[X] A pile of clothes on the sandy shore, a tan form half submerged in the waves and a hazy figure before him.
nWoD: That Savage Coast
Acatalepsy
Firewall Proxy
- Location
- The Diamond Age
[X] A pile of clothes on the sandy shore, a tan form halfsubmerged in the waves and a hazy figure before him.
Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
[X] A nightmare void that pulses and flexes, filled with bruised colors and slick black stone, details running and flowing.
Given that we're started off "My goodness I appear to be some sort of ocean dwelling something with claws and horns and a couch made of snakes", the option that evokes strange prehuman civilizations and existences that defy the laws of logic and linear time seems like a sensible pick.
Given that we're started off "My goodness I appear to be some sort of ocean dwelling something with claws and horns and a couch made of snakes", the option that evokes strange prehuman civilizations and existences that defy the laws of logic and linear time seems like a sensible pick.
- Location
- Nowhere
So, we have a predetermined Kith and Seeming, which is understandable to kep things easier for the QM. It seems to be water-related, and scaly. Possibly the Draconic one from the Fairest, which *glances at the writer's avatar* makes perfect sense.
But I'm not fully sure. Perhaps Ten is trolling us and we turn out to be playing a Beast character, moment in which we would realize he's a really cruel man.
These seem to be important memories to the protagonist, going from his childhood, his mandatory edgy and lonely teenager phase (TM), his college years, the day of his abduction and his experiences at Arcadia.
[x] A kid sitting by himself at lunch, doodling some monster in a speckled composition notebook.
Let's start with the basics.
But I'm not fully sure. Perhaps Ten is trolling us and we turn out to be playing a Beast character, moment in which we would realize he's a really cruel man.
These seem to be important memories to the protagonist, going from his childhood, his mandatory edgy and lonely teenager phase (TM), his college years, the day of his abduction and his experiences at Arcadia.
[x] A kid sitting by himself at lunch, doodling some monster in a speckled composition notebook.
Let's start with the basics.
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LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
That was honestly my first thought after browsing the wiki.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
But is he the radfem Beast that needles people until they Mansplain so he has an excuse to knock them out or the health inspector Beast which the terrifying power to do his job so well that your business has to close down ooOOooOooo~?Beast the seeming or Beast the splat?
[X] A pile of clothes on the sandy shore, a tan form half submerged in the waves and a hazy figure before him.
chocolote12
A Penguin Flailing Against The Keyboard Of Life.
[X] A nightmare void that pulses and flexes, filled with bruised colors and slick black stone, details running and flowing.
- Location
- Somewhere
[X] A young man in a hooded jacket, sitting on the edge of his bed with a leatherbound book open in his lap.
Undead-Spaceman
Skeleton Supreme
- Location
- Somewhere in Orbit
[X] A kid sitting by himself at lunch, doodling some monster in a speckled composition notebook.
- Location
- in the trash
[X] A nightmare void that pulses and flexes, filled with bruised colors and slick black stone, details running and flowing.
Picking this sounds like an incredibly bad idea.
Let's do it.
Picking this sounds like an incredibly bad idea.
Let's do it.
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Prologue Part Two: We're Going To Be Friends
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You reach for the past and the past reaches for you. It wraps arms of warm nostalgia around your chest, misty fingers palming your breast and curling around your heart. Memories whisper in your ear and the world dissolves, sundrenched colors chewing away the night-time sea. You never really forget what it was like to be a kid do you? To be Jack in a world of giants. Put on a suit, draw up your tie, turn up your nose at the little brats whining in the checkout line and pretend like it's not there. Like you can't see it, can't feel it, just out of reach.
Laminated wood lunch tables and scuffed linoleum. Construction paper letters on corkbord that spell out "Welcome Back" in cheerful green and gold. Black asphalt baking in the August heat and the sweet, gentle, shade beneath aluminum awnings. These are a few of your favorite things.
