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About Mypilot

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  • Birthday 01/11/1997
  1. Okie dokie, thank you! ^.^ Great issue so far, by the way. =)
  2. Yup! I don't know how to navigate this site very well so I might have missed the final announcement tho. ^.^;;
  3. When will the grand winner to the character contest be announced?
  4. Ah, okie dokie. Thank you! ^.^
  5. I'm still sorta new to this site (don't come on as much as I'd like to) so I'm not sure if I'm just missing it, but where's the December newsletter? I assumed the character contest grand winner would be announced on it and I wanted to see.
  6. @Pretzel Heart @Whale I didn't read all of the character applications (because so many) but after this newsletter I read through the winning five. I really liked both of yours! Mary's was described really well and I think you paid great attention to detail with his. I think it's neat that you first get this assumption that he's a bit of a grump strictly because of the art, but then he turns out to be the quiet type. As for Joseph, I love how creative and unique his character is. People don't often write disabled characters, so it was a lovely change seeing such a talented blind/mute character being represented!
  7. Genre: Instrumental Name: Subject 008 Age: Unknown Gender: Female Species: Synthetic Human Appearance: "Subject 008 is a Caucasian woman, approximately 17-19 in appearance although that is not her true age. Subject is 5'4", of medium build, and has long, brown hair. She has preferred to have bangs in every scenario despite memory wipes. Her eyes are pale green. Along her right shoulder is a scar as a result from a test done in her fourth memory rotation." Personality: "Subject 008 is calmer than the others. She takes her injections and food easily. Tests showed that she is responsive to colour and sound. Her reaction time to movement is average, and her pain tolerance is moderate. Subject 008 is more optimistic than the other subjects, although she gets disheartened when things don't work correctly. After a few days, she grew tired of the tests and insisted on staying in her room, growing lethargic and listless. Efforts to reinvigorate her was unsuccessful. Memory wipe was approved and executed." Backstory: D A Y 1: I woke up today. I don't remember going to sleep. I don't remember before. My room is sterile, cold. There is nothing on the pure, white walls and the floors are the same. There is a single door. I see nothing through it. I feel strange somehow, but I am not worried. I feel as if I should be worried. I hear no noise, see no people. Am I alone? I cannot tell. D A Y 2: The door opened today. It emitted a person, like me, but with shorter hair and tamed eyes. He - I can tell that is what he is - told me his name. "Professor N." I suspected that wasn't his real name, but mine couldn't truly be 008 so how could I argue? He gave me food and an injection, then he left through the door. The click of the lock bolting into place resounded in my silence. D A Y 4: Professor N returned. He did the same routine and left me once more. The food was the same as well, cold and grey. I didn't mind. I was hungry. My solitary confinement left me with little to do but wait for the next meal, although I'd taken to tracing invisible patterns into the walls. D A Y 11: A break in the pattern. Although Professor N had visited me every other day thus far, he came on an odd day. This time he brought with him another girl. "009," he said, then left. She was quiet, even after the Professor was gone, and I felt unnerved by it. Her skin was pallid, as if she were fading away, but she didn't move. Cool blue eyes, like ice, and hair that was eerily black against the white of my room. I offered her a smile, a greeting, and my name. "I am Eight. Are you living here now?" She only nodded. I accepted this silent answer and went back to my walls. D A Y 14: Professor N brings more food now. I noticed that what I received was different from 009's, but her's looked less satisfying. Was this because I was used to my own food? She didn't comment, only ate her food with an eagerness that I had not seen her possess before. Her injection was red where mine was silver and she winced as if it pained her. She caught my eye and I pretended not to notice. D A Y 17: I have noticed that 009 is very different from me. I thought we were both the same, but I believe that she sees our confinement in a different light than I do. At night, when we huddle into the corners to sleep, I hear her crying. Why is she sad? I don't understand it. There is nothing to miss, to worry about. D A Y 20: 009 seems unstable. I don't like her presence anymore and I told Professor N this when he returned. He gave me an amused smile (I didn't like that, either) and told me not to worry about it. 009's stay was only temporary. "It's been nine days already," I reminded him. He laughed this time and said, "Nine days is not a lot of time, 008." D A Y 28: I woke to 009 crying again, although this time she muttered to herself as she did it. "I'm not broken, I'm not broken, I'm not broken," she chanted, the words almost lost in her hitching sobs. Her voice was lonely in the still room, and I wondered, not for the first time, how much of that was true. D A Y 31: Professor N visited today and, just like the last time he was off schedule, he was accompanied by someone. This time it was two someone's. "004 and 003," he explained. 