ooc note: the 's are deleted posts because i was unhappy with them or they didn't make sense. scroll down to find the most current and more acceptable sl posts. thanks

i decided to edit this post so that it was of substance and went towards helping me get an sl folder. it will remain fluid until such time, cataloging the cans and cannot's of the little miserable ink spot.

some things that sylince can currently do:

walk without making a sound. is a relatively quick gunfire on the draw with an accuracy error of under 1 percent. play the piano, the guitar, and sing. write poetry and critique literature at a high level. fake an orgasm or multiple orgasms. suppress the gag reflex. perform general acts of gymnastics. is trained in krav maga and ba gua. pop gum very loudly. "weave" light.

some things that sylince cannot currently do:

filter thoughts. forget the feeling of an opium high. quit smoking. eat meat. wink easily. wiggle ears. go a day without brushing teeth. dodge a bullet. care about the future. not care about others perceptions. dance with a partner. speak any other languages.

__________

if you would like to play a non linear scene with sylince one on one or have some sl ideas or just ridiculous thoughts you think i'll jump all over, pm me.

- original. edit: 28 may 2011

ooc: our of boredom is birth the bloom of creativity, and this extensive list of things about sylince. kbye.

Character's name and age - sylince is a pseudonym, adopted from the other people's description of sylince's handling of hits, often not firing a gun. the misspelling is on purpose. sylince has a real name, devone, and hates it. sylince is currently twenty five.

Hair color and style - kept black and short and choppy by self keeping and dying. sylince's hair is naturally light pink due to a genetic defect that caused what would have been red hair to be pink. sylince was expected to be albino but has naturally black eyes, assumed to be the result of medical therapy while still unborn.

Nose shape and size - sylince has a pert, little nose that is just slightly upturned.

Most noticeable feature - if not the opaque whiteness of skin then the shape of sylince's eyes, always outlined in dark eye makeup. others are drawn immediately to the natural heart shape of sylince's little lips.

Type of clothing - sylince used to dress much differently, but after teenage angst set in it became fashionably black. after pursuing a career in "taking care of business" it became the iconic black, short sleeved - crew or v necked - cotton shirt and stretch black jeans with sneakers. sylince owns a week's worth of wardrobe of essentially this. sylince does often wear small jackets in black or white but always with opposite colored lining, often made of fur.

Body type - sylince has body dismorphic disease and as such is quite skinny. sylince punishes strength in the body through aerobics and keeps it trim through purging or maintaining a vegetarian diet.

Education - sylince dropped out of state college in the third semester.

Occupation - a street walker and a hit-for-hire, though sylince used to be a bounty hunter for the state level and underground. sylince has always offered sex for money since having been raped by a woman teacher who then paid sylince to keep quiet.

Describe a scar or tattoo - sylince has three tattoos. one on the left bicep. it is the last stanza of the poem invictus. on sylince's back are two bass clefs in the shape of wings, looking like they're pulling up from the skin. over sylince's chest, on the left side, is a treble and bass clef in the shape of a heart, within the lines are the details of ribs and organs, as if the shape is an open wound.

Describe character's voice - for a boy, sylince's voice would be high, and for a girl, sylince's voice would be low. it's a firm alto pitch with a little scratch. sylince speaks with melodic inflection, but often resorts to a straight and flat tone when putting up a front.

List a phrase your character often says " 'chu want?" or "the f*ck?"

Favorite food - sylince's favorite food is sushi, spicy salmon to be exact.

Least favorite food - sylince hates broccoli and mushrooms.

Favorite past time - it used to be reading, sylince was obsessed with poetry and literature. but it came to pass that that was replaced with making oneself up, adding makeup or dressing.

Worst nightmare - sylince's worst nightmare is to either be exposed as "devone", ordinary and bland, or be seen as so not threatening so as to be ignored.

Best childhood memory - being recognized at a state level symposium as a superb poet and humorist.

Most embarrassing moment - pulling a gun on audrey horne.

Life goal - outwardly, to be rich and carefree, famous and powerful and feared. inwardly, to be in a healthy relationship.

Describe best friend - sylince has always struggled to keep friends, being imposing and strongly opinionated. a best friend for sylince would be some one who sees past that and levels the angst and attention-getting. some one with an excellent sense of humor and appreciation for dry wit, black comedy, and irony.

Describe worst enemy - sylince's worst enemy was a man named dante sperranzo, who was able to get inside the mind in psychological terms. he outed sylince as bipolar, having body dismorphic disease, being childish and petty, and was able to overall expose sylince by outwitting. he was arrogant and unable to be pulled down to a level of threatened.

