[Ebonykrow]

So it was decided that a play-by-post roleplay topic was needed. If you’re confused about roleplay but are interested in joining in, it is very simple.

If you already know all of this fun junk, please skip on to the RP post, its waiting for you.

As it’s called, “play-by-post” requires a user to type the actions of their character in response to a previous post. The goal is to reply to the other characters, acknowledging everything as you would in a story. It is, in essence, a collaborative story; everyone is simply contributing their own characters. Your post can only control your own character; you can’t predict or determine the actions of someone else’s character. Your post can’t even assume, you must wait entirely for the second, third, or fourth characters to react before following through with an action.

The plot is not established in my post, if you’d like to introduce something, please go ahead. I’m just throwing something out to get started.

We should try to take turns as best we can too, otherwise it could get a little out of hand if two people go on for pages, leaving some of the other characters behind. That’s a lot of standing around, and catching up to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chepstow Castle was abandoned now, and seldom did visitors from the village below come to inspect the homeless who sheltered inside its dilapidated walls. The surrounding area had since been used as a private farmyard, and there was talk about converting a small portion into a glass factory. For now, though, Israel used the castle for his own devices, along with what others were not fit for society in Chepstow.

The night was stiff and dank, smelling strongly of a harsh Welsh rain. Disrupted only by the sound of the River Wye surging below, its banks flooded and muddy, the darkness was otherwise still and uneventful. Israel was content with this; he had finally a chance to escape into the world of those whom he despised…

He stepped onto the muddy path, straightening his long black robe and pulling it tighter around his shoulders as to keep it off the ground. The cloak was all he had to cover himself; Israel did not even own shoes. Strolling down the path, guessing his way forward from the sound of muck between his toes, he reached inside a pocket and drew out a mahogany pipe. He considered it, knowing he could not use it, but imagined it would give him the look of a reasonable human being. Though, he was certain, reasonable human beings did not wander muddy paths in the dark hours of the morning.

But of course, that was all he could do. Acting has become a large part of him, although he never knew just how many souls he had managed to convince. He had since forgotten how to breathe, how to feel, and sometimes he was sure he had lost the ability to think. The dark magic that moved him was a prison, it kept him captive, and it kept him living—but not alive.

Tonight, he visited the bank of the river, staring at its black waters in silent reflection. He could not see the water, but he could hear it just below, as if it were reaching for him; as if he had come too close. And, even if he had, he imagined that falling in would warrant a quick release, and he would no longer have to play this game anymore. But the magic kept him from taking that step, and instead it held him back, pulling at his cloak to keep him from falling.

The village mocked him; down in the valley he knew there were people. He knew that they existed, quite clearly in their ignorance—but yet he wondered if they knew about him.

“Israel,” he muttered, “the vampire. They would not believe such foolishness if it came to stand in front of them.” A deep longing somewhere inside him told him that, perhaps, a trip into Chepstow would be a good idea tonight.

[SRCivic98]

I stand on the rooftop of this old abandoned apartment building looking down onto the city full of life. there is no work here but the people still come out. the rain feels just as refreshing as it always has during the evening hours as the sun fades and the moon rises over the horizon. the my jacket still bares the scars and marks of the last war within my country. there is a few of us that are still around this ancient city. I look down at the young generations walking around in their clothing and not remember that it was because of our lose that they have a future now. our government no longer exist so we, night guardians, stay watch during the hours of darkness and on into the light as we protect them from ever having to suffer through what we did. we fought because we no choice...but instead we had a chance to change things for the better. I feel my scar on my face as I feel over my right eye. I remember when that knife almost made me lose my sight but I still have both my sights and my sight but I forever see the war as it was before my ghost town was destroyed. there in the distance stands another guardian as we both look down onto the streets. she and I know that now is our time...and so....we do what we do best.

[Rosewin]

Under a broken bridge with gloved hand over fisted one his breath was mist being sent into the earthiness of the dragging night. On a bend along the Wye he watched a distant figure and noticed the lack of any vapor coming from them and while it had just become cold, sinking his neck into the turned collars of his doublet to remind him of this fact, Emyrwyn half smiled, half bit the corner of his bottom lip, then steepled his index fingers and continued watching.

Such a person as they seemed, barefoot and all, was not likely to know anyone far from this area so he was not overly concerned that usually his kind and their kind did not get along. If that person sensed he was there, which was highly probable, most likely they would not know what he was, and if they did not know that they would not know that he should know what they were.

