The City Is At War : OOC [SEVEN SPOTS LEFT!]

Wow. This is really interesting. Can I save a spot until I get on tonight and work on my character profile then? Just I have classes etc and some work to do today. But I will post it up when I can. Also, what sort of character profile do you want? And are we playing kids that will eventually get kidnapped?

I'm with Sammy. I would like to reserve a spot, and return later to post a character profile.

intresting ill roleplay this roleplay XD

now ... where is that profile sheet .>_>

Full Name: Zufash Isupzai
Aliases (if any): Sandarah Khan
Title (military rank, Dr., clergy, etc.): None
Preferred name: Zufash
Age/DOB: 23, born 4 April 1985
Gender: Female
Orientation: Straight
Race/Ethnicity: West Asian (Middle Eastern), Pashtun (indigenous to Afghanistan)
Skin Tone: Olive
Height: 5'4"
Weight: 102 lbs.
Build (slim, linebacker, etc.): Athletic, so not slim, but nowhere near chubby or rotund, and without wide shoulders or thick neck
Eyes: Brown, not light or dark, but somewhere in the happy medium
Hair: Very dark brown, seems almost black unless in good light/sunlight, or close up view, long to just below bust, mostly straight and a little wavy
Clothes: Anything from Abercrombie and Fitch, Aeropostale, American Eagle, and like stores
Appearance: Zufash is not stunningly beautiful or particularly radiant, but she is of a quiet, subtle beauty. Her eyes seem lush, and have been described in the same sentence as both dreamy and intense. Her eyelashes are naturally thick and long, and mascara does more to diminish them rather than accentuate them; her eyebrows are rather thin, although clearly defined. Zufash tends to wear her hair in updos, and wear small but exotic, somewhat artsy earrings. Sometimes she wears layers of tiny gold chains as necklaces.

Religion: Marginally observant Sunni Muslim
Political Affiliation: Moderate Independent
Education: Graduated from high school as valedictorian, and is in her third year as an undergraduate at MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology), where she has a full scholarship. Zufash is an international relations major, with a minor in Musical Theory.
Languages spoken: English, Pashto, Arabic
Weapons: Uh, none? She's a freaking college student!
Citizenship: She was a dual citizen of Afghanistan and America, and at eighteen, chose permanent American citizenship.
Nationality: Afghan
Born: Ghazni, Afghanistan
Now lives: Boston, MA, off MIT's campus
Lives with: Self
Relationship Status: Single and looking

Occupation: College student? She works part time at the Steinway Piano store on Tremont Street.
Special Abilities/Skills: Fluent in three languages (see above), piano virtuouso, amazing voice (mezzo-soprano)
Hobbies: Composing music (for voice and piano), writing poetry, horseback riding
Interests: Politics, International Relations (duh), Music, Animal Rights, Religious Tolerance
Favorite Types of Music: Pretty much anything. She likes to listen to the Kiss 108 music station while at school or driving, and at home listens to Sufi Qawwali music.
Favorite Types of Reading Material: Anything interesting, but nonfiction only when about politics or religion.
Serious Problems: She just broke up with her boyfriend of four years and is deeply depressed. Zufash had lost her virginity to him only two months before the breakup, which Zufash intiated on finding that Paul had been cheating on her with another man, Zachary. She is taking pills to get over this. Zufash smokes on occasion. She has tried marijuana, but only once.
Personality: Typically I would fill out this area, but I realized that it is best not to describe her personality, but rather to let it come out naturally over the course of the roleplay.
Background: Zufash was born to Afghan parents who were citizens of the United States. She was part of an upper middle class family in Afghanistan, which translated into dirt poor in America. Zufash was determined academically, and was able to acheive extraordinary things in that area.
Other: Not that much else to add. I guess.

You may all reserve a spot Please read the guidelines I have posted in the first post. I changed it a little bit and do not want you to be confused.

