The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Welldrinker Cult
A shadowy group is gaining power, drawing in people who are curious, vulnerable, or malicious, and turning them into Mystics. They are recruiting people into their ranks to spread the influence of magic in the world, but for what end goal?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
Isabel needed some time by herself. Just for a little while. Just long enough to let her head clear a bit and to gain herself some breathing room. Maybe she'd even have a chance to air out some of her frustration on any idiots foolish enough to get in her way. That part wouldn't be too hard. Someone always got in her way at some point, usually because she wanted them to. Violence and murder always were the best ways to relieve stress, calm herself down, and tire herself out. Then she could return to the Sanctuary and hopefully avoid being disturbed while she showered off the blood and dirt and relaxed.
In an attempt to avoid a certain individual potentially stalking her again, she'd headed toward the somewhat shadier section of the city where there were plenty of alleyways for her to skulk around and even more shady individuals that no one would miss if they wound up in pieces. In the off chance that someone was following her yet again, there was at least some potential for a better escape or at least a distraction should she run into any such shady people.
Hell, she bet she could even stash his body among the other possible corpses she could amass and leave it in any number of the dumpsters that resided in the alleys. Not like the guy wouldn't have it coming. He was supposedly Order, sure, but accidents happened. One could only poke the bear so many times before they got their face ripped off. And she was just about at that breaking point. Some people couldn't take no for an answer until it was forced through their skull. Literally.
And then there was Syn who had returned after being absent for so long. One of Isabel's oldest friends and the former leader of the Order. It as strange enough having the young woman back around the Sanctuary but to add the possibility of a power struggle over the Order on top of it was a little much for her to process all at once. Syn was a very good friend of hers, but Lori was the Boss. They'd both be asking for Isabel's loyalty and probably her assistance as well if a struggle did get set in motion. And she just wasn't entirely sure which side of that issue she'd fall on.
Lost in thought as she wandered, she found herself in a section of the city that housed a good amount of warehouses when her mind brought itself back to the present. It would be quieter than the streets, which would give her some time to organize her thoughts without being disturbed, but at the same time there was always at least a handful of workers roaming around the place that she could pick off when she got fed up with thinking and needed a stress solution.
Stress relief would probably come sooner than later.
I’m just a well-adjusted gal who likes to leave a serious amount of mayhem in her wake.
"It... it's not... it's not enough..." He rocked back and forth slowly, deliberately, his arms wrapped around him and his hands on his bare shoulders, his claws digging into his skin though not enough to cause them to bleed. Every time that his back struck the back of the warehouse, there was a dull sound as of something hollow striking something solid; the sound of bone on stone; spikes on metal. His head would bounce back as well, tapping against the warehouse wall and making another dull thud in quick succession to the ones his spine made. More... he needed more...
The moon, hiding ever so frightened behind its window shades made of clouds, decided to be curious and brave. It poked its head out from behind the curtains, his white gaze falling upon Clarimonde and revealing the ghastly scene. The white light combined with the white of Clarimonde's skin created an almost luminescent glow as he rocked back and forth, slowly, so slowly. His blue hair was damp with water... had it been raining earlier? He didn't know, but it couldn't be sweat. He'd be in flames if it were... probably water... or perhaps... perhaps... His hands: his hands were dripping steadily and off beat to his rocking. They dripped red, painted a little picture of twin oceans separated by a human shaped mountain, his knees drawn up close to his chest and his toes stuck up in the air as he rocked on his heels. Perhaps it was blood... More, he needed more.
Clarimonde was smiling, or was it a snarl? It was so hard to tell with him. His teeth too were dripping red, painting a picture of rain on the white canvas that was his skin. It ran down his chin and along the sides of his mouth as if a butterfly with stunted wings and elongated legs. His eyes were a blaze, swirling about here and there looking, vigilant, waiting. His body was painted, similarly to his fingers and his face. He was spotted now, streaked, splotched, swirled, no longer a blank canvas of white. His thin body, defined by his naturally muscular structure, glistened in the moon light and was made dim by the red. A droplet from his chin fell down and struck the ground with a sound to break the ages. Clarimonde stopped rocking and stared, blankly out into nothing. He resumed his rocking shortly after, it had been nothing... nothing but himself. "It's not enough!"
