http://rpasylum.net/ Thu, 28 Aug 2008 03:07:25 -0700 MyBB http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=56 Sun, 27 Apr 2008 17:26:40 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=56 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=55 Sun, 27 Apr 2008 17:21:48 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=55 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haunting_Ground
http://www.capcom.com/hauntingground/
http://youtube.com/view_play_list?p=53963A10B4B7862C

Character Seats,
Fiona Belli, (Canon-Character)
Hewie, (Canon-Character)
Debilitas, (Canon-Character)
Daniella, DingZhiLun(Because I ]]> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haunting_Ground
http://www.capcom.com/hauntingground/
http://youtube.com/view_play_list?p=53963A10B4B7862C

Character Seats,
Fiona Belli, (Canon-Character)
Hewie, (Canon-Character)
Debilitas, (Canon-Character)
Daniella, DingZhiLun(Because I ]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=53 Sat, 15 Mar 2008 23:55:07 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=53 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=52 Fri, 15 Feb 2008 19:11:01 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=52 As you can see, I am Rotiku... Err yeah...
Well Im gonna explore for a bit and if its any good a few other people should follow after me.
Well... Yeah I hope I like this place.]]> As you can see, I am Rotiku... Err yeah...
Well Im gonna explore for a bit and if its any good a few other people should follow after me.
Well... Yeah I hope I like this place.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=51 Tue, 22 Jan 2008 17:32:53 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=51
Aeris Zhao is a 17 year old High School student. Not in the top of her class but that didn’t matter much to her anyway. She was smart in her own way and wanted nothing more than to see the murdering stopped.

Meanwhile, Light was walking down the sidewalk. His mind not fully focused on where exactly he was walking. Fact was it was more focused on the next task at hand. Finding the next victim for his Death Note and the L investigation was never fair from his thoughts either. He looks up as his Shinigami Ryuk chuckles besides him.

“Hyuk, hyuk, what’s the matter Light? You look like you have your head in the clouds.”

”Oh, nothing Ryuk….”, he mutters. His mind was also on Misa. Wondering if she would be alright or caught being the second Kira. Though, he scolds himself for caring.]]>
Aeris Zhao is a 17 year old High School student. Not in the top of her class but that didn’t matter much to her anyway. She was smart in her own way and wanted nothing more than to see the murdering stopped.

Meanwhile, Light was walking down the sidewalk. His mind not fully focused on where exactly he was walking. Fact was it was more focused on the next task at hand. Finding the next victim for his Death Note and the L investigation was never fair from his thoughts either. He looks up as his Shinigami Ryuk chuckles besides him.

“Hyuk, hyuk, what’s the matter Light? You look like you have your head in the clouds.”

”Oh, nothing Ryuk….”, he mutters. His mind was also on Misa. Wondering if she would be alright or caught being the second Kira. Though, he scolds himself for caring.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=50 Thu, 03 Jan 2008 15:49:52 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=50
Just a thought.]]>
Just a thought.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=49 Thu, 03 Jan 2008 15:42:02 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=49
Do you accept affiliations and/or on-site advertising (one way being the clickable links I have in my signature, the other being an actual forum post to advertise my boards)? Figured I'd ask before I did anything. lol

Nice site by the way. I like the skin.]]>
Do you accept affiliations and/or on-site advertising (one way being the clickable links I have in my signature, the other being an actual forum post to advertise my boards)? Figured I'd ask before I did anything. lol

Nice site by the way. I like the skin.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=48 Fri, 28 Dec 2007 17:25:23 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=48 The main attraction could have been from the illusionists, the clowns, the Trapeze artists, or maybe, it could have been Missere, the Angel, who was known most over for her beautiful act on the high wire as a tight ropewalker. Or maybe it was the Devilishly handsome Ringaaster, who could almost capture you with a glance.
They had called themselves Cirque du Lune.
Lune was popular whenever they came into town, and stayed for a while, their acts always different, and always interesting.
But the performers weren't all human, mind you.
From the wolf man being a real werewolf.
The Strongest man being a small giant.
The Jugglers being mind readers.
Missere being able to Levitate herself, and objects with her mind.
And the Ringmaster being a Vampire with a unique gift of giving immortality.
But, there were some people who liked the circus folk too much...and had known their secret.
Meet the Order of Value.
Collectors of the most interesting things around the world.
From lost treasure, to bodies of Siamese twins, they had it all.
Except the Circus, who interested the Leader, and his son more then anything in the world...
But, of course, the Circus isn't too keen on being subjected into being pets for the Order, and have discovered that they are more afraid of the Circus, than the Circus is of them.
But it isn't because they aren't prepared, oh no, the Collectors have armies of living stone soldiers waiting for their command.
No, The Leader of the Order, or the king, wants the Ringmaster to pay, for taking away his once in a life time chance of becoming immortal.
Fueled by revenge, the Leader is out to destroy the ringmaster, while his son, is after the hauntingly beautiful Missere, or Anastasia.
With emotions running high, Performers disappearing and reappearing, Murders, Love, passion, hate, greed, and revenge, The Ring Master and the Circus battle for their freedom with their talents of amusement, entertainment, and laughter, while hiding tears, anger, and scorn.
Welcome to Cirque Du Lune.
]]> The main attraction could have been from the illusionists, the clowns, the Trapeze artists, or maybe, it could have been Missere, the Angel, who was known most over for her beautiful act on the high wire as a tight ropewalker. Or maybe it was the Devilishly handsome Ringaaster, who could almost capture you with a glance.
They had called themselves Cirque du Lune.
Lune was popular whenever they came into town, and stayed for a while, their acts always different, and always interesting.
But the performers weren't all human, mind you.
From the wolf man being a real werewolf.
The Strongest man being a small giant.
The Jugglers being mind readers.
Missere being able to Levitate herself, and objects with her mind.
And the Ringmaster being a Vampire with a unique gift of giving immortality.
But, there were some people who liked the circus folk too much...and had known their secret.
Meet the Order of Value.
Collectors of the most interesting things around the world.
From lost treasure, to bodies of Siamese twins, they had it all.
Except the Circus, who interested the Leader, and his son more then anything in the world...
But, of course, the Circus isn't too keen on being subjected into being pets for the Order, and have discovered that they are more afraid of the Circus, than the Circus is of them.
But it isn't because they aren't prepared, oh no, the Collectors have armies of living stone soldiers waiting for their command.
No, The Leader of the Order, or the king, wants the Ringmaster to pay, for taking away his once in a life time chance of becoming immortal.
Fueled by revenge, the Leader is out to destroy the ringmaster, while his son, is after the hauntingly beautiful Missere, or Anastasia.
With emotions running high, Performers disappearing and reappearing, Murders, Love, passion, hate, greed, and revenge, The Ring Master and the Circus battle for their freedom with their talents of amusement, entertainment, and laughter, while hiding tears, anger, and scorn.
Welcome to Cirque Du Lune.
]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=47 Fri, 14 Dec 2007 16:17:21 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=47 Edit Options and choose MyBB Default. (Yours will probably say Use Default or something like that.) You can switch between the two layouts whenever you want.]]> Edit Options and choose MyBB Default. (Yours will probably say Use Default or something like that.) You can switch between the two layouts whenever you want.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=46 Fri, 14 Dec 2007 10:06:16 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=46
If you encounter any problems report them here in this thread.]]>
If you encounter any problems report them here in this thread.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=45 Thu, 13 Dec 2007 10:45:10 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=45
She stomps off headed to his office steaming. Why should he get off so easy in life?! Though she does know the minute he walks into the clinic half the patients would be paid off by him to well…leave. “House! What are you doing in your office?! Your supposed to be on clinic duty! You know that!” She sounds aggravated once again. “Clinic duty isn’t going to kill you….” It might not kill him but he avoids it like the plague.

Being sick was just about one of the worst feelings in the world, not having a clue where you are is another. In fact that was annoying the fourteen year old as she is wheeled into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital (the the clinic part) in a purple colored wheel chair. Her foresty green eyes stare dully down at the floor for her chin is resting lightly on her bony chest. She couldn’t even keep her head upright (or stay awake) long enough to see where she was going. Nor would it register in her over heated brain.

Shaggy, raven black hair falls around her pale face hiding it nearly full from view. Though some of it is sticking in spots for it looks soaking wet, but not from water. It was purely from sweating so hard. Though her skin is bone dry right now having been sweating for far to long. Her black Nirvana shirt is stuck to her skinny frame along with the baggy pair of jeans she was wearing. She probably should have been taken in a lot sooner…For she had told the people who care for her that she wasn’t feeling well…or at least tried to tell them.

The woman who has bought her in was a tall woman in her mid fifties. Her brown hair has started to gray in places and her honey; brown eyes hold wiriness to them. She is dressed in a blue, gray business suit and high heeled shoes. Her ruby red lips press together as she smacks a purple back pack into the girl’s lap muttering and turning around to leave. She was late she didn’t have time for this bull shit. She could fend for herself as far as she was concerned. In fact she was sick of seeing her and could use a break away…

The girl can’t even hold up the backpack. To weak and for the fact her wrists where strapped onto the sides of the wheel chair. It contains any information someone would need and an over loved lavender stuffed rabbit.]]>
She stomps off headed to his office steaming. Why should he get off so easy in life?! Though she does know the minute he walks into the clinic half the patients would be paid off by him to well…leave. “House! What are you doing in your office?! Your supposed to be on clinic duty! You know that!” She sounds aggravated once again. “Clinic duty isn’t going to kill you….” It might not kill him but he avoids it like the plague.

Being sick was just about one of the worst feelings in the world, not having a clue where you are is another. In fact that was annoying the fourteen year old as she is wheeled into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital (the the clinic part) in a purple colored wheel chair. Her foresty green eyes stare dully down at the floor for her chin is resting lightly on her bony chest. She couldn’t even keep her head upright (or stay awake) long enough to see where she was going. Nor would it register in her over heated brain.

Shaggy, raven black hair falls around her pale face hiding it nearly full from view. Though some of it is sticking in spots for it looks soaking wet, but not from water. It was purely from sweating so hard. Though her skin is bone dry right now having been sweating for far to long. Her black Nirvana shirt is stuck to her skinny frame along with the baggy pair of jeans she was wearing. She probably should have been taken in a lot sooner…For she had told the people who care for her that she wasn’t feeling well…or at least tried to tell them.

The woman who has bought her in was a tall woman in her mid fifties. Her brown hair has started to gray in places and her honey; brown eyes hold wiriness to them. She is dressed in a blue, gray business suit and high heeled shoes. Her ruby red lips press together as she smacks a purple back pack into the girl’s lap muttering and turning around to leave. She was late she didn’t have time for this bull shit. She could fend for herself as far as she was concerned. In fact she was sick of seeing her and could use a break away…

The girl can’t even hold up the backpack. To weak and for the fact her wrists where strapped onto the sides of the wheel chair. It contains any information someone would need and an over loved lavender stuffed rabbit.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=44 Mon, 03 Dec 2007 03:12:07 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=44 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=43 Fri, 30 Nov 2007 20:51:23 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=43
It wasn't her intention to stop the super business, but she had to. She had to sacrifice what made her feel happy in order to save a hundred lives. Her arch-enemy had threatened to go out and kill one hundred kids she had saved in the past, to kill them off if she didn't do what he wanted. As cliche as it sounded, he wanted her to stop, and that's how she wound up a had-been.


((Whoever replies to this thread, it would help me A LOT if you could be the villian. It's kind of awkward playing both the villian and the superhero. Also, I only used a fem charrie because fem superheroes are not used in popular comics. I can be a different one if you want to double. =]))]]>
It wasn't her intention to stop the super business, but she had to. She had to sacrifice what made her feel happy in order to save a hundred lives. Her arch-enemy had threatened to go out and kill one hundred kids she had saved in the past, to kill them off if she didn't do what he wanted. As cliche as it sounded, he wanted her to stop, and that's how she wound up a had-been.


