RE: Palace Caprae (Sburblike RP)
03-16-2013, 02:59 PM
It was a dark and stormy night...
The sound of chickenscratch pencil fills the dimly lit room. Meet Alex White, writer-in-residence: in this case the residence is her own home on a high hill, a squat stone fortress facing the summer storm howling outside. As the ancestral heir to the White dynasty, a financial family sinking in the recent banking straits, the house is, in effect, her only inheritance.
A point more recently illustrated by the suicide of her mother, Vanessa White - a suicide as sensational as the woman herself: not many people manage to hang themselves from a tightrope suspended between the twin skyscraper headquarters of White Financial. 'Tightrope accident', the official statement called it, but everyone knew.
Marcus Phillipson White coped by working, drinking, and leaving Alex the hell alone. 'Too painful,' he'd mutter on the rare occasions he saw her sober, 'your mother's eyes.'
She checked. She did have her mother's eyes.
Sometimes she wondered if she was a psychopath. When she'd heard, grief had come at her, but from a long way away; muffled as if through cotton. She wrote instead; dribbles of drabbles, unconnected paragraphs, music in literature. Occasionally, she'd post online, to no fanfare, no attention, no reaction at all from an indifferent world. Just the way she liked it.
She almost decided not to play the game she got an alpha key to. People were not her strong suit. But at the same time, something unique...a virtual, virgin set of experiences untainted by the secondhand hands of others; a shared hallucination between her peers and her self...when you thought about it that way, how could she resist?
The sound of chickenscratch pencil fills the dimly lit room. Meet Alex White, writer-in-residence: in this case the residence is her own home on a high hill, a squat stone fortress facing the summer storm howling outside. As the ancestral heir to the White dynasty, a financial family sinking in the recent banking straits, the house is, in effect, her only inheritance.
A point more recently illustrated by the suicide of her mother, Vanessa White - a suicide as sensational as the woman herself: not many people manage to hang themselves from a tightrope suspended between the twin skyscraper headquarters of White Financial. 'Tightrope accident', the official statement called it, but everyone knew.
Marcus Phillipson White coped by working, drinking, and leaving Alex the hell alone. 'Too painful,' he'd mutter on the rare occasions he saw her sober, 'your mother's eyes.'
She checked. She did have her mother's eyes.
Sometimes she wondered if she was a psychopath. When she'd heard, grief had come at her, but from a long way away; muffled as if through cotton. She wrote instead; dribbles of drabbles, unconnected paragraphs, music in literature. Occasionally, she'd post online, to no fanfare, no attention, no reaction at all from an indifferent world. Just the way she liked it.
She almost decided not to play the game she got an alpha key to. People were not her strong suit. But at the same time, something unique...a virtual, virgin set of experiences untainted by the secondhand hands of others; a shared hallucination between her peers and her self...when you thought about it that way, how could she resist?
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime