forum One Upheaval After Another (Closed with phantomflame) (1/1)

Started March 07, 2023 by @RhysTheFirebird group

tune

I have no clue why I’m trying to start another RP when I’m on the cusp of going on about a one week break and being online will be unstable until next Monday— but I’m having to many good ideas!
Also, there are lists of the states that the government or group controls, so, pleas keep that in mind!

My idea is that the story takes place in a modern setting, probably America, and its a world full of drama. The twist is that the world is breaking, the states are falling apart and multiple governments are popping up everywhere. America has been split into four different regions: The Democratic-Republic(Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, and Oklahoma, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Kansas, New Mexico, Colorado and Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho), those who want America to become the 50 stares it once was; The 13 Stars (New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina), the people in the 13 original colonies, wanting them to be all America consists of ; The Anit-States (Texas, Alabama, Georgia, Luisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi and Florida), those who want nothing to do with states, and the borders of each plot of land is ruled by the family within it; The Scarlet Broches(Utah, Arizona, Nevada), those who want nothing but bloodshed and world domination and only ‘the purists’ those they call the pure human, to rule over the whole world.

Character A and B’s lives are thrown into upheaval at the eruption of a fifth government trying to take place along the west coast of America, covering all of what used to be California, Oregon and Washington. A group of people calling themselves the Olive’s. Short for Olive Branches, what they want is to shake the clutches of the four other governments, and return America to what the four father’s envisioned, but this bring attention to the small and peaceful town Character A lives in, quiet and hardworking people who want nothing to do with the warning outside the borders of their town. They dont question anyone who comes to stay at their hotels, they keep to themselves and don’t bother with the politics.

Character B, from the heart of the Scarlet Broches capital, has ran from a life of slavery, building the towering red skyscrapers, finding themself in the small town in which Character A lives in, and has inadvertently brought the wrath of the Scarlet Broches down on this small peaceful town. Because for some reason Character B is important to this group, and they want them back.

Does Character A decide to help B escape? Or hand them over? What is the reason B is so important, and why has this small town in what usuel to be north-west Oregon been left alone, unravaged by the other warring groups?

I have a few simple requirements:

• If you want to join this RP, please make sure replies are at least 100 words, 150-300 would be preferred and anything more is welcome. I just dont know if I’ll be able to reply with the same gusto if you go over about 400 words.
• If you know that your life is going to overtake you, or you simply need a break, please let me know, as I always try my best to do the âme for others.
• Please be kind outside of RP, inside, I don’t mind, as long as it doesn’t break andrew (Our Supreme Lord and Overseer)’s rules.
• I have no limitations on topic’s within RP, but if you have anything you’d prefer not to do, just let me know! I do not want to do anything to offend any possible RP partners, and I always try to make sure there are boundaries if they are needed.

It's probably not a good idea for me to join another roleplay, but this sounds super interesting and fun, and I would love to join if that's alright with you :)

Of course, its no problem

Idk if I said this, but I would prefer to be character B.

Also, here is the template:
Name:
Age: (preferably 17-23)
Gender:
Looks:
Personality:
Likes:
Dislikes:
Fears:
History:

Sounds good! I'll have my character up by tomorrow.

Ok, I'll get mine up soon as well

Also, do you want romance on this?
And if so, what do you want it, MxM, MxF or WxW?

I'm leaning towards MxM if that's alright with you

Of course! That's perfectly fine.

