Well hey everyone!
#1
Hello all! I'm Rhoni, I'm a newb here. Hopefully I've filled everything out correctly. Let me know if I haven't =]

Character Name: Estafilade (Est-ah-feel-ah-day)
Character Birthdate: 11/21/2007
Luperci Gene: Present
Species: Timber wolf
Gender: Male
Contact: Impending Nerds (AIM)
How did you find souls?: Through a friend on the site, Syd
Roleplaying Examples:
Example One:
The air smelled like a mixture between vodka and vomit, and indeed several of the girls sported evidence of both on their bursting tops and exposed bosoms. The smell was so thick it almost condensed on skin and clothing alike, and were it not for the thick smog of cigar smoke, the place would have been dotted in liquid. Both music and voices crowded the large room--almost as thick as the bodies themselves, save the bar was less stocked and when one person left for the restroom or motel, it took almost five minutes before the warm barstool was replaced with another. The bartender worked slowly, his glazed eyes loveless and lonely as he stood near the lip of the counter mindlessly rubbing down the women in his life--martini glasses. A small piece of caked on food dangled at the edge of his mouth, and every time he breathed his nose would rattle it slightly. Nobody had seemingly noticed.

Along the far wall adjacent to the bar stood a rather tall man for his generation in a pale cream suit with a shockingly deep maroon tie and vest. His knotted hands were stretched around a short glass of Vodka, Kaluha, and dairy, and before he sipped it each time his wrist with turn elegantly so that the mixture writhed and poured upwards like bubbles launching towards the surface of a lake. His withered lips parted temporarily and a small sample of the drink was ingested, followed by a gentle wrinkle in the old man's face which announced his satisfaction of the taste. For nearly fifteen minutes the gentleman stood leaning against the wall with his liquor as he gentle watched the young and somber bartender laze about his work. After a knowledgeable wink which went unnoticed, the man stood stiffly and half limped, half strode to the closest barstool to the laboring youth, holding his drink close to the counter so that it's vacancy would soon be corrected. Within moments it was.

Again, Luce slowly tipped the glass into his mouth while his steely, all-knowing eyes gently combed over the empty vodka and brandy bottles stacked along the ceiling for decoration before he spotted a poster of a rolling hill with snowcapped mountains blasting from the background almost aggressively. His face parted in a brief smile and the wrinkled and spotted hand lowered gingerly to place the condensing glass back on the oaken veneer.

"Know what zat is?" he asked the bartender in a heavy and low accent. The bartender hardly looked up before returning to his chilled mug. "Mother Russia, sohnny. Everuh been zere?" Again, no reply. "Beautiful place. Make your face shine wiff laughtah." The withering gentleman gently lifted the drink, swirled it, and stared intently at the contents of the glass. "No fuhcking Italians eizeruh." It seemed an odd thing to say, yet the comment hung dry and unused from the bar's other (thankfully English) occupants. Many simply stared at the bizarre man with their noses pinched in wonder yet distaste. Others had left the bar entirely.

Luce had to admit, the English where the strangest thing he'd encountered since arriving by plane two years ago. Rude, feisty, and covered in their own inbred ego, they'd not only broken two windows near the middleclass side of town, but one had the balls to ask him the time of day which would have resulted in him loosing either his wallet or a hand. The bastards.

"You don talk much, do you my boy?" Luce hazed while the glass paused between his teeth. One hand was wresting blissfully against the polished veneer while the other the other tilted the ice cubes against his broad shelf of a tongue. Both solid eyes were peeling the skin away from the bartender's face. "What'z your name?"

"Phillip," came the dull reply.