Before him, not but ten steps away, was the tube from which he had taken his paint. It was still, as all tubes of paint must be when they are not in use. More red filled the ground around it... wasted colors. Before, the tube had been a worker, a man in the warehouse district of town just getting off of work and heading home, his lunch box in hand. That lunch box was now fifty feet away, open on the ground, the contents spilled and strewn about in the creation... the painting of the canvas. The tube itself was face down, though the rest of the rube was not so. The quickest and easiest way to get to paint, after all, was to remove the lid was it not? Before the tube had been a tube it had been heading home from work, when it heard the sound of sputtering muttering. Confused and curious, it had walked out behind warehouse thirteen, the apparent source of the sputtering muttering. He poked his head around the corner and found Clarimonde on all fours, his tail whipping about here and there and his blue hair whipping wildly back and forth; the artist drawing inspiration.
Occasionally he would stamp on the ground in a primitive manner, asserting his dominance and right to be. Clarimonde wore little, even then. Just a pair of pants and his gaiters, the rest he had left behind in pursuit of this work of art. What inspired the artist? Nothing inspired him, boredom, a need to prove that he still exists. Nothing more and nothing less, a pure primal instinct and a need to react! To take action! The tube, when it was a man, seeing this primal beast and sensing the pure animosity that was coming from him, took a step back and took in air much too loudly. The artist turned, eyeing the tube of paint for only a moment, long enough to assess the color: red. Without word or pause, the artist went to work, springing forth and giving chase to the tube of paint as it turned to run away. The artist was faster though, artists are always faster than their tools. The artist made the first stroke in this painting, jumping forth and latching on to the tube of pain with all of his brushes - feet, hands and mouth. His upper brushes took a hold of his neck and mouth, silencing him. His lower brushes dug into the skin on his lower back, shredding through the clothing in the moment and drawing out the first bit of red. His top brush, the wide tipped one, took a hold of the left shoulder. The warmth of the paint was astonishing and fresh. The tube and the artist fell onto the ground, silent save for the thuds they made as they connected to the earth. Here, the tube, once a man, looses his grip on his lunch box and it is off.
Now the artist has begun, making a very broad and very unspecific stroke with his brushes. He stays on all fours, refusing to let go of the tube's shoulder. He does though, only for a moment, to re-position himself to being to paint. Keeping his hand on the tubes lid, Clarimonde, the artist, drew the tube into the darkness of the shadows where he proceeded to open him. The best place to start was the lid, and so he took a firm grasp upon it, digging his claws in for more leverage, and gave a nice strong twist once, twice, three times. By now, plenty of red was coming out but it wasn't enough. He needed more, and so he moved to the body of the tube and opened it there as well in much the same manner as he had opened the lid. Now, having begun to paint, Clarimonde resigned himself to simply dip his fingers inside of it now and then, putting more red until his brushes to paint with as well as his wide tipped brush.
Now, having just finished his painting, Clarimonde was not satisfied. It needed something more, more color, more variety. "It's not enough!" he said to himself, rocking back against the warehouse wall harder, the edges of his spit making indents into the frame. "I need more... I need more!" he stopped rocking and bit into his lower lip and his shoulders, drawing out his own blue blood and adding it to the red on the white canvas. His eyes became still. He slowly lifted his head up, his jaw slightly slack. "I need more... blood..."
Night time probably hadn't been the best choice for wandering if she had been looking to let out some steam in any sort of violent manner. People tended to be heading home or already there when the sun went down, though there was always the off chance that she'd run into the occasional warehouse worker stuck with the graveyard shift. Maybe if she wandered out into the alleys she'd find more playmates. At night the scum usually came out to play.
At least it was somewhat quiet, providing Isabel with the space she'd wanted to help clear her head. The fresh air was surprisingly effective at clearing out the jumble of concerns that were building up in her mind and for the time being it was very welcome. She knew, though, that too much quiet could just as easily leave room for those thoughts to creep back up on her.
However, before that possibility could also creep up on her and set things in motion, a rather odd sound caught her attention, one she might not have heard had it been earlier in the day and the warehouse district was full of people bustling around. She thought perhaps she'd finally come across one of the graveyard workers, but as she got closer the noise she was hearing began to sound oddly familiar and not at all like someone stacking boxes.
It was the sound of bone striking against something, a sound she knew very well due to her mutation. It was also a sound entirely out of place somewhere like a warehouse and it immediately piqued her interest. It was just a matter of finding the source.
