Reign's Magnificent Format Testing Thread

[Meareign]

The first few posts here are samples of my roleplaying posts. I have a couple of different types, since I tend to play different formats depending on how I'm feeling.

Note to myself: handy

ＵＬＴＩＭＡＴＥ - ＲＰ - ＤＡＴＡＢＡＳＥ

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[Meareign]

SAMPLES OF LONG POSTS
SIX PARAGRAPHS OR MORE

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Whispers bounced around the corner of the hallway. Romone was walking slowly through the dark corridor, following its path. He was in the basement of an old, abandoned factory just beyond the outskirts of Brookmore. The dim light bouncing around the space revealed enough of the walls to make it clear that his carefully tailored suit and polished shoes were out of place in the setting.

He had been sent here on a tip; a couple of vampires had gone missing out in this area in the past few weeks and a little investigation had found someone who reluctantly pointed him in this direction. Normally, Romone himself wouldn't be responsible for hunting down a couple of stray vampires - the lifestyle that bloodsuckers led was often high risk for high reward and that meant nobody was surprised when one or two of them never came home. However, the party responsible for the disappearances, whoever they were, had made the mistake of disappearing the Argentinian Ambassador. That had caught the attention of people who mattered.

Romone turned the corner and saw that the hallway dead-ended at a door, slightly cracked, through which the dim lantern light had been spilling. The whispers, too, were coming from this room, resonating eerily around the hallway's strange acoustics. This might have unnerved some people, but Romone was not some people. He gently touched the edge of the door and pulled it open. The hinges must have been either new or greased, because it opened silently. Romone's tall figure stood silhouetted in the dark doorframe. He wasn't noticed immediately. In front of him he could see two vampires lying on sanitary metal stretchers, tied down by straps that, judging by color, had turquoise threads sewn into them. They had IV's in both arms hooked up to blood donor bags. One of the vampires - the ambassador - was half-desiccated. The other still seemed pretty healthy. There was a furnace installed in the far corner of the room and a couple of humans wearing lab coats, rubber gloves, and face masks monitoring the operation.

One of the doctors, who had his mask pulled down around his neck, finally saw the silhouette. "Mike," he hissed urgently to one of the other humans. Both of the others turned to look.

"Who are you?" this Mike asked sharply, though the poignancy of his words arose more from alarm than from anger. All three of them seemed very on-edge about Romone's presence. They must not have been expecting anyone this evening. Surely no vampires would be coming for them at this hour. After all, it wasn't even sunset yet.

"Dis don' be lookin' like sometin' you boys be 'avin' permission to do. I tink I'll be needin' t' see some autorization," he said eerily, the base in his voice rich as he slowly entered over the threshold. Finally the soft light of the poorly lit basement fell onto his face and the humans could see more than just his silhouette. His words were taunting more than anything, really; there was no such thing as authorization for what they were doing. Not any that they probably knew about, anyway. This set-up wasn't all that uncommon: they were harvesting the blood of the vampires for use in human medicine. Since it was a powerful cure-all for mortals, it wasn't surprising for desperate humans and doctors treating terminal conditions to try an operation like this. Plus, there was a black market for vampire blood and it sold very well in the right circles.

The first human, he went wide-eyed when Romone came into view. He looked like he was about to wet himself. "That's Papa Dandras," he said to Mike, and realization swept over the other two as the name resonated in their memories.

"De doctor heard of me," Romone observed, progressing forwards through the room so frighteningly slow. A morbidly satisfied smile curled over his lips. The quiet human, the one who hadn't said a word this whole time, finally snapped and charged for Romone. He had grabbed a metal pipe from the floor and raced towards the tall Jamaican with plans to beat him over the head with his weapon. Once in arm's reach, Romone quickly reached to grasp this third doctor's head, his palm against the doctor's forehead and fingers spidered out around his temple. The doctor froze, standing perfectly still for a heartbeat, and then crumpled unconsciously to the floor. Romone looked down at the collapsed figure distastefully and stepped over it as if it were roadkill. The remaining two humans were visibly shaken by the effortlessness of Romone's counterattack.

Not-Mike nodded and swallowed hard. "Yes, I've... uh, I've heard rumors, at least. I'm-- sure they're not true, they couldn't--"

"Papa Dandras, 'e be practicin' dem dark magick," he cut off the scared doctor and started steadily advancing again, rattling off some of the evil rumors circulating around his alias. "Papa Dandras, 'e be lurin' twenny beautiful women out'a dere 'omes an' cuttin' out dere tongues t' make leader for 'is necklace. Papa Dandras, 'e heal tree little boys'a deadly sickness jus' ta curse dem each ta 'orrible deats 'cause dem were makin' de wrong face. Papa Dandras, 'e be catchin' an ol' man castin' rocks at 'is brudda's grave, so 'e bury 'im deep down in de Eart next to 'is brudda while 'e still take breat." Romone was upon them now, arm's reach away from the two fear-paralyzed doctors. "Papa Dandras, 'e sure de doctor is right. 'Ow could so many'a dem rumors be true?" And slowly, deeply, he started to mutter a chant.

The two humans felt their their skin flush and break out in cold sweat. They felt their bones start to ache, their tendons pull taut and joints grow sore. Romone listened over the sound of his own voice as they realized how wrong their bodies felt. He heard the thud as they fell to kneeling, their brittle-as-glass kneecaps cracking against the hard floor and the sickening, schlopping sound as they lost their balance and crumbled face-first onto the floor. Soon, the two humans were both unconscious from the internal trauma. In hardly a minute, their skeletal structures had gone from rigid and powerful to as soft and thin as powder candy, pulverized under the weights of their own organs. They weren't dead yet, but they would be soon. The third doctor was still unconscious on the floor by the hallway. He, unlike these two, would wake in an hour or so and see what Papa Dandras had wrought.

Romone walked over to the first stretcher, stepping on Mike's torso along the way and feeling the squish of its unprotected contents. He started to free the vampires trapped by their turquoise bonds. The ambassador would be home safe in no time.

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Location: Leaving some dump on the bad side of town | Mood: Feeling | Company: Ambassador of Argentina | Attire: Here | Opinions: Here

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Elian, a half-step in front of Finn and tunnel-visioned onto the lab-coated scientist, was a little slow to the punch. The hair down his arms and neck stood on end and prickled as he waited with sharp anticipation for some kind of answer, but for some reason nobody had managed to respond to him even though an awkward number of seconds had elapsed. It took a moment for the nurse to register the unusual look of morbid fascination on the scientist's face.

We have to do something, came spoken from behind by Jimmy, he assumed, and as if on cue Elian followed the chubby scientist's gaze back over his shoulder. He would momentarily forgive the awkward pause.

PANTHER?!

Elian's shrieking scream, risen to the pitch of a playground schoolgirl, sounded immediately. He completely lost his cool and compulsively, spasmodically recoiled away from the seriously dangerously massive wild cat that was probably less than a foot away from him when he turned and saw it. "Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaah!" he carried on, clawing at the wall in a desperate and absurd attempt to get some semblance of a barrier between him and the predator.. When not busy with that, his limbs rapidly flailed between trying to make himself larger and trying to hide himself. "Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaah!" To add to the issue, the mild fuzzy noise had escalated into a loud and warbling high pitched tone on the same emotional level as an emergency alarm.

It was only when Elian was completely out of breath and had to stop shrieking so that he could get air into his lungs that any sense at all returned to him. He stood frozen, panting, his entire body and most of his face pressed stomach-first against the wall. His eyes were still wide as continents. However, he did realize two things: the panther was no attacking anyone and Finn was nowhere to be seen, even when he craned his neck to see around the corner back at the remaining test subjects.

He also noticed in the back of his mind that, at some point before or during his freak out, Jimmy had passed him and lunged for one of the armed men in white uniforms. Next to Elian's foot was a peculiar kind of needled item similar to a syringe that must have been the result of a poorly-aimed shot at Jimmy during his surprise attack. Elian could have picked it up and examined it to procure some kind of information about its contents or the guns the men had, but he was too distracted at the moment. He couldn't even spare a glance back at Jimmy, who had fully tackled one of the... guards?... and now had two of the gun-like weapons aimed at his body from the others.

No, Elian was too busy trying to tune-out the ringing tone that his alarm had devolved into and get his head around the obvious conclusion: Finn had turned into a panther.

Overcome by how ridiculous his situation was, Elian's arms went limp and he leaned all of his weight against the wall. He slid a few inches, and sighed heavily. In a quiet voice, he stated matter-of-fact, [********. I don't even know." Helplessly, he looked again to the mustachioed scientist, hoping for an explanation. Then he heard the click of one of the guards' guns.

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The sun was still relatively low in the morning sky and, though the summer air was warming to a scald, the atmosphere in the shade of the patio's awning was still moderate with the cool moisture of dew. The rosy pink flower bushes growing in front of the patio had little glistening droplets speckling their leaves and petals and the plants suspended from the overhang were the same. Maison Rose, at least from the outside, was rather deceptively picturesque. It may have been a little... dilapidated on the interior, generally ready to fall apart at a week's neglect and upon close inspection there may have been a number of chips in the building's paint and some dust accumulating on the banister, but from a first glance, the scene was perfect and charming.

Accenting the image was a figure sitting in a simple wooden chair on the front deck. The man seemed comfortable there, settled into the seat with one ankle propped up on his knee. He was dressed like a businessman, with a nice, white shirt buttoned almost all the way up and a loose tie around his neck. The sleeves were rolled up just past his elbows. He had a blue sports coat behind him, hanging off the back of the chair. In his left hand, he held the day's newspaper such that his eyes could scan over the headlines, in his right was a half-full mug of black coffee. His name was Sebastian. He was loaded.

