Husk
wears heelies to escape his feelies
Time to blow off the dust on some ideas.
I'm Husk, a more advanced writer, however, a sickly and slow one. I thoroughly enjoy fleshing out characters, worlds, and plots. I'm 24 and work a slower paced job and am looking for three partners to roleplay something long-term and literate.
I've no notable triggers.
I like darker themes.
I am also okay with more casual RPs. Quality over quantity.
I'll RP in first and third person {past tense}.
I enjoy OOC thoroughly. I can RP on any platform. Pairing wise, I enjoy LGBTQ+ couples overall, but will do hetero. I tend to lean towards male roles, but mind you, it's not a trait set in stone.
I'm open to all settings as well as ideas of your own should none of these catch your fancy.
I'd like to find partners who can fuel inspiration within me, move a plot with teamwork, and produce meaningful prose. You needn't be a pro at grammar to do this, so don't worry too much about that.
Note, I will ask for a sample of your writing and will provide you with samples of mine to ensure we mesh.
Onwards to ideas, shall we?
IDEAS
☾ Society is led to believe they live within a Utopia and Muse A falls under this umbrella, while Muse B, a wanted individual, knows the true nature of their world, and, in desperation, reveals this truth unto Muse A.
☾ Muse A is a detective that can see ghosts while Muse B is studious in criminal psychology (potentially a serial killer, think Hannibal Lector, here) and agrees to assist Muse A in capturing a killer who has proved to be an utter enigma.
☾ Muse A travels to a town where suicides are rumored to be exceptionally high, only to find that Muse B is the definite cause of this, unbeknownst to those around them.
☾ Muse A is a recovering drug addict while Muse B is a very convincing dealer.
Or Muse A and Muse B are two addicts struggling to get sober.
☾ Muse A is an undercover cop, undercover, that is, to the most dangerous gang/mob within the city.
Muse B is the crime/mob boss.
☾ Muse A is a shifter, a dying and hunted race, who comes to Muse B's doorsteps, injured and defensive. Muse B decides to take pity on Muse A.
☾ Muse A and Muse B are participants, willingly or not, of The Purge.
☾ Muse A is a human who, oddly, cannot die meanwhile Muse B is a frustrated Reaper, assigned to reap the soul of Muse A.
☾ Within a dystopic world, parasites prey, their existence hidden to man.
Muse A's shadow is sentient, a dying race of parasitic mimics that hide within the shadow of an individual. Muse A becomes aware of this curse, and, left aghast, struggles to come to terms as Muse B has little plans of going soon. Will Muse A must come to an understanding of Muse B's mysterious and forever elusive race, or, will they attempt to dislodge themselves from Muse B's hold?
☾ After a rattling near-death experience, Muse A walks the lines between the living and the dead, capable of seeing those who have passed, however, up until this point his "sight" has been minor, blurred. Barely a scratch upon his life.
However, this ability is beginning to manifest to its fullest, becoming stronger as the days pass, like dreams of transferring to reality.
Unfortunately for Muse A, this quirk brings about a certain allure to spirits, some with nefarious intentions which, unbeknownst to him, leaves him in a vulnerable state.
Muse A cannot communicate with the dead, his attempts proving fruitless, and he carries the knowledge that eyes pry at all times.
Muse B is a spirit caught within the "restless" realm of the afterlife, where there is no sanctuary- no heaven, nor is there a hell, only an endless limbo.
Those who remain in limbo for too long lose their sanity and eventually their humanity, becoming nothing more than hungering wraiths clinging to the remnants of their memories and seeking to devour the ones of others.
For reasons beyond his understanding, Muse B lives in a cyclic loop, reliving the moments of his death just as he experienced it when he was alive.
Things change once the seedlings of Sight begin to form within Muse A. From then on, Muse B lives free from the nightmare of his death, but to his chagrin is chained to Muse A and cannot explore far beyond him.
Not able to understand the linkage, Muse B is resigned to being bound to Muse A, whose psychological state is steadily declining as he struggles to cope with living amongst apparitions and the unnerving, haunting feeling of being hunted.
When Muse A begins to see Muse B and connect further to the afterlife, both their worlds are turned upside down.
For, as stated, to walk among ghosts while blood pulses through your veins is a dangerous path to tread.
☾ Muse A and Muse B were lovers, briefly, but intensely so. Muse A, chasing fame, booked a one-way ticket to the west. Good ole Cali’.
Muse B, while dismayed, did not attempt to halt Muse A’s dreams, so, patiently, Muse B waits for correspondence from Muse A, awaiting the day they can be together again. However, as time crawls by, Muse A grows in popularity and begins to speak with Muse B less and less until, abruptly, communication is ceased altogether. Muse B is left with their heart shattered.
Years pass, Muse B, with humor, moves to California, the state their former love pined over so much. Muse B is doing reasonably well for themselves. Muse A, on the other hand, is a flickered out flame, his fame dissipating. In short, Muse A is a wreck, barely scraping by, try as he may.
In a chance meeting, Muse B bumps into, literally so, Muse A, who is utterly drunk.
How will Muse B confront Muse A and how far down the gutter has Muse A fallen?
☾ Muse A is a meticulous and calculative director, often considered cut-throat. Muse B, for the longest time, held the stage in Muse A’s productions, holding an allure that captured the audience. Alas, perfect bliss can only last for so long. A promising star arises and, intrigued, Muse A hires this the rookie who proceeds to enrapture the crowd with their talent.
After a while, as their fame diminishes, Muse B is put to the side, or, to put it bluntly, fired.
Enraged, Muse B constructs, overtime, a plot, one that blossoms to lead to the killing of the star that dared replace them. A trickling of time afterward, caught up in anger, Muse B kidnaps Muse A, forcing Muse A to confront the seeds they’ve sown.
☾ Muse A has grown up within a cult, his life built around religion. Being the son of a high ranking priest, he is, of course, expected to follow suit. However, Muse A has a complicated relationship with religion, having, in time, growing to ultimately become something of an atheist, if barely bordering on agnostic.