As it turned out she found the blood before she found whatever it was that was making such a ruckus. She'd just barely managed to avoid stumbling over the mangled body when her foot landed in the red puddle and issued a splish that caught her attention. Taking a step back out of the crimson pool at her feet, she couldn't help but stare at the body, head slightly tilted and somewhat confused.
It wasn't the fact that she'd nearly stepped on a corpse that arrested her interest. It was the state that the corpse was in. She rarely ever saw a body look like this one did unless she had been involved in a scuffle. The head had been separated from the body and the torso had been ripped to shreds. It was like some sort of nightmare surgery had taken place on the pavement and the patient had been abandoned part way through the procedure.
She was just taking a step forward to toe at what was left of the corpse when she remembered that it had been the thunking noise that she had been after and that had picked back up again, this time accompanied by a gradual mumble. From the sound of it, the source was close by.
If it hadn't been for the clouds clearing away from the full moon, she probably would have missed it. A figure had nestled itself in the shadow of one of the warehouses and was steadily rocking back and fourth, each back punctuated by the sound of bone striking the building behind it. Even with the moon unobstructed, she might have overlooked the figure if it hadn't been for the startlingly white skin it possessed, at least what she could see of it in the places that weren't covered by darker splotches. She was willing to bet she'd found her curious surgeon.
"You know, there's cleaner ways to get a look at a guy's innards," she stated conversationally, finally toeing at the mangled pile of flesh as she'd planned to do a moment prior. Her boot made a rather unpleasant sound as the flesh moved beneath it. "If you made a clean cut you wouldn't be all covered in blood, either. Plus the guy spends more time squirming."
I’m just a well-adjusted gal who likes to leave a serious amount of mayhem in her wake.
He focused now, looking over at she who had spoke with his eyes. At first, he had simply continued to stare but slowly he looked her way. Once in sight, he turned his head and looked at her fully, his head tilted to the side and his bell ear rings making a delightful twinkling sound as they rang out in the night. He took her full image in as she stood next to his used up tube of paint, the moon drawing her shadow along the ground over the blood. Her white shirt was not so extra ordinary... in fact nothing about her seemed extra ordinary, except perhaps her pants and the fact that she was not running from him. Was she a fool? A fellow artist perhaps? He wasn't sure, but he did know one thing... she was not paint.
He couldn't say what tipped him off. It might have been that she was not running from him. It may have been her bow for all he knew, he really wasn't sure. But he did know that her accent... it was very much a kin to his own. Perhaps a long lost sister? A smile slowly spread across his face, his tongue licking the inside of his teeth clean of blood and then the outside, finally his lips which were still bleeding blue. He stood up slowly, deliberately, not making a single threatening or violent action except in the way he kept his arms crossed and his head tilted. It was almost robotic the way he stood, his knees unhinging and his feet becoming flat upon the ground. He never took his blue eyes off of her. She may not have been paint, but she wasn't an artist either. What she said confirmed that, since she could not see the beauty in what he had done... the eerie calm in how he slaughtered. That was alright though. His smile widened, revealing his black gums. He tilted his head back slowly, jerking it slightly every now and then to add on to the robotic or rusty feel of him getting up. He released pressure from his shoulders and then took his claws out from his own flesh. The cuts were shallow but cuts none the less and let out a barley audible yet totally delightful squishing sound as he spread his fingers. He let his arms down down to his side, the six shallow holes in his shoulders he let bleed.
"What, have, we, here?" he asked to himself, pronouncing each word slowly. He made sure she could hear him though. She was not paint. She was not an artist. She was a question, a riddle, an answer to nothing at all. He needed to know before he did anything else... but something was distracting him. He slowly looked down at his work and his smile fell slightly. He saw it now, it wasn't complete. He dropped his smile completely and walked over to the disembodied head, completely ignoring the riddle for now. he picked it up between his hands and examined it, holding it out before him with one hand and putting the other on his chin, the index finger tapping at the small skull shaped mask on his face. "I've got it..." he said. Turning around, he walked over to the corpse and bent down on his haunches, his tail swishing behind him merrily, dragging the blood around. He placed the head atop the rib cage of his tube, eyes up to the moon. He pulled the eye lids back as far as he could and kept them in place with his right arms while he lifted up the right arm of his tube. He placed it over the opened eyes, middle and index finger above and ring and pinkie below, keeping them open and staring at the night sky. He did the same with the other arm and stepped back to reexamine what he had created, one hand on his chin the other on his elbow. "Yes... yes, that seems better..."