Initially, Sebastian had only used the nice scenery as an excuse to come spend time around Maison Rose. The manager of the place, Freya, had caught his eye a while back at the golf course Sebastian ran when she visited with her father, a regular. Back then he was really only hanging around to get closer to her. She was a pretty woman, after all, and now that she was a small business owner, it was pretty clear that there was at least a little more to her. He had been coming around and spending mornings at this place on a regular basis for a while now, though, and he had been saying he liked the view for so long that it was actually starting to take. Aside from the small details, it was a very nice place. Some of the residents were interesting, too.

This wasn't the first morning the thought had come to him - it might not be a bad idea to invest in the place. Put a few thousand in, refresh the paint job, tear the porch out and rebuild it with fresh wood, do a little remodeling, update and improve the general quality of utilities, and expand the occupancy limit at the cost of another hundred or so dollars from each new resident. It had the land and it already had a sort of homestyle feel to it that they could run with; people loved that warm, cozy simpler-times stuff. They could please some greenies by throwing a couple of solar panels up on the roof, too. He hadn't ever brought it up, though - not to Freya or anyone. Not yet. That was how he made most of his money, actually: with investments. He had gotten started when he inherited a big coin purse from his grandfather, a retired corporate bigwig from a major computer software company who had died a little younger than he ought to on account of some nasty emphysema. Sebastian then proceeded to make all manner of lucrative investments all around the state - and many outside of it - that were even now feeding him a constant stream of more money than he knew what to do with. If things were still going this way by the time he was forty, he would probably just start throwing chunks of money at his favorite non-profits.

At any rate, his success had nothing to do with his own father. His parents were both hippies, spending their time growing out their hair and smoking marijuana or cocaine somewhere in New York City. When they weren't screaming at each other about their most recent disagreement, they liked to be outdoors and play music on acoustic guitars while sitting in the grass in Central Park or give away headbands made out of freshly picked clovers and wildflowers. Sometimes they would set up a little stand and sell bouquets they'd stolen from landscaping or dried flowers his mother had suffocated in some heavy book. And they were homeless; when they weren't sleeping in their worn-out tent, they were squatting in some condemned old warehouse building. The sick part was that they liked it that way - Sebastian (birth name Moonjava, he changed his name to his grandfather's for his 12th birthday) had tried to help them out. He had offered to buy them an apartment, to give his father a job, to send them a weekly check so they didn't have to be "freegan," but his offers were constantly turned down. He tried to get them into A.A. meetings or help them ween off of the drugs - the only one of which he allowed himself was tobacco - but none of it ever seemed to take no matter how many times they were suggested. It seemed that the motivation gene had skipped a generation and went straight from Grampa Sebastian to his little namesake. Maybe that was why Sebastian was his grandfather's greatest heir instead of his only son. But it didn't really matter; there was no way to ask and the only thing to do was be content and hope he never got a call from the police about one of his parents overdosing on heroin.

Sitting there with his newspaper, Sebastian took a sip of his coffee as he came to the obituaries. He normally didn't read that sort of thing, but there had been a reference to it on the front page that he was curious about. Usually that only happened for important people, and he hadn't heard about any noteworthy deaths in the past couple of days. "Huh..." he quietly mused to himself, muttering quietly about what he read. "Whitney Houston found... huh. I guess she won't be getting any more 'respect,'" he continued, confusing Houston with Aretha Franklin. There were some areas of pop culture that he was sufficiently versed in, like what happened with the Tiger Woods scandal or why Michael Vick fell from grace. He usually knew who was the hottest woman in Michael Bay's next summer action flick and if Dustin Hoffman was taking on another role, but the discographies of soul-singing middle-aged black women were not on that list.

Freya, as it happened, had been meandering around this morning just like every other morning. Laundry, raking, cooking, sweeping. Whenever she passed by him he would nod to her, or at least glance up. Occasionally he might make a remark and they would have a quick, friendly exchange. Today was particularly nice. On account of the heat she had suffered out in the sun, Freya was wearing somewhat less than she usually did. Sebastian didn't think she was just some piece of meat, he absolutely didn't, but he was definitely a hot-blooded man and couldn't help but to appreciate the gloss of summer heat on a gorgeous lady's bare shoulders or the exposed curves of her legs any more than he could help but defend himself from a punch some punk has throws at his cranium.

Now she was out sweeping the porch ahead of him. Something about the tiny wrinkle on her forehead and the slump of her posture was telling of some sort of disturbance in her life, but if there was one thing Sebastian wasn't, it was probing. If he had something agitating on his mind, the last thing he would have wanted was somebody picking at him to talk about it. On the flip side, he often wasn't really interested in hearing about other peoples' problems, either, so he didn't have much motivation to probe even if he was the sort to do it. When he did, it was either a rare occasion reserved for special individuals or he had some sort of ulterior motive.

He was more than willing to take someone's mind of something, though. Glancing up once more at Freya, he watched her in silence for a second. He was hot, but he wasn't sweating since he'd been sitting in the shade all morning, unlike the manager in front of him. "Did you, you know, did you know about Whitney Houston? Wasn't she some sort of, uh, a sort of big deal to like the, uh, what, the 80's generation?" he asked, supposing that it had probably already gotten around the previous day, what with texting and the internet being so available, and he was just behind the curve. In fact, it was entirely likely that this had been a topic of discussion at the party the previous evening and he had just been distracted from the people who had brought it up. Not that he had been excessively drunk (perhaps a bit tipsy), but because he just hadn't been in the area when it was mentioned. When he thought hard enough, he did vaguely remember some kind of chatter about some celebrity, but had tuned it out when it wasn't someone he cared about.

He continued watching her now, his eyes not flicking back to the paper for once. He took another sip of coffee, his mild-to-nonexistent hangover long since soothed by the caffeine. He couldn't deny his sense that she was stressed somehow. Sebastian considered himself a fairly good friend of Freya's, but they had never gotten particularly personal when they talked. She may have mentioned having a boyfriend named Dylan, but if she had, it had never come up that he died. That happened before Sebastian started coming around every day and getting closer to her. Likewise, she didn't know that Sebastian had grown up in pretty shitty conditions with parents that fought all the time and barely made an effort to keep rent so their son had a roof over his head or fresh food on his plate. It was at this moment in the present that the neighborhood girl, Cameron, popped into the scene and asked exactly what he had been thinking just moments before. "Right, uh, what she said. You're-- you're-- you're... you don't need any help with anything this morning, do you? It looks like the heat today's wearing on you. I could, I mean, I'm not so shabby with a broom. Maybe a little rusty, it's been a while, but I'm pretty sure it's a lot like riding a bike, you know? I figure I could still do it." He wasn't stuttering or any kind of nervous - not even Freya could tongue tie this hotshot; no, it was part of Sebastian's natural speaking patterns to repeat certain words and phrases, especially articles. He spoke quickly most of the time and it came out still sounding fairly fluent. If anything, it was just a signature of his personality. If she accepted, he would have to take his dress shirt off for a minute and do it in his plain white undershirt, just to make sure he didn't sweat in it before he headed in to handle the golf course that afternoon, but that was no big deal really.

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In his mind, Alan groaned. The sound didn't escape his lips or resonate in his vocal cords; he was so busy controlling the labor of his breath that any potential it had of actually being produced was immediately caught in his throat. Why was he groaning? Because he had only been working for minutes - he would have sworn it was at least eight, but knowing better, it was probably barely half of that. There was a sport watch on his left wrist that he could have used to tell how long he had been, but with his arms over his head, he couldn't see it. He would just have to grit his teeth and bear it until the alarm went off to signal the training session's completion. Alan had only been working for minutes, and running down his right temple, sliding onto his cheek, was the first fully beaded drop of sweat. That, combined with the dull quease already clumping deep in his throat, sent a bad signal to his brain. The symptoms of his efforts had come over him so quickly, even with his crazed level of endurance, that he knew he would be suffering soon. He wasn't looking forward to it.

With veins bulging in his arms, legs, and in his head, he sluggishly pushed his eyes over to Calla's reflection in the mirror not too far in front of him. Lillium. She had spent a little while stretching, and was only just now getting into her training regimen. Both of them had been quieter than they had planned thus far, and the way he understood it, Calla needed a lot of concentration to hold her levitation at any useful height. If that was the case, then there was no time like this instance for their conversation to pick up.

Alan started off fairly trivial. He poked at ideas regarding what she could do with her power. With his breathing already somewhat laboring, though, he usually had to take a moment to breathe every three or four words. The weight was really heavy, mostly intended for short bursts of weight-lifting use, not prolonged handling. It could wear down even the super soldiers. "So... do you think, maybe, that you could float... between buildings? Like... hover a few, feet, up off the roof, then keep that... altitude... as you crossed, the space over a street to... to the next, building? Or... would you, fall down to, a few feet off, the ground?" He guessed this depended on the nature of her ability. Was the levitation based on some kind of invisible propulsion off of the ground, or was the difficulty in the ascension - did it matter how high up she was, so long as she wasn't trying to climb higher? "If you jumped, in the air, could you... catch yourself, a couple feet, up, and be higher?"

