Welcome, Atsuko!
Hope you have a wonderful time here... it's a great place to play. :)
ClosetMonster Member
Practicing Optimist
STATUS: "Bother. Isn't there anybody at all?" "Nobody!" 5 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 5 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Practicing Optimist
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 377 (0.10 / day)
- VMs: 3
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Username history
- ClosetMonster 11 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
5 yrs ago
Current
"Bother. Isn't there anybody at all?" "Nobody!"
5 yrs ago
Trying on shoes and going for a walkabout - will return to closet when I'm good and ready!
3
likes
6 yrs ago
Fell into the abyss of Closet... digging out from under all of the shoes.
2
likes
8 yrs ago
Time is mine for a full month! :) Yay!!!
1
like
Bio
A long time player, I have been co-writing (aka "role playing") for "ae long tahm". I have a fairly involved career which some years can be nigh all encompassing for months and months at a time. However, I always seem to return for the sheer delight of creating alongside another imaginative individual.
Most Recent Posts
In
[ROLEPLAYER INTRODUCTION] This is Where the Newbies Join, Eh?
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Introduce Yourself
Welcome, D&daD! :) Here's a salute to your grand adventure and quest. Glad to have another around who is in love with the written word. :) You're in good company.
I am enjoying it very much.. though now I'm wondering if I totally did that post too quickly. I can redo it easily, just let me know. Its very likely he went home and made himself some tea... was stuck between the two extremes and I feel like I may be too tired to really have a sense of what fits the story. I'll bow to your opinion.
The brown eyed plough horse almost reaches the town when she stops suddenly and moves her head in a wide half circle to look behind her. Her plate-sized hooves are held to the earth but she is not in a panic. Instead, she flicks her ears toward the call behind her. Atop, however, the weaver reaches for the small knife he keeps to cut twine or twist out a nail. He turns atop her broad back, gazing into the green through which they'd already passed.
What called then? It feels like a tugging at the base of his spine. Not uncomfortable, it is as if a storm were coming. Still, no wind kicks up and there remains a brilliant day in the sky. With a shake of his head, he nudges the mare with his heels. She, however, takes a heavy step backwards, tossing her head in argument. They wrestle a moment, his legs and her stubbornness before she, with a sigh, goes as she is bid.
The sense of storm continues to rise and Wren finds himself looking up at the sky more than once during the ride toward home. The sky, however, remains quiet and blue, with no sign of trouble, though the feeling grows until, as he pauses in town to descend and speak to Marge, he finds himself short of breath and clinging to the mare's crest, his face pressed into her neck.
The mare turns her head and nuzzles his side, then is once again distracted by the path they have left. She whickers, as one might to an approaching horse, but nothing is there but for a child crossing the street to the baker's home.
Marge is in her back garden, her hands deep in her tilled earth. She looks up at him as he crosses her fence line and the lines of her face deepen in sudden concern. Surprisingly spry for her age and size, she is beside him in moment, a hand to his chest. She supports him as easily as she might a newborn calf, a farmer's wife to all. Her heavy hand guides him through her back door and into the small room which is most of her small home. He is laid upon a table and she speaks not a word as she busies herself over her fire. The scent of herbs and animal fat flood the room in minutes, mixing in with the crackle of fire and the distant call of the thatcher outside on the roadway.
“Touched,” she frowns as she comes to his side and taps his chest. The tap feels hollow, his skin too large for his frame, he can sense the knock through his entire bones to his feet. A groan emanates from his chest and he narrows his eyes against the bright light.
“M-marge,” he croaks, then blinks at the brilliant light above her head as she leans over him. There, just there, a dancing light which winks in and out like a distant star, yet so much more bright. His hand reaches out for the light but his hand is batted and then set at his side. Far from him, he can hear her call out a name, so like a name he ought to know, then his arms are bound to his side.
A brush of heat and softness against his cheek presses him deeper into the fit. Wren moans, some hidden furry thing within his soul curling away from the alien presence like the mouse does a storm. The world fades away.
