{{OOC -
I tend to do this quite a majority of the time nowadays, what with the new tide of n00bs that have frequented Pokécharms as of late, but this RP will be Permission-Only. PM me or Katie to ask, plzkthx! Maybe we'll get a lotta Goodly RPers.
If we get any. Hopefully.
-innocent Firefox-eyes-
-spaz explodes-
Current RPers
-Fire Fox (yay?)
-Linkachu (yay!)
-Gardevoir Master (w00t~)
/OOC}}
BIC-
The day was as blisteringly hot as ever the man, perched dazedly on the splintered frame of an ancient wooden fence, could recall. Admittedly his mind was known to blur several days into a maze of memories, but his parched throat begged for anything - the smallest droplet of water - to rid it of the fishhooks each time he swallowed. Every bit of him was as dry and bleached-white by the sun as his surroundings, and he held the inevitable squint of any longtime rancher. His clothes were dusty and faded versions of their former selves, complimented vaguely by his straw-colored hair, stuck to his head by sweat, and hidden under a leather cowboy hat he'd owned since he was a young boy. He would've summoned up the moisture in his mouth to spit, for good luck one might say, but his mouth knew of this pending betrayal, and remained as lacking in saliva as the land before him was lacking in...
...well, anything, really.
Stretched out before him was league upon league of rugged dirt, baked to a stony consistency by the searing, unrelenting sun. Every few yards a speck of exhausted green would mark the lonely existence of a cactus, selfishly holding its water supply to itself until the next series of short storms swept by, and trails of marching insects weaved in and out of the broken earth in perfect awareness of their meaningless lives. The occasional vulture would make its way out here, only to be devoured by the packs of bloodlusting monsters the rancher knew lived only a short ways away. He had kept them away for a long while; it was only a matter of time before his old hands wouldn't be able to steady his single rifle at them in threat. They knew it too, and were waiting. After all, the only way they survived out here, that he knew, was by ambushing the rare passerby.
He wouldn't know. He hadn't left his ranch in nearly a year, since they arrived. His death loomed before him, a haughty knowledge that danced across his awareness with each day's departure. It was something he accepted, although he still enjoyed his days of gazing silently out across the wastelands he had known. His animals were all gone now, frightened into braking his fence and charging, blind with fear, out towards the horizon. The rancher imagined this was the monsters' doing as well, and if it wasn't, they could at least definitely be charged with taking care of the unprotected farm animals. His old rifle was rusted, and nothing but a bludgeoning tool at best. His last bullet had been fired to ward off the monsters' first attempts at him. Their own uncertainty of how dangerous he was - that was all that let him live nowadays.
For a moment the overpowering heat of the sun seemed to create a far-off shape in the distance - a wavering blur that was dark against the starched brown ground underfoot. Then it flickered out of sight, only to return moments later in a more solid state. And it was growing larger in the old rancher's eyes, no longer letting the sunlight question its tenability; accompanying it was a far-off hum, like a motor of sorts.
The weathered old man slowly stood up, quavering hands trembling as he recognized the shape for what it was - a piece of technology he hadn't seen in years. As it grew closer, with a speed that was startling and unnerving, the machine loomed far overhead - a dark navy-blue airship, glinting in the blinding rays of unfiltered sunlight, waxy and clean. It lacked any dust or accumulative battle markings, meaning one of two things, as far as the old man remembered. Either some sort of royalty was inside the whirring craft, or it was a new model, yet to be scarred by Filgaia's poor conditions. As slowly as it approached, the single second that it was overhead, blocking the rancher and his deserted farm from the sun and casting dark shadows over the sweeping wastelands, was gone before the man could lock his mind onto what had happened.
Another second passed, and he flinched as a powerful gust of tailwind flung his cowboy hat from his head, to settle in the dust behind him.
