#open starter !!! feel free to respond !

[thebaddestb-tchinthisclub]

Dean woke up feeling so strange. On the last hunt a witch had hexed him. But, he hadn’t died and he didn’t feel any immediate difference when she did. So he thought he was safe to go to bed for the night. He slid out of bed and stood noticing he stood much… shorter. Dean frowned and looked down at himself. His bare legs were so scrawny. “No…” A scratchy voice whined out and Dean slid across the floor to get a look at himself in a mirror. “Oh my fucking god!!!” He shouted and fell backwards onto the floor. “I look like a fucking actor from Degrassi!” Dean shouted now touching himself all over being freaked out by his much younger body. “The fuck happened to me!?” Dean’s scratchy scream addressed the other.

[snapshotxsinners]

"I hope you don't mind me saying this, but your costume is just fabulous! Did you buy it, or make it yourself?"

[cybernexus]

"Some people have asked me how my 'inner workings' don't get gunked up with dust over long periods of use like the fans of a PC."

"Y'know, something like this-"

"I have to remind them I'm not really a cyborg in the traditional sense. My body is a shell for an object akin to a dying star; this metal is the only material on earth that can contain it. Anything else that gets sucked in gets fucking incinerated!"

"Although it's not... technically a problem in the mechanical sense, sometimes bugs get sucked into my air intakes. I still feel bad about it..."

[fantasycorrupted-a]

open rp | savash

“What? Is my smoking about to become your business?” Sav has had a long day - and a random stranger dropping over while she’s in her least sociable is the last she has expected. “I saw no sign that forbids it round ’ere.” The necromancer takes another drag of her blunt. Fuck that, she needs a break. And if anyone’s about to make it into a problem, she has no desire to stay around for it.

“I’ma move if it’s a huge problem. No one came to me to complain until now, so I thought I’d stay. If you’re the exception...” She shrugs.

“Alternatively, if this ain’t trouble, I’d invite ya to a drink. ’Bout to go grab one, sit down and get some peace and quiet. Up to you though.”

[niieve]

open to: muses of any gender (m/nb if romantic)

"what are you doing here? it's the middle of the night."

[ofsteelnfyre]

location: tourney training yard closed starter starring ⸻    @yeagvrist_ , @cscensionism , @regaliaeds

though davut  had  opted  out  of  participating  in  the  tourney⸻     this  didn't  stop  the  prince  from  roaming  the  training  felid.  it  wasn't  often  that  the  prince  of  dorne⸻    the  tip  of  the  sun  spear  was  able  to  witness  these northern  kingdoms.  some  he  was  encountering for  the  first  time  in  some  many  years.  he  was  fascinated to  be  sure  and  it's this curiosity  that  had  him  pausing  near  the  archery  field.  he  was  not  an  archer  himself  but  the  amount  of  skill  that  he  was  seeing  was  commendable,  to  say  the  least.   "  it  would  appear  the  royal  children  will  have  their  skills  tested  ?  "  unable  to  hide  the  amusement  on  his  lips at the   of the existing power  against  those  they  overthrew ⸻   intriguing    "  dare  i  ask  whom  you  think  will  be  victorious  ." 

[mymanymerrymuses]

An Accidental Broadcast

It's fairly normal for Vox to stay up long past when he should have been resting, putting energy he doesn't really have into maintaining the various channels and programmes he's in charge of. It's normal for Vox to go through far too many cups of coffee while he's working - to the point of ending 'shifts' jittery and more irritable than is typical even for him.

It is certainly not normal for him to fall asleep while working. The screens and the caffiene usually carry him through, but usually isn't always. Which is why Vox, at present, is slumped over his desk, still linked to his system but with his eyes closed as he snoozes away.

If the screens had gone to sleep with him, none of this would be a problem. At least, not a problem that couldn't be fixed. Claim technical difficulties for the break in entertainment, then throw in an extra episode of the most dramatic shit he can find, and nobody will mind. Instead of that totally managable outcome, the screens have started betraying him.

