2.0.2 THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
Beasts of Beyond

THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining

Offline Sympathy

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THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« on: April 22, 2018, 11:07:56 PM »
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Dupâ ploie, vine soare.
43 years in life. 485 years in death. A grand 528 years was the amount of time Marco had spent on this Earth, save the short amount of time he spent waiting for his wife in Heaven. He wouldn’t have needed this information if it wasn’t important. It was hard to keep track sometimes, but he didn’t want to forget.  He couldn’t—not after everything he had done—the deal he made to be sent down to Earth. All he had ever wanted was to find his brother, and it took quite the persuasion move to convince God to let him go down. But he managed. Visiting his wife and the other side—Marco would he permitted from ever doing so until he could track down his sibling and bring him back to complete the family. Putting it simply, it is very difficult to find a certain person in a world where millions of people shared the same name as your brother. And Marco had spent over 400 years searching tirelessly until he had all but given up, traveling back to Romania and spending the last few hundred in quiet seclusion. He watched the world live and die around him— civilizations rise and fall—countless wars and fighting. And next to that, he witnessed many births, watched children grow into adults of all sorts of alignments, and he watched those same kids grow old and die and pass into the afterlife just as he had when he was alive. He also witnessed the advancement of technology and realized just how frustrating it could be. He would finally understand how new forms of architecture worked—for example— and suddenly time flies 30 years in the blink of an eye and there’s an entirely new advancement and he’s back at square one, left to once more stumble around in confusion.

It had been earlier this year when he had caught wind of a few new societies forming somewhere West of his home. And with a newfound curiosity rising in his belly, he set off on a several month-long journey, traveling by foot into the world of The Beyond—a rather untouched area of nature in all of it’s glory, only showing just a few signs of previous human life as most of it appeared to have been swallowed by the very Earth itself. Through talk of loners, rouges, and even passing members, he had learned the names of these new groups that had planted their roots; The Ascendants, Tanglewood, Snowbound, and Typhoon. But one stood out more than the rest—Tanglewood—that was his goal. Because the more he learned of these strange new societies, the more he heard of those who had founded them, and among those was a name that re-kindled that fire in him—reminded him why he was here in the first place. Beck. The name of that little boy who had held him as he lay bleeding in the streets so many millennia ago—his older brother that he had never gotten to see the first time he went to Heaven—the very brother he left his afterlife of peace for. Though this would be a longshot. It always was. After all, he’s met countless Becks over countless years. He’s grown not to get his hopes up so quickly as he had after the first few Becks he’d come across. But there was never any harm in checking.

All of this had led up to the present, having Marco here at the borders of Tanglewood and being just absolutely mesmerized at the terrain around him; a lush green patch of wetland. His paws sink into the soft muddy ground and Marco isn’t fazed in the slightest. It’s nice and cool and wonderful and he wonders why he hasn’t come here sooner. It’s certainly nothing like mountainous region of his homeland. Soon enough, the angel stops. The scents are very strong here; a borderline, he’s sure of it. The lynx settles himself down, quiet and patient. He’s not like most lynx—having a darker dusty brown—almost black—coat than those commonly found. At first glance, he’s a pretty average guy. But with a second glance, one could point out the glowing halo of light appearing to be almost always behind his head, no matter which way he turns. Another less prominent feature are the grey broken nubs and just a few white feathers jutting from his shoulder blades.
MARCO
#psychosocial.
「 THIS VIDEO IS OVER NOW 」
Hey are you subscribed to my channel? If you're not, you should totally subscribe to my channel. And even if you're already subscribed to my channel, you could tell a couple friends to go subscribe to my channel. ———————
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Offline beck

Re: THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« Reply #1 on: April 23, 2018, 03:03:54 AM »
               He had been two years older than his sibling. A sibling time had long erased the face and voice and name of, but a sibling none the less, no matter how blurred and static they appeared in his memory. He knew that he and the faceless child were close, closer than his mind could recreate. But whatever bond associated with the sibling was corrupted, just like all the other strings of memories coiled in his skull like a fraying ball of yarn. When he tried to imagine a face to call family, he saw fire licking at wheat as his people were smoked from safety straight into the burning jaws of a mob. When he tried to believe they had spent their youthful days wandering vague forests and teasing each other like he had observed outside families do, he saw blood leaking from a crack in the nameless child's face, head pressed close to Beck's chest as he frantically tried to keep him awake with rambling anecdotes and questions. Sometimes a few memories slipped through whatever blockade was protecting his psyche, brief glimpses of a grinning dimple and tanned skin a stark contrast to his pallid tone. Beck wanted to ensnare them and lock them away for his selfish needs of identity, but they always arrived at the slightest signals and slipped through his grasp when he lurched for them. When he tried to claim he had a family who had loved him in life, he saw his brother dead in his own ash-caked arms. It was his fault, he shouldn't have run for cover, he should have saved him -- and in an instant, Beck was struggling to remember his thoughts, regressing back to his amnesiac state. He supposed it was for the better; having no identity to fall back on meant he had no responsibilities, right? Beck was merely the commander of Tanglewood, and that was his only purpose left in the world.

     Sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to reunite with his family. To have been welcomed into the dead's paradise instead of refused at the pearly gates, to have been embraced by loving arms. But he never saw them again, if that wasn't obvious. Snorting at the thought, Beck's scarred features darkened, slouching against the trunk of a swamp tupelo and glaring out over the murky waters from the soggy banks. Not even God liked us, Becky. If there even was a God. Beck had seen enough progress in the world to grasp the firmly-planted laws of science, for the sake of explaining his existence, and the abstract thought of a higher being controlling every minute detail was laughable to him. The afterlife was probably something his deranged mind invented to fill in the truthful void of nothingness after death. But, then how did that explain the shackles around his wrists? It seemed like nothing could saw through them, much less scratch them no matter what he tried -- and according to his post-mortem fantasy, they were forged by hellfire itself. Why wasn't Beck hanging with the Devil then? So many questions, and nothing to answer him. As he pouted to himself over his enigmatic existence, his frigid paw fell to his side, patting around until he brushed against a flat stone. Even if his mental memory failed him, muscle memory didn't. With a bored toss, the stone was flicked out over the water in an imperfect skipping arch, an old trick he learned through the ages of haunting woodlands. A couple more smooth rocks were skipped over the duckweed-infested waters, until he ran out of the convenient pebble supply. Visibly gnawing on his tongue in unprecedented frustration, the poltergeist shifted from his lazy slump against the tupelo's roots, sulking off to gather more. Maybe he could try to hit birds or something instead of just skipping with the next rocks he found.

     Instead of finding ammunition, he found a creature rustling the overcrowded foliage, ears perking at the faint footsteps from the direction of the border. Curiosity dimming into agitation, Beck squinted at the dense undergrowth with a sour look twisting his freckled face. A trespasser? No, not a trespasser. Whoever was behind those bushes would have been closer if they were inside territory. Rolling his bony shoulders, the mangy feline advanced anyways, slinking through buttonbush shrubs as nonchalantly as he could manage, unable to disguise the irritation curling his bloodless lips into a trembling snarl. Farsighted eyes flitted over the lynx and his bizarre features; something about the glowing ring-thing and stumbs sent his demonic instinct on edge, and rightfully so. Tilting his gaze upward to look the familiar stranger in the eye, Beck was quick to rasp out, "Ya know, loiterin' ain't allowed here -- who exactly are ya?" He wasn't sure what else to stay, unable to formulate sentences to tease about the flimsy fluff jutting from his shoulder blades or how there was something unspoken he couldn't just quite place.
« Last Edit: April 23, 2018, 10:07:07 PM by beck. »
set the phasers to rot; what has got you distraught?
it's negative attention at best, but call it nothing
maybe it's something, a little bit, a little bit - maybe it's something to do a little bit
​​​​​​​----------- poltergeist > tanglewood​​​​​​​ > chaser >info >@tricky ​​​​​​​-----------

Offline Sympathy

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Re: THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« Reply #2 on: April 26, 2018, 07:04:41 PM »
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Dupâ ploie, vine soare.
One arrival-- and a bit of a frightening one. He couldn't quite place why he had began to feel so on edge at Beck's arrival. He had met many an angry traveler in his time and very few seemed to phase him as this one did. Hair prickling on the back of his neck, he would force himself to stay calm as he gazed into the other male's eyes with a warm greeting. He wasn't too familiar with Beck's language-- he recognizes it as English but... more broken? As if it wasn't confusing enough, he has to deal with multiple meanings and he just had to give up on it hundreds of years ago. "Cer iertare. Eu nu te înțeleg. Numele meu este Marco, nu te voi rani-" he cut off his words with a small chiding huff at himself. He had to think. Could they even understand him? Only one obvious way to find out. "Vorbesti limba romana?" It was all he could really do. Language barriers were not helpful in the slightest. Still hopeful, he looked to Beck with a small polite smile.

