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Character's Name: Knyte (night)

Nicknames: He was once called "Spookums". The man who called him this blinded himself by clawing out his own eyes and does nothing but scream about purple fires and imps from another world.

Age: 18

Gender: Male

Species: Demon (Terror)

Abilities: This depends on which aspect you inquire about. As a Terror Demon, he'd have his fear-inducing gaze or maddening song. you might even be referring to his unnatural poses used to scare animals. Though if you wish to know about his necromancy that's another subject. He is skilled in raising animals you could pick up in either hand. This includes rats, snakes, chickens, small simple creatures.

Abilities (Updated): Knyte has developed the technique to shapeshift between his basic form, and that of a large black raven. Other notable abilities to have been trained seems to be a magic based dominance over lightning. his necromancy has developed further to possess domestic creatures as well as some more difficult reptiles.

Weapon Proficiency: Knyte has gained mastery over weilding a scythe and utilizing chains. His weapon of choice however is a scythe made of deceased animal's sturdy bones, with the blade being made from steel. His scythe is known as Witherfang, or at least that's what the locals call it. They claim it had the abilities to sap the life from those with wounds inflicted by it.

Appearance: Let's begin with his most distinguishing features. Possibly his raven black hair, with locks long enough to reach the back of his neck. Perhaps his caramel like skin, interesting: a demon with darker skin, much unlike any mainstream concept of a demon in one such world. Mayhaps his tail, swaying gently or lashing fiercely at a length of 3 ft. or 91.44 cm. Don't bother asking why it starts black and ends with a violet heart shape tip, even he doesn't know and might take offense to its mentioning. Finally would be his eyes, like amethyst gems stolen from below the earth. They tend to be in a droopy like state as if he just got up. They only widen when staring at things of value or if using one of his abilities. Some even claim they tend to "sparkle" in the moonlight. Standing at about 5' 8" or 172.72 cm, he often keeps himself hidden in a dark cloak and cowl.

Personality: (*hums cult of personality*) This is purely based on how he perceives his day. Most days, however, he would be quite shy. He has a hard time dealing with new individuals and/or places and prefers to stay within his usual haunts. On rarer occasions, he would become a sour individual who would probably be the cause of another's misfortune rather than caring about the other having misfortune in the first place. As a universal rule, he could be easily won over with sweets and is easily enticed by the chances for a gamble. He could often be described as a greedy individual if he saw something of worth to him.

History: No one exactly knows where he came from, or why he set out to become the world's most powerful necromancer or control the very storms. There isn't much explanation as to why he hates water either, some say it was a past life debacle with the sea, others claim he fell in love as a demon and wished to bring back his lover. There is even conspiracy that he was born from a child's fear. But only one of these are right in the end, that being the second speculation. He lost his lover, a woman living near the sea, to the waves after a massive storm. fueled by grief he set out for a way to restore her, and to prevent another tragedy of the like. he studies these types of magic religiously. or he would if he had a way of learning that is.

Roleplay Sample: It was a cry like no other, the gale's howl pierced the afternoon skies. Thunder boomed and lightning danced to its music like ballerinas being trailed by their ribbons. The rain pierced the sky like daggers from an unspoken war while the waves met the cliffside with fury much like a whip hitting someone's backside. on this cliff that stood for thousands of years was a small home, inside was a woman frantically rushing to collect some valuables before she made her escape from the home. Rushing to meet her was her lover, disturbing enough was her Demon Lover. He spurred his steed yelling, "Faster! Faster, Serin! We need to reach her!" The horse picked up her pace and hurried as fast as she could to the homestead. They were nearly there, in fact, heading right to their target with the woman rushing out to meet them. As the woman neared her lover, a gale howled so loudly and sprayed rain like spittle the woman staggered and covered her face. In this moment of confusion, the ground shook, being struck by a powerful bolt of lightning. The cliffside split from the mainland and splintered on itself. cliff, lover, valuables, the home... All of it, cascading into the sea in broken shambles. The demon fell to his knees as the storm finally let up. He stared down into the violent maw that was the sea, with anger, disbelief, sorrow, and many more mixed emotions. His heart couldn't take the distress... When he opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to pray... It was a cry like no other.

Hey I'm Kat & with months of pushing I'm finally going to try to roleplay here! my friendfamily (Kila, Sparx, Psychoticmist) all use this site & Kila suggested a few times that I join but I'm so nervous socializing & roleplaying!! but I thought I would give it a shot. I don't really have any experience but Kila assured me this place was good for any skill level roleplayer! so I hope you don't mind me as I try to learn the ropes.

Some facts about me
I'm a digital artist I do commissions & some other things
I'm 21 & not ready for the world
I'm absolutely obsessed with cats & my own cat
oh & I might be really into MGS

<b>Thread Status:</b> Open
<b>Players involved:</b> PeridotPhaeron, KokoPuffs, Avarice
<b>Characters involved:</b> Zagan (KokoPuffs), Roshaun (PeridotPhaeron), Knyte (Avarice)
<b>Time:</b> Current, around 11:30 in the morning.
<b>Weather:</b> Fairly sunny, with only a few clouds in the sky.