Name: Cyris Fiolyn
Age: 23
Gender: Male He/Him
Looks:
Hair) Flame red hair; A little shaggy and always in an unkempt style with the looks that he's always running his fingers through his hair.
Eyes) He has amber eyes, that seem to glow in the dark, like a felines.
Height) He stands at about 5'10"
Body Type) Lean body type and corded muscles.
Clothing) He usually wear dark fine clothes that are easy to move around in.
Identifiable Marks) He also has whip mark scars all over his back from punishments for running away.
Personality: His mind hearted interior has been scared due to his up bringing, so he tends to have a rough, jaded output. His tone almost always short and snapoy, he tends towards borderline offensive and he has a 'strike first as questions never' attitude. Inside he's kind, and is just super curious, and sometimes the curiosity can be seen when he starts asking lost of questions about things.
Likes: He loves reading and learning, but he does so in a physical maner, preferring to always be moving as well.
Dislikes: Cyris dislikes anyone tell g him what to do and when to do it, but he'll usually do it with out a fuss, but continually doing so will build his dislike for you until he eventually gets enough and the back lash can be dangerous.
Fears: Cyris is irrationally afraid of silence. The kind of silence with no background sound at all. If you put him in a sound proof room, he would have a full blown panic attack and do anything to get out.
Heights, especially man made heigts. He just feels super unstable, as if whatever he is standing on is going to colapse.
Hand to hand combat. Despite his intense trading and the fact he's one of the best at it, he despises seeing the pain on peoples faces and he does everything he can to avoid it. (Hence why he becomes an assassin)
History: Cyris was orphaned when he was just 2, and a guard on the Scarlet Broches found him in the fire that burned his parents home down. The guard, Captain Fioln, became his adoptive father, raising Cyris from the moment he could walk and hold things, to be silent on his feet, listen and be deadly. Cyris enjoyed his training and looked forward to it everyday. But along side the trading came schooling. This, Cyris resented with a burning passion, and would do anything to get out of them.
He quickly learned though, that Fioln was smart, and when Cyris got out of his studies, he made the boy miss training as well. So, Cyris learned to accept the evil and learned the content he was supposed to.
By the age of 13, Cyris was one of the best trains fighters, better than every boy his age and ahead of them by 3 years. This lead Cyris to be taken on as an assassin and body guard for on of the 'Selected' in the society when he was only 14. The boy could beat anyone in a straight out fight who was 18, and had been training just as long as he had. Despite his rigours training thiugh, he refused to do hand to hand, preferring the shadows and stealth of assassination. If you wanted someone dead, he would kill them, but every time you put him in the ring with someone, he would never be able to finish them.
After years of abuse and miss treatment from the person who had hired him, he decided to run away, oh to get caught, whipped and then sent back to work without a days rest for healing. Cyris ran away people times, only for the punishments to get worse. It eventually became clear, though he was fed well, clothed well and sheltered well, he was little more than a slave in his master's eyes.
All this leads up to him running away again to the small town, where the story starts.

Name: Oliver Brookes (goes by Oli or Olive)
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Looks: Shiny, wavy golden blond hair that falls around his neck, keeps it up in a messy bun most of the time. He has pale skin, with freckles splashed across his nose, cheeks, and arms, and he has kind forest-green eyes and a friendly smile that makes anyone who sees it feel safe and welcomed. He's 5'7", scrawny-looking, and his wardrobe consists solely of flannel of varying colors and jeans. He also has taken a strange liking to combat boots, for some reason.
Personality: Oliver is incredibly kind, compassionate, and loving. He's loyal to those he considers his friends, and he's very protective of those who are scared and/or need help. He has endless patience, and even though he isn't supposed to bother or pry at the people passing through the small town he lives in, he's very inquisitive, clever, and observant, and it's not uncommon for him to rant to his uncle about how unfair and screwed up the world has become. When he's angry or stressed, he runs his hands through his hair a lot and isolates himself because he normally tends to lash out at anyone who tries to confront him when he's vulnerable like that and gets too close.
Likes: Making people feel better even if it's only for a moment, baking, helping others, going on walks, drawing.
Dislikes: Seeing people abused, feeling helpless, showing vulnerability to others (he's used to being the strong, stable one and fears that if he shows a hint of weakness such as being scared, upset, or sad, then people won't trust him or think he's useful anymore) getting too attached to others, and pretty much anything and everything that's happening outside of his boring yet safe little town.
Fears: Oliver fears being alone, and/or the people he loves being taken away from him. Even though he's friendly with literally everyone, the only person he truly has grown an actual emotional bond and attachment to is his uncle. This also ties in a bit with his fear of commitment. He's also afraid of storms, even though he's never admitted this to anyone, even his uncle.
History: Oliver never knew his parents, and he's been raised by his uncle, Damien Brookes, his entire life. He works with his uncle in the town's (only) bakery, which also doubles as a refuge center for anyone passing through who can't afford or just doesn't feel safe at the hotels or the other nearby places to stay. Even though he wishes he can do more for the people who come through his town, he's content with the job and life he has and does whatever he can to make people feel safe, whether it's giving them a fresh, warm, free meal or simply being a companion to remind them that they aren't alone.

