this is madness

this is wrong

this is us

this is happening

but we've done this before

we're still standing

Name: Lutwidge
Surname: Liddell
Age: Twenty-three.
Hair Colour: Ash blond.
Eye Colour: A fairly even shade Columbia blue.
Skin Tone: Ranging from light to fair.
Body Structure: Lean. Lithe. Just a bit delicate for a a man if you look at him from a distance.
Height: 6' 3"
Personality:
Usual Clothing:
Interests:
Talents:
Weaknesses and Fears:
Your Past:

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5/8/2012
lutwidge
(chocorie)

He's kind of savage.
Maybe he's a little guilty about it?

Username: chocorie
Name: Lucifer
Age: 17
Hunter or Alice: Hunter
Special Skill: Increased stamina and the ability to attack abruptly with high accuracy.
Weapon of choice: A fauchard and two M16 rifles.
Something we should know about your character: As rash as he may seem, there is always a plan to back up his actions. However, he has no problem with acting like a complete savage and going on insane murder sprees. For Lucifer, pretty much anything goes, as long as it gets the job done.

5/8/2012
Lucifer
(chocorie)

The room was a little too warm for Lucifer's liking. He drummed his fingers lightly against the upholstery as he reread the note that lay on his desk for the umpteenth time. It had arrived in the form of a letter, folded neatly and slipped into an ivory-colored envelope, slightly off-center red wax effectively sealing it. But the wax had long been ripped apart along with part of the envelope's paper, and the little bits of leftover wax lay scattered on a small area of the desk, as if quarantined to that corner.

Either Lucifer was still unused to being somewhere warm after spending the better part of his day in the cold or perhaps it really was too hot in the room. He shrugged off his jacket in a swift rippling move and flung it over the back of the chair before resuming his flexing of fingers. The letter shuddered with each tap, the creases in the paper had smoothed out after a series of flattening, folding, re-flattening, and such. It was not that the letter had done him some great personal harm - it was just the news that the letter had brought was annoying. The Games had begun again, and as a hunter, Lucifer was to be once again called out and participate. The last round of Alice Games had nearly carved out his eye, and he was not keen to allow one of the freakishly quick Alices try to gouge out his blue-green eyes once more - although he supposed that it was partly his fault that the Alice had gotten so close anyway. The girls kind of got on his nerves.

Pacing around the room in long aggressive strides, Lucifer scanned the room for his fauchard and rifles in agitation. It wasn't often that Lucifer had to use the fauchard; the M16s were usually enough to keep the Alices at bay. Slowly, the fair-haired teen grasped the handle of the fauchard and lifted it from its dusty corner. It had been a while since the polearm had been used: there was still a little crust of blood on one of the hook of the blade. The way it had been laying against the wooden paneling of the walls left a small cut in the wood. The boy rubbed his index finger over the nick absently before lifting his M16s from their dusty cabinet and cleaning them. He paused to sharpen the fauchard a bit with a whetting stone as well before setting them on the desk and staring at the weapons.

There was one last thing. He exchanged the jacket he had shed for a lighter one and glared sullenly at the mirror he had passed on the way to his wardrobe. The scar across his right eye had still not disappeared from the last Alice Games, and he was still quite sore over the mark that marred his face. None the less, Lucifer assumed he would have his revenge once he entered the battlefield once more. Swinging the fauchard and M16s over his back, Lucifer exited the room without looking back, a heavy sort of feeling settling over him as he closed the door and locked it. It would be a while since he'd come back to the richly furnished room. There was a short pause before Lucifer strode off to meet the other hunters.

Hunting Wabbits

It was warm.

The room, that is - and the comfy chairs made him sleepy. He didn't want to get out of the chair. The place was too comforting for him to think, to move, to feel -

Augustus seemed to drop out of the sky - or rather, ceiling - and landed into the chair next to him. It all seemed very natural. Well, natural to Mr. Parsley - Mr. Dahlia had thought it was an experience. Parsley rather liked it; lucid dreams made his boring reality fade into a void. Well - right now, Parsley knew it wasn't really a lucid dream, but it was close enough. So it seemed he and Mr. Augustus were the only ones who were brave - or just naive - enough to inject themselves with the syringe. Parsley had always had a feeling that females were more suspicious. His mom had not been as easygoing as his dad. His younger sister was paranoid girl, too. Women, his dad had told Parsley as a child still living with no clue he was in Brazil. They're wonderful, but much too cautious. Of course, this was after Parsley's mother had denied his father's requests to go piranha hunting, so he wasn't quite sure if his father was just sulking or there was some truth in his words. Nonetheless, the boy accepted it without much difficulty after he heard his sister set up booby traps around her room the following week (she claimed that aliens were going to abduct her and she had to be ready).

Mr. Dahlia's flimsy sentence echoed around the room, drawing Parsley out of his reverie with a nudge. "Oh. I suppose it was," Mr. Parsley agreed, although he wasn't entirely sure why. His statement was a little quieter than the boy's, so it didn't resonate as much; still it swung around the room leaving ghostly words everywhere. But it faded and then the silence became stifling. The scriptwriter turned his attention to the golden edges of the room to save them from having an awkward conversation that would no doubt lead to another heavy silence. Parsley assumed that they in particular were not very good at small talk - well, having a Y chromosome seemed to determine that, anyway.

Mr. Carraway seemed to appear out of the haziness of the hall like a savior of sorts, his voice also echoing as he approached Parsley and Dahlia sitting in those sleepy armchairs. It did not surprise Parsley very much that the lawyer and the doctor had not joined them before Mr. Carraway. Apparently, Parsley's dad was sort of right.

