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Turtle of Doom

The Monster Under Your Bed
Original poster
Roleplay Invitations
One on One Roleplays, Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Prestige, Douche, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female, Primarily Prefer Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Either works for me. And would prefer if the story was gently led by all participating parties.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Magical, Romance, Dystopian, Religious, Post-Apocalyptic, Zombies (but the plot has to consist of more than just mindlessly murdering the undead), Steampunk
Genre You DON'T Like
Yaoi, Furry, Incest
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Turtle of Doom

The Monster Under Your Bed
Original poster
Roleplay Invitations
One on One Roleplays, Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Prestige, Douche, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female, Primarily Prefer Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Either works for me. And would prefer if the story was gently led by all participating parties.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Magical, Romance, Dystopian, Religious, Post-Apocalyptic, Zombies (but the plot has to consist of more than just mindlessly murdering the undead), Steampunk
Genre You DON'T Like
Yaoi, Furry, Incest
FFS! #1 Skeletons in the Closet


Finalists​
What's in the Closet by @Greenie

Bleak and cloudy, it was the perfect day for a young vampire to venture outside. Instead, sixteen year old Nisha Laurent was spending her time inside, sprawled on her bed as she picked through Wuthering Heights, a novel she had to read for school. It was bland and boring in her opinion and she would have given anything to put it away. In fact, it was apparently so boring for Nisha that the words blurred over, and soon enough she had dozed off, face pressed against page forty-seven.

The sound of her bedroom door opening and the subsequent footsteps caused her to blink awake, just in time to see her mother, Radha, heading towards her closet.

"No! Don't open that door!"

In a flash Nisha leapt off her bed and raced for the closet, reaching it just in time to stop the rather bewildered woman from opening it.

"Don't be silly now, Nisha," Radha scolded, motioning with her free hand at the clothes she had hanging over her arm. "I already know all about the more graphic Japanese comics you hide in there. Believe me, with two vampires in the house, any element of surprise in my life has been long gone. Now please, open the door."

A nervous laugh escaped Nisha. "Uh, well… I only have those ones to practice different art styles.” It was no secret that she wanted to be a manga artist, even if she did try to hide the sketchier of her graphic novels. “Anyway, eh, you can just put my clothes on the bed, I'll hang them myself."

The expression on her mother's face was now quite suspicious, and Nisha could only imagine the thoughts that were going through Radha’s mind, probably wondering what other nefarious things were hidden in there.

"Nisha Laurent." The young vampire sighed; whenever her mother called her with both her names it meant she was serious. "Open the door now and I won't get upset."

Nisha was about to say something but stopped when she heard her mother mutter in Hindi. This was another telltale sign that Radha was becoming annoyed, and the last thing Nisha wanted was to cause her already sick mother any more stress. So without further ado, she pulled the door open.

Radha eyed the closet as if looking for something unusual. “You know Nisha, you can talk to me about anything, right?” She pulled moved a couple of hung hoodies to the side to make place for the clothes she had to hang.

“I know Maman…” Nisha was fiddling with the hem of her shirt, clearly nervous about something.

“You’re a teenager and life can be hard,” her mother continued, carefully hanging the blouses in a colour coded fashion. “There may be things you wish to try…”

“Yeah, Maman…” Just hurry up already… The conversation was becoming unbearable.

“It’s so different from when I was in India-” Radha stopped in mid-sentence and moved back, her fingers having brushed against something strange. “What on Earth?” Tentatively reaching into the closet once more, she pulled aside a dress, and there in all its glory was a skeleton wearing a top hat, standing rather rigidly against the back of the closet.

"I guess the cat is out of the bag now.” With that, the skeleton took a step forward, attempting a half bow. When that didn’t work out well, it took hold of Radha's free hand, giving it a polite and rather toothy peck.

"..." Radha seemed momentarily stunned. "Is that you, Skellington?"