Treali Storm-I love your idea of the character profile, and I am impressed in the amount of work put into it. However, as I said in the Guidelines, List Intros (which include character profiles) are not preferred. Please refer to my note at the bottom of the first post for more on this, or Personal Message me. Thank you.

general kane-There is no profile sheet. There are no Character Profiles, like I said before. This roleplay is pretty much all writing, and I do not think that Profiles encourage good literacy and writing. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. Personal Message me if you have any problems.

xImxLostxWithoutxYou-The character profile that I want is an intro. I would like a few well-written paragraphs describing your character, the setting, the tone, and their thoughts. Sort of like the first chapter of a book, in which the author describes everything through writing. I think there was a misunderstanding with this, and I am very sorry about that. As for the characters, we are playing teenagers/young adults. If you want your character to be kidnapped, then that is fine, but it is fine if they do not get kidnapped, too. In the end, I would like to have the evils be defeated, and some of the kidnapped humans to be found. However, the roleplay may take a twist and this may change, so I'll keep an open mind Hope this answers your questions!


If any of you have any more questions, please post here or Personal Message me. It might be best to post, though, so that if somebody else has the same question it will already be answered.

I'll post a literary intro tomorrow. My brain is dead. Sorry about that! I don't mind doing so; I AM a writer, after all.






I wake to find myself in a dark wood
But without knowledge of how I went there
As the sun began to set, fear took me

And I see a figure walking toward me
And who stretches an arm and reaches me
And calls me by my given name, "Tira!"

Lovingly he embraces, kisses me
"Do not fear; for I will never leave thee
Nor should I deign ever to forsake thee here"

Then did I look upon his countenance
And see it shining in a radiance
That rivaled the sun in its pure brilliance

And he smiled at me, a lovely word,
and promised truly to lead me from there.
A voice in the desert, my salvation.

When suddenly, the sky did break in two,
and pours sheets of rain down on my sad face,
and take love that hard death from my cold life.

The man, my messenger from God above,
no longer embraced me kindly with love,
but stood far back and scoffed from afar,

calling to me, "What, and did you dream sweet?
Did you wend that I was thine, O wretched!
Now see, let go of foolish childlike dreams,

for you have now done what you have now done,
and the lifeblood of those whose lives you took
runs red throughout the world's salty oceans.

And one day, that high Judge in heaven high,
He alone shall call down judgment on you,
Whilst now earthly scorn of friends will suffice."

And my beloved, he who had saved me,
fades into sky of the impending storm
and I look on helplessly below.



Yes I wrote it.



IGNORE THAT!

I'm really sorry about the inconvenience, Treali. And I really liked your poem When you get your literary intro done, post it on the In Character board, alright? Thank you so much!

Posted the literary intro. Hope you like it.
....Am I the only person who has joined this?

I am just very curious. I hope it serves well as an introduction. I just don't particularly recall ever having read specifically that you don't like list intros.

I can definitely see why, as they can lead to all sorts of problems. I tend to use them extensively, the same detailed character sheet I used above, usually in deciding whether I think someone has created a non-archetypical/god-moded/already-done character or not. So they have both their upsides and their downsides.

You can read the stuff below, if you like, but it has absolutely nothing to do with this conversation. It serves another purpose.












Tamara had just returned from her job with the Israeli government, consulting the senior officials who laid down the laws concerning prisons and interrogations. As she walked down her street, maybe five minutes away from her house, she heard several screams. She looked up and walked faster, her heart pounding. As Tamara neared her house, she saw hazy figures in a long black car speeding towards three small children--her heart skipped a beat.

Her children--Thomas, Samantha, and Omar. They would just be coming home from school now. She began to run, breaking into a cold sweat than ran salty down her arms and face. She called out to them "Get inside the house!" Then she heard the gunshots. Pop, pop, pop. Silenced, just like on TV. But not like on TV. The children weren't blown twenty feet. They fell where they stood, uncomprehending looks of bewilderment on their faces, wide eyes, red blossoming across their school shirts, dead before they hit the ground.

Tamara fell at her childrens' side, clutching their bloody bodies with the raw power of the grief that swept through her. Her tears contaminated what evidence there might have been. The men in the car were never seen again. The police contended that it was a random accident, caused by children running amok and drunk drivers. But Tamara knew better. Later that day, someone called to tell her that Sayed, her beloved Sayed, had been murdered by another inmate at the prison. But in her heart, Tamara knew the police had lied once again.

The last day she spent in Israel, she was dressed in black sackcloth. She sprinkled ashes on her head, and then took a large urn from her side. She held it up to the sky, in which the sun shone down mercilessly. "God, if this is what you want,then take it! Take from me this grief! Take me away from this place of death!" She scattered the ashes, slowly, above the desert dunes on which her children loved to play. When they were all gone, blown into the wind, Tamara sat on a large rock and wept for hours.





