Post by "The Welsh Dragon" Dan White on Nov 9, 2012 21:10:02 GMT -4
OOC: This RP comes to 2000 words exactly in my version of Word, however on the boards it's slightly over, so please consider this version from the Word word count, as I struggled to cut it as it was.
************
Saturday 10th November, 2012
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Over the Ohio and Pennsylvania border, on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, the Steel City, something stirs in the woods. Quite why a large city would be the setting for a questionably illegal group meeting is unknown, like a secret Escaped Nazi War Criminal clan deciding that Tel Aviv is the best place to play poker and reminisce about Auschwitz, but I guess everybody has their own reasons for everything, so Pittsburgh it is.
So with that, our scene opens up. Two people, in their early to mid-twenties stand in the foyer of the Steel Plaza subway station of the city. The first, a tall, pale male with short brown hair, holds the handle of a small suitcase upright on its wheels. He wears jeans, a t-shirt and a half-zipped hoodie. Like any unemployed post-graduate that still lives at him at his age. The second person couldn’t be more different. Appearing as though she is from the Middle East or around that area, the female is about 5’4”, wearing a dark blue hijab and matching dress. She has dark hair, typical for somebody from that general area and a face glowing with beauty. She somewhat impatiently checks her watch, and as she lowers her arm, we see a familiar figure, although in not-so familiar surroundings or attitude. Irver Famori rocks up with his duffel bag, and appearing rather hot and sweaty as he approaches the duo.
As he reaches them, he drops his bag, sighing heavily before speaking in that thick Eastern European accent.
Famori: I don’t care what all the knowledge in the world can give you, I still fucking HATE public transport.
The trio laughs as the male extends and arm to Famori, who warmly takes it.
Famori: Selwyn, it’s good to see you my friend. It has been too long!
Selwyn: You too! And congratulations on your first win in your new wrestling company, we both watched it from a bar here!
Selwyn speaks with a broad Southern Welsh accent. Famori appreciates the kind words before hugging the female.
Famori: And Constantine, my old friend! It’s been what, a year?
He gives Constantine a strong hug, who shuts her eyes in happiness as she embraces it. The hug is released, and she speaks in a distinctive Turkish accent.
Constantine: 16 months, actually. I really can’t believe it’s been this long! I’ve heard though that you have been doing a lot of studying, and hopefully you’ll be able to elucidate us over a drink. Selwyn and I know a great bar a couple of blocks away, if you’re interested.
Another warm smile beams over Irver’s face.
Famori: Why wouldn’t I?
Famori puts his arm round Constantine as she leads the way, with Selwyn smiling as well and taking the handle of his suitcase, and pulling it behind the duo, as the camera quickly fades out.
*************
And we fade back in. The bar is fairly typical of your normal bar with diner-style tables cut through the middle of it, odd trinkets and memorabilia on the wall, and a jukebox in the corner. However it isn’t particularly busy, which is odd considering it’s a Saturday and by glancing out the window it clearly seems to be the evening.
Famori: So Baraziah told me that you’re unhappy with Elizah?
Constantine scowls as she hears that name, looking away in disgust. Famori raises his eyebrows as she turns back, giving her side of the story that was hinted at last week.
Constantine: It’s such a stupid thing. She knows fine well that I have my opinions and I don’t understand why she needs to belittle me all the time. She herself hates the current regime of her religion, so I don’t get why she always has to pick fights with me! Sometimes I really dislike being associated with her. Baraziah is no better either. I have complete respect for the man because of his help, but he has to get rid of all this “Elder” crap. Who cares if they’re older? We were all corrupted, altered, not just those three. Just because they have the advantage of age, it doesn’t mean they are wiser than us.
Irver and Selwyn almost look embarrassed to respond, in case the “Elders” somehow find out about this little meeting. But Selwyn decides to break the ice, attempting to calm his friend down.
Selwyn: You might be right, but they’ve been doing this stuff for a long time. We’ve been in the Reliquia Venatores for three years, yeah? They’ve been doing this for decades. Okay, maybe not Cromwell because of his previous alliances but they’ve been doing this game a lot longer than we have. We may have been aligned but we were without direction for such a long time before they came round! I mean, how long were we trying to make sense of our clouded ambitions before Baraziah and Elizah took us under our wing? It was ages. I remember the arguments, the fighting and the tears we used to Endure.
He looks up at Famori, brow raised.
Selwyn: …okay, maybe not the tears but certainly the other stuff. They took us under their wing, and sure we all got aligned together, but they knew what to do with their changes, and helped us with ours. Okay, Elizah may have very different conflicting religious views with you. She’s catholic and you hate religion, that’s fine, but can’t you just drop it? I mean Baraziah is a Jew by birth and Cromwell’s family were Stormtroopers and they get along! Hell, it was Baraziah himself who recruited Cromwell! Let it go!