Alan felt a deep ache pang momentarily through his bones. It was a lot like the tiring, full-bodied ache that he usually felt when he started to come down with a cold or a flu. He pushed it out of his mind, and kept pursuing the short-breathed conversation he was exchanging with Calla, who was probably also working hard to keep their exchanges going. If she was showing, he was too busy to really notice. He explored further ideas about this "altitude" possibility with her, spending a good many minutes on it. Thankfully, those minutes were ticking by faster than they would have if the teammates had stayed silent. At one point, he switched gears slightly. "Do you... think... you could... activate the... float... midair?" he asked. The sentences were taking longer now, fifteen or twenty minutes into the exercise, his pauses for breath extended. He kept going, though, despite the very strong nausea now afflicting him and the dangerous exertion burn in his arms, legs, and back. "If you... jumped off a... building... could you... stop half way... down? Or could you... stop... yourself... just before you hit... the ground?" If she could, that would be a handy skill. It would mean she could jump from anywhere and reach anything equal to or below her existing height with no fear of danger from falling. From there, he explored whether or not weight and gravity effected her power; if she carried weight, did it make levitation harder? Could she carry someone?

He kept up his side of the conversation until he hit a wall half an hour into the workout. At that moment, he opened his mouth to respond to her only to suddenly fall down to one knee and lose his breakfast into the bucket he had set up next to him. He heaved for probably thirty seconds, and then stayed there, his breathing still labored. The massive weight was still held reliably over his head, his arms up. Alan turned his head to his arm and wiped his face on the bare skin of his bicep. It didn't really help, since his skin was already slimy with sweat. He shook his head, lightheaded, and a few droplets sprayed off of him from his eyelashes, chin, and ears. He gathered his force of will into a knot in his chest and shifted his weight off of his knee and back onto his foot. His legs shuddering, he stood back up.

He didn't say anything else for a long while. The struggle was eating at him the way it always did, his breathing even harder now than it was. He couldn't have formed more than a word or two even if he tried, for all the air he was desperately sucking through his lungs. His entire body seemed to vibrate, and the faint olive haze started to fade and recede as he lost his grip on the sapping field. This happened a couple of times: the field would start to slip away, and he would remember that he wasn't done and that he had no right to sacrifice his own training for a few moments of relief. He would promise himself that the only way he would let go was if his body forced him to and blacked him out, and then he would push the sapping field back into place with his steely resolve. It would stay for a moment, then falter and start to fade again. He would repeat.

This went on for probably five minutes as he went back and forth with himself, wracked by earth-quaking shudders. Then, as he neared the final stretch of the exercise - the last eight minutes - his mind gripped onto something solid. He remembered why he was doing what he did, why it was worth what he was going through. That murdering b*****d, Ravan Kadžić, had been arrested and brought to justice four years ago, but he wasn't the only of his kind. Wide scale and small, there were many more like him out there in the world who were doing unspeakable things. If he kept up and became something great and unstoppable, Alan might personally be the answer to those abominations of human life. Maybe they would even reward him with a special execution... Kadžić wasn't dead yet.

His breathing became deeper and slower. It was just as much air, and took more effort to control, but it wasn't as desperate and it was easier on his head. Nausea pushed itself on his consciousness, but he shoved it away. His now-bleary eyes vaguely found Calla's reflection again. Do they know she exists? Do they know I'm here? he wondered. The spirits of his parents: he had never dared believe in such things before, but now he had almost irrefutable proof. He longed for answers that he didn't even know the questions to. "Calla..." he croaked, surprised at the new, hoarse sound of his voice. Despite its temporary crack, though, he could hear that he sounded steadier and more controlled than he was ten minutes ago. What did he want? He didn't know why he was asking for her attention, so he chose his next sentence with consideration. It was a dramatic subject change. "What do you know about the Bosnian War?" They were almost done.

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Orinda sat and witnessed his brother's wedding amiably in the presence of his nobles on the far forward edge of his citizens, just a couple of meters away from the wall that supported the grooms' balcony. His eyes followed the ceremony as it unfolded and, overall, was much more satisfied and familiar with the sort of wedding that proceeded than he had been with the one that had united Prince Zephyr and Princess Aurelia.

Orinda found himself looking with nausea at Ea, by his side, more than once. Poetry had never been something that really resonated with Orinda to start with, so when he had to listen to his brother vomit infatuation soup all over Princess Marvelle he couldn't help but want to groan and find a bucket. My brother is suuuuuch a prat, he thought intermittently; the other thoughts cropping up in his head, of course, were compulsive attempts at trying to remember that this was really a pretty good way for things to be going and that it was really no big deal at all at the end of the day. After all, the soon-to-be queen seemed to be receiving it pretty well, and she was the only person who needed to actually like what Allard was saying.

Admittedly, the crown prince did not hear everything spoken during that particular ceremony. There had been a moment when one of his ears tuned in to a conversation two young men were holding off to the side. He wasn't perfectly certain that he correctly understood what he was hearing, but if it was what it sounded like, it did not make him happy. There was a moment when Orinda's eyes met with the eyes of one of his bodyguards and it was clear that the soldier had heard it to; he had a look of expectation on his face that seemed like it was ready to receive an order. Instead, the future king quietly turned his head back to view the stage.

Desdan and Fia married next, as had been planned. In truth, the whole thing was rather painful to watch, especially since Fia wore her emotions on her sleeves and there was nothing shielding Orinda from how her every flinch was, in its own way, his own fault. He watched every strained breath his little sister took, every word that struggled past her lips in... Actually, a pretty impressive display of self-control and respect for duty, he thought, knowing Fia, knowing how much she hated what she was doing, and knowing what she certainly would have preferred to be doing. It wasn't until he noticed Ea handing him a cotton handkerchief and heard the whispers fluttering around him that Orinda realized two lines of quiet tears had stained his cheeks. He accepted the adviser's offering politely.

Conversely, there was something about Prince Desdan that he just didn't trust, hearing the vows the Marisian made to Fia's face. Orinda couldn't put a finger on exactly what it was - maybe the words were just too hard to believe coming out of the mouth of a mortal enemy, maybe they seemed too nice to be genuine considering the reality of the situation, maybe he was just flagrantly prejudiced. There certainly wasn't anything wrong about Desdan's demeanor or word choice or tone or, really, anything - but part of being Incendian was being in-tune with intuition. It was why Allard was so suspicious of the Ancients (he thought), why Fiamette was so good at ambassadorial services, and now it was why Orinda felt so unsettled about the intentions of the groom on stage. Okay, there were a lot of reasons for that, but that's beside the point.

Orinda's skin didn't stop crawling then, however; far worse than the prince's speech was his sudden coronation. It was wrong in so many ways. It felt like a power move, for one. It felt like a defiance. It felt like a disrespect to the gravity of a coronation. They aren't Incendian, he reminded himself with futility, maybe this is sufficient in their eyes. Maybe it's just their way, and I dislike it because it's foreign. It felt like a show up, a snatch of attention from the crowd (which it got), a statement that his wedding was more significant than the rest and, at least a little bit, it suddenly felt like Orinda had just lost some perverse, childish race that he hadn't even known he was in. But even that wasn't the worst, that wasn't the thing that made his Incendian blood turn to magma under his skin.

That b*****d crowned himself with a symbol of the Magnus. How ******** dare he.

Placing a Marisian crown on Queen Fia made sense; she was the wife of the king of Marisia and would be ruling - or, at least, standing beside the ruler of - the Kingdom of Water. She would be living among those people for at least part of her life and it was good for her to accept symbols of their culture when they were offered to her (though, in truth, that wasn't exactly what she did). For this... King Desdan, though, it was violently insulting. It didn't matter what "nice" hypothetical parallels could be seen in the gesture, implying that the couple were "accepting" each others cultures and peoples. For a king to wear upon his brow the crown of a nation he did not rule was a statement of conquest. Desdan was symbolically proclaiming himself a second king of Orinda's people, and the true heir seethed.

"Sire, do you need anything?" asked Ea, strategically grabbing Orinda's attention before his thoughts could dig any deeper. The young royal's skin was flushed red with the heat of his ferocity and his breathing was deeper and longer than it ought to have been. His heart still raced with the intensity of his emotions, but like always the grey old man was right. Orinda nodded his understanding.

"I will tell you if I think of anything," he replied. He could see on Lady Fiamette's face that she didn't dare chime in at the moment - no, she was far too clever than to think rational advice was productive at the moment. Not soon enough, the weddings proceeded.

Princess Naivara's marriage to Prince Ezra was... a fiasco. It was terribly awkward to witness, although after the previous performance Orinda could hardly be shaken. He wasn't ambivalent enough that Prince Ezra's brazen behavior didn't startle and displease him - handling sweet little Naivara like a sack of potatoes was completely inappropriate. But still, aside from the part where Prince Ezra basically almost sparked a new war by abusing the darling princess of Caelum in front of her entire people and their bitter, threat-happy king, it really wasn't so bad. Maybe Orinda would have felt differently if he hadn't already been reeling, but that wasn't the case.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," Orinda said to Ea with traces of exhaustion. Slowly, the crowd started to shift around and prepare for the next stage of celebration. They would have to move back into the palace to the great dining hall rather directly.

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Location: At the edge of the Incendian crowd | Feeling: Acutely offended, worn out | Company: Ea, Fiamette, NPC nobles and bodyguards | Opinions: QuestLog

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Auris watched the carriage pulling away, Ceralith's castle gates opening to let it through. Pain crept its way into his eyes, though the Sevarene prince stood calm and tall as he watched the vessel depart. Alongside him were two Ceralethian guards, men who had been tasked with Auris's protection when Adriel wasn't present. At least now Ceralith had awoken to the gaping holes in its security and was taking the safety of its guests seriously.

There were two caskets riding in the carriage leaving the palace. Auris knew their names. Sir Coraxe was the first, he was a knight of Sevarin. Coraxe had accompanied their trip to Ceralith and was meant to stay with the royal twins to help Adriel protect them throughout their stay. He had been serving King Montis for over a decade and was often close to Auris, especially in the years following Auris's abduction. He was a brave man, too, and wise. He had a family. His body would be returned now to his young bride and their two children - one and three years old. Auris could even remember their wedding and the story Coraxe's wife told about how she admired him for years before she finally convinced him to notice her.

