Soft pipes play on;

Ind. Roleplay Blog for Keats from Folklore

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

Head tilting slightly, Belgae’s sleeves–the only good indication of where his arms were– dared to rest upon the edge of the table, the old wood creaking just slightly as he adjusted himself in the seat, giving a quiet sigh. “It is…difficult, to say the least. Yes, we certainly do get restless; I cannot speak for everyone, but I certainly have my fair share of restlessness. Time is…a very strange thing to us, now. Perhaps you felt it, in the Endless Corridor. I prefer calling that home more than I do Doolin proper, purely for the sake that time isn’t as much an entity as it is here. For us, it…moves, and yet stands still. But it’s still so vastly different from how humans perceive it.”

His arm lifts, the edge of his sleeve shifting in indication of his hand motioning to the old tree, and the pipe shifts in Ganconer’s mouth as he sets a few glasses on a silver tray, which floats lazily over to their table. They all had tricks up their sleeves. “I won’t lie to you, Keats, I owe you that courtesy. It takes a long time to settle into how life is now, when you’ve left the true living. I’ve been around for over five millennia, and I still find myself struggling to adjust at times, but it does get easier. We simply fall into habits.”

Despite all Keats has seen since his initial arrival to Doolin, Ganconer’s gesture has its own unique charm. He feels as though he’s been let in on a secret-- like he’s more trusted here than he’s ever been. The thought sets sickly sweet in his stomach as he pulls the glasses from the tray and sorts them between Belgae and him, nodding thanks in Belgae’s direction. The tray starts back with nothing more than a gentle little push. Whimsical.

“...This conversation must be like pulling teeth, then-- or trying to translate a foreign language.” He takes the glass in hand, looking pensively at the froth. “I’ll have to accustom myself to unsurety. I haven’t been to the Endless Corridor since-- Well.”

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

Belgae can feel Keats approaching, his footsteps a dead giveaway despite it. The hall is empty apart from the two of them, and though it should take on a familiar quality, given their past encounters, it feels charged.

Keats isn’t there just to chat, or to escape the rain for quiet solitude; he’s after something more, and perhaps that’s what makes Belgae feel a bit more jittery than he would like. He’s already disappeared behind the stage, into the back room he likes to think of as his sanctuary, pulling his gloves back on over his hands. It’s a quick decision to meet the writer halfway, heading towards the curtain that separates the thin hall behind the stage from the room.

“You know, it’s generally considered bad manners to invite yourself backstage after an event without a pass.” He calls out, though it’s in pure jest, his tone light.

The dark has Keats squinting through the corridor, and before he can get too far down, Belgae’s familiar voice has him freezing, boyish smile gracing his face. He turns toward the curtain, hand stroking the draping fabric gently. It sways under his touch before quickly falling back into place. Keats just barely restrains the impulse to try and wrestle the curtain to get to the other side. “I placed my bets on you being too soft of a soul to have backstage security toss me out.” The smile grows, as do his nerves. “That was... magical. I’m afraid I don’t have better words for what’s just happened, but I’m grateful to have witnessed it.” 

The cellophane crinkles in his hand, and Keats tries his luck.

“I have a token I’d like to leave with you, if you’ll see me.”

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

Part of Belgae doesn’t believe Keats will come, but the smaller part of him that hopes he does is much louder, much more dominant. The house isn’t quite packed until the doors close at 8PM proper, the crowd hushing as the lights disappear, a single spotlight illuminating the old piano on stage, empty as it sits.

There’s no nervousness, no anxiety, no pre-show jitters that Belgae feels; it’s been far too long since he’s ever felt those, and he doubts he ever will. There’s no murmur, no cough, nothing on the opposite side of the stage curtain, until he starts walking out. The hardwood floor gives only a minor echo to the heels of his shoes as he strides, head held high and back straight, a ghost in a memory. That brings about a quiet murmur that rolls through the crowd, most present having been skeptics that their host even existed, but all having heard the same story from previous attendees.

The bench is placed the proper distance from the piano, allowing Belgae to slide in effortlessly as his fingers pinch the tops of his gloves, tugging them free from each hand and letting them sit on the edge of the bench. The hush is deafening in the concert hall, before the old walls reverberate each keystroke effortlessly, even as they start small. The songs start out with an obvious pace, crescendoing as the night rolls on, and even though there’s an orchestra pit beneath, it remains empty; despite this, the final songs give the semblance of having accompanying instruments, and had anyone known any lesser, they would believe that the accompaniments were recordings.

