m e l ' s ☂ t e s t i n g t h r e a d » do not post!

[mel chanel]

It was hard not to think about it. She'd busied herself all day with bidding adieu to guests, checking up on the knight and apologizing further, tracking down her soon-to-be little sister and soothing away her newest disasters. But when she wasn't busy, her mind ambushed her, infecting her thoughts until it was all that was there. And as much as she tried to shoo those thoughts away and the feelings that came with them, it was near impossible. It was a constant presence, terrorizing her. Alessandra pursed her lips in dismay, daintily stabbing a small piece of meat. Her eyes flickered across the table, where an empty seat sat. Her lips made a tight line, jaw set as she directed her gaze to her food once more. 'It doesn't matter.' She told herself sternly as she ate. Juan'd help. Everything would go according to plan. Everything would be fine.

It was five to nine and the Carinthian was on her way to becoming a nervous wreck. There was the possibility that Juan would simply laugh in her face and dismiss himself from the crazy princess that she hadn't dwelled on before. And how her father would have a fit if he knew what she was doing - a princess meeting a man late at night unchaperoned! What on earth was she thinking? Thoroughly anxious, the girl paced her room, trying desperately to convince herself that there was nothing to worry about. She wouldn't get caught sneaking around late at night and the ambassador was far too kind a man to laugh at her. Excuse himself, maybe. Andie took a deep breath and swallowed hard. What she was about to do was so completely out of character, it scared her to her very core. It was rash and assertive, something that Alessandra almost always taken ridiculous measures to evade. But here she was, willingly doing this.

[mel chanel]

The decision to wander around aimlessly wasn't one of her best of ideas. She spent countless minutes roaming the halls, staring at the tin walls of this can with only Reginald's minions to stare at - which she did, strolling by very slowly. Needless to say, some felt the immediate need to remove themselves from her line of sight. It wasn't until she rounded a corner and her eyes finally fell on the drab doctor and the mechanic she hadn't caught the name of that she felt the need to initiate conversation. And the medic seemed to have noticed her nearing because there was this ridiculously wide grin spreading upon the Scotsman's face. It was like watching a yoyo, the way his face bounced from looking at hers to the teenager's. And if she didn't know better, Malloy was concocting a little plan in that weird brain of his to get her to play doctor with him. Which, Marcella would be tickled pink to see him try. But that toothy grin, it just seemed to grow to cover the entire bottom portion of his face like a cheshire cat. To be honest, it kind of gave her the heebie-jeebies. 'Creepy.' And as if it wasn't weird enough, as soon as she got in earshot of the pair, he thanked the girl, spun on heel and disappeared into his office without so much of a twitch of an eyebrow. Momentarily, Marcella was caught off guard. But that moment passed and brought newfound amusement with it. It was funny he thought a simple snubbing to cause her to beg for his company. 'Sorry to disappoint.' He'd have to try harder than that to impress any of the females on the vessel - especially Marcella.

Although she had no intentions on chasing the good doctor in his office, an Irish-licked "Marcella," prevented her from even thinking about it. A quick glance behind her confirmed the speaker to be none other than the commander. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the approaching man. Considering that their last encounter had nearly caused her to fall asleep standing up it was that dry, the driver was apprehensive about engaging in conversation with Reggie. But he just kept coming closer and closer, offering a friendly smile while informing her they going to work her like a slave five minutes into the expedition. She raised a brow at the mention of work. While the Sanmarinese was certain that Reginald had earned his title as commander, all work and no play was a dull business. And to be frank, the Jacobs thought staring at a wall would be more fun than discussing routes and which would be the best for the amount of fuel they had. However, a thin smile perched on her lips as she replied smoothly, sarcasm lacing in her otherwise polite speech. "How nice of you to invite me along. We wouldn't want to wing it, now would we? " Marcella's smile grew slightly. Getting lost would be a grand adventure.

