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Equal spam for everybody? I guess that's what happens when you don't have a good filter...
wXw Member
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Gazing at the boiling Sun, I am the last drop of the Oceans.
You that gaze, leave a pretty word for me!
You that gaze, leave a pretty word for me!
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Equal spam for everybody? I guess that's what happens when you don't have a good filter...
Anela’s words spurred a rather unflattering chiding from the other woman, who so little had made to impress that the act seemed almost studied and concerted to make her look inferior in looks and manners to the maitresse of the house. All the opulence of the setting, and the brightness of lights, and even the selected entrance, loaded with drama: Anela contended in her heart that she had truly discovered a brothel of the highest class, one where magic serves the purpose to astonish all senses.
As if chanting with a voice that was a choir of children, the mistress, self-proclaimed Goddess of the nobles - and Anela was just that, a noble - did begin to speak in the noblewoman’s defense. To such words, Anela crossed her arms and turned to the other girl. Her look, with the nostrils showing from under the nose, and her chin protruding, was a monument to pride. He foot tapping lightly on the polished marble of the floor. See, she thought, that is exactly what I meant.
Oh the magician! Not quite the highly sought maker of high fashion, neither a taylor talented with the finest of hands, but nonetheless a connoisseur of the art of teasing and enticing. Admiring the crafty art of revealing seemingly expensive furniture from what looked like ordinary oak crafts, the child that had once been Anela felt that innocent excitement returning, just as strong as when she first held a lark in her hand, and felt its heart beat through the feathers tight against her skin.
Right then, as she gloated in triumph and waited to be presented with the prices for ever more intriguing personal favors that the house could offer, such as Anela had become accustomed to in the capital, she felt like an invisible hand quickly trespassing beyond her desires, or rather the warm trimming of a razor blade, glowing all over her body. She squeaked, and her arms, a moment earlier crossed on her chest, now stretched in the air.
It was but the glance of a moment, for suddenly Anela had found herself tightly clad in a dress, the likes of which she had never seen before. Her breasts pressed like two grapefruits by a stiff bust, and her legs half bare, from the knee down, in a show of straight shins and silky skin. Her arms too, showing, almost to the shoulder, displaying lean muscles, and cured elbows, clean of the callous part that affects most peasants.
There was a change in the girl too, that insolent thing at whom she had been staring earlier. A rather substantial change in her look, as if the grunting peasant had been replaced with a dancer of toned muscles, and elegant fabric. This girl had lovely proportioned feet, with but a blue vein rising, and twisting around the ankle, and then almost disappearing in the calf. Her arms too, well rounded, tight and dry, with square shoulders, and a light color. And her lips too, and her eyes, all seemed new, and deep with colors.
Anela approached the silverwood furniture, she caressed the top with her bare palm, and she followed the line of the chairs. A few thousands of shields could perhaps buy one such, if any skilled woodworker could be found to imitate such curves, and to select the right wood. Her hand finally reached the clothes she had been wearing at the festival. She took the belt with the bronze buckle, and tied it to her waist, she pressed the mask aside and then let the tunic slide on the floor, where she kicked it away from her feet.
“Crafty.” said Anela at last, containing her breath within the armor of fabric that clung to her, she turned to glance at the other girl, and returned her eyes to the shiny female “And wicked. You had my attention, now you have my curiosity. Speak then, what is up for the show?”
She moved the chair, and pleased her bottom to accommodate on it. She turned again to the other girl, and lifting one finger in the air, she whispered behind the thin line of smirk “Just for your information, dear, I have seen hundreds of such shows. Always keep your mind keen, before you find you had to pay to hear your own voice. Question. Question. Question. And bring respect to those above your rank, in case you see one.” and concluded with a waving of hands, brief, but very theatrical.
As if chanting with a voice that was a choir of children, the mistress, self-proclaimed Goddess of the nobles - and Anela was just that, a noble - did begin to speak in the noblewoman’s defense. To such words, Anela crossed her arms and turned to the other girl. Her look, with the nostrils showing from under the nose, and her chin protruding, was a monument to pride. He foot tapping lightly on the polished marble of the floor. See, she thought, that is exactly what I meant.
