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Post by sound on Dec 23, 2007 15:01:13 GMT -5
i n c o m i n g __ t r a n s m i s s i o n . consider this our first conversation.
I am BLOODSOUND, a name expounding a great deal more prestige than I rightly deserve but to you (my dearest friend in all the world) I am Sound. (and you are music)
I am greatly uninteresting, I'll let you know in advance.
I am made up of color and of words (art is my core, but writing sustains me if need be) and because I could ignore the real world and exist only in music (all kinds) I sing and dance but have talent for neither.
I have been roleplaying for six years (only nine my first time) (on Neopets, but weren't we all?)
I would marry the Blood Brothers if they were just one person. I abhor any treatment other than love. (love all for love is all) I sold my soul to Optimus Prime in 1998 in exchange for a shiny Venasaur card that I still use. I love Pokémon, but only the original 150 and only because nobody else does. My favorite color is gray and I thank it every day. I'll have a sample post up shortly. I can only hope it won't disappoint.
I love your site. I love you. I love. <3
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Post by sound on Dec 23, 2007 15:08:32 GMT -5
Here is a sample of mine from a site a genre I have long since buried.I have not been on Warriors site in so long that I will not embarrass myself with posts from there. So here you have DRAVEN MOOR, one of my favorite horse characters of all time (you will probably meet him again in some form or another.)
(my posts are not generally so viciously long, I assure.)
D R A V E N m o o r . s e t . f i r e . t o . t h e . h o r s e . o n . f i r e .
DRAVEN MOOR WAS ALREADY BLEEDING.
He came in strongly-- his bloody nostrils, his tear away face, a relatively decaying sort of grace in his skeletal form (&& his sides were slatted like bars... a ribCAGE) reminiscent of... oh, say, a (dragonwithdeflatedcheeksandshardedspinesandajawwithteeththatsinktoofar) a monster?
M O N S T R O U S ? oh darling, 'monster' implies ugliness and i assure you that the rangy, rusted, relatively refined (&&dragon, monster, stranger) stallion had ensnared in his pretty razorwire noose the most becoming of undead grace.m e m e n t o m o r i, my love (&& and yes, you will die)
His eyes were green. (&&like it was jade) His hide sooty (&&like it would fade) his expression guarded (&&for god forbade) but still somehow smirking. (&&on b l a c k parade).
And it was these eyes (&&jade) that would find a subtle and unimportant (To this story) congregation as it festered like a sore in his line of vision. His attention speared by the intriguing (for they a l w a y s are) pair of strangers he passed on his way up the mountain, he never altered his stiff-legged gait, ambling with supple enough movements towards the peak so as not to appear rushed. Forest fires don't rush, they h a s t e n and even now he plodded. He'd all the time in the world, after all.
Draven, you see, he almost limped. And he bled, slightly. And he coughed (&& and it was red) but he smirked.
The expression was bloody-toothed, amused at the beating he'd received. (&& the waves had forced him against the rocks this morning-- if any were allowed to bloody his orange hide it would be mother Sea) and his display of a liquid chest, of tattered flesh, of metal jaws was all to commemorate what the sea had done.
(&& oh sea you shelter you, dance between my toes, when i feel like i can't move forward you carry me like a father) Sweet lady spray and foam. You are the only mare that can't be broken.
Draven Moor had been aggravated that he was expected to fight with his chest so scraped, his knee swollen like an obese raincloud.
But he WOULD fight. His was the self-destructive obstinacy, and there was no circumstance short of death that would prevent him from dragging himself here and bringing down the REAL monster.
He had hunched on Death Mountain's steeple in quiet waiting hours in advance, healing with the slowness of mortals and inside a halo of hungry flies watching the path that would open its vile throat and vomit forth the challenge's defender.
This, inevitably, led to thoughts of his opponent, and he snorted with dismissive abhorrence.
Oh my l o v e l y Galen, I'm sure you're charming. I'm sure you're dazzling and free willed and strong and oh so smart.
I'm sure you're b r i l l i a n t (&& OH, who could ever be your equal?) You'll tell me 'GAME OVER.' But forest fires don't play games (and so) N E I T H E R DO I.
Annoying: the whole ordeal, he decided, toeing a stone off of the cliff and into the abyss that was the mountain's navel. He did not hear it land.