Cyris had ran again. It was his 283rd escape in the nine years he had been 'hired' by Silo, Master Silo, as he liked to be called. It hadn't taken long for Cyris to figure out that, though he was well fed, well clothed and sheltered comfortably, he was a slave for Silo. He was fourteen when his adoptive father, Captain Fioln, had sent him to work for the bastard.

Instead of getting paid money, he was told the privilege to live there was enough. Cyris instantly disliked Silo, and on purposely never looked at him. Until he was 15. Shortly after his fifteenth birthday, Cyris had made a run for it. Only to be caught, dragged back and whipped 10 times. Each time after that, the lashings increased by 10. So on his tenth escape, he received 100 lashings.

He knew he was an idiot, to still be making a run for it, especially with the 500 lashings he would get. He wondered why they stopped adding lashings at 500, and after a while, realized they didn't want to beat him to death. Their mistake. If they wanted him to stop running, they'd have to kill him.

He lived in the capital somewhere, his adoptive father told him, in what was once called Nevada. He was on the run towards north-west California, and he was just outside a small town. He wondered if he should go in, or go around it, as he knew the pursuers were hot on his tail. He shifts, pulling his hood up over his head and sighs, his hand resting at the gun on his hip, and behind it, the beautiful knife Fioln had sent him for his 16th birthday.

He's go in, he needed food anyways, and he could probably hide amoungst the other people. He jumped off the rock he was sitting on, his boots thumping onto the ground and walked into town, keeping the hood over his head.

Looking around, he saw a bakery and smiled slightly, wondering is the bread was any good. He walks inside, his steps silent. He found out that walking and making sound was difficult, and he prefer to be silent anyways. He looks around, making sure to keep his flat red hair hidden.

He was told his hair was the only thing keeping him alive, as well as his amber eyes. The perfect look for someone within the Scarlet Broches, but he wasn't 'perfect' enough to be his own person. With his pale skin not taking in the sun and he was too short for a male. He never understood that one, why the males had to be at least 6ft by maturity.

He walks up to the counter, silent and waits.

It was a safe thing to say that Oliver was exhausted. The largest group of refugees he had ever seen had come by the town he lived in a few days ago, and there were so many of them that the hotel down the road wasn't big enough to fit all of them without raising suspicion, so Oliver and his uncle, Damien, had agreed to take some of them in.

Oliver was used to people coming and going in his town, but lately, it seemed like more travelers were coming through, and each person had the same tired, wary, and scared look in their eyes, with this batch of travelers being the biggest of all, at least 30 people in total. The past few days have been filled with constantly running back and forth between the bakery and the hotel, carrying heavy pots stuffed to the brim with various, hot foods to the hungry and tired travelers. The palms of his hands were covered in burns and blisters which he covered up with some white gauze, but it did nothing to stop the constant stinging and stabs of pain he felt. His arms were sore and his legs felt like they would collapse at any given moment, but he stubbornly insisted on continuing to help, despite his uncle's protests for him to rest.

