『 h໐ຖēฯ 』, thērē'Ş ຖ໐ t i ๓ ē . .

Joined
Feb 5, 2020
a little thread for me to chronicle present roleplays that I'm contributing to and to also supply samples for those who want them. if you ever find yourself interested, PM me with a query!

        • ――――― » (っ◔◡◔)っ ❧ sample thread // accepting! (o/3)
          ――» timezone // central
          ――» activity // anywhere from four p.m to eleven pm every day, free all day on weekends (I tend to oversleep though so I might wake up in the late afternoon . .)
          ――» contact // add me on discord! i find that this is the easiest way to talk to friends and partners with since I always have my phone on me. my tag is, excluding the brackets, [oompa loompa body ass bitch#3164]
          ――» writing style // depending on the roleplay, i can be hella casual (aka sarcasm and rhetorical questions sprinkled throughout, including and excluding dialogue), or more 'formal'--I guess is the way to put it. Maybe not formal, but less jokey and more flowery in terms of text, if you get my gist. all of my posts will be descriptive, but that's not to say that it oversteps the fine line between provoking intricate pictures in the mind versus unnecessary purple prose. i find that a lot of people value quality over quantity, but I prefer a genuine balance between the two. i strive to make my posts worthwhile those few little minutes that you read them, while also having enough substance and length that it doesn't just cut off suddenly when I'm done responding to all of your character actions.
 
Joined
Feb 5, 2020
Word count // 1,065
Characters // 6,158
Type // Intro
For // Canceled Furuba

The call was sudden, forthright, and abrupt. You could imagine how, after answering the unknown call (curiosity had always gotten the better of him), the bittersweet tone of his mother whom he´s failed to visit for the past eight years caused his mind to ricochet within its cranial prison. You know that saying about how time seems to come to a slow, steady halt when one’s experiencing an adrenaline rush or comes face to face with a life-or-death situation? Somewhat like a train trudging through tracks before the conductor slams on the breaks. In this scenario, his mother was the conductor, and he, the train. During the call, which seemed to morph more into a subtle interrogation, Hyacinth had little say in the matter and would only be able to interject occasionally with a compliant, ¨Yes, mother,” or, more often, ¨No, mother,”. There would be no if´s, or´s, and´s, or but´s, no ultimatums, no “Well, I´m actually quite busy,¨--her word was law. And if he chose to defy what may as well be a law, a demand, a requirement? Hyacinth knew from personal experience that she would do far worse than give him a little surprise call. Nothing physical, no, but attacking him psychologically was always her strong suit, even if he was halfway across the world in some remote safe haven (how on earth had she managed to acquire his phone number after all these years . . ?).

TIME SKIP!!

Exhaustion draped itself around his body in the form of a wet, putrid blanket. It would never cease to amaze him how his skin, and his fingertips especially, managed to maintain such a cold temperature. Never mind the cerulean sky with its wispy white clouds flowing down a river of baby blue, only accentuated by an ever-present smile on the face of the sun--the cold would always, always manage to wriggle its cold little tendrils underneath the surface of his skin, leaving his supple flesh to feel chilled on an irksome day-to-day basis. Ah, but that was beside the point. He was still in the process of choking down that lump that formed in the heart of his neck, even going so far as to occasionally press his index against the curve of his throat, seemingly as if in genuine discomfort. Instead, to try and mellow out his senses, he focused his attention on rasping his manicured nails against the curvature of his cab seat, producing a dull leathery tapping noise that seemed to soothe his nerves yet annoy his chauffeur—causing her to occasionally give him a steely look through the rearview mirror, only to meet averting eyes.

They were nearing closer, he could tell. The gunmetal hued sedan they were stationed in drove over a steep hill that overlooked the estates somewhere off into the near distance that was fringed with greenery and well-clipped shrubbery. The tremors that traversed through his nervous system skyrocketed, that thin layer of sweat that coated his skin during the flight from Europe seemed to return to moisten his pigmentation, and his heart—his heart was thrumming to an orchestra of raw anxiousness. He debated whether or not it’d be too late to return to the airport and book a flight back home on the way there. But he knew, even if he didn’t want to admit it, that it was out of the question. In that time that he was arguing with himself whilst his body swerved and bobbed with each intermittent stop and turn, they had already arrived at their destination. As if not catching on to that fact, Hyacinth locked his gaze on the woman and asked, rather accusatory, “Why have we stopped?”


And the woman, face taut yet wrinkled with age replied, “Here.” Now, Hyacinth had noticed that she attempted to utter out what could be interpreted as broken English despite him questioning her in her—their native language, but Hyacinth was far too jet-lagged and run ragged to even acknowledge it at this point. “Yes, well . . . thank you—for the ride, I mean,” What else could he have meant? He grimaced at the internal jest. “Your payment, Miss.” He managed to awkwardly slither his fingers inside his front and back pockets before checking his coat. Nothing. “Where’s the damn . . ah, here you are.” He snaked his fingers around a faux leather wallet and pulled out the standard amount of money given to cab drivers, plus a tip (which she seemed thankful yet slightly inquisitive about as he stepped out of the vehicle)

Slugging backpack after backpack upon his broad shoulders, Hyacinth tumbled out of the vehicle and bid his cabbie adieu, gripping the handle of his carry on and—reluctantly—trudging toward the sprawled open front gates. It was the Sakura Matsuri, no? Perhaps that’s why the vending area was crawling with men and women clad in matching uniform parading about as if in a hurry, buzzing around like busy little bees sharing one hive mind. Festivals were never his thing, no. Fried food assaulting his senses, the overstimulation of a loud crowd, and the occasional ogling foreigner (though, he was one to talk) were some of the things he absolutely hated during festivals. Nevertheless, he was getting sidetracked again. Blinking away the crust from his eyes as he lumbered forward with small, awkward steps, Hyacinth could make out an indistinguishable figure directly adjacent to him clad in all black, seemingly as if they were going to attend a funeral. As he neared he was able to make out more of the woman’s features, though he didn’t have to stare hard long as a pitiless gaze met his. Then—something rather uncharacteristic of her, she smiled. She began splaying her arms out in what seemed to be a welcoming invitation for a warm embrace, but Hyacinth knew better than to expect that from her. It was merely a crude, grandiose display of what should’ve been hugs and tears and forgiveness all wrapped up into a big package waiting for him on the doorstep of the estates, but instead, he received this. How delightful. As he closed in, he could hear the stifling of laughter before a twisted, ailing smile graced her abnormally youthful appearance. She brought a gloved finger toward the corner of her eye and flicked away a false tear before clasping her sheathed hands together.

Welcome home, boy.
 
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