"Ahaha, I would rather go by Randall if you do not mind-"

"Yeah Maman," Nisha interrupted, “it's Skellington." The living skeleton was an old family friend who had been off the grid for quite a while. Nisha's father had managed to find him and had wanted to keep him as a secret until Halloween to surprise his wife, who quite enjoyed the flamboyant skeleton's antics.

"Oh my goodness, how long have you been here?”

"Just the one day, Maman," Nisha cut in once more with a sigh.

"Have you been stuck in Nisha's closet all this time?" Radha seemed rather scandalized by this thought.

"Papa wanted to keep him as a surprise for Halloween, he was going to have him sent over to Uncle Ravan's later tonight. Don’t worry, he wasn’t peeking or being a creeper-"

"No, no, this will not do! To the guest room with you. It has been so long since we met, there's so much catching up to do..." The teenage vampire watched as her mother dropped the rest of the clothes she had been holding on the bed. With both hands free, she clasped Skellington's bony wrist and practically dragged him out of the room.

Well, so much for that surprise, Nisha thought, shaking her head. To think I'm gonna have to put my clothes away after all. Well... At least it'll be fun to watch Papa cry like someone in my manga.

Untitled by @Peregrine

The first thing Hamilton noticed after he entered the living room was the tear streaked mascara under Emily’s eyes. He froze as he noticed the second thing, the monogrammed gun case he’d given her as a joke for their 25th anniversary. It was empty.

“I told you not to do this.” There was something cold and broken in his wife’s voice. It made her tears for him seem like a lie. Maybe they were– the ring on her finger was gone. “Some doors should never be opened.” The gun in her hands quivered slightly, and the taste of bile rose in his throat.

“Now I have to protect our son from you.”

He felt a brief burst of pain. She never gave him the chance to justify his choice.

One Day on a Planet Called Sidbury by @Ravenfrost

Humans had discovered the planet Sidbury over a hundred years ago. Discovered, invaded, and easily conquered since the native humanoid life form, the Bungee, pathetically offered no resistance. The hairless, svelte Bungee, whose skin color ranged from pale violet to deep aqua with gold splotches, were ridiculously passive compared to myriad other sentient beings encountered since Earth United had perfected travel between the stars.

As planets went, Sidbury couldn’t hold a candle to old (polluted) Earth--it had only one viable continent. But that continent was exceedingly pleasant—not only a breathable atmosphere, but soft breezes, lush vistas and now, ready-made servants (slavery was frowned on). Earth United made a huge killing selling tracts of land to the highest bidders. And even a more sizeable fortune selling the rights to the new planet’s name.



Skipper G. Sidbury woke up on his 13th birthday at first brush of daylight, instantly alert. With a huge smile, he impatiently sprang out of his opulent bed. Today he was going to the planet’s premier amusement park! There was a soft knock at his door.

“Come,” he called out.

Varete, Skip’s favorite Bungee servant, entered the suite with Skip’s daily outfit (white flowing trousers, silky beige undertunic, and white, high-collared overcoat embroidered with the family crest) folded over one slender purple arm.

“Hey,” Skip called out excitedly, “We’re going to the park today! You and me, afino! And well, about 200 other kids.”

Varete smiled gently. He had been looking forward to this day, also. Today, Skip officially became the head of the Sidbury dynasty. The possibilities... Although it was only a fool who bet on a kamet’s egg before its shell splintered.

Initially, the Bungees suffered derisive suspicion from their human overlords. However, after 100 years of living side by side with these gentle, subservient natives, the humans that once scorned his people now found them indispensable to their comfort.

Thus, Bungees were a commonplace sight in all aspects of life. It was not unusual for him to accompany the boy to his amusements. Skip’s elders were too busy to spend frivolous time with a 13-year-old boy. Instead, a stiflingly formal birthday dinner would be held tonight with local and foreign dignitaries, some of whom were currently guests at the estate.

“Varete,” mused Skip, lifting his arms as the servant fastened a gold sash around his waist, “I overheard some people talking last night. They said my father was a ‘mifir-sangi.’ And laughed! I asked grandfather about it and he got mad at me. He said ‘some doors shouldn’t be opened’ and kicked me out of his study. Why?”

