How I look when roleplaying normally.
How I look when roleplaying pairings/smut.
How I look when a god mod shows up.
How I look when I am impatient for a reply.
How I look when a roleplay dies.
How I look when real life people catch me roleplaying.
Alright roleplayers let’s see your variations!
I hear the voice
of R A G E
R U I N
Selective Indie Pitch Black rp blog
Six+ Years writingexperience
Two years tumblr RPexperience
Para, novella, chat, etc
Will adapt to different RP formatsDon't go around tonight
Well, it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the R I S E
Can I just say that your writing is absolutely gorgeous and eerily poetic. The ability displayed here to capture Jack in the same light that Tim Burton basked the character in on the drawing board is fantastically enchanting. And as the Mun, you go above and beyond; the depth Skellington gains in your hands is mind-blowing. Don't stop doing what you're doing; Tumblr needs more writers like you.
♠ Oʋե σƒ D⍺ℜƙɴﻉss ♠: You know, lovely bat, this moment when your heart sinks into the mirth? I definitely had it right now. You just drowned my heart in glee. I know, I’ve received many kind words and, I believe, no less of kind words I’ve returned to other people. Still, every time I get such words of sweetness, it’s like it’s completely enough to light me up. I never stopped to wonder what a great power simple words possess…
I took some moment before to reply your message thoroughly. I bet, you know, that when people are carried away by emotions they, mostly, remain speechless. And so I needed to collect my thoughts and words at first. Now I am ready.
Writing is such a great thing. One of the greatest to me. It’s the greatest way of picturing something that you see, especially if you are not good at drawing or anything else that can help. Every time it’s a pleasure to me. To let someone into my world or into the world where I really feel myself home. I know, it’s plain to see how much Tim Burton’s art means to me. And I do really care for the things he had created in his past and for the things he’s going to create in the future… I am glad that you see that. I believe, if you do, then you also find yourself home in Tim Burton’s world everytime.
I guess it will sound crazy, it always does when I say that - oh, no, I don’t make these things, it’s Jack who actually tells me everything - but, well, I can’t deny that it’s the truest truth I can ever confess. I know every muse is alive in the heart of every mun. It’s a very close connection, if it’s true. I never shed tears, but I know I always cry inside of my soul, when someone says that he or she likes my portrayal. It does mean a world to me, literally. And, oh, do I love this world of mine?
Thank you very much for such lovely letter, pumpkin pie ♥
I hope you to meet more of wonderful writers on your way. And I also wish other roleplayers to get more of such beautiful messages ♥
There was a growing horror, however; twas burrowed deep within the auburn-manes baker’s pallid countenance. Had not his very wicked physicality sufficed to bring a chill to the blood racing through her veins, his estranged verbal responses certainly would.
Her composure had begun to slip through her fingers with the ease of water, bringing a great rapid increase of her pulse as she internally struggled in hysterics to cling unto whatever remained of it.
Eyeing subtly the arachnid as it wriggled upward into the creature’s skull, her head raised upward slightly, lips pulled back as she felt every iota of her flesh crawl.
were the only two syllables she could muster from her vocal chords as a wave of goose-flesh washed over her.
Clenching her jaw tightly to her skull, she forced her doe-like eyes to avert from the corpse like being, focusing instead upon one particular flour-covered area on her counter. Swallowing a wad of thick, bitter saliva down a dry throat — feeling it stick like glue to her tongue and the back of her throat, she managed a surprisingly acquiescent inquiry.
”Is ‘ere any’fin’ else I kin get for ye, love?”
❝ Ａｎｄ Ｃｉｖｉｌｉｓａｔｉｏｎ ｍａｋｅｓ ｍｅｎ ｌｅｖｅｌ，
Ｉｔ ｅｖｅｎ ｓｔｉｃｋｓ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ Ｄｅｖｉｌ：
Ｔｈａｔ Ｎｏｒｔｈｅｒｎ ｄｅｍｏｎ ｉｓ ｎｏ ｍｏｒｅ：
Ｗｈｏ ｓｅｅｓ ｈｏｒｎｓ ｎｏｗ， ｏｒ ｔａｉｌ ｏｒ ｃｌａｗ？❞
—— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe “Faust” part I, act VI “Witch’s Kitchen”
In the midst of the desert,
that belongs to human prejudices and phobias, many wayfarers venture to get bogged down and let their bones form the basis for the wicked oaths of others. Some of their thoughts used to crumble like flour; and if they happen to mingle with water accidentally — they all disintegrate, and turn into viscous dough. And some sink and cover the bottom of the sea, smoothing down the sharp stones with their philosophy for centuries.
Their buzzwords, their ponderings — they all are only tiny dependent particles of the objective reality. Alone they don’t exist for very long. Getting lost, falling into oblivion, disappearing and no one can even distinguish them from each other…
A deplorable fate, verily.
The fate that, alas, is destined for many.
But here we are to mend this
to fix this nasty lapse…
The fear of others rarely was now his true joy. In all honesty, he could freely take this for granted. And, he did, he even never got tired of this. But it didn’t surprise him anymore, that mere idea of his being a peccant evil dark monster. He broke the mirror before he got to see his reflection. Isn’t it already a nerve-wrenching sign? The mirror that was bleeding with shadows every time he dared to look at it. What could be even said in favor of simple frail human eyes…
Though, you know, he barely cared now. Night and terror followed him wherever he headed, whilst he lead the armies of beasts and bloodthirsty fiends. That only company after so many centuries; sinful pleasures, monotone work and the smell of ink.
He could reflect any sin that lurked in the secret corners of your soul, his malicious spirit could twist your entity with a single crackle. He could become your every flaw, but you knew, deep inside, he was ineffably perfect and pure… The blood could be cleaned off his hands. However blood couldn’t be taken away from you.
All he wanted now was a sip of originality.
But all she gave him to drink was her fear…
Not really that gracious of her.
”Is ‘ere any’fin’ else I kin get for ye, love?”
❝ —— I guess,❞ he exhaled that word like in a way someone breathes out the smoke. Pertly, lightly and rather depreciatingly.
Afterwards he leisurely canted his skull back
and glanced at Lovett with incurious temptation.
❝There is a thing which can suit me well. And you too,❞ and here the coldness of his voice acquired a shade of land breeze, which fostered the freedom of a thought and liberated from terror. Still the ghost of anxiety dwelled in the parlor, as if waiting for an unbelievable act to occur.
❝ I know a lithic piece cannot be cured again alike flesh. Perhaps, renewed, which serves you best… I can bring some spark to this place. Turn it into a dream that you always strived to reach,❞ he revealed deliberately, ❝I know mortals are afraid of wonders, calling them black art. But, tell me, Nellie, does the innocence of poor stand equal to the peccancy of rich?❞
Only few claim happiness to be priceless if it’s found.
But if we were able to buy it, perhaps, more of us could
die happy and released.
Sweet Nightmares, shades ♥