Post by RuThor on Mar 22, 2006 15:21:22 GMT -5
OOC: This is your regular EOTR roleplay. I'm too lazy to think of a plot at the moment. *wink*
And I didn't stress this much in the intro, and it's easy to miss, so I'll say it here: this takes place in London, in the winter, with snow on the ground.
IC
I don't make the fire. I just control it.
I don't control the fire. I just make it.
Two boys who looked to be completely identical walked briskly along the sidewalk; both of them with an extremely harried look on their face.
Two boys with dark brown hair.
Two boys with pale skin and freckles.
Two boys with... sharp, red eyes?
No, of course not. Their eyes were brown. Just like their parents'.
The truth be told, Shane and Simon, identical, fourteen-year-old twins, had more interesting features besides their eerie resemblance to each other.
It wasn't my fault. He brought the flames.
It wasn't my fault. He moved the flames.
Had one seen a momentary flash of red in one or both of the boys' eyes, they may not have been completely delusional. This happened only for a split second, however, and neither of the boys had much problem with it.
No, the thing that gave them the most trouble was the fire.
Pyrokenetics. That was what the tall, brown man in a black suit had told them on that horrible day in the trailer park. They were pyrokenetics- able to make and control fire.
Shane made the fire.
Simon controlled it.
Apart, they were dangerous.
Together, they were a walking firepit.
Shane walked slightly ahead of his brother. He was the older of the two, if only by a few minutes. There was a light brown splotch of freckles on the left side of his nose, which Simon, trailing slightly behind his twin, lacked. Unless one knew the boys very well, that was the only way to tell them apart.
Aside, of course, from their control over the fire.
But no one was going to see anything.
Not right now.
They were, for once, completely alone.
No one was immediately on their heels.
No one was looking at them in fear.
There was no burning townhouse, no screams of their parents being burned alive, no gunshots following them as they turned tail and fled.
Shane was carefully ignoring the force of the flames that longed to get loose.
Simon was carefully ignoring his longing to bend the flames to his command, the command that so often wasn't obeyed.
They were being careful, and for now, as they rounded a bend in the darkness of the snowy winter night in London, everything was fine.
And I didn't stress this much in the intro, and it's easy to miss, so I'll say it here: this takes place in London, in the winter, with snow on the ground.
IC
I don't make the fire. I just control it.
I don't control the fire. I just make it.
Two boys who looked to be completely identical walked briskly along the sidewalk; both of them with an extremely harried look on their face.
Two boys with dark brown hair.
Two boys with pale skin and freckles.
Two boys with... sharp, red eyes?
No, of course not. Their eyes were brown. Just like their parents'.
The truth be told, Shane and Simon, identical, fourteen-year-old twins, had more interesting features besides their eerie resemblance to each other.
It wasn't my fault. He brought the flames.
It wasn't my fault. He moved the flames.
Had one seen a momentary flash of red in one or both of the boys' eyes, they may not have been completely delusional. This happened only for a split second, however, and neither of the boys had much problem with it.
No, the thing that gave them the most trouble was the fire.
Pyrokenetics. That was what the tall, brown man in a black suit had told them on that horrible day in the trailer park. They were pyrokenetics- able to make and control fire.
Shane made the fire.
Simon controlled it.
Apart, they were dangerous.
Together, they were a walking firepit.
Shane walked slightly ahead of his brother. He was the older of the two, if only by a few minutes. There was a light brown splotch of freckles on the left side of his nose, which Simon, trailing slightly behind his twin, lacked. Unless one knew the boys very well, that was the only way to tell them apart.
Aside, of course, from their control over the fire.
But no one was going to see anything.
Not right now.
They were, for once, completely alone.
No one was immediately on their heels.
No one was looking at them in fear.
There was no burning townhouse, no screams of their parents being burned alive, no gunshots following them as they turned tail and fled.
Shane was carefully ignoring the force of the flames that longed to get loose.
Simon was carefully ignoring his longing to bend the flames to his command, the command that so often wasn't obeyed.
They were being careful, and for now, as they rounded a bend in the darkness of the snowy winter night in London, everything was fine.