((Whoever replies to this thread, it would help me A LOT if you could be the villian. It's kind of awkward playing both the villian and the superhero. Also, I only used a fem charrie because fem superheroes are not used in popular comics. I can be a different one if you want to double. =]))]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=42 Fri, 30 Nov 2007 20:36:31 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=42
Each of the patients stories were unique and enough to make you paranoid and mentally insane. But their was one girl, her name was Natalie, who had killed her whole family of five other people because she thought it was what she had to do. Natalie was schizophrenic, and the voices inside her head and the people she could see and hear had told her if she did this, it would cure her of them forever.

That was three years ago. To this day, she sits in her padded room in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth muttering to herself and having conversations with these "people" who landed her there.]]>
Each of the patients stories were unique and enough to make you paranoid and mentally insane. But their was one girl, her name was Natalie, who had killed her whole family of five other people because she thought it was what she had to do. Natalie was schizophrenic, and the voices inside her head and the people she could see and hear had told her if she did this, it would cure her of them forever.

That was three years ago. To this day, she sits in her padded room in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth muttering to herself and having conversations with these "people" who landed her there.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=41 Fri, 30 Nov 2007 17:56:22 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=41 a leash that was once being held. But the MINUTE he smelled that
heavenly aroma of tacos….

The only thing that makes him step was the odd shape of a purple cat
like form in front of him. Digging in the trash by a rather over
filled dumpster. His head tilts to the side as the cat's bell jingles.

The oddly colored felion stops in their tracks. Staring at the oddly colored dog watching. It makes a mooing sound and takes off with GIR fast on it's heals.]]> a leash that was once being held. But the MINUTE he smelled that
heavenly aroma of tacos….

The only thing that makes him step was the odd shape of a purple cat
like form in front of him. Digging in the trash by a rather over
filled dumpster. His head tilts to the side as the cat's bell jingles.

The oddly colored felion stops in their tracks. Staring at the oddly colored dog watching. It makes a mooing sound and takes off with GIR fast on it's heals.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=40 Fri, 16 Nov 2007 16:20:11 -0800 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=40
Bobby returns to the Way house sighing. Jessie hadn't answered her door or phone. His drums where still in the family room.]]>
Bobby returns to the Way house sighing. Jessie hadn't answered her door or phone. His drums where still in the family room.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=39 Wed, 26 Sep 2007 16:27:42 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=39
She stomps off headed to his office steaming. Why should he get off so easy in life?! Though she does know the minute he walks into the clinic half the patients would be paid off by him to well…leave. “House! What are you doing in your office?! Your supposed to be on clinic duty! You know that!” She sounds aggravated once again. “Clinic duty isn’t going to kill you….” It might not kill him but he avoids it like the plague.

Being sick was just about one of the worst feelings in the world, not having a clue where you are is another. In fact that was annoying the fourteen year old as she is wheeled into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital (the the clinic part) in a purple colored wheel chair. Her foresty green eyes stare dully down at the floor for her chin is resting lightly on her bony chest. She couldn’t even keep her head upright (or stay awake) long enough to see where she was going. Nor would it register in her over heated brain.

Shaggy, raven black hair falls around her pale face hiding it nearly full from view. Though some of it is sticking in spots for it looks soaking wet, but not from water. It was purely from sweating so hard. Though her skin is bone dry right now having been sweating for far to long. Her black Nirvana shirt is stuck to her skinny frame along with the baggy pair of jeans she was wearing. She probably should have been taken in a lot sooner…For she had told the people who care for her that she wasn’t feeling well…or at least tried to tell them.

The woman who has bought her in was a tall woman in her mid fifties. Her brown hair has started to gray in places and her honey; brown eyes hold wiriness to them. She is dressed in a blue, gray business suit and high heeled shoes. Her ruby red lips press together as she smacks a purple back pack into the girl’s lap muttering and turning around to leave. She was late she didn’t have time for this bull shit. She could fend for herself as far as she was concerned. In fact she was sick of seeing her and could use a break away…

The girl can’t even hold up the backpack. To weak and for the fact her wrists where strapped onto the sides of the wheel chair. It contains any information someone would need and an over loved lavender stuffed rabbit.]]>
She stomps off headed to his office steaming. Why should he get off so easy in life?! Though she does know the minute he walks into the clinic half the patients would be paid off by him to well…leave. “House! What are you doing in your office?! Your supposed to be on clinic duty! You know that!” She sounds aggravated once again. “Clinic duty isn’t going to kill you….” It might not kill him but he avoids it like the plague.

Being sick was just about one of the worst feelings in the world, not having a clue where you are is another. In fact that was annoying the fourteen year old as she is wheeled into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital (the the clinic part) in a purple colored wheel chair. Her foresty green eyes stare dully down at the floor for her chin is resting lightly on her bony chest. She couldn’t even keep her head upright (or stay awake) long enough to see where she was going. Nor would it register in her over heated brain.

Shaggy, raven black hair falls around her pale face hiding it nearly full from view. Though some of it is sticking in spots for it looks soaking wet, but not from water. It was purely from sweating so hard. Though her skin is bone dry right now having been sweating for far to long. Her black Nirvana shirt is stuck to her skinny frame along with the baggy pair of jeans she was wearing. She probably should have been taken in a lot sooner…For she had told the people who care for her that she wasn’t feeling well…or at least tried to tell them.

The woman who has bought her in was a tall woman in her mid fifties. Her brown hair has started to gray in places and her honey; brown eyes hold wiriness to them. She is dressed in a blue, gray business suit and high heeled shoes. Her ruby red lips press together as she smacks a purple back pack into the girl’s lap muttering and turning around to leave. She was late she didn’t have time for this bull shit. She could fend for herself as far as she was concerned. In fact she was sick of seeing her and could use a break away…

The girl can’t even hold up the backpack. To weak and for the fact her wrists where strapped onto the sides of the wheel chair. It contains any information someone would need and an over loved lavender stuffed rabbit.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=38 Sun, 22 Jul 2007 15:37:42 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=38
Foresty, green eyes have slide out of focus as her mind wanders once again during Potions. A slender, pale hand supports her chin keeping it upright as her mind drifts and wonders where it so pleased. Her other slender hand was resting lazily on a piece of nearly clean parchment, the text book and quill. Her name was lazily written on the very top of the parchment. Tammy Wood. Her raven black and purple streaked hair falls over and around the rather scrawny face hiding it a bit like a curtain.