Oh the magician! Not quite the highly sought maker of high fashion, neither a taylor talented with the finest of hands, but nonetheless a connoisseur of the art of teasing and enticing. Admiring the crafty art of revealing seemingly expensive furniture from what looked like ordinary oak crafts, the child that had once been Anela felt that innocent excitement returning, just as strong as when she first held a lark in her hand, and felt its heart beat through the feathers tight against her skin.
Right then, as she gloated in triumph and waited to be presented with the prices for ever more intriguing personal favors that the house could offer, such as Anela had become accustomed to in the capital, she felt like an invisible hand quickly trespassing beyond her desires, or rather the warm trimming of a razor blade, glowing all over her body. She squeaked, and her arms, a moment earlier crossed on her chest, now stretched in the air.
It was but the glance of a moment, for suddenly Anela had found herself tightly clad in a dress, the likes of which she had never seen before. Her breasts pressed like two grapefruits by a stiff bust, and her legs half bare, from the knee down, in a show of straight shins and silky skin. Her arms too, showing, almost to the shoulder, displaying lean muscles, and cured elbows, clean of the callous part that affects most peasants.
There was a change in the girl too, that insolent thing at whom she had been staring earlier. A rather substantial change in her look, as if the grunting peasant had been replaced with a dancer of toned muscles, and elegant fabric. This girl had lovely proportioned feet, with but a blue vein rising, and twisting around the ankle, and then almost disappearing in the calf. Her arms too, well rounded, tight and dry, with square shoulders, and a light color. And her lips too, and her eyes, all seemed new, and deep with colors.
Anela approached the silverwood furniture, she caressed the top with her bare palm, and she followed the line of the chairs. A few thousands of shields could perhaps buy one such, if any skilled woodworker could be found to imitate such curves, and to select the right wood. Her hand finally reached the clothes she had been wearing at the festival. She took the belt with the bronze buckle, and tied it to her waist, she pressed the mask aside and then let the tunic slide on the floor, where she kicked it away from her feet.
“Crafty.” said Anela at last, containing her breath within the armor of fabric that clung to her, she turned to glance at the other girl, and returned her eyes to the shiny female “And wicked. You had my attention, now you have my curiosity. Speak then, what is up for the show?”
She moved the chair, and pleased her bottom to accommodate on it. She turned again to the other girl, and lifting one finger in the air, she whispered behind the thin line of smirk “Just for your information, dear, I have seen hundreds of such shows. Always keep your mind keen, before you find you had to pay to hear your own voice. Question. Question. Question. And bring respect to those above your rank, in case you see one.” and concluded with a waving of hands, brief, but very theatrical.
As if awakening from a dream, Anela shook her head at the sudden transformation of the abandoned shrine. It took but the time of a blink of the eye, and there she was, standing in a temple of virtue with her swollen desires. Did she just harass the local devotee? The confusing sense that reality could have been different from appearances left Anela silent for a moment.
She straightened her back, and closed her lips in a long flat and thin line. Her hair still flowed rather indecorously on her shoulders, and her dress felt a bit too airy for the occasion. All the riches of the shrine seemed unfamiliar to her eyes, and the perfect decorations, barely swayed by the sudden gush of air that had her close her eyes: she could not recall any of them.
Above all, she gazed at the perfect amazon talking to her. That amazon which she had taken for merely a sculpture, was no less than a human being, made of flesh and bones. A superb human being. One of such a terrifying beauty, that words of compliments turned to fear, and desires turned to the morbid attraction of horror. Oh she was beautiful, so much beautiful to eclipse the existence of yet another woman barely two arms away. Her attire, so poor in contrast to the noble look of her eyes and the dignity of her temples, made her shine even more, and by the time Anela paid attention to the third woman, her heart had given a burst of joy, and stopped.
That was what a human could be, closest to the incarnation of a Goddess. A Goddess of fiery love, perhaps, or a Goddess of harsh passions, clad in armor, and bearing a sword. Or nothing of that. Just a harlot perhaps, one gifted with an unearthly beauty by nature, and playing some articulate game to entice rich clients. A playful twist, indeed, very unexpected of such a forgotten place like Harvest. Anela forced herself the believe the latter, he struggled in her heart to accept the easiest explanation of reality, that the fabric of the Universe may not be altered as easily by a lustful desire. Let it be a well disguised brothel, she thought, one where they use complex artifices to create all sorts of illusions.
