Kay attempts to code

[kaleidoscopique]

I dunno what I'm doing. If you're reading this, I can't imagine why.

Rémy XXX

The aromas of alcohol and sweat and smoke mingled to form something timeless. Outside, the night watchmen and harsh bark of the German tongue had been replaced by tradesmen hawking their wares, prostitutes advertising their bodies. The crisp air of late fall had faded to a spring of torrential downpours and fog that obscured the city and sunk its teeth into exposed flesh.

Within le Syndicat, however, nothing changed. The dark-paneled wood bore traces of old drinks and fights and the initials of lovers in indelible carving. The stone walls had probably been around since the streets ran red with the blood of the bourgeoisie. That, thought Rémy, was comforting. The club, for all its unsavoury characters and sticky floors, was a refuge. Eyes closed, chair tipped back on two legs, he felt at peace with the world.

"Hé! Rémy, réveille-toi. Il vient d'arriver."

Startled, Rémy nearly sloshed his drink over himself as his chair clattered to the floor. When he opened his eyes, Antoine was smirking down at him. He shot a scowl at the broad-shouldered bartender. "Putin. I was having a moment." Had it been anyone else, he might have pushed the matter, but Antoine had seen him at his worst, had held him back when rage blinded his vision, had not picked up and fled when he saw the core of Rémy's being. That kind of closeness came with certain liberties.

He placed the drink on the table and, straightening his tie, emerged from behind the screen into the front room. A few men glanced up from their conversations and their drinks, before looking away out of respect or disinterest. He knew most of them by name.

The dealer, Thierry, was a rough-hewn boulder of a man, more suited to rural life than the warren of the city. Still, he was effective, and far be it from Rémy to turn down business based on appearances. Le Syndicat served as a safe space, a meeting ground where transactions could take place away from prying eyes. Privacy was worth paying for, now that the post-war confusion of the police force had begun to resolve itself.

The forger was a stranger. Rémy had seen one of his works, and it had impressed him. He liked to think a childhood spent staring at dust-coated oil renditions of his ancestors and the somber Rhone landscapes had given him an eye for art. Desperate for escape, the heavy gilded frames had been portals to distant lands, rife with the possibility of adventure.

The man before him looked out of his element. His features were refined, his posture betrayed by the defensiveness in his eyes. Rémy's gaze locked with the artist's as he wound his way around the bar. "Salut," he said. Thierry reeked of sweat, and the artist was difficult to gauge so soon, so Rémy decided to forego the customary bisous. Instead, he slid into the booth after the other men. He was here in the role of arbitrator.

"Antoine," he called over his shoulder. "A drink for our friends, if you please." He turned to the newcomer. "What'll it be?" To his annoyance, his upper-class accent was heightened by fatigue and the whiskey coursing through his veins.

 

[kaleidoscopique]

IC thread: click me!​

Intro Rules

• 
  
  Welcome to my AU take on the BBC show Peaky Blinders! No knowledge of the series is required. OCs are welcome + encouraged. *Please post in OOC thread if interested in joining!*
  
  England, 1919
  
  

  

  
  
  The war has ended. Birmingham's working class have returned to the drudgery of factory jobs, but men still wake sweating and screaming and wondering precisely what it was they fought for in the trenches of France. Women who tasted freedom have awoken to find themselves stuck back in the kitchen despite their grand ideas. Workers' unions are gaining traction and there are worried mutters in government about communism.
  
  And yet, behind closed doors there is music and laughter, whiskey and a haze of smoke, beautiful women and backroom deals. Striding through this post-industrial hellscape, coats billowing behind and caps set at a jaunty angle, come the kings of this wretched domain. Businessmen tip their caps and mothers pull their children into doorways as they stride past. They are known as the Peaky Blinders, thanks to their reputation for treating dissent with a swipe to the face with the razorblades concealed in their caps.
  
  This gang, headed by the Shelby family, controls the district of Small Heath more concretely than any politician or lawmaker. Aside from the occasional clashes with cops and the Italian mob, and a tentative peace with the local unions, they do well for themselves. Protection fees, controlling the local black market, and fixing horseraces provide a substantial income at a time when the poor are starving, and they reward loyalty.
  
