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11 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
Long days and long nights weren’t easy to ignore when there was nothing to do. The mud floor of his cage had taken time to dry, and then been wet again, until he no longer cared to even try wiping the mud away. He’d explored every inch he could reach once his headache dulled, annoyed that the chain kept him from reaching the bars. A circle was worn into the dirt every time the rain stopped and they’d wrestled him into the same coverings the old human had insisted he wear. He didn’t like them; they held the wet and weighed him down or tangled with the chain. But they’d also taken the time to pad his shackles. That, he could appreciate, abstractly, for the way it stopped them biting at his wrists.
Still, he was bored of waiting here. For all he understood patience, and could enjoy not having to hunt for his meals, he couldn’t do anything else either. Sleeping was well and good, but he wasn’t tired anymore. And there was no chance to relax with people watching him or making noise somewhere he couldn’t see. They rode horses past him, and he crouched if they came too close, watching, wary, wanting to pounce. But he had no interest in hunting, only staying safe from their heavy hooves, so when they moved on, he settled again. The food they gave him was enough, even if it wasn’t the meat he wanted. But the bread crust was good to chew on, gave him something to do while the door stayed closed.
The more he accustomed himself to his surroundings, the more unsettled he grew. Matiir had known a city once, and small villages. He’d felt the difference. The air in the city was thin and sharp, stinking only of human things. He could not have ignored the scent markings, they were too strong and confused, or the shouting that made night time too quiet. The villages he had not liked either. Too much prey he wasn’t allowed to hunt, though it was penned in and couldn’t have escaped. But the air had been thicker. Safer to breathe. More alive when breathe stirred it or wind slipped past. Here though… It was like a city. All the strength being drained away and he wanted to go with it. Empty air made his skin prickle. Even in the rain.
So, he paced restlessly, the chink of metal links muffled by wet. His hair and clothing soaked through, hanging straight down, though from time to time he’d paused to shake and get it out of his eyes. From knees to feet as he turned to retrace his steps farthest from the guards, and back to knees when he slipped in the mud. He only paused to watch as another approached; eyes lidded against the rain, and gave a low, chuffing grumble in half-hearted defense of the little territory they’d given him. It was barely audible above the storm, and he resumed pacing as soon as the newcomer settled into place. He didn’t bother to wonder why they traded places to watch him, he just made sure they all knew he didn’t like them coming any closer and left it at that.
---
“A wish gone wrong’s my guess. No one’s asking me though.” Asuras moved from the shadows as soon as he realised he’d been caught out. Though he hadn’t really been meaning to sneak up on the woman, he hadn’t bothered to do more to announce his approach either. “Where’s your partner?” Two was his minimum requirement for almost everything. Only those on regular patrol were allowed a bit of solitude, though with the discovery of those deer, even that small privilege had been rescinded. No one left the fort without a partner, and while she wasn’t going anywhere, he didn’t care. She was still doing something potentially dangerous and should have had backup, distrusted stranger or no. Actually, that only made it doubly important, though he doubted anyone else thought so.
“Ahh, nevermind.”Asuras sighed, hoping the storm would mask the sound, and rubbed at the stubble on his chin before resting his hand idly on his sword hilt. “Aunt Serryn said you’ve some heavy bad luck on you.” They both knew no one wanted to be around anyone like that, especially out here. “She’s not much liking for strangers, I hear you found out firsthand. Pity really, you were almost in.”
He couldn’t afford to be trusting either, with his younger brother to keep safe, and their parents away. With his brother Acting Second, there was more chance someone would take advantage of any weakness they showed. He suspected this strange business of deer hearts and crazy chicken thieves was going over his head, but he didn’t plan to wait until it was too late. Still, while he’d let Samaire join their guard and had watched her through the probation period, he couldn’t afford to let her stay much longer. She wasn’t the one doing anything with the deer, and if that hadn’t been a little skit put on for his benefit, she had nothing to do with their strange prisoner either.
Ilaeyra had reported to Serryn that the woman had done nothing else worth suspicion this past week, but things were still getting worse. And even if she wasn’t to blame, she’d lost the trust of his guard, and that would never do. No use if her luck was feared enough to leave her out here alone, against his express orders. And if she was no use, then she was just another mouth to feed. So was the fellow crawling around at the end of his chain. He was reluctant to let her obvious experience go though. And his own youth showed through as he sucked at his teeth uncertainly.
