Ducksworth

Longtime RPer, First Time Forum User

Shame WoW has gone downhill so much now, honestly. It used to be amazing but it feels very cut and paste these days and it's not as social as it once was.

Longtime RPer, First Time Forum User

WoW RP, ahh... that takes me back! EU Argent Dawn was my realm! What about you?

Also, welcome to the weird and wonderful RPGuild! We're glad to have you!

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

_{══════ ❖ ══════
• The Planes - Aethelguard
• Aethelguard Royal Palace - Banquet Hall
• 6:30pm
══════ ❖ ══════}

The many arrivals to Aethelguard were, under the circumstances, still rather eclectic. Beast, boat, and carriage made their approaches in their own particular declaration of intent. Some with spectacle and others with restraint. as well as the practical route, teleports or portals of flashes of light for those who decided to be functional over frivolous, or perhaps simply for the unwilling ones to spend time on ceremony when the urgency had already been made plain. Regardless, each would find a retinue of servants awaiting them, already positioned well in advance of any approach. They would take care of their goods, gear, and gravitas, guided with careful and polite insistence. It had been considered, for a brief moment, that Serrélian himself would receive each guest. The idea didn’t linger for too long, however, as to greet one and not another would invite imbalance, and imbalance, regardless of size, was inelegance that he had absolutely no desire to entertain. It would be better then to receive all guests in sequence, to allow that stage to be set properly.

The banquet hall awaited, prepared with absolute careful intention. A great horseshoe table dominated the space within the chamber, its surface, immaculately polished, was lined with a great spread of delicacies, curated to accommodate as many tastes as could reasonably anticipated; rich meats, delicate fruits, spiced wine, and much subtler fare, each placed with equal care. The centre sat rather conspicuously empty, far from being an oversight but obviously not for decoration either. The absence sat there, deliberately unfilled, as though something that had once occupied the space had been removed, leaving the suggestion of purpose in its place. Serrélian stood near the great doors, poised, as the first of the guests were ushered in. His posture throughout was immaculate, hands pressed neatly behind his back, an expression settled into a polite and measured smile. Each guest in turn was acknowledged with a shallow bow, precise in its execution but no less identical in courtesy.

The design of the arrangement ensured a simple law upon the guests, none would sit apart, and none could avoid the others. All were poised to face inward, ensuring they would be in equal measure be able to observe, and be observed. It did not take long for the room to be filled and seats taken.

Voices that were first tentative, rose and fell in quiet exchanges. The room gained for a moment the sounds of scraping chairs and clinking glasses. A gentle gathering of power, all contained within a singular space. Each of them carried with them their own assumptions, expectations, and suspicions, alongside their own measure of pride.

Serrélian observed them all, allowing them their moments, without interruption for the time being. Only once the final seat had been claimed did he move. With measured steps, he circled the table, coming to a rest at its closed end. He turned, allowing his gaze to drag across those who had assembled before inclining his head.

“Lords, Ladies, esteemed guests. It is my pleasure to introduce Regent Queen Serena Esolotáir” He bowed low, a hand pressed neatly against his chest as he stepped aside.

The room shifted, subtly but it was perceptible to all. From behind him, Queen Serena emerged. Emerald silk draped in a fine line, from her shoulder to the floor, trailing behind her like summer leaves. Gemstones were woven into the fabric and her hair, they caught the light in soft glints. She descended the few steps unhurried, the confidence of being accustomed to observation, undeterred by the weight of attention.

“Thank you all for travelling to our kingdom under such short notice. Trust that it would not be so under normal circumstances.” Serrélian moved in tandem to her approach, he drew out her chair with a smooth and practiced motion before guiding it inward as she took the seat. “As it stands, we are fortunate, but we may not be for much longer. Serrélian, would you please?”

Serrelian inclined his head softly, and began once more to make his way around the table, passing behind the other side now.