But Belgae’s fingers continue to fly effortlessly over the old keys, eyes hardly having to follow from behind his porcelain mask. He feels so at home like this, that he almost loses himself until the final note trills into a fade, and he’s brought back to reality, standing and moving out from behind the bench,  bowing, and vanishing behind the curtain as it closes to a roaring crowd of applause.

It’s only a minor shame that when they leave, they’ll have the memory of what they witnessed, and the emotion, and yet be wholly unable to put into words what was experienced.

Keats settles into his seat just in time. The mystery man moves with the utmost professionalism, and while there isn’t any particular flaw in his performance, perhaps that’s the exact problem that Keats has with it. He watches intently as Belgae pulls off his gloves, each movement seeming more precise and fluid without them. And yet, there’s a peace in Belgae that he doesn’t recognize from the times that Keats has caught him before. There’s no idling in the mire of his thoughts, no matter how gentle they may be. Belgae performs a taut story, dragging them all like marionettes through a drama of his own solitary making.

The crowd stands and Keats stays right where he is, glued to his seat and dumbfounded. It is wholly a satisfying and disappointing experience, unsettling him with its humanity.

Keats waits until the guests filter out, lights dimming to end the night. Perhaps Belgae is long gone, but he needs to try at the least. He hauls himself up onto the stage before heading back in search of the pianist.

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

“If you find them to be weights, then your case may be much more severe than previously thought. And I don’t believe a simple ale will cure you of such ailments.” His voice is filled wholly with his smile, and even the eyes of the mask seem to grin as they walk, before he takes notice of Keats’s hesitance.

The door falls shut behind them, keeping the cold sea air out and the warmth within, the chatter loud but not unbearable, giving the pub a lively feel as always. Eyes do glance over at the newcomers, and the voices seem to lull when Keats is recognised, only to slowly fall back into their normal patterns of chatter. Albeit guarded, of course; only Belgae’s continued presence with the man gives any sense of security to the rest of the Half Lifes, even as he leads the way to an empty booth in a quiet corner. “Pay no mind to them, I still think they’re all a bit wary of what transpired not so long ago. You are one of us, now, and they will have to grow used to your presence here. If you do choose to reclaim this as your home, of course.”

Keats smiles wryly, surveying the familiar crowd before he leans snugly back against his seat. “It seems I’ve been one of you for a while now, save that ‘choice’...But, knowing what I know now, I can’t say that I’d be comfortable completely leaving Doolin behind.” He looks to Ganconer, his throat feeling dry with all the admission. The old tree seems too busy to look his way. He sighs, rapping his knuckles idly on the table before them.

“I’ve wondered, Belgae, how exactly it is that you all understand time after undergoing so much of it. You don’t get restless?”

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

The Seas of Pity Lie;

@awarriorofwords

If he is absolutely honest with himself, each memento he throws to the Henge stokes a hunger that goes beyond curiousity. He’d noticed it the first time that Belgae had shown him the way across realms– a lust for power born from just a prick of it.

It’s why he follows Belgae into the Endless Corridor. And it abounds.

Keats isn’t there for long before losing track of Belgae, the swathe of familiar scenery driving him madder and madder as he tries to pick up on any detail that distinguishes one area from another. The thoughts that have built the place up seem to be thick as fog in the air, something he’s unable to ignore after being lost in it for so long. Doubt and anger eventually morph into paranoia and rage, Keats detaching so much that he feels as if he’s watching himself plow through folk and trudge deeper into the mire. If only he could latch onto something familiar.

After seems like days in, he sees a familiar flash of purple swishing around a corner. Keats charges desperately forward.

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

“Of course; every writer must have some sort of…source for inspiration, a muse of any kind. We all do, in different ways, don’t you think?” His fingers play across the banister lightly, tracing the worn etches in the wood grain as he watches Keats.

Surprise is hardly the word that describes Belgae’s reaction, eyes widening as Keats continues. He was of fascination to this borderline cynical yet talented writer? He hadn’t even been gifted the chance to glimpse Belgae, not fully.

“You believe me to be stringing you along? That sounds more like some teasing woman allowing a lovestruck puppy of a man to follow at her every whim, only to never let him quite catch her heels. But this place can continue to be a haven to you, if you so desire. I’ve no reason to keep you away from it, especially with your admittance of such…bizarre fascinations with me.”