--Aboard the Royal Airship, Lir Stigma--
The boy did not, in any form of the word, appear to be royalty. Despite his status, the youth's hair was untamed, steel-blue spikes flaring outwards, although it was cut at a reasonable length. He wore a plain black turtleneck shirt, although the cloth it was made of was more expensive than any common material, with no sleeves. His arms weren't bare, as he had thrown a mottled-grey jacket over it, with a wide turned-down collar of black, and his hands were cloaked by a pair of black, leather no-finger gloves. A pair of faded blue jeans hung on his hips, accented by the low-slung belt he wore for decorative purposes. A pair of pliable leather black boots covered his feet, covered for the most part by his pants' legs. A pair of loosely-tied scarfs hung were slung his neck, distinctly torn and weather-beaten but bearing their colors (one a dark navy-blue and the other a snow-white shade) flauntingly.
In fact, the only 'royal' part of him was the aura he emitted, calm and in control of his emotions, even in the heat of the current situation. His eyes, the left a unique dazzling silver and the right a contradictory deep royal-blue color that the majority of his family possessed, were expressionless - bored, even.
"Are you able to fully comprehend what I have just told you, boy?"
The character to whom this voice belonged possessed the same quiet, powerful aura, as well as the position to back him. Sporting dangerous cobalt eyes and short, styled hair of the same color, the head of the famous - or infamous - Lirvestigne family glowered solemnly down at his son - the one who had he had meant to succeed him in time, and the one he was now anxious to shed himself of. Kyoudai Lirvestigne was a name that was unrivaled in popularity, in good or bad spirits, throughout Filgaia.
It was him, after all, who was in control over what few, preciously-rare ARMs there were left in this dead, forsaken land. Taken them and kept them for himself, only allowing those with a certain level of trust see if they were even compatible with the demon-technology from another world. Cursed, they called it. Lived in fear of it. It seemed everyone was afraid of anything that offered power anymore. This impudent excuse for an heir didn't even qualify as a human anymore.
"Yeah, every word. When?" the collected youth replied, eyes settled firmly on his father's own.
"Early tomorrow, before we reach the next town - might you find your way from there."
The boy allowed himself a minute smirk. The expression did not travel to his eyes. "Generations of Drifters have before me, I will too."
"What?" The fancily dressed figure that was his father stiffened, if he wasn't already rigid enough. "Where have you heard of Dr- of those people? It was never in any of your lessons, that is certain."
"Books cannot be altered to suit your pompous tastes, father. I read about it in my spare time. I can do that, you understand."
The man flung out one gnarled hand, eyes flashing with suppressed rage.
"Enough of this! You are no more my blood than the guards standing on either side of that door, Kyure! You stripped yourself of the name 'Lirvestigne' and the lineage that goes with it when you continually attempted to thief from me. You are not worthy of an ARM, nor would I be foolish enough to offer you one. I'd soon enough find one of its bullets in the back of my skull!" he spat, bearing down on his son.
Kyure proffered him no signs of fear or frailty, narrowing his eyes slightly in disdain. "I see you know what you can expect of me, Sir Kyoudai Lirvestigne. And your punishment confirms your cowardice. Are you so unable to stomach killing me yourself that you would throw me out for the monsters that frequent this area to kill?"
"Do you want me to kill you, boy?"
"It would be a bad decision on my behalf to answer that question in the positive. No, I am fine with your punishment. I'd rely more on wild dogs than on you." the rogue-haired boy replied promptly.
"...then I shall see you tomorrow, boy, for the last time. Take him to his room, and ensure that he doesn't leave." The man twitched his head sharply to one side, and the blue-armored guards stationed wordlessly on either side of the large metal door took to Kyure's side like leeches.
He turned and fled the room in swift strides, allowing his pale hands to curl into fists only once he heard the smooth mechanics of the metallic door shut it with a click. He had no idea how he was going to survive in the desert wasteland his father meant for him to die in. And he was entirely lost unless he could get his hands on an ARM. And he had to find the right one, otherwise even that endeavor would be all for naught.
"Damnit..." he whispered to himself, turning his eyes upwards to study the florescent lights lining the ceiling overhead.
