Name - Elegua
Occupation - Santeria Priest (Cuban Voodoo)
I shake my machete at the moon, adorned with red and white feathers in honor of Ogun. I slice into the Roosters neck relieving it of its sins and cleansing my footsteps as I enter the house. Peering at the large door I open my flask of Aguardienté and take a spoon of honey. I swish this into my mouth and spit it onto the door in front of me. I enter the house now, confused but not scared at all. My feet still trailing the sacrificed blood into the house. I know once this dries Elegua will be summoned to my side, invisible to all but me and protecting me from the darkness. My pockets are full of sweets in order to keep the child Elegua on my side. I sit at the table, rolling my eyes into the back of my head and start to incant my Nigerian chant to protect me from anything dark and evil before further pursuing the certain evil that rests into this house.
Indicime querewa, Momi cido bacaryongo !!! Atere EMBARE ECUAY !! ECUAY, Asarori quiñango
Moferere Elegua !!
Moferere Chango ! Obatala, Ogun !! Yemaya.
Haunted Mansion Mafia Character Thread
In an attempt to forget his worries, Victor took another look at the guests seated around the table. Deciding he might as well be friendly with his new potential property owners, he clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and spoke in a somewhat false and cheery tone.
“Alright! Looks like we’re all roomies for the night. What do you say we go around the table and introduce ourselves?â€Â
/ooc Characters due April 4th at Midnight est.
Krassus
21 years ago
Aniyah
21 years ago
"It is ... interesting... to meet everyone."
Nodding to those around the time, Aniyah smiles and puts down her pen.
"My name is Aniyah Le'Marou. I am a freelance journalist and spend a lot of time doing research rather than writing."
Nodding to those around the time, Aniyah smiles and puts down her pen.
"My name is Aniyah Le'Marou. I am a freelance journalist and spend a lot of time doing research rather than writing."
Aramous
21 years ago
ANNNEEEEE AA. HI HOW ARE YOU !!!!
Aniyah
"It is ... interesting... to meet everyone."
Nodding to those around the time, Aniyah smiles and puts down her pen.
"My name is Aniyah Le'Marou. I am a freelance journalist and spend a lot of time doing research rather than writing."
ANNNEEEEE AA. HI HOW ARE YOU !!!!
Vulash
21 years ago
Dustin sat there listening, brows furrowed, as everyone else introduced themselves. It wasn't often he felt like the normal one of a group, but this was one crazy gathering. He wore dark sunglasses, odd for indoors, a long black leather trench coat despite the heat, and his fingernails were long, painted blood red, and cut to points. Everything he wore was black, including his freshly dyed hair.
When it came his turn he barely looked up, and spoke in little more then a deep whisper, "Sup, I'm Dustin. I'm uh currently a DJ at some local bars in my hometown. I tried starting a band, but that didn't work out for now. Oh and uh...I did some theatre in the past."
He went back into his own thoughts assuming the next person would pick up from there. He didn't care really. Stay the night here? Simple.
When it came his turn he barely looked up, and spoke in little more then a deep whisper, "Sup, I'm Dustin. I'm uh currently a DJ at some local bars in my hometown. I tried starting a band, but that didn't work out for now. Oh and uh...I did some theatre in the past."
He went back into his own thoughts assuming the next person would pick up from there. He didn't care really. Stay the night here? Simple.
Grimknot
21 years ago
Everyone looked up as a mid 30's man rushed into the room, papers and pens sticking out from every conceivable pocket. He was a portly man, balding, and already sweating from what had to of been a 20 foot dash from the front door. A few of the more prominent and popular members of the room sighed inwardly at seeing Danny Kincannon joining them this evening. The last person a media star wishes to see at what was suppose to be a "fun night out" is a reporter for the Enquirer, a national spoof magazine.
Danny Kincannon pushed the bridge of his bifocals back up his nose with an ink stained sausage of a forefinger and immediately began scribbling upon a notepad. The way his eyes shot from person to paper to person the casual observer could easily tell he was already canvasing the room and making notes for this story, for surely Enquiring minds would want to know what happened this night.
Danny Kincannon pushed the bridge of his bifocals back up his nose with an ink stained sausage of a forefinger and immediately began scribbling upon a notepad. The way his eyes shot from person to paper to person the casual observer could easily tell he was already canvasing the room and making notes for this story, for surely Enquiring minds would want to know what happened this night.