Natalie Schultz stood in the Oval Office. Well, that was weird. She wondered why Kimberly wanted to know about her murdered father.

"Agent Fieldings," she said, "I really, honestly, have no clue why I'm here. Perhaps you could shed some light on this situation?"

Subconsciously, she pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ears, and blinked, her glasses making her eyes appear larger. Why had she been sent here? That was the question. Even with top-secret security clearance, no one had bothered to simply tell her.

"Look, my only assignment at this moment is Treali Storm, and I see no reason to believe why she would be involved in this."

That's when another agent rushed in, bearing a piece of paper. It was a papyrus, handwritten, the writing elegant and refined, as though the author had taken much time creating the letter.

To whom it may concern, especially those arrogant Americans,

Carl Maynard was the epitome of American society, that is to say, of gluttony, arrogance, miserliness, prodigality, and other such immoral plagues which beseige your damnable nation. As such, therefore, it is only natural that he should be the first to die.

This is a warning, to those of you with any sense, those with ears to hear and eyes to see, they will heed the trumpet call of Gabriel and turn their eyes to the Way, and fall repentant before Allah. Those who do not are contemptible and unfit to live.

For we have been called as Messengers, to go unto this world and preach the good news, that those with hearts may listen and embrace the one true faith, and those whose hearts have been hardened may know, finally, their eternal destiny in hell.

America, you have forgotten your god! You have forsaken your people! You have forbidden men from being righteous! Open your eyes, and see. The blindfold will be removed.

Treali Storm
She Who Stands At The Gates

Natalie looked over Felding's shoulder as he read it. "Never mind," she chirped. "I guess Storm's involved, after all."

***

One of the most feared women in all of history, and the most hunted woman worldwide; Treali Storm's name and face were on par in terms of infamy with men like Usama ibn Ladin, Adolf Hitler, and Saddam Husayn. An unprecedented fifty million dollars were being offered for her apprehension by the American FBI alone.

Added the to the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List in 1968, Storm quickly earned the record as the person with the longest amount of time spent on the List. She was wanted for dozens of murders, many of them of high-profile political leaders, some American, and others of various nationalities and citizenship. Only a month before her addition to the List, Storm murdered United States Senator Jordan Normandeau, who was running for President, and Catholic Cardinal Srgjan Doshi, who was a potential candidate for the papacy.

Against what might have been the better judgment of a few more conservative producers, Hollywood marketed a film chronicling some of the more sordid details of Storm's life and crimes. Called The Bloody Tempest, it pulled in hundreds of million dollars at box offices across America. Within a year of Bloody Tempest’s release, a famous author published an extensive biography of the fugitive which sold over five million copies.

Later, Treali Storm was believed to have become a close associate of Usama ibn Ladin’s, and to have had a part in masterminding the attacks on the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania in 1998, and later the attacks on September 11, 2001. But despite international manhunts, and the release of a Red Notice from Interpol, there had been no trace of the notorious fugitive in decades.

The only hints the FBI had received, besides other unsolved high-profile murders, were a series of letters sent from unknown locations addressed at varying times to members of Storm’s extended family and the families of her victims. These letters, around sixteen in all, were collected and stored in her file in Quantico, Virginia.

All across America, in post offices, police stations, and other government buildings, copies of the wanted poster hung on walls, with the bold caption FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE heading them. Beneath a list of the criminal charges were a photograph, a description, and a caution advising “Considered Armed and Extremely Dangerous”.

In the picture, Treali Storm was facing the camera, her aristocratic nose centered perfectly. The eyes stared out wistfully at the viewer, seeming to gaze at something seen only by the mass murderer. Her lips formed a thin, hard line, and her silvery grey hair fell limply around the face, framing the high cheekbones. Her hairline came to a central spot in the prominent widow's peak, and the face had deep jowls and frown lines. But what struck a viewer the most would have been the eyes—grey, also, and with an enigmatic sort of depth. Slightly closed, sleepy-looking eyelids over somewhat almond-shaped eyes, from which protruded a set of dignified crow's feet.

