Ink, Commentary, and Monikers

Hello, I'm Otto Baxwoll. You can call me whatever you want, and I'll call you whatever I want. The more nicknames you have the better. Personally, I like being called "Otto-Correct". I think it suits me. I have strange fondness for green, umbrellas, cats, and for the use of ink. I'm a socially entitled gentleman with an artistic streak, and chances are I probably like you. You should feel honored. Independent Hunger Games Series OC, Will Play With Anyone Tracking: passivelyartistic

[lemonison]

'Talking Smack: Honest Conversations About Drugs'

[nonconcept]

Raindrops.

[love4my2cats]

We’re having a rest today :)

[thehandsofthecapitol]

Seeing Things

[thehandsofthecapitol]

There was the puzzling and provoking man he remembered. Back during the grand days of the Capitol Seneca could recall hours spent talking, mostly sharing their thoughts on their intellectual superiority if only to not go completely mad surrounded by the shallowness of their peers. But every now and then they found themselves alone thinking aloud their views of the future of the Capitol and Panem; revolution and rebellion were far-fetched ideas and more often than not shrugged off with a jest or a joke though the uncertain tone their voices ended on said what they wouldn’t dare.

Now, years later, that speculation had turned out to be the real course of action. Seneca didn’t have to look long at his friend, his stance and expression, to know the Rebellion had left its mark on him.

A look the other way no doubt painted a very similar picture, albeit one that was far more washed-out. His treatment ever since Snow’s death had been more neutral than expected but there was no dulling of the past or his role in it, bad and unknowingly good. Bowing his head he raised his hand to stay what Otto had to say. Just hearing his name in anything other than an order was still something to get used to and any discussion would be best saved for later.

Not that it was even close to stopping his friend. Nearly laughing was his only initial response and he glanced up with a raised brow and a blunt look in his eyes. “It’s hell trying to find a good stylist these days. Unlike you I never had quite the personal knack for putting myself together.”

[passively-artistic]

He felt so very light all of a sudden, his stomach the only thing weighing him down and keeping him attached to the earth. He had so many questions, so many curiosities. The time apart had changed them both, that was for certain, and he feared that maybe the time had been too long. With the world in shambles had the pieces of their friendship become scattered amongst the rubble? Otto did not want to believe so, but the angry beast of anxiety was not one so easily willed away.

But the didn't mean he couldn't try. He managed to keep his eyes dry by some mighty miracle, or perhaps he had long since she his tears for his dead friend, and now, there was nothing left. The emptiness was comforting almost, like this was still a pleasant fantasy that could not be encroached on by the ugliness that had taken hold of their world and had made it new and yet somehow older.

"What can I say?" Otto shrugged, deciding that deep, emotional, contemplation of the world could be saved for another day. They had done that so much in the past, but right now, the past was still raw and bled when you touched it. No, for now, the present suited him just fine, and the future was still a free for all. No point in discussing it. "I had perfected my artfully disheveled look at an early age. It's not just something you can slap on a person and expect them to pull it off. You are making a valiant effort though, so I shall acknowledge your efforts."

His smile came easier now, but a sharp pain in his side caused it to quickly disappear as he was reminded on his limits. He'd been heading home before the past had coming charging back into his life, and though he wanted nothing more than to stay and speak forever, Otto know he had responsibilities to attend to. "I am afraid I don't have the same stamina for standing these days," he admitted, sounding sheepish. "Would you like, perhaps, to walk home with me...maybe sit and talk a while?" He paused for a moment, wondering just how what he was going to say next would sound. "I cannot stay out too long anyway. When I left my girl was sleeping soundly, and I'd like for her to not wake up to an empty house...well, there's the cat, but he's not always the best company."

[le-petite-lili]

I love fountain pens

[breadboylover]

[cinderellas-stilettos]

۞ Cinderella’s Stilettos  ۞  Fashion & Luxury  ۞

[mossgirl273-deactivated20150121]

eyes nd ali michael (almost)

[thehandsofthecapitol]

Seeing Things

[thehandsofthecapitol]

It was a bad idea. He wondered how much longer it would be before the man simply waved him away like the ghost he thought he was. Maybe he really was, in some way, a half-mutt still lingering around the Capitol.

What was more probable to happen was his pair of assigned watchers coming for him and his image being displayed on every screen…the face of their reclusive ex-Head Gamemaker. Not that the public knew the real story, though nearly every deplorable inner working of the Capitol was now public knowledge. However he wondered if he’d even be recognizable; his hair was no longer slicked back, instead it looked dull as it hung freely around his face. His eyes, though still striking blue, expressed that of the commanded and not the commander. That once meticulously groomed beard was just uniform fine stubble. What imposing figure he once had no longer occupied the same body.