Her ratty robes have become faded in some spots. Almost thread beard in some other spots. Even though she could probably fix them what was the point? On her chest bares the proud crest of the Slytherin house

Not exactly the most popular person in the world. She did like someone….but she wasn’t one to even say she liked them. Fear of being laughed at was one of the best excuses she could even think of in her mixed up mind on the matter. Who did she like? Well, he was better known to James and Sirius as Snivillous.]]>
Foresty, green eyes have slide out of focus as her mind wanders once again during Potions. A slender, pale hand supports her chin keeping it upright as her mind drifts and wonders where it so pleased. Her other slender hand was resting lazily on a piece of nearly clean parchment, the text book and quill. Her name was lazily written on the very top of the parchment. Tammy Wood. Her raven black and purple streaked hair falls over and around the rather scrawny face hiding it a bit like a curtain.

Her ratty robes have become faded in some spots. Almost thread beard in some other spots. Even though she could probably fix them what was the point? On her chest bares the proud crest of the Slytherin house

Not exactly the most popular person in the world. She did like someone….but she wasn’t one to even say she liked them. Fear of being laughed at was one of the best excuses she could even think of in her mixed up mind on the matter. Who did she like? Well, he was better known to James and Sirius as Snivillous.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=37 Wed, 20 Jun 2007 14:31:16 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=37
Two hundred years ago, there was Heaven, Hell, and earth. We knew earth, angels knew Heaven, demons knew Hell. That was how it had always been. Many did believe in a Judgment day, many thought it was bullshit. No one thought it would happen quite like this. Before, there was a mass of existence, layered into three dimensions, all co-existing without ever knowing it. Occasionally there was some freak cross-over, but it was nothing harmful. The occasional demon would get lost, wreck havoc, and then suddenly find itself back in Hell. Just a worm hole, a slip in existence. Some angels had the ability to travel to earth and protect the hurt, without ever really doing anything. Still, no one really knew. Three worlds, layered into one, no one aware of the next.

But that was two hundred years ago.

There was a war. It was short, it was bloody, everyone suffered. Humans were at an instant loss, and shied over to the side of angels or demons. No one understood what happened. Physical laws clashed, no world was right, everything upside-down. Judgment day had come. Those who died, died. Lost in the vast emptiness of silent waiting. With no Heaven or Hell, they were condemned to an eternal silence. The perfect slumber, the perfect inexistence.

At first, it seemed Heaven would be triumphant. It appealed to the mortals, and they swarmed. But as the war raged on, it wore on them quickly. Desperate for satisfaction, some for of sinful pleasure in the time of abandon. More and more trickled over to the already swarming side of the sin. In a matter of months, the war was decided. Hell would reign.

The sky turned orange and red with flame in the distance, the cities over-crowded and toxic. On a clear night, the air was still muggy, damp and heavy, like the final breaths of a dieing beast. It hung off your skin, making breathing an effort. Like breathing fumes, ashes. Lungs would bleed, disease was rampant. The sky, on those clear nights, was green, sickly green, the moon dimly light, hanging in the clouds, fat and bloated. Fog hung, no one knew if it was true fog, or some toxic gasses leaking from the primitive factories, rising up from the polluted rivers that sludged along, bubbling and burning flesh.

On a good day you could walk to work and trip over only one body, be begged by only one homeless schizophrenics, hassled by only one demon. On a bad day, you probably didn’t make it to work. Buildings rose up high, crumbling and decaying. The world was damp, hot and damp. Living in the lungs of a smoker. Living in the lungs of an old corpse that was finally collapsing in on itself.

Rank, hot, the smell of rot everywhere. It couldn’t be escaped, that smell. The smell of mud, risen from the bottom of a toxic pool, the smell of death, sewage, rot and dread. Fear, what any attacking animal must smell in its last moment, madness, insanity, suffering. Below all that scent, was the lingering, nauseating smell of infection, and stitches. A smell distinct only for few, but for those few, it was absolutely unbearable.

If you had a good day, you only tripped over one crawling body, stepped on one crushed infant. On a bad day, you’d be tortured.

Life, wasn’t worth living. Suicide, was futile. Any attempts failed, leaving only a bleeding mess, a pained, ODing mess for the next creep to enjoy.

If you had a good day, you found moldy bread for dinner, found one can of unopened beans. On a bad day, you’d be eaten.

As it’s easy to imagine, drugs were rampant. Any economy that existed, its backbone was drugs. No laws confined it. Prostitution was next. Hired kill, that was just below that. Luxury was out of the question. Even the rich, in this new world, were brought down to the standards: all must suffer. Angels were either fallen and reduced to nothing but a mutated civilian, or had their wings removed and were submitted to the demon’s will. The hierarchy went as follows:

Demons

Humans

Angels

The only difference, was an angel didn’t dare harm a human, a human didn’t dare harm a demon. Unless they had a death wish. Many demons went harmed.

The air, thick with radiation left most of the population disfigured. Children with three arms were stuck begging in gutters, tumors the size of bowling balls hug off men’s throats, giving them a hunched back. Old women had nine fingers. If you had cancer, you were lucky. No one lived past thirty. Demons, they did. Demons were built for this life, some, the more masochistic ones even enjoyed it. Angels, they were miserable, and eventually were killed for food.

If you had a good day, you’d be killed by the cancer. If you had a bad day, you’d be killed by a pack of starving dogs.

Most creatures here were demons. They weren’t seen as often as human, but there were plenty more. Most lingered in dark places, waiting for a decent meal to walk by. Just waiting out the heat of the darkened day in a run-down apartment. Rant, stood in his apartment.