The face was a famous one, instantly recognized by anyone worldwide. The sight of it struck fear into many bold hearts, and an undying love into one as yet unknown. But it was a face that had not been seen in such a long time; the rumors of Storm’s death were many and varied. Treali Storm was perhaps an icon of the twentieth century, her infamy extending, however, into the early twenty-first century. She dominated history books, and was a topic of great interest among the criminal underworld (where she was respected), law enforcement (where she was hated), and writers and artists (by whom she was subjected to intense scrutiny).

Among Al Qaeda and similar groups, Treali Storm had become something of an icon. Although only grudgingly respected, as she was a woman, Storm was secretly admired by many would-be fundamentalists. Among professional hit men, it was agreed that she had carried out the most successful kills with the most notoriety without having been arrested—yet. Of course, no one had ever asked the fugitive of her own opinion—and had they, it was doubtful they might have received an answer.







SAMPLE CS

Full Name: Treali Storm
Name at birth (if different): Treali Ka'iimamao Ylanne Abdullah-Zhang
Aliases (if any): Thalia Storm, Tirahali Yasfah, Shaykhah Tirahali Yasfah Manisah Ibnah al-Muta'ali, Salima al-Rasul, Fatimah bint Batya
Title (military rank, Dr., clergy, etc.): None
Preferred name: Treali (if familiar), Sayyida Aas'fah (if not familiar)
Age/DOB: born 12 May 1952, age anywhere between 54 and 84, dependent on setting and year
Gender: Female
Orientation: Straight
Race/Ethnicity: 1/2 Caucasian/European, 1/4 Chinese, 1/4 Arab
Skin Tone: Olive
Height: 4'10"
Weight: 85 lbs.
Build (slim, linebacker, etc.): Slim and fragile
Eyes: Grey, sometimes shift color to pale blue or green
Hair: Silver/grey relatively straight hair neither thick nor thin, often falls limply down to waist, either loose, tied in simple ponytail down her back, or single loose braid
Clothes: Generally robes and dresses in a fusion of Arab/Middle Eastern styles with Japanese/Buddhist monk styles, long skirts that fall to ankles or floor. Typically in dark or light neutral colors, browns and natural shades, or creams and off-whites.
Appearance:Her olive toned face is accented by long silver hair falling limply down her back. Her aristocratic nose is centered between two penetrating grey eyes surrounded by crow’s feet, all jutting out of a face carved with wrinkles and furrows, marked with a distinctive widow's peak. Her lips are a thin, hard line, hidden beneath her high cheekbones. The features are delicate, the face fragile. She walks slowly, each step deliberate and soft, and with a limp, slightly favoring her left side.

Religion: Unique beliefs, believes in a God (note the singular) who is simultaneously personal and distant, does not follow an established or organized religion.
Political Affiliation: Some liberal beliefs, some conservative, is really not sure, never having been involved much in politics.
Education: Dropped out of high school by way of fleeing her country. Most of her later schooling was self-education, studying the classics and philosophers.
Languages spoken: Arabic, Latin, English (Yes she speaks fluent, conversational Latin)
Weapons: Contrary to popular belief, does not own or carry a weapon.
Citizenship: She is believed to have been a citizen of Mutalistan (fictitious Middle Eastern country), and Mutalistan stripped her citizenship in 1978; however, while no one is aware of this (including herself), being born in Washington D.C., she is a citizen of the United States.
Nationality: This is complicated...
Born: Believed to be Lu'Siin Bek, Mutalistan. Actually Washington D.C., America.
Now lives: Storm Isle (not named after her), little known territory of United States, formerly Taipugawaka I'nuikila
Lives with: Cousin's daughter Karmii Storm, previously with this cousin (Dr. Alai Storm) also and roughly twenty-five US Government and military personnel with top-secret clearances all of whom were unaware they shared a residence
Relationship Status: Single, not looking