He looked at Varete plaintively, his soft brown eyes troubled.

Varete coughed softly, caught off-guard. There were ears everywhere. “Ah. Yes. Well. I believe it means something unpleasant not to be mentioned in polite conversation. We can explore that later perhaps, but now you must eat breakfast and get ready to go! All your friends will be waiting for you to open the park.”

Successfully distracted, Skip nodded happily, his long blonde hair over one eye, “They’ll kill me if I’m late!”

Varete sighed in relief. Truly, this was not the right moment to explain to the teenager that his father indulged himself with Bungee lovers. And certainly not why they were more than willing.



Skip shook his head to clear the waves of slight dizziness he had been feeling all morning. He was determined to have the best day, ever! Except for the Bungees and some human amusement park workers, the environment was adult-free. All the young heirs were here, most of them friends from school. The young elite swarmed like a mass of crop-eating insects from attraction to attraction, laughing, screaming, and shouting at a volume that made their servants cringe.

They approached a newly-opened attraction—a domed building labeled “The Mysteries.” Statues of strange deities postured, as if warning them to stay away. A recorded voice enticed them to “TRY YOUR LUCK! WHO WILL BE DEEMED WORTHY TO VIEW THE MYSTERIES?” Two exotically-clad guards at the door stood with wooden expressions. When plied with questions, they simply gestured towards the entrance indifferently.

One black-haired boy aggressively elbowed his way to the front. Everyone watched as he swaggered onto the entrance platform, and a light overhead flashed bright orange. The platform revolved and spat him out again. The crowd laughed and teasingly jeered. “Reject!” “Loser!”

Skip inhaled nervously and went forward. Varete sighed in relief as a rainbow of colors flashed overhead when his master stepped onto the platform. An interior doorway then appeared and Skip walked through it, out of sight of the crowd. Soon over 120 teenagers had passed through the portal and the bored and disgruntled rejects drifted away in search of other fun.



Along with other key personnel, Varete slipped into the amusement park building through a back entrance.

His people had not been warriors, but they had other skills. Decade after decade they had interbred with the humans; slowly, skillfully altering their genetic composition. The colonists’ lax morals had made it all the more easy, no matter how much they wished to hide their sins. There was scarcely a pure-blood human left on the planet.

Here and now, the culmination of decades of work would be tested.

They had designed this current crop of children to trigger in full at a certain age so that with certain stimuli so that they would morph into something neither human nor Bungee, but a new breed who would be walking flashpoints—generating changes in every sleeper they encountered.

Soothed by the chemically-altered atmosphere inside The Mysteries, Skip sat happily giggling with his friends, as they watched their skin change colors: light violet, aqua, deep red with silver streaks. So pretty!


Grand Finalist​

Where O' Where Could My Baby Be? by @Doctor Jax

Some doors shouldn’t be opened.

I think I had known for a long time what had been going on, but I chose to ignore it. The baby clothes. The crib. The tiny shoes. Must have been hundreds of dollars’ worth of the stuff. She spent hours in the nursery. I had chalked it up to mourning. I hadn’t known it had grown to obsession.

Maybe I didn’t want to know. Some doors shouldn't be opened.

“Mom?” I asked in front of the nursery.

I leaned my forehead against the baby blue door, staring down at the drips of red on the white carpet leading up to the jamb.

“Mom?” I asked again, louder.

She wanted my baby sister so bad. I felt so much guilt when they told us they couldn’t find a heartbeat. Those four months I had felt replaced. All the attention was on the baby. Afterward, I kept thinking “I have my own mom again”, but that was horrible of me. She’d lost a whole future. We didn’t have the heart to tell everyone. Some doors shouldn't be opened.

It broke her.

Weeks after, she spent our rent money again on stuffed animals, bottles, mobiles, blankets. She bought baby dolls, expensive ones, but she never pretended they were real. She just disappeared into the nursery with them. Maybe that was why I thought she was fine.

