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Topics - Jill the Ripper

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OOC Discussion / Season of ✝he Ghos✝ INTEREST CHECK/OOC ✧☆
« on: October 15, 2016, 12:31:23 pm »

Season of ✝he Ghos✝

Twenty years ago, Rosalind Meyers disappeared during Whitehall Valley High's annual Halloween Fair Haunting - her body was never found.  The case has enjoyed fame, over the decades, with professionals and amateur sleuths visiting and revisiting the details, coming back to the town of Whitehall Valley and occasionally driving up tourism.

Despite the lack of answers, life has gone on for the town and the school itself - WVH is an old school, a single, heavy brownstone, several stories, bordered by tall trees who's trunks turn black during the autumn and leaves that go flame red.   The Halloween Haunt (as its' known as to the kids and staff) still goes strong, and over the years kids have come and gone and added their own embellishments to the sad story so that no one knows what is truth and what is not anymore. 

There are rumours, however.   Rumours of things going wrong during each year's Halloween Haunt: extra heads among class numbers, attractions like Haunted Houses or decorations going wrong.  A fire, one year, in the early 00s that actually became an out of control blaze -- each incident has just added to the excitement, each year. 

This year, however, 2016 -- it's not going to be fun, spooky story that'll be told over and over again. 

It is the beginning of the end.

Welcome to Whitehall Valley High's

Halloween Fair Haun✝

Play as students, they're all in the same class, so around the 17 age bracket or whatever Seniors count for in the Glorious Empire of His Imperial Holiness Donald Trump.

  • If you don't post in 48-hours u gonna die. We need bodies.
  • Include what costume your kid is wearing
  • They gonna get locked in the school and the blood bath will begin

Hype / goals/accomplishments
« on: July 08, 2015, 04:29:31 pm »
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:

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

Current tally:

:bow: 0/45000 words
:bow: one glass of coke. 


Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / Teeth.
« on: January 10, 2015, 05:46:34 pm »

my mind has changed,
my body's frame but God, I like it
my heart's
a f l a m e
my body's strained but, God -- I like it

Wolf Like Me, Tv On The Radio

Vivienne thumbed the glossy page she was holding, nose wrinkled.  "It seems a bit cliché."

"You're a baby, what do you know about clichés?" Came the indignant reply, loud over the speaker of the girl's phone.  The brunette rolled her eyes, settling back into the thick, white quilt of her bed, holding the magazine in her hands up above her.  "You asked what I thought, and I think it's cliché. It's the Eiffel tower for Christ's sake, Dana."

There was a ruffled noise from the other end, and then a thump.  Dana had probably thrown her own copy of Vogue Weddings at her wall.   "Don't! Don't even talk to me, you stupid little bitch -- do you know what a nightmare this was?   The couple the Opera sent were absolute useless sluts, even for ballerinas!  I spent the whole morning arguing with them in French only to find out they spoke English perfectly fine!"

Vivienne snorted.  "You're fluent in French, dumbass.  And if you don't want to hear it, don't ask me what I think then, next time.  The collection looks amazing, don't get me wrong, I just think you could've done better than the Eiffel tower."

"That sunset was goddamn amazing!"

"I mean, yeah, it looks great --"

"No, you don't even know --"

Sitting up, long dark hair settling heavily over her shoulder in a mess of half-hearted curls, Vivienne waited for her cousin's rant to finish itself, surveying her nails critically.  They were a glossy pearl at the moment - she'd have to get them polished before the competition next week, even if she was wearing gloves.

" -- you're just like Nana, you know, too damn critical, I could piss blood and that woman wouldn't give two shits if the spread wasn't up to her god damn perfect standards --"

Rolling her eyes, Vivienne slipped off her bed, taking the magazine with her.  The peonies she'd been given that morning were blooming in a muted, sad blush, arranged carelessly in a crystal vase she kept on her bed-stand.  Flicking one of the fat, heavy buds, the girl moved to the window - tall and clear - looking out over the dark school grounds, the lights from a myriad of rooms spilling out, gold splashes in the gloom. 

