<Snipped quote by Mole>
black and gray with lime green line on the side of them. I have dark purple ones but they are newer. my feet have to get use to them first
Awwwh, they sound cute.
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It’s my birthday today! I’m officially an older adult. It feels like Jude Law becoming Michael Gambdon overnight, and still being just as magical.
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Awwwh, they sound cute.
<Snipped quote by Mole>
like tennis shoes like ones. I normal wear. slip on shoes. I only wear them. Because if I am walking and not paying attention if I was tie shoes and they came undid and I was paying attention. I could fall or something so I just wear like sketchers slip on things or shoes likes that. but it has been a while since I walk with shoes on. I am so use to be bare foot that walking with shoes on feels almost odd to me. lol
That makes sense. 😚 What color are your tennis slip-on shoes?
@wheels, what type of shoes are you going to wear?
Banned for mentioning the need for a visa.
I don’t understand your math. Please help.
L O C A T I O N : Lodge, Port10
I N T E R A C T I O N S : @Conscripts
T A G S :
E Q U I P M E N T :
]As the orc’s large body came through the door, a shadow loomed into the room, but when he fully made his entrance, the fireplace welcomed the new comer with a happy crackle. A small smile, cheeky if anything, resided in Good’ole Timothy’s face. His mouth was obviously full of words that may never be spoke in their presence.
Rowan felt a shiver of guilt corse through his being, not as pain first but as a feeling of relief for having ought to feeling it. And then, as it continued, the silver lining turned sharp and caused him that same agony guilt and physical pain coupled together, often did.
When Barrock spoke, it was obvious he was a truly special creature. The large creatures words were not so much a hard demand or anything other than a stern question. He offered more empathy and compassion than was necessary, even for a simple creature.
The guilt shivered once again in Rowan. He could feel it as a cold sweat against his cheeks and forehead now.
Rowan’s eyes shifted towards the door making its appearance known solely by the speaking of her name. He had not been able to see her yet and was uncertain how she was. With the look on Timothy’s face, it was assumed she was fine.
“Right yonder,” Timothy beckoned. His hand shifted upwards and motioned towards the door a lullaby lulled from the door like white noise, as if the room was coaxing them to come in.
“Unfortunately or maybe more so fortunately, depending how one looks at it? I can’t let Rowan in until he says something. In his condition, he can’t afford not to.” A sharpness pierced from Timothy’s eyes to Rowan’s. An obvious sign of desire and trust that was unmistakeable my needed to be placed in Good’ole Timothy.
“I…” Rowan could feel the fear he had when Aurora was suffering, and he had to make the choice. The choice had not come as easy as the split second had made it appear. To explain the feeling was harder for him to pronounce. So, he stayed with formalities. “I apologize for leaving your side in the midst of battle to care for Aurora.”
The Light Elf’s silver hair strung downwards as his chin dipped into a small bow. The offering left him feeling a as if a weight was lifting from him. “Please, forgive me, as a noble soldier, seeking to regain his honor with you.” His hand turned into a knuckle as his bow became more of a prostration.
Timothy, acting as mediator turned his attention to Barrock. The fireplace continued to crackle.
“What do you say?” The Elder Elf was curious in his knowledge and wisdom, and the warmth in his eyes matched that of the burning fireplace.
Things are better if I stay, so long and good night.
Friday night, fun night.
But, despite his getting older, the women he kept company with stayed the same age. He could hear her giggling behind him, the strawberry blonde in thick eyeliner.
This was such a good line. I love how you write Jag’s dialogue, as well. It’s so sharp to his personality, @Lord Wraith.
eleanor hill • the author.....| .....#daa520 .008
studio apartment • 591 franklin avenue, nyc > marquee sky deck
It wasn’t her first time going to something fancy. Thanks to rich Palestinian churchgoers and her parents’ Ivy League faculty–invitation soirées, these gala-type events were just another dime in the bag.
Except this one was different.
“I’m wearing a little black dress,” Elly was saying to Spencer. He was all up in arms that she dressed her best—spend more money than necessary on a new outfit.
“Like the one your mom gifted you five years ago for Christmas? The one you distinctly said was from Marshall’s, and also the one you wore on our first date?”
How did he remember this stuff? It was as if he was a character written for a manic woman’s novel exposé. Some part of her—the one deep down, knew she would be making a revengeful twist on him in a future novel, if she ever got there.
But the thought dissipated as she considered what she was going to say next.
“Coco Chanel believed adamantly in the little black dress. And theologically, philosophically, sociologically, neither of us can argue with her. She came up with the idea after being taught by nuns.”
She paused for emphasis. Sometimes, Elly could be a charlatan too.
“And what do nuns typically wear? A black dress or garb, if you want to be specific. It’s the pinnacle of attire. Almost all major fashion designers wear entirely black when making debuts. Why do you think it’s called a black-tie event?”
She was rambling drunkenly in protest, and Spencer finally relented.
