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We looked inside some of the posts by empty221b-rpg-blog and here's what we found interesting.
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13
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2
Last Seen Tumblr Blogs
Fun Fact
China blocked Tumblr because of pornography and censorship problems in 2013.
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Wow, I'm so sorry!
Brief unscheduled hiatus there. Had a few technical difficulties.
Submit is open, let's get this up and running again!
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Jim and Sherlock: I'm giving you an extra day. Get your accounts in!
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Are you (the admin) going to partake in the RPG? If so, which character?
No, I don't think so. I believe it will be easier to juggle my other RP accounts and this group if I stick to just being a mod.
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Are OCs allowed?
Not yet. I may open them later, but I want to get more canon character roles filled first.
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The role of Molly has been re-opened
To the RPer: As this was a time issue, you may ask for her back if no one has taken her by the time of your return.
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New Members:
You have 48 hours to get your account set up and report back!
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Members:
As you are accepted, please send in Skype usernames and the email you are using for you group RP account so you can be added to the Skype chat and OOC blog.
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Accepted!
Name: Carly Timezone: Massachusetts (EST) Activity Level (1-10): 7 Character Wanted: Sebastian Moran Biography: Sebastian Moran found Jim Moriarty after he was dishonourably discharged from the army. A few years were spent in the consulting criminal's employment, and he greatly enjoyed it. Following the fall he was broken, not being told of his boss' motives. But he plans on getting his revenge, whether or not Jim is really alive. FC: Craig Parkinson Potential ships (there are no set ships!): MorMor, but anything goes Sample Para (In-character, two paragraphs or more):
He missed it, the war. But yet, being dishonourably discharged did him good. He had a home, he had a job, and he had a boss. That was enough for him. Of course, Sam was still away and fighting, which angered the sniper more. But he wouldn't let his twin bother him too much.
"I hate him." He lifted his gun and aimed at a picture across the room of his brother. There was a loud bang as he fired, the picture flying into the air and crashing to the floor. Sam's head was blown clear off.
Sebastian smirked. "Ace in the hole."
Key: BELIEVE
(OTHER: This would be my account for Seb. I am already in the RP as Greg, but I am capable of balancing between characters and have had tons of experience as both - even in one RP at a time.)
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To the John applicant:
We only received one paragraph of your sample, there must be two. Sorry! You have the rest of the evening to submit a second paragraph, however.
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Accepted!
Name: Cary
Timezone: EST
Activity level: 7
Character wanted: Jim Moriarty
Potential Ships: Jim/Seb if necessary.
Sample Para:
He had lost another man today, this time to a "runaway bus." Two days ago it had been a accidental gunfire and a week ago a a rare case of the Plague. These deaths couldn't be accidents. People die, but not his people, not this fast. It took him months to run background checks, fabricate histories, and provide the proper training, and at this rate he would be out of viable men within the year. Someone was slowly trying to dismantle his empire. And that someone needed to be skinned alive.
He fumbled with the half empty bottle of whiskey as he approached Sherlock's grave.��
"Honey, I'm home!" he cooed at the cold marble tombstone.
"What? Aren't you happy to see me?" Jim dropped the bottle. He faintly heard the sound of shattering glass, but didn't care.
"Oh that's right. You can't respond because YOU'RE DEAD! You jumped right off, all by yourself. Poor little John had to watch. Heartbreaking wasn't it?"
He crouched now, resting his right hand atop the grave.
"If you think you can destroy me with your little toys, with Molly, or Mycroft or John, you're wrong. They aren't capable of bring me down. No one is. Not even you. If even you managed to survive, no one would believe you. You're a disgrace. You're nothing but a fake." He paused.
Jim swore he heard a rustle behind him, and he turned around on his heel, hoping to catch a glimpse of that long coat as it darted behind the the tress. But he saw nothing.
So he stood, brushed off his suit jacket as best he could and began to walk back to the car. After only a few feet he stopped.
"Remember Sherlock. I brought you down. I can do it again."
(believe)
(Sorry if this was too much or not what you were looking for!!)
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Accepted!
Name: Emily
Timezone: EST
Activity Level: 8-10
Character Wanted: Sherlock Holmes
Potential Ships: I usually ship Johnlock, but honestly, I am up for anything! I don't mind exploring different ships.
Sample Para: (From a previous RP, but hopefully this is alright!)
But despite the time away, Sherlock was still Sherlock, and over the days of watching John, creeping in alleyways near his flat, and observing the way he packed up Mary’s things, Sherlock had become more and more bold, dancing on risk without any consideration for the consequences. Sherlock was inherently daring, the thrill of the chase completely irresistible to him. He’d grown closer, closer, closer, daring John to just turn around peer through the crowd, see him. It was a dance for Sherlock, a kind of game. How long would it take John to decide that the curls he saw on the train, the distinct blue-green eyes were not just his mind playing tricks on him?
Sherlock knew that he wasn’t tempting fate, not really. John’s mental state allowed Sherlock the freedom of his thrills, allowed him to move silently past the door of John’s flat, even, once, pressing his ear to the door, just to listen to the clicking sound of the doctor flipping the safety on and off of his gun. Perhaps it would have been distressing to others. Maybe someone else would burst inside, consequences be damned, and try and help John. But Sherlock didn’t. Because despite all of his clandestine affections and thoughts towards John, Sherlock Holmes’ greatest ability was not his deduction. It was that he could always lock up any emotion that had ever occurred to him, forget it. His transport so rarely betrayed him anymore, even John had only see him undone twice. Once because a dirty great dog had literally frightened him to tears. And once because he saw his friend, his partner, standing so very far away from him, a tiny man against gray paving, and he knew that he would be saying goodbye to John forever.