“S’truth, I don’t quite know what I should be doing with you, Samaire.” Maybe she’d volunteer to leave of her own volition…
Wonderful. Glad you liked it. :)
Lol, totally my fault, but I forgot a few too. heh Had to reread stuff. Good thing it's all still there. I think I like this new character tab thing. :D I'll add in destinations and stuff to the first post once we have them.
Curdle info
illustration copyright of Loic Zimmermann
Nickname: Curdle
Age: 134 approx. 60-65 human years
Species: Jinni
Appearance: -blue-brown eyes
-black hair, lighter beard
-heavy beard grown over his chest and up along his jaw to his ears and thin, flat hair that curls only at the tips
-big nose
-wide shoulders, 6’1”, wiry
-calloused hands
-wrinkles round his eyes and mouth, weathered skin, scars: slice across his right shoulder, knifed in his left side, stripes on his shoulders, cut on his left calf, horizontal crescent beneath his right eye along his cheek bone
-bit of a sideways stoop
-curled fingers on his left hand, slice through them
-gesticulates a lot
Difference: dark grey ram horns
Occupation: Personal servant of the Lady Fiira Gerun from her 10th birthday, previously a city guard until 71
illustration copyright of Loic Zimmermann
Nickname: Curdle
Age: 134 approx. 60-65 human years
Species: Jinni
Appearance: -blue-brown eyes
-black hair, lighter beard
-heavy beard grown over his chest and up along his jaw to his ears and thin, flat hair that curls only at the tips
-big nose
-wide shoulders, 6’1”, wiry
-calloused hands
-wrinkles round his eyes and mouth, weathered skin, scars: slice across his right shoulder, knifed in his left side, stripes on his shoulders, cut on his left calf, horizontal crescent beneath his right eye along his cheek bone
-bit of a sideways stoop
-curled fingers on his left hand, slice through them
-gesticulates a lot
Difference: dark grey ram horns
Occupation: Personal servant of the Lady Fiira Gerun from her 10th birthday, previously a city guard until 71
Starting city of Renna is based off this picture.
Not my art. I believe this belongs to Rhynn on Devart.
Not my art. I believe this belongs to Rhynn on Devart.
Well, there it is, I am such a butt for taking so long, sorry about this.
Renna.
Green City of Water.
City of fire.
City of Five Winds.
Renna, the city where Fiira lay dying on a bed of fine camel hair.
The city that knew no winter, though Fiira shivered beneath the warmest blankets that could be found. She was always cold. Far from home and left behind, she was dying. Her death was inevitable. She had lived a long life. Now, she slipped away unnoticed by the man who sat quietly beside the bed, long beard tucked against his chest. He was worn out from waiting. For full sixty years and more, he had lived and breathed solely for her. Not from love or loyalty, but for want of the strength to break his word. A simple contract, etched into his blood while he’d had no choice in the matter: serve, guard, keep. And so he had. He’d watched a sullen girl blossom into a determined woman, become a wife and mother and widow. Now, she sunk into decay.
His own, aged, countenance was as nothing next to her sunken cheeks and risen bones. Her sallow skin sagged under its own weight. Spit crept through the wrinkles on her chin and stretched in a string towards the pillow. Her hair was thinned to wisps. Greyed before its time, it had then proceeded to abandon her. She’d found dignity elsewhere, but death did not care for reputation. When he woke with a start, jerked out of his doze by gravity, the man stared tiredly before he broke the stillness with a creak of old joints to lean forward and wipe the spit away. Her last breath, he realised belatedly, had come and gone while he was sleeping.
He sighed, finding it difficult, after so long a wait, to stand and set the wheels in motion. Promised to a stranger in a strange city, she’d died as she’d lived, yearning for her home, alone but for the Jinni coerced to care. He had never quite learned how to make that care real, but Curdle had found empathy in her lonely existence. They had reached an understanding in these later years and he’d honour her final request. She’d known what she was asking. She’d given no order, but he’d promised, and was as bound by his word now as he’d been when they were both young. Renna tradition called for her body to be cleaned and prepared by a woman, then taken to the catacombs dug into the rock beneath the city. But she had not wanted to be locked away from the light, so when the maid knocked on the door, he wouldn’t let her in and asked only for some water for their mistress.
