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Entry submitted to "SOE Mule" for judging through PM.
Winners announced 9/28/11 via thread post [LINK].
Winning Fee: 30k basic Flatsale rate
Initial RP Contest Entry
Name: Naia
Named for the Ναϊάδες, or fresh-water nymphs.
Nickname(s): Naia has not encountered anyone other than her Patron at this time and thus has no other names. ^.^
Sex: Female
Fraction: Moon ☽
Residency: Ina
Personality Traits: Naia is tender and considerate, a pleasant being whose soothing mannerisms create an aura of calm about her. Yielding and adaptable, her personality meshes with most others, allowing her to get along with most everyone. She moves through life like a sweet murmur, bringing bliss and a sense of a shared secret to those who encounter her.
For all her serenity, she has a perverse desire that associates her with the Moon fraction... she wishes the tree of life to fall, so that she might print novels on its processed bark.
She is sweet and simple, possessing just enough awareness to recognize the most genial or mollifying way to act around others... while lacking the true understanding and wit necessary to comprehend the depth and breadth of her blasphemous aspiration.
Through growth and maturation, her naivety may give way to understanding, though she will linger near her patron well into her spritely years- hesitant to leave his comfortable sanctuary of books amidst tranquil Ina.
☽
Name: Kaie Porter
Nickname(s):
Age: 21
Sex: Male
Birthday: September 13th (Virgo - ♍)
Origin: He likes to believe that he is the product of a wispy cloud's invocation, or perhaps a condensation of sea breeze and desert sand, or maybe even a distillation of pale moonlight (well, sunlight reflected by the moon's surface)... though in truth he is naught more than a porter's son.
Height: 6'5"
Bodytype: Long and lean, naturally thin. His complexion is extremely fair, leading him to live a predominantly indoor lifestyle. His only exercise, aside from occasional journeys to find a vintage print or other rare item, is shifting piles of books or strolling to the nearest store- though his eating habits are fairly modest, and so he has no trouble maintaining his sleek physique.
His lips are cherub-like and ruby-red, standing out in stark contrast to his pale features.
Hair: Pale-ashen white (too light to be considered blonde.) Thin and long, tied back in a loose pony-tail with a worn black ribbon.
He often wonders whether his hair will turn grey as he ages, or if it will merely lose a shade and grow stark-white in his 50th year.
Eyes: Pale pewter-blue, appearing grey .
Fashion: Somber black and grey, with an occasional flash of white. He wears tailored pants, light-hued long-sleeved shirts and polished black shoes with a slight heel. When it suits his fancy, he dons black vest over the top or waistcoat when outdoors.
He wears black gloves, sunglasses and caries a black-lace parasol when outdoors of necessity; his skin does not tolerate sun exposure well.
His sterling-silver antique pocket watch and other small touches are merely products of his eccentricity.
Personality Traits: Docile around others, always polite and courteous. He knows his manners, and never forgets to bow. He lacks charm, for though he is rigid in his protocol for encounters he lacks that extra smile, that dazzling wink, that separates pleasantries from flirtation. He has never shown much interest in women, unless they are imaginary beings recorded in a book or poem.
He is intelligent and studious, though he prefers the sanctuary of his home library/bookstore to a lecture hall.
Fastidious and tidy, he would no sooner allow a dust-bunny to make residence in his home than he would leave a tea-bag out of its carefully labeled "To Be Composted" container.
Occupation: Librarian / Book Seller (Good luck getting one of his previous novels out of his store... he opens shop more as a front, some way to display the fact that he is contributing to society, than from any real desire to sell any of his wares.)
Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Literature Collecting. He is rather fond of old myths and legends of the lands.
Favourite Food: Anything clean, neat, and tidy that can be consumed quickly (sustenance is required if he wishes to continue his studies, after all!) while reading.
Least Favourite Food: Messy chili, soups and wines that stain the pages of his precious pages, Barbequed-anything... I do believe you sense a pattern. <3
Family: His father was a porter, his mother a dress-maker who at times worked as a tailor. They are an elderly couple tight in their traditions; they wake, break their fast, work, meet for an afternoon stroll, and return home after finishing the day's tasks. His father reads while his mother tidies the house, then they have a single glass of White wine and retire to their bed chamber.
They work for the love of it, and tradition, for they do not want for money. His mothers' dowry financed their cottage-like (by choice) house long ago, and they need little to maintain their quaint lifestyle.
Kaie is their only child.
Mother: Abigail Porter, born Abigail Moreau
Father: Michael Porter
His grandparents did not approve of his mother's chosen husband, and though they payed her dowry had little contact with the Porters after their marriage.
History: He was raised to be polite and courteous, kept indoors due to his unique condition. This suited the young boy quite well, for he was not fond of the rough-housing and scratched knees that other boys seemed plagued with. He grew like a reed, and quickly surpassed his mother's average height to join his father in the realm of the skinny giants.
