lol Okay!
Whoever can find her at Grand Central, probably having a sandwich. (She'd want to 're-fuel' after that display.)
Ruby Member
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STATUS: I'm a pretty good writer and former site staff; I still deal with imposter syndrome every time I log on. You're definitely not alone. And t's worth trying anyway. 24 days ago
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I'm a pretty good writer and former site staff; I still deal with imposter syndrome every time I log on. You're definitely not alone. And t's worth trying anyway.
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24 days ago
Don't worry, D3AD ST4R, most of us feel like that. <33
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Pretty sure you just described a third of the world's population. Welcome!
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I just started watching it.
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I just finished The Secret History, a very Gen X book. Never Let Me Go before that, which I'd recommend to any writer outside the MFA atmosphere who wants to know emotonal restraint.
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YoshiSkittlez said
Woah dang Ruby, I didn't mean to make you leave. Logan just has a short temper :( I didn't mean it!
No worries! <3 Not upset, just being true to the character.
By far, my shortest involvement in a game.
Ohwell. Have fun folks!
Ohwell. Have fun folks!
Estella felt her toes touch the ground first, followed half a heart beat later by the soles of her feet supported the weight of her body as she returned to the surface. It would take a moment for her eyes to return from full charge to dark brown. But when they did return, there was nothing resembling an emotion. Only a mechanical, near automated, processing of information as the shaggy one spoke to her.
The tone in her voice followed suit, as she responded after a few prolonged moments of catching her breath. "Alright," Was the only word Estella spoke, before walking out from behind the counter, and walking out of the bar, ensuring the door was shut behind her. At that point the only thing on her mind...was the quickest way to get back to Southern California. Grand Central was likely her best bet, and it was that direction she began to walk until she could find a cab, hands neatly folded into the front pockets of her jeans, a low whistled tune on her lips.
The tone in her voice followed suit, as she responded after a few prolonged moments of catching her breath. "Alright," Was the only word Estella spoke, before walking out from behind the counter, and walking out of the bar, ensuring the door was shut behind her. At that point the only thing on her mind...was the quickest way to get back to Southern California. Grand Central was likely her best bet, and it was that direction she began to walk until she could find a cab, hands neatly folded into the front pockets of her jeans, a low whistled tune on her lips.
“Back for more, Richie?” A raspy voice cried out when a tall blonde man entered the alley. Nimbly, a broadly shouldered man with a bald marble as a head stepped into the moonlight, which was barely able to creep down into the narrow street.
Always, always back for more. “You know I’d miss that pretty face of you too much, Byran.” Richard swayed a little on his feet, using the wickered jug of fine Dornish wine as leverage to keep him walking straight. It was, however, difficult to continuously adapt to the ever changing counter-weight.
“Pah,” Byran the Bouncer spat, “the horses’ arses look better than my gob.” It was true. Byran had been ugly by birth, the halves of his face not being symmetrical. Then, during a lifetime of crime and violence, his nose had been broken several times over. “But maybe it’s them you miss? The arses.”
“True enough, ugly bastard,” Richard poked at the mountain of muscle and snickered, then took another swig of wine. “Step to. Open this watering hole’s door.”
Byran complied. “At once your lordship.” The thug sprung mockingly to attention. “I hope it’s large enough for that big radiant head of yours.”
The dark maw of the doorway only just revealed the tiny steps leading to the underground quarters that were his destination.
The waft of smoke, alcohol and sweat practically inflamed Richard’s nostrils as he passed a second door into the gambling den proper. The Shadow City sported several of these establishments. Places where the true night life happened, where men regardless of birth or race came together to roll dice, gamble, drink and fuck, to watch cock fights or boxing matches. All excellent pastimes that he had indulged in more often than not, but his real reason -Richard’s passion- was something else entirely.
With the experience and lack of sobriety befitting of a veteran sailor, the Prince of Dorne traversed the rowdy room of the den. Cries of recognition and greetings were exchanged as he passed by, raising his wine jug in response. Some Dornish girls tried to get him to sit down in order to claim his lap, but Richard brushed them off as if they were silk, apologising profusely and promising to find them afterwards.