He cleaned her body himself, straightening her limbs and brushing her hair, dressing her in her family colours, remembering the young lady she’d been as he did. His hands were gentle, sometimes steady, sometimes not. But though emotion tugged at his mind, he had no tears for her. She had become the daughter he’d learned to forget, the wife he’d lost, the mother he’d been unable to care for. Through her, he was saying goodbye to them all. She had asked for an honour he was not sure she deserved, but he would give it to her, if only because she had asked.
It took him the day to restore to her some semblance of her old self, before age and disease had taken their toll. When he stepped back, her eyes, left open by his own tradition, stared back at him, filmed over and dark. There should have been a line of family and friends waiting to follow him into her gaze before they let her leave this world, but her only son had not come to visit in years. Her relatives were far away, and every one of them would have objected to this charade. So, Curdle took his time settling her image into his mind, and, when he was finished, he brushed his knuckles against her cooled cheek.
One last breath before he gathered his strength and let his hand drift above her body. Beneath the skin, traceries of veins began to glow, faint then sharp, rushing deeper and spreading from her breast through her limbs until her chest collapsed and the rest followed suit. The rustle of settling cloth seemed to him like a sigh as she left her body behind, and he carefully gathered the edges of her bed sheet to collect the finer than ash left over residue in a small urn. Nondescript, it would give nothing away if someone saw him with it, which was good, the longer he could escape notice, the farther he could walk before someone realised he was missing.
A glance out the window told him it was too late to leave now, so he called for Fiira’s dinner and ate the watered down soup himself when it arrived. Not much of a meal, but better than nothing, and all she’d had appetite for during the past few months. His cot was in an adjacent room, much less grand, though comfortable enough, but he settled back in his chair instead, in case any enterprising servants grew curious or wanted to offer some help and slept there, chin against chest, wheezing when he finally drifted off.
It was late morning when he woke with a start to a knock at the door. This once, as he hauled himself up, he thanked Fiira’s love of privacy that meant they wouldn’t open the door unless it was an emergency. It was only her breakfast though, and he thanked the woman who’d brought it while she tutted at his sleepy befuddlement of the time. Well, he’d meant to be away earlier, but at least the market would be busy now, full of other distractions. He took the food and replaced it with the empty dinner tray before closing the door on her. He ate quickly and was still wiping at his beard to get rid of the crumbs when he left.
No one questioned his leaving, he’d been going to the market every day for a month, but the guards around the square did ask after the lady. With the urn weighing down his bag, Curdle answered somewhat truthfully that she had grown worse and accepted their well wishes, genuine or not, with as much patience as he could muster before breaking away to wander between the stalls. In the crowds, even his horned head wasn’t worth much notice, though Jinn were not as plentiful here as in other cities, he was far from the only one. Unfortunately, that alone could not make him anonymous. He had served Fiira too long to be just another face. So now, though he was not looking to buy any of the produce being sold, he *was* looking for something specific. And beneath an awning set up to protect customers from the bright sun, he thought he might have found it.
He needed a stranger. Someone who would not wonder why the Lady Gerun’s personal Jinni wanted to leave the city. Better yet would have been a foreigner who would not think it strange that he had no wooden card giving him permission to leave. But it was expecting too much to ask for such a miracle. So he settled for watching the woman haggling prices with sellswords and tried to slip closer unobtrusively to hear if she was asking for caravan guards or for someone to watch her goods here. If she wanted them for a caravan, chances were good she would be leaving today or tomorrow. Tomorrow was no good to him. It would mean another night of risking being caught. So, he listened and he watched, trying not to make his interest too obvious.
Green City of Water.
City of fire.
City of Five Winds.
Renna, the city where Fiira lay dying on a bed of fine camel hair.
The city that knew no winter, though Fiira shivered beneath the warmest blankets that could be found. She was always cold. Far from home and left behind, she was dying. Her death was inevitable. She had lived a long life. Now, she slipped away unnoticed by the man who sat quietly beside the bed, long beard tucked against his chest. He was worn out from waiting. For full sixty years and more, he had lived and breathed solely for her. Not from love or loyalty, but for want of the strength to break his word. A simple contract, etched into his blood while he’d had no choice in the matter: serve, guard, keep. And so he had. He’d watched a sullen girl blossom into a determined woman, become a wife and mother and widow. Now, she sunk into decay.