eyy google translate fmu
"I beg your pardon."
"I don't understand you."
"My name is Marco, I won't hurt you-"
"Do you speak Romanian?"
MARCO
#psychosocial.
「 THIS VIDEO IS OVER NOW 」
Hey are you subscribed to my channel? If you're not, you should totally subscribe to my channel. And even if you're already subscribed to my channel, you could tell a couple friends to go subscribe to my channel. ———————
INSTAGRAM: @sympaii | DISCORD: Sympathy #9228
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Offline beck

Re: THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« Reply #3 on: April 27, 2018, 01:46:42 AM »
      If he could realize how unsettling he was towards the peculiar lynx, then Beck would have been bragging for days on end. Who could believe it, a poltergeist that actually managed to scare someone in this decade. His whole existence orbited around terrorizing unwitting creatures; he would be terribly pathetic if he couldn't at least manage that every once in a while. The faint twinge of pride in his chest aside, his honey-brown eyes narrowed into a suspicious squint to counter the warm glint in Marco's olivine gaze.

     Yet the instant Marco opened his mouth, all spite and settled blood drained from his freckled features. Beck hadn't heard his native tongue in years, and here this stranger was, speaking fluently. "Woah, woah, woah -- slow down," the boy stammered, voice empty of emotion as he was taken offguard by the onslaught of forgotten words. There was a reason Beck pointedly erased the language he had been raised by from his mind -- too many memories were attached. Plus his accent stuck out like a sore thumb. Gnawing on the inside of his only cheek and trying to ignore the strands of electric-blue drool beading at the edges of his burnt maw, the poltergeist glared at the ground in an attempt to decipher Marco's words by replaying his sentences over and over in his head. 'I beg your... pardon -- I don't understand? My name is... Marco. Something in Beck's mind clicked, the single name a bullet piercing straight through his hippocampus and the barricade holding back memories. The faceless brother from his memories now had a name. "Marco? Is that --" Beck started in disbelief, taking a wary step forward before recoiling with his ears pinned flat against his skull. No, it wasn't. Marco died in his arms as a child, not the grizzled adult the lynx appeared to be. Jaw muscles clenched taut, face returning to the constant scowl as he concentrated on stringing together a response. "Nu-mi... uh, am -- amintesc prea mult, but yeah, I mean -- dar da? Yeah, dar da." More muttering under his breath than anything else, his prominent accent began to slip through his phony drawl, creating an odd warped filter his words were caught in. "Sunt, um, Beck. De ce ... de ce ești aici?" Awkward phrasing aside, it wasn't too shabby for someone who hadn't spoken in Romanian for years. Then again, it was his first language. Some things never left you no matter how hard you fought to forget them.
set the phasers to rot; what has got you distraught?
it's negative attention at best, but call it nothing
maybe it's something, a little bit, a little bit - maybe it's something to do a little bit
​​​​​​​----------- poltergeist > tanglewood​​​​​​​ > chaser >info >@tricky ​​​​​​​-----------

Offline Sympathy

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Re: THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« Reply #4 on: April 29, 2018, 01:24:02 AM »
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Dupâ ploie, vine soare.
Marco visibly calmed down, over eager that he'd finally met someone who knew fluent Romanian. It had been quite a while and honestly, this was soooo refreshing. The angel beams now, smile brilliant and his previous caution towards Beck just melting away within seconds. "Scuze. Voi merge mai lent." he apologized, dipping his head quickly. He'd been prepared to speak again before the ghost jumped in and introduced himself. And right then, his once relaxed stance became more tense- nervous even. This was the Beck he heard about, of course unless there where more Becks living here. What mattered, was that this was a Beck and he had to remember why he was really here. He took in a breath, thinking back to when he first proposed his mission to God. It had taken much persuasion to get him to spill his brother's full name- how else was he to find him with only a first name after all? And once again, he would use it. "Beck." he repeated quietly. "Beck Fisher? Îmi pare rău dacă nu este numele tău. Caut pe cineva. Fratele meu. El nu a sosit în Cer. Am căutat ani și ani pentru el. V-am irosit timpul im-" He began rambling on about his search before abruptly apologizing and shaking his head. A stranger needn't know of every little detail. It did get quite repetitive after a while. He muttered another apology, his fluffy stubs of wings twitching nervously. His eyes kept focus on Beck, though he couldn't help but stare at his jaw, gross and torn and... dripping? Interesting indeed. Did it hurt?
MARCO
#psychosocial.
「 THIS VIDEO IS OVER NOW 」
Hey are you subscribed to my channel? If you're not, you should totally subscribe to my channel. And even if you're already subscribed to my channel, you could tell a couple friends to go subscribe to my channel. ———————
INSTAGRAM: @sympaii | DISCORD: Sympathy #9228
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Offline Morgan

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Re: THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« Reply #5 on: April 30, 2018, 12:47:31 AM »
Morgan lied prone some distance away from the pair, relying mostly on its ears to understand what was going on. The dog had made a habit of following others in the area, practicing its ability to sense their presences in order to find them. Today it followed Beck, only to find him conversing with some outlander.

The stranger and the poltergeist both spoke in a tongue that Morgan could not even begin to comprehend. The dog still had only a small grasp on English, yet it could tell these words were unlike what it normally heard.

The samoyed attempted to peer at the two others from behind the brush, but with little luck. It crept forward, soon reaching a point where it could blow its cover if it made any sudden movements. It continued to listen, repeating every sound it could under its breath in an attempt to retain them. "Marco... Nu-mi, but yeah, dar da? Sunt... Voi merge mai... Beck Fisher... Fratele meu..."  Having not been exposed to many languages yet, the dog could only read the emotions the two were giving off.

Yet, some things stuck. "Marco" had been repeated once or twice, so it had to be important somehow. "Beck Fisher..."  Was the apparition secretly a fish? Morgan was not sure, but with those words being some of the only ones it recognized, it clung to little else. Only time would tell of the words' significance; the samoyed continued to focus. "Am căutat ani și ani..."

"Who..."






Tanglewood - Former Leader
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Offline beck

Re: THE STOLEN CENTURY || open, joining
« Reply #6 on: May 07, 2018, 11:04:30 PM »
     If only he shared the same relief as Marco when their native tongue fell upon his ears. While his language didn't sound quite so odd coming from his own mouth, he hadn't heard another talk back to his foreign babbling since he was only a little kid. He didn't like stirring old memories, much less being thrown back into them. But it couldn't have been him, he was supposed to be dead, in fact, they were both supposed to be. For the sake of his fragile psyche, Marco's language, name, and arrival was nothing more than an eerie coincidence that reminded him too much of the brother who fell limp and assumedly lifeless in his arms. The poltergeist slouched to thoughtlessly stare at the mud with a glaze over his eyes, an uncertain huff breaking his silence.

     He perked from his hunched stance at his name being parroted back at him, scarred brow creasing at the hushed tone coming from the lynx. His maw parted slightly to interrupt with a rude quip, irritation quickly overwhelming any previous feelings of doubt. Then his name was uttered a third time, a label stuck at the end for no apparent reason -- Beck froze in place as realization more or less whacked him over the head. Fisher, that was really his last name? It sounded so plain and at the same time so precious to him. It was the missing half of his identity, a surname stolen from him by time and neglect. The mental barricade withholding his decaying memory was breached with only two syllables, leaking blurred feelings and colors of the past back into his lifeless brain and successfully dumbfounding him. A numb expression had been plastered over his face, unable to recover quick enough from his stunned state before Marco's mouth was running again. How did he know who he was? What was he supposed to do?

     His frigid apparition gave an unstable ripple as he struggled to process everything, bobbing his head up and down in a daze before frantically nodding along to his brother's rambling, yet his luminous eyes remained unfocused still. He plopped back onto his haunches, disfigured snout twitching as if searching for words to use with no luck. Did that mean he had been wrong about his brother's premature end for five centuries? His bony frame sagged at the thought of if he hadn't been so quick to abandon his corpse; he wouldn't have had to scrounge around in the streets, he wouldn't have had to kill anybody, he wouldn't have died. A bloodless lip trembled in shock, refusing to believe that an avoidable mistake sentenced him to death. "But -- but you died, I thought you died --" he stammered and trailed off into wheezy sniffles, failing to switch back to the language Marco could understand. But his entire world had just crumpled, an existential crisis was a far higher priority than switching in and out of languages on accident, or even registering the familiar dog watching from the bushes despite his ears swiveling out of reflex to pinpoint their voice.
set the phasers to rot; what has got you distraught?
it's negative attention at best, but call it nothing
maybe it's something, a little bit, a little bit - maybe it's something to do a little bit
​​​​​​​----------- poltergeist > tanglewood​​​​​​​ > chaser >info >@tricky ​​​​​​​-----------

 

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