I needed a way to remind myself not to get too bogged down, so here, have a thread Para.

Basically, if you have any goals that you want to share (or accomplishments), or just want a place to remind yourself of what you're aiming for, this thread is for you!  Umm -- it can be for anything~ 

Mine are:

write at least 500 words a day, for the next three months.  failure to do so should ideally result in seppuku.
stop drinking coca-cola jill.  STOP IT.


Current tally:

0/45000 words
one glass of coke. 

/sobs

hi im starting a thread blame Dark Paradise.  actually no, that's a lie, blame me. it has werewolves (my fault) and a highschool. that you can blame on DP.




Setting



Hillford Academy, a wealthy boarding school, nestled in the foot of the low, snow-capped mountains and the dark, heavy woodland.  Lake Crescent is close enough to make a promising spot for illict gatherings of Hillford students, and holds one or two made-up ghost stories about teenage girls that always inevitably drown themselves because popular seniors didn't return their affections.


Hillford House is the main building of the Academy, heritage-listed, a mansion of gray-slated, gable rooftops, white stone, tall french windows.  It can be eerie in the night, bright against the dark of the trees.   Built in the 1700s by a rich business-man, the mansion was left to his young wife after his death, and eventually converted into a school.  It is where the students learn, eat, exercise, relax and live.  There is a large library, a gymnasium, an indoor pool.   The upper levels of the house are where the students live, the school selective in its numbers, allowing students to have their own rooms with varying comforts.

Sports include tennis, of which the school has a court;  horse-riding, with students allowed to board their own horses in the stables;  football, cricket, basketball, soccer - even polo, a sport that Hillford Academy has taken pride in. 


It is expensive to attend - generally only the well-off can afford to send their children here.  They are the children of CEOs, politicans, old-money - metropolis families that what their sons or daughters given "country" experiences in the calm, New England setting.  It is a school that has created Senators, Diplomats, Presidents, even a famous celebrity baker, with her own homewares range and a publishing house worth of cookbooks.


There are rumours about Hillford - laughable things about secret societies.  Sex cults.  The admittance of women has only been in the last forty years, making the stories grow.  Freemasons, Illuminati, lizard people -- none of the stories get to the heart of things.   And the only students that know the truth live it.


Some nights, when the moon is shining, a chorus of wolves can be heard near the lake, in the mountains - howling. 





secret school society of werewolves. dunno how.  open to ideas, was thinking it has something to do with the man that built Hillford House itself.  the thread starts off with the schools' horses having been killed - one of the students/wolves is going renegade, and no one (in the "group") knows who, while the other students are all freaking out.    kids should get murdered, lotsa blood, obvi i need my romances. 



i think only the wolves know who the other wolves are, OOCly, although i'm not sure how that'd work?  we'll see~

It was warm and hazy in the tower room, the sunlight from the afternoon pooling in gold along the floor and walls where it came in through the wide, glassless window. In the bower of flowers that clung in the cracks of the stone and twined themselves around the arch of the window twittered the tiny birds that lived there, noisy in their daily business of burrowing in the dark mossy green of vines and leaves for their meals.

Princess Charlotte, oblivious to their incessant chatter, held her face to the cool gilded post of her harp, eyes closed, eyelashes long and silken against her cheeks, light fingers touching the strings as she practised her songs.

At sixteen Princess Charlotte still had a vulnerable, childish face; heart-shaped with a rosy glow and wide, almond shaped eyes, sea-green and clear. Slender and poised like she was always thinking of something else, the young princess had an air of someone playing acting - like she was perhaps pretending to be a tad bit more careless than she sometimes felt.  Her hair, which was a warm chestnut colour, was thick and shinning and long - too long, reaching the floor as she sat on the engraved stool, decorated as it was with bright little daisies.

Still, despite it all Charlotte was as pleasing a creature as she could be, and it was with the utmost gravity that she now sat at her harp, tall as a man, her arms about it in a loving hold as she played for her friend.

The music was clear and plaintive, a favourite of Charlotte's that she knew by heart, and as she opened her eyes, watching the strings of her harp gleam in the sun, a dreamy voice said, "It always reminds me of the ocean, your playing."

