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Joined: 27-September 15
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Last Seen: May 6 2016, 03:26 PM
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Oct 13 2015, 02:54 AM
<div style="background-image: url(; width: 400px; height: 200px; margin-left:20px; margin-bottom:10px;"><br><br><div class="tators">
<center><div class="baked"><center><div class="black">THE PLANTATION</div><br>
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If you leave Vegas and walk north for twenty or so miles, camp the night in the caves in the foot hills, and then walk west up the small fork of the dry riverbed there, you’ll be stopped by a pair of guns holding some soldiers with red flowers tattooed on their necks. And by stopped I mean shot in the chest. This is because, beyond the guns and another bend in the riverbed, there is a beautiful bowl shaped valley with good dirt and a deep well, and that valley is billowing edge to edge with red poppies. In the daytime, it’s just another farm, specked with leather-backed slaves working life into the soil. It’s distinguished only by its size, it’s shocking color, and the guns positioned strategically along the perimeter. In the night, however, when the slaves shuffle home and collapse, music and strange laughter echoes from the opium dens on the valley floor. Merchants and representatives of the Cartel are shown a good time there. They leave in the the morning only because they know overstaying their welcome would be a fatal mistake.
Welcome to the Plantation.
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<center><div class="baked"><center><div class="black">THE WARLORD / MARLON BRANDO / FIFTIES</div><br>
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THE WARLORD is the bossman of the Plantation, and the owner of several satellite opium poppy farms across the farmlands north of Vegas. A mercenary-turned-businessman, he leaves the farming to a handful of cowed overseers and focuses his energies on the guts and glory: protecting his fields, undermining/massacring rival farms, finding slaves, and navigating the tense relationship the Plantation has with the Cartel (Status games and manipulation galore). Though his wealth provides him ample comfort, he's more of a warrior king that a courtly king, riding into battle with his bonny reavers and spilling his fair share of blood in defense of the valley. His lodgings are humble and his slaves are fed, if worked to the bone. He's a strong, primal sort of leader, effective for all that he's brutal.
THE WARLORD had a son by Kinniki's mother, by the way. That's why he kept Kinniki alive when his men dragged her and her father into his lodgings for judgement, about ten years ago, when the plantation was just getting it's roots into the dirt; Kinniki is the spitting image of her late mama. What kept THE WARLORD from disemboweling Kinniki's father, the man who stole his woman only to fail to protect her from savages out in the dust? THE WARLORD wanted a mapmaker badly for some reason, some reason more than a simple desire to expand his farmland, and overwhelming his bone-breaking desire for revenge. THE WARLORD must be looking for someplace, some place hard to find or far away. His men, sitting around their bonfires in the evening gloom, like to play at guessing what that place might be, but even the ones who've been with him since the Plantation began eventually shrug and move the conversation on to women and booze.

<div style="background-image: url(; width: 400px; height: 200px; margin-left:20px; margin-bottom:10px;"><br><br><div class="tators">
<center><div class="baked"><center><div class="black">THE LOST BOY / JAMES DEAN / TWENTIES</div><br>
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THE WARLORD’s son, and Kinniki’s elder half-brother, THE LOST BOY vanished from his bed when he was four years old. Where is he, and why was he taken? What connection does he have to the mysterious place that his father is trying to find? THE LOST BOY is an enigma, but THE WARLORD’s men never gossip about him around the fire. In fact, it’s been many years since anyone on the plantation has been brave enough to say his name out loud.

