Best wishes to you Andastra, and much luck to you in the future!
So sorry to hear that Dot, about your internet - we'll just be hoping to hear from you Saturday, hon.
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Mmmm... Sticky rolls and coffee! Sounds perfect to me - though New Yorker? Get your butt to class! *tosses a sticky roll or two and shoos toward class*
Best wishes to you Andastra, and much luck to you in the future!
So sorry to hear that Dot, about your internet - we'll just be hoping to hear from you Saturday, hon.
Best wishes to you Andastra, and much luck to you in the future!
So sorry to hear that Dot, about your internet - we'll just be hoping to hear from you Saturday, hon.
Undead, revenants and vampires are all entirely welcome to this world, Lukas. Back stories are just fine and never a problem. When you fill out your CS, you may want to consider why it is that your character would be a working professional for the Bain & Hoyle Investigation and Recovery Company, and what skill set he might yet bring to the table, whether it be his old skill set while he learns the new, or otherwise.
The mid-morning sun was only beginning to assert its supremacy over the Jamaican day, though the more solid and honest denizens of Port Royal had long been awake and about their business at the first breath of sunrise.
Well, perhaps it would be better said the majority stirring were among the solid and honest of citizens.
A coy little twist of her lips was all the answer the woman had for the commander of men ahorse beside her small, hooded carriage, a tantalizing reply barely shrouded by the pale ivory veil of fine French lace. Her grey eyes never left his face, though her words were directed to the elderly man beside her on the carriage chaise. "What say you, mon chèr Oncle? Shall we join Robert tonight, at Fort Charles?"
The thick Parisian accent rolled off her tongue like undulating waves of silk, as smooth and inviting to the touch as the flawless, sun-kissed skin of her shoulders above the pale green satin of her dress bodice. Soft waves of ebony hair were plaited from her face, coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. Large curls hung in thick tendrils well past those same shoulders, bouncing gently with every pass of the chaise carriage wheels over the cobblestone roads of the bustling center of Port Royal.
"Hmm?" Sir Greene turned toward the voice of his great niece Antoinette, his attention pulled from the much-loved sounds and scents of a great port city by the only person who could still lovingly command his attentions. "Oh, this evening Antoinette? I'm afraid that might be an affair for a far younger crowd, my dearest. Your old uncle's legs simply would not be up for the exercise - though I look forward to your playing before tea time."
"You are no age at all, Oncle Nathaniel!" the young woman countered swiftly, shaking her head as she took her uncle's fingers in one evergreen silk-gloved hand, the palfrey's reins held loosely in the other.
"Then you must be nearly as blind as I, my dearest," Nathaniel teased right back, squeezing her hand affectionately in return. "No, no - if you wish to dance tonight? Commander Murray, I trust you will keep my niece safely ensconced on your arm, until she is delivered again to mine?"
The Commander's gaze traveled from the barely veiled, exotic face of the woman beside him, to Sir Greene - and then back once more with a soft smile. "Yes Sir, I certainly would - if the lady would agree, of course?"
Mademoiselle Antoinette Mireille Greene released her great uncle's hand, gloved fingers rising to her face to pull the veil of lace back over her forehead, silver-grey eyes studying the man's face for several long moments before she said a single word.
'How very like they are, in so many ways,' she could not help but think to herself as she regarded this stalwart military man sitting so straight in the saddle atop his bay stallion, his intelligent, thoughtful dark eyes regarding her with a small, sweetly hopeful question of a smile on his lips.
The natural child of Sir Greene's wayward nephew and a woman he'd fallen madly for in the East Indies, Antoinette was born in Paris, where the lewd French were notoriously tolerant of such dalliances. As a grown woman, the charming Antoinette was as foot loose and travel-besotted as her father had ever been, indulged by her wealthy English relations as she explored the mysteries of this shining New World. And how she did love her Great Uncle Nathaniel, with all his stories and memories, the rich treasures of a grand life lived fully and well.
'Honorable, each in his own way; brave to a fault; unfailingly loyal to their men, their duties - and yet, so very different. If Antoinette disappeared this very moment, a truer face beneath, there would be no chance to do a thing differently with this man. No, only the brig, perhaps the firing squad? No... No, with the company I keep now, it would doubtlessly be the crow's cage.'