  The only problem? This small-time existence isn't enough for their ambitious leader, made reckless by witnessing the horrors of war. When the gang stumbles across something it was never meant to find, and he attempts to turn that to their advantage, its very existence is threatened.
  
  Beyond the larger politics, the business is a family affair, and family is messy. Rife with conflicting personalities, romance, strong women and shellshocked men, relationships are complex. And, in a family where the workday involves paying off cops and honor is worth killing for, the stakes are high.
  
  
  Welcome! You can call me Kay. I'm brand-new to this site, but an old hand at writing. I'll be playing the head of the Shelby family. The other characters, and the direction our plot takes, are entirely up to you. I'll likely bring in NPCs to move the plot along, any of whom are up for grabs.
  ​
  
  
• [fieldbox="Rules, goldenrod, dashed, 10"]
  
  
  • Adhere to all iwaku rules.
  • 18+ for mature themes.
  • 3 paragraph minimum. More is great. Evocative writing please! Adept + strongly preferred.
  • Romance is awesome. Two characters holding up the plot while they get off? Not so much. Take it to the PMs, people! (again, pls obey iwaku rules)
  • Be able to post minimum once a week. More is highly encouraged. If I haven't heard from you by then with a reply or a brief explanation, we'll work around you. If it happens again, I'll assume you've lost interest.
  • If there's a lot of dialogue, you're welcome to use PMs and edit into a single post.
  • Plot ideas? Sweet! Just please run anything gamechanging by me first.
  • I shouldn't have to say this, but: no godmodding. NPCs are fine.
  [/fieldbox]
  
  [fieldbox="Character Creation, goldenrod, dashed, 10"]
  
  Suggested characters:
  
  
  • Mob family (associates, members, leader's siblings, aunt/uncle, mother, etc...please read my character profile)
  • Cops (undercover, corrupt, new to town and idealistic, etc)
  • Rival gang member
  • Union leaders, Communist agitators, assorted political groups (IRA?)
  • Aristocracy
  • Journalist, investigative reporter
  • Prostitute, barmaid, entertainer, innkeeper
  • Ex-soldiers/nurses (can combine with any other occupation; can have wartime connections with existing characters)
  
  Character Bio (though feel free to elaborate):
  
  
  • Name, age
  • FC (realistic please, no anime)
  • History, occupation, personality
  • Any relevant connection to plot/existing characters
  [/fieldbox][/colors]

 

[kaleidoscopique]

Hannibal​

XXXXX

[hr="color: #fff;"]


Stairs creaked, and Hannibal put his artistic arranging of eggs on hold. Turned to face the entrance to the kitchen. He hadn't expected Will to wake so soon. The professor's timing was impeccable, though it gave him less time to collect his thoughts. He did not bother to reply to the inane greeting, not when there was clearly a question taking shape in Will's eyes. Silence was needed to draw it forth.

He saw turmoil in Will's face. A confusion which was miles away from last night's calm certainty. It was difficult to reconcile this daylight Will, riddled with regret, with his nocturnal counterpart. He thought he detected guilt, and it was tedious, but it did not undo the triumph that had flashed across the man's face in the freedom of the garden.

He relinquished the task of table setting with a nod of approval, and turned back to finish the coffee while waiting for Will's thoughts to crystallize. He was impatient, but sleep and change clouded even the sharpest of minds, and he could not blame the man.

Then it came. Not the anticipated string of questions, but a statement. "This isn't the first time."

Hannibal finished running hot water through the filter, placed it in the sink, before answering. He wondered just what he had unleashed. He hoped that he had not misjudged Will, that he had not been wrong to let down his act. A few crocodile tears might have forestalled such awkward inquiries, and yet he couldn't find it within himself to regret the lapse, or to make a show of guilt. It would have spoiled the moment. He hoped only that he would not be forced to put an end to Graham's questions, not now that he'd begun to grow attached.

"I presume you are not referring to the breakfast." His tone was pleasant. He stilled, regarded Will with unflinching directness. "Are you insinuating that I make a habit of removing the bodies of dinner guests from my garden? Or are you teetering on the edge of a confession?"