" -- $50,000 dollars to do that whole thing and then we had to a do a fucking reshoot -- "

"Dana," Vivi said, sudden.  "Shut up."

It wasn't even a hideous spread.  Eight glossy pages of Paris in the middle of a golden pink sunset, taken on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier in front of a hazy Eiffel tower.  The model was one of the lead dancers in the Ballet de l'Opéra de Paris; Vivienne had just seen her that past summer, the lead in Giselle, a part that'd been played with the same fragile movement that Dana's photographer ("absolute son-of-a-bitch!") had captured.  Their Grandmother's latest collection - layers of billowed chiffon and hand-embroidered lace, tiny glittering sequins like stars - looked dreamy, the wind (or possibly fan, Dana hadn't gotten the chance to get to that part of her rant) making it seem as if Clotilde (soft-faced, full lips, false eyelashes giving her a sad, doe-eyed look) were about to fly.  Or jump, even as she was, suspended in the arms of her partner.

"Go fuck yourself." Came the reply.  A moment or two of sulking, and then - "So did you get your birthday presents or what?"

Vivienne traced the golden wings of the statue Harmony, behind the dancers, it's glint in the light almost warm.  "Of course, they arrived a couple of days ago." 

Sixteen or so long, white, glossy boxes, all a belated gift from Dana, halfway across the world.  Each one had thick, soft satin bows, finished off with bundles of small, silk flowers.   The pile, when settled on her floor, had been more than impressive: every one of her friends had cooed accordingly, their collective jealousy palatable.  That had been a fun morning, undoing the bows, the other girls helping, every now and then someone breaking out in a delighted exclamation of, "Oh my God, Vivi!  This is amazing!" 

One of the creative directors for their Grandmother's company, Dana had both limitless access to the glittering, gauzy collections of other designers and extravagant taste.  Extravagant taste that she used to shower Vivienne with, and had done so since Vivi was a baby.

Lids pulled away, pale pink tissue paper spilling out everywhere - Vivienne's floor that morning had been a showcase of soft winter clothes.   One of the first boxes she had opened held a coat of downy, pale blue wool, a sequinned lamb frolicking in glittering roses on the back of it, straight off an old Valentines Day card.   Another had a heavy satin cape spilling out in a dark red -- beautiful, but completely impractical.  When the hell was she going to wear a cape at Hillford?   Cardigans in powdery cashmere, lace-collared blouses with tiny hearts and bows embroidered on and even a wine-coloured velvet dress.

Between the uniform they wore during daylight-hours at the school and the high-fashion nature of some of the pieces, Vivienne would have to be creative if she wanted to wear them all.

"I loved them." She said truthfully, now touching the glass of her window in a nameless tune.  One, one, two.  One, one, two.  "I thought Arizona was going to die when I pulled out the Cartier bracelet.  She had one, last year, but she gained so much weight it doesn't fit anymore and her mother's said she's not getting another until she loses at least twenty pounds."

Dana laughed meanly.  Those were the sorts of things she liked to hear.   "Does yours fit okay?  It's meant to be loose; well, at least that's how Laurel wears hers."

Looking at the bangle on her arm, Vivienne let it slip down to her wrist where it glimmered satisfactorily.  Rose-gold, sparingly spotted with diamonds -- she'd had to let Arizona help her put it on with the tiny screwdriver it'd come with, the bracelet intended to be lived in.   It would figure that Dana had also bought her girlfriend what basically equated to a pretty, modern day chastity belt.    Dana liked to own things, and people.

It was nearly one before they finished on the phone; Dana fake sobbing, as was customary for their goodbye ritual, while in the background Vivi heard Laurie telling her off for keeping her up late.   "Love you, love you, love you!"

Vivienne, now dangling off her bed upside-down, dark hair pooled on the floor, made the required kisses back, ending the call just as the screaming started.

