Writing Away The Seasons

Hello, I am Leslie and this is my personal writing blog. I will happily critique, advise, and read anyone's writings. c: My favorite genres are: Fantasy, adventure, historical, action, mystery, psychological, and satire. Of course, I like others, but those are my top favorites.

[writingseasons]

Adolyte

Character's Full Name:  Adolyte Em Windsheern

         Reason or meaning of name: Daughter of the Highborn

Nickname: Addy, Lyte/Light

        Reason for nickname: Polia (her best friend/lady in waiting) couldn’t pronounce her name, and her nurse-maid had decided she glowed like a bright light. She was destined to live a successful life as a duchess.

  Birthdate: Sept. 28

Astrological Sign: Libra

  PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Age: 20 years old

     How old does s/he appear? Looks around her age, if not a big younger.

Eye Color: Orange/Pink

     Glasses or contacts? N/A

Hair color: Vibrant red and pink.

      Distinguishable hair feature (bald, receding hairline, etc.): The red hair goes down past her breasts, is very wavy and curly. Whereas she keeps the pink side pinned up, over her left ear.

      Type of hair (coarse, fine, thick, etc?) Thick, wavy, strong and shiny.

Typical hairstyle:

Usually left down on one side (red), and pinned up on the other (pink). Other times she will keep her hair pinned all the way up, beehive kind of look.

Height: 5’8

Weight: 163 lbs

      Type of body/build:

Her body is curvaceous, as her hips are rather wide and thus so are her shoulders. She has weight on her, plenty of warm fat but because of her height she looks moreso on the thin side.

Nationality:

African; South-African

Skin tone: Medium-Dark, Caramel

Skin type:

Kind of oily, but fairly decent complexion. Not dry, and very lush.

Shape of face:

Square-ish Heart, prominent jaw-bone. Definitely has a slight V-line shape of face.

Distinguishing Marks? Her bright hair, birth-mark in the shape of a dolphin on the back of her thigh. Series of moles/sunspots on her biceps. Tanned biceps, paler forearms. Oh, and a necklace (blue jewel; perhaps aquamarine? with crystal (or perhaps opal?) wings on a gold chain).  --perhaps include that in chapter 1 during the makeover scene

      Scars? A few on her knees and hands from rough playing as a child. Very few. Hardly noticable.

Most predominant feature: Perhaps her nose, which has an odd bridge that appears broken.

      Resembles (famous or not):

Accent?

Not a very thick accent, as she’s had to learn to be conversational in two-three languages minimum. So her voice is able to change to befit what language she is speaking usually.

Is s/he healthy?   Yes.                                               

Physical disabilities: N/A

Physical abilities (what is character good at? sports, etc.): She’s great at talking, really. She isn’t a sporty person, hell, she really doesn’t like the outdoors all that much. She prefers the in-doors, and running around inside. She’s decent at politics, and enjoys talking about the easier things in life. Such as fashion, food, and in particular, important people.

  FAVORITES

Color: Magenta

Music: Jazz, though it doesn’t get played often

Food: Bunny soup

Literature: Not a fan

Expressions: She tends to smile a lot, a large smile filled with lies.

Quote: “The frog hopped away,” meaning someone said no to a good opportunity

Expletive(s) (swears): “Damn” “Hell”

  HABITS

Smokes: Yes

   What? tobacco

   How often?

During parties

Drinks: Yes

   What? Wine, cocktails

      How often?

During parties

Worst bad habit?

Lying. She’s a decent liar, but really does do it too often. Perhaps smoking.

Quirks:

  BACKGROUND

Hometown:

Type of childhood: She was raised rather privileged. Living in a large estate, having a nurse-maid to her beck and call, and a best friend to grow up alongside with. it was a good childhood for her, but she fancied the “single” life. The socialite lifestyle intrigued her greatly.

First memory: She’s sitting at the table, there’s a cake in front of her with a single candle. It’s a small cake, and the shape of the candle is a squiggle. She’s laughing at her nurse-maid, who’s clapping and smiling. A voice, but she does not remember whom’s or the words.

Most important childhood event that still affects him/her:

   Why?

Lower education: privately tutored

Higher education: privately tutored

Booksmart or streetsmart? Booksmart

Religion and/or religious views and/or tendencies? She tends to ignore her religious “duties”, though she is rather religious and does keep in touch with the head priest.

  Firsts:

Job? Duchess

Kiss? Her best friend

Sexual experience? N/A

  FAMILY

Mother (name): Yesnia

    Relationship with her:

Not very close as her mother is always busy with the duties involving money. The vacations, the

Father (name):

      Relationship with him:

Siblings:

   Birth order:

      Relationship with each:

Children of Siblings:

Extended family (aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.):

Close to family?  Yes (sort of)

  WORK

Where does character work?

    How many years?

Relationship with co-workers?

Like his/her job?

      Why or why not?

Dream job:

[writingseasons]

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Seasons' Greetings

What I want to happen: I want to give a slight introduction to Adolyte and her first world. I want the audience to understand off the bat that she's of elegance, and high-class. That she's a partier, and not one for responsibilites. I want to introduce them next to the new world, where she is inducted into becoming a smuggler. For the first time in her life, Adolyte is to do some hard-work. But first, she is to be given a make-over by a "whore". We meet the rest of the cast.

Page 1:

Adoylte is a duchess of twenty-four, and fancies a good time. She's in colonized South Africa type (resemblence) of place, and is rather medium-toned. Right now a social gathering was happening to discuss politics, among other things. They are inside a large room, probably a ballroom and there are people dancing, talking, drinking, and eating.