004 was a male like the Professor, but 004 was dark brown haired where the Professor was blond. His hair and skin where dark and he stood out sharply in the blank room, and his eyes stood out more still. Bright yellow and vibrant. He returned my smile and I was relieved. 003 was also male, but smaller. Like 004, his hair was dark, but wavy where 004's curled. His skin was lighter than 004, but still darker than my own. He refused to meet my eyes and the way his brow was furrowed made me uneasy. He didn't seem friendly. D A Y 33: Another member to join my room. This time it's 006, a broad girl with wild red hair and pale skin. She greeted us warmly, as if we were family, and shouldered past Professor N to meet me. "The room owner, I was told." Owner? I was not under the impression I owned anything. D A Y 34: We all received our meals and shots. Mine felt different this day. I flinched this time in pain and my arm felt tingly and strange. 009 yelped out loud and cradled her arm, hissing and spitting at the Professor like a cat. My arm felt tingly throughout the night. D A Y 38: The injections have been getting more painful. 009 reacts the worst, weeping now in pain. 006 seems the least bothered, but even she seems more lethargic as the days wear on. D A Y 42: I suspect the worst. The shot's burn us now, leaving us blind in pain. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. I am irritable and the others are much the same. 006 and 003 have already fought, and 004 smiles no more. 009 is unresponsive, cradling herself in the corner all hours of the day. D A Y 45: The other day Professor N told us we were close to our release. "A few more days," he had promised, "then we will stop." He smiled, but it felt feigned. I do not trust him anymore. D A Y 50: The pain is unbearable. I do not feel the same; I am weak now, and I have stopped getting up when the Professor enters the room. He comes to each of us with his false promises of release. I cling to this hope, and try not to listen to 009's mumbling. D A Y 54: The others have given up. 006 asked Professor N to kill her, but naturally he refused. When he left and the others shook in pain, I crawled to 003 who was fairing the worst. "Freedom is just around the corner," I said to them all, and they cried because they didn't believe me but, oh, did they want to. D A Y 63: With this pain, one good thing has come to us. We have bonded together now in our hate of the Professor and our pain. We shelter 009 and 003, since they both suffer the most and 003 is the youngest of us. The Professor has to threaten us with double shots to get us to move, but even then I shake with rage. D A Y 94: 003 has died. It felt, right then, like a foregone conclusion. He'd always been like a wounded animal, trailing it's blood behind it in the snow. He had died yesterday, but the Professor didn't break the schedule to retrieve his body. He takes 003 away, and I see 009 cry again. Different kinds of pain. D A Y 103: I fear 004 will be next. He hasn't spoken in days and even 009 looks at him with worry. She has grown stronger since 003's death, found herself in her mind, and helps 006 and I with keeping 004 sane and present. D A Y 117: We are desperate. Where is our promised freedom? 006 suggests we rid ourselves of Professor N and, although I despise him also, I am reluctant to agree. D A Y 121: 004 grows weaker still. We have to act. D A Y 124: When Professor N enters our room, it is to find 006 standing there holding 004's body. He lays loosely, arms and legs limp, head lolling. Professor N looks taken aback, but steps closer to take 004 from her. From behind, I grab the door to stop it from closing. When the Professor's arms grab at 004, 004 leaps onto him and wraps his arms tightly around the Professor's neck. 009 comes from behind, taking the Professor's arms and holding them tightly so he cannot twist free. When Professor N falls, 006 takes her legs and wraps them around his throat. She suffocates him slowly until he stops struggling. Together we drag his body to the door so he can hold it open for us. We pass through. We leave. Down the hall we go and meet little resistance. Not many other's roam the facility and those that do are too surprised to act quickly. 006 has been weakened, but she is still the strongest among us and takes them out quickly. We hear noises coming from another room. I press my ear to the door to catch the conversation on the other side and am surprised when the door yields to me. A man stands opposite me, looking shocked to see me there. His badge says 'Professor M' and I react quicker than I knew I could. I lunge at him and 006 follows my example. We find 001, 002, and 010. 005 and 007 had died. The seven of us move along, quicker now, down the hall. 002 is strong like 006 and he helps her break whatever doors we need. It seems like forever until we reach the last door, glass windows streaming in sunlight and bright blue sky. We all pause. We've never seen it before and it's too beautiful to take in at once, but we try. For a few minutes we only watch, then one of the others makes a move towards the door and suddenly we're running, bare feet beating at the white tile of the lobby. We reach the doors. Other: Seven little experiments on the run now, but at least they have each other. Inspiration: "So Is Life" had a kind of regal feel to it, and very powerful. Given the name, I imagined the saying "it is what it is." It reminded me of an internal fight, trying to get by without losing your sanity or who you are. "Dream" kinda just reminds me of a stroll in the park, but I can imagine it being the song that would also play in the background of a really emotional talk. "Sweet Dreams, My Dear" is the same to me, but it seems a touch more down. In the end, I decided on my plot. I paired "Sweet Dreams, My Dear" with 003's death, because it sounds like a farewell. "Dream" is about their wanting to be free, and eventually success. View full character
  8. Genre: Alternative/Other Name: Decio Atreius Age: 24 Gender: Male Appearance: The world has been rough on Decio and he certainly looks it. Scarred and rugged, he is like every other person in the new age. His skin is rough and tanned, having faced sword and sun, and it's taken on the colour of desert sand. His hair is dark gold and unruly; both his beard and his hair are scruffy, his hair reaching his ears in unbrushed waves. Darker than his hair is his eyes, both bronzed brown and attentive. With furrowed brows, he looks always intent, as if constantly seeking something. Along his lower lip there is a fissured cut, reaching from the right side and stretching under his jaw, the pale line looks sharp and thin. Different from a war wound, but speaking of a quick stinging, pain. He is lean despite years of working hard, although one can certainly attest that he is mostly made of muscle. His true strength lies in his arms, the limber limbs sinewy with his brawn. Of average height and build, he often comes off as unassuming by his fellows (they all have muscle, these days, and Decio is hardly the best of the best in this aspect). But he has a solemn face, and most leave him be. Personality: Decio has grown up with war and, as such, he has the spirit of a man who has seen a lot. He was young when the world was lost and doesn't have the same nostalgia as the older folk, but he knows that things are not as easy as they were. But he long ago took up responsibility for himself and for his family, too. He's a realist and knows what's logical and what isn't, but he also has a flare of idealism in him. He hopes for a beautiful future, and feels they're getting there. Humankind, Decio included, has persevered so far. Past war and hurt, death has yet to stop him. The new age is one entirely different from his youth, but he strangely thrives in it. Although things have taken a step back technologically, Decio enjoys the simplicity of it. He likes the marketplaces, the farmers, the houses made of clay and brick. It reminds him of his old history books. Backstory: The world had ended. Or, at least, humanity had gotten close to it. We thought, foolishly we thought, that we could escape the steadily declining home we were born in and find somewhere else to live. Our planet was about to erupt, you see, with lava and gas that would poison our lungs. In our haste to leave, we were not as careful with building the spacecrafts as we should have been. We were naive and foolish and, for that, we paid the price. Hundreds of light years into space, the ships erupted. Billions of lives were lost that day. But not all was lost. Those of us who couldn't pay, bribe, or blackmail or way onto the ships were just left to die on Earth. But when the world cracked and lava spewed it's toxins into the air, we managed to survive. We managed to live. We had to work for it, sure, but so what if things were a little rougher than before? We had our lives, we had each other. We wore masks and lived in small, clustered colonies wherever we found shelter, food, and other people. If one was lucky as I was, we had family. I was only a child back then, but I knew the severity of our situation. Electricity was irreparabley damaged, but we used radio to keep in touch. We powered what little we could with water or the sun. Things seemed fine. We were getting by. Then some people got a hunger. Nothing unusual to the