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About KittyvonCupcake

  • Rank
    Roleplay Wizard
  • Birthday April 18

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  • Gender
  • Location
    The Moon of Titan
  • Interests
    Hungry ghosts, the roar of the sea crystallized and shattered thrice for good luck, poorly recorded punk music.

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  • Discord

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  1. Wonderland Resort: Dunk Tank and Comedy Show!

    "Is this all we're going to do? Just throw out some terrible jokes at each other?" Before Genevieve could offer out a "well, yes, actually", a tiny tomato tossed in a trifling tantrum twirled off from the stage via telekinetic transmission and a sweet little wink was sent her way. Fruit throwing? Was a tomato a fruit? The vampiress pondered the philosophical differences between vegetables and fruit (Is a carrot merely a root?) during Lexip's transition into stand up comedy, offering a genuine purr of laughter at the boat pun. Perhaps it was the sailor she had once consumed, but she had a weakness for any pun tinged with a nautical theme. "By the by, did you hear the one about the two people that walked into the bar?" She had not. Or, rather, she had heard such a varied assortment of "man walks into a bar" jokes that they mentally jumbled together in a chaotic knot. Scores of men, inexplicably in their underclothes, walking into bars ad nauseam for eternity. Some had horses. Some were priests. One even carried a large goldfish. For a moment, a curious sort of anxiety twitched in her heart as she tapped her bottom lip with a gloved fingertip. "Two men walked into a bar?" she quipped, drolly deadpan. "Ouch." "Coincidentally, that reminds me of a job I once took. There was this shit bar out in Casper, where the bartender was rumored to be alchemist. Three pints of the house brew and you either had an awkward two week long relationship or a pervasive sense of crushing darkness. I set out to use it as bait for an alcoholic basilisk causing trouble in town. But, with the bartender's help, the three of us all wound up playing strip poker together instead. The basilisk lost, by the way. They can't bluff worth a damn." Hoping that anecdote satisfied the crowd's need for giggles as her white coat, a recent "donation" from a generous resort attendant, was not resistant to stains, Genevieve presented the microphone back to Lexip with a flourish and a grin. "Do I just lob a pixie at those dunk tank targets, or do I have to use something more polite?"
  2. What are you reading?

    Found it! I have it saved for later. I may be a snob, but redemption is within grasp.
  3. What are you reading?

  4. Thank you for the like!

  5. What are you reading?

    I've also been exploring Ursula le Guinn's short stories and this one,The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, gives me chills. It's more of a philosophical question than a traditional story, and I highly recommend that you read it.
  6. What are you reading?

    Alain de Botton's How Proust Can Change Your Life did not change my life as advertised, but it did feel as though my brain was tickled in a way that was both pleasant and educational. Currently reading The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea by Yukio Mishima and The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch. Notice a theme there?
  7. I'm back...again? Shit. I don't know.

