a delicate frame, a fragile design !

[odile]

Name: odile !

Age: twenty two

Experience: about seven years, I think

How you found us: raina and javs demanded I join

Role play Sample:

Clothes had been tossed across an unmade bed, his concern towards both nonexistent; he didn’t care that his coat could crease, that his leather could scratch from where it had missed the bed and hit the floor, and he didn’t care that his room had fallen into unkempt mess. He would care later, when appearances were more important than injury. He tore his gloves off next, tossed them aside; he needed bare fingers to prod at the edge of another wound. What was this? It was supposed to be a scrape, little more and no less. It was supposed to heal, but there it sat taunting him.

His hands dropped to his sides, his fingers limp; their strength had vanished. What kind of hero was he? He stood there in the dark of his room, half naked and with no thought to move. What kind of hero was he when the project that had made him, created him, had since become his monster, a creature that, had it existed in a corporal form, would have cackled, dark and vile, at his predicament. What kind of hero was he when what had created him had become the villain, and now left him unsure and afraid.

Genesis clenched his jaw while his hands balled to fists, his nails biting into his palms; those marks wouldn’t heal normally either, would they? He stared straight ahead, eyes half lidded as though he was reading from LOVELESS, reciting her beautiful lines and a story that mattered more to him than other fools. There was no scripture in front of him however, no familiar, well looked after book in hand. Instead there was just a thought, a horrible thought and realisation, one he wished he could brush from his vision. What kind of hero was he if he died before the end? How could he be a hero if the story was rewritten to such an extent?

He inhaled and exhaled, he took a breath, a long and shuddering breath; another and another. His chest heaved as his breaths became deeper, quick and ragged, his lips parted as though he couldn’t draw in the air he felt he desperately needed. He slammed his fists into the wall nearest him. He didn’t care that he’d made his hands sting, that he thought the wall had cringed, and that anyone who heard would wonder what in the name of Gods he was doing. He took another deep breath. He. Did. Not. Care.

Another deep breath and his fingers slowly uncurled while his palms pressed flat against the wall. His tantrum had passed and with it his anger. It would return later no doubt, but right now he was a child again, a youth rather than an adult, a boy who had to face concepts he didn’t want to. With his temper past he was left feeling empty, hollow, like his thoughts and the organ in his chest didn’t matter. He tilted his head forward until his forehead touched the wall, and his hands slid upward until he braced his forearms against the same surface. “My friend, the fates are cruel.” His tone was too quiet, his words a bare whisper.

Whichever fate had dealt his hand was a cruel creature, one that had probably lost his gamble on purpose--or was it Genesis who had lost, had shown a bad hand and was now saddled with this disease, because fate was cruel and took advantage when the cards were in his favour? Surely fate had something to do with this, the same fate LOVELESS spoke of. He didn’t see Sephiroth or Angeal falling apart at the seams, their smallest wounds refusing to heal and becoming purulent like his when proper treatment was out of reach. He didn’t see the other characters in this play suffering from what he did.

Genesis took another deep breath and pressed his face against the wall, his cheek and nose aching in protest; the hard surface wasn’t something that would yield or offer a suitable embrace. He wanted to curse Sephiroth and Angeal, yell at their existence and how it taunted his own, but at the same time he wanted them there. He wanted the two with him, wanted his friends there with shirts he could ball fists in and chests he could scream against. His bedroom wall couldn’t offer that same comfort.

He screamed anyway. He screamed frustration and emotions he couldn’t name, feelings that twisted his gut and chest, made his shoulders tremble and eyes burn. It was something that drove him to his knees and made the room feel too small around him, closed in, cruel and suffocation. His treacherous thoughts compared it to a coffin, a trap he couldn’t escape from; it was his coffin, wasn’t it? It was the grave he couldn’t run from if the degradation didn’t stop, if it continued until he was little more than a corpse with gaping wounds and discoloured, mottled flesh.

He said: "hold the telegram."

[Javert]

SO, SO, SO VERY

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ACCEPTED![/center]