Shows across many channels flicker, the signal dropping out and taking longer to return each time, until it simply doesn't. Then a new programme appears - with no obnoxious intro to be seen. Nothing is focused, for the moment, only vague colours merging together and separating again until the grainy shape of his own office appears. In the scene, Vox sits totally awake in his chair, flicking through various camera feeds from all around the pentragram.

But Vox isn't really awake. He's fast asleep at the very desk that's on half of hell's TV screens, and right at this moment, he's dreaming about work.

[theseancekid]

"Make way!" Klaus holds two closed fists to his mouth, puffs his cheeks and blows out a little trumpet noise to announce his arrival. Around his neck is his favorite pink boa, which flickers quite nicely in the wind as he hops onto the staircase railing and slides down in one totally-smoothe-not-at-all-flailing-and-awkward motion.

He stumbles at the bottom, but springs upright with a triumphant smile, arms outstretched to either side.

"The birthday boy has arrived."

[lessycusee]

"I'M UGLY AND I'M PROUD!"

[ofgunsandlipstick]

:: open starter

Looking up at the sound of the door, Peggy straightened, pressing her lips together as she steeled herself against a wave of discomfort. “Give me just half a moment and I’ll be right there,” she promised, gathering up her things to go with them.

[bladedwoe]

( Astrid ; open starter -- mutuals only )

        ❝ Am I the only one having fun here? ❞

[midvalley-the-hornfreak]

His eyes open. Now he knows it’s all real.

A static hiss of hair sliding across the pillow case. Sccssshhtaaah. An only slightly deeper sigh of pressure that follows as he presses his left ear into the cotton. Shaaah.Shaaah. Shaaah. Having been unused for the duration of what he'd strangely enough consider to be the best sleep he’s had in two years, his eye lid gives a series of little pops as he blinks the sun out of his eyes. Tat tat…

And it’s all different. Just as all the other sounds were yesterday. So faint. Dull. As if he’s gone numb in the brain or is trapped in a state of half consciousness.

He turns over onto his back, dragging the covers with him. He stares at the ceiling.

Again, just like it was yesterday, his vision is fine. Clear as day he recognizes that he’s looking at a white ceiling over head. It’s smooth and impeccably clean, hardly a speck of dirt or a crack to mar it. There’s a fan fixed to it too, complete with sleek wooden blades to churn the air around the little room. Around, and around and around….

Yet it lacks the nuance, the depth he'd expect to accompany such a perception. There's no real sound. A low whuurrr whuurr whurrr. That's all there is, and that’s practically nothing. He can feel the air as it’s derailed from it’s resting state and turned in his direction, sure, but aside from that there’s absolutely no indication it's even happening. No evidence. There’s none of the tell tale vibrations. No sudden whip of the air, no flavor to prove that it is indeed actually bouncing off of those blades at all, or that it’s spreading out into the space beyond him. He isn’t hearing it slide down the walls, tickle the carpet fibers, make an uneven pulse as it causes the curtains to wave. He's being forced to simply see something to believe it, to feel it, instead of hearing it the way he's been accustomed to his entire life.

To him, it's like the whole world is wearing a mute.

He closes his eyes for another moment.

After a short while of focusing, trying to figure out what other certain sounds are and where they’re coming from (one thing he was able to deduce was birds chirping. Most likely from outside his window), he unravels himself from his covers and stands. He slept in his suit, jacket and all. He straightens out the fabric before making his way into the bathroom, directly to the sink.

The way he’s going about things, he’s like an automaton.

The water is still unwarmed as he splashes it onto his face. He dries himself with a nearby towel. Conveniently there is a comb set out for him behind the faucet. In a mechanical fashion, he makes his hair presentable before leaving. On his path through the bedroom again, he picks up his saxophone case (the one that isn’t holding Sylvia) before quickly heading to the door leading out of Townhouse 426.  He doesn’t bother locking.

Standing on the stoop, he looks out at the world around him.

