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Die Shize

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About Die Shize

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    Party Girl
  • Birthday 07/14/1989

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    Yippee!
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    Male
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    Valucre
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    I love writing (obv), reading, TV, and used to be an avid gamer. Not so much anymore. Just depends on the game. Love outdoorsy things, but rarely go outdoors, and candles smell pretty good.
  • Occupation
    Just your friendly neighborhood Shize-Man!

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  1. If @THE_BULL gets too tied up, I'll take someone else in my thread. Really looking for a melee-only (that's swords, spears, knives etc. and not guns, magic or uber special abilities) 1x1, as in, one PC character versus one PC character and not an NPC army vs. PC character. Also not looking for one roleplayer taking on other roleplayers. You're probably not that good, and testing that statement will probably just lead to a boringly quick match where the take-you-all-on roleplayer gets his butt kicked. If any of the above does not tickle anyone's fancy, let me know and I'll set what I can accommodate.
  2. Theme You are told in truth. More important than where I come from, though, is the truth that I come in peace. He loved that line every time he had a chance to drop it. I look forward to proving that to you. “Sir? You all right?” Peter blinked, then blinked again as he blinked himself back to a blinking reality. He had no idea how what happened had exactly happened, but though telepathy was no longer a phenomenon in this crazy world, there was a first time for everything. With a shake of his head too slow to be curt, he dismissed his subordinate’s concern, but kept his entranced gaze locked with the creature in the distance and the domain behind him. “Yes, Len. I’m fine. They can talk through thoughts, all right.” “Hmm, but can they read minds?” Peter smiled. If they can, I wouldn’t have known it. “Only yours, Ken. Only yours.” The skiff came to a sliding stop when the depth of the water began to give way to the earth beneath. Bow ploughed into sand, coughing up all manner of particles in the blue below, but the residents of the boat were too busy concerning themselves with what was on the surface, or rather, with whom. Small, little, tiny, even, were more than adequate terms for describing the diminutive person-creature. He, or it, or she, even, was to the island as a pebble was to the beach. Forest, sheer forest, stretched from one end to the other as far as the eye was concerned, though even now, when there was no longer the benefit of an aerial view, the green behemoth of a tree range seemed larger up close than from afar. Not close enough. Parean would only get closer down the road, literally and figuratively, he knew. First, he had to shake hands with the toddler, and hope that his own didn’t crush it. All eyes were on Amalia as the group ended their journey upon the beach, though their journey was far from over. Only four of the individuals began climbing out of the boat, the fifth standing up just to help with the luggage. When bags and packs and cases were set into the sand, the driver waved a farewell that Peter returned with a for-now, before turning to face his would be host. “We did it, Peter! We’re here! We’re on Amalia! We’re actually here!” Peter had easily detected the struggle in the feminine tone as it fought to be anything but a whisper. Why, he wasn’t certain, save for how giddy someone became when faced with giddiness and was therefore too giddy to be anything but giddy. “Yes, Jen. We’re here.” On a floating landmass supported on a turtle’s back. Yeah, we’re here, all right. His own tone was elevated enough to be casual. There was no need for whispers, especially if the Ulway could in fact read minds. Can you? That thought holding nothing back of being ‘heard’ assuming he had pressed the right button in his head. A pair of wraparound sunglasses that hid his eyes, two leather gloves on his hands that he presumed would be removed amid sweat building up, Peter was far less encumbered than his three subordinates. One man with a light brown complexion, short black hair and aviators, and dressed in a blue dress suit more formal than his superior’s, held a briefcase and a laptop case was slung over his shoulder. The other man, almost pale in skin tone, wore a white overcoat, eyeglasses shuttered by blue clip-on shades, his black hair not much longer than the former’s though swept into a wave. Burdening him, hanging from his shoulder by a strap, was a gray, hardened case with an ovular shape. The only woman of the outfit, meanwhile, was a tanned brunette with a feint hint of auburn, long and braided at her back, and she had been smart enough to don a bucket hat—rainbow-colored, though it was. She was also smart enough to be wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt, and hiking boots for that matter, and her eyes were hidden behind a pair of wayfarers. A large camera that looked like it was going to record a survival island flick rested from her shoulder. And all of them had big backpacks. Except Peter. Peter was burdened only by the clothes on his back, and his unbeatable, diplomatic prowess. He stepped forward, if only to emphasize his being the leader of his little outfit, gaze, though masked, sharing the same direction as his subordinates: in front, forward, focused on the little person who had been waiting to greet them all. Or to eat us. As small as the little guy was, Peter would not have put it past him. “Greetings.” He loved that line too. “I am Legate Peter Broswell of the Terran Department of Foreign Affairs.” Hoping that you can understand me. “I come on a diplomatic mission from the realm of Terrenus.” Which you already know. “It is our hope, my hope, that Terrenus and Amalia can come to create, develop and nourish an international relationship." He held out his right hand. "To become friends.”
