We'll Speak easy in the Cardboard Kingdom.

The city thrives on its fuel of broken dreams and illegal booze. The cops roaming the streets are either hopelessly optimistic and morally rigid or irreconcilably corrupt and lacking in empathy. City officials shovel the rising poverty, slums and crime under the table and stand on a soap box bought by mobsters and companies who peddle their own brand of poison to the masses. Vagrants roam the affluent sides of the city and make their bedding under bridges, in abandoned line tunnels and in back alleys crowded by filth. The culture district crawls with mediocrity masked by profitable expertise in faux modern art and faked insight into meaning and depth. The dainty little suburbs just at the fringes of the clouded and smogged up outskirts tremble and go stir-crazy in their perception of an isolated yet safer life, adults staying inside and putting on their smiles while their children break down the doors to end up in the Latin Quarter or Midnight Row, finding more in common with the disenfranchised and looked down upon colored folks than their own families. The good in this city try their best to chip away at the rotted skin of appearances and declarations, but always end up either as crooked as the system they tried to beat or apathetic within their defeats. This city is beautifully ugly, it is righteously decadent, it is a living contradiction, breathing through diseased lungs and looking to the starless nights with a million glassed over eyes, the talons of orange, red and dirty green light from the city stretching into the heavens to pull down the spirits of the dead and the ones who gave up. This city is kicking and screaming but it's silent concerning its vices.
This is Neverwere, where the songs are sung, the crimes are done and the bells are rung.
This is a gritty slice of fantasy for those who can afford it and a hellish dose of reality for everyone else.
You feel the city watching you, and that's how you should feel.
Even God doesn't know whats going to happen next.
Neverwhere has been called the new Sodom, and the people couldn't be any happier.


Welcome to Neverwere, care to introduce yourself?

This is a log on the lives of people within the city of Neverwere during the 1920's and 30's. Its a strange combination of San Fransisco, Los Angeles, Chicago and New York, all rolled up into one.
Each entry should, preferably, be longer than one paragraph. Introduce your character however you want, first person, third, omnipresent. Create an origional character, give them a life all their own, and give us their lives in this burnt out society. You can make them any age, create 'NPC' characters within your own passage and even continue and post more portions of your character's story.

This is based off of a city I use alot in my Poems and short stories, and so you might run into one of these Characters, feel free to borrow them or even write as them, but if you dont want to, you can run into them if you want.

Alexander November, Influential artist rumored to have gone insane, following a breakdown at Neverwere University, dresses casually and has a cool demeanor when approached, loves literature and classical music, will tolerate Jazz.

Thomas Olander, performing artist who moves through the city with his wife from gig to gig, is a veteran of World War 1 and strays from drinking due to the tendancy of booze to bring his nightmares and memmories of it back. Very calm and almost distant, loving of his friends and a faithful husband.

Cathy Olander, performing artist who moves through the city with her husband from gig to gig, a denying alcoholic, Cathy sees her weakness as a betrayal to Thomas, and will usually slip away from him to hide her drinking, very beautiful and dainty when not slipping into a 'mood.' Outgoing and easy to make laugh, inconsolable when intoxicated.

Patrick Arland, local agent and performance manager, works with numerous agents to arrange shows for singers, artists and actors. Very calculating, hardly ever angry.

Sammuel Hatheford, Irish immigrant and fellow art student with Alexander November, his close friend. Both friends were from Rhode - Island and carry memmories of the old times on the East Coast. Easily agitated, loves to argue.

Dr. Emil Vargas, fourth generation Mexican-American and well respected doctor at Mended Heart Hospital, tends, free of charge, to the poor inhabitants of the Latin Quarter and Midnight Row, always ready to assist with personal and medical problems, his Service in World War 1 making him more sympathetic to the suffering of others. Calm, softspoken, a hearty laugher when entertained.

Father Francis Cantor, Catholic priest and strong advocate for the arts in Neverwere, a mentor to young artists and authority on religious matters, as the higher church busies itself with politics and monetary matters in the city. Stern but passionate, comforting.

I am interested, but do you wish for us to put up our character profiles for references?

~Incognito

Ill save a spot if thats allowed

I'm also very interested. What a detailed world you have here. When do we start?

Your character is your own, unless as I stated you decide to use one of the already existing characters. You can present them however you wish, either through the basic
name
age
sex
height
and so on or through a descriptive entry into this log. You can post as many times as you want, you can interract with other characters if you contact them first and inform them.

You may post whenever, so you begin now if you wish.

I splashed water over my face and watched the little droplets slide down my cheeks and back into the sink. I was good looking, at least to the point where no one expected me of doing anything bad. I had dark hair that was almost always in a state of unrest, and bright grey eyes. Edward Erikson. The most dangerous man in the city. I took the towel and wiped my face before moving into the kitchen.

My apartment was small, only four rooms; kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom. But, underneath the apartment was a large open area great for my line of work.

I put two hot pockets in the microwave and sat at the circular table with my coffee. i flicked open the newspaper, and of course the front headlines read, "Masked man steals over three million dollars from bank". It had been me of course, it always was. I ate my hot pockets and then started walking to my normal job as a baker.

I was the first one there as usual so I hung up the closed sign and turned on all the lights. The bakery was small, like the apartment. Only three tables and a booth that circled the room. The counter was all see through and it displayed what we would be making until we came up with something else.

I ran into the back and prepped the stoves while I took out the trash. When everything was ready the other cooks were here so I went out front and set up the tables. I had front shift today, meaning I did the register and all the other stuff. My phone rang from the counter so I went and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, we still on?"