__________

a silent interview:

Did you grow up living in the same house as your parents" Do you have siblings" Are your parents still alive" What's the best advice your parents ever gave you? What's the worst' How well did you know your grandparents" Aunts and uncles" Did you have a favorite" i grew up in a house, my parents weren't home much. dad died when i were young and mom was always tryin' to fill that gap. they are both dead now. my mom always said anythin' worth doin' was worth doin' for money. that's prob'ly the best and worst. i didn't know my grandparents, no aunts, no uncles, so no fav'rites.

What's your greatest triumph' What's your biggest mistake" Do you have any secrets" Are there secrets you share with just one other person' Was there ever a secret you had that someone exposed" How did you feel when that happened" i made it this far, i guess. sh*t changed summat radically in my life, so i'm lucky i ain't a stain against the sidewalk somewhere. i pref'r not answer the rest.

How did you find out the facts of life" Who told you? Was it someone in the schoolyard, your parents, a sibling or cousin" How did you feel when you found out" most of what i learned was from watchin', sometimes through readin' the books i had. some sh*t went down when i was in grade school and i learnt real quick that life ain't no fun if you just let it happen. i tried no' to become my mother, and no' to end up like my father. i've always been pretty "whatever" 'bout life in gen'ral, as long as i ain't dead i guess i'm winnin'.

Describe someone who is the complete opposite of you. Do you know anyone like that' Are your parents or siblings like you? Or opposite" Or in between" some one what has a lot of color in they personality and wardrobe, yeah' i'd have to say the first girl i ....spent some time with' audrey - can we take a break"

Who was your favorite teacher when you were 8" When you were 15" in elemen'try there was this man we called coach. he taught music and i always like him cause he didn' take too much likin' to the kids what were regular and common. when i was fifteen" i don' think i remember any teachers from tha' time.........

What is your favorite vegetable" Why' What is your favorite fruit' Why' Describe your favorite place to eat. i like carrots and olives, s'that a vegetable" i just like the taste i s'pose. my fav'rite fruit' i like pineapple and starfruit, they both jus' taste so damn good. i like eatin' in a sushi places, like them hole in the wall restr'aunts.

What's your favourite time of day' Your favourite time of year" Your favourite piece of music" Your favourite smell" Your favourite sound" depends when i wake up, i like tha' time right btween autumn and winter when the seasons cain't make up they minds. my fav'rite piece of music and sound....i like chopin's prelude in e minor, i can play it; i like the sound of rain when i'm inside. What thing do you like doing the most' Describe it in detail. most people have to pay for that kind of sh*t. but i do like to write, i'll spend a lot of time just sittin' over an old torn up notebook sketchin' out words and poetry.

Do you like your own company' Do you like you? (to which sylince only frowned and sat back more) "f*ck you?

ooc note: i've had some confusion with sylince for a while and that last few posts were more of a test to feel out some situations. i've decided on some and forgotten others. from this post forward they are in a specific order and in "chapters" which will all begin with sub-stanzas from a song until the inevitable end i've decided for sylince. play will some times be mingled in and the sl itself is open to suggestions and live play help. posting may or may not remain closed. kthnxbye

where in we discover where we have come.

hello, darkness, my old friend. i've come to talk with you again.

the countenance of general what the f*ckery was painted, art worthy, across sylince's pale cheeks. the only expressible definition for this gut shredding feeling was an overwhelming need to introduce oneself to a stranger for the sake of remembering who they were and how to say their own name. it was a bleak existence and this and all the sitting on all the sidewalks in all the world - this or any other! - wouldn't save sylince from the persistent call of insanity. in a cartesian kind of way the very essence of the inky little stain at the edge of the road, arched over with hair spilling between upright knees, was being broken down in a quiet conversation that was almost being spoken so as to be better remembered. there were remarkable things about sylince. as long as childhood had lasted and all the way up until the beginning of this dark period the sun had always nurtured nothing but a cold and brilliant pale from scalp to toe and sylince couldn't change it for good pay. this had always been a generally pleasing quality, something that earned sylince value with no effort and spared the curse of an albino's plight because the skin never burned and the hair never faded; it was as if black and white were vessel bound to the creature for sake of self experience. but these weren't appropriate thoughts at the moment and with a splash of pale forehead, sylince looked up to focus the deficit of attention more carefully.

