AmongHeroes
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Always Searching For The Next Great Story
Hello there,
I am AmongHeroes, and I'm happy you're here. I am an experienced roleplayer, writer, and fantastical creator.
♠ - I am an adult in my 30's. As such, I prefer to write with other adults.
♠ - Though I am capable of embodying many varied characters, in 1 x 1 settings I prefer writing as a heterosexual male with a generally dominant/masculine aura.
♠ - Genres I enjoy range from low & high fantasy, sci-fi, horror, gothic, romance, dark romance and noir.
♠ - Adult themes are welcome including violence, sexual encounters, etc.
Do feel free to reach out to me for partnership inquiries or for friendly interaction. I look forward to seeing you 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑒𝑠 we create.
I am made from the stardust of Her heart. Linked beyond time and moons and stars, in every life a soul fitted indelibly to a universe woven in the shape of Her claim.
Most Recent Posts
Fate has its own ideas about when to ruin your best laid plans. I can attest to that, fantasyfan. No worries at all, and the best of luck to you in the future. It was fun to have you with us.
The New Yorker said
Yeah, I was worried about bringing in something too familiar but I also think I can put enough spin on him to make him unique. I am interested, is the Judeo-Christian God all powerful in this world? What about Satan? Is the eternal battle still being waged?
No, he's not all powerful. In this universe all gods from any culture and religion you can think of exists and kind of possesses equal influence over the world. In reality it of course makes no sense, but for the purposes of allowing as much diversity in characters and such, it works. If you want your character to have been created in the crucible of the conflict between God and Satan, then go for it. Just be aware that such personal backstory isn't allowed to take over the main RP.
New Yorker, welcome and thanks for your interest. Limey, well, you know you are of course welcome here. I look forward to seeing what you both come up with for characters.
A soft but persistent knock on his cabin door brought Captain Thomas Lightfoot to wakefulness. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the spears of dusty light that shone through the gaps in his drawn curtains. With an ease and swiftness that defied the throbbing in his head, Thomas pulled himself erect off of his cot, and walked upon bare feet to the door. As he passed the chair where he had hung his bandolier, Thomas withdrew a pistol, and locked back the flint.
“Who is it?” Thomas said, his voice dark and raspy from the dryness in his throat.
There was an almost imperceptible chuckle from the other side of the door, and a voice that spoke in soft Japanese. Though Thomas spoke little of the language of the Far East, he recognized the voice instantly. With a smile upon his face, Thomas carefully disarmed his pistol and opened the door.
There on the other side of the entrance was a short, wrinkled, and kindly looking Japanese man. The man’s dim eyes looked up to Thomas through a seemingly endless array of folded skin, with a smile drawing up the corners of his mouth like the bustled fabric of elaborate draperies. The man was dressed in traditional Japanese garb that was clean but obviously very old. His hair was gray-white, cut and shaved into a well-oiled top knot. Hanging over his thin shoulders was a large piece of cloth that was tied across his chest, and held what looked like a tall wooden box against his back.
The man’s smile broadened, and he bent at the waist to bow slightly to Thomas.
Immediately Thomas returned the man’s gesture, though he made certain that his bow took him much lower than his precursor’s.
“Goro-san,” Thomas said, “I’ll admit that I forgot you were coming this morning.”
The tiny man chuckled, and replied in heavily accented, but clear English. “I thought as much. Your father was no different.”
Goro shuffled past Thomas, his wooden shoes clicking softly upon the Skate’s decking.
“Though you shared no blood with him,” Goro said as he began to untie the knot in the fabric sling, “you are truly Lightfoot’s son. I know he would be drunk with pride if he could see you today.”
Thomas nodded and closed the door. Goro had taken the box from the sling now, and had set it upon the floor. It was a fine box, crafted of rich lacquered wood and protected with delicate brass filigree at the corners. With reverent and disciplined movements, Goro kneeled in front of the box, and began pulling out the thin drawers.
“Goro-san,” Thomas said, still using the moniker of respect for the ancient friend of his adopted father, “your words do my heart good. To be compared to such a man is no light compliment.”
This elicited another chuckle from Goro, and the man affixed Thomas with his inky gaze. “I never said anything about that being a compliment.” Goro beckoned Thomas over with a wave of a hand knobby with arthritis. “Let me take a look at the piece, and we can continue. I know you have much to do.”