His own, aged, countenance was as nothing next to her sunken cheeks and risen bones. Her sallow skin sagged under its own weight. Spit crept through the wrinkles on her chin and stretched in a string towards the pillow. Her hair was thinned to wisps. Greyed before its time, it had then proceeded to abandon her. She’d found dignity elsewhere, but death did not care for reputation. When he woke with a start, jerked out of his doze by gravity, the man stared tiredly before he broke the stillness with a creak of old joints to lean forward and wipe the spit away. Her last breath, he realised belatedly, had come and gone while he was sleeping.
He sighed, finding it difficult, after so long a wait, to stand and set the wheels in motion. Promised to a stranger in a strange city, she’d died as she’d lived, yearning for her home, alone but for the Jinni coerced to care. He had never quite learned how to make that care real, but Curdle had found empathy in her lonely existence. They had reached an understanding in these later years and he’d honour her final request. She’d known what she was asking. She’d given no order, but he’d promised, and was as bound by his word now as he’d been when they were both young. Renna tradition called for her body to be cleaned and prepared by a woman, then taken to the catacombs dug into the rock beneath the city. But she had not wanted to be locked away from the light, so when the maid knocked on the door, he wouldn’t let her in and asked only for some water for their mistress.
He cleaned her body himself, straightening her limbs and brushing her hair, dressing her in her family colours, remembering the young lady she’d been as he did. His hands were gentle, sometimes steady, sometimes not. But though emotion tugged at his mind, he had no tears for her. She had become the daughter he’d learned to forget, the wife he’d lost, the mother he’d been unable to care for. Through her, he was saying goodbye to them all. She had asked for an honour he was not sure she deserved, but he would give it to her, if only because she had asked.
It took him the day to restore to her some semblance of her old self, before age and disease had taken their toll. When he stepped back, her eyes, left open by his own tradition, stared back at him, filmed over and dark. There should have been a line of family and friends waiting to follow him into her gaze before they let her leave this world, but her only son had not come to visit in years. Her relatives were far away, and every one of them would have objected to this charade. So, Curdle took his time settling her image into his mind, and, when he was finished, he brushed his knuckles against her cooled cheek.
One last breath before he gathered his strength and let his hand drift above her body. Beneath the skin, traceries of veins began to glow, faint then sharp, rushing deeper and spreading from her breast through her limbs until her chest collapsed and the rest followed suit. The rustle of settling cloth seemed to him like a sigh as she left her body behind, and he carefully gathered the edges of her bed sheet to collect the finer than ash left over residue in a small urn. Nondescript, it would give nothing away if someone saw him with it, which was good, the longer he could escape notice, the farther he could walk before someone realised he was missing.
A glance out the window told him it was too late to leave now, so he called for Fiira’s dinner and ate the watered down soup himself when it arrived. Not much of a meal, but better than nothing, and all she’d had appetite for during the past few months. His cot was in an adjacent room, much less grand, though comfortable enough, but he settled back in his chair instead, in case any enterprising servants grew curious or wanted to offer some help and slept there, chin against chest, wheezing when he finally drifted off.
It was late morning when he woke with a start to a knock at the door. This once, as he hauled himself up, he thanked Fiira’s love of privacy that meant they wouldn’t open the door unless it was an emergency. It was only her breakfast though, and he thanked the woman who’d brought it while she tutted at his sleepy befuddlement of the time. Well, he’d meant to be away earlier, but at least the market would be busy now, full of other distractions. He took the food and replaced it with the empty dinner tray before closing the door on her. He ate quickly and was still wiping at his beard to get rid of the crumbs when he left.
No one questioned his leaving, he’d been going to the market every day for a month, but the guards around the square did ask after the lady. With the urn weighing down his bag, Curdle answered somewhat truthfully that she had grown worse and accepted their well wishes, genuine or not, with as much patience as he could muster before breaking away to wander between the stalls. In the crowds, even his horned head wasn’t worth much notice, though Jinn were not as plentiful here as in other cities, he was far from the only one. Unfortunately, that alone could not make him anonymous. He had served Fiira too long to be just another face. So now, though he was not looking to buy any of the produce being sold, he *was* looking for something specific. And beneath an awning set up to protect customers from the bright sun, he thought he might have found it.
He needed a stranger. Someone who would not wonder why the Lady Gerun’s personal Jinni wanted to leave the city. Better yet would have been a foreigner who would not think it strange that he had no wooden card giving him permission to leave. But it was expecting too much to ask for such a miracle. So he settled for watching the woman haggling prices with sellswords and tried to slip closer unobtrusively to hear if she was asking for caravan guards or for someone to watch her goods here. If she wanted them for a caravan, chances were good she would be leaving today or tomorrow. Tomorrow was no good to him. It would mean another night of risking being caught. So, he listened and he watched, trying not to make his interest too obvious.
