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ZD Life isn't how I pictured it. How one grew up and handled it when I was a child. And now it's starting to make sense. No more long years now. Home Message Comment Stream Bulletins Blogs Extra Link Marcus Aralius

in my lifetime Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consetetur sadipscing elitr, sed diam nonumy eirmod tempor invidunt ut labore et dolore magna aliquyam erat, sed diam voluptua. At vero eos et accusam et justo duo dolores et ea rebum. Stet clita kasd gubergren, no sea takimata sanctus est Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consetetur sadipscing elitr, sed diam nonumy eirmod tempor invidunt ut labore et dolore magna aliquyam erat, sed diam voluptua. At vero eos et accusam et justo duo dolores et ea rebum. Stet clita kasd gubergren, no sea takimata sanctus est Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consetetur sadipscing elitr, sed diam nonumy eirmod tempor invidunt ut labore et dolore magna aliquyam erat, sed diam voluptua. At vero eos et accusam et justo duo dolores et ea rebum. Stet clita kasd gubergren, no sea takimata sanctus est Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. Duis autem vel eum iriure dolor in hendrerit in vulputate velit esse molestie consequat, vel illum dolore eu feugiat nulla facilisis at vero eros et accumsan et iusto odio dignissim qui blandit praesent luptatum zzril delenit augue duis dolore te feugait nulla facilisi. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit, sed diam nonummy nibh euismod tincidunt ut laoreet dolore magna aliquam erat volutpat. Ut wisi enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exerci tation ullamcorper suscipit lobortis nisl ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis autem vel eum iriure dolor in hendrerit in vulputate velit esse molestie consequat, vel illum dolore eu feugiat nulla facilisis at vero eros et accumsan et iusto odio dignissim qui blandit praesent luptatum zzril delenit augue duis dolore te feugait nulla facilisi. We'll patch the holes and set sail on this town, This ship it feels like home

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More Roleplayers Endsong 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝕼𝖚𝖊𝖊𝖓 мadaм devιl 𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋. Homelander Adam D . Lavery Lexi 𝔟𝔩𝔲𝔢 𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔱. 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖓𝖓𝖆. Xaviar ɠıɠı 𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝔂 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓼𝓮, Montana Rascal ℬ𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓁𝓎 ℬ𝑒𝓉𝒶 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑛 ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ 𝐹𝑒𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓎𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇𝓎✨ ᴅᴀʏʙʀᴇᴀᴋ 𝒟iverse ♛ 𝒜llegory Cu Westview Goddess Wanda Momma Goddess. 𝐸𝓁𝒾𝓏𝒶𝒷𝑒𝓉𝒽 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐀. fιяє ιи ωαтєя Jan Di ᴿᴱᴰ⋅ Suffering Angel ㅤ Curb Stomp. ⟨ satan in heels ⟩ 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆. hєαrtlєss 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩 Spartan-128 Matteo 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍. ꜰᴀᴅᴇ ᴛᴏ bʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ snow theslytherinprincess Show More Roleplayers. . . Marcus Aralius's Friends Comments Displaying 5 of 5 Comments (View All | Add Comment) Vᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ Aᴛ Lᴀᴡ® Feb 17th 2019 - 6:05 PM Send Comment | Send Message | Block User It had been a long day and it was only going to get longer. First thing in the morning he had to visit jail to see a client who was framed for a murder she did not commit. She couldn’t have been more than 20 years old, which is why she was referred to as a kid. She was framed because she got involved with someone she shouldn’t have. Who? Not important. He was someone of wealth and status. After the visit he went straight to the courthouse to file the motion to release her into his custody. It would be the only way to free her until either he could make a deal with the one who framed her in the first place to drop the charges, or her court appearance.   After the motion was filed, Michael went back to his office only to take care of a walk in who needs a new identity and way out of her situation. A prominent mob figure, who had a it put on them and needed to be hidden until either they were presumed dead, or he made it look like they disappeared off the face of the earth.   