Her poor soul, she would never even get to kiss her husband again.

The other casket held Enny, a stable girl. Auris didn't know her very well, but he could recall her. She had come along on the trip to Ceralith with the task of helping to aid the travel crew. She helped Meru fetch water for everyone and had spent nearly two hours every night loving and grooming all the horses that pulled their carriages. Auris could hear Enny's words just before they left their home. "I'm so excited," she had said emphatically to Jut. "I've always wanted to travel! I dream about it! I begged Mister Orden to let me come on this trip, I bet Ceralith is amazing!"

Auris hoped the Ceralethian countryside was everything Enny wanted. It was the last thing she ever saw.

The crowned prince of Sevarin turned away from the sight of the carriage. His heart dragging on the floor, he started to move back into the castle. His night had not gone smoothly; how could it have? Every time he tried to lie down or close his eyes, he saw that man lying dead on the floor, eyes wide and staring back with nothing in them. Auris felt that mercenary's soft neck rip open in his hands and explode with blood like hot pudding, heard the grotesque gurgling noise that burbled from his mouth as he choked on his own throat. Auris felt hands grab at his arms and his legs, hallucinated the echoes of his sister's screams. No, it wasn't until Auris was gripped by utter exhaustion that he had finally found sleep in the night.

The two guards politely trailing several yards behind him, Auris drifted through the halls, walking without giving thought to his path. Noise buzzed in his brain and he hated that he couldn't be home, that he had to stay in this place where the boy king neglected his responsibilities and thought it was appropriate to have Auris's precious sister alone in his bedroom at night, before they were married, even when he was hardly clothed.

Oh, Feira, Auris thought, How I need you now. How I know you would have the right things to say, how you would lead me by the hand to that beautiful park where the children play with stray kittens and race around all afternoon. You must know that I miss you, Feira.

Last night, Princess Micaiah told Auris about a beautiful rose garden behind the palace. Maybe if he found it, the peace might settle his nerves. For now, it was all he could do not to be sick.

He was halfway there when he came upon another person in the halls. She was small and blond, she wore an apron and a polite green dress. Ariella. She had said her name the day before. Auris was always excellent with names, and suddenly the sight of her reminded him of Enny. His heart wrenched again.

It didn't take much for Auris to realize there was an intensity scrawled across Ariella's face. She looked disturbed, upset by something. He doubted it was much different from the strain on his own face. There was certainly enough for everyone to be upset about this morning.

"Ariella," said the prince quietly, stepping towards her. "You seem troubled. Whatever it is, I'm sorry." He looked a ways further down the hall. The doorway he needed to pass through was in sight, hopefully there was a flower garden just beyond it. "I don't mean to disturb you if you are terribly busy but, if the notion suits you, I would be appeased to hear about it. I think that I am close to the gardens, if the directions these guards have given me are correct. Please." It was true, to a point. Maybe, just maybe, if Auris could tend his attention towards someone else he would ache a little less for himself.

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Location: Castle halls ۰ ◇ ۰ Company: Ariella, NPC Guards ۰ ◇ ۰ Feeling: Heartbroken

[Meareign]

SAMPLES OF SHORT POSTS
UNDER SIX PARAGRAPHS

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◌――――→ℂaℓaŋ Λℓaϛτaiґє ←――――◌

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Calan stood on the sand of the shore seeming only a little surprised that Pandora had no contact with her recruits. If he thought about it, it made sense. She hadn't asked anyone to write back, only to show up, and unless she'd delivered letters herself (and he was fairly sure she hadn't) it would have been hard to know when or if any of them were successfully delivered. Unfortunately, this was not inspiring news to think that he may be the only arrival. There was a saving grace in the chance that he was simply the first arrival, though.

"Now, Pandora, forgive my eagerness, but I am fiercely curious about how you plan to stop this war. I'm sure whatever it is, I can help, but I am not positive about what your intentions are. Do you plan to usurp the thrones? Regicide? Or should I wait until others arrive for you to explain?" The last remark was a spark of optimism out of the elf. He had suggested not that others might arrive, but that they would arrive.

As for the angel's possible courses of action, the ones he had listed made the most sense as far as he could tell. She was probably not compiling a rebel force large enough to take on an army, no matter how skilled those few warriors were, so they couldn't exactly wage war on the war. If the kings of the warring nations were systematically taken out, though, the people would have no one to turn to for guidance and Pandora and any trusted officials she appointed could fill those roles. Removal or murder of a king might have been a crime, but after all, they weren't fighting for good - they were fighting for peace. If Pandora had a better idea than removing the leaders of the war, Calan was thrilled at the chance to know about it. If that was her plan, though, he knew he could help.

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Professor Grant Einan the Illusionist
A fairy instructor with a professional focus in mental control and race history.
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Grant shifted his weight onto the heels of his feet and he looked skyward, thinking back. When he stopped, he shook his head. "No, that doesn't ring a bell. I don't think I have a Silver on my roster, I was just going over it before I came this way." Then he glanced to Silver, adding, "I'm pleased to meet you regardless." Back to Haruto, he curtly and subtly bowed his head in return. "I'm Grant Einan. I teach Race History here. Unfortunately, it's largely an elective class and most of the students haven't gotten wind about quite how desperately engaging my classes are. This is only my second year, you see. I worry a little that the level 100 teacher spoils it for them a bit and they quit the subject before it gets interesting. It's a shame." Realizing his digression, Grant paused. "So, you're replacing last year's magic professor? I wish he hadn't had to resign after that accident, but I'm happy to welcome you to the team."

[Meareign]

SAMPLES OF JOINT POSTS
CREATED IN COLLABORATION WITH ONE OR MORE OTHER PLAYERS

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The crowd beyond the stage had filled to brimming, every hole in the expanse plugged by a new face of anticipation. Nobility had stolen the front rows of space and royalty had populated the wings of the stage. A few heads were absent, and their presences were not unnoticed, but this event was sensitive to the passage of time - they had a deadline and it was not made to be cut close. The hour had come for Orinda and Imogen to wed.

In the center of the stage stood two clergymen, one Incendian priest and one Terralorian shaman, awaiting the couple before the witnessing masses. The stage was sparse compared to what tradition demanded, but each betrothed had been able to request at least a few ritual accents to help fortify the validity and sanctity of these stripped-down ceremonies. Around the scene stood six total candelabrum - three on either side of the clergymen - that were full of fresh candles. A pair of Incendian handmaidens scurried to quickly light all of the wicks and exit the scene, casting a warmly lit glow over the stage from two angles. At the edges of the balcony laid a series five flat stones in a circular pattern, each far too heavy to be lifted by a single man. Atop each of their polished surfaces, symbols had been marked in fresh blood - one to represent prosperity, another for perseverance, another for loyalty, another for fertility, and finally, one for balance. In accordance with the now fallen king’s request, the stage had been reinforced the day prior in order to hold their great weight.

Orinda stood on the threshold between the eastern wing and the stage, looking out at the scene bittersweetly for the passing of a few moments. His time to wed was upon him and it was only then, as he stood on the brink of his fate, that he finally felt the gravity of the commitment he was about to make. Another new weight sunk in his stomach and settled atop the hundred other rocks in his gut. He felt heat sting behind his face for a second and he swallowed down his betrayal of House Conflatus with a slow, deep breath. Ea stood beside Orinda now and presented something to him on a pillow.

Norvik stood beside the Earth Princess in the western wing with the most somber of expressions. Of course, this was something Imogen could not discern with her eyes, but even so she could still feel it in his presence. It was almost as though his cumbersome frame had somehow become heavier in the last few moments. Rigid. Alert. Unforgiving. The scent of the air did nothing to calm her nerves, either. In fact, it seemed to outright assault her senses - a strange mixture of smoke, blood and sweat. Though, she couldn’t be sure whether it was the smell or the situation itself that forced her stomach to turn in fits. Suddenly, Norvik’s offering of lavender made complete sense. Smarter than he looks. She stifled a chuckle, huffing in another breath of the sprigs’ calming aroma.

"You'll be needing this, Your Highness," the advisor in the east wing said to the prince. Orinda blinked away the haze of his melancholy and let a faint appreciation cross his face as he reached up to his temples and lifted off the braided circlet he had been wearing. Passing it to the old man, he lifted a new crown from the pillow presented to him. This one was more like a headdress, wooden and leafy, but it was symbolic. This was a traditional Terralorian matrimonial piece and, by choosing to wear it today, he hoped that it would be meaningful to the masses. And, maybe, to his bride... but she couldn't see it, could she?

The time to enter the stage had come. In a flurry of motion too jumbled to follow clearly, Imogen's bouquet was plucked from her hands and replaced with a small, ornately carved wooden box. “Off you go,” the councilman grunted, shoving the bride-to-be haphazardly out and onto the western wing of the stage. All at once, she felt hot and nauseous. The floor seemed to sway beneath her, the room swirled in circles and her breath shortened. But, the cool stone beneath her bare feet gave her comfort and a sense of solidarity. Only a few seconds ticked by before the princess managed to collect her will and reign in her senses. “Right then.” With a deep and slow breath, she straightened her spine and marched forward.

Orinda emerged onto the stage from the east, fully regaled before the surviving peoples of Milos. Slowly, he made his way to stand before his priest and begin their ceremony. Apart from a small stumble at the last step of her ascension to the platform, Imogen's journey onto the stage from the west was relatively uneventful. Flushed and determined, she arrived and took her place before the shaman and beside the prince of fire. Orinda's eyes fell upon her and he could not have missed her choice of attire, but if the gesture affected him somehow it did not show on his face. With the betrothed standing now together, before gods and citizens and family, the clergymen initiated the ceremony. The Incendian priest spoke first.