However, feeling as if the weight upon his shoulders is too much to bear, Muse A makes a suicide attempt. Albeit only to experience a near death experience where he meets Muse B ( a God, demon, angel, or something of the sort), who tears his ideologies of fate apart, as once Muse B interfered with Muse A's attempt, ending it, they now have an unspoken connection. Muse B has his own struggles within his domain and Muse A must face a bewildering reality that beings beyond humans exist.
☾ Muse A finds a beautiful necklace within an old pawn show oft ignored. Unbenknowst to Muse A, it is cursed and blighted jewelry by Muse B themselves- a lost and ancient soul of a dead god, being trapped within the pendant. When Muse A puts on the locket, instantly he is tied to Muse B, locked within their curse, and the two become ensnared together.
☾ YC and MC are connected through their dreams as well as the scatterings of their thoughts and memories. More or less tied to each other akin to a twisted red string of fate.
Our characters may own memories that belong to the other.
Incoherent thoughts that aren't theirs. The two also share a life force. One cannot survive without the other.
MC will often experience lucid dreams revolving around YC’s murders (or actions), be they past or current.
MC has no control over his actions in these dreams; he can only follow in YC’s footsteps through every sequence of events. A thick fog, vast and obscuring, shrouds the dreams, disallowing MC from seeing YC’s appearance or even hearing YC’s voice with complete clarity. YC has managed to chip away at some of this fog, allowing YC to discover the identity of MC. Lots of paths can form from here. Perhaps YC becomes keen on the life link the two share? MC is not as enlightened as yours in these matters, still in a state of discovery.
I'd love to develop the reasoning behind their connection. Be it from human experimentation the two are unaware of, a demonic aspect, or even a Lovecraft type twist. This is a very moldable plot. I want to explore a darker side of the red string of fate. I have a lot of smaller ideas on this.
Notes: YC does not have to be a serial killer. I would just love this twist on a serial killer x detective plot. We can explore other avenues as well. Moral confliction would be excellent to have here. I can see this set in a lot of different time frames.
!Alternate Ideas!: YC is a demon with an unfortunate attachment like the above to a human, oh boy.
Or anything revolving around a more darker version of the red string of fate. It doesn't have to follow the above plot line to a T.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now that is out of the way, allow me to share samples of my writing, albeit, they are a bit older.
SAMPLES
I'm Husk, a more advanced writer, however, a sickly and slow one. I thoroughly enjoy fleshing out characters, worlds, and plots. I'm 24 and work a slower paced job and am looking for three partners to roleplay something long-term and literate.
I've no notable triggers.
I like darker themes.
I am also okay with more casual RPs. Quality over quantity.
I'll RP in first and third person {past tense}.
I enjoy OOC thoroughly. I can RP on any platform. Pairing wise, I enjoy LGBTQ+ couples overall, but will do hetero. I tend to lean towards male roles, but mind you, it's not a trait set in stone.
I'm open to all settings as well as ideas of your own should none of these catch your fancy.
I'd like to find partners who can fuel inspiration within me, move a plot with teamwork, and produce meaningful prose. You needn't be a pro at grammar to do this, so don't worry too much about that.
Note, I will ask for a sample of your writing and will provide you with samples of mine to ensure we mesh.
Onwards to ideas, shall we?
IDEAS
☾ Society is led to believe they live within a Utopia and Muse A falls under this umbrella, while Muse B, a wanted individual, knows the true nature of their world, and, in desperation, reveals this truth unto Muse A.
☾ Muse A is a detective that can see ghosts while Muse B is studious in criminal psychology (potentially a serial killer, think Hannibal Lector, here) and agrees to assist Muse A in capturing a killer who has proved to be an utter enigma.
☾ Muse A travels to a town where suicides are rumored to be exceptionally high, only to find that Muse B is the definite cause of this, unbeknownst to those around them.
☾ Muse A is a recovering drug addict while Muse B is a very convincing dealer.
Or Muse A and Muse B are two addicts struggling to get sober.
☾ Muse A is an undercover cop, undercover, that is, to the most dangerous gang/mob within the city.
Muse B is the crime/mob boss.
☾ Muse A is a shifter, a dying and hunted race, who comes to Muse B's doorsteps, injured and defensive. Muse B decides to take pity on Muse A.
☾ Muse A and Muse B are participants, willingly or not, of The Purge.
☾ Muse A is a human who, oddly, cannot die meanwhile Muse B is a frustrated Reaper, assigned to reap the soul of Muse A.
☾ Within a dystopic world, parasites prey, their existence hidden to man.
Muse A's shadow is sentient, a dying race of parasitic mimics that hide within the shadow of an individual. Muse A becomes aware of this curse, and, left aghast, struggles to come to terms as Muse B has little plans of going soon. Will Muse A must come to an understanding of Muse B's mysterious and forever elusive race, or, will they attempt to dislodge themselves from Muse B's hold?
☾ After a rattling near-death experience, Muse A walks the lines between the living and the dead, capable of seeing those who have passed, however, up until this point his "sight" has been minor, blurred. Barely a scratch upon his life.
However, this ability is beginning to manifest to its fullest, becoming stronger as the days pass, like dreams of transferring to reality.
Unfortunately for Muse A, this quirk brings about a certain allure to spirits, some with nefarious intentions which, unbeknownst to him, leaves him in a vulnerable state.
Muse A cannot communicate with the dead, his attempts proving fruitless, and he carries the knowledge that eyes pry at all times.
Muse B is a spirit caught within the "restless" realm of the afterlife, where there is no sanctuary- no heaven, nor is there a hell, only an endless limbo.
Those who remain in limbo for too long lose their sanity and eventually their humanity, becoming nothing more than hungering wraiths clinging to the remnants of their memories and seeking to devour the ones of others.
For reasons beyond his understanding, Muse B lives in a cyclic loop, reliving the moments of his death just as he experienced it when he was alive.