I don’t think it was enough. I had thought after she’d tossed her last silicone darling into the trash that she’d given it up. That maybe she was finally healing.

But I couldn’t find her today. All I saw was a missing kitchen knife and blood from the couch and into the nursery.

I bit my lip as I heard ragged breathing.

“Mommy?” I whimpered, beginning to sob. “What did you do?”

“Honey… get… get me a towel. I want… want you to meet your baby sister. Come meet your baby sister.”
 
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Turtle of Doom

The Monster Under Your Bed
Original poster
Roleplay Invitations
One on One Roleplays, Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Prestige, Douche, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female, Primarily Prefer Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Either works for me. And would prefer if the story was gently led by all participating parties.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Magical, Romance, Dystopian, Religious, Post-Apocalyptic, Zombies (but the plot has to consist of more than just mindlessly murdering the undead), Steampunk
Genre You DON'T Like
Yaoi, Furry, Incest
FFS! #2 Birth of a Legend


Finalists​

@Doctor Jax's Advocate of the Dead

“What was it like? The first time you met my father?”

“Honestly? Terrifying.”


*

Dorian stared over the wall, sweating in his armor. No. Those were just rumors.

The tavern-talk had it a corpsethief set a town afire and killed the lot, enslaving the dead. Tall tales, of course, but… he remembered one woman, gesticulating wildly with a stein.

“Then, from ashes they rose, like mushrooms after rain. He’s headed right for the capital, too - for revenge.”

Nonsense, of course.

But now, before the castle gates stood a young man with midnight hair and heavy eyes leading a mass grave. The dead men he spearheaded were burnt to various degrees, some little more than charred skeletons, a town’s worth of souls.

Dorian’s veins filled with ice.

Pops said all the corpsethieves were drowned by decree. Unless… no, he’s too young.

The captain shouted to take aim, and the veterans loaded silver-tipped bolts. Yet, the corpsethief did not advance.

What was he waiting for?

*

“None of us understood. We thought he was like the others. A being of violation. But then… he stepped aside.”

*

The young man stood back and allowed a charred corpse in ornate, but singed, robes to come forward, law book in hand.

“We wish,” the corpse croaked, “for an audience with the Magis.”

There was a thrum of unease. A conference conspired, and after some heated debate, Dorian – quivering – was told to stay his post.

“We will allow this – but the corpsethief stays under trigger!”

The youth nodded, the dead streaming past him into the castle. Alone in the courtyard, his dark eyes scanned the soldiers. Every finger itched.

“Don’t try anything, gravebreaker!” the captain warned.

He remained painfully still.

“What do you want anyways?!” Dorian shouted, trigger ready.

The man’s mouth twitched.

“Justice.”

*

“Didn’t someone try to shoot him?”

“Yeah, Private Orrison. Oddly that’s how we became friends.”


*

“Crock of-“ Orrison muttered beside Dorian, and his eyes widened as the older man took his finger off the trigger guard.

“No!” Dorian yelled, knocking the crossbow’s end upward. The bolt flew wild.

Below, the young man flinched, a spark of mortal fear in his eyes. But he stood his ground, giving Dorian a look that spoke miles as Dorian glanced back. The boy nodded his head in thanks. Dorian returned it in kind.

*

“His village was razed by a competing guild. No one would have known – they were in disguise and he was the only one left alive. It was his first case as Advocate. We talked about it for months. He somehow snuck almost 60 corpses into the capital, up to the gate. I still don’t know how he did it.”

“So the dead knew and let him puppet them anyways?”

“Well, they had raised him. And they trusted him. Eventually, that trust paid off. The king put to death that Guildmaster three years later, after a long investigation.”

“And…his town?”

“He let them have their peace.”


*

Dorian found him in Stafford’s ruin, the last grave dug. The man – Garret – hadn’t even let the dead dig their own resting places. He turned to the soldier behind him, and Dorian swallowed as he was subject to Garret’s thousand-pound stare.

“The king… wants you in his employ.”

Garret’s brow furrowed.

“To keep an eye on me.”

