Tag Archives: open rp

Summer Rainault shaded her eyes, glancing up at the sun. She was nearly to Camelot; in fact, she could see the castle’s towers rising in the distance. The heat was oppressive, and she nudged her mare to greater speed, hoping to at least generate a cooling breeze.

Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t pay much attention to the sounds around her until the several roughly dressed men had surrounded her. “Well hey, what’s this?” one of them growled, brandishing a knife at her. “Pretty girl, all alone, not a good thing.” Another one chuckled, a cruel sound.

“All your money, and quickly,” the one with the knife said, beckoning.

Summer twisted her mouth sideways. “Do I look to have money on me, you fool?”

It’s one of those gorgeous lucid dreams — the kind where a part of her is awake, struggling to hold on to what she sees. She’s dreaming of a wood: unfamiliar, old growth, wide spaces beneath the tall trees. And there is Loki, on the edge of the glade.

She doesn’t know which Loki; she knows so many, now. He changes, in that way that dreams do; now heartbreakingly young, now subtly marked with the weight of millennia. Always tall, so tall. Long hair, short hair; armoured, casual.

She cannot see his face. If she could see it, she might know — is she here for love, or hate? To die, or live?

In a dream, it could easily be both. Or neither.

She calls his name.

Summer checked herself over in the mirror one last time. She was never comfortable with the way she looked, far less when she dressed up. But the letter had specified formal dress, so formal dress it was, makeup, heeled shoes and all. She’d braided her long hair into a double coronet around her head and accented the burgundy dress with garnet jewellery.

Probably she ought to be grateful to have her work recognised, but then again recognition had very little to do with what she did as a heroine. It was simply something that needed doing that she was capable of doing, that was all. But the folk who had organised this charity ball didn’t seem to think so, and they wanted the empath Summer Rainault, who had, in their words, ‘helped save so many lives during and after the Manhattan Incident,’ to be one of their guests of honour while the rich and powerful of New York City rubbed elbows with actual heroes.

Summer anticipated being largely ignored while the attendees swarmed around better known heroes like Captain America or Iron Man. Which, honestly, was fine by her. Making polite conversation with people who were largely unaware of her existence, all the while knowing just how little truth was in their words, had never appealed. She smiled, posed, and waved to the paparazzi on her way in, hiding how awkward and out of place she felt. Once inside the ballroom, Summer found a corner quieter than the rest, acquired a drink, and tried to ignore all the butterflies in her gut.

image

Summer weighed the rubber mallet in one hand, eyeing the box of aluminium cans. She got down on her knees, planting one empty can upright on a scrap piece of board, and hefted the mallet again.

It wasn’t even that it had been a particularly bad day. She just felt — off. Angry, for no reason.

Smashy.

Hence, the empty cans. Lifting the mallet high, she brought it down squarely on the top of the can. It kinda … bounced. The rim crushed a little, sideways.

“Well /that’s/ interesting.” She smacked it again, a little off-centre. That strike produced a satisfying crunch and a flatter can. Tossing it back in the box, she set up another can.

It’s always the same nightmare. Doesn’t matter where she is. There’s no cue, no trigger. But it’s always the same.

She dreams their anger. Their disdain.

It’s eerily simple, the dream. She sees their eyes. Their faces, yes, but mostly their eyes. Filled with dismissal.

She doesn’t dream their turning away, but the sense of it is there. The sense of leaving, of absence, of abandonment. The knowledge that she isn’t enough. Isn’t wanted. Isn’t welcome.

Sometimes what wakes her is crying out; other times she doesn’t know. She always wakes in tears, trembling with fear. She can’t move for long moments.

open rp

Summer hooked her elbows over the railing, looking down at the ice rink at Rockefeller Plaza. It was busy enough, swirling with people bundled in coats and scarves, gloves and hats. She leaned back on her heels a little, rocking in time to the music in her earbuds, singing softly under her breath. Her long braids shone copper-bright in the westering sunlight against grey wool, wrapped loosely about her petite figure.

