Gorror Town

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Logical Dogma, Aug 18, 2012.

  1. The scene was reletively calm in the tiny, central Iowan ghost town. Decayed ruins of homes and stores stood amidst a grave yard of fallen brick and shattered glass; streets were littered with broken down cars, and a few mangled bodies hung from their windows or lay in the roads. The sun was beginning its decent into the deepening ocean of green. Long shadows crept and entwined like vines growing with each passing moment. Suddenly a stir rushed the nesting crows from their trees at the southern side of what used to be Stone Hill.

    A smear of elongated black that walked like a quadraped on four spindley limbs moved from the dusky forest. It drew ever closer to the remnants, lethargic and unwilling it seemed. It's long strides were enough to carry it at a decent clip, and once it had moved into the fall of light along the earth a grotesque beast was revealed. It's down cast head bobbed, though it's eyes remained hidden beneath a course mop of dirty black hair; the ends of which led to a gaping and bubbling mouth from which poured a waterfall of crimson. The monstrosity was pale and emaciated appearing, towering at a grand height of ten feet upon clawed hands and feet, and moved with an almost dizzy waver whilst the skin of its back produced massive pustules bursting open to release a noxious fume. Bits of bone and a thick yellow substance followed suit. It was far from graceful and even further from normal with its disturbing serape of knotted spines decorated with soft tissues and bone chimes alike; a surprisingly gross accent to tattered black hakama around its legs that served as unlikely solace from the rest of the thing. Flaps of skin and chunks of muscle hung splashing against each other; clapping a nasty encore to the sweet melody of disturbia. Rotting sleeves of winding entrails circled down along the creature's arms; these adorned with lungs, kidney's, livers and other various internals that met the ground with a sickening, wet splat. From time to time what bits of fat hadn't already decomposed fell away to land within gathering pools of red and roll up like slimy slugs, only to be brushed away by the slow drag of gnarled feet in movement.

    It moved onward passing between what was left of other old residents upon their sharp, iron perches. Bodies strewn here and there with only the companionship of beatles scuttling over top a bed of feasting maggots. Birds had taken the time to pluck eyes and tongues leaving empty canyons where these invertebrate vagrants squatted. Skin was peeled from the meat in the past rains and limbs stuck out in unnatural positions exposing jagged, sun bleached ends while teeth, and even whole jaws, had dropped off of the skulls. The horrific image was surprisingly lost to the outside world in the towns reletive placement to nowhere. Legend told that those who saw the bloodied scarecrows were destined to die; haunted into insanity that more often than not led to a suicide. Yet in spite of all the destruction the towns church held firm; it's bell even worked and still summoned the beasts of the deep black to its door step.

    It halted now with an unsure sway when slowly its head rose. It's mouth opened to inhuman proportions like a snake swallowing something twice its size, and from its sunken chest lept a piercing, banshee scream cracked and choked with flowing red liquid. The Mayor of Gorror town had called upon those that knew only the embrace of shadow to gather for a party. From every corner of the shadows reach he beckoned the grotesque monsters. Yet what was the purpose?

    A macabre soiree of the most detestible machinations of the mind woven from fear, envy, violence and their ilk. Yet something seemed to boil beneath the pallid surface of the creature's stomach, like a floating tumor ready to burst. No. Not yet. It had to wait until the guests had arrived to file into the hollow church. Oh how the mayor loved surprises. There was to be much dark merriment; the cackle of witches and ghouls, the scream of tormented and deformed entities a grand symphony of convergence where, like ink on paper, shadows danced amid gore with unrepressed glee.

    Come one, come all too this unholy affair.
  2. [Ohh. I wish I was good at roleplaying like this..x.x I would post back..]
  3. Dark, Cold..Dead. The winter was tragic, many had fallen sick. Was it because of him? Aergrotas Arzt. The bringer of the plague's havoc. The chill did not bother him, nor did the snow. Off to the wander thoughts of his mind, they lingered in the cause of the sickness ravaging the world currently. Shall he cause the bubonic plague to rise once more? His bones creaked, and withered as he rose from the slightly broken down cot. His hut was no the best, and not exactly the cleanest in the world, simply because it was a mere mess of some cannibalistic beast. Organs decorated the floors, blood painted the walls, bodies decorated the chairs and tables. Everywhere one stepped, there was about an inch of decrepit funk. It sloshed and squeezed between the toes of bare feet. Delicious. The funk was a simple display of clotted blood, festering flesh and pus and piss from the victims he chose. He ate them, among other things.

    He wandered towards the door, rigor mortis causing him to hold a gimp in his step. How lovely. Stiff, yet not dead nor living. Aergrotas gave a groan as he brought himself to stand at the door's caress. Digits of lithe structure, they opened the door with a turn of the handle. The wooden oak door, how lovely it was of an addition to his little hut out among the barren outskirts of this dank little town. Oh, this little lovely town of Gorror. The stench was ever so lovely, and a gift to him. He loved it.

    Aergrotas was very unique in all manners of the word, and of all depictions granted to the meaning of his name. Sickness. He was the depiction of the first horseman, Pestilence. No one knew
    this of course, he hid it and even here in Gorror Town. The seal broken long ago, there was no need for him to hide any longer, but he enjoyed the peace and destruction of nearby towns. Aergrotas was a complex being, in a not so complex universe of fear based gods and cowards hiding under religion. Apparently to some people, he was the very breath of God's Vengeance; something he despised. Religion. However, Aergrotas was a stout man, whom did not look a day over twenty-seven. He held the build of a fit young man, and slouch only when in thought. Which was most of the time. He looked as if he were a simple man covered in the inks of the world. And each one of the tattoos covering his body told a story of the destruction of one city to fall under the pestilence he brought.

    Stench of decay and rot lingered upon his nostrils; Flaring caverns of the scent deprived nose.
  4. invictussanguis_shadow-demon.jpg

    His swift movements rustled the dead leaves on the bare ground. He moved with the coursing shadows of the underworld, for, he, Cresil, was the shadow of impurity; the beckoning of sin. His dark, but almost invisible self, was hard to see. He could moved through the crowd of beasts without any slight disturbance, yet, he did not choose to do so. He wanted every creature to know he was there, and so he darkened himself as he crawled along the ground, impersonating himself at what he did best. A shadow. Though, he did not choose to be a normal shadow. Cresil appeared to have fangs, as long as steaks, sharp as needles, and as thin and ragged as knives. His eyes appeared hallow, and his breathing was not to be seen. His hands, if they could be called such, for they were gross and utterly disproportional, with his bones stretching to large, painful angles, were tipped with five inch claws, all as sharp as the sharpest knife.

    His body appeared long and slender, his rib cage showing like a starving wolf's. His legs seemed bent out of shape.
    This is what he appeared to look like, a fearsome, gruesome, shadow of a mutated animal.

    Cresil slithered his way across the ground towards the old church. A church of robbed hopes and prayers that now held the cries of sins. The sweet and delicious screams of sins themselves. Not entirely screams, but pleasures as they were fulfilled by the weak minds of religious men. Cresil soaked these sounds and auras in, as his heartbeat, which was there, but not there, cascaded through his body along with the rhythm of the satisfied sins.

    He wanted inside. Inside the old church where he could dance with and appraise the non-guilty wrong doings. But he knew, yes, Cresil knew, that there was reason to why he was called upon, and this time, he did not wish to mess up, and so he stood with the rest of the beasts, awaiting somewhat patiently outside the closed doors of the old and seemingly abandoned church. Though, a church can never truly be abandoned, even if it's lay barren of holy doings, it can be covered with the unholy of that is the unholy and the damned.