human race, but it threw a rock into our system. People wanted power. We'd always had leaders - humans always manage to find someone to follow - but these people were not the leaders we wanted. They called themselves Ta Apomeinaria. Greek for something, not that I ever cared to learn it. We called them Apom's for short. Think that's Greek for something, too. Apom's were different, more malicious. Their motto, what they used to recruit people, was that survival shouldn't be about just "getting by" and doing nothing. "Pros to zin," they tell us. For living. And I get that; who doesn't want to just mess around all day? But the world's not like that anymore. What they're asking for is a luxury. But, naturally, they didn't want to hear that. And when half the surviving population didn't join them, they decided they would make us. This is when the wars started. I was nine. My father and older brother, Avaris, joined it. He was only fourteen, but what we considered the age of maturity had gone a lot further down since the end. Now we didn't have a fancy title, but we started calling each other Roaches. Not a pretty name, but it got our message across. We wouldn't die easily. Like the Apom's, we survived the end of the world too. Since the Apom's were based around the remnants of Phoenix, Arizona, that's where a lot of the fighting happened. We still had guns and our wits. Although it was around the third big war that those started running out, too. It took only a year or so before people were brandishing swords. The biggest Roach settlement close to Phoenix was in Mesa. We made sure we were right in their backyard, breathing down their necks. Like our namesake, we made ourselves an infestation. I was nineteen in the fourth war, when we heard that the Apom's managed to make a bomb. Scout's said it was fairly big given the lack of resources. Everyone went mad with fear, wondering where they were going to send it. Tucson was nearby and we sent word, but our suspicions proved correct and we still weren't fast enough. The Apom's took out a big chunk of Roaches. A lot of our supplies were gone, too. Food, power, horses. All blown away. It was chaos and people were pale in the face with worry and stress. This is when Akun Beradella came around. He'd started broadcasting on the radio, saying he took neither side in our wars. "Are we not all human? Did our borders not leave when the Earth shattered?" he said one day. "You waste away our species. You chance something so precious as our remaining kind. The world will not remember your names, and it will be your fault." For the first time in years, someone was making sense. His words hit our ears, making them burn red with shame. A lot of people quit the war and refused to fight in the coming months. Mostly Roaches, but a few Apom's too. Only the radicals remained, those desperate with want for their old lives back that they just couldn't stop fighting. But they recognized a losing battle when they saw one. They disappeared. Our cities prospered in the coming years. As much as they could, anyway, with what we had. We were few in number since the wars and the poison still permeated the air in the cracked areas. But we got by once more. My family and I moved to Mesa, Arizona. Things were a lot more different than back in the electrical day, but no one really minded. We grew to like our lives. Our people. We rallied behind our Commander and we made it work. Those who could tame the wildly growing flora were worth their weight in gold. Who knew gardeners who help save humanity? Gardeners and those who remembered. Those who knew the world from before and could make sure that it wasn't forgotten. People scouted for books, art, anything that would remind future generations who humans used to be. I remember when I heard on the radio that contact had been made with Europe. I wept that day. I wasn't the only one. Their tale was like ours: war, loss, rebuilding. Things were settling everywhere, people were finding themselves. We shared knowledge with each other; it was a settlement in Italy that figured out how to rebuild wind power. It was an African settlement that told us how to build stronger buildings using the old, rusted metal of our cities. We were a community, and not as small as we once thought. We expanded our settlements, recivilized our lives, and found some semblance of peace. A few months after I turned twenty-four, near present day, the radicals came back. They used the radio this time, spewing hate and violence without the physical side of it. Still under the name of Ta Apomeinaria, they boasted their power and spit cruel words at the Commander of western America, wanting to humiliate her and make her act irrationally. They weren't like the Apom's of my youth; they didn't even have the same sense of honor or dignity. They couldn't let go of the past, of what humanity was before, and refused to adapt like the rest of us. They said our Commander was a fool and greedy