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Sujet: fiche réponse Mer 13 Nov - 8:56
'Cause I can see it in your hands: That you're not a fighter,
but you've had your dance before.
So you'll keep the world at bay, keep your secrets and your scars.
But you've been weathering the storm And it's been blowing hard.
‘Cause it won't wait for you, because it waits for no one.
He heard somewhere that the first step was admitting you had a problem. But that was bullshit.
There were no steps. It was all one fluid, downward motion. No stopping and starting. No lifting of the feet. Just stumbling and tumbling. Just a long way down and an inevitable crash at the bottom to look forward to.
It was Syl’s second day at the circus. He wanted to be heroin free by his second week; that was the goal. But as he melted the rocks in a dirty, burnt spoon held over a zippo lighter, the disappointment on his shoulders pressed further and further down. His arms shook, seeming to want to resist the abuse they were soon to be in store for. His hollowed eyes sunk deeper into his skull, seeming to want to retreat further and further away from the horrific sight of the thirty-one year old continuously and consciously destroying his body. His feet tapped, seeming to want to get on with the process because damn, the drug was melting slowly. "Come on, come on…" The impatient dealer sat, hunched over on his bunk. He was grateful to have a train car to himself. Especially anticipating his getting clean. Which was admittedly hard to think about in this state…
He licked at his thin, chapped lips as the drug finally melted. Reaching over, he grabbed his needle and sucked the substance up into it, flicking at it and watching the bubbles disappear in the syringe. Syl placed the needle in between his teeth carefully as he tied his black leather belt with homemade holes around his arm. Tightening it painfully, he smacked at his upper arm, right below his elbow, searching desperately for a vein that hadn’t already been used, one that wasn’t already collapsed or dead. Finding one suitable enough, he grabbed the needle and held the end of the belt in his mouth, shaking as he drove the skinny needle roughly into his large, pulsing blue vein. Nodding as he pressed the drug into his bloodstream. All his feelings of failure disappeared and all that was left was a euphoric high. His head fell back and a moan escaped his lips as the drug breeched his system. The tight-mouthed hold on his belt fell loose as he let himself fall back onto his bunk, lying there with the needle still poised in his arm. His veins felt hollow until the drug was injected. He was empty and starved until the venom reached his being and brought life to his empty shell of being. It was bliss. Syl was withered but the drug still took him, loved him and embraced him. Curing his shortcomings and completing him to his core. Heroin got into his veins and consumed his flesh; it grew into his soul. He was heroin’s spoiled and pampered favorite. Whether to be like this was his loss or gain is not in anyone’s position to say.
He finally got himself presentable enough to go out. With pinpoint pupils and a lethargic pace, he wandered like a ghost to wherever it looked like he could move product and make a profit. Single and newly joined to the circus, the man was quickly pointed in the direction of the cooch tent. But no one was buying. They all already had their own sinful indulgences and they weren't looking for another vice for the night. They already had what they needed, if it’s not drugs- it’s sex. But Syl wasn't sour. No, he was feeling fine.
He moved slowly across the room, trying to not look at the women on display. The married man couldn’t bring himself to. But all it took was one accidental glance, one lazy turn of the head in the wrong direction. Faced with a woman who wasn't his wife, (un)dressed in a way he would only want his wife to be. Instantly shamed, he looked down at his feet and stumbled outside of the tent. There, he could finally breathe easier.
Running a long hand down his tired and weary face, he breathed a long sigh. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing here anymore. He sunk to the ground outside of the tent, lanky limbs folding into themselves. The high was bringing him strange memories, making his fingertips itch and crave the feeling of plastic keys being pressed on his phone. He typed a text to his wife and replaced the cell phone with a joint when he was done. Just as he took a hit, a voice accompanied him in the dark.
He waited a while to answer, the heroin heavy in his system and affecting his reaction time. His rolled joint kept burning, his wrists still bent, poised near his mouth when he finally answered. "Sure, man." He slowly placed the joint back between his lips and rustled in his jacket to pull out his zippo. He reached his hand up to the man and flicked the flame alive; not thinking of the distance the man would have to bend in order to light his cigarette from it or the awkwardness of their juxtaposition. The flame illuminated the two of their faces for a moment before being put out and placed back in his jacket. Syl took another long hit, holding the smoke in his lungs as he stated, "you have an accent." He blew out the long stream of smoke, leaning his head back as he released the lungful up into the black sky. His head lolled back to his companion, "why wouldn't you be in there... Picking up all the girls with your turn of phrase?" He smirked and let out a cough, scrunching up his eyebrows as he lifted the joint up, offering it to him and nodding to his cigarette. "Trade."
