|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 7:20 am
 my sister will conquer it, I will defeat it, and together, our power will be SUBLIME.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 8:03 am
♛Ⅰ - Guest Directory.♕Ⅱ – Full-Length Mirror.♛Ⅲ – The Private Journal.♕Ⅳ – The Library.♛Ⅴ – Guest Ledger.♕Ⅵ – Schedule & Appointments.♛Ⅶ – The Study.♕Ⅷ – Portraits.♛Ⅸ – Renovations.♕Ⅹ – Renovations.♛Ⅺ – Renovations.♕Ⅻ – Respect where it's due.directory.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:23 am
♕ ... mirror, mirror, on the wall,
see me, know me, and the fate I stall. name: Sigmund von Rohr
nickname: Prefers being addressed by his given name.
age: 18
height: 5'11"
hair: bone-white, with a far-right part from his constant attempts to keep his hair out of his eyes.
Eyes: Ashy Gray.
Skin: Ashen Pallor.
gender: Male
orientation: Hasn't really occurred to him yet! Let's see who he meets.
full-length mirror.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:31 am
Three- Case File.
The name von Rohr has always conjured images of power, with a long line of politicians and fundamentalist religious figureheads preceding Sigmund's branch of the family. His own father, Sayre, was one of the former, with a nasty set of the latter's ideals. A glorified bigot, Sayre often used the people's fear of majin as a focal point for his various campaigns.
The birth of the twins brought the von Rohr family great joy, for the newborn heir and heiress to the name conferred a great many advantages. Both mother and father had a child to raise and shape in their own image, given their opposite genders. Becoming a father, as well, cast Sayre in a much softer light, allowing him to spew hate under the guise of concern.
One whirlwind morning, however, would splinter the family, and, though it would garner sympathy for the parents, would ultimately seal their fate.
Sayre awoke to the sound of screaming. Bewildered and bleary, he threw himself from bed, thundering through the house toward the nursery – where the screaming, and now the sound of the wailing twins, emanated from. His wife, Madame von Rohr, stood over their cribs, screeching the bloodiest murder Sayre had ever known.
“They're different,” she screeched, bringing a fresh wave of sobs from the infants, “One of those children isn't mine! A changeling, they've taken my baby and given me a changeling in its place!” Sayre tried to pull some sense out of her, but all he could discern from her blubbering madness was who 'they' were.
“The Majin! The Majin stole my baby and gave me one of theirs! Oh, my darling son!” After this, she spoke no more, opting instead to keen. Sayre was left, then, to decide what to make of the claim. He was, however, the ignorant sort who actually believed the hate he preached, and accepted his wife's condemnation at once. He wouldn't risk accusations of harboring a majin crop up, even if it meant losing his son. How sad it would seem, his own child suddenly taking ill and passing away. The people would eat it up.
…
In the night, a hooded figure stole into the graveyard. Hamar, the groundskeeper, watched him with marked curiosity. He stared, perplexed, as the man stopped at the edge of the grounds, where the trees began, stooped, and placed a bundle pulled from his jacket in the grass. Then he stole away again, quiet as he came. Hamar would have accosted him, had he not been curious to see what lay within the bundle. Maybe it was valuable! Hamar had been working far too long to have respect for the dead.
Imagine his surprise, then, when he found not an offering to the deceased swaddled in the bundle, but an infant, sleeping and complacent.
“Oh, for the love of...” Hamar threw his hands up towards the clear night sky and sighed in exasperation. “I can't sell a BABY! And if you turn up dead on my grounds, there will be a riot!” The lazy-eyed gravekeeper ranted on to the sleeping baby, unsure of how to proceed. As he laid his eyes on Sigmund, though, something in jaded old Hamar softened. He'd always wanted a son.
Life with Hamar, though better than no life at all, couldn't be called optimal. He lived far on the edge of Lumena, and generally kept to his own affairs. This included little Sigmund, who never received formal schooling, and any interaction with people other than his surrogate father happened on a less-than-yearly basis. A bitter old hermit, Hamar abhorred going into town to the point where he grew his own food and made his own medicine to avoid having to face the populace of the Castle Town. Hamar reminded Sigmund endlessly that he had taken the boy in, and if it hadn't been for the kindly old gravekeeper, NOBODY would want the little orphan.
Except... this wasn't true, as Hamar would discover. A somebody existed who wanted Sigmund quite badly, who devoted what free time she had on a constant search for him.
As Sigmund approached the age of manhood, strange happenings came to the graveyard. Graves started unearthing themselves in the night, holes yawning open to reveal bodies that had been disturbed, coffins wrenched open and valuables occasionally missing. Hamar wasn't the superstitious type, often reminding Sigmund that nothing came after death, and ghosts and spirits were hogwash. No, a man was responsible, and the gravekeeper would catch him. Hamar began standing vigil over the grounds in the night, sleeping instead during the day, keeping constant watch for one slip-up, one wrong step.
Occasionally, when the reversed sleep schedule addled him, he conscripted Sigmund to stand with him, if only to shake the gravekeeper awake when he dozed off. One still summer night found them doing just this, sitting still and silent under the awning of Hamar's hovel. The slightest breeze blew against them from across the grounds, just enough to carry a sound that made Hamar sit up with a start. Without a word, just a silent motion to Sigmund, the hunchback began rushing away, towards the source, and Sigmund ran after, eager to finally see the source of all this confusion.
Sure enough, as they arrived, they discovered a figure, slight and ghostly, standing over the blackened hole of a grave that she'd dug up.