Now, while in his private jet on route to the Washington State Penitentiary, he went over the file he held in front of him. “How so very interesting,” Michael mentioned as he looked up at his temporary assistant. “Have you read this?” “I have,” she replied with a slight hint of a smile. “This should be interesting if I do say so myself. It’s been awhile since something like this came across my desk.” Just as he finished the file, the plane landed. “Ready to go meet the client?” It was a rhetorical question as they headed into the car that took them to where Marcus was being held. Checking into reception before being shown to where he was, Michael could not help but smirk at the man’s introduction. “I believe I am, “He said as he took the seat across from Marcus. His assistant took the seat next to him.“Allow me to introduce myself,” Michael started in his smooth English accent. “I’m Michael Donovan, and this is my assistant Nicole, the ones who are about to succeed where the others have failed.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Why don’t we start with your side of the story. Yes, I’ve read your file, but I want to hear it from your point of view...”  Hiatus Aug 29th 2017 - 9:50 PM Send Comment | Send Message | Block User The bloodmage continued to play as he watched as at last, a challenger eventually came to the woman's rescue after all. �He looked like a drunken man, who woukd have been harmless except for the sight he was enduring among the rest to have been unpleasant. �He had the balls to speak--whether it remained provoked by the sharpened spine in his back or the presumed drink in his blood. �Either way, the bloodmage was intrigued to see a person with capablities had stepped forward. He proved to have been more than just a drunk after all as well--or perhaps the drink had been his fuel in his fighting. �In either event, Tempest watched while the Navarran woman managed to escape the area to run to the other side of the room. �She ran straight into the awaiting arm of the barmaid who had spoken to Tempest previously. The Fighting Champion was dazed and even a bit confused. �For one minute, he had control over a pretty lass and then the next, he had a mug smashed into his face. �His nose was broken, and glass remained pierced into his skin. �That once precious trophy to his good looks remained forever tarnished. "You ignorant baas!" �The Fighting Champion scowled and lunged forward in the given fight. �His fist swinging to give a vengeful hit. �With a hieght and muscular weight towering so heavy, the man nearly tripped to the instrument that Tempest was playing. "Garison!" �Tempest called for the owner and stood up quickly himself, just so that he wouldn't have been thrown into the fighting next; just for remaining too close. Garison peaked his head up from the cooking-spit and looked to the forming crowd, who in turn was watching as more punches and body-throws were exchanged. �The shouting was starting to rise; and with the given scene of a fight seemed easier to challenge than a scene of the Fighting Champion flaunting his rights in the city as a ringside winner. �The men were braver to shout and pull the bald Champion back against his will, now �that someone else had stepped up to challenge him. "Ulyssis, I don't need your coin if you only plan to liter the floor of my establishment with rotten fillings and broken bones." �Garison frowned and pointed to the door. �"Get him outta here!" "I didn't start anything--It was that piss-drunk-!" �The Fighting Champion shouted while braver men lifted and pushed the man towards the door to push him out. The bloodmage smirked a little and shook his head while watfhing the cowards developing more of a spine simply from the sight or someone else's heroism. � �He felt the barmaids' eyes still following him--burning holes in his back with their stare, if they only had the power. �He tried to ignore it and returned briefly back towards his instrument to gather his cup. "Give the man another round. �I do believe he's had to waste his previous one." �Tempest announced towards Garison, who nodded in return. �The bartender resupplied his head-waitress with another matching ale, and sent her on her way towards the blonde patron. The waitress forced smiled , despite the unsettled bundle of nerves she had from before then. �At least the Fighting Champion had been thrown out--which was what she wanted; but she didn't expect there to have been such a scene. �She clearly didn't know what to have expected, but either way she was greatful, and tried to show it with as polite of a smile as she could upon offering the drink to the presumed Hero of the Tavern. Tempest waited until the noise and chatter had settled down, after Ulyssis had been thrown out, before approaching the blonde man's direction. �He remained slow; and still provided a bit of distance between them, just in case the man's temper was truly as highstrung as