Shadow of Perfection

Shadow of Perfection

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The hamlet of Marris lies idyllically, nestled within the mountains; a long forgotten confluence. But what secrets lie within the slumbering beast forgotten? Do you dare find out?

270 readers have visited Shadow of Perfection since Sawakonotsadako1231 created it.

Introduction

This town is a relic.

Fifty-seven years ago, during an era of turmoil and perpetual uncertainty, scientists toiled in the pursuit of an answer to their grief. A wake of mass encroaching upon possibility, they pursued the most profane of solutions; morality but dust in the wind, yet wielded no results. To little avail they worked like dogs, their method decaying with their sanity, little hope held in recognization of the end. Calamity was ubiquitous, a certainty to all.

But calamity...was averted.

As the strain of panic met the seams of society, a breakthrough was realized. The disease, the plague-like O-Virus, was quelled by the pharmaceutical that dawned upon the panic-ridden people, a drug known only as XXZ2. The people rejoiced and the government remanned the relieved nation, an idyllic and prompt end to what would be only a bad memory of doom-impending and darkness for all.

That is, for most.

It is Fifty-seven years later and Marris is a relic; everyone knows it.

But relics have value, and memories that no mind could recall.

The small school lying quietly near the lake, the old mansion cradled into the hillside, the abandoned hospital on the hill: They all serve as a physical recording of the events that went on here. The events that gave birth to their salvation.

The events that spelled their demise.

You are a resident of this village, a piece of a puzzle that forms yet no clear picture, and the world is yet again crumbling. With whispers of a strange sickness riding on the winds of the most recent nationwide election, an aura of unease hangs over the people once threatened, and Marris is no exception. The people are on edge, and strange happenings have made them all the more so.

Strange happenings that mark the coming tide. A red tide, if not averted.

Marris is a relic, and it's up to you to determine how best to use it.

The sake of a nation, after all, rests in your hands...



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So first off, this will be a limited RP with only 6 spots available, including myself. I'm not big on having large, convoluted messess of people posting tidbits and birthing mellodramas while I try to direct a coherent story, so I'm not going to budge on this. Secondly, the story is set to be developed through the unveiling of the secrets that swirl around the town of Marris and will be guided along by me, the GM, through my characters narrative and interaction. That's not to say that you won't have a hand in shaping it, but I will steer it in a vaguely specific direction overall, guiding us towards plot points and unveilings. Lastly, RPer's are required to post at a minimum of 1,000 words at a regularity of at least twice a week. While I can make exceptions for RPer's who might not be able to meet the second requisite due to RL matters, there is absolutely no amends for not meeting the word count and violaters will be removed after a warning is issued.

Rules: Standard stuff guys; no godmodding or etc. I don't feel like I should go over this.

Character:

Your character may fit any archetype that you can make reasonable. That said, I don't want any hyper-military roles: Commandos and such. For a story like this, they simply won't work. It should also be noted that Marris is a small town, and is set in a technological era that would be most akin to the early 90's, and so anything high tech or insane seeming won't find a home here.

Your sheet should at least meet this standard, but may be expanded upon if one should so wish.

Name: (Most normal people don't have crazy names, so don't go overboard.)
Age: (14+. No small children.)
Sex: (Bonus points to anyone who RP's a transgendered char. Full of flavor.)
Occupation: (Be reasonable; I don't need BAMF's, just regular people.)
Appearance: (While I like pictures, I'd request that you provide a description to go along with it.)
Personality: (I've always disliked this; personalities should be developed, not preset. Feel free to talk to me about omitting this, if you want.)
Backstory: (Minimum of 3 paragraphs, though longer is obviously fine.)

The better your profile, the more likely you secure a spot.

Spot 1: (Sawako)
2: OPEN
3: OPEN
4: OPEN
5: OPEN
6: OPEN

Any questions may be asked via PM or in the GD forum of the RP. Have fun!

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The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 3 authors

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sawako Kirihae

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-2 months Ago-

"--And I believe, my fair lady, that that would be checkmate."