Just as she took two paces in the commander's motioned direction, the Scotsman had magically appeared to cut in with another of his remarks. t wasn't until his eyes slid from her to the other male next to her that she realized something - Malloy was a tester. He tested them. He'd looked at her while talking to the mechanic, and he was staring dow the captain while talking to her. It was like he thrived on their reactions. Marcella didn't like being tested, but she was hardly above using it against him. The forty-three year old looked casually over her shoulder. Her green eyes deliberately looked up him up and down slowly. Once returned to his face, the woman answered in return, "Thanks Malloy, but y'know, I think the captain's tour'll be more than satisfactory. It looks like the other guide's missing a few of his notes." The Jacobs' beam grew as soon as she saw the small elephant of a linguist and Reginald's second in command. Whether it be evil or not, she liked being part of his oncoming agony. Myron played a good portion of it as well, but killing the mood or rejecting Malloy weren't his intentions. And judging by the way he focused on the blonde and her complete indifference earlier, Marcella had an ally in this field. One thing was for certain - Malloy was not getting any. He'd probably end up running around in diapers like a madman by the end of the trip from the lack of female companionship. She couldn't be more pleased.

A turn of a corner and then there were two. There were faint sounds of the engine and While she didn't mind silence occasionally, it seemed hardly appropriate for drawing the commander out of his drab shell. The driver nonchalantly said, "I'd bet you fifteen lire that our linguist has a nervous breakdown by the end of the month." She glanced at him to see his reaction and grinned mischievously. "Just putting it out there." Clearly.

ooc; crappy, sorry.

[mel chanel]

Judging by the forced theatrics of that chuckle that bubbled from his lips, it looked like Marcella had hurt the poor little doctor's feelings. 'Oops.' The word echoed in her mind, oozing with insincerity. The idea that Malloy being angry with her didn't bother her in the least. In fact, it pleased her. Her striking a vein with Malloy merely demonstrated that there was more to him than this impenetrable force with crude lines and less than subtle passes on her gender. Instead of getting defensive or offended at the jab, Marcella simply countered breezily, "Should've read the fine print under occupation then, Doc." She turned back towards the medic and did a little flourished bow. "I'll be here all week." If Malloy didn't hate her by the end of this week, nevermind the trip in its entirety, it'd be a miracle. But amusing, nonetheless. Maybe she'd have to hunt him down later

To put it lightly, Reginald was ruining her life. Not only was she unable to wander around aimlessly, creeping on the crew members, but there was a direct "no" against any "endangering" behavior. Marcella rolled her eyes. How positively droll. The way he was going around, cutting off her options at any chance of amusing herself on this trip, he'd get another badge to decorate that khaki ensemble of his or whatever overgrown boy scouts got for sucking the life out of perfectly nice women. In fact, it'll get so bad that it'll be a lovely day under the sea, calm waters and a sunny sky ahead and not even the faintest sign of danger - just the very kind that made Marcella want to scream. Reggie will go on another of his long speeches about no wandering into dark caves to find pirate's booty because it could endanger the crew, when all the sudden, the raven haired female will just collapse right then and there. The medic will be dragged away from the lovely blonde and called to inspect her. Then he'll sob uncontrollably because she'll be dead and there won't be anything in that pretty little Scottish head of his that'll change that she'd be dead. And they'll take her body up to land to be looked at by other doctors for the cause of death, but no one will know. It'll be the medical mystery of the century. She'd be known internationally. But in the back of his mind, Reginald would always know it had something to do with him and that discouraging mouth of his. And of course, she'd probably haunt him until he livened up a bit. She heard it built character.

But the fact of the matter was Reginald, like most men her age, had his priorities completely and utterly wrong. The commander was all business and seemed to think that fun was just optional. But Marcella knew better. Despite his behavior up until this point, the woman was almost positive that the Irishman was nothing but a big, fat bluffer. She'd seen the spirit that was spawned in Malloy's presence and then like an unshielded candle in a storm, snuffed out at the first sign of excitement. Complete stick in the mud, boring people did have a competitive streaks. So with that insightful bit, Reginald wasn't utterly dull. He just was hiding the inner lunatic of his behind that gently weathered mug of his. And as far as Marcella was concerned, it was time for it to come out and play with the rest of their colourful crew. Much to her surprise, Reggie had matched her and raised her with a bet of his own. Granted, it was the most predictable one on the face of the planet, but it was a step in the right direction. "Care to make this interesting?" She challenged with a smirk unfolding.

The next question of his, however, was unexpected. She batted her brown eyes in surprise a few times and like a doe, stared dumbly back at him. "Marcella, what made you want to find the lost city of Atlantis?" What kind of question was that? Surely they hadn't gotten to the stage of life that they were going to braid each others' hair and tell each other their deepest, darkest secrets yet. But nevertheless, Marcella mulled it over for a hot second in her mind, churning the idea around. Just how had she gotten tangled up in this mess?There was a long pause before she lethargically offered up a simple explanation, going, "You can thank Eicher for that. He's persistent, I'll tell you that much." That was a massive understatement Her villa was littered with unanswered letters from Eicher, notes her maid, Bess, had taken stating he'd called, parcels with untouched books about the fabled city. In a way, she admired him for that. Plus, crazy people were anything but boring. But that was all she had to say about that.