  3. closed

    Recurring Ambience The bus had come all the way from London. Neon writing was easy to pinpoint that much as it came rolling on up. She could always tell a Londoner, with their superior struts, but at least two weren’t from London at all. Americans. She could tell those too, generally for the same reason. Some of the journeyers who stepped into the rain were hit by drops to hoods, others with drops to umbrellas. She knew that when she stood up, she’d be getting drops to her hair. The umbrella at her feet had lost its appeal moments ago. For now, she watched those people from the bus walk to and fro, left or right, past the shelter to get on with their lives. At this hour, that probably meant getting to bed. Something I should have done hours ago. Sighing, she picked up her umbrella and slowly twirled the handle between her fingers, watching feint streaks of moisture twist down the black frame. It was a tempting thought, but she kept it open and lifted it above her head as she rose to step into the downpour. Hers would certainly be a walk back from Broad Street to campus , but if she was fortunate, she’d not only hit the pillow by one or two in the morning, but she’d fall asleep maybe a minute after. Wishful thinking, Tabitha. Wishful thinking. The Fluid Flutist Theme When the sound of drum and bass blasted her ears, it was clear to Tabitha that she had woken up one hour late, judging by the clock’s characters of “7:46 AM” that shouted in her face. Oh, crap. How did I sleep through? That meant she wouldn’t be in class till fifteen past eight, so fifteen minutes late. That sucked. Showing up late to class wouldn't be the first, and besides, music theory wasn’t exactly her most favorite course. They didn’t let you actually play music so much as study it, and studying music instead of playing it was never as much fun. With a mighty yawn, she swept her covers over her body and wasted no thoughts on setting her bed. Whether she cared or not, she was late, and she didn’t want to be any later. After a quick shower, a quick freshening up, a quick bite of toasted crumpets spread with honey and an apple sent Tabitha out the door afterward without so much as coffee to wash it all down. To stave off the morning chill of a biting England, she had thrown on her black jacket, complementing everything else that was black about her clothing, and decided that Hertford College's campus’ Costa would have to take care of her needs. It would taste better than her dorm’s coffee pot anyway. She had been meaning to buy a new one, but with the wages she was making, a new coffee pot was the least of her worries. A new kettle had to come first. For now, she’d settle for the hot hazelnut steaming in her hand, one foot carrying the other with rapidity being the key as her leather boots clicked off the pavement. Sometimes it seemed like just stepping out of her dorm was all it took to step into class, but on mornings where tardiness was in full effect, it didn’t matter how fast she walked; class was always a mile away. In minutes, the door to Music Theory opened less quietly than Tabitha had intended. She smiled at the lower lip, half-smile, half-frown, and went on her merry to find a seat in the small lecture hall. Almost every one of the one hundred odd students already there had probably shown up right on time, she thought as they glanced her way or outright stared because why not, but none of it fazed her one bit as she worked her way in between rows to find the first empty sit-me-down in the center with more of a “Coming through” than an “Excuse me” here and there. “Glad you could make it, Miss Rainfall”, spoke forty-years-old-if-I'm-not-already-fifty Professor Dunsby, standing with a half-smile, half-frown of his own and his Parker pen clicking back and forth by a thumb that just wouldn’t quit. Tabitha smiled, nodded her head and gave a thumbs-up. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir!” Had she less than an amiable relationship with her professor, however, he would have made sure she missed this class permanently. After a brief chuckle died down in the ambience of the students, Tabitha crossed her jeaned legs and rested her notebook of a laptop on a thigh as she began booting it back up while the professor continued his boring lecture of theory-this and theory-that. I’d rather be playing this and playing that. Oh well. I already missed fifteen minutes. Only forty-five more to go…