Her eyes darted hastily to the pieces on the board, hand shaking slightly as she surveyed the situation with the rapt attention of a statue. Fingering the crown of her King, she looked for an escape; anything that would deter the menacing Bishop that stood overwatch a few squares away. Giving it a twiddle, she grasped it in between her soft fingers and sighed a low sigh of regret, addmittance creeping in through the curtains of desperation. A matter of life or death?

No, perhaps not.

"I guess it is."

Giving the royalty a slight push, he fell to the board with surprising ease, head cracking against the cool board with the finality of his death looming. Looking down at him, she only could feel pity as his Queen stood by hopelessly in horror, lamenting silently as her lover lied still beside her. Chess was romantic, though a thoroughly depressing affair.

"I don't think I've seen anyone cry after losing a chess match, hun--" the boy said with a slight chuckle, stifled only slightly by his hand "--but I guess that's not all that surprising with you."

Tearing herself away from the sorrid affair acted out in front of her, she gazed up at her opponent and gave him a pout, wiping away at her face as she vainly attempted to play dumb.

"I wasn't crying--" she shot back, a hand rested gently on her hip "--I never cry; shut up!" She played at what she thought was a look of steel, though quickly found it melted by her boyfriend's stalwart expression.

"You cry over spilt milk." He said matter-of-factly, his crisp eyes directed straight into hers. She found it hard to think when he stared at her. They were so blue; little orbs that drew and sucked in her soul...She averted her gaze.

"I-I d-do not!" She retorted stammering, a denial of the obvious.

"Liar."

She shook at these words, the simple utterance cutting through her like a knife through butter. It was a simple facade, yes, but she found that his tone, his criticality, always tore her to ribbons. She couldn't retort, and so instead leaned over the table and gave him a light, sultry kiss. If she couldn't win through words, she had other assets.

"If I cry--" She paused, letting the peck soak in softly "--it's only because you make me." She finished the sentence slowly as she pulled away and left him in wanton, her lips quivering as she sat back down in her chair. She was no good at pulling away, not even a bit. "Meanie."

He drew his eyes up to hers once again and gave a quick smile, good looks brushing away her pretense of superiority in a heartbeat. She nearly swooned.

"Seems that I'm like this bishop--" he started, his eyes peering into hers as he tossed the mentioned piece up playfully "--I'll make you cry, and then steal you away." It was his game now and he leaned over the table in emulation, his gaze pulling her forward. They kissed deeply as pieces fell to to the floor, pulling away only as the pawns laid at rest on the cold tile below. "...But don't worry; I'll never make you cry ever again." He smiled as he spoke, hair softly lying flat. She could only grin back.

"Liar."

--Present day--

Liar.

The pen tore at the paper angrily as tears cascaded in waterfalls from her hazel eyes, staining it as they fell like raindrops from her cheeks. She felt cold; cold despite the summer rays beating down on her face through the old window in her empty room. With a fit of sobs, she jabbed her pen at her parchment yet again, the ink soaking though deep as she poured her soul into the thin white sheet.

Liar. Cheat. Womanizer. Whore.

She wrote with abandon, the words echoing her enraged thoughts in dark chorus. He was a demon unparalleled, the devil incarnate.

Abusive. Idiot. Bastard. Barbarous.

She peered away from the hate-drenched document and around her room, the void unfilled as her bag lay zipped and boxes absent. Most all of her personals were ash now, fuel for the fire that burned away her normalcy and spiraled her life into oblivion. Now all she had was the blank vellum, and the anathema to fill it to the brim.

"Sawako?"

The voice at the door was soft and feminine, though she found no comort in hearing it.

"Sawako?" Reiterated her aunt, lightly rapping the door as she spoke. "Are you in there?"

Again she remained quiet, having no compulsion to respond. Though she was the only one who would take her in after the accident, Sawako couldn't bear to be grateful. She doubted she retained such a capacity.

"I just want you to know--"She began, her intonation reverberating through the thin wood with cadence "--that if you need someone to talk to, someone to confide in; I'm here."

Hardly a comfort.

