Eyo,
Awesomesauce. :) There's no rush, of course, but still eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. :P
Awesomesauce. :) There's no rush, of course, but still eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. :P
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Posted, so I did. Not sure there's much there for you to do much with, but they have now met. And Herring's opinion is possibly the lowest of the low... And she doesn't even know he's a drow yet, ha!
If you need more something or other in there, lemme know. I'll be happy to provide it. :)
If you need more something or other in there, lemme know. I'll be happy to provide it. :)
0th posts seem like a pretty nifty idea. And it gives co-GMs special abilities! Mwahahahahaha! *coughs* Yay for it working properly!
lol Nah, not aggressive, just enthusiastic. Enthusiasm is good! Though it did catch me by surprise with jumping right to Sherahd, but methinks that's probably more of a mapping issue than an enthusiasm problem. :P I'm pretty sure we had ideas somewhere in our chatter on Discord, but I can't remember exacts and I'm too lazy to scroll through all that.
Skipping ahead to either of those works great!
lol Nah, not aggressive, just enthusiastic. Enthusiasm is good! Though it did catch me by surprise with jumping right to Sherahd, but methinks that's probably more of a mapping issue than an enthusiasm problem. :P I'm pretty sure we had ideas somewhere in our chatter on Discord, but I can't remember exacts and I'm too lazy to scroll through all that.
Skipping ahead to either of those works great!
Lol, no time for contemplation!
Umm, from Renna to Sherahd it is probably two months' travel, not taking into full account rest stops and towns/cities visited along the way. As the crow flies it might be about two and a half to three weeks, but caravans probably go on more winding routes.
As for Curdle's escape, I think we had thoughts to leave him there for a little bit so we could develop their awareness of each other with a few more dream visits. Whether they have conversations or not is entirely up to them, lol. :P That way, he can know Miria enough to use her as an anchor point for a bit of teleportation later. Before anything too detrimental to his health happens in Renna. heh They can still try figuring out different plans of getting him out on their own, as neither of them know about the teleportation, but I think we ultimately decided that would be the easiest route to go with. Since it doesn't rely on Miria being willing to head all the way back to Renna, or Curdle being brave enough to make suggestions of his own.
But yeah, Sherahd is the far distant goal. I think the next town they're headed to is Hudris, or some such.
Soooo, probably a few days between the next encounter for them, and no need to take them all the way to Sherahd, or for us to focus on Curdle's trouble, though if we want Miria and Curdle to focus on that, we can. I think we had a few ideas somewhere in our timeline.
EDIT:
Which I have just now moved to the 0th post in the character tab. I think you should be able to see and edit it. Though I've currently go it on hidden, so test that theory, aye?
Umm, from Renna to Sherahd it is probably two months' travel, not taking into full account rest stops and towns/cities visited along the way. As the crow flies it might be about two and a half to three weeks, but caravans probably go on more winding routes.
As for Curdle's escape, I think we had thoughts to leave him there for a little bit so we could develop their awareness of each other with a few more dream visits. Whether they have conversations or not is entirely up to them, lol. :P That way, he can know Miria enough to use her as an anchor point for a bit of teleportation later. Before anything too detrimental to his health happens in Renna. heh They can still try figuring out different plans of getting him out on their own, as neither of them know about the teleportation, but I think we ultimately decided that would be the easiest route to go with. Since it doesn't rely on Miria being willing to head all the way back to Renna, or Curdle being brave enough to make suggestions of his own.
But yeah, Sherahd is the far distant goal. I think the next town they're headed to is Hudris, or some such.
Soooo, probably a few days between the next encounter for them, and no need to take them all the way to Sherahd, or for us to focus on Curdle's trouble, though if we want Miria and Curdle to focus on that, we can. I think we had a few ideas somewhere in our timeline.
EDIT:
Which I have just now moved to the 0th post in the character tab. I think you should be able to see and edit it. Though I've currently go it on hidden, so test that theory, aye?
Hope that works for you. I figured we'd let them settle their thoughts on the matter of this whole bout of shenanigans before forcing them back together. Ha! See? I can be nice sometimes... >.> :P
If it needs any edits, lemme know. Or if Miria has a reaction Curdle ought to be responding to at the end there... I'll be happy to stick it in. :)
If it needs any edits, lemme know. Or if Miria has a reaction Curdle ought to be responding to at the end there... I'll be happy to stick it in. :)
Coarse grain pressed itself into his skin as Curdle held his pose in the long silence. Whether it was truly any longer than a breath or two, he could not have said, but it felt as though time had ceased its flow. There was no measuring how long she held him captive to her mercy, waiting for whatever release she felt him worth.