”It has-”

Just as Serrélian began to speak, the doors to the hall swung open with a force that cut the room’s measured atmosphere. It would be no surprise that the room's attention shifted, but the interruption did not linger in ambiguity, but announced itself fully. A man bearing the appearance of someone more accustomed to harsher environments than Aethelguard’s polished hall. He wore a silken shirt which hung loose at the collar, open without ceremony to stand on, as well as dark trousers which tucked neatly into long leather boots worn and discoloured from the salty sea air. His effort was.. Present, if not at all convincing. He did not stop or apologise for the intrusion, instead, he walked the length of the table opposite Serrélian, his path quite direct, his attention clearly focused upon the Queen. He drew a chair out without assistance, claimed her side without invitation and settled cleanly into it with the ease of one who considered this place as his.

”Don’t stop on my account, Mage. Get on with it.” He spoke, without so much as a glance to Serrélian, instead his attention was devotedly on his wife, the Queen, planting a kiss upon her hand.

Serrélian bowed once again, identical to those that came before.

”Of course, my King.” he stood now at the open gap in the table. ”It has come to light that there is a nefarious faction building within our own kingdoms. I have evidence that suggests this presence is not isolated within Aethelguard alone. It is…embedded. Within our borders, and, in every possibility, within each of yours.”

He walked absently down the centre gap now, slow, deliberately. His gaze passed across each of those assembled.

”I intercepted a shipment bound for the palace, for the crown, it was marked as an import from The Dezert. Sahara.” His attention shifted, briefly, pointedly landing on the empty section of the table, where the delegates from Sahara would have sat. ”A shipment of wine.” He paused yet again, running his fingers along the table slowly, enough time to allow thoughts to linger. ”A poisoned one.” He again allowed his words to settle into the group. ”However, I do not believe Sahara is complicit. Not knowingly so.”

He turned slightly and offered a small, almost entirely absent gesture toward the side of the room. The guards there understood without needing further address. They exited through the side door in near silence. For a moment, the room felt quiet, Serrélian continued his pacing, unhurried, his face remaining unchanged.

When the guards returned, they did not return alone. Between them walked a man, bound at the wrists in iron. His condition a clear indication of recent handling. His fabric torn, bruising upon his skin, blood, dried in some places and fresher in others stained his clothes, and beneath it all, a faint discoloration lingered on his skin which felt entirely unnatural. He was forced forward and made to kneel within the centre.

”Due to the nature of this shipment, I elected to question the driver responsible for its delivery. He informed me that he was stopped en route. An inspection, he was told. ONe that has not, in fact, been authorised. This was the very thing that led me to finding this man. A member of the very faction in question, they call themselves ‘The Unbound.’” His lips curved just faintly, something that might have looked just short of amusement. ”Ironic, I suppose. This is not a scattered effort, however. Nor is it an act simply to disrupt. It is organised, and deliberate. They are an underground movement of magic users who have no love for crowns nor those who serve.” He span on his heel, turning to face the head of the table once again. ”They do not seek to merely inconvenience us, but remove us. All of us.”

Serrélian allowed the silence to fill the room once again, his gaze passing from one face to the next.

”Whether this.. Faction has touched your lands yet, that I cannot say for certainty. But I find it unlikely given the circumstances that Aethelguard alone would be so unfortunate.” He walked again towards the head of the table, his head hung low and his eyes shut. ”You have now seen what I have uncovered. What remains to be seen now is not if you will respond..” His gaze lifted, settling across the gathered royals and mages alike. “But how..”

══════ ❖ ══════

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

.

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

@themaybreeze Oh my god, Hi! :D

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

This still have a space available? I've got an idea in mind already

Project Genesis

The sky was wrong. That was her first thought. Too wide. Too open. No ceiling. No dome. No steel ribs holding it together. Chrys lay on her back for half a breath too long, lungs dragging in air that tasted impossibly clean, and it made her skin crawl. Freedom had never felt like this. It felt exposed.

She rolled to her side and pushed up onto her hands. Grass. Real grass. Damp against her palms. Alive. Someone laughed. A kid. The sound hit something soft in her chest, and she looked over in time to see the little boy from holding splashing in mud like it was treasure. Good, she thought distantly. At least someone gets the fairytale version.