He looked up from his work when he saw a pair of boots standing next to it. He followed the boots up a pair of green pants and then up a white shirt and finally on a perfectly ordinary looking face. He narrowed his eyes at this face and withdrew his smile from his face. He remembered now; this was the thing that did not see his work but just a corpse... how tragic. Not an artist, not a tube, useless to him. He turned his back on her and headed in the opposite direction, his arms swinging merrily at his side and his head swishing back and forth, twinkling just as happily. He began to sing... it seemed appropriate. He sang a song he once heard in his childhood, when he was still over in Ireland. It really seemed appropriate, and considering the mood of this evening... well, what could be more appropriate than an artist singing? Seconds before he began to sing, the moon drew its head back behind its curtain. It had seen enough for a night from Clarimonde, but the night was still young and he intended to live it up.
"Careful what you do," he sang out. "'Cause God is watching your every move." Here, he looked over his shoulder and smiled a toothy smile at the riddle, the question, the thing that was not paint. He wondered if he would follow him. It would only be natural really, he was known as Will-O'-The-Wisp in some parts of the world, after all. He turned his head back and continued to sing. "Hold my hand in the dark street, for if you do I know I'll be safe. Even if I'm far away and alone, I can be sure that you'll find me there. This I know. You draw me close for a while, so quiet, you tell me everything. If I forget what you say, then you'll come to me, and tell me again. Yes you'd tell me once, again. But what happens when I know it all, what should I do after that? What then....?"
There was something very odd about the individual curled up on himself not far from her. That became clear rather quickly. However, that is not to say that he was going to scare Isabel off because of it. She was used to oddities. According to some people, humans mostly, she was one herself. Though her oddities tended to stem from physical abilities, rather than mental abnormalities.
Certainly this young man was a physical oddity judging from the way he moved as her got to his feet, staring at her with startlingly blue, pupil-less eyes all the while. She thought she heard bells as he moved. The way he spoke was very deliberate, though at the same time it seemed as if he might not have been all there, or perhaps that he was in deep thought. The way he was looking at her had her leaning toward the latter. It was like he was examining her, trying to figure out exactly who or what she was. If she hadn't been so curious it might have made her a little uncomfortable. She didn't enjoy being stared at.
She did her own fair share of staring and deliberating as the young man strode in her direction. Those eyes that peered out from behind a half mask were a lovely shade of blue, the lack of a pupil giving them a somewhat exotic look, his hair very nearly matching in color. Two black horns poked out from amidst the blue tangle of hair and she could just catch sight of some sort of protrusion emerging from his back from over his shoulder. Perhaps that was the bone she had heard striking against the building? His hands were missing a finger each, which she noticed when he unfolded his arms and he had a tail. The tail was perhaps the most interesting feature to her at the moment. Maybe it was because of the lovely red smears and swirls it made on the pavement as it swished back and forth. An interesting individual indeed.
She didn't bother to back away as he got closer, severed head in hand, and bent to toy with the corpse, arranging the head atop the open torso and placing the hands rather strangely across the face. He may have wanted to examine the man's innards, but apparently it hadn't been his main aim. The mutant could have been insane for all she knew, but his taste certainly was interesting. It looked as if the mess he'd made was entirely deliberate, rather than the byproduct of a sloppy murder. It was unusual to see someone with such a hobby.
One brow arched as the young man seemed to remember she was there and returned his attention to her, his black-gummed smile quickly sliding from his face as he did so. Her own expression was equally as unamused despite her curiosity. And then he simply got up and began to walk away before beginning to belt out a song.
Isabel crossed her arms as he did so, her weight falling to one leg while he cast a look over his shoulder. She didn't know if the lyrics were meant to mean anything to her or not, but she didn't believe in any god, and she certainly wasn't afraid of any entity that someone else might. Was she meant to take something from that? Or perhaps was he baiting her in some way? The look he gave her seemed almost taunting. Was she supposed to follow him? Fat chance.