“I don’t think so,” Dorian professed, shaking his head slowly. “I think… he wants to give you a chance. Right some wrongs. Grant some-“

“Justice,” Garret finished.

“Peace,” Dorian corrected.

Garret stuck the shovel into the last grave and sighed, his smile longing.

“Got nothing better to do anyways.”

*

“Some people don’t understand. They’ll always think he was an abomination, because of what he could do. But to me – to those who knew him… he was a legend. Don’t you let anyone tell you otherwise.”


@Greenie's The Monster Falls

She was known far and wide as the Monster, the name sending intrigue, uneasiness and dread through people whenever they caught sight of her. A sensible person would have chosen to simply abandon their mission and fight another day.

Yet here I was, the only survivor, locked in a one on one battle with her. She had never met me nor I her, but as our fiery gazes met, we knew this was no longer a battle of strength or speed. The time for that had long passed, not that it had availed the others. This had always been one of endurance.

I was not going to back down; I was born for this.

The deadlock was at last broken when a cry of frustration left her. "Fine! I- I can't! I give up!"

There was a stunned silence, and then- "AW, HELL YEAH!" I had done it! I had won!

And that, my dear children, was how I became known as the Destroyer, the one to finally beat the Monster in the 'All You Can Eat Cupcake Challenge'.

Anonymous's Legends Aren't Born, They're Forged

A blanket of darkness and frost had settled upon the land. With Luna's radiance gone, the pitch of night clung tight. And without Sol's warmth, earth and living both grew to be dead stiff. In the clutch of winter's frigid bosom, all were overcome, a part from two silhouettes enveloped by the twilit glow of flames. The smallest, sat at ease watching the other, which by comparison seemed enormous and stood astute. Its flickering shadow was that of a man. Having rounded shoulders, burly biceps and a broad back. Shadow had changed little from the past, as now old arms raised and fell to find painful resistance where hammer met iron.

"Klang... Klang... Klang..."

Rhythmic were the motions of work. Sweat gleamed off the blacksmith's brazen skin, whose scars spoke of hard fought battles long since won. Inside the hovel, the breath of fire gently enveloped them. Guarding the two as the night marched on, with the bitter cold laying wait.

Bare feet shuffled and red iron returned to flame. With sharp eyes, the old blacksmith watched the furnace and inspected the new blade. His presence all but obscuring the heat. With his lumbering frame and attention turned away, the encroaching darkness captured the room, before a whispering wind adventured inside. Laying hand on the young child, a numb chill ran up its spine, and they began to shiver in the twilight of warmth. The voice of the blacksmith appeared, and reverberated into the familiar croak as his story continued.

"The line was all but confusion, and on verge of rout. Commander shouted orders, but found few to listen. Men fled and threw their arms, others froze stiff with fright. Those of brave heart were able to stand proud. But hardly a soul could glare at death, on its way by sea of men."

Silence soon seized the hovel. The blacksmith took his time in removing the hot iron from the furnace. As he once again picked up his hammer so too did his tale.

"As we stood and ran, there came a cry. Not the commander's plea for order, but a voice of conviction. ... A mule. A non-combatant who gathered up a soldier's arms and ran to the fore. Like the squeak of a mouse in stampede, only I and few others heard, but hear we did.

Brothers!"

The blacksmith's voice grew hoarse.

"Brothers! ... You charge falsely! That! Is where our enemy awaits defeat! ...

Hmph. We looked on, watching a man driven mad by fear we thought. That was no way for mule to speak to soldiers."

A long pause, as persistent as the cold night followed. Only the stoking of the furnace's flames which had began to ebb and dim broke it.

"Brothers we were. But brothers we did not act. ...

He reminded us, of the legends told to small boys in the village. ... Stirred within us strong envy, for want of courage. The proud among us, and I, began to take after him. With no hope of surviving, we could not allow a mule to show more courage than we. As we ran, the frozen behind followed too, and even the fleeing, turned and fled our way. ...