Occupation: None?
Special Abilities/Skills: A master of Hsing-I martial art, beautiful Arabic calligraphy, decent writer
Hobbies: Making tea, Gardening, Meditation
Interests: Philosophy
Favorite Types of Music: Sufi Qawwali music, Raja, Gregorian chant, Tibetan Buddhist chanting
Favorite Types of Reading Material: Philosophy, Qur'an, Bible
Serious Problems: Slightly mentally imbalanced, used to have anger management problems (they're resolved now), obsessions
Personality: Treali is a deeply depressed individual who is sometimes suicidal. She has extremely high and strange ethical standards that she and others consistently fail to meet. She is often quiet, but when she speaks, she speaks for a long time and often in metaphorical, flowery language. Treali is deliberate in her speech and movements, polite to a fault, and unfailing calm and cooperative. She tends to be philosophical; she will never admit her true 'want' or desire in life. She is soft-spoken and non-confrontational, except sometimes verbally. Sometimes she seems Shakesperean or prophetic in speech. When she thinks no one is around, she often cries.
Background: This character is the protagonist in several of my novels) She is on the FBI Ten Most Wanted List for murder and terrorism. She came from a Middle Eastern country, where when she was young, was ruled by Christian whites over a predominantly Muslim Arab population, and her aunt who raised her was an Indian (from India) Christian. She has unique beliefs about God and truth, not conforming to any established or organized religion. The latest crime she is accused of happened two days ago at start of roleplay, assassinating a President of the United States.
Other: Not that much else to add. I guess.


(Except longer hair, older looking face, somewhat darker skin, and widow's peak.)


Widow's peak.


Minus the face paint and traditional clothes.

I tried to find some pictures; these were the closest.

SAMPLE ONE
Tamara Azrael felt Trys pull Sam's hand away from hers. She stood, a little unsteady, her eyes blinking as she registered his words in her frazzled mind.

"Missing?" A child is missing? Tamara frowned, but inside was elated. Now a chance the authorities will find the missing kid! She packed up her possessions in the office, taking care to back up all of her files on several untraceable databases as well as hiding her Hebrew notes inside her clothes. Copies were still hidden innocuously elsewhere in the office.

Her computer was backed up and she shut it off. Anyone trying to access her account would need both her fingerprint and a long series of numerical passwords, written nowhere. Tamara looked around one last time, taking one last artifact before opening the door to leave: an old family photograph of her with Sayed and their three children. She took the picture out the frame and tucked it in her shirt with the papers.

In her shoulder bag, she took another set of copies of her Hebrew notes, the original tapes (the recordings and videos of the other "experiments"), and a series of laboratory notes. Her dissertation, split up and over three hundred pages long, would serve well to disguise the other papers. Tamara hesitated, then took her Glock 22, made sure it was loaded and oiled. She might need it.

She shut off the lights, closed the blinds, and locked the door behind her for what would likely be the last time. Tamara shuddered. She had no intentions of ever returning to this hidden lab, not unless it was life and death, particularly for the children. She walked down the hallway, past the cages of children, living, breathing children. She saw the other scientists, gathered together, Trys, Elsee, Jordan, and Dakota. Prepared to do something awful no doubt.

Tamara closed her eyes. She wouldn't think the thought. It would not cross her mind. She paused for a moment, eyes closed in prayer. "Come let us go up the mountain of the Lord, that we may walk the paths of the Most High. And we shall beat our swords into ploughshares,
and our spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation--neither shall they learn war any more. And none shall be afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of Hosts has spoken."

Tamara glanced down the hall one more time, then with a rising wave of guilt, walked down the corridor and outside. She climbed into her car and turned the key. The engine came to life, and she backed out of the camouflaged parking lot, turning onto the main road. Tamara looked back at the hidden lab, an ominous building with disturbing architecture. Each corner was angled sharply inwards, and the walls slowly inclined towards the center, creating a feeling of being trapped. She looked away.

Tamara drove quickly down this small road, then turned onto the main road. The kid might have been missing for as much as a day now. He might have gotten far. She pulled down one road and saw a small row of clapboard houses with peeling paint. No sign of the missing kid. She pulled down the next road, and on the dirt path saw small impressions in the dust. Footprints! Tamara parked the car in a tall bush and climbed out, following in 49's footsteps.

They came for Sayed in the middle of the night. The feared Mossad, Israel's secret police. Tamara had lain with her husband, and they were together when the secret agents burst into their room, with their lethal looking weapons pointed at the couple. Tamara had huddled closer to Sayed, clutching him for protection.

"Mr. Yata," one of the intruders said in a slow drawl. "Come quietly and you won't be harmed."

Tamara cast a horrified look at Sayed. His handsome features, a moment ago filled with ecstasy and love, now darkened and grew sick with fear. "I haven't done anything," he said in a quiet voice, and to Tamara "They're just coming after me because I'm not Jewish."