Things change once the seedlings of Sight begin to form within Muse A. From then on, Muse B lives free from the nightmare of his death, but to his chagrin is chained to Muse A and cannot explore far beyond him.
Not able to understand the linkage, Muse B is resigned to being bound to Muse A, whose psychological state is steadily declining as he struggles to cope with living amongst apparitions and the unnerving, haunting feeling of being hunted.
When Muse A begins to see Muse B and connect further to the afterlife, both their worlds are turned upside down.
For, as stated, to walk among ghosts while blood pulses through your veins is a dangerous path to tread.
☾ Muse A and Muse B were lovers, briefly, but intensely so. Muse A, chasing fame, booked a one-way ticket to the west. Good ole Cali’.
Muse B, while dismayed, did not attempt to halt Muse A’s dreams, so, patiently, Muse B waits for correspondence from Muse A, awaiting the day they can be together again. However, as time crawls by, Muse A grows in popularity and begins to speak with Muse B less and less until, abruptly, communication is ceased altogether. Muse B is left with their heart shattered.
Years pass, Muse B, with humor, moves to California, the state their former love pined over so much. Muse B is doing reasonably well for themselves. Muse A, on the other hand, is a flickered out flame, his fame dissipating. In short, Muse A is a wreck, barely scraping by, try as he may.
In a chance meeting, Muse B bumps into, literally so, Muse A, who is utterly drunk.
How will Muse B confront Muse A and how far down the gutter has Muse A fallen?
☾ Muse A is a meticulous and calculative director, often considered cut-throat. Muse B, for the longest time, held the stage in Muse A’s productions, holding an allure that captured the audience. Alas, perfect bliss can only last for so long. A promising star arises and, intrigued, Muse A hires this the rookie who proceeds to enrapture the crowd with their talent.
After a while, as their fame diminishes, Muse B is put to the side, or, to put it bluntly, fired.
Enraged, Muse B constructs, overtime, a plot, one that blossoms to lead to the killing of the star that dared replace them. A trickling of time afterward, caught up in anger, Muse B kidnaps Muse A, forcing Muse A to confront the seeds they’ve sown.
☾ Muse A has grown up within a cult, his life built around religion. Being the son of a high ranking priest, he is, of course, expected to follow suit. However, Muse A has a complicated relationship with religion, having, in time, growing to ultimately become something of an atheist, if barely bordering on agnostic.
However, feeling as if the weight upon his shoulders is too much to bear, Muse A makes a suicide attempt. Albeit only to experience a near death experience where he meets Muse B ( a God, demon, angel, or something of the sort), who tears his ideologies of fate apart, as once Muse B interfered with Muse A's attempt, ending it, they now have an unspoken connection. Muse B has his own struggles within his domain and Muse A must face a bewildering reality that beings beyond humans exist.
☾ Muse A finds a beautiful necklace within an old pawn show oft ignored. Unbenknowst to Muse A, it is cursed and blighted jewelry by Muse B themselves- a lost and ancient soul of a dead god, being trapped within the pendant. When Muse A puts on the locket, instantly he is tied to Muse B, locked within their curse, and the two become ensnared together.
☾ YC and MC are connected through their dreams as well as the scatterings of their thoughts and memories. More or less tied to each other akin to a twisted red string of fate.
Our characters may own memories that belong to the other.
Incoherent thoughts that aren't theirs. The two also share a life force. One cannot survive without the other.
MC will often experience lucid dreams revolving around YC’s murders (or actions), be they past or current.
MC has no control over his actions in these dreams; he can only follow in YC’s footsteps through every sequence of events. A thick fog, vast and obscuring, shrouds the dreams, disallowing MC from seeing YC’s appearance or even hearing YC’s voice with complete clarity. YC has managed to chip away at some of this fog, allowing YC to discover the identity of MC. Lots of paths can form from here. Perhaps YC becomes keen on the life link the two share? MC is not as enlightened as yours in these matters, still in a state of discovery.
I'd love to develop the reasoning behind their connection. Be it from human experimentation the two are unaware of, a demonic aspect, or even a Lovecraft type twist. This is a very moldable plot. I want to explore a darker side of the red string of fate. I have a lot of smaller ideas on this.
Notes: YC does not have to be a serial killer. I would just love this twist on a serial killer x detective plot. We can explore other avenues as well. Moral confliction would be excellent to have here. I can see this set in a lot of different time frames.
!Alternate Ideas!: YC is a demon with an unfortunate attachment like the above to a human, oh boy.
Or anything revolving around a more darker version of the red string of fate. It doesn't have to follow the above plot line to a T.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now that is out of the way, allow me to share samples of my writing, albeit, they are a bit older.
SAMPLES
Fear's tendencies are much akin to that of a parasitic worm; forever burrowing with hunger insatiable, altering and manipulating its host if given dominion.
For fear did not fall unknown to him, no, he shared familiarity as one would with an age-old friend, sans camaraderie. Did it guide him? Perhaps, but within a world devoured by illness, where wolves lay with sheep, sometimes a touch of paranoia interwoven with persistent foreboding kept you from the yawning endless maw of death itself.
Furthermore, in the outliers, there skulked more than the diseased to dread.
Let the mindless tear him asunder, let the infection render him free of his faculties or dig him six feet under, but, vehement, he refused to allow the Cognizants to bring about his downfall. The business of forsaking the faction meant shaking hands with the reaper; Alex knew what seeds he sowed, what the harvest entailed. Safety would forever be elusive until they saw him to an early grave or nominated to the involuntary position of "lab rat."
So, indeed, let the intimacy with fear and cynicism flourish, let him lie in bed with it, allow it to keep blood in his veins and the beat of his heart.
Meanwhile, inconsequential nuisances had made themselves known. Alexander subsequently in response and, might he say, to his amusement managed to piss them off in retribution.
The lot- raider rejects, more likely than not- came barreling through on a raucous foray and in welcoming- as the self-elected mayor, of course- Alex gave the exchange of lead rather than gab; better to shoot at them than shoot the breeze.