Thomas sighed pleasantly at the old man, and shuffled his way over to where her knelt. He had slept without a shirt, and Thomas only had to slither his way onto his stomach for Goro to inspect his back. The decking was warm and a little sticky with pitch, but Thomas didn’t mind. In mere moments the sensation upon his chest and stomach would be forgotten anyway, as his senses would be overwhelmed with the pain stabbing into the skin of his back.
Goro ran his rough fingertips over the upper portion of Thomas’ back, all the while looking down his nose and occasionally adding a contemplative, “Hmm,” as he examined the skin.
“You have healed nicely since my last visit,” Goro said, now pressing lightly with his fingers. “I would say we can finish the piece in two more sessions.”
Thomas let out an exaggerated groan. “You just like stabbing me, don’t you Goro-san?”
The little man smiled. “It is long overdue revenge for all the gray hair your father gave me.”
“Fair enough,” Thomas laughed, “fair enough. Let’s get it over with then.”
Goro pulled out several vials of colored ink, a small bamboo board with shallow slats to divide it, and a long wooden shaft with an end sharpened like that of a quill.
“Tell me,” Goro said as he set his space like a painter preparing to begin his masterpiece, “has anyone seen my work yet?”
Thomas shrugged, “I am not certain. If the crew have seen it, none have mentioned it to me.”
“Ah, and what of the yūjo? Certainly some woman of pleasure has looked upon you?”
“Well,” Thomas laughed, “to be honest I have not kept the company of a woman, yūjo or otherwise, for some time.”
Goro looked down to him with genuine surprise. “Such self-repression is not healthy, Ritorufīto,” he said, referring to Thomas by his given Japanese name of ‘Little Foot.’ “Are you ill?”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “No, Goro-san, it is nothing like that.” A smile crept onto Thomas’ face, and his eyes looked up to the old man from where he lay. “Let’s just say I have been leaning towards the path of the rogue as of late.”
Goro did not follow, and so he waved Thomas’ words away with a gnarled hand. “Quiet now, we have been wasting enough of the morning chatting like women. It is time to begin.”
Without further preamble, Goro rested a hand upon Thomas’ back, and slid the wooden shaft over his knuckles with a forceful jab. The sharpened end easily pierced the skin, leaving behind a speck of aquamarine ink.
Thomas winced, his body unprepared for the old man to begin so abruptly.
The rest of the morning past silently, with the only sound inside the cabin coming from the breathing of the two men, and the dull wet jab of the wooden dowel into Thomas’ flesh.
As he lay there, his head resting upon his hands, Thomas imagined the wooden needle lancing into him, each thrust of pain completing just a little more of the image forming upon his back. Months ago Goro had finished the outline for the piece; a large sea monster, ensconced in thrashing waves, with its tentacles wrapping artfully around the existing scars from Thomas’ real life encounter with the kraken. The image itself, along with the means in which it was applied, was done in the traditional Irezumi style. It was an art-form he had first seen displayed upon the elder Lightfoot, and Goro had stabbed every last bit of ink into the grizzled pirate himself.
For the longest time Thomas had only admired the elegant designs, never wanting to partake in the permanent decorating of his own body. In recent years however, he had changed his mind on the matter. Goro, a long-time friend and confidant of his father’s, was getting no younger, and a tattoo done by the old man’s skilled hands seemed like a most fitting tribute to the pirate that had given Thomas everything.
Several hours passed in this silent and contemplative manner, both men silently focusing upon the demands of their minds. When he was at last satisfied, Goro cleaned off Thomas’ back, and applied a salve to the tender, but now colorful, skin. With quiet efficiency, the old man cleaned and repacked his kit, and stowed the box once again in its sling upon his back. The two men bade each other a warm farewell, and Goro wound his way off of the Dusk Skate as quietly as he had come.
Since Thomas lacked a mirror, he simply pulled a linen shirt over his shoulders, taking great care to not rub the tender skin of his back. With bare feet he made his way out into the hot, now noon-day sun, and wound his way below to the galley area of the ship. He took a loaf of hard-bread, and a small cask or water in his arms and retraced his steps to his cabin, leaving the door open as he did.
Sitting back gingerly into a rough chair, Thomas ate his food, his feet crossed and resting upon a second chair, waiting for the arrival of the First Mate, or anyone else that required his attentions.
“Who is it?” Thomas said, his voice dark and raspy from the dryness in his throat.
There was an almost imperceptible chuckle from the other side of the door, and a voice that spoke in soft Japanese. Though Thomas spoke little of the language of the Far East, he recognized the voice instantly. With a smile upon his face, Thomas carefully disarmed his pistol and opened the door.