  4. @Inkinhart The Greasemonkey Theme “I’m not saying the 80-04’s hard to repair, it just ain’t worth it.” Katie spoke, stuffing enough chocolate in her mouth without having to speak through mouthfuls. “It’s a fine machine! You just keep it tuned!” The waiter replied, holding a plateful of candy like he had lost all interest in walking the floor to offer it to everyone. Even he had been hooked into the conversation of airships with a small handful of Genesarans. Little did he or the five other would be ‘gentlemen’ around her know that they were speaking to a girl who was raised by machines and knew them inside out. They were no match. “Tsai boo shr.” No way. “The extenders ain’t braced.” Katie spoke to knock the argument out of the water, slipping another chocolate into her mouth. But this is damn good chocolate. It tasted not quite milk and not quite dark. More of a blend. Some kinda rich stuff. “I’ve been telling him to buy the 80-10 for years!” Her eyes drifted over to the man who had just spoken; the man who had rescued her from those mean girls; the man dressed in a not all brown, not all tan, outfit with a lion’s face for a mask. Just who are you, Mr. Lion? Katie made a face to show not only her agreement with his agreement but emphasis that any disagreement was flat out stupid. “Those ‘tenders snap off, don’t matter how good the engine’s cycling.” She waved a hand in the air to stretch her point, fingers coming back around for another bite, but just when the chocolate hit her tongue, it stopped short with the hand that held it. One of the men had caught her gaze. Or was it the other way around? “Miss Katie.” ‘Miss’ Katie? “I wonder if I could request the honor of having this—” “Wait a minute. Let her talk. She’s talking.” Lion had interjected, not so much in a tone of stand-back-or-be-punched as let-the-lady-finish-before-she-dances. Though given that there was no man behind the lion that she could see, it did make her wonder if he was into her too. The poor guy who had tried to ask her to dance just then surely was. It was cute, and he had caught her with a smile on her lips as soon as they rolled with chocolate. But maybe later. She was having enough fun talking parts and charming men at a masquerade ball. “By the way”, she started with a grin, looking from one man to the other. “The 80-10’s the same machine. They just changed the plating and hoped no one noticed.” The grin broke out and she laughed with the rest of them. Oh man, I’m good at this and lovin’ this. Then one of them was trying to actually undress her and pull her pretty dress off like dancing hadn’t even struck the mind. “What the—OH!” It was no man at all, but a little girl tugging at her skirts, one in a pretty red dress with a stain on it. That wasn’t too unusual for a child, but this was no mere child. Katie beamed with delight as the little girl pleaded. “Well howdy-hey to you too, Éabha! Of course I’ll play!” If only Saoirse were here to say the same! If Katie knew her parts, she also knew that Éabha was almost a spitting image of her aunt or else Katie couldn’t spit. Ignoring the men whose chuckles gradually dwindled down amid sharing in the amusement of a child suddenly popping up, Katie plucked a handful of something-something’s from the waiter’s plate and reached her hand out to Éabha. “Have a try! It’s good stuff. Now what’s this about your brother?” The subject made lord and lady pop back up as she turned her head this way and that as though expecting to see either or both. Oh, Katie. You got caught up in the wind again. Wherever they were, and wherever Mal was for that matter, wasn’t here or there. Hope Mal found the red sash, at least. Forgetting all that for the moment, she turned her gaze back to Éabha below. “Boring and Orisian?” called a male voice. Katie looked up to see Mr. Lion. His voice sounded like a violin on a low note. I must admit to takin’ a fancy to this fella. He raised his wine glass. “I dare say, child, that sounded quite like a grammatical redundancy!” With that, the whole group of adults chuckled in unison—all but Katie. If Éabha was confused by those words, she wasn’t alone, because her aunt’s best friend just stood there with a cocked brow wondering what any of it had meant.