"who am i and where is this?" it was a worthwhile question and it broke the monotonous quiet that unnerved the alto alone on the street. the obvious answer was that 'i am an unremarkable human being in a remarkable setting with the opportunities to create for myself a legacy worth remembering!' but sylince was never one for the obvious and instead there was an egotistical tendency towards picturing a gun wielding figure of androgynous beauty who clearly depicted the struggle of a justified sociopath. there was jealousy and rage, so sylince was emotions and feelings that often times didn't have an explanation worth its merit long after they had been expressed. there was confusion and pale skin and black hair and two eyes and a mouth and a nose. ....sylince was dizzy. this was a familiar scene with a new, dully photo-shopped background of fantasy; sitting on a street edge contemplating the reason for things like talent and personality, it was the last time sylince relapsed after the intervention and had gone from a mild brand to a spirit crushing concoction of heroin. a familiar dryness and tacky feeling, as if all of the blood in the invisible veins in those wispy-drawn arms was thickening and fighting its purpose. this was exactly where sylince needed to be, without a hook up, without a violent purpose, without a friend or foe in the world - this was where sylince needed to be to make a change and put forth some kind of effort. the cloudy thoughts of angels needed to be let go and spiteful hate for women in leather needed to be let go and the blurry vision of a pretty woman with all of the promises they all needed to be let go! this was punishment - no, consequence - this was the consequence for not following up on one's potential, not taking the advice that was chosen to be delivered to The Sylince, the quiet killer, the stain ....all of the clever names they'd given the one shot wonder. maybe it was from being so good, that was why things ended up the way they did.

"this ain't were i s'posed to be," sylince lied without realizing it and a wave of effort pulled ass off the ground and hands near thighs and all of the little lines and angles on the liquid-like body were rippled off when sylince was finally stable and facing the west. the sun bit at the waning countenance of the pale face, trying desperately to make a mark and leave a brand but the something-remarkable persisted and sylince's only action was a squint and drawn sigh. "this is ain't were i s'posed to be," another lie and sylince tried to hide in the pole-thin shadow of a street light and almost accomplished it. the subdued urge wrenched again and sylince misinterpreted it as the need for violence, the often sought route for lack of juice. "i'll go to the arenas, harris'l show me how to get it all out," the words lingered where sylince had stood. the next step was to put this vision to fruition, see that it happened that the friendship blossomed and the reality expanded by the sport of what was loved most, dominance. these were, of course, the wrong steps to be taken and in the end there would only be whispers in the sound of sylince.

it was all defined by this: sylince lay in a filthy bed watched over by a an unwelcome stranger in a state of near fatal injury. it was a bleak-at-best situation and had the man's sub-par patchwork not staved death just more than a finger's reach away it would have been the last place sylince ever did lay. there was a force of life in the wretched spot of ink that some how found reason worth fighting for and the endless black that useless eyes tried desperately to focus on was tormented by the endless echo, and never to be found, sound of ringing bells. even when they were open sylince's black eyes couldn't tear the light out of the dark and see the dim lit room and gruff gunslinger sitting beside nor the place where those bells were some where ringing. this is how madness flirted with the mind, it teased and lied and coaxed the thinking part of you until it was assumed a part of thought and could not be separated from it. sylince was mad, unstable and beyond repair and in this present state could finally see something: a little pale white person not out of their twenties huddled in dark as black as pitch, striped by the black with shreds of clothing and teeth-like bangs. the body was shivering and broken, useless like a puppet cut from its strings, it had no meaning or purpose other than to lay limp in space. sylince saw that the graceful little limbs and thin, aqua-drawn features that had once been beautiful were without strength and in their misuse had grown normal and scarred with the bite of needles. the little head rolled and opened its eyes and they were black and endless and had no history behind them, they were painted saucers that pretended to be eyes so the little limp body could say that it saw.

sylince saw the figure perfectly as if it were turning slowly around and in the endless hours showed itself it wasn't until it began to spill, like ink into water, back into the blackness that sylince realized who this person was.