Page 2:

Panel 1: Adolyte is sitting prettily dressed in a large chair. Looking rather pleased with herself, and a lovely woman in feather-y clothes is talking excitedly, and dramatically. Polia's using hand gestures and has a huge smile on her face, eyes wide.

Polia: Adolyte, you've got to be listening to me! The Duke of Roasendale can surely get /us/ a bit o'

Adolyte: We are having enough here aren't we?

Panel 2: Show some guests; all fancily dressed in bright colors accented by darker ones, black faces/bodies. Bright background, light blue wall, gold lining, large painting behind people.

Polia: Not nearly! Come on, don't you wanna go outside?

Page 3:

Panel 1: Adolyte stands, brushes off Polia. Polia is standing there with the largest smile on her face.

Adolyte: Alright, alright. I will be back then. Go drink, or something.

Polia: Go get 'em Tigress!

Panel 2: Adolyte's moving through the crowd, a hand on a gent as she passes by dancing couples. Some girls are to the left, playing a game.

Panel 3: Duke of Roansdale is standing near the right wall, drinking some wine as he gossips with a lady and another man.

Duke: asjdflk...

Adolyte: Duke!

Panel 4: Suddenly it becomes dark. Pitch black.

Page 4:

Panel 1: It relights, though still dark to where we are looking from Adolyte's perspective down a hallway with several doors.

??: The third door

Panel 2: We see Adolyte now, thoroughly confused.

Adolyte: What?

??: The third door.

Panel 3: We see her looking around.

Panel 4: She moves forward and steps towards the door.

Panel 5: She opens it.

Page 5:

Panel 1: She's in the back of a musty bar, apparently the door she entered from was the bathroom. A whore was standing to her right.

Wench: Oh looky at you. Someone dressed real nice, now, huh?

Panel 2: Wench is setting a table in front of her with two mugs and a pitcher of drink from a bar along the wall of the tavern.

Wench: Sit with me darlin'.

Panel 3: Show Adolyte confused/annoyed at this suggestion.

Panel 4: She takes a seat.

Panel 5: She rests her chin on her hands.

Panel 6: The wench is seated in front of her with a smirk, elbow on table and hand filling her mug.

Page 6:

Panel 1: The wench is looking at her mead, smirk still on her face.

Wench: Whatcha lookin' for hunny?

Panel 2: Adolyte has a sour face, and glares at her mead.

Panel 3: She looks to the side.

Adolyte: Where am I?

//Addie: This must be a bar. What the hell is that smell?

Panel 4: Looks back to the Wench who winks.

Wench: Randy's. In our back section.

Page 7:

Panel 1: The whore teases the frowning woman.

Wench: Your memory must be bad, huh?

Adolyte: I am sure I'll be fine. What is your name?

Panel 2: The whore takes a sip of her mug with a raise of her eyebrow.

Wench: Harleton's what my customers call me. But let's not chat about that, huh, hunny?

Panel 3: Adolyte leans back from the wench, arms crossed.

//Adolyte: Well, let's see if I can't find my way out of here?

Adolyte: Do you know where any ships are? Out of here?

Panel 4/5: Wench grins, and stands with her mug.

Wench: Go'n'see that man ov'r there.

Panel 4/5: Hand holding mug points off in the distance to a man seated with another, and a woman.

Panel 6: Wench takes drink of mug and Adolyte rushes into that direction after a quick nod.

Wench: Cya hunny!

Page 8:

Panel 1: The man is looking over some maps, alone at his table except for another man looking over from the other side of the table. (It's a booth.)

Jaove: So we're supposed to go into Eserna? That's in Lysteria, is it not?

???: Yep. Just right off to the East of it, near the mountains. Some valley I think?

Panel 2: Jaove points at a spot on the map, where he believes Eserna is.

Jaove: That'll take us five days to cross.

Adolyte: Excuse me.

Panel 3: Jaove and the man look to Adolyte who's hands are held together in front of her.

Panel 4: Sly grin appears on man's face, as Jaove just gives a "srsly?" kinda look.

Adolyte: I've got to get back home. I can pay you in...

Panel 5/6: She is looking through her skirts for something.

Page 9:

Panel 1: Dwellin' walks over to the side of the booth's seat, hands out in a grand gesture.

Dwellin': Oh, dun worry about it! You can work it off.

Panel 2: Jaove has an annoyed look on his face. He sighs. Adolyte's face flushes in anger.

Jaove: Didn't we just finish our crew list this morning? I don't think we even have enough guns..

Panel 3: Dwellin' shrugs his shoulders, arms crossed as he eyes the girl.

Dwellin': We can make enough money off of /those/ clothes for more than enough!

Adolyte: My clothes?!

Panel 4: She pushes Dwellin' out of the way, losing her normal diplomatic temper.

Adolyte: Do you know where Javersa is?

Panel 5: Jaove looks to Dwellin' who shrugs, who is now just standing next to the flustered woman.

Page 10:

Panel 1: Jaove leans back, running a hand through his hair.

Jaove: No. How did you get here from .. Javersa?

Panel 2: Jaove flips the map over, to reveal another map underneath. Adolyte takes a seat on the other booth (the one Dwellin' is leaning over).

Adolyte: That is personal.

Panel 3: Jaove has a disgruntled look on his face, and Dwellin' leans over the booth further. Adolyte glares at Dwellin'.

Jaove: Then we can't help.

Dwellin': No, we may know someone! Just, how're you willin' t'pay?

Panel 4: Adolyte's eyes grow wide, and she scoots up against the wall. Dwellin's got a grin on his face.

Dwellin': Just do as we say, and we'll find you home, 'kay?

Adolyte: ...

