{{Right. Pretty much this is what the title says. o-o That being a roleplay based off the Doctor Who sci-fi television show. The events in this take place soon after the Time War (where the newest seasons began), and they'll go on from there. I'm going to try to categorize the events in "Episodes" of sorts, and I'll indicate when an Episode has ended. Hopefully I won't be ending or starting EVERY Episode, but we'll see. Right now the RP is private, meaning you'll need approval before you post. ^-^ Thank you. ILU. ALL OF YOU. NOW IGNORE THE FIRST EPISODE'S NAME, I KNOW I'M LAZY. 
[/rant][/capsabuse]}}
[size=13pt]Ù¡Ù Ù¡[/size] 101 - The Doctor
The dawn rinsed slowly over the heart of London.
To anyone standing in the looming, bleak shadows cast by the city's skyscrapers the day was still a dim shade of indigo-gray, but dawn had been shifting into place, tiptoeing over the horizon, for almost half an hour now. It poured itself on the port's rippling waters, an oil spill of gold that rose and fell with the sway of the water, pinpricks of light twinkling out on its cerulean canvas. The fierce burning swell of the sun doused London's outermost buildings, a promise of what was to come for the rest of the city. A solemn line of seagulls, sleek white feathers shining under the morning sun, perched along the rails of the anchored ships, bobbing and dipping with the ocean's endless tide.
The early-morning working-class community was slowly coming to life; several handfuls of pedestrians maneuvered on the sidewalk, preluding to the thrumming crowd that amassed each day, and every so often a car would rumble by on the left side of the darkened pavement. The air was still, only whispers of movement ghosting through the leafy branches of the city's carefully plotted and trimmed trees.
The sky wasn't quite blue or quite gray but more of an oil pastel smeared mixture of the two, blurred together beyond recognition and refusing to commit to either color. Somewhere in London, the powerful mosaic of concrete, limestone, stone cladding, iron framework and opal glass, the infamous clock tower known world-wide as Big Ben, was tolling, as trustworthy as ever. The heavy sound struck across the lethargic city, the Great Bell's peals starting with an abrupt, sharp edge and softening as the distance away from its tower increased.
Dong...
Far enough away that the clock's chime was nothing but a muffled echo that didn't do it justice, there was a sound.
Dong...
A grating sound, soft enough that it might not have existed at all -
Dong...
- but it continued, increasing in volume and developing a distinguishing quality that would not have it mistaken for anything else in the world.
Dong...
The sound was almost mechanical, and difficult to describe at best. A cacophony that was metallic and at the same time something completely different. A bizarre combination of strained whirring and grating that resembled a garbled siren.
Dong...
The sound was accompanied by the phone box.
Dong...
It was tall, and the thick wood was a bright shade of painted blue. A double-paneled pattern was carved into the wood on each of the box's four sides — three panels and then two small, unassuming windows that seemed more for style than purpose. Above the double-windows on each side was a small black plaque, and the words were backlit with fluorescent light that caused the letters to glow very faintly in the dawn air.
Materializing out of the damp morning air and fading back out again, each time becoming more solid, and accompanied by the grinding whirs of sound, was a police box. The blue light that adorned the box's roof flashed brightly each time it appeared, a beacon in the light, dewy mist. At first it consisted more of the illuminated letters across the top than anything, and the rest of it was almost mirage-like — transparent. But before long the rest of it grew more substance, until the heavy weight was settled firmly in London, England.
Although the sound was grating enough — distinct enough — to warrant at least a few turned heads, not one of the people striding along the concrete sidewalk gave it a second of their attention.
A feature that definitely came in handy at times.
After a few moments' delay, the box's door swung inwards with the loud, audible creak generally associated with rusty hinges. For a brief moment a face poked out of the small, cracked opening of the door, then dipped back in again before the figure inside really had a chance to see where it was.
The second time, the scrawny figure pulled back the heavy door more enthusiastically, tucking something into the breast of its suit, before stopping on the threshold of the wooden phone box. It then turned on heel and ducked back inside the box's interior.