it was morning two days after and the man had given up and left. cuyler may or may not have come and gone but the room was empty when sylince woke with a self startling scream. a cold sweat gripped pale flesh and promised never to leave and stains of blood caked where it had pooled in clothing. everything throbbed, the room seemed to shake with the feeling. sylince swore and cussed and argued that the person couldn't have possibly been who it was because out of body experiences didn't really happen, and besides, upon close inspection through extreme difficulty sylince could see four perfect and beautiful - albeit bruised- limbs and ten long and slender fingers and could feel moppy but luscious black hair. even in the face of self destruction, sylince maintained an ambiguous and graceful beauty that had come from decades of practice and extremely wholesome genetics. none of these things, however, comforted the black and white who was struggling to sit up without losing breath. there was pains in places sylince was unaware had existed until they had begun to hurt and even the energy spent on convincing oneself that they couldn't possibly have been looking at themselves in a heap, trashed and miserable was enough to demand the need for sleep once again. but something was different. there was an ache, a cold that was normally felt when early to rise and it was missing. there was a sensation of fullness that hadn't been found without the bite of the needle in nearly eight years and there was an overwhelming and depressing feeling of guilt that washed over sylince like a second flood.

sylince spent that morning crying. every tear purged with it sin and guilt that could never be confessed or saved and could only be remembered as an example of where this was, this place that was the very bottom, jagged, rocky, unstable and terrible. it was a model for the foulest level of hell, it had stripped confidence from sylince like clothing from a rape victim and had pressed itself upon the black and white with such awesome and horrible force that it was embarrassing to recall. it was two days later when sylince changed, bathed, and was strong enough to walk. artsblood had ruined something in sylince that had grown, malignant and evil and sylince pondered thanking the woman, though, there was still a violence there, something that wanted to reach out and tear the world to pieces for the sheer joy of it. that emotion was tucked away.

looking death in the face, sylince had cowered and froze with fear and the ultimate-ness and finality of the concept kept words from spilling out of freshly painted black lips for a very, very long time and there was a new distance in endless black eyes. sylince wanted to change things, change anything that could ever lead to that dark place again. it would begin with audrey.

it had been a very long time since insanity's grip on sylince was in the least bit recalled. sylince had friends now, well, people who weren't openly opposed to the black and white's company any way, and with them it was easy to forget certain aspects of existence that would often find some one in the paradoxical situation of defending a life they were so fed up with simply because they were too afraid to end it themselves. sylince recalled candide casually on this day when things would begin to get worse. drawn like a stain on the edge of the bed, sylince's legs swam through the air back and forth with relative grace in the cooling summer evening air that pervaded the inn when it was mostly empty. dante, that red shirted menace, had successfully destroyed any possibly of friendship or relationship without hostility from one audrey horne and it was likely for the best, but it wouldn't be without its consequences. the alto was humming a funeral like dirge that hung as heavy as humidity would allow, there had been an arrangement for the two to meet. there were questions that needed to be asked, answers that needed to be heard, and people that needed to understand that what they were doing had cost others a great deal.

it was funny to see sylince like this, in a killer's mood again, only there was something off with the concentration that was twisting through the pretty pale features on a face aimed down at gun being cleaned. once upon a time the black and white would have poured extreme care and effort into the greasing and cleaning and shining and aiming and recleaning and so forth and so on that it might have been a marble statue of ink just leaning over a gun for hours. instead, while legs were kicking, sylince was busy thinking of that woman who had both a name and a face now drawn straight from that recurring group of dream-people, of which dante was one too. a little smile played little black lips and drew them into a heart in remembrance of hina. she was pretty and there was something that pulled at sylince's stomach like remembering a very old friend who had been nearly forgotten. but she was without the creature skid for whom she pined over dramatically in nearly every memory that was replayed in the dreams and so it was more like recalling a wax figure of a person or meeting their twin than it was just catching up on an old face. the woman didn't know this sylince but in her reaction to their greeting she had seemed to recall a sylince from once before. this was baffling the little black and white with hands full of a cleaner and smarter gun now that shone in the light like an idol of heaven and not a hammer of destruction. dante and hina, they would both of them need to be dealt with, but not in the same way. there was still daylight enough to make it south of the city walls just near the woods where dante said he would be and promised sylince would remember. and sure enough, sylince had a vivid understanding of the directions to this place, but recalled it covered with snow and not bathed in dusty summer, regardless, the black and white spilled up out of the bed and slung the gun into its home on sylince's thigh all in a single motion. there wa a stretch and an alto pitched squeak of a yawn before sylince poured out of the door of room two and two and made way for the long walk with liquid grace. it was sundown upon arrival.

wherein we discover what we really don't know

and the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains within the sound of silence.

harris had said that sylince was making progress. but consistent defeat in the duel of swords at the arena and a building distaste for self loathing was screaming otherwise. the alto wasn't sleeping well and when roused to the waking world it was becoming difficult to know if the dreams just had had been memories of the day present of if the memories of the day present had just been dreams. regardless, sylince was frowning again, sitting in a arc at the end of the dirty bed in room two and two of the red dragon inn. black hair, sticky with lack of care, gripped to the black and white's forehead and the same black shirt and black jeans from two days ago stunk and held to the thinning pale body sitting in the rounded shape it was. something was going terribly wrong, every night was plagued with the same figures of people from an imaginary past but it was increasingly difficult for sylince to decide from which of the two fantasy was drawn and from which reality was drawn. there were people with names and faces and places with names and meaning and events and whole histories that existed just months ago to the alto. a whole lifetime - if short - of strife and accomplishment and addiction and underground crime and sex and ....it was a nightmare in stark black against the pure white dreams of the lazy black and white figure who wore bells and was surrounded by the most ridiculous of characters. and of those characters now two of them had been proven to exist here in this place. one of them was dead. sylince shot dante south of the city had since not seen the man in a dream.

then there was hina. in thinking the name, sylince sat up a little straighter, as if showing off while on display, and spilled back on flat palms on the dirty bed. she was as vivid in reality as she had been in the dreams. she was lucid and beautiful and graceful and all the more so in person than the dreams had justified but there was a lingering sensation of having nausea that accompanied thinking of her and the alto's stomach churned presently. something more substantial than dreams surrounded her, something realistic and nearly physical. these things were as firm and founded as the memories sylince had of a the first person killed in a fight or the night the alto's mother killed her husband. they were memories and they were so convincingly clear that they were pushing sylince nearer to insanity than any overdose on any amount of narcotics had attempted.

a pale and black wave crashed into dust lit gold in the waning light of a weakening summer. dancing down, abstract and pointless, the bits of this and that rested and vanished on sylince's skin and clothing, insignificant on this scale as the alto was to the room, laying there in the bed. sylince wished desperately to wake from the dream, to find mark and chris and shelby and alyssia and c-rod and r-ross and powali all real people again and not faint memories in a museum of ancient - possibly fictitious - history.

"i just wan' to wake the f*ck up." sylince fell asleep there in that position, dressed and dirty.

this is an OOC post, for now.

i am attempting to create a system of "magic" as it were to be coupled with a religion to be delivered through sylince and other parties that have agreed to aid with the spread of the concept. i am presenting the basic material here in a dry and professorial manner as a framework of the system. my goal" that it be legitimized and widely recognized as a fourth kind of force ....the first being by hand, the second by weapon and the third by conventional ideas of magic. i would like to create a broad and interpretive SL from this information, a church or cult like atmosphere where the means and substance of the thing provides for all the plausible outcomes making the SL unpredictable and dynamic and open to good and malicious intent. of course it would be coupled with specific events, but the unfolding of those events would be the real game of the thing. i am trying to define this as separate from the elemental style magic and it is very difficult so i am open to messages with advice or advocacy or just nonsense concerned with this material. so, for your academic pleasure, i present - albeit unfinished - the description of Weaving.

if you are reading this, please take this seriously as i have both worked very hard on this for a very long time. thank you.

The Will is divided itself eight fold, each a unique manifestation whole and separate from the others. They are expressed in two denominations, the Cardinal and original Elements of existence:

The Sky The Flame The Stone The Water

and the Sub-cardinal and later understood Elements of existence:

The Light The Mana The Shadow The Mind

Combined, the Elements " all inclusive " serve as the whole of existence. It is beyond possible and likely plausible that knowledge of further Elements has yet to be understood as it is that all there ever was, is, or can be is based upon the convergence of all the currently understood Elements.

As extensions of the one Will, all life is suited to manipulation of the cardinal and sub-cardinal Elements of existence as if a part of itself. When sensitive to this connection the Elements can be weaved in accordance to desire without regard to belief or devotion to the truth of all things. The Sky can be beckoned and The Flame can be harnessed and The Stone can be called and The Water can be parted as The Light can be altered and The Mana can be directed and The Shadow can be conjured and The Mind can be explored.

Each of the divisions of the one Will associate with identifiable characteristics in both behavior and ability. Some life exhibit inherently singular or narrow specific attributes of the Elements while other life equally distributes its connections while still further life exist unaware or unconnected to the truth of all things.

Throughout time the interpretation of the Elements has given rise to lore, prescribing personalities and locations and physical form to the divisions of the Will. There exists duality in the classification of Cardinal and Sub-cardinal as it explains the first and second realized Elements and the location of the Elements on the compass: The Sky in the North, The Flame in the East, The Stone in the South, and The Water in the West and further the Light in the Northeast, The Mana in the Southeast, The Shadow in the Southwest, and The Mind in The Northwest.