The gust of defeat was upon us, and all our fires snuffed. Yet his was aglow and continued to burn hot. Ignited by the wind it grew and grew, until it kindled our own. ...

When the wall crashed upon us, it was clear he had been unfit for battle. ... Twas known, he could not fight with mail. But he needn't it. ... Too short was he for cavalry's reach. And pikes could but graze as he swiftly battered them. ... He fought fierce. Like a freed lion tasting freedom. Shield was sword and sword shield. ... Nothing conquered his fang and claw. Save the arrow of a hunter. ..."

The blacksmith grew still, light gleaming off his eyes, before he returned the room to a long darkness.

"We buried him in that valley, among our brothers. None knew of his name or family. Our respect, could but carry us on in his stead. ... After that day, we carried on the war, never to flee again. When Fortuna favored our enemy, we would hear his cry for brothers ring and stood fast. ...

True heroes are not born, they are forged. With a heart of courage, ready to take blows with head held high. No matter flinch or flee, to keep your fire alight, and with it iron blood red hot. Is all one needs."
 

Nemopedia

Chaotic Lawful
Roleplay Invitations
Group Roleplays, One on One Roleplays
Posting Speed
Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
GMT +1/2 | CET/CEST | Random, mostly on my phone
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
No Preferences
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Both, depending how much there is going on already.
Favorite Genres
Tragedy, Psychological, Historical, Steampunk, Mystery, Thriller, Sci-fi, see tag list for more...
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance
FFS! #3 Dreams of Glory


Finalists​

SkittlesAndSpike SkittlesAndSpike 's Bucking Crazy
“You don’t have to do this. We can just walk away and pretend this never happened.” Lukas held me by both of my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. He was worried about me, as a best friend should. He didn’t want me to end up paralyzed, dead or worse.


I was starting to think maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t have to risk my life trying to perform some impossible task. Many men greater than I had tried, and they'd all failed. What chance did a scrawny fellow like myself stand? I should just listen to Lukas. Between the two of us he was always the smart one. But just as I thought about walking away I caught notice of them, staring at me with disapproval in their eyes and an unimpressed look on their faces.


“No...” I shook my head and pushed Lukas back, ignoring the stunned look on his face. “You’re wrong. If I walk away now I’ll never be able to show my face in this town again.” This was something I had to do. I had to prove that I wasn’t a coward, that I was every bit the man I said I was. This was a matter of personal pride.


The patrons of the bar cheered as I entered the small stadium and, with no hesitation, mounted the mechanical beast before me. I dug my knees into its side and gripped the handle on its back tightly. I raised my free hand into the air and suddenly, the cheering stopped. The entire room went quiet, waiting for me to speak. With all eyes on me, I could feel fear and anxiety building inside my gut, but it was too late to back out now.


“...Let’s do it.” Was that really my voice? It sounded so...so...strong! So confident! Maybe I could really do this! The cheering came back in full force, and the beast below me rumbled, sending the ball of anxiety I felt earlier reverberating throughout my body.


I was pretty sure I was going to die.


With a loud snort I was jerked to the left, then to the right, both times threatening to throw me off if my grip on the handle was to loosen or my knees to slip. My wrist and shoulders were already starting to ache, and this was just the beginning. I had 2 minutes and 57 seconds more of this to go and I could already feel tonight’s dinner coming back up.


By the end of it all I’d barely managed to stay on the death machine, but sadly, my adoring audience had scattered, leaving only Lukas to congratulate me on my victory. I didn’t blame them, I’d been firing off blobs of chewed Tex Mex and beer like cannonballs the entire time. At least they’d seen me start, and that took guts of steel (which I clearly did not have).


Lukas helped remove my dizzy and wobbly ass from the mechanical bull, which let out one last snort, this one in defeat. “I can’t believe you did it. It was disgusting, but you did it.” He patted me on my back, grinning from ear to ear. “They were watching the whole time.”