When he turned 18, the age of majority in his parents' mind, he moved to Ina (where he found similarly peace-loving inhabitants who welcomed him openly and did not question his whimsical temperament) and used his savings to set up a small library/bookstore along a quiet road. He lives in a humble room upstairs, preferring to spend his earnings on well-tailored clothing (his mother spoiled him for poorly-knit items) and books.
Prompt Response: (Prompt 2)
Kaie rushed along the bustling street, clutching the carved-wood handle of his black-lace parasol in one hand and a curious brown-paper-wrapped-package in the other. He nodded courteously to those who fixed him with a curious glance, his lips moving in silent murmur as he carefully tallied the names of those who may require an explanation from him at a later date.
He was acting quite out of character, for at this time of day he was usually seen strolling homeward at a leisurely pace, holding nothing more interesting than an ambiguous package from the corner store. The residents of Ina, though gentle-natured and accepting as a whole, had gotten used to the tall man's routines, and may notice if something was out of place. He did not presume that he was important enough to warrant suspicion or anger if he broke a daily pattern, but he did acknowledge that there were those among his altruistic neighbors who would worry for him.
He pivoted on his heel and turned up the brick pathway to his library/bookstore/home, passing the trickling fountain to open the wood-framed carved-glass door in one fluid movement. He dropped his parasol in its cast-iron holder, tossed his gloves on the counter. He flipped the sign hanging from a wooden hook to "OPEN" out of habit, then paused and flipped it to "CLOSED" before rushing upstairs... still clutching his brown-paper-wrapped-package to his chest.
Sitting at his desk, he carefully unwrapped the package as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. His fingers shook as he brushed them over the engraved title- Nightmares and Nuisances; a complete history.He broke into a cold sweat as he remembered the strange nightmare, then frantically pushed aside those thoughts to cling to the hope within the pages spread before him. He took a breath.
He began to read.
Incubus drain their victims through sexual encounters... He blushed and scanned the page, then turned to the next chapter. Hauntings occur when a loved one dare not leave their chosen victim behind for fear of becoming no more than a fond memory. The ghost or specter often attempts to join their loved one in their daily routine, and... Interesting, but not what he was looking for. He did not have time to comb through every word!
The pale man closed his eyes and tried vainly to remember what he had seen the previous night. All he could grasp was the feeling of terror, the horrible sinking devastating knowledge that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
And he couldn't remember.
He sighed, his neck twisting at an odd angle as he banged his head against the wooden desk (carefully avoiding the open pages of the book despite his anxiety.)
Why... BANG ... couldn't... BONK... he... BASH... remember?
His rested his now-physically-aching forehead against the hardwood desk as he breathed deeply. Searching his jumbled thoughts, he straightened and stared out the stain-glass window.
Scattered remnants of portraits mixed with flashes of scenes flickered through his head, and he could not separate what he had imagined from what he had merely conjured up from the words of a book.
His eyes turned back to the pages as he lifted the book to his breast, burying his head in the pages as he breathed deeply. He inhaled the scent of paper, ink... the paper wrapping. The familiar smell pacified him, but not enough.
His brow furrowed, and his head tilted to one side...
Parasol. Gloves. Package.
...
He gasped, horror dawning over his features as he frantically pushed back the chair and dashed down the stairs.
Seed. Seed!
His eyes flickered over the neat shelves and lone register on the dust-free counter, barely registered the curious pair of eyes peeking through the door. Closed, don't you see? Seed... Seed....
He couldn't have... He flashed a panicked glance outside, eyeing the sun burning hot overhead with trepidation.
... No.
He retraced his steps and scampered back up the steps, taking them two at a time.
... Seed. He breathed a sigh of relief, and collapsed at his bedside table. His bed was angled towards his desk, so he didn't have to move far to go from one to the other after a long night. Between them lay his bedside table, and on it a velvet-lined box with a cerulean seed nestled inside.
He reached out and held his hands over the box, trembling from relief. Safe seed.
A quizzical expression twisted his face, his lips pursing as a rather disturbing thought arose.
... Had his nightmare been warning him to be more careful about the seed's location? Did he need to catalog it somehow? Prepare a grid in which he could place it in only specified locations, so that...
He chuckled to himself.
What harm could come to anyone in Ina? He immediately supplies his own answer with paragraphs from times of war, in which the passive race allowed warriors in and... he turned away from those distasteful thoughts.
Maybe his nightmare had been a warning of another war... his fingers twitched, and he rushed back downstairs to find a book on prophetic dreams.
If he couldn't remember, maybe he could find his answers in books. Non-fiction, of course.
If only he could read his own life outlined in a convenient pre-event-bibliography... Things would be so much easier.
