So…
Miss Saigon type thing, probably, because I was thinking a war photographer falls in love with a local and we go from there.
My usual rules:
Boop
(Hello! I find this idea very interesting. Since we've never rolepayed before, do you need a sample of my writing?)
You know what, I've seen your writing around and I think it fits well!
Do you have a preference of character?
I'd like to be the photographer, if you don't mind
That works! I’ll just pull up a template then
I can get one, if you need me to
Hey sorry got carried away with homework
Would you mind actually? Sorry
Name:
Age:
Sexuality:
Hair color/length/style:
Eye color:
Height:
Skin tone:
Build:
Scars/Identifying marks:
Usual clothing:
Backstory:
Personality:
Other:
Name: Winston Locke
Age: 22 years old
Sexuality: Straight
Hair color/length/style: He has medium length light brown hair that he slicks back every morning with gel, but it will often begin to come undone by the end of the day and falls over his face. His jawline is almost always dusted with a thin covering of hair, despite the fact he shaves every morning.
Eye color: A dark brown
Height: 6'0" at most
Skin tone: A dark tan
Build: His body is toned, but not overly muscled.
Scars/Identifying marks: He has a tattoo of a hammer on his left shoulder.
Usual clothing: If he isn't in his military uniform, he typically wears a white tank top under an aviator jacket, with a pair of frayed and faded jeans and simple sneakers.
Backstory: Winston comes from a military family. His mother and father met in the Marine Corps, and his earliest memory was his father coming home in his uniform, a large smile on his face. He was a secluded and moody child, unable to cope with how much he moved around because of his parent's jobs. His mother contracted the breast cancer disease by the time he turned 16. Her last wish was for him to join the military, which he did so.
Personality: Lazy by nature, he's a laid back but pessimistic guy who always sees the glass half empty instead of half full. He has a bit of a potty mouth, but knows when to install the filter when the situation requires it. A wild one when drunk (which is often), he has a tendency to break things when alcohol begins flowing into his system. He covers up nervousness by jokes that are often self-deprecating.
Other: N/A
Name: Laila Rahman
Age: 19
Sexuality: Straight
Hair color/length/style: dark brown, uneven shoulder length, straight
Eye color: dark grey/brown
Height: 5’5
Skin tone: Dark olive
Build: clearly underweight, lean but not frail
Scars/Identifying marks: right arm, right side of chest and neck and part of her jaw are burned but scarred
Usual clothing: barefoot, tattered green t-shirt, dark grey cotton trousers, dirty black shawl that used to be her headscarf
Backstory: the war started when she was 10, and her father and 2 older brothers were drafted immediately. Only one of her brothers came home, then left again and never came back. Her mother and Laila, being the oldest left, took care of the three younger children, a boy and two girls. All five of them were able to stay in their home for a while, and then the bombings started and their entire neighbourhood was evacuated and brought to a refugee camp. Laila’s mother was shot trying to scavenge some food, when Laila was 14, and her youngest sibling, a sister, died of disease shortly after. Laila was left with one younger brother and her youngest sister.
Personality: She’s grown spiteful, protective, hardened, and emotionally repressed. Beneath all that she’s an extroverted and kind person, thoughtful and able to read a person’s emotions easily. She has no boundaries when it comes to putting other people before her, which leads to her being constantly physically and emotionally drained to a point where her behaviour gets extremely self-destructive. Despite that, she’ll be able to keep up an appearance for anyone and anytime without exception. She’s honest, but tactful. Her emotions are always incredibly strong and would be able to get the better of her, but she has very strong self-control.
Other: speaks a broken English taught to her by her mother
Be back in a few hours
Okay! So, do you want to start or can I?
Could you just set the scene? Typically that's all I need
Of course
When the small green plane was finally spotted in the smoky sky, it was to be the 6th bomb that day. No, not day— morning.
The streets were empty of people, but brimmed with debris. Buildings lined what was left of the roads, each one ripped open, spilling its cement guts onto the asphalt. The odd forgotten corpse sat rotting and staring wide-eyed at the desolate scenery around. Somewhere off the highway, a huddle of half-pitched tents and plastic tarps whipped back and forth in the grimy wind, revealing sleeping people and packs of supplies to the sky and the soldiers it contained.
Karim was still asleep, curled up on the ripped sleeping bag, breathing in time to the muffled shouts outside the plastic walls of the tent. His younger sister Iman sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with the hem of her shirt and humming to herself, her sunken eyes shut tight. Their older sister and caretaker, Laila, was the one shouting.
Dressed only in a torn green shirt and a pair of thick cotton joggings, she was stuck in a very vocal dispute with another woman who’d tried to steal a pair of child’s shoes left slightly too far outside the entrance of Laila’s tent for them to belong to her.
(Is that alright?)
(Yep)
"God…..damn," Winston mumbled as he poked his head out of the open helicopter door.Not that anyone could hear it. It was about 3000 feet off of the ground, staring down at the devastated city as the pilot searched for the landing zone.
He'd heard stories from his friends out here about how bad it was, but it never fully clicked until now. The huge craters where homes once were, the buildings that teeter-tottered with every explosion that struck the city…and the lack of people. A city that was once a million people strong was reduced to almost nothing. The U.S. military has fought for ownership of this city since the very beginning of the war.
"God damn," Winston repeated. It felt like it deserved more, but the words didn't come to his mouth.
The helicopter landed 5 minutes later, just outside of the refugee camp set up for whatever survivors there were of the first attack. Winston stepped out of the heli and threw a hands-up to the pilot in thanks. He checked the items on his body in this order: rifle, camera, pistol, camera, knife, camera, radio.
A stocky, bearded man approached the photographer, dressed in simple fatigues. A bloodstain near the collar showed that he'd been there for a while. But his welcoming smile poking out through his grizzled beard showed it hadn't taken his friendliness. Yet.
"Welcome to Camp Crater, Private!" the man said, offering his hand out. "I'm Lieutenant Michael Roberts, the CO of this camp. Heard you're here to take pictures!"
"I am, in fact!" Winston responded cheerfully, shaking the man's hand. And instantly regretting it. The guy's grip was like steel. "Mind posing?"
The Lieutenant smiled, but didn't strike a pose. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and started walking. "Take whatever pictures you like, son, but stay out of the way when the shooting starts."
Well, damn, Winston thought as he began walking through the rubble, occasionally taking pictures of the devastation and the corpses.
Laila stepped right up to the small woman and leaned in.
« Back away from my things and go back to your family. They need you more than a pair of shoes, » she hissed in Arabic.
The woman spat in her face and did as she was told, backing away and disappearing into the crowd.
Laila shook her head and let out a breath, letting herself hurt for just a moment. She hated the cruelty that had to come out at every turn in this place, and hated the person she was being forced to become. Turning to face her tent, however, she remembered why she was doing it.
Iman came crawling out, whimpering. Laila squared her shoulders and smiled down at the little girl, picking her up and holding her close.
« Let’s get you some food, » she murmured into her sister’s matted hair. She knelt in front of the tent, sitting Iman down in her lap, and started digging through the cardboard box that acted as their pantry. It held only a closed packet of crackers, two water bottles, a carrot and one portion of ground coffee that she’d won in a bet.
Laila pulled out the crackers and offered a couple to her sister, who took them in her grubby little hands and ate them little by little just like she’d been taught. While she ate, the eldest girl rocked her back and forth, humming quietly.