They better have been. I’d grabbed the bulls by the horn, almost literally, and proven myself as a man. I was owed a kiss. I turned my head in her direction and put on quite the triumphant look (except for the bits of puke dribbling down my chin). “Gotta say man, I’m proud of you.” Lukas gave my back another pat. He was just happy that I didn’t make him look like a loser in front of two hot girls but I didn’t care. I was too happy that I beat the Bucking Bull challenge.


“Ya know, it wasn’t even about impressing girls. It was about getting out there and proving myself.” I started with my victory speech. As weak as I sounded, I liked to think it was pretty good. “I was scared to get on that bull, but I did it anyway!” I raised a hand into the air and pointed it at one of the girls, who was rolling her eyes, but at least she was smiling.


“I came; I saw; and I-” Puked whatever else I put in my stomach today all over the floor.


There goes that kiss.

Childish Grumpino Childish Grumpino 's Do Not Wake The Sleeping King
The task is routine, it is all but muscle memory now.

It is all Pan has ever known.

Each morning she rises from her cot and dons the robes of her position in the Temple. Each morning she joins her brethren in burning the sacred oils, the scents bringing her to a quiet sense of purpose. After lunch she takes her place in the Choir arrayed before the Door That Must Not Be Opened, invoking their hymns to the Sleeping King.

The Sleeping King who dreams the world around them. Thus claim the Prophets. The Sleeping King’s slumber is the very ground they walk upon. When he is calm, the world is at peace. When he is fitful, the world knows only chaos. Thus Pan and her brethren in the Temple must be watchful to ensure that the Sleeping King is not disturbed.

That above all else, he is never woken.

The days blend into the next as Pan makes her way through a life of prayer and comtemplation. Without question. To be a servant of the Temple is to preserve the very fabric of the world itself.

This she believes, without question.

Until the day Ylar arrives at the Temple.

He is unlike any man Pan has met; tall and lean compared to the stocky Priests and frail Prophets. His head has been recently shaved, but this only further shows his weather-beaten features. To her astonishment he seeks her out on that first day, turning to her rather than to the more senior members of the Clergy.

Soon he has her sitting, enraptured to something she has never heard before. A challenge to the words of the Prophets, spoken by an ordinary man with such conviction she cannot help but listen.

“Have you heard the the Sleeping King?” Ylar asks, “Has anyone? How do we know he dreams?”
“We know by his slumber,” Pan recites, “when he is disturbed, so too is the realm. The same for the lands around us.” Yet he just smiles.
“And you have seen this with your own eyes?” Meekly, defeated, she can but shake her head.
“I am a simple man,” he continues, “I believe in the nature of cause and effect. The sun shines, my crops grow. The rains flow too often, my crops rot. Who is to say whatever is beyond the Door That Must Not Be Opened is not the same?”
“That is for the Prophets to decide,” Pan replies half-heartedly.
“The Prophets are old. They are lost to tradition.” Ylar's eyes burn with the passion of his words. “This temple holds the fate of the world in its hands, yet it succumbs to routine. That is sad, is it not?”

After this, Pan no longer knows restful sleep.

She cannot deny the truth of this man's words.

“What if we could control his reactions?” Ylar asks one day as they partake in oil duty, “what if we could assure calm and bountiful times for all? Would you do it?”
“That is not for me to decide,” Pan declares, but she fears she no longer believes it.
“We could ensure that all are fed, that all are warm and healthy. Is that not the greatest kindness? Is that not what the Sleeping King would want?”

Ylar's question burns to her core.
“I do not know what he wants,” she replies, and Ylar smiles.
“Has anyone asked him?”

After this, Pan does not know sleep.

She rises from her spartan cot, donning the robes of her position in the Temple. She joins her brethren in burning the oils. As they depart for lunch she lingers, her eyes flicking between the departing clergy and the door.

He lies on the finery one would expect of a King, all drapes and canopies that Pan cannot help but marvel at. As she stands over him, hands shaking, she sucks in a last, desperate breath.

And then she lowers her arms onto the sleeping form, gripping his shoulders and shaking him roughly.