But the look of the Goddess was too strong, and her power too large to ignore. Her beauty too perfect, her symmetry too unnatural. Which hand could frame such body? Which flute could play such tones? Anela found herself trembling lightly, and her knees stiff and sore from the effort of keeping them straight.
"So you say. Prove it." she said, finally.
She straightened her back, and closed her lips in a long flat and thin line. Her hair still flowed rather indecorously on her shoulders, and her dress felt a bit too airy for the occasion. All the riches of the shrine seemed unfamiliar to her eyes, and the perfect decorations, barely swayed by the sudden gush of air that had her close her eyes: she could not recall any of them.
Above all, she gazed at the perfect amazon talking to her. That amazon which she had taken for merely a sculpture, was no less than a human being, made of flesh and bones. A superb human being. One of such a terrifying beauty, that words of compliments turned to fear, and desires turned to the morbid attraction of horror. Oh she was beautiful, so much beautiful to eclipse the existence of yet another woman barely two arms away. Her attire, so poor in contrast to the noble look of her eyes and the dignity of her temples, made her shine even more, and by the time Anela paid attention to the third woman, her heart had given a burst of joy, and stopped.
That was what a human could be, closest to the incarnation of a Goddess. A Goddess of fiery love, perhaps, or a Goddess of harsh passions, clad in armor, and bearing a sword. Or nothing of that. Just a harlot perhaps, one gifted with an unearthly beauty by nature, and playing some articulate game to entice rich clients. A playful twist, indeed, very unexpected of such a forgotten place like Harvest. Anela forced herself the believe the latter, he struggled in her heart to accept the easiest explanation of reality, that the fabric of the Universe may not be altered as easily by a lustful desire. Let it be a well disguised brothel, she thought, one where they use complex artifices to create all sorts of illusions.
But the look of the Goddess was too strong, and her power too large to ignore. Her beauty too perfect, her symmetry too unnatural. Which hand could frame such body? Which flute could play such tones? Anela found herself trembling lightly, and her knees stiff and sore from the effort of keeping them straight.
"So you say. Prove it." she said, finally.
Name: Lady Anela Dela Devereux
Race: Human
Age: 38
Appearance: lady Anela is a raven on a stick. A black long slim figure of bones and pride. Her face is framed by dark hair, which carries crimson shades when the Sun peeks through. Her eyes are quick and witty emeralds, slightly slant, and carefully circled with a line of the most expensive tar from the Deep. Her nose is thin, slightly arched and barely protruding on top of her full, blooming cherry lips. She carefully masks her wrinkles under the okra tones of her precious powder, cunningly spread as to mask her strong, sharp cut cheekbones and her pointy chin. Her ears are chiseled with the perfection of Northern blood, and her neck is of a superior line, long and sided with blue veins, never bending, and straight.
Her large shoulder are synonym to ancient bloodlines, holding dresses that had once been fancy, and now simply worn. Her arms, bared from the elbow to the wrist, are decorated with dark drawings, which she patiently scores during the morning toilet. It is the markings of her family and old bloodline: curls of plants, and leaves, terminating under the bronze bracelets adorning her bony wrists. Her hands and fingers are claws made of steel, unforgiving, and stern like her deep eyes. The rest of her figure is skinny, with barely visible ribs, and stronger legs than those of a lady of her past status. So much is the exercise of those to whom Fate took the cart away and forced them to walk.
She stands nearly four arms, that is above 6 feet, and has once strangled a ward dog with her bare hands, when the beast sought to bite her noble flesh. She hit the fiend with her leather whip, and finally grasped the neck and clutched her thin fingers with raging passion.
Personality: Lady Anela is a scornful, skeptic, self-dependent woman. She has outgrown her younger self, and live in contempt of the world after the loss of her family, of her land and her status. Her blood is the last thing she holds with pride, and she will remind of her birth to every peasant that lacks due respect to her. She will not yield, nor bend. She will not accomodate anybody’s else desires, nor change her way. She holds no disregard toward abusing those inferior to her status, and human life is a commodity, as long as it is someone’s else life.
