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Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Aug 17, 2017 14:09:34 GMT -5
another little roleplay for virie and me
viridian's characterLuca Kharaman - mid-twenties - male physical- stands at just above six feet tall, maybe give or take an inch. due to his build, he may seem larger and more intimidating than he necessarily means to.
- has a sturdy, well-defined muscular build--but is also trim and lean, as a combination of both constant physical labor and a lack of sufficient food.
- his hair is a deep black hue, matched with dark brown eyes, all paired with pale Caucasian skin, reflecting his Eastern European heritage
- keeps his curly hair grown out long, and has somewhat neat facial hair
- has some scars, mostly limited to his hands and forearms, but all acquired from his work
personality- a mellow, calm, disciplined young man. is slow to anger--slow to dramatically display most of his emotions. hard to be moved.
- however, he is deeply moved and irritated by displays of complete injustice or senseless violence.
- he is wise beyond his years, very responsible in every aspect of the word (raising one's siblings from the age of fourteen has that effect)
- that being said, he is very generous and altruistic overall. he believes family has priority over all else, so he sacrifices whatever he can to provide.
- has a strong moral compass: do good to others, tell the truth, defend the weak, respect women, etc., even if those values are outdated
backstory- the eldest son of a very extensive and poor Turkish family. one of seven siblings. mother died giving birth to the youngest, and father was killed in a fight.
- despite it, though, his family has a good ethnic stronghold in the city--like a Chinatown or Little Italy. has many grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.
- has worked to support the family since he was nine years old, relinquishing his last year of formal schooling
- now currently works in a steel mill. subjected to extremely high heat and dangerous sharp, raw metal every day, but does it willingly.
stardust's characterRianne Kidd – mid-twenties – female Stage-name ; Delta
Physical: • average height, standing at 5’6 ¾”. considerably more fit and muscular than most females in the city, considering her “job” as a fighter. • straight, plain blond hair that is generally lighter from being in the sun, and almost exclusively pulled back in a loose-held ponytail. pale, almost peachy skin reminiscent of the country once known as Scotland, though her ancestors were originally from Russia. • overall well-built to be a fighter, though her dark brown eyes and small smiles are enough to deceive her opponents into thinking the opposite. • nose is slightly crooked, but otherwise, she’s managed to avoid most of the damaging hits thrown her way. and trademark of any fighter includes rough, calloused knuckles.
Personality: • a lot like ice cream. cold, with the potential to give you a brain-freeze. she is often expressionless, rarely emotional. she’s developed a strong sense of self-preservation as a fighter, knowing no one will look out for her if she doesn’t do it herself. • extremely serious and patient. knows what she wants and is determined to do whatever it takes to get it. survival is, as one might expect, her main goal, but her secret wish is that one day she might leave the city and be normal. • she is merciless when she needs to be; she lies and steals and feels nothing because she is afraid of being punished if she fails to meet expectations. and she worries about losing her humanity to the fights more than anything else. • she can be sweet like ice cream too, of course. she is loyal to anyone who shows her consistent kindness, but she is no fool. “trust goes both ways” is her favorite phrase, though she tends not follow her own advice and has hurt herself and her allies with her disregard. • no one would ever know, but it kills her inside to act like the dog they expect her to be when it comes to the fights. she is conflicted to the point where she has idea what move to make to change anything. • hope is her greatest asset and biggest downfall. everything she appears to be is because of the fights. without them, she doesn’t know who she would be and that excites and scares her at the same time.
Backstory: • the only girl of five siblings, she grew up on a small farm near the coast. their father worked the land and their mother homeschooled her children until Rianne was fourteen, when a hurricane destroyed their land. her family then moved inland to the city. • eventually lost most of her family. father found work as a bartender but was stabbed to death under uncertain circumstances, and mother died of an illness without medicine, both when Rianne was fifteen. • of her two oldest brothers, (22 & 17 years of age at that time), one was assigned to construct new buildings, and the other was hired to work in a greenhouse, respectively. both essentially abandoned their siblings, and this allowed for the youngest child to end up a servant (for sex and other household chores) for a wealthy family, and she hasn’t seen any of them since. • the only family member she knows for certain is still alive today is her older brother Jamie, who was taken to be a fighter like her.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2017 17:06:13 GMT -5
yo, no worries at all. suggestion: perhaps add some of the world building stuff we discussed in pm's in the first post? just to make referencing info a little easier/require less hunting.