Antoinette's smile widened as she nodded her head. "Merci, Robert," she replied before letting the ethereal veil fall back over her face. "I should like this very much. And all your men too, your... Your... Oh what is this word? Oh yes, your officers too, yes? This will be such fun! I have long wished to meet your friends, Robert."
Well, perhaps it would be better said the majority stirring were among the solid and honest of citizens.
A coy little twist of her lips was all the answer the woman had for the commander of men ahorse beside her small, hooded carriage, a tantalizing reply barely shrouded by the pale ivory veil of fine French lace. Her grey eyes never left his face, though her words were directed to the elderly man beside her on the carriage chaise. "What say you, mon chèr Oncle? Shall we join Robert tonight, at Fort Charles?"
The thick Parisian accent rolled off her tongue like undulating waves of silk, as smooth and inviting to the touch as the flawless, sun-kissed skin of her shoulders above the pale green satin of her dress bodice. Soft waves of ebony hair were plaited from her face, coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. Large curls hung in thick tendrils well past those same shoulders, bouncing gently with every pass of the chaise carriage wheels over the cobblestone roads of the bustling center of Port Royal.
"Hmm?" Sir Greene turned toward the voice of his great niece Antoinette, his attention pulled from the much-loved sounds and scents of a great port city by the only person who could still lovingly command his attentions. "Oh, this evening Antoinette? I'm afraid that might be an affair for a far younger crowd, my dearest. Your old uncle's legs simply would not be up for the exercise - though I look forward to your playing before tea time."
"You are no age at all, Oncle Nathaniel!" the young woman countered swiftly, shaking her head as she took her uncle's fingers in one evergreen silk-gloved hand, the palfrey's reins held loosely in the other.
"Then you must be nearly as blind as I, my dearest," Nathaniel teased right back, squeezing her hand affectionately in return. "No, no - if you wish to dance tonight? Commander Murray, I trust you will keep my niece safely ensconced on your arm, until she is delivered again to mine?"
The Commander's gaze traveled from the barely veiled, exotic face of the woman beside him, to Sir Greene - and then back once more with a soft smile. "Yes Sir, I certainly would - if the lady would agree, of course?"
Mademoiselle Antoinette Mireille Greene released her great uncle's hand, gloved fingers rising to her face to pull the veil of lace back over her forehead, silver-grey eyes studying the man's face for several long moments before she said a single word.
'How very like they are, in so many ways,' she could not help but think to herself as she regarded this stalwart military man sitting so straight in the saddle atop his bay stallion, his intelligent, thoughtful dark eyes regarding her with a small, sweetly hopeful question of a smile on his lips.
The natural child of Sir Greene's wayward nephew and a woman he'd fallen madly for in the East Indies, Antoinette was born in Paris, where the lewd French were notoriously tolerant of such dalliances. As a grown woman, the charming Antoinette was as foot loose and travel-besotted as her father had ever been, indulged by her wealthy English relations as she explored the mysteries of this shining New World. And how she did love her Great Uncle Nathaniel, with all his stories and memories, the rich treasures of a grand life lived fully and well.
'Honorable, each in his own way; brave to a fault; unfailingly loyal to their men, their duties - and yet, so very different. If Antoinette disappeared this very moment, a truer face beneath, there would be no chance to do a thing differently with this man. No, only the brig, perhaps the firing squad? No... No, with the company I keep now, it would doubtlessly be the crow's cage.'
Antoinette's smile widened as she nodded her head. "Merci, Robert," she replied before letting the ethereal veil fall back over her face. "I should like this very much. And all your men too, your... Your... Oh what is this word? Oh yes, your officers too, yes? This will be such fun! I have long wished to meet your friends, Robert."
LimeyPanda said
I'll simply be asking for opinions, when I post them.
Please post just one, Panda - battle the indecisiveness within! This isn't meant to be a discussion like last time.
And very best wishes to you, Fantasy Fan. It was good to have you while we could!
So long as you promise me, I never have to stop... Yum! >.>
Just like last time Panda, you will have to make up your own mind on the character.
The New Yorker said
I like to believe that I'm not so vain. I'll have a CS up soon.
I'd like to say that Heroes' words weren't spoken from hard, sad experience. *sigh* And yet...
Still, very much looking forward to seeing your CS, New Yorker!
