Your name is Danrui Zammas. You are currently 9 sweeps of age. Your HIVE is a Ski Lodge located within the tundra wastes of the north pole of Alternia. You were raised there by your LUSUS who is an Arctic Wolf named Howlz. His loyalty to you is un-questionable and he is always happy to carry out any of your demands. You moved out when you were 6 sweeps old to pursue a proffessional musical career as a RAPPER. However this did not go well and you soon ended up being taken in by a sympathetic troll called Allisandra Airaith. Since moving in with your LUSUS about half a sweep ago you've become a fan of Anime and video games. However you tend to stay in one of the quieter recesses of the house to avoid the other trolls as you wish to preserve your ego whilst other trolls succumb to the aftermath of GHOSTLY ANTICS and PIRATE NONSENCE. You are on the PURPLE part of the hemospectrum, which affects your personality a great deal. You are somehwat of an egotist in some respects, but under certain conditions you can be rather insecure and nervous. You are also fond of Human History, more specifically the 80's HIP HOP movement. This is reflected by your appearance and is one of the main influences on your music. Recently you have improved your Fetch Modus to coincide with your obsession with all things musical. The Modus works using a musical note based system. To sum this up in the most simple way possible you simply have to match the note any item in the Modus makes when it is struck with a resonator. Within the Medium, you would preside over the land of Rhythm and Words as the Bard of Breath. Your short-lived musical career has somehwat been a benefitial experience as it resulted in your existing STRIFE SPECUBI -MicrophoneKind -AmplifierKind Your Trolltag is Rhythmmagician, and you speak in a manner "Dat' k33ps you fly n' happ3nin' dawg." This is a fantroll RP blog. I'm up for an RP with anyone, so just send me a message and let's do this. 8D ((Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie))
“Y3ah bro, I just moth3rfuckin’ kick back and shr3d into a mountain d3w and g3t my wick3d zon3 on. Th3n I’m all up in my chill so I writ3 som3 tasty moth3rfuckin’ rhym3s bro. In my moth3rfucking blood pump3r bro, I b3li3v3 as long as it k33ps thumpin that right3ous b3at, subwoofing out d3votion in all thos3 crazy dir3ctions broth3r that h3 will moth3rfuckin’ com3. Our savior will moth3rfuckin’ com3 and drop that that shit lik3 it’s hot. Th3 shining holy B3at Pri3st yo’.”
You share some heart-felt words with your friend, hoping he’ll understand why your so into your SLAM POETRY. You live under the rules of the almighty CRUNK CARDINALS. A group that’s beliefs are only bestowed through many sweeps of slam poetry elite-hood. They uphold all that is fresh and ill in the world of kickin’ rhymes and harsh beats using several different and often violent means.
It is your dream to become a BEAT PRIEST, the highest ranking official title within the order of the CRUNK. It is a BEAT PRIEST’s role under the cardinals to delver and supply Alternia with the most unbelievably shiz-nit down low dirty rhymes and to spread the word of the SAVIOR.
However little is known of the savior besides that he is coming soon, at this age in time when the RAPOCOLYPSE seems nigh, he shall come and drop his motherfucking dub like that shit was hot and from the ashes of our civilization he will lift that shizzle like it were heavy. It is foretold by the ARCH-BISHOP OF BLARIN’ that when he is to reach 10 sweeps old he will rip out a jam so ice cold it’ll purge the universe of all player-haters and ghetto-monkeys.
So yeah, you could conclude that these are exciting times for you. Especially as its your tenth sweep cycle soon.
Nonetheless the pat on your shoulder is re-assuring and you grin back with your eyelids half shit and your hair in your face. Guess someone needs to lay off the sopor slime.
You aren’t completely sure of anything he’s saying but it all sounds pretty damn awesome so you nod your head happily as you smile up at him. You quickly hug him around the waste, “I’m sure you’ll make it one day motherfucker! You’ll be a damn good Beat Priest!” You have no idea what exactly a beast priest is but you are so sure he’ll be a great one.
You pause your grin, you can hear something going on downstairs. The beat of your sick fires has been doused by the pitter patter of footsteps and the loud shreek or smashing glass. You knew you should have built a less extravagant hive. Stupid wriggler problems right here. Nonetheless you'd better check out what's going on, could be sea dwellers.
" Bro, ya' h3ar that?"
The warmth of your hive dissipates slowly as you take each step away from it. The air is still, yet sharp, almost freezing to the touch too. As you place one foot in front of the other the snow beneath you crunches, leaving footprints behind. Several creatures can be heard in the distance making an orchestra of wildlife teaming through your sound-nubs. Ahead lays the alpine forests were your Lusus Howlz taught you how to survive, many sweeps have been spent in this region under extensive training and supervision.
The nostalgic embrace of the tree’s towering around you quickly becomes apparent, almost as if your memories were warming you. The tree’s break the solid whiteness of the landscape with jutting leaves and overhanging branches. With the air still you press on, further into the reaches of the forest until you approach a clearing. The sky above you is clear, not a single cloud out tonight. The light of the green moon is reflected on an icey lake in the center of the clearing, illuminating the shrubbery around it. On the other side of the clearing you can see a rigid outline of a troll breaking the green lights luminescence in a ghostly manner.
You draw your microphone, and approach with caution. It’s not a common experience to see anyone else this far away from the main lawnrings of northern Alternia. After all this close to the pole is suicide for most low-bloods, the coldness usually repels most trolls. Nonetheless you press on….
As the crunching of the snow beneath his feet grows louder, drawing closer and closer to the silhouette, it seems to produce an odd glow. A soft orange glow seems to spill forth from the figure as he drew nearer, growing in intensity with each progressive step. Once he was within earshot of the person, they quite visibly snapped their vision to him, the glow moving past a passive glow as they quite obviously burst into flame. The flames completely illuminated the figure, revealing her to be a six foot tall, orange skinned troll garbed in an elegant, elaborate robe made out of incredibly fine chain mail. Even in the freezing night air, the metal grew red hot just from contact with her burning body.
Obvious balls of flame crackled into life in her palms as she glared cautiously across the frozen glass lake towards the approaching troll, too focused on him and his incredibly odd appearance to notice the ice quickly melting around her. He carried the air of a high blood, but he was covered in the colours of the lowbloods. Her freakish appearance and ridiculously obvious mutations more than lending to how cautious and, ultimately, ready to fight she appeared just from his approach. She didn’t speak a word in his direction, simply glaring in his direction with fiery eyes (both literally and metaphorically).
All around you oranges flickers of crossed flames transcend onto the ice below in a fragmented reflection on the ice below. You've never seen this before, no troll you've ever met has had the ability to conjure fire from thin air. You worry for her safety as the ice begins to look more and more translucent with each step she takes.
You halt your movement and await her to approach you instead, this is one troll you don't want to anger. Seriously what could a microphone do against fire?
Nonetheless it's oddly captivating watching her fiery presence float over the roof of the lake. Her robe steaming in the wind as the red hot metal created what seemed like a scarlet dress from your perspective, it's long chain mail structure completely blurred by the contact of the heat and freezing air around you.
Too captivated by her garment you don't notice her face at all, just that red figure coming towards you with streaks of orange ascending from her hands.
You approach a familiar hive, one which you resided at before you decided to follow your own dream of becoming a legendary Alternian SLAM POET.
The walls still feel how they used to, even the plants surrounding the path towards the massive hive hint nostalgic significance. Everything just seems so familiar yet so alien to you. It’s been at least 5 sweeps since you last showed your face here. Your feet tremble as you approach the door. How would she react to seeing you? It’s hard to imagine, after all you hardly showed your face. The last thing you remember doing is handing her one of your prototype microphones from your newly built strife deck.
rather indifferently, you reach out and place a solid knock against the crafted material of the door. The moment seems to last forever, no sounds, no other feelings, just the door and you……
The old owner had left. Allisandra Airaith now travelled with the fleet; however her descendent answered the door instead. He hair was much shorter than her ancestors, her eyes devoid of the significant colour of her caste. She wore shorts and a t-shirt with the handed down symbol on it. She was only 6 sweeps old but she had the scowl of a much older woman on her face. Vissai Airaith was her name, she had all the intelligence of her predecessor and the inner rage that was much more apparent on her face. She wore the face make up of a day of the dead skull.
“Who the fuck are you and why are you here?” She said, baring her teeth.
This was surprising, you have no idea who this troll is or where your old hive-mate was. Probably was a stupid idea travelling all this way just to bring up the past. You notice how the troll in front of you has no clear indication of her blood color Normally you notice these things right away. She didn’t look too young either, can’t be too much younger than yourself. After all your around 9 sweeps old now….or was it 8? fuck you don’t know.
” Whoa moth3rfuck3r…your not Allisandra yo’, I was hopin’ to s33 h3r”.
Not the most polite entrance you could have made but hell, you’ve had worse. Besides she didn’t seem like the friendliest of trolls from first impressions.
She narrowed her eyes and made a funny noise. He was talking about the woman who lived here before; the one who shared her goddamned symbol.
“Of course I’m not, to my knowledge you are what, six sweeps out, she left here at ten sweeps, you know like all trolls do. I’m an Airaith though. Vissai Airaith to be precise so who the fuck are you?”
He hadn’t been here in eight sweeps. Allisandra had never seen him again before she left the alternian soil to join the fleet.
You scratch your head, parting a bunch of thick black hair with your fingertips as you. Mouth wide open and with one eye shut you try to conjure up some sort of reply. You totally forgot she was old enough to join the fleet. Hell, fuck that your staying here on Alternia with Howlz.
Still you admire her bravery and it's about time someone showed a little compassion for something besides themselves around here.
"Ah I moth3rfuckin' s33 now. That shizzl3 be crazy yo' I was just all in my wick3d zon3 hoping to catch an old fri3nd. Gu3ss I'll hav3 to chat with you or som3thin'.
My name is 3rm......oh man.......3rm....Dan......Dan som3thing..."
Still heavily induced under the affects of soporciciles (( frozen sopor slime, his hive is in the tundra so it works. )) you struggle to remember your name. Least to say Vissia doesn't look impressed. Hopefully she'll turn out to be nice, after all Alissandra still has one of your golden microphones the least that could happen is you get it back or something. What's with trolls these days?
You let your lyrics suffer a bit, still feeling odd from the security footage. You suppose you should ignore it and carry on appeasing your guest. After all you love motherfucking company bro!
“Thank-shizzl3 a littl3 bizzl3 mah’ fin3 dim3 brizzl3…..thanks bro”
You think your act could use some work though, after all it’s been ages since you took to the stage and foregoes any slam poetry battles.
“You’re motherfuckin welcome!” You grin as you step up in front of him, your shortness completely obvious. You pap his shoulder and chuckle, “Man those beats were sick! Your rhymes were completely on fire! You got so much damn talent!”
"Y3ah bro, I just moth3rfuckin' kick back and shr3d into a mountain d3w and g3t my wick3d zon3 on. Th3n I'm all up in my chill so I writ3 som3 tasty moth3rfuckin' rhym3s bro. In my moth3rfucking blood pump3r bro, I b3li3v3 as long as it k33ps thumpin that right3ous b3at, subwoofing out d3votion in all thos3 crazy dir3ctions broth3r that h3 will moth3rfuckin' com3. Our savior will moth3rfuckin' com3 and drop that that shit lik3 it's hot. Th3 shining holy B3at Pri3st yo'."
You share some heart-felt words with your friend, hoping he'll understand why your so into your SLAM POETRY. You live under the rules of the almighty CRUNK CARDINALS. A group that's beliefs are only bestowed through many sweeps of slam poetry elite-hood. They uphold all that is fresh and ill in the world of kickin' rhymes and harsh beats using several different and often violent means.
It is your dream to become a BEAT PRIEST, the highest ranking official title within the order of the CRUNK. It is a BEAT PRIEST's role under the cardinals to delver and supply Alternia with the most unbelievably shiz-nit down low dirty rhymes and to spread the word of the SAVIOR.
However little is known of the savior besides that he is coming soon, at this age in time when the RAPOCOLYPSE seems nigh, he shall come and drop his motherfucking dub like that shit was hot and from the ashes of our civilization he will lift that shizzle like it were heavy. It is foretold by the ARCH-BISHOP OF BLARIN' that when he is to reach 10 sweeps old he will rip out a jam so ice cold it'll purge the universe of all player-haters and ghetto-monkeys.
So yeah, you could conclude that these are exciting times for you. Especially as its your tenth sweep cycle soon.
Nonetheless the pat on your shoulder is re-assuring and you grin back with your eyelids half shit and your hair in your face. Guess someone needs to lay off the sopor slime.
((First RP, i’ll keep it simple))
You spend hours in the forest until a figure jumps out at you, curious you approach the figure unsure on how to proceed.
“Sup….3r…..who ar3 you?”
the sound of the trolls voice doesn’t muster any level of threat to you, you stand in the center of the clearing with arms by your side, clearly not anticipating combat.
“Bro, my moth3rfuckin’ hiv3 is n3ar h3r3 or…..3rm….som3 shiz. What’s yo’ moth3rfuckin’ nam3 broth3r?”
The stranger’s arrogance angers you, how dare he lie so blatantly?! As your finger tightens on the crossbow’s trigger, a piercing shriek fills the air. You turn and fire a warning shot into the undergrowth, before turning back to the intruder.
“My name IIs Szorst, and you are IIn grave danger here. Follow me.”
You turn and dart off into the forest, heading for one of the many entrances to your hive.
The warning shot sends shards of dirt and rock flying into the air in the space between you and the other troll. You watch as the particles fall back down to the earth in a euphoric trance. You see him head off away from you so you decide to follow, not having a clue what he was saying to you.
” S3clud3d lawnring,
Thats just mah’ thing
Is this isolation…
or moth3rfuckin’ probation
b3ing alon3
just m3 and mah’ microphon3
spilling out sick b3ats
for 3v3ry troll I m33ts
Cuz’ sucka’ I can’t complain
Lonlin3ss is lik3 a migrain3
I can’t g3t it outta my nook
This subliminal think-pan fuck
But I k33p rhyming the n3xt lin3
just all the moth3rfuckin’ tim3
‘cuz my rhym3s are my art
and w3 cann3v3r’ part
Danrui’s rhym3s for3v3r yo’
Just us3 yo’ thinkpan sucka’
P3ac3.”
You proceed rapping using your usual act, a couple of hand gestures here and there with a bit of flare added to you pacing up and down the stage. Well….there’s no stage here but you think this clearing will suffice. After all you’ve had worse performances.
As the last words flow from your wind-chute you drop your microphone to the floor, revealing the full length of cord hidden up your sleeve until the microphone lays there in a bundle of wires.
Hmm….more wires? Maybe….
You look around timidly for a few seconds of silence after your rap just to notice thousands of microphone leads in bundles all over the room. Whoa man. Heavy.
At-least you know which sucka’s been stealing your microphone leads.
The lyrics are a bit weird but you can tell they come from the heart. You smile and clap as he finishes his solo, standing as you applaud. “That was great!” You cheer taking a few steps toward him. “You are really motherfuckin talented and shit dude!” You really think he is, it could use some work, but it was good.
You let your lyrics suffer a bit, still feeling odd from the security footage. You suppose you should ignore it and carry on appeasing your guest. After all you love motherfucking company bro!
"Thank-shizzl3 a littl3 bizzl3 mah' fin3 dim3 brizzl3.....thanks bro"
You think your act could use some work though, after all it's been ages since you took to the stage and foregoes any slam poetry battles.
((First RP, i’ll keep it simple))
You spend hours in the forest until a figure jumps out at you, curious you approach the figure unsure on how to proceed.
“Sup….3r…..who ar3 you?”
the sound of the trolls voice doesn't muster any level of threat to you, you stand in the center of the clearing with arms by your side, clearly not anticipating combat.
"Bro, my moth3rfuckin' hiv3 is n3ar h3r3 or.....3rm....som3 shiz. What's yo' moth3rfuckin' nam3 broth3r?"
((First RP, i'll keep it simple))
You spend hours in the forest until a figure jumps out at you, curious you approach the figure unsure on how to proceed.
"Sup....3r.....who ar3 you?"
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
