Post by veratiai on Aug 10, 2008 12:47:08 GMT
Username: Veratiai
How You Heard About Us: A neomail
Previous Roleplaying Experience: The Neoboards
Roleplay Example: This example, technically, is not of Medieval Fantasy. It was an introduction, or rather, part of one, for a Modern Narnia board...
"I once had an argument with a friend about the limit of what science can explain. In the end, we figured that everything that is explainable by science is not necessarily scientific, and things that aren’t explainable by science can sometimes be quite scientific. And then, there are some things which, wether scientific or not, are simply unexplainable, and if one tried to come up with a scientific explination of any kind, they would end up with a very long, very useless one that had nothing to do with the initial problem whatsoever.
One of these problems, if you would be so cynical as to call it a problem, begins half a century ago, with a small stich in time that never was, and never will be, explained by science. It was the least scientific thing in the world to happen, but still, some science applies to it. Science dictates that when a black hole is opened, and when it closes again, there will be some trace of it, however small. A scar on the face of time. And, if you found such a scar, with the right circumstances, you could open up the wound again, and there you go: a black hole. And, upon occasion, this black hole might lead back to a different time or place: rather, a repetition of the past. A loophole, if you will. Thus, the same logic applies to even the least logical of all happenings.
The scar is question happens to be a few sorry-looking planks of wood at the bottom of a junkyard in Leatherhead, Surrey. Once the boards had been a grand old apple tree, somewhere in London. Then, an even grander wardrobe, into which a little girl found something quite unusual a long time ago. But, everything has its time, and now the remnants are sitting in a miserable metal box under a heap of rotting driftwood from the drains at Hampton court. And so they would have remained there, was it not for one woman’s fascination in antiques. Strangely, it would be her daughter who would experience the unexplainable.
Susan Wilson was a lady who was renowned for being an avid collector of antiques, or rather, that was what she called them. Every other member of her immediate family knew it was a complete waste of time telling Susan that her precious “antiques” were really just junk. And they knew they would be in for a rough time if they mentioned their opinion. Susan’s flowery taste infiltrated every layer of the Wilson’s lifestyle, which was one of the reasons why the renovations were taking so long.
She sat at her desk, surrounded by an impenetrable clutter of her treasures, writing up more fancy labels for her collection of antiques. “Blue Crystals” and “Milk Jug Dolls” were completed, and many more were to come. Susan’s clothes were so frilly and so dusty, at that, that they were almost indistinguishable from the huddle of stuffy old antiques around her. Susan pushed her sparkly red Prada glasses a little further up her nose. They clashed horribly with her orange, curly locks that were perfectly styled into firm ringlets. Susan scowled at the ceiling above her as the drill started up again, making a horrible noise strikingly similar to nails on a blackboard. Her mind was so occupied of the vivid mental image of herself throwing the offending drill from the window that it completely passed her by that it had been, in fact, her idea to have the builders work on Saturdays. Nonetheless, her annoyance didn’t stop the unstoppable force that was Susan Wilson: one slender, smooth hand with gaudily painted nails reached for yet another label..."
How You Heard About Us: A neomail
Previous Roleplaying Experience: The Neoboards
Roleplay Example: This example, technically, is not of Medieval Fantasy. It was an introduction, or rather, part of one, for a Modern Narnia board...
"I once had an argument with a friend about the limit of what science can explain. In the end, we figured that everything that is explainable by science is not necessarily scientific, and things that aren’t explainable by science can sometimes be quite scientific. And then, there are some things which, wether scientific or not, are simply unexplainable, and if one tried to come up with a scientific explination of any kind, they would end up with a very long, very useless one that had nothing to do with the initial problem whatsoever.
One of these problems, if you would be so cynical as to call it a problem, begins half a century ago, with a small stich in time that never was, and never will be, explained by science. It was the least scientific thing in the world to happen, but still, some science applies to it. Science dictates that when a black hole is opened, and when it closes again, there will be some trace of it, however small. A scar on the face of time. And, if you found such a scar, with the right circumstances, you could open up the wound again, and there you go: a black hole. And, upon occasion, this black hole might lead back to a different time or place: rather, a repetition of the past. A loophole, if you will. Thus, the same logic applies to even the least logical of all happenings.
The scar is question happens to be a few sorry-looking planks of wood at the bottom of a junkyard in Leatherhead, Surrey. Once the boards had been a grand old apple tree, somewhere in London. Then, an even grander wardrobe, into which a little girl found something quite unusual a long time ago. But, everything has its time, and now the remnants are sitting in a miserable metal box under a heap of rotting driftwood from the drains at Hampton court. And so they would have remained there, was it not for one woman’s fascination in antiques. Strangely, it would be her daughter who would experience the unexplainable.
Susan Wilson was a lady who was renowned for being an avid collector of antiques, or rather, that was what she called them. Every other member of her immediate family knew it was a complete waste of time telling Susan that her precious “antiques” were really just junk. And they knew they would be in for a rough time if they mentioned their opinion. Susan’s flowery taste infiltrated every layer of the Wilson’s lifestyle, which was one of the reasons why the renovations were taking so long.
She sat at her desk, surrounded by an impenetrable clutter of her treasures, writing up more fancy labels for her collection of antiques. “Blue Crystals” and “Milk Jug Dolls” were completed, and many more were to come. Susan’s clothes were so frilly and so dusty, at that, that they were almost indistinguishable from the huddle of stuffy old antiques around her. Susan pushed her sparkly red Prada glasses a little further up her nose. They clashed horribly with her orange, curly locks that were perfectly styled into firm ringlets. Susan scowled at the ceiling above her as the drill started up again, making a horrible noise strikingly similar to nails on a blackboard. Her mind was so occupied of the vivid mental image of herself throwing the offending drill from the window that it completely passed her by that it had been, in fact, her idea to have the builders work on Saturdays. Nonetheless, her annoyance didn’t stop the unstoppable force that was Susan Wilson: one slender, smooth hand with gaudily painted nails reached for yet another label..."
