Here's something of mine that I whipped up quickly while on the bus home.

The radio blared the newest episode of “The Shadow” as detective Ken Brown groaned and raised his head from his desk. He took a swig of his coffee, and as the warm liquid trickled down his throat, he grimaced at its bitter flavor. It wasn’t something he enjoyed, but it was sobering him up real quick. He shuffled through the monstrous pile of papers littering his desk as a sharp rap on his glass door brought him out of his stupor. “C…Come in.” As the door squeaked open, Ken’s eyes widened as he stared in bewilderment at the fine specimen that sauntered through the door. Her ruby red dress hugged her body and left nothing to the imagination. The dress brought out the paleness of her skin which was all but covered by the giant mess of curls that adorned her head. He looked into her deep blue eyes and…contact. “Detective Brown? My name is Cassandra Chase and I’m here to enlist your services.” She remarked his unshaven face and the plethora of whiskey bottles scattered around his office. “Although it seems like you’ve been having a rough night.” Ken practically stumbled out of his chair and over his desk as he took her hand in his. He tried his best to put on his tough guy routine. “Rougher than most, but not the worst. Now, how can I be of service to you Ms. Chase?” Sitting down across from Ken, Cassandra reached into her purse and pulled out a frayed yellow photograph of a man in suit. She handed it to Ken and proceeded to break down into hysterics. “*sob* This is my husband James. He was brutally murdered three days ago. I went to the police, but they have no leads. I was hoping a Private Eye like you could help me. My husband was in the textile business and we were quite well off. But then, we hit some rough times, especially after the market crashed. We lost most of our money then, and James made a deal with the Mafia. He didn’t tell me about it, but I found out one night while he was yelling over the phone with someone. Apparently he couldn’t pay his debts and the Mafia was coming after him. I begged him to leave town, but he wouldn’t. He insisted that we’d be safe. Then three days ago, I came back home from a neighbor’s only to find him lying on the floor. After calling the police, they determined that he had been poisoned. I was sure that someone in the Mafia had done it, but there was no proof. No one was home with James when it happened. The police declared it a closed case and that was it. But, I want to find out who murdered my husband and bring them to justice.”

She continued sobbing for a few minutes as Ken went over her story in his head. Her hands were shaking as he began to hand back the photo. As she reached for it, she knocked over his cup of coffee. It spilled over all of his papers and began staining the mahogany desk. “Oh…I’m so sorry detective.” Clumsy girl…"That’s all right, and please call me Ken."

“Alright Ken, but at least let me poor you another cup.” Without letting him answer, she grabbed his mug and walked up to the kettle near the window. Ken couldn’t help but stare as she walked. He shook himself out of his trance and began trying to get more information out of her. “Well Ms. Chase…” “Please, if we’re dispensing with formalities, call me Cassandra.” “Cassandra then. It seems to me like your suspicion about the Mafia is warranted, and you’ve come to the right place. I’ve been trying to bring them down for months now. I’ve gathered a lot of information and I’m very close. If I can prove that an agent from the Mafia killed your husband, I’ll have enough to put most of the high ranking member’s away for good. They have many talented assassins, most of which almost never leave any conspicuous clues behind. But I think that with a little luck, I can nab this guy.” Flashes of him receiving a medal from the mayor after bringing down the entire Mafia raced through Ken’s head as he accepted Cassandra’s case with enthusiasm. “I’ll take your case, and with your help I might be able to bring down the entire crime ring.” Cassandra absolutely beamed as she brought Ken another steaming mug of coffee, which he immediately accepted and sipped. “Thank you so much Ken, you have no idea how much this means to me and my late husband,” she practically purred. Ken swallowed, hard, as she walked even closer to him. He felt a tightness in his throat as she bent down to whisper something in his ear, something barely audible. “Unfortunately Detective, your dreams will be short lived.” Ken had a puzzled look on his face as Cassandra walked his desk to retrieve her purse. The tightness in his throat however, did not go away. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He began gasping for lungfuls of air. “The poison works quickly doesn’t it Ken? You were getting a little too close for comfort and in a matter of minutes you’ll be dead.” Ken couldn’t move or talk and his lungs were burning. Cassandra dumped the rest of the coffee into his sink and began walking out. Before exiting the room, she turned up the radio’s volume and said, with a final look back, “no conspicuous clues.” Ken slumped against his desk as he lost consciousness. "Who knows what lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows…"

The Newest God

I remember it just as if it'd happened last week...

A man, clothed in nothing save a pair of billowing pants, stands alone at the top of a small hill, head hanging low. His feet are planted shoulder-width apart, one foot raised upon a rock behind him and the other stepping downwards and forwards on the slope.

I was all alone that day, after my unit was wiped out...

His waist-length hair flows in a great wind, casting a silhouette against the bright fires burning behind him on the other side of the hill. His fists are clenched at his sides, trembling from the tempest of pure anger and rage kindling within him.

They were my friends. They were my family.

A fierce red glow lights in his eyes as he raises his head, revealing his clenched jaw and bared teeth. A shiver runs down the spines of the soldiers below him, a thousand strong and armed to the teeth, as they watch this man seem to almost transform subconsciously into some form of demon, a god of immense power who's now turned the full sum of his rage against them. The few brave soldiers at the head raise their arms and sound a battle cry, charging forth with their weapons raised high and proud.

I felt a surge of something familiar, and powerful. The touch of magic being granted by the fallen dragon-man at my feet...I recall repeating his last words to them...