“Pearls, too?” She could hear Spencer’s eyes rolling.
“Ye—yes!” She was getting somewhere with him. All she needed was some nice accessories, like that Tiffany’s necklace Fr. Ewan — or Ewan had given her randomly after one of her informal, pining social media posts about Humanity Majors affording luxury jewelry.
It felt like cheating to wear it, but then again, if there was any time, this event would be the event to make its first appearance. And then, of course, she completed the look with a pair of matching earrings as a gift to herself.
Elly had not bothered to wear the jewelry. They stayed put like some menagerie of what she wanted her future to be, even though she was constantly following penniless writers for what seemed like reasons to drink herself to death.
Whatever direction—she was willingly gambling for the former.
“Purse. You need a fun purse. Don’t go Betsey Johnson. Too economical.”
Spoken as if he was Bret Easton Ellis.
It was conversations that flowed like this that made Elly feel like they were made for each other. No one else connected with her like this—these micro-shifts in references.
“My mom gave me a Kate Spade purse that’s shaped like a boo—”
“Does your mom buy you all your clothes?”
He asked for the umpteenth time.
Talking about her clothes made Spencer feel less like a boyfriend and more like a girlfriend.
Why was he like this?
“Yes, like a good suburban mother.” Her eyes rolled alongside his. She felt like a Celeste Ng protagonist—except she wasn’t part Asian. “No, it was actually on Mercari for one-fifth the price.”
“Not Poshmark? Or Ross? You can buy her bags at Marshall’s, too.”
She couldn’t remember who was speaking. The line blurred with the last sip of wine. Maybe she had not been talking to Spencer at all.
What was clear was that she would probably look underdressed, just like the failure of a Dostoevskian wannabe she was attempting to be.
Beauty and the Beast was sewn across the black date purse.
It wasn’t Vendula, nor was it Vera Wang.
But, it was catchy. It was Eleanor Hill.
And, the dress was classically simple.
It was more Breakfast at Tiffany’s—if she dared to put herself in the shoes of Audrey Hepburn. And for the night, she could actually walk in the black heels. They made her thin, tall Scandinavian physique even more ethereal and model-like.
Although Spencer wanted a more Crazy Rich Asians-vibe, there was no way she would be able to climb that mountain.
Especially on her lack of a dime.
Which was why she ended up spending absolutely nothing in her attire.
Thankfully, she was not some character whose whole persona relied on the readers being impressed with her outfit. Instead, she was who she was: a famously budding author, being celebrated.
If it wasn’t a celebration, would she have been invited?
I’m at the party. Going in. Pray for me.
Nothing romantic. She cringed at not saying something mushy-gushy, but this felt safe—especially for the professional setting.
You look sexy. No cheating on me, toots. 😉
Playful. Always when she least expected it.
Elly’s lips pressed together. The moist lip-gloss and lipstick combination rubbed her tongue. She felt her cheeks brighten.
The iPhone slipped into her purse, and she carefully put her gloves on.
Gloves were classy and different, right?
Maybe she was following the letter of the law too deliberately. It wasn’t the first time.
Wrists were sexy, according to Memoirs of a Geisha. Should she be modest or sexy?
She pulled the gloves more snugly. Spencer’s text dictated her. Mysterious was sexy, anyways, right?
Just like how her name even got put on the list at the door.
The event was a huge spectacle, larger than she had anticipated. Upon entering, she couldn’t remember if she had said her name to the doorman or guard or bouncer or whatever that guy was — maybe a combination of all three — or if he already recognized her.
Was the person even a man? Maybe the door had been opened by a woman.
The lights and music bounced like a rave, but the room danced like an event Elon Musk was going to slam on X solely not being invited.
A champagne glass was practically handed to her by one of the servers. It sat on a nice serving tray and came with one of those fancy paper napkins that could have been specially designed for the party.
By the time the speech was made, Elly was finishing her second glass. She knew she had to slow down. Besides, she’d had a glass or two before heading over.
Her nerves wouldn’t settle, like her hair, pulled elegantly into a tight bun, held together, secretly by gel, hairspray, and hairpins. She could function professionally, but she needed help.
Right now, everything was blurring together, just like her books. Yet there was a visible, crystal-clear path right in front of her.
It matched the diamonds on the other attendees’ ears.
All she had to do was listen more than she talked.
Very traditional. Very attainable. Very Eleanor Hill.
Except this one was different.
“I’m wearing a little black dress,” Elly was saying to Spencer. He was all up in arms that she dressed her best—spend more money than necessary on a new outfit.
“Like the one your mom gifted you five years ago for Christmas? The one you distinctly said was from Marshall’s, and also the one you wore on our first date?”
How did he remember this stuff? It was as if he was a character written for a manic woman’s novel exposé. Some part of her—the one deep down, knew she would be making a revengeful twist on him in a future novel, if she ever got there.