(History of each character will be revealed as the RP moves forward)
Race: Human
Age: 38
Appearance: lady Anela is a raven on a stick. A black long slim figure of bones and pride. Her face is framed by dark hair, which carries crimson shades when the Sun peeks through. Her eyes are quick and witty emeralds, slightly slant, and carefully circled with a line of the most expensive tar from the Deep. Her nose is thin, slightly arched and barely protruding on top of her full, blooming cherry lips. She carefully masks her wrinkles under the okra tones of her precious powder, cunningly spread as to mask her strong, sharp cut cheekbones and her pointy chin. Her ears are chiseled with the perfection of Northern blood, and her neck is of a superior line, long and sided with blue veins, never bending, and straight.
Her large shoulder are synonym to ancient bloodlines, holding dresses that had once been fancy, and now simply worn. Her arms, bared from the elbow to the wrist, are decorated with dark drawings, which she patiently scores during the morning toilet. It is the markings of her family and old bloodline: curls of plants, and leaves, terminating under the bronze bracelets adorning her bony wrists. Her hands and fingers are claws made of steel, unforgiving, and stern like her deep eyes. The rest of her figure is skinny, with barely visible ribs, and stronger legs than those of a lady of her past status. So much is the exercise of those to whom Fate took the cart away and forced them to walk.
She stands nearly four arms, that is above 6 feet, and has once strangled a ward dog with her bare hands, when the beast sought to bite her noble flesh. She hit the fiend with her leather whip, and finally grasped the neck and clutched her thin fingers with raging passion.
Personality: Lady Anela is a scornful, skeptic, self-dependent woman. She has outgrown her younger self, and live in contempt of the world after the loss of her family, of her land and her status. Her blood is the last thing she holds with pride, and she will remind of her birth to every peasant that lacks due respect to her. She will not yield, nor bend. She will not accomodate anybody’s else desires, nor change her way. She holds no disregard toward abusing those inferior to her status, and human life is a commodity, as long as it is someone’s else life.
(History of each character will be revealed as the RP moves forward)
In that far district of merry Theron, which is watered by many a thin streams, there extended a wide and peaceful lake, whose shores had been adorned by the local villagers with countless shrines, so many have been the gods and goddesses that were accounted for the flourishing harvests over the past three centuries.
Harvest, the largest of the villages on the Southern shores, used to be famous for one festival. Farmers would flock from the entire region for just that single day. Each would carry one mask of their favorite animal and wear it throughout the day, from dawn, when the drums announced the ceremonial procession, followed by orgiastic dances, until sunset, when another roll of drums would signal the devotees that the shrine of the God of Plenty had been opened. The God of Plenty, high and safe in his distant world, watched, drinking of the nectar of the Gods, and laughed at his unexpected luck, where the heroic actions of others had brought him the reaping prayers of simple folks.
All across Theron, covering large part of the beautiful hills, valleys and up to the mountain passes in the horizon where no soul dared venture, many a battle had been once fought, desperate and harsh, and many a great hands had fallen, cut by the stern steel. But to the present day, no one remembered any of it. Lost tales hidden in forgotten books. Some old hags, perhaps to impress, and perhaps to satisfy their needs, shouted of it in the streets, that the beast may return, lest everyone finds the rightful goddess, the long forgotten one.
Here in Theron, albeit more to the North, also flourished those packs of gallant outlaws, which the time imposed to call bands of venture, and whose deeds, sold to the better buyer, had already changed the destiny of one too many skirmishes. They galloped across the land, aiding at times, and more often raiding, stripping the land of its fruits and maidens of their flesh.
Half a mile away from Harvest, Anela glided across the wicks barely covered in a turquoise tunic, fastened at the hips by a dark belt and a shiny brass buckle. She lightly pulled a young boy across the field. Her hand arched and the tip of her fingers toying with his palm, enticing the prey in the illusion of being the predator.
Quickly, her feet shifted with confidence between patches of grass, bending now, to avoid the branch, and swiftly lifting the edge of the tunic to avoid the clasp of blackberry bushes. She halted for a moment and turned her head to her mesmerizer suitor.
The lake had already filled half of the horizon when she rapidly caressed her raven hair, from above the ear, to the nape where a crimson stripe had been carefully tied in a large bow. It took but a light touch and the red ribbon spread its arms like a tardive summer rose and in the light breeze. Her hair flowed down her shoulders in rich waves, loaded with lavender and brightflower.