During the fray, Alex ascertained that Lady Luck's capricious nature could leave you gutted or left to persevere; she allowed him a pinch of both.
Alex's fortune had begun and ended within the same town he sought sanctuary, in walls, both literal and figurative, along with a sense of pertinacity voiced by isolation.
Perhaps clinging to being solitary was not particularly wise, he thought as he assessed where a bullet had grazed his forearm- not enough to penetrate but enough to draw quantities of blood. Although he managed to flee, he stumbled into another dilemma.
Left with a lame limb, no medical supplies, and no partner to take aim for him as he scavenged, he considered himself utterly fucked because while he absconded, his foes still roamed the streets, leaving him crawling through dense, sprawling growth, furthering alarm, like bells ringing.
Somewhere adjacent, shouts rang out, and, edged with exasperation; Alexander tensed, immediately alert.
For fear did not fall unknown to him, no, he shared familiarity as one would with an age-old friend, sans camaraderie. Did it guide him? Perhaps, but within a world devoured by illness, where wolves lay with sheep, sometimes a touch of paranoia interwoven with persistent foreboding kept you from the yawning endless maw of death itself.
Furthermore, in the outliers, there skulked more than the diseased to dread.
Let the mindless tear him asunder, let the infection render him free of his faculties or dig him six feet under, but, vehement, he refused to allow the Cognizants to bring about his downfall. The business of forsaking the faction meant shaking hands with the reaper; Alex knew what seeds he sowed, what the harvest entailed. Safety would forever be elusive until they saw him to an early grave or nominated to the involuntary position of "lab rat."
So, indeed, let the intimacy with fear and cynicism flourish, let him lie in bed with it, allow it to keep blood in his veins and the beat of his heart.
Meanwhile, inconsequential nuisances had made themselves known. Alexander subsequently in response and, might he say, to his amusement managed to piss them off in retribution.
The lot- raider rejects, more likely than not- came barreling through on a raucous foray and in welcoming- as the self-elected mayor, of course- Alex gave the exchange of lead rather than gab; better to shoot at them than shoot the breeze.
During the fray, Alex ascertained that Lady Luck's capricious nature could leave you gutted or left to persevere; she allowed him a pinch of both.
Alex's fortune had begun and ended within the same town he sought sanctuary, in walls, both literal and figurative, along with a sense of pertinacity voiced by isolation.
Perhaps clinging to being solitary was not particularly wise, he thought as he assessed where a bullet had grazed his forearm- not enough to penetrate but enough to draw quantities of blood. Although he managed to flee, he stumbled into another dilemma.
Left with a lame limb, no medical supplies, and no partner to take aim for him as he scavenged, he considered himself utterly fucked because while he absconded, his foes still roamed the streets, leaving him crawling through dense, sprawling growth, furthering alarm, like bells ringing.
Somewhere adjacent, shouts rang out, and, edged with exasperation; Alexander tensed, immediately alert.
To leave the confines is to sleep with death, to stay in the confines is to wish for death.
Born abnormal, as they said. Perhaps presumptions stemming from stigmas attributed to being an orphan, or rather- Thom's favored theory- set framework structured by an overbearing adoptive "mother" whose compassion echoed hollow, bound by vanity entwined with pity that sickened him, doting only for appearances, not from tender seeds of love.
In regards to his parental relations, if that was all he knew, what would render desire to stay?
'There shall be nothing here to miss, and no one shall miss me.'
A thought- one dripping with vitriol, so saturated with a cynical venomosity acute enough that it wavered Thom's focus. All those about him appeared to align with the belief that he lived in a senseless reverie, sundered from reality, yet, if he were to have a say, they lived within an illusion molded by foreboding and mythos, and he grasped conceptions they condemned out of ignorance.
Since youth, Thom felt allured, magnetized, to the world that lay beyond the banal visage of the town, where no strict rules and regulations governed his life nor his dreams; where foliage grew dense, and a provocative sense of mystery flowered and enveloped like ivy. However, forever did the ability to elope eluded him until finally, chance revealed itself and two eves prior he slunk away when all fell into the embrace of sleep, set to venture, brimming with exhilaration in a stark almost humorous opposition to the present tense. Where, for now, Thom floundered with a sliver of regret, utterly lost, pining for the quench of fresh, unsullied water, perhaps accompanied by the warmth of liquor and a hearty meal. To at last curl into bed with promises of comfort a simplistic sleeping bag placed upon frigid earth could not provide.
Regardless of a situation not particularly fortuitous, Thom concluded ambling without aim within the woodlands proved ever more titillating than the mundanity he grew accustomed to. Often had he heard rumorous whispers that spoke of remote villages, landscapes distinct and foreign, beasts that devoured, their hunger perpetual, yet, all Thom unveiled thus far from within the forest were trees and their littered leaves- green growth as far as the eye could see.
Albeit, traces of life subtly presented themselves as if the undergrowth tucked away secrets of its own. However inconspicuous, Thom noted trodden paths- a sign of humanity, perhaps,- and marks upon the trees he could not decipher.
Coming to a fork amidst a clearing, wearied, Thom settled against a grand oak, whose limbs sprawled skyward.
Well, this is a lovely predicament.
With little in the way of forethought, Thom found himself calling out, his voice reverberating, fragmenting the ghostly silence that seemed to haunt him throughout his trek.
"Hello?"
Chiding himself at once for such a foolish action, Thom shuddered, a peculiar sensation of discontenment beginning to gnaw away at him. What amongst him could he have awoken; fluttering the eyelids of creatures with snarling maws, perhaps?
Moreover, Thom began to reflect if he had made a grave mistake, one of which would lead him to starve in depths where none of those he left behind would find, yet another statistic to be fuel to fire fairytales.
Born abnormal, as they said. Perhaps presumptions stemming from stigmas attributed to being an orphan, or rather- Thom's favored theory- set framework structured by an overbearing adoptive "mother" whose compassion echoed hollow, bound by vanity entwined with pity that sickened him, doting only for appearances, not from tender seeds of love.
