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  • Last Seen: 6 yrs ago
  • Old Guild Username: Practicing Optimist
  • Joined: 12 yrs ago
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    1. ClosetMonster 12 yrs ago
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Recent Statuses

7 yrs ago
Current "Bother. Isn't there anybody at all?" "Nobody!"
7 yrs ago
Trying on shoes and going for a walkabout - will return to closet when I'm good and ready!
3 likes
8 yrs ago
Fell into the abyss of Closet... digging out from under all of the shoes.
2 likes
10 yrs ago
Time is mine for a full month! :) Yay!!!
1 like

Bio

A long time player, I have been co-writing (aka "role playing") for "ae long tahm". I have a fairly involved career which some years can be nigh all encompassing for months and months at a time. However, I always seem to return for the sheer delight of creating alongside another imaginative individual.

Most Recent Posts

Foster said
Ode to the cooller-cooler man.


I declare today, a cooler day! it is football and we will start an entire RP, you and I, Foster - wherein it is a bunch of guys from the UP area, in search of the golden cooler. There will be strange northern lights, lots of whiskey, and some deer running about in tutus (but that could be the whiskey, we're not sure). Cheese hats for Wisconsin second cousins is a must.
Ribsy gave a good natured eye roll to Davis. “Two three ohhhh,” she made a crash and burn motion with her fingers, then laughed. “If I am not at breakfast, come and scoop up my remains, Candidate Badger.”

Davis chuckled low and delighted. “How about I come and we have a card game later tonight?”

“What?” Ribsy's eyes went wide, innocent and sweet blue eyed girl, “I have homework, don't you?”

“Fuck,” Davis shook his head. “Look, I'm sure she's just having a bad day. Take it easy on her.”

With a companionable middle finger cocked his way, Ribsy hooked her bag up over her shoulder and went to find her room number. It wasn't far from Davis' place which was nice. It was also very much like every stereotype of what a room would look like. It smelled of sweat and perfumed soap, woman. Ribsy took in a deep breath and lined out for one of the open bunks, taking a top one and tossing her bag atop it. A smaller, heavier boned woman with dark eyes and darker skin gave her a small smile and took the other.

“Shankari?” Ribsy leaned on the bunk and held out her hand. “Amanda Tucker, but my friends call me Ribsy.”

Davis peered in, gave a whistle at the digs, then left as Ribsy pretended to throw something at him. Her call of, “pervert!” wafted after him and he was grinning as he entered into his rooms.

Each bunk in his rooms was open and the other three were working out who would sleep where. Davis introduced himself and took the last bunk, being the last in the door. It only seemed fair. His bag was quickly unpacked and he settled down with the work Ribsy had unerringly said he had. The studying though was important. He wasn't the quickest tool in the shed, at least not as quick as some of the others who he'd been paired up with. During the testing, he'd been told that construction was what he was best suited for, of course. “But,” the psychiatrist had cleared his throat and tapped the page, “you're so damned sane, we may have another choice for you.”

And so he'd ended up here. He wasn't sure just how sanity came into it, but then, up against Ribsy, maybe sanity was a bonus. Someone had to keep the ping-pongs from bouncing the walls down.

Speaking of ping-pongs. Ribsy skated in twenty minutes later, Shankari on her coattails and a deck of cards with a pack of cigs under her arm. “Five card stud, boys?” she called out, low and sweet and Owen realized that maybe, in that moment of that stupid Japanese movie over her shoulder, he might have started to develop just the slightest bit of a crush.

They filled in the table and Ribsy sucked on a cancer stick and Owen lost all of the money he'd set aside for one night's fun. He laid back on his bunk, read his book, and listened to the quiet talk. It was a lot like the Alaskan oil fields, the coarse talk and easy way of interacting. Everyone knew they had a job to do and they were focused on it in the way that said they would really rather not think at all about things. Someone had pulled out a bottle of whiskey but no one drank heavy. They just played, joked, and with time to spare, they made note of the need for showers and bed.

Ribsy kicked him as she went by, her grin white and brilliant. “Davis,” she nodded her head at him. Owen went just slightly pink then reminded himself she wasn't interested in guys. Not that that made much of a difference on his interest.