Smiling broadly now, still pulling one arm into the sleeve of a tan ankle-length coat, the figure maneuvered his way around the tall door, straightening the collar of the coat with an air of distraction. His hand hooked into the box's small metal handle, and he pulled it shut as he stepped out. It closed with a heavy thud, and a distinct, thick click followed as the lock fell into place; the boyish looking man spared it a brief backwards glance before turning to observe the scene he'd stepped out on.
The mysterious police box had appeared in one of the smaller back-alleys pinned between the sides of two office buildings. Hidden from even the soft dawn light that was spreading across the sky, the narrow isle was thrown into a deeper shade of gray — the ground beneath the man's worn trainers was loosely-packed gravel. Small patches of thriving weeds poked through the rocks in several places, and a discarded newspaper, torn and tattered and waterlogged by a recent downpour (the sort that roars in the sky for just long enough to soak anyone not wisely sporting a coat or umbrella and then dissipates into soft clouds and cheery sunshine), lay embedded in the small stones. Piles of miscellaneous unwanted knickknacks lined the alley's edges — crumpled and folded cardboard boxes that had already served their purpose, a bicycle with its frame bent beyond repair, flat tires that had been replaced with spares.
The gravel crunched beneath the man's Converses. Thousands of tiny stones bit into each other under his weight as he twisted one way and then the other, tucking his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.
"An alley - always an alley." The man commented under his breath, more to have said something than out of a sense of conviction; the question seemed to be angled at the inanimate phone box, and after a moment he began to walk.
He popped out of the alley as if it were only natural that he had been there to begin with, craning his neck up and scanning the street he had emerged on. The faint breeze ghosted through his short, tussled sepia-brown hair, and after a moment he turned left to merge into the small crowd, large russet eyes sparking with determination.
Hands buried in his coat pockets and moving with a purposeful gait, he almost just kept walking when his shoulder knocked into another person walking in the opposite direction. His momentum carried him forward several more steps before he paused and wheeled around, nearly colliding face-first with another person that had been following close behind him. The woman in question, dressed in a prim black dress with a thick, woolen black overcoat pulled over it, offered him an annoyed glare that spoke thousands of words she couldn't voice herself thanks to the mobile phone pressed to one ear. She brushed a strand of dyed blond hair out of her dark eyes and shifted past him, already replying to the unheard voice on the other line.
A bit late, he realized he hadn't seen what the person he'd bumped into looked like, making it a bit more difficult to apologize — even in the thin crowd. After a beat, he started to turn around and return to the task at hand.
[/rant][/capsabuse]}}[size=13pt]Ù¡Ù Ù¡[/size] 101 - The Doctor
The dawn rinsed slowly over the heart of London.
To anyone standing in the looming, bleak shadows cast by the city's skyscrapers the day was still a dim shade of indigo-gray, but dawn had been shifting into place, tiptoeing over the horizon, for almost half an hour now. It poured itself on the port's rippling waters, an oil spill of gold that rose and fell with the sway of the water, pinpricks of light twinkling out on its cerulean canvas. The fierce burning swell of the sun doused London's outermost buildings, a promise of what was to come for the rest of the city. A solemn line of seagulls, sleek white feathers shining under the morning sun, perched along the rails of the anchored ships, bobbing and dipping with the ocean's endless tide.
The early-morning working-class community was slowly coming to life; several handfuls of pedestrians maneuvered on the sidewalk, preluding to the thrumming crowd that amassed each day, and every so often a car would rumble by on the left side of the darkened pavement. The air was still, only whispers of movement ghosting through the leafy branches of the city's carefully plotted and trimmed trees.
The sky wasn't quite blue or quite gray but more of an oil pastel smeared mixture of the two, blurred together beyond recognition and refusing to commit to either color. Somewhere in London, the powerful mosaic of concrete, limestone, stone cladding, iron framework and opal glass, the infamous clock tower known world-wide as Big Ben, was tolling, as trustworthy as ever. The heavy sound struck across the lethargic city, the Great Bell's peals starting with an abrupt, sharp edge and softening as the distance away from its tower increased.
Dong...
Far enough away that the clock's chime was nothing but a muffled echo that didn't do it justice, there was a sound.
Dong...
A grating sound, soft enough that it might not have existed at all -
Dong...
