Post by india on Jun 30, 2009 12:27:42 GMT -5
Name: India please.
Age: 18. legal drinking age. exciting.
Experience: far too much. i've been roleplaying i suppose since i was about eleven, though only very seriously for the past few years.
How you found us: an advertisement on the neopets roleplaying board.
Role play Sample: this sample is an intro for a modern fantasy roleplay i did a while back. it's not by any means my best work but it's all i've got saved. ):
It’s a hot night, the kind that makes your skin crawl with sweat and humidity. The flimsy walls sag in the hot moisture of the air, the ceiling fan turns slow circles and slices the air into ribbons with a whir like an insect trapped in a jar.
Peter stares at the blades rotating lopsided, the post it’s supported on moving to and fro feebly like a pendulum. He worries and wonders if it might fall down on him and impale him or cut him to bits. He can imagine it vaguely. The sensation grows stronger, a tearing, ripping feeling in his stomach and the gurgle of blood, his hair-raising screams as he pulls it from his flesh with a sick sucking sound. Slowly he begins to realize that the ripping sensation and his bloodcurdling screams are real, that he’s writhing and moaning and tearing at his threadbare sheets with bloody fingers. He slithers off the bed to the floor, crawls to the kitchen on hands and knees, opens drawers and throws their contents to the ground until he finds a bottle half-full of round white pills. He struggles with the lid, wrenches it open and swallows a handful one at a time. The pain does not immediately fade, and he grunts and struggles to make his way to the door. He can’t stay here anymore. The walls are closing in on him like he is a moth trapped in the hands of a child, about to be squashed and his insides smeared on the grass, wings bent and broken. He leaves with his possessions strewn across the kitchen floor and the bottle of pills in his hand. He forgets to shut the door.
Peter lurches down the hallway. A couple making out in a doorway stop to eye him uncomfortably. He uses the wall as support, his steps are uneven and he stumbles and trips on his own feet. His expression is dazed, he looks pale and ill. He falls down most of the stairs and by the time he reaches the entrance to the crumbling building he is on all fours, ass up in the air, on hands and feet, snuffling along the ground. People passing stare.
The building is in an ugly part of town. There is a convenience store on the corner that is robbed weekly, two days ago a man was stabbed on the stoop of the house across the street. The night is not as hot out here as it is in his third floor apartment and the orange glow of the streetlamps makes it easier to see. The city smells like exhaust fumes and cheap donairs and in the sky the moon dangles heavy like a bauble on a bracelet of stars, waxing and nearly full.
Peter is an ugly creature. He’s forty-something, maybe, though he probably looks older than he is. He’s got stringy dark hair speckled with gray at the temples, dark sunken eyes in a wrinkled, hollow face. His jaw hangs slack, tongue lolls. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with a collar and a blue tie though if he works in an office it is a wonder that he can keep a job looking the way he does. His belt is undone, his black slacks with fly open barely cling to his jutting hips, and he bizarrely wears only one shoe, laces undone, no socks. His bony arms are covered in scabs that ooze with infection, the tattered remnants of bandages bound around some of his fingers. The rest have been chewed to stumps. There are teeth marks in his forearms which bleed.
He runs down the street on all fours in an awkward gallop, stopping at lamp posts to rub his fingers on them and sniff the base. At one he pulls himself out of his pants and urinates on it, growls at a prostitute who passes and threatens to call the cops. It’s a guttural growl, originating deep in his swollen belly and echoing in his chest before escaping his mouth accompanied by a a snarl that bares a smoker’s yellow teeth.
When he is done running he slinks down an alley to find food. He upturns garbage cans, heaves them over and inserts his front end into the open mouth, kneeling in the pile of trash like vomit that has spilled out of it. He sifts through its contents and finds only a package of ground beef that has gone bad, but he tears open the plastic film and shovels it into his mouth with his bloody fingers, licking the brownish meat off his hands hungrily while he eyes the rectangle of light where the alley meets the street nervously, as if he is expecting something.