I sighed, "Of course. Just make sure you're ready to plant the information when I tell you. Once they find it and the cops go to Belcan's house make sure they die so that our guy becomes chief of police."

"I know, I know, but what if-"
I cut him off, "Nothing will go wrong. Just carry through with your part of the bargain, and I'll do mine." I flipped my phone closed and dropped it into the pocket f my jacket that was hanging on the back rack.

The rest of the day I went through the details of the plan. Belcan and the police chief were killed. After that I had two of my people in power. And after that, only god would know the amount of hell that would break loose. I grinned at the thought. This was going to be fun.

*I think that's what you wanted.

name: Anastasia Lamren
age: 20
sex: Female
height: 5'4
Personality: Quiet, depressing all together, and eerie. She often stares when she thinks and has an attitude towards change.
Description: She has short shoulder length black hair with a few white streaks through it. Her pants are always jeans and her shirts are always comfy tees. Plus she has a tiny nose ring stud and bright gray eyes. Anastasia often finds herself working at the nearest night club, Pandemonium, where all types of shit goes down. Recently she's been taking up a waitressing job there to pay off her crap ass apartment rent. http://osy057.deviantart.com/art/Girl-29138792
Other:Up for love and used to live in the tidy suburbs until she ran away to the more mobster infested, slumy areas. The people there understand her.


*Pandemonium, was a club from the Mortal Instruments series.*

Grant pulls the hood of his jacket off of his head and checks the coal gray sky with a foreboding glance, like the fervid forlornness of a death in the family. He slides a partially smoked, bent, and mostly wet cigarette from his mouth, between his thumb and index finger, then flicks it down the street with a bounce and makes his way down a darkly lit, city street, and down a alleyway, littered in old newspaper, beer bottles, and urine. The scent inflames his nostrils as if he'd snorted a potent poison, to the point he had to conceal his nose with a sleeve. Still, he perseveres through the it, kicking a few cardboard boxes damp with rain from his path, they scoot with a slosh, and makes his way to a doorway illuminated by the cackling light of a neon blue sign. It reads: T-e De-d Par-ot.
He twists the faded, rusty gold doorknob with a wrench of his wrists and quickly pushes his way into a grimy, seedy, and dimly lit bar. The cigarette smoke is so thick that it burns his eyes despite that only two people other than himself are here. Hank and Willy. Hank, the portly, dirty bartender, regards Grant with a lift of his bushy brows so that you could see only part of his wood colored eyes. He constantly bore the look of someone staring at the sun. Willy, the toothless deaf, drunkard, hadn't even noticed Grants hasty entrance, only follows the changing expression on Hanks wincing face. Grant found himself wishing the scrawny man didn't notice at all, because when he did, all of the features on Willys' stringy, long face seemed to narrow into a sinister, but toothless, grin, like a gawking smile on cartoon jack-o-lantern. The smile made Grants spine turn into ice, and he found himself burrowing his fingernails into his palm.
“ 'ey 'ere,” Willy strains out of the back of his throat the best he could.
Grant keeps his face turned away from the man and replies under his breath, “'Ello, ugly." He makes his way past to the two on his way two the unisex bathroom.
“How are ya?” Hank says quickly, wiping his sweat lined forehead with his palm, and uses it to comb back his greasy, black hair. “We was just talkin' bout you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He continued even faster, “Yeah. We was just wonderin' where you was at.”
Grant reached into his pocket for the cheap, drugstore watch head. Ten thirty six. Thirty six minutes past the time he normally arrived here. Good 'ol Hank. He passed the man a broad smile, “Jack and...”
“... coke, I know. I already gawd it right here.” Hank pulled the glass of brown liquid from behind the bar, the ice had already mostly melted away deluding most the drink.
“C'mon, Hank. That's mostly water.”
“Ain't my fault you was late.” He offered with a shrug.
Grant rolled his eyes and continues on into the bathroom, pushing closed the door behind him, and twisting the lock shut. He places a hand on both sides of the yellowed bowl of the sink and takes in a deep, serene breath. The mirror in front of him lacks a border, and pieces have been broken off of it, but reflection is mostly fine, just speckled with what could be water, spit, or worse. In the corner there is an unfamiliar oddity, a paper of some sort. Grant bends closer for a better look and is quite surprised by the familiarity. A broad face with the muscled cheeks of an athlete, covered in a moss of black facial hair, with the cracked lips of a smoker, leading up to a long, wide nose, bent from a bar fight. The same droopy, brown eyes of someone who'd had too many sleepless nights stared with the same dull expression of someone sick of it all. It was like a second reflection in the same mirror. A few moments leads him to a panic stricken horror when he realizes that the second reflection is not a reflection at all. It is a photograph of him and the photo is succeeded by words that read:

WANTED!
GRANT HUGHES
MURDER, KIDNAP, RAPE
$100,000 REWARD

Lets get this started.

name: Meg Trapp

age: 17

sex: Female

height: 5'3

Personality: Very quiet and shy. Anti social to the extreme. Very creative.

Appearance: http://alecmira.deviantart.com/art/Grav ... -116933606

Description: Her parents are gravekeepers, and she was raised in a renovated masoleum with her two older brothers, Cash and Antony. She has a lot of love in her heart but she's so afraid of people that it's hard for her to share it. Her mother was depressed all the time, and still is, and her father is a heroin addict. Her brother Cash moved away, but Antony is still there. Since people don't know her, they will see her around during a funeral and call her the Angel of Death.

Other: Up for love