It hadn't even been screaming, not quite, not in a human sense, but a terrible sound that could be mistaken for nothing but absolute terror.   

The housestaff for the dorm rooms hadn't let anyone leave, that night - and early next morning, Vivienne got to find out why.

His Majesty - he'd been beautiful, an Andalusian stallion, 17 hands tall, dark, dark brown and proud.  He'd been with her since she was ten and together they had cleaned out awards for their jumping.  She had brought him with her to Hillford when she was thirteen -- her gentle, sweet giant, who thundered along the winding dirt tracks of the Hillford woodland like a warhorse.

And now he was dead.  Gutted.  Torn-apart in his stall.   Vivienne couldn't bear to think about it -- she'd heard him, heard that terrible inhuman noise he had made and didn't even begin to imagine.

It was getting colder, especially so close to the mountains.  With Halloween less than two weeks away, the sky took longer to lighten in the morning, just now whitening, the mountain-tops edged in pink. 

Standing at the back steps of the school, staring out blankly to the stables where the police now worked (their flashing blue and red lights running along the white, stark stone of the House),  the dark-haired girl could only watch mutely, honey-gold eyes glittering with tears, not feeling the ice-like chill in the thin, silk-like cotton of her sleepwear.   White and ghostly, her bracelet - rose-gold, sparingly spotted with diamonds - the warmest colour on her in the dawning light.

OOC Discussion / teeth.
« on: January 07, 2015, 06:42:28 pm »
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.


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.  :bluecat: :choco:

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

OOC Discussion / rocks fall, everyone dies [interest check?]
« on: August 06, 2014, 02:58:54 pm »

i'd like to rp something but i'm a bit embarrassed bc i am a total flake but i'd like to give it a try anyways. um i prolly can't post on weekends most times and when i do i can't promise anything about length etc, so if you're okay with that and the fact that i suck at rping in general then we might have a deal on our hands.

 :bluecat: :purple: :pinktea: :crown: :crown: :mlprainbow:

i'd like to do something completely soul-crushing, as per title.  like, absolutely soul-crushing: everyone lives in a really shitty world and really shitty things keep happening and i don't mean in a k-drama sort of way but a absolutely horrific attack-on-titan sort of way only 10x worse.

i think to get the kind of setting i am thinking about the characters need to be in a military/service kind of deal - they'd be isolated, and face the ~terrible stuff~ daily and i like the idea of what that could do to people, how close they could get and then how devastated they'd be when someone dies. :bluecat:
cops trying to solve a ~super creepy murder~ case would be neato, as an idea though not nearly soul-crushing enough. if i'm honest i want them to be facing scary horrific things with a very real chance of not making it daily. so monsters or something maybe idk. they'd have to be pretty scary monsters.

i also want to try something and have some complicated bull for a ~relationship~. work partners who get closer even though one of them is in another relationship or just mutual feelings that were never acted on, basically i wanna go into this with something already established because i like to start writing heavy or not at all~

idk if any of this was follow-able. lemme know? i'd wanna keep this uber small too, less people to disappoint that way muhahahahahhaa.

 :choco: :bluetea: :bluecat: :pinkuni:

Fantasy Roleplay / Ever After High [IC]
« on: March 10, 2014, 03:29:31 pm »

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.

You'll need these more than me, from here on out.  Wear them & have adventures!

Love you, Forever After,

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.

OOC Discussion / Ever After High
« on: March 06, 2014, 01:36:46 pm »

:blueteapot: :crown: :choco: :pinkuni:

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Far, Far Away, existed a school - Ever After High

Standing high above the lush, dark green treetops of the Enchanted Forest, the school's castle was made of bright white stone, the towers topped with glided blue spires, the school's banners fluttering in the wind. The cool stone of the walls dripped ivy and flowers - reaching even the uppermost tower.  Throughout the castle tiny birds flitted in and out, some making nests within the safe, cheerily decorated eaves.