He said: HAHA YOU ALL LOSE CUZ THE ADMIN BLOCKED ITTTT! (=
Age: 18. legal drinking age. exciting.
Experience: far too much. i've been roleplaying i suppose since i was about eleven, though only very seriously for the past few years.
How you found us: an advertisement on the neopets roleplaying board.
Role play Sample: this sample is an intro for a modern fantasy roleplay i did a while back. it's not by any means my best work but it's all i've got saved. ):
It’s a hot night, the kind that makes your skin crawl with sweat and humidity. The flimsy walls sag in the hot moisture of the air, the ceiling fan turns slow circles and slices the air into ribbons with a whir like an insect trapped in a jar.
Peter stares at the blades rotating lopsided, the post it’s supported on moving to and fro feebly like a pendulum. He worries and wonders if it might fall down on him and impale him or cut him to bits. He can imagine it vaguely. The sensation grows stronger, a tearing, ripping feeling in his stomach and the gurgle of blood, his hair-raising screams as he pulls it from his flesh with a sick sucking sound. Slowly he begins to realize that the ripping sensation and his bloodcurdling screams are real, that he’s writhing and moaning and tearing at his threadbare sheets with bloody fingers. He slithers off the bed to the floor, crawls to the kitchen on hands and knees, opens drawers and throws their contents to the ground until he finds a bottle half-full of round white pills. He struggles with the lid, wrenches it open and swallows a handful one at a time. The pain does not immediately fade, and he grunts and struggles to make his way to the door. He can’t stay here anymore. The walls are closing in on him like he is a moth trapped in the hands of a child, about to be squashed and his insides smeared on the grass, wings bent and broken. He leaves with his possessions strewn across the kitchen floor and the bottle of pills in his hand. He forgets to shut the door.
Peter lurches down the hallway. A couple making out in a doorway stop to eye him uncomfortably. He uses the wall as support, his steps are uneven and he stumbles and trips on his own feet. His expression is dazed, he looks pale and ill. He falls down most of the stairs and by the time he reaches the entrance to the crumbling building he is on all fours, ass up in the air, on hands and feet, snuffling along the ground. People passing stare.
The building is in an ugly part of town. There is a convenience store on the corner that is robbed weekly, two days ago a man was stabbed on the stoop of the house across the street. The night is not as hot out here as it is in his third floor apartment and the orange glow of the streetlamps makes it easier to see. The city smells like exhaust fumes and cheap donairs and in the sky the moon dangles heavy like a bauble on a bracelet of stars, waxing and nearly full.
Peter is an ugly creature. He’s forty-something, maybe, though he probably looks older than he is. He’s got stringy dark hair speckled with gray at the temples, dark sunken eyes in a wrinkled, hollow face. His jaw hangs slack, tongue lolls. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with a collar and a blue tie though if he works in an office it is a wonder that he can keep a job looking the way he does. His belt is undone, his black slacks with fly open barely cling to his jutting hips, and he bizarrely wears only one shoe, laces undone, no socks. His bony arms are covered in scabs that ooze with infection, the tattered remnants of bandages bound around some of his fingers. The rest have been chewed to stumps. There are teeth marks in his forearms which bleed.
He runs down the street on all fours in an awkward gallop, stopping at lamp posts to rub his fingers on them and sniff the base. At one he pulls himself out of his pants and urinates on it, growls at a prostitute who passes and threatens to call the cops. It’s a guttural growl, originating deep in his swollen belly and echoing in his chest before escaping his mouth accompanied by a a snarl that bares a smoker’s yellow teeth.
When he is done running he slinks down an alley to find food. He upturns garbage cans, heaves them over and inserts his front end into the open mouth, kneeling in the pile of trash like vomit that has spilled out of it. He sifts through its contents and finds only a package of ground beef that has gone bad, but he tears open the plastic film and shovels it into his mouth with his bloody fingers, licking the brownish meat off his hands hungrily while he eyes the rectangle of light where the alley meets the street nervously, as if he is expecting something.
He said: HAHA YOU ALL LOSE CUZ THE ADMIN BLOCKED ITTTT! (=