Why should she follow someone who had seemed to utterly uninterested in her? She was beginning to feel slightly offended at his complete indifference to her presence. She was used to being recognized and feared. She didn't take very well to being ignored and taunted. Well, he seemed to be rather enamored with the body at her feet, perhaps she could get a little attention by taking advantage of that.
Stretching her leg out toward the body, she wriggled the tip of her boot under the edge of the head he'd so carefully placed upon the open torso, ignoring the series of unpleasant noises such an action created. Once she was sure she'd gotten her foot just far enough under the severed head, she kicked out, lifting the head out of the bloody mess and sending it bouncing and rolling in the retreating figure's direction. If that didn't get his attention, then maybe she's trail after him.
I’m just a well-adjusted gal who likes to leave a serious amount of mayhem in her wake.
Clarimonde stopped walking and stopped singing, going blank. A ripple traveled through the word, obscuring his visions... or perhaps it was just a smell. Regardless, something was wrong, very wrong. The world was tipped askew, suddenly without warning. He wanted to tilt his head to match the world's tilt but found it to be tedious, this rippling was annoying as it was. He looked over his shoulder slightly and saw at last the source of his discomfort. His head, his art, was no longer upon its throne. His eyes went wide and blank as he stared at the head. What was the meaning of this? Could this be real? Why? Why? There was no reason, no rhyme no cause... how... how had it moved in the first place? Had he not been successful in extinguishing the tube of its red paint? Was there not enough blue? He reached up and wiped his hand across his left shoulder and looked at his palm. There was a blue stain there now, streaking its way across the red with the brilliance and obscurity of a shooting star. He loathed obscurity. The world was so much better when it was uniform, but only in absolute chaos. That was as uniform as he needed it to be. But this... this just didn't make sense!
He looked over at his artworks' throne... perhaps something was alive in it that had knocked the head off? He turned around, intending to go back to investigate further but stopped mid-step. There, in the shade of night was... a girl? What the HELL was a girl doing here? Could it... could it be that it had been her that had defiled his work? That just wasn't nice! It wasn't nice, it wasn't fair, it wasn't artistic and it most of all didn't make sense. Why would she feel like destroying such beautiful chaos like that? There was no reason to, so she had no excuse! It was unthinkable, it was intolerable, it was by far the most barbaric thing he had ever been subjected to viewing. It... it... was exactly something he would do.
If indeed she was the one who had removed his head, he could applaud her. In destroying his chaos she had created even greater chaos and disorder, perhaps not in the surroundings but in himself. He could respect that. He frowned in approval and nodded his head respectfully. "Not bad, lass," were words that came from his lips. He stepped forward a couple of steps and picked up the head, bouncing it in his hands a few moments, watching it go up and down, up and down, up and down... like it were being carried in the ocean. Could that mean he had the power of the ocean in his hands? That wouldn't much much sense even in chaos considering he was a fire maker... must have just been a coincidence then. Shrugging, Clarimonde decided that as long as his art was ruined the only thing to do was to make some new art with it. He tossed the head high up in the air, watching it as it went up and up and then fell down. He timed his movements with the falling of the head, tensed his body and bent his legs, then jumped up in the air and gave a mighty kick to the side of the head, sending it careening into the side of the warehouse and making a loud thud that could only attempt to cover up the sickening crunch that came from his skull.
Clarimonde chuckled to himself and swished his head back and forth, holding onto his horns lightly as he did so. He'd like to make more all by himself, more art he meant. He was good at it. It came naturally to him... no, that wasn't right. He was brought up to make good art. There, that was much better. It wasn't really fair though. He had been the one to make all the art tonight, the little girl hadn't made anything. It was sad, so sad that it made him stop the shaking of his head. He let go of his horns abruptly and let his hands fall down to his side. He lifted up his right arm and pointed at the girl in green. "You do it," he said. "Make something for this ghoul... or not enjoy his company anymore." He turned to the side, bending his knees slightly and bending his arms and wrists to mimic... something. He wasn't sure if it was a bunny or a reptile he was mimicking and he stopped for a moment to think about it, his head slowly tilting backwards to look up at the sky. When he couldn't think of anything, he reversed the movement of his head and again looked at the girl in green. "I'll hop away like a lizard if you don't make something and you'll never know how much fun I can be. There, I'm both," he said to himself, satisfied.
He hoped she made something good too. She still had the alter to work with as well, so she had plenty of material. As for a canvas, well, take her pick! The world was a canvas just waiting to be covered in red and blue! Perhaps not blue... that was a rather morbid thought on his part. Nothing artistic or orderly about that at all... but then, what was orderly about art? Art wasn't supposed to be orderly, it was supposed to be BLAM! BAZINGA! FLOOP! Here there, everywhere was supposed to be art and it could be found in the most random of places... so why was he looking for order in it? He frowned, his eye brows furrowing. He slowly sank down onto his haunches and grabbed the sides of his head, his fingers interlocking in his hair on the back of his head. His brain... it hurt from all of this thinking. Thinking, it seemed, wasn't his forty at the moment. He was a dog chasing cars; he wouldn't know what to do with one if her actually caught it. He just.... did.... things.
There was definitely more than just a few screws loose in this guy's head. She'd gotten a reaction out of him after kicking the head in his direction, but it wasn't exactly what she'd been counting on. He was more occupied with the severed skull than with her, and when he did finally turn his attention back to her, it was almost as if he'd entirely forgotten that she had been there the entire time and was rediscovering her. Something was not right in this guy's head.
Maybe some bells had gone off in his head or something and he remembered that she'd been there before because he actually complimented her on her maneuver before sort of mimicking it and sending the head into the side of the warehouse with a sickening symphony of cracks and splurts. She wrinkled her nose at the sound. She was a killer, but it didn't mean she had to like corpses. Overall they were quite unpleasant and entirely messy. As it was she'd be spending some time in her bathroom scrubbing the blood off of her boots.
Again one brow arched as the young man committed a series of odd movements before insisting that she do something, though at first she wasn't exactly sure what 'it' was. Do what? Kick the head again? From the sound the thing had made, any more kicking would likely just end up with the mess wrapped around her boot and flopping to the ground rather than bouncing and rolling. It was pretty much all kicked out. Demanding her to make something made it a little clearer. Did he want her to mangle the body even more?
She glanced down at the mess by her feet and wrinkled her nose again. She'd never made a habit out of playing with corpses. They weren't as fun as living people. Once they were dead, she forgot about them and moved on to find someone else to toy with. However, his threat of taking off made he reconsider. The young man seemed to be completely off his rocker, but that just made things more fun. He promised that she'd see how fun he could be, and that certainly interested her. And of course, if things got out of hand she could always defend herself and retreat.
Finally giving a shrug she crouched down by the pile of flesh and bone at her feet, balancing on the balls of her feet as her gaze roamed over her current, somewhat boring, plaything. She could do something that she was positive he couldn't, which would hopefully hold the young man's interest. He'd even been kind enough to open the body up for her already.
Pausing a moment to roll up her sleeves, she repositioned her feet so that she could bend forward without toppling over. Once she was satisfied with her stance, both hands buried themselves in the crimson mess before her. With how mangled the body was, it was simple enough to get her fingers around several bones at once, even some she'd normally be unable to reach due to how mangled the corpse had become.
It took a brief moment for the bones to comply to her wishes. Foreign bones always tended to resist her manipulations to some degree, and dead bone was apparently even more stubborn. But Isabel was even more so and soon enough the blood stained bones bent to her will, writhing and twisting upward out of the body. Slowly at first and then more quickly several spines twisted out of the red mass, each sprouting more spines that grew almost like branches from the originals, twirling, looping, turning and doubling back on themselves, intertwining with each other and breaking away in other places overall becoming a large, tangled mass of brambles. There really wasn't any rhyme or reason to it, no definitive shape or design, just a little demonstration of what she could do.
"How's that?"
I’m just a well-adjusted gal who likes to leave a serious amount of mayhem in her wake.
Clarimonde watched in silent wonder as the girl did what she did, whatever that was. The only part of his body that moved was his tail which swished back and forth from side to side. He was fascinated and bored with what she was doing at the same time, fascinated because he had never seen something of the likes before and bored because he had wanted her to throw the alter against the wall with its centerpiece. Granted, making a bush out of bones was still nice... but still, not nearly as colorful. To each their own he supposed though. She asked how it was... she could speak? Had she spoken earlier? He wasn't sure, didn't care either. She was speaking now, and she had shown one thing and one thing only; a word that rang through his brain like the sirens of a nuclear warning: mutant. That's what she was, all she could be, like him, a mutant. She wasn't paint, she wasn't an artist, or if she was she wasn't a very good one, she was a mutant. Since that was the case, he could actually talk to here. That's good, that's fun. He could act a bit sensible now.