[/hr]

[hr="color: #fff;"][/hr]

 

[kaleidoscopique]

Abraxas

Jackson Triggs liked mornings. He liked the short respite, the moment when time hung suspended in pastel light, before the noise and the chaos of the others disturbed his peace. He liked to sip coffee on the balcony and watch dawn creep over the rooftops. Unfortunately, today, his alarm seemed to have malfunctioned. Dawn had come and gone by the time he rolled out of bed.

Within the confines of his hotel room, Jackson could very nearly believe he lived a normal life. This space was his alone, and he kept it tidy; it could have been any hotel , in any city. Nothing about the cream-colored walls or plasma TV screamed 'here be demons', and that was the way he wanted it. He shrugged on his dressing gown and carpet slippers, stifled a yawn. Coffee was most definitely in order.

He saw nobody as he padded down the hallway. The windowless passage, with its glittering chandeliers and vaulted ceiling, felt wide enough to swallow him whole. In his past life, he found opulence intimidating. Now, he rationed his fear for vampires and room cleaning.

He slipped into the kitchen, industrial-sized equipment juxtaposed against Roman-era brickwork and an open fireplace, without incident. Predictably, nobody had thought to start the coffee machine. And then a noise came from the pantry. Curious, he peered around the corner, then immediately regretted the decision. A Grenoble real-estate magnate was wrapped around the resident incubus in a tangle of limbs and hot breath. The minor demon was doing something with a turkey baster which was less than foodsafe. Sending a prayer heavenward for patience, Jackson retreated without his caffeine.

It was not a promising start to the day.

Jackson felt a tug at his naval, and there was no sense in resisting. He and Abraxas were inextricably linked; he couldn't go far, and the demon's presence was a constant niggling at the back of his mind. At least he only had one connection to deal with. He didn't know how the demon withstood the constant weight of his little collection of lost souls. Mind you, the guy had long ago passed the boundaries of sanity.

He found Abraxas in the gambling hall. At the moment, the tables were piled with fruit platters, along with several glasses of what Jackson (unfortunately) recognized as goat blood. A great fire roared in the grate, despite the heat. Apart from an imp sullenly picking at a cluster of grapes, the owner of the establishment was the only occupant. Guests tended to sleep in.

Abraxas sat at the head of the nearest table. His chair was tipped back on two legs, his feet propped up on the table. He'd put on the dress shirt and slacks which Jackson had laid out the previous night. That was good. When left to his own devices, the demon's outfits were questionable at best. Jackson had once been forced to explain the necessity of wearing pants. It was moments like that which made him wonder if his life was an elaborate practical joke.

"Jackson!" Abraxas looked up from his...wait, were those knitting needles? He grinned broadly at the human. "About time. Overindulged last night, did we?"

"Ah, not exactly-" But Jackson was cut short.

"So, I'd heard about knitted hats, obviously, but it never occurred to me to wonder how you make one. Did you know they're made of sheep? Honestly, you people are ingenious. Can you knit? I've just learned, and it's very therapeutic. You should try it. Might help with all that tension you're carrying." Abraxas held up a nearly-finished toque for inspection. It was well-made, if much too large for a human head. Then again, maybe it wasn't destined for a human.

He seemed to want something, and so Jackson tried to smile. "It's very...woolly."

Fortunately, Abraxas wasn't listening. He let his chair fall to the ground with a thump which made the man jump. "Right. Bring forth the agenda." His tone was officious. Jackson padded over to retrieve the leatherbound tome from the bookshelf. Its pages were warped with age, and he knew the feel of magic well enough to know that it was imbued with power. Carefully, he placed it before the demon, shoving aside the knitting project. Abraxas flipped it open to the day's date. Jackson wondered how far into the past it stretched, if it carried record of deals with Tesla or Alexander the Great, but he hadn't yet dared to check.

Abraxas ran a finger down the page, muttering to himself. "Okay. Lunch with what's-his-face; you know, mafia guy. Mm, and I still need to get that vampire out on bail. Wait, this one looks fun: she's due for a payment. Promised me a share in her business, but unless it was with those bills I chucked, haven't got so much as a rejection letter. We need to talk." He snapped the book shut, before bounding out of his chair with an energy that Jackson envied.