In regards to his parental relations, if that was all he knew, what would render desire to stay?
'There shall be nothing here to miss, and no one shall miss me.'
A thought- one dripping with vitriol, so saturated with a cynical venomosity acute enough that it wavered Thom's focus. All those about him appeared to align with the belief that he lived in a senseless reverie, sundered from reality, yet, if he were to have a say, they lived within an illusion molded by foreboding and mythos, and he grasped conceptions they condemned out of ignorance.
Since youth, Thom felt allured, magnetized, to the world that lay beyond the banal visage of the town, where no strict rules and regulations governed his life nor his dreams; where foliage grew dense, and a provocative sense of mystery flowered and enveloped like ivy. However, forever did the ability to elope eluded him until finally, chance revealed itself and two eves prior he slunk away when all fell into the embrace of sleep, set to venture, brimming with exhilaration in a stark almost humorous opposition to the present tense. Where, for now, Thom floundered with a sliver of regret, utterly lost, pining for the quench of fresh, unsullied water, perhaps accompanied by the warmth of liquor and a hearty meal. To at last curl into bed with promises of comfort a simplistic sleeping bag placed upon frigid earth could not provide.
Regardless of a situation not particularly fortuitous, Thom concluded ambling without aim within the woodlands proved ever more titillating than the mundanity he grew accustomed to. Often had he heard rumorous whispers that spoke of remote villages, landscapes distinct and foreign, beasts that devoured, their hunger perpetual, yet, all Thom unveiled thus far from within the forest were trees and their littered leaves- green growth as far as the eye could see.
Albeit, traces of life subtly presented themselves as if the undergrowth tucked away secrets of its own. However inconspicuous, Thom noted trodden paths- a sign of humanity, perhaps,- and marks upon the trees he could not decipher.
Coming to a fork amidst a clearing, wearied, Thom settled against a grand oak, whose limbs sprawled skyward.
Well, this is a lovely predicament.
With little in the way of forethought, Thom found himself calling out, his voice reverberating, fragmenting the ghostly silence that seemed to haunt him throughout his trek.
"Hello?"
Chiding himself at once for such a foolish action, Thom shuddered, a peculiar sensation of discontenment beginning to gnaw away at him. What amongst him could he have awoken; fluttering the eyelids of creatures with snarling maws, perhaps?
Moreover, Thom began to reflect if he had made a grave mistake, one of which would lead him to starve in depths where none of those he left behind would find, yet another statistic to be fuel to fire fairytales.
1st person, small clip.
A cigarette lay between my fingers in suspension, and you look at me, knowingly, while we tango in a limbo where smoking is a lesser form of fodder to the beast that got us here in the first place.
And on the bed, we sit apart as opposites, you clinging to mere slivers of sobriety and me, strung out and coming down, as if tugged by gravity, aching yet again for the taste of intoxication.
A cigarette lay between my fingers in suspension, and you look at me, knowingly, while we tango in a limbo where smoking is a lesser form of fodder to the beast that got us here in the first place.
And on the bed, we sit apart as opposites, you clinging to mere slivers of sobriety and me, strung out and coming down, as if tugged by gravity, aching yet again for the taste of intoxication.
Not my best.
Sandchapel.
Quaint, if not for the stirring of tension beginning to brew, cracking sharp like a whip on hide, igniting the air with both trepidation and scorn alike.
Although, in admittance, he expected as such, ought it been different, he would be questioning his sobriety.
In the center of it all, a man, wearied, marred with scars that each wove tales of their own, adjusted himself upon a stout and particularly flighty, dappled horse.
Attempting to assuage the mare's stress, Williams ran calloused fingers through the wispy strands of her mane, proceeding through the town, averting hostile gazes all the while. However tentative the town's folk might be, he knew his visitation was to their benefit. For he held information pertinent to the Marshal's efforts against the nefarious Roaming Water's gang and yet, Williams had to deliberate whether the Marshal would heed him regardless.
Would his ego's hunger crave the satiation to be a step ahead of the gang above all other's dissuade the natural aversion lawmen have to criminals like him?
We shall see, was the glaring answer to that internal inquiry.
Although despite being veiled beneath a stoic demeanor, there lay wrath so profound it enwrapped and haunted his waking thoughts, etching away at the center of his stability.
Thirst for retribution fueled his ideologies, his motives; Roaming Water, who he once pledged loyalty to, trod past an unspoken line, spilled blood, made things personal.
Now, she would reap the seeds of contempt she had sown.
Moreover, he would be a herald of ruination till her gang flickered out like dying flames.
Meanwhile, as Williams became spellbound by the intensity of his memories and aspirations, suddenly someone yanked away the reigns in his clutches, inciting the young mare beneath him to rear, bucking, so he almost came plunging towards the ground.
Scanning for his aggressor, Williams eyed a lanky man, greased hair cascading to his shoulders and a toothpick suspended from his lips.
Furthermore, he bore an expression of utter distaste, glowering and beaming with contempt.
Sneering, the fellow twisted the reigns around his wrist.
"Don't reckon you belong here, don't even rightly reckon you're wanted here."
With the jeer, the man hovered a hand over his holster. A glaring affront, indeed. While Williams anticipated hostility, he knew not that it would accumulate and seethe in the body of the man before him so much that he would dance with danger.
"You 'ought to take your leave, mister."
Keeping still, Williams combatted an inclination to wrap fingers around his pistol, to find comfort in the familiarity of its cold, ivory grip.
One must handle this with grace regardless of any potential peril, he reiterated to himself. Otherwise, he would lose both his quarry and chance alike.
If he were fortuitous, this conversation would not end with a spree of bullets, yet, with a granted entrance and guidance to the Marshal.
"Keep to your own business, partner, 'bout to change some tides when it comes to Roaming Water and her band o' bastards."
Taut in tone, Williams stroked his horse's neck, willing her to ease up, and swept his eyes across the full visage of the town.
"I suggest bringing me to your lawmen, you see, I've got debts to settle and not much time nor patience. It'll help ease that troubled mind 'o yours if I'm with your men o' law, I reckon. Then I can take care of mine, and you yours."