It wasn’t until several months later that Belgae actually followed up on allowing Keats to catch his heels; an invitation, something out of a dated movie, perhaps, arrived in the mail for Keats. An ornate letter, trifold and decorated in gold trimming, expensive red paper, with flowing handwriting. An invitation to a highly sought after event: a concert the following night, at eight o’clock that evening.

“’Bizarre’? What a fitting description to give yourself.” Keats laughs to himself, shaking his head at Belgae’s conclusion. “After all, I’m not the one entertaining a guest without actually making himself known. Seems clear to me that you like this mystery charade just as much as I do, if not more.”

And he does enjoy their annoying little play. It carves out a place in his life that isn’t tainted by the mundane pieces he’s had to fabricate his own opinions on for the last few years. Still, it isn’t as though he doesn’t write about Belgae-- the most strident details of their meetings are thoughtfully translated to word in his personal journal. The skepticism in even his dullest pieces is slowly replaced by an engaged cleverness.

When he receives the letter, he has an inkling of what it is before even opening it. The sheer embellishment sets it apart from the white envelopes of bills or the taupe-orange of unedited manuscript.

It’s only upon opening that he knows how urgent the matter is. He smiles to himself. How utterly shortsighted of Belgae to send a notice for something the day of. Regardless, his fingers trace over the sweeping letters. He lifts the paper to his face to smell rich camphor, keeps the letter among personal articles in his desk drawer. 

Keats rummages through his closet, finally picking a suit from the back-- a tailored three-piece bought with the intention to have it serve in case of any conference or formal event.

He shows up at seven fifty-nine with unkempt hair and a single, cellophane-wrapped white rose in hand. His notebook and pen are heavy against his chest in the breast pocket of his jacket. Keats recognizes nobody in the small crowd, and feels no shame in taking a front row seat, his hands clasped idly together as he waits for a spectacle.

[archaeologian-blog]

send me a topic to write a meta about my muse on

I might write anything from a paragraph to a whopping essay, but send me something you’ve noticed about my characterisation or just something you want to know about my muse and I will write what I can!

[horrificmemes]

Werewolf-Themed Starter Sentences

My muse is a werewolf

“I think I’m going to stay in tonight. I’m not feeling well.” “I don’t want to hurt you.” “It hurts.” “It doesn’t hurt.” “I need you to know what I really am.” “Don’t be scared.” “I would never hurt you.” “Sometimes I just can’t control myself.” “I’m dangerous.”

Your muse is a werewolf

“What’s happening to you?!“ “Who made you like this?” “Please…don’t hurt me!” “It’s a full moon tonight.” “Does it hurt when you…you know?” “Is it contagious?” “Tell me how you became like this.” “I’m not scared of you.” “I don’t care what you are.” “I’m scared of you.”

[myersin-a-blog]

* VIOLENT ACTION STARTERS Send me a NUMBER for your muse to : 

001. — Backhand my muse. 002. — Stab my muse.  003. — Put out a cigarette on my muse’s skin. 004. — Hit my muse with a blunt object.  005. — Throw something large at my muse.  006. — Kick my muse. 007. — Punch my muse. 008. — Break one of my muse’s bones. 009. — Scratch my muse. 010. — Headbutt my muse. 011. — Shoot my muse. 012. — Knock my muse out. 013. — Strangle my muse. 014. — Push my muse roughly. 015. — Grab my muse by the hair. 016. — Bruise my muse. 017. — Threathen my muse with an object of harm.  018. — Go to harm my muse’s eyes. 019. — Bite my muse. 020. — Tear away parts of my muse’s skin. 021. — Force my muse’s head under water. 022. — Throw something scalding at my muse. 023. — Burn my muse. 024. — Step on my muse’s fingers. 025. — Rip one of my muse’s teeth out. 026. — Slash my muse’s achilles tendon ( s ). 027. — Clothesline my muse. 028. — Harm my muse enough for them to cough up blood.  029. — Drive into my muse with a vehicle. 030. — Electrocute my muse. 031. — Slam my muse against a wall. 032. — Force my muse’s arm behind their back. 033. — Kick my muse’s crotch. 034. — Trip my muse. 035. — Put my muse in a headlock. 036. — Break my muse’s nose. 037. — Force their fingers down my muse’s throat. 038. — Crack my muse’s head against a wall. 039. — Attempt to kill my muse. 040. — Attempt to kill my muse creatively.