The brunette paused, the music trembling with the last of the strings, then ceasing as she contemplated the speaker.

Sitting on thick, goose-down pillows by the window, her face turned into the warm light of the afternoon was her closest of friends - Marina. Her hair, wild and thick and curly, was golden and light, reaching below her waist, iridescent, prettily decorated with shells and pearls and polished coral clips.  She had a sweet face with glossy berry-red lips and large blue eyes - like the sky, reflected in the water. Marina was willowy, with long, long legs ending in the tiniest of feet - feet she nearly always kept bare. "I like how they tickle." The blonde had said once, curling her toes, when Charlotte had asked.  "I like how things feel. Like... wet grass, in the mornings.  Or warm sand."

Marina wasn't entirely immune to shoes, however, and beside her today, perched on a small, gilded trolley alongside the girl that held Afternoon Tea, was a open shoebox; the pale pink tissue-paper reaching out, cupping the heels that sat inside.  She had bought them from the tiny, glassy shoe store in the village - cream boots with scalloped edges and golden, shinning straps and bows. Absolute beauties, sitting there proudly among the delicate, rose-patterned china of the tea tray like they belonged. A hundred and eighty-four Ruby Jewels, they'd cost - and they didn't even fit. 

"You have them," Marina had laughed when her friend's face had lit up at the sight of them. "They'll suit you better, anyway."

And that had been the last that either girl had spoken, while Charlotte played - until now.

"Do you miss it?" The brunette asked, fingers idling over the stings without touching them.  "The ocean?"

Marina shifted among the pillows, her  toes curling in that instinctive way, her sparkling turquoise skirts puffed out and settling around her like a bell. "I always do." She said in that same dreamy tone. It was so far removed from her usual, boisterous confidence it nearly turned her into another girl entirely. "I love it here, I can't help but love it - only..." There was a pause, a fairy's breath long, and Marina continued in a firm voice, "I think I would die, if I could never go back."

The thirteenth of King Trident's granddaughters, Marina Seathrone was the youngest niece of the Little Mermaid. Of all the Royals, Myths and Rhymes to grace this school, Marina's legacy was one of the oldest - and one in a select group of tragic Endings.  Everyone knew what waited for her, after Graduation - and Charlotte, who could hardly bear the thought, stood and went to her friend, sitting with her on the cushions, both of their faces turned towards the glittering lake, fractured white and gold.

One of the tower birds - a robin, tiny and bright - came along shortly, singing at them and with a dimpled smile, Marina held out slender fingers, the robin landing gently, his song more cheerful and bright.

"Are you afraid?" Charlotte asked, in a halting voice.  For it was Marina's final year - and in weeks, soon, far too soon, the Mermaid Princess would receive her Key, and unlock her Book.

Marina gave Charlotte a understanding look.  "No." She said simply, lifting her hand and allowing the robin to fly away, still trilling.  "I think it's exciting - I mean..." The blonde paused, searching for the words, and started to laugh.  "I don't know how to explain it, Cabbagepatch. It's just..." Puffing her cheeks up playfully, Marina shrugged.  "I feel like, it's something that can only be good.  I mean, like - just, oh - out there, over the Hills and Far Away, there's someone waiting for me, someone who's so good and so kind that I will love him no matter what, and - well, I guess for him it'll the be same.  We'll both recognize something we need in the other, and -- we'll complete each other's Stories."

Charlotte made a tiny, angry noise, and Marina's dimple deepened, watching the empty sky where the robin had been moments before. "I know, Cabbage."

"You don't." The brunette said fiercely. "If he loves you that much, this imaginary trollbag, then why would he - why would he -"

"Fall in love with someone else?" Her friend prompted gently, facing her. Charlotte stayed silent, mutinous, and Marina went back to looking out over the water, still smiling, the both of them thinking about her family's legend, and why it was passed on aunt-to-niece, instead of mother-to-daughter. "It's just the way It Was Written. I don't think anyone can truly fight against it - all three of us, him, that other princess, me - we'll just be drawn together, and for better or for worse, it'll be... Magical." Her doll-like face, bright in the dying light, was shinning with absolute faith. "When my Story Closes, and I turn to sea-foam, I'll do what we all do, in the end - Return to the Words."