with power like the rest of them. They used horrible slurs, and spat in the face of what we'd become. But we can't find them and make them pay for it, so we can only sit and fume, waiting for them to make the first move and to reveal themselves. In the meantime, we've made a name of our Roaches. We have a culture, a government. We were not like the electrical age, or any other age. We're different. Human, but different. Other: - Inspiration: Well I listened to "Kids" first. Although I found the meaning kind of hard to grasp (and everyone seemed to have their own interpretation no matter where I looked) I took it as generally as I could. Young, tough life, dealing with hard things. Then, listening to "Two Birds" next, I pictured disparity between two sides. One wants one thing and the other wants another. Next, "Savages". I think this is where my characters real struggle should come from, i.e. this war. This song kind of inspired me towards a post-apocalypse type era. I especially took some inspiration from the lines "I'm not afraid of God/I'm afraid of Man." With this song and "Two Birds", I decided that my two sides would be groups, not individual people. A war, after all, is with groups. I saw a post, actually, on Tumblr that really related to what I was trying to go for and I tried to incorporate the idea more into my story. I liked it a lot, and I thought it fit. View full character
  9. Genre: Rock Name: Alssam Age: Immortal Gender: Male Species: Jinn Appearance: A changeling, Alssam can assume the form of a mortal man if he so chooses. Mostly he remains shapeless, an intangible voice that only mutters words into the ears of his charge. In the times when he does chose to show himself, his skin is pale, strangely so, and he wears white robes with shining gold on the seams and edges. He dresses like a prince, but his black hair is unkempt and his eyes are always too teasing to be noble, their silvery irises always lighting upon the beholder as if searching for a way to break through them. He is tall, but not absurdly so, and even with like-heighted fellows he gives an air of looking down on them. Perhaps it is in the haughty way he stands, or the broad-shouldered look that his clothes do not hide? His face, which most would look at first, is intrinsically simple. Maybe he doesn't think he needs to embellish his features to garner attention, but he looks decidedly human. His nose is almost Grecian in it's straightness, but his wild hair looks as windswept as if he'd crossed through hundreds of Arabian deserts and then hundreds more. He has bowed lips, full even when unsmiling, that make him look almost smug—although perhaps he simply is. His jawline is stiff and set in a rectangular head, covered by a curling beard that hovers at the edge of his lips and goes no further. It is the same rich, dark black of his wavy hair and offers no air of kindness to his teasing ways. Personality: Alssam is, notably, a trickster. He is not altogether evil, but his "advice" could lead one to grim fates. In the beginning, he is playful. Child-like, even, as he teases his human companion. As his tale leads on, though, these games turn slightly more sinister and his mind becomes more spiteful. He envies; part of him wishes to be human and part of him wishes to be near humans. He wants friends, but loathes to come too close to anyone. He is bound by an internal fight, but most only see the malice in his eyes as he does little to hide it. He feels desire so strongly it is as if it is ripping and tearing away at his insides in a fit to release itself, but the one thing—the one person—who could sate his wants left him forevermore. It is like being endlessly thirsty, but never finding something to wet his tongue. Irritable and full of spite, he is a restless soul and his appetite for contact with humankind is boundless. Backstory: Only in the whispered words of fathers and sons in the dying haze of dusk could one ever hear the tales of qarīn and their endless bonds to humankind. It was in this near-night light that I heard it myself; I was eight, small even for other children my age, and light-footed in a way that often kept me perched just beyond doors and listening in to conversations that were not meant for my ears. But the words that passed from the lips of my father and brothers always teased me with how hushed they were and often I could not stop myself from slipping down the hall to listen and catch at them. My kin murmured as if afraid a djinni would leap from the licking flames of the hearth and snatch away their spoken secrets with fury in their eyes, but I had quick ears and would not be swayed. My father was speaking clearly, and this was always the case as his voice carried even as he murmured. To me, small and impressionable, he had the voice as powerful and reaching as the Sultan, yet I leaned only closer to hear his words. Lucky as I was, it was only after dinner and he had just begun his tale. "My boys," he