Post by chaoticdiversity on Jul 15, 2016 21:14:54 GMT
Name: Ren T. Busen
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 220 lbs
Hair color: Ash brown
Eyes: Hazel
No scars or tattoos
Personal Information (Will be filled in as revealed)
Profession(s)/Talent(s): Illustration/Artistry (1 of ?)
Weakness: (7 of ?)
Addictions (2 of ?):
Limitations (2 of ?)
Personality (3 of ?)
Strengths: (4 of ?)
Mental (2 of ?)
Introduction
Peeking out from over the edge of the body pillow, the scintillating colors helped offer a soothing balm for the weary, bloodshot eye. It was a rather flighty idea, but who would have thought that such a simple, tinkered garden ornament could offer a few moments of respite, especially during the warmer months.
As the colors shifted through a pre-programmed spectrum full of blue, green, red, and orange tones, projected through a cracked-glass dome and unto the far corners of the room, the oscillating, pale light leisurely spun on a fixed axis, giving the colors a living sense of nocturnal playfulness. Tilting his head to take in a greater view of the room, the tones evoked a sense of changing landscapes upon the walls. The blue merging into orange told of Sidhe walking an open Celtic landscape dotted with archaic castles, traveling unopposed at night, undeterred, and blind to all but their most ominous missions, while Seelie mischievously teased those humans unfortunate enough to be within their grasp. And as the greens took over the room in their subtle wash, the landscape turned into a temperate jungle, choked with verdant greenery hiding the most beautiful, yet deadly, that nature could muster. Running through jungle vines and leaves without disturbing a single leaf, unhampered as arrows permanently in flight, were Aztec Jaguar warriors, fearless assassins set upon prey who would never manage to release them from their trail. And as the colors shifted between the varied tones, for brief a moment, Dulahan and Jaguar approached one another. A headless, silent banshee with her severed head cradled in her arm, facing down, in an ironic manner, the unrelenting murder born from a militant civilization awash in generations of blood and warfare. And a smile crept unto the corner of his lips.
Somehow, the sentiment, a respect for one another’s prowess, would allow for a mutual understanding between combatants from different worlds and philosophies.
An understanding between reality and fantasy, death and life, overwhelming inevitability and compassion played out for a moment, then fading as the colors rotated through other underlying tones and exposing the original appearance of the room. As the smile deepened slightly, he couldn’t help but feel that he was so full of shit, snickering, but it was an intriguing thought of ‘what if?’
The question wasn’t “who would win,” insomuch as “would they understand one another?” Colors flowed continuously over the room as sleep crept quietly back into his eyes, head falling back down tenderly into the pillow.
A sigh escaped as he turned upon his side, back plainly facing the blade-less fan set halfway across the room, an attempt to cool off. The month had been unseasonably warm.
Twisting around, he oriented himself towards the ceiling, hoping some of the fan's air bouncing off the nearest wall would flow back over his face and chest, providing some comfort. Sleep quickly overtook any discomfort as his eyes closed unexpectedly.
Bolting on the corner of the bed, like a released spring, he stretched his back, clenched fists reaching for the ceiling. Anger overflowed savagely into, and then much more slowly, out of his muscles, the tension bleeding away as he tried his desperate best to reign in the cooped up irritation. His eyes, deprived of peace and hungry for sleep, looked upon the shifting light source. Though mostly closed and swollen, his eyes begged the small, color-shifting globe for a measure of rest. An hour, perhaps two.
The modified lawn ornament only answered with its pleasant hues.
Quieter than a tombstone sitting in an abandoned cemetery, and nearly just as physically mobile, he slowly reached over to the night desk’s drawer, shaking fingers pulling upon the handle gently. He suddenly stopped. Irritated and painfully tearing, he turned his eyes towards the small digital clock on the desk's top. It was much too late for any more of the medication, and unfortunately, dangerously close to going over the safe dose. Though that risk had been superseded weeks back, when he started taking nearly double the dose just to nap for a few hours. No sense in pushing the envelope...too badly.
As the room kept changing color, he sat for what seemed an eternity, shoulders stooped, breathing shallow but rhythmic enough to indicate that life was still with him. With an even slower movement of his torso, he leaned over to his side, right hand reaching for a space between the bed and the night desk.
The bottle clinked loudly against the metal frame of the bed, almost as if cracking open, but he continued undeterred, spinning the lid and dropping it to the ground, letting it roll away into the darkness hovering near the floor but away from the soft lighting of the globe. The lid's rattle disappeared after a few seconds. Taking a healthy, desperate swig, he remembered how he found the bottle stowed away in the ventilation system, a stash hidden away for emergencies, though that was done roughly five years ago.
Pulling the lip of the bottle away from his mouth, a few drops rolled down from his lower lip, unto his chin, and off into the air, eventually landing onto his t-shirt and bed sheet.
The red of the room’s light flowed into the clarity of the liquid, giving it a pleasant, soft purplish hue. The tone intrigued him. Almost like a very pale lavender, a sea of waves inside a bottle, trapped by glass, swishing back and forth, brought on by the gentle shaking of his hand.
The color would have been nicer if more of it were present. There was perhaps a finger’s worth left, may be two. Sadly, he found the bottle only four days ago.
While staring at it, a gentle whisper rang out from his side. A tender, motherly comment, though judgmental in form, it was undeniably a voice ethereal in nature, seemingly infused throughout the room itself.
Not taking his eyes off the bottle, he gave it a long, desirous look, moving only enough to stretch out his free hand, open his palm, and extend his fingers. Struggling to coordinate his digits, he finally settled on fully extending his ring finger in a sleepy, yet pronounced, stance of defiance. Though he initially seemed uncertain on his digit selection, he finally threw his head back to drain the last of the bottle’s content, and the voice produced a soft sigh, followed by a gentle reminding proclamation…
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 220 lbs
Hair color: Ash brown
Eyes: Hazel
No scars or tattoos
Personal Information (Will be filled in as revealed)
Profession(s)/Talent(s): Illustration/Artistry (1 of ?)
Weakness: (7 of ?)
Addictions (2 of ?):
- Alcohol - Tequila
- Medications - Sleeping Pills
Limitations (2 of ?)
- Mental - Chronic Insomnia
- Mental - Hallucinations
Personality (3 of ?)
- Low Patience
- Pronounced Dislike: ?
- Sudden Aggressiveness
Strengths: (4 of ?)
Mental (2 of ?)
- Hyperactive thought
- Extensive knowledge of fields: Art/?
Personality (2 of ?)
- High level of Persistence
- Highly Creative
Introduction
Peeking out from over the edge of the body pillow, the scintillating colors helped offer a soothing balm for the weary, bloodshot eye. It was a rather flighty idea, but who would have thought that such a simple, tinkered garden ornament could offer a few moments of respite, especially during the warmer months.
As the colors shifted through a pre-programmed spectrum full of blue, green, red, and orange tones, projected through a cracked-glass dome and unto the far corners of the room, the oscillating, pale light leisurely spun on a fixed axis, giving the colors a living sense of nocturnal playfulness. Tilting his head to take in a greater view of the room, the tones evoked a sense of changing landscapes upon the walls. The blue merging into orange told of Sidhe walking an open Celtic landscape dotted with archaic castles, traveling unopposed at night, undeterred, and blind to all but their most ominous missions, while Seelie mischievously teased those humans unfortunate enough to be within their grasp. And as the greens took over the room in their subtle wash, the landscape turned into a temperate jungle, choked with verdant greenery hiding the most beautiful, yet deadly, that nature could muster. Running through jungle vines and leaves without disturbing a single leaf, unhampered as arrows permanently in flight, were Aztec Jaguar warriors, fearless assassins set upon prey who would never manage to release them from their trail. And as the colors shifted between the varied tones, for brief a moment, Dulahan and Jaguar approached one another. A headless, silent banshee with her severed head cradled in her arm, facing down, in an ironic manner, the unrelenting murder born from a militant civilization awash in generations of blood and warfare. And a smile crept unto the corner of his lips.
Somehow, the sentiment, a respect for one another’s prowess, would allow for a mutual understanding between combatants from different worlds and philosophies.
An understanding between reality and fantasy, death and life, overwhelming inevitability and compassion played out for a moment, then fading as the colors rotated through other underlying tones and exposing the original appearance of the room. As the smile deepened slightly, he couldn’t help but feel that he was so full of shit, snickering, but it was an intriguing thought of ‘what if?’
The question wasn’t “who would win,” insomuch as “would they understand one another?” Colors flowed continuously over the room as sleep crept quietly back into his eyes, head falling back down tenderly into the pillow.