The lunchroom is packed between second and third period; nearly a hundred kids crammed into the long, low room, the buzz of their conversation filling the space up to the particle board ceiling. Broken now and then by a girl's high pitched giggle, a boy calling to get his friend's attention. Everyone sits with their friends, the friends of their friends, in sloppy circles that sprawl across whole sections of the hall; big confused clots, squabbling knots of knees and elbows as kids cram themselves onto the narrow benches. Eager for even a sliver of space so long as it's by their bestie.
You sit in the corner with your back to the wall. The farther part of the single table farthest away from everyone else; surrounded by a desert of empty seats on all sides.. A black bookbag rests against your bouncing foot. Half-eaten meatloaf cools on your plastic tray; gravy congealing into a thick brown skin. An empty carton of strawberry milk lists in the puddle, the bubblegum pink cartoon cow face to face with the brick of beef and breading. Scratch scratch scratch goes the colored pencil. Scoring heavy, dark lines and jagged edges into the page you're on and the five below it. You shift it in your hand, press it flat to the paper and brace it with your finger. You start shading.
The tip promptly snaps, spraying chunks of oily green all across the wide-ruled lines.
You seethe at the pencil for its betrayal, sounding for all the world like a particularly pissed off teakettle, and draw back your arm to send it spinning into the trash.
...Wait. Crap, you don't have a-
You quickly check the slim box tucked in the front of your bag. Flipping open the cardboard lid and poking through the contents. Shaking the whole thing hopefully after a second, like maybe there's a spare hiding in all of the nowhere and you just didn't see.
-yeah you don't have another forest green.
Mumble to yourself as you rummage through the side pockets of your backpack instead, eventually finding your plastic sharpener in the third place you look (why is it here? Why is it never with your other drawing stuff?) because of course you do. You sigh glumly as you get to work: sullenly watching as razor blades scrape away the soft wood, long ribbon-thin shavings curling up into the clear compartment.
You're thirteen and absolutely furious about it. You spend every morning before school glaring at yourself in the mirror, pushing up your round dimpled cheeks and raking your feathery mess of hair with the gel your mom bought. Trying to look fierce in your reflection while you practice your growl. Trying to look cool. It's a doomed effort: there isn't an angle you can find where you don't look like a slightly feral Cabbage Patch kid and the goopy, lime-scented stuff just makes your hair limp and greasy. Try to push in your beaky nose. Tug at your sharp, prominent chin like maybe you can break it off. Suck in your stomach as far as you can and then just hunch over when that doesn't work (and it never works). Puppy fat clings to your belly, rounding you out and making you feel like a half-risen loaf of dough. Your aunties think its cute, they fawn over you whenever they see you, fill your plate up with browned strips of beef and mountains of yellow rice. Another fried flauta for the growing boy! Another bowl of rich red stew. You eat it because, well because of course you do. It's better than anything at home and they'll pitch a fit if you don't. And it's not as if it's bad it's just...
Sometimes you wish you looked like other boys. Like your cousins who are already in 9th Grade, 10th Grade, who're already juniors and seniors and started to bulk up, put on proper muscle. Like Leon in your class who everyone says is going to be a soccer star. You glance out from under the lank fringe hair that droops over your forehead. You can see him half a dozen tables away, talking to ffffffuuuucking Hannah~ from history. She says something and he smiles, rows of straight white teeth flashing in the dull yellow light. You hunch down on reflex.
Your cousins just tease you when you see them, call you little puppy dog and ask you to show off your snarl. You do it because it makes them laugh, you do a lot to make them laugh, but you're still waiting on Felix to take you to the gym like he promised his mom. You're not really sure you want to but you need to do something. Because you're thirteen and nothing feels like it fits right. Your shirts are too big, your shoes too tight, and you've started hiding inside your hoodies. Pretending it's normal to wear a windbreaker in the slow, sweltering roast of late-summer. Sweat drips down your scalp as you touch the tip of your sharpened pencil back to the paper. The noise in the lunchroom begins ebbing, dwindling down as people stack their lunch trays in the big bins by the door. Drifting out to the playground and big stone courtyard to hang out and kill the rest of the lunch block. You look down at your notebook. You hesitate.