began, and without looking I knew my brothers to be listening raptly as if in prayer, "have I told you of the jinn? Have I told you of their people and their customs? Their kings? Have I told you how they twist like smoke clouds when they move and how quickly they appear, as if summoned by the prophets themselves? You nod your head yes, so I will continue my tales with the qarīn which you will surely be hearing first from me." A pause. "We each have a jinn, and this is as sure as judgement by Allah. Is that doubt I see in your faces? You are like your mother in this; she prays six, seven, maybe eight times a day but cannot believe in the qarīn! But they are as real as you or I, my sons, and indeed they watch over you even now. Young as you are in life, you perhaps have not faced the trials of man, nor have you ever needed the aid of a jinn, but they are there nevertheless. But be wary and know this: the qarīn do not always do good. Like djinni, they are free willed to do as they please. Show constant vigilance, for some hold evil in their hearts and will whisper sinful wrongs in your ear to befoul your heart. Born of fire, molded by Allah, they are as changing and unknowable as strangers in the street. But do now worry, for they too will-" I did not hear the rest. My mother was coming down the hall and I was quick to make my leave, hurrying to my room and finding my bed in the sudden darkness of night. I was relieved to have escaped unhindered, but now I wish I had stayed. What would I have heard my father say? Would it have served as a warning for myself in later years? It is to late; history has already laid her foot down and I am destined to recall the past now like a spectator, reminiscent and full of wretched remorse. Years had passed. My fathers story slipped from my mind and I was not quick to recall it. I had no need—no jinn or qarīn showed their face to me and I had no reason to desire them. As I grew, I followed the Pillars as my family had taught me, and I did not cross my parents or speak out. I was a good daughter. This lasted even till my marriage, where my father had found a boy from the neighboring village who was more well off than we were and willing to marry a girl with features none to ugly, and from a respected family. I felt discomfort at this, but spoke nothing against the arrangement. It was not my place, and would only see to lose the favor of my father. And yet, it was then that I heard words in my ear: "You don't have to concede to this." I was shocked and turned my head sharply to my father, who sat only just next to me in conversation with the father of my soon to be husband. Both men were laughing, age lining their faces and an easy understanding between them that I paid no mind to. Neither looked my way, as both had not halted in their conversation and I felt chilled. Had I been hearing things? Afraid to be considered mad, I drew my face like marble and focused on the conversation at hand. Later, years later when I found myself alone in the stretching land of my husband, I spent the day watching the sparrows fly to and from the leaf-strewn grounds in search of twigs and berries. The wind was gentle on my skin and I found my mind drifting with it, untroubled in thought. I was startled from such tranquility by words again, but all the more clearer in the silence of the garden. "Do you find this life enjoyable?" And this time, in turning to find the voice of the words, I was surprised to see a speaker. He stood there in my husbands field wearing white, human in appearance save for the pallid look of his skin. Had he not seen sun? Or was he unnatural? His voice was too rich to be anything but charming, and yet I found myself closing off to him. He was a stranger and his presence reminded me of my ostensibly declining rationality. "Go away," I had said simply. But he had not, and perhaps I never expected him to. Looking back, I know I could have been harsher, could have stamped my foot and demanded he'd left. He had sensed my irresolution, of this I am certain, and thus did not leave. But that was his way, for he really only did as I had wanted, did he not? With his voice like too clever snakes, he spoke again: "I warned you that you could have fled this life, yet here you stand. Dissatisfied. Sullen. You are unhappy." I was unnerved by the truth of his words and, leaping on my lapse of ingenuity, he continued. "Perhaps, now, you will listen to me? I will introduce myself and you will listen, with no one to hear and no one to harp on you." He did not let me interject, though I only made one attempt. "I am Alssam, a jinn and your jinn. You have heard of my kind before. Do you remember the seating room of your old home? The warmth of the hearth and the even warmer words your father spoke of? He told the tale of my race, and his words were true. I am the qarīn he spoke of, here to watch over you. I can guide us both to wonderful lives, but you need to learn to listen to more