Staring at maps was about as amusing as Myron was graceful. The Jacobs compensated this by staring at the little coloured blobs until they got all unfocused and started to blend. She only snapped back to reality when the captain waved his finger around, tracing the route out for her. The Sanmarinese nodded once, studying the map briefly before looking back up at the male, a grin spreading across her face. Getting this thing started, now he was talking her language. Of course, she'd play it his way for a while, trying not to wander too much and expose the whole crew to danger. But her fingers itched to be on her control panel and get somewhere new and exciting. "Route looks pretty straightforward. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Sitting smack dab in the middle of her control room in a rather large chair, the forty-three year old was like a child on Christmas morning, giddy and fussing with everything that she could get her hands on. While she'd had plenty of practice in smaller vessels, she hadn't worked with a portion of this kind of technology. While she knew their purposes on Team Marcella, there was something that every serial killer could testify to - just imagining doing it didn't work after a few loops in your head. In this case, after picturing what it did a few times, the woman couldn't help but touch the assortment of buttons and levers, adjusting them to suit her preferences. Once everything was set, the woman plucked the intercom's microphone from the control board and hit the button. "Evening, ladies and gents. The local time is four pm and snow flurries expected this weekend in New Orleans. Say bon voyage, folks, 'cause we're outta here. And Finch - stay away from corners. Things could get a little bumpy." They had no idea.


ooc; jeez, marcella. way to be mean. xD much love for both malloy and reggie. <3 and a little long, yes.

hobbledehoy - myron in a word.

[mel chanel]

jesse quinton king

male | twenty-nine | the burglar

showy
impulsive
arrogant

mondays in melilla

[mel chanel]

"Signore Bloo to the command deck, James Bloo to the command deck." The intercom fell quiet as the driver spun around in her chair, staring at the doorway each time the chair spun around. Minutes passed and yet, Jimmy Bloo was no where to be seen. The Jacobs tutted softly in disapproval. Perhaps Jimmy needed some motivation to report to the command deck. Marcella, being the kind woman she was, was happy to oblige. After all, there was no greater pleasure than publicly mortifying your coworkers. Luckily for Marcella, embarrassment was easily accessible on the Commander, all with a touch of a button. That button was promptly slammed down, the speaker above crackled and out poured the syrupy, San Marinese accented sounds of humiliation. "Bloo moooooon, you knew just what I was there for. You heard me saying a prayer for someone I could really care fooor. Without a love of my oooown, bloo mooooon -" And just as if on queue, a skinny ginger came sliding around the corner and sprinting towards the deck. A devilish beam crossed the forty - three year old's face as she leaned in to the microphone once more and quickly blurted out, "Jimmy Bloo to the command deck, please." The redhead screamed a little and picked up the pace, his knees high and arms pumping as if somehow, he could make himself teleport if he just tried hard enough. The boy slid into the room and unable to stop, slid right into the mapping table. He groaned in pain; Marcella merely got up, strolled to the table and leaned on it. "Jimmy Bloo, nice of you to show." He gave her a look of utter contempt. She smiled.

"Was that really necessary?" He asked, breathlessly. A chuckle bubbled from her lips as she pulled herself to sit on the mapping table. "Oh, Jimmy, don't get your panties in a twist." Marcella cleared her throat, sat up straighter and clasped her hands around her knee. The teasing smile dropped off of her face without so much as a trace. "As you know, you're to watch the ship when I'm preoccupied." Marcella practically glowered as she stated the fact. She would rather the Commander to go unmanned and them to crash into some underwater mountain range and die in a fiery ball of hell than relinquish her driver's power. But an unmanned ship was potentially endangering behavior and she knew that Reginald would consider her to be an abomination if she did that. She thought it'd help his sanity to know that next week. So Marcella was playing nice and although she had territorial instincts stronger than a wild mother bear, she would allow Jimmy to make sure they didn't crash while she was away from the wheel. "Don't touch the gears while I'm gone. Don't touch my intercom while I'm gone. Don't touch my radio. And unless we're about to crash, don't even think about touching the wheel." The brunette leaned closer, until she was mere inches away from the redhead's face. His scowl remained, but the Bloo held his breath. "Because I will know and I will track you down. And if that happens, I'll make you sorry you'd ever been born." The San Marinese stared into those brown eyes of his for a long moment and slid off the mapping table. After six hours of continuous work, Marcella was in dire need of entertainment before she morphed into a miserable sod like Reggie. And dinner was just the way to cure it.