The picture's not drawn so much as hacked out. Indentions raised on the reverse side, you could probably close your eyes and read them like Braille. Wild colors splashes over the page, ruby red dripping from the monster's teeth, sea green on the clumsy scales. You have a few books that are supposed to teach you how to properly draw but they're not very interesting; usually just trace until you get bored then doodle until your pencils break. You read through the chickenscratch notes you made on the preceding pages. You haven't named this one yet and you feel bad about it. Naming them's so hard, you want it to sound good. But you have his story all written down! And it's a good one too.
He's a pirate, a captain who cut out his own heart and tossed it into the sea as his ship sank. And now he's a big, bloodthirsty, bat-faced monster with vampire jaws and dragon scales and a huge skull hat that looks like a half-melted candle 'cause you couldn't get the brim even. He has hooked hands that he uses to crawl over the ropes and rigging, dropping and landing on people walking below. Biting them and dragging them up to eat them! But really he wants to find a new ship so he can...uh. Um. Hrm.
S'a work in progress. But you're really sure about the heart-thing (it sounds good right? You think so). Maybe he wants to make a new ship, a new vampire ship with a skeleton crew and living sai-
The seat across from you fills with a heavy flump. Your train of thought derails in a catastrophic crash. Dozens are dead, news crews are on the scene, it's an absolute tragedy and you just stare numbly at the person responsible.
"Hi!" She says brightly.
Crap. You don't actually know her name. You've gone to school together for three years but she's always just been Blonde Pigtails in your head. She sits two rows in front of you in Math. Always slices her hand up at every question Mr. Kettler tosses to the class, always going "ummm" in a high pitched, nasal whine before she answers. You kinda hate her. In a distant, dim, impersonal way. Like you hate cockroaches. Or raw onions. She looks pleased with herself and you cautiously draw your notebook closer to you. Eyeing her with suspicion.
"...Yeah?"
"Leeeeviiiiiii~." She drags it out into an off-key singsong. She probably thinks she sounds sweet. You think she sounds like a sick dog. "I-"
A lunch monitor drifts past, ponderously slow, pale blue eyes probing. Conversation dies in her wake. The two of you watch her sweep on before Pigtails leans in conspiratorially. "I heard you haven't asked anyone to the daaaaance."
"Y-yeah?" You blink, unsure where she's going with this.
"Wwwweeeeeell~," you want to hit her with your notebook until she stops, but the last time you tried that a teacher nearly saw and the girl kicked you in the shins anyway, "do you wanna go with me?"
Silence.
"No?"
You half expect, half-hope that she'll freak out. That she'll make a scene. You wonder if she'll run back and her friends'll all giggle and look over at you but...she doesn't and they don't. She just frowns, little watery eyes dropping to the table. Round, sun-reddened cheeks working.
"Oh," she says and then she gets up and leaves. Just like that. You warily watch every step she takes until she vanishes into the crowd. There's no sudden burst of laughter, no sirens, no...anything. Nobody noticed. Nobody cares. You wonder if she would've been scared if you growled at her. You do it sometimes to people who walk too close when you're sitting in the hallway, when the bus dropped you off early and you're just waiting for classes to start. But the other guys mostly just tell you to stop so, you dunno, maybe it wouldn't have worked.
A kid from English sits beside you. He breath comes through a straw, heavy and wet; tinged with asthma. You side-eye him, wondering if he saw Pigtails come over and just decided that oh, yeah, this is okay now. This is a Thing we can do now. He looks like a fat mouse. It's something about the way his nose and jaw seem too small for his face; the way his head seems too small for his body, like a cantaloupe balanced on top of a fridge. He looks back at you, mouth half full of Honey-buns.
"Hey!" he says hopefully.
Across the dining hall Leon and his friends are clearing out, piling trash up on their trays and shuffling to the door.