’Cause we are the fugitives, and we'll keep running for our lives.
’Cause 1 nor 100 men, could keep us from clinging to our pride
’Cause it's been blowing hard, and it'll wait for no one.
Oh ,and I'm not leaving nothing to the grave.
We'll keep running with the masses, just to show them the way.
<img src="http://i951.photobucket.com/albums/ad353/c-c-coffee/syklw_zps5341d525.png" style="border-radius: 20px 20px 0px 0px; width: 400px; height: 200px;">
<div class="ribbon"><div class="ribbon-content"><center><div class="everlark">'Cause I can see it in your hands: That you're not a fighter, <br> but you've had your dance before.<br> So you'll keep the world at bay, keep your secrets and your scars.<br> But you've been weathering the storm And it's been blowing hard.<br> ‘Cause it won't wait for you, because it waits for no one.<br> </div></center></div></div><div class="peeta"><div style="background-color: #fcfcfc; padding: 15px; text-align: justify;">
He heard somewhere that the first step was admitting you had a problem. But that was bullshit. <br><br>
There were no steps. It was all one fluid, downward motion. No stopping and starting. No lifting of the feet. Just stumbling and tumbling. Just a long way down and an inevitable crash at the bottom to look forward to.<br><br>
It was Syl’s second day at the circus. He wanted to be heroin free by his second week; that was the goal. But as he melted the rocks in a dirty, burnt spoon held over a zippo lighter, the disappointment on his shoulders pressed further and further down. His arms shook, seeming to want to resist the abuse they were soon to be in store for. His hollowed eyes sunk deeper into his skull, seeming to want to retreat further and further away from the horrific sight of the thirty-one year old continuously and consciously destroying his body. His feet tapped, seeming to want to get on with the process because <i>damn,</i> the drug was melting slowly. <b><span style="color:#999944">"Come on, come on…"</span></b> The impatient dealer sat, hunched over on his bunk. He was grateful to have a train car to himself. Especially anticipating his getting clean. Which was admittedly hard to think about in this state…<br><br>
He licked at his thin, chapped lips as the drug finally melted. Reaching over, he grabbed his needle and sucked the substance up into it, flicking at it and watching the bubbles disappear in the syringe. Syl placed the needle in between his teeth carefully as he tied his black leather belt with homemade holes around his arm. Tightening it painfully, he smacked at his upper arm, right below his elbow, searching desperately for a vein that hadn’t already been used, one that wasn’t already collapsed or dead. Finding one suitable enough, he grabbed the needle and held the end of the belt in his mouth, shaking as he drove the skinny needle roughly into his large, pulsing blue vein. Nodding as he pressed the drug into his bloodstream. All his feelings of failure disappeared and all that was left was a euphoric high. His head fell back and a moan escaped his lips as the drug breeched his system. The tight-mouthed hold on his belt fell loose as he let himself fall back onto his bunk, lying there with the needle still poised in his arm. His veins felt hollow until the drug was injected. He was empty and starved until the venom reached his being and brought life to his empty shell of being. It was bliss. Syl was withered but the drug still took him, loved him and embraced him. Curing his shortcomings and completing him to his core. Heroin got into his veins and consumed his flesh; it grew into his soul. He was heroin’s spoiled and pampered favorite. Whether to be like this was his loss or gain is not in anyone’s position to say. <br><br>
He finally got himself presentable enough to go out. With pinpoint pupils and a lethargic pace, he wandered like a ghost to wherever it looked like he could move product and make a profit. Single and newly joined to the circus, the man was quickly pointed in the direction of the cooch tent. But no one was buying. They all already had their own sinful indulgences and they weren't looking for another vice for the night. They already had what they needed, if it’s not drugs- it’s sex. But Syl wasn't sour. No, he was feeling fine. <br><br>
He moved slowly across the room, trying to not look at the women on display. The married man couldn’t bring himself to. But all it took was one accidental glance, one lazy turn of the head in the wrong direction. Faced with a woman who wasn't his wife, (un)dressed in a way he would only want his wife to be. Instantly shamed, he looked down at his feet and stumbled outside of the tent. There, he could finally breathe easier. <br><br>
Running a long hand down his tired and weary face, he breathed a long sigh. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing here anymore. He sunk to the ground outside of the tent, lanky limbs folding into themselves. The high was bringing him strange memories, making his fingertips itch and crave the feeling of plastic keys being pressed on his phone. He typed a text to his wife and replaced the cell phone with a joint when he was done. Just as he took a hit, a voice accompanied him in the dark. <br><br>