Panel 5: Jaove slips the old map back over, and glares at the both of them.

Jaove: If you want to get home, then that's your only chance. Good luck finding someone else who will take ya for "free".

Panel 6: He's looking over the map again, and Adolyte relaxes.

Page 11:

Panel 1/2: Adolyte stands up and holds her hand out to Jaove, offering a handshake to confirm the deal. Jaove shakes his head, refusing to shake her hand.

Adolyte: Fine. I'll play along.

Jaove: Dwellin's captain. I'm just the navigator.

Panel 3: Dwellin' grins, holding his own hand out to the girl.

Dwellin': Good, now we've got a date with Harley ov'r there!

Panel 4: Hands clapsed together, Adolyte is confused for a moment.

Adolyte: Harley? Harleton?

Panel 5: Dwellin' takes her by the hand towards the back room, leaving Jaove behind.

Jaove: We should be leaving tomorrow, or the next day. Do not be long.

Dwellin': We're waitin' on a shipment! We fine.

Page 12:

Panel 1: Harleton is sitting on a man's lap, laughing.

Wench: So I told 'er, "go right on up! I'll be here, drinkin' all your money."

Man: Is that so? Heh.

Panel 2: Dwellin' takes a seat, pulling Adolyte next to him and presents her to Harley who looks pleased.

Wench: Oh, hunny! And Dwellin'.

Panel 3: Dwellin' lets go of Adolyte and places his fingers under his chin.

Dwellin': I want you to get rid of that clothing. Show her what she'll have to wear. She's part of our crew now, y'kno.

Adolyte: There is a dress code? What is this? Private school?

Panel 4: Harley stands and waves off the man, who grumbles but gets up anyway.

Panel 5: Harley pulls out Adolyte's arms, measuring her quickly. Man sitting at another table with his mates.

Wench: It'll cost ya, as clothing ain't cheap, Dwellin'. But you can handle that, right, hunny?

Adolyte: I am not getting rid of my clothes!

Page 13:

Panel 1: They are in a bathroom (rather large, but clean. Clothes everywhere, make-up on the sink.) Wench is holding up a skirt, and some leggings. Adolyte's viewpoint.

Adolyte: Do I really have to wear that?

Wench: Do you want to die?

Panel 2: The wench laughs and tosses away the skirt. Forcing Adolyte to take the leggings.

Wench: Just kidding! --Maybe.-- Dwellin's crew is always finding new ones.

Panel 3: Adolyte's face is confused, frustrated perhaps. The situation is causing her to melt from realizing she's stuck doing something at someone else's whim.--note {{Perhaps dream could explain this?}}--

Adolyte: New ones? Recruits?

Panel 4: Adolyte is now fully dressed, lended clothing from the wench, and sits down on the toilet seat (closed). -Fwump!- She looks discouraged almost. Wench is smiling smugly, standing arms crossed.

Wench: Well, yea. Muscle, y'kno? Well, I need money. Take your time, bye hunny!

Panel 5/6: Wench leaves with a quick wave.

[writingseasons]

Story: -Who sent Addie there? How? Well, I guess I need to know a bit more about her and Polia's back stories to figure out who, huh? But how is an easier question to answer. How this was done is simple; magic. There is indeed magic in her world, however there is little of it and it is hard to harness. They are sort of an advanced Lysteria. By her time Sashin had fallen despite it's technological advancement.

Chapter 2:

-Addie is left to find her way back to the bar. Deciding to take her time and look around the house, she looks at the walls, mostly blank but with a few paintings and the like. -Addie makes her way to the kitchen, at the front of the apartment and looks inside of the fridge, seeing a bowl of something. She pulls it out, and some fruit. It's rotten. Making a face she decides it's best to not eat here. Much less touch it again. The sink is there next to her, but it is not working. Where did this woman bathe, if not home? Eat? Did she need not to? -Addie sighs, and bites her lower lip. If she stays here, there was no way she was getting home. She had to go, leave this place. Step outside and see if she couldn't find those two men. Ew. -Out in the dusty streets of Sashin, Addie is walking against the flow in the center of the street. Everyone else is sticking to underneath the multi-story buildings, and in the alleys.

[writingseasons]

Her memories were gone, locked into the little, red box in the corner. It sat there, soft voices bouncing inside of its’ walls, the lights and colors shined ever so faintly from the cracks. It was her legacy, all she left behind for him. The auburn-haired boy sniffled. He was in the center of the room. To his left sat a chair, and behind him, the body. To his right was a large window, just starting to shatter. A scream, a deafening scream wanted to burst its’ way out of his chest, but he fought it. His chest heaving, his breath coming out in labored, and collective gasps. He was intoxicated by the death in the room, and he was going to run out of oxygen. Instead of screaming though, he fell. Down and out the window. Shards of glass glittered all around him, and he looked like an angel to the gardener below.

  An angel fell that day, and a demon raised in its’ place. The sirens could be heard in the distance, a horn cutting across the crisp air of the small town. His neck wasn’t broken, but his skull was fractured and he was lucky to be barely breathing. Blood coated the grass, and his arm was bent in an obscure angle. Cops arrived and the boy was taken from the site; loaded onto the ambulance like a deer that was to be sent to the chop shop. The little box sat there in the corner, the colors still seeping through, the soft voices and sounds still heard.

  ---

  Gunther (goon-ter) had been awake for a week now, tortured by his memories for a week now. The memorial service happened yesterday, but he couldn’t go. Gunther was stuck with his thoughts in the ICU.