It was a bright and sunny day in the Linosea Forest. A sense of peace permeated the words, a peace that was only enhanced by the gentle chirping of the birds in the trees. The wind gently rustled the leaves in the trees, and the general sense of serenity was one that almost seemed to take one to another realm. A calmer, better one. So, of course, this peace just had to be interrupted by a very annoyed elf. He had been walking for a while now, far more than he was used to. He was beginning to think he should have just taken a portal. But, no, it was important to do this the proper way, of course. He muttered angrily under his breath.

He glanced around, and sighed. He might as well rest up for a bit. The weight of the pack he carried reminded him that he wasn't exactly going to run out of supplies any time soon. He left the trail, a fairly well-beaten dirt path, and let the bundle fall against the trunk of one of the trees. He stretched a bit, leaning against another tree. Why had he agreed to this, anyways? ... Well, that one was fairly obvious. He shook his head, letting his thoughts start drift along the paths of memory.

Character's Name:
Drustan Waldhar
Age:
Claims to be 30
(As of 15471, he is 14241 years old)
Gender:
Male
Species:
Human
Abilities:
Moving objects around the tavern (so just picking things up and using things like one would in life.)
Throwing individuals out.
Appearance:
Slightly transparent, rough stubble and short, unkempt hair. His has a strong build, as though he was in his physical prime when he died.
6 ft 8 in
230 lbs pre-death
Blood type: B+
Personality:
Gruff, If you damage the tavern he will flip out. He refuses to acknowledge that he is dead.
History: (If requested or needed to explain the power behind a character)
He grew up in a town that apparently was near by at one point or another before growing up. He saved what little money he could to buy the tavern and it is his pride and joy.
If one delves deep enough into his past, it turns out he died of heart disease around 1260.
Right Handed.
Roleplay Sample:
He got up, thin patchwork sheets slipping off or through him, depending on who you asked. Anyways, he got up and yawned, shuffling over to the window in the morning cold. Peering outside, he mumbled something about where the weather could stick a club. He stood there for a minute or two, mind slowly starting up, before he sighed and went down stairs to start the day. As he had millions of times before, he opened the rear door and grabbed a bundle of fire wood, bringing it in to start the fire. Once it was reasonably steady without his supervision, he carried on with his routine and gave are the tables and counter a quick wipe down. As he finished up, the front door opened, letting in a gust of cold air. He turned to the new arrival, saying in a gravely voice "And what do you want? Drink or eats? If your lookin for some eats, yer gonna need to wait a bit."

The whole point of this game is to make a story! We start with one word, and each person adds one word to the story.

For example the game has been going for a while and we already have: "The man looked" the next person puts "The man looked at" and then another person adds the new word!

I'll start us!

Rising

Hi, I am CommanderHorvat, I am in the EMT and would prefer to go by male pronouns. I do believe that is it...
Oh, also please let me know if there is anything I could do to improve my roleplaying, that would be appreciated. Thanks!

Um... Hey all! I go by Thoth (For... some reason). You can call me other things, too, if you can think of something appropriate. I am on EST, and I am, in fact, male.

Anything else you guys want to know? I think I'm good...

Name: Roshaun Serelt Kellesheet

Nicknames (If Any): None. Call him Rosh, Shaun, Osha, or any variant thereof, and he will smack you over the head with a rock. Repeatedly.

Age: 107

Gender: Male

Species: Visek Elf

Abilities: First and foremost, Roshaun considers himself a mage. He is proficient in Arcane and Earth magic, and makes his living by his sorcery. While more complicated spells require incantations or complete rituals, he’s made many of his various abilities reflexive, particularly the defensive ones.

Roshaun is also a fairly accomplished potter, mostly because his first summon was, and continues to be, incredibly fussy (something that irritates him to no end). If he couldn’t make a living selling enchanted materials, he’d certainly be able to do it selling his ceramics.

Appearance: Roshaun stands at 6’3”, and typically looks like he’s just been dunked in a bucket of white paint, both in color and in expression. He’s pale, with silvery hair and ice-blue eyes, and he surveys everything with a look of faint disapproval. Like most elves, he’s graceful, although his physical strength is… lacking, to say the least.

Personality: Roshaun is proud, stubborn, and just a little lazy. When given the opportunity, he’ll usually foist most ordinary tasks off on any appropriate elementals he’s summoned. Of course, if somebody suggests this is because he couldn’t do the job in question, he’ll throw himself at it and refuse any and all help until it’s done or he’s exhausted himself so much he can’t put up any sort of fight if someone else steps in. Really, that’s his approach to anything he feels is important, although he might be convinced to sleep and eat if it’s something that should take more than a day or two. Maybe. He’s also a natural magician not just in aptitude, but in temperament, and he’ll typically take the chance to learn about another kind of magic, or to add another trick to his arsenal in the schools he’s practiced in, if given the chance.