Staring was never polite but neither was Marcella. So when her eyes bore into the back of Henry's head like a child trying to pester the English queen's guards, aside from a slightly uncomfortable Henry, there was nothing out of the ordinary. And then, the already all too familiar voice of a Doctor Malloy rang out. Marcella sunk a little lower in her seat and refused to look at him. Maybe they had object permanence all wrong - maybe if you couldn't see it, it didn't exist. The brunette stared harder at Henry's head as if it was the most beautiful head of hair that she'd ever seen. But the Scotsman uttered a most beautiful word and Marcella found herself glancing over despite herself. An eyebrow rose. Her interest was piqued. Being forty-three, she'd been out in society for a number of years. She'd had all the experiences that came with it, many suitors, confessions of love and most importantly, a multitude of gifts lavished upon her. And on one occasion, a suitor was ambitious enough to give her a painted elephant with his proposal on the side. Poor Malloy hadn't a chance. And then she saw Marbles.

She had never seen a scrappier dog in her life. That is, if you even could call it that. It was more so an overgrown rat that had sprouted a moustache. Marcella eyed it suspiciously. A brow rose as if to signify, "Really? Is that really the best you've got?" But Malloy wasn't having it. Instead of backing off like a normal person, the manic shoved the dog further in face until all she could see was . The driver blinked in surprise. Marbles stared at her. She stared back. What a surprisingly bold little dog. Marcella respected that. 'What on Earth are you doing? Sympathizing with a dog?' Pretty soon she'd talk of getting married and having children. This wouldn't do. She pursed her lips and craned her neck to see over Marbles. She studied Malloy's face for a moment before inhaling deeply. "No, thanks, Doc. You can have him back." The Jacobs stated nonchalantly. The doctor then took her refusal of his moustached dog as his cue to throw a fit. She seemed to have that effect on him.

If there was a more dramatic being on Earth, Marcella wouldn't have believed it. And while she took most insults and spiteful remarks in stride, Malloy had hit a vein. There was a reason Eicher chose her, begged her, pleaded with her and even bribed her to come on this expedition. She'd even behaved and drove in a particularly dull manner and yet he had the gall to insult her driving? Her dark eyes narrowed slightly on the male's own blues. She made a silent note to make sure to terrorize the medic as much as possible during the remainder of the trip. It would be a war of wits to say the least. And as she was about to shoot back a sharp retort of her own, the faces on Reginald and Rhett were enough to prove that he was in trouble enough. And sure enough, the Irishman was furious. Her usual mischievous grin slipped back onto her features as the tension rose between the commander and lothario. Things were taking a turn for the better. But her attention was momentarily stolen as the blonde slipped and snatched her puppy from the arms of the rake. The Jacobs disregarded her green plate of mush and the escalating levels of testosterone of the two males and hurried to her side. Patting the Scotty a few times, she glanced over at Reggie and Malloy. The Scotsman almost seemed to be asking for it. Reggie was livening up by the minute. Well done, Malloy. The San Marinese absentmindedly quipped, "My money's on the cap'n beating Malloy to a pulp. A glance to her colleagues before questioning, "Anyone to match?"

ooc; marcella's a bit obnoxious / a freak of nature. but she just dgaf. ;D and long & crappy, sorry. ; n ;

hobbledehoy - myron in a word.
spellcheck when you get home!

[mel chanel]

