|
|
Post by Admin on Jan 20, 2020 16:21:56 GMT -6
 Azurine Vebbins vs DoloresRoleplay Limit: ONERoleplay Deadline: Sunday, February 2, 2020 @ 1AM Central |
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Jan 29, 2020 14:13:57 GMT -6
WARNING!The following piece of writing contains description of mutilation, those of a nervous disposition, read at your OWN RISK.  It was the evening of August 3rd, 2019 when it happened, after just over a year of Sylvia Lopez and Damon Cross being together, it all came to an end that night. Yet again, she had been abandoned and betrayed by someone she thought loved her, but like all humans, eventually there is always something else they want more.
Sylvia bursts through the front door of her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, New York City in an absolute state. Her hair a mess, rips in her clothing, her eyes red raw from crying and her knuckles shredded to bits and covered in blood.
She begins to grab anything that isn’t nailed to the ground such as chairs, vases, clothing, even her treasured copy of Dante’s Inferno and tosses them across the room, the pages from said book flying everywhere. Flipping a table, she storms over to a framed photograph of her and Damon looking happy and she slams it onto the ground, shattering the glass as she repeatedly stomps on it.
Tears begin to fall again as Sylvia drops onto her couch and curls up into the fetal position and begins to sob. After a few moments of this happening, something catches Sylvia’s attention from the corner of her eye, sitting in a box. Sitting up, she wipes away the tears and makes her way over to the box and picks up Dolores.
Walking back over to the couch, she sits back down and stares at the doll for a good solid minute.
"ṮhḭṠ ẇḭḶḶ ḉoṆṮḭṆṳḕ hḀṖṖḕṆḭṆḠ, ẏoṳ Ḋo ṙḕḀḶḭṠḕ ṮhḭṠ?"
Dolores says, much to the surprise of Sylvia.
“What do you mean, Dolores?”
"ẆḀḲḕ ṳṖ, ṠẏḶṼḭḀ! Ẇhṏ hḀṠ ḃḕḕṆ Ṯhḕ oṆḶẏ ḉoṆṠṮḀṆṮ ḭṆ ẏoṳṙ Ḷḭḟḕ?"
Sylvia pauses for a moment to think about the question before finally answering.
“You.”
Pointing to Dolores, Sylvia wipes away more tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
"ḶḕṮ ṁḕ ḕṆḊ ẏoṳṙ ṖḀḭṆ ḀṆḊ ṠṳḟḟḕṙḭṆḠ. ḶḕṮ ṁḕ ṖṙoṮḕḉṮ ẏoṳ, ṠẏḶṼḭḀ. ḶḕṮ ṁḕ ṮḀḲḕ ḉoṆṮṙoḶ ḀṆḊ ẏoṳ ṠhḀḶḶ ṆḕṼḕṙ Ṡṳḟḟḕṙ ḀḠḀḭṆ."
Sylvia tilts her head to the side, still focusing her attention on Dolores as she contemplates what the doll is saying to her. After a few moments, Sylvia’s expression changes and she is no longer sad as a sadistic smirk forms on her lips.
“What do you need me to do, Dolores?”
And so, this was the moment when Dolores took full control over Sylvia Lopez. No longer would she be the weak, pathetic human who would succumb to the false hope of being loved by another human being. No longer would she suffer from being betrayed by those who pretended to be her family. There was only one person she needed, the only person who would never show her false love, who would never betray her. All she needed was herself.Ḋ Ṏ Ḷ Ṏ Ṙ Ḕ Ṡ The scene opens to the place that has come to be known as Dolores’ Sanctuary, where she is safe from the outside world. Away from the liars, the fakes and the pain and suffering they all cause. Dolores is sitting in her rocking chair, slowly rocking back and forth, the chair creaking with each rock.
Her face is engulfed in darkness, as a matter of fact, her entire body is hidden by the absence of light. The only thing that can be seen is the face of Dolores the doll that is resting on her lap, and after a few moments, she suddenly stops rocking and the eerie silence that fills the room would send shivers down the spine of most people watching.“How are you, Azurine? How is your precious wife, Nidia? Are you both still having nightmares?”