"Could you..?" Jackson gestured weakly towards the fireplace. He'd broken out in a sweat; the heat was sweltering. Abraxas sometimes seemed to forget that humans didn't appreciate conditions which simulated the fires of hell.

"What?" Abraxas followed the gesture. "Oh, alright." With an eyeroll which suggested that the desire to not get burned to a crisp was self-indulgent, the demon raised a hand. The flames died as though doused by an invisible shower. A shiver traveled up Jackson's spine.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, nearly bowling him over. "Get your keys, Jacky-boy. We have a soul to collect."

"Please, please don't call me that," Jackson muttered, though he didn't have much hope that his words carried any weight. "And let me put on a t-shirt." He used to be a man of faith. He used to have nothing but worries about work to occupy his mind. He'd been a boy scout, and preparedness was his watchword, but there was no way he could possibly have prepared for this unexpected chapter of his life.

He wondered if God had a bizarre sense of humor.

 

[kaleidoscopique]

Malek

The bell jangled as Malek threw open the door, motes of dust swirling in the sudden current. He flipped the sign, switched on the light. The bulb sputtered once and then flickered to life. His gaze lingered on the glowing filament. Electric lighting was a marvellous invention. Electric lighting, he could handle. The Internet was another matter.

Beyond the doors, the sky was dark with the promise of rain. He could smell the charged air beneath the perpetual scent of the shop, of pine floorboards and age and a metallic edge. Malek could see his own face reflected in the glass. He shot it a winning smile, straightened his perfectly-crisp tie. It was fortunate that he liked his own company. The morning was shaping up to be deathly dull. The pawn shop saw all manner of interesting people, prepared to sell their very souls in exchange for fast cash. It also saw long stretches of nothingness, the ticking clock echoing in the quiet.

When Malek stopped long enough to reflect, he wondered what, in seven hells, he was doing. Oakhaven was no place for a man- okay, a demon - who enjoyed the finer things in life, nor did it provide much excitement. He'd taken the job as a part of his 'Operation Human' strategy; gossip leaped like wildfire in the town, and even mortals were bound to ask questions about a decidedly strange stranger who had appeared from nowhere.

But Oakhaven was also a singular town. He'd never before encountered such a high concentration of supernatural beings, though Orleans had come close. And, despite intentions to move on as soon as he had mastered the art of driving, he'd found a place in the sleepy town. He liked to consider himself a broker of secrets, a solver of unusual problems. People sought his advice, his assistance. He'd developed a reputation as someone to keep on your good side.

There was another reason he stayed. An anchor, tying him to the place, with its peeling paint and looming mountains and rolling fog. He owed one of its residents a debt. He might regret his over-hasty pledge of allegiance, brought on by the disorientation of waking from a 200-year nap, but his word was his bond.

He was watching a VHS tape labeled Saturday Night Fever with mild confusion, feet propped on the counter, when the shop phone rang. He eyed it suspiciously. Like the rest of the store, it was outdated and yellowed with age. It was one of the reasons he'd picked the job, not that there had been much to choose from. Being surrounded by remnants of the past made him feel slightly more at home. After three rings, he let out a dramatic sigh and rose to answer it. It took him another ring to find the 'talk' button.

"Quick 'n Easy Pawnbrokers," he drawled, lip curling in distaste. If there was anything he hated more than phone calls, it was the establishment's name, which reeked of sleaziness. Unfortunately, he was still a mere employee, though he would long ago have persuaded its owner to sell if businesses didn't come with a string of paperwork.

"Heya, Ma- Michael, it's Officer Loeppky."

At that, he brightened. Perhaps there had been a vampire attack. A break-in, at the very least. "Laura," he purred. "I've missed you, darling. Have you decided to take me up on the offer of dinner? Or are you in need of my expert advice?" He'd only offered because it was amusing to watch her blush.

"What did I say about pet names, Michael?" Her tone was exasperated. "We're co-workers. Sort of." She let out a sigh. "Now look. You've gone and distracted me again. I just need you to talk to somebody for me."

Malek adjusted the phone. "Let me guess. You're too nice to be the bearer of bad news, so you're sending your favorite heartless bastard to do it for you."