She sat silently, her pen at rest on her paper until she heard the distinct sound of footsteps trailing down the hallway. As they receded, she stood up and walked slowly to the window, her hair a mess as she brought her hand through it absentmindedly. From her window, she could see the mass of animals at the nearest farm. Nearly 200 ft away, the smell wafted into the old house anytime an opening was cracked.

"Stupid pig."

She smiled, despite herself. She really did hate this place, for every and no reason. It served as the grim portrait for her misfortune, a constant mockery of the life she once lived. But in that sense, it was perfect. A mockery of what she had grown now to hate was a mockery yet.

No, that wasn't true. She had already hated her life before, she just hadn't realized it.

Letting out a tired sigh, she drifted back to her bed and fell onto it lazily. The sun seeping only barely over the hills it had crept behind, it offered no distraction as she turned off her brain and let sleep take her. God knew she had nothing better to do.

Setting

Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

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Sasha loved days when she was alone at work, having the whole diner to herself. She had a favorite stool in the local diner's backroom. It was old, with four, thin metal legs, and a foam rubber seat, covered in plastic, printed with an old style red and white square-pattern. It was the kind all grandmothers had one of in their laundry room. The rubber foam was poking out where the plastic had broken, and it was as ugly as it was old, but Sasha liked it. She was usually the only one in her work place to use it, and she could sit on it when she was alone at work and smoke; it fit perfectly under the ventilation intake, next to the sink where she could wash down the ash and roach. It also held her seat and one foot, letting her lean against the wall, quite a comfortable position. She had been drifting away into her own thoughts for a while, not thinking anything she could actually grasp or remember. The chef had gone home after lunch servings, the one working dinner and supper didn't show up for another few hours, so hardly anyone came to the diner. She wasn't allowed to smoke inside, but no one had noticed so far, and she couldn't hear if anyone came in if she sat behind the diner.

"DING!" Sasha jumped in her seat "Shit!" she whispered, putting out the cigarette by rubbing it under her shoe, and sticking it in her apron pocket. She quickly got up, making sure her hair was hanging down. She had to hide her sidecuts as best as she could while at work. Her tattoos as well, a think, black jumper under her terrible blue and green uniform hid them. Might as well not, her snakebites and ear piercings gave her more than enough looks.

She went around the door and out of the backroom, smiling carefully from behind the counter. She had never quite managed to look like she was genuinely happy to see customers, more like they weren't tormenting her, witch was more than some waitresses managed. She rested her hands on the counter, the customers was an elder couple, the kind that probably would die at the same time because she couldn't drive, and he could open the fridge... The woman looked terrified, Sasha felt that familiar sting in her stomach, whenever she got that look. Her smile faded, the old man tried a smile back, petting his wife on the back "Go to the rest room so that we have a hope of getting out of here today" he joked. His wife opened her mouth to talk to Sasha, but he interrupted her "I know what you eat wife, I'll order". Sasha squeezed out a thankful, halfhearted smile at the man as his wife scuffled over to the rest rooms.

"You don't have anything we can bring with us? If she's going to preach for and save every diner working teenager along the road we'll be at our destination in time for our own funeral" he joked. Sasha smiled lightly "I'm sorry for your loss, but you don't have to defend me, I choose how I look and who I am" she said calmly, trying not to sound to defensive. The mans face cracked up "Very well, I see we're a little to early for dinner servings, but witch sandwiches do you recommend?" Sasha though for a while "Well, depends on what you like" she admitted, explaining "I usually have the chicken with a lot of extra spices, and I pick out the lettuce". The man laughed "my grand daughter is like that too, she eats like she dresses, a little to bold" he smiled jokingly "so, give us some that looks like we dress" he suggested. Sasha couldn't help but smile, picking out one with shrimp, and one with ham and cheese "Stay or go?" she asked. The man got out his wallet "The wife won't let me eat in the car" he chuckled "Throw in two cups of coffee too" he said, paying up.