Twice she turned her eyes to the young boy, who could barely discern two emeralds hidden under the golden mask. All he could see was but the witty smirk of a fox, the pointy wooden ears, the leather nose and the soft silver lines at the edge, right above the woman’s lips.
Oh merry Harvest! Anela could scarcely convince herself that in the filth of the unrefined countryside of Theron such lovely jewels were bred, with shoulders wide and tiny round buttocks.
She knelt and pressed her lips on the boy's forehead. Her hands ran to his hips and seized the white cape he had been wearing, by then soiled with the dirt from the path.
-Madam, this ain't the right place!- cried the lamb and covering his bare torso turned his head away, towards the village.
-It is. It is.- insisted Anela -Come, let lady Fox show you her hidden shrine.-
She pressed lightly against the wooden door. She had barely paid any attention to the surroundings. Secluded. That was all mattered. A quite dark place, with nobody to interrupt her rituals.
-I thought you wanted to make Lady Fox happy.- she invited the little brat to follow, but he stood still, trembling almost.
-Nay! That’s the ol’ house of the witch. She’ll rip your heart out, and drink your blood!- he almost cried.
Anela’s hands arched and gnawed into the wood, and her voice thundered under the edge of the mask. -Now you listen to me, unfettering son of peasants! I have paid your mother three shields to have you ravage my buttocks away from the smell and lurid filth of your stupid village! We spent one piece on that soap to have you nice and clean, and twenty squares for this mask that you like so much. Move inside, little pest, and do what I tell you to!- she roared, but the lamb turned in a hare and before she could utter another word, he was already out of her sight. Of him, only the white cape remained, entangled in the thorns of bluberries.
With a loud sigh Anela entered the shrine. Alone. She removed the mask and placed it on a broken column, and advanced, gloomy and frustrated, plump with desires, and swollen still with unfinished expectations.
-Shrine of the Goddess of my arse!- she uttered. -If you are listening, I wish you’d come down here and finish the business that I paid for! Or at least send someone... but not another of these filthy villagers. Ah! Have I had enough of these!-
She would have insisted, but the sight of the Goddess’ statue turned all her words into misty memories. There stood the monument of perfection, a gift of rotundities unprecedented. The true feast of harvest, the celebration of animal breeding, the rebirth of nature. Before Anela could get a hold of herself, she was already exploring all folds of the statues cloths and the perfection of the surface of what should have been her bare skin.
-Oh, how I wish you’d give me powers to do your bidding, in exchange of just a moment with you.- she whispered, biting her lips. She detached herself from the sculpture and cleared her throat in a croaking sigh, donning the lower curves of the statue a healthy slap with the open palm of her hand. -What!- she barked, raising her nose -Haven’t you ever desired a woman before?-
Harvest, the largest of the villages on the Southern shores, used to be famous for one festival. Farmers would flock from the entire region for just that single day. Each would carry one mask of their favorite animal and wear it throughout the day, from dawn, when the drums announced the ceremonial procession, followed by orgiastic dances, until sunset, when another roll of drums would signal the devotees that the shrine of the God of Plenty had been opened. The God of Plenty, high and safe in his distant world, watched, drinking of the nectar of the Gods, and laughed at his unexpected luck, where the heroic actions of others had brought him the reaping prayers of simple folks.
All across Theron, covering large part of the beautiful hills, valleys and up to the mountain passes in the horizon where no soul dared venture, many a battle had been once fought, desperate and harsh, and many a great hands had fallen, cut by the stern steel. But to the present day, no one remembered any of it. Lost tales hidden in forgotten books. Some old hags, perhaps to impress, and perhaps to satisfy their needs, shouted of it in the streets, that the beast may return, lest everyone finds the rightful goddess, the long forgotten one.
Here in Theron, albeit more to the North, also flourished those packs of gallant outlaws, which the time imposed to call bands of venture, and whose deeds, sold to the better buyer, had already changed the destiny of one too many skirmishes. They galloped across the land, aiding at times, and more often raiding, stripping the land of its fruits and maidens of their flesh.
Half a mile away from Harvest, Anela glided across the wicks barely covered in a turquoise tunic, fastened at the hips by a dark belt and a shiny brass buckle. She lightly pulled a young boy across the field. Her hand arched and the tip of her fingers toying with his palm, enticing the prey in the illusion of being the predator.