↘↘ 《 ＧＡＳＴＯＮ 》

xxxxx• OLIVER LEWIS GRIFFIN ALLESBURY ;; twenty-seven
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The royal highness of broken hearts takes his two-dozen eggs on a collection of silver spoons.
There’s no need to lift a finger, and cholesterol is not even a smudge on his conscience. Things
have always come easily to Gaston, as things do to a politician’s son. He’s cultivated charm
since a young age and has been groomed to trumpet in his father’s footstep, but politics is but
a hobby: his one and only job is to lavish in entitlement, for whom would Gaston be without his
triumphs. Trophies of antler and gold comprise his decorating, but no victory is sweeter than
that of a beautiful woman. The most stunning would no doubt be the evil step sister. He pursued
her once, only to receive a cold shock of champagne to the face, a truce, and later, a treaty of
friendship. They’ve been inseparable ever since. For all Gaston’s mischief, his reputation
remains untouched, even surviving that nasty little situation (or mix-up, as Gaston would
innocently elaborate), involving the Beat. But such a man like Gaston does not dwell on the
past; he looks outward towards his glorious future, and the plucky French beauty on the
horizon. However, he keeps only one eye on the silhouette. The other is focused on romancing
poor, little Cinderella. It’s unfortunate that this split attention seems to have divided his common
sense as well. Gaston just can't get it through his thick neck that Belle isn't interested.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmondays in melilla

[mel chanel]

Amongst other things, there were two things Oliver Lewis Griffin Allesbury could not stand: women who threw themselves at him and runny eggs. Unfortunately, this morning he was faced with both. The third of his daily five dozen sat mangled on his plate and a mortifyingly giggly woman had her chair as close to his as much as society would consider proper. It took all the self control he possessed to keep that look of disgust of his under a well concealed look of indifference. A gracefully wielded fork scooped up some of his eggs as, without so much as a glance up, a pair of fingers flagged down a particularly loose woman. The noble gestured at his empty glass and tried not to gag as his eggs hit his tongue. He peered down at the plate with a look of haughty disgust, completely ignoring the incessant chattering exploding from his feminine companion. The male set his utensils down neatly, dabbed at his lips with his napkin and let out an impatient sigh. He had never met a plate of eggs so terribly cooked, nor had the insufferable experience of sitting through a full meal without so much as feigning interest in a woman. And yet, she still was talking. He didn't even know what she was saying. Was that English she was speaking? The blonde's lips smacked as she jabbered on. Her voice was enough to make a man of less status shudder.

And yet, he was still there. It was eleven forty-six already; but there he was, sitting at a dingy, wobbly table that probably hadn't even been scrubbed since its purchase in a poor excuse of a restaurant with Lady Godiva's ugly cousin. The waitress returned, flashed a poorly groomed smile his way and said something Oliver couldn't even be bothered to process. The woman was not one to be entertained or charmed, her sole purpose in this establishment, perhaps in the entirety of minimal existence life, was to tend to his pressing needs, namely his parched throat. She obliged, pouring a cheap white wine into his glass. While he was well aware of the fact that drinking this early in the day, the earl wasn't even bothered. While his image was left mysteriously untouched, he was often found with a martini in one hand and a woman's arm linked through the other. However, unlike most with similar habits, the nobleman nursed his alcohol and had developed a good tolerance. Although he didn't give a damn when it came to acceptable drinking times, Oliver knew better than to show up publicly intoxicated. That was below him, not even in a respectably rebellious sort. That would be downright pathetic. Granted, that shrill little giggle that spouted from his companion's pink lips was enough to make a man want to be.

He took a sip of his drink and cocked his head just slightly to look the blonde in the face for possibly the first time all morning. She beamed with happiness and went on, "Oh, Mr. Allesbury, I must say, your tailor did a fantastic job on your jacket. " Of course it was. It wasn't like Roland Wyndham made his clothes. He had standards, a reputation to protect. Instead, he pestered the father of a Miss Marchand to tailor his garments to his exact specifications, which, despite his eccentricities, he carried out beautifully. But more importantly, that tailor had a daughter. Had she been a homely woman, Ollie wouldn't have even wasted more than a moment's glance her way. But no, Miss Marchand was stunning enchantress, committed to a role they both knew would fall away in a moment of passion. Alone, she was pretty and he beautiful. Together, they were gorgeous. Her façade of indifference was being chipped away every time they met. Already, he thought he spied a spark of attraction brewing behind those expressive dark eyes of hers. But it was not Miss Marchand that he was blessing with his presence. No, it was simply one of the many girls that openly fawned over his every move. But, that could be easily remedied. With that does of cold reality, Oliver was sent from thoughts of the tailor's daughter to the woman before him. He cleared his throat and smiled, oozing with charm. "Miss Molly," he began. "Miss Polly, sir." she hastily interjected, her dim-witted smile still hanging unwavering on her lips. Oliver simply stared.