She didn’t stand right away. She scanned. Tree line: dense. Old growth. Too much shadow. Mountains: good landmarks. Bad escape route. Open clearing: terrible defensible position. People were turning in circles, staring at the sky like it might applaud them. Chrys got to her feet slowly, brushing dirt from her hands. She clocked the soldier immediately, posture tight even here, eyes already calculating. Good. At least one other person wasn’t drunk on blue.

The Tear sealed behind them with a pulse. Chrys didn’t look at it. That chapter was done. Then the roar came. It didn’t sound mechanical. Didn’t sound human. It sounded ancient. The vibration moved through her boots, up her spine, into her teeth. Her jaw set.

“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course.”

Birds exploded from the trees. Movement followed. Not the animal. People. Chrys’ eyes narrowed as the armed squad broke through the tree line at a sprint, formation tight, weapons up. Not scavengers. Not panicked civilians. Organized. Been here a while.

“On your feet!”

She was already moving. She didn’t run toward them blindly like half the group. Instead she angled slightly, closing distance but keeping sight lines open. The woman leading the squad had command presence, and Chrys clocked that immediately. Not corporate. Not soft.

Branches split again behind them. That was not a bluff. Chrys reached down without thinking and hauled one of the stunned men up by the back of his collar as he hesitated. “Move,” she snapped, voice low and sharp. Not panicked. Directive. “Unless you want to find out what that is up close.”

He moved. Good. Another roar. Closer. This time she felt the weight of it in her ribs. Perez was stepping forward with the boy tugging his hand. Chrys saw the conflict in his movement, advance or rear guard, and for a fraction of a second their eyes met across the clearing. You take front. I’ll take back. No words. Just an understanding born from knowing what collapse looked like.

She fell back slightly, not far enough to isolate herself, but enough to watch the trailing edge of the group as they scrambled toward whatever refuge these armed strangers offered. The clearing wasn’t secure. The leader had said it. That meant they had somewhere that was. Which meant territory. Which meant structure.

Chrys felt something almost like relief. A system to step into before she stepped out of it. As the ground trembled again and something massive moved in the trees, she cast one last look over her shoulder at the forest edge. “Not today,” she murmured. Then she turned and ran with the others, not toward safety. Toward information.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

_{══════ ❖ ══════
• The Planes - Aethelguard
• Feat. Queen Serena Esolotáir
& Princess Liana Esolotáir
• 4:45am
══════ ❖ ══════}

It was not yet dawn when Serrèlian D’Vyrens rose. The world beyond his chambers lingered in that suspended indigo hush which belonged neither wholly to night nor morning, when the sea struck the cliffs below Aethelguard with steady, patient rhythm and the palace breathed in long, unhurried intervals. These were the hours he preferred, before petitioners gathered, before courtiers rehearsed ambition, before variables began to move of their own accord. In such stillness, the kingdom could be examined without interruption.

On most mornings, distance sufficed. Reports arrived sealed and orderly; decisions were made with measured annotation; the machinery of state turned reliably when calibrated from above. Today did not permit distance. The continental summit compressed too many sovereignties beneath a single roof. Royals would arrive adorned in legacy and ceremony, each bearing the weight of their continent’s history. Royal Mages would arrive shaped by traditions that did not share foundation, some favouring restraint, others spectacle. Some Serrèlian knew through correspondence and record; others existed only as reputation. Magic, when bound too tightly to personality, could be volatile. It was not power itself he mistrusted, but dependence upon it.

By the time the first blade of sunlight struck the eastern spires in molten amber, Serrèlian had reviewed the summit itinerary three times, ensuring that each movement, each arrival, each absence aligned precisely with his design. A harbour guard captain was summoned before the kitchens had begun their preparations and questioned with deliberate precision. Rotations were adjusted. Lines of sight reconsidered. The man left with the understanding that today’s watch was not simply ornamental. A projection from the western docks was recalculated in light of a delayed convoy, not from concern over coin, but from awareness that visible fluctuation invited commentary, and commentary hardened swiftly into narrative.