than just mortal men." His mouth twisted into a smirk that I would grow to know. "Perhaps we can start now. We shall leave together, you and I, and you can rid yourself of this husband who offers you nothing more than a house to share. I think we can find better things together." I can't say why I went. I could blame it on certain things, to be sure. It was the silver of his tongue, the gilded future he promised, that lured me. It was the sterling eyes that goaded me forward, as if challenging my daring, provoking me to act. It was the fact that, for the first time since my feet whispered along the halls of my home to listen to words that I stole like a smuggler, I was acting on my own decisions. I was nine years old again, doing things I shouldn't be doing in the hopes of catching something worth the risk. We traveled north from small towns to too busy cities, but we never stopped. Alssam was invisible to any other and, alone, my path often went unencumbered. All along the way he whispered to me, directions to take what was needed and do what had to be done. Before long I had an arsenal of swiped treasures and my fingers grew as light as my feet. I was a thief, and yet I was happiest I'd been in a long time. Despite my sins and continued acts of iniquity, I prayed frequently. To each mosque I went, bowing in a way reminisce of my mother who was a supplicant to Allah as long as I knew her. Alssam never entered with me. Days passed. I did not change much, but the same could not be said for my companion. He grew agitated quickly, always anxious to keep moving. If I had been any less careful with my thievery, I would have almost thought that we had a pursuer fresh on our tails—my tail—yet Alssam waved away such thoughts. His whisperings grew more feverish, rushed, as if eager to do wrong. It became less about living freely and more about the acts themselves and I grew the sense that Alssam wanted nothing more than to do these infractions time and time again. What was his purpose? He would not say. He told me nothing and expected obedience in the wake of his silence. Uneasy as I had been when we first met, I ultimately did as he ask. But as the days wore on I began to wonder: if the qarīn exists—and indeed living proof had stood before me—then was it likely that those around me were merely bowing to the orders of their djinni? Was I not the first to be directed like a sheep? Or were they perhaps stronger than I? Had they been like my father, warning others not to listen? But I had done just that. A silver tongue and beautiful promises was all it took to unravel me, and even as I thought this I could not argue. Despite it all, I enjoyed Alssam's company. When he wasn't fervently muttering in my ear with vile deeds, he was a companion. A friend. I had sown my heart to his in some strange, undesirable way and judgement had come early, for I was being punished with his ever-changing mood. Where one minute he'd be offering me that teasing, coy smirk, another he'd have harsh lines nestled between each brow and his lips would be pressed into a thin frown. His anger, his disappointment, were worse than his anxious whisperings. If I failed him, I knew we would both regret it. And so for a long while I did not argue, but there was no doubt that my heart was trying to peel itself from his. I had not the strength and, dare I say it, no longer the passion to work against him. We were united under his cause, a wish for chaos, even if I did it unwillingly. My simple crimes turned darker and I did foul things I shall never utter, but there was no doubt that prayers could not fix me. Alssam, in one of his good days, assured me I was doing right. He told me he was proud of my deeds and offered the compliment that he himself could do no better. I felt little joy at this, only a bare sense of pleasure at not having wrong-stepped, but only gave him my best impression of a smile. He must have sensed my dispassion, for he turned from me and we spoke no more. Now my tale turns darker still, and Alssam's goes another route altogether. Our capers could not go on forever, you see, and at some point it would all crumble. I think that it is feasible to say that Alssam knew this would be the end all along. Whether he intended for it to fall so deeply is unsure, but I doubt he felt too much surprise. You see, the crimes he asked of me where never outside of my ability, but all too soon (or was it that soon? I cannot remember the time that had passed; it blurs together in streaks of grey and no amount of plucking can separate one from another) he asked for too much. "That Sultan, Selim, sits too high on his throne." My place in Jannah, the afterlife, seemed so distant and, yet, I listened to what he had to say. "We could bring him down, force the regime to move forward bit by bit. His son is almost of age and Selim grows old in the palace. Why not remove him?" He grinned at me then, knowing my hands were already stained dark crimson with blood, feeling in his heart that beat steadily next to mine that I would not—no, could not—disagree. He remained smiling still, frozen in disbelief, as I said no. We argued. He shouted obscenities, demands, orders. I listened and did not reply, but my fingers tapped a harried rhythm on a knife I had stolen and paid for with the lifeblood of innocent men. When he moved towards me, as if to strike me, my hand was quicker. I brandished this blade against my only companion, my lifelong friend, and felt the final piece of twine that held our hearts together unthread. He seem surprised by my audacity and laughed even. "You try to threaten me? I am as ceaseless as the sun, as endless as the tides. My kind has lived for centuries—centuries!