Briza

Thread Moving

Could you pretty please with sugar on top move this thread RPGC: General Discussion to be categorized under the Contest Discussion topics?

Thank you.

𝓣ℎ𝑒 𝓕𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝒻 𝓐𝑙𝑦𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑎 & 𝓕𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛, 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡.

^{_{The First Dilemma of Lady Alyssana Grey}}

^{Part I}

𝓦ords...

𝓣hey escape me.

“Yes! Right now is not the time...” Walter hurried in his response, grabbing hold of Finnegan's hand. His hand was warm, and Walter felt uneasy in more ways than he wanted to count.

“Not the time?” Lady Sylvia raised her head, tilting such dominion of her attributes as she peered down at Lady Alyssana. It appeared all too well that the story might as well have been the truth. She had no reason to think otherwise, but with the vile creature that she sometimes let roam loose, especially during the political times of bringing down a potential adversary, the madamoiselle decided not to mind truth. She was willing to slip another card under her wrist, especially if it meant pulling the metal feathers from the wings that kept Lady Alyssana afloat.

She really had no use for the woman.

And, instead of saying something so catty that makes the audience go, Oh heavens, no! Lady Sylvia merely said the blatant obvious words that were so fresh on her mind, “I really have no use for you.” Of course, she did not stop there. It would have been much too trite if she did. In fact, she cut her tongue through anyone who tried to interrupt her, like Finnegan's strange stance that was aggravating her to a point of indisposable annoyance. “If anyone is going to help poor Finnegan with an accident, it should be me.”

Walter made a deer-in-the-headlight-half-smile, trying to think of what Finnegan would do if he was not so out of his wavy haired mind. He was drawing dimwitted blanks, as usual, “To be honest, I think it best no one... uhh, not even Lady Alyssana be around him, at this point in uhh, time,” he looked to Lady Alyssana, unable to tell if the face he was making was reading correctly. He did not really want Lady Alyssana to leave, but then again he was uncertain if she understood. Oh, oh, yes and was his face being so brutally honest that --

“There's been more than just an accident, has there not?” Lady Sylvia's eyes narrowed. There was a hint of disgust in her voice, trying to hide some pain that Walter thought she was too slow to have not caught any of the social cues.

“Y-you smell...” Finnegan raised his hand slightly in front of him, as if holding his fingers to play an instrument such as a lute or a harp or perhaps even just to tap at some invisible door chime as a gesticulation of the situation, "Lady Sylvia, you smell..." The title, name, and two other words were all he could say for several seconds and then a snap of the wrist with a closed fist, revealing that he had finally found his momentum to continue his speech, to everyone's dread.

“Sit dow-” Walter attempted, but was merely lead off his track.

“No, no. Lady Sylvia needs to hear this. It's so important for her well-being,” Finnegan began. His hand lowered to his side with the other gently making its way to cover the bum on his pants (insinuating that perhaps he would get a huge spanking through his trousers if he ever so believed that he would have not gotten away with being so disrespectful to a young woman, as high-class and fashionable as Lady Sylvia), “She smells,” he said very factually, “Not the good type of smell because everyone smells. I say this because I can smell her fear. It's so unbecoming, unlike Lady Alysanna's fear. It's as if Lady Sylvia has never once looked at herself in the mirror without any powder upon herself. She's never truly embraced herself. If anything, she's run and hidden herself from her fears. They have grown so unattended that they smell moldy, and... Oh! Oh! How the mold has grown!” Finnegan held his closed with the hand that was once behind him, and with his other hand, he was mocking a fan as to explain the stench that had just now plagued his laboratory upon Lady Sylvia's arrival.

“Y... you should really--” Walter made another attempt, but he was interrupted by Lady Sylvia, who encouraged Finnegan to continue. She was reddening in the face, which said much about the amount of make-up she had chose to wear. Perhaps, if she had not worn any blush...

“Good,” Finnegan responded to Lady Sylvia, “Everyone ought to hear this! I may mock and jest with boyish kind that Lady Alyssana stinks upon occasion, but the fact of the matter is, I could not be further from the truth! The woman smells absolutely delightful, as a flower. I could never truly replicate her precious aroma. It's as a jasmine and a rose and even say... a gardenia, a sweat pea and most importantly, human. That's right. One of the most gorgeous smells I have ever smelt was that of a human, which is beyond me why most humans smell as animals. I say it's because they act as animals, and dare I say some animals smell even better than their human counterparts? I shan't dare, but I shall spill the truth. Most humans are animals, and I believe Lady Alyssana to be the most human of them all. There is no aromatic gem that I could possibly conjure to make her--”

“Enough!” Lady Sylvia suddenly cried out, “I've heard enough...” She swallowed and fumed from her nose. As much as the woman thought she could mind the words, “I am uncertain as to what sort of what is happening here. I believe this to be more of a circus than a perfumery,” her words were hesitant but held an under-oath of cursory, “You're acting more as a ringmaster than anything, right now, and I shan't stand to be mocked as an ignorant audience.” Her hands raised as she made a sarcastic clap, “But, for you, Lady Alyssana, the biggest clown in the room. I am sure Mommy and Daddy will hear all about this.”