Twenty one thirty hours and Owen stood, freshly showered, ready for a day's worth of tests, and feeling legitimately nervous about the future. He tugged on his suit and looked for a breakfast spot. The space was full of others who were gung-ho at being there, unsure what to expect and so being super early. Ribsy was there, leaning against a wall, a pencil chewing in her jaws and a book stuck to her nose. She had her hair up atop her head and glasses on her eyes. She had to have twenty twenty or she couldn't be a Candidate, so he wondered at the glasses, if they were an affectation, but nevertheless, she looked comfortable. Most of the newest candidates were settled in around bowls of breakfast. Owen wasn't hungry so much so he just got a cup of joe, then settled down at a half empty table away from the others, wanting to watch the room a bit, figure out what he was going to do next.
I'm still ferreting Diana out. It's interesting to me to think of the under currents that possibly might be lying behind all of the actions which then lead to the final end of the story. Diana was, at first, a rather bland character in my mind, and yet I feel that she couldn't be. She's been left to her own devices for five years. That would change any woman.

My apologies. I'm sure I'm somewhat anachronistic in this. Your posts say you've quite a bit of knowledge of the times while I've dabbled in all places and not in particular any one. It's left me struggling to keep up. Not that I mind! Don't think that. I'm enjoying it very much.

That said, I hope Diana works for you. She's still very malleable and easy to change if you'd like her portrayed differently. Let me know. :)
Diana looked up as the man, her husband, entered the room. Outside, it had gone dark and for a moment, she thought she could detect something fae and unnatural about him. For that time, he was touched as if by a wild spirit, and despite his being well turned out, a common enough look, her imagination was touched by the gloaming outside her garden window and perhaps the five years had not gone unnoticed by him after all. He had been at war, had he not? He had had to perform atrocities against his fellows, had thrust young men into battle. Not to mention the savages there! The wild tempests during the journey, the creatures she'd only seen plates of. The Americas were a wild adventure she could not fully comprehend and he had been there, then returned to her changed.

But no, as he moved into the room and further into the light, he was merely her husband; brisk, untouched by even her presence, and angered at the lack of care by those who should have cared deepest. Robert hadn't any difference about him but for his disregard of her and her needs. But then, he was a man. What else was there?

She rose. “Dinner guests, this Sunday next?” she parroted. Would that Fannie were there by then! She'd endeavor to press he friend into coming earlier. It would do them well to have more at the table if there were to be soldiers there. “Of course,” she smiled at him. “I shall make inquiries as to the exact number and have the work done. If you could have someone come and clear the garden before then. They look a fright. I'd meant to go into the village and acquire a gardener, but perhaps you can find one.”

She watched him, her dark eyes gauging him. She had seen a man or three coming back from the Americas. They were not all that changed, but for her husband. Then, she had heard tell that those most changed had not returned to society at all. But that would not do! He had all opportunity carefully tended as she had in his absence. Perhaps with some friendly conversation, with some others who were of high enough estate and courtly manner as this Major would no doubt be, her husband would return to his former nature and thus, return to her fold.

“I had meant to ask this a.m.,” she tilted her head in a comely manner, fingers curling about one another before her trim waist, “if you had thought to open our doors for the coming months. We are near enough to the Willoughbys and the Duchess is said to come to her estate which is not far either. It would do us well to consider it.”
In Justice 12 yrs ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
Maddy searched the various cloths and pieces of clothing, holding this or that up to herself and making sense of what went where. To some extent, each land, each world, had clothes which covered the various parts of the body – so long as one knew what to cover, then the smaller bits and pieces came together. She found a wrap or two which seemed long to be a sash, but she put these to the side and instead, focused on what made sense to her. A long sleeved shirt with a break in the fabric from the wrist to under the arm, and billowing pants gathered at the ankles. There were a multitude of foot gear and she grabbed both a pair of strap on sandals and some light leather boots. Then a tunic which split down the fore and a skirt as well, mindful of how she'd been told to wear something differently the last time.