it appeared. "You have an interesting skill with those mugs, mate." �Tempest spoke to him and paused between drinking. �"I know I wouldn't want to be on the other end of your cup." Hiatus Jul 29th 2017 - 3:54 PM Send Comment | Send Message | Block User The Obsedian Isles were a collection of lost landmarks hiding from the rest of the world. �Ever since the tension had grown between the mages and the templars over freedom in Thedas, it seemed the population of hidden landmarks had grown along with it. �People came to either escape their old lives or to seek new ones in strange lands, but the Iles were unforgiving and harsh. �One had to be smart or dead to remain there. One man had made it a home away from home, but he was careful even there. �He listened to the signals of the island around him. �A sunny day usually had meant fair winds, and fair winds usually meant a decent shipment of cargo--under one banner or another--would be coming soon. �For now, he waited in the tavern and played his musical piano-keyed instrument. �Every once in a while, he paused to drink vintaged wine slowly; always making it a habit to keep himself locked to a three drink minimum when doing buisiness. The day was slow. �The tavern was filled with its usual collection of opium smoke and weed. �Traces of lyrium were dropped in glasses to those who had the itch for the addicting blue substence. �The women who served the place were loose and filthy whores who sifted plenty of pockets for one sexual favor another. �The man at the instrument enjoyed it though. �While the brothels were slightly cleaner, they also expected more money for a lot of smaller things that the whores of this tavern would have cared less over. His hands flowed across the keys like water, sowly in a trickle at first to an unrehersed melody and soon, finding a pattern and sticking with it. �He struck the keys harder at first and soon delved into a softer rhythm until it slowed again. �All the while, other patrons continued about their buisiness. �They listened with idle appreciation, but otherwise remained far more self-indulged with their own sources of pleasure. �Everyone had a vice--a price that kept them content. One of the barmaids walked up to the man playing the instrument. �She carried with her a tray of filled tankards; one of which she tried to exchange for the pianist's drinking glass. �However, the man raised a gloved hand to cover the rim. �A signal he had not been finished with it yet; and a pause from playing with both hands. "Aren't you going to do something about him?" �The barmaid questioned him in a whisper and a shifted her eyes towards a seperate individual from the shadows. From one corner of the room, a tall muscled man had sat, drinking merrily and certainly loud. �He was bald, shirtless, and just as filthy as the rest of the pirates that filled the tavern--trying to impress the whores and barmaids alike. �His chest and back were covered in scars and at his hip, he carried a large curved saber--which was something that had the braided stitching of Par Vollen on the handle. The pianist looked towards the man in a brief glance. �His blue eyes regarded the man as the one that the barmaid was trying to indicate, and his hand returned to join his other soon in a matrimony harmony. �From his slight grimace, he clearly did not like the man either--not because he was apparently a loud drunk--but because he carried a sword that was Qunari-made and he was spouting proverbs of the Qun as if he were blessed by a sacred Tamassran himself. �It meant the man was either ex-communicated from a possible conversion into the Qun, or he was actually Tal-Vashoth. �Neither option was anything that the pianist enjoyed having on the Iles--because he was prejudice against a race that despised his kind. �And because he had killed his number of "Grey Skins" to know that he didn't like them. �Still... �The man was just drunk, and the pianist did not want to involvd himself just because a pretty lass asked him to. "Its not my tavern, lass. �Ask the owner, if you want someone thrown out." �He told her and quickly whisked away the short dark locks of his bangs away from his eyes. He wasn't certain of what she was expecting from him. �It was not like he could physically take on a 300 pound bull without resorting to magic in public--and magic frightened the average person. �He enjoyed where he was socially, and it wasn't easy to blend in with such an edgy turf to control. �Himself, was not built for too much physical labor--being that he was a mage. �He had muscle, but only about as much as one would have equivelant to an espionage soldier, a farmer, or a streetrat. �He was a bit on the lanky side and his sharpened features of an Imperial were unavoidable to hide. �So, one flick of magic at the wrong time and setting could have had him in magical restraints and on a burning pyre. �He was not one for such fancy jewlry or places of exceeded heat. "I have an idea." �He spoke softly back and raised his head to her. �"Please him instead. �Send one of your ladies to him." The barmaid quickly shifted in her stance and gave him the coldest shoulder she could muster. �However, the Imperial just smiled in a polite nod. "Preferably a Nevarran. �I hear he enjoys those." �He added and raised an eyebrow towards her. �"Do you want him out or not? �...Trust me." She sighed and carried the tray of drinks away with her as she huffed under her breath. �"Asshole..." It was a simple plan, really. �Give the man what he lusted for to stir up a riot within the tavern. �Surely, there was a man capable to over-throw the hot tempered savage before he could rape the little Nevarran out in public and broad daylight. �If not, then the worse case scenario would be that the guards would come and drag him away for disturbing the peace. �In either event, the pianist could stay out of the direct confrontation and perhaps on the upside, he could witness a champion of his own to help him with the shipments later. So, the stage was set. �The young Nevarran barmaid approached the giant barbarian and asked if he needed any extra drinks. �She was dark complected, well toned and very little muscle. �The youth was practically shaking in her well-worn shoes from the sight of him--and she should have been. �The man was the Champion of Fighting Pits; and being so gave him free range to rightfully f*** any contestant's slave he wanted at any given time, any place. �Key words though "contestant's slave," meaning a contestant of the Fighting Pits who actually had a slave to gamble with. � This was made so, because civilians and whores did not apply to that law--they made money directly within the city. �Slaves only served their masters. �However, the Champion was a man proud of his accolades and he was eager to exploit whatever that he could--especially if he had a few drinks in him. "I think I'd prefere you on my c*ck!" �The savage told the Nevarran Youth, and no sooner had she gasped with a turn to run, had the savage took her arm. �"Where do you think you're going?" In a quick swing, he threw the young woman against his table and pinned her there with one hand. �He snatched the front end of her skirt and tore away at the fabric. �All the while, the Nevarran screamed and kicked as she begged for mercy. �Mercy from him and mercy from the Gods. � Like many others who turned from their routined poisons and pleasures, the pianist just sat there and watched. �He watched because he was responsible for setting the scene, and because even in his small shame to it--he could not look away. �It was a sight he could not remain blind to, but he could keep his hands busy--to keep himself from regreting his given decision. �The pianist struck the keys to his large instrument and played his melody louder to try in drowning down the Nevarran's frightened screams from his head--if at all just a little. red ғlower Jul 5th 2017 - 11:16 AM Send Comment | Send Message | Block User Hunted.You need me.www.roleplayer.me/976220 This was the man she had been searching for. The banter that escaped his lips was one that caused the woman's lips to curl upwards in a sly smirk to match her attitude. He was already on his toes, watching her as she spoke. This was a game that Ivy knew well. She would claim for fame that she was the one who invented it. Play with your victims, toy with their emotions. After all, that's what Poison Ivy's M-O always has been. Cautiously, the woman moved towards the ban, her chin tilted upward as the vines followed suit. They wrapped themselves around the man's torso, stopping at his chin to tilt it to the woman, even though she was sure that force was not needed at this moment. "What can I say, gentlemen prefer blondes but it's the red heads that never get caught." the woman's voice purred before speaking about her shipment. Nygma better be on his best for this. Ivy ran her finger under the man's chin before lowering it to her side in a sweeping motion. The vines understood their Mother and let the man go, creeping into the shadows till they were called upon again. Her legs moved, one by one in front of the other to aide her venomous curves. There was no harm in a little body language as the pheromones take rest. No need to take his soul. �Not yet. The red head clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, snapping her fingers while she stopped her movement. The whip of her hair flowed as her body snapped to face him. "Do this job right and that may just be your reward." she added with a slight tilt of her head before she stated her demands. "I need you, to infiltrate Cobblepot's operations. See if it is truly him. I'd go myself but," her voice stopped while lips curved into a small grin as the image of the small squaky man appeared in her mind. Ivy's voice started one more. "He blames me for his bottom of the bottle eyewear. Too dangerous to remove, now a fashion piece on his face. Not my fault the man was drinking well worthy liquor when the assault happened." She watched the man carefully as she spoke, making notes as her tale came to an end. There was not much more she could divulge in. "Do this, and you'll be handsomely rewarded, Marcus Aralius." Ivy brought her hands down, emerald eyes on the man. "Go in, check it out, and if everything falls into place, eliminate the operations, which I'll be there for. Understood?" � I need you.� OF THE GODS. � � red ғlower Jun 30th 2017 - 9:10 AM Send Comment | Send Message | Block User Gotham.The struggle of working together.www.roleplayer.me/976220 � The people of Gotham were never safe. Then again, who really was? Falling gods from the sky causing destruction, a group of self-proclaimed super heroes out to save the world and cause more destruction than what they were fighting for. What was worse were all the nobody's rising up and taking the claim as a dominant villain. How petty for them. It used to be an art to be bad, to put humanity at risk. Now, it was a click of a button and all hell breaks loose. The pout on the red head's lips was evident to this. Poison Ivy was sure that the shipment to her gardens was halted by one of these new age-clicking-fools, but which one? The anger that rose from within when the shipment of plant cells were halted rose within her. The coffee mug with tea inside of it the victim as she threw it against the walls of her office. No one messed with her gardens. The dark brown liquid ran down the wall when the buzz caught her attention. Her mobile. Zzzz�. Zzzzz�zzzz-zzzz�� Poison Ivy picked up the device and tapped the screen till the illuminating light disappeared. It was a message from Nygma. They had been on positive terms as of late. I know what's been halting your shipment. Cobblepot has control of the docks and is running a tight ship. What do you take with you as reassurance for your life? This one seemed promising. -? The woman read the message over again before she clicked the image download. A picture of a blonde male and a name popped up. Marcus Aralius. "Marcus Aralius? As in the Roman King?" she stated to herself as she moved to the kitchen to grab a rag, her eyes still on the small screen. Her legs took her to the wall, clicking the phone off and sticking it in her back pocket while she wiped the wall. "Marcus Aralius, you've got to be kidding me." she stated with a small laugh as her body couched down. One of her vines already gathered the broken mug into a small pile. "You know what this means, darling. Mummy has work to do.' Ivy stated while running her fingers over the vine. It had taken some time, but patience has proven itself useful. She had found this Marcus Aralius and had tracked him down. He did not seem to hide, his name was murmured within the underground of Gotham. It was already late in the evening when she had traced him, stalked him within the night. Red curls bounced past her shoulder blades while her steps were quiet. She was amazed how stealthy one in heels could really be if tried hard enough. As the blonde male turned the corner, Ivy extended a hand out, the vine rushed to wrap around the male's thighs. Before a reaction could be made, her fingertips closed tightly and the vines followed suit and tightened their grip around the male's legs. With a swing of her hand, they had pulled the man against the wall, his back side pressed against the old brick wall of the bar as the vines curled around his wrists to keep them at his side. Ivy made her way to the male, tilting her chin up to look into his eyes. Man. It would've been just as easy to entrap the male with her pheromones, but why spoil the fun? "Marcus Aralius, I presume?" she began, reaching forward to place her fingertips against his chest. "You might be aware that I've been following your tracks for the past few days. What can I say, blondes really get my gears running," she continued the talk before she placed pressure against his chest. The vines tightened their grip against the man as emerald eyes looked down to see their work. Still, the woman continued, "No doubt that you know Cobblepot as well. Who doesn't here in Gotham? Point is, the trail of breadcrumbs lead to you and it seems like you're the man to help me on the job. Now," her eyes moved up to look at the man, "I am going to let you go, only if you promise to be a good boy. Understand?" You've got to be kidding. � OF THE GODS. � � Add Comment