- but it continued, increasing in volume and developing a distinguishing quality that would not have it mistaken for anything else in the world.
Dong...
The sound was almost mechanical, and difficult to describe at best. A cacophony that was metallic and at the same time something completely different. A bizarre combination of strained whirring and grating that resembled a garbled siren.
Dong...
The sound was accompanied by the phone box.
Dong...
It was tall, and the thick wood was a bright shade of painted blue. A double-paneled pattern was carved into the wood on each of the box's four sides — three panels and then two small, unassuming windows that seemed more for style than purpose. Above the double-windows on each side was a small black plaque, and the words were backlit with fluorescent light that caused the letters to glow very faintly in the dawn air.
Materializing out of the damp morning air and fading back out again, each time becoming more solid, and accompanied by the grinding whirs of sound, was a police box. The blue light that adorned the box's roof flashed brightly each time it appeared, a beacon in the light, dewy mist. At first it consisted more of the illuminated letters across the top than anything, and the rest of it was almost mirage-like — transparent. But before long the rest of it grew more substance, until the heavy weight was settled firmly in London, England.
Although the sound was grating enough — distinct enough — to warrant at least a few turned heads, not one of the people striding along the concrete sidewalk gave it a second of their attention.
A feature that definitely came in handy at times.
After a few moments' delay, the box's door swung inwards with the loud, audible creak generally associated with rusty hinges. For a brief moment a face poked out of the small, cracked opening of the door, then dipped back in again before the figure inside really had a chance to see where it was.
The second time, the scrawny figure pulled back the heavy door more enthusiastically, tucking something into the breast of its suit, before stopping on the threshold of the wooden phone box. It then turned on heel and ducked back inside the box's interior.
Smiling broadly now, still pulling one arm into the sleeve of a tan ankle-length coat, the figure maneuvered his way around the tall door, straightening the collar of the coat with an air of distraction. His hand hooked into the box's small metal handle, and he pulled it shut as he stepped out. It closed with a heavy thud, and a distinct, thick click followed as the lock fell into place; the boyish looking man spared it a brief backwards glance before turning to observe the scene he'd stepped out on.
The mysterious police box had appeared in one of the smaller back-alleys pinned between the sides of two office buildings. Hidden from even the soft dawn light that was spreading across the sky, the narrow isle was thrown into a deeper shade of gray — the ground beneath the man's worn trainers was loosely-packed gravel. Small patches of thriving weeds poked through the rocks in several places, and a discarded newspaper, torn and tattered and waterlogged by a recent downpour (the sort that roars in the sky for just long enough to soak anyone not wisely sporting a coat or umbrella and then dissipates into soft clouds and cheery sunshine), lay embedded in the small stones. Piles of miscellaneous unwanted knickknacks lined the alley's edges — crumpled and folded cardboard boxes that had already served their purpose, a bicycle with its frame bent beyond repair, flat tires that had been replaced with spares.
The gravel crunched beneath the man's Converses. Thousands of tiny stones bit into each other under his weight as he twisted one way and then the other, tucking his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.
"An alley - always an alley." The man commented under his breath, more to have said something than out of a sense of conviction; the question seemed to be angled at the inanimate phone box, and after a moment he began to walk.
He popped out of the alley as if it were only natural that he had been there to begin with, craning his neck up and scanning the street he had emerged on. The faint breeze ghosted through his short, tussled sepia-brown hair, and after a moment he turned left to merge into the small crowd, large russet eyes sparking with determination.
Hands buried in his coat pockets and moving with a purposeful gait, he almost just kept walking when his shoulder knocked into another person walking in the opposite direction. His momentum carried him forward several more steps before he paused and wheeled around, nearly colliding face-first with another person that had been following close behind him. The woman in question, dressed in a prim black dress with a thick, woolen black overcoat pulled over it, offered him an annoyed glare that spoke thousands of words she couldn't voice herself thanks to the mobile phone pressed to one ear. She brushed a strand of dyed blond hair out of her dark eyes and shifted past him, already replying to the unheard voice on the other line.
A bit late, he realized he hadn't seen what the person he'd bumped into looked like, making it a bit more difficult to apologize — even in the thin crowd. After a beat, he started to turn around and return to the task at hand.
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