    Oh, I remember you! Welcome back!
  8. Aeonian

    “I…” How often had a man like Draug encountered such pure intentions? Whether they were drawn by the tidal pull of the universe had driven them together by chance or design, it was a gift he was hesitant to accept. His jaw clenched as explanations and lectures and half formed confessions knotted together in his throat. And yet… Perhaps it was finally time to set suspicion aside. His sword met its sheath with a soft click, though the dagger still remained in the open air. As he began to speak, drifting clouds began to slowly inch their way close to the full moon once more. The vines wrapped around the base of the Great Tree shivered with life, slithering and constricting like sluggish snakes awakening for prey. The red leaves tremble despite the lack of wind. Something, one can sense, is approaching on the horizon. “You both feel the energy of this place, yes? Centuries ago, there were beings in the Wilds that thrived off of bloodshed, the zharyians. Wood Devils, in Common tongue. My ancestors and the Fae that once lived here had trapped them in this grove and killed them. Many lost their lives in turn, and the survivors planted that tree as a monument. ” He flicked his eyes up at the moon and frowned slightly. The abrupt history lesson would need to hasten. Behind him, shadows crept toward the deer carcass. “It’s both a landmark and a place to draw energy from, as spirits tend to not die in the traditional sense and my people seem to have a habit of clinging to areas of power. You saw what can happen earlier, when the souls of the dead merge with wild spirits.” “And now…well, it’s a clusterfuck I’m responsible for, if I need to be honest.” A touch of wry amusement sweetened the bitterness that sliced through his admission like broken glass. “I doubt I have enough time nor desire to share the full story with you, but that life I mentioned; it’s my sister. Ioreth. She sealed herself within this tree with a cursed object. If unlocked, one could manipulate others’ dreams, they could walk through the depths of your unconsciousness. I then asked her to find a way to harness its power, and this is what happened.” Lips twisted in a hollow smile, he held out his palm still stained with dried blood. “She reached out to me in a vision. She’s alive, I could rectify this, yet---” Far from the Wilds, out in the quiet villages and smoldering cities across Terrenus, clockhands met and struck midnight. Bells tolled and wolves howled in homage to the moon, reigning high on her celestial throne. Could Ally hear the drums once more? Could Trevor sense the shifting atmosphere? The words flowed quicker. Draug’s voice rumbled with urgency. “Sacrificial magic draws out the remnants of the zharyians. I can summon soul of their chieftain, the Bholikyn, and bind it to my dagger, but I need you to not interfere. They are drawn only to violence. They know only death, but I can…” A laugh, ghostly as a whisper and light as a drop of dew, drifted through the night. If one had a tie to magic, they could feel the sudden tear of the physical world giving sway to the spiritual as Crocodile tumbled out before Draug. Both wolfhound and night elf shifted their weight in preparation of an attack, their faces contorted in feral snarls. A multi limbed reptilian demon was far from the manifestation of the forest that either had been expecting. Neither was the silvery ethereal figure floating behind it. “You poor things,” it murmured, hovering suddenly near Trevor, circling then around Ally. “Out in the cold and being subjected to a lecture. Dreadful.” The wraith, vaguely humanoid with no discernible features apart from a cloud like silhouette of hair, appeared between Crocodile and Draug with hands outstretched. “A dheneamh ni due leis, derthail. He helped me. Miste thoil.” Although the doorway that Crocodile came into our world through was on the verge of disappearance, other beings had pounced upon it. These were the remnants of the zhariyans, the ancient demons mentioned before. While some had transcended and became denizens of the Wild after intermingling with the departed souls of the oiche duende and the forest fae, these creatures were of a different breed. Sealed away as they were by the holy energy of the glade, they rotted and devolved in their purgatory. Savage, broken, twisted with an intense yearning for destruction, these remnants became fuel for the trapped Aeonian. In the nightmare’s hands, they became whole once more. Four of the remnants were now free. Like the antlered apparitions, these ghoul like creatures were formed of darkness. Ancient skeletons, similar in structure to mountain lions, floated within the miasma. Their teeth snapped in their hunger, in their lust. The drums pounded. Ioreth’s otherworldly specter shivered out of focus. “If you fight them,” she warned, “the Bhokilyn will come. If it does not kill you first, and it would, you can use its energy to lift the curse. Which would kill me, and release an evil you have little hope in eradicating. Or you can find another way. Can you hear the spirits in this land? Reach out to them, purify those creatures. Find another way.” Draug, conflicted as he was, remained still. The choice lies with the others.
  9. Wonderland Resort: Dunk Tank and Comedy Show!

    At Lexip's correct response, Genevieve raised her drink in a mock toast and propped her worn combat boots up on the seat before her. The man perched there, a rather cantankerous variety of horned minotaur in tweed three piece suit, let out an irritated grunt and muttered something regarding the drastic state of modern puns. Genevieve paid him little attention, too delighted as she was with the unexpected challenge of a Dad Joke Off. "Oh, I believe I did hear about the happy couple. The ceremony was disappointing, but the reception was supposed to be incredible." More groans rang out, encouraged by Holly's miming. With a noisy slurp, Genevieve drained vodka enthusiast Mary's blood from the glass and chucked it in a direction where she assumed a garbage can would lie in wait. It instead fell into the hands of a dwarf too blissed out on fake snow propellant to mind. She stretched luxuriously, bared her fangs in a sneer at the gaggle of bright orbs that gathered near, and loped up to the stage. "Love the shoes," she remarked, eyes flickering up and down Holly's...provincial...costume. "Sooo, Mister Lessoop, I can play with you for a little while and then I want to go dunk that scarf. And the Peacekeeper along with it." She twirled the umbrella idly overhead and continued, "Did you ever hear about the restaurant on the moon?"
  10. Wonderland Resort: Dunk Tank and Comedy Show!