Hi there New Yorker - the GM Heroes' character is an incubus, and one of the players is a demonspawn (man with a demon's soul). So yes the demonic is an acceptable character type, but you might wish to look over the still-playing characters if you would prefer to branch out.
Sparkling blue eyes, bright and glinting as a flawlessly cut sapphire turned toward the spectacular full moon overhead, just past the dark roofs of the buildings rising up all around the couple as they walked leisurely along the cobbled byways. That leisurely pace was, by no means, the gentleman’s preferred tempo in the least, though he found himself strangely unable to make the fullness of his displeasure known to his lady companion, entranced as he felt in her presence.
His lady companion who was, in turn, enchanted by the only sunlight she would ever know again – and hence paid as little attention to her escort’s displeasure as she might a small child tugging at her skirts, complaining he was bored and she must come away to play with him this very moment.
Lord Charles Wright took the moment to sigh resignedly, running a hand through his thick, dark hair as if that act alone might clear his head. He would have far rather taken a carriage this night from the drawing room of the Duchess of Manchester, as exhausted as he was by the evening’s dancing, intoxicated with the good wine of Her Grace’s incomparable cellars, and positively inebriated by the mere presence of his companion. But Lady Wilde, with only a few sweet words and a tiny upward tilt of her full, rose petal-soft lips, had melted every objection he tried to conjure, like flame to candle wax.
For her part, Lady Jerusha Wilde simply could not stomach the thought of confinement in some stifling carriage. She had spent the better part of the night in the sweltering heat of the drawing room at Charles’ behest, enduring the press of bodies and conversations that – for no reason she could name – she simply did not care for and could not be bothered to attend this evening. And so, whether he would or no, this night Lord Wright would heed the precocious, sometimes maddening whims of Jerusha that were always part of the price of her company.
And so the sumptuously dressed pair strolled the filthy streets of London, through the eternal cobweb of fog, its tendrils slinking past every building’s corner, every stinking alleyway and byway of this city. She loved this ancient metropolis, her heart’s home on the Thames, and she breathed deeply of the cool, vaguely fetid air, spiced as it was by the musk of its denizens, sweat and spittle and, most delicious of all, the heady, coppery hints of blood. To her heightened senses, it was very much like a hungry man’s appreciation of a scrumptious holiday buffet.
Jerusha did not often partake of the everyday man of London, unless he were fool enough to try to molest her, or visit harm to her person or to anyone who accompanied her. In truth, she tried to partake as little as possible and always so carefully, in private and in her chamber, a carefully crafted tale of a night of drunken and carnal excess to weave into his memories like a favorite and well-tailored shirt.
She had partaken of Charles scrupulously the entirety of this past year, the dear man none the wiser of course, and she would again this night as well. He was a generous man at heart, and kind, and Jerusha did not believe this small fraud hurt him in the least. Lord Wright had all his memories of the much sought after Lady Jerusha Wilde well intact after all, as well as the privilege and the boast that he had the incomparable company of the most desirable courtesan in England.
Fair enough trade, in truth.
But this night, Jerusha’s eyes could not help but travel from the lovely moon up above, clothed provocatively as she was with a gauzy haze of London fog, back to its cobbled streets and…
Lady Wilde stopped still, her eyes traveling about her escort’s body to a dark figure across the thoroughfare. To her eyes, the aura about him seemed strangely… Dazzling, in truth. He was human, yes, but more – and colder, and warmer, than any man she had ever seen. Some small part of her noted the sword at his hip, but her curiosity and sudden concern caused her to pay precious little heed to such a petty concern. He smelled of despair, and drink, and… And perhaps most amazingly of all, the infernal, where Hell was an eternal and endless lake of black ice.
Jerusha paid precious little attention to Charles’ protests that the man was drunk, armed – perhaps even deranged and dangerous - as his lady companion left his side. With one quick flick of her delicate-seeming wrist, she impatiently waved him to stay where he was with a swift wave of her hand – an order he obeyed docilely as a well-trained dog. In unlife, just as in life, Lady Wilde’s [no longer beating] heart lay always with the desperate, the downtrodden and the forgotten – only now, she was a shepherd of a new, strange people where she could.
She gathered the lengths of her pale pink and rose skirts in both hands, delicately stepping over the worst of the slimy London street detritus.
His lady companion who was, in turn, enchanted by the only sunlight she would ever know again – and hence paid as little attention to her escort’s displeasure as she might a small child tugging at her skirts, complaining he was bored and she must come away to play with him this very moment.
Lord Charles Wright took the moment to sigh resignedly, running a hand through his thick, dark hair as if that act alone might clear his head. He would have far rather taken a carriage this night from the drawing room of the Duchess of Manchester, as exhausted as he was by the evening’s dancing, intoxicated with the good wine of Her Grace’s incomparable cellars, and positively inebriated by the mere presence of his companion. But Lady Wilde, with only a few sweet words and a tiny upward tilt of her full, rose petal-soft lips, had melted every objection he tried to conjure, like flame to candle wax.
For her part, Lady Jerusha Wilde simply could not stomach the thought of confinement in some stifling carriage. She had spent the better part of the night in the sweltering heat of the drawing room at Charles’ behest, enduring the press of bodies and conversations that – for no reason she could name – she simply did not care for and could not be bothered to attend this evening. And so, whether he would or no, this night Lord Wright would heed the precocious, sometimes maddening whims of Jerusha that were always part of the price of her company.
And so the sumptuously dressed pair strolled the filthy streets of London, through the eternal cobweb of fog, its tendrils slinking past every building’s corner, every stinking alleyway and byway of this city. She loved this ancient metropolis, her heart’s home on the Thames, and she breathed deeply of the cool, vaguely fetid air, spiced as it was by the musk of its denizens, sweat and spittle and, most delicious of all, the heady, coppery hints of blood. To her heightened senses, it was very much like a hungry man’s appreciation of a scrumptious holiday buffet.
Jerusha did not often partake of the everyday man of London, unless he were fool enough to try to molest her, or visit harm to her person or to anyone who accompanied her. In truth, she tried to partake as little as possible and always so carefully, in private and in her chamber, a carefully crafted tale of a night of drunken and carnal excess to weave into his memories like a favorite and well-tailored shirt.
She had partaken of Charles scrupulously the entirety of this past year, the dear man none the wiser of course, and she would again this night as well. He was a generous man at heart, and kind, and Jerusha did not believe this small fraud hurt him in the least. Lord Wright had all his memories of the much sought after Lady Jerusha Wilde well intact after all, as well as the privilege and the boast that he had the incomparable company of the most desirable courtesan in England.
Fair enough trade, in truth.
But this night, Jerusha’s eyes could not help but travel from the lovely moon up above, clothed provocatively as she was with a gauzy haze of London fog, back to its cobbled streets and…
Lady Wilde stopped still, her eyes traveling about her escort’s body to a dark figure across the thoroughfare. To her eyes, the aura about him seemed strangely… Dazzling, in truth. He was human, yes, but more – and colder, and warmer, than any man she had ever seen. Some small part of her noted the sword at his hip, but her curiosity and sudden concern caused her to pay precious little heed to such a petty concern. He smelled of despair, and drink, and… And perhaps most amazingly of all, the infernal, where Hell was an eternal and endless lake of black ice.
Jerusha paid precious little attention to Charles’ protests that the man was drunk, armed – perhaps even deranged and dangerous - as his lady companion left his side. With one quick flick of her delicate-seeming wrist, she impatiently waved him to stay where he was with a swift wave of her hand – an order he obeyed docilely as a well-trained dog. In unlife, just as in life, Lady Wilde’s [no longer beating] heart lay always with the desperate, the downtrodden and the forgotten – only now, she was a shepherd of a new, strange people where she could.
She gathered the lengths of her pale pink and rose skirts in both hands, delicately stepping over the worst of the slimy London street detritus.
*breathes in that shiny new thread smell* Mmmm... That's nice - and tah dah! Finally came up with something for a title, though if you hate it? XD Probably not an awful lot I can do about that at the moment, to be honest. We'll just have to go on, the best we can, with my mistakes...
I can bring over what we have already in PMs if you don't have the time to get together and do it one on one - I should have a new post up tonight anyway. But if you have a chance, and would like to pull your pieces from the PMs yourself and post, that would be perfect.
I can bring over what we have already in PMs if you don't have the time to get together and do it one on one - I should have a new post up tonight anyway. But if you have a chance, and would like to pull your pieces from the PMs yourself and post, that would be perfect.
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