"Shut up, Arab pig!" the agent growled, his eyes flashing with fury. He nodded at his accomplice, who grabbed Sayed by his hair. His eyes widened but he did not cry out as he was dragged from the bed, exposed. The cruel man laughed. Then, without warning, he slammed his machine gun into the side of Sayed's face. He dropped to his knees, his face contorted in pain. The man hit him again, in the face, breaking his nose. Tamara screamed.

One man snapped a pair of metal handcuffs onto Sayed's wrists, setting them as tight as they could go. Then the secret police pulled Sayed to his feet and shoved him roughly out the door into the hall.

"Stop!" Tamara cried. "Stop!" Tears streamed down her cheeks in waves. The children, awakened by the racket, peeped curious eyes through a crack in the door. One of them wept, crying "Abba, Ima!"

The leader's face darkened. "You traitor!" He pistol whipped her, sending her to her knees on the floor. "You've forsaken your people! Or have you forgotten who you are? Have you forgotten you are a Jew? And this scum, he is a Muslim pig! Don't ever speak to me again, whore!" He strode down the hall, his hips swaggering, stabbing brutally with each step he took.

Tamara crawled to the end of the hallway and saw the other members of the Mossad shoving Sayed, red now staining his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt, into a dark van. His beautiful eyes were now tired, dark, reflections of the raw despair that grasped at Tamara's heart.

"No!" she shouted, her voice hoarse. "Sayed!" But the van drove off, and Tamara was left behind, weeping on the threshold. Salty tears dribbled down her cheeks. "God," she whispered. "God..."

The neighbors had heard, apparently, because the kindly woman next door (who had shared Passover with Tamara the past year) turned her lights on and walked out onto her terrace. "Don't be crying now, hon," she said. "It's sure to be over soon. In fact, I doubt you'll ever hear from them again." She waited another moment, then disappeared back into her house.

At the time, Tamara had been known as Geilah Yehuda, the name her parents had given her. But now, she swore she would never use the name again. I am no longer joyful, she said, I am become Death, I am sorrows, all pain, my love taken from me. She took the name Miriam Heber, saying "Now I am bitter, and a stranger in my own land, among my own people."

Tamara walked quickly down the winding path, disappearing into a grove of trees. She saw only a rocky footpath ahead, and she stumbled down it. Unfortunately, she never noticed the tall man behind her. Jordan watched closely.

***

Two hours later, Tamara Azrael saw the young boy maybe a hundred yards (0.09 km) away. She tripped through a thicket of brambles and called out to him. "Kid! Come back!" But he scurried further away, perhaps in panic, at her words. His eyes widened, and he began to run.

Tamara ran after him. "Please! Stop!" Finally, she had him cornered. "Don't go," she whispered, cradling her gun in her hands. She heard footsteps behind her. Tamara turned and saw Jordan.

"Now shoot him," Jordan whispered. "Do it now."

Tamara hesitated, looking at the kid. Her gun was pointed at him. Her finger pressed on the trigger. The kid began to cry, saying "Mommy, mommy..."

"Do it!" Jordan hissed, his breath hot on her neck. She looked at the boy, and for a moment, his face transfigured into an exact replica of Sayed's. "Will you kill me? Will you abandon me? Make your choice...Are you going to be a good Jew or are you going to be my wife?" "No..." Tamara thought. Then the vision cleared, and he was once again the small boy, frightened, close to death.

Tamara closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. Like a miniature explosion, the bullet fired, missing the boy by a half-inch, burying itself into the tree trunk. Disgusted, Jordan took the gun from her, and before the boy could run, shot him twice in the face, leaving him unrecognizable. Tamara sank to her knees in the grass as tears poured down her cheeks. I am become death...

SAMPLE TWO

The President of the United States sits in the Oval Office, not aware he is about to die. A foreign ambassador has just left from a highly sensitive meeting; and now it is almost midnight. President Carl Maynard is tired; he massages his temples and sips from cold coffee. No breeze blows in the White House; the bulletproof windows are securely shut. The air smells as though it has been recirculated one too many times.

An aide walks into the Oval Office and delivers a message from the Al-Jazeera network, a message intended for President Maynard's eyes only. As the aide exits the room, the President gets up and stretches, yawning loudly. He reads the message, raises his eyebrows, and carefully tosses it into the paper shredder. After Maynard is sure it is destroyed, he walks through the halls and out onto the patio, where he settles into a large armchair with a copy of Dante's Inferno.