“'Hoy! You!” Hamar shouted at the girl, but drew no response. “Them's the von Rohr graves, don't you dig those...” He trailed off, the raucous old man struck dumb for once in his life, as the girl turned. He whipped his head around as fast as his stunted, thick neck would allow, gaping back at Sigmund, at the startling parallel. Sigmund stared, too, not at the man who'd served as his father, but at...
A twin. HIS twin.
He stepped forward, more curious than he'd even been in his entire life, unable to formulate words into cohesion. “You...” he said, “Me... Why... ?”
And as Hamar stared on in shock, Niamh Dubh von Rohr stepped forward as well, and threw her arms around Sigmund's shoulders, locking her hands behind his neck. She rested her forehead against his own, and whispered, “I've been waiting for this moment for a very long time, brother. I'm sorry it took me so long to find you.”
Sigmund, still without the sense to make words, or the capacity to quite understand what was happening, slowly wrapped his own arms around his sister's waist, and allowed himself to be pulled into the first real hug of his life. Confusion still masked his face, but a warmth woke in his chest, and he whispered back,
“Sister.”
…
Hamar, though sad to see his adopted son go, wouldn't try to keep him when Niamh insisted Sigmund was leaving with her. She could provide a better home for him than some isolated hut in the middle of the sticks. She'd inherited the funds and estate, but none of the influence, of the von Rohr family after their... tragic deaths. The story behind THAT acquisition is best left untold, and best left alone, unless one wants a visit from Niamh in the dark of night.
Sigmund, once finally out of the literal dead zone he'd been trapped in for his entire life, gamely faced the staggering amount of catching-up to take on. His sister, however, being extremely well-read and well-learned, made the perfect teacher. She filled in the blanks on much of his knowledge, taught him to read and write, and awoke his insatiable thirst for knowledge. She disturbed him the tiniest bit, but he came to love her.
…
After a year and a half, the twins turned seventeen, and Niamh decided their present would be enrollment at Makai Royal Academy. What better way to further themselves than to take on the mantle of witch? The very novelty of magic, so inherent and yet never awoken until leaving the graveyard, enticed Sigmund. He tore through classes like tissue paper, opting to even stay longer than he absolutely needed to, just to obtain the full wealth of knowledge the school had to offer.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:42 am
Four- The Library.
Hobbies and Personality coming soon!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:43 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:44 am
Six- Schedule & Appointments
plots to come as I develop them!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:47 am
Seven- The Study.
Magic information to come!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:49 am
Eight- Portraits
Any art I get of Sigmund to go here!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:51 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:52 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:54 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 9:56 am
Twelve- Respect where it's due. Credits!
Face your Demons - The fabulous woman behind the image in the first post, and also my best friend and the best big sister anybody could ever ask for. <3
Omiekins - Artist behind Sigmund, as well as the creator of the ENTIRE SHOP. props, miss, you deserve it xD
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Nov 17, 2011 12:34 pm
journals after this point!! o A o
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Nov 17, 2011 12:36 pm
11 / 17 -
I’ve failed. All of my research, all of the studying, all my diligence, and still I’m a failure.
I didn’t even get in. I’m too weak. I just… I can’t believe it. After all I’ve been through, and what stops my ascent isn’t some misstep on my part, but an inherent lack of strength. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. There is no gauging the depths of my self-loathing presently. This is something I can’t control, this isn’t life and death that I can subjugate, this isn’t dragons that I can tame, this is the body I’ve been born into. And it has failed me on the second time it actually mattered.
Niamh passed, and for that I am happy. She always passes… everything. Deep down, I fear the spurt of emotion I felt when I learned she succeeded where I failed. I know not what it is, for these emotions are still so foreign to me, but I can only assume it’s jealousy, or worse… anger. Resentment. Hatred. I must take care to keep these feelings in check until I can bring myself to an equal plane as her, lest they come to control me and sway my love for her. To forget my love for Sister... that would be more than I could stand.
And that thought does lay at the core of this issue, I think. It's not her fault that she's stronger than me, and even trying to attribute blame to her makes me lower than low. These emotions, this hatred... It's directed at myself, not her. This cursed body I was born with houses an incredibly capable mind, but I have no strength. What use is this map I've made, using all my hard-won knowledge, if I lack the power to take the prize it points to? Immortality is so USELESS if the flesh is weak. It is so useless to me. Maybe it would have been better if I had just died when father threw me away. Easier, perhaps. For everyone. But there is no everyone, just me and Niamh and and and
All the time I've dedicated... It may have been for nothing. I sit before you, diary, my heart laid bare and my despair complete. I feel a great blackness pressing in all around my mind, threatening to drown me. I
I ... [the writing has grown progressively shakier, starting at the beginning of the previous paragraph. several warped areas on the paper appear to be water damage, or, more probably, tears. It ends on this second 'I', and it looks as if Sigmund placed his pen down for a time, for when he starts again, he has given himself space and the writing is its prior rigid neatness.]
I have composed myself.
I'll tell you what weakness is. Weakness is the old me, that bent so easily to emotion and failure, as if anything has defeated me before. These mewling complaints are nothing but some expression of fear, an attempt by some primal instinct to hide from real challenge, from real danger. I've never shrunk from a single thing in my entire life, save death, and now this weak vein in me seeks to throw it away over a little adversity? I think not.
I can only confirm that I am the center of my own problem, but the solution lies not in wallowing, as I had been so eager to do. Rather, I must fight these feelings of hatred as fiercely as I fight my mortality. This is the nature of life, I think. The passion and the heat and the fury to deny your fears and destroy your enemies. It makes sense, now.
Living forever isn't enough. I need the vitality, that this cure for death might not be wasted on me.
I won't let this little bump in the scheme of things throw me off-course. I will conquer the Grave of Fairies as I have conquered every other obstacle before me, and as Death himself was unable to conquer me.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