As far as his kind and their kind not getting along, at least according to the books, Emyrwyn knew he had no worse enemy than himself, no truer friend than one of the kind, though they had many different names for themselves wherever you went.

Somewhere not to far there was a village but as an outsider the only way he would learn it and be able to enter safely would be to become one with the urchins, outcasts, unworlders, and whatever else the nearby camp in the abandoned castle had. In all his travels he noticed the same game always, over and over, the village, the camp, the insiders, the outsiders, but they always needed each other to live regardless of how much they acted like they were different.

To enter the inside he had to enter the outside.

This post has been edited by Rosewin: 05 November 2009 - 08:34 AM

[Fenrir-sama]

((OOC: There seems to be an ongoing misunderstanding via chat and PM wether this is set in the Modern Era or Earlier; and the most recent I had heard was that it was set in modern times. If that is inaccurate, then inform me so I can remove this post.))

A tall man with long brown hair in a ponytail and brown eyes sits in the tavern of Chepstow, the light reflecting off a silver, wolf's-head earring on the man's left ear. He slowly drinks an odd-flavored juice, casting a wary eye around the room before examining some papers in his hand. He scans through these, then sets them down, finishing the juice and heading out into the night. He pulls his leather, fur-collared jacket tighter in an effort to block out some of the rain and cold; keeping one hand on the handle of a handgun barely visible, concealed within his jacket. He squints into the rain, occasionally wiping water from the lenses of his silver glasses. His vision was considerably more accurate than an average human's, and the glasses amplified this further. His eyes seem to flash gold for a moment, before his mouth parts in a broad grin. He had spotted what he had come looking for - a pale figure in a dark cloak, up by the old castle. He watches the pale figure for a few more moments before stepping back into the tavern. He had found his quarry - now he needed only wait for that quarry to make the first move...

This post has been edited by Fenrir-sama: 05 November 2009 - 10:11 AM

[Moon Minion]

Rosemerta stood in the tavern near the bar eyeing the strange somewhat attractive man wearing an earring of silver that appeared to be in the shape of a wolf's head. She scoffed and ran a hand through her thick long black hair steering her green eyes back to the bar. Obviously he wasn't a werewolf like she or that silver earring would be burning his ear the way a candle melts the stem of wax.

"The usual?" the bald bartender offered, checking her out with an inviting smile playing on his lips.

"Yes" She replied shortly gazing around the dimly lit tavern making sure no one recognized her there. It wouldn't matter, she could fight a human off with one fist and they were the only ones after her. She pulled off her black leather jacket laying it across her lap, checking outside the window for anything suspicious.

Her canine senses had been more dormant than usual, but tonight as she stared upon the man yet again she felt her eyes burn, reflecting the beast within her. She stopped to watch, he appeared to be gazing warily at some papers in his hand. Abruptly he stood up walking out into the rain and Rosmerta had the strangest desire to follow him, she knew it was wise to trust her gut instincts for they were also the wolf's instincts but reluctantly she reminded herself that she had to remain behind for the one who would be here soon to give her the next assignment.

Somewhere out in Chapstow there was a Vampire in need of her aid, and who better to to protect the monsters of the night then the monsters who could walk in the day?
Surprised, she saw the man double back into the tavern, rain drops dripped from his leather coat and as the light hit his eyes it appeared they had a hint of gold to them. Fearing she might miss an opportunity Rosemerta decided there on the spot to take the chance to suss him out, his voice would be enough to determine his mood.

She directly faced him and said with her smoothest voice "Nice earring, real silver?"

This post has been edited by Moon Minion: 05 November 2009 - 12:34 PM

[Ebonykrow]

