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sylin city parliament cordially invite you to attend the second annual masquerade ball in order to stave off the dreariness of the season! refreshments will be provided, and formal attire is required. please leave your weaponry at home and dance the night away! ...however, this year not all is as it seems. it appears someone has placed a riddle on the back of the invitations. who-- or what-- could have done this, and why?
ZUGZWANG is an illustrated panfandom roleplay with a twist-- characters must either choose to give up their memories or abilities to play the chessmaster's game. with a progression system that lets you earn back what you've lost and over fifty active fandoms, the sky is the limit!
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Despite the gentle, satisfied smile that had been lingering on his lips ever since the stranger had bought him a second shot, he couldn't help but internally picture himself stabbing the guy's last eye out with a fork.
even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.
My trash character is contemplating teaching a disrespectful teen some manners.
And by the time she would be satisfied, the whelp’s knees would tremble and her tail would hang low between her legs at even the slightest mention of Calliope’s name. How effortless it would be, how simple. Yet, while every inch of her ached and yearned for that ill-gotten reverence, she restrained herself for now.
After all, why would a god like her bother with a worm?
Please enjoy an excerpt from a private rp of mine:
While she forced a smile, it was quite obvious unfamiliar territory left her wide open, like a rabbit in a den of wolves. Eyes widened a fraction at the sea of faces in the classroom, which caused the teacher, in a panic, to run out of the room and slam the door behind her as she slumped down in a manner to hide. 'Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, they look like they want to kill me. I need to show them I mean no harm...' she pondered. Not long after, an idea struck her like lightning. 'Oh, I've got it!' The teacher soon jumped up and breathed on the glass. The pad of her index finger scrawled nimbly against the condensation, a message directed at the bloodthirsty students: 'Hi : D'
just part of a (half) drunk conversation in a mcdonalds at 3am about what animal this ship's other half would be.
with a muttered, "pal-o-mi-no," under her breath, she pulls up an image in her browser. after a final examination, she turns it towards him. "tell me that's not just blatantly you cause you're fucking wrong, sorry." turning the screen back towards herself, she glances between the horse photo and musa. "it's like a spitting image. just use this for your picture on tinder. all the hot babes will get the idea."
she / her
i'm running these streets, see? burning like gasoline.
I haven't written a post in ten years. I've waited expectantly to post something just so I could participate in this thread. And of course, it's Mindcrime, RIP. Explaining what this means would take up as much space as the paragraph itself. Oh, context sensitive material. c':
X loved Nikki the most in those moments: bathed in moonlight, sweat on his brow and laughter on his lips, the echo of a dead child born again into the skeletal frame of a junkie made terrorist. He'd laughed, too, on that night - something real and tangible from the man he'd once been slipped through a hairline crack in his otherwise perfect facade, and so badly did he want to believe the playground secret slipped to him that day. So badly did he that he placed all of his cards on its table, and still had the audacity to wonder why they all went flying across the floor just months later.
idk what this is tbh,, its jsut. words i threw up. have fun with it.
she blinks, slowly, a satisfied smile carving its way into her expression. "hmm, is that so? well, fair enough, it seems most people don't watch the news these days. makes it much harder to manipulate the masses, of course, but." she pauses, shifting her line of sight to a couple sitting at a table behind her dinner companion. "let's just say we meet the soul quota anyways."
Post by Máscara de Tigre on Aug 2, 2018 3:29:33 GMT
Continuing from my last post in this same thread...
Dean’s eyes meet Serenity’s when she exits the dressing room stall, only to lower and lay, briefly, on her bust; the fact that she would solicit his scrutiny (especially in such an intimate setting) spoke well of the trust she placed in him, and he knew it, placing his hand on his chin to think while maintaining an outward expression of indifferent observation, even if her face and body inspired a guilty thrill in his chest.
So my friends and I are doing a world building project in a sci-fi fantasy concept. We each are creating planets and races, etc. Its alot of work LOL. But I created a planet, and a moon, which each had separate species living on it. I want to share my favorite part about the project so far; which is the Moon I created.
Chrysali; a lone satellite that orbits the plant Eos, is only a third of the size of its parent planet. Despite its stature, it still harbors the wild and free spirited Anatola, who continue to thrive is the much harsher environment of the small moon. The land itself actually isn't a land mass at all, -- and is instead comprised of thousands of floating landmasses. Yes, thats right, Chrysali does not have a core. Instead it is pieces of land that are held by a gravitational pull, forming the semi spherical mass.
Some theorize that the moon is made up of land collected from its parent planet in its early stages of formation, other's fantasize that its core imploded, leaving a gateway to the afterlife. Either way, if you fall off an edge, you can fall right into the center.... before having your insides pulled out your eye sockets due to the gravitational pressure.
Because of its chaotic make up, earthquakes and shifting landmasses is a common everyday occurrence. So home may not always be where you left, which makes up a majority of the Anatola's nomadic and savage etiquette.
Last Edit: Aug 6, 2018 5:09:21 GMT by Deleted
if i woke up, your warmth, your hand on mine and your voice too—
avalon grits her teeth and shoves open the door to the clinic, her touch smearing crimson on the doorknob. the pain is nothing new, nothing worse than anything she's had before, but it is still pain, and that is what drives her to seek treatment.
everyone's writing here is wonderful, guys how dare u all.
Nestled between her ribs is a pincer that she pulls, pulls out of the barbed-framed heart, creates an image of construct. Designed to perfection, of course, for the cavernous sweep of Coalition, to the criss-crossing neon wire lights, the pulsating dance floor that beats under her feet. She designs and creates: produces a hooked adamantine smile never-too far from her mouth.
Not from my "last" post yet, but the one I'm currently working with all my heart. The character is an old drunk laying on the ground of a dirty alley, and these are his final words before giving himself to sleep.
“Of course you aren’t my daughter…” He gasped. “If she was still alive, she wouldn’t be such a bitch.”