Woshington
03-10-08, 08:33 AM
This thread is open to one person but first, just check out this (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=13197) thread for me please. Thanks.
Woshington, in his second life, had been a master of narcotics: dealing out escapism in pill form, serum form and powder form. Personally, however, he had avoided excessive consumption of the hardest dope imported from the darkest corners of the most unexplored continents. But now, failing to settle in his new world, even Woshington felt he needed the comforting relief of a familiar fantasy. His life in Althanas was not taking shape.
His personality was perpetually in conflict. A young man riddled with a desire to ruthlessly succeed and the determination to consolidate, this trait was combined with the absolute need to interlace audacity—it was his emotional release. A life on the periphery of a contemporary tropical metropolis brought Woshington his love of graffiti. Confabulating with monks was going to provide a sensory rush of the past.
“Take me home. It has to be like this… this day, like that.”
The lithe black man slowly dissolved into this new metaverse and descended majestically in the cushioned hands of the Citadel’s monks. As he lowered, he felt the relentless murmur of drizzle gradually soaking through his tropical wares. The water stole the spring from his bouncy ‘fro. His eyes widened and consumed all the familiar sights. This was a meticulous reconstruction of a particularly early morning for the ghetto superstar, trailing a night of blazing through the cargo wagons and railway carriages with boastful and beautiful tag work. Woshington remembered it well; it was the coolest morning he’d ever experienced in his tropical homeland.
He was on the Eastern Line, identified by the colour blue as part of the city’s easy to use map system. It was a subway station; one from the periphery of his home city… despite being part of the subway network, this structure was in fact above ground. Quite dramatically so. From Woshington’s elevated position he could appreciate how well the monks of the order of Ai'Brone had burrowed into his mind to extract such accurate information. The main station hall retained all its real-life grandeur, from the tall red brick walls to the sloping slate tiled roofs built at an unusually acute angle. Like any working day, the platform was abuzz with the diversity of city life: people of all walks of life—from hipster students to uptight businessmen, from dark skinned ghetto fiends to their lowly blue collar counterparts. They were all linked, they were all gripping their flimsy card tickets waiting for the electrified commuter train to grind alongside the platform.
The station consisted of two broad platforms: northbound and southbound. Between the two concrete walkways was a gravel filled lower level, lined with a pair of railway tracks. Their parallel lines were beautiful. Detailed with more than just a left rail and a right rail; running along the centre of each track was a third rail. It was electrified and coupled directly to the subway trains via a sliding connector. Furthermore, overhead hung a series of worryingly loose power cables. Some locomotives lacked the underbelly connector, and alternatively sourced their power from above.
As Woshington was gently set down on the corrugated iron roof sheltering the southbound platform, the 1308 screeched into view from the north, deftly navigating the bend under the suppression of its rails. Meanwhile, a freight train rumbled along the northbound track, like an endless slug furrowing along the landscape with its sheer bulk. It was emblazoned with an elaborately exaggerated "W" tag; it was a work of Woshington’s. He smiled to himself and shouted exuberantly, “That shit, man, that is mine,” finally his exotic accent was once again return to homeland. None of the stations punters batted an eyelid at his bellowing outburst. Woshington had specified that he and his foe be undetectable by the dummies populating his chosen Citadel hall. The locomotive hauling the everlasting tail of coal filled containers was a Rivers GK Class 37. Almost mammalian in its face, two shiny windows appeared as eyes above a protruding muzzle and a front bumper that bore the lateral smile of a mindless drone. As Woshington’s eyes devoured the magnificent proportions of the hulking machine he in an instance realised that he could be the one to bring such machines to Althanas.
Woshington had come here to escape Althanas, but realised instead, he could industrialise that world. Now, the black man was experiencing episode zero in his own grand saga.
Teeth beamed out from his open smile, as an entire process punctuated with glory and power occurred to him with the pleasure of a fantasy. But he shook his head in a moment. He was here to fight, and controlling this fracas was the only way he could extend his stay in this world, it was the only way he could stimulate his mind further. That, and Woshington was generally driven to win.