If Acrolith or Lexicon do come back, I'll be perfectly happy to edit my post if they need some help getting out of the moat as we'd initially planned, but for now, I suppose Sir gets to be all alone.
Sorry about the wait on that, didn't mean to take so long, hopefully it's allright. :)
Sorry about the wait on that, didn't mean to take so long, hopefully it's allright. :)
The effort of hauling himself up and out of the water, finally free to stand instead of struggle against drowning, left Sir a bedraggled, stumbling mess. He couldn’t see anything in the water through the mess of floating ice and arrows and spears. All he smelled was the dead water. All he heard was anger against him. If Riven or Taula still survived, they’d have to save themselves.
He pushed himself forward again and his legs almost buckled beneath him when the ground was not where he’d expected it. He’d not noticed the edge until it was too late, and only narrowly avoided rolling down the steep slope by sitting back on his haunches and sliding down the first half until he could keep up with the momentum. Tail waving nervously behind him in some bid for balance, the large beast ignored the snow and stones scraping through his fur and picked himself up into a desperate, skidding run. Half bounding and half slipping and falling, he was swept forward by a rush of gravity and dislodged hill, and could spare only enough attention to avoid running full tilt into the city wall.
He leapt the last dozen feet before the slope ended and crashed into the snowy fields, skidding for a brief moment on his chest and chin when he couldn’t find his footing fast enough. He stopped there, sneezing and snorting to get the snow out of his nose, trembling from both exertion and exhilaration, the adrenaline running through his body just then enough to give him the extra energy he still needed to reach somewhere safe. He took a moment longer to shake the water out of his coat in a heavy spray of algae and water drops and ice crystals and blood all mixed together, leaving a fine pattern on the snow. His fur sticking up or straggling down in thickened strands and silly little spikes that only added to his miserable appearance.
Ears back and tongue lolling from an anxiously open mouth, he snapped at the arrows still in his flank and glanced once back up the slope he’d just come down before turning to limp towards the trees, gradually picking up the pace as he regained his breath. He cautiously skirted the edges of the city until the wall went too far off his course and then he slipped into a ground covering glide that, half a second later, turned into full out flight, tail tucked and head low, at a trumpet blast behind him. His running silhouette could be made out from the walls in between the veils of smoke until it passed beyond the first few trees.
By the time he stopped, the anan was exhausted from fear and effort both and his face and throat were rimed with frost from his breath, while the air practically steamed around him from the heat he was giving off. Clumps of ice on the tips of a few soaked strands were pulling at his skin with their slight weight, and his whole body felt itchy. But when he dropped to the ground and eagerly started pushing his face and throat through the snow, rolling onto his shoulders to scratch and cool off, the two arrows still caught in his side bit at him. He yelped and jumped to the side with a snap of his teeth for the space that had hurt him, though of course nothing was there. Standing for a time, confused, he finally shook out his coat again and settled more carefully to rest and wait for his master to call him back. Though there was a tired, sore and miserable part of him that knew that would never happen now, he couldn’t help wanting it.
So, head between his paws, battered, bloody and cooling too quickly to be fully comfortable, Sir licked his lips uncertainly and waited, listening through the wind in the trees and the faint noise still drifting from the city for a voice that wasn't coming.
He pushed himself forward again and his legs almost buckled beneath him when the ground was not where he’d expected it. He’d not noticed the edge until it was too late, and only narrowly avoided rolling down the steep slope by sitting back on his haunches and sliding down the first half until he could keep up with the momentum. Tail waving nervously behind him in some bid for balance, the large beast ignored the snow and stones scraping through his fur and picked himself up into a desperate, skidding run. Half bounding and half slipping and falling, he was swept forward by a rush of gravity and dislodged hill, and could spare only enough attention to avoid running full tilt into the city wall.
He leapt the last dozen feet before the slope ended and crashed into the snowy fields, skidding for a brief moment on his chest and chin when he couldn’t find his footing fast enough. He stopped there, sneezing and snorting to get the snow out of his nose, trembling from both exertion and exhilaration, the adrenaline running through his body just then enough to give him the extra energy he still needed to reach somewhere safe. He took a moment longer to shake the water out of his coat in a heavy spray of algae and water drops and ice crystals and blood all mixed together, leaving a fine pattern on the snow. His fur sticking up or straggling down in thickened strands and silly little spikes that only added to his miserable appearance.