Slipnish
21 years ago
Looking up from his spot near the fireplace, the overly fed, and exquisitely clothed man cleared his throat. Once all eyes were on him, he began to pace back and forth along the end of the table, in a style long favored by lawyers of the past.
His suit was silk and expensive. No trade label here, definelty tailor made. Dark hair, combed straight back, ruddy face, and narrow eyes, started the tail of identity, but the diamond encruted, golden tie tack wrapped it up, and said it in technicolor shouts.
This was a man of Gawd!
After the third pass, he turned to the audience, who by now were sitting and watching expectantly.
"My name, is Bob Tilton. That's Reverend Bob Tilton, and I am here because I received one of those letters in the mail. I understood that some financial considerations could be the result of this meeting, and quite frankly, my ministry could use the money.
Do any of you know how expensive air time is on cable today? Anyone? I wouldn't expect you too."
His voice was southern, but beyond that, difficult to place. It was a nice voice, a Sunday voice. A voice that you could tell was used to being heard.
He smiled briefly, then took a step forward and raised a finger to the heavens, his plump body swelling with effort and concentration. Beneath his slicked back hair, his face contorted, and turned red, as the warm voice turned booming and commanding.
"Of course you don't! None of you would! I have seen many strange things in my days of ministering to the sick, to the elderly, and those in need, but NEVER, I say NEVER, have I seen anything like the heathen shennanigans, I have witnessed here tonight."
"Killing chickens! Pagan deities being invoked right here at the dinner table!?!" His horror clearly evident in his voice, Bob's face screwed up in a ricktus of righteous indignation, as he warmed up.
"Children let witness such things! Dear God, how can this be?!? How can you people let such things go on? I have come not to judge you, but to deliver you. I will not, CAN NOT let this monstrousness proceed, without my doing what I can to save you all from yourselves. Your souls are in danger, this child's soul is in danger!"
He pointed at the child, as sweat beaded on his jowly face and rolled slowly to the creases of fat around his collar.
"Jesus!" He shouted now, well into his routine. His audience, as ever, was rapt as he drew in another great breath. "I will not let them profane this child of God!"
And with the final exclamation, he flourished a gold Mont Blanc pen from his silken shirt pocket and signed the paper with exaggerated movements.
Pushing the paper across the table towards the lawyer, Bob sat heavily in one of the dinner chairs, clasped his hands and prayed.
"Dear Lord. Let these sinners see the error of their ways. Have them come unto you, free of their burdens of sin, inequity, and lust." Here he paused as he peeked to see if anyone responded at the last word.
"Let them see me, your child, as the light against the darkness, the lamp from under the bushel. Touch their hearts Lord, and show them that true salvation comes from supporting my ministry, and have them reach DEEEPP into their pockets Lord, for only you know the time and place of their demise.
Let the spirits of evil be cleansed from this place, and let the blessings of your hand fall on the righteous. I have no fear here, for I know thou art with me.
As is says in the book of Ruptures, Chapter 7, verses 1-6:
Yea though I walk in shadows, forever shall I strive for salvation. For though my pocket book seems filled with lint, I have but to touch thy followers to fill my coffers. Verily as I say unto you, "Is it not easier to push an ass through a needle, than a needle through an ass. Unless you have an eight foot needle handy. And a hammer."
Your will be done.
Amen."
His suit was silk and expensive. No trade label here, definelty tailor made. Dark hair, combed straight back, ruddy face, and narrow eyes, started the tail of identity, but the diamond encruted, golden tie tack wrapped it up, and said it in technicolor shouts.
This was a man of Gawd!
After the third pass, he turned to the audience, who by now were sitting and watching expectantly.
"My name, is Bob Tilton. That's Reverend Bob Tilton, and I am here because I received one of those letters in the mail. I understood that some financial considerations could be the result of this meeting, and quite frankly, my ministry could use the money.
Do any of you know how expensive air time is on cable today? Anyone? I wouldn't expect you too."
His voice was southern, but beyond that, difficult to place. It was a nice voice, a Sunday voice. A voice that you could tell was used to being heard.