[writingseasons]

Landen

Basics

  Name (& pronunciation): Landen Losender (lan-den loss-ender)

Date of Birth (& age): August 4th

Place of Birth: Murlayfield, Ilragorn

Gender: male

Species/Racial Origin: human

Social Class/Community Status: High class, general of the royal guard

Family/Friends/Pets/Etc:

  Physical Description

  Height: 5’9

Weight: 145lbs

Hair: pretty blonde, often greased back. when there’s no grease it is curly and almost like a jewfro. a loose jewfro!

Eyes: blue/gray and they are slanted and open eyed.

Limb Dexterity: pretty fucking dextrous.

Detailed Physical Description: He’s square shaped. Muscular, of course. He’s got medium skin, however it’s on the light side since it’s often hid underneath all of his armor. his nose is crooked, and the bridge is broken. However, it used to be straight.

Typical Clothing/Equipment: Typically he wears armor. In all honesty, he rarely takes it off. When he does take it off, he’s seen in simple drapery clothes. Often blues and reds.

  Personality/Attributes

  Personality/Attitude: He’s proud of himself, proud of his guardsmen. He’s a bit egotistical, and definitely authoritative. He’s looking to please the king, but mostly to please himself and have ladies fawn over him. He’s one to take pleasures right then and there, believes living a full life means taking advantage of everything, and almost everyone.

Skills/Talents:

Favourites/Likes:

Most Hated/Dislikes:

Goals/Ambitions:

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Fears:

Hobbies/Interests:

Regular Routine:

Philosophy of Life:

Attitude Toward Death:  

Religion/Beliefs:

Fetishes/Strange Behaviors:

Most Instructive/Painful/Memorable Experience:

Sexual Preference/Experience/Values:

Education/Special Training:

Place/Type of Residence:

Occupation:

Place of Work:

Work-related Skills:

Past Occupations:

Memberships:

Additional Notes

[writingseasons]

(Perhaps make this be similar to the Purge?)

  Twists and turns, up this alley, down that one, and in circles we go. That’s how you make your way to the Burnin’ Stallion where the most recent murder had happened. Another small child, a fourth from the shady town, Torinaet. The screams were heard around the first hour of the new day. There were few people who understood the way the children often died, and even fewer practiced. Things are about in the year fourteen of Domiscus. The Burnin’ Stallion is known for it’s violence and crime rates, however it is not normal for children to be attacked.

  Many citizens of Torinaet expressed surprise and shock at the attack of children, why the children? What have children ever done to a person to make them kill? The authorities wondered about the murderer, what kind of man would do this? Some speak of a woman being the culprit, but no one is truly sure at this moment, about anything involving this odd, string of cases.

[writingseasons]

Mirakit Brassmolder

Basics

  Name (& pronunciation): Mirakit Servina Brassmolder (me-rah-kit s-er-ven-ah brass-moh-l-der)

Date of Birth (& age): april 12 (17)

Place of Birth: Beckinsale, Lysteria

Gender: Female

Species/Racial Origin: Dwarf/Human halfling

Social Class/Community Status: Blacksmith, lower class

Family/Friends/Pets/Etc:

  Physical Description

  Height: 5’

Weight: 130 lbs

Hair: It curls out of her face. Looks windblown, and is a dark-brown. It’s loose curls, big and round. She’s always pushing it out of her face.

Eyes: Round, but squinted. There’s almost always dark circles under them and around them, and also they are a dark hazel.

Limb Dexterity: Not too terribly dextrous, though her arms are the most dextrous of her limbs.

Detailed Physical Description: Her skin is of the light side of olive, but it’s tanned from being in front of the fires and heat. Her body is rectangle shaped, and she has scars all up and over her arms, legs, and tummy. A few were self harm, but most just from smithing. Her nose is a bit flat, and definitely broad. Calloused hands and feet.

Typical Clothing/Equipment: Her typical clothes are often dark, either originally or became that way. They’re burnt and thin, but she doesn’t mind. They aren’t form fitting, and rather are baggy. Often she wears one pieces, not dresses. No, a shirt built with pants, really. 

  Personality/Attributes

  Personality/Attitude: She’s reckless, unrefined, and verry independent. She’s a loner whom doesn’t necessarily enjoy it, but she doesn’t seem to mind it very often either. However, she craves adventures. She craves new things, in fact, she truly craves being someone that’s of importance. She’s got this air about her that says she knows what she is doing. That she’s in charge.

Skills/Talents:

Favourites/Likes:

Most Hated/Dislikes:

Goals/Ambitions:

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Fears:

Hobbies/Interests:

Regular Routine:

Philosophy of Life:

Attitude Toward Death:  

Religion/Beliefs:

Fetishes/Strange Behaviors:

Most Instructive/Painful/Memorable Experience:

Sexual Preference/Experience/Values:

Education/Special Training:

Place/Type of Residence:

Occupation:

Place of Work:

Work-related Skills:

Past Occupations:

Memberships:

Additional Notes

[writingseasons]

Chapter 1: Mission: Get to the Inn & Introduce him and his mission

Today was the day he was free. Sashin’s streets were filled today with young fools, setting out on adventures. Some to never come back, and many scared into working in factories. Timothy, a good gent whom stood with his copper hair slicked back underneath his top-hat, decorated by the gent himself with cogs and gears that glinted in the sun’s fading light. “Just the evening,” he began looking at the old, green door. “That is where my life shall begin! I’m heading out Alabaster, making my way to the ol’ temples. They say they’re up in the crags near the ol’ lands. Up north, don’t you see that direction?” Now the white Persian cat was pulled up into the gent’s arms, getting more white fur all over his clothes.

