Parallelum A.D: Steampunk RP

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Parallelum A.D: Steampunk RP

Unread postby OrganicSAMsite » Mon Jul 14, 2003 12:31 am

((Screw this waiting. Here goes...))

A lonely winter's night in London, 1870, snowflakes falling from the sky, their frozen beauty stunning in contrast to the black night sky, white stars glittering as the moon hangs above it all, huge and harsh white in a sea of star-scattered black. A drunk, salt-and-pepper beard covered in filth and food scraps, sits in a doorway, sheltering from the night's embrace, his only warmth coming from a bottle of spirits that you would be hard-pressed to allow a dog to drink, let alone a human being, no matter how wretched.

Laughter springs forth from somewhere in the vicinity, people in fine clothing and in fine spirits, unknowing and uncaring of the corruption that inhabits and festers in their fine city; these people leave a party, piling into coaches and driving on, their hearts and minds only open to their own pleasure, their own comfort.

Yet the drunk and the rich are not the only creatures of the night, this night, any night. For others prowl these city streets, living by codes of their own that totally ignore the so-called restrictions of society. We follow one of these others, dressed in a long black cloak, his face white as the snow, his hair raven black, eyes harsh blue, as blue as clear sky viewed from a mountain-top. His name is Vencie Torro, and he is not all human. Gears shift in his body, and steam powers those gears. One arm flesh, the other steel and glass and gold and brass, as lifeless as the night through which Vencie strolls.

He makes his way into through a backalley, a puddle of melted ice spattered by a boot and he strides purposefully towards a large, hardened oak door, scarred with age. He knocks, once, twice, and it opens. Yet no servant has allowed Vencie in, and the area behind the door is empty of human life, apparently.

In Vencie walks, through a small kitchen, and finds himself in a tavern, a few score of various people, mostly of a criminal nature, drinking or talking quietly in corners. A fire roars heartily in the hearth, and yellow shadows flicker across the walls.

He seats himself at the bar, and automatically the bartender brings him a beer, which Vencie does not drink.

He waits, and waits, for something or someone we could not say...


Re: Parallelum A.D: Steampunk RP

Unread postby EKDS5k » Tue Jul 15, 2003 9:24 pm

A block or so down the same street, a large man could be seen walking, at a somewhat hurried pace. He was wearing a black overcoat, though he did not seem to be huddled against the cold. Anyone near him would have been able to guess why; the whirring and clicking of clockwork belied the mechanical limbs under his coat.

Gregory was in a hurry mostly because the faster he went, the more likely there would still be a shop or anything that sold pipes still open this late. The more important reason, at least to him, was that the sooner he got to this shop, the sooner he could get home and get his fix of opium. He had broken his pipe due to a bit of carelessness with his hands, and he needed a new one. One would think that he'd always keep a spare around, but then one would be wrong.

So it was that Gregory Watson was rushing down the street in the middle of the night, desperately searching for a shop, a street peddler, anything or anyone that would provide him with a pipe, so that he could maybe get some sleep at some point.


Re: Parallelum A.D: Steampunk RP

Unread postby SALSAlys » Thu Jul 17, 2003 12:52 am

There was a shop open, near the inn— cold, slightly yellow light spilled onto the street from a window which was almost completely shut. The wooden sign over the door was slightly lopsided, but only slightly— the simple, printed letters were still clearly visible, reading "Oakleaf Tinkers".

Inside, in the main room, a young woman named Sylvia was sitting at a large desk, with various tools, including a pair of bifocals, spread across it. She wasn't pretty, although she might be called 'handsome' in certain lighting by someone who was feeling charitable. Thin lips were pressed tight with concentration, brown eyes looking down a long, narrow nose to peer at the innards of a miniature ballerina, no taller than her middle finger. Her right eye was obscured by an odd lens which strapped over her ears, and had a small dial by its side, indicating it could be adjusted.

Sylvia's clothing was simple— loosefitting brown leggings under a rust-brown shirt which hung on her slightly askew, as if she couldn't be bothered to adjust it. The arms were rolled up to her elbows, and her forearms were smeared with dark grease, although her hands were surprisingly clean. A soiled cloth on the desk indicated the cause of that. Her dark brown hair— just brown, no reddish streaks or adjectives such as 'mousy' or 'chestnut'— was tied into a pair of tight braids, which were in turn tied back by a blue bandanna, almost the color of a bruise. Decorating the bandanna was a slightly faded pattern of geometric shapes.

Finally, with a sigh of relief, Sylvia's hands— long, dextrous things, with the same taut, careful control of an expert pianist, although applied in a different way— were able to guide a spring into place, and she closed the mechanical ballerina, letting the doll look delicate and lovely again, like a china figurine, with almost no clue as to its inner workings, joints being cleverly hidden.

There was a spot, right at the nape of her neck, very discreet... even Sylvia, who had created the little clank, had to find it by touch rather than with sight... The tinkerer felt it, then gently wound it, setting the ballerina down.

The dancer did a gentle pirouette and curtsey, before spinning into a grand jete, a leap which finished with her landing delicately on her toes before continuing with the dance. Sylvia's lips lost their tightness, satisfied. The leap had been what was causing the trouble, earlier. The rest of the dance was satisfactory, so she paid only slight attention to the figure dancing across her desk with skill and grace that many human dancers would envy. Her attention was now on cleaning up her tools.

Been a long night... she reflected. Mum and Dad are upstairs already, sleeping... don't feel tired yet. Maybe I'll head over to the pub.

Edited by: [url=>SALSAlys</A] at: 7/17/03 12:54 am



Unread postby OrganicSAMsite » Thu Jul 17, 2003 8:02 am

The wind blew and blew and blew, like a hurricane of ice and snow and cold cold cold. Sheltered from the elements and both examining his glass and a point about two inches behind his own eyeballs, Vencie Torro pulled a sharp-edged knife, thin and cold, the edge blackened to avoid telltale glinting; an assassin's blade. He then idly began sharpening it against his mechanical hand, sliding it up against his thumb-joint before gently reversing the process. The tiny noises of the sharp steel against his steam-powered limb hardly registered in the general murmur of the pub, and with his back turned to the rest of the area no-one was the wiser, except maybe the bartender, who in any case had gotten the art of ignoring his patrons' particular quirks down to a fine art; he was a master of the discipline, in fact.

He had four other blades in his coat, not to mention a palm dagger up his other sleeve and one in his boot. The thumb-joint was smooth and shiny from this continual practice of bringing knives to a keen edge.

This was going to take a while, but Vencie Torro of the Assassin's Guild didn't mind. He had time to kill.

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