Oliver sighed as he hastily put his golden blond hair into a messy bun with the worn-out ponytail holder he's had for as long as he could remember. He had just left the hotel, helping out the last of the refugees and letting them continue on their way. He would've stayed to help clean up the rooms, but his uncle had forcefully kicked him out and ordered him to go back to the bakery, to clean up the kitchen if anything, since the older man knew his nephew wouldn't sleep willingly until his body physically shut down from exhaustion.

As he got closer to the bakery, he blinked in surprise when he saw the shadow of a figure already inside. He knew the schedule of the locals of the town like he knew the back of his hand, so this must be a new traveler. Oliver quickly smoothed down the faded forest green flannel he was wearing, brushed off some stray crumbs of bread on his jeans, and made sure his hair wouldn't fall out of his bun. He glanced at his reflection from the window of the shop right next to him, and besides his gauze-laced hands that still stung worse than a swarm of hornets, he was pleased that he looked somewhat presentable.

He walked into his bakery, the bell on the front door ringing pleasantly. The late morning sun shone through the windows, highlighting his blond hair and the freckles that were splashed over his face. He couldn't necessarily get a good look at the stranger, given that they were wearing a hood, so the only thing he could gauge from the newcomer was that they were a few inches taller than him. Oliver walked cautiously towards the person, not wanting to startle them; travelers were very jumpy these days. He remembered all too vividly the time someone pulled a knife on him because they thought he was trying to poison them, suspicious and hostile about the prospect of free food, the concept being too innocent and good to be true.

"Hello! I know I don't look like it, but I'm one of the co-owners of this bakery," Oliver said cheerfully, keeping a safe distance behind the stranger as he put on a genuinely friendly smile, despite his lack of sleep and the wariness he felt of the person he couldn't fully see. "I'm not sure when you came in, but sorry for the wait. How can I help you?"

Cyris had already begun turning around a few seconds before the bell over the door had rung. He looks the Other person over, taking in all the details. Gauze covered hands, slightly messy hair and he look haried, as if he'd been working none stop. Cyris forces a smile, even when all he wanted to do was take a shower and tend to the somewhat fresh lashings on his back. They were the remnants of the previous punishment bed gotten over 2 weeks ago, and the one right down the center of his back was the worst. He thought it might be trying to get infected, but he wasn't sure.

He tips his head slightly, pulling the hood lower, making sure his hair stayed buried in the shadows, "Just some water. And bread, please." His free hand was still resting on his him over the gun but he dropped his hand. He was fast enougb, if anything happened, the gun would be out before the boy intro t of him could do anything.

He doesn't look directly at the bly, instead bringing his amber gaze up to the right of the person in front of him. He knew the eyes were probably a dead giveaway of who, well, what he was. Except most people thought him one of the Selected in the dealer's society instead of a slave. And let alone the thought of a run away slave. The brutality of the society was well know and we'll spread across old America and even beyond.

"Of course!" Oliver replied, trying to meet the gaze of the traveler, but the hooded stranger refused to make eye contact with him. It wasn't the first time someone's chosen to be distant and untalkative and it certainly wouldn't be the last time, but Oliver couldn't help but feel a small pang of disappointment. He wasn't in any hurry to make friends, but it would've been nice to finally encounter someone who didn't seem closed off or hostile. "I'll go check in the kitchen and see if there's any left over."

He walked around the counter and disappeared into the kitchen. His smile immediately vanished into a grimace as he saw the state it was in; dirty pots and bowls were stacked in a large, overflowing pile in the sink that wouldn't be easy to clean up, and flour covered practically every crevice of the floor and mixing tables. He walked through the mess and went to the back of the room and sighed when he saw that there was no freshly made food whatsoever, only scattered ingredients.