Had he heard right? Had she just corrected him? A stroke of annoyance fell upon him like a cinder brick. But his smile never left, never even faltered. Instead, it grew. Ever the politician's grandson, Oliver kept his cool and continued, "Of course. Miss Polly, I'm afraid I have a previous engagement. " A truth. There was bound to be a certain raven haired nightmare absolutely livid at their festival. A tiny little gasp flew from Polly's lips, her shoulders fell and out came a pouting lip of childish disappointment. "Such an appointment pales in light of your companionship, but I have no choice." A fib, completely and utterly so. "How unfortunate! You mustn't go, not yet. W-whoever will escort me home? Miss Molly, Holly and Dolly will think I have resorted to eating by my lonesome! You couldn't possibly leave with the shame you know you would bring!" She countered with a crumpled brow. Oliver chuckled at her laughable attempt. He took a small sip of his wine and with a faux-genuinity that he didn't feel said, "Oh, no, Miss Polly. A gentleman would never leave a woman alone. And I, I am a gentleman." A lie. He was a gentleman in title only. Polly smiled smugly. She sat up straighter, smoothed her skirt's wrinkles out before flashing him a smile. "I knew you would not leave me." How comical. She actually thought she won. But in reality, she'd simply given him the out he needed. It was a fairly easy skill Oliver had acquired over the years, just dropping enough hints to manipulate his victim into whatever he pleased. While he had not perfected it, he was good. The male flicked two fingers at a nervous man in the corner of the room. He, in turn, promptly came bumbling over, tripping over table and chair legs in his haste. It took the earl some restraint not to show his displeasure. Instead, his arm fanned out towards the man and continued on as if she had not spoken a syllable, "And because of that, my comrade, Lefty, will accompany you for the remainder of this outing." Polly's rosebud lips formed a shocked, little o before stammering out, "B-but Mr. Allesbury, my lord, I thou-" The brunet shushed her, bending down just slightly, "No, Miss Polly, I insist. We couldn't have you alone now, could we?" Lefty arrived at his side, perspiring worse than an iced beverage. He'd constantly been at Oliver's side since the two were younger, desperate to fit in, to be the golden boy that Oliver simply was. After many failed attempts at evading that hairy poodled head of his, Oliver had eventually taken him in as his slave and exploited him whenever he had the chance. Exhibit A: Ollie turned to Lefty and said, "Lefty, I expect you to be the utmost gentleman. Thatincludescoveringthetab. Miss Polly." He then excused himself by folding down into an overly flourished bow and left the two to sit miserably at the table. And as he breathed in the sweet air, just one word came to mind - finally.

An Oliver Lewis Griffin Allesbury entrance was a fashionably late one or not at all. And judging by the serene smile poking at an Isabelle Grady's lips, he was plenty late indeed. The earl strolled casually around the square, perhaps stopping to inspect a vendor's stall or admire a dark beauty dancing. But eventually, he was positioned directly behind what possibly was the most devious girl in all New Bronsworth. While Isabelle was seemingly society's favorite type of beauty: polite, kind and courteous, Oliver knew better. There was once a brief period of time when the Allesbury heir had considered her the only woman in New Bronsworth that possessed a face worthy of his attentions. And what an honor that should've been, after all, he was Oliver Lewis Griffin Allesbury, a noble and future politician. His family was as essential to New Bronsworth as the trees were, the vendors, anything. They were well-respected in these parts, knee deep wealth and excessive commodities. Women fawning over him was a daily occurrence, a perfected smile sent women into a shy spell of entranced infatuation. But most importantly, the twenty-seven year old was the most attractive man around. And yet, one evening, Isabelle had felt the need to fling the contents of her champagne glass in that handsome face, thus publicly humiliating him. However, Oliver was not one to give up easily. It was only when he came face to face with her wit he found himself repulsed. Intelligence, as well as many other things, was an ill-fitting gown on a woman. There was nothing, other than perhaps poor breeding or a plain face, less appealing. Thinking was a dangerous thing and throwing in a female to the mix was even worse. So the two had reconciled, his advances stopped in their tracks and were soon forgotten, and formed a duo that was the source of some of the most malicious plots on this half of the continent. Their current one included the innocent blonde locked into Izzy's vice like grip. And although business was business, she was the keeper of an angelic face and an elegant figure and who was Oliver to deprive her of his company?