Return to the Words - it was what was said, in their land, when one's story closed. The magic of the Castle meant that their family legends would never disappear, always kept safe within each tale-teen's Book - great, heavy things, kept in one's room, waiting for the day it was unlocked and could start the cycle all over again.

Unwillingly, Charlotte, her hair edged in gold in the sun, looked to her own - by her bed, displayed on a marble pedestal the heavy, golden cover engraved with her family's coat, the great, fat roses that on closer inspection were what named her, and her mother Rapunzel before her - cabbages.

Slim fingers were now carefully combing through the soft, fey curls of hair that had escaped Charlotte's ribboned binding and she glanced to her friend with large, sad eyes, the blonde smiling sweetly, carefully settling the tiny crown that the brunette wore back among the daises she paired it with.  So close, the Princess caught scent of her gentle, sea-bound friend's perfume -- ocean air, white lilies, and crystalline tears.

"I am absolutely starved." Marina said at last, once she was done fussing and patting and playing with Charlotte's locks, giving the ends a last, loving pat. "What did Witchy give us for tea?"

Witchy, infamous throughout the student body for her taste in small children and gingerbread houses, had yet to disappoint and with a rustle of her lace skirts, Charlotte pulled the little trolley that had been sent up for them closer, her hair heavy and curling across her shoulder and back.  There were pretty little plates with warm yellow honey cakes, and a saucer of strawberries, and tiny, perfectly cut sandwiches - and a pot of Primrose Earl, still warm in it's pink, rosebud china, twin cups waiting, thin and rose-coloured, a little matching jug with milk at the ready.

"You know," Marina remarked, as she helped herself to one cake, then two, then three. "For a woman that likes to live in her own baked goods, I've never understood why she doesn't have a backside the size of a house."

Charlotte, pouring the tea for them both, gave a wet laugh and said nothing.







That had been nearly half a year ago, now.

Marina had graduated, her face shinning throughout the Unlocking ceremony.  Charlotte, who had had no older friends apart from the Mermaid Princess had been anxious, unsure of what to expect in the way of communication, afterwards - but all through the Summer the girls had talked, either through their iMirrors or with big, long letters, sent by cranes, or swans, or sometimes even tiny woodland owls.

The Princess supposed the story had started, now, though - Marina had stopped signing in on MyChapter and Storybook, and the last parcel Charlotte had received from her friend was a small but heavy chest - made of shell and glass and beads, opening to reveal a collection of valuable combs.

There'd been jewelled ones, coral ones, ornate pearl ones and even one with delicate crystal flowers, unlike any the brunette had seen on land - as Charlotte had palmed a smooth ivory comb, carved into the shape of a mermaid's tail, she unfolded the parchment sheet that had come with it, Marina's sprawled, unapologetic writing taking up the sheet.


Charlotte wore the ivory one now, the comb holding her hair off her face.  It was lunch, the first day of school in her final year. Charlotte, who had spent the morning going from class to class and remembering exactly why she had hated each one (Princessology, Deportment and Enchanted Needlework), was now sitting in the cafeteria, the giant trees of the forest stretching out inside of the endlessly tall room, the painted ceiling so high up no one could tell what was on it.  Alone by the wall of windows, tall and wide and arched, the Princess's back was to the rest of the hall, looking out over the well-kept south-side of the Castle grounds, the colourful gardens and the encroaching trees of the Enchanted Forest.

Her hair had grown over the Summer - at home it had taken three attendants to brush and plait it, her mother hovering behind them, taking it in turns to be anxious and then commanding.  In the Tower Room here in school, where Charlotte lived (where all the women of their family lived, the Tower family cabbage-not-rose engraved on the door), there was a portrait of her mother at her age, now seventeen.  Classically Fairytale, lovelier than a rose with fair skin that glowed and pink cheeks, pink lips and a tiny waist in an embroidered, sky-blue dress, it was her mother's hair that stole the show - thick and golden, corn-bright, it cascaded down, straight and fine, draped over her arm and arranged all around her like a nest, a badge of her legacy, haloing her in the painted light that flooded the rose-draped window behind her.

