EDIT: THE STORY, WHICH IS THE OBJECT OF THIS POST, IS BELOW!!!
Okay, I don’t care if this makes me a nerd or a loser, but…
I role play and I LOVE IT. I even mention it in my about page. Something like… “Speaking of writing, I like to text base role play. I know, that’s very nerdy of me. Don’t like it though? Tough. I’ve been doing it since I was about 9, give or take a year. It’s actually very fun with the right group of people. But don’t worry, this’ll probably be one of the last mentions of it on this site (all though with me, you never know).”
Well apparently I lied. That is clearly NOT the last time I mention it, since I’m mentioning it now.
I basically suck at RP (role play), and was MUCH better years ago. That’s when I was in my PRIME. Now I’m pretty much mediocre and just horrible at it. SET IN ME WAYS. Which is bad for any role player to be, but there we are.
Regardless of all of this, I want to share a story I wrote just now for a characters profile (it’s below).
It’s done in first person narrative, even though that’s an odd format to write anything in. The whole role play is supposed to be done like that, even though RP is always done in third person format. It’s like crime noir. Think of it like those 1920’s dime novels or detective movies, where they’re speaking like “It was a hot day, and I was sitting in my office, enjoying some solitude, when a beautiful dame walks into my office and knocks me over with how big her breasts are … ” or something like that. (That was supposed to be a spoof/joke, by the way…)
There is more about what the role play is about below the story.
ANYWAY… Here is the short story I made for him on his profile. It sucks, but I’m sharing it anyway in lieu for nothing better to wrote.
NOTE: It’s a rough draft, so it’s bound to be changed alot and there’s bound to be some mistakes.
HERE IS THE STORY:
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This character was made specifically for The Hunger of Hope role play. The following story is in first person narrative because that’s how we RP in The Hunger of Hope.
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It was the dead of night - what I find to be the perfect time to do the work I’ve been called to do. The two men I decided to do this job with see my car appear and park from a block away, and then watched as my dark figure approached them silently. I took my time, burying my hands into the pockets of my long, black coat, as if I’m going for an evening stroll instead of about to take care of a problem. If the two of them waiting for me are impatient I chose not to be aware of it, nor did I choose to care if they made their impatience known. I am set apart from these two men in every way. In rank and position, in how I’m dressed, in the way I carry myself and they know it. If anyone had dared to peak out their windows at such a late hour they’d be able to see that as well. Therefore, because of my obvious status above them, their problems are not my problems, nor did I bother to trouble myself with them.
After approaching them, I did not have to say a word. Instead a mere nod to the door of the small, first level house they’ve been loitering around outside for the past fifteen minutes will suffice and they made their way towards it, with me following them. They kicked the door down, making as much noise as they could once they’ve entered the house — if you could call it a house. They tossed over furniture and fired needless bullets into the ceiling. The three of us knew that all within the neighborhood were listening with ears that are wide opened, and we couldn’t care less. A short, plump, older woman came running out into the living room where we were standing, her hazel eyes wide with fright, her cheeks flushed with adrenaline. My men moved towards her, but with a simple step from me in her direction, they stopped.
“Where is he?,” I asked, and she, out of breath from either fright or running in to ‘greet’ us, pointed towards the bedroom, where we suddenly heard a crash. My target was trying to escape, I realized with some fascination at his stupidity. I thought he’d be smarter than that, what with his views and all — then again, those were the very things that got him into this predicament. One of my men ran into the bedroom, while the other out of the house to cut our target off at the pass. I merely stood in the living room, hands buried deep within my pockets, waiting and listening to the cries of the woman. I glanced at her, wanting to know why she was crying when she was the one that turned this man in.
Before I could give that any more thought the two men made it back into the front door. A single eyebrow of mine rose. Did the one that ran into the bedroom crawl out through the window to catch our man? No matter. They brought back with them the man who was my target for this evening and that was all that counted. I noted that he looked rather old with his balding top and his striped pajamas. He was lot smaller than me too, and as plump as his wife. I also saw that he was visibly shaking as well. How typical.
“Sit down,” I said casually to him, as if this were all normal, motioning to a chair. Before he could reply one way or another my men drag him roughly and sat him down. I pulled out a seat and sat in front of him calmly. A hand slipped into my coat pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. I unfolded it and read the contents of it out loud. “Boris Vadeem?” I looked back up from my paper and the man gave a jarring, shaking nod. He seemed to be starting to cry, I realized then.
“Boris, Boris,” I heard softly behind me. It’s the plump woman - ah, so she COULD speak, rather than just sob unintelligibly. I turned to look at her, interested. She was ugly, with her mouth contorted as if she’s in pain. The inside of her big, wet, glossy pink lips were displayed as she blubbered and tried to speak, and it was mildly disgusting, but I kept looking on at her, remaining silent, waiting. Much to my disappointment she only mouthed the words “I’m sorry…” to her husband, as if she could not get out any sound suddenly, before her blubbering started up again.