Marge clenches her jaw in concern, going to her pot as the weaver goes still, pale, upon the table of her kitchen. She does not sing over the herbs as is her wont. Rather, she focuses her being on protection. It seems odd that someone so tied to the land might be touched, but then, he had taken in the mage. Perhaps something had happened which offended the rocks and without the mage, there was no one left to focus their ire.
The paste heats and bubbles and the woman does her best to not take too close note of the man who she cannot help until, with a soft exhalation of relief, she grasps the handle and draws the entire pot off the hook and takes it to his side. With a wooden spoon, she draws out the floral and fatty scented paste, dabbing it at his temples, his cheekbones, the hollow of his neck. She works his shirt open before she begins dabbing the paste at his collar bones, his breast bone, just above his navel. His shoes come off and the paste goes over the arch at the top of his foot then behind his ankles. To do more would be not a woman's place and she takes a breath, sets the pot to the ground and goes to work each bit of paste into wherever it had been set. Starting at his temples, she set thumb and middle finger at each point and set to rubbing in circles, each one going widdershins. The man did not respond, but he did not seem to sink further from her. She could do much provided he did not slip away.
What called then? It feels like a tugging at the base of his spine. Not uncomfortable, it is as if a storm were coming. Still, no wind kicks up and there remains a brilliant day in the sky. With a shake of his head, he nudges the mare with his heels. She, however, takes a heavy step backwards, tossing her head in argument. They wrestle a moment, his legs and her stubbornness before she, with a sigh, goes as she is bid.
The sense of storm continues to rise and Wren finds himself looking up at the sky more than once during the ride toward home. The sky, however, remains quiet and blue, with no sign of trouble, though the feeling grows until, as he pauses in town to descend and speak to Marge, he finds himself short of breath and clinging to the mare's crest, his face pressed into her neck.
The mare turns her head and nuzzles his side, then is once again distracted by the path they have left. She whickers, as one might to an approaching horse, but nothing is there but for a child crossing the street to the baker's home.
Marge is in her back garden, her hands deep in her tilled earth. She looks up at him as he crosses her fence line and the lines of her face deepen in sudden concern. Surprisingly spry for her age and size, she is beside him in moment, a hand to his chest. She supports him as easily as she might a newborn calf, a farmer's wife to all. Her heavy hand guides him through her back door and into the small room which is most of her small home. He is laid upon a table and she speaks not a word as she busies herself over her fire. The scent of herbs and animal fat flood the room in minutes, mixing in with the crackle of fire and the distant call of the thatcher outside on the roadway.
“Touched,” she frowns as she comes to his side and taps his chest. The tap feels hollow, his skin too large for his frame, he can sense the knock through his entire bones to his feet. A groan emanates from his chest and he narrows his eyes against the bright light.
“M-marge,” he croaks, then blinks at the brilliant light above her head as she leans over him. There, just there, a dancing light which winks in and out like a distant star, yet so much more bright. His hand reaches out for the light but his hand is batted and then set at his side. Far from him, he can hear her call out a name, so like a name he ought to know, then his arms are bound to his side.
A brush of heat and softness against his cheek presses him deeper into the fit. Wren moans, some hidden furry thing within his soul curling away from the alien presence like the mouse does a storm. The world fades away.
Marge clenches her jaw in concern, going to her pot as the weaver goes still, pale, upon the table of her kitchen. She does not sing over the herbs as is her wont. Rather, she focuses her being on protection. It seems odd that someone so tied to the land might be touched, but then, he had taken in the mage. Perhaps something had happened which offended the rocks and without the mage, there was no one left to focus their ire.
The paste heats and bubbles and the woman does her best to not take too close note of the man who she cannot help until, with a soft exhalation of relief, she grasps the handle and draws the entire pot off the hook and takes it to his side. With a wooden spoon, she draws out the floral and fatty scented paste, dabbing it at his temples, his cheekbones, the hollow of his neck. She works his shirt open before she begins dabbing the paste at his collar bones, his breast bone, just above his navel. His shoes come off and the paste goes over the arch at the top of his foot then behind his ankles. To do more would be not a woman's place and she takes a breath, sets the pot to the ground and goes to work each bit of paste into wherever it had been set. Starting at his temples, she set thumb and middle finger at each point and set to rubbing in circles, each one going widdershins. The man did not respond, but he did not seem to sink further from her. She could do much provided he did not slip away.
