his freedom anymore. It was their freedom, and even though for a while he could live on their pride and their happiness, he could not do it forever.
He was colorblind, and for his last piece of false freedom, he left them a piece of art that they could see just as he saw the rest of their work: in shades of grey.
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Posted: Sun Jun 03, 2012 3:43 pm
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Posted: Sun Jun 03, 2012 8:39 pm
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The girl was slender, small in comparison to most her age, but something about this one stood her high on a pedestal so that she could stare down at the rest like mere ants. She looked normal in many ways, dressing like any other youthful human being of the modern age, but how she carried herself was different, so very different. Her hips rocked to the beats that blared from the brilliant pastel headphones that caressed the nape of her neck, the words distorted in the volume, but it seemed all she was interested in was the background ruckus. She cared not of who heard, she preferred an audience of any kind, for better or for worse, so she carried on with the rhythms that overtook the clattering of the spray paint cans that she plucked from the ground in accordance to her needs, shaking and spraying, on the structure of her choice, what she considered to be a masterpiece deemed worthy of a spotlight in a fine gallery; however, that was never the case. The only spotlight that this would get in its prime would be the morning's rays, or if it was lucky, the afternoon's radiance. It all ended the same though, not just for this precious work, but for all that she had done. It was disheartening really.
A hollow hiss made the artist's heart sink, "Empty." The growl was low, but audible, expressing her mild frustrations. It wasn't a complete disaster, she would just have to improvise, but any obstacle was enough to cause some agitation. Tossing the paltry item, the delicate fingers curled themselves around a new victim. Decorated nails tapped thoughtfully on the newly chosen color, her way of physically conveying her contemplation and a sign to others that she was not to be disturbed.
It was trivial really, not much thought was needed, it was all a show that she put on to make her actions seem less impulse and more intelligible. The girl needed little thought to see the new image in mind and the time it took to was just as miniscule. Cerulean bangs ignited under the moon's incandescent gaze, the lustrous jet black layers behind it nearly blending into the dingy background as she withdrew herself from the wall to gather the full effect. It was truly marvelous, the colors showing through the darkness with their own radiance that even the moon was no match against.
As it seemed the awe would never wear off, the girl whipped her head around to get a look at the alley from both directions, catching glimpses of figures in motion. Wiping the little perspiration that had begun to collect hair on her forehead, a grin plastered itself to the girl's features and her hand rose in a lazy greeting. Perhaps others viewed their actions as antics, or a form of rebellion, but it was more a lifestyle to them and a short escape from the dreary routines that were generally already drawn out for them. This set them apart from the rest, secretly or not, and gave their existence a well suiting hue.
Once having gathered her supplies in a rather large backpack, she joined the others as they took one last look at their work and rushed off into the dark reaches of the town; their town. Perhaps they would return to marvel once more over their work, but for the time being they would only make haste, for their grand debut would come with the day's beginning and a new show would give rise in its ruins when the day would be closed behind night's thick curtains.
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Posted: Mon Jun 04, 2012 10:43 pm
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The girl watched the four men prepare with gas masks and paint cans. The tallest, skinniest one began to give orders to the short, stout one and the mid sized one. "Remember the eye lashes and don't be rushing that calligraphy, got it?"
The midsized one told him in a sort of disappointed tone, "Why do you gotta make it sound so girly, man!"
The short one then remarked, "Well, we are painting..." was all he could say before the tall one said, "Don't talk crap, they're my passion."
The girl laughed. "I know. Don't give my man too much crap, boys."
The two shorter one's shook their heads and began their work.
A plethora of colors sprayed through the air as the so-called-vandals began their work. A couple circles here, a dot there, a few words here. The midsized man whispered under his breath, "Man this is sooo gay." and in response the taller one replied, "I'm going to love and tolerate the stuffing out of you if you keep that up."
The taller one dropped a can of purple and the midsized one a can of pink, each picking up another can of the same color. "Bravo...it's coming along well." the girl said.
Two hours passed as they worked their mural, the final composition coming into view. The midsized man had given up and was eating a ham and bacon sandwich on the side of the ally way. "Gay." He said.
It was finally complete. The girl hung onto the tall one's arm and he hugged her back. Over all the hateful graffiti stood one magnificent picture. Twilight Sparkle, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, Rainbow Dash, AppleJack, Rarity, all stood on happily over the words, "Don't hate, love and tolerate." Their magnificence was legendary, and not a single brony was hated in the city from then on. For this was society and culture, My Little Pony Friendship Is Magic had taken over the world by then, in spite of all haters, and the supreme ruler Lauren Faust demanded that all in the herd be loved and tolerated, even the haters.
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Posted: Mon Jun 04, 2012 11:03 pm
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Galaga spoke no more words. He didn't have much to say with a mouth full of flesh, chugging water from a used beans can one moment, rasping and chewing in the next. He sat hunched over his latest prey; a small boy of the age of eight. The Wolf Eaters had made quick work of the hapless child who had strayed too far into the bounds of a city that craved meat and violence, a place of challenge or action, temptation and madness. The Doberman sized arachnid beside Galaga's grunting form chittered happily, it's bone white feelers caressing it's master's back as he struggled down another mouthful. The spider was host to ten legs, jittering in it's inhuman twang like a wet leaf folding in the wind, eyes of reflectionless black twisting in circles to gaze everywhere and nowhere at once.