    (A Wild Genevieve Approaches) If one were to gaze out into the crowd seated before the Comedy Show’s dimming stage, one might notice a dark haired woman in a oversized white fur coat glowering at a holodisplay that floated too near the Bloody Mary grasped lazily in her gloved left hand. The Bloody Mary was, upon further inspection, the Blood of someone named Mary, with a celery stalk hastily plunked in and garnished with a lemon wedge, but that was neither here nor there. With an umbrella held aloft in the other hand and a pair of pink tinted heart shaped sunglasses perched on her nose, there was a distinctive something about her appearance that suggested the possibility that a low born vampire had found her way into the Wonderland Resort for the sole purpose of finding bored wealthy women to bite in exchange for monetary gifts. It was an enterprise that had been surprisingly successful. Genevieve took a sip of her Blood of Mary, swatted absentmindedly at the overly friendly holodisplay bubble, and fixated her pale blue eyes upon the man that had suddenly arrived on stage. Oh goodie. A wolfish grin flicked on to her lips. They were getting to the jokes. "So I figured, to start the night off right, I'd warm you guys up. Do you know why your nose can't be 12 inches long?" Silence. The audience blinked as one. Plink plink. No one spoke, not even with a little, “No, Lester Al-Goop, why can’t your nose be 12 inches long?” Perhaps the majority of Terrenus ran off the metric system, but not Genevieve. She uttered an unladylike snort, wriggled an eyebrow up into an amused arch, and drawled, “Because then it would be a foot. Hey, I got one. What do you call an alligator in a vest?”
  11. Read your oasis city page.

    Love the song. Gives off a sort of oulaw/cowboy vibe.

    1. KittyvonCupcake


      Aw, thanks! I've always wanted to be an aesthetic DJ.

  12. Wonderland Resort, Grand Opening!

    Excellent. I might have her tell jokes, but they wouldn't be very good. It would probably be something like, "I stayed up all night wondering when the sun would rise. Then it dawned on me. And then I lit on fire, because I'm a vampire, goddammit." Netflix has yet to offer me a standup special for a reason.
  13. What are you reading?

    I recently wrapped up The Origins of Creativity by Edward O. Wilson. Although it's a slim volume, it is an in depth analysis of the way the arts and literature are biologically ingrained within our species. Storytelling is a universal phenomenon within every human being. Wilson, a biologist and charming science-grandpa, theorizes that our innate love for stories guided homo sapiens' evolution of language, consciousness, and creativity. It's an interesting read, and I'm rather fond of his argument for what he calls a "Third Age of Enlightenment", where science and technology go hand in hand with humanities and philosophy. I'm now muddling my way through Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, where Miller seems too preoccupied with boasting about his sexual prowess to actually write a story, and Dostoevsky's The Idiot, which is very Russian. Much snow. Many trains. @Alex Sylvian, if you like graphic novels, check out Baby's in Black. It's about the Beatles' early days in Germany.
  14. Wonderland Resort, Grand Opening!

    I have a vampire that is a wee bit rusty and probably deserves to be dunked, if I can be a post (or two) and run type of gal.
  15. Aeonian