"Your words, not mine." He thought she was almost smiling. "Actually, I was hoping for your help with an interrogation. Down at the station."

He raised an eyebrow. "I admit, I'm intrigued. Perhaps it'll be worth my time. Who, pray tell, am I interrogating?" After a moment, he added, "Is there a law prohibiting the use of thumbscrews?"

"New kid in town. Called in Mr. Spencer's body an hour ago. The crime scene was, ah, rather suspicious. And- Jesus, I can't even tell if you're joking. No thumbscrews. All I want is to see how he reacts to..." and she lowered her voice, "...that…thing you do."

"Mr Spencer," he repeated. "Well, that's no great tragedy. The cretin was a disgrace to your species, and between the two of us, that's saying something. Have no fear, Officer. I'll be there momentarily."

"Thanks," she said dryly.

Thirty minutes later, Malek was briefed and ready to go, though he'd successfully tuned out the cop's droning report. For some reason, the department was avoiding the juicy details. He made a note to have a look at the body for himself. Standing before the interrogation room, he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. The man was younger than he had imagined, and currently staring at the clock with murderous intensity. "He's clearly hiding something," the demon announced.

Beside him, Officer Loeppky rolled her eyes. "Thank you for that utterly baseless observation. Go on. Do your thing."

The door clicked shut behind him with resounding finality. Malek folded his hands behind his back and stepped forwards to survey the suspect. He was fidgety, and surprisingly attractive for a human. His gaze was intelligent.

The demon slung himself into the straightbacked chair opposite, folding his hands on the table. He grinned, revealing pearly teeth. "Mister Jones," he said, inclining his head in a small bow. "A pleasure. Coincidentally, common surnames are ideal for blending into the teeming masses. I should know. However, murder's hardly the best way to go about avoiding attention. Can't say I blame you, but do tell me: why did you end the man's life?" He leaned forward to inhale experimentally. He could taste emotion on the air if it was potent.

 

[kaleidoscopique]

lord of the lectern
~ a Riddle-era HP AU ~​

the story the rules the cast apply

• 
  
  
  It's September of 1950. In the Muggle world, vacant bomb sites and prefabs stand testament to recent destruction. Orwell's 1984 is gaining popularity, the welfare state is rising, and resources are scarce. War is still so fresh that the very idea of another one seems inconceivable.​
  
  
  Wizarding Britain is of a similar mindset. Though talk of Grindelwald's defeat has finally died, though the front page of the Prophet is dominated by a sex scandal, nobody has forgotten. Life is lived with an awareness of its transience. Modernity is in vogue. Muggle Rights activists have gained a foothold in government, and extremism is silenced. But hatred is not so easily vanquished, especially when integral to identity; it has merely been relegated to closed doors and fervent whispers. Pureblood society values tradition, and it is slow to change.​
  
  
  At Hogwarts, a new school year is dawning. The elderly Armando Dippet occupies the Headmaster's office. The papers have finally stopped pestering Albus Dumbledore for an account of his famous duel. Life goes on as usual for the students, most of whom are more concerned with dating and exams than political context. But whispers of a new and striking addition to the staff dominate the current discussion.​
  
  
  Tom Riddle graduated five years earlier in a blaze of glory and a shower of academic awards, only to vanish from Britain after his teaching application was rejected. When he reappeared last June, features gaunt and eyes much too old for twenty-three, Dippet was desperate; the DADA professor had walked out a week earlier, leaving the position vacant for the fifth time in as many years. Riddle was hired on the spot, despite Dumbledore's vehement opposition.​
  
  
  Most vaguely recall a dark-haired, well-mannered schoolboy. Some suspect his reasons for teaching are less than altruistic. A select few, who now refer to him by a different name, know this for a fact.​
  
  
  Though Dippet could not know it, his hiring decision will forever alter the course of history.​
  
  
  In sum: This is a Harry Potter AU, in which a young Tom Riddle/Voldemort returns to recruit at Hogwarts under pretense of a teaching post. Wizarding politics, romance, and buckets of drama are sure to crop up as loyalties are questioned and limits are tested. May contain themes of violence, language, and racist wizards.​
  
  
  Both students and staff (with the exceptions of Riddle, Dumbledore, and Dippet) are up for grabs. OCs are welcome, as are CCs from Riddle's timeline. CCs born before 1960 are also acceptable with altered timelines. For example, you could play a sixteen-year-old Narcissa, provided you build a logical backstory and relationships to existing characters, and that nobody has claimed either of her parents. Our timeline must be logical, but it need not match up precisely with canon.​
  
  
  important links

  discord
  in-character (coming soon!)