Galaga was a sight to behold himself. His Thrill mask of Iridian steel was snapped up from his gaunt features and latched outward upon his forehead, his pale face a rarity to gaze upon. His eyes were the hue of radiation, a sickening green that seemed to waver like gasoline upon the air, a heated glaze to his stare that forced the skin to crawl and dared the hairs to rise. His nose was an arrowhead, blunted at the base and razor edged toward the tip, his lips dried scabs that only drool and blood seemed to flow from, wisps of leathery skin stitched to a mouth of serrated teeth and nightmares. A clefted chin ended the face of the hollow Consumer of Tyranix, underlord of cannabilism and arachnids. From the neck down his body was thin yet overtly developed, his muscles impossible yet terrifyingly true to their grotesquely built form, every motion to rip from the child one that pleased/tortured the eyes with millions of tense bundles upon the man, contracting and folding, sliding and breathing.
He was nearly done with the boy before standing, hitching his only apparel up by a leather belt to latch his jeans tighter, scratch at his a** crack with a bloody hand. His Jitter Machetes purred within their sheaths across his back with the intent of lions, beasts that ate and craved in hunger though they were of steel and nothing more, tools of war and nothing less. The zealot of the Spider God slowly tightened his thrill mask back on, the cover host to no markings, no symbols or names to indicate his birthright, claim his lineage and all that rot. It was crimson, coated in bullet dents and blade crags. It was host to two eye slits; In short, another tool for war. With a kick that could and did shatter bone, the now headless corpse of the child tumbled to the back of the alley, Galaga's faithful Wolf Eater skittering after it like a ghost slinking to rob a soul. It's milky white texture left a blur upon the black alley air, the creature imprinting the shadows with it's anxious intent. Hunger speeds the wicked he thought with a grimace, putting his back to the lingering sounds of slurping and crunching, a web already beginning to form in the blackness of his mind to suppress the madness of the Dark Tongue, the whispers of Tyranix daring him to not only use her power, but give in, let her gifts flood him pure.
He wavered to the singing of flies beginning to form past him and around the boy's carcass, his beast's grunts growing lower. The sound of marrow being sucked out of pale bone was music to his cauliflowered ears, the hum of insects and burdensome feast his favorite melody.
"Where to roam now.." He murmured, tapping at the handle of one of his four machetes for good measure, it's mechanical rev enough to get his feet moving. It wouldn't be long until his Wolf Eater caught up with him, but for now Galaga needed to sit, gather his thoughts, and most of all...
"I grow weary of nothingness.." He patted his own ripped stomach twice before a deep thrum bolted through his entire frame. His jaws clenched and his arms twitched, some form of ooze beginning to tumble from behind his mask and down his chin.
This episode passed, and the warrior of Tyranix wandered across the street towards a light post that flickered on and off, on and off...
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Posted: Tue Jun 05, 2012 1:08 am
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The man was old. The man was homeless. The man was sick.
Flies. Them flies fluttered around his face in a sickeningly brooding buzz, and his hand would go up thrice in a row to slap vacancy out of the melding heat and stink. Stink. The trash-dump at the corner, the sleek stain of dripping grease and sweat against the wall he leaned, the raw reek of kerosene and alcohol through his unkempt hair and beard.
There was a lot that stunk. But if he had to choose the strongest of them, he would inevitably choose the rotting, fruity aroma, the capricious mixture that chemistry books referred to as ethanol. It drowned his conscience, his living breath, to the soaking wet dreams.
The city did not have much to offer to its youth, or to its dying elders. Neither did it count the middle-aged legion of the middle-class. The best this city could do was provide escape channels, by-passing the dying corpse of the dried sewers. Escape channels. Ethanol for the homeless, graffiti for the youth. Fair trade. Because only rotting dreams of the youth could be materialized in the precarious day-dreams of alcohol. But iron ruled the world, so did irony.
It had been months since the factory had closed. Weeks since his wife left him. Days since he had learnt to push forward his upturned hat, and watch the steady fall of spare change. Days since he lost fifty-five percent of his eye-sight from the cheap confusion of methanol over ethanol, or so the doctors from charity would say and he would believe. His days would be filled by the clatter of coins, slow but there. His nights with the blooming fluorescence of colors - like a thousand petals across the walls.
He would listen. Kids, they were. They talked about graffiti. In his youth, graffiti meant the slogans towards an ambitious world. An ambitious government. Days of change. Long live the revolution.
His nights would drown in the sweat of alcohol, just like theirs would be drowned in spirit. Sometimes, just sometimes, the stench of fresh paint would penetrate his alcoholic armor, or his fleeting sub-dreams. The scent was cold, minty and longing. Their ages ripe, the time they start growing wings. He had heard of a story a long time ago, of a man and his wax wings. He had found it ridiculous then, but now he was forced to think back.
But he feared thinking back. The silhouette of the girl swinging her legs struck like a vessel of raw shadow against the flashing colors. How old would she be ? Sixteen ? Seventeen ? May be younger. If he did have a daughter, how old would she be now?
He had painted walls in his time too. The colors colder, glaring and yet longing in the fly-thronged flood-lights. He had grown wings and dreamed of a new era, a new power, a new government. His hands had gleamed red from the residual paint, and so did his comrade's corpse. And for what ?
He had not calculated factories closing down, or cheap, corrupted alcohol. He had not calculated stray young kids of the street. Like Icarus he had risen high, and fallen low. Icarus. That was the name he could not remember... The god that failed.
Still, the paint gleamed on the wall like slow, unfurling petals. He knew his eyes would be blurred soon, only he did not know if that was from the alcohol or the faint scratch of rusty dreams and stretching chagrin. Sometimes he wondered. Sometimes he stared. Sometimes he watched. Could dreams come true ?
Because he wanted to dream that he could see again.
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