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

Working Tag List

Meet the Editor >> pictures of Keats

Setting >> places/scenery 

The Ego >> out of character posts 

Hm! Not bad at all! >> promotion posts 

Soundbites >> relevant quotes 

Epithets>> Keats’ ‘aesthetic’

Prompts >> prompts, memes, and answers to such

[ruzurifu]

11.07.16

[ruzurifu]

[ambalambs]

I lost my mother when I was very young. My only memory of her is telling bedtime fairytales, about a mysterious village.

The village of Doolin, where the living could meet the dead…

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

There were few blessings that came bundled with having no visible appearance save for the clothes on one’s back, yet one of them was that Belgae could easily hide any and every emotion that his face dared betray, which his voice never would. He gave a soft chuckle, arm sweeping almost theatrically back towards the village center.

“Come, then. The night’s still young enough to discuss more light hearted things, and I’m sure that Ganconer would be more than happy to have a new patron.”

“Yes, I very much believe I need to feel the weight of ‘light hearted things’ today.” Keats smiles a bit wearily, nodding and striding ahead Belgae on the worn path.

 Upon entry, the pub is intimidating for entirely new reasons, and arguably moreso than before. The company seems much too familiar, and it takes some resolve for Keats to enter. He takes his meager steps inside before stalling, holding the door open for Belgae in a gesture of civility.

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

awarriorofwords:

“Ah…colour me thoroughly surprised, then. Not many come here, and fewer still come here without wishing something of this place.” With that, Keats had cemented his position in Belgae’s mind as someone to keep an eye on, watching him pace down the aisles. 

“What sort of inspiration are you looking for, this time, if I might ask? I’d like to be of any help I can, if possible, but I’m still unsure of what particularly catches your interest when it comes to writing your columns.”

”Inspiration?” He feels suddenly as though he’d dropped his proverbial iron axe, silver and gold in the horizon if only he plays his cards right. Keats stalls, thinking of something proper enough to say to keep Belgae’s attention. “For a long while, simply hiding out here was enough. But lately, nothing catches my attention more than you.” He hesitates, head toward the floor.

“Of course I think it’s just a well-constructed ploy. I’ve only seen glimpses of you, only heard fragments of your music that leave me wanting. I spend more time then I’d like to admit conjuring some idea of your face from your voice alone... and yet, for some godforsaken reason, I’m perfectly happy to be strung along as such, just as long as you remain hospitable to me. ”

[awarriorofwords]

theunknownskeptic:

Keats only let out a lighthearted laugh at that, finding the echo remarkable in a place he’d been so used to keeping reserved in.

“I’m a bit old to be your ingenue.” Keats follows the quiet shuffle as Belgae moves around.

“Always. Clarity comes and goes. I like to be where I know I can find it.”

“You say this when you’ve only my voice to judge, you’re very impressed with yourself in that regard, aren’t you?” He leans forward, invisible to Keats but entirely there.

“Then are you truly searching for it if you come here, knowing you can find it? What sort of clarity are you looking for today? Inspiration for your next column, perhaps?”

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

“I’m too old to be anyone’s virgin. I don’t think that’s a stretch or boast by any standard.” Keats begins to pace through the aisles as Belgae’s voice fills the hall.

“I want to make sure there is no room for mistake. The moment I look for content in this place is the moment it ceases to be sacred. All it takes is a little publicity and this place will be the next to go to the trend-hungry public. So no,” he finishes with some indignation, “I will never be here for columns.”

[awarriorofwords]

theunknownskeptic:

Keats had only just settled before the voice came, and surprise very quickly thawed into something much warmer. “You again. I wasn’t expecting you to verify my credentials.” He chuckled, putting away his journal and standing back up. Keats did the same perfunctory search he’d done before to no avail.

“It’s been regarded as curmudgeonly, but I’ll take the praise. Do you plan on keeping yourself hidden still?”

“I’m still deciding on whether to reveal myself or not, but I suppose you could consider me your own person phantom of the opera, if it makes you feel better.” His fingers tap on the old wood, thinking that it needs to be reoiled soon, only to move to another balcony, to the side of Keats.

“Still searching for your clarity, Mister Keats?”

[theunknownskeptic-blog]

Keats only let out a lighthearted laugh at that, finding the echo remarkable in a place he'd been so used to keeping reserved in.

"I'm a bit old to be your ingenue." Keats follows the quiet shuffle as Belgae moves around.

"Always. Clarity comes and goes. I like to be where I know I can find it."