Whole existences have flickered briefly and burned fiercely and shimmered unending throughout time based solely upon the ancient and universal concepts of the divisions of the Will. Cataloged through the collected and understood knowledge of those realities that have crossed and survived are the various attributes, explanations and utilization of the Elements for peace and for war, for profit and for justice, and for selflessness and desire. A majority of records are concerned with the connection of Men and man-shaped life, providing a limited but chronicled understanding from their points of view.

The Cardinal Elements. Basic manipulation of these divisions are expressed as the creation or redirection of the specific Element. The Sky and The Flame can both be spontaneously expressed by a sensitive individual " a Weaver " while The Stone and The Water cannot and all four can be directed from a source " Weaved. (It is understood that in instances of The Sky being created it is likely a result of the Weaving of existing and pervasive air as it is).

Advanced manipulations of these divisions are extensions of the basic Weaving, such as the recreation of natural disaster or the creation of natural splendor or the combination of Elements. Advanced Weaving of The Sky might be the pulling of breath from a body or the levitation of a massive object. Advanced Weaving of The Flame might be liquidation of durable substance or the containment of Flame in extensive shape. The Advanced Weaving of The Stone might be the creation of a mountain or the splitting of earth and metal. The Advanced Weaving of The Water might be the manipulation of blood in a body or the soothing of ail.

The Sub-cardinal Elements Basic manipulation of these divisions are expressed as the creation or redirection of the specific Element. The Light and The Shadow can both be spontaneously expressed by a Weaver while The Mana cannot be destroyed or created and The Mind can only be redirected. The Mana is an inclusive name for the force of life and its balance and its basic Weaving consists of altering the location and strength of one or more vessels of life. Woven Mana cannot result in strictly the death or life of something without also creating the opposite in another. Mana also constitutes the quality and state of life force and can exhibit states of sleep, energy, and inebriation. The Element of Mind is undefinable and consists of all characteristics unable to be categorized into other divisions. In its realm is the phenomenon of emotion, dream, and understanding and Woven Mind cannot be expressed spontaneously as it is assumed that recipe for its phenomenon always exist. Manipulation of the state of thought, understanding and memories, emotions and belief are basic expressions of Weaving Mind.

Advanced manipulations of these divisions are extensions of the basic Weaving. Advanced Weaving of The Light might be extensive illusions or extreme compression of a focal point until reaction. Advanced Weaving of The Mana might be the blooming of a field or the subduing of a nation. Advanced Weaving of The Shadow might be total absence of visibility or the extreme reduction of heat. The Advanced Weaving of The Mind might be the forcing of love between persons or the creation of inescapable false-realities.

There are naturally occurring and universal attractions and repulsions between the Elements as there are mutual and neutral existences as well as likely couplings. It is assumed that the Elements react as follows:

The Sky repels The Stone and couples with The Mind and The Light The Flame repels The Water and couples with The Light and The Mana The Stone repels The Sky and couples with The Mana and The Shadow The Water repels The Flame and couples with The Shadow and The Mind The Light repels The Shadow and couples with The Sky and The Flame The Mana repels The Mind and couples with The Flame and The Stone The Shadow repels The Light and couples with The Stone and The Water The Mind repels The Mana and couples with The Water and The Sky

It is possible to combine the aspects of Elements simultaneously to create reactions.

ooc - hoping to receive play alongs with this one. looking to dig deep and get sylince in some serious trouble. join in.

...

the rush of warm wind that ran the length of summer's edge just were spring was giving itself up caught sylince like an oven blast. in the ajar door of impending seasonal change, the black and white was modestly surprised and wind rustled and glum, heat was not what the alto desired. sylince was a lover of the cool, damp and dark places of winter and the whispers and gasps of life in autumn, spring and summer - while pretty and not overlooked - were hot and uncomfortable and full people who wore too little clothing on the too much of body they had. change was coming this time and sylince would not be so preoccupied with the grump and gloom as yesteryear had always seen, no, sylince was in full trade this time. a little slip up on the part of that man in blue, his pink hair and trickery - it made sylince laugh - it all culminated in misplaced trust and an inkspot with the ability to achieve things once only dreamed. customer satisfaction, to that end, was up. it was thing to solicit a whore in a back alley and pay a tip for a clean up, it was another when that whore could earn serious flow for a description-less experience that begged for addiction.