The couple got their food, and sat with a table close to the window. Sasha started refilling table baskets with spices and sauce, washing the containers with a warm cloth. She could overhear the old woman complain a little about the food, then commenting on what she liked. She wasn't paying attention until the word junkie came up. Sasha turned around slowly, starring at the harshly "I've actually been clean for over a year" she said with fake, overdone politeness. The woman shrugged "In my days we never got in such mess in the first place. We had some self control" she insisted. The man smiled apologetic at her, but Sasha had enough. Each, and every, single, fucking day. "You listen here! I've done nothing to hurt you, how I look does not harm you! A lot of the pretty faces around you do drugs, you never know! And you have no fucking right to judge! You have no idea who I am, or where I come from!" she realized her voice had gone high pitched. The man seemed less sympathetic towards her now, the woman utterly disturbed. She didn't say anything, so Sasha stomped back into the backroom, her hands shaking fiercely. She lit up the rest of her cig, smoking it in deep, hasty breaths. She heard the "DING" of the door after a few minutes, sighing relieved that they hadn't been locals.

She helped herself to another two cigarettes before she finally had her breath under control. "Contain yourself Sasha" she ordered herself, then yelled loudly at the ceiling "Why the hell do I even try!" She missed it! She missed being so spaced out that there was no thoughts, no consequence, no feel of responsibility. Who was she even trying to impress? Her parents? They had tried to help her, but they hated what she was. All her friends was in the same shit as her, in one way or another. Why should she stay sober? So that she could graduate, get a husband, two point five kids, Volvo, dog and row house, and grow old being just as judgmental as the couple that just had left? She sighed deeply "You're pathetic Sasha" she whispered to herself. She stacked the plates and placed in the dish washer, pulling up her sleeves and getting a wet cloth to wash of the table. She always looked at her tattoos, all of them told a story. On the right arm she had two Venus symbols intertwined "But you're not going to get a husband" she whispered to herself. She had admitted, and liver her sexuality when high or drunk. It was different when she was sober, but the tattoo made it a little hard to lie. "I can still get a Volvo and a row house, and maybe a dog" she muttered.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Samuel Pope

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The Airport shuttle drove for an hour and a half to get them to their destination. Ever since Sam had signed the adoption papers a week before, Aurora avoided talking as much as possible. He was sitting on the front passenger sit, looking at her through the rear view mirror. It looked like she had noticed, but showed no reaction to it. Sam walked stepped out of the vehicle first and helped Aurora do the same. It seemed as if she was like a doll, waiting to be moved according to her master's wishes, but that wasn't what Sam had adopted her for. He wanted her to feel safer around here and he wouldn't relax until he had reached his goal. As for the house, well, it was in a nearly impeccable state, thanks to the housekeepers that came once a week. He'd also arranged groceries and a basic supply of the usual drugs and antibiotics he usually required. After giving the driver a decent tip, he walked towards the main entrance.

((For purposes of storytelling, every dialogue talked in Spanish will be directly translated into English.))

Aurora left both her provisional bags next to the driveway and followed him. Their house was the only one as far as they could see, so it simply didn't seem to matter at that point. Sam, wondering, asked her.

“Do you like the place?” She looked at me with a sense of disbelief and sarcasm.

“It's OK.” Her face looked as if she'd tried to hide excitement for a second or two, but she quickly managed to retract those feelings with a weariness that had been following her ever since hiding the paper. Sam could imagine how afraid she probably was. Afraid of letting herself believe she wouldn't wake up to that trash she was meant to call parents for so long. The kind of insensitive trash that ruins this planet for every decent human being living in it.

“I'm glad you like it.” He opened the door and continued.
“Feel free to look around the house. My room is on the second floor, second door to the right.
I felt you'd like my old room. We can remodel it if you don't like to furniture. It's on the second floor to the left, the last door on the corridor.” The tower, as his family had always called that room, was what used to be a private observatory built by one of his ancestors. It felt like a private apartment of it's own and Sam hoped she would like it.
“I'll be unpacking in my room and then I'll probably make some calls. Feel free to call me, if you need anything. This is your home now, feel free to treat it like that.”