I tend to do this quite a majority of the time nowadays, what with the new tide of n00bs that have frequented Pokécharms as of late, but this RP will be Permission-Only. PM me or Katie to ask, plzkthx! Maybe we'll get a lotta Goodly RPers.
If we get any. Hopefully.
-innocent Firefox-eyes-
-spaz explodes-
Current RPers
-Fire Fox (yay?)
-Linkachu (yay!)
-Gardevoir Master (w00t~)
/OOC}}
BIC-
The day was as blisteringly hot as ever the man, perched dazedly on the splintered frame of an ancient wooden fence, could recall. Admittedly his mind was known to blur several days into a maze of memories, but his parched throat begged for anything - the smallest droplet of water - to rid it of the fishhooks each time he swallowed. Every bit of him was as dry and bleached-white by the sun as his surroundings, and he held the inevitable squint of any longtime rancher. His clothes were dusty and faded versions of their former selves, complimented vaguely by his straw-colored hair, stuck to his head by sweat, and hidden under a leather cowboy hat he'd owned since he was a young boy. He would've summoned up the moisture in his mouth to spit, for good luck one might say, but his mouth knew of this pending betrayal, and remained as lacking in saliva as the land before him was lacking in...
...well, anything, really.
Stretched out before him was league upon league of rugged dirt, baked to a stony consistency by the searing, unrelenting sun. Every few yards a speck of exhausted green would mark the lonely existence of a cactus, selfishly holding its water supply to itself until the next series of short storms swept by, and trails of marching insects weaved in and out of the broken earth in perfect awareness of their meaningless lives. The occasional vulture would make its way out here, only to be devoured by the packs of bloodlusting monsters the rancher knew lived only a short ways away. He had kept them away for a long while; it was only a matter of time before his old hands wouldn't be able to steady his single rifle at them in threat. They knew it too, and were waiting. After all, the only way they survived out here, that he knew, was by ambushing the rare passerby.
He wouldn't know. He hadn't left his ranch in nearly a year, since they arrived. His death loomed before him, a haughty knowledge that danced across his awareness with each day's departure. It was something he accepted, although he still enjoyed his days of gazing silently out across the wastelands he had known. His animals were all gone now, frightened into braking his fence and charging, blind with fear, out towards the horizon. The rancher imagined this was the monsters' doing as well, and if it wasn't, they could at least definitely be charged with taking care of the unprotected farm animals. His old rifle was rusted, and nothing but a bludgeoning tool at best. His last bullet had been fired to ward off the monsters' first attempts at him. Their own uncertainty of how dangerous he was - that was all that let him live nowadays.
For a moment the overpowering heat of the sun seemed to create a far-off shape in the distance - a wavering blur that was dark against the starched brown ground underfoot. Then it flickered out of sight, only to return moments later in a more solid state. And it was growing larger in the old rancher's eyes, no longer letting the sunlight question its tenability; accompanying it was a far-off hum, like a motor of sorts.
The weathered old man slowly stood up, quavering hands trembling as he recognized the shape for what it was - a piece of technology he hadn't seen in years. As it grew closer, with a speed that was startling and unnerving, the machine loomed far overhead - a dark navy-blue airship, glinting in the blinding rays of unfiltered sunlight, waxy and clean. It lacked any dust or accumulative battle markings, meaning one of two things, as far as the old man remembered. Either some sort of royalty was inside the whirring craft, or it was a new model, yet to be scarred by Filgaia's poor conditions. As slowly as it approached, the single second that it was overhead, blocking the rancher and his deserted farm from the sun and casting dark shadows over the sweeping wastelands, was gone before the man could lock his mind onto what had happened.
Another second passed, and he flinched as a powerful gust of tailwind flung his cowboy hat from his head, to settle in the dust behind him.
