#past!verse

[warncdandwiles]

@drachliebe​

“This is my place! Everything here is ice and what’s ice is my place! NOW you have to play!”

Certainly an odd way to announce yourself, and a tiny little snowman in a big hat calling from a endearingly-crooked snow-fort is probably not a cause for caution...though there are ice figures dotted around; snow-squirrels and snow-bunnies, acting as eerie sentries.

He’s sure he’s not seen this dragon before; he’s too green, eugh, even greener than the show-boater who ruins all his games! And he doesn’t know what he’s got with him, some skinny elf creature!

But they’re here, so now they have to play!

[infxrmationispower-blog1]

Rescue // closed rp

closed starter for @mercilesshealer. past verse

This couldn’t be home for anyone anymore. The most recent terror attack on Dorado had left many injured and dying, many dead. The marketplace destroyed. Most had been evactuated, but those who’d taken the worst of the blast had to have been airlifted out. It was a shame that she was one of them - a young, resourceful girl, talented in everything technology - and she was now missing both arms. Her left, amputated at the elbow, her right at the shoulder.

If Overwatch hadn’t needed a test subject for their new prosthetic limbs for soldiers, she would have ended up in a bad situation. But since they did? They stepped in and decided to take her on.

[danskdanish]

kongeriketnoreg

"I'm sleeping with one of your guardsmen."

“That would be an odd joke wouldn’t it?” His tone suggested that he was quite serious. “You asked why I have been ignoring you and that’s the answer…”

It would be an odd joke coming from the Dane, especially with his own habits. “Is this the one you walked in on with me a few years back?”

[macklynwarlcw-blog]

“Sorry, were you sleeping?”

“I was.” Warlow pads closer on his bare feet until he can reach out and pull Jamie closer by the front of his shirt. Once he’s close enough, Warlow trails a hand up to his neck where pinpricks circled with bruises sit on his pale skin. “Come back to bed, pooch. Don’t want you passing out in the kitchen from hypovolemia.” 

[soluminmcrte]

Not-So-Distant Past {Sissy&Eddy}

       {‡}; The writer thought that if he were to die now, it would be either by liver disease by drink, or from a broken heart.

        At that very moment, he stowed away in a corner pub, and having drunk away all his current wages, some patrons bought him a round as well because of his loss. They may not have agreed with his form of grieving, but they sympathized.

       Eddie had had enough; he forced himself to his feet and attempted to stumble out of the pub, bumping into some patrons that may have otherwise attempted to see how far they could bash in his skull, let him go for the sake of his loved one's passing.

       Once on the street, he bent his steps toward the cemetery that his darling Sissy was interred; the air was pungent with the smell of freshly moved earth, and the dull scent of flowers that reminded the writer of a funeral parlor. Finally, he located his darling. The plot hadn't had a chance to grow any grass and the flowers that Muddy had placed were still well in bloom. He sunk to the ground beside the stone bearing her name, year of birth and year of demise, and spoke to her, hoping she would hear him.

[soluminmcrte]

"Frances, Edgar. Do you love her? Do you love her more than you loved me?"

     {‡}; Edgar almost seemed hurt. "Sissy, no woman can earn the love from me that you have more than rightfully deserved from me. While I did feel something for Miss Osgood, I will never feel it more for her than I do you."

[soluminmcrte]

Hermes sat on the park bench in the cold Baltimore air, he didn't even know where he was. "Must have taken a wrong turn in Rome."

       {‡}; As Edgar walked, he decided to take a shortcut through the park. He had 3 books to read and review before the coming weekend but they seemed to have a heft of their own. As he walked through the park, he dropped the books with a curse. He didn't notice the other man that was seated on the bench, not too far from him while he stooped to retrieve the fallen, and now wet, books.

[soluminmcrte]

Listen To The Written Word {:Will&Edgar:}

     {‡}; He knew that doing this would either be a very uplifting or very degrading experience.

      Once he was at the hall, he stood behind the curtains of the small stage, pacing. He was reading his own work, yes, but just the same, he could not let anyone know that it was actually his own work; he was supposed to be dead back in 1849 anyway.

       Then he was announced. His feet carried him to center stage, his back straight and his head held high. He looked out at the faces that looked back and the theater was certainly full (it was not a large theater in any sense). 

       "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I imagine that you are here to hear some works by the greatest poet to have ever walked upon these shores."