Post by juturna on Nov 23, 2008 3:06:37 GMT -5
Name: Kit. To solve any and all confusion, I'm a girl. Just so ya know. (:
Age: Seventeen. I'm ancient in Internet years.
Experience: I've been role-playing on and off for the past five to six years, so I do hope I've gotten all the purple prose and Mary Sue-ing straight out of my system. If not... Well, it was a damn good run!
How you found us: Clicking around links one cold night, trying to find something new to spark interest in writing again. Every site appeared to be in maintenance mode, except for this one, which was a definite plus. I pursued the plot (at first, I thought this was a Great and Terrible Beauty RP and I almost fell out of my chair with wonder and childish glee) and activity (yes! Posting within the past three days!), and decided that I loved it. It also helps that green's one of my all-time favorite colors.
Role play Sample: (I'm going to copy&paste a sample from an old thing I wrote for one of my characters first and then add a more current role-play sample as the second. I do hope this is acceptable. I've never had to audition for a RP site, to be quite honest.)
.oo1
It has come to my attention that people in England still speak of me.
While I will never understand the purpose in doing so, for I was the King Midas of misery, every time I touched someone, instead of turning into gold, they went through some form of emotional and mental upheaval of which was, of course, traumatic to say the very least, I suppose I effected people to their very core. I am not proud of the dramas I have caused those I loved and cared for, nor am I pleased with the outcomes of any of my escapades and adventures, but I, the boy forced to grow up too fast, the shy kid in the corner, the nerd with the math textbook underneath his pillow, and the man with a guitar always in hand, I, Quinn McKinleigh, must “man up” to my problems, even if I’m an ocean away.
Still, the business in running away is my forte, I admit, and I was never one for true bravery. It is a quality I admire deeply, a characteristic I only dream to have obtained along with the McKinleigh intelligence my father swears I have, the very same wit and smarts that gave my pureblooded family its fortune in banking so long ago, only for the most recent generation to blow it completely on equally pureblooded follies and simple-minded prejudices, though in the department of courage, I am lacking. I am the first in battle, but forever the first the leave said battle, looking for safer, gentler climes. I am a coward and will not hide from this rudimentary facet of my personality.
Be that as it may, I also refuse to sit idly by as my older acquaintances in merry old England take my story, my troubles, and transfer them into something monstrous; the tragedy of Frankenstein’s beast, although the sewn together body parts electrocuted into life are merely actions and words brutally ripped from context and brought into being by the power of meaningless clichés and the never-ending need for masturbatory self-pity. My character has been torn to shreds twofold, threefold – tenfold, but I will defend and correct the liberties taken until my last shuddering and gasping breath is released on my deathbed and my soul, if there is still one left, leaves this world forever.
With that said in the most melodramatic way I could possibly think of, please allow me to continue my sanctimonious revisions back to the truth, since I haven’t the opportunity until just now – and I thank you, dear author, regardless of the Hell you have given me these past two years solely for your own sick amusement, for giving me the chance I’ve been so chomping at the bit for.
Let us begin.
oo2.
If one looked up the date November eleventh in a textbook, very little would be gained. Aside from interesting bits of trivia and things already known by the potential scholar, such as World War I ending officially on this day, on the eleventh hour in the eleventh day of the eleventh month, there were few notable ventures, births, deaths, or holidays. As the precursor to contemporary existentialism was born, the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the Danish philosopher of the same fame also passed, Søren Kierkegaard. The Polish celebrated their independence, the Americans their veterans, and Poppy Day in the Commonwealth countries.
However, none of these events were particularly bright and happy, aside from those celebrating independence and the end of worldwide conflicts, so it made perfect sense in the end that Porter Lament be born on such a day. With a surname as his, it was difficult to escape the impenetrable sorrowful stigma attached, but sometimes in came in handy. The only possible way to make up for the lack of pep would be a massacre of some form to occur on November eleventh, ergo continuing with the depressing theme, although, come to think of it, there was an execution for a few wrongfully accused anarchists in 1887.
As the Charms professor sat in his office chair, the dog sleeping at his feet, he ignored the trivial things, his twenty-eighth birthday for example, and graded the seemingly infinite supply of papers stacked precariously on his desk, lurching ever so slightly like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was the lone reminder of his birthday, those papers, for Porter assigned a rather lengthy and tricky assignment the day before as a bit of a treat to himself, to keep occupied. There wasn’t much to do, though, especially at Hogwarts School, and even if there just so happened to be a brilliant way to ring in another unsuccessful year of life, Porter was not too keen on wasting his time looking for it.
In the meantime, he scanned essay after essay, pausing every now and then to dip his fountain pen in the ink pot or to listen to the sheets and sheets of rain pouring just outside the window, and worked just as laboriously as any of those previously listed above. Professor Lament wasn’t a workaholic because he was “wired” that way; he simply did it to keep from having an idle mind – and having a roving thought process on his birthday seemed like an atrocious idea.
Even the dog agreed.
He said: "WHISP IS THE MOST AMAZING ADMIN EVER!"? It took me at least ten minutes to find this on the Rules page, no lie. Oh, my 3AM misadventures...
