Trimalchio

To summarize: This roleplay was about two vigilantes, their vigilante names being "Wolf" and "Platypus". Platypus is my character, his real name being Malvern. As for what takes place, Malvern took part in a weapon trade between two gangs in an old two-floored building. He was in disguise to be undercover. Then the Wolf came by and started shooting from the second floor (floor was made of old wooden planks with lots of holes). Malvern and the Wolf ends up in a heated conflict on the second floor, whereas Malvern ends up saving him from falling through the floor by taking the fall instead. He's damaged and the police is getting there. Wolf walks off with him and quickly tends to a brutal wound in Malvern's leg, as it got pierced by a plank of wood upon the fall. When they find a resting place, Malvern refers to Wolf using his real name, Adrian, which he wasn't supposed to know...

........

To be honest, the Wolf didn't strike him as such a peculiar character. His silence was also a sort of reply, as the atmosphere was full of ghosts to begin with -- no way had he not heard him address him by name. Furthermore, no matter how much Adrian might decline it in the future, Malvern was a natural at reading people. Adrian was a person, too. Dig a little deeper and the guy might have a heart.

No way did Malvern not notice how the man felt slightly bothered by the fact that Platypus recognised his birth name. A subtle smile crept onto his bruised lips, a corner of his mouth briefly lifting to make it lopsided. The name didn’t cope well with the nationality of White Plains' inhabitants though, not to mention the foreign accent of the other vigilante. Malvern was born in this city and so far he had lived his entire life here. Unhealthy, wasn't it? Those who knew his background would say so, his ex too. He was stuck, but he wasn't afraid of admitting it either.

What in the world was Adrian's connection to White Plains? A Russian wolf was loose in the streets. This wouldn't be his first time trying to imagine why his rival bothered rampaging through the city's many groups of criminals seemingly ever thirsty for a kill. In fact, ending a life seemed so natural to Adrian that Malvern often found himself wondering why he never outed the guy to the police. Malvern's work was for naught whenever the Wolf appeared to spoil his day. Hostile encounters with the Wold had almost become a regular occasion. Recently they had clashed more often. It was a sign. Something was up in White Plains, and Malvern suspected the criminal underworld of plotting a major heist, one he could not cut to the bone of with endless interruptions on the Wolf's behalf.

The smile on his lips slowly faltered the more he withdrew into himself, full of speculations and doubts. Eyes open, his gaze rested on no specific location or object as he was starting to doze off. He was looking, just looking, but without seeing.

The drugs from earlier was enough to soothe the worst of the pain he experienced. But the lack of blood in his body was taking a huge toll on his strength to stay awake. Currently, nothing could be done about the amount he needed to add up for his loss as another stream of red fluid trickled from his open wound ⎯ the belt had loosened during their escape. His dislocated arm was still wrapped up in a sling against his chest, barely indicating that Malvern was alive by how it slowly rose and fell along with the movements of his torso when breathing. His skin was sticky, covered in cool sweat, and the blonde hair on his head had layers of dirt entangled here and there. His overall appearance had seen much better days.

Once the Wolf decided to look him over, the other vigilante's face was indeed pale in comparison to his usual glow.

It took some effort to maintain a solid build. Malvern had put many hours into advancing in muscle, stamina and maintaing his form, all to remain in the field. He received most of his workouts from encounters with Adrian and stray gang members these days. Unexpected disasters were seldom something he could prepare himself for though. His leg was a disaster, one that would prevent him from further investigation in the nearer future. Heck, who said he would ever be walking perfectly again. Malvern doubted it.

Clinging to distant memories, the vigilante felt his eyelids grow heavier. A nap was all he asked for as his vision darkened. In these dire circumstances the last thing he needed was to lose hope. Now it seemed inevitable. His life as a vigilante defined him, without it who was he supposed to be?

Through the corner of his eye, Malvern spotted the approach of a hulky shadow before he fell victim to a short-lived blackout, one that would likely go unnoticed.

Shelby..?

The scene before him was a hazy blur, and Adrian's presence solely wasn't enough to drag him back to present time.

Slanting his head in the Wolf's direction, whatever his rival was doing didn't appear clear to him. Malvern felt a tinge of movement from the object around his thigh, a subtle grunt escaping his throat at the uncomfortable, foreshadowing feeling of something unpleasant about to take place. His body tensed in response, causing him involuntarily pain. Securing the belt in that very moment was a bad timing.

Malvern jerked back to consciousness, his free hand briskly reaching for the tourniquet to grab at it in need of lessening the pressure around his flesh. Air rippled through his lungs and a series of loud complaints were muffled by Adrian's hand. Too occupied to focus on the dirty palm which sealed his mouth, Malvern prevented his fingers from clutching at the belt by mentally fighting the urge to relieve his leg. A few veins bulged on his forehead. Meanwhile, his hand shook while he dug his nails into his palm, clenching his fist till his knuckles turned white.

