The Shadows in Yharnam (Accepting) | Roleplay

Opening:

Yharnam: A city once revered as the pinnacle of medical advancement, where its citizens enjoyed long and prosperous lives, now lays in shambles. The people who once walked the streets now stalk the shadows, turned into beasts with only one primal instinct: to feast on your blood.

You have come to Yharnam, not knowing of the plague that spreads through the city, for your own reasons. What are they? There's something about this city that seems to steal your memories, purges your mind of what you once thought was your goal. As you walk through the abandoned streets, raking your mind for a mere ounce of your past life, a gunshot rings through the air and you collapse in a pool of your own blood. As everything fades from vision, the last thing you glimpse upon is the mangled, eyeless face of a decrepit man who smiles and utters one simple greeting, "Welcome to Yharnam, Hunter," before everything fades to black...

((OOC: Welcome to the world of Bloodborne! Yharnam has become stricken with a plague that has turned its citizens into deadly beasts who are out for your blood! You are a Hunter, your goal: Find out why you came to the city, find whoever attempted to kill you, and make it out of the city alive.

We'll all be working together to survive, but don't be afraid to give your character an alternative goal that could mean doom for the others. But remember, the only surefire way to make it out alive is to work together.

You'll be starting off in Iosefka's Clinic, where your character has awoken after their brush with death. If you want to join, PM me and we can work something out!))

standbyranger

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16

7

8

April 16, 2015 07:10:16

Opening:

Yharnam: A city once revered as the pinnacle of medical advancement, where its citizens enjoyed long and prosperous lives, now lays in shambles. The people who once walked the streets now stalk the shadows, turned into beasts with only one primal instinct: to feast on your blood.

You have come to Yharnam, not knowing of the plague that spreads through the city, for your own reasons. What are they? There's something about this city that seems to steal your memories, purges your mind of what you once thought was your goal. As you walk through the abandoned streets, raking your mind for a mere ounce of your past life, a gunshot rings through the air and you collapse in a pool of your own blood. As everything fades from vision, the last thing you glimpse upon is the mangled, eyeless face of a decrepit man who smiles and utters one simple greeting, "Welcome to Yharnam, Hunter," before everything fades to black...

((OOC: Welcome to the world of Bloodborne! Yharnam has become stricken with a plague that has turned its citizens into deadly beasts who are out for your blood! You are a Hunter, your goal: Find out why you came to the city, find whoever attempted to kill you, and make it out of the city alive.

We'll all be working together to survive, but don't be afraid to give your character an alternative goal that could mean doom for the others. But remember, the only surefire way to make it out alive is to work together.

You'll be starting off in Iosefka's Clinic, where your character has awoken after their brush with death. If you want to join, PM me and we can work something out!))

His vision was pitch black, almost as if the world itself had ended and there was no afterlife to absolve him of his past sins. Am I dead, he thought, wanting this nightmare to end. One thing kept him to tethered to this world, however; the immense pain that drove through his chest. It was getting harder and harder to breath as the pain grew more intense. He shot up from his comatose state upon a very uncomfortable metal gurney, gasping for breath.

His eyes creaked open, burning and bloodshot, to look upon what appeared to be a damp and rundown clinic room. The only illumination to see by was a dim lamp which swung lazily, to and fro. From what he could see from atop his cold gurney, the clinic had seen better days. Book stacks were scattered lazily about the wooden floor, shelves were broken as the contents of the vials which sat upon them oozed out. There were several gurneys like the one in which he sat, but he could not see if anyone lay upon them.

As he attempted to stand up, there was a tug upon his arm which caused a shot of jolting pain to ripple through his body. His neck creaked in agony as he turned to look what it was. An IV ran from his arm into an empty bag, which was caked on the inside with dried blood, which he knew was not his own. Horrified, he yanked the IV out, causing blood to pool from the open wound. His eyes darted around in torment as he applied pressure to the wound, searching for a bandage. He found one quickly and scrambled for it, falling off the gurney and causing a tremendous amount of noise. He did not care, though. He needed to fix himself. As he stood there, legs aching, wrapping the still oozing arm, his eyes caught the glimpse of something shiny. On the table in which he found the gauze lay a trinket: a cross. Once finished, he reached for it with his good arm. Turning it over and over in his hands, he found the name Cullen etched into the metal. Must be mine, he thought as he hung it from his neck.

