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welcome to tame the whispers! we are an animation personified roleplay set in new york city and its boroughs. an entity known as the void swept through the animated world of ioyipia, the world which had been home to all of of our well known and beloved characters. the void destroyed everything in its path, some escaped and others were killed, but all found themselves right here in new york city. their abilities, some latent while in their last lives, others well known, are beginning to surface and those characters who remember ioyipia and who they were are starting to notice strange things going on. has the void returned? is it coming for them all over again? find out! when registering, please do so as FIRST M. LAST in all uppercase. our site's rating is 3•3•3 and we always ask for quality over quantity. as always, if you have any questions, feel free to message a staff member!


 
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 OLD HABITS DIE HARD, tag: open!
madam mim
twenty six
shapeshifting
con artist
bisexual
she/her

played by sara27 posts • prefers she/her pronouns

you got it all worked out
funny little girl
showing them what pain is all about

Martie thinks, at the very back of her mind, that she ought to be ashamed of herself for running such short, cliché scams. She wouldn’t even go so far as to call this one a con. Still, a girl has to eat things other than canapés and staff room pizza slices.

(Needless to say they are not obtained from staff rooms or venues in which her presence is expected, or even desired.)

She takes a while – a little longer than usual maybe – looking for a suitable mark. She hopes she isn’t losing her touch. What terrible, traitorous little thoughts. Once she’s picked him, she trails him through the streets, hands in her pockets, chin tucked into the rolled neck of her sweater. She looks particularly innocent today, in chunky knitwear and patent brogues, a colourful bobble hat pulled down low over her eyes.

It’s a classic, and she executes it with a practiced ease that suggests she’s done it many times before. It’s as easy for her as breathing, dropping her wallet where the mark behind her – picked for practically reeking of decency, amongst other things – will pick it up and give chase. To a particular place that she has taken great care in picking for the moment. Busy, but not to the point where the scene she’s about to act out will cause too much of a disturbance. One where she could slip away easily if something were to go awry.

But be serious – this is Martie Zelle. It’s an art form. Sit back, cross your arms, watch the master create.

‘Excuse me, miss?’ it’s music to her ears, the foreign accent, the soft tone of his voice, the slight tremor. He’s nervous. Martie swings around to face him, the high points of her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, a little red spot on the tip of her nose. Little blonde curls have escaped her hat to brush sweetly against the slow curve of her jaw. Her jaw tightens, but it’s almost imperceptible. She smiles, but she looks frightened. Like this isn’t the first time a stranger has stopped her in the street.

‘You dropped your wallet,’ and he holds it out to her, smiling, careful, like he’s trying to calm something fractious. Martie is gratitude incarnate, thank you thank you thank you, and he’s cocking his head to the side, eyes wide as saucers.

Until: ‘there was fifty dollars in here,’ she says, looking up at him, eyebrows furrowed, lips wobbling. ‘Did you take it out? I can’t believe you’d take it, then give me back my empty wallet!’ The man holds his hands up in surrender, and Martie goes in for the kill. ‘That was all I had for the next three weeks,’ she sobs, ‘how am I supposed to eat, now? I’ll be evicted! Oh god, oh god, oh god…’

People are starting to stare at the scene she’s making, at the pretty blonde girl with tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, the obvious trembling of her hands, the shrill pitch to her voice.

‘I’ll have to call the police,’ she says eventually, after a few pathetic little sniffles.

If his eyes were saucers before, they’re dinner plates now.

‘No need, no need,’ he says, and digs through his pockets. ‘I’m sorry.’ Martie’s face breaks into a smile as he scurries away, shoulders hunched. Like taking candy from a baby.

She walks a little way into the park, sits down at a spare bench – it’s pretty empty, it’s cold, a little drizzly, no one wants to sit out in the park on a day like today if they can help it – and lights a cigarette.

