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| DanteDeo's Application | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 17 2010, 07:16 AM (151 Views) | |
| DanteDeo | Feb 17 2010, 07:16 AM Post #1 |
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Username: DanteDeo Preferred Name: Dion Age (optional): 24 Years role-playing: 10 or 11 Favorite Genre: Hardboiled occult, crime, fantasy. Least favorite genre: Romance. Which is slightly ironic. Anything you’d like to add: Professional writer, literature buff. I write a lot of down-and-dirty kind of hardboiled fiction, but also love most other genres and cross-genre stories. I write some weird stuff – most of my RP tends towards the violent end of the spectrum. Despite disliking romance as a genre, I happily cultivate IC relationships. Role-playing Sample: A man breathed, and the room breathed with him. He was dreaming...in the darkness, he could make out dim shapes and forms, most of it spontaneous, interwoven with thought-stuff. He could see planes of black volcanic glass, all of it wet and shining to his vision in the dark. It was a labyrinth. The floors were polished stone and water...it was impossible to know which it was, unless you stepped out onto it and either found solid footing, or sank without sound into black still pools. How deep was it? How far did they go? The room breathed, and he breathed with it. He was the space, he was the room, he was the tenuous dream of serpentine rocky corridors. The heart. The incense that was burning in a brazier in front of his body curled in his nostrils, heavy and sharp. Dragon's Blood. Its smoke was thick and languid, and helped him to keep the tenuous balance between utter silence and sleep, between the inner landscape of Yesod, the plane of dreams and visions, and Malkuth, the plane of the Earth. The magician-as-Nephesh drew up to a rocky surface that was lit dimly by lichen glowing blue-white on the stone, and touched black-gloved fingers to its face. It rippled under his touch, beckoning him silently to walk - swim? - through it. He pressed his fingers through it...it was tangibly gelatinous, clinging to him like toffee. This deep in trance, he could feel the tenebrous, cold quality of it. The man stepped out into a familiar room, seemingly at random, and lifted his chin slightly as he saw an equally familiar shadow crouched on a gracefully wrought iron filigree perch. The arch of the perch was in front of a row of tapers set in similarly elegant stands along one wall, the wall itself curtained with heavy thick drapery to hide it from view. It swelled and shifted in a gentle hidden breeze...the whole space was hallow, cold and quiet. The temple of the mind. The seven-sided room was clad in black granite, but all of the markings carved into it were filled in silver. The floor of the chamber was dominated by the figure of Aemath, Truth, the Grand Seal of John Dee. The complexity of the figure was remarkable...shapes within shapes, their precision causing the whole circle to turn slowly in seven different directions, a sacred optical illusion. The seal was a gateway, multiple gateways...but now was not the time for travelling through to the higher and less tangible realms they lead to. Aleksander Sokolsky walked into this inner sanctum, and he knew that he was breathing, but he could not feel it or his material body any longer as it was relinquished in meditation. Instead, he felt the impact as his low boot heels clicked along the stone floor of his mind. The magician approached his Neshamah as if the whole structure were solid matter and not just dreamstuff. The shadowy bird-like creature cocked his head as his charge approached, looking at him with bright, wise, glassy white-grey eyes. The lower self knew in his gut that his Neshamah, his soul that he had named Kutka, was not a raven spirit. Early in their life together, Aleksander had seen him as a bird, and he had named himself after a cultural memory, the raven trickster of his Slavic heritage. But Kutka was bigger than that, somehow...too big for what he generally appeared to be. The magician inclined his head to his soul in its manifest form. They regarded each other with eyes the same colour as the other...a grey so pale that it was almost white, darkening out towards the edges of the iris. Kutka fluffed himself, then launched himself from his perch to land on his shoulder. The bird never spoke in words unless projecting out into the Kingdom...his meaning was direct, bypassing speech. His name was the sense of his acknowledgement; the affection, a deep radiating force. “Aleksander, my beloved.” |
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| Purple Butterfly Pills | Feb 17 2010, 09:47 AM Post #2 |
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In Over Her Head
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**ACCEPTED** Welcome, Dion. I'd write something else, but I just woke up. lol Enjoy the forum~ |
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[align=center]Live each day like it's your last...[/align] [align=right]Because it very well could be...[/align] | |
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