'Stay on those toes of yours, Roaming Water. All your days, your hours, your very minutes are numbered; so long as I grace this Earth, I'll chase you to the ends of it.'
Sandchapel.
Quaint, if not for the stirring of tension beginning to brew, cracking sharp like a whip on hide, igniting the air with both trepidation and scorn alike.
Although, in admittance, he expected as such, ought it been different, he would be questioning his sobriety.
In the center of it all, a man, wearied, marred with scars that each wove tales of their own, adjusted himself upon a stout and particularly flighty, dappled horse.
Attempting to assuage the mare's stress, Williams ran calloused fingers through the wispy strands of her mane, proceeding through the town, averting hostile gazes all the while. However tentative the town's folk might be, he knew his visitation was to their benefit. For he held information pertinent to the Marshal's efforts against the nefarious Roaming Water's gang and yet, Williams had to deliberate whether the Marshal would heed him regardless.
Would his ego's hunger crave the satiation to be a step ahead of the gang above all other's dissuade the natural aversion lawmen have to criminals like him?
We shall see, was the glaring answer to that internal inquiry.
Although despite being veiled beneath a stoic demeanor, there lay wrath so profound it enwrapped and haunted his waking thoughts, etching away at the center of his stability.
Thirst for retribution fueled his ideologies, his motives; Roaming Water, who he once pledged loyalty to, trod past an unspoken line, spilled blood, made things personal.
Now, she would reap the seeds of contempt she had sown.
Moreover, he would be a herald of ruination till her gang flickered out like dying flames.
Meanwhile, as Williams became spellbound by the intensity of his memories and aspirations, suddenly someone yanked away the reigns in his clutches, inciting the young mare beneath him to rear, bucking, so he almost came plunging towards the ground.
Scanning for his aggressor, Williams eyed a lanky man, greased hair cascading to his shoulders and a toothpick suspended from his lips.
Furthermore, he bore an expression of utter distaste, glowering and beaming with contempt.
Sneering, the fellow twisted the reigns around his wrist.
"Don't reckon you belong here, don't even rightly reckon you're wanted here."
With the jeer, the man hovered a hand over his holster. A glaring affront, indeed. While Williams anticipated hostility, he knew not that it would accumulate and seethe in the body of the man before him so much that he would dance with danger.
"You 'ought to take your leave, mister."
Keeping still, Williams combatted an inclination to wrap fingers around his pistol, to find comfort in the familiarity of its cold, ivory grip.
One must handle this with grace regardless of any potential peril, he reiterated to himself. Otherwise, he would lose both his quarry and chance alike.
If he were fortuitous, this conversation would not end with a spree of bullets, yet, with a granted entrance and guidance to the Marshal.
"Keep to your own business, partner, 'bout to change some tides when it comes to Roaming Water and her band o' bastards."
Taut in tone, Williams stroked his horse's neck, willing her to ease up, and swept his eyes across the full visage of the town.
"I suggest bringing me to your lawmen, you see, I've got debts to settle and not much time nor patience. It'll help ease that troubled mind 'o yours if I'm with your men o' law, I reckon. Then I can take care of mine, and you yours."
'Stay on those toes of yours, Roaming Water. All your days, your hours, your very minutes are numbered; so long as I grace this Earth, I'll chase you to the ends of it.'
Unfinished.
Oh, how new quarries oft led to unfurling opportunities, tantalizing as they were endless, entwined with the high of the pursuit and yet, Alexander found himself lacking any semblance of wonder nor traces of elation. Despite his sizeable distance from Boston, he had been the agent above all chosen for this case. Particularly one of profound renown- this, of course, should have incited an exhilaration of sorts. Perhaps it would have if he knew he could work with more autonomy, however, being sent to another district to take the reigns always pinched nerves and carried the tendency to make everything arduous for all those involved.
An inclination towards a particular shade of mania, if you will, for the job had its benefits however and he owed his position to this. Since, overall, Alexander had amassed a reputation of maintaining an unshakeable devotion that might border boundaries befitting the title of "unhealthy," although, that was something of which he would dispute with fervency. Regardless, he did not lack in proficiency, and the tenacity landed him a well-known case alongside a free ticket and stay in Boston miles from good, ole New Orleans.
Humoring the satirical, Alexander reflected upon receiving the call, specifically on how he was in a shoddy motel relishing the endings of a high induced by ecstasy mixed with shots of vodka. Remembrances of being curled around his latest indulgence, their bodies tangled with bare flesh more than brushing struck him. Settled adjacent to them on a bedside table his phone began to vibrate, and he had stifled a groan as his partner sniggered, blue eyes piqued with intrigue.
Dallying fingers trailed his chest.
"Important?"
Sobered in expression, he eyed the girl, her cascading tresses golden in hue and wild from their heated tumble, an appreciable curvature noticeable beneath the almost sheer sheet that veiled her body, her plump lips curved in a coquettish simper. Not the norm in regards to his type, but molly tended to blur the lines for him, and indeed blurred they were.
Damning himself for lack of foresight, Alexander finally fumbled for his phone, outreached fingers trembling- remnants from the high- and recognized the number at once- his boss, of course, rather timely, at that.
"Nothing you need to worry yourself about, it's work. Fortuitous for me, I’m sure."
A sardonic utterance, however, Alexander entertained little in the way of appeal in divulging his life with a lay that would trickle from recollection in a week's worth.
With a sharp inhale and a prayer to no god in particular for a collected composure, Alex endeavored to steady his pulsating heart- which seemed to reverberate in his ears in pounding thumps- and overall, not sound as utterly wasted as he was.
"Hey, chief."
While a simple greeting, the words came slurred, thick like honey.
"Bad time, Alexander?"
Curt, surely not the response Alex hoped for in regards to the circumstances.
"Nothing terrible with your timing, Lucas, I've had a bit to drink, that's all."
Although, a bit to drink was, well, all in all, an understatement.