He grabbed an unopened water bottle from the large fridge in the kitchen and walked back out, replacing his grimace with his signature welcoming smile, offering the drink to the person. "It hasn't been drugged, poisoned, or tampered with," Oliver said before the stranger could say anything, listing off all of the concerns and doubts that previous travelers have voiced in the past. "And as for the bread, I'll have to make some from scratch; we must've run out of freshly made batches last night."
He paused for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the traveler. "You're welcome to come in the back with me instead of standing out here if you'd like. I also have some spare clothes in the basement, and there's a bathroom upstairs if you need to use it." He held out his hand for the stranger to shake in an attempt to seem more harmless, bracing himself for the pain that would shoot up his hand if the traveler shook it. He made a point of not looking directly at the stranger's face, instead directing his gaze a bit over the other guy's shoulder. If he didn't like eye contact, then Oliver wouldn't try to make him uncomfortable. "I completely forgot to introduce myself, didn't I? I'm Oliver Brookes, but you can call me Oli."

Cyris watches the boy walk away, and then sighs, this town didn't do anythibg. It just sat there. And he was tired of killing. They wouldn't order him to kill the boy in front of him, would they? Fuck it, he looks at the boy, pushing the hood back slightly, staying tense, but letting the light hit his face. He still kept his hair covered though.

He takes the water a d looks at his hands, taking his wrist instead in a light grip that wouldn't hurt. "Your hands are ingured. You should find something to put on those burns. At least, I'm assuming they're burns." He hums, "Im. . ." He hesitates, debating whether it was a good idea to share his name. If they came looking for him here. . . He decides against it, "I can wait. It's no problem. And thanks for the offer of clothes, but I'm fine. Dirty as they are, they're comfortable."

Cyris looks over his shoulder, still tense, "Uh, I can go back though. I've seen all the peopme, and I'm sure it's a mess back there. You might become some help."

More work, but anything to stay out of sight. They'd expect him to not work. The pursuers ways think he's so entitled he can't get his hands dirty. He almost laughed at tbat, an assassin afraid to get dirty. He looks at Oli's face, letting his amber eyes be seen and noticed at he meets Oli's gaze and smiles.

Oli blinked in surprise as he stared up at the boy's startling amber eyes, and it took him a few moments to process what he had said.
"Oh, yeah, they're burns," he replied, glancing down at the wrist the stranger had gripped, softening a bit at the gesture to not hurt his hand. "But I'll be fine for a bit."

He noticed that the traveler was tense and glancing back, something that he had seen numerous times with other travelers over the years. He was on the run. That explained why he didn't tell Oli his name.
"Follow me," he said kindly, giving the stranger a reassuring smile. "Trust me, the people looking for you won't find you here. I'll make sure of that." It was a promise he'd given countless times to anyone and everyone who had come in with the same body language and look that the amber-eyed boy had, but for some reason, this time he felt like he would do everything he could to keep that promise. Of course, he didn't break his promise to the other travelers, but something about the boy before him seemed…different.

He led the boy to the kitchen, immediately gathering the ingredients he needed, and swept the extra flour off of one of the tables with his sleeve before rolling his sleeves up and finding a small, clean bowl that wouldn't be enough to make an entire batch, but it would definitely feed the boy.
"It'll take a little while, but trust me, this will be the best bread you've ever had," Oli grinned, beginning to make the bread. He had helped his uncle in the kitchen ever since he was five, and he had memorized all the recipes he was taught so well that he could make each and every one of them blindfolded if he had to.

He paused for a moment, glancing up at the amber-eyed boy who still hadn't taken off his hood. "I should've asked this before, do you have any allergies? I don't want you dying on me or anything."

Cyris shakes his head, "No. . ." He stayed tense, how long would he be able to evade the hunters? He was sure they would bring the bounds with them. Silo wasn't stupid enough to come after him without the highly traoned dogs. They'd catch his scent and then. . . He supposed as long as he didn't look at their faces, he could kill them. Silo wasn't stupid enough to send people Cyris hadn't even seen before, after all Silo knew his fears.

Cyris drops his hood a little more, trying to get some cool air to move through his hair without completely uncovering his head. He knew better than to just broadcast: 'Hey, I'm part of the bloodthirsty society that's trying to take over your land.' That didn't seem very nice. And he looked to much like the higher ups for anyone to know he was a slave. Even if he was on the run. Many high ups liked to run from time to time. Thrill of the chase.