BY MITZI
yikes this is really long, she gets away from me,
you definitely don't have to write this much in
response!!!! tbh i'm really into writing around the
300/400 word mark lolol
quote
Howl
Twenty-seven
Wizardry
Barista
Heterosexual
He/ him

played by Kimilicious12 posts • prefers She/ her pronouns
You'll have to come and find me, find me
Things had been better. There were things to look forward to, someone's face he wanted to see and someone who wanted to see him in return. Howell wasn't insane, at least not in the conventional sense anyway. The things he'd thought to be true, the things he'd known he'd remembered, they had happened. Not all of it was good, in fact a great deal of it was downright terrifying, but it had happened. He was a wizard, tried and true, and his best friend was a fire demon and-- there was more, but he didn't like to dwell on those things. For now, those stated facts were enough. He'd deal with the rest later, figure it out as he went. He was not crazy and that was just plenty for him right now.

Since encountering Cal a week or two prior, he'd begun trying to get out of his apartment more. Well, that was a bit of a lie. He'd spent very little time in his apartment ever, but he was trying to experience more. Instead of just wandering aimlessly, staring at the sky or the ground or what have you, he was making an effort to actually do things. He'd gone and had dinner with Cal three times last week, the two had even gone out to a bar. It was strange, yet comforting to have Calcifer, no Caleb at his side. To have a living, breathing human where once there was a living ball of flames. It was comforting though, knowing he could pick up his cell phone and hear Cal's voice on the other end if he started to doubt himself. He could go to Spitfire Grill and peek into the kitchens, see that bright red hair through the wire racks, call out his name so the other turned to look at him, watch him wave two fingers at him and tell him he'd be right out. Howell tried not to be terribly needy, they both had to work after all. Caleb had people he was friendly with, people he'd introduced Howell to even. Howell couldn't remember their names half the time, the medication he was on always making him a little strange to top off his usual dose of oddities. Even so, he was starting to feel a bit more like himself. He'd shaved his face, cleaned himself up. His hair was still a bit long, but it was washed and brushed, framing his face rather than twisted up in a knot on his head. He hadn't been able to bring himself to cut it just yet, he didn't trust just anyone with his hair after all. The last person to even touch his hair had been, well. Again he pushed the thought away, trying to find something else to keep his attention.

It was chilly out, chilly and drizzling. He had on a jacket, a rather stylish one actually. He'd bought it just the other day, one of the first things he'd purchased that he'd bought just because he liked it. He'd been out with Cal of course, and when the jacket had caught his eye his friend had insisted he buy it. Howell almost passed it up, but when Cal had threatened to buy it himself he'd had to give in. He owned so little he actually liked these days, material items not meaning quite as much as they used to. Still, the jacket was warm and the hood kept the water off his hair. The zebra print made him stand out of course, drew people's eye to him, but it felt a little bit like old times.

He'd been wandering, old habits and all, but at least he'd been taking in the scenic view. Van Cortland park was nice enough and there just weren't all that many people out what with how damp it was. Howell still wasn't quite up to the public, mingling and all that, so a stroll through the half deserted park seemed like a fine idea. At least, it sounded fine up until he heard a rukus up ahead of him.

He approached the scene, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. A woman was crying, a man in front of her obviously trying to get her to stop. A lover's quarrel? Howell continued walking, they were in the middle of the walkway after all, they couldn't expect people to just take another path because of their little spat. As he neared though he found that it wasn't a romantic tift at all, no no the woman was accusing the man of stealing money from her wallet. Curious. Howell raised an eyebrow, watching an obviously very anxious man fork over some cash before beating a hasty retreat. Strange, very strange. What criminal just hands back the cash like that? Guilty conscience, maybe? He watched the man hurry off, but before the woman could turn Howell froze.

Marit Macleod, better known to friends (could you call them friends?) as Mim. That fucking bitch.

