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We believe in you, Elly.
I've got a project due and a final tomorrow (taking a class over the summer so I don't have to take it during the year).

So, expect the latest post from me to be up tomorrow after I get home from work, which is in the very early evening. It'll go up before I go to bed that night, probably much before.
Those of you that have already posted can anticipate a response from me in the next couple days. Holmi's scenic post will likely come with it.
Holmishire said
I was just wondering, do I have to worry about reading anything "secret"—such as in your hiders in the first IC post—in other players' posts?


The only time you'll have to open a hider is for my posts. No one else should be using hiders.
IC is now up.
Tiny taloned feet jumped along the cracked concrete. For hundreds and hundreds of leagues stretching, there were dilapidated and destroyed roads. Small mountains of concrete, brick, and metal rubble lined them. Husks of buildings, empty, dusty, and lifeless, were scattered for miles. Some stretched and grasped at the sky, while others were humble and closer to the ground. The humble buildings, likely the ancient shelters of families, were clustered together into what were likely small communities. Metal poles with lights that no longer worked framed the intersections of these roads, their colored lenses dimmed. If one searched long and hard, passed the concrete graveyards and giant steel corpses, passed the empty, veiny, paved roads, and passed the limp limbs that were once harbors on the shoreline, one could find purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain tucked away in little pockets of lively greenery.

Behind that tiny taloned sparrow, an old man, hunched and tired, followed. He wore a mesh of baggy, dark grey cloth that covered him like a robe. His sleeves were broad and deep, and a tiny tail of tattered cloth trailed behind him as he walked. He clasped a rugged column of wood, one that could almost be mistaken for a tree branch. It hooked at the top, and from that hooked top hung a black, iron bird cage, just large enough to snuggly hold a sparrow. As the pair, the old man and the bird, walked together, not a single footprint was left in the unyielding concrete. The couple had passed an intersection, and beyond that intersection there was only a single strip of road, serpentine as it ran through the eye of the rising sun.

As the pair continued their trek through that winding road, the old man stopped. Still in the ruins of an ancient city, a metal bench sat on the side of the road. The old man shuffled towards the strip of black metal and took a seat. His trembling right hand, with accentuated, swollen knuckles, reached into the depths of his opposite sleeve. He pulled out a curled sheet of board, the equivalent of paper fashioned from salvaged cardboard boxes, and unfurled it. His wrinkled eyes squinted as the sheet was brought closer and closer to his face. He deftly rolled it up and stashed it in his sleeve again. His tiny bird companion hopped with fluttering wings onto his lap, chirping furiously. The old man extended a calloused and dirty finger towards the bird as he murmured, "Passer, deliciae meae puellae."

The man and his bird continued down the ruin, the morning just behind them, nipping at their heels.

The high noon sun reflected off the old man's bald head, and beads of sweat slid down his long, wiry, graying beard. The old man lurched down the wide concrete pathway, soldiers encased in carapace (a material that combines assorted leather, hard plastics, and thin metal) lining the grassy road to an ornate, ancient building. Rectangular, spires at every corner, the style of the building appears to predate even the dilapidated towers of the Old World. The patchwork army, armed with makeshift spears, marched in formation, hours before the lawn would be covered in ambassadors and merrymakers. The soldiers let the old man take his drawn out steps and struggle up the stairs, beyond the toppled statue (sans a plaque), and to the doors of the building.

As the doors closed behind him, King Dowager Pompey sauntered down the stairs in his royal regalia. A crown glittered atop his head, with a red cape trailing behind him. He shouted to the old man, his arms wide open, "Welcome, Magister! You arrive early for the ceremonies, but my court is happy to accommodate you."

The sparrow jumped in his cage hanging from the old man's staff. The old man replied, "I'm not here for the ceremonies, Pompey."

Pompey stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Then to what business do we owe this occasion, Magister...?"

The old man, his gaunt face scrunching, continued marching towards Pompey, his staff striking the floor with every stride. "You know my name, Pompey. You also know why I'm here."