Eventually, after a round of dice in which he first won considerably and then lost double the amount, Richard Martell reached the far end of the cellar.
A horse neighed happily upon his entry. Several boxes had been built into the wall, turning this part of the establishment into a stable. A large double door to the left gave access to the streets of the outer ring of the Shadow City.
“Oh Zeph,” Richard exclaimed with a merry sigh, “how I have missed you!” The horse in question, Zephyr, trotted in his box and pushed his body against the wooden panel, extending its slender neck to nible at Richard’s fingers. The softness, warmth and wetness reminded him of a different set of lips, in spite of trying to push those thoughts from his inebriated mind. He needed to focus, despite the wine.
Zephyr was a magnificent horse, a grey courser bred in Dorne, a sand steed; quick, strong and light with an excellent training to boot. Richard was extremely proud of Zeph’s elegant running gait and sublime endurance. “Are we going to win tonight, boy?” The sand steed whinnied affirmatively, at least, that was how Richard interpreted it.
"Prince Richard?"
Being invited to the Shadowcity den of sin had only happened after Lord Eddarion Stark had won no less than three out of four races just outside of Sunspear earlier in the day. He'd spent good gold on the sand steed he'd named 'Harlen' after a Winterfell guardsmen he'd known as a boy, before the man married the daughter of some Barrowland farmer and gone off to join her family farm. Harlen was black and white, his colors like clashing and intermingling clouds upon his form, his head all white and his arse end all black. According to the man who sold him, there was trouble brewing and the demand of good horses had gone up. Hence, Harlen cost triple what he would have just a month prior.
Eddi didn't care about the trouble brewing, he only wanted the horse. And he'd pay the outrageous amount for it, even if it (and the sand colored sandsilk riding outfit he'd bought the day before) would leave him in the hedges on the way home. He knew, in his heart, a winner when he saw one. And Harlen was a winner; even tempered and calm until he got into the heart of the race. Then a competitive flare spread in the beast like wildfire, and there was no calming him until he'd won, or given what he had trying. The one race Eddi had lost earlier in the day was his own fault, not Harlen's.
Eddi looked a boy amongst men in the gambling den, his voice soft, his eyes never staying on anyone once they saw him glancing their way--for fear of starting something on accident. But when the Prince of Dorne entered the secret den, Eddi Stark couldn't pass up the chance to greet him. In truth, normally he would never admit his birth in a place such as he found himself in now. And normally, that was how he liked it. But when in Dorne...why not say hello? The Starks of Winterfell had no conflict with the Martells. None that he was aware of, at least.
Lord Stark almost blushed, as he nodded when the man turned and looked at him. "I am Eddarion Stark, of Winterfell. Your Princedom's sandsteeds are incredible. Well worth my trip down."
Compliments always were a good idea to start with, Vittoria had told him once. But only if genuine, she also told him. And after the success of the day he'd had...there was no sentiment his heart meant more fully other than 'The Old Gods are ancient' and 'Winterfell is home.' How could the truth hurt him?
Richard squinted at the youth speaking at him. He had not expected to find anyone else in the underground stables, access was restricted to riders and farriers. The races might be illegal but there were still rules and precautions. The Prince of Dorne pursed his lips as he raised an eyebrow inquisitively, though clearly not feeling threatened by the lone wolf. “You’re a long way from home, Eddarion Stark.” Richard let the ‘k’ linger in his mouth, as if he suffered from stammering, then took a few precarious steps towards the box containing the bay horse. He sniffed and proceeded to offer his newfound conversational partner the wine jug. “Drink,” he said, pressing the wickered portion of the container against Eddarion’s chest. “Got tired of winter?”
“Uh,” was Stark’s initial reaction to the order of ‘Drink’, followed by a beat of his heart, followed by taking the jug, and taking a long, thirsty, drink…followed by a squinting of his eyes, and a heavy breath after his drink.