Many demons didn’t flaunt being a demon. It wasn’t hidden, but the more obvious it was, the better you had to be at hunting. Rant, he liked challenges. Not that killing a sickly human was a challenge, it was more so than otherwise. He stood on a fifth floor of an old building he had turned into his home. It was one room, now at least. One and a half, really. It was once two, but one wall had collapsed, and now served little purpose. There was a mattress on the floor, broken windows, boarded windows, a trash heap, a stack of books, and a mostly complete skeleton of a human, still lingering with dried flesh. It had no smell, it was masked by the air. There was all the skeleton, arranged nicely, of a large hog-like creature. Other taxidermy-style bodies lay around, earlier meals and toys were sprawled, much smaller, and much more damaged. The freshest was a large rat by his foot. It was bloated and deformed, with three eyes.

The demon, was a slight change for the dull grays of the world. He wore black pants, simple enough, despite the charcoal paisley design, seen only on closer inspection. The crotch had a rip, and was fixed with a green scrap of cloth. Around his thigh, which had a dark bloodstain, was wrapped a rather useless decoration, a band of green, purple and orange scraps of anything. Leather, string, cloth, beads, anything. Around his arm was another. His jacket was black, with a white button-down, left partially opened and ripped, over a grey shirt. His hair was a mess, random fleshes of green, orange and purple amongst the black hair. His eyes though, where quite horrifying. One was a fiery orange, the color of burnt fat and prescription bottles. The other, was a pale, sickly lavender. The colors, though possibly natural, were mostly due to the radiation combined with already complicated genetics of the demons. He had his arms crossed over his sunken chest, slander face looking down at the city. The sun had just set. Deciding it was time to hunt, he turned from the window, the only light filtering into the room, and rubbed his sticky brow with a dirty hand, each finger tipped with a claw. Yawning widely, he exposed and electric green mouth, featuring needled fangs and a forked tongue. Snapping his fangs together again, he sat on his bed, pulling on two boots. For a while, he sat, staring out the broken window, looking out of the buildings and towards the drab-green river. Sickness. The world had become its own disease.


Rant stood and moved to the skeleton of the beast. He grabbed a band that was hanging off one of it’s horns and strapped it onto his left arm. It was a simple black band with a red cross in the center. He was a medic. Pretty much anyone could do it, but he was good at it. Mostly it was just practice, and the best surgeries were primitive. Most of his work was amputations due to gangrene. Or stitches, which in the end usually still needed an amputation. He sold medication, mostly generic antibiotic and painkillers. Of course, the prices weren’t cheap, especially for a medic who knew what he was doing, enough at least. Usually he’d ask for food, or a sexual service. Occasionally drugs or an item. Depending on what he’d do, and who he was working on depended the cost. And meds for the surgery costs extra. If not, you got a rag to choke on until it was over. With the band, he’d get more patients, more money. It already got him his flat. If you know where a dead patient lives and you like it, you move in. And you have a meal.

He moved to his front door and pulled it open with a violent jerk. It squeaked and groaned, swollen from the humidity. He pulled it shut behind him, not bothering to lock it. If you lock your door, people break it to get in. If you leave it unlocked, they find nothing of interest and leave without much damage. They’re the little things you learn that make life better.

Trotting down the first flight of stairs, he could already feel the air growing thicker. He coughed and paused on a landing. He swirled his tongue around his mouth, then spat onto the wall. The marking was a thick glob of green mucus and blackened blood. He whipped his mouth and swallowed, then kept going. You’re dieing the minute you’re born. You always had been, but here, now… it was so shoved in your face. You’re born and instantly the diseases leak into your blood and you start to die. The lucky ones die young.

There was the flaw in evolution, it wants you to live. Those with weak immune systems died in the first few years of life, the stronger ones are able to have children. Keep up the chain of suffering lives. Eventually, the immune system will be great enough to stay healthy, even in all of this, so long as it doesn’t keep up. But who wants to live in this world? It makes even the most hopeful soul pray for death.

The demon slid out of the building and looked down the street. A large beast plodded by. It was a lumbering creature, with burnt-orange skin, and resembled almost a cross between a cow and a walrus, but larger and much stronger. It shoved through the bodies, snuffling at them and gripping them in large, grinding fangs. Its head would tip back, the body sliding down its slick throat and into a boiling stomach. They weren’t much threat to anyone walking, almost a blessing, for they’d clean the bodies from the street, at least make a trail through the dead.

But Rant wasn’t concerned about that. He needed to advertise. Hunting, or stitching. Seeing as his lungs were bad, hunting anything worth eating would be a danger, unless he was quick about it. Still, finding someone who needed something done was much better. Towards the center of town there was more activity going on, and easy enough to find someone with a gash to stitch up, or a broken arm. Patting his coat to be sure he had a kit with him, he felt the firm pack, and quickened his pace.]]>
Two hundred years ago, there was Heaven, Hell, and earth. We knew earth, angels knew Heaven, demons knew Hell. That was how it had always been. Many did believe in a Judgment day, many thought it was bullshit. No one thought it would happen quite like this. Before, there was a mass of existence, layered into three dimensions, all co-existing without ever knowing it. Occasionally there was some freak cross-over, but it was nothing harmful. The occasional demon would get lost, wreck havoc, and then suddenly find itself back in Hell. Just a worm hole, a slip in existence. Some angels had the ability to travel to earth and protect the hurt, without ever really doing anything. Still, no one really knew. Three worlds, layered into one, no one aware of the next.

But that was two hundred years ago.

There was a war. It was short, it was bloody, everyone suffered. Humans were at an instant loss, and shied over to the side of angels or demons. No one understood what happened. Physical laws clashed, no world was right, everything upside-down. Judgment day had come. Those who died, died. Lost in the vast emptiness of silent waiting. With no Heaven or Hell, they were condemned to an eternal silence. The perfect slumber, the perfect inexistence.

At first, it seemed Heaven would be triumphant. It appealed to the mortals, and they swarmed. But as the war raged on, it wore on them quickly. Desperate for satisfaction, some for of sinful pleasure in the time of abandon. More and more trickled over to the already swarming side of the sin. In a matter of months, the war was decided. Hell would reign.