Selwyn looks to have put his point across rather seriously, but Constantine looks rather annoyed at being told to suck it up. She looks over at Famori, who rolls his eyes.
Famori: Constantine. I’m all for religious debate but I’m not going to sit here and be preached at. All you’re doing is preaching the same hate Elizah does for other religions except her own, so just deal with it, okay?
Irver doesn’t sound happy at having a go at his friend, but he feels it’s for the best, as Constantine puts on her best “whatever” face. At that moment, the waitress arrives with their drinks. She places them down and Constantine gives the waitress her card, following that up with a large swig from the wine. Famori again raises a brow as she wipes any excess wine from her lips and shakes his head with a resigned smile, taking a dram of his own drink as there’s an awkward silence. But Constantine breaks the silence with a change of subject, and the three friends talk away, forgetting their discussion swiftly and speaking warmly with each other as the scene fades.
****************************
Sunday 11th November, 2012
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
What a difference a day makes.
24 hours ago, Irver Famori was enjoying a drink and a catch up with old friends. A day on, and he finds himself in a similar grungy little hotel room to the one he ended up in last week in Youngstown, Ohio. Grungier, perhaps. Stained tiles in the bathroom, a coin operated television that’s about three feet in depth it’s that old, and curtains so pale that there’s perpetual light, be it from the sun or from the streetlights outside. It’s grim.
This scene opens up with Famori having just entered his room. He’s a far cry from the man we saw last night having a good time, with a hood over his head and a leather jacket on. He tosses his duffel bag onto the bed and a small layer of dust flies up into the atmosphere upon impact. Famori ignores this all, unzipping a small pocket on the side of the bag, taking out some documents. The lighting in the room is poor but on separate sheets of paper reads “Sons of the South” on one, and “Casper Grey” on the other. He chucks the Knuckles document on the bed, focusing carefully on the Grey one.
Famori: So last week I warned you about this man. I warned you about his lack of ambition and his complete self-righteous decision to waltz into our games and assume that he’s king. He came here without a care, or a responsibility, and thought that he could buy his way to the top. Well Mr. Grey, it turns out that money can’t buy talent, can it? You can have all the top “trainers” in the world, all the equipment, all the drugs, and it what has it left YOU with? Heh, it’s left you with fuck all, my friend. Anything you had when you came into this company was gone in a matter of a couple of sorry minutes, wasn’t it? It must have hurt your pride, being shunted around like that for those one hundred and twenty precious seconds.
I could have fucking MURDERED you in that ring last week, Mr. Grey. The only thing that failed me from doing so was that carrying around your limp body made me feel like the job was already done. A pathetic excuse of a human being, and one of life’s greatest atrocities, masquerading around like you’ve done a single iota of difference to this planet. You offered me not one bit of offense. It was a waste of my time and a waste of everybody else’s time. I couldn’t actually give much of a fuck what the crowd thinks but they do not deserve their time wasted like that. Nobody does. Never have I been so embarrassed to win a match; that says it all. You were a humiliation and no more of you ever has to be spoken in this company ever again. Done. Kalas.
Famori quite angrily scrunches up the Casper Grey document, and tosses it to the side. His head facing down, he allows thoughts to rush through his head before picking up the “Sons of the South” document, and he lets out a sarcastic chuckle as he focuses on his opponents.
Famori: And here…here, we have the epitome of America. Heheh. This, Americans, is your typical human. Disgusting, isn’t it? Overweight, over-indulgent. Pigs. And they have the audacity to call me out on my beliefs? You don’t understand my ways. I get that, that happens a lot. But to compare me to silly little fucking children is completely out of the question. I’m not having that, I’m afraid. You have absolutely NO idea what we do, and you are in NO way allowed to comment on it. Not a chance. I’m not going to call you backwater or redneck, but I feel I’m in a situation where I can call you stupid and ignorant. Don’t try and speak words you don’t understand, because you’ll end up feeling pretty stupid when the jaw it comes from is backwards.
Perhaps not the most cultured words by Famori, his English becoming slightly blurred as he spits out his response, but he isn’t particularly pleased at the comments made by the team.
Famori: I don’t care what Knuckles does to you. That is his business and he can fight you however he wants. But this tournament…I wouldn’t particularly care about the result. If you’re going to be so ignorant and conform to your stupid stereotype then you deserve to be made an example of. I dragged Mr. Grey around that ring last week and he has not been seen since. I may need some form of equipment to drag Mr. Gooch’s pathetic body around this ring but he deserves PUNISHMENT. I know this kind of person, and I know the kind of pain that ought to be dished out. That is my testament…
That sinister grin glows again across his faces as the camera slowly fades out.