Once his determination gained better control of his hand, he weakly seized Adrian's wrist, suggesting he let go of his face as Malvern found it hard to breathe. Eventually he stilled, yet he wheezed when momentarily heaving for air once the opportunity rose. Throwing a vague look down himself, the sight just now sickened him to the core. This would be the second time today within an hour that he puked.

Right in the midst of the Wolf's stern demand, Malvern had to interrupt him to turn aside. He twisted himself in the opposite direction of Adrian to face the dusty ground. Planting his hand flat against the floor, he upheld a balance despite quivering. This round was worse, and he realised his health had taken a drastic turn to the worse. Clear blood and clots of it dominated the small pool of vomit while another wave of dizziness threatened to steal his consciousness again.

Acting on instinct for once, Malvern slumped sideways against the ground next to the wet spot he had created to plunge his hand inside his jacket. The phone he fetched was miraculously unharmed. In haste, he struggled with unlocking it, his thumb slowly dragging across the screen in spite of his wishes to get out of this shithole. He knew exactly who to text for help, as Malvern couldn't afford sitting around with Adrian any longer. One word. One specific word was all he needed to text a certain someone to receive her assistance.

"Go away⎯" He hoarsed to Adrian, lacking voice. Even the phone weighted heavily in his hand. It would be best if this other vigilante wasn't around when his friend decided to show up, even though he had carried him the whole way here. Right now Malvern just chose living over manners. Unfortunately, he missed an important detail: the text never sent. He never managed to pass it on. Sweet darkness finally cut off his senses and connection to reality, leaving him helpless and, possibly, alone...

To summarize: My character, Nick, who suffers from ASPD, is a serial killer and a hitman. He has broken into the home of Ivan's to murder him in his own twisted way. This scene takes place in Ivan's bathroom after he wakes up, as Nick made him fall unconcious when he came home.

........

When Ivan slowly came to himself his clothes had been stripped from him, and he now sat butt naked in his own bathtub in one end. A rope with the thickness of his thumb kept his arms and wrists snug behind his back, while another one restrained his legs. They were folded against him. But a third rope, quite thinner than the previous two, should pose the greatest inconvenience to Ivan, along with the duct tape that limited the task of breathing to only his nose. It was double-layered across his mouth, spun twice around his head. As was the third rope, however, it hugged his neck, while two sturdy iron hooks had been hammered deeply into the wall behind him, one on each side of him. The ends of the third rope were fastened around each their hook, so Ivan would choke himself if he leaned too far forward. The rope was already fairly tight around his throat, just enough to make it uncomfortable, but bearable.

Ivan wasn't alone. Before him, in the opposite end, sat a fully clothed man, who was in his mid twenties. He made the rather exquisite bathtub appear small. His arms rested along the edges of the tub while he lazily scrolled through the pictures on a phone that Ivan recognized as his own.

A faint sound of music came from the living room down the hallway, the door to the bathroom wide open. It was Prince on the television with his song 'Purple Rain':

... I only want to see you bathing in the purple rain...

Ivan's lower body was submerged in a crimson coloured liquid that once was clear water. A third person was among them; the manager's body hovered above them from the ceiling, horizontally with the bathtub. Nick had tied her to the ceiling like a worm. She was a mess, covered in countless of clean cuts. She was a goner, bled to death, and tiny droplets of blood still occasionally dripped into the tub.

Nick averted his gaze from the screen to look in Ivan's direction. A deep brown pigment met his eyes. Nick's irises were wide. He put Ivan's phone away and silently scooted closer through the nasty water to bring his knees up to his chest, the crooks of his elbows coming to rest atop of them. Nick spoke softly: "I'm sorry about the duct tape..." However, mockingly, a small snort escaped him while a corner of his lips tugged into a half-assed smile.

> I write multiple paragraphs. But, it is not the quantity, but quality that matters; I do not write nonsense for the sake of having more text. However, I never find myself going below at least two paragraphs.

> I try to be as literate and creative with my wording as possible, but I am always learning and improving. We all have bad days and days where the brain feels as empty as a hollow shell.

> Please let me know if you don't want to RP anymore. I will do the same.

> I don't dig real people faceclaims, only drawn ones/artworks. I draw my own ones, so art that isn't credited on my profile is because it was made by me.

> Faceclaims are not a necessity, and I can manage just fine with a description of your character.

> I easily get submerged in plot-building and character development from the very beginning when interested in a RP. I would like if my partner also has a spark of creativity and actively takes part in building a good story.