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SWAN. ANEZKA PATRIDGE — 29, W.

Memory Manipulation: You can erase any memory so long as you both have a recollection of it — this includes events, people, objects, etc. (+) works on any memory you have knowledge of (+) does not have a time limit (-) abstract concepts like childhood, parents, love, etc. do not count (-) memories must be specific (-) one memory one person (-) cannot erase the same memory from a different person (-) you also lose the memory you’ve stolen

HISTORY

cw: abusive relationship

YOU ARE BOTH CREATOR AND CREATION, a fairy tale with no end. On display is a story to unfurl, a mystery to satiate curiosity: Once there was a palace made of glass and high up along the tower’s ledge sat a girl with the wind’s voice wrapped around her neck. An iridescent window illuminated the soft contours of her face in an array of spectral light that shifted as the day revolved around her. There was no night in the realm of the dawn, no terrible accident for anyone to mourn over. The girl was kind, and as long as one did not look closely, she was content. Sunshine followed her like sycophantic baubles to collect, and as she overlooked a land made of distant sorrows she heard not the toll of bells, but a song like infinite freedom. You envy her and the way she is unmoved by time, preserved like a gossamer butterfly on display. The girl does not know of love or hate or misery or how a touch can shatter the world. She does not question, does not wonder about the way things ought to be. This dream girl does not exist, but she is yours to conquer for as long as you desire. You write about her day in macabre fascination, tending to her every desire as though she would wither without it. A question remains unanswered, the beginning of a story unwritten, what drove the girl up the tower? Could she ever come down — what would happen if she did?

There was a time when you would have died for love — now, you can’t stand to write it. She destroyed you, capitalized on every breath of want, and stole all that was worth taking. Even now you feel the phantom brush of her lips, the mundane certainty that life would not be worth narrating without her hand around your neck. In the end you unravel yourself, make fiction out of truth and immortalize that which had never been tangible before. You sting string sentences together like daisy chains, redefine what tragedy outght to be, and in a second forget what it means to be nothing. Still, the strain in your hand reminds you that some stories are meant to end, some genres never returned to. When you renter the land of the written, you do not require a former legacy to survive. Pen in hand, you know that the world would crumble with a word, a suggestion, a thought — all it would take is a dedicated hand to begin. All stories require an end, and you will be the author of yours.

CONNECTIONS

PEACOCK ﹒ I WOULD NOT HAVE IT OTHERWISE

You’ve paged through his life in search of an error, watched countless pallid interviews to understand him, and even in your spectral study of his miserable existence you’ve found nothing worthy in examination. Outside he is unremarkable, unbearable, undeserving of his acolytes — undeserving of your story. What makes man great is not his aptitude for tragedy, but his submission to the sublime. PEACOCK cannot see beyond the veil of his own understanding and as such threatens to make a mockery of yours. So be it then. He will come to understand your position or else you will ruin his art in the same way he would ruin yours.

MAGPIE ﹒ THERE WAS NO GOD, THERE WAS ONLY WHAT YOU WANTED

There is a strange desire in his mouth, desperation as a need to love something so lovely. He is an acolyte to your new religion of disclosure, and would chase the world if it meant an end to your ever idle impulse. He does not tell you how or why he found you, the reason for his endless devotion to your cause, but you have taken a liking to all things pitiful and lonely and MAGPIE is no exception. You had never seen a creature as wretched as he was the day you found him. Alone, he has become your most devoted attendant. You offer him the praise he expects and sleep well knowing that in this life, he would follow you to your solitary end, you need only ever ask.

PEREGRINE FALCON ﹒ I NEED YOUR TEETH IN ME, SLOW AND VICIOUS

It feels like love. You know it’s not. Her fist connects to the man’s solar plexus and the actor flies across the room in a spectacular show of strength. Sweat gathers like a lake and gleams like starlight under studio spotlights and it feels as though a lifetime might pass if you continue to watch someone else wipe at the spot you would have liked to skim. You are nothing to her, and that perhaps is the reason why you care. PEREGRINE FALCON’S disinterest is another form of hate without her knowing it. It cuts your ego in half and leaves you without strings to tether a heart to your body. But the terrible truth is: if your love had been enough, she wouldn’t have been for you.

This skeleton is TAKEN by TARYN and is portrayed by DAPHNE GROENEVELD. Their highest stat is CHARISMA and their specialty is BODY LANGUAGE ANALYSIS.

#swan.#closed.#all.#charisma.#lsrpg #new rp #skeleton rp #crime rp #heist rp

Insults that I want to use but don’t have enough negative social interactions to do so.

1. You are a swan. (derogatory)

2. Sing me another one washcloth!

3…….

I ran out of insults or I forgot some

#Creative insults #Mother I crave the social interactions so that I can do this #swan.#You washcloth you

S A V I N G G R A C E;

@thesingingswan

Sylv hated dining alone. Usually, her lunches were scheduled in Old Town or in DC, but today she’d had a cancellation; the daughter of the new Irish ambassador seemed to have a very suspicious schedule-- it wasn’t until the brunette was settled in at their table at the cafe that she’d received the message that the other woman wouldn’t be showing up. Disgruntled but already waiting for her coffee order, Sylv leaned back in her chair. A reservation had been made, and everyone had already been troubled for her window seat; so now she frowned, glancing down the sidewalk. A familiar face made her pause, struggling to place it before she smiled and lifted her hand to wave. Gale, the boy from the hallway. He looked fragile outside of the fluorescent lighting of the school, as if a hefty gust of wind would surely carry him away. As he approached, she got up from her seat, meeting him by the entrance. “Are you busy?” Sylv asked quickly, holding the door open with one hand-- “Like, right now?”

#hope this is okay!!!!#chat #chat: gale #swan.