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roleplaying,
thread

The Stoat Insists

For once, a guest did not have to find Tularemia. Instead, Tularemia found the guest, scampering up to the Tailor and immediately ramming into their ankle. She hissed as she grabbed the edge of their sock, tugging with all her might in the direction she came. There was nothing that could halt this courier from her self-appointed rounds; not rain nor sleet nor heat of day. If Tularemia decided that the Tailor was needed, then she would stop at nothing to retrieve the Tailor.

She was, though, wearing her new ribbon, so she may have had to pause to let that be applied, but her every pause ended eventually!

Tularemia had sprinted through hoards of hungry bats (perhaps snatching one as a snack in return), across puddles of moonish water with care, behind allies and away from cats, over rooftops and even across hats and heads. All to get to the Tailor.

Entry tags:

roleplaying,
thread

A Marsh Guest

Bugsby's Marshes were home to a wide and varied array of micro- and macroorganisms, the biodiversity one of its most notable features. Yes, a great many of the creatures were incredibly dangerous, but wasn't every environment filled with such risk? Surely, all one had to do to avoid assault was avoid bothering the various animals. Surely.

This was how the Morbid Socialite- Mori- found himself in the depths of the marshes, gathering samples of water, plant life, lichen, and insects to start his research. He was too busy marking notes on a variety of mushroom to notice the eyes on him. The thoughtful hum to themselves and the squeaking of tall boots, worn to avoid staining the hems of their trousers, were enough to hide the sound of something treading through the muck. They only noticed the disturbance when the bugs they'd been surrounded by had scattered. He turned and his eyes widened, finding a second pair staring into his.

"Oh, bloody 'ell."

Screaming echoed across the marsh, likely reaching at least someone's ears.

From The Outside Looking In (Devil's Nightmares)

The Brash Devil stood in darkness.

He looked around, not sure of where he was or where he should go.

Suddenly a scene was before him.

A gathering of devils. It looked like a party at the Brass Embassy. Celebrating their liberation from aristocracy by dressing down to the point of being scruffy and outdated, every one with a thorny rose around their wrist.

Is it possible to be both pretentious and trashy at the same time? To the Brash Devil, it felt like most devils managed to do that perfectly.

There were devils dancing in the center, somehow a perfect synchronization of many pairs of figure eights.

Many wore shoes with slivers of Nevercold Brass that created little sparks with certain steps of the dance.

He could practically feel the heat from the room.

But that's the thing, isn't it?

He isn't in the room.

There was an invisible wall separating him from the party. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there.

Despite himself, he walked right up to the barrier and placed a hand against it.

Funny, he could have sworn he could feel the heat coming off it, but now it's cold....

Another scene appears.

Now it showed the rooftops of the Flit. A few of the urchin gangs had gathered for a special occasion.

Even the Naughts and Crosses are only being mildly rowdy and rough with each other. Practically a miracle.

He could tell from just that what the occasion was.

There was a "New Wind" coming up from the Bazaar and all the urchins were having a race in honour of it.

He smiled, remembering the last time that had happened. How much fun the race had been. Only two fights had broken out, with only one bloody nose. It was the best he'd seen all the gangs get along together.

Before the race they sang a Correspondence song. One of those ones they claim the thunder taught them.

(He'd never heard of such a thing but they claimed it's because the thunder only liked children)

And they were off.

He pressed both hands against the wall, trying to press through.

It was pointless.

He couldn't be with them.

The walls surrounded him now.

He was in London but could not move.

People passed him without a glance.

They were moving freely about the streets.

He was frantically pressing against the unseen walls as they were now pressing against him.

They continued pressing.

Him from inside, the wall from outside.

Eventually he was on his knees trying to hold back the unseen walls from all sides, even above.

He cried out. He yelled. He cursed.

And still people passed on by.

----

After he woke from the nightmare, at first he was reluctant to divulge to maven what it was. But after she had written down her nightmare while telling him about it (fuck that rotten family of hers), he finally told her. If nothing else than because he realized he needed her help transcribing the dream. (he did not want to try writing that all down himself) Afterwards, both returned to, thankfully dreamless, slumber.

Current Mood: sleepy

Entry tags:

Homework

The Lied Piper sat with legs crossed in the Labyrinth of Tigers' Second Coil. Behind the bars, but that was safe here, unlike in the Third Coil. Here, they were something of a cross between an employee and a celebrity.

(Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but either way, nobody bothered them.)

They hummed casually on their kazoo, feeling out pieces of melody not yet fully composed. Their mind wasn't much on it; it was just something to keep them busy while they hung out with the Somnolent Hyaena. The creature seemed to enjoy the song well enough. It kept trying to nuzzle their side, like a big cat. Maybe it liked the rat smell on them.

Or maybe it just wanted attention. Every time the Piper's masked face met those green eyes...

Their limbs weakened. They tucked the kazoo into their belt, yawning. They felt they might finally lay down for a nightmareless nap.

Of course, that wasn't exactly the plan. There was a reason they'd waited until now to come see the Hyaena, and it wasn't just because of the nightmares sparked by this week's class.

(Honestly, they weren't much worse than usual. The professor had really hyped them up too much. Twisted dreams of forgetting and betraying their friends? Bone growing over their eyes? Monsters they fought shifting to have human faces? Yeah, that was a normal Thursday. They were fine.)

"Y'know, I expected my first death to be a little more exciting." They yawned as their strength continued to drain. Maybe they should've gotten into a duel instead. But this was more efficient. Dying on its own wouldn't soothe any nightmares; it would probably just make them worse. This method would kill two birds with one stone.

Er... kill one bird and put the other to sleep...? Whatever.

"Thanks for the help." They patted the Hyaena's head blindly. "You're a real one."

They had an appointment with a dead assassin. Hopefully they'd make it back in time for next week's class.

The green light surrounding them faded, and all went black.

Surface Pressure (Maven's Nightmares)

The nightmare The Soft-Hearted Maven experienced wasn't a new one, but it had been awhile since she had last had it and with such intensity.

----

The ballroom may be lavish and bright, but all The Soft-Hearted Maven could focus on was the droning around her.

Pretty-seeming people saying pretty-seeming things, in all actuality so empty.

She stood still, hoping that doing so meant no attention would be drawn to her.

God her legs ached.

Where was her sister?

"There you are, there's someone you have to meet!"

No.

Suddenly the ballroom was gone. All was dark. But she could still see the people. No longer even a facade of prettiness. Writhing masses of shadow and viscera, shining eyes and smiles focused on her.

The worst was the floor. Or rather, the lack of a floor.

In its place was a tightrope beneath her feet. But to call it a tightrope was giving it too much credit. It was a thin wire, digging into the soles of her now bare feet, making them bleed.

It wasn't just the wire though, was it?

The lashes on the back of her legs had opened up.

(Those scars will never go away, will they)

The blood was dripping down like a waterfall into the abyss, covering the wire, making it slippery.

Could they really not see?

Did the layers of expensive fabric really cover the blood and pain so well?

Where was her sister?

"Well? Come over and greet them!"

Deep breath.

She began walking. Shoulders back, spine straight, hands clutched at her front.

The wire bit into her skin with each step.

The blood continued to spill.

She briefly became aware that she had wings, like that of a butterfly or a fairy. Could she try to fly?

(Fly where? Fly to them? Fly away?)

A cursory flap said no, as she felt a painful crack go up from her back up through the wings.

The act caused her to slip slightly, and she lifted her arms to keep balance.

All at once the eyes around her narrowed and the smiles widened. Voices that were both hushed and deafening surrounded her.

"The poor dear."

"Not much you can expect from one who's only half nobility."

"Perhaps if she had been raised from birth it could have been different."

"That's generous of you to say, but no matter how you polish it, a flawed diamond will never have the value of a flawless one."

"Now lets not be cruel, I'm sure she could still make for a perfectly suitable second wife for someone. Regardless of her birth, she still comes from a good family after all."

"That is fair. With her docile nature, she certainly has more value than that boorish sister of hers."

Laughter rang out, and suddenly she was seeing red.

How DARE they speak of her sister like that, she-

SNAP

The wire snapped, and she was falling in a shower of her own blood and the shattered pieces of the wings.

At first she just saw the faces, watching her fall.

Then she felt compelled to turn to the abyss.

Rising to meet her were the corpses of her parents, as freshly slaughtered as she remembered from that day.

----

The Maven was no longer falling. She was in her bed, clutching at the Brash Devil. His eyes shown in the dark, a look of concern on his face as she breathed heavily. No words needed to be spoken at the moment, just a comforting embrace as the visions remained in her mind's eye.

