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| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
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| [ARCHIVED] - Big Bad Voodoo Theater; Mot Khartoum, Moshe Klein, Dr. Katharina Bettina Wilke, Sawyer Flint, Aguirre Efrain Maddox | |
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| Topic Started: Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 19:05 (1,894 Views) | |
| Mot Khartoum | Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 19:05 Post #1 |
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Crazy Old Man
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He heard drums. Low and constant. Each thump, thump, thump clearer to him. Not louder, but sharper, fixing into focus the distant sound. He reached out for the sound, and it reached back. It had a touch without fingers. It was a key to a lock inside his chest, that took him to the soft cushions and soft voices, to the time where his life was whole. The feeling was intoxicating. He kept reaching, until he fell, his feet stuck in black mire. As he struggled to free himself, his restraints became visible. Four pairs of hands, that began to travel to each his limbs. Their strength was overpowering, but he continued to fight it, desperate to reach that sound. One last struggle, and he rose from himself. An after image, or the original, rose from the slavery and stumbled towards the noise, which colored into wild hues of purple and blue so vivid it nearly blinded Mot. Then his pager rung. Mot had a pager, a piece of technology suitably antiquated as the antiquated gentlemen himself. Something given to him by shifty fingers behind plated glass. The vibration disintegrated every visage of the dream, just as the kaleidoscope formed a face, now bleeding out behind the face of vagrancy and quiet. Even his eyeballs were tired, pupils slowly dragging across his disgusting vista of faulty fluorescence and unkempt men. Just one, actually. He looked right back. He was the only one who rode this night train route. A duty he upheld, a promise he swore to someone now dead. “Mister I don’t expect you know where you are, and where you’re headed. Just stay on while it turns ‘round and you’ll find yourself. Fuck ups come in all ages, I guess. Just wasn’t expecting your kind on this ride. Dumb kids, dumber loners, the ones I can’t keep on the train. ‘Cause there’s only one reason you take the old deep south line to its end. And you ain’t going. No one is, least I can help it.” Mot imagined his body old, aching, slow. He rubbed his hands and cracked his neck. He brushed off dust from his pants, little clouds filtering down to the seats below. His eyes flickered at the man here and there, quick glances in darts of his pupils. Living. Older than he was, dirtier than he is, it all said something but like the real words couldn’t be spoken. They had to be seen. Soft breaks, and their eyes matched. The noise filled the space between them, and contacted a current from one to the other, invisible but so heavy. “Guess you aren’t lost. Guess I’m the one looking around for the light, but you broke all the bulbs long ago. Look, mister. Just be careful. Whatever is there now, at that Blue Noire, you won’t find it. You’ll find something that’ll hunt after you. Memories that’ll hunt you and swallow you up. Like all the others I couldn’t keep out, I’ll tell you this. Memories are not an escape. Now go.” Rust struggled to keep the subway doors closed, but the compact air ripped off flakes of red metal and freed the portal open. Mot rose to his feet, and shuffled out from the subway, silent to the gatekeeper, a silence that was heavy in speech as in mind. Leaving the subcar, Mot ascended from the subterana, a little kingdom of graffiti and garbage. Chain link doors yielded to his grip, but as he left Mot could feel another plea for the abortion of his plan. Not from any man, or men, or any form, but in the ambiance of the station. Could he pin it down to one thing? Could he hear the footsteps of all the others before him? Could he hear their laughing voices, sneakers against concrete up and out and into nothing? Mot rose from the underhell and into the bleak space above. Here the mark of humanity was frayed, rusted, and neglected. If London was a body, this was necrotic flesh. Only dimly lit convenience stores catering to those few bodies operating on the fumes of their once full humanity and vigor. They lived, but only as roaches, merely existing until expiration. Mot followed the empty veins of black streets to the source. Chains kept the epicenter of abandon contained, as if the building may one day grow decrepit roots that tunnel towards the living things on London, draining them of their living essence. Mot did not notice the history of chains that covered the gate, old decaying red rubbing against newer stainless steel rungs. A history of warnings, of danger, of desperation failed and lives lost to the past. Mot waited at the gate, marking the time on his pager. The others would arrive soon, he feared trying to near this place alone. For as he waited, silence saturated heavy on his suit, sticking thick to his face, and burrowing deep into his ears. Past the void, so past it his whole strained to reach it, was the sound of drums. A touch that begged to be felt, calling him up to the Blue Noire. Edited by Mot Khartoum, Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 19:06.
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| Graham Mason | Wednesday, 7. September 2016, 21:24 Post #21 |
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Steak Tartare (YODO)
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This mini quest has been officially [ARCHIVED] Please, contact the Mods if it should be opened again for any reason. |
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Oh no! My souffle! "Words", stress level, "MetaMason", "THEVOICEOFREASON" | |
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1:57 AM Jul 11