With her arms full of the extras, she exited and held herself for his perusal. It was yellows and blues, like a daffodil in the sun, and she smiled at him. He was exhausted and looked like a traveler where he'd once been a soldier. She hadn't looked too closely at herself, but as she'd never been much of anything, she didn't expect she'd changed overly much. Still tanned from too much sun and still with her mousy hair gathered in the braid at her back. Though the tie had changed now and again as they'd moved from place to place.

“I wasn't sure which to wear,” she held out the boots and the sash and others then discarded those he felt were unnecessary while putting on the things he felt she would need. He was her guide and so much more and again, she was struck with that sense of the rightness of this adventure.

More certain of herself now than she had been at even the entry into the land of air, she settled into a chair beside him and touched his arm. “Let me help you,” she said. “I know I'm only of so much good and baggage to carry about as well, but let me do anything small, anything you can give me to lighten your load.”
Zahi's hand rose against the bright light then fell before it could shadow his gaze. Gold flecks picked out in his gaze and he dropped his lids, clung to Anat's side who, strength of the desert sands, did not move, though she threw her head and snorted in alarm at the wash of scents coming through the door. Still, she was her master's strength. He, who had taken her into his home, who had slept at her side, she was an uncommon creature and her delicate, tulip ears held straight ahead.

When it seemed to her that Zahi was going to enter into the world of children's cries and smells of lyme covered death, the mare stepped as lightly toward the bright opening as if the floor under her hooves were made of glass.

Perhaps it was the collective call buttons. A rushing sound of soft soled shoes and two nurses walked quickly through the door, stopped in shock not as much at the open door as at the filthy man in the middle of a germ-free zone. The older woman gave a soft gasp while the younger woman clicked her tongue and moved into the room, only to stop once more, for it was at that time Zahi entered with Anat at his side.

He moved graceful and composed, as if he were not injured in the least. His arm tucked about his waist might have been Napolean's hand in state paintings. The prince's head was up and in the pale light of the hospital, he was a wild jackal let into a nursery. Beside him, his opposite hand holding her mane tightly enough his knuckles were pale, Anat flared gold, her color brought to life away from the growth green of the halls behind her. They might have carried the scent of dry winds and spices, if not in reality than to the imagination. Anat tucked her chin and looked about her with white rimmed eyes while her master gave a slight bow from the waist, almost hiding how the very action caused him pain. He touched his fingertips to his brow and gave his greeting to the assembled children and the women. Then his dark gaze turned on Dorian.

“You have brought me to a women's space,” Zahi said by way of asking, but did not look at the nurses. “This place is a great one, filled with many children.” He did not dare ask about which of the women was Dorian's ra'it al bayt, the mistress of his home, nor was he fully certain that Dorian's wife was one of these, nor that these his children. Dorian had said it was a healer's home. But was it that the women here were the healers, even of a man? He flushed under his sun-darkened skin and kept his eyes on Dorian over all others. Dorian's features were not like those around him, he'd seen the sloe-colored eyes and black hair on traders many years back, gifting Zahi's people with a bolt of cloth and spices they did not use but which his mother had chosen to have because it would have been unwelcoming to not purchase something from their visiting traders. But those people had gone again, worn and exhausted, and going to the cities on the other side of the desert. There was talk that they had not made it all the way, but that the sands had swallowed them.

The children were chattering and Zahi's head ached, but he did not understand anything they said. They spoke quickly, fluid, like water over rocks, and Zahi kept himself upright and without complaint as the children moved restlessly on the bed and whispered, giggled together. All about them, the white was overwhelming and in amongst the white, splotches of color, images painted onto the walls.

Anat, in response to those nearing her, laid her ears back flat against her skull. She snaked her head forward and snapped at the air near one of the women who approached, but did not bite. No – she was too well behaved for such things, though she would not allow anyone near her prince as he swayed and was unwell. Zaynab alone, she would have soothed Anat, made it so that healers could reach him, but without his sister's touch, the mare was tense as stone and her protection would keep away any who might hurt him.

Zahi took a step in close to his mare and lifting the hand at his waist, he pressed it to her neck. It marred her hide with his blood, but she would not give any opportunity to aid in her attempt to keep him safe. “Ssaa, ssaa Mistress of mine. Ssaa,” he murmured to her. “We must give our hosts our best of intentions and not bring strife into their home. Ssaa, my desert flower. Ssaa, O wind daughter. Bring no trouble.”

