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Desaecula
Guest
Original poster
SO.. i have an intro, and some cool backstory.. nothign more. would anyone be interested in this sort of world for a Rp? It creates a theme, but could be played in any number of genre's i think.
Thanks for your input,
DESAECULA
-)WINGS(-
ATROX ANHELL
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The tombstone stood as a blackened monument to a life the dates upon it said was taken too soon. The man in question had only lived 47 years on this earth before he was called. However, today, there is nobody left to mourn him. In truth, nobody in the city beside the cemetery even knows who he was, or why he was so important that the resting place of his earthly vessel was given such a lavish burial. An occult expert was commissioned by the city board to investigate the mysterious tomb of Connor Isaac Harm.
But soon, Fate would take his first victim involved with the tomb of Harm. The expert was found dead at the tomb the next morning, robbed naked, raped, and stabbed. Several men where arrested, plead guilty, and where put to justice.
There was never a more eerie sight than the fog drifting around the stones of the hilly graveyard just outside the city. From near every skyscraper there, the cemetery spans over the horizon, a bleak reminder of wealthy men's mortality.
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Yet no one ever thought of the WHY... just the HOW. The city was dangerous, and thugs often went to odd places to do their dirty work. However, the experts called in where ghost-hunters seeking supernatural closure. Their camera's poised, and their mission clear, they spent the night at the cemetery investigating. What they found was startling… and each of the seven men contracted a dire form of influenza from the chilly night, each of them was hospitalized before their findings could be reviewed. And their deaths loom over the city still. Eight years have passed, and no one dares
The words written on the grave were etched in scrolling letters along the once-smooth surface of the black granite. Stains of mineral deposits bled from the engraved verse like silver tails in the moonlight.
IN VENERE VERITAS<o:p></o:p>
Have no fear<o:p></o:p>
There are wounds that are not meant to heal<o:p></o:p>
And they sing, <o:p></o:p>
In Venere Veritas<o:p></o:p>
Come inside, <o:p></o:p>
Let the fire burn you alive, <o:p></o:p>
And sing, baby sing, <o:p></o:p>
There are wounds that are not meant to heal…<o:p></o:p>
At all.<o:p></o:p>
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From the diary of William Marcionni.
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The first time I realized something was amiss was in January. The winter had been harsh, and I had not been paying attention to my health very much. I had skipped doctor's visits to plow snow for neighbors, and It was undoubtedly my own neglect that made the transformation seem like nothing special in the beginning. However, don't get me wrong, I was hygienic, I just didn't really take the time to notice the odd blackened marking patterning their way over my back.
I found the first markings in late April when the summer air started to seep through the open windows. I had gone to the barn out back to do some spring cleaning, and found the weather too hot to wear a shirt. The reflection from the sheet-metal I was moving showed me the greatest surprise of my life…tattoo-like markings swirling out around from my shoulder blades and moving up to my shoulders. When I turned, I could see the faint and shaded edges of what appeared to be the beginnings of a VERY elaborate wing design of tribal origin… however. I had NEVER ONCE even entertained the notion of inking my flesh. I pulled my shirt back on when my neighbor's truck pulled up, lest he see.
Later that week, I noticed the edges of the wings had crept again, growing like a plague rash to envelope my entire shoulder and collarbone…. Like wings wrapped around a bird body as it sat resting. Looking back, my confusion and terror were less than half what they should've been. Maybe that was the telltale sign that these marks were not dangerous. Now I see the truth... The wings are tools. My god, what if other people have them too? Perhaps magic does exist in the world.
By autumn, the wings had become itchy, their black inked lines stiffening, and beginning to feel heavy. When once they were simply designs that glowed faintly in darkness, now they were annoying, their glow burning... As if they were something crawling under my skin…I was right.
Several nights later the pain was crippling I lay on my stomach in bed, sweating like a woman I labor. I turned up the music and took another shot of whiskey, trying to muffle my cries of pain. Finally I could take it no longer. I kneeled on the bed and started scratching at my skin angrily, bloody chunks plugging up beneath my fingernails as I screamed in rage and agony. First there was pain… then relief as the edges of the black THINGS began to wriggle up through the ruined skin. The tattoo marks had become something real beneath my flesh and began tearing out of my skin, stretching the skin.. Then breaking it with their spiny, sharp, black forms. My upper arms erupted with the edges of the tribal-floating designs, all one solid pieces of black inky material that looked like wrought iron fencing. The pain subsided only when the wings flowed behind me, my reflexion in the mirror like that of a fallen angel… that is how I grew my wings. And I still have the scars to prove it. A single Term has emblazoned itself in my mind since that day.
ATROX ANHELL
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