He looked back at the seed, and smiled, ignoring the purplish bruise that had blossomed on his forehead.
"Don't worry. We have books!"
Named for the Ναϊάδες, or fresh-water nymphs.
Nickname(s): Naia has not encountered anyone other than her Patron at this time and thus has no other names. ^.^
Sex: Female
Fraction: Moon ☽
Residency: Ina
Personality Traits: Naia is tender and considerate, a pleasant being whose soothing mannerisms create an aura of calm about her. Yielding and adaptable, her personality meshes with most others, allowing her to get along with most everyone. She moves through life like a sweet murmur, bringing bliss and a sense of a shared secret to those who encounter her.
For all her serenity, she has a perverse desire that associates her with the Moon fraction... she wishes the tree of life to fall, so that she might print novels on its processed bark.
She is sweet and simple, possessing just enough awareness to recognize the most genial or mollifying way to act around others... while lacking the true understanding and wit necessary to comprehend the depth and breadth of her blasphemous aspiration.
Through growth and maturation, her naivety may give way to understanding, though she will linger near her patron well into her spritely years- hesitant to leave his comfortable sanctuary of books amidst tranquil Ina.
☽
Name: Kaie Porter
Nickname(s):
Age: 21
Sex: Male
Birthday: September 13th (Virgo - ♍)
Origin: He likes to believe that he is the product of a wispy cloud's invocation, or perhaps a condensation of sea breeze and desert sand, or maybe even a distillation of pale moonlight (well, sunlight reflected by the moon's surface)... though in truth he is naught more than a porter's son.
Height: 6'5"
Bodytype: Long and lean, naturally thin. His complexion is extremely fair, leading him to live a predominantly indoor lifestyle. His only exercise, aside from occasional journeys to find a vintage print or other rare item, is shifting piles of books or strolling to the nearest store- though his eating habits are fairly modest, and so he has no trouble maintaining his sleek physique.
His lips are cherub-like and ruby-red, standing out in stark contrast to his pale features.
Hair: Pale-ashen white (too light to be considered blonde.) Thin and long, tied back in a loose pony-tail with a worn black ribbon.
He often wonders whether his hair will turn grey as he ages, or if it will merely lose a shade and grow stark-white in his 50th year.
Eyes: Pale pewter-blue, appearing grey .
Fashion: Somber black and grey, with an occasional flash of white. He wears tailored pants, light-hued long-sleeved shirts and polished black shoes with a slight heel. When it suits his fancy, he dons black vest over the top or waistcoat when outdoors.
He wears black gloves, sunglasses and caries a black-lace parasol when outdoors of necessity; his skin does not tolerate sun exposure well.
His sterling-silver antique pocket watch and other small touches are merely products of his eccentricity.
Personality Traits: Docile around others, always polite and courteous. He knows his manners, and never forgets to bow. He lacks charm, for though he is rigid in his protocol for encounters he lacks that extra smile, that dazzling wink, that separates pleasantries from flirtation. He has never shown much interest in women, unless they are imaginary beings recorded in a book or poem.
He is intelligent and studious, though he prefers the sanctuary of his home library/bookstore to a lecture hall.
Fastidious and tidy, he would no sooner allow a dust-bunny to make residence in his home than he would leave a tea-bag out of its carefully labeled "To Be Composted" container.
Occupation: Librarian / Book Seller (Good luck getting one of his previous novels out of his store... he opens shop more as a front, some way to display the fact that he is contributing to society, than from any real desire to sell any of his wares.)
Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Literature Collecting. He is rather fond of old myths and legends of the lands.
Favourite Food: Anything clean, neat, and tidy that can be consumed quickly (sustenance is required if he wishes to continue his studies, after all!) while reading.
Least Favourite Food: Messy chili, soups and wines that stain the pages of his precious pages, Barbequed-anything... I do believe you sense a pattern. <3
Family: His father was a porter, his mother a dress-maker who at times worked as a tailor. They are an elderly couple tight in their traditions; they wake, break their fast, work, meet for an afternoon stroll, and return home after finishing the day's tasks. His father reads while his mother tidies the house, then they have a single glass of White wine and retire to their bed chamber.
They work for the love of it, and tradition, for they do not want for money. His mothers' dowry financed their cottage-like (by choice) house long ago, and they need little to maintain their quaint lifestyle.
Kaie is their only child.
Mother: Abigail Porter, born Abigail Moreau
Father: Michael Porter
His grandparents did not approve of his mother's chosen husband, and though they payed her dowry had little contact with the Porters after their marriage.
History: He was raised to be polite and courteous, kept indoors due to his unique condition. This suited the young boy quite well, for he was not fond of the rough-housing and scratched knees that other boys seemed plagued with. He grew like a reed, and quickly surpassed his mother's average height to join his father in the realm of the skinny giants.