"The god that was, and the god that is, replaced by the god that will be. Go, and carry on the legacy, Blessed One."

My voice was deeper than a thousand earthquakes, and I'm certain that it shook them to their very cores. Even the bravest warriors at the front faltered in their steps and shivered, for they knew their new god of war was upon them."

His eyes glow a deeper red, now casting a trail of red smoke behind them. In a few moments the charge is complete and the men are at his feet, preparing to launch an assault that will never be. In a blinding flash of motion, he removes his sword from its sheath and screams a terrible war cry that rattles the very ground itself and causes the strongest of men to collapse and weep in terror. In seconds, he's slaughtered the most powerful mages and fighters, moving faster than anything imaginable.

Thirty men standing together in a group try to huddle up and summon a collective spell, but a great horizontal slash of magic sweeps through them and cleaves them in two, scattering blood and guts into the air. A few more intersecting sickles of magic fly forth from his blade, cutting X-shaped paths of destruction in their wakes.

In less than six minutes, the entire battalion is dead...and none dying. A great pall of smoke hangs over the battlefield where five thousand men and women once stood, billowing upwards from the flames below. A figure crests the tallest hill and stands, looking around at the carnage with his hair again flowing in the breeze. His silhouette gains a new look then, with wings sprouting from his back and horns emerging from the sides of his head. A devilish grin of pure delight crosses his face and he breathes in the air deeply, reveling in the scent of searing death.

He stretches his arms out to his sides, holding them palm-up almost as if he were presenting himself as a gift to something. His head then throws backwards to the sky and he lifts off, flapping his wings gracefully and gaining altitude quickly. Thunder claps and rain begins to fall, drenching everything under the black sky with its refreshing aroma and soaking through. Water drops roll from his face and arms, falling to the ground below while he grins wider and shuts his eyes, the new god now enjoying his victory and his new place in the world.

That day I became the god Akira.

I think I got it right this time
 

Fen gazed up at the sky. It had been a while since it had been blue - since the black had taken over. A gentle breeze blew as he walked through the city, and he noticed that the bars were empty now. I’m out later than the boozers, he thought to himself. His mind began to wander into the realms of the previous day. He thought about how his love had left him for his brother; how his boss had fired him for being incessantly late; how his best friend had stood him up without letting him know for a party in the rich part of town, which Fen was not invited to.

The city was quiet at night. The curtains of the diner he meandered by whispered in the wind like ghosts of some different dimension. The TV ads playing silently in the square beckoned to him with a false reality. As he walked, a tear began to run down his cheek. The swishing of his clothes and the pattering of his feet were the only noises to be heard as he picked up his pace. The tears began to flow more freely, and he picked up into a run.

That’s when he noticed the flag on the front of the courthouse. He found a ladder by a building in the middle of renovation. It looked like it was going to be a library. He placed the ladder next to the flag, and climbed up to the pole. He tested it; it would surely hold his weight. The rope attached to the flag was easily undone, and Fen made a perfect knot with it, and slipped it around his neck. He then stood on the pole, kicked the ladder away, and jumped. He barely struggled; soon his body just swayed slightly in the wind.

Well... I finally decided to do one. I was bored as hell and found myself using this as an excuse to write a short story type thing. No, there's no fighting... I didn't feel like doing fighting, and some parts of Jeffrey's character are purposely left up to the imagination. Anyway, here it is.
--------
"I'm going out now," his wife said as she left the house. Jeffrey knew what that really meant, however. He knew that she was going to be with him again. There wasn't any reason left to hold onto the relationship, and Jeffrey knew that. It would have to end soon. Someday she'd come through that door after going out and tell him it was over, and he didn't know why he bothered lying to himself--why he bothered trying to believe that she was just going out with friends. He had the pictures that P.I. had gotten him. He knew the truth.

A hand reached up to scratch the irritating stubble on his chin, and then a bottle of beer moved up to his mouth. 'Beer... stubble? ...When did I fall so low?' he thought to himself as he sank further in the recliner and his fingers mechanically changed the channel because 'the game' was coming on. 'I never used to drink... or watch these games. What happened to me? ...it's because of her...' at least, that's what he thought to comfort himself, but he knew it wasn't true. He and his wife had been in love once. Deeply in love, or at least they thought. They did everything couples normally did together: danced, talked, ate... fucked. 'God how I miss the sex... and now...' he dismissed the thought before it could complete itself, not only because it was about her with him, but because it confirmed what he already knew. It was his fault.

Jeffrey took another swig of beer and then the memories came, but this time he couldn't stop the truth. He remembered how he used to be athletic, and how he used to play 'the game,' instead of watching it. Jessica was a cheerleader for his highschool team, and she was beautiful. All the men wanted to be with her, but she went out with him, the star player.

Back then he was strong and fast and charming. He was what every girl wanted, just like she was what every man wanted. Their romance was like something out of one of those cheap novels that she would read after they got married--carnal, lustful, beautiful, 'perfect,' but love based on such things couldn't last. At the time he didn't think these thoughts. At the time he didn't think much of anything other than how he was going to win the next game or what new positions they could try. Then they got married.