Current Music: Close by Jamie Paige

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threads

Week 2 Threads

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Sign In

Before Class:

Inviting themself to dance lessons with Devil, Maven, and Mycologist
And everyone clapped! ... No? Just me?
Exchanging notes for scrap with the Mechanic
Greeting the Sub and Maven checking in

Lecture:

A change of perspective?
Fire! In The Classroom (ft. Devil and Mechanic) (Don't try this at home!)

Activity:

This is easy! ...says the one who, uh, didn't actually end up finishing it. Oops

After Class:

Letting a "secret" slip (monster hunting debacle setup)
Dancing plans

Monster Hunter RP

"What happened after Class Two of the Correspondence Course?"

Finally posting what will be the beginning of the Monster Hunter RP for The Lied Piper, The Anachronistic Tailor, The Soft-Hearted Maven, and The Brash Devil

Keep in mind I'm still very new to this specific format of text roleplaying, so if I need to do something different don't hesitate to shoot me a line and be like "Uh hey wtf are you doing XD"

Link to the thread in Class Two where we left off: https://benthic-university.dreamwidth.org/973.html?thread=140237#cmt140237

Entry tags:

dream,
homework

An Exerpt

From the Journal of the Morbid Socialite, Dr. Mementomori Malodrema:

“This particular nightmare has haunted me three nights running since the lecture attended on the twenty-fourth of June, resisting honey, laudanum, and even forced insomnia, finding me waking at my desk, unaware that I had ever fallen asleep. As per the suggestion of the Emissary and Professor, I have seen to it that this nightmare be logged and acknowledged. If the mind sees fit to plague me to get me to pay attention, then my attention is granted, though not without bitterness and bleary eyes.

The nightmare begins thus:

I start with a foetal mound of flesh in my hands, squirming and mewling, though the features of the underdeveloped creature resemble both a human child and some unidentified creature of the Neath's design and, in doing so, resemble neither. My mind tells me to name it and all I can think of are London streets, London shops, the beating heart of London between my hands and leaking placental blood between my fingers and to the undefined floor below, spreading from the point where it drops like webbing and, all at once, like tears.

I am wearing gloves, cold, impersonal, and the premature babe can tell and cries harder, a sharp, painful, wailing thing that sounds like death itself. I am afraid. I am so very afraid.

My hands venture close to closing around the babe, trembling and strong enough to crush the frail body.

I am afraid.

A figure, simultaneously dark and bright, simultaneously merciful and hateful, simultaneously understanding and disgusted, approaches. It takes the mound of flesh from my hands before I can close them and I feel my heart- or perhaps my soul- tear free of my ribs, tethered to the bleeding creature that is both flesh and concept. London is taken from me and yet it is all I have.

All at once, I am falling through imperceptible void, though I know that it is filled with colors and lights I cannot see and figures that mean me harm. I cannot open my wings, it hurts to do so and they refuse to catch nonexistent wind. I am falling and falling and falling for ages that feel like a second. There is a great flash of light, a great, burning pain that overtakes my mind and body…

And then I awake, screaming.

I have so few days to resolve these dreams. It is time to take drastic measures.”

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An Invitation Accepted

If one had a calling card and could find an ermine stoat in the heat of False Summer, they could offer up the card and a scratch behind the ears to be escorted through London, to the flat of the Morbid Socialite. Due to the twisting nature of the streets of London, it was difficult to tell if the flat was situated closer to Veilgarden, Spite, the Flit, or Mahogany Hall, but it was nonetheless a small flat on the second storey of a building, requiring that one climb the internal stairs to reach the top floor. The door was simple, wood with a brass handle. Depending on the time of day, any number of sounds could be heard, from the chittering of weasels to the chattering of half-adopted urchins, from the cacophony of recreational drink to barren and utter silence. And, if there was a stocking on the door, it was best not to listen in.

Tularemia would climb up the simple door frame and stare down at the guest with stark, black eyes before disappearing into a small crack in the wall. Unless the guest knocked, they would be left on the stoop...

(OOC: I've realized I've handed out plenty of calling cards and invitations and had no place to start RPs, so consider this as my starter for anyone wanting to RP one on one if we haven't established how it would otherwise start!)