"Phillop," Luce huffed dryly as he placed the glass down with a gentle twist of its contents. "Phillop my boy, I'm going to ask you a strange question, see." He paused as he pressed his withered fingers against his tie and pulled at the collar gently beneath the waves of throat skin and high fashion maroon silk. "Have you everuh heard ze word 'Lavrov'?" He flicked his wrist delicately so that a flash of gold growled against his skin: a stunning wristwatch. By this time Phillip had abandoned his cleaning and was leaning closer to the old man, though his facial expression was still blank and unimpressed. "Russian word, heir Phillop." Luce gingerly slipped a twenty from out of his vest pocket and slipped it on the table. "No matter my boy, don't let ze matters of zees scary people get to your head." With this, the man leaned back against the barstool so that his jacket fell open and tight across his well-rounded stomach. He was smiling expectedly. Phillip on the other hand eyed the note gingerly and pulled it under the rim of the counter with one finger as though not wanting to touch something that had been fondled by another man. Luce chuckled dryly before his attention was sapped elsewhere and he turned tightly against the stool so that the fabric in the vest cut into his well formed stomach. A new figure had caught his attention.

It was another moment before Luce returned to the barkeep, but when he had his face was pebbled with a new expression and adorned with the many wrinkles and lines that defined him. He took a small breath and played idly with his drinking glass.

"And finally," He separated his hand from his drink and leaned forward, folding his knotted fingers across each other so that a great ring bearing a chunk of Alexandrite glared up at the young bartender's forehead. "Can you tell meh who zat man is over zere."

One thick finger pointed strongly at a tall man hooded by a dramatic theatre mask. Luce's steely eyes were ablaze with a sort of hidden passion.

Example Two:

The dog had been dead for several weeks now, and though it’s intestines had been splattered like an egg thrown against a wall, nothing in nature had bothered to clean it up. The smears of blood had turned brown in places and stayed a flushed and embarrassed red in others, giving the small crusted puddles the appearance of rolling waves adorned with white caps and the sunken bodies of gleaming fish only a foot under the surface. From the way Dollia stared at it, she had noticed the bizarre beauty too, and perhaps found the likeness in the disemboweled pet to a more somber and restful place. Images of flaring fields of plants dotted with trees which violently burped and twisted up from the soil fell into my mind, and similarly the shy nature the girl undertook was pressed aside by a sweet smile. Timidly, Dollia knelt by the shattered pieces of dog, and reached a thorny palm out tentatively, stroking the vile head. Its’ tongue was hanging out to one side, and the car that had most likely killed it amounted to such pressure on the little skull that the mucus lining of the nose had exploded out, leaving a pink sack darting in the breeze from each nostril. Again, Dollia’s endearing smile flashed and the spiked fingertips parted the animal’s bloody fur. From deep within her chest, Dollia softly cooed to the putrid body, her stirringly dark eyes matted in love.

And I can attest to how frequent this behavior was.

Gently, the curvy girl leaned forward, placing both horned hands on the broken road next to the dog and pressing her wait onto them so that the cement bent and etched under the pressure of the black spurs. With a childish scraping noise, both feet spread back from her weight, pulling bits of rock and smearing the dried viscous as she did so. Without taking her eyes off the dog, Dollia habitually reached up and hooked the strands of dark hair in the thorns upon her fingers, placing them delicately behind her ears. She then smiled briefly at the destroyed face, and resumed her tender stroking of it’s pale amber brow. Behind her I watched passively, breathing in the pustule ooze the dog emitted like something that had rotted so poorly it dripped rather than decayed.

“Wish we’d met before you’d gotten like this, Little One.” Her voice was so choked and soft I might have thought she was getting emotional, yet over the years I’d been watching her I’d learned otherwise. She simply wasn’t accustomed to talking.

Despite the compassion the girl had shown the dog, her patience was growing thin, and she stood only moments later, gathering a small backpack and set of keys as she did so. Delicately, her eyes fell back on the hound, and she absentmindedly tucked her hair behind her ears again before she made a motion to leave. Silently, I moved towards her but broke pace as she placed a kiss on her wrist and thrust the whole of her arm forward in a gesture of condolence. Her eyes tossed about the broken body as if deciding whether to take it with her, and inwardly I prayed she’d discard the memory as I would within half an hour. The decision was made for her before she’d given it ten seconds’ thought however. If she tried to pick the dog up, it would surely break in half. As placid as before, Dollia turned from the broken body and walked towards the large ruined building nearest her. That had been the third dead animal we’d encountered since we’d been in the city, and a slight twist within my lungs gave repercussions to coming to London in the first place. The place smelled strange, and there were bodies everywhere.