"Children of Esh-Ban and denizens of these shadowed halls," he said, his voice carrying clearly over the hushed masses with a practiced and compelling roar, "today we have gathered to stand and witness a moment of extraordinary history the likes of which our world has not seen in all of its aeons. In this moment, standing before you are His Royal Highness, The Lion of Lightning, Crowned Prince Orinda Havell of Magnus Incendia, soon-to-be His Most Royal Majesty, King Orinda the First. With him stands Sentry of the Void, Daughter of Earth and Stone, Her Highness, Princess Imogen Tuly of TerraLora."

The priest fell quiet, and the shaman opened his voice. "People of this new realm, we gather here under the eyes of men and kings alike to witness and pay homage as these two souls begin a new season. Together, may we pray that in years to come the earth in your bones gives you strength, and perseverance…” Pausing, he lifted his gnarled wooden staff into the air and smacked its metal-bound base into the floor, effectively sending an earsplitting crack across the expanse of the area. “That the water in your blood bestows you with health and abundance…” again, crack, “That the air in your lungs guides you to freedom, and clarity.“ Crack. “May we pray that the fire in your souls gives you light, and the power to see one another, even the darkest of times.” Crack. “And above all, may we pray that no matter which way you may falter, that balance, in time, will prevail.” Twice more, crack crack. The shaman turned his eyes on the Incendian priest.

The priest produced a long strip of cotton cloth, shimmering faintly in the flickering candlelight with a dusty sheen of minerals. Incendians could recognize this as a jalankapara, a mooncloth: linen soaked in water from the Great Volcano's mineral-rich hot springs and blessed by a priestess of the moon. For a handful of seconds, Orinda turned his eyes towards the floor, away from the clergymen. There, beyond the couple, he saw that the two sets of candelabrum were casting the princess's shadow and his own towards each other; they overlapped in the middle. "The betrothed are to present their hands," the priest prompted, and once they had he gently bound them together with the cloth. "It is said in the passages of The Song of the Inferno," he explained, "that, in the beginning, there was only the Sun, Esh-Ban, and he shone beautifully above the world's people every hour of every day. All the world admired the Sun, with his passionate loyalty and his warming rays. Like the people below him, so too did the Moon, Ava-teah, admire the Sun. One day, they met. The Sun saw the Moon, a serene but marvelous temptress, and knew that he could not be without her. They fell quickly into the depths of love and the Moon convinced the Sun that they should bind inseparably to each other, never to be on their own again. From then on, for half of every day, the Moon rose into the sky and allowed the Sun to rest, borrowing a ray of his light every night so that she might still glow in the darkness for his people below. When an Incendian marries, it is this same union that he enters: one of unbreakable commitment, enduring love, patient compromise, and shared responsibility." He fell silent for a moment and looked between the prince and princess.

"It is at this juncture, Your Royal Highnesses, that you may speak to each other the vows of your marriage and exchange any gifts that may serve as symbols of these promises. Princess, if you would begin."

Recognizing her cue, Imogen turned uneasily towards the Incendian prince and drew in a shaky breath. From the box in her grasp she pulled something small, and shimmering. Closer inspection revealed a carefully crafted silver puma pendant. Taking its accompanying chain in both hands, the princess took a moment to scan the area in front of her now, an act that left Orinda wondering how much she could actually see. She saw there was a figure there, a figure she’d glimpsed once or twice before. Tall, lean, and broad shouldered. Yes, he was probably a fine specimen. Still, to Imogen, his face was a blank. Nothing but shadows, darkness, and silence. He was a stranger she’d never even seen. The thought of it sent a rush of genuine fear tearing through the blonde’s smaller frame. Tears burned at the brims of her pale eyes, threatening to break free and spill forward at any second, and the prince felt a fresh pang of guilt for being party so something that inflicted such turmoil. Nevertheless, the young bride managed to sniffle them back and plaster smile on in its place.

“To claim we know each other well would be to mar the truth. This I cannot do. But I can, and do vow to you now that I will do everything in my power to be a Queen worthy of you and your great kingdom. I will stand beside you. I will honor, cherish and defend you. And I will dedicate my life to the protection and prosperity of our family, and… our people. No matter the cost.” With only slight hesitation, she took a half step towards the soon-to-be king, bounced up on the balls of her feet and gently clasped the chain of the silver pendant around his neck. “The lion of the mountain is a symbol of valor, courage and power. Like you, he watches from on high with great focus and patience; a creature of bravery, leadership, and precision. Quiet and noble. May it serve as a reminder of the enormous strength that lies within you.” Her hands slipped down to rest momentarily on his chest, hopefully emphasizing the importance of her next statement. “And when all paths seem lost, or exhausted - may it always guide you home.” She took another shaky breath, folded one hand over the other stepped back. “Crowned Prince Havell of Magnus Incendia, I, Princess Imogen Tuly of Terralora, am honored to hereby pledge my life, my loyalty, and my love to you and you alone… From this moment forth.”

Orinda would later confess that, standing there on stage with Imogen as she promised him her love, he felt a great deal of conflict. It was such a dangerous promise to make, nevermind how he felt a sudden pressure to promise the same in return. But, in those half-dozen heartbeats of quiet that fell after her vows, it was something else that he prepared himself to say.

From the folds of his ceremonial robes, the crown prince produced something small and white, less than three inches across its widest point. "In the few moments we found to speak in these last few days, Princess," he said, putting intentional effort into the rich fullness of his baritone so as to counterbalance any tremble that might otherwise threaten his cadence, "I managed to present you with a hairpiece. It is an artifact of our volcanic culture and honored my heritage. It occurred to me, though, that I knew very little about the traditions expected in Terralorian marriage."

Oh no, an unsettling thought occurred to Imogen at Orinda's mention of a hairclip. In reaction, she flushed a fair shade of pink, her eyes widend and the tiniest of gasps found its way free from her smooth lips. Whatever the case may have been, she quickly touched the knuckle of her forefinger to her lips and directed her hazy eyes away for a moment. The Prince continued, thankfully unhindered.

"When I asked, I learned the importance of the totem, like what you have just given to me, but as I searched my mind for the right symbol, I was met with difficulty. You see, as I reflected on what I knew about you, a creature did come to mind. During Incendian summers, the city we call Fertilis Valley - where we grow some of the very richest of our domestic crops - flourishes with a population of exquisite little creatures, the pazuni dragonfly. They enrich the valley's prosperity by protecting it from pests like aphids, mites, and gnats. The most remarkable thing about this creature, though, is that it is immune to the venom of its only potential native predator; its body produces its own miraculous antitoxin, so potent that it can even be used to cure many poisons in humans." If anyone wasn't following along until now, it was at this point that they would probably recognize the relationship Orinda saw between Imogen and the dragonfly. It was a toxin, they said, that cost Imogen her sight. "But as I was recalling this dragonfly, I was reluctant to make my choice. 'How limited of me,' I thought, 'to equate this princess with her blindness? There are a thousand more sides to a young woman than the feature that is most apparent at first glance.' I thought that surely there was a truer creature made for you, if only I knew you well enough to recognize." He was stricken by faint anxiety as he pointed out her blindness, not feeling comfortable enough with her to speak freely and directly about the handicap. He worried that to do so was somehow insensitive or rude. In the end, though, he had decided not to dance around the issue and speak of it simply as it was.

For the second time now, the princess found herself compelled to turn her gaze towards the floor. Begrudgingly, she complied to the whim. Deep down, a foreboding sense of uncertainty had begun to take root. Naturally, the woman's brow furrowed lightly in response to the tension - though her well practiced smile remained fully intact all the while. It seemed impossible that anyone, let alone the son of the wrathful Fire King, could be so thoughtful and candid.

"As I continued to dwell on my decision, though, I slowly realized that there are a thousand more sides to the pazuni, as well. First, there is the obvious. They produce a miraculous antitoxin that protects not only the creature from the cruelty of venom, but has also protected millions of others from suffering poison. Second, there is the prosperity they bring to our land, harkoning seasons of green valleys and honey-sweet apples. Third, there is the beauty their flittering wings add to the world, casting rainbows across the fields when they catch the sun. And fourth, there is the endless list of knowledge about you, Princess, that they remind me I have yet to learn." He revealed, then, that the token in his hand was a little white dragonfly totem. It was carved carefully from ivory and the wings were set with polished, milky dolomite gems. A long, splendidly delicate chain hung from its tip; Orinda thought it might have been queer to just hand it to her and say here's a totem, carry it around.

From Imogen’s other senses alone she could gather that his stance had changed and he now he held something shimmery in his hand. Tears once more seared at the edges of her eyes. Inevitably, they managed to break free this time, jarring Orinda somewhat, though he decided it was better at the time to just continue and not draw attention to her. For the sake of habit, or instinct, or for whatever reason she quickly moved to brush them away with her fingertips and willed together an acceptable response. “It’s beautiful, I’m sure,” she interjected as he continued to speak, not loud enough to interrupt the prince. Even so, the smallest tinge of sadness might have still been detected by those who listened closely.

"That is what I hope this totem will mean to you. I hope that it will be a symbol not only of the trials you have and will continue to defeat, but also a symbol of the protection and magnanimity we, together, feel as royal servants to our people. I hope that it can be a symbol of the prosperity I vow that I will strive to bring into our lives and our relationship, a symbol of the beauty you carry both outside of your skin and within your heart, and a symbol of the promise I am making to you today that, even though as we stand here we are strangers, every day I will know better what million things about you there are to admire and respect." He reached forward and draped the chain over her head, allowing it to fall around her neck. At last, the ceremony turned its attention back to the clergymen for the conclusion.