The King's eyes flutter open, gazing bleakly. His mouth opens, inhaling deeply.

Her shoulders tense, her stomach tightens, her whole body bracing.

From this moment, her world will never be the same again.
 

Nemopedia

Chaotic Lawful
Roleplay Invitations
Group Roleplays, One on One Roleplays
Posting Speed
Slow As Molasses
My Usual Online Time
GMT +1/2 | CET/CEST | Random, mostly on my phone
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
No Preferences
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Both, depending how much there is going on already.
Favorite Genres
Tragedy, Psychological, Historical, Steampunk, Mystery, Thriller, Sci-fi, see tag list for more...
Genre You DON'T Like
Romance
FFS! #4 Play the Fool


Grand Finalist

Jays Jays 's Sin of the Father
Sin of the Father

The king had died, and they didn't let the young prince see his father's body.

Barely more than a child, the prince entered the Throne room with a heavy heart. He looked upon his father's throne, a magnificent symbol of white and gold with a curtained chamber behind it where the king's advisor had used to give discreet council centuries before. As members of the Court filled the hall, the prince lowered himself to the Throne , his body cold with fear.

Then a voice behind the curtain spoke to him: "Do not be afraid." Startled the prince began to turn around, but the voice hissed alarmingly. "Do not look upon me." It said, "Not now, not ever. Only hear my words so I may guide you."

Frozen with trepidation, the prince looked out to the faces of the Court, seeing hunger and greed plain on their expressions. They questioned his youth, challenged his strength, disclaimed his rule and birthright. The young prince could not refute or defend himself, but then the voice behind the throne started to speak, and in a numbing trance the prince repeated its words.

He knew not what he spoke, but the predators' faces turned from glee to confusion, to worry, to dismay, then fear. The voice rose in pitch and the prince followed, bellowing the words like clapping thunder. Slowly, in an inevitable wave, the Court fell to their knees and bowed their heads with reverent respect. The prince was King.

The King grew from a boy to a man. There were obstacles in his path, high as mountains and wide as the sea, but the king forced through them resolutely, and when he stumbled, he would come to the voice behind the throne. The voice was wise and knew many things, its council always sagely and full of lessons.

The voice taught the young King the treacherous ways of the Court so he would not be made a fool. It accompanied the king through many sleepless nights of the campaign against a neighbouring kingdom, its foresight and caution accorded the king's eventual victory. When the King's mother died, he wept by the throne for a day and a night where the voice offered its rich silence that spoke more than a thousand comforting words. As the King grew older still, their bond changed from teacher and pupil to an ubreakable friendship. When the King was plagued with self-doubt, when he first fell in love, when his children were born, the voice was always there behind the throne, like a loyal shadow. And never once did the King look behind the curtains, never once did he break the silent pact they made.

One day, the King sat on his throne in the empty hall, weary and grey in his old age, but content and happy for all the great deeds he had accomplished in his time. But the voice spoke up and its words froze the King's blood in his veins. "Kill your son." It said.

The King sat frozen on his throne, fear and turmoil warring on his wizened features. "Why?" He asked.

"A terrible fate awaits him." The voice replied. "It is better to kill him than to let him suffer that fate."

The King dared not believe what he heard. But the voice was wise and knew many things, that much had been proven a thousand times over in their long years together. But how could he murder his flesh and blood, no matter the circumstance? Nevertheless, how could he disregard the prophecy of the voice that had always been right?

Stricken with trepidation that slowly turned into a fury to great it clouded his vision red, the King did the unthinkable. He rose from his place on the throne and threw wide open the curtain behind him.

There he saw with great horror, his father, the King before him, his body half-fused into the back of the throne, his hands and feet bound by chains as black as the night. His father's eyes were mournful, full of sorrow and regret.


The king had died, and they didn't let the young prince see his father's body.

The prince stepped into the massive hall with grief and worry weighing down his heart. He looked up, and there it sat, his father's throne, magnificent white and gold, the very symbol of power. And on its back a single curtain of velvet and fire concealing the chamber beyond.
 
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