Age: Seventeen. I'm ancient in Internet years.
Experience: I've been role-playing on and off for the past five to six years, so I do hope I've gotten all the purple prose and Mary Sue-ing straight out of my system. If not... Well, it was a damn good run!
How you found us: Clicking around links one cold night, trying to find something new to spark interest in writing again. Every site appeared to be in maintenance mode, except for this one, which was a definite plus. I pursued the plot (at first, I thought this was a Great and Terrible Beauty RP and I almost fell out of my chair with wonder and childish glee) and activity (yes! Posting within the past three days!), and decided that I loved it. It also helps that green's one of my all-time favorite colors.
Role play Sample: (I'm going to copy&paste a sample from an old thing I wrote for one of my characters first and then add a more current role-play sample as the second. I do hope this is acceptable. I've never had to audition for a RP site, to be quite honest.)
.oo1
It has come to my attention that people in England still speak of me.
While I will never understand the purpose in doing so, for I was the King Midas of misery, every time I touched someone, instead of turning into gold, they went through some form of emotional and mental upheaval of which was, of course, traumatic to say the very least, I suppose I effected people to their very core. I am not proud of the dramas I have caused those I loved and cared for, nor am I pleased with the outcomes of any of my escapades and adventures, but I, the boy forced to grow up too fast, the shy kid in the corner, the nerd with the math textbook underneath his pillow, and the man with a guitar always in hand, I, Quinn McKinleigh, must “man up” to my problems, even if I’m an ocean away.
Still, the business in running away is my forte, I admit, and I was never one for true bravery. It is a quality I admire deeply, a characteristic I only dream to have obtained along with the McKinleigh intelligence my father swears I have, the very same wit and smarts that gave my pureblooded family its fortune in banking so long ago, only for the most recent generation to blow it completely on equally pureblooded follies and simple-minded prejudices, though in the department of courage, I am lacking. I am the first in battle, but forever the first the leave said battle, looking for safer, gentler climes. I am a coward and will not hide from this rudimentary facet of my personality.
Be that as it may, I also refuse to sit idly by as my older acquaintances in merry old England take my story, my troubles, and transfer them into something monstrous; the tragedy of Frankenstein’s beast, although the sewn together body parts electrocuted into life are merely actions and words brutally ripped from context and brought into being by the power of meaningless clichés and the never-ending need for masturbatory self-pity. My character has been torn to shreds twofold, threefold – tenfold, but I will defend and correct the liberties taken until my last shuddering and gasping breath is released on my deathbed and my soul, if there is still one left, leaves this world forever.
With that said in the most melodramatic way I could possibly think of, please allow me to continue my sanctimonious revisions back to the truth, since I haven’t the opportunity until just now – and I thank you, dear author, regardless of the Hell you have given me these past two years solely for your own sick amusement, for giving me the chance I’ve been so chomping at the bit for.
Let us begin.
oo2.
If one looked up the date November eleventh in a textbook, very little would be gained. Aside from interesting bits of trivia and things already known by the potential scholar, such as World War I ending officially on this day, on the eleventh hour in the eleventh day of the eleventh month, there were few notable ventures, births, deaths, or holidays. As the precursor to contemporary existentialism was born, the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the Danish philosopher of the same fame also passed, Søren Kierkegaard. The Polish celebrated their independence, the Americans their veterans, and Poppy Day in the Commonwealth countries.
However, none of these events were particularly bright and happy, aside from those celebrating independence and the end of worldwide conflicts, so it made perfect sense in the end that Porter Lament be born on such a day. With a surname as his, it was difficult to escape the impenetrable sorrowful stigma attached, but sometimes in came in handy. The only possible way to make up for the lack of pep would be a massacre of some form to occur on November eleventh, ergo continuing with the depressing theme, although, come to think of it, there was an execution for a few wrongfully accused anarchists in 1887.
As the Charms professor sat in his office chair, the dog sleeping at his feet, he ignored the trivial things, his twenty-eighth birthday for example, and graded the seemingly infinite supply of papers stacked precariously on his desk, lurching ever so slightly like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was the lone reminder of his birthday, those papers, for Porter assigned a rather lengthy and tricky assignment the day before as a bit of a treat to himself, to keep occupied. There wasn’t much to do, though, especially at Hogwarts School, and even if there just so happened to be a brilliant way to ring in another unsuccessful year of life, Porter was not too keen on wasting his time looking for it.
In the meantime, he scanned essay after essay, pausing every now and then to dip his fountain pen in the ink pot or to listen to the sheets and sheets of rain pouring just outside the window, and worked just as laboriously as any of those previously listed above. Professor Lament wasn’t a workaholic because he was “wired” that way; he simply did it to keep from having an idle mind – and having a roving thought process on his birthday seemed like an atrocious idea.
Even the dog agreed.
He said: "WHISP IS THE MOST AMAZING ADMIN EVER!"? It took me at least ten minutes to find this on the Rules page, no lie. Oh, my 3AM misadventures...