  The cat didn’t care, his mechanical ear twitching, he just enjoyed the hand of his savior running against his fur. Alabaster used to hate it when he pet him like this, but it seemed his side had at least healed. Allowing for the mechanical cage around his side to work as it should, protecting the animal’s tender insides. Tim had to remind himself that he would need to pay attention to this daily. “There’s a place nearby,” he whispered to his cat, stepping away from the door and down the steps to the streets below. “It’s a floating inn, one in the sky. We shall sleep there.”

  Ever since he was young, he had held an interest in that inn. Despite all the rumors, he had his mind set on going there. The lad began to navigate the streets he called home, for the last time. He didn’t know this then, but he would never be able to make it back home. His feet took him past his old hotspots, a diner on the corner of some crossing, a few friends’ houses up in the buildings, and the pizza joint that was just going out of business. He waved sadly to the pizza place, as he passed it and made it closer to the bus stop. On the bus he sat in the back, Alabaster just barely passing under their noses. “Alright Alabaster, we gotta make this quick,” he whispered to his companion who just purred. Sighing, this was not the same as having a friend with him. Maybe he’ll make some, you never know after all.

  So many people crowded themselves on the small vehicle, making it harder to breathe, and harder to keep the cat calm. Some were singing, there was two girls giggling and falling over everyone, some guys looking like they really didn’t want to be there. At one stop, half the bus got off and half of that came back on. New faces, same amount. This happened a few more times before Timothy got fed up with it and nearly ran off the bus. He was now several cities away and unsure of where he was. He hoped this was where the inn was, the lady did say that, right? That it’d be in Juroa? Oh well, even if it wasn’t he’d find his way to it. Timothy just knew it, he was one with a sense of direction.

  As he hoped, his feet brought him upon the floating inn. It certainly stood out like a sore thumb compared to the tilting, vertical buildings made out of metals and stone. It really brought out the feeling of difference that the country of Sashin felt. “Well, hello,” Tim greeted the lanky, almost dangerous looking ladder that led up to the inn. Making his way up the ornately painted steps, he decided he would greet the innkeeper with his cat under a table. Luckily enough for Tim there was a table near the door, several, in fact were crowded in the decently furnished belly of the ship. “Hello sir, oh and a cat! How majestic! Her name?” Timothy nearly jumped six feet in the air, causing the man to laugh. “Calm ye’self kid! Calm, haha. Food or drink? Where ye from?”

  Timothy sat at the bar, allowing Alabaster to prowl around on his own. The cat decided to be lazy and stick by his master’s side, sitting underneath his feet. “Food, please. And ah, his name is Alabaster. I saved him. Milk please, and bread. Or soup?” Timothy wasn’t sure what to ask for exactly, he’d never been in an inn before so he did not know the routine.

  However he pulled it off well enough in front of the innkeeper, “Soup? And bread? Ain’t ye the simple kind? A’ight. Four sashes, and two slaints.” This made Timothy wince, four sashes!? He had to be kidding him. He pulled the coins out anyway, the sashes were thicker and were similar to a wax seal (instead though with the face of their dictator), while the slaints looked more like simple copper coins. He didn’t get knucks very often, only if he paid over. “Here ye go.” The food was set on the bar, then the coins were taken up.

  “Thanks.” Tim set the cat’s milk on the ground, who greedily lapped at it. The inn-keeper was of shorter stature than Tim, and he was much rounder though not obese. He held a sort of charm about him, and his black hair stood up in different ways. He wasn’t a very clean fellow, but he ran a nice establishment. Sipping his soup he listened to the inn-keeper rattle on about news from Lysteria.

  “They say they’re gonna come right in, swooping in like hawks from below and take us! Take all these kids and turn them to slaves, they say.” The man nodded to himself, drying some glasses with a rag. “Y’know anyone from up there?”

  “No, can’t say I do. Hey mister, how much is a room?” Timothy adjusted his jaw, keeping it tight to avoid letting a yawn out.

  “Just a sash, it’s not much.” A sash was given to him, “Room to the left.” The inn-keeper noticed he didn’t finish his soup as Timothy stood up and checked on his cat, who had finished his milk, and scooped him up. “Have a g’night.” A wave of a finger and Tim was making his way to the rooms below middeck. In the small room, he noticed there was just enough space to set his bag of gear on the table.

  Slipping out of his outdoor wear he slipped under the sheets, snuggling down for the night. His eyes closed and sleep came rather quickly for the young man. It swept him off to the dream world, allowing for things to take place.

  Chapter 2: The Break-In

In the early hours of the morning there came two new patrons. Just walking straight in, one was a bit taller than Timothy, and the other just barely shorter. The siblings looked around, taking in the layout for the first time. They had spent months doing guesswork, for Jack did not believe in letting others do anything. Jack’s grey eyes found what he was looking for, the door behind the bar. It led to the captain’s room, where the inn-keeper lay, sleeping much like Tim. “A’ight, go check it out.” Nodding his dark-blue head towards his lighter colored sister.

She nodded and made her way towards the back where Tim lay. Jack made his way behind the bar, then pulled at the door to find it was locked. He expected this and pulled out his case of “emergency supplies”. In there were some lockpicks, of which he pulled out one and slipped it into the door’s lock, taking a second one he jammed it up in some kind of angle. (Research how to pick locks, again.) The lock clicked as the tumbles worked and were set into motion by the pick, pulling both away and slipping them back into their casing the dark-haired gent opened the creaky door.

  As he thought, the old man laid on his bed, passed out. Exactly how it should be, were his thoughts. He pulled from his side a long sword. “Get up,” Jack commanded the old man as he used the handle to smack the man as he slept across the face. This awoke him with a cry, which was quickly changed into strangled whimpers by the tip that poked into his throat, just threatening to cut. “Get, up.” This time the old man moved to rise out of bed, but Jack kept his eyes on him and the sword to his throat. “Where’s that damned treasure?” The old man shook his head, licked his lips, tried to speak but nothing came out. “Quit your damn blubbering! Tell me, now.” There was a crash, and a curse escaped from his lips.