Humans are truly fucked up creatures. I’ll forever be sickened by them.

Dollia’s pace was quick and purposeful, and as I trotted behind her loyally it was strange to hear her solid feet against my spectral ones echoing off the foreign cement and walls. I clicked my tongue absent mindedly and tried to follow her eye movement against the magnificent structure in front of us. From the high ceiling to the peaceful brick eaten partially by white marble it appeared to be a rather elaborate factory of some sort. The trees outside stretched awkwardly like Japanese Maples, and their aggressive fingertips bore threatening poses against the sky. Dollia refused to look at these but instead placidly approached the door. It swung free with little effort, and the two of us darted inside.

The internal of the building was almost more disheveled than I’d expected, and upon entering through the second set of glass doors I heard Dollia swiftly catch her breath, and I in turn did the same. The place smelled strongly of urine and feces, and abandoning Dollia’s side I turned to the corner opposite us and spotted a small tin someone had used as a toilet a week or so prior. Against the wall opposite us stood a small camp of sorts; a torn and disease ridden blanket piled atop three ripped chairs which had been placed in a row as a makeshift bed. Dollia refused to approach the smelling pile of clothes and foodstuffs, yet I ignored her half horrified, half nauseated expression and crept closer, consciously aware of the lake of light around me and the steaming fumes which pulsed from the hobo’s set up like a child heaves when vomiting. Glancing back shyly, I saw the faint glint of Dollia’s black eyes and swallowed, wishing she’d come closer yet knowing even if I asked her to my voice would fall short of anything less than the soft breath of velvet curtains against a window frame. Such is the existence of the dead.

A movement from the bowels of the building drove my attention from the fowl mess at my feet to Dollia, then swiftly to where she was looking. Her face was tense and beautiful, covered lightly in pieces of the onyx hair and sharpened by the soft beating glow of her pale skin. Her hands where spread wide, each of the inch-to-three-inch spurs pulling her skin tight so that the black bones appeared raw and new around the edges where they connected sourly with her flesh. Timidly I crept back over to her, placing one reassuring hand on her should (which I knew she couldn’t feel) while I scanned the darkness as she was doing. For several tense moments the two of us breathed heavily, our arms bursting with firing hair and skin that came alive in a powerful lust of action. The sound never echoed beyond the rows of books again, and presently I relaxed my grip on Dollia’s shoulder, petting it gently with the tips of my fingers instead. Giving the area a final stare from her wild expression, Dollia softened and stood straight, reaching instinctively for the tip of her forefinger. Her broad eyes blinking lightly in agitation, Dollia’s bottom teeth slowly peeled away a scab which sat crusting there and swallowed it deftly. From there, the poor thing began cannibalizing herself, so lost for the natural social behaviors of a woman her age and so profoundly confused. I turned away at this, allowing her a moment of shame in which the only eyes present, however invisible to her, would not judge.

It soon became clear that Dollia had no intention of leaving the factory, and with an expression of weary understanding I wandered away from her, glancing back through the doors at the broken street and the small splattered bits of dog. Behind me, Dollia moved toward the hobo encampment, plucking up the sheets of unhealthy blanket with the tips of her spurpoints, her pale face diffused with distaste. The smell continued to overwhelm me and as the pit of my stomach fell open again in a fit of uneasy nausea, I sunk to the floor and folded my head away in my hands, watching Dollia’s unsure movements through this place of hell.


Example Three:

The crust of the white bread sandwich had been cut off as usual, and tucked inside its plastic wrap in the left-hand corner so he could reach it easiest. The juice was next to that, separated by a flower print napkin to keep the condensation from moving from one item to the next. Below that, the grapes--green ones--and pressed, rather forcefully to the right of them, three Oreos. His eyes snuck over the counter and examined his mother’s work with the curiosity of a child watching bugs dart across the water without falling in, and his mother in turn slide her well-cleansed palm over her son’s floppy hair.