One tip of his tongue flicked anxiously up against the back of his teeth as he watched Otto retract his hands. There was a pain, small but persistent, at seeing his friend start to slink away. It had been years and without the truth the only logical thing would be to think he was dead. He knew the lengths Snow would have gone to make people think such a thing. But if there was one aspect of his former self he held onto it was his persistence. “For the official record I am, but I’m not so sure that applies anymore,” he replied, eyes narrowing in the playfully sly way that they used to in their conversations.

"You’re not dead, Otto," he said with enough affirmation for the both of them. "If you were…well, this would be some dream then." Seneca glanced around to make sure the fuzzy edges of his subconscious weren’t creeping up on him.

No, definitely not a dream.

He took a step forward and looked his friend over again, trying to grasp at some hope. He wanted to take the man by his shoulders to prove it but stayed the impulse. A more serious tone overtook his voice. “I didn’t know if you were alive or not and since you are that better make me alive too.”

[passively-artistic]

Maybe...maybe was all he could manage as he stared back at the almost stranger. He wanted more than anything for this all to be real, to be true, but the comfort that would come from it would be minute. If this was Seneca back from the grave, Otto could only imagine what had happened to him in those long years since they had last seen one another. The once impressive gamemaker was only a shade of who he had once been what felt like ages ago when all Otto knew was large parties and air-headed people. Even with doubt still curling in his stomach, the man's eyes burned with a painful sadness and a deep sympathy that he could not express in words.

His dear friend, Seneca, returned to him at long, long last? What sort of twisted fairytale was this that was playing out in the physical world? He'd hoped so long and so hard for something like this to occur. Dreamed it even. But now that this specter was before his eyes, all those dreams turned to dust and he didn't know how to react. Should he scream? Should he weep? Should he wrap his arms around him and enjoy the feeling of someone solid to cling to? He could not decide, and so he stood there dumbly, slowly trying to piece the years back together again.

"Perhaps not," he replied slowly, shifting to lean against the nearest building. His legs were becoming tired, and he had the feeling that in a moment or two he was going to need the support. "But I still feel like a dead man. A ghost...weightless. Perilously perched between reality and myth," he continued, finding some of his old eloquence beneath the cobwebs in his mind. Perhaps that familiar tone had brushed it off, but Otto hadn't the presence of mind to acknowledge it.

The man smiled, but the expression was not joyous but instead grim. It was one of those perversely funny things. He thought so anyway. This dead man, this specter! Had thought him to be the one that was gone away to nothingness. Now, that was some true humor. Surely, he surely would have seen him in Hell if that had been the case.

"Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on who you are, I am still amongst the living. Thank goodness...my admirers would have had a fit otherwise." Otto would not claim this statement to be truly one of humor, but it made him feel better even though he had since stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide how much they were shaking. Still, this moment of put-on levity was short-lived, and the wind was soon taken from Otto's sails as he met the other man's gaze.

It was still just as striking and as icy as he remembered.

"Seneca..." he began, his voice hardly his own through the trembling. His heart was pounding so hard that he though that this time he might die for real. Finally, he managed the only words that he could squeeze out without choking. "My god, man...you look like shit."

[niyantha]

Darjeeling tea at La Maison Rose, Pondicherry.

[what-lies-between]

[larmoyante]

The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.

Ayn Rand (via larmoyante)

[realityayslum]

Oleg Moiseyenko

Brooklyn Bridge Rain, NYC, 2010

[passively-artistic]

Window Shopping || OPEN (Post-Rebellion)

The little girl walked ahead of him, only a few feet ahead for that's all that he would comfortably allow her. Otto watched her quietly as her eyes flitted about and took everything in. He was envious of how much she was able to bounce back and how quickly while he was still jittery. The soreness he still felt in his hip and the way he favored his right leg was a more visible indicator of the unpleasantness that still lingered in his memory.

A loud snap crack of who knows what in the distance caused both him and the girl to jump. Seemed neither of them were quite rid of their demons.

They carried on down the road, and Otto almost stumbled over the girl who had stopped suddenly, her face pressed up against the glass of a shop window. Once he'd righted himself, Otto recognized some various ornate toys behind the glass, though the shop itself looked a bit...dusty. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it made him uncomfortable.

"Come along, Pom," he said, his tone firm but not disciplinary. "You know you don't need anything else to play with..."

[aillsonargent-blog]

[penaficionado]

Have you seen this skull, serpent, and fire covered 18k gold Montegrappa fountain pen yet? This thing was designed by Sylvester Stallone and had a cameo in The Expendables 2. Sick!

[dear-indies]

Reblog if you’re a The Hunger Games Indie RP account.

[passively-artistic]

We are creating a giant master-list for every The Hunger Games roleplayer.

The list is here.