"Hi," you say as you drop your notebook in your bag and get up. As you pick up your tray and leave. Not like you were gonna get more work done anyway. Maybe you'll go see what Leon's up to. He's really cool you know? And he doesn't mind if you hang around him. You don't always get to sit in the circle with his three or four really close friends but you get to be around him and that's almost as good. And not being in the circle's even better because then you can write in your notebook with nobody looking over your shoulder. You glance back at Fat Mouse as you walk to the doors. You suck in your stomach and poke your belly. Watching as the fingertip pushes past the edge of your ribs. You feel a little better. Scrape out the rest of your meatloaf into the garbage. Pile your tray on the stack and step out into the noonday light.
This is you.
It flows into place, filling in the furrow through your head. This is you, this is how you were, how you are: bitter and caustic, toxic and smoking, acid poured into a jar and carefully sealed off from the rest of the world. Watching life pass through the curved glass wall. The memory slips away, washed out by black water. The sensation lingers, a kind of tension, a sort of tightness in your skin. Like-
O-oh. No that's...there's a fishing line in your chest. A silvery filament feeding straight into your sternum, you feel a tug behind the bone. A cool, liquid pressure in the shape of a hook. You feel your spine bow as it starts to reel you in as it drags your limp body against the current. You're not entirely sure when this happened. Touch a curved black claw to the lead, strum it like a guitar chord. It shivers but doesn't split. The vibrations resonate in your chest and you cough out a small jet of water.
Well.
Nothing to do, really, but wait. Wait and think now that the screaming panic's been dulled down to a hoarse, reedy, whimper. Now that the pain's started to bleed away to a general pattern of aches and know what to call yourself. You pluck at the line again, flinching a bit as a serpent butts against your neck. Tongue flickering, fluttering out. The steady pressure of passing water pulling it lopsided. You hesitantly reach up to stroke the thing.
Your name is Levi Alza. In a few minutes you're going to meet whoever landed you. How do you want them to see you?
[ ] Confident, courageous, and brave. Maybe a bit of swagger if you can work up the strength to stand, some all-purpose posturing if you can't.
[ ] Gentle, harmless, and sweet. You're no threat to anybody and, hey, you're pretty enough that you can play it up and wring out some sympathy.
[ ] Curious, cautious, and observant. You...don't actually know how smart you are, but if people think you are that's half the battle right?
Laminated wood lunch tables and scuffed linoleum. Construction paper letters on corkbord that spell out "Welcome Back" in cheerful green and gold. Black asphalt baking in the August heat and the sweet, gentle, shade beneath aluminum awnings. These are a few of your favorite things.
The lunchroom is packed between second and third period; nearly a hundred kids crammed into the long, low room, the buzz of their conversation filling the space up to the particle board ceiling. Broken now and then by a girl's high pitched giggle, a boy calling to get his friend's attention. Everyone sits with their friends, the friends of their friends, in sloppy circles that sprawl across whole sections of the hall; big confused clots, squabbling knots of knees and elbows as kids cram themselves onto the narrow benches. Eager for even a sliver of space so long as it's by their bestie.
You sit in the corner with your back to the wall. The farther part of the single table farthest away from everyone else; surrounded by a desert of empty seats on all sides.. A black bookbag rests against your bouncing foot. Half-eaten meatloaf cools on your plastic tray; gravy congealing into a thick brown skin. An empty carton of strawberry milk lists in the puddle, the bubblegum pink cartoon cow face to face with the brick of beef and breading. Scratch scratch scratch goes the colored pencil. Scoring heavy, dark lines and jagged edges into the page you're on and the five below it. You shift it in your hand, press it flat to the paper and brace it with your finger. You start shading.
The tip promptly snaps, spraying chunks of oily green all across the wide-ruled lines.
You seethe at the pencil for its betrayal, sounding for all the world like a particularly pissed off teakettle, and draw back your arm to send it spinning into the trash.
...Wait. Crap, you don't have a-
You quickly check the slim box tucked in the front of your bag. Flipping open the cardboard lid and poking through the contents. Shaking the whole thing hopefully after a second, like maybe there's a spare hiding in all of the nowhere and you just didn't see.
-yeah you don't have another forest green.