The marriage was wonderful. It was everything Jessica had dreamed, and Jeffrey was able to bare it. The cake was ok, and the preacher didn't talk for too long. They said their vows, and the doves were released. 'The doves...' The old ex-jock couldn't help but laugh as he remembered how one had gotten caught in his mother's hair as it tried to escape. Everyone had laughed, and everything had been perfect then. They all ate the cake, and Jeffrey played a little bit with all the other men who had been on the team, reliving old victories... and old defeats.

Everything seemed to be starting so well, and they both shrugged off their parents' warnings about marrying their highschool sweetheart, at least until after the honeymoon. That's when it all started to go awry, and, as Jeffrey remembered, he realized that he was the only one to blame. It all started when they got home. Jessica... she wanted to spend some more time with him, but his friends wanted to go drinking, so he went out. And then the next night too... and the night after that... and the night after that. Almost every night he went out and got drunk, and then came home. His boss didn't approve of his coming to work hung over nearly everyday, and so he was fired from his construction job, and Jessica was forced to get a job waitressing. They barely made ends meet, but Jeffrey didn't even try to get a job. He just sat in that chair and drank. Drank and watched 'the game.'

The TV blared static as white snow scattered over the screen, snapping Jeffrey out of his reverie. It had been hours, and he'd accidently dropped his bottle. The beer was running out onto the floor, and there was no way to salvage it. As he stared at the amber fluid pooling by the side of his chair he realized that he'd dropped his life too. He'd dropped it and now all the happiness had run out, leaving him with nothing but an empty bottle.

He didn't bother to shut off the TV. He just picked up the bottle of beer and threw it away before taking his gun and walking outside. The streets were dark, and there was no one on them. It was already late. Jeffrey stumbled away from the house and down the street. 'This is the last, and only, thing I can do for her now,' he thought as he stumbled into a dark alley, and pressed the gun against his temple. "I'm sorry... It was all my fault... forgive me," Jeffrey confessed to the darkness as he squeezed the trigger.

Finally, something from you or Demon... wonder when we'll be able to get him to post something here...

Wow, Zephir... That was really good.

I can't believe I have to compete with that.

I didn't really "read" these, so...

Batgirl - A
Zephir - A
Minor - B
Krylo - D, as in Die. I would give you an F, but then I can't say it stands for Die. Completely unrelated note, I hate your new avatar.

I love you too, IHMN.

Ok, now I read them, so I will give actual scores.

Batgirl - A (Though you do need to use paragraphs more)
Zephir - A
Minor - B+
krylo - You would recieve an A, but I can't bring myself to giving you one.


Also,


You can't really see how one RPs with one post they did themselves. All you can judge is their creativity, ability to write, grammar, stupidity, use of Dues Ex Machina, and imagination.

Edit - And I've never based anything I've scored because of no story and such. The closest was with the person who said a lady walked away when they never mentioned a lady being there before at all.

I haven't been paying much attention to this thread (I have more than enough books sitting around at home I'm trying to read, thank you very much), but I have looked over remarks every once in a while, an anything that gets that kind of reaction out of IHMN of all people (Nothing short of an idiot n00b invokes that response normally...) deserves a look.

Depressing. Not that sort of enlightning depressing, just plain ole' fashion, 'kicked in the gut' depressing. I sense much anger, angst, and goth in this, yeeesssss...

JAd said the same thing. I wrote it in Word and the paragraphs didn't transfer for some reason. But I should have gone back and redone them, so your criticism is warranted and appreciated. Also, thanks for the A!

The anger and angst I can deal with... but I should really slap you for that goth comment. Fortunately, I'm too busy writing bad poetry.

No really... I just felt like doing something a little differently... and I started it off with a quote from someone, and just started typing. That's what I ended up with... figured it was pretty decent and tossed it up.

I figured he didn't want to do another fantasy thing like every post in here so far (Besides Storm's).

You forgot Batgirl's, IHMN. d ^.^ b

I should have said what I meant in a different way...

Storm's and krylo's post are real life, depressing situations (Meaning boring) and don't involving any sorts of fights or betrayals (Intresting things).

All fantasy? Screw that, I may be forced to submit something to get some modern/sci-fi in here to balance out all these elves and fairies...

If you don't give a care about being graded or official, how long a story do you think could be submitted? I've got seven pages of a partially completed story sitting around. and if anyone wanted to see it, I could finish it, but it may end up being around 12 pages...

And krylo, it was decent, but I like my depressing with some knowledge to balance it out like Brave New World or Fahrenheight 451 or something... I figured saying it was goth would get my point across. Normally if you go for depressing, try to do something to balance it out is my point, but it was excellent otherwise...

Now that's a different story, IHMN. ^_^

Actually, since I just remembered this is an RP rating thread (As much as possible), I am lowering krylo's potentional A to a B. How often will we be RPing as fat, old drunken ex-jocks who's wives (Who has the same name of Celes I noticed) are cheating on them, them killing themselves?

Here's my submission I just typed up. The setting may be familiar to some, but I typed it mostly for those who never heard of this setting. Take note that I just typed this up, and that although it may use an existing setting/character, I still think it's a worthwhile read.
------------------------
”Look, if you had one shot,
One opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted…
One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?

His palms are sweaty,
Knees weak, arms are heavy…”

Although this didn’t apply to the young man, it was the song that was going through his head at the time. Slowly but surely, the man climbed up the stairs of the abandoned building, making his way to the rooftop where his destiny awaited. His blue cargo pants made it’s *swish, swish* as he ascended, with his matching blue #54 football jersey making a similar noise, as well. Old black basketball shoes made their way up the stairs, their comfortable Dr. Scholl’s cushioning keeping the man’s feet from blistering. He was working up a sweat as he made his way up, but finally he reached the top, opening the door to the rooftop as he arrived.