Howell notes her smile, the devious catch in her eye before she turns on her heel. He narrows his eyes, knowing a con when he sees one. Mim had always been sneaky, her quick little fingers and innocent smile putting people off her scent. She'd gotten out of the crazy house, left him in there with probably less than a thought. Unlike him, she'd been able to convince people she was darling, harmless. She'd made friends, tricked people into helping her. That was the only way she could have gotten out, that place had been locked down tight, but somehow one morning she wasn't in her room, missed breakfast, hadn't been to group. To say Howell had been bitter had been an understatement. He and Mim had been quite friendly, only one other in that hell hole someone he'd been able to connect with, someone who made him think he wasn't crazy. Howell had been the last to get out, once Mim and Marcel had gone, he'd had to figure himself out, try to find some semblance of sanity so they'd let him go. It had taken him a while. Seeing Mim now, watching he find her way to a bench, tucking her most likely ill gotten goods away and pulling out a cigarette, it irritated him. On some level the irritation felt good. He hadn't been rightly annoyed or irritated in some time, the medication keeping him a dull neutral unless he was with Cal. Maybe he should lay off of some of that. A thought for later.

Howell made his way to her, watching as she lit the cigarette and took a drag. He'd never been a fan of smoking. He resisted the urge to pluck it from her mouth; she'd always been a little off kilter. There was a good chance she'd bow up in his face immediately. There was a good chance he'd bow right back up at her given the opportunity. He should've texted Cal, told him to meet him at the park before he'd strode over here, before he was mere feet away from this woman. Too late now, whatever was going to happen was about to happen. What to say to her? He doubted she felt any guilt he wouldn't have, but he wanted to say ssomething.

"Still swindling people out of their hides, eh Mim?" His voice was distinctive, a Welsh accent that few people in the city had. Howell could still remember her pocketing dinner rolls off of other people's plates, pilfering extra snacks out of the cafeteria. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed those little extras until she'd bailed and he'd found he wasn't quite as quick as she'd been. Without his magic, Howell just wasn't as slick.

***


tell me if you'd like anything changed or edited! <3

MARTIE M. ZELLE
thanks evvie!
quote
madam mim
twenty six
shapeshifting
con artist
bisexual
she/her

played by sara27 posts • prefers she/her pronouns

you got it all worked out
funny little girl
showing them what pain is all about

Perhaps if she were anyone else, her face would’ve fallen.

As soon as she hears it, Mim, she’s on high alert, but her only response is a long, pointed drag on her cigarette. She remembers quite well how he’d hated when she’d managed to barter cigarettes off the orderlies, when she’d talked him into sneaking off into the hedge maze so she could smoke them without anyone important finding out. She’d won them in poker matches, usually. The kind of poker games she hadn’t even had to control the deck to win – sweet, simpletons, the kind of people who worked on mental health wards – so terribly easy to swindle.

Which is what he’s saying now – Howell Jenkins, that poor soul she’d left with the smallest passing thought all those months ago, never mind all the hours they’d spent lost in their own delusions – still swindling people out of their hides, and she responds in the only way she knows how.

Martie leans back into the bench, crosses one leg over the top of the other in a wide, typically male stance that might’ve looked out of place on such a sweet girl, if it wasn’t for the expression dripping like poison all over her face.

She has such a lovely, delicate jaw, but it is snapped shut like a wild animal’s, a muscle feathering down the long line of it. She’s not quite sure why, but she’s desperate to get under his skin – to put a stop to that gently lilting Welsh accent that she’d come to, once upon a time, find somehow soothing, now tickling, mocking at her ears – so she waits until he comes a little closer, then exhales her cigarette smoke through her tightly pursed lips, right into his face. Most of it disperses in the soggy New York air before it can ever meet its mark, but the intention is there nonetheless. He knows she knows he hates cigarettes. It’s the opposite of an I come in peace gesture.

Perhaps it’s a little unkindled spark of guilt, making her act so bullish, but she won’t indulge it. Her lips split open into the kind of smile that makes normal people’s stomachs turn, but Howell will know better than to react the way she’d like him to. Still, no harm in trying.

‘It’s a lifestyle, not a habit, Howell,’ she croons, her head tilted to the side – either a curious little puppy or a predator intent on devouring its prey, take your pick - ‘s’not something I can break out of.’