She let’s out a cackle of laughter as the screen flickers with a little static.“Dolores is disappointed that we cannot continue playing with you and having fun due to Mile High Wrestling closing its doors soon… such a shame…”
No matter how often it happens, seeing the doll’s mouth move as Dolores speaks never gets less creepy.“However that just simply means… when you and Dolores step into the ring on February 2nd… in London, England… Dolores shall make the most of her time with you…”
Another flicker as Dolores raises her hand and even though she is in darkness, it is clear she is holding an implement of some description, one that resembles that of a surgical blade.“Since we are going to be in London… I wonder… are you familiar with the story of Jack the Ripper, Azurine? He was a serial killer who murdered whores like yourself in the 1800s… and he would take a blade similar to one like this… and he would cut their throats before then proceeding to mutilate their abdominal regions…”
The camera flickers again, but this time it occasionally flashes up with sickening footage of women’s throats being cut as well as footage of their abdominal regions being slashed at as well before it finally cuts back to a chuckling Dolores.“As for some of his victims… he would remove some of their internal organs… thus displaying signs that he had some anatomical or surgical knowledge…”
Again, the camera flickers to display flashes of various organs such as hearts and livers being removed from bodies. This was certainly something not for the faint-hearted and thankfully, it stops and cuts back to Dolores again.“Tell Dolores something, Azurine… do you know how long it takes for a human to die after having their throat cut? It in fact… depends on how it’s done… because you see… there are two ways to die from such an act. If the trachea is cut but the arteries are not… cause of death would come from lack of oxygen and aspiration of blood… there are a number of small vessels in that area that will begin to bleed… then the blood could flow down the trachea and into the lungs… and it would be similar to drowning… that… is the most survivable way of having your throat cut…”
Dolores can be heard chuckling again while the uncomfortable sound of someone drowning can be heard, as if Dolores has someone or some people elsewhere in her Sanctuary suffering these horrific acts.“Now… the most likely cause of death from a cut throat… is due to blood loss. See… you have two carotid arteries running up that little neck of yours… and if they are severed… you will bleed profusely… blood flow to the brain shall be compromised… and unconsciousness will soon follow. As the loss of blood continues… eventually… so much is lost that your heart… stops.”
The audible sound of a heartbeat echoes through the room before gradually getting slower and slower and then silence.“If you suffered a complete transection of even one of your carotid arteries… you would likely be unconscious within one minute… suffering death a few minutes afterwards. However, if both were severed… you would be unconscious within seconds… and then a minute or two later… cardiac arrest…”
Suddenly a blinding flash of light engulfs the room and once the camera has refocused, we see Dolores sitting in the chair still with the knife in her hand and the doll on her lap.“But of course… there’s no need for you to worry about any of that… or do you?”
Another shriek of laughter echoes through the room as more static messes with the camera before it seems to cut a few frames forward as Dolores is now standing up and is much closer to the camera than she was before.“Dolores shall see you on Sunday, Azurine…”
And just as quickly as the lights came on, they immediately shut off as the camera cuts to static.Ḭ Ṯ Ḭ Ṡ Ṯ Ḭ Ṁ Ḕ
Ṯ Ṏ Ṗ Ḷ Ḁ Ẏ
Ẇ Ḭ Ṯ Ḧ Ḋ Ṏ Ḷ Ṏ Ṙ Ḕ Ṡ |
|
|
|
Post by azurinevebbins on Jan 30, 2020 23:01:43 GMT -6
National Groundhog Day
Azurine Vebbins: Well, folk, da gloomiest gala I’ve ever graced takes place in dree days. On February 2nd, MMXX...LIVE from da Oxygen Diatomic Arena in “Look, kids, it’s Big Ben” London, England...I go nervous tic to petal prick wid “Old Rose” Dolores at MHW Myrrhder, She Wrote. It’s absolutely apropos our dramatic do-si-do’s takin’ place on Groundhog Day. After all, blistered cistern, I’ll be viewin’ my shadow’s beady, brimstone black blinders. Difficult distinguishin’ genuine iris color when sportin’ dat macabre mask, y’know? Usually indicates you’re coverin’ up some-din’ fierce. Impurely psychological, perhaps? Probably. Why else would you confoundin’ly claim control? Given what’s at stake, derelict demoness, I’d advise actin’ less wooden. Articulate an animated aura rad-er dan automaton anonymity. Den again, my ridiculin’ rival does come across as some kind of mucked-up mangle machine. It’s why we’re so foxtrottin’ fervent in finishin’ dis feud.
Zero momentum. A statistical standstill. Bode our backs arch angrily against wailin’ warehouse walls after DrowDown Episode Double X Nine. Reaper made certain all Dolores sown was loss. Meanwhile, I couldn’t pull da Nintendo Zapper trigger when duelin’ against “Ms. ABC” of da Shieldmaidens: Alex “Bullet” Carbajal. Now, dey face one anoder to determine who receives da MHW World Champion Number One Contendership at Episode Dirty. Dat’s deyr consolation prize for MHW closin’ its doors perceivably for time immemorial. As for me, I’m currently booked to tango wid “Curly Mama” Teresa Duke. However, in order for such an ornate orchestration to be heard later dan da openin’ number, I need a victory word veneration against “Dirge’s Desecration” Dolores.