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Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Aug 20, 2017 16:46:53 GMT -5
[ oh I didn't think we would need to dig for the info since it's right in the messages, but okay! I'll do that eventually ;D also this is super long and the rest of my posts will not be quite so long sorry <3 also take all the time you need to respond ]
The popping sound of thunder woke her, as if the heavens themselves were splitting open. Her eyes adjusted to the faint light coming through the bottom of the door until she could see the cracks in the paint. Then she lay there on the floor where she slept, waiting. The rain came soon after, drumming its fingers on the roof. She rolled onto her side, pressing her face into her thin pillow and pulling her worn blanket back up to her neck. She’d had the old thing since she was seven, and although it was too small to cover her lower legs, if she curled up nice and tight, it almost felt like she was a kid again, hiding from one of her brothers. Give it up, she thought, those days are gone. The ache of sleeping on the hardwood floor reminded her of that, but it would be gone by the time she was let outside. The hard sound of a shoe against the door made her turn her head, sit up.
“Up!” The gravelly voice of her owner reached her ears amid the rain, and it took her a minute to get her bearings. It was Wednesday, her favorite day of the week, because she knew she would get fed. “Ri!” He called, kicking the closet door again for good measure. Rianne listened to his steps as he walked past the table and into the kitchen. Biting back a sigh, she pulled a black band off her wrist and tied her hair up before throwing her blanket aside and standing up. She tucked her things behind the standing shelf in the closet and put on her runners. She knew there was no point in trying to delay. Once she was fed, her owner would lead her to the arena ten blocks away and hand her over to the guards at the entrance to the tunnel underneath, while he would go in through the front gate with the other spectators. It was better to obey and get it over with, then she could come back and sleep off whatever was left after the rush of adrenaline. Rianne shut the closet door behind her, walking to the table and taking a seat, which was a bit impertinent on her part. Jaeger didn’t seem to care this morning. He was mumbling to himself as he prepared his breakfast, and scraps for his fighter. Rianne thought she heard him sing some notes once, but she remained silent.
Jaeger brought over a plate and sat at the opposite end of the table. Rianne didn’t look to see what was on it, focused on his face, expecting. He started to eat, but eventually threw some bread at her. It had been cut to look like French toast, but there was nothing on it, it wasn’t even cooked, but she had stopped longing for syrup or anything like that a long time ago. The bread itself was sweet, and that was more than enough. She finished it quickly, despite her effort to make it last. Jaeger stood up and dropped two pieces of meat on the table in front of her before returning to the kitchen, and she didn’t even try to savor the sausages, just shoved them in her mouth before her owner could turn around and take them back. A flash of lightning at the window caught her attention and she watched the rain fall until her owner stepped back into the room.
“Let’s go,” he commanded, walking over to the door, his boots pounding on the floor. He pulled on his expensive jacket and opened the door as Rianne stood and followed him. Thunder greeted them as they stepped outside. Jaeger locked the door before grabbing his fighter’s elbow. They walked along the uneven pavement, and Rianne was soaked within two blocks. They didn’t see many people, and soon, the dark blue walls of the arena rose into view. Jaeger took her around to the right side of the building where a solid door was guarded by a man on either side. “Delta, fight two.” Her owner addressed the men, and one of them opened the door. “She is to see Fighter 43 first, as agreed.” He added, and the other guard nodded. “Behave.” With that, Jaeger left her, walking back to the main entrance. She watched him for about two seconds before facing the guards. Without a word, she stepped forward and let them search her for weapons, which weren’t allowed in any fight, but sharp blades were known to slip through from time to time. Once they were convinced she was clean, they gave her a push through the door, escorting her down a set of stairs and into a dimly lit tunnel. On either side, dug into the earth, were numerous cells with bars over the opening, like a jail. This was where they kept the “free” fighters when they arrived for their scheduled fights. Every fight was scheduled, and every fighter had to participate in three fights a week, no exceptions. Wednesday was her favorite day because it was the only day that she shared with her brother in terms of the fights.
