Mardrax

Alrighty Mai, have fun with working this one out Taking the same approach as Quin here. I have no familiarity whatsoever with the tristat system, so I'm completely winging it. Feel free to work out or adapt what should be And most of all, don't feel rushed The Pen. A standard dib pen for all appearances, just totally black, with an inky sheen. Because the Pen IS mightier than the Sword Body none, as far as physical leverage goes. Can't exert any force by itself. Yet has a very tough time caring about any sort of harm. Mind fluctuating. Tends to have the greatest insights hidden amongst seeming nonsense. Or just nonsense, without insights. Usually relatively clear though. Soul average. Defects. I'll start with those since they are easiest. No arms, legs, head or other limbs more commonly found in less innocent genres of anime. Just Can't exert physical strength by itself, though it can just stay in place. For example, while it could stop a 30 ton weight in mid-fall, it couldn't lift said weight back up, nor a sheet of paper, for that matter. Sensory Impairment. Has no sight or smell, yet has a sense that doubles for sight in the nearby vincinity. Say within two dozen yards or so. Can't talk. Unusual diet. Exists off of ink alone. With no qualms to induce the holder of the ink as well. Slightly off the hook. Attributes. Ageless, and mid-level invulnerability from the NGG link. Small. It's a standard dib pen as far as dimensions are concerned. Hovers. Is unaffected by gravity, and moves by hovering at normal human speeds. Drawy! It draws, on paper, on anything else, or just in thin air. Whatever it draws is quite real, and usually shares the same qualities the pen itself does, though can potentially be "alive" with a limited sort of intelligence. Say stick figures could walk, or even lift objects relative to their size. Ink reservoir is limited but far larger than it reasonably should be. Anything drawn in thin air will collapse after some minutes, or at the pen's whim.

lyrics

The view from the staircase was amazing, as it always was. She loved the way the moon shone into the two-story window, the milky way sprawled out around it. Yet the clouds made her feel bad. Her father's farming wisdoms hadn't missed her. Views like this made living large worthwhile. Next to some other assorted luxuries. The sounds drifting up from the lower end of the staircase caused melancholy. The twangy sounds of the harpsichord, replaced in ranks of favour through the years, first by the piano, then by that dreadful piece of machinery. Synthesiser. Bene. Nothing to approach the real thing. Times only changed for the worst, it seemed. She loved the fact she'd swayed the girl's choice of instrument. But after all, she paid for it herself. The poor girl hadn't been able to afford anything real. The artist's life is a poor one, she says. Especially when the spark of inspiration is gone. She would have loved to see where hers might have taken her, had it not been stripped from her with the spark of unlife. Cursed damnation. Her heels clicked against the stairs as she descended, looking at the musician. She looked up from her keys, wrapping up the piece in a long minor chord. "It's a glorious night, don't you think?" "Mackerel before the moon, trouble will be brewing soon." "Oh, why always so somber, Francesca dear?" The way she pronounced that. The way she cast those brilliant blue eyes up from beneath those curls. So full of hope, nay, faith. Others would call it naïveté. She wouldn't. She loved it. Aspired it, even. Yet she was hung up on her own paranoia, like near-everyone around her. Milosh hadn't. Look where it had brought him. "Milosh died, Lizzy." That wasn't her name, of course. It was her personal pick, the last few decades. As Lisa was before that. Elisabeth. So carelessly she changed her name once every while. Disposed and picked up another. Like old newspapers. Burnt in a barrel. For the kine to warm their hands over. "Ashes. The kindred will fight over his death. Not his remains. Over the void of his power. Our fellows will stab each other as they vie for his position. The Sabbat will try to force themselves in through the seams. Those we should call brothers of the faith will pick off those who are separated. Is there a reason why I shouldn't be somber?" "Milosh might have died, and many more may, but we will surface the stronger. We will root out the weak amongst us. The Sabbat around here have never managed to form a unified enough front to do any real damage. The Society will only pick off stragglers. It is the way God has ordained nature works. We are still part of that cycle, you know. No matter how much some may think our status distances us from life, we are still but predators." "I know. It's just that... Blood is too precious to be shed so carelessly. Amo? Could you make sure Amanda delivers these letters?" She handed the bundle to Lizzy, lightly hugged and watched as the girl sped off to the staff's quarters. Twirling the glass in her hand, she took a sip. Oh, how she liked Lizzy's friends. Young, irony, and just enough alcohol for it to be good. She heard the engine of the SUV out front rev up and drive off as she turned her attention to the harpsichord again. She might have been horrible, but it eased her mind. And this last decade of practice was bound to pay off some time.