If she’d been surprised by his appearance here at any point, she hadn’t let it show. There’s only a vague sense of unease about the whole encounter, as she wafts her free hand around, pokes her fingers clumsily through the smoke rings she’s blowing, ‘unlike that hellhole we met in upstate. I’m glad to see you’re not still rotting away inside those big concrete walls. How’d you get out?’

There is a slight stress on the ends of her syllables that is the only thing that suggests she’s not, as she would want most people to believe, native to New York City. It is usually not so obvious – but she doesn’t need to make many allowances for the man in front of her. He knows her name was Marit, knows she was from the Netherlands, knows all the terrible, horrible things she’d divulged in group therapy sessions about her dissolute childhood in the slums.

As well as the things she’d suspected – that she was from somewhere else entirely, where there was magic and dragons and boys stuck in birds bodies, where she was a cat, and a fox, and a crocodile.

Perhaps she is even pleased to see him, this boy who’d believed in magic just as much as she had. Far be it from her to make him think it, though.

@ HOWELL P. JENKINS / plssss, he is perfect!! ♥

BY MITZI
quote
Howl
Twenty-seven
Wizardry
Barista
Heterosexual
He/ him

played by Kimilicious12 posts • prefers She/ her pronouns
You'll have to come and find me, find me
Mim was the sort of beautiful that Howell would have found very attractive once upon a time. Now that he was better acquainted with love versus lust however, she was no longer quite as pretty. In fact, because he knew her so very well, Mim was positively repulsive. Too strong? Perhaps, but he was still quite bitter with her and the poison that had leaked into her features didn't soften his grudge. He makes the mistake of getting just a bit too close, Mim blowing smoke into his face. He waves it away easily, a frown tugging at his lips through he doesn't make a fuss. She would have liked that, enjoyed seeing his annoyance. He was already giving her more than he wanted to just in his pinched look that he was mirroring from her. It was easier to keep his temper, probably because of the medication. He despised Mim in this moment, his initial reaction upon seeing her to run up to her and push her down like some sort of child. Now that he was standing in front of her though, the notion had passed, though of course he couldn't very well walk away. He let his irritation simmer as she let a smile split across her face, a smile that he found he didn't at all like. He rolls his eyes hard at her words, shaking his head sardonically. A lifestyle, please. She was ridiculous.

The look on his face when she made such casual mention of breaking out of their once shared hell hole could have frozen over said hell hole. He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to say something incredibly stupid. Mim was very difficult to intimidate, if anyone even really could intimidate her. She was a special sort of crazy, too daring, too charismatic. Where once he'd found some solace in her antics now he just found annoyance. Had he not come across Cal mere weeks ago, perhaps this meeting would have gone differently. If he'd still doubted his own sanity, if he'd still needed some sort of validation that only the likes of Mim could provide, perhaps he'd not have approached her with so much bitterness. Alas, he wasn't crazy. Dramatic and a bit needy, sure but crazy? No. That was reserved for Mim. Granted, he didn't think her crazy because she'd told them all that she was a witch from another world. That was believable, at least it was in his book. She probably was. she wasn't from Ingary, but there had been an entire world steeped in magic that she could have hailed from. Ioyipia was massive and he didn't doubt she'd come from there. She was rattled though, whatever had taken so much from him, clearly having taken a great deal from her as well. They had dealt with these losses very, very differently.

"Charmed them with my glowing personality." His words were caustic. "How do you think, Mim? They let me out after I proved I could function in normal society." Was he resentful? Hell yes he was. Long ago, Howell too had been charming, darling enough to trick someone into doing his bidding. Upon his arrival to New York though, that had spiraled and he'd been left completely out of control of himself. Where he'd failed, the insanity getting the better of him, Mim had triumphed, using what she had to get out. He envied her in many ways and envy had never looked good on him.