He also took a second to study his clothes and appearance in a nearby mirror. Unlike everything else in the room, they were not blood-soaked, but were yet clean. He wore a Victorian style, burgundy and black striped suit vest over a cream colored dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His black dress pants felt like they were just recently pressed, and his black dress shoes were shined enough to claim a reflection. His skin was pale, likely a side effect from what had been pumping into his system for God knows how long. His face was gaunt and skeleton like as well, and his pushed back, dirty brown hair could not cover it.

Turning away from the mirror, grasping at his lame arm, Cullen scanned the room before letting out a small, "Hello? Anyone there?"

((OOC: @ArtemisFoul Your turn! :) ))

standbyranger

0

16

7

8

April 16, 2015 07:11:02

His vision was pitch black, almost as if the world itself had ended and there was no afterlife to absolve him of his past sins. Am I dead, he thought, wanting this nightmare to end. One thing kept him to tethered to this world, however; the immense pain that drove through his chest. It was getting harder and harder to breath as the pain grew more intense. He shot up from his comatose state upon a very uncomfortable metal gurney, gasping for breath.

His eyes creaked open, burning and bloodshot, to look upon what appeared to be a damp and rundown clinic room. The only illumination to see by was a dim lamp which swung lazily, to and fro. From what he could see from atop his cold gurney, the clinic had seen better days. Book stacks were scattered lazily about the wooden floor, shelves were broken as the contents of the vials which sat upon them oozed out. There were several gurneys like the one in which he sat, but he could not see if anyone lay upon them.

As he attempted to stand up, there was a tug upon his arm which caused a shot of jolting pain to ripple through his body. His neck creaked in agony as he turned to look what it was. An IV ran from his arm into an empty bag, which was caked on the inside with dried blood, which he knew was not his own. Horrified, he yanked the IV out, causing blood to pool from the open wound. His eyes darted around in torment as he applied pressure to the wound, searching for a bandage. He found one quickly and scrambled for it, falling off the gurney and causing a tremendous amount of noise. He did not care, though. He needed to fix himself. As he stood there, legs aching, wrapping the still oozing arm, his eyes caught the glimpse of something shiny. On the table in which he found the gauze lay a trinket: a cross. Once finished, he reached for it with his good arm. Turning it over and over in his hands, he found the name Cullen etched into the metal. Must be mine, he thought as he hung it from his neck.

He also took a second to study his clothes and appearance in a nearby mirror. Unlike everything else in the room, they were not blood-soaked, but were yet clean. He wore a Victorian style, burgundy and black striped suit vest over a cream colored dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His black dress pants felt like they were just recently pressed, and his black dress shoes were shined enough to claim a reflection. His skin was pale, likely a side effect from what had been pumping into his system for God knows how long. His face was gaunt and skeleton like as well, and his pushed back, dirty brown hair could not cover it.

Turning away from the mirror, grasping at his lame arm, Cullen scanned the room before letting out a small, "Hello? Anyone there?"

((OOC: @ArtemisFoul Your turn! :) ))

Last edited on Apr 16, 2015 07:20:32 by standbyranger

A voice came from the corner of the clinic

"Pale blood are you?"

A figure wearing 2 layers of robes, the first layer made of thatched fabric, and the other of black leather came forward

"You certainly smell like one..."

As he approached the light, more features could me made. Around his neck were several silver crosses, stacked on top of eachother. He had a bandana under his almost too wide brimmed hat. The blood soaked bandana was faintly imprinted with the icon of a wide grinning smile. His eyes were covered by thick circular lenses, the only exposes parts of his skin were tainted with blood.

"You have nothing to fear hunter"

He spoke with a shaky, yet almost chuckling voice

"My name is Jean-Pierre... Why are you down here?"

Behind him, leaned against a weelchair was a bleeding axe, it's metal pure black

MariusDragon

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40

22

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April 16, 2015 07:36:27

A voice came from the corner of the clinic

"Pale blood are you?"