Rianne tried not to let her feelings show. She was eager as ever, but walked nonchalantly past the cells until she came to the right one, about seventy steps away from the stairs. She knew the door on the other side of the tunnel led to the arena, thirty steps away. She pushed the thought from her mind and knelt down by the bars, peering into the dark cell. “Jamie?” She asked, ignoring the guards as they took their positions, blocking the hall in both directions. There was movement in the shadows and her gaze leapt straight to the source as her brother scooted closer to her until they could see each other, leaning against the bars. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw how thin he was. Horror filled her expression, and guilty butterflies attacked her stomach. He saw how she looked and smiled slightly, though it hurt her to see him like this. It was spring, usually there was more food to be found in spring. “What gives?” She asked him, trying to be direct, but sounding angry instead. Jamie’s smile disappeared. “I don’t know.” He answered. His words didn’t comfort her, but like always, his voice did. She felt safe and the closest thing to happiness that she could here in the city. He was a year older than her, but they might have been twins, if not for his hair and eye color. She was blonde, he had brown hair. Her eyes were dark, his reminded her of the ocean on a bad day. Rianne listened to him speak softly, reaching a hand through the bars to hold his. His grip was strong and warm, and she shuddered at the thought of going into the open arena, back into the rain. “Which is your fight?” She asked, breathless because she was terrified they would have to fight each other. Jamie seemed to sense her anxiety and squeezed her hand. “Sixth.” Rianne smiled, relieved. Their conversation always started like this. It had to. She had to know. Jamie was a good fighter. One of the best, in fact. It wasn’t that she was afraid of fighting him, they both knew she could take it, but she didn’t know what they would do if he refused to hit her. The siblings had never had to face each other yet, but it was always on both their minds. Her attention was pulled away as the bars of a cell somewhere in the tunnel creaked, being opened. Guards were retrieving a fighter for the first round. Rianne was next. “Second,” she told him, before he could ask. They didn’t have much time. Fights often didn’t last more than ten minutes. Jamie didn’t respond, reaching to take her other hand. Rianne let him, dreading the moment when they guards would force them to let go. “You’ll win,” he finally said, and this time, Rianne didn’t know what to say. It was true. “So will you.” Jamie nodded at this. “It’s raining?” He asked, meeting her gaze. “Yeah.” They sat in silence the rest of the time. She didn’t want to know what he was thinking. All she knew was that she wanted to hug him, pretend things were normal. He was all she had from her old life, and the best part of her new life. She couldn’t lose him.
It was over too soon. One of the guards hauled her to her feet and nudged her toward the arena door. “Bye,” she told her brother, and she heard a quiet ‘bye Ria’ as she was ushered down the tunnel. The guards stopped before the door, letting her turn the handle and step into the grey light of the cloudy sky, blinding compared to the light in the tunnel. She shut her eyes and ears, ignoring the screams of the crowd in the stands. The announcer did his job, introducing her as Delta to those who were unfamiliar with her, and she took her place to allow for the next fighter to enter the muddy ground of the arena floor. A boy, well over six feet tall, with short blond hair and pale brown eyes appeared with quieter applause from those watching. Most of them already knew her; this kid was a nobody. He looked to be about eighteen, and she almost felt sorry for him, until he glared at her. I know you’re not as tough as you look. The bell sounded and Rianne tensed, bringing her fists up to her chest and spreading her feet in a fighting stance. He would get the first move. The boy ran at her, and she could see he was not very fast. She side-stepped just as he reached her, kicking him in the back of the ribs. He stumbled and spun around, scowling, but she didn’t give him any time to recover. Rianne was there in seconds, wrapping her legs around his waist and using her momentum and his body weight to take him to the ground, where she immediately started punching his upper body wherever she felt like it. Blood flowed over her hands and down his face, and soon it was clear enough to everyone that Rianne had won. The bell sounded to end the fight, and she rolled off her opponent. Two guards came for each of the fighters, leading the boy first and her second. They went out the way they came in, through the tunnels, and Rianne glanced into Jamie’s cell but couldn’t see him, wasn’t allowed to stop this time.