The shaman raised his staff in recognition of the vows' completion, then nodded in approval. “If there are any among our people who would see fit to condemn this union, now is the time to stake your claim.” Silence. “Then it is my privilege to bless this marriage in the name of the Goddess, and all who serve her," then the priest, "and in the name of Esh-Ban and his thousand warming rays," finally, in unison, "may you both live long and well. You are now pronounced wed.” Only then, almost like an afterthought, did the priest add a statement spoken in a foreign language - the ancient ritual tongue of Magnus Incendia. "Tawakirikhva hakeul Esh-Ban, ahna astoat jink akat oakah liwaleush ha ei asshekh ha kemol."

Imogen had hoped she'd have felt relieved at this point. Much to her dismay, that wasn't the case. In fact the opposite effect seemed to occur. Her throat tightened and her fever rose. Sweat saturated her palms and the floor felt as though it had begun to sway beneath her feet. Had she a collar to loosen, or a breath of fresh air to gulp down, she would have. Sadly, neither of those luxuries were even close to being at hand, but they would be soon. She grinned and turned her head in the fire priest's direction. Little did the clergyman know, he had now become the only thing standing between her what she wanted most - the path the exit, and away from prying ears and eyes. Well, not the only thing...

When their hands were freed from the mooncloth binding them, Orinda reached to take Imogen's hand. Grasping it, he led her slowly to the crest of the stage where they would stand before their people and briefly speak an address. Or, that was what Orinda was told they expected of each couple, anyway. A bit of something akin to panic welled up in the Imogenn’s chest as they approached the edge of the stage. She had forgotten about the speech in all the commotion. Damn, she thought. Orinda came to a stop with his bride, feeling a little bit at a loss for what else there really was to say. Maybe all they really needed was for him to reiterate the obvious? Well, it was something.

The culminated energy of the sizable crowd filled up the entire floor and crept up walls with its massive presence - each of their heartbeats filling her ears with their fluctuating rhythm. Imogen, in all her years, had never witnessed anything quite like it. So many people of so many sects in one place. Nevertheless, she abided by the lessons she’d been taught, squeezed her now-husband’s hand, and put on her bravest of faces.

Orinda turned firstly to the section where the Incendians were dwelling. "My people, today we learn that even in these dark times, when our homes and our great father seems so distant, we may be blessed. Today, just as I have gained a bride, all of Magnus Incendia has gained its second princess - and soon, a king with his queen. May this blessing breathe a fresh breath of stability and safety into our society..." he paused and, just then, he smiled the smallest of smiles, "...if only until we have the resources and confidence to be our rowdy, prosperous selves again." Orinda turned secondly then to the front of the stage, addressing the whole of Milos. "To everyone of all kinds, citizens of our world, it is my hope that this may be a blessing upon you as well. Magnus Incendia and TerraLora have been united, and henceforth your allies are our allies. It is now that we reach, more determined and motivated than ever, for the Age of the Armistice. May it be our salvation and our joy for generations to come."

Attention shifted quickly from Orinda to Imogen after he’d finished his statement. Accordingly, Imogen choked down her fear, cleared her throat and spoke - her tone one of resolution, previously reserved specifically for such occasions. “People of the four realms... Today, we mark the birth of a new world.” Her melodic voice seemed to carry across the chaos with relative ease, which in itself was a relief. Proof that her words were heard. “Today, for the first time in ages, we stand united as one. Today, we defy all odds and cast off the shackles of hatred, and war. And today, here, together, we shed light on a future once thought all but lost to the darkness… May the gods look favorably upon the bonds we forge here and may we all be graced with peace, prosperity and hope for years to come!” A charming smile spilled across her features as she took a half step back, tugging gently at Orinda's sleeve as if to ask him to accompany her off stage. Together, then, the newlyweds turned away from the masses and relinquished their positions in the spotlight. They moved back towards the prince's wing where they passed through a doorway and into the palace. There, they were away from the eyes of their people and could stay in privacy or go as they pleased.

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Micaiah felt her heavy heart began to rise up a bit as she rode into the village and already many citizens gasped and watched as their princess strode by. It is Princess Micaiah! What a blessing! She heard them say, the feeling of love and warmth filling her chest at the sight of her people smiling at her.

Persephone ceased her trollop as Micaiah lightly pulled on the reins before dismounting her steed. "Good girl, Persephone." The princess handed one gold coin to a nearby merchant, buying an apple for her horse and giggling as it ate out of her palm. The sounds of music were well heard through the air as the silverette smiled to see the villagers playing their instruments while some folks were dancing to the tune.

"How exciting!" Micaiah rushed to Auris as soon as he dismounted Ariello, her hands taking hold of his arm in a gentle grip. "Dance with me, my prince!" She practically begged, desire to just join her people in harmony almost suffocating.

"Are the horses okay?" Auris asked joltingly, reluctantly pulled away from the animals. It went against his instincts to leave the two mounts just chillin' on the sidelines unsupervised. He wasn't worried that Ariello might be stolen - the destrier would probably kick someone to death before he let a nervous rider climb on his back - but the idea that he could just wander away had never even occurred to the Prince.

"They will be fine. I have done this before." She responded reassuringly, happy to see how much he truly cared for the horses.

Coming closer to the playful villagers, the energy in the air started to buzz. Everyone seemed thrilled to recognize their princess among them and the children skipping around to the music practically trembled with excitement. A couple of city guards took notice, too, and turned their gaze toward the jovial musicians with delight.

Compared to the heavy grief around the castle, the atmosphere out in this village square was electric. It was contagious, and a grateful Auris could feel the villager's positivity draining problems out of the world. Hardly a moment later, it was Auris who took the lead, pulling Micaiah instead of the reverse. "What are you waiting for?" he asked facetiously, sweeping her right into the center of the frivolity. "Oh-- of course. An invitation!" He released the princess and took a step back. The prince pulled himself down into an impishly reverent bow - far deeper than what he might normally give - and when he took her hand he said in his loftiest royal voice, "Your Most Gracious, Royal Excellency, would you please do me the reverent honor of giving me this dance?"

Micaiah couldn't help but chuckle at how silly the prince was, but it was very adorable that she could not bear to reject him. "I would be delighted to dance with you, your Majesty!"

When she accepted, Auris wasted no time in plucking the princess along to the melody played by the peasant musicians. They didn't waste any time with dances so formal as the waltz or the engelska. Rather, Auris led his fiancee in proper merrymaking with as much skipping and bouncing and swinging about as their injuries would tolerate. It was less romantic or artistic, but it was certainly a great deal more fun.

The sound of claps and cheers encouraged Micaiah even more as she twirled along with Auris, her laughter ringing through the air along with many of the giggling bystanders. It had been a long while since she danced so openly and freely like this. If her tutors were to see her this way, she would surely have been scolded on how unproper this form of dancing was. Another round of skipping and turning left the princess in a fit of giggles as she placed her hands on his chest to steady herself.

"I never would have guessed dancing was your greatest skill, Prince Auris! How graceful you are."

"Why, Your Highness, if you think this is exquisite you should see my stitching!" Auris was utterly awful with a needle.

A gentle tug on Micaiah's purple tunic made the silverette turn around to see one of the village children holding out a bright red rose for her. "How lovely! Is this for me?" She asked, kneeling down so that she would match the child's height. The boy smiled widely and nodded, his face heating up as Micaiah took the rose graciously and kissed the boy on his cheek.

The princess smiled more as the village boy led her to the center and he began to try and dance with her, given their large height difference. She swung and twirled him around instead while the music played a different melody and more people began to dance around her.

Micaiah glanced over at Auris and smiled at him, but he was distracted already. A small peasant girl was tugging on his hand, clearly wanting a dance from him. The village boy's daring must have spread a little inspiration.

"Oh, of course, my lady!" exclaimed the prince, addressing the little girl with a title of nobility for probably the first time in her life. "I would be privileged!" He really didn't seem to have much choice in the matter either way, because as soon as he started to agree the little girl did her very best to yank him into motion. The difference in their height was even more dramatic with Auris than it was with Micaiah, and the Prince found himself goofishly hunched over to reach his new dance partner's hands. He wiggled their arms around like noodles and wobbled his body around in a way that made the little girl shriek with glee. She couldn't help but try to copy him, and soon several of the other children were mimicking (badly) his wormy movements. It was quite the sight for sore eyes.

Soon enough, the musicians ran out of notes in their song and had to shuffle around deciding what they wanted to play next. Without much thought, Auris grasped the little girl under the arms and hoisted her up to sit on his hip, held up in his arms.

"You look funny," said the little girl, still grinning, "Who are you? Are you friends with the Princess?"

At the mentioning of her person, the princess glanced over her shoulder to find her fiance chatting with the little girl and her heart melted at the sight. He seemed so fatherly at that moment that she found it very endearing to watch.

Auris understood what the child meant; the style of his clothing was obviously foreign, the beading in his hair and piercings on his face were unusual around this place. No doubt this little girl wasn't the first person to wonder, he was a young stranger galivanting around with their eldest princess. Some of the adults were undoubtedly curious, too. "Well," he said, "my name is Prince Auris. I'm from the kingdom of Sevarin, all the way up to the north west from here." Auris supported the girl's weight with his right arm and reached out to point north west with his bandaged left. "And there's something else, but it's a secret. You can keep a secret, right?"

The little girl nodded.

"Do you know that pretty girl over there, the Princess?" he asked, turning so that she could better see Micaiah. Micaiah could feel her face flush deeply at his flattering compliments. It was strange to hear him call her pretty.