When he turned 18, the age of majority in his parents' mind, he moved to Ina (where he found similarly peace-loving inhabitants who welcomed him openly and did not question his whimsical temperament) and used his savings to set up a small library/bookstore along a quiet road. He lives in a humble room upstairs, preferring to spend his earnings on well-tailored clothing (his mother spoiled him for poorly-knit items) and books.
Prompt Response: (Prompt 2)
Kaie rushed along the bustling street, clutching the carved-wood handle of his black-lace parasol in one hand and a curious brown-paper-wrapped-package in the other. He nodded courteously to those who fixed him with a curious glance, his lips moving in silent murmur as he carefully tallied the names of those who may require an explanation from him at a later date.
He was acting quite out of character, for at this time of day he was usually seen strolling homeward at a leisurely pace, holding nothing more interesting than an ambiguous package from the corner store. The residents of Ina, though gentle-natured and accepting as a whole, had gotten used to the tall man's routines, and may notice if something was out of place. He did not presume that he was important enough to warrant suspicion or anger if he broke a daily pattern, but he did acknowledge that there were those among his altruistic neighbors who would worry for him.
He pivoted on his heel and turned up the brick pathway to his library/bookstore/home, passing the trickling fountain to open the wood-framed carved-glass door in one fluid movement. He dropped his parasol in its cast-iron holder, tossed his gloves on the counter. He flipped the sign hanging from a wooden hook to "OPEN" out of habit, then paused and flipped it to "CLOSED" before rushing upstairs... still clutching his brown-paper-wrapped-package to his chest.
Sitting at his desk, he carefully unwrapped the package as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. His fingers shook as he brushed them over the engraved title- Nightmares and Nuisances; a complete history.He broke into a cold sweat as he remembered the strange nightmare, then frantically pushed aside those thoughts to cling to the hope within the pages spread before him. He took a breath.
He began to read.
Incubus drain their victims through sexual encounters... He blushed and scanned the page, then turned to the next chapter. Hauntings occur when a loved one dare not leave their chosen victim behind for fear of becoming no more than a fond memory. The ghost or specter often attempts to join their loved one in their daily routine, and... Interesting, but not what he was looking for. He did not have time to comb through every word!
The pale man closed his eyes and tried vainly to remember what he had seen the previous night. All he could grasp was the feeling of terror, the horrible sinking devastating knowledge that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
And he couldn't remember.
He sighed, his neck twisting at an odd angle as he banged his head against the wooden desk (carefully avoiding the open pages of the book despite his anxiety.)
Why... BANG ... couldn't... BONK... he... BASH... remember?
His rested his now-physically-aching forehead against the hardwood desk as he breathed deeply. Searching his jumbled thoughts, he straightened and stared out the stain-glass window.
Scattered remnants of portraits mixed with flashes of scenes flickered through his head, and he could not separate what he had imagined from what he had merely conjured up from the words of a book.
His eyes turned back to the pages as he lifted the book to his breast, burying his head in the pages as he breathed deeply. He inhaled the scent of paper, ink... the paper wrapping. The familiar smell pacified him, but not enough.
His brow furrowed, and his head tilted to one side...
Parasol. Gloves. Package.
...
He gasped, horror dawning over his features as he frantically pushed back the chair and dashed down the stairs.
Seed. Seed!
His eyes flickered over the neat shelves and lone register on the dust-free counter, barely registered the curious pair of eyes peeking through the door. Closed, don't you see? Seed... Seed....
He couldn't have... He flashed a panicked glance outside, eyeing the sun burning hot overhead with trepidation.
... No.
He retraced his steps and scampered back up the steps, taking them two at a time.
... Seed. He breathed a sigh of relief, and collapsed at his bedside table. His bed was angled towards his desk, so he didn't have to move far to go from one to the other after a long night. Between them lay his bedside table, and on it a velvet-lined box with a cerulean seed nestled inside.
He reached out and held his hands over the box, trembling from relief. Safe seed.
A quizzical expression twisted his face, his lips pursing as a rather disturbing thought arose.
... Had his nightmare been warning him to be more careful about the seed's location? Did he need to catalog it somehow? Prepare a grid in which he could place it in only specified locations, so that...
He chuckled to himself.
What harm could come to anyone in Ina? He immediately supplies his own answer with paragraphs from times of war, in which the passive race allowed warriors in and... he turned away from those distasteful thoughts.
Maybe his nightmare had been a warning of another war... his fingers twitched, and he rushed back downstairs to find a book on prophetic dreams.
If he couldn't remember, maybe he could find his answers in books. Non-fiction, of course.
If only he could read his own life outlined in a convenient pre-event-bibliography... Things would be so much easier.
He looked back at the seed, and smiled, ignoring the purplish bruise that had blossomed on his forehead.
"Don't worry. We have books!"