<div style="background-image: url(; width: 400px; height: 200px; margin-left:20px; margin-bottom:10px;"><br><br><div class="tators">
<center><div class="baked"><center><div class="black">THE LOOSE END / ANTONIA THOMAS / TWENTIES</div><br>
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Razing small farms and villages, taking slaves: To THE WARLORD and his men, it’s ordinary. Sometimes it’s a little exciting and sometimes it’s a little demoralizing, but at the end of the day it’s just another day’s work gone. THE WARLORD and his men go home, drink some booze and pass out. And do it all over the next day.
But to every farmer gutted, every woman raped, every child bound and sold or set to work the rest of their sorry lives in the hot sun, their own death or stolen life is the most brutal, the most devastating. It eclipses the sun.
So it is with THE LOOSE END. She was a sweet farmer girl from a sweet secret village between Vegas and LA. THE LOOSE END’s life was leveled by the casual atrocities of THE WARLORD’s ambition. Her village’s millet fields were burned and plowed over, fertilized by the bodies of the village elders, and planted with opium poppies. Every able-bodied man and woman was enslaved and made to work their own violated land. All the unruly ones were silenced- all except one. THE LOOSE END escaped, and now she aims to destroy THE WARLORD and all of his land.
It’s a hell of a thing to devote your life to when so many have suffered similar fates. Even so, THE LOOSE END’s conviction borders on religious. She can’t see the bigger picture; her village’s sad story isn’t just another sad story, it is The Great Atrocity. Now, she and her little gang of renegade friends don’t make much of a dent in THE WARLORD’s affairs, but they are ambitious and tireless. And still young.
Who would guess that THE LOOSE END would be the one to lead THE WARLORD to his promised land?

PS. THE LOOSE END’s shattered village- you know who found it and told THE WARLORD? You got it. Kinniki. Yeah, so she’s gonna have to pay.
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<center><div class="baked"><center><div class="black">THE OTHER PLAYERS // ALL AGES</div><br>
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The farmers, the heroin cooks, the peddlers, the den flowers, the slaves- there are so many more characters tangled hopelessly in this story.

THE OTHER PLAYERS are smart and strong and wounded. They have all kind of vengeance to feed and all kinds of addictions to nurse. Their fates are all knotted up in surprising ways- many having to do with THE WARLORD’s secret place. Your turn to imagine their stories.
Oct 8 2015, 12:40 AM
Guess who's fucking internet just fucking crapped out? Fucking mine! Hooray! Confuckingfetti! I'll be patchy until the 16th.

Sep 30 2015, 06:37 PM
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<center><div style="width:450px;height:450px; background-image: url(;"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color: #8B795E; opacity: 1; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 400; font-size: 25px; text-align:center;">KINNIKI</div><br><div style="line-height: 60%; text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #6E6E6E;">BOOZE, 21, SHE/HER, PACIFIC, PM</div></div></div></center></div></div>