Fannie had tumbled into her skirts at the juddering stop of the carriage. Her squawk of outrage bit itself back with a sudden report, loud and insistent, which shook the windows of the post chaise and she was forced to brace herself against the fore wall. She hung there, panting and staring out at the wood beyond.
Imagination was not the realm of Fannie and the sounds lent themselves a certain mystery which she felt to her bones but did not know from whence it came. True, the gun had been something, as had the call to stand and deliver, both of which she had some knowledge of, even if it were nothing more than her father's hunting and the telling of horrors in the parlor respectively. Therefore, when the driver came to her door and spoke without a quaver, Fannie it was who felt she had perhaps it all wrong.
“A moment!” she quavered as she strove to put herself to rights, drawing herself upwards and straightening skirts. When the door was opened from within, she popped her head out like a pup in a box and gaped at the red faced man on the ground before her.
“Well?” her demand borrowed from her father's house, she lifted her brows high into her wig before she took in the direction of his eyes. “What? What?” she sputtered and tilted her head to one side, but finding it impossible to keep her wig as it ought to have been (even as a smaller monstrosity than the gentile woman might wear in society, it was meant to keep for the duration of her stay and falling off into the mud might sully it beyond repair) she was forced to reach for the driver's hand and scramble out of her carriage. “Why are we stopped? I heard a noise! Is it the wheel?”
Once in the roadside, her feet dusting themselves in the turned up dirt left from too much travel before them, she spun, hand to hair, and peered up at the man atop her carriage.
“Here now!” she waved a hand at him. “Get down this instant.” Her other hand reached out and grasped the driver's arm and she opened her mouth to pant. Adrenaline flushed through her and her eyes rolled like that of a frightened horse and she gave a soft sound of dismay as she watched him dismount her carriage.
“Oh!” she gasped, took a step back, and would have lost her footing if it were not for the driver who quickly grasped her arm. “Oh, you... you mean to rob us.”
It was an unnecessary statement, for it would have been hard to think anything but with his firearms and his dusted cloak. He was a figure for romance in a girl's heart and a great deal more terrifying to one who believed in the various creature comfort of her fire, her jewels, and her father's gifts of carriage or monies when his daughter asked them of him. To have someone sink so low as to remove any of these things from her seemed as incomprehensible as having to take a mail coach.
Imagination was not the realm of Fannie and the sounds lent themselves a certain mystery which she felt to her bones but did not know from whence it came. True, the gun had been something, as had the call to stand and deliver, both of which she had some knowledge of, even if it were nothing more than her father's hunting and the telling of horrors in the parlor respectively. Therefore, when the driver came to her door and spoke without a quaver, Fannie it was who felt she had perhaps it all wrong.
“A moment!” she quavered as she strove to put herself to rights, drawing herself upwards and straightening skirts. When the door was opened from within, she popped her head out like a pup in a box and gaped at the red faced man on the ground before her.
“Well?” her demand borrowed from her father's house, she lifted her brows high into her wig before she took in the direction of his eyes. “What? What?” she sputtered and tilted her head to one side, but finding it impossible to keep her wig as it ought to have been (even as a smaller monstrosity than the gentile woman might wear in society, it was meant to keep for the duration of her stay and falling off into the mud might sully it beyond repair) she was forced to reach for the driver's hand and scramble out of her carriage. “Why are we stopped? I heard a noise! Is it the wheel?”
Once in the roadside, her feet dusting themselves in the turned up dirt left from too much travel before them, she spun, hand to hair, and peered up at the man atop her carriage.
“Here now!” she waved a hand at him. “Get down this instant.” Her other hand reached out and grasped the driver's arm and she opened her mouth to pant. Adrenaline flushed through her and her eyes rolled like that of a frightened horse and she gave a soft sound of dismay as she watched him dismount her carriage.
“Oh!” she gasped, took a step back, and would have lost her footing if it were not for the driver who quickly grasped her arm. “Oh, you... you mean to rob us.”