The brunet glided towards the pair, mixing in with the crowds and slipped unnoticed behind Isabelle. He casually wrapped two hands around her slim waist, grinning as she jumped in surprise, smacking right into his ever muscular chest. Her pretty face contorted into a mess of irritation, smacking him with his fan. A glance down at her now slightly bent fan would be a good indication of the lack of damage she'd done. He smiled winningly at Cinderella, completely disregarding her cousin until the two words he had waited with bated breath for arrived, "You're late." He turned his beaming face towards her, gave her one good look up and down, a counterfeit good-naturedness glimmered just under the surface as he replied softly, "And you're wearing a terrible color for your complexion, but I didn't complain." Honestly, what on earth was Isabelle thinking? She was supposed to be making girls green with envy, not nausea at her contrasting color palette. However, the Allesbury earl soon forgave her for her poor fashion sense when she threatened to gift him with a pocket watch. He pretended to be excited and then his shoulders fell with imaginary realization, "Oh, that'd be a most thoughtful gift. Except, Miss Grady, I already possess a pocket watch. I'm afraid I have ruined your plans. What will I do?" The pair re-entered the rest of the world with a small shuffle and pivot towards the blonde. Isabelle introduced the male to her. Holding her gaze, he gave a short bow and commented, "It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Lastname." And it was.

But their meeting lasted for only two beats before he was being whisked away. They strolled through the crowds, Oliver noted for the first time that morning that not all was as it should be. He could spot many a member of gentle society not just standing in the same general area, but conversing with the lower classes. Why there was a sudden need for "community" or slumming, as he preferred to label it, he couldn't comprehend. Ollie continued to stare out into the masses, only half listening to Izzy. When the idea of his outlandish behaviour being ousted, he merely replied, "Nonsense. If that were to occur, you'd wake up to see the Society section of the paper with your pretty little face front and center and your reputation in shreds." But Isabelle was already moved past this and onto the topic of Cinderella once more.

It was somewhat cumbersome to suddenly enlist in a female's help when doing dastardly deeds. While he had been a one-man show for the majority of his twenty-seven years, occasionally getting Lefty to do the grunt work, he only had his own qualms to consider. But with Isabelle in the picture, he now played therapist and had to soothe her worries away. He sighed and patted her hand. "Now, now, Izzy, we aren't losing our motivation already, are we? But patience, it's only spring. Assuming you play your cards right, he'll be proposing by fall." He allowed a few paces of silence and nonchalantly added, "That is, if you do. But he's mentioned a Miss Lastname and how he finds her most enjoyable to talk to. And, of course, you're dressed like that every meeting." Oliver had a dead end future as a psychologist. "But as for my progress, I do think she's warming up to me. At the mention of lunch, his stomach rumbled lightly. He had discussed lunch with Lucius, but that information was on a need to know basis. And unfortunately for the Grady, she didn't need to know. "Oh, I almost forgot. Lucius is in Bath visiting his aunt and won't be back until the start of the season and there's a flock of new, younger, prettier girls in society. So, how about lunch?" The viscount was coming to lunch and Isabelle would be beside herself with joy. That was, after she wallowed in a pit of despair at the possibility of losing her groom to be.

Luckily for her, as soon as they were reunited with Cinderella, Lucius made his entrance. He bowed in response and cracked a wide smile at his friend. "Viscount," he greeted. While he was glad he'd arrived, Oliver was more so pleased with the anger he was sure that was radiating inside his partner in crime. "I'm just fantastic, thank you. And you?" He glanced from each member of the quartet and let his eyes linger on the younger female as the earl continued, "I couldn't have said it better myself. But the views the festival brings are rather aesthetically appealing." Very appealing indeed.


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ooc{ eeep, ending was not so hot! but it's finally up! (:

[mel chanel]

richard yale hartford ♦ ricky, rick ♦ twenty - six ♦ #B22222 ♦ local

♦ dedicated ♦ defensive ♦ meticulous ♦ courteous

It's a weird thing when a writer writes about something he doesn't believe in. And let me tell you - I don't believe in ghosts.

Call it opportunity, but I happen to be living in a town that's entirely too focused on the dead's extra curricular activities than what's considered healthy. And as a one time hot shot in the literary world, I needed an opportunity. When I was twenty, I wrote a fluff coming of age novella that jump started my writing career faster than any street punk could hot wire a car. I was real hot s**t for a while, but two failed novels since, my agent's hounding me for some new material. And not just new material, material that'd sell. And after days of wracking my brain and bumbling around town, I

i'm sure being a nobel prize author has its perks; however, i don't have one, so you'd have to ask someone else about that. instead of soaking in the glamour of being a household name, i'm helping renovations by day and lucubrating like a mad man otherwise. the crumpled paper on my floor is enough to fill a landfill and i hardly get anymore than a few pages done a night, but it's progress and i'll take that. my agent on the other hand, not so pleased.