She grinned at the person next her, feeling good and wanting to share it.

I can’t walk through life
facing backwards
I have tried
tried more than once
to just make sure
that I was denied
the future I’ve been searching for
I spun around
and hurt no more

Charity Ball | Open Starter

Summer checked herself over in the mirror one last time. She was never comfortable with the way she looked, far less when she dressed up. But the letter had specified formal dress, so formal dress it was, makeup, heeled shoes and all. She’d braided her long hair into a double coronet around her head and accented the burgundy dress with garnet jewellery.

Probably she ought to be grateful to have her work recognised, but then again recognition had very little to do with what she did as a heroine. It was simply something that needed doing that she was capable of doing, that was all. But the folk who had organised this charity ball didn’t seem to think so, and they wanted the empath Summer Rainault, who had, in their words, ‘helped save so many lives during and after the Manhattan Incident,’ to be one of their guests of honour while the rich and powerful of New York City celebrated the end of the cleanup.

Summer anticipated being largely ignored while the attendees swarmed around better known heroes like Captain America and Iron Man. Which, honestly, was fine by her. Making polite conversation with people who were largely unaware of her existence, all the while knowing just how little truth was in their words, had never appealed. She smiled, posed, and waved to the paparazzi on her way in, hiding how awkward and out of place she felt. Once inside the ballroom, Summer found a corner quieter than the rest, acquired a drink, and tried to ignore all the butterflies in her gut.

Open RP

technogodstark:

The amount of times Tony spent losing himself in nameless bars in seedy parts of the city had dwindled since his teen years. Never the less – sometimes it DID happen. He just needed… The anonymity for a bit. Even if he didn’t waste shitloads of money on alcohol, he’d spend it enjoying the chaotic atmosphere in other ways.

This was one of those days when he needed that escape.

So here he was, wandering the streets of night New York having just exited some unnamed bar in the middle of nowhere. The streets were only half lit – some of the light outright missing or broken, and he would bet that in those corners where the light did not reach trouble waited.

He snorted.

How obvious. Not a shred of creativity – just old cliches that demanded neither brain nor creativity – just sheer brute force. Steer away from the hot spots and they will stay away from you, too much of a coward to step into the light and attack the nameless passerby in plain light.

And thank you, Life. Now it was raining, too.

Wincing at the sudden cramping that started in his wounded shoulder – pulled probably, from some smartass back at the bar trying to drag him into a fight after the genius won a bit too much at the pool table – not recognizing him at all, and too drunk to land a hit on him.

Lost in reminiscences, Tony wasn’t really looking where he was going – simply intent on reaching his car, parked safely a few blocks away – and was suddenly stopped by a figure that suddenly was blocking his way. Cursing, Tony quickly composed himself, “Sorry” and he meant that, for once.

She’d been looking for trouble honestly, for once. Depressed and frustrated, angry for no particular reason, and itching for a fight.

Her taekwondo master would be ashamed of her.

Summer just latched on to the dark beacons of similar anger and went hunting.

But she’d sated that need, leaving a few bodies sprawled in the darkness of unlit corners, aching and unconscious and unburnt for once, and she was deep into regret now. Regret for losing control, giving in to the shadows that haunted her heart. Not at all paying attention to anything much around her until she walked right into someone else.

“Sorry,” the figure muttered, sincerity sliding off the word.

“You might want to look where you’re going, place like this,” Summer replied mildly, half admonishing herself as well. “It’s not safe.”

Battle-burn

Blinded with smoke and pain, Summer clutched one hand to the wound in her side, tried to call the fire again, and staggered in the air. A streetlamp blindsided her, forcing her into a pinwheel tumble, headlong to the ground. She crashed down, flaming wings setting a few small fires before vanishing utterly, and cried out once before falling unconscious. Even in her coma, muscle seizures shook her body.