  Jill screamed something at Jack, calling his name and probably demanding he make his way over there. However he was busy right now with the owner of the inn. The stupid old man was shaking, like a pathetic dog!

[writingseasons]

Ever After High OC

((So, here's my OC sheet for Ever After High. <3 Feel free to send me an ask if you wanna play with my OC. (: Pics will be up in a bit.))

Name: Mary-Elane Parent: Daughter of Virgin Mary from Mary's Child

Age: Fifteen Birthday: June 4th Year: Junior 

Roommate: Open Secret Heart's Desire: A tattoo artist, because what's more fun than creating art that lasts a life-time? Certainly not kids! My "Magic" Touch: I'm a good sleuth, as I pay attention to forbidden places and adventure them without getting caught... well, for the most part.  "Oh, Curses!" Moment: Anytime I'm stuck having to lie to a teacher or student about what exactly I'm up to.... Forbidden places just give me so many ideas for new art pieces! Ughh

Storybook Romance Status: No crush, though I do have a husband picked out for me... I just can't imagine being with him though.  Side: Royal 

[writingseasons]

Four floors up and one couldn’t even see down to the third, as the fog was that thick tonight. He had found himself in a new den, rather dissatisfied with who he had come across. Jerkles, a man of about five feet and a half, with the stature of a stocky lizard, was the dealer. He had found a way to harvest a similar strand to the ever so popular ‘Flower’. This one, called ‘Spicey 2.0’ wasn’t too special, besides the fact it was cheaper and easier to find (for some reason this man had decided to give it away like candy). The way Dwellin’ was feeling on it was hyper-aware about the too much moisture, and how cold the metal railing he leaned against felt, which, also made his hands clammy from gripping it. It made the rugged brunette remember back when he first got into the motion of checking out other dealers’ stuff. He had a sense of entitlement, really, and felt as if he was always better than even the bad-asses of the bunch.

Talk was mingling in the background, though he could definitely understand every word, every mispronounciation a bit too well. It was irritating him more than hearing the liquid from the misty fog puddling atop his head from the rickety, metal walk-way above his head. He sighed, and turned around to face the dealer’s door again; feeling just about ready to tell him his shit was okay (actually, it sucked compared to the real thing) and leave. He didn’t get the chance with noticing Jerkles had left the room. He saw a few blondes, a chick with black hair, and Jerkles’s main guy; an orc who usually stood by the door biding his time for a brawl.

"Th’ ‘ell he go?" Dwellin’ asked Port, the orc who was just a bit taller than the large merc; who was now running a hand through his oily shoulder-length hair. It was slightly wavy, curling up at the tips, and the fuzz on his face itched for some reason.

"Outta that back way. You don’ need to go there, though. So keep on movin’, or want some more?" There were plenty of seeds, which they used instead of the flowers that blossomed from them. The seeds were smoked, that, or broiled into an odd mixture that could be injected into the bloodstream. Much less effective than his own, as it was the scent of the flower alone that worked. 

[writingseasons]

This isn't quite a starter post, but it was one of my favorite posts involving my character Anson:

Anson started walking away when Marienne agreed. His mind was on navigating his way to the store, and getting in and out as fast he possibly could. His red eyes were watching the sky, as the clouds moved over them. The light was diminishing quicker than normal, and he could smell the change in the wind. Rain was coming, but it would not be right away. Perhaps around the time he got out of the shop it would start. He was twisting his way through them, crossing streets quickly to enter others. A few times he had been slowed down by something catching his robings. Often an old bar from a fence, or a trashcan of some sort. Entering his fourth alleyway, the prophet's stick entered a pothole, one that had mud. It stuck causing him to lunge forward. A shadow was above him, and it was not from the dwindling light. A body, in black clothes was on a walkway next to the building, along the second floor. "And what do we's got 'ere?" 

Anson's red eyes looked up to the man, older than him by a long shot. He had black hair, neatly trimmed unlike his grizzly beard. "Nothin' but a wandering prophet," he replied loudly enough to be heard, but not for his voice to be carried far. Their eyes locked, and the others' widened slightly, surprise at the distinct color. Whispers had gotten around about this boy; Anson was seen as a fool. A low-lifer. 

"Is that so?" He jumped down, in front of him, and kicked the boy's large staff with a foot. "Well, since you're leeching offa our lands, whatcha doing running?" He grinned, and Anson noticed the scars on his neck and hands. One sat in the man's pocket, to the left of his trench coat. The stick had been pulled free at this point, and Anson looked around him. Narrow alley, only about two-and-a-half people wide. There was no ladder to the system of walk-ways above them, but there was an unstable trashcan he could use. The staff would help keep it stable. The man watched the boy's eyes, but could not see what exactly he was looking at due to his bangs. "Looky here, kid," when the man stepped forward Anson swung his staff into him, slamming the man into the wall. 

The boy jumped up onto the trash can, the lid slipping beneath his feet as he reached up and grabbed the edge of the walk-way. The man was already coming at him, and so Anson heaved himself up, using his legs to kick him back. "Little shit! Rynon, get over 'ere!" The man was calling to one of his comrades, he was up on the walk way that Anson had scrambled onto, just ahead on the other side of the building most likely. He was sitting on it now, and swung his staff, as the man had simply been sent backwards a step or two. The man went back to the wall, and groaned. Time to run. Anson pulled up his staff and turned to start running to the other side of the building, following the walk-way.