So, when I was twenty, I was convinced I was going to marry this girl. Blonde, leggy, tall, let's say she was, I dunno, Albanian and call her Sonya. We'd dated for ages, she took up a portion of my closet,


:< he's not a stick in the mud, he's just very serious about his job!
or lack of one. he's kinda scared that he was just a one hit wonder.
his agent's getting on his case.
he needs a new book.
and maybe, maybe he needed a change of scenery.
enter stage left: ember.

mondays in melilla

[mel chanel]

rp idea just so i don't forget it.

the scene: 1929. the end of the roaring twenties, an age of frivolous wants opposed to needs, raising hemlines, speakeasies and last but not least, dreams. our hero enters the frame with little room to spare - his face is plastered on the movie house's screen once every six or so months. he's gotten used to the famed life of the movie star with a tab at every shop worthwhile in town to prove it. but times are changing and as a public figure, it's his duty to roll with the punches. however, as technology advances and leaves the silent film alone in the dust, our hero is having troubles adjusting. why?

he's deaf.

our celebrity, our living idol, our hero here, is deaf. but does the public really care if you're deaf? in this time and age, they just want to escape from it all for a while, watch a good film and not care about anything else but what's going on then and there in the film. but you can't do that if you can hardly speak, can you? it's a dog eat dog world, and our hero's going to either sink or swim. but just as it all looked too bleak to bear, his manager throws the poor guy a bone. enter stage left, our heroine - the speech therapist. it's up to her to help him perfect his speech or he's toast. but with time running out and tempers raising high, even she may not be able to save his career.

[mel chanel]

xxxxxxxxxHELLO, DARLING, I'M
❝xxxxxxVIC xxxxxx❞
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHOW MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?


VICTORIA ELENA YORK ▪ TWENTY - TWO ▪ BANANA SPLIT ▪ #CC00AA ▪ MEL CHANEL

❝x There's only one use for rollerskates in this world and that's keeping my thighs looking as marvelous as they do. But that doesn't mean you won't see me practically begging Kasey to let me ditch those old things. After five years slaving away day in and day out at Al Mac's, you think he'd cut a girl a break but not a chance! The man's positively wild for giving us waitresses a hard time. Not that I'm too bent out of shape about it, of course - I manage just fine on my skates. But let's be honest here, baby, the only wheels I'd care to be on are a Corvette's. I know cars like the back of my hand - it's a professional requirement, what with me working the car orders mostly. If a man wants to razz my berries, he's got to have a hot car. Speaking of men, I'm fully aware I'm the old maid of Al Mac's and that doesn't bother me any. I'm strapped for bread so my status is an asset. I flirt with whatever studs come my way, let them take me out every once in a while, y'know, nothing that'll go anywhere - ever. Whatever to keep my tips up and things light is fine with me. Sure, my lifestyle's backfired on me a few times, but c'est la vie, darling! As for actually working at Al Mac's, I don't mind it. That place and I've got a relationship that'd drive any other person batty. I snagged the gig right after moving to Chicago from a blink of an eye sort of town and I'll deny I ever said this, but have slowly learned to love Al Mac's. Don't rat on me, alright? I've got an image to protect. But despite this, Kasey's always yammering on about how we're in this together and doing all these team building things and there are some bonafide dears working there, really, but as soon as I marry some well off doctor, I'll be out of there faster than you can say scadaddle. Until then, I'll get my kicks while I'm still young, go to rock 'n roll shows, dance, throw a few house parties and visit the beatniks in their natural habitat. And boy, do these diner kids know how to have fun.x❞

- smokes
- loves r&r.
- i ain't sayin'...
+ likes fine things.
+ but is a tomboy and not afraid to get dirty.
- sr. in uni
- soft spot for greasers
- gossip
- idolizes marilyn monroe (yuck)
- gave the housewife thing a go, but doesn't give a damn anymore.
- breezy
- hates her skates and ditches them whenever she can, despite being dec. at them.
+ prefers ice skating.
- loves al mac's in a weird way.
+ can't wait to get out.
- flirts with whatever has two legs.
+ drops 'em like they're hot.
- two loving parents but got emancipated anyway.
- keeps in touch with her grandfather.