They threw the boy out the door, then Rianne, who stood there waiting for Jaeger like she was supposed to. The boy took off, covering his nose and mouth. She smirked as he turned a corner and was gone. In her peripheral vision, she saw her owner approaching. She glanced at him, serious, hoping he was satisfied by her performance. He wasn’t. Jaeger slapped her across the face and she stepped back. “What was that?” He asked, apparently offended. “You’re too fast, wait five minutes next time!” Rianne dropped her gaze to the ground, knowing it was dangerous to look him in the eye. His wasn’t a real explanation. She was certain he hadn’t lost any money on this fight, but he needed something to punish her for anyway. Crying or begging or apologizing wouldn’t help her. He could be worse, and Rianne didn’t need that right now, so she shut up and tried to appear smaller than she was. After he stared at her for another few seconds, he resigned to act annoyed. “I am having a party tonight.” Jaeger announced this in his jolting accent. He didn’t sound like the rest of the people of the city. He had to come from Europe, or Asia, but there was no way she would ask. Rianne focused on his words, her expression unchanged. A party. She wasn’t allowed in the house during parties. It was mainly men anyway, friends of his that made her owner seem like an angel in comparison. “Be back at one.” He ordered, and she nodded once to show she understood. She fought the urge to lift her head until he had left the street beside the arena. Rianne glanced at the sky, but it was impossible to tell the time with only clouds. If she had to guess, it was probably eleven in the morning. She had to last fourteen hours by herself, which was child’s play. She had survived a year on the streets when she was still a teenager, and this wasn’t the first party she wasn’t invited to. Rianne put a hand to her stinging cheek, then wiped her bloodied hands on the bottom of her shirt. She glanced around, looking for shelter from the rain. The plan on Wednesdays was to wait for Jamie if she could. Call it luck, but today she would.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 22, 2017 1:38:50 GMT -5
Nothing had seemed off about that fateful night until it was too late to change anything, of course. Life had never been kind enough to warn him.
Another grueling day in the steel mill passed by with nothing notable than the usual hellish work landscape he and the rest of his coworkers had, unfortunately, become all too used to; the sweltering heat of the equipment and furnaces made them golden and dripping in sweat, and their perpetual hunger drove them onward, knowing they would be rewarded for their labor with a break. But every so often, a shriek would ring out though the dimly-lit, crowded space, followed by a clatter of metal or the collapse of a body altogether. But someone would come and take him away, and after taking a minute to get over themselves, they went back to work again.
It was almost easy for Luca to self-motivate through the toil of it all, though. He saw the faces of every sibling at some point in the swirling, churning, melting hot mess of metal as it trickled downwards. They were faces that writhed and screamed in the heat, only to be toppled with more of it, or to be twisted away into nothingness. That's what they'll look like if I stop working, he began saying to himself once their visages began appearing. They'll starve. They'll be caught and sold, doing God knows what, with God knows who. His wages, meager and unjust as they were, kept schoolbooks in their hands--and that was the equivalent of a golden ticket to success, in his mind.
They can be something. He repeated it to himself as he sweated and lifted and ached and risked his life in that terribly exposed mill. Finishing secondary school and earning that diploma was priceless. Maybe, if they wanted it badly enough, Yasmin and Caspar and even precious little Ada could work themselves into an apprenticeship, and learn a trade, and avoid his fate. That would be how he'd have it for them, if he was God, and had the power to guide their unfortunate lives in any direction he wanted to. Chefs and tailors and carpenters had their lives set, working relatively easily. They would never leave their workplaces burned, bleeding, or bruised.
The day had been a brutal one, though. Once his shift ended at roughly 10 o'clock at night, the young man took his time in gathering his few personal belongings and making his way out of the mill. All he could think of as he shuffled down the cracked sidewalk, half-obscured by flickering streetlights, was how badly he needed a good soak in the bath. It didn't even matter to him whether or not the water was warm, since utilities were about as unpredictable as the winds in the poorer districts of the city--he just needed something to cradle him. To make the pain and trauma ebb away so he could sleep, so he could repeat this same torturous cycle the next day.