The sky turned orange and red with flame in the distance, the cities over-crowded and toxic. On a clear night, the air was still muggy, damp and heavy, like the final breaths of a dieing beast. It hung off your skin, making breathing an effort. Like breathing fumes, ashes. Lungs would bleed, disease was rampant. The sky, on those clear nights, was green, sickly green, the moon dimly light, hanging in the clouds, fat and bloated. Fog hung, no one knew if it was true fog, or some toxic gasses leaking from the primitive factories, rising up from the polluted rivers that sludged along, bubbling and burning flesh.

On a good day you could walk to work and trip over only one body, be begged by only one homeless schizophrenics, hassled by only one demon. On a bad day, you probably didn’t make it to work. Buildings rose up high, crumbling and decaying. The world was damp, hot and damp. Living in the lungs of a smoker. Living in the lungs of an old corpse that was finally collapsing in on itself.

Rank, hot, the smell of rot everywhere. It couldn’t be escaped, that smell. The smell of mud, risen from the bottom of a toxic pool, the smell of death, sewage, rot and dread. Fear, what any attacking animal must smell in its last moment, madness, insanity, suffering. Below all that scent, was the lingering, nauseating smell of infection, and stitches. A smell distinct only for few, but for those few, it was absolutely unbearable.

If you had a good day, you only tripped over one crawling body, stepped on one crushed infant. On a bad day, you’d be tortured.

Life, wasn’t worth living. Suicide, was futile. Any attempts failed, leaving only a bleeding mess, a pained, ODing mess for the next creep to enjoy.

If you had a good day, you found moldy bread for dinner, found one can of unopened beans. On a bad day, you’d be eaten.

As it’s easy to imagine, drugs were rampant. Any economy that existed, its backbone was drugs. No laws confined it. Prostitution was next. Hired kill, that was just below that. Luxury was out of the question. Even the rich, in this new world, were brought down to the standards: all must suffer. Angels were either fallen and reduced to nothing but a mutated civilian, or had their wings removed and were submitted to the demon’s will. The hierarchy went as follows:

Demons

Humans

Angels

The only difference, was an angel didn’t dare harm a human, a human didn’t dare harm a demon. Unless they had a death wish. Many demons went harmed.

The air, thick with radiation left most of the population disfigured. Children with three arms were stuck begging in gutters, tumors the size of bowling balls hug off men’s throats, giving them a hunched back. Old women had nine fingers. If you had cancer, you were lucky. No one lived past thirty. Demons, they did. Demons were built for this life, some, the more masochistic ones even enjoyed it. Angels, they were miserable, and eventually were killed for food.

If you had a good day, you’d be killed by the cancer. If you had a bad day, you’d be killed by a pack of starving dogs.

Most creatures here were demons. They weren’t seen as often as human, but there were plenty more. Most lingered in dark places, waiting for a decent meal to walk by. Just waiting out the heat of the darkened day in a run-down apartment. Rant, stood in his apartment.

Many demons didn’t flaunt being a demon. It wasn’t hidden, but the more obvious it was, the better you had to be at hunting. Rant, he liked challenges. Not that killing a sickly human was a challenge, it was more so than otherwise. He stood on a fifth floor of an old building he had turned into his home. It was one room, now at least. One and a half, really. It was once two, but one wall had collapsed, and now served little purpose. There was a mattress on the floor, broken windows, boarded windows, a trash heap, a stack of books, and a mostly complete skeleton of a human, still lingering with dried flesh. It had no smell, it was masked by the air. There was all the skeleton, arranged nicely, of a large hog-like creature. Other taxidermy-style bodies lay around, earlier meals and toys were sprawled, much smaller, and much more damaged. The freshest was a large rat by his foot. It was bloated and deformed, with three eyes.

The demon, was a slight change for the dull grays of the world. He wore black pants, simple enough, despite the charcoal paisley design, seen only on closer inspection. The crotch had a rip, and was fixed with a green scrap of cloth. Around his thigh, which had a dark bloodstain, was wrapped a rather useless decoration, a band of green, purple and orange scraps of anything. Leather, string, cloth, beads, anything. Around his arm was another. His jacket was black, with a white button-down, left partially opened and ripped, over a grey shirt. His hair was a mess, random fleshes of green, orange and purple amongst the black hair. His eyes though, where quite horrifying. One was a fiery orange, the color of burnt fat and prescription bottles. The other, was a pale, sickly lavender. The colors, though possibly natural, were mostly due to the radiation combined with already complicated genetics of the demons. He had his arms crossed over his sunken chest, slander face looking down at the city. The sun had just set. Deciding it was time to hunt, he turned from the window, the only light filtering into the room, and rubbed his sticky brow with a dirty hand, each finger tipped with a claw. Yawning widely, he exposed and electric green mouth, featuring needled fangs and a forked tongue. Snapping his fangs together again, he sat on his bed, pulling on two boots. For a while, he sat, staring out the broken window, looking out of the buildings and towards the drab-green river. Sickness. The world had become its own disease.


Rant stood and moved to the skeleton of the beast. He grabbed a band that was hanging off one of it’s horns and strapped it onto his left arm. It was a simple black band with a red cross in the center. He was a medic. Pretty much anyone could do it, but he was good at it. Mostly it was just practice, and the best surgeries were primitive. Most of his work was amputations due to gangrene. Or stitches, which in the end usually still needed an amputation. He sold medication, mostly generic antibiotic and painkillers. Of course, the prices weren’t cheap, especially for a medic who knew what he was doing, enough at least. Usually he’d ask for food, or a sexual service. Occasionally drugs or an item. Depending on what he’d do, and who he was working on depended the cost. And meds for the surgery costs extra. If not, you got a rag to choke on until it was over. With the band, he’d get more patients, more money. It already got him his flat. If you know where a dead patient lives and you like it, you move in. And you have a meal.

He moved to his front door and pulled it open with a violent jerk. It squeaked and groaned, swollen from the humidity. He pulled it shut behind him, not bothering to lock it. If you lock your door, people break it to get in. If you leave it unlocked, they find nothing of interest and leave without much damage. They’re the little things you learn that make life better.