I imagine an insolent invective like her would record deyr scheduled promotional material in such an eerie environment. Dis abandoned warehouse I’m currently amblin’ in radiates raw rancor and diabolical decor. Da paint’s peelin’ like over baked tortilla chips. Deyr’s also naggin’, noxious, sordid stenches. Each one wholly haunt dese damned doors off hollow hin-jez. Well, trude be told, what you’re viewin’s more da chalk outlines of where such paltry portals guarded entry. Leaves little room to rumba when you’re unsure of securin’ proper footin’.
Doubts shall defile, decay, and darken our din-jay dance floor. Yet, a little soft shoe here, sweep debris over deyr, and a few lunge leaps of faid...I’ve shined away several sullen spots of shade. Located sufficient space to sashay dauntless while smackin’ sense wid glammy gauntlet. Helps “Da Hardheaded Housewife” accessorize accurate aimed attacks dat amplify Dolores’ aggression-attached agony. Speakin’ metaphorically, mind you. It’s in da same vicious vein as a superkick equalin’ a brick house knockin’ your noggin, wicked witch.
It’s da spell dat banshee bleep’s cast ‘til I drag her to ad mausoleum. Ever since Black Magic on November 24, I’ve felt knackered inside a ninnyhammer’s nightmare. Made ample attempts to shutter da shudder sensation of sudden stagnation. Durin’ dose flabbergastin’ four hundred-dirty two trillion nanoseconds...terrifyin’ly transformed as Dolores’ detached doll...erratic emptiness enveloped ‘round me. When she snapped her right index digit and pollex, da subtle sound shrieked sharper dan sonar. From dat fixed point to da unforeseeable future, my merry memory went missin’...or to describe differently, she hi-Jane Doed my physical presence! Recognize I’m repeatin’ rhetoric as “Da Adorkable Angel” since it’s some-din’ dat should be harped on.
And as chanters are well aware, Dolores knew which strin’s to pluck. But for a chronologically careenin’ crash course, here’s da gospel gist. October 13 of last year, I arrive back to my dressin’ room and view an out-of-place orphan object holdin’ a black rose. While most chanters are calm, cool, and collected as cucumbers, deyr’s an occasional creepy one I rationalized. Two weeks later at DrowDown Episode Double-X V...Twenty-Five...I was gifted a tattered table-clod I mistakenly believed was some-din’ picked out by my supportive spouse Nidia. Lulled me since I’m a creature of convenience.
If I hadn’t been a dim bulb dat night, I would’ve pieced to-ged-er a pernicious pattern developin’ since dese isolated incidents were followed by flickerin’ lights. Den again, dat could just be arenas not fully payin’ deyr electric bills, right? Right. Still, din’s were gettin’ pretty personal and den on November 10, National Forget-Me-Not Day...din’s got ugly personal. How? She indecently involved my wonderful wife. Waltzed into my dressin’ room, viewed Nidia nappin’, and holdin’ a sign readin’ “SOON.” In dat infuriatin’ instant, I became more steamed dan broccoli on a runaway locomotive. Knew when Dolores and I stood mask-to-glasses, cheek-to-cheek, or toe-to-toe I had intentional inklin’s of droppin’ her on da dancefloor. But as discussed earlier, Black Magic happened and I got shuffled away like a card trick. Da ace up pokin’ out of my left spaghetti strap, dough, is we’re competin’ in a one-and-done “Dream Dance” scenario.
What do Agustin Gates, Webb Constantin, and Lance Mikes have in common? When booked in a one-and-done dance against “Da Vivacious Variable,” I navigated each one to deyr new neighborhood of nirvana. I happily hy-pod-e-size dat happenin’ to Dolores as well.
My best case scenario’s bein’ like Phil Connors from dat one cinematic case study released in 1993. Y’know da one where he’s perpetually stuck in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania? Well, B-flat honest, da similarities would align more smood-ly if sucker punchin’ Ned Ryerson resulted in Connors livin’ life to its fullest potential. Still, I knew deyr’s a correlation between dat family-friendly film and dis promotional material apart from dem bein’ focused on “Groundhog Day.” We escape bein’ toyed and tormented upon da radical realization brought by extreme epiphany.
Dat extreme epiphany bein’, of course, I nunc carpe imperium a.k.a. I “now seize control.” Dolores, your grasp of reality as it pertains to myself bein’ someone to “play” wid ends at “Myrrhder, She Wrote.” Can already hear chanters cheerin as dey watch you woefully wilt, whimper, and slink your sorry sass from da O2 Arena. Your power’s plummetin’ faster dan a deflated Pennywise. Sprin’-time’s comin’ to continue snapmarin’ your cold streak, winter wackadoo. Dis time, I yearn achievin’ my yardstick’s measure of vengeance. Most importantly and hence-ford, Azurine Vebbins shall no longer be scared of her sorrow-shaped shadow.
|
|
