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Post by Her Royal Highness on Apr 20, 2008 0:00:21 GMT -8
OOC: So just to reiterate, due to various complications/issues with the original Lychen RP, mainly plot line and domineering god-play, we're starting over. The setting remains the same, Constantinople. Time period, I say, is up for debate. we'll have to figure that out as we go but obviously its not Istanbul yet. ;D. Anyways more on that later. Also, we'll be keeping our same characters, but feel free to modify whatever you need to about them in order to make them workable for yourselves and for the new plot line which is more or less as follows:
Lychen v. Vamp is out.
We're now aiming more along the lines of vampire versus vampire. You'll get the gist as we go along.
k. so let fly.
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Post by Her Royal Highness on Apr 20, 2008 1:09:50 GMT -8
OOC: ok so first, i apologize for the length. But it's a plot intro and charrie intro all in one. so yeah. also, second, i am SOOO sorry for the shitty-ness. Too showy. But most of it was already written in the original rp and i just rearranged stuff/did some minor editing. I'm just way too frustrated with it to fix right now. eh. o dear. anyways. she's basically the exact same charrie she was in the original. abilities and everything all the same. the rest will come up as we go. k. shutting up. k sorry lol.
BIC: A lone sillouette moved down one of the many dark secluded streets of the city, making no sound as it passed. The figure was clad in black from head to foot, decked in high boots cuffed over at the knee and a cloak that nearly touched the ground it billowed over. While the figure had no destination, its wandering was by no means aimless. It moved from shadow to shadow with stealth and resolute purpose. To any who might have observed it, the figure may have appeared to be that of a male, though one of a smaller frame than one would expect. The individual was in truth, female. This was hidden not only by the apparel that she wore, but also by the fact that her chest was painstakingly bound. In a city whose streets were washed with blood nightly, to walk those streets after dusk was often a fatal act for just about anyone, especially for a young woman.
But Cassandra was anything but an ordinary girl. She did not walk the streets seeking danger or the thrill of a fight. There were others who were fools enough to do it for that purpose and who lost their lives brutally as a result. No. She did it as an act of rebellion. All her life, she had grown up in a society that lived in fear of the night. Those that roamed the city after dark forced them to live as cowards. In spite of this, Cassandra had grown up loving the nighttime. To her, it was a thing of beauty. The idea of anyone or anything keeping it from her as something to be feared was, to her, not to be borne. For this reason, every evening, fully armed, she defied those that selfishly claimed the night for their own by claiming it herself with each step, walking the various streets that held the city together. She refused to fear the immortals. Let them try to come anywhere near her. She would rip the hateful creatures apart. She had worked hard to proven herself capable of doing so.
Over her cloak, across her back with sheaths crossed, were strapped two long ebony handled knives, the blades of which were of a gleaming black metal. Four small daggers of the same material were concealed on her person, one tucked within each boot and one strapped to the inside of each arm, just between the gloved hand and the elbow, hilts pointing down toward the wrists.
For as long as she could remember, her father, a master weapons craftsman, had trained her in all the arts of the various arms he made. Under his instruction, she had become fully skilled in archery and had learned to wield all forms of blades well. Yet her weapons of choice had always been the short twin blades followed by the dagger, which she threw with aim unmatched in accuracy and precision. What appealed to her the most was the graceful stealth she achieved when wielding them. For this reason, before he had passed on, her father had forged for her as a gift the two knives that she now wore as well as the four daggers. The blackness of all six blades had been a tribute to the love he knew she held for the evening and the mysterious beauty it held for her.
With these in her hands, the muteness, which by some freak of nature she had been born with, became an exquisite voice. Whenever she used them, whether in practice or in defense, her movements became a dance choreographed to her own song, a song of silence that, when sung, rang so loud, it made up for all the screams of anger, pain, hatred, and sorrow she had never been able to release vocally.
It would be hours before the darkness melted, revealing the blood that had been spilt that night, not only in the forest, but in the city as well. she knew all to well of the heinous abductions and sacrifices carried out by the ancient cult of vampire.
these were the worst of the death dealers. An ancient vampiric cult, with the potential for more evil than the war itself. It was horrific enough to know that vampire existed in the world. This cult however, was breeding the potential to take complete control of the city and overrun it with slaughter and atrocities worse than the ones the city already lived with. Utter, complete, merciless domination: this was their goal.
It was partially this knowledge that spurred her forward. The desire, the faint hope that somehow she might be able to stem the malice, no matter how great the odds she faced. To be able to save the blood of the father on his way home to wife and children, to spare the life of a young woman forgetful of shutting her window securely from brutal sacrifice, to prevent the changing of the unsuspecting young man just out of the tavern. If she could save one life, if that was all, than it was worth it.
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