He could feel that sand leaving imprints in his palms and forehead. Imprints as fickle and diverse as the chance that had brought them together. How many other cloth merchants might have been in that market? How many passed through Renna’s gates? How varied were the options of how that day might have turned out differently? It was no accident that fate was entwined in the sands of time. One single grain’s displacement and how many paths suddenly shifted and changed and never again followed what almost had been?
The old jinni was caught feeling his own weight in how heavily he pressed those sand grains between himself and the market’s stone. Caught hearing nothing but the faint roar of blood in his ears and feeling only the warm brush of his breath across his cheeks where it was trapped against the ground.
When she finally spoke, he was dizzy with relief, and did not immediately understand the words. It was enough that she released him from the wait, good or bad, her voice offered its own solace. Cold though it remained. The tension in his hunched spine gave out as though his body had collapsed, elbows and shoulders drooping, breath escaping him in a heady rush.
Her decision was made.
She turned it into a matter of convenience. The caravan went to Sherahd, and so would she. Even her abrupt dismissal of what was, to Curdle, a hard-won freedom found no purchase when she threw out her barbs. Dumping Fiira anywhere was not and had never been his intention, but that Miria had considered it even slightly was strong hint that she did not think to simply abandon the urn, ashes and all, where he would never find it, and circumstance might never knock loose the lid. The Lady would not be trapped in the dark by his thoughtlessness. For that alone, she had his eternal gratitude.
That she was willing to go further in offering her aid, he was stunned into disbelief by how easily the words tripped from her tongue. So impersonal…
He had not regained his presence of mind or his tongue before she’d turned away, and it was almost all he could manage to lift his head then. But he did, that and more. Slowly, hand shaking, he brought dusty fingers to his lips and reached across to the ground as near her feet as he could. Letting them rest there a moment before he could find the strength to lift himself from his genuflection.
The gesture was not meant to be seen, or even acknowledged. How could it be? There was no possible response. But it was all he could think of to give her in return. She had agreed to help him regain the honour he’d given up too easily. His sense of worth had been lost with it, and was, perhaps, the more significant loss, but it would be far harder to find again. Still, in helping him on the road to one, she set him towards both, if he could take it, though he realized nothing of this beyond his overwhelmed understanding that Fiira would not suffer for his weakness.
For that, and nothing else, he strove to do as she seemed to want. Unfortunate, that he did not know how to leave, or he would have that very instant. All he could give her was his silence. Speaking no more words on the subject, though he surely couldn’t manage any, just then, so it was hardly an effort. He remained on his knees, as small a presence as he knew how to be, and did not look up to see what she might be doing or thinking now. He did not even raise his hands to brush the sand from his forehead or fingers. He would be as nothing, if she asked it, that he might intrude no more in a private place where no one else belonged.
He had no plans to ignore her. In fact, he was very carefully doing the opposite, though he did not wish to give that away. Heedful of her every action, he was listening attentively, watching her feet at the edge of his sight in case she suddenly desired something of him. His gaze, however, would not leave the cloth still where he’d left it. Near to his knee, but not quite touching. Its colours twisted in his vision and the longer he stared, the less its details remained intact.
He was tired, he realised slowly. And he could feel a new weight on his shoulders, in his chest. His body was heavy. It wasn’t here. But it needed the sleep this dreaming didn’t offer. Or why else would he be tired in a dream?
Already, though he was not aware of it, his shape and form were becoming looser. More insubstantial as his chin began drooping towards his chest. Young and old, sometimes weightless above the ground, sometimes, somehow, beneath it, sinking. Flickering fitfully like a dying fire burning out the last of its heat and life. Though, in his case, it was only his control and magic slipping as his mind began to doze.
Though it took a long few moments, the end, when it came, was sudden. One instant, he was there, the next, as his chin finally struck his chest, he was gone. No fanfare, no puff of smoke or flash of light, merely empty space.
In Renna, stretched out on the floor, head tilted by the weight of his horns, an old man had begun to snore.