"A bit?"
There was no excusing that especially probing tone, yet Alexander refused to budge.
"Yes, a bit. Now, it's rather late Lucas, and you only call like this when something needs doing."
With a suppressed giggle, the girl untangled herself from beneath his embrace, swaying her hips to entice as she sauntered to a nearby window, flicking the switch of a lighter and kissing a cigarette to the flame it bore.
"I've got a job for you; however, it is... far from our district."
Calculating, he gave no utterance as he hoisted himself off the bed, meeting his affair o' the night to share in the vice of smoking, returning a sliver of a grin as she lit the cigarette he plucked with practiced fingers from the pack between them.
"How far?"
How far, indeed, and who would cover the subject of fees for such a trek?
Matters of a family were a non-issue, there was little he would pine over should he opt to leave. So, why not pursue an opportunity that lay ripe?
"Boston, that far, Alex, expenses paid."
Amusement laced Lucas' voice.
"You had me at expenses paid, alright, I'll take the case."
That eve, he jilted his fling early, floundered home, intoxicated, lavishing in a high, and went to his flat to collect what belongings would prove necessities and scheduled the flight, from there by the morn, he was Boston-bound.
All in all, an uneventful trip spent in the extravagant indulgence of first-class with expensive wines aplenty, yet, once he arrived, his demeanor grew solemn lacking the exuberance held during the evening he received the call. Thoughts of the macabre were gnawing at his core as he prepared to delve into the depths of these murders that afflicted the city like a contagion, permeating airs of sheer dismay.
Oh, how new quarries oft led to unfurling opportunities, tantalizing as they were endless, entwined with the high of the pursuit and yet, Alexander found himself lacking any semblance of wonder nor traces of elation. Despite his sizeable distance from Boston, he had been the agent above all chosen for this case. Particularly one of profound renown- this, of course, should have incited an exhilaration of sorts. Perhaps it would have if he knew he could work with more autonomy, however, being sent to another district to take the reigns always pinched nerves and carried the tendency to make everything arduous for all those involved.
An inclination towards a particular shade of mania, if you will, for the job had its benefits however and he owed his position to this. Since, overall, Alexander had amassed a reputation of maintaining an unshakeable devotion that might border boundaries befitting the title of "unhealthy," although, that was something of which he would dispute with fervency. Regardless, he did not lack in proficiency, and the tenacity landed him a well-known case alongside a free ticket and stay in Boston miles from good, ole New Orleans.
Humoring the satirical, Alexander reflected upon receiving the call, specifically on how he was in a shoddy motel relishing the endings of a high induced by ecstasy mixed with shots of vodka. Remembrances of being curled around his latest indulgence, their bodies tangled with bare flesh more than brushing struck him. Settled adjacent to them on a bedside table his phone began to vibrate, and he had stifled a groan as his partner sniggered, blue eyes piqued with intrigue.
Dallying fingers trailed his chest.
"Important?"
Sobered in expression, he eyed the girl, her cascading tresses golden in hue and wild from their heated tumble, an appreciable curvature noticeable beneath the almost sheer sheet that veiled her body, her plump lips curved in a coquettish simper. Not the norm in regards to his type, but molly tended to blur the lines for him, and indeed blurred they were.
Damning himself for lack of foresight, Alexander finally fumbled for his phone, outreached fingers trembling- remnants from the high- and recognized the number at once- his boss, of course, rather timely, at that.
"Nothing you need to worry yourself about, it's work. Fortuitous for me, I’m sure."
A sardonic utterance, however, Alexander entertained little in the way of appeal in divulging his life with a lay that would trickle from recollection in a week's worth.
With a sharp inhale and a prayer to no god in particular for a collected composure, Alex endeavored to steady his pulsating heart- which seemed to reverberate in his ears in pounding thumps- and overall, not sound as utterly wasted as he was.
"Hey, chief."
While a simple greeting, the words came slurred, thick like honey.
"Bad time, Alexander?"
Curt, surely not the response Alex hoped for in regards to the circumstances.
"Nothing terrible with your timing, Lucas, I've had a bit to drink, that's all."
Although, a bit to drink was, well, all in all, an understatement.
"A bit?"
There was no excusing that especially probing tone, yet Alexander refused to budge.
"Yes, a bit. Now, it's rather late Lucas, and you only call like this when something needs doing."
With a suppressed giggle, the girl untangled herself from beneath his embrace, swaying her hips to entice as she sauntered to a nearby window, flicking the switch of a lighter and kissing a cigarette to the flame it bore.
"I've got a job for you; however, it is... far from our district."
Calculating, he gave no utterance as he hoisted himself off the bed, meeting his affair o' the night to share in the vice of smoking, returning a sliver of a grin as she lit the cigarette he plucked with practiced fingers from the pack between them.
"How far?"
How far, indeed, and who would cover the subject of fees for such a trek?
Matters of a family were a non-issue, there was little he would pine over should he opt to leave. So, why not pursue an opportunity that lay ripe?
"Boston, that far, Alex, expenses paid."
Amusement laced Lucas' voice.
"You had me at expenses paid, alright, I'll take the case."
That eve, he jilted his fling early, floundered home, intoxicated, lavishing in a high, and went to his flat to collect what belongings would prove necessities and scheduled the flight, from there by the morn, he was Boston-bound.
All in all, an uneventful trip spent in the extravagant indulgence of first-class with expensive wines aplenty, yet, once he arrived, his demeanor grew solemn lacking the exuberance held during the evening he received the call. Thoughts of the macabre were gnawing at his core as he prepared to delve into the depths of these murders that afflicted the city like a contagion, permeating airs of sheer dismay.
{I have more OCs than Alex, he's just my favorite, okay?}
Relenting, Alexander could not dispute James on the matter of the group's disposition nor inquire again about what made their viewpoints acceptable; he had yet to see the world's decay into a macabre epoch. Perhaps paranoia and distrust became normality. Many, before the cataclysmic event, would eye him with equal aversion despite the circumstances surrounding his crime, being, as he put it- intricate.