Before Walter could say anything, Lady Sylvia shot him a glance that shot daggers at him, and he was left speechless.

As for Finnegan, he was, again, bound to the nursing affects of his own contraption, lost in a soothing lull, stifled (or is it sniffled?) by Lady Sylvia's presence, but nonetheless cured by the one of Lady Alyssana.

. ❖ .

^{_{The First Dilemma of Lady Alyssana Grey}}

^{Part II}

Character Contest #1: Wild West

Samuel J. Foster

S a m u e l J. F o s t e r

^{Every man dies. Not every man lives.}

— William Wallace

^{A p p e a r a n c e :}

---

The only distinguishing feature on Samuel J. Foster is that his nose is longer than the usual snub; and it's seemed to keep him out of trouble; or maybe it's his indistinguishable features that have kept him pinned as a wall flower when it comes with appearances. Whatever the case, Samuel's only been caught in one scandal, and the rest is just smoke easily stomped out with a good pair of leather boots.

To be more precise, plain dusty brown or black leather boots with high waist knickers tucked into the shaft. It's hard to tell the color with the amount of wear and tear the pair has seen through the years, and it's amazing they're still together. In fact, Samuel thanks God every damn day they don't ever need much repair.

Speaking of legs; Samuel's are the long and sturdy sort with a slight bull curve, and his back is finely tuned; it's easy to tell through his musty seeming white shirt and black jacket when he bends his waist properly, all good and ready to snipe another wild game in the head. His hands are large and square with blonde hairs that travel up his strong arms. He has one of those bodies with square shoulders and a neck that's long, but at least, it stands up straight to hold an average looking face to a more handsome degree than if he was a slouched man.

Samuel wears the sort of clean shaven, square-jawed face only a man with a few secrets would hold. However, despite only having a few secrets, it's obvious that they are important ones, and he is not about to let himself slide from the railing for being such a goody two shoes. If anything, he'd rather keep his sins to a bare minimum and most importantly, to himself. His small hazel eyes tell a lot about him, like he minds who he watches, and he makes sure not to contemplate on any one person for too long lest their own actions will start to tarnish his soul. It's that sort of astuteness that keeps him looking keen, because all the fellows know him as a practical man with enough money to live far better than he does. Hell, he wears a tailored suit that even though it could be bursting at the seams, he wouldn't be too prideful to not be buried in it. God forbid something happened to him, let alone his suit, with the wear he wears those two boots of his.

^{P e r s o n a l i t y :}

---

If honesty was based on how a man crossed his diagonals over his zeros, Samuel would be considered a man who never told a lie, but typography is not always accurate. This is true of Samuel's first appearance. He has a studious tender look with a rough side that's worn on the age of his attire and occupation. The combination leaves him with the indistinguishable look of being average. He's usually seen with some sort of positive attribute on his face. He is not one to let his comrades down, but that's probably why he is not always the most honest fellow. He has a dark side that he hides, and sometimes the darkness is the inevitable truth. It takes a charlatan to keep such a persona afloat, and since Samuel isn't the most charismatic man, it's probably safe to assume a lot of his frustration is taken out during his line of work since he's rarely seen getting too easy going at the pubs.

It also takes a strong man to keep the dark truths from seeing the light of day. Samuel may only be an inch over six feet, but his keen persona takes his burly stance to a status that keeps him from having to roll with too many punches, since its rare to ever have any thrown at him. It helps he doesn't frequent the places where the brawls happen. However, he's never been called a flamboyant man for skipping these places. (At least, to his face.)

There are other negative parts about him that genuinely have a raise for concern such as some suspicious relationship with former Russian resident Mikhail Nuchovich's wife. Of course, after all the tragedy surrounding the incident, there were too many things with a ability to be spoken against the truth. Granted, this did cause for some darkness to lay a resting head on the broad shoulders of the Western man. He may not have been perfect, but by golly, he sure ain't all that toxic either. Therefore, with all his good intentions, he always plans to use them to the best of his abilities whether he fails sometimes or not... Just wait until you see how he rides his horse and sling his gun; and you'll be darn tootin' sure to believe there's a heart of gold in him.