There on the other side of the entrance was a short, wrinkled, and kindly looking Japanese man. The man’s dim eyes looked up to Thomas through a seemingly endless array of folded skin, with a smile drawing up the corners of his mouth like the bustled fabric of elaborate draperies. The man was dressed in traditional Japanese garb that was clean but obviously very old. His hair was gray-white, cut and shaved into a well-oiled top knot. Hanging over his thin shoulders was a large piece of cloth that was tied across his chest, and held what looked like a tall wooden box against his back.
The man’s smile broadened, and he bent at the waist to bow slightly to Thomas.
Immediately Thomas returned the man’s gesture, though he made certain that his bow took him much lower than his precursor’s.
“Goro-san,” Thomas said, “I’ll admit that I forgot you were coming this morning.”
The tiny man chuckled, and replied in heavily accented, but clear English. “I thought as much. Your father was no different.”
Goro shuffled past Thomas, his wooden shoes clicking softly upon the Skate’s decking.
“Though you shared no blood with him,” Goro said as he began to untie the knot in the fabric sling, “you are truly Lightfoot’s son. I know he would be drunk with pride if he could see you today.”
Thomas nodded and closed the door. Goro had taken the box from the sling now, and had set it upon the floor. It was a fine box, crafted of rich lacquered wood and protected with delicate brass filigree at the corners. With reverent and disciplined movements, Goro kneeled in front of the box, and began pulling out the thin drawers.
“Goro-san,” Thomas said, still using the moniker of respect for the ancient friend of his adopted father, “your words do my heart good. To be compared to such a man is no light compliment.”
This elicited another chuckle from Goro, and the man affixed Thomas with his inky gaze. “I never said anything about that being a compliment.” Goro beckoned Thomas over with a wave of a hand knobby with arthritis. “Let me take a look at the piece, and we can continue. I know you have much to do.”
Thomas sighed pleasantly at the old man, and shuffled his way over to where her knelt. He had slept without a shirt, and Thomas only had to slither his way onto his stomach for Goro to inspect his back. The decking was warm and a little sticky with pitch, but Thomas didn’t mind. In mere moments the sensation upon his chest and stomach would be forgotten anyway, as his senses would be overwhelmed with the pain stabbing into the skin of his back.
Goro ran his rough fingertips over the upper portion of Thomas’ back, all the while looking down his nose and occasionally adding a contemplative, “Hmm,” as he examined the skin.
“You have healed nicely since my last visit,” Goro said, now pressing lightly with his fingers. “I would say we can finish the piece in two more sessions.”
Thomas let out an exaggerated groan. “You just like stabbing me, don’t you Goro-san?”
The little man smiled. “It is long overdue revenge for all the gray hair your father gave me.”
“Fair enough,” Thomas laughed, “fair enough. Let’s get it over with then.”
Goro pulled out several vials of colored ink, a small bamboo board with shallow slats to divide it, and a long wooden shaft with an end sharpened like that of a quill.
“Tell me,” Goro said as he set his space like a painter preparing to begin his masterpiece, “has anyone seen my work yet?”
Thomas shrugged, “I am not certain. If the crew have seen it, none have mentioned it to me.”
“Ah, and what of the yūjo? Certainly some woman of pleasure has looked upon you?”
“Well,” Thomas laughed, “to be honest I have not kept the company of a woman, yūjo or otherwise, for some time.”
Goro looked down to him with genuine surprise. “Such self-repression is not healthy, Ritorufīto,” he said, referring to Thomas by his given Japanese name of ‘Little Foot.’ “Are you ill?”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “No, Goro-san, it is nothing like that.” A smile crept onto Thomas’ face, and his eyes looked up to the old man from where he lay. “Let’s just say I have been leaning towards the path of the rogue as of late.”
Goro did not follow, and so he waved Thomas’ words away with a gnarled hand. “Quiet now, we have been wasting enough of the morning chatting like women. It is time to begin.”
Without further preamble, Goro rested a hand upon Thomas’ back, and slid the wooden shaft over his knuckles with a forceful jab. The sharpened end easily pierced the skin, leaving behind a speck of aquamarine ink.
Thomas winced, his body unprepared for the old man to begin so abruptly.
The rest of the morning past silently, with the only sound inside the cabin coming from the breathing of the two men, and the dull wet jab of the wooden dowel into Thomas’ flesh.
