Frail Feathers - OC Oneshots/Roleplays

Collected and Composed

These are snippets of some roleplays I have done and the replies I have given! A little context will be given with each entry but, enjoy!

----------

This piece was composed during a roleplay centred around the struggles of children who's chance encounter with radiation has gifted them abilities, or curses some may say. The character here is Crowly, aged 16, complaining about the facility they've been forced into.

Fences paved nothing but a path crafted by tyrants, those so distant from reality that they believed in warping it, wrapping the strings of fate around their fingers and tugging at each of them, testing their give. How far could they push it? How far until it bordered immorality, before the flesh built upon flesh began to rot? Blood doth have blood as.. someone somewhere said. Very few things stuck into his head but that phrase had seared his mind with an iron press, the idea that the foundations of this world, this clinical plain, was pasted across the mangled corpses of those before him, gapping eyes and empty chests the structure for this fenced complex. Being trapped upon this hellish land was more than detestable. It was something rancid, a plague that seemed to suck any freedom from his cold bruised, bloodied hands, aching as they tried to cling on. Rebellion feeds itself and he was sure he could stoke the fires, bring others into his mission, a rejection of the caged lives these lab-coat freaks wanted them to cower in, fearing the threat of punishment. Deterrence was an incentive for Crowly, an even greater reason to gnaw at the metal box he had been pushed into, to tug at the chains he wore in this facility, disguised in its cloak of savour-ship.

"I could probably do without their entitled breath down my neck. I've been out there and I survived without *them.* Pretty well if I do say so. This isn't everything and it shouldn't be. Why should we play house with some snob-arse government whack-jobs?" The tight wound crease in his brow seemed to grow with each word he spat, with each hiss of distaste laced with volatile rage, bound to break something or other, sooner or later. A gas canaster waiting to explode, to flood these fake fields of white walls and guard posts, to poison them as they had him. Crowly would be the one drugging them until their limbs gave way, trembling under the weight of their own carcass.

The simmering anger and restlessness seems to riddle his frame, leaving it tense with all its sharp angles and lanky limbs, still ripe with youth but tinged with marks of an uncanny age, as skin wraps and presses against the putrid place it calls home. "Like it? Oh it's fucking wonderful here isn't it? A right fantasy?" Seething with sarcasm, he bites his lip as if it would apply a lid to the lashing anger burning across his features and scrunching his hooked nose, some how sharpening the bridge. Picking at chipped nails, his gaze trails around those shiny metals, weights and machines acting as a temptress to stay. That wouldn't happen, his thin glare seemingly piercing the walls before shooting back to her and easing. "Of course I have, quite a few in fact I just don't have the stuff I need yet. Need to learn the guard routines, who to trust and what sort of stuff I can find a way to get a hold of." A bony finger taps against his temple, a grin festering where the disgruntled scrunch of his lips had once been. "All up here."

----------

This piece was composed during a roleplay set around a theme-park that drugs and brainwashes the actors they have on sight. This is Crowly, aged 42, suffering from a panic-attack after attempting a task with links to his childhood.

For a hoarse voice is clamped by the cruelty of thoughts, thinning the veil between past and present until it spins into a web of memories, souvenirs to decorate the silk strands strung up to enforce silence. One good deed would never rid his hands of their bloody hue, tracing the beads of sweat forming. These hands deep in his hair, continued to tug, as if it would still the sharp intakes of air always failing to bring relief, to rid his body of the tremors that painted it in the low lamp glow of his office.