He could feel that sand leaving imprints in his palms and forehead. Imprints as fickle and diverse as the chance that had brought them together. How many other cloth merchants might have been in that market? How many passed through Renna’s gates? How varied were the options of how that day might have turned out differently? It was no accident that fate was entwined in the sands of time. One single grain’s displacement and how many paths suddenly shifted and changed and never again followed what almost had been?
The old jinni was caught feeling his own weight in how heavily he pressed those sand grains between himself and the market’s stone. Caught hearing nothing but the faint roar of blood in his ears and feeling only the warm brush of his breath across his cheeks where it was trapped against the ground.
When she finally spoke, he was dizzy with relief, and did not immediately understand the words. It was enough that she released him from the wait, good or bad, her voice offered its own solace. Cold though it remained. The tension in his hunched spine gave out as though his body had collapsed, elbows and shoulders drooping, breath escaping him in a heady rush.
Her decision was made.
She turned it into a matter of convenience. The caravan went to Sherahd, and so would she. Even her abrupt dismissal of what was, to Curdle, a hard-won freedom found no purchase when she threw out her barbs. Dumping Fiira anywhere was not and had never been his intention, but that Miria had considered it even slightly was strong hint that she did not think to simply abandon the urn, ashes and all, where he would never find it, and circumstance might never knock loose the lid. The Lady would not be trapped in the dark by his thoughtlessness. For that alone, she had his eternal gratitude.
That she was willing to go further in offering her aid, he was stunned into disbelief by how easily the words tripped from her tongue. So impersonal…
He had not regained his presence of mind or his tongue before she’d turned away, and it was almost all he could manage to lift his head then. But he did, that and more. Slowly, hand shaking, he brought dusty fingers to his lips and reached across to the ground as near her feet as he could. Letting them rest there a moment before he could find the strength to lift himself from his genuflection.
The gesture was not meant to be seen, or even acknowledged. How could it be? There was no possible response. But it was all he could think of to give her in return. She had agreed to help him regain the honour he’d given up too easily. His sense of worth had been lost with it, and was, perhaps, the more significant loss, but it would be far harder to find again. Still, in helping him on the road to one, she set him towards both, if he could take it, though he realized nothing of this beyond his overwhelmed understanding that Fiira would not suffer for his weakness.
For that, and nothing else, he strove to do as she seemed to want. Unfortunate, that he did not know how to leave, or he would have that very instant. All he could give her was his silence. Speaking no more words on the subject, though he surely couldn’t manage any, just then, so it was hardly an effort. He remained on his knees, as small a presence as he knew how to be, and did not look up to see what she might be doing or thinking now. He did not even raise his hands to brush the sand from his forehead or fingers. He would be as nothing, if she asked it, that he might intrude no more in a private place where no one else belonged.
He had no plans to ignore her. In fact, he was very carefully doing the opposite, though he did not wish to give that away. Heedful of her every action, he was listening attentively, watching her feet at the edge of his sight in case she suddenly desired something of him. His gaze, however, would not leave the cloth still where he’d left it. Near to his knee, but not quite touching. Its colours twisted in his vision and the longer he stared, the less its details remained intact.
He was tired, he realised slowly. And he could feel a new weight on his shoulders, in his chest. His body was heavy. It wasn’t here. But it needed the sleep this dreaming didn’t offer. Or why else would he be tired in a dream?
Already, though he was not aware of it, his shape and form were becoming looser. More insubstantial as his chin began drooping towards his chest. Young and old, sometimes weightless above the ground, sometimes, somehow, beneath it, sinking. Flickering fitfully like a dying fire burning out the last of its heat and life. Though, in his case, it was only his control and magic slipping as his mind began to doze.
Though it took a long few moments, the end, when it came, was sudden. One instant, he was there, the next, as his chin finally struck his chest, he was gone. No fanfare, no puff of smoke or flash of light, merely empty space.
In Renna, stretched out on the floor, head tilted by the weight of his horns, an old man had begun to snore.
Looks like you did alright. :P Also eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
“Another one? What’ll that be then? Two n’a month? No, no, wasn’t but I’d jest seen Halla’s circle that last…” And the old crow was bound to fly over again within the next month or so. Huh, there went more time she’d lost track of. “Well an’ who’s it this time? Mercy, but it’s never I’ll want for brave fools, these parts. Though ifen is that boy agin… E’ll be earnin’ a right tanned ‘ide, will.”