Still, he did not look on the women, but as Anat snorted and tilted her muzzle to trail hot breath along his arm, the desert man gave his attention once more to Dorian. “If I die, will you take her back to her home? The Djinn would like their child back.”

He slid, then fell as gracelessly as any other who had lost consciousness, other than he had shown no signs of it. With a sigh, he fell to the floor in a heap, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Anat lifted her tail high and stepped near him, her nose against his neck and whickered in concern. She tossed her head then stepped back from the man dying on the floor. With thin skin shivering as if by invisible flies, the mare stamped her forehoof and licked her lips. Her unease was plain, now that her master did not lean on her, but she made no more against those around her.
Ah! Poe! Gotcha :) Yes, he is quite fun to read, isn't he? Still - not so good if you have to reread often.

As for the hoodishness/clothesishness - recognition of the traits, I see your point. If you want anything in particular noted I will always throw that into the post at a poke. However, feel free to make up coverings or not - assumptions, while after everything is settled more securely, can be frustrating, are also necessary and I will almost always run with whatever you give me. If you had wanted to play him out like he woke and wasn't sure if anyone noted his features, that would be interesting. Likewise, it would be interesting for him to be in the open and worried, or in the open and feeling he is safe. Whatever direction you wanted to take would influence where I'd go. If I haven't noted it, it's open for interpretation as you don't seem to be someone who'd say "And he woke with his hair tied to the bed and his arms painted with sigils - who the heck had he fallen in with?" sort of bender. ;) So please, fill in any blanks. If I had thought it important, I'd have put it in. Everything else is fluid.

Also - lots of wait there. We've been hit by the flu here (or hit again) and muses don't stand up well to not feeling tip top.
The dogs, copies of one another in black and white, watch him as he flounders about. The larger one, a male with a large white front, growls again, his ears going flat against his skull. The smaller dog turns her head and touches noses with him. The cat, however, remains aloof and unflappable, untouched by the tantrum made by the cat smelling human. She could care less, really – her spot is secured.

As he struggles against the pain, the attention of first the smaller and then the larger dog both go intensely toward the door. Ears up, they remain laying down, but the male licks his lips and the female brushes the floor slightly with a gentle wag of the tail which silences for her to tilt her head and cock an ear toward the door.

With a clump, the door opens. Wren has a feed bag over his back and he grunts as he swings inside, letting the door close behind him. He heaves the bag off of his shoulder, setting it to the floor, then gives a low, “Hup, Annie.”

The smaller dog is up and at his side, her body curled around his leg as she tries to be near and yet to be tucked into herself as well, her ears flat and her head down in a show of submission as she bares her teeth at him.

He is a large man, filling the door quite easily. His broad shoulders are covered in a thickly woven, well worn woolen cloak and he brings with him the smell of lanolin and the world outside. He bends and places one large hand on the dog's head, then stands and undoes the clasp on his cloak, looking across to where his guest is now leaning heavily on the lounge.

“You're awake,” he says calmly as he turns and hangs up the cloak on a wooden peg by the door. “I expect you'd like some willow bark tea or some such.” He turns his dark eyes on the man there, considering him for a moment before he walks from the door toward the other side of the long room. There, a rudimentary table sits with three chairs at it, each chair showing signs of a different carver. Upon the table is a spray of dried herb in a clay bowl and along the wall, a heavy, mahogany side table sets, far more fine than anything else in the cottage. This he opens and pulls out a long box which he sets atop the side table and opens, drawing out a vial and a linen pouch. Setting these to the side, he reaches back into the side table and returns to his work with a large, rough tea pot into which he pours some few drops from the vial and adds the contents of the linen pouch.

When he has everything in the cup, he returns the pouch and closes the box, then puts the box back into the side table. All of the actions are unhurried and he does not look at his guest once during the time, though the animals are all very much fixed on him.