ooc: Modern times it is! 'Course Israel has yet to adapt appropriately to the 21st century.

~~~~

Whether it was the magic or a spark of life that had yet to leave him, Israel felt eyes. He could not determine their position--perhaps there were many, perhaps there were none--but he did not feel safe on the banks of the Wye any longer. Israel stepped backwards out of the grass and back onto the muddy path, watching the river as if its gurgling suggested a monster would rise from it. Then a figure, lit by what light fell through the clouds, caught his eye. It was strong, but curious. It was the bridge, and it taunted Israel. It said to him, "You may not cross me, and the secrets I hold are torture enough to you." The bridge laughed at him. He tore away from it eagerly, feeling something more than taunts lay there.

Now on the path, he had remembered the pipe in his hand. He studied it, and reached into his pocket for matches. He fumbled with them in his numb fingers, and when he pulled his hand back out again he noticed an empty palm. Surging with frustration, he reached for the matches again and squeezed his fist tight. There in his palm lay a package of matches, the edge having cut deep into his hand. Flustered, he pretended to strike a match and light his pipe. He tried to draw from it, but now Israel found he could not remember how to breathe...

"I am useless," he muttered, considering throwing the pipe and matches to the ground. "And here, I speak to myself for I have no one else to speak with." He turned to look toward the town again, considering his best efforts might be sought in a tavern, playing on the eyes of handsome mortal men.

The uneasy feeling returned and, placing his pipe and matches back into his pockets, he began walking toward the town.

The eyes of the world he could feel judging him, and he walked faster.

This post has been edited by Ebonykrow: 05 November 2009 - 02:45 PM

[Fenrir-sama]

The man had been aware of the attractive young woman that was watching him, but he hadn't expected her to speak with him. An inquiry about his earring... ah, he got it.

("She's wondering if I'm a were..."), he thinks to himself, amused.

He faces her, a teasing smile beginning to play across his lips.

"Why yes. Silver925, nearly pure Silver. It was... a gift from someone, many years ago." ((OOC: Silver925 is 92.5% Pure Silver, or "Sterling Silver", which is the purest form of silver you can get before it starts to become too soft to work with; in case anyone following the thread is wondering.))

He glances at her. His senses told him she was more than human; but he was not yet entirely sure of what she was. Nearly everything about her screamed werewolf, but then again... she had only questioned him once he had found his target - a vampire.

"Might I ask... why you inquire?"

[SRCivic98]

she has been with me since the war. we first started off as rivals in the mercenary group that we was with. we never got paid with money, but instead, the people we protected gave us weapons, ammo, food, shelter, and then they too was killed because of where they helped us. Mercenaries wasn't allowed help from locals or they were killed for aiding and abeading the restitance against what used to be the united states. she still remembers watching her family being slaughtered by the government loyalist. Her blonde hair was longer than what it was when we first met. My team had moved through the woodlands to see her family being slaughtered. My team murdered the loyalist. We tried to save her mother but she died in our medic's arms after looking at her. Her eyes still replay that horrific day. We look at each other as we stand in the streets looking at the remaining loyalist marching into the city. I toss my jacket to a small child near by and told him to run as I revealed all my firearms and knives. she on the other hand just withdrew her katana swords from her sheaths on her back with her pistols on her hips. the rain made the marching even louder along with the lighting flashing constantly to show the goggles of the enemy marching towards us. I think to my self as I prepare for battle about how nice it would be have back up and to know her true name as I look at her stance. but also, I wonder if any other survivors from the war still remain as I load a round into the chambers of my pistols. these loyalist never knew what hit them when the fight began.

[Rosewin]

(ooc: voiding my character wearing a doublet and the castle being abandoned but there is a vagrant camp nearby in the woods in the area where tourists are not allowed, so near the ancient walls of the castle are a stone's throw from the camp)

Seeing the stranger draw closer as they began walking towards the direction of the village Emyrwyn stepped out of the shadows from the broken bridge which was closed temporarily from repairs after being damaged in the heavy storms. There was rumors of gypsies and other travelers who were out to take advantage of others so everyone was definitely leery of strangers and himself, not being in the best of dress, looked no different than another hungry soul drenched in rain out traveling the countryside from city to city, village to village.

The waters had died now for the most and the town council no doubt would have the bridge repaired soon and as Israel approached Emyrwyn, who looked like he had a rough time on the road, badly-shaven, in need of a bath perhaps, looked in much better threads in both quality and newness than the vagrant, but the vagrant on the other hand look better fed than Emyrwyn, even with a credit card and a wallet full of cash the road is not the best place for good meals especially if the road is on foot...cars were not much use with all the flooding going on in the past two weeks when the storms first started.