Then...suddenly. Out of nowhere, a thought begins to creep out from the recesses of his mind.

For the first time since he arrived at Isola Radiale he feels his heart rate start to climb. Adrenaline kicks in. The percussion of his heart is deathly quiet as everything else, but he knows it’s pounding wildly in his chest.  It hits him all at once. A realization washes over him in a giant uncontrollable wave.

No, he doesn’t believe in miracles, but...

He’s free.

He and Hoppered made it to the bottom of the dark. He was about to do the incomprehensible. Something hopeless: face and betray mankind's greatest enemy. A situation which no matter the outcome, had him destined him to die.  What happened? Did something abduct him? Did he drop dead? Should he believe in life after death after all? What the hell is this place? It didn't matter. Regardless of explanation, whatever incomprehensible thing that happened freed him from a fate that he considered utterly bleak.

His typical composure is gone. Looking every bit like a crazy man, he jogs down the steps and out onto the sidewalk, saxophone case swinging at his side.

"I'm out, I’m free. I’m free. I’m free.” he whispers over and over again. The trembling is uncontrollable. “I’m free. I’m free! I got out! I’m out!”

He grabs the stranger nearest to him mid walk and holds onto their arm. “I’m out!” He doesn’t let go, laughs, shakes the poor person hysterically. “I’m out of hell, we did it!”

[fantasycorrupted-a]

open rp

“...I was paying attention. Sorry.” This time, the lack of exhaustion - there are no dark circles round Hella’s eyes, unlike usually - does not explain why she is distracted... and what would explain it would be weird to bring up in an ordinary conversation. Casually mentioning you can speak with ghosts and hear the dead is no thing that most folks accept. Then again, the other either has a hunch about her ghosthunting job, or they are about to find out and understand more than they thought they would.

“I just get distracted easily. It’s a... character trait, so to say. One of the peskier ones that you aren’t sure are entirely good.” Hella grimaced, massaging her temples. A headache. When more ghosts or undead than usual appeared in the human realm, she would feel it, and often in a way that had a physical reaction, pain being one of the less grave ways for her to notice something odd was about to happen. Good thing she had aspirin on her for such moments...

[midncghts]

❛    you    really    expect    me    to    believe    a    word    you’re    saying   ?    ❜

[facingabyss]

open starter ! (wyneth lavellan, inquisitor)

it's too quiet. wyneth can sense the shifting air, hear the birds overhead streaking their way across a sky that pours green into the clouds. the anchor in her hand is bright to match— it glows through the leather of her left glove & lights the darkness around her in a colour she's become unsettlingly comfortable with, her eyelashes collecting snow as she blinks absentmindedly at her palm.

it doesn't hurt the same as it used to; the dull ache has since calmed, little more than a trickle of pain from elbow to fingertips in the mornings, and a numb pulsing the moment she tries to sleep. these days, it's getting easier to ignore with how often she's nursing other more serious injuries, beginning with a concussion in the hinterlands & ending with a fractured rib a little west.

the unease of silence has wyneth resting a refined, well-practised hand on the hilt of her sword, & turning briefly to acknowledge her present company. ‘‘we should see about setting camp before sunfall,’’ she starts, staring into the ripple of a distant rift. ‘‘i don't fancy stumbling our way about in the dark, do you?’’

[familiaanteomnia]

Alone, was the best possible circumstances and also waves of pain. Yet no idea of where, or when. Wind tunnel of whirlwind intense emotions being felt too strongly. Not ready, mystery that didn't want to be figured out or charted. The whole topic had been meant for entirely different circumstances. So had no idea that it, repressing it was practically an beacon of energy. Like an cosmically sadistic fingerprint. Not even an thought in their mind. Too focused on fighting it; bargaining that being able to stand on their feet meant could suppress it. The emotions, all the pain which only magnified with stubborn refusal. Unable to notice when no longer alone; too much internal wiring going haywire to which swayed more on their feet. "This is so insufferably laughable." Grumbling the words to themself to try help with circumstances.