☾ᴄʀᴇsᴄᴇɴᴛ ɪᴄʜᴏʀ ʙᴏɴᴇ☽

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Oillus, Aug 11, 2014.

  1. [​IMG]

    The nights in Anna Mizo are stiflingly hot and its affects are strange on the people here. Babes are restless. The maids spill the milk. The husbands eyes wanders. The wives remain in bed, motionless. Some walk aimless around the small island, bumping into one another in dark, and sudden splashes of crimson permeate the air. Something sounds upon the ground. The birds scream in the trees and the ocean remains quiet.

    "I have given up on this pathetic human experience," someone calls from the midst of dark, and the birds do not scream, but they weep. The clouds are a blushing gray and ash falls from them — the winds, yes, the winds, lift the dew from grass. They drop blood into the sea. It is a clean, empty process, of earth cleaning its children, sweeping them into disuse.

    Orchids grow from them—spilled ichor, red earth—and spread pollen. The air is always thick and heavy with ocean and cedar musk and vanilla. The wind quietens and the neighbors crumble into hysterics, the walls are bathe in their blood. There are quick successions of suicide rates. The sounds of miniature thunder sounds — and then, the rains come. They come in heavy sounds. I digress: the winds pick up and the rains are swept like music — the husbands, they roam the island with cocks hard with temptation and the maids creamy buttocks are lifted towards their eyes. The wives say nothing and the babies scream with the birds. It seems it is all is inevitable.

    While they are filled to the brim in abject loneliness and celebrated angst, I become lost in the rushing scenery, of verdant trees washed white from moonlight. Here, in the low dark, in the summer monsoon, there are minutes where a nomad seduces, the linger of finger in the inside shelter of thighs, a savage grunt of satisfaction, there are hours where a man becomes a beast, where soft flesh like cream parts for the red sea of blood, and his prey slumps into a slumber less sweet than their fucking.

    It has been three years, since a woman, mauled, half-naked, her spine white and gleaming in moonlight, had been found. Who you are is important enough. A detective from the states, transferred to the island hidden in the fog of the Atlantic, to escape the horror of your last case. Whatever haunts you will not find reprieve in this quiet, sea-burdened community; you'll find there are plenty of washed bones of disquieted ghosts.

    Genre: Mature, Adult, Horror, Preternatural, Realistic, Dark, and Freeform.
    Any gender requested. This is not based off Hemlock Grove.

    Your character: I have no present silhouette of how I expect your character to behave or appear, but they are creative, witty, and erotic. There are many variations available in the plot. I have constructed it without tight confines for the reason I wish for you to have equal input. Though, there are a few givens: the first, there is supernatural element to my character; they are much different from those around. This holds dark overtones as the interaction is physical and extensive. I expect there to be perverse comments, biting commentary, and incongruous collaborations between them.
    Specifics: Plotwise, set in Anna Mizo, an imaginary island who's flowers, referred to as Blood Orchids, often cause residents to hallucinate. You, being new to the island, are suspectible to its effects. Our characters cross paths for the first time, at the edge of the forest. There is something settling about my character to your human senses - a secret, a curse, you will have an unfortunate experience with.
    Skeleton: (should include the following in detail)
    Name ☾ Age ☾ Bio ☾Quirks
    [1 ]Photograph/[1 ]Realistic Illustrative Art ☾Opening Post ☾Theme Song

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    Name: Gosdantin Jivan
    Age: Undetermined
    Bio: Grew up in a village wedged between two mountains. He is the son of a miller and baker, both pride of their trade. He is the middle of a triplet set, although both siblings died shortly thereafter. A younger sister was all that remains of the Jivan legacy until she passed from childbirth. He has raised and reared those that remained to the best of his ability. He was once young and romantic at heart but softer hues are hidden beneath dark edges.
    Married at the age of twenty-five, his wife of three months begin to exhibit signs of possession; leaning on old traditions, Gos - for short - found himself crushed at the revelation that she had been unfaithful. He cast her out and traveled for many years, never with the heart to settle roots in a place for more than a month at a time. This is the first voyage to Anna Mizo - the hum of the sentinel isle calls to something within.
    Quirks: Often seen eating drupes. He abhors the taste of coffee, enjoys everything about freshly made bread, listens to folk music, rarely will he speak of his past. Occasionally will mutter something in Armenian.