We’ve seen two faces of Famori now. Which one will turn up on Meltdown? And will he be advancing to the second stage of the tournament? We’ll have to wait and see…
************
Saturday 10th November, 2012
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Over the Ohio and Pennsylvania border, on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, the Steel City, something stirs in the woods. Quite why a large city would be the setting for a questionably illegal group meeting is unknown, like a secret Escaped Nazi War Criminal clan deciding that Tel Aviv is the best place to play poker and reminisce about Auschwitz, but I guess everybody has their own reasons for everything, so Pittsburgh it is.
So with that, our scene opens up. Two people, in their early to mid-twenties stand in the foyer of the Steel Plaza subway station of the city. The first, a tall, pale male with short brown hair, holds the handle of a small suitcase upright on its wheels. He wears jeans, a t-shirt and a half-zipped hoodie. Like any unemployed post-graduate that still lives at him at his age. The second person couldn’t be more different. Appearing as though she is from the Middle East or around that area, the female is about 5’4”, wearing a dark blue hijab and matching dress. She has dark hair, typical for somebody from that general area and a face glowing with beauty. She somewhat impatiently checks her watch, and as she lowers her arm, we see a familiar figure, although in not-so familiar surroundings or attitude. Irver Famori rocks up with his duffel bag, and appearing rather hot and sweaty as he approaches the duo.
As he reaches them, he drops his bag, sighing heavily before speaking in that thick Eastern European accent.
Famori: I don’t care what all the knowledge in the world can give you, I still fucking HATE public transport.
The trio laughs as the male extends and arm to Famori, who warmly takes it.
Famori: Selwyn, it’s good to see you my friend. It has been too long!
Selwyn: You too! And congratulations on your first win in your new wrestling company, we both watched it from a bar here!
Selwyn speaks with a broad Southern Welsh accent. Famori appreciates the kind words before hugging the female.
Famori: And Constantine, my old friend! It’s been what, a year?
He gives Constantine a strong hug, who shuts her eyes in happiness as she embraces it. The hug is released, and she speaks in a distinctive Turkish accent.
Constantine: 16 months, actually. I really can’t believe it’s been this long! I’ve heard though that you have been doing a lot of studying, and hopefully you’ll be able to elucidate us over a drink. Selwyn and I know a great bar a couple of blocks away, if you’re interested.
Another warm smile beams over Irver’s face.
Famori: Why wouldn’t I?
Famori puts his arm round Constantine as she leads the way, with Selwyn smiling as well and taking the handle of his suitcase, and pulling it behind the duo, as the camera quickly fades out.
*************
And we fade back in. The bar is fairly typical of your normal bar with diner-style tables cut through the middle of it, odd trinkets and memorabilia on the wall, and a jukebox in the corner. However it isn’t particularly busy, which is odd considering it’s a Saturday and by glancing out the window it clearly seems to be the evening.
Famori: So Baraziah told me that you’re unhappy with Elizah?
Constantine scowls as she hears that name, looking away in disgust. Famori raises his eyebrows as she turns back, giving her side of the story that was hinted at last week.
Constantine: It’s such a stupid thing. She knows fine well that I have my opinions and I don’t understand why she needs to belittle me all the time. She herself hates the current regime of her religion, so I don’t get why she always has to pick fights with me! Sometimes I really dislike being associated with her. Baraziah is no better either. I have complete respect for the man because of his help, but he has to get rid of all this “Elder” crap. Who cares if they’re older? We were all corrupted, altered, not just those three. Just because they have the advantage of age, it doesn’t mean they are wiser than us.
Irver and Selwyn almost look embarrassed to respond, in case the “Elders” somehow find out about this little meeting. But Selwyn decides to break the ice, attempting to calm his friend down.
Selwyn: You might be right, but they’ve been doing this stuff for a long time. We’ve been in the Reliquia Venatores for three years, yeah? They’ve been doing this for decades. Okay, maybe not Cromwell because of his previous alliances but they’ve been doing this game a lot longer than we have. We may have been aligned but we were without direction for such a long time before they came round! I mean, how long were we trying to make sense of our clouded ambitions before Baraziah and Elizah took us under our wing? It was ages. I remember the arguments, the fighting and the tears we used to Endure.
He looks up at Famori, brow raised.
Selwyn: …okay, maybe not the tears but certainly the other stuff. They took us under their wing, and sure we all got aligned together, but they knew what to do with their changes, and helped us with ours. Okay, Elizah may have very different conflicting religious views with you. She’s catholic and you hate religion, that’s fine, but can’t you just drop it? I mean Baraziah is a Jew by birth and Cromwell’s family were Stormtroopers and they get along! Hell, it was Baraziah himself who recruited Cromwell! Let it go!
