What Our Characters Do To Fitting/Unfitting Music

["Unfettered"]

This is an omake/game for character practice to text flexibility... and just for fun.

Simply put, once every few days or every week a new song will be put up here (typically classical). And from there you make a quick summary of what your character does to said music. RPing one-shots is not necessary, but most certainly welcome.

To start, we'll go with something well known. I'll provide a lame example.

Theme: Piotr Ilich Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture (Finale)

"Unfettered" starts off initially observing a fight that is breaking out in the Public High School #259 courtyard. It appears to be nothing special, but he still takes note of the fighters, watching the division of power continue to grow and play stronger and stronger parts---before he realizes "Green" had gotten way too close to the combat and has the REALLY EXPENSIVE CAMERA THEY JUST GOT camera knocked out of his hands as it gets thrown up in the air. The German's eye widens as he thinks about approaching to catch it. He watches the camera fall up in slow motion, horror as he tries to run towards it. However he's too slow and watches it harmlessly fall to the ground---in the middle of the entire fight.

He marches and ducks and weaves in the larger-growing riot, crawling on the ground as the camera gets kicked around slightly, miraculously not getting knicked too badly---

---Before it gets stepped on accidentally by a "trying-to-be-helpful" "Green."

The scene cuts out to an "Unfettered" with a "Green" bent over his lap receiving many terrible spanks to the rear end, his face livid as "Green" cries, lamenting.

[Vincent.]

[shadow=shadow,left,300]Business.[/shadow]

---

Vincent stands shirtless before the bathroom mirror, running a comb through his white hair. With a terse shake of his head, the hair falls naturally into place. He proceeds to run the comb through it again in this new arrangement, perfecting the look of ‘controlled chaos’.

He buttons up a clean, carefully ironed black shirt, his fingers nimbly addressing each button in turn. He selects a perfectly pressed silk black tie from a narrow selection of other black ties, and loops it about his neck dexterously, pulling the knot firmly to the base of his neck and straightening it with an attentive hand.

He brushes a hair off of his shoulder before slipping on a sleek black sport coat. A quick regard of silent approval before the mirror, standing tall and businesslike, his visage is unsmiling and stern.

He pulls open a drawer by the neatly made bed and casually withdraws a handgun, adroitly checking to make sure it is fully loaded, and flipping the safety on. He slips it into the pocket of his suit, straightens his tie once more, and heads toward the door while swiftly pulling a pack of Marlboros from his pants pocket. With a cigarette between his lips, he promptly flips open his Zippo and lights it, flips the Zippo closed, deposits it into the chest pocket of his coat. He puts on a pair of dark shades and walks out the door like a classy motherfucker.

Not a single fuck was given that day.

[Vespyr]

Vespyr Slaughters A Busload of Middle School Children While I Play Unfitting Rather Fitting Music.

---

Weather forecast:

What a perfect day…

FOR A FIELD TRIP.

The children, in their excitement, are barely able to make it onto the bus without stampeding and trampling over each other. It is the last day of school. Which means that the eighth graders, as a reward for not completely succumbing to the unfathomable derp of pre-teenage years and failing middle school, are on a trip to the one and only Wild Rivers.

. . .

What a lovely day…

For a massacre.

Vespyr, in a slew of boredom and sadistic giddiness, decides that she will be the storm cloud raining mercilessly on someone’s parade today. Raining blood, that is.

. . .

“Aren’t you a little too old to be on this bus?”

As if a swift and fatally snarky answer to the parent chaperone’s question, her head is promptly lopped off. It bounces twice and rolls down the aisle, grotesquely wide-eyed and spewing gratuitous amounts of blood from the severed neck, and then leaps high into the air as the bus jolts over a bump in the road. A chorus of shrill shrieks arises from the throats of the children as they, too, bounce with mind-numbing fright in their seats, recoiling from the decapitated head in utter pants-pissing terror.

A tall and sinister figure in a long black trench coat rises from the very front seat of the bus, wielding a machete freshly coated and dripping with warm blood. Her hair is white, her face is pale, her eyes are dark and violet—and a malicious grin stretches the corners of her black cherry lips savagely across her long and angular face, revealing rapaciously clenched sharp teeth and noxiously vicious intent. The villain rushes forward, swinging the rusted, razor-sharp blade like a baseball bat at the head of the nearest preteen. The child’s last blood-curdling scream persists for two seconds, followed by a sickening gurgle and splatter, and the top half of her head flies into the air and lands with a THUNP in the lap of someone six rows back.

Reaching over her shoulder, the killer unsheathes another machete and extends the lengthy blades at her sides. Her rapid violent movements are so quick that the children in the very front rows have absolutely no time to duck before they, too, are decapitated, one after another, and another, and another; Vespyr is running down the aisle now, a wave of blood and heads swelling behind her, a ensemble of screams at her front, the orchestra reaching the climax of their glorious overture—

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