But something in the way he walked, limping, taking his time, completely alone must have been enticing to someone else. Luca was so tired he didn't hear the shuffling of other shoes against the pavement, until it was too late, of course, and something hard struck him in the side of the head as soon as he started to turn to see who it was. His vision went black when he hit the concrete.
- - Time passed him in a strange, painful blur afterwards. At some point, he became aware that his hands had been tied. It felt as if he was being jostled about in something moving--a car, maybe. Something else warm was on the other side of him--and through the muffled screen of something like cotton over both ears and eyes, he could hear whatever it was screaming. The world faded out again.
After several more equally confusing lapses in consciousness, something more solid finally came to him, and stayed. Luca came to in some kind of enclosed pen, and he was sprawled awkwardly out on the dirt floor. The young man took in his surroundings slowly--his head throbbed like nothing he'd ever felt before, and his vision was blurred, with black specks dancing on the edge of his vision. When he finally found the strength to stand, nonetheless move without agonizing pain spreading across his limbs like a fiery hot web, the things he saw began to disturb him greatly.
He was held with other men only, similar enough to his own strapping, muscular build, but each of them was peculiarly more grizzled-looking than he could ever dream of becoming; most had scars, a mix of both old and brown and new and pink, many were adorned with fresh bruises and drying bloody noses and busted lips, all with knuckles punched raw and dark, fearsome eyes. Luca was privately terrified. He kept to his personal, bloodstained patch of dirt where he had awoken, and did his best to make sense of all this. But, with his throbbing head (and, as he ran a hand through his hair, was startled to see that his fingers came back bloodstained), nothing came to him.
Some time passed--he couldn't tell how long it had been, since the ever-present harsh glow of fluorescent lights kept him dazed. But, at some point, something changed. A group of men in uniform, riot gear, to be specific, each holding a baton, faces completely covered by protective masks, paced the outside of the pen. The expressions of those trapped inside changed from mildly confident, self-assuredness turned into thinly veiled-fear, and Luca couldn't place why. He watched the change take place with a relatively unbothered expression, though the men in uniform did unnerve him just slightly. Watching them like they were animals. Feral, dangerous. Worthless.
Then, the four men put their heads together, speaking to each other, apparently, and then, one pointed a finger directly at him. The young man froze, eyes widening. The other three nodded in agreement, and then they proceeded to unlock the door leading inside the pen. The rest of the men inside knew exactly what it meant--how they knew, Luca could only imagine--but, seemingly like a wave, they pushed him in complete unison, against his will, into the gloved hands of the officers. The fight he put up was in vain, and before he could even manage a cry out, he was flipped, pinned to the chain link of the pen, and had his hands bound firmly behind him.
Strong arms on either side of him pushed him firmly along a hallway. An officer at his side lifted his helmet just slightly, and began to speak as they walked. "You're in The Arena," he began. Sounded as if he'd done nothing since the moment he was born other than smoke cigarettes--but that was the very least of Luca's concerns at the moment. He listened with wide, attentive, terrified dark eyes. No. It can't be, this has to be a mistake--I have a family--
"You're property of the government, now," he continued on, not seeming to notice his captive's change in demeanor. "You will fight when you are summoned to. There's been a tracking chip inserted in your head--we'll know if you run." That explains the blood. It didn't comfort him any, though. "And, this is your first fight. It ends when either one of you cannot get off the ground."
He had been lead to a door, and he was stopped as soon as they approached it. "Any questions?" The lead officer asked, and then, tapped a small button on the side of his helmet, with a corresponding green light that flickered to red once it was touched. "I'm required by law to ask you that. You will not ask anything of me." His tone turned suddenly completely cold and callous. He jerked his chin up in a nod to a man who moved to one of the doors, presumably ready to open it--and at that gesture, unlocked it. "Off you go, then."