Selwyn looks to have put his point across rather seriously, but Constantine looks rather annoyed at being told to suck it up. She looks over at Famori, who rolls his eyes.
Famori: Constantine. I’m all for religious debate but I’m not going to sit here and be preached at. All you’re doing is preaching the same hate Elizah does for other religions except her own, so just deal with it, okay?
Irver doesn’t sound happy at having a go at his friend, but he feels it’s for the best, as Constantine puts on her best “whatever” face. At that moment, the waitress arrives with their drinks. She places them down and Constantine gives the waitress her card, following that up with a large swig from the wine. Famori again raises a brow as she wipes any excess wine from her lips and shakes his head with a resigned smile, taking a dram of his own drink as there’s an awkward silence. But Constantine breaks the silence with a change of subject, and the three friends talk away, forgetting their discussion swiftly and speaking warmly with each other as the scene fades.
****************************
Sunday 11th November, 2012
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
What a difference a day makes.
24 hours ago, Irver Famori was enjoying a drink and a catch up with old friends. A day on, and he finds himself in a similar grungy little hotel room to the one he ended up in last week in Youngstown, Ohio. Grungier, perhaps. Stained tiles in the bathroom, a coin operated television that’s about three feet in depth it’s that old, and curtains so pale that there’s perpetual light, be it from the sun or from the streetlights outside. It’s grim.
This scene opens up with Famori having just entered his room. He’s a far cry from the man we saw last night having a good time, with a hood over his head and a leather jacket on. He tosses his duffel bag onto the bed and a small layer of dust flies up into the atmosphere upon impact. Famori ignores this all, unzipping a small pocket on the side of the bag, taking out some documents. The lighting in the room is poor but on separate sheets of paper reads “Sons of the South” on one, and “Casper Grey” on the other. He chucks the Knuckles document on the bed, focusing carefully on the Grey one.
Famori: So last week I warned you about this man. I warned you about his lack of ambition and his complete self-righteous decision to waltz into our games and assume that he’s king. He came here without a care, or a responsibility, and thought that he could buy his way to the top. Well Mr. Grey, it turns out that money can’t buy talent, can it? You can have all the top “trainers” in the world, all the equipment, all the drugs, and it what has it left YOU with? Heh, it’s left you with fuck all, my friend. Anything you had when you came into this company was gone in a matter of a couple of sorry minutes, wasn’t it? It must have hurt your pride, being shunted around like that for those one hundred and twenty precious seconds.
I could have fucking MURDERED you in that ring last week, Mr. Grey. The only thing that failed me from doing so was that carrying around your limp body made me feel like the job was already done. A pathetic excuse of a human being, and one of life’s greatest atrocities, masquerading around like you’ve done a single iota of difference to this planet. You offered me not one bit of offense. It was a waste of my time and a waste of everybody else’s time. I couldn’t actually give much of a fuck what the crowd thinks but they do not deserve their time wasted like that. Nobody does. Never have I been so embarrassed to win a match; that says it all. You were a humiliation and no more of you ever has to be spoken in this company ever again. Done. Kalas.
Famori quite angrily scrunches up the Casper Grey document, and tosses it to the side. His head facing down, he allows thoughts to rush through his head before picking up the “Sons of the South” document, and he lets out a sarcastic chuckle as he focuses on his opponents.
Famori: And here…here, we have the epitome of America. Heheh. This, Americans, is your typical human. Disgusting, isn’t it? Overweight, over-indulgent. Pigs. And they have the audacity to call me out on my beliefs? You don’t understand my ways. I get that, that happens a lot. But to compare me to silly little fucking children is completely out of the question. I’m not having that, I’m afraid. You have absolutely NO idea what we do, and you are in NO way allowed to comment on it. Not a chance. I’m not going to call you backwater or redneck, but I feel I’m in a situation where I can call you stupid and ignorant. Don’t try and speak words you don’t understand, because you’ll end up feeling pretty stupid when the jaw it comes from is backwards.
Perhaps not the most cultured words by Famori, his English becoming slightly blurred as he spits out his response, but he isn’t particularly pleased at the comments made by the team.
Famori: I don’t care what Knuckles does to you. That is his business and he can fight you however he wants. But this tournament…I wouldn’t particularly care about the result. If you’re going to be so ignorant and conform to your stupid stereotype then you deserve to be made an example of. I dragged Mr. Grey around that ring last week and he has not been seen since. I may need some form of equipment to drag Mr. Gooch’s pathetic body around this ring but he deserves PUNISHMENT. I know this kind of person, and I know the kind of pain that ought to be dished out. That is my testament…
That sinister grin glows again across his faces as the camera slowly fades out.
We’ve seen two faces of Famori now. Which one will turn up on Meltdown? And will he be advancing to the second stage of the tournament? We’ll have to wait and see…