Two Secret Service agents discreetly guard him from nearby, quietly chatting about the day's work. Nothing is out of the ordinary--until a single bullet whizzes through the air and buries itself in its target, Maynard's head. As the President slumps forward, blood dripping down onto his suit, the agents rush forwards shooting...

That was how the staff of the White House suspected the President died, just yesterday, as an uncountable number of FBI agents, Secret Service agents, crime scene technicians, and unidentifiable government employees rushed through the halls of the White House, especially the Oval Office, carefully documented by the uniformed policeman at the door, noting people's names, ranks, affiliation, and the time they arrived and left.

The President's three children were with the First Lady, Abidah Khan Maynard, upstairs, waiting for more news. The lead agent to the case, Graylen Lee Fieldings, had decided not to permit the family to see the body--they might not have been able to recognize it, and it was a gruesome sight to behold. Agent Fieldings himself was inside the Oval Office, orchestrating the entire chaos. He was scheduled to hold a press conference later that day.

***

Treali Storm sat alone, in a dark room, massive, and shrouded by shadows. A few frail rays of sunlight drifted in through the carved windows nearly fifty feet up, but other than that, there was nothing. In front of her she held on to a thin piece of paper, a letter, the letter she had been waiting for.

They know now, and soon will come.
The reward is fifty million dollars.
--Sirius Melbourne

Attached to the letter by a small silver paperclip was a copy of a legal size paper, the top of which read in boldface "FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE". Below that was a photograph, of her face. At the bottom, the same amount was mentioned. Fifty million dollars.

***

The slim, straw-blonde woman looked furtively left and right, and then stepped inside the room and locked the door behind her. Natalie Schultz hid in the interrogation room, sometimes, down the street, away from the chaos and din of the Hoover Building. After last night's assassination, everyone was going crazy. Today, the noise at FBI Headquarters was deafening, enough to drive even the most reasonable, calm, and patient person right off the wall.

She sprawled comfortably across the floor, content in the soundproof room, and emptied from the six boxes the complete FBI file on Treali Storm. Natalie had been tracking the woman now for ten years, and today she might have stumbled across a major breakthrough. Just as she was concentrating though, her cell phone rang. "Schultz," said the voice of the Director of the FBI. "Get down to the White House. They need you there. Find Agent Fieldings."

Natalie groaned. WHY ME? she thought, then re-packed her possessions and lugged herself out of the Correctional Center.

SAMPLE THREE (This one includes Treali, the proposed character.)

Jalal ibn Mu'taal helped Treali Storm into the back of the black Tahoe, lifting her in. He then joined Rashid Saoui, who was driving, in the front of the vehicle. The others were splitting up, taking different cars. Treali sat in the plush leather seat, leaning back into it, her face full of pain. Jalal looked back at the fugitive; she had, with some effort, turned her head to the side, where she was gazing out wistfully at the citizens of Vanacus who passed by outside.

With their clean-shaven faces and stylish Western suits, Jalal and Rashid looked no more out of place than any native of Vanacus. Their impeccably British accents were icing on the cake, almost unnecessitating their completely fake documentation. As Rashid drove slowly through the streets, aiming for the airport in London so they could leave the godforsaken country, unbeknownst to the terrorists, a helicopter drifted some ten blocks away, the pilot notifying base of the suspicious looking vehicle, which had just left from an address being closely watched.

Jalal looked back for a moment; a single tear began to form in the corner of Treali's eye, sliding down her cheek, dropping onto the leather. But she spake not a word, and Jalal respected her silence with his own. After several moments, Rashid spoke in an urgent whisper.

"Jalal, look, do you see that man?" He motioned with his eyes towards a man darting furtively into a backstreet, his head inclined towards his shoulder.

"Yes," Jalal replied. "He is obviously with law enforcement; he's talking into his bloody shirt. We have to evade. Now."

Rashid hesitated for a moment, then slammed his foot down on the gas. An instant later, sirens blared on all sides, and what looked like an entire convoy of police vehicles converged on the Tahoe, which before had seemed mighty and powerful, and now seemed like a small toy. Treali Storm, in the back, did not seem to notice the commotion; in the ensuing chaos, her eyes lit up as they stared vacantly through the heavily tinted windows, she offered up something unseen in her hands, and whispered "Just a minute longer; hold me, don't let me go."