Pompey, his round, bald face twisted in a wry grin, began to walk beside the old man up the stairs. "Really? I think I might have heard of you... Cat... Catil..."

"Catullus." The old man dryly interjected. At the top of the stairs, Catullus took a left, marching up another small flight of stairs, Pompey's cape flapping behind him.

"That's quite a Roman name; are you from here, then?" Pompey jogged to Catullus's side enthusiastically.

"I have taken the name of the author whose work it is my duty to memorize and translate." Catullus stomped down the empty halls, covered with outlines where paintings and busts used to rest.

"That's quite interesting, I never knew-"

"I've told it to you every time I've seen you." Catullus interrupted. The sparrow remained quiet and still, rocking back and forth as his cage swung with the staff.

"Really? When did we first meet?" Pompey asked, as he and his visitor's steps echoed in the entirely vacant building.

"I raised you." Catullus commented.

"Really? I'd think I'd know the name of someone to whom I owe so much." Pompey retorted.

Catullus turned to Pompey, while his eyes, wrapped in wrinkled skin, met Pompey's for the first time that day. He exclaimed, "Fuck you." He kept walking.

Pompey sped ahead of him and opened an lavishly carved, if ancient and peeling, wooden door. The two walked in to a round, panoramic room. The room's furniture was clearly never replaced and, miraculously, it didn't need to be. The chairs were shifted to the side to allow a center aisle leading to the luxurious throne, which was the only addition to the room. Looking up, one could see the balcony, where common folk with money could observe the king make his declarations; however, usually blue bloods would be the ones sitting in those benches.

Pompey gingerly closed the door behind him, "Gods damn it, Catullus."

Catullus, walking down the center aisle, shouted, "It's your fault."

Pompey raised his voice, "It's my fault that the people will throw a fit if they think I appointed a Magister?"

Catullus walked into one of the front rows, "For one, they won't throw a fit; they'll grumble and groan and go home. For two, a Magister has always been an advisor."

"The king never had a Magister as an advisor."

Catullus cackled, and his sparrow chirped wildly. "You hold his place no less than three times, he dies in war, you marry his daughter, and you wear his clothes, and you still call him king."

Pompey followed Catullus into the aisle, removing the crown from his head. He stared at himself in the warped, tinted reflection before he tossed it on the chair next to him. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow and plunged himself on a seat next to Catullus. He picked up the shimmering crown again, feeling its weight in his sweaty palms. He scratched at the golden chains holding his mantle and cape before unfastening them, letting them slump and furl into the chair. He looked up at the old man staring down at him and asked, "These clothes are hot and itchy, and the crown is heavy. How does anyone wear this?"

Catullus placed his swollen, veiny hand on his shoulder. He sat down in the chair next to him and replied, "He doesn't wear it in an empty building."

Pompey shook his head, and the two shared a moment of silence. Catullus spoke up again, asking, "Now, where are my quarters? My bird needs to breathe." Catullus wiggled his fat finger between the bars of the bird cage; the bird grew to attention as he gently pet its underside.












Working on the IC now.

Holmi, your chunk will come in late; I have to set a completely new scene for you. Everyone else's information will be up shortly, ideally within the hour. I was supposed to do something else today, and I haven't heard anything else about it, so I don't know if it's still going to happen. Hopefully I can finish all of this and get it up before being interrupted.
In Come Groove! 10 yrs ago Forum: Spam Forum
Oh boy.

Time to play "what the fuck is my username/password for this thing" again.
Awesome.

Everyone should be set, corrections are over, and I'm working on an IC as we speak. Expect the first post to be up in the IC during the weekend at the latest; once settings and circumstances are established, things will move quickly. Posts will become significantly shorter after establishing a scene (especially for me), and I'll allow everyone to progress at their own pace (and that'll be made much more possible when everyone is split up).

I'm as excited as you guys are.
And that's everybody.

I'll have an IC up quite soon; if it reaches the weekend, then I'll definitely get it done over the weekend. I simply ask patience, as I'm going to have to place you all in different positions and provide different settings for all of you to enjoy. We'll begin shortly.
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