Pulling his fingers out of his hair and letting his arms fall back down to his sides, his fingertips striking the ground, Clarimonde stood up and spoke. His voice was perfectly even and reasonable, as loud as it needed to be and with no inflections anywhere. "Well, I must say, it's not exactly the most beautiful pieces of ever seen but who am I do judge? For all I know, you could be the next Pablo Picaso. In any event, my fellow mutant, I'd like it if we can walk together. Do not fret, do not fear, I'm done painting for now and need a place to wash up as it is. I'm a little unfamiliar to this part of town and so I'll be counting on you to lead the way." Nodding in content, he stepped forward until he was next to the alter, now made into a bush. He bent down forward and poked at the spines with his claws, the sound of bone and bone making a faint muted thud sound.
"It's rather nice, your mutation... I have to wonder though, is it only with others bones or with your own as well?" He looked up at her, an eyebrow cocked from behind his mask. There came a dripping sound close by. Clarimonde, letting out a puzzled sound, looked over his shoulder here and there to see if there was anyone nearby watching. Satisfied that there wasn't, he looked up at the girl to see if she was the source of the dripping sound. It didn't seem that way. Her hands were just coated with blood, not enough to actually be dripping though. He looked up at his hair and found the source. Frowning, he stood up and took a few steps back from the girl and her work. He remembered something she said before.... yeah, she had said something before. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "Maybe I need to work on my form a bit more, making the lines a bit thinner and such... I don't know, it doesn't do well to alter ones style once you're comfortable with it... I'll think on it later."
Putting his hands on his knees, Clarimonde threw his head back, the bells on his ears tinkling happily, and then back forward, shaking from side to side like a dog trying to get water off of its fur. He made sure that his back was turned on the girl while he did this, it wouldn't do well to get blood on others. When he felt he had gotten as much blood out of his hair by shaking his head, he stood up straight and put his fingers back in his hair and shook them all about, getting even more blood from his hair and onto his hands. He turned around and looked at the girl, wondering how she'd react to it all.
So the other mutant could speak, even if what he was saying was somewhat odd, but that was to be expected. Perhaps he wasn't as far gone as Isabel had anticipated, though it was probably still a little too early to tell. In any case, at least he was paying attention to her now. Best 'piece' or not, she'd managed to attract and actually hold his attention this time and that was a plus. She really did hate being ignored.
She got to her feet as the boy approached, debating on where she could lead the guy to wash up, as he requested. She wasn't about to bring him to the Sanctuary just yet, given how unstable he seemed to be. There was no reason to bring home some mutant that was likely to fly off the handle and try to murder any of the other residents. Central Park was probably the best bet. There were ponds scattered throughout and it was spacious enough that she'd have room to maneuver should a fight break out and plenty of places to hide herself if the need arose.
At least, that was an option to choose if she lead him anywhere at all. She disliked being told what to do about as much as being ignored. She did what she wanted when she wanted and without the pushing and prodding of others. Especially not someone that expected her to be goaded by any sort of worry or fear. She huffed at the very thought.
"I mostly just use my own bones, but occasionally it's fun to play with others' as well," she replied, crossing her arms and taking a step away from what used to be a body. "It's not nearly as much fun with dead flesh, though. There's no struggle, no screaming, just dead meat. It's so much more boring when they aren't alive anymore."
She gave a sigh at the thought and kicked at the mass of white brambles as if to illustrate her point. Killing wasn't any fun without the struggle. There just wasn't any excitement, no adrenaline without it. She didn't much see the artistic angle the young man seemed to be so interested in, either. Maiming humans was a hobby, a game to play. It wasn't an artistic pursuit for her. That's what the paints in her room were for.
She watched with mild curiosity as the young man stepped away from her yet again, though this time it wasn't to stroll away. Instead he proceeded to shake an excess amount of blood from his hair like one might do with water after a shower. He'd made more of a mess than she'd originally realized. She'd gotten messy before, but not quite blood shower messy.