“Have you brushed your teeth yet?” she purred at him, moving the wisps of brown behind his circular ears. The boy’s tongue came out in response and slapped the upper rim of his lip, dashing the white counters with a minute spray of saliva. “Go brush them, Darling.” His mother knew well no response meant no indefinitely, yet she smiled fondly as the child scooted off, his hands clapping behind him in a senile attempt to entertain himself. For a moment longer the woman watched the place where her son had disappeared to, her dark hair circling about her full face. She wrinkled her lips slightly, sniffed, patted her nose and turned back to the lunch tote, pressing gently with her jeweled fingers to that the sandwich would lie flat. A clumsy smash announced her son’s return, and his face looked wet as well as the front of his shirt. His mother knelt so that their eyes were facing and wiped dryly at the boy’s shirt.

“Know you know all of your spelling words, right?” The boy’s face wrinkled in response and his mother gave him a sharp but extremely kind stare. “Try for a sticker this time around, yes?” Again, the soft display of torture rose from her son’s lips to his brow. She smiled so that her eyes were folded with crow’s feet and cupped the back of his head, kissing his hair before letting him retreat to wipe it off. “You gave me coodies,” came the child’s response, and in return his mother quickly kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it against the boy’s nose. At this he batted lightly at her, catching his fingers on some of the stray curls which lined her face. “Enough, Joseph,” she said catching his thin wrists and enclosing them in her palms. “Wait for mummy by the door.”

Joseph nodded and pivoted robotically, his arms swinging at his sides as he marched rather than walked to the parlor. His mother carefully picked up the tote and rested it on one finger before placing her keys in the same palm and her cell phone in the other. Pulling the edges of her free hair behind her ears, she paused before leaving the kitchen and instead leaned against the counter, setting her assorted goods down in trade for the nearby remote which activate the kitchen’s TV at her discretion.

“Mum?” Joseph’s tone was strained with the whine of childhood and he rocked from toe to heel while his shoulders pressed his arms against his hips then flung them out: an airplane. From the kitchen came his mother’s hush and the sound of her keys being laid back on the countertop. “I just want to check the weather, Love.” Her fingers pressed deftly against the plastic numbers, and from the bottom of the screen came a blue fog, filled in slowly by a news cast. Two anchors spoke cheerfully.

“Well Myra, it seems like the drop in charity donations has been reversed at last,” he beamed at the camera while saying this, his co-anchor holding her mouth to hinder her light laughing. “So it seems, Dillon.” She too was now smiling at the viewer, and Dillon next to her had folded his hands and turned his bright face to a more serious one. With a queue from her unseen director, Myra cleared her throat and wispily ran the back of her wrist over her mouth.

“Now before we get to today’s forecast, we’ve got a service announcement from the ESA, and a special guest here to inform us further.” The camera view switched and a bright blue background flared over the previously classy one, making Joseph’s mother withdraw from the television so that she might blink and wipe the corners of her eyes. In the center of the screen sat an awkward man with graying hair and a proper crème jacket with bronze buttons. He nodded his acknowledgement while yellow words filed across the low end of the screen, spelling out: Dr. Sillinger, European Space Agency. Dillon’s reduced image swept into the upper corner and he tapped his papers against the oak anchor desk.

“Dr. Sillinger, welcome,” he sang. In response the doctor nodded again. “So I hear you’ve some information for us on a rather rare weather phenomenon headed our way?” Dr. Sillinger shifted in his chair and pulled lightly at the bottom of his cuff sleeve, licking his lips as he did so.