He smiled briefly, then took a step forward and raised a finger to the heavens, his plump body swelling with effort and concentration. Beneath his slicked back hair, his face contorted, and turned red, as the warm voice turned booming and commanding.
"Of course you don't! None of you would! I have seen many strange things in my days of ministering to the sick, to the elderly, and those in need, but NEVER, I say NEVER, have I seen anything like the heathen shennanigans, I have witnessed here tonight."
"Killing chickens! Pagan deities being invoked right here at the dinner table!?!" His horror clearly evident in his voice, Bob's face screwed up in a ricktus of righteous indignation, as he warmed up.
"Children let witness such things! Dear God, how can this be?!? How can you people let such things go on? I have come not to judge you, but to deliver you. I will not, CAN NOT let this monstrousness proceed, without my doing what I can to save you all from yourselves. Your souls are in danger, this child's soul is in danger!"
He pointed at the child, as sweat beaded on his jowly face and rolled slowly to the creases of fat around his collar.
"Jesus!" He shouted now, well into his routine. His audience, as ever, was rapt as he drew in another great breath. "I will not let them profane this child of God!"
And with the final exclamation, he flourished a gold Mont Blanc pen from his silken shirt pocket and signed the paper with exaggerated movements.
Pushing the paper across the table towards the lawyer, Bob sat heavily in one of the dinner chairs, clasped his hands and prayed.
"Dear Lord. Let these sinners see the error of their ways. Have them come unto you, free of their burdens of sin, inequity, and lust." Here he paused as he peeked to see if anyone responded at the last word.
"Let them see me, your child, as the light against the darkness, the lamp from under the bushel. Touch their hearts Lord, and show them that true salvation comes from supporting my ministry, and have them reach DEEEPP into their pockets Lord, for only you know the time and place of their demise.
Let the spirits of evil be cleansed from this place, and let the blessings of your hand fall on the righteous. I have no fear here, for I know thou art with me.
As is says in the book of Ruptures, Chapter 7, verses 1-6:
Yea though I walk in shadows, forever shall I strive for salvation. For though my pocket book seems filled with lint, I have but to touch thy followers to fill my coffers. Verily as I say unto you, "Is it not easier to push an ass through a needle, than a needle through an ass. Unless you have an eight foot needle handy. And a hammer."
Your will be done.
Amen."
Jinheim
21 years ago
Name: Alexander Richards
Age: 34
Occupation: Bovine Artificial Inseminator
Alex slowly strode, bow-legged, up the long cobblestone path. He held an opened envelope with its mysterious invitation in one hand, and a half-finished Marlboro Red in the other. His thoughts plodded along slowly to the rhythmic tapping of his spurs hitting the stones of the walkway. He was one of the last few men in this great country that could still call himself a true cowboy, not like all those posers around Texas that thing a truck and a hat were all it took (although he owned both). Every day of his life, he'd done the same work: a man's work. It was an honest living, but he still felt that he had been born a century and a half too late.
He longed for the days when cowboys like him were the heroes of America, the ones that all the stories were written about. It wasn't that... glamorous, any more. Nowadays he felt obsolete and out of place in the modern world. Above all other things, he longed for one great adventure; one great story that he could tell for the rest of his life. This mansion was foreboding, and he was a long, long, long way from home. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, this would be the spot where he found his story.
He stepped up to the door and frowned at its ugly excuses for doorknobs. He himself had never been a big fan of gothic architecture, and definately found himself leaning towards more modern styles. The door swung open for him and a stuffily dressed, poorly muscled, short man greeted him from behind it and beckoned him to follow. Alex did, and stepped inside. The interior was even worse than outside! He had always been a big fan of high ceilings, but this was absurd! The whole point of tall ceilings was to have tall windows, thus letting in lots of sunlight. The neverending darkness above him made him feel as if he was trapped in a huge cave, and the eerie effect made his skin erupt in goosebumps. He looked down from the inky blackness and looked around his more immediate surroundings. The poeple who lived here had absolutely no taste at all. The furniture was all several decades out of style, the window treatments ran counter to everything he knew about window treatments (quite a bit!), and the whole feng shui of the place in general was just completely off. He couldn't even begin to comprehend how someone could live in this place with it in this condition. He suddenly longed for a chance to go wild in the place and redecorate!