I turned back to the man saying “your own wife turned you in…” I paused, and then, in a strange moment of puzzlement and realization, said “that must hurt.” That was a genuine, soft spoken statement, not meant to cause any anguish to the man, but of course it most likely did and he didn’t answer me one way or the other. Instead he just continued crying. My sickly green eyes shut for a moment in a mild annoyance, and just like that the realization was gone as quickly as it had come.
A moment later they opened again. “Boris,” I heard myself saying in a stern voice that always seemed awkward for me to use, even in situations like this, “you are a dissenter to our government and that makes you worse than those we’re fighting in war. Do you like to do these things? Go against your own people and your own culture? Your own national sons that are in the front lines? The ones that are giving up their lives for YOU, Boris. You might as well be the ones ripping them apart in war, making them lose their limbs and their lives. Making their mothers weep with sorrow as they fight a war to make you a freer man.” I couldn’t even believe the words, the nonsense, that I was saying, but I could tell the two men I’ve brought along for this particular job did. They stood a little straighter with every word, pride clearly displayed on their hard faces. The woman behind me also believed what I’ve said, and I know this not only for the fact that it was she that had turned her husband in, but also for the fact that her crying had quieted down a bit as I spoke.
Idiots. . .
Could I have spewed anything more cliche and superficial?
There is a lot more I could have said to poor Boris, but I decided to not put on a great performance this night. Standing suddenly, I reached within my jacket, my eyes locked on the man. He seemed to realize what was about to happen, and a wet stain appeared in the crotch area of his pants and ran down his leg. I pulled out my gun and pointed it at his face. The sobs of the woman behind me grew again and I heard her muttering “oh god, oh god…”, but she didn’t come near. She was smarter than that. I hesitated for a moment, slightly lowering my gun to look down at the mans full, panic stricken face, and I, for some reason, felt the need to apologize. “I’m sorry, Boris. I normally wouldn’t do this here and now, in your home and in front of your wife, but I was told to make an example of you because of how wide spread you’ve made your opinions.” After all, most of the others that had met this mans fate had the luxury of meeting it discreetly, at the very least.
I lifted my gun again to aim at his face. Boris finally speaks, “no–no!”, sounding panicked while crossing his arms over his face to shield himself from my bullet. It’s a futile attempt to protect himself.
Bang!
There was an ear piercing scream. It belonged to Boris’ wife, the woman who turned him in. I found it irritating.
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Much later on that night, in the arms of a woman who knows me well, I asked “can you make me feel?”
She replied with “honey, I can make you do alot of things, but that is not one of them…”
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Sucks, right? OH WELL.
MORE ABOUT THE ROLE PLAY… . . .
It’s going to be a pretty short role play, instead of one of those on going ones that just.. go on and on and on and gets boring after a while and die out. These characters are specifically for this short, private story line. They’re ALL almost likely going to wind up dead at the end of the RP, as well. The RP itself is supposed to end in a week or so. Our characters all wind up at an apartment and have a shoot out at the end, which we’re going to be role playing FIRST, so we’ll all end up dead at the first session. Then we rewind and play the events leading up to our characters entering the apartment.
It’s a pretty unique way to start an RP — at the end. It’s also unique since it’s all in first person, which I’ve never done in ALL of my years of RP.
I feel honored that I got a private invite to this.
It’s set in the 1920s, in a European-like world, where SOMETHING like WWI is happening. The world these characters are in is a dystopian alternate universe where the government controls everything, and there are elites known as “The Brotherhood” who are the only ones that have cars, money, good clothes, etc. LIKE a sort of Mafia, but much, much worse.
Most people who are NOT in The Brotherhood are shuffled off in cramped trains every day to work in factories at young ages, and those that don’t work in factories are shuffled off to the front lines of a horrible war which most people never return from. No one even knows for sure who the government is waging war on, it’s become THAT bad and has went on for THAT long.
Anyway my characters name is “Christopher” and he works for both the government AND The Brotherhood. He’s spying on The Brotherhood for the government, but in the end he’s really out for himself, since, as you’ll see in the story above, he doesn’t believe in anything the government spews.
All of these details about what exactly he does for the government or The Brotherhood will be worked out of course in the next couple of days and then throughout the RP itself.
Anyway, the whole point of this blog post was just to show you all the lame story I wrote. God I suck at writing. Lol.
Oh… AND:
Hanoi-Hanna - Potentially Confused says (11:22 AM):
I think I deserve more mention in that blog…
Hanoi-Hanna - Potentially Confused says (11:23 AM):
Like “The idea comes from Hanna, who is totally awesome and she is like the best roleplayer ever and has super good ideas. She is an arrogant bitch but still awesome and the bestest roleplayer”
Cetta says (11:23 AM):
okay i’ll put that EXACT sentence
Hanoi-Hanna - Potentially Confused says (11:23 AM):
It is not one, but two sentences.
Hanoi-Hanna - Potentially Confused says (11:23 AM):
And you should never do like I say =p
Cetta says (11:24 AM):
i’ll put the log at the bottom 
By Cetta | 5 Comments »