  ​
• 
  
  Requirements:
  
  
  • Be familiar with Harry Potter lore, and willing to research any gaps in your knowledge. Though this is an alternate timeline universe, the setting remains the same, and is key to creating a believable story.
  • Be capable of evocative, multi-paragraph replies which drive the plot forwards. Quality over quantity. Shorter posts are perfectly acceptable for dialogue/action.
  • Post once per character, per week. If you repeatedly miss this deadline you will be asked to leave, as it isn't fair to fellow RPers. Exceptions may be granted under extenuating circumstances.
  • Be committed. If you're not sure that this RP is for you, ask. If you don't have the time, please save us both the hassle of applying and then dropping.
    
    
    Roleplaying:
    
    
  • You are encouraged to write extensive 1x1 interactions via Google Docs or Discord, then edit into a single post before posting in the IC thread. This helps to maintain a good pace to the plot, and gives you the option to write shorter back-and-forth dialogue.
  • While the focus of this RP is on plot and character development, sexual content is permitted between consenting writers, provided it adheres to site rules and is wrapped in NSFW spoiler tags. PMs are another option.
    
    
    Characters:
    
    
  • Your character must be 16+. Both students and staff (with the exceptions of Riddle and Dippet) are up for grabs. OCs are welcome, as are CCs from Riddle's timeline. CCs born before 1960 are also acceptable with altered timelines. For example, you could play a sixteen-year-old Snape, provided you create a logical backstory and relationships to existing characters. Obviously, if someone already claimed his school-age parent, he'd be off the table.
  • Doubling is permitted. Additional characters may be granted based on proven posting abilities.
  • Characters must share a relationship/history with at least two other characters, established prior to the beginning of our story (see 'apply' tab for details).
  • No Mary Stus/Gary Sus. By that token, if you want to play the veela-werewolf-animagus-metamorphmagus twin sister of Lucius Malfoy, you're going to have to justify that decision, and you're going to need one hell of a persuasive argument.
• You'll find a character roster here. Once, ya know, we've got some characters.
• 
  ~Character bios should be posted in this thread. You'll get a message from me either approving your character, requesting an edit, or politely declining your application. If we haven't written together previously, please provide a linked sample. Currently, we have room for 5 RPers.~
  
  This is your chance to get creative, and to persuade me that you and your character will be a good fit. Both CCs and OCs require a bio, though it needn't be long. I'm looking for three-dimensional characters: people with strengths and weaknesses, motivations and fears, beliefs and doubts. You may write out their backstory, or allow it to come out organically over the course of our roleplay. You may expand the character sheet if you find it helps to get a feel for the role.
  
  Both students and staff (with the exceptions of Riddle, Dippet, and Dumbledore) are up for grabs. OCs are welcome, as are CCs from Riddle's timeline. CCs born before 1960 are also acceptable with altered timelines. For example, you could play a sixteen-year-old Narcissa, provided you build a logical backstory and relationships to existing characters, and that nobody has claimed either of her parents. Our timeline must be logical, but it need not match up precisely with canon.
  
  
  character sheet

  Name:
  Age (16+):
  Year (5-7th, if student) or Job (if staff):
  House:
  Appearance (art or image fc):
  Relevant beliefs/ideology/politics:
  Motivation/s (what drives their actions? May change throughout the story):
  Personality:
  Bio:
  *Key relationships:
  
  
  *Characters must share a relationship/history with at least two other characters, established prior to the beginning of our story. They could be relatives, or exes, or maybe they're near-strangers who share a secret; whatever you like. Please keep in mind that Hogwarts is not that big, and so all of our characters should at least be acquainted. Once your application has been approved, you are encouraged to chat with other group members through PM or Discord to establish relationships, and to edit bios accordingly.