"Aye mate," Emyrwyn turned his eyes from his boots towards Israel, "know a good place to get a bite? Eh, I could buy you something as well if you wish?" Emyrwyn hoped they would accept or at least talk to him long enough to get into town so others would consider him someone from the vagrant camp and not some out-of-town traveler. More so Emyrwyn knew this person might very well know an old man who lived in Chepstow who was the whole reason Emyrwyn had come.

All he had was a vague general description: older, salt-and-pepper hair especially around the temples, businessman, from old money, an address in Chepstow to where the old man lived, and also that if he was out on a night like this there would be no signs of vaporous breath coming from his mouth either.

A fact he ignored as he reached into his pea coat and produced a cigarette and lit it smoking it coolly all the while acting totally oblivious towards the small conflict the vagrant was having with his pipe whom Emyrwyn had espied before stepping onto the path.

This post has been edited by Rosewin: 06 November 2009 - 12:08 AM

[Ebonykrow]

Footsteps…

He was not alone. Israel stopped and, with his back to the man, slowly raised the hood on his cloak to cover his platinum hair. He listened as the stranger addressed him—there was no one else around; the question was most certainly for Israel. Cautiously, he turned to face Emyrwyn, careful to keep the hood around his face in hoping it would provide some darkness to hide his pale, concerning features.

However, Israel knew many places to get a bite, but such a crude, sarcastic remark would not do well to paint him an innocent man.

“I know… a small place,” he wheezed. His voice sounded forced, gravelly, as if it came from deep within his chest. Though Israel had not felt hunger in many years, he knew if he declined the traveler’s request it would be rude—but even more so suspicious.

“Don’t buy me anything if you haven’t the money, but a cheap drink will do.” Israel pulled himself together, as if he were trying to keep his body from crumbling apart. He tried to seem cold, but his poor acting only conveyed unease. Refusing to look the stranger in the eye he stared at the ground, at Emyrwyn’s boots, and then he followed the cigarette, watching it smoke serenely into the night.

After a moment of silence, in which Israel thought nothing at all, he spoke again. “If… you’ll follow me, there is a tavern—you can find food there. It is at the edge of the town, just there,” he pointed to a building some distance below the hill, but it was not difficult to spy. In a cluster of dark homes, it was the only structure twinkling with life.

Not waiting to see if Emyrwyn was going to follow, Israel marched brusquely down the pathway, crossing his arms again and bringing his cloak close.

[Moon Minion]

Ah here we go Rosemerta mused to herself, not a human but not were either. She caught his sent, which immediately detached him from any human being. Still a typical male though, reacting to her almost as if it were an invitation to flirt as far as she was concerned. Yet he was obviously no fool either, immediately replying with a question that if not answered cunningly could give enough away to this creature--whatever he was.

Rosemerta laughed raising an eyebrow and leaning forward so only he could here, "I've seen it before as both an amulet and a talisman, it seems to coincide with a certain belief pertaining to the wolf, but perhaps that is incorrect?" She waited for his response while glancing down at her watch, which indicated that she still had at least an hour before the one who had hired her would arrive.

Well hired was the polite term, Rosemerta would have preferred the term ordered instead, however, it wasn't up for debate, she had to do what she was told or suffer the inescapable fate and consequences of her curse--her hands were tied. The vivid memories of her past flashed through her head in one swift moment--memories of blood and screams, scattered body parts, all to satisfy the inevitable hunger; but even though those hostile actions she recalled were not determined by her free will, the acts she had committed during the monster’s reigning hours seemed unforgivable. That was before they had found her, offering her a promise to banish this fate in return for her co-operation. Running around after the devil's minions seemed a cruel joke, but one she had to laugh off for now if she preferred to keep innocent blood off her hands.

"Here you are!" The bartender returned finally with her drink before casting a quick glance of uncertainty at her company. She gave the bartender a tip and he smiled weakly in return.

[Fenrir-sama]

("She's smart. I'll have to tread carefully with this one.") He mused to himself, carefully choosing how to word his answer.

"Well.. if you believe the myths; then this is a very special earring, one of two; that was made to honor the giant Wolf called "Fenrir" in Norse Mythology.. My namesake."

He looks at her, studying her face to see if there was any reaction, then speaks again.

"Interestingly... there's a rather obscure rumor that "Fenrir" was actually the first of a breed of werewolf. A very special breed that had a tolerance for silver, but became blinded by sunlight. According to this rumor, Fenrir was said to pass his name and his emblem down through his bloodline."

He grins widely, showing abnormally large canines.

"But of course... that's only if you believe the rumors. Just superstition... right?"

[Rosewin]