"Yes!" the little girl shouted loudly, incredulous as if to say Obviously I do! except she didn't know the words.

"Well," said Auris lowering his voice, drawing his face closer to the girl's ear. Though he spoke quietly to the child, his eyes turned to fix on Micaiah. As soon as his eyes met hers, she quickly glanced away in embarrassment. Her attention then focusing on the musicians playing their flutes. "The secret is... we're promised to be married. I'm going to get to be her husband, and then we'll be a king and queen!" Though he spoke in a whisper, it was really more of a hoarse hum. Definitely not quiet enough to truly be secret.

The little girl's entire face lit up with uncontainable excitement. She started to scream riotously, flailing her limbs without sense because she knew no other way to express the full depth of her untried enthusiasm. Auris was forced to carefully put her down, and she seemed perfectly okay with that because she carried on with excitedly running and flailing long after. Auris, somewhat startled by the exact degree of the little girl's reaction, couldn't do anything but stand in place and look at Micaiah, who returned his stare with a surprised look. His face was painted over with an expression betraying his awkward state of wonder about the whole thing, and he eventually just started to askancedly laugh.

Micaiah just continued to stare at Auris, not sure why the sight of him laughing was a great relief from his usual solemn appearance. He seemed to be in much better spirits now than he was earlier and she was very happy that she could bring such laughter out of him.

"Princess."

She quickly turned to find one of the guards standing in front of her and she pursed her lips. "Yes? What is it?" She asked softly, not wanting to have any ears pick up on their conversation.

The guard merely cleared his throat before continuing, "I do not wish to spoil your fun, but we just received a letter asking for you and Prince Auris to return to the castle at once. The council wishes to hold a meeting and you must be present."





♔ ________________________________________________________________ ♔

[Meareign]

My Roleplaying Pet Peeves

✦ Authors

✧ Starting rules posts off with "I know you hate rules, but..." - not only is it false, since I like understanding what's expected in my roleplays, but I also don't enjoy being told how I feel. It's not cute and sympathetic.

✧ Ending plot posts with anything like, "You have the keyboard, now you tell the story." Not only is this cliche, but it also makes you sound like you're too lazy to give us a solid plot and are expecting players to do the work to make things interesting. Not that we shouldn't, but it's really an equal responsibility.

✧ Setting rules and not enforcing them. People have to post 3 times a week unless with an exception? I doubt it; I've never had a roleplay die because the author kicked everyone out for lack of posting. That would be preferable to every author ever just sitting idly by as everyone ditches, like usual. Also, setting rules and then breaking them yourself.

✧ Setting rules dictating how posts are to be decorated. I can understand requiring decoration, but seriously, I'm breaking a rule if I don't use at least five "lists?" I'm breaking a rule if I don't use lyrics or quotes in my post?

✧ Forcing me to highlight s**t to figure out what you want for a PM title. This is just a waste of time designed to exclude people who won't jump through hoops for you or who don't scrutinize every last letter of your rules. If somebody you've accepted breaks a rule, point it out. If they keep it up, kick their a** out of your game. It isn't hard. Worried about literacy? Ask for samples.

✧ PG-18 or 18+ ratings do not mean that players should be mature and there may be allusions to sexual activity. 18+ is the equivalent of an R rating - that means mild sex scenes, prolonged nudity, explicit blood and gore, intense horror, and/or explicit/illegal/prolonged drug use actively pictured. Does it pass in your favorite primetime TV show? It's still PG-13. Not PG-15, not PG-17, PG-13. The only time you should ever need to specify a rating is if it's below PG-13, since everything else is in blatant violation of the TOS.

✧ Remarks about being "god," about not being "god," about how you're a "goddess" because you're female, about how you're the absolute master. No, you're not. You're the author. You're in charge and you can kick people out who break rules or are disruptive. Call it what it is.

✧ "Gaia TOS applies." Oh, really? I thought your thread was the one magical exception on the entire Gaia forum network. I'm glad you cleared that up.

✧ I hate authors who run roleplays with limited/exclusive spots who then don't stay on top of ditchers. It's one thing if you're running a mediocre High School roleplay with unlimited untitled positions, but if there's any kind of pre-designed roles (disney characters, number of family members, seven sins, clique titles) then you're going to end up with good players who stuck with you having no one to interact with and no chance of a replacement because you're too lazy to even open the spot back up. You blow.

✧ Making a "gossip" post and neither populating it nor encouraging players to contribute to it, so it just sits there being as useful as an empty reserve.

✦ Players

✧ Taking a role that's designed to start trouble and going nowhere - a queen bee who's nice to everyone, an "easy cheerleader" who doesn't sleep around, a playboy who's devoted to his girlfriend - this is a major waste of potential and is just you playing wish fulfillment. Similarly, playing a single character who isn't interested in the local heartthrob even the smallest bit. Attraction is a two-sided coin and the heartthrob can only offer one of them.

✧ Never playing a character who ever buys into the gossip listed on a thread's "gossip" post. Nothing ever gets interesting if you won't play the game.

✧ Failing to proofread. That is, if you need to. Most people are okay in this area, but if an entire 2-3% of your post is you writing the word "then" over and over or if you used seven commas in one sentence without noticing it was a run-on, don't make somebody else point it out to you. Catch the error yourself, even if you don't have time to re-read until two days later.

✧ All conclusive punctuation should be followed by a space. As it happens, "afterwards.He" is not a word.

✧ Re-using characters simultaneously. I don't mean re-using models, because that's just a preference; I mean taking an entire character model, age, name, bio, personality, and tastes from one roleplay and pasting them straight into another before the first roleplay is even over. This is both lazy and tacky. I've actually decided not to join roleplays because the role I want is playing opposite a character who I'm already playing opposite to on another thread; joining would be awkward, redundant, and possibly also confusing.

✧ Playing a character who knows a certain skill that you don't have and writing about that skill without researching. If you're playing a golfer, do a little research on google before you talk about how he swings his club. If you're playing a lifeguard, for the love of god don't say you did CPR on someone because they weren't breathing. If you're playing a rower, don't talk about how he handles his paddles, or the same for a canoer with oars. Do the work.

✧ Quoting thoughts. This is absolutely not correct syntax for narrating thought - traditionally thoughts are indicated by italicized text. Since that isn't enough for some people, we roleplayers also tend to add color to our thought-based dialogue. If you can't figure out it's a thought when it's italicized, colored text unless you put (incorrect) quotes around it, you're not good enough to roleplay with me. Besides, since thoughts are traditionally not quoted, this is begging to cause confusion - there's a point when those thoughts start to look like dialogue.

✧ Every baby/toddler/small child I've ever roleplayed with has behaved like an absolute angel who was never poorly behaved ever and always loved everyone. This is so unrealistic that it's gross. Can't play a small child realistically? Don't play it.

[Meareign]

reserved for possible future use

[Meareign]

Username: Meareign
Character Name: Calan Alastaire
Age: 78, appearing in his mid-twenties
Personality: calculating, logical, calm, sharp
Kingdom: Terra
Chosen Side: Pandora's Peace
Race/Species: Elf
Weapon of Choice: Poisoned throwing knives
Key Skill: Endurance - he can take a lot of damage and keep going
Chosen Power: Heightened senses
Sexuality: Straight
Biography: Calan dedicated the past sixty years of his life to traveling through the many kingdoms to study herbology and the medicinal practices and mastery of apothecaries. Through decades of study, he has risen up to match the best of his peers, bearing extensive knowledge of both health remedies and poisons. His toxic formulas are rumored to be among the most deadly in existence, but he likewise knows all of their antidotes and just as many curing balms. During his studies, his travels led him on two occasions to Pandora's island where he met the angel and befriended her. Now, in this time of war, he is an obvious ally to seek out, and as a man whose study itself blossoms when life and death are in balance he is more than willing to join the Angel in her fight to restore the equilibrium.
Additional Info?: Like most elves, his primary forms of combat are projectile. He has reasonable talent with arrows and thrown weapons (knives, stars, javelins), but the biggest danger is when he tips them with poison.
Appearance:



Sample:
Calan hoped that, whoever it was, he had a clue who he was following - for that person's sake. It wasn't like Calan had actually seen or heard anyone nearby, but someone who travels on foot a lot (and Calan certainly had his share of travel experience) knows not to just brush off the sensation of being watched. Not in a time like this, anyway. Maybe he was a little cocky, but Calan fancied himself a terribly dangerous person. He wasn't a master of combat or anything, even he would expect to be bested with a sword or bow by the real fighting type, but that wasn't what made him dangerous. It only took one hit with him; he only had to penetrate the skin once with his poisoned weapons and from there it was just a waiting game 'til the opponent died.

Calan paused. He was in the middle of a clearing now, and it seemed like a good place to stop and listen. He didn't turn around to look, but he didn't think whoever was following him was terrible enough at what he did to stand in plain sight anyway. Behind me. He's definitely behind me. I guess I'll find out if he's cowardly enough to attack from there soon enough. If he's just a spy finding out where I'm going, though... well, I have no problem with Terra knowing where my allegiances lie. With his hands in his pockets, two fingers touching the neck of a little vial holding an acid that would burn skin and sear eyes and noses if it was let in, he continued walking. His way to Pandora's island wasn't far now.

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◌――――→ℂaℓaŋ Λℓaϛτaiґє ←――――◌

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[Meareign]

═════════ FLOUNDER ♚
❝ t a k e n ✭ Seaton Palaia Keller ✭ 20 ✭ Meareign ❞

♚F L O U N D E R♚

Seaton Palaia Keller

If you really want to know

✔My friends call me;; Sea, Seaton, and Ariel calls me Flounder
✔ I am;; 20
✔ Sexuality;; Well, I'm pretty sure I'm straight, but I think I'm still pretty young, so... who knows?


