Post by MJ on Jul 27, 2009 21:31:22 GMT -5
Name: MJ. After Spidey's girlfriend, not the basketball player or dead pedophile. D=
Age: 15
Experience: Gosh. Um, maybe five years, on and off? Roleplaying, writing angsty poetry, etc.
How you found us: I blame Poe. x3
Role play Sample:
She hadn't always been this way. Certainly there had been a time when she had bared her skin proudly, wore no masks, showed a brave face to the world and all who dared call her freak.
Once upon a time, she had been happy.
But the times had changed, and now the ink upon her back was more burden than gift. How could she enjoy the freedom of flight when the worry of death weighted her down? Nowhere was safe, and now she wore turtlenecks and long pants in the scorching heat, afraid to bare her marks lest she be recognized for what she was.
Gifted.
Jet stared down upon the city, perched like a gruesome gargoyle on the stone ledge as rain poured into the gutters around her. Raindrops had plastered her black curls to her skin, soaked through the ragged jeans and too-large trenchcoat. Footsteps echoed on the rusty fire escape, but the expression on her sharp features did not so much as flicker.
They were coming. She knew this surely as she knew herself, but the young woman couldn't quite bring herself to care. They'd fight, she'd run, and the chase would begin all over again...No. Not this time.
Jet got to her feet as they approached, anonymous in black cloaks, hoods covering their eyes and their intent. They moved with the wary grace of hunters. Not a step was missed despite the rain-slick surface, and she felt herself grinning in admiration. They'd sent an entire coterie this time, to take on a teenage girl. They'd learned to be wary.
Slowly, so slowly, she raised her arms. There was a sudden tension in their ranks, but none made a move to attack. Her reputation, or orders from a higher power?
Perhaps they wanted her alive.
In movements fluid as a dance she removed her overcoat, then her baggy shirt, baring herself to the rain and the winds. And there, on her back, her mark of power- black ink glistening in a way that seemed half alive.
It appeared to be a simple tattoo, a pair of intricate wings that twined and wove about in a mimicry of feathers with no beginning and no end. But it was bound in blood and tears, magic and will.
The girl bared her teeth in a mimicry of a smile, and the wings took form. The black marks drifted away from her skin, gentle as a breeze, three-dimensional but not solid. She seemed not quite human then, a being of darkness and shadows, fey and wild. There was the sound of a number of guns being readied, and Jet threw her head back in a laugh that rang of madness.
"Try to fly and I'll shoot." Had one spoken? Had all of them? It was impossible to tell, with sounds muffled in the thick cloth of their cloaks and city noise drifting all about them.
She spoke her words to the wind, almost too soft to be heard. "Will you?" she murmured. "I won't."
And the girl threw herself backwards to the sound of gunshots, plummeting towards the ground like a discarded doll. Even as they fired after her she made no move to fly, dark wings twined about her like a cocoon.
As she hit the sidewalk, the bullets stopped. Silence seemed, suddenly, too loud.
And as she lay, crumpled and cooling, the ink ran down her face like tears.
He said: pink fluffy unicorns =o (I can't stand letters on my hotdog)
Age: 15
Experience: Gosh. Um, maybe five years, on and off? Roleplaying, writing angsty poetry, etc.
How you found us: I blame Poe. x3
Role play Sample:
She hadn't always been this way. Certainly there had been a time when she had bared her skin proudly, wore no masks, showed a brave face to the world and all who dared call her freak.
Once upon a time, she had been happy.
But the times had changed, and now the ink upon her back was more burden than gift. How could she enjoy the freedom of flight when the worry of death weighted her down? Nowhere was safe, and now she wore turtlenecks and long pants in the scorching heat, afraid to bare her marks lest she be recognized for what she was.
Gifted.
Jet stared down upon the city, perched like a gruesome gargoyle on the stone ledge as rain poured into the gutters around her. Raindrops had plastered her black curls to her skin, soaked through the ragged jeans and too-large trenchcoat. Footsteps echoed on the rusty fire escape, but the expression on her sharp features did not so much as flicker.
They were coming. She knew this surely as she knew herself, but the young woman couldn't quite bring herself to care. They'd fight, she'd run, and the chase would begin all over again...No. Not this time.
Jet got to her feet as they approached, anonymous in black cloaks, hoods covering their eyes and their intent. They moved with the wary grace of hunters. Not a step was missed despite the rain-slick surface, and she felt herself grinning in admiration. They'd sent an entire coterie this time, to take on a teenage girl. They'd learned to be wary.
Slowly, so slowly, she raised her arms. There was a sudden tension in their ranks, but none made a move to attack. Her reputation, or orders from a higher power?
Perhaps they wanted her alive.
In movements fluid as a dance she removed her overcoat, then her baggy shirt, baring herself to the rain and the winds. And there, on her back, her mark of power- black ink glistening in a way that seemed half alive.
It appeared to be a simple tattoo, a pair of intricate wings that twined and wove about in a mimicry of feathers with no beginning and no end. But it was bound in blood and tears, magic and will.
The girl bared her teeth in a mimicry of a smile, and the wings took form. The black marks drifted away from her skin, gentle as a breeze, three-dimensional but not solid. She seemed not quite human then, a being of darkness and shadows, fey and wild. There was the sound of a number of guns being readied, and Jet threw her head back in a laugh that rang of madness.
"Try to fly and I'll shoot." Had one spoken? Had all of them? It was impossible to tell, with sounds muffled in the thick cloth of their cloaks and city noise drifting all about them.
She spoke her words to the wind, almost too soft to be heard. "Will you?" she murmured. "I won't."
And the girl threw herself backwards to the sound of gunshots, plummeting towards the ground like a discarded doll. Even as they fired after her she made no move to fly, dark wings twined about her like a cocoon.
As she hit the sidewalk, the bullets stopped. Silence seemed, suddenly, too loud.
And as she lay, crumpled and cooling, the ink ran down her face like tears.
He said: pink fluffy unicorns =o (I can't stand letters on my hotdog)
