Graciosa Iscariote
New
Roleplay posts: 4 
Physical Description: The Lethe Lady external architecture belies the internal mechanisms of her vessel. She is approximately six and a half feet in height, surely nothing to sneeze at but nowhere near ‘giant’ status. Her musculature is proportionate to her height, commanding in appearance and actual strength. There is a secure ‘tension’ of confidence, conceivably borderline arrogance in her posture and gait. Examining her anatomy – there are several distinguishing features: ribbed, spiraling horns, split-tongue, a spaded tail (that is usually tucked against her spine), and saturated sanguine eyes that differentiate no pupil or sclera. Those horns divide aromatic tresses, spiraling in rebellion down to the swell of her hips. Challenging her species, her face is virgin and almost cherub-like with wide eyes, dark lashes, bow-shaped lips, and full features. Despite her fair skin, ancestry could be specified as from the Levant (Eastern Mediterranean) region; born from the Fertile Crescent’s womb. It is slightly hard to catch a glimpse of this woman’s flesh, save for the alabaster terrain of her face – armor in which encloses each hill and valley of her body; down to the tips of lotus-digits up to the defined flute of her jaw. This is a very typical ‘attire’ for the Marked, given that her epitome must be restrained and controlled. It is rare, if never heard of, for Graciosa to wear cloth or leather of any kind; perhaps because it would just cremate even with a diminutive usage of her abilities. Yet, those who knew her many years ago would recall a woman who dressed very differently – a yearling in terms of her development now. The suit itself looks almost like… impossibly smooth stone; brushing up against it would cause a smear of soot on the receiving end, mixed with residual but potent chemicals that are released through the filaments, or pores. Infinitesimal to the naked eye, the pores are even smaller than that of the flesh. Each one holding a degree of functionality – the ones alongside the bottoms of her fingers are bigger, and in the center of her palm; in fact if you were to turn her hand over you’d almost be able to tell, in context of an optical illusion, that there was something there. Although it was not visible under a majority of circumstances, there is highly resistant ceramic beneath the nanoshell, not meant for ‘durability’ exactly, but more so, for the extreme heat she embodied and expressed. Another distinctive element of the suit is the porthole of her solar plexus – a chaotic conflagration of Inferno.
Player's online availability : Central Timezone, usually on around 2AM for a while, and then moreso on the weekends.
Registered: Apr 22, 2017 15:16:10 GMT -8
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Post by Graciosa Iscariote on Nov 4, 2018 14:14:04 GMT -8
ANGUIS SUNDER A forlorn partition of desert, hundreds of miles away from civilization, is the peregrine collective of Anguis Sunder. Perhaps not even native to this world, the landmarks are alien and unnerving. Rock and clay form buildings of uneven skew, and incongruously wrought entrances – ribbed with monolith bones and taut membrane. Fungi grow in thick, intense clusters down the jagged silhouettes – towering tall with phallic heads and thick stalks punctured with gills.
The rapid blossom of peculiar life is startling compared to the dehydrating landscape encompassing Anguis. Bulbous tentacles spring froth from eaves, twisting with sentinel life – smaller appendages lining their fringes with glowing red hooks. Upon closer inspection, it would seem the tentacles had mouths, laced with crooked, albeit razor teeth. Porous domes loomed like brains atop the structures, pulsating with sticky nectar, lobes of grayish hue writhing. Figures marched in the expanse, shelled with large bone shields and crimson capes near the backdrop of the mountain.
Ancient tales had been told of the Anguis, as though it was a fallen society – a lost city. Hidden within the folds of dunes and the acres of sand – inflamed with terrorizing stories of atrocities, and multifarious magic, it was notorious. The Chalice of Serpents, The Cosmic Cradle, Nest of Worms, Charnel Crescent; names whispered either in dread, or yearning. There were those who dared not fantasize about the archaic city, and those who agonized to be sated.
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Gersholm Judzu
New
Roleplay posts: 1 
Registered: Nov 4, 2018 18:14:04 GMT -8
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Post by Gersholm Judzu on Nov 4, 2018 20:34:20 GMT -8
Charnel clay churned, bones cracked between the gears, pulverized into the muck below. Spreading across the terrain like a liquid plague, quicksand made of trapped souls and organic decay. Spreading, stretching, spreading, stretching; grotesque growth increasing for miles, corpses of a thousand dead multiplied the mire. Evolving with microbes, new genus of peregrine diseases flourished in the biotic bog. In the primal fields stood a pulsating structure, shaped by lobes of dripping matter, slicked with the saliva of strange glistened beneath the full moon. Sectioned nodes fluctuated with movement as they writhed to the beat of Golgotha. Chunks of putrefaction contracted, and hit the ground with sickening splats, as the landscape developed.
The clouds passing traveled with speed, manifesting fleeting shadows that obscured the bridge, allowing fear to overcome the senses without the clarity of the moon’s light. The smell of death permeated the air, dominating the senses with reflex to vomit, steam rolling from the sludge as it roiled, exposing centuries of waste and desecration. The structure was domed, with the curvature and angles of a skull, mangled mouth frozen in a scream, splintered wood saturated and festering served as a strait to the iniquitous sepulcher.
Gersholm parted the algae of the frozen mouth with his scepter, revealing the inside of the structure. Gnarled vines oozed with malady, and the shifting of the structure groaned and rattled like a soundtrack of death. The inside of the sepulcher burnt the nose with pungent aroma, the sickening sweet smell of rotten meat, so strong it overwhelmed the senses and stuck on the tongue. Gersholm’s eyes watered profusely as he pulled up the collar of his cloak around his nose and mouth, providing a flimsy but significant barrier against the thick scents. His boots sloshed through the muck, sinking up to the eyelets and laces. Chunks of unknown squish rocked his balance, yet he dared not reach out for the only thing around him was curtains of skin, ribbed with bone and laced with hair. The organic curtains created a foyer around him, a small area of entrance.