The girl in the painting - so august, looking away from the viewer, those shinning lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something - was a kingdom removed from Charlotte's mother now, and even Charlotte herself.

After fussing with her hair for more than an hour that morning, pouring potion and lotion and spelling every charm she knew into it, to make it calm and soft, the Princess had left it loosely tied back, nothing more but that single ribbon, some white, just-opened rosebuds to wreath her and Marina's ivory comb.  She now had to drape it over her arm when she walked, like the portrait of her mother - when she didn't, the warm brown length of it trailed along behind her.

During lunch, she let it spill along the bench of her seat, pooling as it did underneath the table.  She hadn't touched her food, really - laid out on a silver tray, the pale pink, mousse-like Rose Petal soup cupped in a silver tureen was too creamy for the Princess, and she only broke apart the warm, fresh rolls that had accompanied it, absent-mindedly destructive. 

"What a waste of perfectly good cream." Said a dry voice opposite her. 

Charlotte blinked, then glanced down - meeting the bright, gold gaze of Cat-in-Boots.

Absolutely feline, Cat was a slinky ginger tom, sitting upright on the bench seat across from her, his eyes unblinking as he watched her fingers tear her bread into her untouched soup. The Princess arched an eyebrow.  "Like you haven't already had a saucer of the kitchen's best."

Cat did not grin, per say, but the brunette knew he was amused because his large eyes sparkled, and his tail - long and proud - curled lazily behind him.  "One can never be too aware of one's options." Gaze flickering down, he said, "Nice boots, by the way."

They were the pair that Marina had given her, last year.  Charlotte's whole outfit had been planned around them, the cream, lacy dress, it's skirt ending at her knees, the trailing gold ribbons of the bodice and the sleeves - the silk stockings, even, flecked with the precious shining thread and lastly, the large golden ring she had - shaped like the eternal, cabbage-not-rose of her family.  That Cat had taken notice of her boots enough to comment on them, no matter how insincere, did not surprise the girl in the least.

Perhaps one of the vainest creatures in their graduating grade, Cat not only had a penchant for fine, tailored footwear like his father, but vests as well - one for nearly very day of the year, it seemed.  Today's was fire-red silk, with golden lotuses, glittering crystals for water droplets carefully hand-sewn and embroidered by mice - mice that Cat had no doubt eaten, afterwards.

"Thank-you." Charlotte said, in return for his compliment.  "Yours, too, are very nice."  And they were - red leather, the same deep colour as his shirt, with a golden heel.

Cat's tail flicked lazily, and the princess had the distinct impression that he was trying not to laugh at her.  "Should be, for what my father pays for them."

"You're a spoilt little puss, you know," She told him quite calmly, finally picking up her silver spoon.  "I'm beginning to doubt whether you're clever enough to pull off your father's tricks, without his money to help you."

Tail curling into a question mark, Cat was laughing at her now, there was no mistaking the tone of it.  "I don't need money to do what's been done before."

Well, he had her there, and smiling slightly into her spoon she shrugged.  "Touché."

The animal snorted, and disappeared from the bench, only to lightly re-emerge by her side, sniffing hair hair that was pooled on the seat alongside her, more cat-like now in pose than the human he pretended to hold.  "Hm. Smells like sunflowers." Then he was yawning, widely, the roof of his mouth pink and without further leave dropped suddenly, curling into her hair like a kitten.

Charlotte protested.  "You shameless creature, you can't just -"

His tail twitched, hitting her hand impatiently.  "Do me a favour and do be quiet.  Try not to move, either."

"You're awful." She told him crossly.  Yet when the princess stroked the back of his soft head he did not say a thing, just flicked his ears in a content sort of manner, and curled up tighter.

In the dark, the pale pink of her dress marked her as a ghost.

Abigail Owens stumbled forward, reaching out to grasp a low branch of the solitary, withered tree of Vicker's Point; she was at the cliff-side, now, a sharp drop into the ocean below, jagged black rocks withstanding the pounding of the sea.