His already quiet tone was further strained, if only for a moment, by the heavy Dornish wine. “Very...potent, your Grace.” Eddi handed the man his jug back, and wiped at his mouth with the back of sandsilk sleeve. “My father sends each of his children off on quests ‘to discover our true selves’--except for Brodrik, who found himself by killing a Giant. And my father isn’t the type of man you say no to easily. So, I followed my heart...and went to find the best racing horse I could get my hands on. Where else to go, I ask you, but Dorne?”
“You could cross the Narrow Sea and ask the Dothraki. Then again, they’d carve you up and feed you to their dogs before you’d have the time to greet them.” Richard leaned back against a wooden support. “I see you found one of ours to your liking though. Curious colours though… very motley.” Talking about horses and mounts was something any man could, even if they weren’t his chief interest.
Eddarion Stark smiled, then. His shyness, his soft tone all gone as talk went to Harlen. In fact, the young Lord Stark was near beaming with pride. “I am fond of black, ill suited to the sun of Dorne as I’ve found it to be. But more importantly, in that sandsteed I knew I’d found a champion. He may appear meek, but he is not, your Grace. Get him amongst other horses, and he all but breathes fire to beat them in a race.”
“Are you a poet too, Stark?” Richard chuckled. “Perhaps I should have you compose a ballad for me. In fact,” a thought took shape in his foggy mind. “How about we put that boast of you to the test? The winner writes a song about the victor.”
At first, Eddi felt to shrink. He was no poet, far from it. But if there was a subject in all Creation that got his blood pumping...it was racing horses. Embarrassed as he was, might be it was the Dornish strong wine, or might be it was adrenaline found in being in such a place, in such a strange land, talking to a Prince of Dorne. For whatever he reason, he found himself grinning stupidty, and shrugging. “I may need the help of a Bard for the writing, but aye. Might be the loser if sings his song before your friends here?”
Richard almost sprayed wine all over the young horse enthusiast bursting out laughing. “Oh no,” he said after catching his breath. “Those would be nothing but lost verses. These yokels have no mind for the fine art of poetry. They can oly appreciate wine, coin and a woman’s assets. You’ll be performing it at my court. I’m sure my brother William will chastise me for making a fool of a scion of the oldest house in Westeros, but a Prince is entitled to his fun.” There was clearly no inkling of doubt in Richard’s head as to who would win a race. “The look on their faces when they’ll hear that rough accent of yours will be priceless!”
Eddarion Stark of Winterfell laughed at that, even as, to himself, he gulped at the prospect.
Always, always back for more. “You know I’d miss that pretty face of you too much, Byran.” Richard swayed a little on his feet, using the wickered jug of fine Dornish wine as leverage to keep him walking straight. It was, however, difficult to continuously adapt to the ever changing counter-weight.
“Pah,” Byran the Bouncer spat, “the horses’ arses look better than my gob.” It was true. Byran had been ugly by birth, the halves of his face not being symmetrical. Then, during a lifetime of crime and violence, his nose had been broken several times over. “But maybe it’s them you miss? The arses.”
“True enough, ugly bastard,” Richard poked at the mountain of muscle and snickered, then took another swig of wine. “Step to. Open this watering hole’s door.”
Byran complied. “At once your lordship.” The thug sprung mockingly to attention. “I hope it’s large enough for that big radiant head of yours.”
The dark maw of the doorway only just revealed the tiny steps leading to the underground quarters that were his destination.
The waft of smoke, alcohol and sweat practically inflamed Richard’s nostrils as he passed a second door into the gambling den proper. The Shadow City sported several of these establishments. Places where the true night life happened, where men regardless of birth or race came together to roll dice, gamble, drink and fuck, to watch cock fights or boxing matches. All excellent pastimes that he had indulged in more often than not, but his real reason -Richard’s passion- was something else entirely.