^{B i o g r a p h y :}

---

Big Game Hunting is known as a cruel sport, but with Samuel James Foster, the son of James Raymond Foster Jr., Hunting's a right of passage into manhood. Every year, his father would travel up to Northern States and hunt the Northern Game. The ones in California gave him wealth, but exotic ventures were never without their royalty. One year, Samuel had the honors. It was one of those moments that defined him as a person. One part of him died, while the other part of him flourished. He remembers wanting to cry at the way they were cruelly slaughtered, while the other part of him wanted to honor his father, the man his family missed every year when he left for Ashfork, only to come home with enough fur to make all of his absence a dream. There wasn't any way Samuel was turning around. He'd run from other things, like monsters in the Californian woods or his older sister's friend that never seemed to give him the right sort of mind like her other friends did. (Probably, because he was older and always had a scowl on his face.) Samuel choked back his childish fears, and he shot his first antelope. It was the worst and messiest job he ever did, at least with killing animals.

Around 1843 or 1844 (when the Mexican-American Civil War was just beginning to awaken), Samuel began friending some of the Russian fur traders during Hunting Season in the none other than Ashfork. These hunters and traders had some other thing about them that drove his curiosity. He supposed it was their way of life or he something, but more importantly, one of the guys Mikhail Nuchovich was good friends with some pretty Russian gal named Ester. She had not just a timeless look to her, but she was fluent in not just Russian and English but Greek, Arabic, and Latin, as well. He thought she was really pretty and quite a fine young gal if he ever knew how to properly recognize one, and right when he thought about getting serious with her, she disappeared with some mysterious Russian man named Ivan Kiglay, without a word. She left some cryptic note behind, but it made little sense and spoke more to his friend Mikhail, who at once took up his most of his personal belongings and left to Russia, leaving behind his wife, Olga and two children Sasha and Kisa in Samuel's care.

Mikhail's wife birthed Mikhail's third child Andrei during the man's absence. Of course, there was stipulation that the child was even his. Letters from Mikhail promised his return and his absolute loyalty to Samuel's word, despite rumors trying to spread against his wife. He wrote that he had been caught in business that would not allow him to return for some time. However, in 1849, almost exactly a year into the promising Gold Rush, Mikhail made his way back to the States for Russian Nativity. The man looked as if he had seen a ghost or been through some turbulent times. Although, when questioned, Mikhail explained the wonders of innovation that Rus was undergoing.

The Nuchovich family's life went back to normal upon Mikhail's return, despite Mikhail seeming strangely unstable mentally. He denied anything was wrong, and many of the folks thought it was the rumors revolving around the third child Andrei. Despite all, it was Samuel that Mikhail was found to trust the most with his intimate information, and Samuel made sure to make the best of what was left of their estranged relationship. However, it was the sudden death of Andrei that caused the biggest storm. The cause of the death was strange, and no one had any clear answers. It was assumed the boy wandered out and was murdered by whomever was murdering all the townsfolk. After the incident, Olga completely lost her use for the States and demanded that they go back to Russia. She claimed that if they had moved to the States for a more profitable life, they had now less than when they had arrived. Mikhail seemed more paranoid over the incident than at a tragic loss, but he agreed with his wife — the wild west was too wild.

Mikhail promised Samuel that he would keep in touch, and with that, Samuel was left to himself, again. To make matters a bit more devastating, Mikhail never wrote back, but Samuel decided he didn't really mind too much that he never heard from them. It was better to keep that door closed as he saw the prospects of other possible relations flourish and diminish with the mass migration and mass murders. He was beginning to suspect the Russians were behind this and not the Indians, but then again, what did he know? At age twenty-seven, he's just the goody two shoes Samuel J. Foster, single and free with no care in the world now that his only son had been stabbed dead in the middle of the night, right?

^{T L ; D R :}

---

^{S a m u e l J a m e s F o s t e r}

^{27 ▪ Male ▪ Blonde ▪ Hazel Eyes ▪ 6'1"}

^{Hunter ▪ Positive ▪ Tepid ▪ Serious ▪ Modest}

Ride 'em hard, Sammy.

SANGUINE EMPIRE (Dark Fantasy, Samurai/Wuxia setting)

Is the GM going to provide an actual map?

Word association Game!

Sorry

three word story(dead now because GORGONMAST ruined it. This is a stain on my reputation but it’s not my fault)

after her great-grandfather.

three word story(dead now because GORGONMAST ruined it. This is a stain on my reputation but it’s not my fault)

midwinter's night dream

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Pomiluy, Svyatogo Nikolaya.