Post by Poe on Jan 6, 2008 20:26:55 GMT -5
Name: 'lo; I'm javert, javs, javvy, java, jav, or whatever conceivable variation of the former you can come up with.
Age: fourteen. ew.
Experience: oh, tons. xD I've been roleplaying since I was about nine and I've belonged to numerous roleplaying sites. what started out as a way to hone my writing skills has become an obsession. oops!
How you found us: a lovely ad on Neopets. (:
Role play Sample:right now, this is my favorite roleplay intro of mine, simply because the writing style is a bit funner and more sarcastic than I'm used to. it's for a moden vampire roleplay. I hope you enjoy it. =D cheers.
His hands were abominable– the callused, rough, chapped hands of mortals, reeking of perspiration and cheap cologne, the strobing lights of the club turning them various shades of violet and emerald. She could hear the blood singing beneath the skin of his digits, though, and it was spinning such a seductive symphony that she couldn’t resist.
Oh, yes, and she had been assigned to kill him. That was a minor nuisance in the back of her head, a fly that persistently alighted on her brain and buzzed around her psyche. The attractive yet undeniably pathetic sap would be a goner in a matter of minutes. If she hadn’t been instructed to take him out, she would have eventually knocked his lights out, anyway, since he was manhandling her in such an inexperienced matter.
Must have been whatever he had quaffed so elegantly earlier; on his breath, it intertwined with previously inhaled cigarette smoke.
His filthy human paws, seemingly obsessed with her ivory waves of hair, now traversed the porcelain planes of her face. His thumb grazed razor-sharp cheekbones, brushed the perfect slope of her nose, traced the square jaw, the full lips. “Has anyone,” he slurred, severing his lips from hers for a millisecond,“ever told you how beauti–“
“Yes.” She did not attempt to disguise the boredom in her tone, yet he was definitely too intoxicated to take note of it, anyway. It had certainly taken him long enough to voice that overused compliment; normally, it was the first thing out of their mouth. He had wasted the first minutes with atrocious pick up lines and ramblings about his own grandeur.
One of his repugnant thumbs dared to hook in the belt loop of her six-hundred dollar Gucci jeans. This was the last straw.
Rolling emerald eyes to the ceiling, she pulled back and placed an elegant finger to his lips. As his expression mutated to one of even deeper idiocy, she said, her low voice slicing through the cacophony of the club, “Babe, I just don’t think this is working out.” He went to voice a protest, and immediately shut up as the barrel of an M1911 was introduced to his forehead. A smirk settled upon the archetypal scarlet lips.
“Let’s get some things straight. First of all, you smell like a barn; if I wasn’t about to shoot you, I’d demand that you scurry off and buy some Versace cologne or something. Such a cute ickle imbecile deserves to smell good.” She tweaked his nose condescendingly; the tan of his visage transmogrified to bluish white. “Secondly, I honestly don’t give a crap about how amazing you claim to be. I bet your wife doesn’t, either.”
His jaw dropped open and she winked. Busted.
“And, last but not least” –the gun’s safety clicked off– “you are at least the six thousandth bastard in the past two hundred years to tell me how beautiful I am. I’d appreciate some originality.” With her free hand, she blew him a kiss, and a French-manicured finger pulled the trigger.
The muffled gunshot was barely audible among the bass throbbing throughout the place, and by the time someone even acknowledged it, she was already strutting out the door, the perpetrating gun hidden again beneath her black duster jacket. Luckily, she had fed earlier, so no hunger pangs was tethering her to the spot. She’d leave the corpse for the management to clean up; it would be their punishment for playing such horrible music.
As was quotidian of archetypal heartless immortals, she felt no remorse, no guilt, not even the slightest inkling of sorrow. This was her occupation, her main source of entertainment. For the past two centuries, it had paid the bills and bought the Gucci, Prada, Jimmy Choo and Veyron. The day she felt anything would be the day the poor sap currently bleeding all over the dancefloor performed Viennese waltzes over his own grave– or when his disgusting hands were washed.