“Yes, OK” She looked at him for a short while and walked directly to the kitchen. Food...! Samuel cursed himself. He had forgotten to give her anything to eat for nearly two days. Working as a doctor in the poor countries makes you ignore hunger much easily. He followed her and looked relieved as he saw fresh stew on the kitchen's stove. Aurora looked for a plate, filled it with a nearly inhumane portion and devoured it. He shouldn't forget to thank Ms. Laurey, the housekeeper for that. A while back, he used to love Ms. Laurey’s home-made stew. It's strange how certain things lose their importance when you grow older. Sam wasn't even really surprised, when he noticed he still wasn't really that hungry after that amount of time. He hadn't been eating that well ever since Germany and he was quite alright with it.

A few hours later, he was just about finished with unpacking everything he'd brought from his trip. He grabbed his worn-out brown leather jacket and looked at it carefully. One had to look twice to make sure brown was it's original color. Ragged as it was, there was nothing more comfortable to wear outside for Samuel. Even if he looked like a homeless guy. Then, he moved slowly down the stairs. The door to Aurora's new room had been left open, but he didn't feel like barging in at this point. Half-way on the stairs, he decided to walk back to his room and grab his old acoustic guitar. After tuning it, he went outside, daylight giving it's last few breaths before night took over, and sat on their small front patio. Checking his pockets, he found a pack of cigarettes and he lit one. At some point, Aurora had walked down the stairs and was standing in front of the door.

“Do you need anything?”

He face looked completely empty of any emotion, but then again, Samuel felt pretty much the same. He couldn't help but leave apathy take over the mood. Aurora turned around and came back with two small glasses of whiskey and a sixteen year old bottle.

“You know, ...” He managed to grin about it.
“The bottle you're holding might be older than you are.”

That was the first second he ever saw her smile. For a second, he could understand what her father must have felt like, she was a beauty in every way, but still. There was something else, something more every time he looked at her. It felt like salvation. His grin turned into a melancholic smile and he grabbed a glass and that half-empty bottle. It was warm and Aurora was sixteen, still... She was no more a child than he was. He didn't feel the authority to tell her what to do.

“Wanna sit down?” He continued, while filling up her glass, she nodded.
((Alex Clare – I won't let you down))
Silence, just until it was about to get dark, and then she said.
“What's gonna happen now? What do you want me to do?”

Aurora was blushing while saying that, the alcohol got to her and it got her hard. Fear crept clearly into her eyes, but maybe that's how dependence looked like. Did he look that way to “her”?... He hoped not. Sam took a sip and lit another cigarette while looking at the floor. Then he looked up and and, trying to hide the insane sadness in his voice, he said.

“What do you want to do?”

“I guess... I'd like to stay here, sitting and maybe have some wine after this one.”
Sam had to admit, that whiskey was nearly 40% alcohol after all these years. It was pretty comical from his point of view. He smiled, this time a little less sad. His eyes turned a little red and watery, but he didn't drop a tear or anything.

“Sounds like a plan if you ask me.”

“...and maybe we could order pizza?”

“What about the stew?” He looked surprised about her asking for pizza after eating so much already.

“It was sooo good, but it's all gone now.” She looked as if you she thought she'd done something wrong. Just like a little puppy would do after breaking a jar. Sam began laughing his ass off. It about a minute for him to answer.

“Mushrooms and onions with extra cheese?”

“Sounds interesting.” Now she was laughing too.

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Re: Shadow of Perfection

As a writer I'm from childish books and stories, and an imagination running wild with no concept of reality... I started on forum based RPGs when I was 11 or so, and I completely fell in love with it, and got myself darker and darker characters :P At some point I started getting more versatile and realistic, more reflected on the kind of books I read now, witch are not as childish.

As a person I'm a Norwegian ergotheapy student. It's not really earning my living, but it will in some years.

Also, love the new character, just so exited for the RPG to really get started :D

Re: Shadow of Perfection

As a character, or a person?

Re: Shadow of Perfection

I'm really glad I got in by the way. May I ask where you're from and what you guys do for a living? I'd be happy to answer the same question.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

Is it ok for me just to post an intro?

Re: Shadow of Perfection

While I was waiting for the latest person to post, I'll skip ahead and try to get this running.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

It's much easier than it seems and does the story wonders. Good work!