A figure wearing 2 layers of robes, the first layer made of thatched fabric, and the other of black leather came forward

"You certainly smell like one..."

As he approached the light, more features could me made. Around his neck were several silver crosses, stacked on top of eachother. He had a bandana under his almost too wide brimmed hat. The blood soaked bandana was faintly imprinted with the icon of a wide grinning smile. His eyes were covered by thick circular lenses, the only exposes parts of his skin were tainted with blood.

"You have nothing to fear hunter"

He spoke with a shaky, yet almost chuckling voice

"My name is Jean-Pierre... Why are you down here?"

Behind him, leaned against a weelchair was a bleeding axe, it's metal pure black

Last edited on Apr 16, 2015 07:51:42 by MariusDragon

@standbyranger
@MariusDragon

A man stirred at the sound of garbled speech, which tickled the silence like static. His entire body protested, weighing him down to the stiff gurney as if his soul was trapped in something rather than in control of it. The easiest thing to do, and easy it was not, would be to open his eyes. He had the ghastly misfortune of facing the crooked lamp that illuminated his station, and he scowled once it greeted him with blinding light. He groans, turning his heavy head away with a neck that's as stiff as a board. If he'd have known any better, he'd guess that he had been dead for at least twenty minutes--enough for rigor-mortis to set in.

His vision gradually returned in time for him to notice two active humanoid figures in the room. Observing them, he patiently set to work on stretching, flexing his muscles out of entropy. He felt a tug at his arm where an IV was inserted. He focused on mobility first.

In the meantime, while he lent a fraction of his attention to the conversation that he could only barely hear, he tried to remember something--anything at all. A carriage. A cabin in the woods. A crying woman. Blood, blood everywhere. They were all flashes of immediate memories that meant nothing at all. The man concentrated, trying to get to the grit of the most important mystery of them all. Who was he? What was he doing here? Finally he was only barely able to recall one thing. His name.

"Claus," he whispered to himself, only to hear the sound of it. His mouth was too dry to do it any justice, but he knew it was right.

He felt at that moment that he had enough strength to roll over, turning a shoulder to rest on his left side. There was a broken mirror tilted towards his face, but he could make out some of the key features that told him apart from other folks. Loads of stubble, no beard. Older, but not old. Tired, light eyes. Dusty blonde hair, probably longer than it looks. Dirty face, dried blood on his chin. This was his face, and that was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Purnip

0

63

349

1517

April 16, 2015 10:06:00

@standbyranger
@MariusDragon

A man stirred at the sound of garbled speech, which tickled the silence like static. His entire body protested, weighing him down to the stiff gurney as if his soul was trapped in something rather than in control of it. The easiest thing to do, and easy it was not, would be to open his eyes. He had the ghastly misfortune of facing the crooked lamp that illuminated his station, and he scowled once it greeted him with blinding light. He groans, turning his heavy head away with a neck that's as stiff as a board. If he'd have known any better, he'd guess that he had been dead for at least twenty minutes--enough for rigor-mortis to set in.

His vision gradually returned in time for him to notice two active humanoid figures in the room. Observing them, he patiently set to work on stretching, flexing his muscles out of entropy. He felt a tug at his arm where an IV was inserted. He focused on mobility first.

In the meantime, while he lent a fraction of his attention to the conversation that he could only barely hear, he tried to remember something--anything at all. A carriage. A cabin in the woods. A crying woman. Blood, blood everywhere. They were all flashes of immediate memories that meant nothing at all. The man concentrated, trying to get to the grit of the most important mystery of them all. Who was he? What was he doing here? Finally he was only barely able to recall one thing. His name.

"Claus," he whispered to himself, only to hear the sound of it. His mouth was too dry to do it any justice, but he knew it was right.

He felt at that moment that he had enough strength to roll over, turning a shoulder to rest on his left side. There was a broken mirror tilted towards his face, but he could make out some of the key features that told him apart from other folks. Loads of stubble, no beard. Older, but not old. Tired, light eyes. Dusty blonde hair, probably longer than it looks. Dirty face, dried blood on his chin. This was his face, and that was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.