Irritated, he blinked at the dozens of flies that swarmed the damp opening of his eyes, ears, nostrils. Draven Moor was covered in a second skin of mud and blood and grime and nameless breathtaking filth that left his stench worse than a rotting carcass, the image of him like the underside of a boulder.
HE WAS A FESTERING WOUND I N F E C T I O U S? (&& like a permanent trend) ( f a s h i o n is temporary, kiddies) (s t y l e is forever.)
Working his jaws quietly, he yawned under the bleak unforgiving sun that pierced the sky here (on top the mountain, the clarity of the air was razor edged, it cut him) and sticky fluid trails of a transparent paste were left between his japing jaws,
his teeth were rotten and jagged their surfaces cracked sharp they appeared like p i a n o keys with their uniform grotesqueness and the black spots at their roots that were made up of the tiny carcasses of beetles and flies and roaches.
THE ROACHES WERE HIS FAVORITE, he mused idly, numbed into amiability by the sun's white reproach. The colors this close to the sun (even on the stepladder that was Death Mountain towards the fiery thing, it seemed somehow darker here) were washed out, as if sprinkled with bone powder, and the violent orange of his hide was a reserved grey-red. This saddened him-- he loved his rust.
His bad mood subsided quickly as a beetle scuttled across the rock, summoned by his earlier thoughts of insects. He rotated his hollowed skull towards it, watching the jewel scuttle out of one (&& jade) eye.
Reaching down with rubber lips, he picked the little creature between tar teeth, moved it with squabbling bristle legs and all to the back of his mouth,
THE CRUNCH WAS SWEET.
He felt cold, up on this mountain where the warmth was afraid to go. The sunlight was stripped of color and it caressed him without heat. Gnawing on his prize, blinking through his screen of flies, he watched the sun with jade green eyes.
s u r p r i s e .
no warmth came, but when he finally blinked there was a worm hole in his vision, fading an obelisk blue and warping behind his lids to a decayed yellow. Draven gnashed his teeth, aggravated (everything aggravated him today) at his new geometric blindness, his bleeding, his cold.
Crows called from stories below. 'COLD! COLD!'
which is salt in the wound, thinks he, and stands at a grumpy hunker, watches for the inkspots of the birds with narrowed eyes (&&jade) blocked by wormholes and he for a moment considers plunging off the mountain face, of striking them dead and galloping on the wind back to his waiting place.
MOTHER NATURE WAS HIS MISTRESS YOU SEE and he was her prophet SHE WOULD PROTECT HIM WITH HER MOSS AND OCEAN YOU SEE and he was s t i l l not safe FOR EVEN THOUGH HE WAS HER HARBINGER he was not saved, was beaten against the rocks by her agitated sea.
(Do not displease the great Mother's sea. It is her finest infantry) (finest, except for perhaps her prophet the seer DRAVEN MOOR) Rubbed with blood and mud and other elements that were of the Mother's doing, Draven existed to carry her wherever he did go.
He took the duty silently, smilingly, along with the powers it bestowed him.
(cold) (cold, cold)
Now he could SPEAK with the wind, could SEE the storms gather above the clouds. (he knew the future)
(he could tell you yours.) He gazed now into a reverie he imagined to be the future, (foolishness, all of it, a simple miscalculation of a mind deranged) and saw Galen's bloody mouth agape as the wraith that was Synyster Gates rode from the colorless sky on a chariot of buzzards, cleaved his skull cleanly. He saw himself bowing low to the Dark King as he was congratulated on his victory over the usurper.
u s u r p e r . This brings us to the subject of this challenge, this battle. (fear not, my friend Escapade) his hollow mind echoed quietly as he spoke to the other stallion, wherever he was. (your throne will be wrenched from Galen's dying jaws)
(usurper) (usurper) (usurper)
A trail of spittle and remnants of the opalescent beetle trailed from his lips now as he stared blankly into the abyss below the cliffs. It hung past his chest now, swaying like a pendulum with the rhythm of his shallow breaths.
Smacking these scabby, filthy lips he let the pendulum fall and shatter on the rock, spill away from itself like glass. He did not notice.
AND NOW THE PRESENT. { a note from the author: draven is haunted by the present }
Draven blinks as he hears an approach, peering at the distant sky that has bled itself into sunset. Empty cuts of red gridline the horizon and he rolls one eye towards this display of self-mutilation. Was the Mother angry?
Maybe she wished him luck. Yes. Luck.
(cold, cold, usurper, cold)
Galen comes up the path then, and Draven whips his sunken face there, staring with narrowed (&&jade) eyes through his flies, the still rivers of dirt on his face.
He roars now, a vile sound from back in his black spiderweb throat that echoes and breaks itself against his jagged, ragged teeth. Amidst this dragging syllable, one tiny centipede that has survived in the warm refuge of his mouth skitters down his gum, around his bottom teeth and hides now under his tongue.
Draven closes his mouth, lowers it with ears pinned as he fishes the bug out with his tongue, swallows it spasmodically.
It goes down easily, like overcooked asparagus.
He waits until Galen has mounted the slope to him and leaps off of his precipice. For a moment it appears that the Mother has finally come through as he soars over the near-vertical drop. It seems as if she has given him a highway of wind to carry him for as he descends he is despite his grunge beautiful. Draven is a vulture in sepia and this is the strike.
?. .? THE STRIKE ?. .? Do remember that vultures are scavenger birds. Vultures do not kill.
He contorts midair, folding his legs beneath him in the milliseconds before he crashes down and aims to send the full force of the diving vulture into Galen.
I'm never to pretend to play the mathematician, but a half ton of horse flesh added to the pull of gravity and the momentum accumulated from a seven foot drop generally amounts to something sizable.
Draven tries to thrust the impact of his cannons and wounded chest onto Galen, mouth agape and jagged teeth flailing wildly mid-roar like something possessed. Something disturbed, tormented by the otherworldly.
(Draven is haunted by the present)
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Post by Shattered on Dec 23, 2007 16:17:28 GMT -5
Sweet Jesus, has our "n00bs flock to WWn!" thing finally ended? Thank God.
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Post by sound on Dec 24, 2007 12:59:29 GMT -5
Oh, has there been a trend?
I'll see if I can help, then! >__> Hopefully I can have a character up shortly. I think I'll make a really prissy cat. It will be wonderful.
<3 Looking forward to playing with you all~
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Post by Hidden on Dec 24, 2007 13:11:25 GMT -5
This is awesome! On the old site, we were lucky to get a semi-literate person every 6 months. And usually they left quickly. But now there are tons of new literate people.
Welcome to WWn! -glomps-
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Post by Shattered on Dec 24, 2007 13:19:44 GMT -5
I am so happy. *wipes away tear* But I suppose I'll just jinx it, and we'll have some pests coming to bother us soon.
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Post by sound on Dec 24, 2007 13:55:04 GMT -5
Oh good. <3 I plan on sticking around, hopefully I'll be able to drag in a few friends as well. Been eons since I've been able to scratch up a Warriors site that was halfway literate...
Now I need to ask an opinion, if you please: should I make a filthy, bug-eating, primal scab of a tom or a useless, prissy she-cat kittypet who thinks she can be a warrior?
I'll probably end up bringing in both at one point or another, but which should come first?
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Post by Shattered on Dec 24, 2007 14:40:43 GMT -5
Hah, we have enough filthy, arrogant toms, so make a she-cat. And we don't have kittypets and warriors anymore. You may want to read our site history. It explains everything. . . all two years that we've been around.
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Post by sound on Dec 24, 2007 14:46:32 GMT -5
Alright, I have Rotmouth up. :3 I'll bring in Moorpaw too today or in a few.
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Post by Shattered on Dec 24, 2007 14:54:36 GMT -5
Yup, yup.
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Post by xarae on Dec 24, 2007 15:24:32 GMT -5
Honestly? I never understood why you lost that fight *snort* You had her beat so bad.
Anyway, I managed to get dragged here with minimal persuasion. Off to go read up on the info and make a character <3
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Post by Shattered on Dec 24, 2007 15:32:43 GMT -5
I'm guessing you're one of Sound's buddies, eh? Welcome.
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Post by xarae on Dec 24, 2007 15:34:33 GMT -5
Thanks, it's very much appreciated :]
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Post by j a y d e . & on Dec 24, 2007 17:53:11 GMT -5
Hellooo, mates. ^^ Welcomes. Jeezo peeze, there's a load of members. Yay. I've been a bit lazy, off floatin' on cloud seven. Which is as high as I can get at this point.
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Post by Hidden on Dec 24, 2007 18:28:08 GMT -5
Yes, welcome! What's your name/nickname? Mayday, May?
"Rest in peace pinky toe. . . YOU SHALL BE AVENGED! " ...Did your pinky toe get cut off?
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