Name: Francesca San Gioveto Clan: Lasombra Apparent Age: early thirties, depending on how deep the shadows are Actual Age: 1789, a good year for women and wine. Generation: 9th Nature: Traditionalist Demeanor: Autocrat Appearance: Slender, yet with some fat where there should be. Extremely straight black hair down to the small of her back, usually bound up. Very dark eyes. Clearly Mediteranean look. Prefers long dresses with elaborate embroideries. Usually the one to go for the red and black combination. The San Gioveto family was a long line of winemakers from Tuscany, Italy, who grew to great wealth during the Italian renaissance, but especially when the last of the De' Medici's turned his alcoholic favour on their produce. When Francesca was embraced, she had a brother and two cousins to carry on the family line, and the company. She was embraced by a Lasombran vampire on a cold night in early january 1820. He was weak, by clan standards, and felt he needed to prove himself. She wasn't an easy prey by any standards, which he hoped would be acknowledged by the clan elders. Instead, he was granted Final Death by them, for siring a childe without permission. She was left Caitiff by association and shunned by the clan, yet she was allowed to "live". Her brother and his wife died not long after in a robbery on the way home from church, and in the two months following, both her cousins died under mysterious circumstances. Her brother's death was blamed for their staying homebound and lustless, and the ensueing palor. There, she raised her niece, or at least, paid for the nannies, and was taught how to run the company. After her father had died, she decided to invest in the surge of technology that had been growing since the turn of the century, and she and her husband emigrated to Goldendown to base a clothing company there, which is currently still running strong, and left her niece to fend for the wine company. There, she befriended a Toreador designer by the name of Sarah DeVeaux, who adopted her as her own childe and taught her the ways of the Toreador, and the Camarilla in general. They moved in together during the 90's, and are currently mostly living off the interest of several investments, with plenty of free expensive wine to host the parties her newfound mate and mentor is so fond of hosting. Disciplines: Obtenebration Presence Dominate

Wow. A Vene sighting. It's the undead! Count me in. From the wikilinks post and common sense, I assume we use the old WoD for the setting? Will probably be a Tory

He stood up at hearing his name uttered. "Me? ... You? You dare accuse me of something so heinous that it has held this town in its grip for as long as we know it, and surely before that. Of something that I, my father, and my father before him have tried looking for a remedy for? Me? Who has faught all his life to allow everyone to live as careless a life as they could? To allow everyone the thought that for every sickness, there was a cure? Me, who has damned the Heaven of those few who follow the man Jesus who we've seen to their Hell and back when I couldn't find one, and when another life slipped through my fingers? Do you realise Beverly's at home now? Do you know why? She crying her eyes out. Jack disappeared last night. But you wouldn't know how that feels, would you? You were young when that sister of yours died. Would that you had left a mark on that knife. You wouldn't have had the chance to seclude yourself out here. To ally with those... those beasts. Is that it, Joshua? Is that your idea of this whole thing? Revenge? On those who would dare accuse you of killing your sister? I... I hope for your sake that wood won't be your pyre instead of your hearth." OOC: Accusing Patrick - Joshua Oldwind. And thanks Pat, that mood needed removal

under

Sorry about my idleness people, my will to set pen down to paper has been small at most, let alone hands to a keyboard. I'll be trying to get a night phase post in to at least try to break the mood

tool

symphony

cane

F1

*stands by all mentions of Guitar Hero* But of course, the real question is what you like to play

case

I'm staying at Sweet's for the weekend so I probably won't be participating 'til monday. At least I got the first accusation in as I'll miss the next day phase ;p

He lifted the finger from the man's neck. The talk of informants to the wolves hadn't missed his ears, though he had feinted not to hear any of it. It had been brooding though, and what he felt when he rose wasn't just loss over Tian. It was loss over two of his own children, where there had just been one before. It was loss over his brother. It was loss over fully a third of the town. He was a doctor, for his father's sake. He lived in a town that was stricken by a malady he hadn't been able to aleviate even the slightest bit. People died, and he couldn't help them. And now, people were saying there was someone who could? Someone who caused this night's loss, even? He steeled himself, straightened his face. "Fractured, a very hard sideway blow. Fractured cheek as well. If he hadn't been dead already, he would have been soon." It was then that the great absent at the dance arrived. "How?" Nothing but breathing from the crowd. "Wolves?" "Aaah.... Joshua. Did you have a good day in the woods? One would certainly think so. You have been in there the entire day, since morning, after all. My wife told me during the commala she saw you leave when she arose this morning. She complimented you, saying you were such a hard working man, gathering wood all day." He eyed the man, looking from his eyes, to his horse, to his cart, laden lightly with the sections of berch and his axe. "But... are you saying that there birch tree is all you have to show for your efforts? Why I thought such a big, strong man like you could cut down more than just one of those whiteskins in a full day's work. ...And such unfortunate timing that you arrive at this grisly scene." He let his words linger while he stepped to his wife's side, taking her hand in his. "I think it's best if we don't return home for a while, dear. The wolves will do their jobs, wether you're there or not. Someone seems to have made sure of that." ~~ OOC: Accusing Joshua Oldwind/Patrick

