Within The Hall of Records

Hello, my name is Orion Pax, and welcome to Iacon's Hall of Records. If you have any questions please feel free to ask, and I'll do my best to answer. (Independent RP and archive following the Aligned universe. SEMI-HAITUS. I HAVE LIMITED INTERNET ACCESS.)

[thelibrarianpax]

::I was beginning to think something had befallen you, Orion. I'm glad I was mistaken.::

It had been some time since he had heard that graveled voice burst over his comms. Now that he had heard it, his audials ached for more.

Carefully, he clears his vocoders even though there is little need for them.

::Hello, my friend.:: he begins, hesitant: perhaps feeling guilty for causing worry. ::There were a few close incidents down under the surface, but it will take more than pitfalls, quakes, and hostile wildlife to put this mech down.:: He chuckles, but makes sure the humor is not heard over the invisible tether between them. :: l hope you are doing well, and are staying out of trouble.::

His mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but words escape him.

[mightymegatron]

::Ha, good to know that you would have survived the mines as well!:: Of course he would have. Orion had always been made of strong stuff, even if his plating hadn’t always been as such. Hearing Orion’s voice, the familiarity in it, always gave him a strong sense of nostalgia. But this time, Megatron felt not an ounce of pain in that remembrance.

::Out of trouble… Please, Orion. When have you ever known me to shy away from trouble?:: He looks over himself, the damage Unicron brought to him in his possession. In a few days, Singer is going to attempt the largest reconstructive surgery yet: reshaping his stretched-out struts.

::I’ve survived a few incidents myself, in your absence. I’ll be well soon enough.::

[thelibrarianpax]

::Oh. I would not go that far.:: Orion would have liked to think that he could have faired well in the mines, but excavating for lost histories was much different than the orn in and orn out troubles of those imprisoned in that unfortunate lower caste. Shifting landscapes and beasts were preferable to the shifting moods of those overlords that tended a mine's production.

The librarian does not hold back his friendly ire at the former gladiator's reply. ::No.:: he sighs deeply and with a bit of a disappointed growl. ::No you do not. And with you it is never a little bit of trouble.:: But again his voice softens as he draws a pattern with his index digit upon his console. ::I will...save you the trouble of explaining:: -he was not the lord's sire-::but should there be anything that I could do to help what ails you, please let me know.::

[maybe-you-need-this]

[thelibrarianpax]

"Plushies?"

Black brows knit as the librarian tries to think of where he might suggest a search on the topic of "plushies". Such toys were a rarity even among those with the credits to spend on once-common off-world materials."I would suggest you try floor eight under crafts, or visit our galleries in the lower levels. Level B2, to be exact: colonial artifacts.""Be sure to wipe your peds on the mat outside the doors. Digger, our resident curator there, is very particular about tracks on his floors."

[thelibrarianpax]

Ahhhh!!!! Orion!!!!

The librarian is quick to raise his servo to his lips at the excitable mech. “Shhh - and hello. Please make yourself comfortable, little Allen.” He missed you too, but indoor voices!

[thelibrarianpax]

::I was beginning to think something had befallen you, Orion. I'm glad I was mistaken.::

It had been some time since he had heard that graveled voice burst over his comms. Now that he had heard it, his audials ached for more.

Carefully, he clears his vocoders even though there is little need for them.

::Hello, my friend.:: he begins, hesitant: perhaps feeling guilty for causing worry. ::There were a few close incidents down under the surface, but it will take more than pitfalls, quakes, and hostile wildlife to put this mech down.:: He chuckles, but makes sure the humor is not heard over the invisible tether between them. :: l hope you are doing well, and are staying out of trouble.::

His mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but words escape him.

[thelibrarianpax]

Like Golden Age politics and those rainbow rust sticks they don't make anymore, your presence has been very much missed.

A bright little smile overtakes his faceplates from the ever-clever sweetness in the doctor's words. "You are very kind," he replies, his chassis swelling with a quiet joy. "It is, indeed, good to see everyone again. Cybertron's depths and the ruins sprinkled among them were full of more mystery and adventure than I could ever hope for, but, even with my lust for learning, I missed the light of the pale sun and the voices of those living beneath it."He reaches to clasp a friendly servo upon the scarlet mech's shoulder (carefully, as not to scratch the surface). "I'll be sure to pop in every now and then. Besides," he chuckles, "I'm likely far past a due appointment."

[roleplayingconfessionsfromrpers]

thelibrarianpax does an excellent portrayal of Orion Pax from Transformers Prime. They give this character depth and they portray him as someone who is sweet yet displays great courage and strength. This is especially fitting considering who this character eventually becomes.

[thelibrarianpax]

(Oh whoa whoa, what, wow I dont know how old this is - it was just "recommended" on my dash -...probably reaaaaal old considering how inactive I am but...

*sniffle*. Awwwww. Im...I'm so touched!)

[thelibrarianpax]

He's randomly here to pull you into a Prime bear hug, if you don't mind. (also, MY ONION)

"Oh my..." were his last words before the shadow of the Prime overtook him. He did not mind - not at all - but that certainly did not mean he was not offset by the whole cuddly ordeal. It was not every day that a lowly clerk like himself was hugged, let alone approached by one so esteemed. "My-my lord..." he squawked, vocoder-less, through the larger mech's enthusiastic embrace, before relenting and softly burrowing his helm into the warframe's shoulder...or a helm above the hip."I am so glad to see you are well," he smiles, returning the hug.(PUPPUUUUUU. Yes, a very small break from villainy.)