The organza of her skirts shifted in the wind; she clutched the tree branch even tighter, peach nails digging into the bark. 

The tears were silent, sliding down her rounded face, leaving the taste of salt on her parted lips.  She'd run from the town hall, where they'd been hosting the Prom with gentle, glitter-like lights and soft paper-crepe streamers above them.  It had been something like a dream; William had held her close, big, warm hands on the satin of her waist, his forehead against hers, her fingers laced behind his neck.  He was the only thing that could settle her, her gentle, sweet-faced William.  When they kissed, a soft, almost shy touch, Abigail had started crying.   

She could never tell him, she'd thought, the two of them parting, William haloed by the silver lights.  She had tried - the dreams, those awful, strange dreams...  but the truth of it would be devastating.

He'd touched her face, fingers brushing aside her dark curls with the same tenderness she'd seen him use with his animals, his horse.  "I love you," She'd whispered, her helplessness welling up in her throat.

William's dark eyes glittered.  He was built finely, almost beautiful, for a boy, and now his carved face was utterly devastated.  "I love you too." The words were halting, like the same claw of despair that had gripped her was gripping him too. "I - I have something to tell you, Abby."  She caught the glimmer of a single tear along his cheek, crystalline in the dark;  though her own face was still wet from her own, she reached up, gentle, and wiped it away. 

He breathed in deep, trembling under her hands.  Glancing about them, at the other dancers, everyone bright and cheerful, as though the youth were looking for a distraction: words never came easy to the Denton boy, and at that moment, Abigail, caught up in her own turmoil, thought that his mind and words caught in a battle.  "I'm going." He was near-whisper, now.  "I'm being drafted."

Abigail's lips parted, staring at him, dumbstruck, her heart suspended in two places at once. 

"It's my duty..."  Weakly, he trailed off, waiting for her, waiting for her to say something, anything.

She knew, then.  Even if there had been some way out of -- out of what was happening with her, there was nothing to save William.  Vietnam.  She could not imagine him there, so carefully made, a creature of the island through and through.  He would not have his horse in the tropics, so far away.  He would not have his comforts. And she would never be able to smile, see him off, knowing what she knew.

Dimly, the brunette realized she was shaking her head.  Only an hour ago they had posed together for a photo, Abigail in her sweet pink, the blue embroidered flowers, the bright satin bow; William tall, bashful, in a suit borrowed from his absent brother.  Only an hour ago, they had both pretended that everything in their world was perfectly fine.

Pulling away from him, the tears started again.  She could see his own spilling over and - no, no, she couldn't, she wouldn't. 

Without a word, a sound, she turned from him, from the dance, and fled.

And now she was here; the edge of Paradise, desolate and alone and heartbroken, the wind whistling around her, the bright beam of the lighthouse just beyond the cliff, touching the dark waters.

There was no escape. 

She let go of the tree and took a shaky step forward.  Behind her, Abigail thought she heard a shout - twisting her face in grief, she shook her head, not wanting to be rescued.

Dot, she thought.  Oh Dot, I'm so sorry.

Her dress whipped up, giving her, for a moment, ghostly wings.  The girl took a deep, shuddering breath, eyelashes against her pale cheeks, and looked up, to the sky.

There were no stars. 

The shouting was getting closer.  Lips parting, Abigail crept closer, the edge of the cliff crumbling under her pumps.  The sea was almost wild, underneath her.

Waiting.

She stretched her arms out, and in a surge of courage - or maybe it was just blind, frenzied fear - the Owens girl let herself drop.

For a moment, the space of a breath, or a heartbeat, it felt as if she could float away.

Then she plummeted.

In the dark, against the black rock and crashing waves, the blood-stained pale pink of her dress marked her as a ghost.

Because I like these things and so should you.


WORDS/PHRASES TO USE: New Year, Yellow, Starlight, Crisp, Shattered, "I don't care what you think,"

THEME: Anything at all~

WORD COUNT: Unlimited

proper captils n spellings are for losers

i like stories tho

n normally romance.

hi~