and this is not even mentioning the drugs. sylince was dabbling in alchemy, in a sense. all of the elements available were crafted and carved and churned into chemical and brightly colored recipes that could spell disaster and ecstasy. anything from the simple feeling of mundane downers and uppers and suppressors and enhancers all the way up to the euphoric and enraged psycho-stimulants that, on earth, would have cost fortunes were finding their way into little black heart-shaped envelopes and into the hands of ordinary people who had just enough to buy. the alto was a kind and benevolent god, gracing subjects with their wants for free if the itch was deep enough, but retribution was swift and justice was served almost as if it was preferred to the cash.

that brings the story to today, where sylince was standing on the lip of the road just outside of the red dragon with a wicked black curve of a smile and freshly washed but deeply stained hands. she hadn't been able to pay last night and she was unwilling to satisfy the needs of the black and white and had paid, with a smile on her face, with her final act in life. sylince sniffed the air and brushed chopped bangs out of sight and saw, like hardy must have done, the season's corpse outlent, its crypt the arid sky, the wind its death lament. sylince was some blessed hope, of which wretched night-birds sing. into the inn, out from the sun, went the summer's darlking hush.

what happened in the north east

ooc* - finally decided on a legitimate direction for a story with sylince. learning the ability to use weaving. yay.

the sun broke in the east and the dawn shattered the twilight and the early morning stirrings of the world below were underway. sylince was not stirring, not since having so abruptly awoke moments before the sunrise. something was wrong. something was not right. all more so than usual, sylince was unsettled, a victim of some unintelligible night terror. in the dawn light sylince recalled:

sitting in a pillar of light, frozen and external to the warm wrap of the dark, there was a huddled figure on the dirty architecture of a stone floor. it was a cathedral, barred with gray pillars that grew but weakened towards their bases from a height unseeable. webs and dust and ancient particles flew needlessly by. this church of the mind had been empty, it seemed, since its construction. no. not empty. left alone. sylince had been there since the walls had been laid and had been there when the roof was whole. but sylince had always been there, and left alone, could only remember it now the way it was, decrepit and destitute, a crumbling monument of itself. the cold was seductive, luring the senses out of use and drawing the alabaster, ebony colors of poor sylince into a huddle, gripping ball of discomfort and isolation. this was as it had always been, so why the unsettling discomfort' why was the separation from the calling dark unbearable now, on this waking day, when ever had that fact been embraced before? the sickness of sylince's poisoned mind had been breached, the sanctity if the long cherished instability had been challenged. before crashing to a violent waking some one had come in. something had come in. the light was of the sudden warmth, easing the fluid of sylince to pull from the clutches of self containment. the dark became the frozen and the foreboding and the light the welcoming and knowing. it was all at once seductive and terrifying. at pillars' tops there twinkled the points from which the light poured down and washed in gray, soon becoming lucid white, sylince stared up at the finite of the dark to focus on the light. it called a name. it called sylince's name. the dark recoiled from the reach of sylince to the edge of the pillar, the girth growing. the dark could not be held as it had so long been desired to be. sylince could not breach the light, only spread it, only diminish the shadow. it was in this realization that the dream became panic. why was the dark, the long imagined freedom from the light; the long desired embrace the promise of toil's end, recoiling from sylince's ability to reach it' in the new mobile prison of expansion the reality as it was established began to crumble. the stone walls were gray and the rotted wood was earthen toned and the wispy drifts of webs white clouds in dark rafters. all was bathing in the light, all unseen was becoming seen, all demons were forced into the shadows now beyond sight. this healthy, bright, gray reality collapsed the solitude, sylince shared this space with the world. the church of the mind was not undiscoverable, the cathedral of shadow wherein sylince had longed for the final embrace of the dark was now a temple of illumination. syince was a wielder of light, where black eyes turned the light followed and where white hands reach the dark recoiled.

it was for this reason, being an instrument of illumination, that sylince tore from sleep in a shimmering sweat before the beckon of the dawn could spill in through the dirty window of the dirty inn room.

sylince had since been naked and trembling in the coils of dusty sheets, gripping reality until palms were sore to prove the terror a dream. but it was all for naught. something had been filled, a hole not previously recognized, had been made present only by its being filled and sylince realized the connection between self and light. in the dark of the latrine sylince could see as if the day was half spent and in corners of the room where the reclusive shadows could dwell the daylong was only the emptiness of dusty corners. when sylince's face fell into pale hands to shut out the world and close eyes to the reality there was only the blinding and wild, uncontrollable displays of light.