hood

Roxanne

From his porch, the scene was exactly why he didn't like folk like that, and it just continued afterwards. Bill looked on the quartet of strangers as three walked and one was driven into town, rocking ever so gently back and forth in his chair. Kids? The Clearwaters, of course. They could never keep those children in check. Needed some more discipline. Always getting in the way of everyone. Of course, they could tell how much their father had softened up over his wife's pregnancy, reacted to it. Took their opportunities. As long as they could keep the kids away from the actual delivery, it wasn't much of his problem. He heard the chatter from inside the window. Heard the footsteps, excited at first, a few bounds down the stairs. Hesitantly for the last few. "Dad? Could we..." "No." Back in. Can't be too careful. Henry hadn't been, and look at where it got him. Watch your step. Don't take risks. Don't poke into business that isn't yours unless it's bleeding over you. Standing up from his chair, he pressed his hat more firmly unto his head and walked towards the group, leaving the chair swaying gently still. Half a look back made the three heads poking out of the upper floor window sink under the sill. His face turned forward again, he saw the Clearwaters had been replaced by the kneeling form of the Reid. He didn't like him much, and wasn't alone in that by far, but he had to give it to him. He gave him a job to do. The man touched him. Spoke some words. More reason to dislike the scene. The man was a gunslinger, clearly. They hadn't been seen in ages, and he thought the world might just be better off without them. If his identity hadn't been clear from the beginning, from the man's bearing, the way he always kept at least one eye on his surroundings, from the sandalwood grip revolver only the knights of Arthur Eld had carried, hanging from a holster slung around his waist, it was from the way he spoke. Forgotten the face of his father. Right. Travis had forgotten no more than the face of his brother. Again though, Bill couldn't complain. And all this talk of ka. If all was pre-ordained, Bill had a fight to fight with the writer of the grand play. "Hile, gunslingers." He tipped the rim of his hat down. "Long days and pleasant nights. The name's Marsh, Bill Marsh. That house over there is my shop and practice, though I don't hope you'll be bringing too much customers there..." He turned his head to face Eddie, then looked down to Oy. "Unless it is to get a haircut."

No fast-forwarding 'til next monday evening please Is it friday yet?

II; Unison One, two, Reflected couple three, four blonde on blonder doubles Turn it on, cross the line, and hit it. Aquatic adhesive lubricant divider Orange overpowering pheromones Carefully judged by a penguin God One dash of hot Hair dripping, tangled Both bodies mangled And you know it's all Your fault! _________________ It's not it, but it works. More haphazzardness!

Sorry it took some time, but here it is Bill Marsh, age 45. Works several jobs as being the town barber and doctor. While he was always happy as a young man, nowadays, he seems to take little joy from life, and hearing his wife Audra sing is one of the only things he has some pleasure in still. He inexplicably puts the blame upon himself for the death of his twin, Henry, who lived roont until a day past their 18th brithday. A bottle of drink Bill had gotten fell off a shelf when Henry bumped into it, and landed on his head, cutting a deep gash across his head. He wasn't found until he'd already lost too much blood, and died lying on the floor. He and his wife have 5 children, one pair of twins, Arnie and Christine, age 21, of whom Arnie works as an assistant and student in his father's shop and takes care of Christine during his time off, who has been roont since their early childhood. And Jack, Patrick and Ralph, a 10 year old triplet. Their mother takes care of the younger kids, as their father is usally too pre-occupied to do much in that department, apart from the times when he helps them handling the crop garden their older brother used to tend.

No, they aren't concrete and sand ashtrays. Though they are ashtrays. Usually they're fairly high (7' or just over) and narrow (the size of a normal streetlight post or so). They are usually positioned away from the stairs that lead on to the platform. Above and below ground isn't an issue as trains (in the Netherlands, anyway) are always above ground. Subway stations are usually below ground in the larger cities. Smoking is prohibited altogether on those subterranean stations. Subway stations above ground in the networks I've seen allow smoking anywhere in them. But it's the trainstation which gave rise to these smokingpillar things, as the only place where people are allowed to smoke there are in the area around (how far around? no one knows, it seems) those pillars. To save Appy the trouble of digging up her camera on a trainstation: http://www2.jeanneke.nl/plaatjes/rookpaal.jpg http://www.chavannes.nl/foto/gallery/origineel/rookpaal.jpg there's two, smoking and all The blue band on top with the cigarette says "rookzone", or "smoking zone". And indeed, the translation could have been better, but it works

'...maar nergens heb ik een bordje "einde rookzone" gezien!' Praise the future and it's possibilities.

I'm in as well, character will be thought upon