With the experience and lack of sobriety befitting of a veteran sailor, the Prince of Dorne traversed the rowdy room of the den. Cries of recognition and greetings were exchanged as he passed by, raising his wine jug in response. Some Dornish girls tried to get him to sit down in order to claim his lap, but Richard brushed them off as if they were silk, apologising profusely and promising to find them afterwards.
Eventually, after a round of dice in which he first won considerably and then lost double the amount, Richard Martell reached the far end of the cellar.
A horse neighed happily upon his entry. Several boxes had been built into the wall, turning this part of the establishment into a stable. A large double door to the left gave access to the streets of the outer ring of the Shadow City.
“Oh Zeph,” Richard exclaimed with a merry sigh, “how I have missed you!” The horse in question, Zephyr, trotted in his box and pushed his body against the wooden panel, extending its slender neck to nible at Richard’s fingers. The softness, warmth and wetness reminded him of a different set of lips, in spite of trying to push those thoughts from his inebriated mind. He needed to focus, despite the wine.
Zephyr was a magnificent horse, a grey courser bred in Dorne, a sand steed; quick, strong and light with an excellent training to boot. Richard was extremely proud of Zeph’s elegant running gait and sublime endurance. “Are we going to win tonight, boy?” The sand steed whinnied affirmatively, at least, that was how Richard interpreted it.
"Prince Richard?"
Being invited to the Shadowcity den of sin had only happened after Lord Eddarion Stark had won no less than three out of four races just outside of Sunspear earlier in the day. He'd spent good gold on the sand steed he'd named 'Harlen' after a Winterfell guardsmen he'd known as a boy, before the man married the daughter of some Barrowland farmer and gone off to join her family farm. Harlen was black and white, his colors like clashing and intermingling clouds upon his form, his head all white and his arse end all black. According to the man who sold him, there was trouble brewing and the demand of good horses had gone up. Hence, Harlen cost triple what he would have just a month prior.
Eddi didn't care about the trouble brewing, he only wanted the horse. And he'd pay the outrageous amount for it, even if it (and the sand colored sandsilk riding outfit he'd bought the day before) would leave him in the hedges on the way home. He knew, in his heart, a winner when he saw one. And Harlen was a winner; even tempered and calm until he got into the heart of the race. Then a competitive flare spread in the beast like wildfire, and there was no calming him until he'd won, or given what he had trying. The one race Eddi had lost earlier in the day was his own fault, not Harlen's.
Eddi looked a boy amongst men in the gambling den, his voice soft, his eyes never staying on anyone once they saw him glancing their way--for fear of starting something on accident. But when the Prince of Dorne entered the secret den, Eddi Stark couldn't pass up the chance to greet him. In truth, normally he would never admit his birth in a place such as he found himself in now. And normally, that was how he liked it. But when in Dorne...why not say hello? The Starks of Winterfell had no conflict with the Martells. None that he was aware of, at least.
Lord Stark almost blushed, as he nodded when the man turned and looked at him. "I am Eddarion Stark, of Winterfell. Your Princedom's sandsteeds are incredible. Well worth my trip down."
Compliments always were a good idea to start with, Vittoria had told him once. But only if genuine, she also told him. And after the success of the day he'd had...there was no sentiment his heart meant more fully other than 'The Old Gods are ancient' and 'Winterfell is home.' How could the truth hurt him?
Richard squinted at the youth speaking at him. He had not expected to find anyone else in the underground stables, access was restricted to riders and farriers. The races might be illegal but there were still rules and precautions. The Prince of Dorne pursed his lips as he raised an eyebrow inquisitively, though clearly not feeling threatened by the lone wolf. “You’re a long way from home, Eddarion Stark.” Richard let the ‘k’ linger in his mouth, as if he suffered from stammering, then took a few precarious steps towards the box containing the bay horse. He sniffed and proceeded to offer his newfound conversational partner the wine jug. “Drink,” he said, pressing the wickered portion of the container against Eddarion’s chest. “Got tired of winter?”