Becoming incarcerated in prison had not been the pinnacle of his aspirations, in fact, the fashion in which he delved into nefariousness was an unfurling sequence that tumbled from the grasps of his control. Thus, he knew why the caged bird sings.
"Consider this blunt, but I'd be astonished if the same individuals who neglected to entertain my existence continued to do so after they learned I'm a murderer, although, murder is a broad spectrum James, I never specified which degree or if it was premeditated."
Fleeting traces of a smirk fashioned his expression, and he neared closer to the bars, although his hands settled to his sides.
"I used to 'save' lives, as they'd say, not rob them."
However, saving distorted to something contrary and remote before he knew it as he became entangled, figuratively woven in the web of a spider, normality shifting through his fingers like granules of sand.
"Maybe I killed out of mercy, much like I'm confident you euthanize those creatures. I've seen a few of them. Scrawny, noisy things. Life is fickle James."
Temptations of divulging his tale persisted as James' refused to lie for his freedom, especially if freedom was a luxury bought by truth, yet, the perplexity of the circumstances kept him hushed as he groomed over James with consideration.
Furthermore, it was with immense difficulty that Alexander could scorn the man for aligning more towards allegiance to his supposed 'family,' had he not, it would have been naivety. Regardless, it was evident no lie spun would score his ticket out of this joint; he was resigned to endeavor for it, and he cursed himself for thinking there would be simplicity in regards to the subject.
"There it is, the 'but you are in prison' line. Correct, my files are here, or, in theory, who knows, this place has gone to pot. I won't push the lying envelope further only because you won't if they are akin to a family to you, but I'm not keen on getting interrogated by multiple people. Besides, don't you think there will be some deterrence about letting me accompany the gang once they've heard I've killed? Your compassion and dedication is refreshing; still, I'm convinced lying rather than delving into details works more towards my favor, but, allow me to speak to whoever leads you, maybe-"
Before he could proceed, the fall of footsteps stilled him as he detected the approach of another, announced by the tang of liquor, and, moreover, a banging upon the bars of his cell which jolted him to stand.
Jostling noises were not an abnormality. However, their source was from the scraps of man, gaunt and with mindless hunger, not from one who retained their humanity, free of sickness.
Despite his emaciation, Alexander stood off with the other- Marcus, as he caught- squaring himself, beginning to glower.
Tension sparked the air, yet, Alex fell perceptive enough to notice James' unease amidst it all.
When Marcus rattled the bars once again, Alexander did not acknowledge it beyond speaking.
"I'm staring at a man who cannot handle his liquor or an obvious 'no.'"
Raking his scything glare towards where he had abandoned his shiv, he deliberated if arming himself would be wise, lest his death finally come at the hands of some drunkard.
"I know what you are playing at, and I don't think-"
Indicating towards James, his eyes narrowed.
"He's particularly interested."
Relenting, Alexander could not dispute James on the matter of the group's disposition nor inquire again about what made their viewpoints acceptable; he had yet to see the world's decay into a macabre epoch. Perhaps paranoia and distrust became normality. Many, before the cataclysmic event, would eye him with equal aversion despite the circumstances surrounding his crime, being, as he put it- intricate.
Becoming incarcerated in prison had not been the pinnacle of his aspirations, in fact, the fashion in which he delved into nefariousness was an unfurling sequence that tumbled from the grasps of his control. Thus, he knew why the caged bird sings.
"Consider this blunt, but I'd be astonished if the same individuals who neglected to entertain my existence continued to do so after they learned I'm a murderer, although, murder is a broad spectrum James, I never specified which degree or if it was premeditated."
Fleeting traces of a smirk fashioned his expression, and he neared closer to the bars, although his hands settled to his sides.
"I used to 'save' lives, as they'd say, not rob them."
However, saving distorted to something contrary and remote before he knew it as he became entangled, figuratively woven in the web of a spider, normality shifting through his fingers like granules of sand.
"Maybe I killed out of mercy, much like I'm confident you euthanize those creatures. I've seen a few of them. Scrawny, noisy things. Life is fickle James."
Temptations of divulging his tale persisted as James' refused to lie for his freedom, especially if freedom was a luxury bought by truth, yet, the perplexity of the circumstances kept him hushed as he groomed over James with consideration.
Furthermore, it was with immense difficulty that Alexander could scorn the man for aligning more towards allegiance to his supposed 'family,' had he not, it would have been naivety. Regardless, it was evident no lie spun would score his ticket out of this joint; he was resigned to endeavor for it, and he cursed himself for thinking there would be simplicity in regards to the subject.
"There it is, the 'but you are in prison' line. Correct, my files are here, or, in theory, who knows, this place has gone to pot. I won't push the lying envelope further only because you won't if they are akin to a family to you, but I'm not keen on getting interrogated by multiple people. Besides, don't you think there will be some deterrence about letting me accompany the gang once they've heard I've killed? Your compassion and dedication is refreshing; still, I'm convinced lying rather than delving into details works more towards my favor, but, allow me to speak to whoever leads you, maybe-"
Before he could proceed, the fall of footsteps stilled him as he detected the approach of another, announced by the tang of liquor, and, moreover, a banging upon the bars of his cell which jolted him to stand.
Jostling noises were not an abnormality. However, their source was from the scraps of man, gaunt and with mindless hunger, not from one who retained their humanity, free of sickness.
Despite his emaciation, Alexander stood off with the other- Marcus, as he caught- squaring himself, beginning to glower.
Tension sparked the air, yet, Alex fell perceptive enough to notice James' unease amidst it all.
When Marcus rattled the bars once again, Alexander did not acknowledge it beyond speaking.
"I'm staring at a man who cannot handle his liquor or an obvious 'no.'"
Raking his scything glare towards where he had abandoned his shiv, he deliberated if arming himself would be wise, lest his death finally come at the hands of some drunkard.
"I know what you are playing at, and I don't think-"
Indicating towards James, his eyes narrowed.
"He's particularly interested."