Re: Shadow of Perfection

I just posted an introduction, hope that was okay? I'm very curious as to where this story goes. I thought it would take a lot of "brain shaking" to squeeze out a thousand words, but as I got started, just writing by trail of thought it was done in no time =)

Re: Shadow of Perfection

Oh, the disease.

Stage 1: 1-2 days post contraction, stage 1 sets in. The virus is headed by feelings of mild irritation within the lungs, causing fits of coughing and wheezing.

Stage 2: 3-6 days post-contraction, stage 2 sets in. Minor psychological maladies are observable, prompting the infected to "scratch" at their abdomen. Wheezing continues.

Stage 3: 10-16 days post-contraction, stage 3 sets in. Psychological maladies are exacerbated; infected "tear" at their abdomen, causing injury. Wheezing is accentuated exponentially, causing major sleep deprivation.

Stage 4: 21-29 days post-contraction, death. Observable traits are numerous and severe. Pre-existing conditions, related or not, are notably in turmoil.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

The O-virus.
What are the symptoms?

Re: Shadow of Perfection

Loved the prologue, Sawako.
I'll try to compose a character worthy of being a part of this RP.
Would you mind describing the decease a little but further?

Re: Shadow of Perfection

Take your time :) Just was curious.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

I'm sorry! x_X I'm trying to hammer out a good profile but at the moment I'm still trying to figure out what I'd want my character to be.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

No interest? I might just keep posting until someone else joins.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

I'll answer in order, to keep it simple for myself.

Firstly, the nature of the roleplay is a bit of a facade. While I don't want to go into much detail and spoil it, you can expect it to be "'pre-apocalyptic', mystery-horror story" yes, but other elements will introduce themselves for sure.

Secondly, the tech level is going to be variable, in a sense. Think of it as a 57 year decline from where we are now, at a reduced rate. We hit our technological apex at our time of need, but have entered a so called period of stagnation. That was a bit convoluted, so just imagine the late 90's-early 00's.

Regarding the post count, there's a method to my madness. I set the post count high for two reasons: Scaring off the uncommitted and encouraging a lot of early story development. It's subject to change at a later date, but I want the first few posts to be regarding your story and the development of your personality. I want the RPers to define their characters through their interactions and thoughts, not their profiles. Nothing irks me more than the character profile, and so I want to rely on it as little as possible, hence the large posting requirement. I also want a large level of player interaction, which is encouraged when you have to find a thousand words worth of stuff to write about. Is it set in stone? For now, yes, but once the story has developed and players have formed bonds, I'll lower the requirement.

Lastly, the culture will be an amalgamation, though it will be leaning towards Asiatic. I'm trying to stay away from dictating where we are, because I want the location to be sort of ubiquitous. Marris could be a small town that you know, and I want to reinforce that idea.

Anywho, I'm glad that you're interested. Feel free to submit your profile when you want, or ask any more questions if you have them.

Re: Shadow of Perfection

It is impossible to describe the amount of my interest that you have captured, except that it is very large.

The only thing is, I'm not clear on a few points, like what kind of RP we're to expect. As far as I can tell, it's a sort of 'pre-apocalyptic', mystery-horror story, correct? Or will there be fantastic/supernatural elements involved (it reminds me enough of Persona that I would not be shocked at all)?

Also, what is the technology or time period? I'm going to assume far-ish future, considering it's fifty-seven years later, but it might be good to describe what they've got by then. Has the Singularity happened? Oh, and what kind of culture is it? Your character's name implies Asiatic.

The text minimum's another problem. While I'm completely fine with trying to make people post a lot and often, it does seem like 2000 words a week (which is what I assume you meant by 'a minimum of 1,000 words at a regularity of at least twice a week') might be a bit much for someone not actually directing the story. Unless you're going to give us a great deal of free reign with our posts, or want us to go on vast, pointless descriptions, I'm not sure how easily we can be expected to fill out that entire thousand words. At the very least, it seems a good way to cause an easily-stressed person to burn out.

Shadow of Perfection

Yo! Ask questions here, need be.