But neither Jalal nor Rashid paid any attention, as a roadblock suddenly shot into view. Rashid screamed, then the car slammed head on into the roadblock, sending the Tahoe to a dead stop. Police cars spun to a stop around them, men in uniform, body armor, and military fatigues all training their weapons on the trio.

"Come out of the vehicle with your hands up," a voice shouted. Jalal and Rashid were paralyzed. They could not risk surrender, nor could they attempt suicide. Treali Storm was their charge; it was her health and safety above all else.

Before they could make any decisions, a bobbie tossed a tear gas canister into the carved swath of the Tahoe, which quickly released the unpleasant gas, forcing Jalal and Rashid out of the car. They were instantly tackled to the ground, their arms forced behind them, and taken into custody.

Treali Storm did not move. Inside the damaged car, she was transfixed, Leaning against the side of the vehicle, she murmured, "Never let me go..."

Finally, coughing terribly on the gas, chemical-induced tears indistinguishable from genuine ones, she limped slowly out of the Tahoe, a sight to behold. The world's most wanted woman, walking slowly out of a totalled Tahoe, hands folded as if in prayer.







He saw the petite woman, the one with mousy blonde hair, slip past, obviously trying to escape detection. After years of observing others, Jack knew how to spot someone who didn't want to be seen. He smiled, thanked the newcomer politely, and followed the woman upstairs.

She slipped furtively through a small door. Jack peeped in through the crack to see a dark, dingy room, with a dirty bed crammed into the small space. It reeked of body odor. He himself checked quickly to his left and right, and saw no one there. Jack walked inside.

The blonde was sprawled on the bed, sighing, just about to slip into sleep. Jack grabbed her, and before she could scream, wrapped his musuclar arm around her, suffocating the woman who was no doubt a prostitute. Her grey eyes grew large and somewhat moist. Jack felt an intense thudding, reveling in it for several moments before realizing that it was his own heartbeat. With a sickening smile, he pulled out his knife.

"You don't know how I've thirsted for this," he spoke, his voice low, husky, almost a whisper. "It's been a while, love, almost too long. But don't be afraid--the big, bad wolf won't get you. I'll make sure, personally." He frowned, caressing the tiny woman. "What's the matter?" Jack brought the blade to within an inch of her eye, causing her to squirm. "True love," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "can be found only in the most simple of moments, the most human, the most animal. When we are stripped to our bare existence."

The blade was sharp, perfectly whetted. "This is true love." He slit the woman's throat and held her petite body as she went limp in his arms. I'm home, love. Jack slowly removed her clothes, laying them on the broken chair, which nearly collapsed under their weight. His knife glistened for a moment in the light of his eyes, then he brought it down. The intricate designs on the woman's arms, chest, and legs somewhat resembled arabesques, or the designs in an Incan Mandala.

After he had spent his time in the room, Jack left, shutting the door quietly behind him. When the police would find the woman's corpse, she would be so beautiful. His own work of art. My magnum opum. Her own mother wouldn't recognize her.

Jack smiled at the ladies downstairs, and without another word, disappeared onto the streets.

Wow. I really like your writing, Treali Storm. I also absolutely LOVED your intro! Thank you for being so nice about the whole List Intro thing...

It's not that I don't like List Intros or Character Profiles, I actually think they are a very good thing. However, when one allows them in their roleplay, it can attract many people who think the RP is going to be a one-liner, chatspoken, illiterate roleplay. If this were not the case, I would definitely use LI/CP's. But because that is just how it is, I prefer not to use them, so as to set the tone as a very literate, very well-written roleplay. In many other roleplays that I have done, I used LI/CP's, but the RP's were not super-literate roleplays. However, I would prefer this particular roleplay to be very literate, and that is why I have eliminated the use of LI/CP's.

Also, I do believe we are the only two in this roleplay so far I'll try to get more people to join...

Old Pro will join. I will work on an Intro Post later today.

Can I reserve a spot please?

And Treali, did you give up on our one on one RP?

Of course, Rei! One spot reserved...

Actually, you don't have to reserve it anymore. I've decided not to join; too much writing for me at the moment plus I have loads of on going role-plays at the moment so Unreserve please?

Sounds interesting, just one thing I'm confused on.

Up in your opening post you have a character sheet... but you say later no character sheets...

CS or no CS???

Oh, sorry about that...

Yes, you may use the Character Profile