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The sky lightened by patient degrees, bleak and cavernous. The stars noticed, and sunk obediently into the fabric of the heavens, but the desert below seemed to resist the coming day and stayed stubbornly black. There was a desolate desert cold down there- the kind of cold that makes your knuckles ache and the skin on your cheeks tighten. And dark- so uselessly dark.
If you swooped down through the murk, over the lip of that certain tender valley with it's rocky ramparts, and avoided the gaze of the blank-eyed guards who hunched half-dead from the nighttime chill, you'd see that even the violent scarlet of the poppy fields was dark and colorless at this hour. The air here was still; nothing stirred the dark sea of crinkled flowers. Their petals just seemed to hover, weightless, like radiated steam over a pit of tar: not quite air and not quite earth.
Huddled at the edge of the poppy fields were a pair of figures. They seemed to be unnoticed by the guards, who paced back and forth to stay awake with their eyes turned outward to the sage and sand of the open desert. But they were there: Two figures there, to human bodies, with only the slightest movement to distinguish their silhouettes from the rest of the darkness. One body still, and the other body trembling.
That was Kinniki, the mapmakers daughter, cradling the mapmaker in her weary arms and burying her face in the crook between his neck and his muscled shoulders. She didn't make a sound, but the ringing in her ears seemed too strident to be confined to her head- to the girl it seemed that the ringing was echoing over the wastelands, sending up clouds of birds from northern forests and tolling over the crashing green water on the coast.
She'd woke early, like they'd planned. Father and daughter- they had been all packed to set off before the heat of the sun, to chase down rumors of a freshwater lake to the northeast. When she'd grabbed her father's shoulder the wake him, he hadn't stirred. It was then that Kinniki had smelled the acrid stench of tar and realized what had happened: He must have taken a packet of heroin from the storeholds- he had plenty of friends around the plantation who would have gotten some for him. He'd relapsed again. Well, that was more exasperating than terrifying. She shook him again, slapping his face gently, trying to coax him awake, but nothing seeming to rouse him. This was when the panic had set in. This wasn't supposed to happen. But what could she do? He was overdosing and she was helpless, paralyzed, and she held him in her arms as his shallow breath weakened and faded into nothing.
Now she leaned back, aghast, breathing deep through her nose to stifle the shaking sobs in her chest. Her face was a rigid mask of shock and grief, and the tears that slicked her cheeks picked up the dim blue light that was tinting the apathetic sky above her head.
Suddenly her mind was flooded with memories: The hundreds of times they'd nearly died together of thirst and exertion; The was his face looked in firelight when he laughed, ridged and glowing; The funny, forlorn songs he sang to her the nights when they'd first been captured by the Warlord's goons; The fierce way he'd embraced her after he'd struck the bargain that bound them to the Cartel but saved their lives; The first time she'd seen him high on opiates and the way he'd giggled at her like a little boy; The bottomlessness of his eyes when she asked him to tell stories about her dead mother; The way he joked with the Warlord as if they were old friends; the roughness of his hands when he smoothed tears from her cheeks or stitched up gashes in her skin.
These memories swarmed her like flies, stinging and itching, crawling up her nose and into her ears and mouth. A low moan escaped between her gritted teeth. How could she even exist without him? She'd never been her own person: she was the mapmakers daughter. It didn't even make sense for her to be alive without him, the particles between them were so entangled. His death should have snuffed her out like a candle flame. And yet here she was, heart pounding over his empty shell.
<i>What a stupid and useless waste of a good man.</i> Kinniki was suddenly filled with red-hot anger. She shoved the cold, stiffening body from her lap, so that her father's face- a face as lined as the maps he'd taught her to draw since she was a little girl- lolled away from her. With every muscle in her body tense and coiled, and the hair on her arms and neck standing up in the cool air, she turned to tear open his pack and pull out the things of his that she needed to take with her: charcoal for drawing, spare pieces of unmarked or incomplete canvas, his flint and striker, his share of cured meat. She unbuckled the machete and water flask from his hip to take along for good measure, even though they would weigh her down.
She leaned back, burying her hands in the dirt, and then yelped, pulling her palm to her mouth, and searching the soil with her eyes. There was light enough now to see the grimy outline of her father's needle, lying there beside his ankle. He'd told her that he'd destroyed it for good, but there it lay, mocking her. Engulfed with rage and grief, Kinniki snatched it up and hurled it out into the poppies, where it was swallowed up without a sound. The girl immediately regretted it: some slave who worked the fields might step on it and cut up their bare foot. But Kinniki wasn't going to trample through the Warlord’s delicate poison flowers to retrieve it.
Kinniki turned wretchedly back to her fathers corpse. She knelt beside him, trembling fingers finding their way to the knotted string behind his neck. His skin was strange and cold- a coldness so surprising and wrong that it brought bile up in her throat. She persisted though, until she'd pulled free the necklace he wore always: his precious steel compass, its back worn silky smooth against his skin over the years. She tied it reverently around her own neck and then leaned forward and rested her head against his lifeless chest for as long as she could bear, leaving a patch of damp in his shirt from her streaming eyes. Then she wrenched herself away, shouldered her pack (on the verge now of being overloaded), and fled, her head still spinning with bewildering grief.
But that was the way things happened here, in the desert at the end of the world. Death didn't send harbingers, it just arrived, and you were left with a corpse and a headache. No use cursing and nothing to do about it; it would be back to get you just as suddenly. And Kinniki still had a job to do. The Warlord needed new valleys to sow with his opium poppies, and she had to find them and tell him how to get there. And though the hate in her gut for those murdering flowers was like a white hot stone, what was she going to do? Leave the plantation forever? She'd be tracked down by the cartel in a day, and tortured or shot.
No, she had her purpose. Her father had taught her to make maps, and she would make them for her masters. Nothing had changed.
So with her brow down and her jaw set, she hiked over the north edge of the valley, nodding to the guard stationed nearby who leaned against his rifle. He nodded in return.
Isn't that the mapmaker's daughter? He thought, noticing the pale tear streaks on her dirty face. Where was the mapmaker, then? The two were usually inseparable. He and the other guards often joked about what they'd do to the girl if the tall, broad shouldered man was out of the way. His eyes narrowed as she passed, raking down from her collarbone to her chest to the two machetes that swayed from her hips. There was something in the cock of his eyebrows that suggested a smile as he watched her lope into the early morning desert. He followed her with his eyes until she shrank into nothing as the sun dug its fingernails at last into the horizon and peeked his bright eye through the sage and dust.