It was difficult to see, as the man was wearing blue sunglasses that night. A sudden, chilly wind blew and nearly blew off his backwards purple baseball cap, a golden T emblazoned above its bill. He made his way towards a 10’x10’ taped-down cardboard surface on the rough rooftop. Standing in the middle, the man realized that this would truly be his finest hour.

Below on the streets, chaos ensued. Wild, sentient soda machines were spewing lethally-fast cans of soda at terrorized citizens. Other commonly used household appliances were also laying siege to the once-beautiful city, with several flames burning like an inferno in the distance. The spectacle, reflected in the man’s azure sunglasses, looked like a total disaster to the man, but when he heard an insanely loud *thud* on the adjacent street corner, he knew the end was at hand. He turned to see a gigantic alien robot of a peculiar yet humanoid design. The large automaton was easily taller than the 6-story building the man was standing on, and was painted gleaming purple, with yellow accents and large, glowing red eyes.

“So you’re Robo-Z, the leader of this invasion?” asked the casually dressed man in a calm tone.

“Yes, and you’re the infamous Thumpman.” The giant replied in his robotic voice. “I have come to accept your challenge. I take it you know the rules of our duel?” Thumpman nodded seriously. “Good, then. Know that if I emerge victorious, your world shall be dominated by my superior race…”

“…and if you lose, then you’re going to get the heck out of here.” The smaller combatant replied.

“Let us begin.” Said Robo-Z. With that, two hovering scoreboards descended from the sky, labeled “ROBO-Z” and “THUMPMAN.” Even more speaker-like objects descended, along with spotlights and a judge robot.

“You know the rules, so let the dance-off begin!” cried the judge-bot over the speakers. With that, techno/dance music started to blare through the speakers.

”I’m flyin’ to a soul…”
Robo-Z immediately began his dance in the middle of the street corner, spotlights reflecting off his sleek, purple surface as he performed flawless robot-esque movements, his score on the respective board rising. Thumpman began also, starting with simple moonwalks and his own flawless robot-like dance.

The two kept this up in a trance-like state for about a minute, with people and alien appliances alike looking on, knowing the future lay in the balance. However, Robo-Z thought differently. If the judge can’t see what my foe is doing, then my victory is ensured, as his score would cease to rise… With that, Robo-Z pointed his left arm up towards Thumpman’s spotlights and fired off his built-in ion cannon, disabling Thumpman’s spotlights. Even though he continued to dance, his score didn’t rise.

Luckily, Thumpman was prepared. He landed from a handstand and whipped out a pair of glowsticks from his pockets and started to rave. The dual glowing objects were even more impressive than his previous efforts, and his score shot up on his scoreboard at a faster rate than his opponent. If Robo-Z had emotions, he’d be furious right about now, yet he continued his smooth, graceful dance.

Another two minutes passed, and after about three minutes of non-stop dancing, the song ended. The judge floated over and raised the winner’s arm in the air. “By a slight amount of points, the winner is Thumpman!” its voice boomed over the speaker system. Thumpman was slow to realize that he had won, as he was heavily panting and his semi pale-colored skin was drenched in sweat. Before he could fully realize his victory, a blue colored stream of light hit the ground below him, collapsing the roof and sending the young adult plummeting down a few floors to his demise.

And some time passed...

Robo-Z kept his promise and left Earth, along with his invasion army. However, after Thumpman’s funeral, the people didn’t feel much like celebrating. His body wasn’t found, yet everyone knew that the chances of him surviving was slim, so after days of searching, they proclaimed him dead. The few possessions the musician once had were donated to charity, and life returned to normal.

Yet, if one looked in the alleys on certain nights, he might see a boombox-toting vigilante, wearing a blue #54 jersey and a backwards purple baseball cap cleaning up the streets. Some people think it’s an imposter; others believe it’s Thumpman’s tormented soul, who never found rest and haunts the streets. A seldom few still think he’s alive, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this: the legend will never die.

Actually, Celes's name is Jenessa, not Jessica...

Actually, IHMN, I think you're being somewhat lenient (Possibly fair? hard to tell...) most of the time.
BMHadoken was my target, not you. I was just re-reading his criticism, and he said that I should've explained more background info and other such junk that would only be required were I trying to make a short story instead of an RP post.
Since that point, every single post is either a full short story, or the kind of post that is unnnecessarily long and detailed and, with all actually, not specific enough to be a "normal" RP post.
I think ya'll've graded somebody's conclusion, if I'm not mistaken. A beginning, middle, and end shouldn't all occur in evbery RP post unless the RP is only supposed to be one post long.
That's my stand.


And how dare you give Minor a B. It was the only one I read, and I regret it. That was the saddest piece of stereotypical/uninteresting/baloney crap I've seen in a long time.
And I severely doubt that that statement is opinion.
And please pardon me Minor, but I wouldn't say this if I didn't truly believe it.

Oh, I did not know that. Oh well. Now I know two of your names...

Mr. V will get a score when I get around to reading that.

Yeah, I really didn't read his...

Repost/New scores (If you want to know why you got this score, ask.)

(Edit) - Things I take into consideration.

- Orginality
- RP possibilty
- RP like
- If it's intresting
- Detail
- Writing ability
- Grammar

Psycho - A-
Martyr - B
Stover - A
Ranger - B+
Dante - A-
SS - A-
Storm - C+
Tor - C+
Outbounder - B+
Psi - A-
Andy - B-
Biran - B
BM - B+
Batgirl - A
Zephir - A-
Minor - C-
krylo - C+
Mr. V - B+

A B+, eh? That's better than I thought I'd get, considering I bent the rules a bit...

Do you have any commentary for mine, IHMN?

Orginality wise it was original for this thread (Not fantasy, had robots, odd hero), but then that is cancelled out seeing as this was based off of an already existed (Though dead) RP.

You really didn't need to do *Onomatopoeia*, just Onomatopoeia would have worked. The *words* is a newb trait.

For RP purposes, it's not common, but more possible then other things (Mainly because it happened, but only once)

And nothing really special about it, and nothing really bad about it.

Hmmm...well, I realized that I've never really used sound effects in my RP posts, so I thought that *this kinda thing* might work. But now that I think of it, BAM! looks more like a sound effect than *BAM!* does. Good point.

And, if any of you are anything like me, I'd like to see what happens in the end when an RP dies, so I thought I'd write the ending to the BotB RP. ALthough this isn't exactly what Ecurt and I planned for the ending, the dance-off between Thumpman and a giant-sized robot was going to happen near the end...and I wanted a (non)climactic conclusion to the duel, so Thumpman was gonna 'die,' although that happening in the actual RP would be a slimmer chance than in a short story.

Hey, I wonder how BM would score my submission...

I have things I grade on (Important things), so I shall re-do your commentary with specifics on each..

Orginality - Used to be an original idea, but was just a scene from a previous, original RP. B.

RP possibilty - It is possible (It was done after all), but not very likely to happen again, or anything like it. C-.

RP like - It's written like it could be fitted into an RP of it's type. A-.

If it's intresting - It's intresting. A.

Detail - The first couple of paragraphs go into good (But obviously stated) detail in things, but after that the detail diminishes. B.

Writing ability - Nothing special, nothing bad. B.

Grammar - Nothing wrong I noticed. A.

Overall - B+ (No idea if it really averages into that, but I don't care)

Oh, and go join Spirit's RP...

Fine fine... you want something more traditional. Here. Something more traditional... and it has a happy ending too. (translation: I was bored shitless again and wrote something else.) Although I did get tired near the end... you can kind of see where that happens... and I'd have cut it out completely, but then it ends weird... meh.
-----------
A bullet whizzed past his head and Scott jerked back behind the wall. There were three of them, all in military body armor with the firepower to go with it. 'Shit!' he thought as he reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of handguns. Semi-automatic .16 to be exact. A low caliber, and a low power--two facts he was all too aware of at the moment. 'Great. The only way I can hope to win is to somehow manage to plant three bullets into their visors. I am so fucked... how the hell did I get into this?'

'Yah... that's right, I needed the money...'
~~~~~~~~
It had been an absolutely beautiful day. Well, beautiful for everyone but Scott, who hadn't been able to get a job ever since he'd lost Tasha, lost his wife, in that shoot out. He had been the best, but he lost his nerve after seeing her die. That's why it was more than a little bit of a surprise when that man had come up to him offering a job.
~~~~~~~~
Concrete broke away from the wall as bullets from high-caliber automatic rifles rained onto the corner Scott was hiding behind. Dust coated his long black coat and shook him out of his rememberence for a moment as he quickly ducked out from behind the wall, returning fire. Bullets bounced harmlessly off of the metallic suits the three were wearing, and, as they answered his attack, a bullet ripped into his leg as he ducked back behind the corner.

"Fuck!"

His hand clutched his wound as he began to limp down the hallway as quickly as he could. An abandoned room, just a short way down the hall, provided refuge him with temporary refuge as the door silently clicked behind him. The walls were of the same cold concrete as the rest of the base, but there was a desk with a computer terminal sitting on it against the eastern wall. 'Just like his...'
~~~~~~~~
The office was large, with a plush carpet and faux wood panelling along the walls. Pictures hung about the room depicted a handsome, muscular man wearing the uniform of an army officer playing with a small girl, his daughter presumably. The two seemed to be enjoying themselves, but Scott wasn't there to look at pictures. He was there to talk to the man in those pictures, older now, about the reason Scott had been led to this office.

The man, he never gave Scott his name, stood, facing out the window, with his arms crossed behind his back. For long moments he just stared, not moving or even acknowledging the mercenary's presence. Just when Scott was about to leave, a sigh escaped the elderly man's lips, and a quivering voice filled with a deep sadness began to speak.

"That's my daughter in those pictures. I... loved her very much, but she had..."
~~~~~~~~
A hail of gunfire tore the door to the room apart, preventing Scott's memories from flowing any further, and it was followed quickly by a small grey cylinder, that filled the entire room with a thick noxious gas. A bandana was quickly pulled over Scott's nose and mouth, to help filter the gasses, out and he darted out the door, this time surprising the guards with his speed. The barrel of his gun quickly pressed against the glass visor of one of the guard's suits, and a bullet flew from the chamber into the man's head. Scott's arm wrapped around the dead man's neck, and used him as a shield, as he fired at the other two, quickly dropping one. The third jolted down the hallway, looking for back-up, no doubt.

One of the corpses was pulled into yet another side-room, this one was exactly like the last, except it had an autopsy table in it, and lacked the desk. The injured mercenary didn't take time to look at the scenery, however, as he quickly pulled the man's body-armor off, and wore it himself, both as camoflauge and protection. It was after he was fully dressed that Scott turned around and saw the table, covered in dried blood from the last experiments done in this room, that he remembered why he had taken the job.
~~~~~~~~
"...An IQ of over 200... even at that age." A tired hand waved toward the pictures of the man and his daughter playing. "It was a genetic abnormality... the military said she was the next step up the evolutionary ladder... they said she was special and that she deserved special treatment. I... I... believed them, but... they were lying. They only wanted to experiment on her... and I couldn't stop them. I... couldn't." It was then that the man sunk down into his chair, obviously weak with grief. A grief that had been eating away at him for years. "If... if she's still alive... she'll be sixteen next week." Brown eyes, lined with tears, looked up at Scott, as the man pleaded for his daughter, "I'll give you anything. Anything at all... just, please, get her back."

There was no guarantee she was even alive, but Scott couldn't turn down the job. Not when he needed money this badly, and not when he was going up against people willing to experiment on children. He agreed, the man thanked him, and the now Scott was standing in the middle of a military base, wearing their own body armor, and using their own weapons.

His leg still hurt, but he did his best to hide his limp as he walked through the hallways, keeping his head bowed so that the soldiers wouldn't see the bullet hole in the visor he was wearing. Corridor C-12, that's where he was headed. That's where the 'ongoing experiments' were kept. The idea that they referred to children as 'ongoing experiments' made him sick. He and Tasha were going to have a child... they were going to have a child before she was gunned down.

The concrete chips shattered away from the wall as Scott's titanium covered hand smashed into it. The memories were getting to him again. The frustration as he watched her die in his arms, completely helpless to save her. These were the memories that made him invalid before, but this time was different. This time he was the only one who could keep another person from losing somebody they loved. He looked at the dent he had made in the wall as the sirens sounded. 'Corrider C-12... I'm almost there. I won't let it happen again.'

This hallway were different. Cold steel lined the way and it smelt like a hospital. Everything was clean and disinfected, but it still smelt sick. It smelt like a slow death. Scott hated it, and could only imagine what it would be like to live in a cold and cruel place like this. What it must be like to live without love, being tortured day in and day out, just so that the military can build a super soldier, or whatever the hell they were doing in here.

There was only one door at the end of the hallway, and it was guarded by two soldiers, neither of which could be much older than twenty. If anything they looked younger. They looked about sixteen, the same age as the man's daughter. Scott kept his head down as he approached them, but the two stopped him.

"You're the intruder, aren't you?" one of them asked calmly, as though the answer made no difference.

His head lifted in order to look at the two in confusion. 'They know who I am, but they aren't trying to kill me?'

"You're here to take Elysia," the other stated. There was no questioning tone, it was as though he knew exactly what Scott wanted. "Take the others too... and take us. We all miss our families... but we were willing to stay because it was for the greater good... That is until last week. They killed Jeremy. They killed him because he wanted to leave."

A few minutes later Scott was leading a ragtag bunch of children, some of them as old as twenty, and some as young as two or three. Many of them had scars on their bodies where they had been cut open. Some had microchips installed in their flesh to make it easier to track... some in their heads to make them easier to discipline.

Luckily, however, the kids were smart. They knew where the least guards would be and were able to convince most of those that they did run into that Scott was evacuating them because of the intruder. There were only a few more that had to be subdued with force, and the children handled them with surgical precision. A bullet directly between the eyes with grace and ease that made Scott, even during his earlier days, look like an amateur. He couldn't help but marvel at what the military had been able to do with these kids.

Once they had gotten outside, everything became simple. The children led him to a transport helicopter and in a few minutes everyone had climbed onboard. The blades spun, the helicopter lifted off, and under the piloting skills of one of the original two boys, the helicopter quickly found it's way to the city. From there Scott had an easy time getting them to Elysia's father, who paid the mercenary handsomly.

The first sign he had of anything wrong was the silence of the woods. Normally, he would have
heard Lini harrumphing by the tree he had been tethered to. This time, though, there was nothing.
No sound. Not even the chirping of the birds and insects and other wildlife.

And this was what saved Joneleth from instant incapacitation as he turned, dropping low into a
half-crouch, and the deadly little dart which would have pierced the skin on his neck was instead
caught on the folds of his long travelling cloak. His sword was still sheathed - in the next
moment it was bared, its mithril blade reflecting the cold, pale light of the moon, an argent beacon
in the early dawn.

She landed silently on the dewy grass, the magical silence masking her movements. But she
had not reckoned with the light of the moon betraying her position, and so when she struck with
mace and flail, she hit naught but air.

Instantly, Joneleth was on the offensive, sword held in the pistol-grip favored by fencers,
delivering thrust after deadly thrust with merciless methodical precision - head, chest, groin,
head, chest groin, though not in this order and certainly faster than the words pronounced. His
thrusts were deflected by curt chops of the mace and seemingly casual twirlings of the flail.
Which was to be expected - she was not an orc or goblin, to be overwhelmed by a simple attack
such as this. Her ebony skin betrayed her race, and the hate in her red eyes was mirrored
in his own golden pupils. The same mechanical precision, fueled by his fury was also what gave
strength to her own counterattacks, smashing and crushing blows upon his elaborate defense,
the claws of a tiger turned aside by the wings of a crane.

He struck at her head, and the blade was caught by the flail and jerked aside, hyperextending
his arm even as the black mace sought his elbow. But the hand was quicker than the eye, and what
she cast aside was nothing more than air, and her second blow was deflected by an incoming thrust
straight for her eye. Coolly, she stepped into the blow, tipping her head to let the blade go by, and
once she was face to face with him, she delivered a vicious headbutt to his face, forcing him back
and giving her time to bring her weapons to bear again. The smell of her perfume mixed with the
scent of the blood from his nose as he reeled back, already in a defensive stance. And when he
saw her leering at him; licking his blood off her face, he sprang right back into her guard, almost
piercing it with the sheer ferocity of his thrust. She was saved only by the barest of margins - a
link on the flail caught the tip as she brought it down, ruining the thrust, and Joneleth chose to
disengage immediately rather than let his blade be snared.

From her belt came a small potion and she flicked its cap off with the thumb of her mace hand,
gulping the contents down, gagging slightly from the taste. She let the bottle go, and before it
hit the ground, she had closed the gap between them and was hammering away from all
sides, moving with preternatural speed and dexterity.

He correctly guessed that this was a haste spell of some kind, and even as he fell into his
sequence of counterattacks, he was already unlocking a similar spell from the corners of his mind,
drawing upon the Song of Celerity to do magic with his graceful and precise movements.
The spin and riposte to an up-to-down mace chop became the Arc of Holmgard, the triple thrust of
the Ayvuir Passado to ward off a flail strike was the Reversed Sign of Illuvatar, and the final diagonal
sweeping cut and flourish was in actual fact a cunning duplicate of the Seal of Maiar. The motions
thus completed, the spell was finished, and his movements too picked up speed, speed to match
hers as she attempted a deadly pincer attack on his knee, only to have it met by thrusts to each
elbow until she could no longer sustain her defense and offense and withdrew both.

Then, in a stunning turn of events she threw her mace high into the air. Instinctively, his eyes
followed it up, and he immediately cursed himself for looking. For when he had averted his eyes
from her she had produced a hand-crossbow from nowhere and fired its deadly projectile at him.
The poisoned dart should have impacted upon his neck, paralyzing his chest muscles and leaving
him to die a slow, horrible death of asphyxiation. Instead, he brought his left hand up to deflect it, and
he winced at the pain as it entered the flesh of his palm. Pain turned to numbness, and a slow horror
grew within him as he lost all feeling in his left arm. Then there was no room for reflection, only for action,
as her mace fell into her hand like it had always belonged there, the crossbow cast aside, useless
now that its job was done. She swept in low, trying for a simultaneous trip and strike to his knee.
He raised his foot, spoiling the trip, so that the flail caught naught but air and the mace impacted into
flesh covered by solid leather. It hurt, yes, but it was not the disaster that being forced to the ground and being robbed of his mobility
would have meant. He reversed his grip, and delivered a short stab to the drow's back, only to have
the hit deflect off the chainmail she wore under her black robes.

She rolled aside, and slapped upwards with the flail, and this time the chains caught him on his inner
thigh. He cursed silently from the pain, then quickstepped out of her range, leg still stiff from the two hits.
She would not be denied, though, and as his foot made contact with the ground, she wrapped her flail
around it and pulled, sending him crashing to the ground. He landed on his useless left arm, cushioning
the impact, then jerked his body out of the way of a mace hit that would have split his skull open like a
ripe grape had it connected. It thudded uselessly into the ground, and Joneleth brought his boot down
on her shoulder in a heel drop, then dashed it across her face, blinding her momentarily and buying him
the time he needed to rise to his feet. She felt the movement of his body on her extended arm, though,
and even as he propelled himself off the ground, she too was gathering herself, ready to smash him
back down to the ground, this time for good.

Joneleth saw the glow of dawn break on the mountaintops in the horizons. In his heart he knew that the
engagement would be settled soon. Either he would feel the sunlight on his face or he would never see
the dawn again. Then an idea struck him, and he leaped aside, away from the assassin.

The drow assassin recovered, shaking the brief dizziness from her face... when she realized that her
quarry was gone. Where was he? If she had known of the outdoors, she might have seen that the
grass was crumpled down to a certain point, where it suddenly...stopped. But never having seen spoor
like this before, and the coming dawn driving a spike of fear into her heart, she saw nothing - just a
morass of brightening green. Above her, the leaves were shaking, but she didn't know why...

...until, suddenly, Joneleth burst down from the tree canopy, his sword golden in the dawn light, a
heaven-sent killer sworn to exact vengeance upon the denizens of the impure earth. Had she not
cast her field of silence she might have heard him. Had she been looking at the right spot, she might
have seen him coming. Had she fought on the surface before today she might have expected this trick
from a magical combatant such as he, especially given the trail that suggested a sudden upward leap.

But she had not, and her legs crumpled uselessly beneath her as his blade entered her back and exited
below her breast, bearing her to the ground. Nerveless hands released their weapons, and she steadied
herself with them as she fell to all fours. Joneleth got his legs beneath him and pulled the sword out,
eliciting a great shudder from the drow as the pain overwhelmed her. She rolled over, onto her back,
gasping desperately for breath she would no longer need. Above her, she saw his golden eyes, emotionless,
pitiless, merciless. And as the field of silence dissipated and she could hear again, she heard him speak.

"This is too good a death for you, dhaeraow."

Had she known that her face had betrayed her agony, she would likely have turned her head aside to deny him
the pleasure of seeing her in pain. But Joneleth didn't care. What he was going to do wasn't mercy, wasn't
sadism, wasn't anything at all.

It was simply the right thing to do.

Once again, the blade reversed itself in the grip of a single hand, and once again it entered her chest,
slipping between the ribcage, cleaving the heart in two. The crimson light in her eyes shone once... then
shone no more, her body relaxing in the timeless grip of death.

Joneleth stumbled back, leaning against a nearby tree.

Why? Why had he shown such a mercy to an opponent like that? One who would have gladly made his torment a
living death had she had his way?

And the answer was simple, so clear in his mind, as he followed the sound of Lini's snorting back to his
mount.

"Because I'm not like them." he said as he fished out a bottle of healing elixir.

And as he swallowed it, he felt the sun on his face, and he smiled.

Could you possibly score mine on these subjects? I just want to know what I can work on to make my RP skills better.

Don't worry about it. The reason I did this in the first place was to get constructive criticism so I could, you know, get better. At least this one was acknowledged.

Minor -

Orginality - It was original... B+.

RP possibilty - Not possible. We are never going to have an RP about characters who kill themselves. D.

RP like - Not written like an RP post. C-.

If it's intresting - No. C-.

Detail - Meh, some what detailed, but not very. B.

Writing ability - Nothing special, some bad. B-.

Grammar - Nothing wrong I noticed. A.

Overall - C-.
(Don't know where to add this, but you never gave a good reason for why he killed himself. Before you were listing some things that had happened to him, but nothing was drasticly bad or anything)


krylo - A-
Dante - A

Could I get some critique?

Orginality - Fantasy, assassin, fire, sword... B-

RP possibilty - Assassins and magic, happens all the time. A.

RP like - Looks like part of a RP, and you even left parts of it open as if other RPers are there. A+.

If it's intresting - Intrestingish A-.

Detail - Some what detailed, though some things that should have happened were ignored (Keil would have gotten the Dwarf Spirit stuff on him when rolling around and should have been on fire). B.

Writing ability - Nothing special, nothing bad. B+.

Grammar - Nothing wrong I noticed. A.

Overall - B+.

I'm pretty sure I know my problems, but I'd like a proffesional analysis too, just for the heck of it.
Would you please, IHMN?

Orginality - Original... And a bull for a mount, that is new. A.

RP possibilty - Western... thing... B.

RP like - It's something that can happen in an RP. B.

If it's intresting - Intrestingish A-.

Detail - Some random bits of detail, but some important ones missing (Dusty, the bar). B.

Writing ability - Nothing special, nothing bad. B+.

Grammar - Nothing wrong I noticed, but I like spaces between paragraphs personally, A/A-.

Overall - B.

Proving grounds? You guys are kidding right? C'mon people, can't people ust come here to take a load off work, or school, or whatever hell that is called life? Wow... just... wow...

It's nice to see how others feel about your work though.

I agree to that... but I don't see why BM and IHMN are the only ones grading... I mean. This is just me, I'm probably gonna get a lot of flak for this, but I'm just tring to speak my mind, this is just for fun. It's not a job, at least... I'm not getting paid to do it.

Because if everyone graded the thread would get to spammy. People can comment if they want, no one every said they can't, just not grade (Not like anyone would care if they graded anyway).

You mean you're not getting paid?

Also: I assume my minus was because of my sloppy ending, where I kind of truncated things quickly due to it being 4 am when I wrote that?

The sloppy ending, and the huge Dues Ex Machina of the group of super kids.

It also doesn't really make sense, seeing as the main guy didn't even need to be there for the kids to get away.

Yes, like I said... got tired... wanted to finish it. I should re-do the ending, but I won't.

Well... I thought about it, and since everyone else is doin' it, I'll just have to put somethin' up. I'll get the grade just like everyone else. I'll have something for review hopefully tommorow.

I haven't put something up, but that's because I'm lazy and the only thing I have partialy written is too long to be submitted.

Actually with all you self-proclaimed elites here, I have a question for you. To what degree of control are you allowed to have over another person's character? I had a bad experience a few months back with some jackass taking over my character.

None, at all, zero, zip zilch. Control another person's character and I will personally hunt you down and castrate you. Unless they give you permission first.

Also: You aren't allowed to hit another character with an attack. You begin an attack, then they get to react before it lands... auto-hits are godmoddy... so is dodging all the time, however.

Zero.

Unless it's an unstoppable event.

Ex:
The earthquake shook up the ground and everybody had disfficulty maintaining balance, except Bart, who narrowly avoided falling into a crevice.

There, you can expect that Bart, who is a master gymnast, will maintain his balance, and there is no shame in saying that everybody lost balance in an earthquake.

Plus, Bart can choose to accidentally fall and die in the next post if he so desires. And anybody else can choose to not have lost too much balance in their later posts, if it applies.

You can't really change much else.

That's the opinion of a "B" RPer!

Even my example might be going out on a limb a little. So, yeah...


Edit - GAK! Krylo got to it first.

Usually it only matters with fights, but even out of fights and earthquakes and such you shouldn't control other characters.

Like lets say person X drops his pen and asked person Y to pick it up. You can't say that person Y picked it up for you, because maybe they don't want to.

Edit - GMs are allowed to control characters though, but only to a certain point until the PC get annoyed.