Henna was watching Marienne, who kept glimpsing over at Leander. She couldn't help but wonder if Marienne had been there when Leander's tongue was removed. Then she realized Anson had wandered off. "Were you there when he couldn't talk?" She started walking ahead, and looked back at the two of them to make sure they were following. Then she heard the scream, and cursed under her breath. Her hand went to her face, rubbing her eyes, before she started running to the scene. A hand went into her pocket and she pulled out a small vial from it; where many were. An assortment of poisons were what most of these vials consisted of, however a few were filled with helpful ingredients. Some were to fight infections, others to clot blood. The one she had chosen was a poison made from a combination of Oleander and Lily-Of-The-Valley. She slicked her blade, pulled from her boot. She had gone down the wrong alley, twice, but was there before the man had gotten up onto the walk-way after Anson. Thank god for his staff, it made him easier to find. The man turned, seeing the tag-a-longs, and growled. 

"Th' fuck you want?" He let go of the walk-ways edge, dropping down and walking over to her with a sneer on his ugly face. She smiled, and stabbed him in the gut, slicing up. His face changed, as the man hadn't been warranting that he was going to die today. He growled, pulling out his own, but was already bleeding out very fast. His stomach felt upset, as the toxins entered and pulsed through his blood stream. His stomach had been ripped, and she stepped backwards. 

"Anson?" She called out, having lost sight of the boy when she had to deal with the man who was now vomiting blood, wailing for support to come. He would not live to see the moon tonight. 

[writingseasons]

Another, but this time with Sophy. This was originally a starter for a circus-themed roleplay:  Sophirena had been watching the outside of the world since before dawn, waiting to see anything odd at this bar. Since she had turned nineteen the brunette had started to spend more and more time at the bars. It was not uncommon to see the girl working on some kind of weapon made from metal. She'd stick pieces together between her short fingers, finding a way to make them work together so that whenever you pressed here, a bullet would come out, or more likely a blade popped out and was sent flying through the air. More than once she had injured a person on accident, and started a few brawls. 

Tonight however, was only but the drink, and a small mechanical bird to keep her busy. Her auburn hair that reached her mid-back was bothering her in this heat. Pulling it up into a loose bun, leaving her side bangs to cover her forehead and cheeks, she decided to leave as the night was over. "C'ya lat'r Jane," she waved to the bartender who gave a similar farewell with a nod of her head, and Sophy left the bar from the side door. It opened up to the right of the building, and they were on the second story. The buildings here created a good skyline; tall and unwavering. Some seemed crooked amongst the skyline this morning, but she blamed the fog that was rolling in. 

All of a sudden, the thought of adventuring west seemed like a good idea as she got closer and closer to the old two bedroomed apartment she continued to rent. She'd been living here since she was about eight, or nine. Perhaps it was time to move on? So the girl went inside, looking around at the dimmed living room, finding almost nothing of interest. Inside of her room, the room to the left of the small hall-way on the right, she found only a few clothes of interest. Besides her current dress that was layered by several layers of various shades of a light brown, going to even a thick brown on the jacket and her boots; she found a trench coat and some pants and a few shirts. These went into her canvas bag, which she had to empty of parts to sort through.

When all was said and done at her apartment, it was getting close to noon and she was tired. Resting would be a good idea, but for some reason she had to get out of there. Grandfather must be pushing her to move on now, saying that the mourning had to be over. 

So off she went, to the west, sleeping on a bus. Buses were not common in Sashin, and cars were just about non-existent. It was about air-travel here, not ground traveling. It mattered whether or not you got the next shipment that was meant to come in, as you never had to go after anything yourself unless you were an underling here. 

Sophy was a nobody. Had little income coming in from doing reclusive work on building a few armories for buyers, and was even interested in the Hunts Guild; where it was a "family" of hunters and trackers. Those who kept track of and up-to-date with those they considered demon, and special kinds of folk. The elves, even dwarves were fine and nothing too special, especially since they did not really live on this continent. It was other breeds, mostly ones that could be made; shapeshifters, lycanthropes, vampires, and more. You had to keep your eye on 'em, especially in Sashin where "crime" was the way to live. 

She fell asleep on the bus, unaware that she was probably going to have to be reawoken to reach any kind of destination at all. 

[writingseasons]

I decided, why not post some of my starter roleplay posts? So the plot idea behind this starter is basically telling the story of my fledgling vampire hunting down her master who ran for one reason or another. So here's one starter: 

Four months, on the seventh of the year, since the whores had been left behind, dead, all over their; correction, her room. It took her about two months to figure out a new way to gather money, as he had taken everything from her but the room and her clothes. Everything of theirs, and his. Clothing, journals (all of them but one that neither had written in, and the brown-leather journal still lay there on the end table where it's been since the morning she awoke.), money (even that from the bank), and any maps. He left no clues or hints as to where he had gone, and she even went to the weekly meetings amongst the society instead of just the monthly.

People noticed early on that he was missing, and Anquin became moreso the butt of many jokes. A handicapped vampire, left all alone without a single dime to her name. What was it she was to do? No one wanted to help her, and to be quite frank, she wanted no help. She was already concocting plans as that morning she had awoken amongst the dead whores, she had found a new business. Apparently there was a business not for exactly killing people, though many mercenaries and sell-swords did live in and around the city, but really there was a business for bringing the dead to the school of medicine. 

That, or to private collectors and eccentrics. Who was the wiser to a vampire quickly becoming the lead supplier of dead bodies? She could get you anyone you wanted; heart disease? No problem. Obesity and smoker? No problem. Hell, she could even find a drowned, but otherwise healthy child to supply. She didn't care about moralities, afterall he had taught her that those were but constructs to make the being more afraid of having to do what they needed to. In this case, that was killing. 