Despite the fact that he should have moved on, he adjusted his jacket before taking a seat beside her on the bench. She'd been sitting smack in the middle, but he'd taken a seat regardless. If she didn't wish to have him pressed into her side, she'd very well move and if not, she could have his knee in her bubble, Howell crossing his legs in a more feminine manner than she had. He leaned his arm on the back of the bench, turning dark eyes onto the woman beside him. Her hair was colored now, a soft pink. It'd be a lie to say he didn't like the color, though if asked he'd have told her it was ridiculous. "Catch any little bird boys in you traps, then? Or have you just been doing you for the past few years? Meet any other wizards, save myself?" His questions had a mocking edge to them, but they were questions he'd have truly liked to hear answers to. Well, mostly anyway. He was still somewhat invested in her well being, though for whatever reason he couldn't fathom. Perhaps their shared history, the world they'd been so rudely pulled from. She had magic in her veins just like he, but he no longer had to rely on her for a blip of sanity. He had Cal.

Still. Her appearance in the city was unnerving. He'd have thought she'd have been long gone by now, but alas here she was, staring bitterly at him as he refused to budge and give her the space she'd originally usurped. He definitely should have called Cal before this.

MARTIE M. ZELLE
thanks evvie!
quote
madam mim
twenty six
shapeshifting
con artist
bisexual
she/her

played by sara27 posts • prefers she/her pronouns

you got it all worked out
funny little girl
showing them what pain is all about

He is all pinched eyebrows and thin, pale lips, and although it’s not quite the reaction she would like – his old friend, sitting there large as life, after she’d abandoned him in hell, and he can’t even bring himself to snarl, to bare his teeth, to kick her in the shins – Martie supposes she’ll take it. Howell wafts away the smoke rings she’d blown into his face with such carefully crafted precision, rolls his eyes. She only grins harder, wider, cranes her chin up so she can get a proper look at him.

If he’d been even halfway to the man in front of her now when they’d been wearing grey sweatshirts and hospital issued slippers together she might have found herself seeking other methods of entertainment – might not have spent so long teaching him how to play poker. He’d never had the knack for it. Didn’t have that killer instinct, the savage streak, the ever-insistent urge to go in for the kill. As he stands in front of her, dithering, cheeks puckering, she imagines kissing him in the hedge maze instead, frost on her fingers.

It’s silly, but something in her thrills at the way he talks to her, like he wishes his words were made of acid, so he could drip them all over her, corrode her away into the concrete underfoot. So he could pretend he’d never met her. That they’d never bonded over scalded oatmeal and lukewarm apple juice. Martie sits up a little straighter. There’s a giddy, excited noise in the back of her throat begging for release, so she lets it go, and only just stops short of clapping her hands together.

‘I knew there was a conman in you all along, waiting to get out!’ she’s a little softer than she had been before – but with her nothing is ever really what it seems. ‘We both know neither of us is capable of functioning in normal society. I suppose conning Doctor Triplett into classing you sane and fit for society was just as good an escape as mine. Took a little longer, though.’ She’s always talking too much, Martie. ‘How long have you been out?’

Howell is all elegance, and grace, a foil to her brash, boyish arrogance, as he crams himself into the small space beside her. She’s practically giddy all over again. Never would have imagined he’d ever sit down next to her when the option to up and run was right there in front of him, waving its arms in his face. Still, she supposes they are friends. After a fashion.

She smiles and smiles, and leans a little closer, lifts up her free hand and flicks him on the chin, before conceding the space and scooting away down the bench. She bends down and stubs her cigarette out on the wet floor, then turns to face him, puts her feet up on the bench and tucks her knees under her chin. Sitting like this she looks like a little girl, especially with her bobbled hat and patent shoes. It’s an off-putting image for someone who knows her as well as he does.

‘No little bird boys,’ she says blandly, her face suddenly pale, blank. She’s staring at him almost like she’s looking right through him. At something no one else will ever be able to see. ‘No wizards.’ Martie shakes her head. Snaps back into reality. It’s a tiny, almost imperceptible motion, but she has no doubt he’ll have catalogued it away somewhere. ‘Just me, charming money out of people who don’t deserve it.’

She’s almost a Robin Hood kind of girl – if only she was the slightest bit scrupulous about who she stole from.

‘What about you?’ she recovers, smoothly, ‘you figured out any of your spells, yet?’

@ HOWELL P. JENKINS / kjsdhf she's a troll

BY MITZI
quote
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