He heard the familiar sounds of sludge-steps approaching him, the ill noise of suction as the unknown creature loomed closer. An arthritic hand grasped the bloody curtains, and pulled them back enough for the frail frame of Ungtha to step through. The woman stood no taller than four feet five inches, swathed in black linens and Anteyx fur. Upon her head was a crown of antlers and bone, entwined together.
“It’s been centuries, Gersholm.”
She addressed him by name, her voice sticky and raspy, as if her throat was full with the muck below their feet.
“You haven’t aged a year.”
She neared closer, the smell of patchouli and sandalwood provided reprieve from the decay around him. Her gnarled hand took his, bringing up to clouded eyes,
“Even your hands remain smooth.”
In one fatal plunge of his scepter, he unleashed the arcane, pulsating through her small figure with undulating light, stealing her life before she even understood the gesture. The frailty of her body did not even make a sound as it collapsed, being consumed into the manure almost instantaneously, the sepulcher hungry for new flesh, leaving naught but gurgles and bubbles were she once was.
As slowly and deliberately as he entered the organic structure, he was gone. Vanished into the thick fungi growth that resembled a forest.
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Graciosa Iscariote
New
Roleplay posts: 4
Physical Description: The Lethe Lady external architecture belies the internal mechanisms of her vessel. She is approximately six and a half feet in height, surely nothing to sneeze at but nowhere near ‘giant’ status. Her musculature is proportionate to her height, commanding in appearance and actual strength. There is a secure ‘tension’ of confidence, conceivably borderline arrogance in her posture and gait. Examining her anatomy – there are several distinguishing features: ribbed, spiraling horns, split-tongue, a spaded tail (that is usually tucked against her spine), and saturated sanguine eyes that differentiate no pupil or sclera. Those horns divide aromatic tresses, spiraling in rebellion down to the swell of her hips. Challenging her species, her face is virgin and almost cherub-like with wide eyes, dark lashes, bow-shaped lips, and full features. Despite her fair skin, ancestry could be specified as from the Levant (Eastern Mediterranean) region; born from the Fertile Crescent’s womb. It is slightly hard to catch a glimpse of this woman’s flesh, save for the alabaster terrain of her face – armor in which encloses each hill and valley of her body; down to the tips of lotus-digits up to the defined flute of her jaw. This is a very typical ‘attire’ for the Marked, given that her epitome must be restrained and controlled. It is rare, if never heard of, for Graciosa to wear cloth or leather of any kind; perhaps because it would just cremate even with a diminutive usage of her abilities. Yet, those who knew her many years ago would recall a woman who dressed very differently – a yearling in terms of her development now. The suit itself looks almost like… impossibly smooth stone; brushing up against it would cause a smear of soot on the receiving end, mixed with residual but potent chemicals that are released through the filaments, or pores. Infinitesimal to the naked eye, the pores are even smaller than that of the flesh. Each one holding a degree of functionality – the ones alongside the bottoms of her fingers are bigger, and in the center of her palm; in fact if you were to turn her hand over you’d almost be able to tell, in context of an optical illusion, that there was something there. Although it was not visible under a majority of circumstances, there is highly resistant ceramic beneath the nanoshell, not meant for ‘durability’ exactly, but more so, for the extreme heat she embodied and expressed. Another distinctive element of the suit is the porthole of her solar plexus – a chaotic conflagration of Inferno.
Player's online availability : Central Timezone, usually on around 2AM for a while, and then moreso on the weekends.
Registered: Apr 22, 2017 15:16:10 GMT -8
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Post by Graciosa Iscariote on Nov 12, 2018 0:02:47 GMT -8
Ornamental organs, in various stages on decomposition, hung from spiraling horns atop the Pedigree’s crown, a grotesque piece balanced above burgundy locks. A cherub-like face, of Levantine origin, belied the antiquated and immoral woman. She stood outside a membranous structure, long and narrow, like a rib cage – colossal bones determining the channel. Flexible film pulled taut between the bones expanded and contracted, as if the building itself was breathing. She puffed on an opium stack, tapered fingers covered in soot and blood.
The night air was so still, not even the blades of dead savannah grass whispered, and the sky so clear that every star was bright enough to leave pinholes of light imposed over your retinas. There was a large plume of smoke in the distance, where the men in bone-shields marched. There was no sight of an actual fire, but the amount of smoke was alarming, and burnt the eyes even from miles away. The smell was of burning meat – not necessarily unpleasant, but peculiar.
The opium stack was extinguished with her forked tongue; seven and a half feet of svelte figure filled the doorway as she ducked into the bony threshold of the membranous structure. Once inside, the warm glow of the candles coupled with the glow of crystals gave weak ambient light. The corridor was empty, with veins of crimson splaying out on the walls like arteries, the faint twitch of expansion every few seconds. One could follow the circuit of substance if they watched close enough, disappearing from sight down the long corridor but always returning to the entrance and repeating.
There were small pedestals lining the hall, with deep bowls balanced atop, filled with various fungi, herbs, and blackened liquids. One by one, she removed the ornamental organs from her horns, and placed them in the bowls, as she marched down the passage.
The door at the end looked much like clenched fist, multiple sections curled in toward the center; within a few moments they would slowly unfurl with a peeling sound, and she’d step through the sinuous door.
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