Blaise van Buren uttered a ladylike snort. That action would be even more necessary, now, with the bloodstains further begriming them. What a shame. {fin!}
Age: fourteen. ew.
Experience: oh, tons. xD I've been roleplaying since I was about nine and I've belonged to numerous roleplaying sites. what started out as a way to hone my writing skills has become an obsession. oops!
How you found us: a lovely ad on Neopets. (:
Role play Sample:right now, this is my favorite roleplay intro of mine, simply because the writing style is a bit funner and more sarcastic than I'm used to. it's for a moden vampire roleplay. I hope you enjoy it. =D cheers.
His hands were abominable– the callused, rough, chapped hands of mortals, reeking of perspiration and cheap cologne, the strobing lights of the club turning them various shades of violet and emerald. She could hear the blood singing beneath the skin of his digits, though, and it was spinning such a seductive symphony that she couldn’t resist.
Oh, yes, and she had been assigned to kill him. That was a minor nuisance in the back of her head, a fly that persistently alighted on her brain and buzzed around her psyche. The attractive yet undeniably pathetic sap would be a goner in a matter of minutes. If she hadn’t been instructed to take him out, she would have eventually knocked his lights out, anyway, since he was manhandling her in such an inexperienced matter.
Must have been whatever he had quaffed so elegantly earlier; on his breath, it intertwined with previously inhaled cigarette smoke.
His filthy human paws, seemingly obsessed with her ivory waves of hair, now traversed the porcelain planes of her face. His thumb grazed razor-sharp cheekbones, brushed the perfect slope of her nose, traced the square jaw, the full lips. “Has anyone,” he slurred, severing his lips from hers for a millisecond,“ever told you how beauti–“
“Yes.” She did not attempt to disguise the boredom in her tone, yet he was definitely too intoxicated to take note of it, anyway. It had certainly taken him long enough to voice that overused compliment; normally, it was the first thing out of their mouth. He had wasted the first minutes with atrocious pick up lines and ramblings about his own grandeur.
One of his repugnant thumbs dared to hook in the belt loop of her six-hundred dollar Gucci jeans. This was the last straw.
Rolling emerald eyes to the ceiling, she pulled back and placed an elegant finger to his lips. As his expression mutated to one of even deeper idiocy, she said, her low voice slicing through the cacophony of the club, “Babe, I just don’t think this is working out.” He went to voice a protest, and immediately shut up as the barrel of an M1911 was introduced to his forehead. A smirk settled upon the archetypal scarlet lips.
“Let’s get some things straight. First of all, you smell like a barn; if I wasn’t about to shoot you, I’d demand that you scurry off and buy some Versace cologne or something. Such a cute ickle imbecile deserves to smell good.” She tweaked his nose condescendingly; the tan of his visage transmogrified to bluish white. “Secondly, I honestly don’t give a crap about how amazing you claim to be. I bet your wife doesn’t, either.”
His jaw dropped open and she winked. Busted.
“And, last but not least” –the gun’s safety clicked off– “you are at least the six thousandth bastard in the past two hundred years to tell me how beautiful I am. I’d appreciate some originality.” With her free hand, she blew him a kiss, and a French-manicured finger pulled the trigger.
The muffled gunshot was barely audible among the bass throbbing throughout the place, and by the time someone even acknowledged it, she was already strutting out the door, the perpetrating gun hidden again beneath her black duster jacket. Luckily, she had fed earlier, so no hunger pangs was tethering her to the spot. She’d leave the corpse for the management to clean up; it would be their punishment for playing such horrible music.
As was quotidian of archetypal heartless immortals, she felt no remorse, no guilt, not even the slightest inkling of sorrow. This was her occupation, her main source of entertainment. For the past two centuries, it had paid the bills and bought the Gucci, Prada, Jimmy Choo and Veyron. The day she felt anything would be the day the poor sap currently bleeding all over the dancefloor performed Viennese waltzes over his own grave– or when his disgusting hands were washed.
Blaise van Buren uttered a ladylike snort. That action would be even more necessary, now, with the bloodstains further begriming them. What a shame. {fin!}