As he lay there, his head resting upon his hands, Thomas imagined the wooden needle lancing into him, each thrust of pain completing just a little more of the image forming upon his back. Months ago Goro had finished the outline for the piece; a large sea monster, ensconced in thrashing waves, with its tentacles wrapping artfully around the existing scars from Thomas’ real life encounter with the kraken. The image itself, along with the means in which it was applied, was done in the traditional Irezumi style. It was an art-form he had first seen displayed upon the elder Lightfoot, and Goro had stabbed every last bit of ink into the grizzled pirate himself.
For the longest time Thomas had only admired the elegant designs, never wanting to partake in the permanent decorating of his own body. In recent years however, he had changed his mind on the matter. Goro, a long-time friend and confidant of his father’s, was getting no younger, and a tattoo done by the old man’s skilled hands seemed like a most fitting tribute to the pirate that had given Thomas everything.
Several hours passed in this silent and contemplative manner, both men silently focusing upon the demands of their minds. When he was at last satisfied, Goro cleaned off Thomas’ back, and applied a salve to the tender, but now colorful, skin. With quiet efficiency, the old man cleaned and repacked his kit, and stowed the box once again in its sling upon his back. The two men bade each other a warm farewell, and Goro wound his way off of the Dusk Skate as quietly as he had come.
Since Thomas lacked a mirror, he simply pulled a linen shirt over his shoulders, taking great care to not rub the tender skin of his back. With bare feet he made his way out into the hot, now noon-day sun, and wound his way below to the galley area of the ship. He took a loaf of hard-bread, and a small cask or water in his arms and retraced his steps to his cabin, leaving the door open as he did.
Sitting back gingerly into a rough chair, Thomas ate his food, his feet crossed and resting upon a second chair, waiting for the arrival of the First Mate, or anyone else that required his attentions.
What a wonderful post to wake up to, Grainy. How's everyone doing this morning?
Aislinn Hoyle
Aislinn spewed the smoke she had been holding through her long muzzle, coughs and hacks followed with it, and it took her a moment before she recovered. She eyed the disdainful roll of foul leaves with a withering stare and decided she would bring her own pipe weed to share next time. The demon host had horrible taste when it came to such things.
“You have horrible taste in pipe weed,” Aislinn said, matter of factly to the man, “it is almost as peculiar as your dress. If we stop Ragnarök, I will share a blend with you that has been passed down within the Teachglach Mac Tíre for generations. It will sooth your mind and invigorate your soul,” she moved her hand up and down in the air, as if searching for the spot his soul would reside, “if you possess one that that can be invigorated.”
She found the man with the lingering scent of the infernal utterly intriguing, and his speech only furthered her curiosity. The old wolf understood little of what he said, and all she would concede to his query was a guttural, “Humpf.”
It was then that her nose, momentarily dulled by the cigar smoke that had passed through it, caught the unmistakable scent of another werewolf. The large amber orbs of her eyes followed the gaze of the demon host and the undead man to a woman of striking appearance. Aislinn breathed in deeply, confirming her assessment. This one was a child of the moon, and no mistake. But wait, there was something in the woman’s scent that was off, something that was strange to Aislinn’s keen nose.
Stepping from between the two men, Aislinn stalked quickly over to the red-haired beauty until her nose came to alight near the woman’s head. Like a true wolf assessing another of its own kind, Aislinn sniffed in short breaths, drawing in the woman’s scent many times, and with each drawn inhalation, she learned just a little more.
She could tell she was young, at least in comparison to Aislinn, and she smelled of new happiness and the lingering musk of love making. Her scent alluded to strength and confidence, and the smell of cordite and gun oil upon her skin spoke to a love of firearms. There were other scents as well, ones that Aislinn did not recognize, but reminded her of the kerosene used by lamplighters, and the processed leather of a tanner. All of these olfactory hints made Aislinn’s mind whir with wonderment and inquisitiveness, though the thing that drew her attention the most was the scent she could not place at all, or more importantly, the one that she did not smell.
“I am Aislinn Hoyle,” she said to the red haired woman, withdrawing her nose finally and stepping back a short pace. “I am of the Teachglach Mac Tíre line, from the pack of the Five Stones.”
By now Aislinn’s tail was wagging with barely contained joy at meeting another of her kind that was not out to hunt her down, as well as the curiosity that drove her next question.
“Please tell me, I cannot place your line. To which do you belong?”
It was only then that her mind caught up with what her ears had heard minutes ago, and Aislinn’s ears perked up with recognition.