--Aboard the Royal Airship, Lir Stigma--
The boy did not, in any form of the word, appear to be royalty. Despite his status, the youth's hair was untamed, steel-blue spikes flaring outwards, although it was cut at a reasonable length. He wore a plain black turtleneck shirt, although the cloth it was made of was more expensive than any common material, with no sleeves. His arms weren't bare, as he had thrown a mottled-grey jacket over it, with a wide turned-down collar of black, and his hands were cloaked by a pair of black, leather no-finger gloves. A pair of faded blue jeans hung on his hips, accented by the low-slung belt he wore for decorative purposes. A pair of pliable leather black boots covered his feet, covered for the most part by his pants' legs. A pair of loosely-tied scarfs hung were slung his neck, distinctly torn and weather-beaten but bearing their colors (one a dark navy-blue and the other a snow-white shade) flauntingly.
In fact, the only 'royal' part of him was the aura he emitted, calm and in control of his emotions, even in the heat of the current situation. His eyes, the left a unique dazzling silver and the right a contradictory deep royal-blue color that the majority of his family possessed, were expressionless - bored, even.
"Are you able to fully comprehend what I have just told you, boy?"
The character to whom this voice belonged possessed the same quiet, powerful aura, as well as the position to back him. Sporting dangerous cobalt eyes and short, styled hair of the same color, the head of the famous - or infamous - Lirvestigne family glowered solemnly down at his son - the one who had he had meant to succeed him in time, and the one he was now anxious to shed himself of. Kyoudai Lirvestigne was a name that was unrivaled in popularity, in good or bad spirits, throughout Filgaia.
It was him, after all, who was in control over what few, preciously-rare ARMs there were left in this dead, forsaken land. Taken them and kept them for himself, only allowing those with a certain level of trust see if they were even compatible with the demon-technology from another world. Cursed, they called it. Lived in fear of it. It seemed everyone was afraid of anything that offered power anymore. This impudent excuse for an heir didn't even qualify as a human anymore.
"Yeah, every word. When?" the collected youth replied, eyes settled firmly on his father's own.
"Early tomorrow, before we reach the next town - might you find your way from there."
The boy allowed himself a minute smirk. The expression did not travel to his eyes. "Generations of Drifters have before me, I will too."
"What?" The fancily dressed figure that was his father stiffened, if he wasn't already rigid enough. "Where have you heard of Dr- of those people? It was never in any of your lessons, that is certain."
"Books cannot be altered to suit your pompous tastes, father. I read about it in my spare time. I can do that, you understand."
The man flung out one gnarled hand, eyes flashing with suppressed rage.
"Enough of this! You are no more my blood than the guards standing on either side of that door, Kyure! You stripped yourself of the name 'Lirvestigne' and the lineage that goes with it when you continually attempted to thief from me. You are not worthy of an ARM, nor would I be foolish enough to offer you one. I'd soon enough find one of its bullets in the back of my skull!" he spat, bearing down on his son.
Kyure proffered him no signs of fear or frailty, narrowing his eyes slightly in disdain. "I see you know what you can expect of me, Sir Kyoudai Lirvestigne. And your punishment confirms your cowardice. Are you so unable to stomach killing me yourself that you would throw me out for the monsters that frequent this area to kill?"
"Do you want me to kill you, boy?"
"It would be a bad decision on my behalf to answer that question in the positive. No, I am fine with your punishment. I'd rely more on wild dogs than on you." the rogue-haired boy replied promptly.
"...then I shall see you tomorrow, boy, for the last time. Take him to his room, and ensure that he doesn't leave." The man twitched his head sharply to one side, and the blue-armored guards stationed wordlessly on either side of the large metal door took to Kyure's side like leeches.
He turned and fled the room in swift strides, allowing his pale hands to curl into fists only once he heard the smooth mechanics of the metallic door shut it with a click. He had no idea how he was going to survive in the desert wasteland his father meant for him to die in. And he was entirely lost unless he could get his hands on an ARM. And he had to find the right one, otherwise even that endeavor would be all for naught.
"Damnit..." he whispered to himself, turning his eyes upwards to study the florescent lights lining the ceiling overhead.
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