The full effect of his panic manifested in that moment--when he was being pushed towards a fate completely out of his hands, out of control, that would most likely lead to his death, but most definitely lead to a world of pain for him. "Wait!" Luca looked into the shades of the lead officer's helmet. "Don't do this, please, I know you can get me out of this--just--ah--"
A sharp shove into blinding daylight cut off his sentence. The young man stumbled, nearly falling to his feet, as he was quite literally shoved into what would determine whether or not he would see another day comfortably. Sure enough, he was one of the unfortunate souls who happened to end up in the center of The Arena. He took a moment, stricken by the impossibility of it, to look around, seeing for himself whether or not this was his reality. Sure enough, it was; richer spectators lined the seats closest to him, close enough where he could make out their peering faces making judgements of him, and people that lived more like he did sat in higher up seats, mere specks, pixels, to him.
And then, there was his competitor. No doubt older than him, perhaps walking the line of the age limit in these fights. He was much thicker, brawnier than he was, and taller, too, but clearly slower, and less athletic. Luca began to calm, knowing he certainly did have some physical advantages over him--but then he scared himself as he realized he was consciously thinking of how he could harm another man. As his challenger began to close the gap between them, the dark-haired man steeled himself, expression hardening. It's self-defense.
It's self-defense, he said to himself again and again as he forced himself to collide his fists again and again into the man's belly, his arms, his jaw, his nose. It was a fearsome fight. Luca didn't even know if he took a hit--he couldn't feel it with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, if he did--and he definitely didn't act as if he was pained, because the sheer force of his will alone pummeled the other man to a near pulp. It was over quicker than the spectators had imagined. And it was an upset match, too; when the other man collapsed into a pile of his own blood and saliva, he watched the closest people, the rich, exchange baffled looks among each other.
And then, before he could catch his breath, another squadron of men physically escorted him off, back into the inside chambers of The Arena. Luca was almost too dazed to move on his own.
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He was sick afterwards. The dark-haired man was lead to a nicer kind of holding cell, reserved for victors, most likely, one with light refreshments and a modest spread of salted meats and breads of kinds Luca hadn't gotten to see before. But his stomach, his psyche, his conscious was so overwhelmed and burdened by what he had to do to even register that he ought to eat, to take advantage of the few blessings of this new profession he'd found himself in, and rushed to a bathroom stall to empty his already void insides of whatever was left.
Another set of instructions was preached to him as he waited outside another door, sometime later. He barely listened. Something about when he heard three consecutive beeps in his ear, to report to The Arena as soon as possible--and if he didn't, they would retrieve him by force. More strict penalties would apply if he was further away, and God forbid if he tried to escape the city walls, or have the tracker removed.. After some point, it all blended into an indecipherable blur of words to him. Luca no longer cared. However much time had passed barely mattered. All he wanted was to go home--at least that much, he was permitted to do.
Luca was finally released back out to the world, after being allowed a shower and given a fresh set of clothing to change in to (and he was privately surprised by The Arena's generosity when it came to that). He began to shuffle blindly in the direction of his home, hands deep in the pockets of his plain government grey sweatpants, beyond exhausted, beyond pained at this point, and barely registered the soft rain falling on his shoulders--but something unexpected caught his attention, and he lifted his eyes from the pavement.
A man, with an accent he recognized as somewhat similar to the ones his older aunts, uncles, and grandparents spoke in, raising his voice at a much younger woman--no doubt another fighter, with her build. He stopped in his tracks to watch, feeling safe, as he stood a ways off from the angry verbal display. His expression shifted from neutral to bothered, just slightly, as he watched whoever it was slap his captive across the face. When his hand collided with her cheek, a pang of guilt flashed through Luca's chest. And for someone he barely knew, for God's sake.
Nothing made much sense in his life that day, or however long it had been since he'd been scooped off the street, but what made even less sense was the fact that he closed the distance between his comfortable stance of observation to involvement as he approached the young woman. But how could he not? All he saw in her feminine face was an older, inexplicably different, visage of one of his sisters--and he couldn't let this slip by.
"Are you alright?" He timidly asked. "He hit you. You didn't block it--you--you let him." Luca blinked out a raindrop as he peered down into the young blonde's face. "Who was that?"
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