Grumbling to herself as she straightened and turned from her basket of acorns to scowl towards the forest’s edge, the woman brushed several sweat curled, loose strands of hair off her face. The flyaway wisps made a halo in the sunlight streaking through the branches, and softened the lines of her face despite the bothered frown. The rest of her light red hair was pulled into a tight braid and pinned up off her neck out of the way. It had been neat that morning, but the intervening hours and steady labour had teased loose enough fine hairs to leave her looking mussed without the addition of a dusty streak on her chin, or the bark in her hair, or the tear in her oft-mended kirtle, or the dirt staining her apron. But those were there too, just the same.
Herring was on her knees gathering the oak’s crop, planning to make flour over the next few days. Enough to see her in bread for a month or so, and the rest she’d put up and grind down later. The acorns lasted somewhat longer than the flour they became if she prepared them right. So, she only had to go gathering once her stockroom was depleted, which she’d managed sooner than she’d expected, this time around. The gather and grind were a necessary effort, if she was to eat well, but it was rough work, all told. She wasn’t keen on interruptions breaking her routine.
Wasn’t keen on interruptions any time of the year or month or day, if she was being honest. Interruptions usually meant trouble. Didn’t matter where she was or what she was doing, they were a bother to deal with. Her home, however, had good reason to make interruptions both rarer and less welcome than most other places. So, with a final tsk as though anyone was around to hear the reproach, Herring pushed herself off the ground, tucked the long skirt of her kirtle into her waist to keep it from catching on the undergrowth, hefted her basket against her hip and set off without further hesitation.
Despite her bothered muttering and hasty estimates, Herring was somewhat intrigued by this newest intruder. The count was more likely to be two brave, fool souls in some three, maybe four, months, but even so, that was surprisingly high, for all the number was so small. Not many took to visiting Aberlynn Forest.
Those that did were following dangerous, life-threatening rumours. Risking their hide, their lives, on the off-chance they might get lucky. Power mad, was all she thought, but as it seemed too early for another man—women had more sense—to be come about the beast and its blood, Herring was wondering if it wasn’t the pigherder’s lad lost track of his sounder again. Poor lad was as terrified of his father’s upset as of the monster in the woods, but he couldn’t seem to learn the lesson of paying proper attention to his charges. Seemed the right time of year… Pigs would be after the acorns, same as her.
Made sense to her, and seemed the likeliest bother, until she caught the chiming note between her skull bones tugging away from the route she was walking. From the north? But it was west where the fields and the hamlet lay. Young Ogden and his pigs came from the west. So then… She frowned in both directions before altering course: not pigs, it seemed.
Herring didn’t know the direction precisely. Her charms were rarely that efficient. It would have taken her the year entire to get through the smallest ring she’d set up, otherwise. And this new stranger had only just set off the widest. But she could tell where he wasn’t, as the charms weren’t active that way, and the farther he walked, the less she’d have to look. At least, if he kept on in a somewhat straight line… If he couldn’t even manage that much, she wasn’t planning on chasing him down. She had better things to do with her time.
With that thought uppermost in her mind, the woman moved at a steady pace more designed for endurance than quick turns of speed. But she knew this forest better than anyone and rarely broke her stride, bare feet stepping without concern on soft moss, sharp stone and prickling pine cone dross where the squirrels had been feeding. She knew where stream crossings were slick, and where winding animal trails were the easier route. Skidding on her heels down one steep bank and splashing into a puddle at the bottom couldn’t even give her pause. Though it did leave a splatter of mud across bare legs and skirt alike. She’d only lifted her basket of acorns beyond the water’s possible reach and kept on with a huff.
Still, by the time she’d made it to the trees she’d marked, where the lichen grew in odd patterns, the woman was breathing somewhat harshly, and the sun had moved a fair ways in the sky. Wasting the light, she was. But the man who’d walked between the trees, setting off their silent music in her head, had not been idle either, and she knew he’d continued deeper into the trees. Another chime, pitched lower, had joined the first a little before she made it to these ones. Pursing her lips, Herring eyed the route he must have taken, though she could see no immediate proof of anyone’s passage. “Well, we cain all ‘ave it easy. Let’s twist ‘im up, will we, then?”