He waited a while to answer, the heroin heavy in his system and affecting his reaction time. His rolled joint kept burning, his wrists still bent, poised near his mouth when he finally answered. <b><span style="color:#999944">"Sure, man."</span></b> He slowly placed the joint back between his lips and rustled in his jacket to pull out his zippo. He reached his hand up to the man and flicked the flame alive; not thinking of the distance the man would have to bend in order to light his cigarette from it or the awkwardness of their juxtaposition. The flame illuminated the two of their faces for a moment before being put out and placed back in his jacket. Syl took another long hit, holding the smoke in his lungs as he stated, <b><span style="color:#999944">"you have an accent."</span></b> He blew out the long stream of smoke, leaning his head back as he released the lungful up into the black sky. His head lolled back to his companion, <b><span style="color:#999944">"why wouldn't you be in there... Picking up all the girls with your turn of phrase?"</span></b> He smirked and let out a cough, scrunching up his eyebrows as he lifted the joint up, offering it to him and nodding to his cigarette. <b><span style="color:#999944">"Trade."</span></b> <br><br>
</div></div><div class="ribbon"><div class="ribbon-content"><center><div class="everlark">’Cause we are the fugitives, and we'll keep running for our lives.<br> ’Cause 1 nor 100 men, could keep us from clinging to our pride<br> ’Cause it's been blowing hard, and it'll wait for no one.<br> Oh ,and I'm not leaving nothing to the grave.<br> We'll keep running with the masses, just to show them the way.<br></div></center></div></div> </td></tr></tbody></table> <a href="http://z10.invisionfree.com/CAUTIONTOTHEWIND/index.php?showuser=45701" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="everlark">THANKS TO APRIL FROM CAUTION 2.0 !!</span></a> </center><br><br> </div>
avatar : dieu. pacmans : 57
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Sujet: Re: fiche réponse Mer 13 Nov - 9:36
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smoke flower
avatar : dieu. pacmans : 57
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Feuille de personnage adresse: disponibilité: Gang:
Sujet: Re: fiche réponse Mer 13 Nov - 9:36
" NOM "
1. Tout d'abord, dès ton inscription, tu seras prié de te munir d'un pseudo correct, un pseudo simple, représentatif et dans le meilleur des cas : original. Et il peut paraitre tentant et même jubilant d'appeler son personnage « arthuro bandini » ou encore « lara croft », mais si tu tiens à tes yeux, ne le fais pas. 2. Ton avatar ne devra faire aucune autre taille que 200x320px, représenter une personne réelle et non un manga ou tout autres personnages de dessin animé. Puis, si tu pouvais nous éviter toujours et encore les mêmes célébrités ce serait agréable. La nudité est tolérée, uniquement à partir du moment où elle est prise pour de l'art et non une séance SM. 3. Il y a plein de beaux scénarios et de postes vacants qui n'attendent que preneur, n'hésite pas à y faire un tour. En prime, tu ne feras que des heureux, donc ne fais pas comme s'ils n'existaient pas. 4. Ta fiche de présentation devra être postée le plus tôt possible après l'inscription. Une fois postée, tu auras un délai de dix jours pour la conclure. Tu pourras toutefois demander un délai s'il t'arrive un empêchement ou une baisse d'inspiration. Malgré tout, merci de ne pas abuser de cette option. Enfermons-nous mélancoliques pour le code dans votre fiche. 5. Tes futurs rp's devront se concentrer sur un minimum de 15 lignes, sauf cas exceptionnel. Nous n'avons aucune exigence sur les styles d'écritures, fais ce qu'il te plaît, tant que ton partenaire et toi prennent du plaisir. 6. Inutile de préciser que la violence verbale et tout propos raciste, homophobe, et tout ce que va avec et interdit sur le forum, c'est une infraction à la loi qui peu donc aboutir à des poursuites judiciaires. Toutefois, dans tes Rps, une certaine sorte de violence, comportant le sexe et la drogue est autorisé, uniquement si tout cela est bien écrit et non caricatural. Si tu n'es pas d'accord, soit tu fonces voir un dealeur à deux pâtés de maisons de chez toi où tu te cales devant redtube et fait pratiquer à ta main sa séance sportive quotidienne. 7. Les multi-comptes sont autorisés, à condition que tu puisses le gérer et que ton compte principal soit jugé actif par un administrateur, oui t'es dans l'obligation d'en faire la demande avec de te pointer tout souriant avec un autre gosse entre les pâtes. 8. Même si cela ce prononce exactement de la même sorte les « sa va » et les « ça va » c'est pas possible. les si n'aiment pas les rais. Sujet, verbe, … bref on ne te fait pas de topos sur l'orthographe, mais on reste quand même tolérant et prévoyant. Surligne le bas de la page pour le véritable sésame. 9. Lever de rideau. Éclate-toi, rejoins les pucelles à butiner et les apollons musclés... mais n'entre pas dans la mine, c'est préférable, à moins de passer un pacte avec le diable.