“Uh,” was Stark’s initial reaction to the order of ‘Drink’, followed by a beat of his heart, followed by taking the jug, and taking a long, thirsty, drink…followed by a squinting of his eyes, and a heavy breath after his drink.
His already quiet tone was further strained, if only for a moment, by the heavy Dornish wine. “Very...potent, your Grace.” Eddi handed the man his jug back, and wiped at his mouth with the back of sandsilk sleeve. “My father sends each of his children off on quests ‘to discover our true selves’--except for Brodrik, who found himself by killing a Giant. And my father isn’t the type of man you say no to easily. So, I followed my heart...and went to find the best racing horse I could get my hands on. Where else to go, I ask you, but Dorne?”
“You could cross the Narrow Sea and ask the Dothraki. Then again, they’d carve you up and feed you to their dogs before you’d have the time to greet them.” Richard leaned back against a wooden support. “I see you found one of ours to your liking though. Curious colours though… very motley.” Talking about horses and mounts was something any man could, even if they weren’t his chief interest.
Eddarion Stark smiled, then. His shyness, his soft tone all gone as talk went to Harlen. In fact, the young Lord Stark was near beaming with pride. “I am fond of black, ill suited to the sun of Dorne as I’ve found it to be. But more importantly, in that sandsteed I knew I’d found a champion. He may appear meek, but he is not, your Grace. Get him amongst other horses, and he all but breathes fire to beat them in a race.”
“Are you a poet too, Stark?” Richard chuckled. “Perhaps I should have you compose a ballad for me. In fact,” a thought took shape in his foggy mind. “How about we put that boast of you to the test? The winner writes a song about the victor.”
At first, Eddi felt to shrink. He was no poet, far from it. But if there was a subject in all Creation that got his blood pumping...it was racing horses. Embarrassed as he was, might be it was the Dornish strong wine, or might be it was adrenaline found in being in such a place, in such a strange land, talking to a Prince of Dorne. For whatever he reason, he found himself grinning stupidty, and shrugging. “I may need the help of a Bard for the writing, but aye. Might be the loser if sings his song before your friends here?”
Richard almost sprayed wine all over the young horse enthusiast bursting out laughing. “Oh no,” he said after catching his breath. “Those would be nothing but lost verses. These yokels have no mind for the fine art of poetry. They can oly appreciate wine, coin and a woman’s assets. You’ll be performing it at my court. I’m sure my brother William will chastise me for making a fool of a scion of the oldest house in Westeros, but a Prince is entitled to his fun.” There was clearly no inkling of doubt in Richard’s head as to who would win a race. “The look on their faces when they’ll hear that rough accent of yours will be priceless!”
Eddarion Stark of Winterfell laughed at that, even as, to himself, he gulped at the prospect.
All Estella Rey could do in that moment, was chuckle. Did the white boy even realize what he was saying to her? She had to wonder. Big brown eyes blinked long, dark, lashes before moving from the English 'chap' to the embarrassed Japanese girl, Estella's words coming out in Japanese: "Don't worry, your English is way better than this guy's Spanish." Words spoken with hints of reassurance, and a certain hard hearted playfulness. 'This guy' accompanied with a jerk of her thumb in the direction of the 'chap' who had turned his back to Estella.
The girl who dismissed the necessity of basic needs unfurled another winner, a suggestion that they were the new 'social elite'--a suggestion that could only come from a privileged white girl who'd never seen the violent, dark, reach of ignorance and hatred first hand. Estella had, both as latina and 'freak.' And on that note, the Southern California girl reverted back to English, her eyes flasing a similar mischeviousness to the grin just barely visible on her lips, her left hand giving the English guy a tap on his back, her voice lowering just a touch, as if some private joke between them was being relayed, "Yeah, sweet cheeks. You better be careful."