Only when all was complete did he permit himself tea. The porcelain cup was thin-walled and unadorned, its contents a clear, sunlit gold drawn from leaves cultivated along Aethelguard’s southern cliff terraces where sea mist salted the soil and wind kept the growth tight and clean. The infusion carried a faint brightness of coastal citrus and crushed verbena, sharp rather than sweet. It required precision: steeped for exactly four minutes. Steam rose in narrow spirals as he carried it to the eastern window, where the morning light turned the surface briefly to molten amber. The taste cleared rather than comforted, a ritual of discipline disguised as indulgence, and he drank without haste as the harbour stirred to life below in ordered rhythm.

Sails unfurled in practised succession, canvas catching the wind with elegant restraint. Nets were cast, mooring lines drawn taut. Trade was not merely the kingdom’s lifeblood, but its very discipline. Structured exchange fostered measured growth, which in turn reinforced authority. The Crown governed by voice and symbol; Serrèlian ensured governance held consequence.

By midmorning he passed through the inner corridors toward the grand banquet hall. The air widened as he approached; the ceiling lifted; coastal light spilled through tall arched windows in clean, luminous bands. Servants moved briskly but carefully, aware that his silence was more instructive than raised volume. Emerald and gold banners hung in deliberate symmetry. Crystal fractured sea-light in quiet brilliance. Nothing within the chamber was accidental; even the distance between place settings had been measured against sightlines and conversation flow.

“Serrèlian, dear.”

Queen Serena Esolotáir descended from the dais with composed grace, silk the colour of late summer leaves whispering against marble. The servants’ movements tightened almost imperceptibly at her presence, though one attendant lingered a fraction too long within earshot, cloth suspended mid-polish near the western column.

“It is magnificent,” she said, surveying the hall with measured satisfaction.

“It will serve its purpose,” Serrèlian replied.

Her lips curved faintly. “You have always had a talent for turning sufficiency into splendour.”

“Splendour is most effective when it appears effortless.”

She studied him briefly, warmth beneath the regality. “I require a small favour.”

“You rarely require small favours, Your Grace,” he observed mildly, a small smirk touching the edge of his mouth.

“Liana has vanished.”

He inclined his head. “I will dispatch a small detachment to retrieve her.”

Serena’s expression sharpened, though not unkindly. “No guards. She requires instruction, not spectacle. I will not have my daughter escorted back like a delinquent on the morning of a summit.”

Serrèlian held her gaze for a measured breath. He had known she would refuse; it was necessary that she do so, and do so clearly. Without turning his head, his eyes shifted briefly toward the attendant by the western column. The cloth resumed its movement at once, swift and careful, as though it had never paused.

“Of course,” he said. The exchange settled with quiet precision, authority remaining visible and intact without having been raised.

“See that she understands the importance of today, would you?” Serena added, softer now.

“She will.”

She regarded him a moment longer, something affectionate threading beneath the steel. “Do not let her charm you.”

“I am immune to all charm, but yours, my lady,” he said with a small bow, a hand pressed lightly to his chest.

“Flatterer,” she murmured with a chuckle

“If Your Majesty will excuse me.”

At her nod, the sea-light caught Serrèlian more keenly than it should have, brightening along the lines of his figure until he seemed briefly wrought in gold and glass. Filaments of warm radiance traced his outline like sunlight through stained windows before thinning into ordinary air; in the space of a blink he was no longer there.

════════ ❖ ════════

The southern courtyard lay open to the morning, pale stone warming beneath the early ascent of the sun. Chalk marked a rough duelling circle at its centre, the lines scuffed and blurred where boots had slid too eagerly across them. Ivy climbed the inner walls in disciplined green columns, and beyond those walls the sea breathed steadily against the cliffs, its rhythm indifferent to youthful miscalculation.

Princess Liana lay within the chalk boundary, her back pressed to stone dusted faintly in white. The blacksmith’s son stood over her with uncertain triumph, wooden blade held to her throat. His grip was tight but not steady; his breathing betrayed him in shallow pulls. Liana’s jaw was clenched so firmly the muscle along her neck stood taut, fury burned hotter than fear in her eyes. She saw Serrèlian standing just beyond the chalked line, his hands folded over his sleeves, his gaze steady and unhurried.