Roleplay Sample: 

The Phaeron nodded. "Thank you, Author." He took another breath, then, hesitantly, put the cards together.

For a moment, there was nothing. The Phaeron wasn't sure whether to expect physical or mental torment. He quickly discovered that the Strife didn't bother making choices like that.

It was as if he was exploding. Everything within him fighting everything else, pushing everything away, trying to be alone, to be victorious, to be the best. It felt like it was taking every ounce of will, every tiny shred of control to keep himself from bursting into fragments of blood and flesh and bone, splattering the walls and his friends with tiny pieces of his organs. He fought to keep it under control, to keep it from consuming him- And that was when the other splitting started.

He began to hear shouting, and first, the voice was the Wanderer's. He heard him screaming at him, insults, abuses, and reminders of his own guilt. He started shouting back, or, well, he thought he did. The Wanderer's voice grew louder, and he started yelling threats among his reminders of the hideous crimes the Phaeron had committed. The Phaeron raised his in response, and so it continued, on and on and on, as the Phaeron felt his body continue to try and shred itself. Then, finally, he screamed at the Wanderer to leave, to never return, to die some kind of horrible death. The Wanderer's voice went silent, and it felt like something, some connection, had shattered. The Phaeron realized what was going on, and shouted, begged him to come back, but it was too late. The Wanderer was gone.

Then the Dragon began to speak. This time, the Phaeron tried not to reply. He tried to drown him out with the pain, but the Dragon's voice seemed to drill into his skull, refusing to be silenced, each word painfully calling back some failure, some inadequacy on his part. Finally, he couldn't take it any more, and he started shouting at him too, and again, their voices grew louder and louder, until the Dragon, too, was rejected.

This time, there was no time to think on what had happened. This time, it was the Author. He started quietly, disappointedly. It was not deeds that were the weapons this time, but rather, fragments of being. Slowly, the Author's voice began to deconstruct every last flaw, every fault in the Phaeron's being. The Phaeron begged him to stop, thought he felt himself fall to his knees, hoping the Author would say something, anything other than this steady condemnation. He did not.

The Phaeron continued to plead, but the Author just spoke and spoke and spoke. When at last he stopped, the words were simple. “Goodbye, Phaeron. We won’t meet again.” His voice faded as well, and the Phaeron felt utterly alone.

For a moment, everything remained as it was. Then, the pain seemed to double- no, triple- no quadruple- no- the Phaeron stopped being able to think of words. The pain was too intense. However, he was still able to hear, and what he heard, quiet at first, but growing slowly louder and louder and louder, were the voices of those he cared about, those he had rejected or been rejected by, begging him, asking that he save them, that he help them, that he raise them from their despair. He tried. Despite the agony, he tried to call out to them, to get them to talk to him, but their voices drowned one another out, and then the screams began. It sounded like a slaughter, like somebody was killing them all, and he tried to stop it, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, because of the pain, the pain, the pain!

For the last time, a voice cut through the pain. “You can save them. But you have to die.” It might have been because he was willing to do anything to get them back. It might have been because he just wanted the pain to end. Whatever the reason, the Phaeron accepted the offer in a heartbeat. A spear plunged through his chest, and he heard what seemed to be a wail of relief coming from the throats of a thousand, a million, an entire planet of people. And then, slowly, the pain began to fade, and tears began to fall down his cheeks.

<b>Thread Status:</b>(open/closed)<b>Andromeda and KokoPuffs:</b>
<b>Characters involved:</b> Rasmus-KokoPuffs/Lythium-Andromeda
<b>Setting:</b> Enkratis Hunting Grounds
<b>Time:</b> Current, Mid-Morning
<b>Weather:</b> Clear skys, with soft clouding near he horizon

That morning was bright, clear in the skies above, save for the clouds that lingered around the horizon though. They posed no threat in bringing foul weather, they were white in color and a little misty in consistency as well; so they did not worry the young wolf in any way possible. Instead, he enjoyed the sight of them, like the clouds where almost flowing like water in the sky above. Yet they were silent, unlike the rushing water that filled rivers and streams; even small creaks had the soft sound of the water flowing along it. Rasmus, kind of enjoyed this way of things anyway, he was a gentle boy in all aspects. He liked to play and have fun, not hunt and such that the others told him he needed to learn better. There wasn't much fun in all that, plus it was hard work anyway.

The young male sighed softly, feet delicately padding along the ground and rustling the grass ever-so-slightly beneath him. His tail swayed about, eyes looking for whatever he may try and kill; even if he really did not want to. He had to learn to do this, and learn it well. Not all would provide for him considering he was a young adult at this point, and the pack would need him to hunt when them if it was ever needed. The wolf male shook his head, read accessories shaking about as he did so. Good thing he didn't have anything that made noise attached to those large horns of his; would have scared anything or everything off.