"Well, 'thinner lines' or whatever would save on dry cleaning at least. Blood's a nightmare to get out of clothing, and it's not much more fun scrubbing it off your skin and outta your hair," she commented, not particularly disturbed the the amount of gore he'd spread all over himself and the immediate area. A lifetime of violent tendencies and years as a killer tended to do that to a person.
"From the look of you, you need more than just a quick wash. A good swim in Central Park might do it, and the cold water will keep the blood from setting in and staining. It's not hard to find the place."
I’m just a well-adjusted gal who likes to leave a serious amount of mayhem in her wake.
"I'm inclined to disagree slightly," Clarimonde said in a slightly civil tone, walking forward again with his pinkie finger in his ear trying to get some blood out without drawing any of his own, no easy task mind you. Pulling his finger out of his ear, he bent on his knees before the bush of bone and looked up at Isabel. "While killing the living is fun and quite the past time, it leaves little for the artistic eye to do with. While they're alive they struggle and scream, trying to go against your designs. But when they're dead, they're not but paint and canvas. See here," he said, pointing to the white bush. [color=15DA00"You couldn't have done this while they were alive, it wouldn't have turned out the same because they would have struggled and screamed and drawn attention to themselves in dying. Where as while they're dead, such is possible and much more. I'll show you,"[/color][/b] he said, standing up straight and bending down.
He took a hold of the bone brambles with both of his hands and lifted up the body. Even without the head, life, and much of its insides, this work of art was still pretty heavy. He took a few steps away from Isabel and took in a couple of deep breathes to ready himself. Taking a tight grip on the brambles, he began to rotate his body slowly, turning on the spot, and gaining speed and momentum until he was spinning quite fast and the body was at arms length. His tail made a delightful whistle through the air as the wet tip swirled by and he took a couple of moments to appreciate that before completing his actions. He finished when he let go of the body and threw it against the wall, similar to what he had done with the head. It struck bush first, the force of the impact sending some of the bones through the entire thing at odd angles. It slid down to the ground in a heap and just lay there, its arms and legs twisted and what remained of the bush sticking out wonderfully. Clarimonde pointed to what he had done and said, "You see? Beautiful! Notice how the body is twisted at the wall and the bones sticking out of it now. Notice to the blood on the wall and the bits of the body that stuck on the wall; a perfect Rorschach!" He let out a delighted sigh and put his hands on his hips, his lips drawn up in a calm smile. Sometimes, he amazed himself.
He looked back over at Isabel for a confirmation of what he said and then remembered that he needed to wash up and that she had suggested Central Park for him to wash up in. He thought about it for a moment, bringing his hand up and gently gripping his chin. "You know," he said. "I've never been the Central Park before... perhaps you're right! I think that would be the perfect place to go, and on the way I can educate you on all sorts of things like art and music and-" He cut his sentence short and looked over his shoulder. He heard the sound of frantic men and footsteps, headed their way. If he squinted his eyes, he could almost see the light of their flashlights as they drew ever closer. He took in a breath and let out a sigh. "Well, it would seem we need to go," he said turning back to Isabel. He waved his hand in front of him and gave a courteous bow. "After you, madame."
Isabel gave a shrug as the young man defended his stand on dead versus living victims. She couldn't stop him from being boring, though she wasn't going to agree with that opinion. "Well, I like the squirming and the screaming. It's so much more fun that way," she defended, arching a brow as he lifted the remains of the body and hurled it against the nearest wall, much as he had previously done with the detached head.
She cocked her head to one side and regarded the mess as he spoke so highly of it. It didn't really look like art to her. It was simply a mess on the wall and partially on the ground as well. She had very little interest in playing with bodies once they had stopped moving, and making such a mess seemed like a waste of time and energy. She'd much rather move on to the next living victim.
"Tell ya what, I'll keep on playing with live people, and you're free do your thing with the corpses afterward, provided the morgue employees don't tote them away too fast. I leave plenty of them lying around," she proposed, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of footsteps reached her ears. Either the fun was over, or it was just about to begin. Judging by his answer, it was the former.
"This way!' she said, taking the lead as he'd offered and propelling herself into a jog. It wouldn't be too long before they reached the Park, and only a moment for her to pick the lock on the gate before they were free to wander through the interior. She was even somewhat interested in what he considered to be 'educating' her on certain subjects. This could prove to be a much more interesting night than she's originally anticipated.
I’m just a well-adjusted gal who likes to leave a serious amount of mayhem in her wake.