  5. @Aleksei@Inkinhart The Dawn Prince Theme Teige’s eyes burst wide open like two burning balls in the sky. She had said yes! Yes! And what was this? She was blushing? Empathetic embarrassment wasn’t usually lost on Teige, for even if the situation hadn’t called for his own cheeks to heat, just watching someone else suffer the ordeal could be enough for him to share their pain. At that moment, though, it was all he could do to rest on his knees and smile wide. Watching Princess Areille’s cheeks go pink made him happy, because not only could he tell that they had something else in common, unfortunate though it was, but if she was happy for the same reason that he was happy then that was very happy. “Princess Areille, thank you for accepting my— HAND!!” Just like that, the princess had risen, snatched his hand and yanked him from his resting place. Teige didn’t know what to think beyond nothing and, albeit with a measure of reluctance given the display of his person, allowed himself to be dragged. All the while, his lips remained frozen in an upward curve, his eyes aglow with excitement, and the feeling of his hand in hers reminded him of what his parents must have felt each time one of their hands was in the other. Every now and then, he would check behind his shoulder to make sure Éabha was keeping up, though with a sister like her, she was more than capable of finding her own adventure. She didn’t need a helping hand. Teige didn’t either, but right now wasn’t about needs. It was about wants. It was about gifts! Teige halted his hauled form the moment Areille did, if only because she allowed it. Through the myriad of mingling men and women, all of forms taller than their own, the three children had nigh scampered. Now, all of a sudden, they found themselves at a particular pocket of said adults. Like all such, they were engaged in chitchat of the most peculiar type, little of which Teige picked up on this time around. Sometimes, it felt as much his duty as his hobby to just hang back and observe those whom towered above him as they conversed—his father with his mother, his uncle with his father, the guards and the knights of their lands—but tonight, it was all he wanted to hang back and observe Areille, as she herself engaged with who could only be her mother. The girl spoke in a language not too dissimilar from Orisian, so much akin that Teige could make out enough of it. He caught himself mouthing each word, lips barely parting in that manner they do when one is barely conscious of moving them. ‘Ma, it’s Teige . . . Please give…the moonstone?’ Teige’s eyes lit up. What moonstone!? He blinked himself back to attention after staring at Areille in wonder, her mother catching him off guard. His new friend’s hand slipping from his grip made him feel almost naked standing before them. “Oh! Uh. Yes!” Clearing his throat, he crossed one arm over his front and the other over his back, closed his eyes and bowed low and slow. “The pleasure is all mine, my queen.” Nature came next. Nature is what compelled him. Nature is what called him. By nature, his sister was as natural as the forest she played in all day, but also as reserved, as cautious and as stubborn so, quite naturally, Teige swung his gaze over to her immediately after he rose. He wasn’t surprised in what he had seen, or rather had not, though it did not fail in making his eyebrows cross. She’s not bowing. Were they not in so public a position, he might have snapped his fingers in her face, but instead he emitted a small sigh and let it be. He was here for his gift, after all, and Éabha Scraper wasn’t going to keep him from it. Even as her brother, he felt relieved that she had turned and bidden herself off. She’ll be fine, Teige. Let her go and play. She’s just a child, after all. Meanwhile, Teige remembered that he was in the immediate presence of royalty, even if it might not have been Orisian royalty. He had a million questions to ask the queen of Renovatio, indeed the queen mother of Princess Areille, and so he smiled with elation and held up a forefinger to prompt for a bombardment of what’s-it-like’s and how-do-they-say’s and when-can-I-visit’s when he spotted the most peculiar unfolding of events. As though engaged in a trance and more than just the mother-daughter affection they had first evoked, princess and queen took on something much more unique. How curious! How beautiful! The way they are moving! The arms! The wrists! The hands! Teige might have groped the air with his own if he knew any better, settling for the notion that this was not his dance and they were not his relatives, neither his people. It wouldn’t have been proper. So he just stood back and watched, and then he listened, rather aware of the heart in his chest that beat quicker than a Goran drum solo as he licked awe from his lips like honey. ‘We are the reason why the moon glows and the sun rises.’ Whatever could that have meant? There was almost a Dawnwood ring to it. Teige pondered on it in the same moment that he remained enthralled by the spectacle. It must have been entirely Renovation of a gesture. The bead of light that followed must have been entirely majestic. Against his better judgment, he let himself giggle, a small laugh rising in the air with the vibrant ball. He was mesmerized when the light seemed to actually become controlled by Areille, like it were just some glowing pearl this whole time, albeit a floating one. Stop your nonsense, Teige. Just watch. So he watched, and waited, hoping the moment wouldn’t give way to an end; that the light wouldn’t go out, much like a blown bubble suddenly snaps in the air and becomes as nothing. Not a pearl. Teige gasped. It’s a moonstone! Areille had spoken the words as soon as he had thought them. “F-For me?” He could hardly believe it. If this was his gift, he would have to bow low, drop to a knee, reach his hand out and beg both ladies their forgiveness for his having given the First Princess of Renovatio a mere rose (and a flattened, arguably flayed, rose at that) with but parchment and ink to accompany. “I…” I’m speechless. Remembering he was the first son of Lord Dawnwood—no true prince, but a noble nonetheless—Teige cleared his throat for the uncounted time that it felt like the skin within was itself being peeled off. He collected himself, extended his hand and accepted the beautiful, beautiful gift. It weighed in his palm like a snowball might. He had heard of such stones before, but he’d never seen one. Not like this. “I…I thank you, Princess Areille.” He dipped his head then snapped it back upright. “And…and Queen Primera, of course! I shall cherish this stone of moon as I would mine own heart.” That last part, Teige spoke while looking at Areille. If the blush in his cheeks, something he strangely didn’t care about in this moment, had the ability to spread, it would have done so in the spread of his smile just then, red though his lips already were.
  6. So I heard you were a doctor...
  7. Excellent! Does it come in pink?
  8. Today is a good day. It is raining, I peed, ate eggs, peed again because it is raining, passed out and started posting on Valucre in my sleep. ~fin
  9. Continuing the thread indeed, commander.
  10. @supernal OP doesn't seem to be around. Can I take over this quest? It's stagnant and I think others in it may want to kick it up again too.
  11. What is a customer user title?
  12. @THE_BULL Okay, so I got a bit carried away. I'm now okay with some storyline back and forth banter, and no longer care who attacks first since this doesn't have to be a jump-to-it quick spar after all. Not that you can't still attack in the same first reply as your intro.
  13. OOC: The following material is not a spoiler. It's fan-fictional, evoking a separate universe of my own direction, regardless of what actually happens in either medium. @THE_BULL The Dread Bastard Theme The voices of guards calling to each other. The blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil. The whining of a bundled babe. The scream of a rusted iron hinge. The barks of starving dogs. As he heard it all sound out in his head like he were there all over again, he stood there in the cold, Northern morning watching, gazing out across the vast, empty plains that once were; grassland that had since been cultivated; farmland that had since been uprooted and spread out with a stone foundation instead. Patches of the earth still remained where buildings were not, there where streets and paths were paved with dirt. Roads led in and out, to and fro, and many a rider had galloped from those roads. Perhaps they had been messengers; heralds of their lords. Perhaps they were merely foreigners visiting a new place. Maybe families seeking to settle elsewhere? Few and less, he knew, but the fancy was ever fanciful. Parents with their children, husbands with their wives, brothers with their sisters. Peace and quiet, at last, they had themselves fancied. That was, of course, until he had come along to disturb their peace and quiet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. Father always tried to teach me that. But where is the fun in peace and quiet? He liked his land with a bit of war, and his people with a bit of noise. Fortunately, this village he had stumbled into on his march to the Wall had provided him with just that. “Go on ahead”, he had told his lieutenant. “I wish to say good bye to this village.” He had not quite grasped what had beckoned him to stay, if only for the moment, but he had. And in so doing he had come across a toy. It wouldn’t take long to catch up to his host, and either Skinner or Daemon would make sure no one had any ideas of desertion, and if they did, one of those two would make them wish they had