Wildlife is important to the castle and its inhabitants and it's not uncommon to come across happily croaking frogs within the marble fountains, baby rabbits huddled together in clumps of lavender, or elegant, sad swans - some with crowns - serenely gliding along the clear waters of Looking Glass Lake, the waters of the school.

Nestled deep within the humming heart of the Enchanted Forest, Ever After castle is a beacon for all in Far, Far Away.  It is the source of their magic and their kingdom's health, bringing forth one very important thing:

The next generation of fairytales.

Each student of Ever After High is the son or daughter of a famous story - Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, The Frog Prince - and it is in Ever After Castle that their talents grow and their pathway - their destiny - is revealed.   When each student graduates at the end of four years, they are given a golden key during a ceremony that unlocks his or hers own personal book and shows them the way forward.

The Map

Some Notes:

:crown: It is the modern day for our students, which means technology, powered by magic.  iMirrors for iPads, MyChapter for MySpace, StoryBook for Facebook, etc etc, create at will.

:crown: The current principal is Jemma Grimm, daughter of William Grimm - a stern woman, who shares none of her father's or uncle's breezy imagination or easy interpretation for fun.

:crown: Classes depend on the student and their fairytale - Kingdom Management, Princess Deportment, Damsel Rescue 101 - anything goes.

:crown: Students are free to roam in and out of the castle grounds, and in the village of Book-End.  Book-End is a fashionable little town, wealthy and charming, and has many high-end boutiques and cafés to keep the students entertained.

Taken Tales:

+ Rapunzel
+ Robin Hood
+ The Six Swans
+ The Sorcerer's Apprentice
+ Jack and the Beanstalk
+ Pinocchio


+ The Little Mermaid
+ Puss-in-Boots


i am ripping nearly everything about this off from the toyline/webisodes/book of the same name by Mattel, and yoU CANT STOP Me.  absolutely nothing is original, not even most of the names of the places.  look up the webisodes on youtube tho at least. so cute /sobbing

but yeah, come in and play if you wanna, i promise i don't bite very hard.  questions, concerns, love letters, flames, throw 'em all here and let's get this party goingggg

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / The Island (jill&dark)
« on: January 14, 2014, 09:33:36 am »
Why does the sun go on shining,
Why does sea rush to shore?
Don't they know it's the end of the world?
'Cause you don't love me any more

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.


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.

Why does my heart go on beating?
Why do these eyes of mine cry?
Don't they know it's the end of the world -
It ended when you said goodbye

OOC Discussion / The Island (Closed)
« on: January 14, 2014, 08:13:27 am »

They named the island Paradise, though it was a desolate place, lonely, black-rock shores and dark, thick trees.

The population was small, tight, families who had lived there for a century or more.  The people of the island learned to live hard, quiet lives, and did the best they could by what they had.  They built a church, they built a school.  They built the shopfront, gingerbread blue houses that had greyed, now, with dark, dim windows.

The people are similarly weathered; conservative, in clothing and sense, with wary faces brought on by their lives there.

The Vietnam War is still a world away for Paradise, though several of their youths have been drafted, leaving cold, empty, spaces where they had been. 

Still, life goes on; in the twilight of every Saturday evening, the Races are held, strong, fine horses and their riders galloping across the sand and surf as the villagers of Paradise look on, and bet.

Paradise's only claim to fame is its' horses; strong, wild breeds that take ribbons and trophies across the country.  In the night, you can hear them whinnying, restless.  They call for the ocean, the dark, swollen sea.

It is a peaceful, if not sad place.

And it holds a secret that will shatter the lives of every soul that lives there.




Writing Prompts & Challenges / PROMPT: New Year
« on: January 08, 2014, 04:42:13 pm »
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

Modern/Futuristic Roleplay / pale september. [a 1x1]
« on: November 30, 2013, 10:21:53 am »
The reception was lit up with tiny, twinkling lights, strung up among the old wooden beams.  The barn doors were flung wide open, the guests spilling out onto the dark lawn outside - Ivy Whitehall, sixteen years old and dressed in the floating peach frills of her bridesmaid dress, sat at the table and watched everyone with big, dark gray eyes.