FUN FACTS

♥ Mine!

↳ Ariel <3
↳ Swimming!
↳ Fish and every other kind of marine animal
↳ Seagulls
↳ Tropical Islands


✗ Not Mine!

↳ Sushi
↳ Chinese Food
↳ Fish Food (Eating fish, not feeding them)
↳ Trawlers
↳ Deserts


I will never forget

❤ This is how I am;;

Sea is a playful kind of guy inside and out. He's still young at heart and will probably always be that way. He's a little awkward when it comes to trying to be the cool guy on the block, he's not the hero that seizes a trident and strikes down the face of evil, he's not brave and doesn't pretend to be strong when he's staring down a hungry competitor - not that he would even stare one down, and he's not into karate or playing electric guitar or practicing at the shooting range. One thing that he is, though, is a friend you want to keep around in good times and in bad ones, because he's optimistic and encouraging and, when it gets down to it, he would still reach down to pull you up after him if you were both climbing a fence to get away from a Bengal tiger, and he would be the guy you could call if you woke up scared and alone in a place you didn't recognize. He might not be suave and he might squeal if you throw a punch, but you can count on him to try to be your friend.


✰ This is my life;;

I grew up in an oceanside town my whole life being raised by my two easy-going middle-class parents hanging out with neighborhood friends doing what every kid with other kids to play with loved to do: play with friends. I didn't have any fancy game consoles or high-tech computers, but my friends did sometimes and when they didn't there was always something else to do, like go swimming or play frisbee or pretend we were treasure hunters. When you're creative enough, there's always something to do and a silver lining to see.

One of the friends I made was this girl we called Ariel. Boy, was she amazing. She could swim like nobody I'd ever seen and she had the nicest stuff and she was so curious and lively about everything she did. She was my favorite person to go on adventures with, no doubt, even though we sometimes got into trouble with some of the neighbors' rottweilers or ended up out past curfew. I admit, she kind of walked on water for me. It didn't hurt, either, that I think she's really pretty... Unfortunately, she ended up meeting this hotshot Eric when we were in high school. He was 18 and I was 14, so obviously I had no shot at her against a confident, toned-up senior like him. I loved seeing her with him, though, because she always looked so thrilled with the world and it suited her, so I learned to accept it... which was good, because otherwise it's hard to stand as a groomsman when the girl you admire like that gets married.

When I got out of high school, Ariel was obviously long gone to Suburbia with her new husband. We kept in touch most of the time while I stayed at home living with my parents (we couldn't afford college without taking out loans, which nobody liked to think about) and I worked the best odd job I could get. I worked at Denny's All-Nighter for a while, spent one summer as a beach lifeguard, and got to be an assistant manager at one of the local food chains. I spent the rest of my spare time commuting to the nearest aquarium to volunteer because I just love marine life. I'd get a degree in marine biology, but I already mentioned not having money for a good college. I wasn't good enough in school or sports to get a scholarship, either. A couple weeks ago, though, I got amazing news! I've worked so hard around the aquarium over the past few years that they're offering me a job and it pays better than the one I'll be leaving! What's even better though is that suburbia is actually closer by a good 20 minutes than my parents' house and I scored a killer deal with the suburbia apartment complex to give me a cheap little setup. I haven't gotten to say much to Ariel in the past, say, two months though since she's seemed really busy. It'll be a great surprise!


♪ Before I forget;;

Did I mention that I LOVE fish? No, really! I know my new apartment isn't big, but I already took measurements and my new 70-gallon tank will fit in no problem! You just have to see it some time.

Meareign

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[Meareign]

Aris Schulz -- GEEKS

Aris is 18, a straight-A honors student who slacked off in middle school and missed out on his shot at a scholarship the top private prep acadamy. As a nerd, this has him in a constant state of regret and he is determined to make up for it by becoming valedictorian when he graduates this year. Very much a teacher's pet, he would rather spend his time with the faculty than a dumb, hot blonde.

Meareign

Aristophanes Grey Schulz

Aristophanes Schulz was born to a successful local politician out of wedlock. Aris, as he's always been called, has a golddigging mother who separated from Aris's father when he was 11, but they got back together two years later and married. They still bicker about finances on a regular basis, but it doesn't seem to disrupt their union the way it once did and Aris has finally learned to just tune it out. A year ago, Mr. Schulz was elected into the mayor's office, but the relation isn't well-known.

Aris was one of the top students all throughout elementary school. He became used to being "the smart kid" alongside "the artist," "the singer," "the good-at-sports kid" as elementary vocabulary described athletes, and "the stupid kid." Learning came to him easily and his only reported B the entire time was in writing one quarter when he was feverish for a week and missed some assignments that he never made up.

When he went to middle school, it started out alright, but then his parents - who had been unmarried but still a monogamous couple up until this point - split up. Naturally, this confused and frustrated him as a child, and he had a year-long period of lashing out. He neglected his homework and played with neighbors instead, piled up truancy violations, made friends with kids who were into illicit activities, and in general made choices that threw responsibility to the wind. His grades plummetted and he found himself bringing home scholarship notices - and not caring.

Aris's condition gradually improved and in the eighth grade he was basically back to normal. His grades came back up, but once he lost touch with his undesirable friends, he found himself pretty alone. He joined a chess club, but the other students weren't very social with a kid who had a reputation for acting out. What was worse, when it came time to apply to high schools, the one he had his eye on was suddenly out of reach. Since childhood, he had always just assumed that he would win a scholarship to the private, elite prep school in the next town over just 20 minutes away. Unfortunately, with his earlier grades so deep in the toilet, that chance was long gone.

Aris hated himself for the rut he had gotten himself into, and was ashamed to walk into the community high school with all of his old peers his freshman year. It disturbed him deeply that mistakes he made when he was a little 11 year old runt were affecting him now, three years later. That very first day, Aris vowed that he would be valedictorian, whatever sacrifices and suffering it took; he was never going to make his childhood mistake again. Now, as a senior, he has grown proudly and comfortably into his role. He has spent more time with school faculty than his own peers and, by now, actually enjoys doing it. He missed most social functions - including homecoming - in his first three years and has never bothered with a girlfriend. His GPA is through the roof and he's involved in a few extracurricular activities, including chess and mathletes. The only students who he accepted friendships with are the brightest of his peers, and he hasn't met someone yet who can make him think any good of the "idiotic" activities of barbies, jocks, and rebels who he feels so beyond.

Meareign

[Meareign]

Aristophanes "Aris" Schulz
Carving my name into the records, whatever it takes.

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[Meareign]

Father: Richard McKettrick

◊ Rick, Rich, Dad, Pop ◊ 46 ◊ Marcus Schenkenberg ◊ Meareign ◊

[Meareign]

Father

»Richard Mikhail McKettrick«
✄ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ♥

✄ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ♥
My birth certificate says: Richard Mikhail Mckettrick
But you can call me: Rick, Rich, or some variation of "Dad"
I am: 46
Well the mirror tells me that I'm: a man

✄ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -BIOGRAPHY- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richard was born to a well-off family headded by an affluent man in a government career. It was very much a white picket fence family, and aside from the inevitable hiccup, Richard's childhood was pretty sweet. His mother was a homemaker and helped him with his homework every day when he came home all through elementary school. With strong parental support all through elementary and middle education, young Rick was set up to do very well as he moved into prep, honors and collegiate level work into university. He discovered a particular talent for economics and finances, in which he double-majored with management. That, along with some strong networking he built by being proactive with his professors, set him up for a nice career with a young company.

He started out in the lower rungs like most do, but over the years, every time he got a review the results pointed a big flashing arrow at the talent he was wasting in the lower areas of the company. Richard had to step on a few people on the way up, but by the time he was 31 he had made it into upper management. Not only that, but the company was blasting off with success. Around age 40, Richard had gotten in pretty tight with the Big Boss Man. They played golf every sunday afternoon and Richaed hosted a couple of business dinner parties for his big new friend. This paid off far more than Richard had ever anticipated when, facing a terminal heart condition in his older age, that boss chose to pass his torch on to Richard, making him CEO. Now Mister McKettrick was raking in the six figure salaries and sitting in his glossy, big office wtih a hot little secretary outside the door. Not only that, he could officially give his family just about anything they wanted. The only big downside was that he couldn't buy change. He slipped up in the thrill of his own success and indulged in an affair from the top. He was heavy with regret and apology for quite some time, since he loves his family with as much of his heart as he can afford to give them without losing focus on his job. When his wife decided that the mature, reasonable reaction was to... get involved with his own brother, though, Richard's pity and shame quickly ran dry.

✄ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -PERSONALITY- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ♥
~ Confident: He knows what he's doing and it shows in the way he holds himself.
~ Bold: He's willing to dive into educated risks and release daring statements.
~ Intellectual: He's an educated man who speaks with eloquence and values a strong mind.
~ Perserverant: If something needs to get done, he'll get on that horse until it's done or beaten to death.
~ Authoritative: Especially at work, Richard is a leader whose presence demands attention.
~ Committed: When he gets into something, he's usually in it wholeheartedly and for the long haul.
~ Greedy: He isn't an extortionist, but he often tries to have his cake and eat it too.
~ Patient: If it means he'll get what he needs or wants, Richard can wait forever.

✄ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -A few things you should know- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ♥
I couldn't live without these:
~ Ties and Suits
~ Smart Phones
~ Expensive Scotch
~ Good Underlings
~ Lifetime Success
Get those away from me:
~ Seagulls
~ Cheap Beer
~ Wasting Time
~ Chocolate
~ Sacrifice
Please don't tell them but I like: both my girlfriend and my wife

★Meareign