“And Ragnarök? You know of it in depth?” Aislinn’s muzzle split in a wide grin, her tongue lolling out in a very puppy-like gesture. “I am most pleased to hear it. We shall have to have a den circle with Reginald, you and I. It has been so long since I have enjoyed such things.”
As she finished, Aislinn’s tail was wagging so fiercely that it shook her entire rear end. “Forgive me,” she said with a rare moment of introspection, “it is has been ages since I’ve been amongst another child of the moon besides my own brother. Is your pack nearby?”
Aislinn spewed the smoke she had been holding through her long muzzle, coughs and hacks followed with it, and it took her a moment before she recovered. She eyed the disdainful roll of foul leaves with a withering stare and decided she would bring her own pipe weed to share next time. The demon host had horrible taste when it came to such things.
“You have horrible taste in pipe weed,” Aislinn said, matter of factly to the man, “it is almost as peculiar as your dress. If we stop Ragnarök, I will share a blend with you that has been passed down within the Teachglach Mac Tíre for generations. It will sooth your mind and invigorate your soul,” she moved her hand up and down in the air, as if searching for the spot his soul would reside, “if you possess one that that can be invigorated.”
She found the man with the lingering scent of the infernal utterly intriguing, and his speech only furthered her curiosity. The old wolf understood little of what he said, and all she would concede to his query was a guttural, “Humpf.”
It was then that her nose, momentarily dulled by the cigar smoke that had passed through it, caught the unmistakable scent of another werewolf. The large amber orbs of her eyes followed the gaze of the demon host and the undead man to a woman of striking appearance. Aislinn breathed in deeply, confirming her assessment. This one was a child of the moon, and no mistake. But wait, there was something in the woman’s scent that was off, something that was strange to Aislinn’s keen nose.
Stepping from between the two men, Aislinn stalked quickly over to the red-haired beauty until her nose came to alight near the woman’s head. Like a true wolf assessing another of its own kind, Aislinn sniffed in short breaths, drawing in the woman’s scent many times, and with each drawn inhalation, she learned just a little more.
She could tell she was young, at least in comparison to Aislinn, and she smelled of new happiness and the lingering musk of love making. Her scent alluded to strength and confidence, and the smell of cordite and gun oil upon her skin spoke to a love of firearms. There were other scents as well, ones that Aislinn did not recognize, but reminded her of the kerosene used by lamplighters, and the processed leather of a tanner. All of these olfactory hints made Aislinn’s mind whir with wonderment and inquisitiveness, though the thing that drew her attention the most was the scent she could not place at all, or more importantly, the one that she did not smell.
“I am Aislinn Hoyle,” she said to the red haired woman, withdrawing her nose finally and stepping back a short pace. “I am of the Teachglach Mac Tíre line, from the pack of the Five Stones.”
By now Aislinn’s tail was wagging with barely contained joy at meeting another of her kind that was not out to hunt her down, as well as the curiosity that drove her next question.
“Please tell me, I cannot place your line. To which do you belong?”
It was only then that her mind caught up with what her ears had heard minutes ago, and Aislinn’s ears perked up with recognition.
“And Ragnarök? You know of it in depth?” Aislinn’s muzzle split in a wide grin, her tongue lolling out in a very puppy-like gesture. “I am most pleased to hear it. We shall have to have a den circle with Reginald, you and I. It has been so long since I have enjoyed such things.”
As she finished, Aislinn’s tail was wagging so fiercely that it shook her entire rear end. “Forgive me,” she said with a rare moment of introspection, “it is has been ages since I’ve been amongst another child of the moon besides my own brother. Is your pack nearby?”
Atticus almost laughed with pure and unbridled pleasure at Siya’s reaction to his words. The relief that she gave him was the most comforting sensation he could remember in all his years, and that feeling coupled with the prettiness of her body language set the demons on his skin to slump and make disgusted faces, while the angels applauded and swooned. In that moment, regardless of the impending threat of the end of the known world, Atticus felt like all was right in the universe as Siya brushed her delicate lips against his cheek.
He made to answer her, to continue riding the wave of joy that was washing over him, but Siya’s doll-eyes were drawn to the appearance of Max/Thad instead. Atticus felt a twinge of disappointment, but it lasted only a scant moment as Siya squeezed his hand before moving to assist the sorcerer with his selection of a necktie.