not. A sharp blade and a greased whip could work wonders on a man. Or a woman, as he had come to learn. For that matter, children sang even sooner, and sweeter. The village had neither barn nor hut, sheep nor man, worth its own existence anymore. He had seen to that. They had defied his coming, resisted his authority, so he had flayed a dozen of the men, sent a dozen of the women to his own men and given a dozen of the little ones to his dogs. That last part, unfortunately, had caused some of the women to begin attacking his men, so he had them stripped and placed in stocks, just like his father had done at Harrenhal. That had kept them quiet, and peaceful, for that matter. His father would have been proud, perhaps. No. Not proud. Never proud. Only disappointed. Always disappointed. Never proud. Taking in a deep breath, he exhaled a deep sigh, looking around at his great work. Thick curls of black smoke still drifted from the ashen ruins where fires had lit the night, blood had merged with other less appealing fluids, and wooden frames that littered the frozen ground still held the bodies of the fools that had found themselves bolted to them, and had later found themselves missing a few strips of skin, here and there. One of his men had asked what he ought to do with the piles that were beginning to stack. “Cloaks!” he had answered. “Our new laborers complain about the cold, so let them wear the hides of their fallen friends. That should keep them warm.” It had, though they kept complaining anyway. “Bastard of the Dreadfort”, some fools used to call him. Let them see me now. Let them come to me now. Let them see. Let them come. Come see. Now, he was Lord of the Dreadfort, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North and Warden of the North. His father had been all those things too, held all the titles, but he was dead now. There his son stood, the scion of his house, in the cold, comforting air, his fur-lined cloak rather less free of human hide, his jerkin layered over a padded gambeson, his breeches tied with a belt with a scabbard at the left, with the hilt of a longsword protruding from it in the shape of a flayed man with a blade for a head. Your sword, Father. I took it from your corpse. He had no armor on save for the mail shirt he wore beneath his clothing, a principle he had grown accustomed to after recalling how quick and easy it had been to slip his dagger between the ribs of his lord father. It was not a gap he had overlooked for himself. He had learned that with knives long ago. A long, curved one at his right hip, two smaller, straighter ones at his back, and a gracefully skinny one in the confines of his leather coat. Pacing forward in between destroyed buildings, his leather boots scraped across the hard dirt. He was in no hurry, granting himself a leisurely stroll. A whinny caught his hear, but he paid it no more mind. His horse, tethered to a post outside of the brothel he had given to his frustrated troops, was safe and sound. He could not say the same for the dead man who stood erect, only not, tethered to a post of his own. More of a cross where two beams formed an X. His arms and legs shared that shape, though the rest of his body shared the shape of a red raisin. When the pacing ended, curiously, the dead man coughed from a few feet away. “Hmmmmm. Still alive, I see.” He smiled at the not quite yet dead man, looking from one patch of missing skin to the other. “I would have thought all the screams last night would have put you to sleep, at least. I see that I was mistaken.” He reached into his coat, removed his hand and brandished his favorite knife; honed and thin enough to fit between the topmost layer of skin and the tissue below. And peel. As the naked, dying man screamed yet again, letting out the sounds of strangled lambs in a chorus, his music was met with a laugh that hopefully conveyed its appreciation, for Lord Ramsay Bolton wanted his new pet to feel only that for him. Sing for me. Sing for your new master, Reek. And so the flayed man sang, and all his secrets went out of his throat.
  14. I didn't say a character intro is pointless, but that only posting the character intro in the first reply is pointless. To me, it's a waste of a reply. As the OP of the thread, I will be able to read my opponent's character intro whether he attacks in the same intro reply or not. But why not attack in that same reply? Whether my opponent attacks first or I do, one of us is attacking first after viewing each other's characters. By attacking in the first reply instead of the OP's following post, however, it cuts down on waiting and kicks things off right away. This is just a spar, so posting storyline banter replies back and forth before anyone actually attacks would be a waste. Take it up a notch, and waste not by the first attack being made in the first reply.
  15. I lel'd.