Mumble to yourself as you rummage through the side pockets of your backpack instead, eventually finding your plastic sharpener in the third place you look (why is it here? Why is it never with your other drawing stuff?) because of course you do. You sigh glumly as you get to work: sullenly watching as razor blades scrape away the soft wood, long ribbon-thin shavings curling up into the clear compartment.
You're thirteen and absolutely furious about it. You spend every morning before school glaring at yourself in the mirror, pushing up your round dimpled cheeks and raking your feathery mess of hair with the gel your mom bought. Trying to look fierce in your reflection while you practice your growl. Trying to look cool. It's a doomed effort: there isn't an angle you can find where you don't look like a slightly feral Cabbage Patch kid and the goopy, lime-scented stuff just makes your hair limp and greasy. Try to push in your beaky nose. Tug at your sharp, prominent chin like maybe you can break it off. Suck in your stomach as far as you can and then just hunch over when that doesn't work (and it never works). Puppy fat clings to your belly, rounding you out and making you feel like a half-risen loaf of dough. Your aunties think its cute, they fawn over you whenever they see you, fill your plate up with browned strips of beef and mountains of yellow rice. Another fried flauta for the growing boy! Another bowl of rich red stew. You eat it because, well because of course you do. It's better than anything at home and they'll pitch a fit if you don't. And it's not as if it's bad it's just...
Sometimes you wish you looked like other boys. Like your cousins who are already in 9th Grade, 10th Grade, who're already juniors and seniors and started to bulk up, put on proper muscle. Like Leon in your class who everyone says is going to be a soccer star. You glance out from under the lank fringe hair that droops over your forehead. You can see him half a dozen tables away, talking to ffffffuuuucking Hannah~ from history. She says something and he smiles, rows of straight white teeth flashing in the dull yellow light. You hunch down on reflex.
Your cousins just tease you when you see them, call you little puppy dog and ask you to show off your snarl. You do it because it makes them laugh, you do a lot to make them laugh, but you're still waiting on Felix to take you to the gym like he promised his mom. You're not really sure you want to but you need to do something. Because you're thirteen and nothing feels like it fits right. Your shirts are too big, your shoes too tight, and you've started hiding inside your hoodies. Pretending it's normal to wear a windbreaker in the slow, sweltering roast of late-summer. Sweat drips down your scalp as you touch the tip of your sharpened pencil back to the paper. The noise in the lunchroom begins ebbing, dwindling down as people stack their lunch trays in the big bins by the door. Drifting out to the playground and big stone courtyard to hang out and kill the rest of the lunch block. You look down at your notebook. You hesitate.
The picture's not drawn so much as hacked out. Indentions raised on the reverse side, you could probably close your eyes and read them like Braille. Wild colors splashes over the page, ruby red dripping from the monster's teeth, sea green on the clumsy scales. You have a few books that are supposed to teach you how to properly draw but they're not very interesting; usually just trace until you get bored then doodle until your pencils break. You read through the chickenscratch notes you made on the preceding pages. You haven't named this one yet and you feel bad about it. Naming them's so hard, you want it to sound good. But you have his story all written down! And it's a good one too.
He's a pirate, a captain who cut out his own heart and tossed it into the sea as his ship sank. And now he's a big, bloodthirsty, bat-faced monster with vampire jaws and dragon scales and a huge skull hat that looks like a half-melted candle 'cause you couldn't get the brim even. He has hooked hands that he uses to crawl over the ropes and rigging, dropping and landing on people walking below. Biting them and dragging them up to eat them! But really he wants to find a new ship so he can...uh. Um. Hrm.
S'a work in progress. But you're really sure about the heart-thing (it sounds good right? You think so). Maybe he wants to make a new ship, a new vampire ship with a skeleton crew and living sai-
The seat across from you fills with a heavy flump. Your train of thought derails in a catastrophic crash. Dozens are dead, news crews are on the scene, it's an absolute tragedy and you just stare numbly at the person responsible.
"Hi!" She says brightly.