But the thought dissipated as she considered what she was going to say next.
“Coco Chanel believed adamantly in the little black dress. And theologically, philosophically, sociologically, neither of us can argue with her. She came up with the idea after being taught by nuns.”
She paused for emphasis. Sometimes, Elly could be a charlatan too.
“And what do nuns typically wear? A black dress or garb, if you want to be specific. It’s the pinnacle of attire. Almost all major fashion designers wear entirely black when making debuts. Why do you think it’s called a black-tie event?”
She was rambling drunkenly in protest, and Spencer finally relented.
“Pearls, too?” She could hear Spencer’s eyes rolling.
“Ye—yes!” She was getting somewhere with him. All she needed was some nice accessories, like that Tiffany’s necklace Fr. Ewan — or Ewan had given her randomly after one of her informal, pining social media posts about Humanity Majors affording luxury jewelry.
It felt like cheating to wear it, but then again, if there was any time, this event would be the event to make its first appearance. And then, of course, she completed the look with a pair of matching earrings as a gift to herself.
Elly had not bothered to wear the jewelry. They stayed put like some menagerie of what she wanted her future to be, even though she was constantly following penniless writers for what seemed like reasons to drink herself to death.
Whatever direction—she was willingly gambling for the former.
“Purse. You need a fun purse. Don’t go Betsey Johnson. Too economical.”
Spoken as if he was Bret Easton Ellis.
It was conversations that flowed like this that made Elly feel like they were made for each other. No one else connected with her like this—these micro-shifts in references.
“My mom gave me a Kate Spade purse that’s shaped like a boo—”
“Does your mom buy you all your clothes?”
He asked for the umpteenth time.
Talking about her clothes made Spencer feel less like a boyfriend and more like a girlfriend.
Why was he like this?
“Yes, like a good suburban mother.” Her eyes rolled alongside his. She felt like a Celeste Ng protagonist—except she wasn’t part Asian. “No, it was actually on Mercari for one-fifth the price.”
“Not Poshmark? Or Ross? You can buy her bags at Marshall’s, too.”
She couldn’t remember who was speaking. The line blurred with the last sip of wine. Maybe she had not been talking to Spencer at all.
What was clear was that she would probably look underdressed, just like the failure of a Dostoevskian wannabe she was attempting to be.
Beauty and the Beast was sewn across the black date purse.
It wasn’t Vendula, nor was it Vera Wang.
But, it was catchy. It was Eleanor Hill.
And, the dress was classically simple.
It was more Breakfast at Tiffany’s—if she dared to put herself in the shoes of Audrey Hepburn. And for the night, she could actually walk in the black heels. They made her thin, tall Scandinavian physique even more ethereal and model-like.
Although Spencer wanted a more Crazy Rich Asians-vibe, there was no way she would be able to climb that mountain.
Especially on her lack of a dime.
Which was why she ended up spending absolutely nothing in her attire.
Thankfully, she was not some character whose whole persona relied on the readers being impressed with her outfit. Instead, she was who she was: a famously budding author, being celebrated.
If it wasn’t a celebration, would she have been invited?
I’m at the party. Going in. Pray for me.
Nothing romantic. She cringed at not saying something mushy-gushy, but this felt safe—especially for the professional setting.
You look sexy. No cheating on me, toots. 😉
Playful. Always when she least expected it.
Elly’s lips pressed together. The moist lip-gloss and lipstick combination rubbed her tongue. She felt her cheeks brighten.
The iPhone slipped into her purse, and she carefully put her gloves on.
Gloves were classy and different, right?
Maybe she was following the letter of the law too deliberately. It wasn’t the first time.
Wrists were sexy, according to Memoirs of a Geisha. Should she be modest or sexy?
She pulled the gloves more snugly. Spencer’s text dictated her. Mysterious was sexy, anyways, right?
Just like how her name even got put on the list at the door.
The event was a huge spectacle, larger than she had anticipated. Upon entering, she couldn’t remember if she had said her name to the doorman or guard or bouncer or whatever that guy was — maybe a combination of all three — or if he already recognized her.
Was the person even a man? Maybe the door had been opened by a woman.
The lights and music bounced like a rave, but the room danced like an event Elon Musk was going to slam on X solely not being invited.
A champagne glass was practically handed to her by one of the servers. It sat on a nice serving tray and came with one of those fancy paper napkins that could have been specially designed for the party.
By the time the speech was made, Elly was finishing her second glass. She knew she had to slow down. Besides, she’d had a glass or two before heading over.
Her nerves wouldn’t settle, like her hair, pulled elegantly into a tight bun, held together, secretly by gel, hairspray, and hairpins. She could function professionally, but she needed help.
Right now, everything was blurring together, just like her books. Yet there was a visible, crystal-clear path right in front of her.
It matched the diamonds on the other attendees’ ears.
All she had to do was listen more than she talked.
Very traditional. Very attainable. Very Eleanor Hill.
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