His thoughts of cute rugs and pastel curtains were cut short, though, as he and his escort arrived at their destination: the dining room. For the first time since he set foot in the house, he was impressed. The massive dinner table was, in a word, fabulous. It was unfortunate that it was being watched over by that hideous, hideous painting with that ugly man on it. He then noticed that there were other guests around, seated at the table but mostly not talking. He smiled slightly as he took in the sight. It was a pretty much even split with about half of the guests being women, and the other half being men (several of them quite cute, too). He was guided to his chair by the host, and then left there without so much as a word. Alex leaned back in the chair and smirked as he waited.
......
After the awakening and announcements of the painting, everyone was silent and more than a little shaken. Alex barely had the presence of mind to remember the one personal item he had brought with him: He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and a small diary. He opened it to the first page, still blank, and began:
Dear Diary,
Here begins what I feel may be the great story of my life, and I write this down in case every other voice I have becomes lost to the world, in hopes that some day it might be found.
Yours Truly,
Alex Richards - The Last Gay Cowboy
Age: 34
Occupation: Bovine Artificial Inseminator
Alex slowly strode, bow-legged, up the long cobblestone path. He held an opened envelope with its mysterious invitation in one hand, and a half-finished Marlboro Red in the other. His thoughts plodded along slowly to the rhythmic tapping of his spurs hitting the stones of the walkway. He was one of the last few men in this great country that could still call himself a true cowboy, not like all those posers around Texas that thing a truck and a hat were all it took (although he owned both). Every day of his life, he'd done the same work: a man's work. It was an honest living, but he still felt that he had been born a century and a half too late.
He longed for the days when cowboys like him were the heroes of America, the ones that all the stories were written about. It wasn't that... glamorous, any more. Nowadays he felt obsolete and out of place in the modern world. Above all other things, he longed for one great adventure; one great story that he could tell for the rest of his life. This mansion was foreboding, and he was a long, long, long way from home. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, this would be the spot where he found his story.
He stepped up to the door and frowned at its ugly excuses for doorknobs. He himself had never been a big fan of gothic architecture, and definately found himself leaning towards more modern styles. The door swung open for him and a stuffily dressed, poorly muscled, short man greeted him from behind it and beckoned him to follow. Alex did, and stepped inside. The interior was even worse than outside! He had always been a big fan of high ceilings, but this was absurd! The whole point of tall ceilings was to have tall windows, thus letting in lots of sunlight. The neverending darkness above him made him feel as if he was trapped in a huge cave, and the eerie effect made his skin erupt in goosebumps. He looked down from the inky blackness and looked around his more immediate surroundings. The poeple who lived here had absolutely no taste at all. The furniture was all several decades out of style, the window treatments ran counter to everything he knew about window treatments (quite a bit!), and the whole feng shui of the place in general was just completely off. He couldn't even begin to comprehend how someone could live in this place with it in this condition. He suddenly longed for a chance to go wild in the place and redecorate!
His thoughts of cute rugs and pastel curtains were cut short, though, as he and his escort arrived at their destination: the dining room. For the first time since he set foot in the house, he was impressed. The massive dinner table was, in a word, fabulous. It was unfortunate that it was being watched over by that hideous, hideous painting with that ugly man on it. He then noticed that there were other guests around, seated at the table but mostly not talking. He smiled slightly as he took in the sight. It was a pretty much even split with about half of the guests being women, and the other half being men (several of them quite cute, too). He was guided to his chair by the host, and then left there without so much as a word. Alex leaned back in the chair and smirked as he waited.
......
After the awakening and announcements of the painting, everyone was silent and more than a little shaken. Alex barely had the presence of mind to remember the one personal item he had brought with him: He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and a small diary. He opened it to the first page, still blank, and began:
Dear Diary,
Here begins what I feel may be the great story of my life, and I write this down in case every other voice I have becomes lost to the world, in hopes that some day it might be found.
Yours Truly,
Alex Richards - The Last Gay Cowboy
notheory
21 years ago
<more to be inserted>
Geeii
21 years ago
A bit late with the official closing, but yeah, its closed guys...sorry if you missed it
And any <insert more here> characters need to be finished by tomorrow before the scene =P
And any <insert more here> characters need to be finished by tomorrow before the scene =P