Ears back and tongue lolling from an anxiously open mouth, he snapped at the arrows still in his flank and glanced once back up the slope he’d just come down before turning to limp towards the trees, gradually picking up the pace as he regained his breath. He cautiously skirted the edges of the city until the wall went too far off his course and then he slipped into a ground covering glide that, half a second later, turned into full out flight, tail tucked and head low, at a trumpet blast behind him. His running silhouette could be made out from the walls in between the veils of smoke until it passed beyond the first few trees.
By the time he stopped, the anan was exhausted from fear and effort both and his face and throat were rimed with frost from his breath, while the air practically steamed around him from the heat he was giving off. Clumps of ice on the tips of a few soaked strands were pulling at his skin with their slight weight, and his whole body felt itchy. But when he dropped to the ground and eagerly started pushing his face and throat through the snow, rolling onto his shoulders to scratch and cool off, the two arrows still caught in his side bit at him. He yelped and jumped to the side with a snap of his teeth for the space that had hurt him, though of course nothing was there. Standing for a time, confused, he finally shook out his coat again and settled more carefully to rest and wait for his master to call him back. Though there was a tired, sore and miserable part of him that knew that would never happen now, he couldn’t help wanting it.
So, head between his paws, battered, bloody and cooling too quickly to be fully comfortable, Sir licked his lips uncertainly and waited, listening through the wind in the trees and the faint noise still drifting from the city for a voice that wasn't coming.
Nils had gave the pair a crude gesture by way of response to their send off, and wandered back down the dock to maybe go back to chasing gulls or something. He didn’t know, bloody well had the whole day ruined, hadn’t he? First the ship didn’t even leave, and then those sailors had a bit of sport with him. Yanking his hopes around wasn’t funny. He didn’t care that he’d been trying for pretty much the same on his end, just, playing the game at their expense instead. He only cared that it hadn’t worked out to him on top. Bah! They could take their poor liddle captain and his loose hat and send it all off spinning with the chaff. He’d no interest in chasing down a proper bit of lip from any creaser he went knocking the hat off of.
Not that knocking hats off folks wasn’t, in and of itself, an amusing past time. Nils just figured he’d have to be knocking off a lot of tricorns before he found this one, specific captain. Didn’t even know what the blighter looked like, did he? And the risk of getting caught up in the garboil sure to follow such reaks wasn’t half worth it. They’d be sure to get his da involved. Changing tack, the dog’s bark caught his attention, and he figured he could find something a little more entertaining with the beast, though it didn’t look like a stray, not with the collar gleaming on its neck like that.
Still, he didn’t much like black dogs, too many stories about them being unnatural. Old grims weren’t like to help you catch anything but your own death, so he’d heard. So, even though he might have gained something for his pocket trying to catch and bring it home, he was kicking through the garbage looking for harder bits and bobs to throw at it than anything that might be more interesting when the thing buzzed his ear and made him yelp in surprise.
The thing, however, was worth far more than some gamey old dog and a few stones to throw at it. Especially when it zipped right up to those two sailors and started pestering them as bad as a beggar’s brat. Nils’ grin grew right out of his shock with a huge satisfaction as the beast kept after them and then even went after those on the ship. He laughed in glee, enjoying their plight, then gave a high, sharp whistle once he’d won his breath back and shouted over the commotion, voice still full of his initial mirth. “Ha! Pesker thinks your blighted ship’s no better’n a crab-skuit! Shows you what you lot know, giving ‘er fancy airs.”
Huh, that sounds both simple and complicated. Effort, oh em gee. :P I must brain for that! *coughs*
It's not really a geekish or hidden pleasure, but I like children's books. Especially ones with nice illustrations. They're a different level of writing, simple without being simplistic, always have a nice message(well, they do try), and the art is always either humourous or impressive. I also just like books in general. I'm a bibliophile. :P I like collecting them. I like reading them. I like staring at them... >.>
It's not really a geekish or hidden pleasure, but I like children's books. Especially ones with nice illustrations. They're a different level of writing, simple without being simplistic, always have a nice message(well, they do try), and the art is always either humourous or impressive. I also just like books in general. I'm a bibliophile. :P I like collecting them. I like reading them. I like staring at them... >.>
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