The sight of the usually less traditionally clothed Max now adorned in a suit brought a sideways smile to Atticus’ face. He wanted to comment to as much, to tease the man he owed so much, but he refrained as Siya spoke to the sorcerer. Her words carried far more urgency and import than his jest ever would, so he kept his mouth closed. The mention of Siya having found her dragon did catch him off guard, and he blinked for a moment before a proud smile returned to his features. He liked that thought.
His expression shifted dramatically when Max asked his questions of Siya. Max’s manner was so magnetic and nonchalant that it was easy to forget that he had been absent, floating in the realm of the dead for almost a year. In the few moments he had seen the sorcerer, it had seemed to Atticus that the man had merely been off buying milk and eggs down the street. When he spoke to what he had missed, the suspension of disbelief was burst, and the reality of what Max had endured came flooding back into Atticus’ mind.
His face pinched with regret and guilt as Siya endeavored to answer Max’s question of Atticus. Again he remained silent, allowing the vampire to present the truth behind the toll that Max’s absence had taken upon the close group of friends. In that moment Atticus felt so out of place, so ancillary to the hard matters of the trinity of Max, Veti, and Siya.
“We did our best,” Atticus said at last, as Siya pressed her face against Max’s chest. “Since the day you allowed us to defeat Decima we searched for a means to return you to the Veiled World.”
Atticus drew his mouth into a frown, one that was hidden behind the hair of his beard, but one that was wholly visible upon the other features of his face. “I am sorry, Max. For everything. What you did for us, for the world, cannot be repaid. I just hope there is some solace in knowing that you were sorely missed. As for everything else that is going on now, you came back at a most…” Atticus trailed off, trying to find the right word. “…Tumultuous time.”
He made to answer her, to continue riding the wave of joy that was washing over him, but Siya’s doll-eyes were drawn to the appearance of Max/Thad instead. Atticus felt a twinge of disappointment, but it lasted only a scant moment as Siya squeezed his hand before moving to assist the sorcerer with his selection of a necktie.
The sight of the usually less traditionally clothed Max now adorned in a suit brought a sideways smile to Atticus’ face. He wanted to comment to as much, to tease the man he owed so much, but he refrained as Siya spoke to the sorcerer. Her words carried far more urgency and import than his jest ever would, so he kept his mouth closed. The mention of Siya having found her dragon did catch him off guard, and he blinked for a moment before a proud smile returned to his features. He liked that thought.
His expression shifted dramatically when Max asked his questions of Siya. Max’s manner was so magnetic and nonchalant that it was easy to forget that he had been absent, floating in the realm of the dead for almost a year. In the few moments he had seen the sorcerer, it had seemed to Atticus that the man had merely been off buying milk and eggs down the street. When he spoke to what he had missed, the suspension of disbelief was burst, and the reality of what Max had endured came flooding back into Atticus’ mind.
His face pinched with regret and guilt as Siya endeavored to answer Max’s question of Atticus. Again he remained silent, allowing the vampire to present the truth behind the toll that Max’s absence had taken upon the close group of friends. In that moment Atticus felt so out of place, so ancillary to the hard matters of the trinity of Max, Veti, and Siya.
“We did our best,” Atticus said at last, as Siya pressed her face against Max’s chest. “Since the day you allowed us to defeat Decima we searched for a means to return you to the Veiled World.”
Atticus drew his mouth into a frown, one that was hidden behind the hair of his beard, but one that was wholly visible upon the other features of his face. “I am sorry, Max. For everything. What you did for us, for the world, cannot be repaid. I just hope there is some solace in knowing that you were sorely missed. As for everything else that is going on now, you came back at a most…” Atticus trailed off, trying to find the right word. “…Tumultuous time.”
Hey guys and gals,
Sorry I've been absent in the OOC of late, but I've been trying to stay sane through a fog of coffee and sunflower seeds as work has tried its best to drag me inexorably away from the rest of the world. Thankfully, I have a nice lull tonight, so I got to catch up on all the great posts that have been written recently. You all are beyond awesome, and it's always a blast reading through the lens of your stellar characters. I'll be getting a post up tonight so we can keep the gravy train going.
Sorry I've been absent in the OOC of late, but I've been trying to stay sane through a fog of coffee and sunflower seeds as work has tried its best to drag me inexorably away from the rest of the world. Thankfully, I have a nice lull tonight, so I got to catch up on all the great posts that have been written recently. You all are beyond awesome, and it's always a blast reading through the lens of your stellar characters. I'll be getting a post up tonight so we can keep the gravy train going.
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