Dernière édition par Admin le Jeu 14 Nov - 10:37, édité 3 fois
avatar : dieu. pacmans : 57
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Sujet: Re: fiche réponse Mer 13 Nov - 9:41
first last
NOM PRÉNOM PRENOM
trait. trait. trait. trait.
Le ciel est rouge. Il t'appelle. Il est sang. Il reflète sa lueur sur ton visage blême. Enveloppé de ce long brouillard. Tu te protèges. Tu souffles brouillard. Tu souffles la subtile buée des matins endormis. Tu commences à voir flou, trouble. Laisse-moi t'enlever ton masque, ton ignoble masque. Ce qui est gribouillé sur ta face. Tu as le visage irrégulier, asymétrique. Ça se voit encore plus quand le firmament rouge crépite ces jets de couleurs. Ça ne t'empêche pas de faire naitre des pépites plein les orbites. De faire pousser des météorites sur tes ophtalmiques. Ça te brule les cornées. Ça te charbonne la rétine. Ça te pique, c'est limite cadavérique. Tu vas sans doute bientôt enterrer tes hublots. Mais, c'est tellement beau, tu veux bien souffrir pour voir danser ce spectacle. Cette splendeur miroitante. Ça clique entre tes lèvres, ta mâchoire se rétracte.
Et c'est pendant ces moments-là que tu as la forte impression que ta vie t'appartient, que le temps n'existe pas. Qu'il est pour les autres. Le malheur ne t'appartient pas. Tu as l'impression que tout est figé et tu aimerais tellement, tellement que tout reste à l'infini. Tu le pris, tu le souhaites. Toujours, encore et encore. Tu le tiens entre tes mains, tu le sers fort, si fort que tu sens tes os se dissoudrent sous ta couche de peau flétrie. Tu redresses tes hublots. Est-il là ? Derrière toi ? À côté de toi ?
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Sujet: Re: fiche réponse Ven 15 Nov - 9:26
lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Sed et malesuada neque, sit amet dictum nunc. Nullam pellentesque leo in tortor cursus, eget semper leo pharetra. In imperdiet ornare est sed fermentum. Cras ut dictum metus. Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Class aptent taciti sociosqu ad litora torquent per conubia nostra, per inceptos himenaeos. Aliquam quis neque vel dolor laoreet iaculis congue facilisis massa. Vestibulum quis metus orci.
maecenas ac ornare massa. Suspendisse lobortis, sem sit amet gravida convallis, nulla ipsum iaculis lorem, in faucibus lectus risus eget augue. Nullam commodo bibendum purus ac volutpat. Nulla suscipit risus tempor ipsum dignissim blandit. Pellentesque ornare laoreet neque at ultrices. Mauris id lacus ut massa posuere rhoncus sit amet sit amet est. Duis vitae enim nec eros sagittis accumsan. Maecenas placerat pulvinar purus, fermentum consectetur tortor. Fusce viverra dolor ut arcu accumsan, in ultricies nisi lacinia.
phasellus ac eros et purus tempor venenatis. Nunc vulputate risus vel nisi vehicula, sit amet ultrices eros iaculis. Quisque quis quam condimentum, ullamcorper ante vitae, luctus lorem. Nullam eu metus facilisis, semper nisi vel, condimentum nibh. Vestibulum mattis sem in lacus gravida rutrum. Aliquam mattis eros a est luctus, nec tempor tellus pretium. Morbi placerat neque a ligula facilisis luctus. In venenatis augue id eros ornare ultricies non ac enim.
ut eget dui non massa viverra ultrices. Cras lorem erat, sagittis a tristique vel, vulputate ut ipsum. Etiam hendrerit nunc urna, sit amet pulvinar mi mattis sit amet. Integer laoreet interdum sapien in lacinia. Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Donec eu rutrum ipsum. Sed magna tortor, malesuada id iaculis vitae, ornare at odio. Morbi blandit libero in iaculis euismod. Aenean fermentum, nisl a tincidunt gravida, magna mi placerat quam, ut ornare tellus metus non neque.
put on your war paint
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