She was talking to the trees—and you could be sure they weren’t liable to be talking back anytime soon—as she set the basket down and pulled out a small paring knife. It was one of the few metal pieces she owned, and sharper than a spinster’s tongue. Useful, for a good many things. Now, she needed it only to slice through the knot holding a thin thread around the tree’s trunk. She’d pulled it from her mother’s dress, the memories it offered were greater than the fabric’s value. And, slowly, she was losing both. But the loss worked wonders.
As soon as the knife undid the knot, the thread collapsed into ash. As did the trail she’d devised to give these beast hunters direction. Now, she could see the traces of his movement left behind. The twist of toes on a root’s exposed edge. The scuff of a boot heel in the fresh loam. Good. Now, he’d have nothing to follow and she’d know where to find him. Nodding to herself with a grim smile, Herring tucked the knife away again, hefted her basket, and kept on after her quarry.
It was turning towards dusk by the time she finally caught sight of the cloaked figure ahead of her. Thin and ragged, his shape did not strike her as the usual sort of confident swagger wanting to make a name for himself or his lord. He had no companion. No retinue. And, as she slipped closer, no weapon… Or at least, no sword to snag at his cloak’s trailing hem. And no bow to carry. Knives might have hung from his belt or been tucked into his boot. But he did not seem equipped for a hunt, no, nor a lengthy wait if he planned to try trapping the beast and its blood. So, it was just as well that there was no beast to be found, but Herring wasn’t feeling generous.
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, and looking every inch of her disgruntled with his poor showing as she stopped beside a tree and caught her balance there, one hand on the mossy trunk and the other still keeping her basket at her hip, she called after the thin fellow. Her manner gruff and not the least bit friendly. Nor satisfied that she’d finally found him, either. Wasn’t much to look at, any way. “An’ may Maudlin strike me full a sorrows, but didn’t ye never ‘ear a word of it ‘fore yeh went wanderin’ int’th’trees there, boy? Doan y’know th’woods yehr walkin’ through?”
Was he really come after a dragon? Maybe the word had changed since she’d last heard and all he thought he’d have to kill was a rabbit… Now there’s a tale she’d never have put stock in.
Grumbling to herself as she straightened and turned from her basket of acorns to scowl towards the forest’s edge, the woman brushed several sweat curled, loose strands of hair off her face. The flyaway wisps made a halo in the sunlight streaking through the branches, and softened the lines of her face despite the bothered frown. The rest of her light red hair was pulled into a tight braid and pinned up off her neck out of the way. It had been neat that morning, but the intervening hours and steady labour had teased loose enough fine hairs to leave her looking mussed without the addition of a dusty streak on her chin, or the bark in her hair, or the tear in her oft-mended kirtle, or the dirt staining her apron. But those were there too, just the same.
Herring was on her knees gathering the oak’s crop, planning to make flour over the next few days. Enough to see her in bread for a month or so, and the rest she’d put up and grind down later. The acorns lasted somewhat longer than the flour they became if she prepared them right. So, she only had to go gathering once her stockroom was depleted, which she’d managed sooner than she’d expected, this time around. The gather and grind were a necessary effort, if she was to eat well, but it was rough work, all told. She wasn’t keen on interruptions breaking her routine.
Wasn’t keen on interruptions any time of the year or month or day, if she was being honest. Interruptions usually meant trouble. Didn’t matter where she was or what she was doing, they were a bother to deal with. Her home, however, had good reason to make interruptions both rarer and less welcome than most other places. So, with a final tsk as though anyone was around to hear the reproach, Herring pushed herself off the ground, tucked the long skirt of her kirtle into her waist to keep it from catching on the undergrowth, hefted her basket against her hip and set off without further hesitation.
Despite her bothered muttering and hasty estimates, Herring was somewhat intrigued by this newest intruder. The count was more likely to be two brave, fool souls in some three, maybe four, months, but even so, that was surprisingly high, for all the number was so small. Not many took to visiting Aberlynn Forest.
Those that did were following dangerous, life-threatening rumours. Risking their hide, their lives, on the off-chance they might get lucky. Power mad, was all she thought, but as it seemed too early for another man—women had more sense—to be come about the beast and its blood, Herring was wondering if it wasn’t the pigherder’s lad lost track of his sounder again. Poor lad was as terrified of his father’s upset as of the monster in the woods, but he couldn’t seem to learn the lesson of paying proper attention to his charges. Seemed the right time of year… Pigs would be after the acorns, same as her.