“Well Dillon, the occurrence heading towards London isn’t as rare as one might think, and in fact--” he licked his lips again and lulled his head to the side so that he looked increasingly quizzical. “--it occurs nearly every day but without distress on the Human population.” From the top left of the screen Dillon masked a pensive expression and laid his hands upon the table. With a sidelong glance at the hidden director, the doctor folded his legs and continued. “These occurrences, known as Solar Storms, or more commonly, Solar Flares, are natural cycles in our sun’s development. Summarized, they’re an output of energy caused by pressure within the sun’s core.” Again, he licked his lips. Dillon in return placed both forearms on his polished counter and pressed his tongue against his cheek so that it bulged slightly. “Normally these Solar Storms are harmless because our planet has a protective shield which either deflects or absorbs outward bouts of energy,” the doctor’s hands began encircling and motioning within the air, trying to draw out his explanation. “But about every ten years a storm with a southern frequency hits and--” Dr. Sillinger’s arms were waving in front of his face so that his fragile hair evaded and blew to the side of his cheeks just as Dillon held up his hand and baited it gently against his desk. “Now let me stop you for a moment, Dr. Sillinger. You say a south frequency?” Dr. Sillinger’s hands fell in surprise and his mouth peeled open to reveal slightly yellowed, but obviously well cared for teeth. “North is harmless,” he said dryly, raising his arms to their previous height and stretching his wrists so that the pale blue sleeves tread down a few inches. Dillon gave the side of the television a bashful look and Myra’s arm floated temporarily onto his small pixilated square. It was quickly drawn out again as the doctor continued.

“Anyway, if a south-laden storm hits earth, it has the potential to peel the magnetic field which protects us, back.” He elegantly lifted his fingers away from his fist which represented Earth to demonstrate the effect. “In such an event, we’re left without protection, and the sun’s energy--which in a Solar Storm is radioactive, might I mention--can infiltrate our atmosphere and deal damage to any electrical current within range of it’s strength.” Finally the doctor’s arms fell and he glanced at the side of the camera, obviously waiting for Dillon to correct him. With a pen wedged between his fingers, Dillon did so, eloquently.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong doctor, but the damage done by these storms is never exceedingly drastic.” He smiled wittingly and played with the pen between his well manicured fingers. Dr. Sillinger sat taller in his chair and began talking to Dillon directly, his face shown sideways by the camera. “When the last Solar Storm hit Quebec in 1989, the entire city and surrounding area were left without power for 9 hours, does that not sound drastic to you, Dillon?--”

“Please, Dr. Sillinger, talk into the camera,” Dillon pointed at it with his pen, and his smile had grown more forced than merry. Dr. Sillinger gave the camera a bemused look and adjusted himself so that he was sitting intellectually with his hand poised about his chin.

“What I meant to say, Dillon, is this time around we cannot be caught so unprepared.--”

With a sweeping gesture Joseph’s mother raised the remote and turned the television off, her face a mixture of irritation and rush. Joseph was still standing obediently in the parlor, though he’d taken to biting his bottom lip to keep from boredom. She gave him a knowing glance and turned back to the countertop, scooping the keys and phone into her pocket with a clean gesture. “Out, Joseph,” she murmured, and the brown-haired boy toddled up to the door, batting at the doorknob childishly before placing both hands on it and turning it with a winded screech. His mother flung him an exasperated look and dismissed his jumbled claims that he was a cave monster and couldn’t open doors without screaming while her thick wrist bent and flicked, ushering him out the front door. With her cell phone to her ear to contact the school and notify them of Joseph’s late arrival, she promptly shuffled out of the kitchen--

--before dashing back in and retrieving the lunch tote.
#2
Welcome to 'Souls!

Hey, welcome to 'Souls. You've just joined the craziest bunch of wolf roleplayers on the vast internet. If you haven't done so already, you should check out the rp guide for detailed information about our werewolves and other general role playing information.

Now that you're accepted, you need to do two things:
___1. Make your first IC post within five days.
___2. Update your profile with a bit of background information on your character.

You can also start saving up points toward titles and icons and cool stuff. Check out the Open Threads and Thread Requests forum for people looking to roleplay. You can post random out of character chat in the OOC Garbage with us, too.

#3
Wow, cool writing examples...! Smile I hope you have fun here at 'Souls!
#4
Thank you, that's very kind of you to say. =] I'm sure I'll have fun here; you guys all seem very inviting and very dedicated.


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