Crawling to the edge of the flimsy shelter, Woshington leaned out over the trains below and scanned the arena for the arrival of a combatant.
Woshington, in his second life, had been a master of narcotics: dealing out escapism in pill form, serum form and powder form. Personally, however, he had avoided excessive consumption of the hardest dope imported from the darkest corners of the most unexplored continents. But now, failing to settle in his new world, even Woshington felt he needed the comforting relief of a familiar fantasy. His life in Althanas was not taking shape.
His personality was perpetually in conflict. A young man riddled with a desire to ruthlessly succeed and the determination to consolidate, this trait was combined with the absolute need to interlace audacity—it was his emotional release. A life on the periphery of a contemporary tropical metropolis brought Woshington his love of graffiti. Confabulating with monks was going to provide a sensory rush of the past.
“Take me home. It has to be like this… this day, like that.”
The lithe black man slowly dissolved into this new metaverse and descended majestically in the cushioned hands of the Citadel’s monks. As he lowered, he felt the relentless murmur of drizzle gradually soaking through his tropical wares. The water stole the spring from his bouncy ‘fro. His eyes widened and consumed all the familiar sights. This was a meticulous reconstruction of a particularly early morning for the ghetto superstar, trailing a night of blazing through the cargo wagons and railway carriages with boastful and beautiful tag work. Woshington remembered it well; it was the coolest morning he’d ever experienced in his tropical homeland.
He was on the Eastern Line, identified by the colour blue as part of the city’s easy to use map system. It was a subway station; one from the periphery of his home city… despite being part of the subway network, this structure was in fact above ground. Quite dramatically so. From Woshington’s elevated position he could appreciate how well the monks of the order of Ai'Brone had burrowed into his mind to extract such accurate information. The main station hall retained all its real-life grandeur, from the tall red brick walls to the sloping slate tiled roofs built at an unusually acute angle. Like any working day, the platform was abuzz with the diversity of city life: people of all walks of life—from hipster students to uptight businessmen, from dark skinned ghetto fiends to their lowly blue collar counterparts. They were all linked, they were all gripping their flimsy card tickets waiting for the electrified commuter train to grind alongside the platform.
The station consisted of two broad platforms: northbound and southbound. Between the two concrete walkways was a gravel filled lower level, lined with a pair of railway tracks. Their parallel lines were beautiful. Detailed with more than just a left rail and a right rail; running along the centre of each track was a third rail. It was electrified and coupled directly to the subway trains via a sliding connector. Furthermore, overhead hung a series of worryingly loose power cables. Some locomotives lacked the underbelly connector, and alternatively sourced their power from above.
As Woshington was gently set down on the corrugated iron roof sheltering the southbound platform, the 1308 screeched into view from the north, deftly navigating the bend under the suppression of its rails. Meanwhile, a freight train rumbled along the northbound track, like an endless slug furrowing along the landscape with its sheer bulk. It was emblazoned with an elaborately exaggerated "W" tag; it was a work of Woshington’s. He smiled to himself and shouted exuberantly, “That shit, man, that is mine,” finally his exotic accent was once again return to homeland. None of the stations punters batted an eyelid at his bellowing outburst. Woshington had specified that he and his foe be undetectable by the dummies populating his chosen Citadel hall. The locomotive hauling the everlasting tail of coal filled containers was a Rivers GK Class 37. Almost mammalian in its face, two shiny windows appeared as eyes above a protruding muzzle and a front bumper that bore the lateral smile of a mindless drone. As Woshington’s eyes devoured the magnificent proportions of the hulking machine he in an instance realised that he could be the one to bring such machines to Althanas.
Woshington had come here to escape Althanas, but realised instead, he could industrialise that world. Now, the black man was experiencing episode zero in his own grand saga.
Teeth beamed out from his open smile, as an entire process punctuated with glory and power occurred to him with the pleasure of a fantasy. But he shook his head in a moment. He was here to fight, and controlling this fracas was the only way he could extend his stay in this world, it was the only way he could stimulate his mind further. That, and Woshington was generally driven to win.
Crawling to the edge of the flimsy shelter, Woshington leaned out over the trains below and scanned the arena for the arrival of a combatant.