Estella was still mid-grin when Erik addressed her by name. Quickly, her features lost any hint of amusement, defaulting to a cold, humorless disposition. "Great, Erik," the man's name exaggerated, spoken like it were a curse word, "A man both American and British governments warned me not to trust gets to be my doctor." Casual as a sip of Sunday tea, Estella took another drink of her Irish coffee, her lips reemerging after the sip with a faint smile of dim amusement at his 'advice.' "Don't worry, gringo. Not my first rodeo."
A statement punctuated with a flick of the cigarette in her right hand, grey-black ash floating to the ground, her eyes daggers at the man...until they flew to the opening of the bar door, and widened in surprise at the appearance of...little...devils? They could've been chupacabras for all Estella knew. For all she cared. Their appearance and physical take down of the strangest looking thing Estella had ever seen had startled her enough to bring about her default response to the surprise of violence: her own flash of violence.
Big brown eyes came alive with a near blinding electric white and blue glow, sheer force of will and muscle memory following instinct and intuition and training in the manipulation of electromagnetic forces. In particular, of electromagnetic discharge. She was floating three feet higher than she'd been on the ground in a blink, sparks flying from her suddenly raised, palm out, left hand; tiny tendrils of blue-white electricity forking their way from Estella's hand to the little blue chupacabra looking pendejos. A new found depth and charge to her voice as the sheer amount of power pulsating through her body carried it through the room like thunder.
"Get. Off. Him."
The girl who dismissed the necessity of basic needs unfurled another winner, a suggestion that they were the new 'social elite'--a suggestion that could only come from a privileged white girl who'd never seen the violent, dark, reach of ignorance and hatred first hand. Estella had, both as latina and 'freak.' And on that note, the Southern California girl reverted back to English, her eyes flasing a similar mischeviousness to the grin just barely visible on her lips, her left hand giving the English guy a tap on his back, her voice lowering just a touch, as if some private joke between them was being relayed, "Yeah, sweet cheeks. You better be careful."
Estella was still mid-grin when Erik addressed her by name. Quickly, her features lost any hint of amusement, defaulting to a cold, humorless disposition. "Great, Erik," the man's name exaggerated, spoken like it were a curse word, "A man both American and British governments warned me not to trust gets to be my doctor." Casual as a sip of Sunday tea, Estella took another drink of her Irish coffee, her lips reemerging after the sip with a faint smile of dim amusement at his 'advice.' "Don't worry, gringo. Not my first rodeo."
A statement punctuated with a flick of the cigarette in her right hand, grey-black ash floating to the ground, her eyes daggers at the man...until they flew to the opening of the bar door, and widened in surprise at the appearance of...little...devils? They could've been chupacabras for all Estella knew. For all she cared. Their appearance and physical take down of the strangest looking thing Estella had ever seen had startled her enough to bring about her default response to the surprise of violence: her own flash of violence.
Big brown eyes came alive with a near blinding electric white and blue glow, sheer force of will and muscle memory following instinct and intuition and training in the manipulation of electromagnetic forces. In particular, of electromagnetic discharge. She was floating three feet higher than she'd been on the ground in a blink, sparks flying from her suddenly raised, palm out, left hand; tiny tendrils of blue-white electricity forking their way from Estella's hand to the little blue chupacabra looking pendejos. A new found depth and charge to her voice as the sheer amount of power pulsating through her body carried it through the room like thunder.
"Get. Off. Him."
Although to be fair, I don't think anyone knows Estella's codename. Unless they telepathically cheat.
And if that happens...oh, the latin rage they shall see.
And if that happens...oh, the latin rage they shall see.
Zacharius said
At least your character didn't have their not-yet-known code name eye rolled at :(
IC/OOC barrier, people. C'mon, now. ^_^
jagajac said
Yeah, I just wrote his name in my post so you'd know who I was talking about. The only people who have introduced themselves are Kimberly, Talon, and now Samuel. I think?
Well. Magnus just told everyone Estella's name. (Whatajerk.)
Schradinger said
Long life is actually one of the side effects of his mutation. Are you sure yours isn't prescience? Lol. I'll PM Hillan and await his word on the matter.
Prescience?
I'm confused. =/
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