Her sister had gotten married, today. 

The wedding had been held at their parents' home, in their small, country town.  Lulu hadn't been home properly for years, halfway across the country, studying at college.  Ivy, who'd grown up as her older sister's shadow, had missed her like a phantom limb, always aware of her absence, lingering on in the brief emails and texts ("city is MAD, youd LOVE IT, BABY. best kebabs EVER."); the hastily wrapped presents, broken in the mail; the patchy video calls over the Internet, a tiny Christmas tree just behind Lulu as she tried to apologize for missing the bus.

And then -- almost out of the blue she arrived last Thanksgiving, tugging along with her a handsome, sheepishly grinning boy with chestnut brown hair, announcing to their bemused parents, "Greg and I are getting married!"

So now, nearly seven months later, here they were.  Their mother had been delighted to organize the entire affair - something, Ivy thought wryly, Lulu had no doubt been counting on to placate Mom about the surprise engagement.   Still, Diana Whitehall rose to the challenge magnificently: the refurbished barn they were in now was draped with sheer, white curtains of material, explosions of baby roses everywhere, hanging from the roof in dripping garlands, twined around support beams. The glittering, tiny lights. White table clothes on twenty or so large, round tables.

Lulu, resplendent in white, her face shining, was standing amid her friends, hands clasped around one woman's, talking excitedly.  Though Ivy's senior by eight years, Lulu was shorter than her - built like a pixie, diminutive and tiny and absolutely perfect.  Her dark, neat hair - the same hair that Ivy shared - was cropped close to her chin, crowned in roses, making her oval face - the same face that Ivy saw every morning in the mirror, but for the eyes - rosy and warm. 

Their parents had gone - Dad tired easily these days, so Mom was probably fussing over him in the house.  Ivy picked up the last of the pâté slices - duck pâté with creamy, soft goat's cheese on a thick, crusty slice of bread, still warm - and certain no one was looking, jammed it into her mouth.

Stuffing her face with food had been her solution to an otherwise pretty, but boring reception.  None of her friends could come to the wedding, and her cousins were all mostly Lulu's age, or older.  Greg, kind as he was, had sat next to Ivy and talked with her a little while Lulu was doing the rounds with her friends, but when there was no one else around, Ivy sampled everything available, and then some.

Small cheddar pies, biscuits and creamy gravy, glazed pork pulled from the spit, potato salad - and then there were the sweets.  Trifle with rich sponge, macarons with chewy shells and sweet centres and thick slices of the wedding cake - chocolate and caramel buttercream.

Ivy, finishing the pâté slice, took a sip from her champagne flute - it was too dry, but there was no one to stop her and soon she had finished the glass, standing as she did.

There was an almost full bottle of it, still, on the table. Everyone in the wedding party had dispersed, mingling with their friends, Lulu's bright laughter coming from somewhere near the makeshift dance floor.   Ivy, slender with dark hair swept over bare shoulders, her eyes made smoky and dark and her lips too shiny. She was almost unrecognisable tonight - the Whitehall girl would not be missed, or questioned, if she left the inside of the barn with the bottle.

She picked it up by the neck; it was still chilled. No one looked at her twice, most everyone beyond the point of tipsiness themselves.  Outside, she avoided people laughing, or dancing to the music from inside the barn, and went and hid in a hay pile, just behind it, hidden from the pooling lights of the house.

The peach frills settled around her airily; Ivy could still feel the thrum of chatter and music from inside, and looked up to the sky, the bottle beside her. 

The stars were very bright.

Welcome Noobel Blewd! / hi my name is jill n i like things
« on: September 14, 2013, 04:50:55 pm »
proper captils n spellings are for losers

i like stories tho

n normally romance.


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