It had just occurred to Parsley that his body would no longer be conscious, and neither would Mr. Carraway's or Mr. Dahlia's. Perhaps the ladies would join them soon and neither or their bodies would be awake either - a group of five corpses in a large lecture room in a fancy museum. Oh god, Mr. Parsley hoped that the jumpy receptionist wouldn't walk in and see what appeared to be dead people (at a first glance, at least). He had a funny feeling that the poor man wouldn't make it out of the room conscious, for he seemed faint hearted.

He assumed that no one would suddenly bust into the room and steal five bodies and get out of the museum without being stopped - either by security or the weird looks. It did not stop him from worrying about it for a while before he turned his thoughts to the ways of the female. They were really skeptical, weren't they - Parsley hoped that they would hurry and make up their minds before he fell asleep in the oh so wonderful chair.

Rena Bunny
20
picture link.
sample link.


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Name: Rena Bunny
Age: 20
Gender: Female
Birth Date: May 1

Appearance:
-Eye Color: Brown
-Hair Color: Dark brown
-Height: 5' 5"
-Weight: 112 lbs.

Social Standing:

Occupation: Assistant to the CEO of a law firm.

Hobbies: Working, collecting scarves, cuddling with kittens.

Likes: Rainy days (everything is more dramatic!), the crisp smell of new paper, assorted chocolates.

Dislikes: Missing a deadline,

Strengths: (personality and powers)

Weaknesses: (personality, mental, and physical weaknesses)

Personality: (You can describe this in full if you wish, or you may opt to describe your character in no more or less than five words.)

History/Background:

2/26/2012
darling, you're dressed to kill

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ஜ۩۞۩ஜ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

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Seren arrived an instance before Rena; she was the last one. The idea of being last was actually quite discomforting - Rena was never last. She could not be last. It was the sort of thing that triggered Rena-self-destruct-mode. But she couldn't run in her heels, so why -
"I apologize for my lack of prompt," Rena said as she marched toward the group and perched on a chair with the sort of primness that could immediately screw up someone's whole day. No matter. She was supposed to be here for a few hours anyway, it would be mostly devoted to exchanging a few words with five people and staring at one for the rest of the period.
Cider.
Cider.
Cider.
Cider.
As if she could make him turn and look at her with just her calling his name in her head. He had traveled the world and no doubt seen plenty of pretty girls, girls prettier than she was, with money and skills and what not. (Oh god, was she being jealous? That was the thing that turned people off right away, wasn't it. A blush creeping into her cheeks - ) Rena was the kind of person that could make people feel uncomfortable just by being around her.
But she was there. Her company seemed already a little bit drunk. There was Azuzena, who you could count on being drunk any time of day, any day, any week, any month, any year. Like that mattered - why was she even looking at Azuzena being drunk when she had done so for the past few meetings and furthermore, could be staring straight at Cider and his loose, carefree, wonderful, lovely -
You sound like a silly schoolgirl, Rena said to herself, sternly. Please assume a pokerface as soon as possible so you don't make faces like an idiot.
But she couldn't -
"Cider," Rena blurted out almost immediately after her cheek stopped twitching with anxiety (how counterproductive, it was only making the muscles in her face twitch again) - it was odd. She was used to being cool, calm, collected around him, able to stay on guard no matter what technique he unconsciously employed to make her feel faint and giddy.

A syringe.

Parsley had always been apprehensive of needles and such as a boy, but in time, he had learned that it was only a prick of pain and then an effect of some sort. It wasn't comfortable, but he had learned to stop his reluctance and take it like a man.

But these were syringes, and the term was just automatically more intimidating and therefore bound to be more painful. Mr. Carraway had assured them that they were not harmful at all, but the effects that would come with the syringes' contents seemed a bit far-fetched. What if they were some sort of narcotic? The man had told them that it would show a world. A dream world, the world that Parsley had been seeing for a lot of sleepless nights - not that he had slept much on any night, actually.

Parsley had not liked the idea with a secret project and Soviet involvement. As a child, he had been kept from the knowledge of where he was - well, maybe it was just that he was a little ignorant or never really wanted to know, but never mind that: he was still a little annoyed that his parents had never thought to ask him if he knew where they lived in case he ever got kidnapped - so the idea of another secret that the government was keeping made him throw an internal fit. The Soviets, he had also learned, were the bad guys of every war, fictional or not, that the US ever had. Of course, this was an overgeneralization, but the exaggeration seemed fitting at the present, where a huge load of information had been dumped onto the four people sitting dumbfounded in a huge lecture hall in a foreign country where it was assumed that they drank tea with their pinkies out. It was a lot of process.

The scriptwriter was a naive person. He outgrew his fear of needles (although the syringe did seem a tad dangerous), he liked dreams, and he wanted to know what the heck was going on with with the government and he didn't want to live his life as a normal person. Plus, it'd be a little anticlimactic to waltz right back out of the lecture hall and see the jittery receptionist and back onto the bus where fat businessmen sat with suspicious briefcases. Not to mention the plane ride back to the States - and then back to his hole-in-the-wall apartment where he sat wringing his hands in agitation in front of a typewriter that didn't work half the time (he had no computer).

This time he was deadpan. There was no twirling of the hair, no emotions crawling across his face like he was a human wheel of fortune. Parsley wasn't quite sure why his face wasn't reacting like it normally would - perhaps it was the sense of how critical the choice was. He looked at the case that held the needles before he picked up one of the five syringes. He hoped he wouldn't die.

Parsley wasn't very confident that he could relate what happened next with a clear mind, but he found himself drifting. It was a little foggy sometimes, and then a bit too sharp. The whole experience reminded him of a lucid dream. Shapes and colors floated along lazily, randomly - and suddenly he found himself sitting in one of the richly furnished chairs on the edges of a grand ballroom.