He looks around, "Need any help cleaning? It's a pigsty in here."

Oli did need help cleaning up the disastrous kitchen, but there was no way in hell he was going to make a traveler do the work that he was supposed to do.

"No, it's all good," he lied, momentarily glancing up and tilting his head curiously. He could've sworn he saw a flash of red hair underneath the hood of the traveler, but he couldn't be sure. If the traveler did have red hair, then that'd be pretty cool. Oli had never seen anyone with a hair color other than brown, black, or like himself, blond. He didn't know anything about the politics or groups that went on outside of his town; if they didn't bother him, then he didn't bother with them. That was the motto that all the locals of the town went by.

After a few moments of silence, Oli tried to make some conversation while he made the bread. "Look, um, if you don't want to tell me your name, that's perfectly fine, but is there something that you like to go by that I can call you? If not, that's okay too, but I was just wondering."

Cyris raises an eyebrow and then walks to the sink, "Sure you don't need any help." Cyris would die if he had to stand and do nothing. He picks up a dish and then a sponge, turning the water on and then attacking the pot, his swift hands swiftly washing the dosh in record time.

Oli's next question put him off, he'd never been called anything other than boy, Cyris, slave or the like. He hesitates, "I prefer not to go by anything at all. The less a mark I leave behind, the less people who will get hurt." And indeed, the hunters knew when someone lied to their face, and this seemed like the kind of place to not talk.

He grabs more dishes, humming to himself. As he reaches for another one, the scabs on his back pull and break and he lets out a hiss as he feels the blood slow roll down his back.

He looks over his shoulder, "Do you know if you can make some for me to take with me? I'll be leaving once the breads done."

Oli sighed deeply when he heard the water from the sink start running, but there was nothing he could do since his hands were covered with dough. He placed the bread into a bowl and snatched a damp towel that was near the amber-eyed boy, placing it on top of the bowl before placing all of it into the oven, which he had set to be pre-heated a few minutes before.

He wiped his hands clean with an old rag that was lying on another table, wincing as his burns stung even more, and glanced sympathetically at the hooded stranger. At least, it was a sympathetic look until he heard a small hiss of pain from the boy, and he immediately frowned in concern.

He made his way to a cabinet across the room, grabbing the first aid kid that was always kept there before walking over behind the boy. He ignored the traveler's question until he was close enough, placing a gentle yet firm hand lightly onto the boy's shoulder. In hindsight, it was probably a very stupid move to make, given that Oli knew nothing about this guy, or if he had any weapons on him, but he wasn't going to let someone who was injured try to waltz out of his bakery without getting some medical attention.

"Actually, you're not going to be leaving once the bread is done," Oli said steadily, his voice leaving no room for argument. "What you're going to do is tell me where your injury, or injuries, are, and you will let me help you out, and once I think that you are healed enough, then I'll let you leave, and yes I will definitely make you more food to take on your way." He paused, wondering if anything he was saying or doing was a good idea at the moment, but he knew that if he faltered then he would be showing weakness, and that was never a good thing to do. "Are we clear on that?"

Cyris looks at him tensing more and ducks away from his touch, resisting the urge to pull out his knife, "I'm fine. I don't need medical help." He turns the water off, sighing softly.

he knew he needed help, and he would leave once the bread was dine, whether he got it or more afterwards. He needed to leave, before they caught him. "You're helping me, so I'm helping you. Nothing else. I can take care of myself."

He stares at Oli as he feels more blood grille down his back. No way in hell was he going to let a random stranger see the slab of sliced, cut and scard meat his back was. That would make him to vulnerable.

He sighs, turning back the the kitchen and grabbing a dirty rag and whipping it along the counters, pulling all the flour and other remnants of food into a pile before sweeping it into his hand. All this through the burning pain in his back and wincing with every movment.