Smoke circles dance about with the sharp precision and discipline of ballerinas before becoming one with the fog which was dense enough to hide the stars but not the moon which hung lazily veiled in a halo. Watching Israel on the muddied path pause and pull his hood up Emyrwyn tapped his cigarette as ashes fell sizzling where they landed on the moist ground.

Merely nodding as Israel spoke he looked back up the trail to see if anyone else was coming from the vagrant camp he had seen earlier then turned to quickly follow him down the hill. It was early enough for the tavern to still be open but dark enough that he could not really make out the stranger's features, which went a long way in attempting to figure out someone's intentions, but Emyrwyn felt fairly confident Israel had no clue who he was or he would not be walking so nonchalantly with his back turned to him. Not that Emyrwyn posed him any harm but who knew exactly how this one would fit in to everything but his lack of breathing was a big clue that he somehow would be.

Thinking more now about what kind of dishes they served at this tavern it had to be better than the rotted meat dished up in the last one with their excuse being the rains. Dodging to avoid a puddle Emyrwyn payed close attention to the other side of the river and could see a few torches moving through the fog. A few people were on the opposite river bank but it was impossible to tell what they were doing. The sound of dogs barking could be heard as he walked up the stone steps and stepped through tavern door just in time to see a man and woman talking.

Catching the tail end of the conversation, something about superstition, he was sure to catch sight of his canines with his grey eyes before looking away as if seeing nothing.

[Ebonykrow]

Israel pushed through the tavern door, blinking away the harsh, fluorescent lights of the pub. He felt blinded by the sudden flare, and raised his hood as high as it would go to relieve his eyes of this unnatural brightness. He felt exposed here, beneath the stare of the public, the unwanted scoundrels of the world, who flocked together during the night to hide from those that would judge them. Drunks, criminals, vandals, all gathered here before him, like prey to a lone waterhole on the African savannah.

Silently, he directed the stranger to the bar. Israel had little intention of looking up; though he could not feel the weight of the handgun inside his robe, or the warmth of the pub, he could feel the sharp pain of light on his dull eyes. Pain was punishment. Everything was punishment.

Then, he noticed a voice, familiar, but not comforting. He dared to raise his head to look for Rosemerta, but in doing so he allowed the light to find his face. His eyes, which seemed to have no color, surveyed the tavern in earnest. For some time he stood still, as if frozen, until he found his quarry. Then suddenly, he whirled around to Emyrwyn and waved at the counter, as if he believed the stranger to be stupid.

Here he finally looked into the stranger’s face, turned so the shadows of his cloak did not hide him. Israel’s features were stony; his face was strong with high cheek bones and deep-set eyes. He did not have the expression of a friendly guest, but rather one with a secret.

“They can serve you,” he mumbled, “if you haven’t any money for my drink, then please don’t bother. My help here is not worth their cheapest.” Israel swiftly turned away, looking again to the bar for Rosemerta. Now he noticed that she was speaking with someone else, and he found himself reluctant to approach.

[Moon Minion]

She draw the glass up to her lips tasting the vodka against the orange juice, not particularly appetizing to her tastes but a human enough drink.

"Hmm" She replied, listening intently to his words and she couldn't understand why suddenly he made her feel nervous. Was it the way he looked at her? What he was saying? Did his mention of werewolves indicate that he too had a vague idea about her and that she too was not human? Perhaps this should have been enough to prepare her for his wide grin baring two large familiar canines, which made her eyes burn and turn amber, a reflex she could not help when her canine eyes looked upon another similar herself.

She looked away quickly, shaken, hoping he hadn't seen through her eyes the window to that which lurked in her soul, she took a large gulp of her drink, desiring to spit the stuff out but swallowing it down fast.

The tavern door had swung open and the cold air flowed in brushing Rosemerta's black hair off her pale face. A man walked in just as the one speaking to her finished by saying that he thought is was all just superstition perhaps. Grubby and in need of a shave, the new guest seemed lost in his travels, lost in this environment, and with strange company someone in a black cloak and Rosmerta believed for that moment that perhaps her assignment had found her.

Being careful not to give away her position, Rosemerta turned her attention back to her acquaintance, then she replied stiffly, not meeting his eyes "So the person who gave it to you as a gift, do you think they believed this...tale?" She managed to keep her voice indifferent even though his next answer would play a crucial part in her discovery of him.

"Rumors and superstitions are born from somewhere" she added laughing feeling her eyes cool again, and looking into his face knowing it was now safe to do so. That horrible feeling returned turning her stomach, it had been a while since she'd met with another of her kind. She discretely turned her attention back to the hooded figure.

This post has been edited by Moon Minion: 06 November 2009 - 03:15 PM