Made sense to her, and seemed the likeliest bother, until she caught the chiming note between her skull bones tugging away from the route she was walking. From the north? But it was west where the fields and the hamlet lay. Young Ogden and his pigs came from the west. So then… She frowned in both directions before altering course: not pigs, it seemed.
Herring didn’t know the direction precisely. Her charms were rarely that efficient. It would have taken her the year entire to get through the smallest ring she’d set up, otherwise. And this new stranger had only just set off the widest. But she could tell where he wasn’t, as the charms weren’t active that way, and the farther he walked, the less she’d have to look. At least, if he kept on in a somewhat straight line… If he couldn’t even manage that much, she wasn’t planning on chasing him down. She had better things to do with her time.
With that thought uppermost in her mind, the woman moved at a steady pace more designed for endurance than quick turns of speed. But she knew this forest better than anyone and rarely broke her stride, bare feet stepping without concern on soft moss, sharp stone and prickling pine cone dross where the squirrels had been feeding. She knew where stream crossings were slick, and where winding animal trails were the easier route. Skidding on her heels down one steep bank and splashing into a puddle at the bottom couldn’t even give her pause. Though it did leave a splatter of mud across bare legs and skirt alike. She’d only lifted her basket of acorns beyond the water’s possible reach and kept on with a huff.
Still, by the time she’d made it to the trees she’d marked, where the lichen grew in odd patterns, the woman was breathing somewhat harshly, and the sun had moved a fair ways in the sky. Wasting the light, she was. But the man who’d walked between the trees, setting off their silent music in her head, had not been idle either, and she knew he’d continued deeper into the trees. Another chime, pitched lower, had joined the first a little before she made it to these ones. Pursing her lips, Herring eyed the route he must have taken, though she could see no immediate proof of anyone’s passage. “Well, we cain all ‘ave it easy. Let’s twist ‘im up, will we, then?”
She was talking to the trees—and you could be sure they weren’t liable to be talking back anytime soon—as she set the basket down and pulled out a small paring knife. It was one of the few metal pieces she owned, and sharper than a spinster’s tongue. Useful, for a good many things. Now, she needed it only to slice through the knot holding a thin thread around the tree’s trunk. She’d pulled it from her mother’s dress, the memories it offered were greater than the fabric’s value. And, slowly, she was losing both. But the loss worked wonders.
As soon as the knife undid the knot, the thread collapsed into ash. As did the trail she’d devised to give these beast hunters direction. Now, she could see the traces of his movement left behind. The twist of toes on a root’s exposed edge. The scuff of a boot heel in the fresh loam. Good. Now, he’d have nothing to follow and she’d know where to find him. Nodding to herself with a grim smile, Herring tucked the knife away again, hefted her basket, and kept on after her quarry.
It was turning towards dusk by the time she finally caught sight of the cloaked figure ahead of her. Thin and ragged, his shape did not strike her as the usual sort of confident swagger wanting to make a name for himself or his lord. He had no companion. No retinue. And, as she slipped closer, no weapon… Or at least, no sword to snag at his cloak’s trailing hem. And no bow to carry. Knives might have hung from his belt or been tucked into his boot. But he did not seem equipped for a hunt, no, nor a lengthy wait if he planned to try trapping the beast and its blood. So, it was just as well that there was no beast to be found, but Herring wasn’t feeling generous.
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, and looking every inch of her disgruntled with his poor showing as she stopped beside a tree and caught her balance there, one hand on the mossy trunk and the other still keeping her basket at her hip, she called after the thin fellow. Her manner gruff and not the least bit friendly. Nor satisfied that she’d finally found him, either. Wasn’t much to look at, any way. “An’ may Maudlin strike me full a sorrows, but didn’t ye never ‘ear a word of it ‘fore yeh went wanderin’ int’th’trees there, boy? Doan y’know th’woods yehr walkin’ through?”
Was he really come after a dragon? Maybe the word had changed since she’d last heard and all he thought he’d have to kill was a rabbit… Now there’s a tale she’d never have put stock in.
In
blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]
→
7 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
*massages Taco's head* is it working?
*hugs*
*hugs*
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