After all, Sherlock hadn’t fooled himself. He’d known, from the moment he’d understood Moriarty’s intentions, that this day would come. That he would linger outside the shadow of a doubt, hanging like a spider above John’s life, able to see, but never to touch. In fact, in ways, he’d always been this way. Always able to see John smiling and laughing, having a good time with this mate, or that mate, or perhaps even catching glimpses of him snogging his girlfriend on the sofa when he thought Sherlock was sleeping. The detective had never been able to touch John then, either. He’d been massive worlds away, living a life Sherlock couldn’t ever live. Domesticity hadn’t been written into his makeup, but John was practically woven from it, able to maintain usual, dull, every day tasks, while Sherlock suffered paroxysms from acute boredom at the mere mention of going down to Tesco to do the shopping.
But this was very different from that. Then, at least, John would give him sidelong, stormy blue looks like he couldn’t fathom how in hell Sherlock had survived thirty-some-odd years without him; they could sit across from one another at the breakfast table, and Sherlock would hog the important bits of the paper, while John would suffice himself with the sports because he knew Sherlock hated that sort of thing; Sherlock could sweep on his coat, and he needn’t even look over his shoulder to know that his army doctor was following behind him. At least then, he could have touched John whenever he liked, elbowed him out of the way of the kettle, grabbed his arm and dragged him down towards a cab because something really interesting was happening. Even if Sherlock didn’t reach out and connect his fingers with John’s hair the way he’d so often thought of doing as he passed him reading in his armchair, he’d always had the option, and there had been some liitle comfort in that for Sherlock, the way a tattered blanket might have been a comfort to a small child.
Now, Sherlock had no comforts. He had no liberties he was allowed to take with John. It didn’t register to him as it might have before. He was able to maintain his composure, keep himself in check, all of those useless, silly emotions pushed back and smothered behind steadily thicker and thicker walls of logic and information. Computers couldn’t feel, and Sherlock’s brain was more akin to a computer than a brain. So he would quickly compute what emotion he felt, and then he would store it in a file folder, somewhere in the back of his mind, to be forgotten, or ignored, perhaps to be brought out and sifted through later, but probably not.
Sherlock wondered, sometimes, when John’s eyes did find him in a crowd, if he ever thought it was possible that Sherlock was alive? Did he even register that it resembled his former flatmate? Sherlock had leaned, smoking, against the door to John’s flat a few days before, hoodie pulled up over his curly hair, shaky fingers holding the cigarette as John pushed out of the door, and headed out to work. He hadn’t even glanced at the wan smoker who followed him all the way to St. Bart’s.
On the train, Sherlock had moved one seat closer every day, until he had stood, gripping the bars, and at the urging of the train, he had leaned back, just enough that his shoulderblades, and John’s, pressed flush together. A throwaway feeling for people used to the jostle of the train, tossing personal space out the window for fast transit. John’s hadn’t even looked over his shoulder to find out whose warmth was against his skin. He’d been looking at his wedding ring that day, distracted by his wife’s absence.
The thrill of lingering ever closer to him without being found out had been killed that morning. He’d maintained his distance ever since, keeping to alleys, and corner streets, and ugly pubs that John passed. Sometimes Sherlock would linger outside his block of flats for hours. Sherlock was well-known for getting bored of tedious activities very quickly. But watching John move, and watching John take breaths in and out, and watching John survive, would never be boring to Sherlock. Perhaps he didn’t understand why, yet, but he knew, for now, he could live on the trickle of John he received from afar.
Had his eyes not been so accustomed to John’s manner of walking, Sherlock might have missed him in the sudden influx of people heading to work. But the leather jacket, and the gray-blonde hair were immediate giveaways, and Sherlock crushed out his fifth cigarette, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, and pulling it on, pushing the hood up over his too-long curls, and keeping it around his white, skeleton of a face. The scarring on his inner elbow was itching him, and as he ducked out of the pub, and fell into well-learned steps behind John, Sherlock was aware, just by looking at him, the slump in his shoulders, the tilt of his head as he thought, even the way he patted his pocket with uncertainty, like he had forgotten something, Sherlock could tell John was giving heavy thought to something. Without seeing his face, though, Sherlock had a difficult time determining what it was.
Sherlock was accidentally separated from John by a car that rushed in front of him, nearly hitting him. Sherlock, and several other bystanders stood incredulously away as it passed, but Sherlock’s eyes were only on the shrinking form of the doctor, feeling the familiar squeeze of panic that he had once felt when he knew he was in pursuit of a criminal, and knew he was about to lose them.
So focused was Sherlock on John, that he didn’t notice the light haired smoker whose tabs on John were beginning that day. Sherlock might recognize him, if he’d been less caught up in selfish pursuits. The sniper wouldn’t have recognized Sherlock, not from his particular position, but he would realize who he was by the time it was important.
And unfortunately, so would Sherlock.
Key: Believe
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Three hours!
APPLICATION COUNT
Jim Moriarty: 1
Sebastian Moran: 0
Molly Hooper: 1 ACCEPTED | ACCOUNT PROCESSING
Mrs. Hudson: 0
Greg Lestrade: 1
Mycroft Holmes: 0
John Watson: 1
Sherlock Holmes: 1
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