Crap. You don't actually know her name. You've gone to school together for three years but she's always just been Blonde Pigtails in your head. She sits two rows in front of you in Math. Always slices her hand up at every question Mr. Kettler tosses to the class, always going "ummm" in a high pitched, nasal whine before she answers. You kinda hate her. In a distant, dim, impersonal way. Like you hate cockroaches. Or raw onions. She looks pleased with herself and you cautiously draw your notebook closer to you. Eyeing her with suspicion.
"...Yeah?"
"Leeeeviiiiiii~." She drags it out into an off-key singsong. She probably thinks she sounds sweet. You think she sounds like a sick dog. "I-"
A lunch monitor drifts past, ponderously slow, pale blue eyes probing. Conversation dies in her wake. The two of you watch her sweep on before Pigtails leans in conspiratorially. "I heard you haven't asked anyone to the daaaaance."
"Y-yeah?" You blink, unsure where she's going with this.
"Wwwweeeeeell~," you want to hit her with your notebook until she stops, but the last time you tried that a teacher nearly saw and the girl kicked you in the shins anyway, "do you wanna go with me?"
Silence.
"No?"
You half expect, half-hope that she'll freak out. That she'll make a scene. You wonder if she'll run back and her friends'll all giggle and look over at you but...she doesn't and they don't. She just frowns, little watery eyes dropping to the table. Round, sun-reddened cheeks working.
"Oh," she says and then she gets up and leaves. Just like that. You warily watch every step she takes until she vanishes into the crowd. There's no sudden burst of laughter, no sirens, no...anything. Nobody noticed. Nobody cares. You wonder if she would've been scared if you growled at her. You do it sometimes to people who walk too close when you're sitting in the hallway, when the bus dropped you off early and you're just waiting for classes to start. But the other guys mostly just tell you to stop so, you dunno, maybe it wouldn't have worked.
A kid from English sits beside you. He breath comes through a straw, heavy and wet; tinged with asthma. You side-eye him, wondering if he saw Pigtails come over and just decided that oh, yeah, this is okay now. This is a Thing we can do now. He looks like a fat mouse. It's something about the way his nose and jaw seem too small for his face; the way his head seems too small for his body, like a cantaloupe balanced on top of a fridge. He looks back at you, mouth half full of Honey-buns.
"Hey!" he says hopefully.
Across the dining hall Leon and his friends are clearing out, piling trash up on their trays and shuffling to the door.
"Hi," you say as you drop your notebook in your bag and get up. As you pick up your tray and leave. Not like you were gonna get more work done anyway. Maybe you'll go see what Leon's up to. He's really cool you know? And he doesn't mind if you hang around him. You don't always get to sit in the circle with his three or four really close friends but you get to be around him and that's almost as good. And not being in the circle's even better because then you can write in your notebook with nobody looking over your shoulder. You glance back at Fat Mouse as you walk to the doors. You suck in your stomach and poke your belly. Watching as the fingertip pushes past the edge of your ribs. You feel a little better. Scrape out the rest of your meatloaf into the garbage. Pile your tray on the stack and step out into the noonday light.
This is you.
It flows into place, filling in the furrow through your head. This is you, this is how you were, how you are: bitter and caustic, toxic and smoking, acid poured into a jar and carefully sealed off from the rest of the world. Watching life pass through the curved glass wall. The memory slips away, washed out by black water. The sensation lingers, a kind of tension, a sort of tightness in your skin. Like-
O-oh. No that's...there's a fishing line in your chest. A silvery filament feeding straight into your sternum, you feel a tug behind the bone. A cool, liquid pressure in the shape of a hook. You feel your spine bow as it starts to reel you in as it drags your limp body against the current. You're not entirely sure when this happened. Touch a curved black claw to the lead, strum it like a guitar chord. It shivers but doesn't split. The vibrations resonate in your chest and you cough out a small jet of water.
Well.
Nothing to do, really, but wait. Wait and think now that the screaming panic's been dulled down to a hoarse, reedy, whimper. Now that the pain's started to bleed away to a general pattern of aches and know what to call yourself. You pluck at the line again, flinching a bit as a serpent butts against your neck. Tongue flickering, fluttering out. The steady pressure of passing water pulling it lopsided. You hesitantly reach up to stroke the thing.