Vampirism, to the black-skinned woman of twenty-three (despite being turned at eighteen), was but a new means of living life. In fact, it was a more powerful way of living life. He had taught her to use the "disability" to her advantage, as others would assume she's weaker than them. Not nearly as fast, or strong, or perhaps even nearly as intelligent. 

She was at another elegant party, meeting really if you were to call it for what it was, and this week the theme was a dark green; emeralds were in. She rejected this theme, and wore rubies and vibrant red fabrics that made her reddish-brown eyes more vibrant, and her curves seemed to pop-out better. The rule was to dress as provocatively as possible, Oddly enough, that seemed to translate to who had the bigger dick in these cases.

Finally she heard word of a place she imagined he could be in right now, and smiled. That was where she was going to have to go look, and good-bye shitty Hungarian town. Hungary was a good home to her, but at this point, she had more interest in finding where that scumbag went and showing him what her mind had become with his absence. "Germany's where Lycrean is going for this summer. I overheard him just last night," the woman who was speaking was a short, blonde haired woman named Caterina. Her price had been her ability to persuade people as she was once able to, but that did not stop her from being well-liked by the community. Germany, huh? Anquin had not thought of that place, nor considered it. She figured she might as well listen for a while longer, and whilst doing so she met a few new people. Guiding them to the idea that perhaps vampires shouldn't be so secretive, and hiding in plain sight. 

She found out that Germany, where Lycrean was visiting, was particularly a city along the river of Saale. By the following night she was on a train heading that way, head down and reading a book quietly as one of the few passengers on the cart. 

[writingseasons]

So, let me tell you about my lore on vampires. Feel free to use it and junk; I don't care.

They are changed by the draining of blood, and being forced to feed on new blood. (So obviously you'll want another human around. Typically it's an orphan, a nobody. Small bodied since the new vampire is weak.) When the draining happens and the changes start taking affect, a particular mark appears on their body. This mark is the mark of their "creator" who pretty much owns the fledgling. For example, my character Anquin has this vibrant red series of arrows pointing up; they go from her left hip, across her spine in a curve, and onto her right shoulder.

Easily considered a tattoo. They also lose something; a kind of emotion. There's always a price to pay, even when the fledgling is not willing. For Anquin, the price was her curiosity. Her desire to learn, her caring about what others' know. She could ask questions, but they're always formalities. She doesn't care, hell, to her, they're rhetorical even if they don't appear to be. She has a hard time forming questions however.

[writingseasons]

Glancing at the other player, he noticed he stood straight, his form was well-controlled. Anson's red eyes held steady on him, and yet he did nothing. The white-haired boy didn't even pull his stick from his side. This made his opponent falter, and he eyed the young boy. He couldn't have been more than eleven, and his eyes were such a vibrant color. It was starking, even with the shade of building looming over them. The crowd started to yell, complaining, so the older male sent out a hit at less than half-force. A scoff came from him, never taking his eyes off of him as he whispered, "Saint Elysrya of God Juara, let them hear your roar," his own arm-length stick meeting his, soundly. The guy had to take his eyes away from Anson's, as the child feigned a strike, which he guarded against. The child took this oppurtunity to jab his armpit as he stepped to the side. Sent with a shock, the guy was down, gripping at his left arm. The cloth had been ripped there, and a mark shown where he had been jabbed with the stick.

Uproaring laughter came from the mob, and a guy came forward holding the money for the boy. "Great jobber', kid! Where'd ye learn that, ye little shit?" Anson took the money from him, looking into the bags, and jangling each.

"Just a trick Saint Elysrya of God Juara have blessed me with," his red eyes met his, and the smile fell from his face for a moment. He nodded and patted his back, then went back into the mob.Usually they would talk to you again, because you had been champion. Champions were able to choose to go again, and try a stronger opponent. He had proven no match for Anson, having taken him for granted. Anson had been out here for what, several months now? And the neighboring towns and provinces for most of his years now?

He found the guy, and grabbed his coat. "You're going to let me bet I can win again, won't you? I'll bet all of this, huh?" He held out the two coin bags, and the guy looked around, laughing with a few.

"What? Ye're fuckin' martyr, huh? Alright, Slimi?"

[writingseasons]

So.. I guess I'll vent about a pet peeve of mine, when it comes to roleplaying. I'm up-front about how I can be a very slow rper sometimes, and that I do my best. I am now even upfront about being socially awkward. (due to a situation where basically missing one day of being able to say hello, to agonizing days and shit where she responded, and I saw it several hours late, where I couldn't bring myself to say "hi" back for a while. At last I got the balls (the emotions just happened, and Yea, I get irrational fears often, but they'ved lessened) and she finally addressed it, and I learned my lesson.)

Apologies for that agonizing, run-on sentence. Eh, it's cut short. Anyway, here lately I haven't been getting replies. I never did a follow-up, because I feel that's rude. Smart, right? I just don't really care to. I want someone enganging entirely on their own for a while, before doing follow-ups. I may even ask one if she wants to do a new one, less slow. Decisions terrify me greatly. Well, this was highly self-critical. I'll get to a drabble probably.

[writingseasons]

So, guys. I wanted to make an official post about how I am accepting submissions and work for critiques and editing. I am more than happy to do this through the blog or email. If you would like through email, send me an ask about it and I will share. (:

I am open to questions and the like, as well. I haven't been very fruitful with my writing lately, but I will definitely get around to writing more sometime. Hopefully starting next week! (: