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Prolecto RP Sample
Feb. 24th, 2012 10:34 pm? samples.
first person sample: [It’s a disorienting view when the camera comes on, someone staring it down, brow furrowed in disappointment, anger, melancholy - too many expressions shoved under one cracking, barely-guarded facade. The person seems to be moving the camera back and forth, adjusting, while at the same time wildly surveying everything around them.]
... from one hell to another...
[He finally stops moving, hushing, bowing his head slightly. And finally, he looks directly into the camera, thick brows furrowed.]
... think this is damn well funny, do you?! That it’s a right fucking joke?! Let a man get his hope back think he’s found some purpose, and then just... just let him wander right into some other mess?!
[He curses, bitter, angry, kicking at a building. He comes down, looking away from the camera, forlorn, taking in deep, steady breaths.]
... just my luck...
third person sample: There’s too much... life in these places, these cafe’s, these homes to aspiring, poetic souls, young and free. Like they’ve all grown and progressed into something just consistently above him and his understanding. He’s simply sitting here, his little name tag sitting on the work apron, wallowing in a cup of bagged tea, and...
... and just wanting to forget it all.
He feels pathetic, absolutely fucking pathetic, slumping irritably as he sweetens the weak tea, mixing in milk as desired. He’s not the most friendly of employees, sometimes chiding customers, and doesn’t doubt he’s going to be fired the way he’s treated. He doesn’t want to be doing this anyways, he just wants his shop back. He just wants the old Hell back, he’d give anything...
Every face that enters, he watches, looking out for a certain face, a certain voice, a certain... anything really.
He never thought he would so appreciate imprisonment - but this. This was solitary confinement. This was being taken from at least some semblance of familiarity, an... an adjustment, a tug in the right direction without shutting himself off into his corner of loneliness and shields, and they just took him away from it all...! God forbid they just let him rot away in peace, even if he were to never go home.
He snarls bitterly, kicking at the table, then quickly excuses himself to the back when both employees and customers are staring at him, jumping, unnerved by the angry man. He dumps his unfinished tea, and leans against a wall, taking in a deep breath. He unties the apron, taking off the name tag, and he’s going to get fired, he knows it, but he just... he just wants to go to the apartment, rather than start anew. He just wants to stay there until everything disappears, rather than work all over again.
... he just wants to be back in that clocktower, with a basket of sandwiches, the best view of cold stone walls, and a warm presence holding onto him, forgetting why he’d ever regretted this ever.
first person sample: [It’s a disorienting view when the camera comes on, someone staring it down, brow furrowed in disappointment, anger, melancholy - too many expressions shoved under one cracking, barely-guarded facade. The person seems to be moving the camera back and forth, adjusting, while at the same time wildly surveying everything around them.]
... from one hell to another...
[He finally stops moving, hushing, bowing his head slightly. And finally, he looks directly into the camera, thick brows furrowed.]
... think this is damn well funny, do you?! That it’s a right fucking joke?! Let a man get his hope back think he’s found some purpose, and then just... just let him wander right into some other mess?!
[He curses, bitter, angry, kicking at a building. He comes down, looking away from the camera, forlorn, taking in deep, steady breaths.]
... just my luck...
third person sample: There’s too much... life in these places, these cafe’s, these homes to aspiring, poetic souls, young and free. Like they’ve all grown and progressed into something just consistently above him and his understanding. He’s simply sitting here, his little name tag sitting on the work apron, wallowing in a cup of bagged tea, and...
... and just wanting to forget it all.
He feels pathetic, absolutely fucking pathetic, slumping irritably as he sweetens the weak tea, mixing in milk as desired. He’s not the most friendly of employees, sometimes chiding customers, and doesn’t doubt he’s going to be fired the way he’s treated. He doesn’t want to be doing this anyways, he just wants his shop back. He just wants the old Hell back, he’d give anything...
Every face that enters, he watches, looking out for a certain face, a certain voice, a certain... anything really.
He never thought he would so appreciate imprisonment - but this. This was solitary confinement. This was being taken from at least some semblance of familiarity, an... an adjustment, a tug in the right direction without shutting himself off into his corner of loneliness and shields, and they just took him away from it all...! God forbid they just let him rot away in peace, even if he were to never go home.
He snarls bitterly, kicking at the table, then quickly excuses himself to the back when both employees and customers are staring at him, jumping, unnerved by the angry man. He dumps his unfinished tea, and leans against a wall, taking in a deep breath. He unties the apron, taking off the name tag, and he’s going to get fired, he knows it, but he just... he just wants to go to the apartment, rather than start anew. He just wants to stay there until everything disappears, rather than work all over again.
... he just wants to be back in that clocktower, with a basket of sandwiches, the best view of cold stone walls, and a warm presence holding onto him, forgetting why he’d ever regretted this ever.