—and see your simple human cities rise and fall like dunes. We are bound, you and I. Were you go I will always follow. You must know that, surely? You think spilling my blood, rich with the essence of the divine, will bring you solace? Will allow you entrance into Jannah? You have made your decisions, girl, long ago in that field. How you have sown your destiny and judgement is already certain for you. You are not as sacred as I am, the ilk of Allah. Do you think yourself holy?" "No, I do not deign to pretend I am like God." I pierced the blade into my heart, spilt my blood fresh and hot on the soil before him like a sacrifice. And that was what I was, a sacrifice for my own redemption. And judgement, it seems, is not as savage as mortal men would be led to believe and sees light in hearts too covered in shadow. But I am no man, and I have found my own end. And it is years that the jinn walks the earth alone and incorporeal, for he is bound to no human. He can whisper no words, seek no solace in the luxury of humankind. He is as material as the smoke he was forged from. But fury, so thick is it in the hearts and minds of djinni and human alike, is powerful enough to even bring a human-less qarīn back into the living world of man. And a free qarīn, his mind wrought with anger, soon finds he can touch again. Other: At the end of this tale, with his charge no longer by his side, Alssam is found in the present day. And now he hates humans. Unfortunate for those he crosses paths with, but they can at least find solace in the fact that Alssam cannot be too impulsive in his enmity, for even the jinn have ways of punishment. Inspiration: Funnily enough, I don't regularly listen to rock songs, but having heard "The Sound of Silence" on the radio and liking it I leaned more towards this category to try something new. I listened to "He Is" initially and immediately went to read up on the lyrics. The song reminded me of a poem I'd read, "you're a good greedy monster" by L.M. So I decided to go with the subject ("he") and went from there. I didn't want to get ahead of myself and base the whole character on just one song yet, so I went and listened to The Sound of Silence again while reading the lyrics. I was inspired to have my character be the one the singer is speaking to. At this point, I'm thinking a villain. Although "The Sound of Silence" was kind of giving me more of a feeling that my character would be almost omnipresent. The second half of TSoS also reminded me of a book I read, Rebel of the Sands by Alwyn Hamilton which, naturally, had a desert-y feel to it in an Arabic/Indian sense. The book is also tied to jinn and so I thought I'd write a character who is almost mythological. So I had my setting and species! Next I listened to "Interstate Love Song" and was once again reminded of an outside character, one who would be subject to whatever my villain was cooking up. With the line " lied/promises of what I seemed to be" I figured this would be the time when things turned sour, and acts would drive my character to villainy full force. They would start the chain of events that would lead to his present day wickedness. Going off my setting and species, I gave my character an Arabic name and set off to write his backstory first with a little help from the wikipedia article on jinn. Since it is a mythological character, I wrote the backstory in the POV of a mortal person who finds the jinn to be mysterious and, frankly, annoying. In the end, though, I imaged Alssam being like the subject in TSoS: demanding attention and expecting no opposition. The narrator of the backstory would be the narrator of TSoS, wanting more. This is also were L.M.'s poem comes in; Alssam is sly and tricky and his wickedness twines the narrator in who isn't so keen on putting up a fight. View full character
  10. Hey! I'm new to this site, if you couldn't tell. I'm not new to roleplaying, however, and look to get started here. This place was brought up in passing by a friend I met on another forum and since I'm always looking for more roleplays, I had to check it out! I'm sure everyone here is very friendly and talented, so I can't want to hop right in. Just wanted to offer everyone a quick hello. =D