    After passing through the mirror’s liquid silver glass, Crocodile would find himself in a place perhaps unfamiliar to the ancient demon. It was Ioreth’s kitchen, as detailed before: the pot still bubbling on the stovetop, an open window allowing in the evening breeze. He would see her perched on old barstool, with her nose in a book and her bare legs twitching to an unheard melody. Static. The atmosphere shifted with a whisper. The air felt thin. Ioreth stiffened, tilted her head with only the slightest hint of motion. Beneath the coiled piles of long silver hair, her features were distorted. It was as if an artist had dragged an eraser across her eyes, leaving only trails of white light and the indication of darkly painted lids behind. Her lips were smudged, a haze of a mouth that did not move even if she were to speak. The runic tattoo branded to the center of her forehead appeared deeply carved to the bone and filled with thick ink. Her movements were simultaneously jerky and fluid, like light refracting to the bottom of a clear pool, caught as she was between two realms. She lowered the tome and set it gently on the countertop, the bracelets on her arms clanging like bells. “Hello.” She was behind Crocodile now, pacing on the tips of her toes, her outstretched as if testing the air around him. So ‘twas you that slipped through the veil. Did you not--- Drums drowned her softly spoken question. Outside the window, darkness fell. Trees appeared and pressed up against the glass, dropping shreds of evergreen boughs after Ioreth slammed the window shut. She held a finger to where her lips should be and gestured silently for Crocodile to follow her. Carefully, she eased her way through the sitting room and its precarious towers of stacked books. Downy feathers dreamily floated from her hair. They settled into the carpet like melting snow. The kitchen was now bathed in crimson, the sound of drums growing fainter as the elf pushed aside the curtain and cocked her head towards her bedroom. Once the curtain dropped behind them, the drums were no longer heard. A tall mirror framed in pewter leaned against the southeastern corner of the room, half hidden by trees the color of bones that burst through the floor. As if through a dimly lit screen, one could see three figures standing before the foot of the Great Tree. Shadows surrounded them, one torn to shreds by a sudden burst of light, another disintegrating at the touch of a knife. As she gazed at the mirror, Ioreth was whole. Her cheekbones stood sharp in a face that was painfully thin, yet her violet eyes still burned with intensity. Her voice was low, harsh with disuse. “My brother never did concern himself with the consequences of his actions. That power would be impossible for him to harness. He…” The moment passed. Miasma overtook her once more, the brumous vacancy were her eyes should have been drifted up to examine Crocodile’s face. If only there was more time. With a blink, she was by the mirror, then peeking out the red curtain ---drum beats again, heavy footfalls slowly approaching--- and then at Crocodile side with a dagger in her hand sawing erratically at one of the braids in her hair. You are not safe, it senses you here. It cannot enter now, but it will try. The braid came free. The knife dissipated. May I? Her hand, delicate as a question, took hold of his middle left wrist. She wove her hair around it. For a message, she explained with what felt like a smile. ‘Twas pure fortune that a creature like you heard my summons. You can travel through the Gates without peril. If I tried, Darkness would follow. Behind Ioreth, her shadow twisted and writhed until it stood independent. It towered above her, growing increasingly solid as her form wavered like smoke. A heavily clawed hand rested on her shoulder. We are bound together, and as long as this binding remains, it cannot be free. Beneath the lyrical hush of her voice, something sombre growled in an echo. This is the Aeonian. They feast on nightmares, on fear, until they can become whole. She glanced over her shoulder and the wraith was no more. The mirror’s surface rippled, snatches of voices flickered inwards. “...I could aid you in another way. I happen to be very experienced with magic, after all.” Go! If you leave now, you can pass through unharmed. The spell Draug is casting is to summon another, yet...She let out a cynical snort. The true spirit of that land would have ripped him to shreds. I trust you will not do the same? Go on, you will not fettered to him, I promise. Keep my message on you, please? (If Crocodile chooses to leave now, the image of him out in the snow standing before Draug will appear in his mind. Here, he watches himself lift the circle of hair around his wrist and touch it against the tree. The vines unfurl enough to leave a patch amongst the roots clear. This is where a heavy iron pendant rests, engraved with ornate knotwork. Hovering behind him is an unlit silhouette of a woman with pointed ears and waistlength hair. The tips of her bare feet float above the snow. //I can only speak there for a moment. If you have anything to say, tell me here, where I can still understand it.//) Out in the Wilds, the apparitions still stalked about the clearing. Trevor Wisegem they ignored, his nonviolent stance rendering him invisible. Alliana’s light was toxic. Two shadowbeings approached her, talons raised, eyes bright, radiating rage. As they circled her, their forms altered in response to another howl that reverberated out into the night. Their talons shrank into paws, their jaws extended into snarling snouts and elongated teeth. Kir, the wolfhound, sprang out from where he had remained concealed in the thickly clustered trees, his thick gray fur bristling as he growled. He led the apparitions away from the fae, luring them back into the firs where one could hear the toll of inhuman shrieks. Draug was the one fortunate enough to attract the most attention. As he fought, his hood had fallen away, revealing a shock of ashen gray hair and a furrowed brow. His face was tattooed; a geometric sunburst nestled in the hairline of his right temple and black lines extended from the corner of his pale steel eyes to the sides of his head. His aquiline nose had clearly been broken a time or two in the past. His movements were a minimalistic dance, he shifted from one position to the next with an understated grace. This is where he felt at one with himself: when the excesses of life had given way to the primeval, when it was a simple matter of kill or be killed. Trevor’s offer was brushed aside as his dagger thrust into another eye of another apparition. “Violence is all they know,” he said, blackness bursting forth from the fallen shadow into pixelated pieces. “That’s noble of you, though.” As each apparition passed, the atmosphere in the clearing grew less stable. Now that shrieks subsided and all remained quiet, even an individual with nonexistent magical talent or training could feel the weakened friction in the air. The moon gleamed out from behind its veil of unnatural clouds once more. It would reach its apex soon. Kir emerged back out into the clearing, trotting over the snow to reach his elvish companion’s side. Draug waited, inhaling the winter chill, exhaling to calm the heavy beat of his heart. With his sword and dagger still resting in his hands, he glanced between Trevor and Ally with evident curiosity. “I don’t know what possessed the two of you to come to this place for an evening walk.” The laugh he uttered was twin to his sister’s sardonic smirk. His eyes, however, softened when he cocked his head towards Ally. “You. Girl. Are you injured? As I told our wise friend here, this is sacred ground for the Duendaic people. You do not appear to be a scholar of Elvish tradition, and neither--” his gaze swiveled onto Trevor “--do you. This ritual is important to me. A life is at stake. What gain do you seek by offering to help?”