Quickly, her feet shifted with confidence between patches of grass, bending now, to avoid the branch, and swiftly lifting the edge of the tunic to avoid the clasp of blackberry bushes. She halted for a moment and turned her head to her mesmerizer suitor.
The lake had already filled half of the horizon when she rapidly caressed her raven hair, from above the ear, to the nape where a crimson stripe had been carefully tied in a large bow. It took but a light touch and the red ribbon spread its arms like a tardive summer rose and in the light breeze. Her hair flowed down her shoulders in rich waves, loaded with lavender and brightflower.
Twice she turned her eyes to the young boy, who could barely discern two emeralds hidden under the golden mask. All he could see was but the witty smirk of a fox, the pointy wooden ears, the leather nose and the soft silver lines at the edge, right above the woman’s lips.
Oh merry Harvest! Anela could scarcely convince herself that in the filth of the unrefined countryside of Theron such lovely jewels were bred, with shoulders wide and tiny round buttocks.
She knelt and pressed her lips on the boy's forehead. Her hands ran to his hips and seized the white cape he had been wearing, by then soiled with the dirt from the path.
-Madam, this ain't the right place!- cried the lamb and covering his bare torso turned his head away, towards the village.
-It is. It is.- insisted Anela -Come, let lady Fox show you her hidden shrine.-
She pressed lightly against the wooden door. She had barely paid any attention to the surroundings. Secluded. That was all mattered. A quite dark place, with nobody to interrupt her rituals.
-I thought you wanted to make Lady Fox happy.- she invited the little brat to follow, but he stood still, trembling almost.
-Nay! That’s the ol’ house of the witch. She’ll rip your heart out, and drink your blood!- he almost cried.
Anela’s hands arched and gnawed into the wood, and her voice thundered under the edge of the mask. -Now you listen to me, unfettering son of peasants! I have paid your mother three shields to have you ravage my buttocks away from the smell and lurid filth of your stupid village! We spent one piece on that soap to have you nice and clean, and twenty squares for this mask that you like so much. Move inside, little pest, and do what I tell you to!- she roared, but the lamb turned in a hare and before she could utter another word, he was already out of her sight. Of him, only the white cape remained, entangled in the thorns of bluberries.
With a loud sigh Anela entered the shrine. Alone. She removed the mask and placed it on a broken column, and advanced, gloomy and frustrated, plump with desires, and swollen still with unfinished expectations.
-Shrine of the Goddess of my arse!- she uttered. -If you are listening, I wish you’d come down here and finish the business that I paid for! Or at least send someone... but not another of these filthy villagers. Ah! Have I had enough of these!-
She would have insisted, but the sight of the Goddess’ statue turned all her words into misty memories. There stood the monument of perfection, a gift of rotundities unprecedented. The true feast of harvest, the celebration of animal breeding, the rebirth of nature. Before Anela could get a hold of herself, she was already exploring all folds of the statues cloths and the perfection of the surface of what should have been her bare skin.
-Oh, how I wish you’d give me powers to do your bidding, in exchange of just a moment with you.- she whispered, biting her lips. She detached herself from the sculpture and cleared her throat in a croaking sigh, donning the lower curves of the statue a healthy slap with the open palm of her hand. -What!- she barked, raising her nose -Haven’t you ever desired a woman before?-
This is our incredibly complex adventure, in which a Goddess is revived by the innocent prayers of two unsuspecting loners.
In
Greetings fellow Storytellers, Roleplayers, and Conversationalists!
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Introduce Yourself
Sadly, the others will not be joining. It was a fallout of rather disastrous proportions, and we all went separate ways.
A very crafty alibi to hide the slaughtering of the other members of the expeditions. We shall not press for further details, I imagine. ;)
Micromanagement of all associated fields.
We should start a spam guild, then, where all professional spammers could pool and lobby for their rights.
Welcome back fellow survivor from the old Forum.
It is good to see that, as the sea washes the corpses ashore, it is not just dead mates.
Where you in any long-standing RPs back then?
It is good to see that, as the sea washes the corpses ashore, it is not just dead mates.
Where you in any long-standing RPs back then?
The T-Rex of the future. Asteroids may always defeat you, but you'll never back from extinction. That's courage!
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