Flashes break the darkness of a sleeping mind. Mental circuit board-like patterns unfold into presence, addressed and staged in numerous tiers intersecting into a common meeting point, a sphere with cutout apertures receiving from thousands of inputs. Movement on the circuits fed into the sphere, a ravenous entity situated in the center of the mindscape, burning as an unbridled star. As the process speeds up, the circuits transformed into a computational hierarchy, numerous directories opening and closing as unknown information flows in diverse directions, the centralized sphere shrinking in size. Within moments, the directories darkened and merged together, flowing like liquid plastic, forming finger-like tendrils extended outward and upward, populated by tiny motes of lights that suddenly appeared throughout. The emerging representation of galaxies birthing stars and planets was nearly overwhelming, especially since that images was almost immediately shifted into the the view of a scene populated with hyperactive neurons, synapses firing repeatedly, electrical signals like miniature lightning bolts heading back into a glowing, centralized brain-shaped mass.
A sigh escaped as he turned upon his side, back plainly facing the blade-less fan set halfway across the room, an attempt to cool off. The month had been unseasonably warm.
…simulation theory compressed into calabi-yau manifolds may allow for expressed partial commands executed at needed points in spatial orientation, upon demand, for a system gearing away from systemic entropy in a supergravity locale, excluding perhaps supersymetry in all circumstances…
Twisting around, he oriented himself towards the ceiling, hoping some of the fan's air bouncing off the nearest wall would flow back over his face and chest, providing some comfort. Sleep quickly overtook any discomfort as his eyes closed unexpectedly.
The representation of a galaxy birthing stars came sharply into view once more, circuit-like designs formed from remnant star dust. Numerous celestial bodies waxed and waned, and the impression of ‘invisible matter’ began to crowd the mental scene.
…supermassive interstellar black holes produce breakdown of physical laws at singularity, allowing potential space full of proto-matter…Higgs field cou-…
Bolting on the corner of the bed, like a released spring, he stretched his back, clenched fists reaching for the ceiling. Anger overflowed savagely into, and then much more slowly, out of his muscles, the tension bleeding away as he tried his desperate best to reign in the cooped up irritation. His eyes, deprived of peace and hungry for sleep, looked upon the shifting light source. Though mostly closed and swollen, his eyes begged the small, color-shifting globe for a measure of rest. An hour, perhaps two.
The modified lawn ornament only answered with its pleasant hues.
…just three. Three hours…please…please…
Quieter than a tombstone sitting in an abandoned cemetery, and nearly just as physically mobile, he slowly reached over to the night desk’s drawer, shaking fingers pulling upon the handle gently. He suddenly stopped. Irritated and painfully tearing, he turned his eyes towards the small digital clock on the desk's top. It was much too late for any more of the medication, and unfortunately, dangerously close to going over the safe dose. Though that risk had been superseded weeks back, when he started taking nearly double the dose just to nap for a few hours. No sense in pushing the envelope...too badly.
As the room kept changing color, he sat for what seemed an eternity, shoulders stooped, breathing shallow but rhythmic enough to indicate that life was still with him. With an even slower movement of his torso, he leaned over to his side, right hand reaching for a space between the bed and the night desk.
The bottle clinked loudly against the metal frame of the bed, almost as if cracking open, but he continued undeterred, spinning the lid and dropping it to the ground, letting it roll away into the darkness hovering near the floor but away from the soft lighting of the globe. The lid's rattle disappeared after a few seconds. Taking a healthy, desperate swig, he remembered how he found the bottle stowed away in the ventilation system, a stash hidden away for emergencies, though that was done roughly five years ago.
Pulling the lip of the bottle away from his mouth, a few drops rolled down from his lower lip, unto his chin, and off into the air, eventually landing onto his t-shirt and bed sheet.
The red of the room’s light flowed into the clarity of the liquid, giving it a pleasant, soft purplish hue. The tone intrigued him. Almost like a very pale lavender, a sea of waves inside a bottle, trapped by glass, swishing back and forth, brought on by the gentle shaking of his hand.
The color would have been nicer if more of it were present. There was perhaps a finger’s worth left, may be two. Sadly, he found the bottle only four days ago.
While staring at it, a gentle whisper rang out from his side. A tender, motherly comment, though judgmental in form, it was undeniably a voice ethereal in nature, seemingly infused throughout the room itself.
“No. You don’t have a single problem.”
Not taking his eyes off the bottle, he gave it a long, desirous look, moving only enough to stretch out his free hand, open his palm, and extend his fingers. Struggling to coordinate his digits, he finally settled on fully extending his ring finger in a sleepy, yet pronounced, stance of defiance. Though he initially seemed uncertain on his digit selection, he finally threw his head back to drain the last of the bottle’s content, and the voice produced a soft sigh, followed by a gentle reminding proclamation…
“You have too many…”
![]()