Trotting down the first flight of stairs, he could already feel the air growing thicker. He coughed and paused on a landing. He swirled his tongue around his mouth, then spat onto the wall. The marking was a thick glob of green mucus and blackened blood. He whipped his mouth and swallowed, then kept going. You’re dieing the minute you’re born. You always had been, but here, now… it was so shoved in your face. You’re born and instantly the diseases leak into your blood and you start to die. The lucky ones die young.

There was the flaw in evolution, it wants you to live. Those with weak immune systems died in the first few years of life, the stronger ones are able to have children. Keep up the chain of suffering lives. Eventually, the immune system will be great enough to stay healthy, even in all of this, so long as it doesn’t keep up. But who wants to live in this world? It makes even the most hopeful soul pray for death.

The demon slid out of the building and looked down the street. A large beast plodded by. It was a lumbering creature, with burnt-orange skin, and resembled almost a cross between a cow and a walrus, but larger and much stronger. It shoved through the bodies, snuffling at them and gripping them in large, grinding fangs. Its head would tip back, the body sliding down its slick throat and into a boiling stomach. They weren’t much threat to anyone walking, almost a blessing, for they’d clean the bodies from the street, at least make a trail through the dead.

But Rant wasn’t concerned about that. He needed to advertise. Hunting, or stitching. Seeing as his lungs were bad, hunting anything worth eating would be a danger, unless he was quick about it. Still, finding someone who needed something done was much better. Towards the center of town there was more activity going on, and easy enough to find someone with a gash to stitch up, or a broken arm. Patting his coat to be sure he had a kit with him, he felt the firm pack, and quickened his pace.]]> http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=36 Wed, 20 Jun 2007 14:09:00 -0700 http://rpasylum.net/showthread.php?tid=36
It seemed his whole life was an accident. Right down to his very birth. It hadn’t been intended for him to be conceived, not yet at least. His father had planned to get engaged to his mother that night… but that apparently wasn’t how things went. Still, they got engaged and married not long after, and just a few months into their marriage, Mort Gurney was born. This all happened in a small London slum. Through a miracle and more accidents, the three-person family packed up their bags and got on a ship to America, land of deceit. They heard there were jobs there, at least education for when Mort was older.

Mort was eight when he reached America, and his mother had died on the ship. Some disease someone had brought on with them. Had the conditions been better it wouldn’t have been a problem, but half-way to America and they had to quarantine the sick and toss the bodies overboard. His mother got tossed not long after the quarantine.

He and his father moved in with another small family, and his father found a job. Mort on the other hand, couldn’t. He spend his time with the mother of the other family, who taught him to read, write and basic math. His father worked at a slaughter house and taught him about the pigs. His friends would teach him things they’re parents taught him, and it wasn’t long before Mort was searching out a school that was open. Two years went by, and an elderly couple opened a school. Both were fairly well educated, but their ages made it hard to find a job, plus they had enough money to live a steady life. Mort attended everyday, and the couple was impressed. Despite being small and a fairly sickly child, he was gifted with a brain.

By the time the depression really hit, Mort was at college. Again, it was something of an accident. He had always intended to go to college, but never as a vet. But applications were closing, and that was the only option he seemed to be able to think up as he scrambled to finish. It was fortunate he got in, but he was accepted and went to school as a vet. Turned out, he loved it and partially regretted that he took money his father made from killing pigs to get there.

School went nicely, the only real rough spot being when his father passed away. He passed with the top of his class and moved in to his dad’s old apartment. It wasn’t much, and he’d have to move out soon, unless he could find a practice that would hire him. Two months later, no luck and he had to move out. He stayed with families for a few days at a time, but no one could afford much, so he went on to living off his degree. He’d go to the country and fix up someone’s horse or ox in return of a few hot meals and a place to stay. He went from town to town, thankful the world had so many horses that needed something done. Plenty he had to shoot, which was the worst part of his job, and he’d never take anything from a family whose horse had to be shot. It wasn’t morally proper.

How he joined the circus wasn’t an accident, but his getting stuck there, was. He had joined, hoping for just one pay check and to get moved up north so he could go to Canada. Maybe he could get a job on some ranch. But it had been several months at the job, and he had a sick fascination with it. He hated it, but he was obsessed with it. Almost like an addiction. The way the people worked, almost like one massive, parasitic creature. The animals were always sick, and when a person got sick, he had to deal with it until a doctor could. They’re only doctor wasn’t worth shit and was actually only a basic medic, so he could treat pretty much everything you could treat yourself. Only difference was he knew how to stitch something properly.

But sick and injured animals were in abundance, and Mort was a worthy piece of equipment for the circus. They’d have had to put down their only elephant had it not been for him, and he saved several horses many other vets would have shot without much thought. That didn’t mean he didn’t see a fair amount of his animals killed. Work horses too sick to work where shot and fed to the cats. Meat was expensive. One tiger got a bad too infection that sped to his brain much faster than Mort thought possible and went mad before suddenly dieing. Now they only had two tigers.

The circus was one of the larger on the circuit, Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, but still in constant competition. They had hit a slump just before Mort hopped on, losing some of their better freaks, having several hoaxes stolen or domaged, and having several animals killed or sold. Food rations were cut, and that put the working men into a fit, because the showmen still had plenty.

Mort was sort of a mutt, being as valuble as a show man, but spending most of his time with the workingmen. He was fairly likable, but kept to himself. At first, he was decently hated by both, then they warmed up to him after he proved himself a valuble part.

Mort’s room was built out of a half-fileld horsestable. It was the show-horse’s cart, and they took up just the rear end of the car, so he put in a cot and his thing in the front half. It was useful when a horse was sick and he could better moniter its health. Staying with him was a dog he’d found. It was a mutt, grey with a black spot on one eye, and three white paws and belly. It usually slept on the cot with him, but spend the afternoons lazing outside in the sun, or under the train when it got too hot.