With a breath of thought, pursed through his lips, the man slips beyond the eye of his guest into a side room which, had Chall been able to see, is in truth the kitchen and pantry, and is back in moments with a dipperful of water in a kettle which he walks into the main room with and sets on a hook and swings out over the fire. Then he drops to one knee and refeeds the fire, blowing on it until it is recovered.

Only when all of this is done does he twist at the waist, one hand on his knee, the other on the larger dog's side, and look at his guest. He is all hair, this man. He has a beard about his face and his hair is a mass about his head, curls and waves tousled about one another. His eyes are dark and in the shadow of the house, seem almost black. His skin, too, is dark with weather and he does not smile, but regards Chall with the same patience as the smaller dog. Under his hand, the larger dog presses a nose to his master's thigh.

“Are you feeling better? Marge did a little witchery, none to be overly concerned with, on your arm. She felt it was best to not tempt fate with such a deep wound. They can be deceptive. Give it a couple of days and you'll be right as rain.” he stands then but does not approach, not yet sure of what manner of needs his guest will have. A knife wound could mean a great many things.

continued...


Krell lifted her head sharply at the touch on her side. Her ears pricked forward and as the large injured one froze, she brought her nose to the air where she sifted the scents of injury from the healing. She gave a low groan, deep and thrumming through her chest, then flicked her head to the side. The injured one was large but there was a slow reaction time, much like a prey animal and Krell did not need do more than rumble gently to remind him of her presence.

When it seemed the one she was laying beside had gone quiet, Krell did the same. The bitch gave a wide yawn, ending in a high pitched whine of pleasure – a simple act to tell her companion he needed to relax, though she was far from relaxed herself. His uncertainty had begun to bleed through their touching flesh. Yet, she was the mother and as such, her genetic heritage forced her into gentleness. With pups suckling, she was forced to calm, the actions of the pups and the lack of response on the part of the great beast she tended both conspiring to relieve the burn of anxiety his waking had borne in her.

As the sun-fire bled through the room, Krell panted. It was a great deal warmer for the two of them, but she did not try and move. Instead, she flicked her head to the side and licked at his elbow. One damp touch and a sneeze later, she'd let her head fall back to the furs where, heaving a great sigh, she let her eyes watch the door through which her master had gone and through which she could hear the usual movements as the Light Keeper rummaged about in the lean-to beyond the warmth of the kitchen.

Hap returned to the room, humming a strangely bi-tonal song, soft and in harmony with itself. It had removed constraints on its tail which flicked in time to the soft song as Hap went about the room, a stool under one arm and a basket of comfrey under the other. It set the stool upon the floor and without looking at the inert guest nor the quiet dog and her pups, Hap crawled upon the stool to hang clumps of herb here and there along the rafters. It was high and Hap was forced to get onto its tiptoes which was something of a hazard on a three legged stool. Still, the keeper had done the action many a time and did not falter. Again, it leapt down, moved the stool, then stepped upon it once more. This process it completed, stool and herbs, then move stool, until the basket was empty and the rafters hung further with more herb than before. Small hooks had been set into the rafters at intervals for this very purpose, set in every half foot, and the bunches clung together. When the basket was empty, Hap went to draw down the now dried herbs, fingers deftly searching through it each bunch to pull down only one particular plant – a dark browned one which released its smell the more it was handled until the circular room was smothered in pungent scents.

The process was gone about in a manner that was easy, without rush, for there was a good amount of time and not as much to do with it as perhaps there was in the Center's cities. Hap had no social engagements to draw from its tasks, so the keeper could fill hours in as it saw fit. Still, despite the careful ease at which it tended its duties, Hap still managed to get things done rather quickly and when the basket was full, it set the basket to the side and picked up the stool to replace it.

Then, stool cocked on its hip, it looked at the other occupants in the room. The dog and the frozen patient. Hap lifted a slender brow.

“Are you well?” Hap's voice broke the silence, made Krell's tail thump on the fur covered flooring. Hap watched for a half moment, then set the stool down once more, leaving it behind as the keeper went to its patient's side. Kneeling in a smooth transition, Hap reached for the cooled broth. “Well enough to sit up and eat?” it finished its question of the quiet guest.
And a first for the OOC! :)
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