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<center><div style="margin-left: 0px;"><table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="1"><tr><td><div class="biotag">SURVIVOR</div></td><td><div class="biotag">THE CARTEL</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">MAPMAKER</div></td><td><div class="biotag">TWENTY FOUR</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">HETEROSEXUAL</div></td><td><div class="biotag">SARAH BRANNON</div></td></tr></table></div></center><br><br><div style="width:352px; height:262px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;">

Kinniki is a good girl, yeah? She likes walking through the desert in the sun, feeling her muscles doing work. She likes talking to strangers and drinking water after a long day. She likes singing dirty songs around campfires and the warm fuzzy feeling that comes from flirting with people who are robbing her blind or taking her captive.
Kinniki goes everywhere. Across vast wastes, certainly, but into the hive of Las Vegas and other settlements for sure: A part of her work is gathering rumors about places where the ground might be a little softer, where there might be water. And that means hanging out with other humans.
Her Warlord, who is the largest grower of opium poppies in the Cartel's influence, sends her sometimes as an emissary to tribes of raiders and bandits to negotiate passage or land use, because she's good at it (She keeps coming back alive at least). The girl usually carries around a stock of black tar heroin and pure opium resin to bribe people with. Of course, she doesn't touch the stuff herself.
Mostly though, she travels the desert alone, charting the land- where there are settlers, where there are mutants, where there are trees and how the mountains fall. Possible passes. Mysterious disappearances. She draws the maps on canvas or hide with charcoal and later embroiders the lines in with dyed cotton. Sometimes she'll carve the maps onto strips of wood to give to the Warlord's raiders for specific missions. When she's making maps, she's back with her father, and that is her greatest peace.
I bet she knows your character.
They're probably friends. Kinniki makes a point to get along with people. She doesn't judge, and she can be right tender to the people who are kind to her. She likes raunchy jokes and drinking late into the night and going on ridiculous adventures. She's often ended up best friends with people who aimed to abuse her. So yeah, she probably met your character in some dire situation, they both came out alive, and now they're good mates who have a great time whenever she passes through.
On the other hand they could be enemies. There are plenty of assholes in the world, and plenty of times, Kinniki's been cut up or taken advantage of. She can hold a grudge; grudges are fun. Also, Kinniki is arguably an asshole too, as she works for a ruthless Warlord who works for a downright evil cartel. So maybe she traded you some bad heroin that fucked you up in the head, or you told her about the peaceable green valley where your mother lives, and she sent word to her boss and the valley is now leveled and covered with evil red flowers. I dunno. The possibilities here are endless.
Of course, they could always be lovers. Kinniki likes a good roll in the hay. She's not one for commitment though. If you want to keep her attention for longer than a night or two, you'd better be able to keep up with her, and you'd better bring your own water.
They could also work together. If your character works for or deals with the cartel, or is a slave on the Warlords plantation, or a farmer selling manure, or a mercenary of some kind, they could certainly run into each other, get in trouble together, or be assigned to the same task...
So here she is. Go wild.
PS. I like plots with action, don't you? So backplotting is SUPER WELCOME so we can skip the awkwardness and go right to the falling in love or falling off cliffs or being chased by cannibals.


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