unbeknownst to the afflicted, around the naked flesh was a hum of light, a glow of brilliance that illuminated a short distance and radiated out evenly through the old room. for the first time, coming up from the active visions of light, sylince stared into the distance of the north east. it was a room corner. it was the left of the sun. it was the endless orb of a world. it was the resting place of the light. sylince its wielder, its tool, its vessel, and through the expressions, physical motions, distraught reactions and surreality of sylince it was weaved into beams and flashes and flickers and shimmering, glittering screens of haze. sylince was now a creature of the light, a weaver of the light, a prisoner and forced lover and master of the light.

sylince awoke in the warm embrace of the morning, as if meant to. as if one of those pretty other people who live life in the morning, afternoon, and evening and rest through the night. it put sylince in a miserable mood. misery spelled plainly across cracked and dry black lips and hung heavy in crusted black lines over and around eye. the silence was broken by a sputtering cough. naked, sylince stood and stretched and glowed, daring the morning sun to be brighter. it only came and went now, in bursts or flashes or distracted moments: all or some of sylince would glow or light up with the brilliance of cold light. it was easy to ignore now.

sylince spilled into the filthy little bathroom attached to the one room keep. it was noon by the time sylince spewed out through the door, a fresh layer of pale and black, enveloped in the burp of steam that still lingered long after the morning shower. sylince took great care in crafting the lines and curves and spaces that were filled with liquid blacks. the face was parchment and every lift of a brush against eye lashes and every stroke across lips with a smeared of black was a paint stroke on a masterpiece.

revelation comes during routine. in meditation in a cave, in fasting in the desert, in dolling up before a smeared vanity....it began as a call, a fain whisper of a familiar name and tinkling sound. sylince stopped and pursed together the little fresh black heart and spilled a gaze around, as if to find the sound. nothing. amidst the ruffling sound of hands in hair with moist foam of some sort it came again, a conversational level, two syllables, a noun or a verb or an adjective - it could have been all three. sylince's focus narrowed and under fresh liner and mascara swept another gaze. "the f*ck you want?" spilt from sylince's lips in a miserable and wary kind of way. again, after a moment of quiet, it came and it was invasive, under the skin and in the mind. it caused sylince to leap up from the suggestive and practiced little lean over the vanity. it said:

"sylince. you found me." or at least that's what sylince heard. who had been found, what was calling the alto's name in a tiling sound, vocal bells" revelation is terrifying. it could have been a relapse or a flash back, it happened some times and sylince often heard voices, saw faces, or woke up in alley ways with a dry mouth, no spit, and a taste of shame. this wasn't a heroine induced memory or issue....but it did make something old inside itch....it was unfortunate reality. in a sweeping turn, a splash of the gaze, sylince turned to look in the vanity. there was no reflection, instead, there was only a glow. an orb, an intense point of light. a singularity.

something hit the flow, something dropped and forgotten. sylince starred as the voice spoke.

"welcome. we are here now through you. he was right," who was he? a wash of wrinkles rippled over the black and white face. always in miserable disbelief sylince scoffed and turned a narrow gaze away.

"you are here now, through you. he was right," it made no sense and the alto, out of childish ignorance, turned away from the mirror whole and gathered up the gun metal effects, the plastic bracelets, the old watch, and spilled out the door.

unbeknownst to the ink spot was that it was right - he was right - sylince was a catalyst of some strange thing. today would be a day to play in and with the light.

while on audrey's couch, sylince scratched in neat hand writing in a dirty composition book with a scribbled on cover. the writing was phenomenon specific, though in the margins were ruined attempts at drawing caricatures and symbols and poetic outlines...it read:

i am....compelled....to turn the light around me. it becomes a part of me, i can extend my will to it. it is uncomfortable but impossible to be separate from it. i have discovered that i can illuminate myself and that which i touch and only ever in the whitest of glows. with (striken words) concentration i was able to dim a light bulb and render a flame just an image, with no radiation. all the same, i could (a crude picture of a street lamp with a face eating it) return to it the light which i stole or could against something draw with the light or flash.

i can weave light through the fabric of things, through the distance between them, through myself. it is almost useless in that respect. i can cast light to make something grayscale and i am certain i could blind something, but i cannot figure how this is supposed to be a gift. i am more inclined to think i am infliced with a sickness of light, ILLuminated to say. ...

...

some scratchy metaphors followed. the black and white spilled into a ball witht the joural clutched for comfort or for warmth or for secruity an hour before the sun rose and fell asleep contemplating the word: weaving.