It was an unnecessary statement, for it would have been hard to think anything but with his firearms and his dusted cloak. He was a figure for romance in a girl's heart and a great deal more terrifying to one who believed in the various creature comfort of her fire, her jewels, and her father's gifts of carriage or monies when his daughter asked them of him. To have someone sink so low as to remove any of these things from her seemed as incomprehensible as having to take a mail coach.
Ribsy gave a nod and a grunt as she leaned heavily on the top bunk, pulling out the muscles in her back a moment. “Yeah,” she didn't sound so sure, but she also wasn't dismissing it out of hand. “Damn, can't even begin to tell ya how this is not what I signed up for.” She frowned, her lips pursed as she let herself slide down and sit on the bottom bunk. Her long fingered hands curled between her knees together and she tilted her head just to one side and kept a close eye on Olivia.
“I mean,” Ribsy grimaced, “the testing I get. Seems that's all it is, though. I'd have thought they'd get some folks into the jaegers, doing sims testing and start to work what tech fixes they need.” She sighed. “Figured they'd have me working on getting the mechanicals working right. Ya know, thought I'd be Scotty. Instead, I find out I'm a red-shirt and not even sure I'll be able to join a landing party or if I'll just bench sit until they get tired of dicking around and asking if I'm crazy or not.” She laughed at herself. “Been asked more shit about my personal life over the last month than I've ever thought would be necessary to get behind a throttle and shoot big ass monsters.”
It wasn't all that clear, no. She knew that but the waiting was leaving her feeling a bit stir crazy. Had to wonder how the Lt. managed to keep her head straight. She looked well accustomed to it all, like she'd been there far longer.
Ribsy threw her arms out in front of herself, stretching. “But I can say this. I think I could probably kick the ass of any of the boys on the block back home now. That's saying something.”
“I mean,” Ribsy grimaced, “the testing I get. Seems that's all it is, though. I'd have thought they'd get some folks into the jaegers, doing sims testing and start to work what tech fixes they need.” She sighed. “Figured they'd have me working on getting the mechanicals working right. Ya know, thought I'd be Scotty. Instead, I find out I'm a red-shirt and not even sure I'll be able to join a landing party or if I'll just bench sit until they get tired of dicking around and asking if I'm crazy or not.” She laughed at herself. “Been asked more shit about my personal life over the last month than I've ever thought would be necessary to get behind a throttle and shoot big ass monsters.”
It wasn't all that clear, no. She knew that but the waiting was leaving her feeling a bit stir crazy. Had to wonder how the Lt. managed to keep her head straight. She looked well accustomed to it all, like she'd been there far longer.
Ribsy threw her arms out in front of herself, stretching. “But I can say this. I think I could probably kick the ass of any of the boys on the block back home now. That's saying something.”
Thank you for poking me!
So I am realizing that this year, work is NOT going to let up. Generally I can stumble along but I've had a work partner change shift and as she won't be replaced, I'm now doing much more than before. There is little I do which can be given to someone else, unfortunately - without hiring someone with the same qualifications as myself and as that won't be happening ever, I'm going to be hit or miss much more like a shot at two hundred yards with a water pistol. Heh.
That means that I'll be still here AND I'd not expect me to kick it up any notches. Please let me know if this doesn't work for you. I would understand. Otherwise, I'll keep plugging away when I get opportunity to do so. And as tonight is the only night I have without extra duties for a good week again, I shall endeavor to get you a response in hopes your "Poke, still alive?" poke means you can keep up the moss growth pace. ;)
So I am realizing that this year, work is NOT going to let up. Generally I can stumble along but I've had a work partner change shift and as she won't be replaced, I'm now doing much more than before. There is little I do which can be given to someone else, unfortunately - without hiring someone with the same qualifications as myself and as that won't be happening ever, I'm going to be hit or miss much more like a shot at two hundred yards with a water pistol. Heh.