Today, Mort got to enjoy a slow day. They didn’t have a matinee show, so everyone was enjoying the day. He sat on his cot, propped up against his pillow with a book open in his lap. His dog, Snare, was on the floor beside him. Mort had grown into himself a bit better. As a teen he was awkward and fairly unatractive. But now he’d filled out and was decent. He had rusty-brown hair that was in need of a cut and a good wash. It stuck up  and was starting to get in his dark brown eyes. He had sharp features, and flat-colored teeth that were slightly crooked. His nose was sharp, and his cheeks high. When he spoek he had a heavy Cockney accent, making it almost impossible to tell what he was saying, but with a bit of practice it was easy to desern word from word. He was wearing a pair of dusty brown pants and a white shirt that was too big for his thin body, and black suspenders. Usually he’d have a black coat over that, but in the day it was too hot to bother with a coat. He crossed his legs and flipped the page in his book, takinga  break to hope no animal was getting injured. As much as he liked working on them, he needed a break.]]>
It seemed his whole life was an accident. Right down to his very birth. It hadn’t been intended for him to be conceived, not yet at least. His father had planned to get engaged to his mother that night… but that apparently wasn’t how things went. Still, they got engaged and married not long after, and just a few months into their marriage, Mort Gurney was born. This all happened in a small London slum. Through a miracle and more accidents, the three-person family packed up their bags and got on a ship to America, land of deceit. They heard there were jobs there, at least education for when Mort was older.

Mort was eight when he reached America, and his mother had died on the ship. Some disease someone had brought on with them. Had the conditions been better it wouldn’t have been a problem, but half-way to America and they had to quarantine the sick and toss the bodies overboard. His mother got tossed not long after the quarantine.

He and his father moved in with another small family, and his father found a job. Mort on the other hand, couldn’t. He spend his time with the mother of the other family, who taught him to read, write and basic math. His father worked at a slaughter house and taught him about the pigs. His friends would teach him things they’re parents taught him, and it wasn’t long before Mort was searching out a school that was open. Two years went by, and an elderly couple opened a school. Both were fairly well educated, but their ages made it hard to find a job, plus they had enough money to live a steady life. Mort attended everyday, and the couple was impressed. Despite being small and a fairly sickly child, he was gifted with a brain.

By the time the depression really hit, Mort was at college. Again, it was something of an accident. He had always intended to go to college, but never as a vet. But applications were closing, and that was the only option he seemed to be able to think up as he scrambled to finish. It was fortunate he got in, but he was accepted and went to school as a vet. Turned out, he loved it and partially regretted that he took money his father made from killing pigs to get there.

School went nicely, the only real rough spot being when his father passed away. He passed with the top of his class and moved in to his dad’s old apartment. It wasn’t much, and he’d have to move out soon, unless he could find a practice that would hire him. Two months later, no luck and he had to move out. He stayed with families for a few days at a time, but no one could afford much, so he went on to living off his degree. He’d go to the country and fix up someone’s horse or ox in return of a few hot meals and a place to stay. He went from town to town, thankful the world had so many horses that needed something done. Plenty he had to shoot, which was the worst part of his job, and he’d never take anything from a family whose horse had to be shot. It wasn’t morally proper.

How he joined the circus wasn’t an accident, but his getting stuck there, was. He had joined, hoping for just one pay check and to get moved up north so he could go to Canada. Maybe he could get a job on some ranch. But it had been several months at the job, and he had a sick fascination with it. He hated it, but he was obsessed with it. Almost like an addiction. The way the people worked, almost like one massive, parasitic creature. The animals were always sick, and when a person got sick, he had to deal with it until a doctor could. They’re only doctor wasn’t worth shit and was actually only a basic medic, so he could treat pretty much everything you could treat yourself. Only difference was he knew how to stitch something properly.

But sick and injured animals were in abundance, and Mort was a worthy piece of equipment for the circus. They’d have had to put down their only elephant had it not been for him, and he saved several horses many other vets would have shot without much thought. That didn’t mean he didn’t see a fair amount of his animals killed. Work horses too sick to work where shot and fed to the cats. Meat was expensive. One tiger got a bad too infection that sped to his brain much faster than Mort thought possible and went mad before suddenly dieing. Now they only had two tigers.

The circus was one of the larger on the circuit, Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, but still in constant competition. They had hit a slump just before Mort hopped on, losing some of their better freaks, having several hoaxes stolen or domaged, and having several animals killed or sold. Food rations were cut, and that put the working men into a fit, because the showmen still had plenty.

Mort was sort of a mutt, being as valuble as a show man, but spending most of his time with the workingmen. He was fairly likable, but kept to himself. At first, he was decently hated by both, then they warmed up to him after he proved himself a valuble part.

Mort’s room was built out of a half-fileld horsestable. It was the show-horse’s cart, and they took up just the rear end of the car, so he put in a cot and his thing in the front half. It was useful when a horse was sick and he could better moniter its health. Staying with him was a dog he’d found. It was a mutt, grey with a black spot on one eye, and three white paws and belly. It usually slept on the cot with him, but spend the afternoons lazing outside in the sun, or under the train when it got too hot.

Today, Mort got to enjoy a slow day. They didn’t have a matinee show, so everyone was enjoying the day. He sat on his cot, propped up against his pillow with a book open in his lap. His dog, Snare, was on the floor beside him. Mort had grown into himself a bit better. As a teen he was awkward and fairly unatractive. But now he’d filled out and was decent. He had rusty-brown hair that was in need of a cut and a good wash. It stuck up  and was starting to get in his dark brown eyes. He had sharp features, and flat-colored teeth that were slightly crooked. His nose was sharp, and his cheeks high. When he spoek he had a heavy Cockney accent, making it almost impossible to tell what he was saying, but with a bit of practice it was easy to desern word from word. He was wearing a pair of dusty brown pants and a white shirt that was too big for his thin body, and black suspenders. Usually he’d have a black coat over that, but in the day it was too hot to bother with a coat. He crossed his legs and flipped the page in his book, takinga  break to hope no animal was getting injured. As much as he liked working on them, he needed a break.]]>