[thelibrarianpax]

knock knock ♪

The librarian is familiar with this game, and finds more amusement with it than anyone rightly should. He makes sure he remains looking composed, however: his budding excitment only showing though the drumming of his digits."You may come in," he answers....so perhaps "familiar" was the wrong word. Nonetheless, he awaits an answer, unsure he will receive any.

[thelibrarianpax]

Phobia Drabble Prompts

Agateophobia: Your muse thinks they're going crazy, and mine is trying to talk them down.

Agliophobia: My muse nurses yours after an injury.

Agrizoophobia: Our muses encounter a wild animal.

Amnesiphobia: Your muse has forgotten mine, and mine is trying to make yours remember.

Angrophobia: My muse is furious at your muse.

Anthrophobia: My muse brings yours flowers.

Arsonphobia: Our muses are trapped in a burning building.

Asthenophobia: Your muse passes out in my muse's arms.

Atychiphobia: My muse comforts yours after a (real or perceived) failure.

Brontophobia: Our muses are caught in a storm together.

Catagelophobia: Your muse catches mine doing something embarrassing.

Chionophobia: Fluffy drabble about our muses playing in the snow.

Chorophobia: Our muses dance together.

Chrometophobia: My muse helps yours out of a financial crisis, or vice-versa.

Chronophobia: AU drabble about our muses in a different time era.

Cibophobia: My muse cooks a meal for yours.

Cleptophobia: Your muse steals something from mine.

Coimetrophobia: My muse visits your muse's grave.

Coitophobia: A smutty drabble about our muses.

Cyberphobia: Our muses talk in a chat room, but don't realize their chat partners are each other.

Dikephobia: My muse is pressing criminal charges against yours.

Dipsophobia: Our muses drinking together.

Ergophobia: My muse hires yours to work for them.

Gamophobia: Our muses get married.

Gerascophobia: Our muses meet each other forty years from now.

Gymnophobia: My muses accidentally sees yours naked.

Iatrophobia: My muse accompanies yours to a doctor's appointment.

Limnophobia: Your muse saves mine from drowning.

Lockiophobia: Our muses have a baby together.

Macrophobia: Our muses are waiting for something bad, and trying to distract each other from the thought.

Mastigophoiba: My muse punishes yours for something (either smutty or angsty, specify).

Melophobia: My muse performs a song for yours.

Merinthophobia: My muse finds yours tied or chained up.

Metrophobia: My muse writes a poem for yours.

Necrophobia: My muse just found out that yours has died.

Nosemaphobia: Your muse is ill, and mine is taking care of them.

Oneirophobia: My muse has a dream about yours.

Phasmophobia: Your muse is visited by my muse's ghost.

Soceraphobia: Your muse meets my muse's parents.

Zelophobia: My muse is feeling jealous of yours.

[pleatedjeans]

[pyrooar]

I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS TO BE GIFFED MY ENTIRE LIFE

[elixirsgelsandherbs]

It’s back

[rain-tea-coffee]

[heartfelt-messenger-studios]

105: carnation pink+violet-red+razzmatazz

I feel like orion’s first look at a gladiator battle was not the funnest thing for him

[thelibrarianpax]

Happy Hallotween my friends.

... Pardon. Halloween. ...yes, that sounds better.

[amylio-bots]

@lostlightfest Day 2: Chromedome

Put those tragic finger-needles to better use!

[theleoisallinthemind]

source: unknown

[lliveonthesunn]

Library Gothic

“Do you have that book?” a patron asks. You reply, “I’m sorry, could you be more specific?” “The book,” is the only answer you get. This happens with three more patrons today. “I’m sorry,” you say to them all, “I don’t know what book you’re talking about.” The book. The book. The Book. Should you know The Book? Should you have The Book?

An elderly couple comes in every morning for the newspaper. Nobody remembers a time that they didn’t. They have always been elderly. There’s a faint foul smell in the library when they’re in.

There is a branch on the system map that you’ve never heard anyone talk about. You’ve never seen books with their branch sticker come in and you’ve never sent books to them. You asked a co-worker about it once, but they just smiled and asked how much shelf reading you got done that day. You tried to find it once, but kept finding yourself in the same grocery store parking lot over and over.

You weed for hours. There are no fewer books on the shelves. You weed for days. There is still no room for the new books that have come in. You weed for months. You feel like you’ve withdrawn a lot of these books already. You know you threw this stained, tattered, moldy copy of Bleak House in recycling a while ago. You weed for years. You weed forever.

(You never weed books on witchcraft. In fact, you put ten brand new ones on the shelf yesterday. They have already disappeared.)

One day the elderly couple doesn’t come in. The library has a much fouler smell that usual during the time they’re regularly in.

You go through a box of donations and at the very bottom you find a copy of Ramona Quimby, Age 8. You loved that book as a child, and it looks like the same edition. You open it to check the publishing date and there is your name and childhood phone number written in purple crayola marker in your 8-year-old self’s handwriting. You did not grow up around here. Your family is not close.

You go through a box of donations and at the very bottom you find a book with a photo used as a bookmark. You take it out to let the patron know they left it in there next time they come in. The photo is of a child at the beach and you would swear that it was a picture of you, but you have no memory of that swimsuit and no memory of that beach. The patron does not return.

You go through a box of donations and at the very bottom you find a book written in a language you can’t identify. You pass it around to your coworkers, and none of them know either. You upload a picture of the cover to reverse google image search and there are no matches. You open the book to double check for copyright information and you don’t know how you missed it until now but there is your your name and childhood phone number written in purple crayola marker in your 8-year-old self’s handwriting.

“Do you have that book?” a patron asks. You reply, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what book you’re talking about,” even though this time you get the nagging feeling that you do.