That means that I'll be still here AND I'd not expect me to kick it up any notches. Please let me know if this doesn't work for you. I would understand. Otherwise, I'll keep plugging away when I get opportunity to do so. And as tonight is the only night I have without extra duties for a good week again, I shall endeavor to get you a response in hopes your "Poke, still alive?" poke means you can keep up the moss growth pace. ;)
Oh please. Anything you put down is wonderful and is enough. :) In particular when Wilhelm is being all "I'm laying down and I'm getting better, so let me sleep and leave me alone. Sheesh. What's up with all the questions? Can't I just eat this tiny creature??" ;)
And no worries on the time either. I'm still barely managing to be online more than a few hours a week at the most. My sister is just newly moved nearby and we've had a lot of visits so that's taking up time, outside of work which as usual, is insane. *L* So really - I'm easy.
And no worries on the time either. I'm still barely managing to be online more than a few hours a week at the most. My sister is just newly moved nearby and we've had a lot of visits so that's taking up time, outside of work which as usual, is insane. *L* So really - I'm easy.
Forgive the silence here... Work's back in full swing and it will take a while to get the balance back right. :) But I shall fix this post up and put some folk in which you are more than welcome to add to - as I've no bloomin' idea what they're doing there, other than they're likely looking for Wilhelm? Maybe? That sound good? Who knows! We'll make it up as we go along! It's a lighthouse, after all! I mean, SHEESH! Besides, I've Ducky, personified, as a companion in this, so it really cannot go wrong. :)
Sharing NPCs is just fine. :) Please feel free to make him/her/it/them do whatever you wish.
It's funny, I've definitely thrown a wrench in the works at times, completely by accident, merely because the character's driving force insisted they respond to something in one way while my partner wanted a different response. Then again, I've played to others' hopes and intentions and ended up losing the character completely (it happens in particular when I've got to get a character to fall for another's without good cause - turns everything two dimensional). Therefore, I suppose I'm a firm proponent for following your own sense of story. We'll thread things together and make a new weaving which neither of us knew was possible. Some of the greatest shifts have come from that. Do let me know if something I do mucks up plans you had or pushes your characters in places they don't want to go. I can always, always pull back and redo a post to make it easier for the both of us.
As for everything else, I find myself writing out bare bones with a lot of flexibility so that my partner can co-create. Much like improvisational theater, provided we build on what the other has set out, we're going in a good direction.
And please continue to question whenever you'd like to. I'll be as honest as I can be, so that you can choose. Unless I'm in direct control of an action (in which case I'd write it out in post) I'm pretty flexible, I hope. Heh. So even if I'm throwing out ideas, do know that they are mostly just brainstorming or trying to put words to a somewhat tenuous idea which may or may not be something else entirely given what you'd like to see happen. I suspected you had something of a plan for them to be stuck together and thought you might utilize an NPC to make it happen if necessary. Either way, it was FUN to put a face to the magic of the pond. ;)
It's funny, I've definitely thrown a wrench in the works at times, completely by accident, merely because the character's driving force insisted they respond to something in one way while my partner wanted a different response. Then again, I've played to others' hopes and intentions and ended up losing the character completely (it happens in particular when I've got to get a character to fall for another's without good cause - turns everything two dimensional). Therefore, I suppose I'm a firm proponent for following your own sense of story. We'll thread things together and make a new weaving which neither of us knew was possible. Some of the greatest shifts have come from that. Do let me know if something I do mucks up plans you had or pushes your characters in places they don't want to go. I can always, always pull back and redo a post to make it easier for the both of us.
As for everything else, I find myself writing out bare bones with a lot of flexibility so that my partner can co-create. Much like improvisational theater, provided we build on what the other has set out, we're going in a good direction.
And please continue to question whenever you'd like to. I'll be as honest as I can be, so that you can choose. Unless I'm in direct control of an action (in which case I'd write it out in post) I'm pretty flexible, I hope. Heh. So even if I'm throwing out ideas, do know that they are mostly just brainstorming or trying to put words to a somewhat tenuous idea which may or may not be something else entirely given what you'd like to see happen. I suspected you had something of a plan for them to be stuck together and thought you might utilize an NPC to make it happen if necessary. Either way, it was FUN to put a face to the magic of the pond. ;)
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