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Server time: 2019-03-26, 13:21 WE ARE RECRUITING
Ellie Hoste
Character information
  1. Alias
    El, Ellie
  2. Mental
    Cautious, but Stable
  3. Morale
  4. Date of birth
    2001-12-11 (17 years old)
  5. Place of birth
    Seattle, Washington
  6. Nationality
  7. Ethnicity
  8. Languages
  9. Relationship
  10. Family
    Mother, Father, Brother - Missing/Presumed Dead
  11. Religion
    Non-Practicing Christian


  1. Height
    162 cm
  2. Weight
    47 kg
  3. Build
  4. Hair
    Deep Brown
  5. Eyes
    Light Blue
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Neutral
  7. Equipment
    Just what she carries.
  8. Occupation
  9. Affiliation



Those who meant well behaved in the same way as those who meant badly.



"Sometimes I wonder when you're gonna wake up.

I think, if this is a dream it has to be someone else's and not mine. I think, some day soon the cardboard walls are gonna fall down and in the field everyone will pop up like dandelion buds, with white tufts seeds sprouting from their heads as they clap wildly, scattering themselves like bouquets all around our feet and we'll grin so big and wide because we did such a good job and they all know it before bowing lowly where we can see every ant that ever crawled on the dirt between our toes.

I like to think it'd be a bright clear day, with the sun propped up high above us warming every inch of exposed skin on our necks and spines, small gentle finger tips running up and down your shirt to the hems and back so much so you could feel what flames would be like if they were kinder, and whispered instead of roared.

But, it doesn't.

Instead I wake up stiff, and rigid. The air a thin layer of plastic, staled and pulled too tight over our tiny bubble of space which we've locked away for no one else to use, like we're saving it for later. Everything is taut and woven, like a braided cord but all too tiny; perhaps it's thread instead. We're a hundred different strings of it, all wrapped around one single point that juts out across the grass, and the wood, and tires. I wonder, if it sinks down to the rock bed, or if it's swallowed by the vast nothingness that is known as 'forgotten' will each strand swirl around the drain as well, getting sucked away, tangled and desperate? Or is it like the stem of a flower once snapped, we lay out browning and creased by the gravel and pebbles before being ground back into the earth by wandering boot steps? I can't help but wondering which one is worse.

I think now, it's time you woke up.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Aren't you tired of the same old dream, over and over again?"





Breathe out.


The morning breaks against the horizon, spilling it’s red yellow upon the dark jagged hills. Cascading down in torrents that shattered through the windows, which already were broken, before pooling at your feet that huddle close and quiet as not to dare touch the rim before them.


It’s a cold swath of gasping, rising up and pulling your senses bright and raw to the surface, exposed like fresh nerves under slipped knife skin, gulping for air. It demands to be felt, and to be heard which it does so expertly. It’s sound, swirling and echoing from the far off distance beckons you with simple phrases, cooing gently like a mother it whispers,

“I see you.”


Calling answers through the wind, but the fear that cuts your core ripe and crisp, forcing the edge into the cramped corners of shadow still left behind by it’s ever present coalescence which ceaselessly searches.


Lingering is only inviting for those too stupid to refuse, the only choice is forceful wading forward. Feet beaten down against trodden earth, breaking blades against heel as the dew still shimmers, a glossy sheen akin to glassed eyes staring unblinking ever ahead. There’s not a moment to cease, to pause, to watch idly ghosts drift by low crumbled walls recalling with resounding voices the time from before.


The pleading comes from aching muscles begging for reprieve, wracked mind, and ever constant glances casting themselves about all crux’s of space and dark. Perhaps today is the day, the one, the finality of all things converging on one another. Perhaps, it’ll be a release, not a punishment that guides your still form far from the reaches of memory. But the thought remains stained black against your mind from oil dyed fingers that have spent years caressing the idea with overuse, what if it’s not this day?


The dawn rises to greet you as it has before again then again, and you cannot refuse it’s welcome.


Breathe in.





A man can smile and smile and be a villain.


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