Your name is Levi Alza. In a few minutes you're going to meet whoever landed you. How do you want them to see you?
[ ] Confident, courageous, and brave. Maybe a bit of swagger if you can work up the strength to stand, some all-purpose posturing if you can't.
[ ] Gentle, harmless, and sweet. You're no threat to anybody and, hey, you're pretty enough that you can play it up and wring out some sympathy.
[ ] Curious, cautious, and observant. You...don't actually know how smart you are, but if people think you are that's half the battle right?
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ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
Alright time to see what Levi was like as a precious lil-
Snakefriends are an upside though.
[X] Gentle, harmless, and sweet. You're no threat to anybody and, hey, you're pretty enough that you can play it up and wring out some sympathy.
A valid tactic just for the reasons stated in the vote but honestly I just want to see Levi's idea of "gentle, harmless and sweet" too because uhh *gestures ambiguously up at the flashback*
It's okay Levi, I think your OC is cool.
FuckGoBackButWithMemeMotionBlur.jpeg
I sure can't see any way that a stint in Arcadia could've worsened these personal problems, no sir.
Literally being fished out? Well that's uh... new.
Snakefriends are an upside though.
[X] Gentle, harmless, and sweet. You're no threat to anybody and, hey, you're pretty enough that you can play it up and wring out some sympathy.
A valid tactic just for the reasons stated in the vote but honestly I just want to see Levi's idea of "gentle, harmless and sweet" too because uhh *gestures ambiguously up at the flashback*
- Location
- Nowhere
In the grim world of the New World of Darkness, evenly distributed furniture is a forgotten art.
Or perhaps the edgy loners are hoarding all of the good tables.
Unsurprinsingly, the protagonist is an edgy tryhard. NWOD: Innocents practically codified that 1/4 children are like that though. By the way, did you know that particular sourcebook pretty much stole everything from Little Fears, a way better game?
Yeah, trying too hard.
A female who goes out of her way to try to be kind (somewhat) to the protagonist! Of course, he reacts poorly, because girls are icky even thoug he's 13 and hormones shold be dictating otherwise.
[x] Confident, courageous, and brave. Maybe a bit of swagger if you can work up the strength to stand, some all-purpose posturing if you can't.
+If only because this will be hilarious considering how try-hard the kid was.
By the way, random trivia: In one of NWoD Demon's stories it was mentioned that an "one-night stand searcher" equivalent of Facebook was made, but it's original purpose was to mindcontrol people somehow. Why? Because fuck you/grimderp, that's it.
- Location
- in the trash
[X] Confident, courageous, and brave. Maybe a bit of swagger if you can work up the strength to stand, some all-purpose posturing if you can't.
Let's be the cool kid.
Let's be the cool kid.
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[X] Confident, courageous, and brave. Maybe a bit of swagger if you can work up the strength to stand, some all-purpose posturing if you can't.
If only to avoid being a wet blanket like the OP's other MC, I really like his writing style but I wish he would occasionally give us a main character that we could actually respect.
If only to avoid being a wet blanket like the OP's other MC, I really like his writing style but I wish he would occasionally give us a main character that we could actually respect.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
Aww, it's okay. Some people like the world's most adorable scaly edgelord this side of Raiden after a sexual awakening, and some people have shit taste. There's room for both of us on this planet we call Earth~
I mean just ask @Omegahugger, the snakefriends bring Levi at least 50% closer to Orochi which is about a 200% higher husbando coefficient if my maths are correct.
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
I mean yeah Christoph isn't exactly Randy Savage but I doubt you can call him a wet blanket at this point.
A guy with a masochistic streak sure but he's growing out of the limp noodle persona thanks to the Drake with an everyboner.
Such a positive influence that one.
That being said
[X] Curious, cautious, and observant. You...don't actually know how smart you are, but if people think you are that's half the battle right?
Swerrrrrrrrve
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