“Yield,” he said. The words carried across stone and ivy without force, yet altered the air more surely than a shout might have done. The boy stiffened at once, yet Liana did not move. Her teeth pressed harder together as pride resisted instruction on instinct alone. Serrèlian watched her carefully, noting the inward turn of her right ankle where she had pivoted too aggressively. The same flaw revealed itself again. “Yield, Liana.”

Her gaze snapped to his, defiance flaring quick and hot before calculation overtook it. For a heartbeat, she held him there, testing whether he would bend first. He, of course, did not. Through clenched teeth she forced the words out.

“I yield.”

The blade withdrew immediately. The boy stumbled back a pace as though released from something far heavier than wood and chalk. Liana rose without assistance, brushing chalk from her sleeves in short, irritated strokes. She did not look at the boy. She looked only at Serrèlian.

“He got lucky,” she said too quickly. “I had him.”

Serrèlian allowed a measured silence to settle. “It would seem that the position was not as certain as you believed.”

“I did have him!”

“You overcommitted again, didn’t you?”

A flicker, brief and unwilling, passed through her expression before she turned her shoulder slightly. “He wouldn’t stop pressing.”

“You are not wrong to seek strength,” he continued evenly. “But strength displayed without discipline invites correction, and visibility governs consequence. You may be strong, but you will never be unseen.”

She drew in a breath. “I’m going.”

She crossed the courtyard, her stride brisk but uneven at first. Halfway to the doors her posture adjusted, shoulders lowering, spine lengthening, chin levelling, as the girl yielded to the heir. Serrèlian watched the correction before turning to the blacksmith’s son.

“Do you understand what has just occurred?”

“We were only sparring, sir.”

“Yes. You were.” He stepped forward slightly. “You placed a weapon at the throat of the Princess of Aethelguard within palace walls, unsanctioned and unsupervised. In another context, it could be construed as an attempted assassination.”

The colour drained from the boy’s face. “I would never—”

“I am aware, and this shall remain between us. For now.” The boy’s panic settled into wary comprehension. “If you wish to duel Her Highness again, it will be sanctioned and supervised. Position alters perception, and perception will govern consequence. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be off with you, then.” The boy turned toward the ivy-lined wall. “And take the narrow passage behind the western trellis, the one you and the Princess believe escapes notice. The guards would be rather displeased to find you wandering the grounds at this hour. Is that understood?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He slipped through the break in ivy and vanished.

For a moment the courtyard returned to quiet, chalk disturbed and dust settling in the sea breeze. Serrèlian stood within it without expression, cataloguing what he had observed, improvement in recovery, regression in restraint, potential intact if guided correctly. The light around him brightened subtly, fine threads of warm radiance tracing the line of his shoulders before thinning into air, and in the space of a breath he was gone.

════════ ❖ ════════

When he returned to the banquet hall, preparations were nearing completion. After the final touches, the servants withdrew at his quiet instruction. He walked to the grand oak doors himself and closed them with deliberate care, the echo reverberating through vaulted stone. Alone at the centre of the chamber, he lifted one hand. Pale lines of ivory and muted gold traced themselves across the marble floor in precise geometry, threading outward and climbing pillars in luminous symmetry. The lattice expanded upward in a seamless arc until a dome of ordered radiance sealed the hall in perfect hemisphere before softening to invisibility. The gold thinned; the ivory dimmed; what remained was absence, a sustained quiet that settled into the stone itself. Magic within the hall did not flare or resist; it simply failed to answer. Serrèlian lowered his hand. The absence was precise, like stepping into cool water after standing too long beneath the harsh sun.

Precisely on time, an attendant entered bearing a small faceted crystal glowing steady blue. As she crossed the threshold, the light faltered and faded, leaving only clear stone in her hands. Despite herself, the servant hesitated, unsure as to whether she had imagined it.

“You requested this, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Serrélian regarded the now-ordinary stone for a moment. “You may return it to my study.”

“V-Very well, sir,” she hesitated. “I was instructed to inform you that the first of the guests have arrived.”

Serrèlian inclined his head, the chamber around him silent and exact. Everything stood precisely as it should, arranged not merely for spectacle but for inevitability, and those who entered would do so within terms already set.

════════ ❖ ════════

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Serrèlian D’Vyrens

════════ ❖ ════════

	_______________________________________________ Name: Serrèlian D’Vyrens Nationality: Planes - Aethelguard Practiced Magic: Light Age: 33 Sex: Male Height: 6’1” (185cm) Weight: 178lbs (81kg) Eyes: Grey-green Physique: Lean, Athletic, Well-Proportioned Hair: Ash-blone/light mousy brown Skin: sun-touched Colour: 3FA36C

RELATIONSHIP WITH ROYALTY

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Publicly devoted and impeccably composed, Serrèlian presents himself as the Crown’s most loyal instrument. In court, he refines missteps with elegance and preserves the appearance of unity without ever drawing overt attention to his influence.

Privately, however, he is exacting. He does not tolerate incompetence, particularly when it threatens the stability he has cultivated. Should the King undermine him in public, Serrèlian will preserve appearances, and address the failure behind closed doors with controlled intensity. He does not seek the throne, but he ensures it performs adequately. If a monarch proves incapable of correction, Serrèlian would consider alternatives. The kingdom must endure.

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CHILDHOOD

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Serrèlian was born to a family of modest standing within the Plains, respectable, yet far from influential. From an early age, he displayed not only aptitude for Light magic, but a sharper talent for observation. While others were praised for spectacle, Serrèlian studied consequence. He learned quickly that brilliance alone was insufficient; it had to be undeniable.

His magic manifested with precision rather than grandeur. Controlled, deliberate, exacting — much like the boy himself. As he matured, so too did his understanding of governance, trade, military positioning, and courtly dynamics. By the time he was selected as Royal Mage, it was not solely his magic that secured the position, but his intellect. Serrèlian did not inherit relevance. He proved it until it could not be denied.

════════ ❖ ════════

PERSONALITY

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Serrèlian D’Vyrens views governance as a discipline and hierarchy as a natural structure to be refined. He does not desire the crown; he prefers the position of adviser, or architect; the hand guiding the throne rather than the head wearing it. Politics, war, diplomacy, each is a calculated game, and Serrèlian has long since concluded he is the most capable player in the room. The Plains flourish because he anticipates outcomes others fail to foresee. In his mind, this is not vanity. It is evidence.

In court, he is composed and immaculate, smoothing missteps with elegance and maintaining the Crown’s dignity even when it would otherwise falter. Public contradiction is intolerable, though he will never fracture unity before witnesses. Behind closed doors, however, his restraint sharpens. His anger is deliberate and controlled, his words precise and cutting. To undermine him publicly is to destabilise the structure he has built, and Serrèlian does not permit instability.

He does not crave worship. What he values is recognition. When the King defers to his intellect sincerely, it affirms what Serrèlian already knows: he is indispensable. Affection, for him, is possessive rather than sentimental. The kingdom thrives under his design, and that prosperity reflects him. He believes every arena, governance, war, hierarchy, even romance, is a game of measured strategy. Serrèlian intends to win them all.

════════ ❖ ════════

OPENNESS TO FRIENDSHIP - 2
OPENNESS TO ROMANCE - 4

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Serrèlian is socially adept and comfortable within courtly environments, but he forms true friendships sparingly. While he maintains alliances and engages with ease, genuine trust requires equality and vulnerability — conditions he grants rarely. He respects competence and composure above warmth.

Romance, however, intrigues him. He does not pursue it actively, yet if someone proves intellectually formidable and resilient enough to challenge him, he would engage fully. Serrèlian approaches relationships with intensity and deliberation; he does not invest lightly, but once invested, he is unwavering. Romance is one of the few arenas where control is less certain — and that unpredictability both frustrates and fascinates him.

════════ ❖ ════════

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

@SilverPaw As a fellow brit, yeah, Imgur images simply won't work for us due to region lock. If you follow @Obscene Symphony's advice above and upload whatever image you want to your profile on RPG, it'll be re-hosted here and we can access it then.