Medieval & Fantasy Minecraft Roleplaying

Greetings Explorer, Navigate into the Lobby!

Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!

Be sure to "Get Whitelisted" to join the community on server!

Active Rae Astrid

Snowymaximus

Lord of Altera
Legend
Snowymaximus
Snowymaximus
Legend


Rae Astrid


A portrait of Rae

Her Theme
-[X]-

Profiles
Divine - Arcane - Vyre - Spiritblessed

Attachments
-


General Information

Preferred Name: Rae Astrid​
Full Name: Rachel "Elizabeth Emmerson" Aestrith​
Title(s): Miss​
Nick Names: Queen of Tulips
=+=+=+=​
Age: 26​
Race: Human, Kaltic
Gender: Female​
Sexuality: Straight but is down for whatever
Current Residence: Barental​
Relationship Status: ?​
Social Status: Gentry/Noble​




Physiology

Begotten of lady costume, Rae plaids herself with the attributes of some forgotten mistress. She is charmingly undiverse in her appearance, with long black hair and once spotty, blue-grey eyes, and fair, white skin. Her tall slender body seemingly guides her terse black hair, and her acute features pierce her typically plain dark attire. Her thick skin laces itself within a rather torn body, with soles and palms of rough texture and arms of gentle muscle, yet the face of a softened cloak. With a rather thick nose, big ears, and long neck, she is rather skewed compared to the regular adult. Her childlike character distorts the rather feminine charm in her eyes, which delivers scorn and scar when seen for its perspective. Despite her rather apathetic gawk and glare, her look can be described in one word: innocent.

Rae is currently one of the vyre. She has become paler, her eyes change to a dull-grey reddish purple. Small fangs have grown into her mouth. She has slight growth of height, appalling pale skin, and becomes skinnier as a result of her bloodline: the Azarin.



Developed by artflow

When she was spiritblessed, the spotty and charming appearance of Rae seemed to be replaced by one of some distant cold chassis; a fridgidity wall of rapacious haunts and deathly songs. Her tearse body seemed to be more hunched; her fingers tipped like the talons of a raven; her torn body seemingly more plastered with the distinct overalls of veins, blood curling slightly from the thin veil that would appear to any exposed skin. Though her innocence seemingly lingered like some distant figure, the slight chill of her presence threw off those who fail to know her. Her gawk and glare become more like voidless stares. Those who view her advent in any room can be described in one word: uncanny. Yet, there was something lovable, if one would search for it.
Height: 5'10"​
Weight: 122lbs​
Eye Color: Dull-grey reddish purple​
Skin Color: Pale White​
Shape of Face: Oval​
Build of Body: A very slender body. Thin shoulders with soft muscle. Slowly toning.​
Hair Color: A deep rich black​
Hair Style: Any-which-way, usually long​
Complexion: Fair but pale​
Posture: Straight but bent in places​
Is Seen By Others As: Gloomy, Lonely, Cold, Distant​
Scars: None seen​
Voice: Soft, Quiet [Reference]​
Abilities:​
Spiritblessed [Shadow]
Novice light hand/knife combat​
Vyre
Waltz dancing​
Focuses:​
- [Awareness] Observant, Magic​
- [Determination] Strong Willed, Magic​
- [Guile] Lying, Innocence, Magic​
- [Ranged] Magic​
- [Fortitude] Magic​
- [Lore] Magical Lore​
Stats
() = goal​
EXP: (239/240)​
Attributes
Body: 2​
Mind: 3​
Soul: 5​
Skills
#dice + focus ||​
Primary
Awareness: 4 + 3 ||​
Determination: 4 + 2 ||​
Guile: 4 + 1 ||​
Evasion: 4 ||​
Secondary
Ranged: 3 + 1 ||​
Intimidation: 3 ||​
Grappling: 2 ||​
Lore: 2 ||​
Misc
Fortitude: 3 + 1​
Melee: 1​
Survival: 0​
Stealth: 0​
Crafting: 0​
Medicine: 0​
Handling: 0​
Thievery: 0​
Might: 0​
Health

Illnesses: ---​
Allergies: Spring Pollen​
Injuries: None​
Sleeping Habits: Sparse and Random​
Eating Habits: Eats anything in sparse amounts​
Exercise Habits: Takes walks; fighting practices​
Memory: Uncannily decent​
Unhealthy Habits: Not one for hygenics​




Personality

As a soft-spoken introvert, Rae typically keeps to herself in the space she is given. Not willing to talk unless spoken to, she minds her own business and goes through the day. Rather awkward and contained, she regularly avoids the beaten path to disengage in spontaneous talk. She is reserved to express her inner self to anyone but can be fiercely passionate about tasks she engages in, and can be tactful in her movements and speech.

After her time as spiritblessed, becoming a mage and turning vyre, her anxiety filled passion and selfish attitude now rushes through her like blood on skin - a slow and itchy feeling, with a soft dread. It lingers on, unlike the cool of water, and harkens her closer to the temptation of tasting it for herself. The coping that Rae forgoes is less than ideal - she shuns anyone she dislikes in a glance, but is not lost when it comes to speech; she seeks pleasures where there are dead ends, like reaching for a threadless string. Perhaps it is here where she will be most contended of her self efficacy, and the oglers who would seemingly follow her steps, finding solace in the curiousities and temptations that place themselves before her own; these lidless veils she places.

https://goldiessss.tumblr.com/post/64420419641

Likes: Spectating, Walking​
Dislikes: 'Prince Charming', Flowers as gifts, Alcohol​
Strengths
Writing - Rae is afluent at writing, and occasionally writes short stories​
Unsuspecting - Can be a very innocent character if she chooses​
Weaknesses
Shy - Is not good at small talk or with healthily engaging others she does not know​
Confrontation - Avoids confrontation at all costs; shuts down puts on a face when she is confronted​
Fears: Darkness, Spirits/Dreams, Death? The end​
Values: Being isolated​
Education: Common​
Languages: Common, Rede, Horghaan, Elvish​
General Attitude: Unmotivated to Obsessive​
Religious Inclination: Unknown​
General Intelligence: Above average​
General Sociability: Bar-none to manipulative​
Alignment: Neutral..?​
Short-Term Goals
  • Find a home [X]
  • Find a job [X]
  • Learn the arcane [O]
  • Become stronger [O]
  • Research anima [O]
Long-Term Goals
  • Change for the better
  • Love [O]
  • [?] [O]
  • [?] [O]
  • Become [???] [O]

Possessions

Wardrobe: Rae typically standardizes her attire to a darker palette. Owns a purple-white dress, an ornate white dress, and commoners clothing made of boar wool and skin.​
Jewelry: Occasionally wears white earrings. A crimson necklace.​
Owned Homes: -​
General Inventory: Books, Writing Utilities, Personal Effects​
General Wealth: Middle-class​
Pets: Oliver​
Olivers' rules:
1. Do not attack Rae
2. Remember your former owner
3. Act like you did in life
These are the rules the cat abides by
Notes:
• This cat will go to eat raw flesh if left unattended in front of meat. It can sometimes zone out or act somehow unnatural from its original form up to the owners discretion
• The cat is infused with mens and anima (a binder of mens)
• The cat is undead

Carried Inventory: Occasionally money or books. A dagger with an elegant engraving of a spider. A silver colored crimson necklace. A black book.​
History
A brief history of Rae Astrid.
Born on PC 2283, during the season of Birth [x]​
Current PC: 2330​
Family History:​
> Born with the E̵m̸m̷e̶r̴s̸o̸n̷'̵s̴, a r̴e̸s̴p̴e̶c̴t̶a̵b̸l̵e̴ ̵family from the Northern Kingdoms​
> The Emmersons move south of Queensport​
> The Emmersons separate​
> Accepted into the Azarin bloodline​
Major Events (Chronological):​
> Rae writes stories, unpublished​
> Rae meets [an elf] and [one masked]​
> Rae explores [the mirrored] and [the wolf]​
> Rae is spiritblessed​
> Rae meets [a dwarf]​
> Rae is sparked and un-sprirtblessed by [the teacher]​
> Rae explores [the undead]​
> Rae meets [a patron]​
> Rae turns Vyre​
> Rae explores [the maddness]​
> Rae sees [the spider]​
> Rae leaves [a patron]​
Stories
At points in Rae's life, a story is written. They are the stories she writes or stories about her. What is written may reflect her state of mind.
(* Language / Imagery warning *)


Story 0 - The Black Book (Private/IC)

Awake, a little sad, and a bit homesick
~Four years before her twentieth


A plaid face lay solemnly on the grass, where dew was stricken on the soft sod. The sprawling greens of the eastern world seemed to never end on either side. The wet mud felt good on Rae’s face, still young in her teens, yet her stomach churned with agony. The wind left her. Crystalized mist sowed its way through the air as it landed on her back, and as though she were taken by surprise, grasped her palms into the thick soil. A soft thud resided in her throat, and her arms began to quake. Pulsating into her head was the start of a road she could not turn back on. Some time passed in silence, besides the aching in her body. Something began to crawl behind her; perhaps a spirit that she could not return the glance to. A syndrome of magic. It was without patience that she traversed her mind through this pain, but found herself falling through the grass she once comforted in. Suddenly, she looked up and found the face of a man with brutish features. The smell of blood was immediately presented. It wasn’t but a moment when a sword was driven through her skull…

A jolt of life burst into her voice as she heaved out a terrible gasp, convulsing her startled body into an upright position. Her head banged against the ceiling with a loud thud. After but a second, she grasped her forehead in a startled wake, wincing as her teeth drew breath.

She lay not in the soft grass, but a small lumpy bed in the attic of her brother’s home.

A regained consciousness from Rae allowed her to view her surroundings, as she had needed to familiarize herself from the grog that followed her shortly lived nap. She turned her head sideways, now lying flat on her bed, holding onto her forehead. The bed was accompanied by a small maple wood desk and stool, and a candle that laid atop it. The attic itself was no more than the size of a small kitchen. Books, papers, tools, and toys shrewd its way into its small crevice, with a small hatch only two meters away from herself that led into the house. Whatever seemingly small glimpses of light came from beneath the floorboards of the kitchen. The haze was accompanied by the ignorance that was Rae’s thirst, for which she hadn’t kept in mind for since Waterday. Her clouded grey eyes blinked, seemingly crusted with the respite of her day.


Stretching from her maiden position, she eased her way out of the bed, minding the small space she had been oh-so-accustomed to. She stood, stopping for a brief moment to regain her balance from the cumbersome slumber. For some while, she realized, she had not been fed, or rather, had been feeding herself. Reaching for her satchel, she changed into her attire. She removed her small dark teal gown in favor of her regular darkened appearance, peering into her small mirror, pulling back her dusky construed hair. She stopped for a brief moment, taking a long breath, and holding her hair higher where she had hit her head. Nothing. For a brief moment, she felt relief. Releasing her hair, she took a seat on the stool. But it was only brief. Something had snapped just then. Her eyes, she recognized, had begun to shimmer in their own reflection, as if the lenses in her eyes flipped and showed themselves. Twice now. And again. Had she begun this strange reaction to herself?

“Perhaps the pain”, she managed to say aloud, grasping her hands onto the desk. But it wasn’t just that. A manifestation of grief swelled beneath her feet. It was the tears that were chiefly swelling in her eyes, and a lump in her throat that slowly began to croak. Rae felt embarrassed but hadn't known why. Guilty stares felt visible from the walls around her, as though a thousand onlookers watched her in madness. She tried to stop -- truly so. Her brain began to pulse again, and her arms began to quake. Rae couldn’t admit it at the time, but what seemed like an era of loneliness couldn’t begin to lead itself the way she wished; a way of pleasure that she desired -- no, craved. Her sorrowed look made her face beet red, and her eyes turn a soft red. What began as a soft cry turned into a loud sob. Pressing her hands against her eyes, she jumped back into her bed to cover it.

Her brother had just returned home from the brothel. Disturbed by the unpleasant sounds he heard from the attic, he rushed upstairs to see his sister weeping, seemingly for no reason at all. He quickly went over to her, looking at her in her bed, looming. Loud cries dimmed into soft heaps of breath and murmured mumblings. He watched. Minutes passed. Her cries became silent. The pulsing stopped; her nose started to bleed.

She looked up at her brother, and seemingly, the expression he took for her shocked her. Was it lust? A desire for thrill? He was there, discomforting, and stared. The blood on her nose dripped onto her soft lips. The taste had set off in her mind a sense of distress as her brother stood over her. His large brutish features had distortedly loomed like the strange beast she had once called a brother; that same brother who helped her through nights where she felt most alone. As though the burning of his piercing eyes melted through her fleshy skull, cutting whatever innocence they had, and stained her mind more so than a thousand words could. Her eyes glowed as her tears began to dissipate. Her expression tempted — anything. But nothing. He looked at her. And then left — without embrace, or to Rae, love.

It was in that moment she realized the problem but knew that whatever anyone tried to do, it wouldn’t go away.

It wasn’t long till she decided to move back with her mother.

An encounter: Markets and the art of library

The bustling streets of the market in Emerson were busy as ever. Strange shipments came from the west while fishermen began loading their salt stained bounty into their stalls from the east. Artisans and merchants from across the city gathered in the morning light of the sky; a fresh smell of old leather and fruits of all kinds roamed the air like a sweet and smokey buzz. In the steak houses, meats and grub poured into the streets, and the zing of lemons and melons pierced the taste buds of any passers-by. The soft reflection of the bread stands and bakeries flooded the nostrils of the pedestrians, so tempted by its soft glows; the blacksmith with his rusted anvil rung his hammer deep into the rhythm of the street. Yet despite the bustle and hustle of the day, Rae insisted to go to the library. She had gone not two days prior to browse a section for different medicinal ingredients, and had decided she would attend the presence and company of the librarian for her own pleasure this morning. A deliverance of steps awakened her day as she headed towards the familiar route through the market.

The day was placid. The partly cloudy skies seemed to shine brightest in her eyes on her route to the archive of books, and the rain from the night before made the day sticky and humid, filling the cobblestone road with puddles of potholes and faint mist; an uncomfortable feeling rose up Rae’s legs and neck, which felt claustrophobic underneath her turtleneck and dark attired dress. Yet she pretended to ignore it and not make a fuss, as most do, for she knew the library would be cooler than the hot summers day. The taste of salt rushed down the throat of Rae as she passed the markets ports.

Finally she had arrived, passing by the dubious smells, and entering the old library. Hidden underneath a small path and an unrelated shop, the Emerson library was one of the oldest libraries existing in the town. The smell of the entrance filled Rae’s brutish nose with an oaky and woody smell; like the buzz of incense that lingers in the back of your mind. She pushed the doorway slightly more ajar than it was, peering in to see of any residents that may be present. The only member in attendance was the librarian, Tommy, a stout man with a thick accent that ran the place. The library itself was very small, with several bookcases lined up by the entrance and towards the back. Each file was full of books, and was labeled neatly in alphabetical order by genre, as most libraries would be. There was a small section above regular height, which a ladder appeared to be the only way to reach, and Tommy's desk inhabited itself at the entrance - impossible to avoid. With that, she took a small step in an was immediately greeted.

Related image


“Halloo Rae! How’s moi favorite customer?

“Hello Tommy.”, replied Rae, shutting the door behind her. A small bell rang against the old frames as it slammed tight.

“Fine day for a lollop in' it?”, he said with a grin.

She nodded carefully, not wanting to jump too far into the conversation.

“Ah, yes, a fine day indeed!”, he said with alacrity, walking out of his enclosed desk to be closer to Rae with a massive grin and brow. He leaned against the desk with his hands and back, saying, “Why not a few days ago did oi find myself seeing yow 'are. Waa brings yow back so soon?”

“I’m looking for a book - for reading.. preferably pleasure... in some kind of... fiction; for what of I care little. Would you happen to have such books here?”, she said with a quick tone.

“Fiction eh?”, he said with a keen tone, “Well, there's little f’ tha bairn produced these days, not since moi grandpap hev oi had a good book to read like that, and not since all thur stuff that's bairn happening lately; noo toime for fiction do getting out f tha'... tha' would fare oi’d reckon. To much work ‘ese days!”, he laughed. “But!”, he exclaimed, walking towards the ladder that leaned behind an old shelf, “Oi do believe oi hev suffin around 'are tha may be anarl your liking.”

He began to climb the ladder, looking carefully for a book that matched a description provided.

The library smelled of a smokey flare; the rims of different sections puffing their way through the air. Curiously waiting and a tad impatient, Rae walked over toward him and stared, admiring his rough features. He was a small creature, old and nearly bald, with a neck as shriveled up as a prune. He had a large nose, similar to Rae, and wore hinde from some brutishly thick animal. His large hands laced the labels of the shelves, meticulously mouthing out each of their rims, seemingly polishing their texture with the oil of his fingers.

Rae began to tap her foot impatiently.

“'Are we goo!” He said, picking out a large leatherbound book from a mound of dusty shelves. 'Shadows f thur Lost Rose' -- eems interesting enow.” He climbed down the ladder carefully as it creaked with each step. Tommy glanced down at the book and handed it over to Rae, who took it from his hands to examine. She sat down at a nearby table, where Tommy followed, rambling.

“Now, oi woon hev taken yow for a mawther tha read rae, not many do around 'are and it's very rum tha a young, and daast oi say but pardon moi language, boo-ful and attractive woman as yourself be 'are rather than at thur house. Bu’ f course, that's noon ‘f moi busines. Oi started out yungin’ as wal fallin’ in love with ‘ese books, and oi really car' say tha i'd be sane to-day should oi hev missed out on thur opportunity to be 'are.”

A soon while after, Rae expressed her interest in the book, and asked to check it out. Walking out the door, Tommy called out, “Well, yow tairke care now, enjoy thur book i'm giving yow 'are and yow tal me do that's any good eh?”

Rae awkwardly smiled and nodded on her way out, shutting the realm of knowledge behind her, and holding her new book by her side.

Blemished Months
In the winter months blemished by autumn's last touch, it flourished; a seed of dissent from the northern lands once called home, brought down by wraith and pain from what could only be an example by the gods. The Emmerson household, distraught by their hold on the world, and the elements that seemingly sought after them, was all but broken.

It was not by choice, the way that she exposed herself to these hardships, but rather, an element that descended her, like her ancestors before her. She had abandoned her past, like the gods did for them, and for the same did she to those who claimed dominion upon this earth. Cold and broken. Lost and unbalanced. These were the ways that the world transformed itself. But it would not matter. For she was weak. She had not the strength to lift up arms nor to take back what was rightfully hers, nor to change the path that the gods had laid down for this world; and at the same time, it was wrong to pity her attempts - her struggles compared against a world riddled with hate and antagonism fleeted her world of petty strifes of family. It would not be the job of anyone to lift this veil over herself. But rather the strength of mind that she possessed. Though she lacked her arms in strength, there was the will to do so. Trials of a past life faced against a new and reborn continent layed sodden by her side. It was not the fame or the glory so many before her sought, but to end the cycle of meaningless hate.

Rumors spread of a dark evil. A contest for the ways in which the forces of this world confound their actions. A metonym of her own life.





Glass; its silver bearings on a plastered smile as it awakens from a cold slumber. It timbers like a wave of trees giving breath to newborns, or the expressionist visions of the philosophers of old. As each part is held by their fathers, perhaps I can be a bit hysteric too.

Perhaps I can be a bit hysteric, when I see the mountains grow out of grounds, plastered like white lights on trees that have bloomed; Perhaps when the water runs and flows, the recycled nature of its design strays naught towards an ebb of entropy but towards a singular purpose; Perhaps when the soil, effervescently eager to explode from the earth's womb, reaches my ears to tell me it is true what a world of wonder can give; yet all I hear is the machinations of lesser thoughts, emerging from the kind of rubble from a ruined city, burnt with its child in it, her precious children, growing to become the mongers of that ruin, to become the pleasured seeking and titillated children that jump as though their last day runs through their soft, unspoken, unwoven hair. Her spoiled children are hidden in the city with angst, lust, and a thrill. An obsessive, obsessive thrill.

Perhaps I can be a bit hysteric when it's over.


Gorge. Two fresh pages. They linger soddenly in front of me. Gauge. I linger still. Harken to me. Love me. I’m gone. Whisper to me. I’m departed. Glance to me. I’m lost.

But behold I am blessed with two red suns, and there I gaze to them. Little habit has changed, hasnt it me? I’m but a fool again to think that I will be blessed. To be loved like I am loved by others.

But what am I being loved for? What is it that one gives me and I give them?
Voidless answers. It bounces off like a scream into the darkest pits of the Rift. I’m lost, lost-

But one had to look my way. A Maple.

And she reminded me of the love I don’t have.

Pride is Korog, high in his crafts, standing taller, despite his mast; disregard humility, why don't you?

Egoistic is Ignis, for he is so holy and omniscient to know the plights of those groveling beneath him; I pray to thee, that I may kiss your golden shit

Boastful is Valiant, for for all his triumphs of justice, of valor, of honor, he holds himself mighty in the face of it; as though, he is the one to do it, and that makes mockery of our attempts

Greed is Jishrim, for you must take all and fill it with your madness, sickening others for your twisted will, unbeknown to most; an un-understanding un-understandable being!

Gluttony is Theodra, for each of your hunts grows and grows until there is nothing on Earth stopping you; what are a few words of your tenants, which stop you from desecrating it?

Lust is Sallana, for your constant love masks your true desire. Oh, what pig-like desire! How it hogs this world of any true meaning. And yet you lust for more and more and more and more until you get it. Until you get what you desire.

Sloth is The Grey Lady, for she hides in her realm passing silent and upcoming judgement, quietly observing; and when there is need for her, she acts as if all others should listen. Truly, awfully, slothful

Viscous is Skraag, for your dead and diseases linger like fingered honey. Slowly, gradually, never truly so, and yet, ever so moistly dewed on its victims.

Envy is Visage, for for all your knowledge, you will always desire more of it; harken the man who has his brain but no wisdom. Grow stronger in the shadows; claim what you rightly deserve: pity.

Heartless is Jax, for all the wealth in the world could do you no satisfaction; take hold upon the weakest beings and grasp for their pockets, their livelihoods. After all, you could only take opportunity from others

Wrath is Shalaherea, for one too well to hold grudges against her kind, the nature that surrounds her perverse realm surrounds us like a tightening noose; ever angry at the world inhabited by such vial things, and childishly crushing those in their way

[OOC: Imagery / violent theme warning]

0

“A smokey buzz.

That’s what I would describe the burning embers in the ashtray. Its winding path traverses into the air with an ever so soft and tangent smell, moving gracefully in the dry, arid wind. To gag of that smell was an obvious sign of a stranger; this common odor lived with us, sat with us, worked with us for so long, we were impartial to its presence. Smog silently shimmered along the ceiling of our huts, mud ridden with dirt between every nook, and every cranny, wherever we stepped. Step, step, step; you’d find yourself in a pile of grease or a mound of clothes the size of some forgotten burial ground, mostly reeking of some hideous and odorous beverage. The walls would ooze with a foul rotting stench like someone had placed a pile of dead mice tediously between the cracks, and other grease-ridden waste found in our damned hovels. Sometimes, you could hear dripping from the roof, as if little men decided to tap dance atop of us, playing a symphony of musical pieces. A soft haze through the sights of our windows calmly grasped at them, not disturbing their opera. And for each drip, they would sizzle their notes harmoniously.

Still, I found that the smokey buzz was most akin to me…”

They were born from the ashes of this life. This life of contempt for this distraught place they referred to as home. This life of being born, and raised, and dying soon after in a room - one spent deeply and utterly alone, juxtaposed with being surrounded by friends yet others who would've utterly despised their kind. A kind of people that were deemed schmucks - the same dirt ridden, hard soled schmucks that loved nothing but their pitiful money and jewelry. To find satisfaction in their hearts sinks to the level hell smiles at. I am life, and that was Mayo.



1

The summer air was filled with the familiar scene of insects and fresh cherries along the waves of the wind. Carriages drove along dirt roads which moved apace from the irrelevance of children in the street. The muck of dirt swelled the lungs of the young and fueled that of the old. Gravel swept under their feet and a vivid look of distrusted scowls beamed so clearly from the seats of the drivers.

Mayo was walking to her bungalow. She was akin to the smells that made the young cry and heave; the old soft and linger. Their looks beseech you, as that of a begging child looking for the mercy of their mother's sweet hands that would never come. But Mayo continued to walk, uninterrupted by the scrutiny of the children.

As her cold feet rolled along the countryside of the damp road, she moved her toes against the rarely dewed grass. An indifferent look across her face. Her feet became muddy as she swirled her toes in the ground. She murmured some as she stared at the grass; a hummed song escaped her lips. She jabbed a toe inside the mud, ending on a high note in her hum. ‘Splish’, the ground went, and abruptly the song ended. The curious girl continued on.

She held together bags of old books, the contents of which contained an assortment of imagery; her mud-song distraction lended her bags to twist in her hands idly. She also held a small oak box filled with her lunch, that of which unpleasant worms and other insects would find a nice home in. As she approached her own home, she reached for the rusty handle on the softwood door, struggling to free her hands from the bags, like knots in her hands. She rustled with the handle, uncomfortably pressing the leather straps against her webbed skin between her fingers. She eventually grew frustrated, and the heat of the day began to pound on her head. So she tossed her bags aside, and opened the door after a soft, dissatisfied groan.

***

The house: it reeked. By the standards of our times, imagine the smells of a freshly corpsed beast frayed open on the counter; an ogress that sat by her fictitious convivial meal; a halfway deceased man with an ooze of disease coming from his mouth; a waft of that same smoke…

Mayo began to make her way into her house. A small living space began to emerge into her image, where a dirty couch and chair would reside by an old maple table. As it came into view, she ran her gaze idly to the kitchen beside it. The kitchen was foul: strands of meat and week-old fruit were strung along the hardwood floor, along with the deceased bodies of stray animals and other kinds of wild creatures. To her left would reside the bedrooms, which housed the parents, and wafts of smoke. The bathroom by her right loomed over the entrance with a foul smell, and a small shack, a few meters from the house, smelled of a thousand-year-old cheese-cake.

The bedrooms remained the cleanest of all rooms, comparatively.

***

The family which Mayo was born into was forgotten in time, but she was still a part of it. Her father and mother were an unpleasant sight to the eye. Their faces filled with boils and warts; their teeth unbrushed and hair unkempt; their eyes bloodshot and their shoes filled to the brim with sweaty socks.

The hag mother was asleep atop of a grease-filled couch, alongside her hideous prince. Each was like a hoveled mound of fat and skin. They mumbled and fumbled about, flapping their oversized wings across each other. Mayo was much thinner than them, in some regards, but shared obvious features of their likeness: a large nose, a hideous smile, and a bereft figure.

Carefully, she moved her way across the stained hallway carpets, traversing beside the peeled wallpapers mounted around her. The stench of dirt and rotting wood abruptly entered the hallway. She finally forced her way through after holding her breath for some while, which provided some cover and comfort from the main body of the hut. And besides the occasional ooze that moved its way into her room, even the tidiest and finest funk rested patiently outside of it.

As Mayo traversed her way to her bed, she trailed her muddy toes on the carpet. She looked down, idly. There was a long pause, before she crashed into her bed, and began to cry.



2

A stench grew around her house. A group of mice saw fit that this was their palace. The dung of their everlasting dew reeked like the mouths of sweaty men, and the drips of gurgling water streamed out of the cracked lips of the two ogres that broke the air’s tranquility. The smog saw fit to contribute to the calamity. The lining of torn walls was their doing. A daze of barking shot insects through cracked windows and corner-stoned corners. Dogs roamed ‘round their abode, while men saw them fight and laughed with drinks in hand. They ripped into each other's flesh, tearing out their skulls and bones. Their cracks were heard in the youthful air; it echoed as the silent majority watched idly.

Mayo rested idly at the windowsill. The fights were common practice on her street. Children watched from their rooms, some betting silently for them to win or lose. A mere pass time, as most life is toyed with anyway.

A crash of glass began to make its way in the air, ringing softly in Mayo’s ears. A faint yell softly grew.

Through the glass, two dogs seemed to enjoy each other's fangs in their throats, lest they would release each of their grips.

Then again: a faint scream in the kitchen, yet muffled out by the barking that seemed to spread in the smog, like a megaphone pressed against her fair ears.

Ears. Soft tissue that allows man to hear the most beautiful tunes. A compliment; a laugh; a birth. When I made her ears, I wished for them to listen to a symphony. Yet now they watch, glued tightly to the sound of murder.

And as moments passed, and ears vibrated, and dogs ripped into the other's flesh, the two ogres, prince and princess, emerged from their tall decaying door frames, their fat pushed against their wooden splinters. Mayo had her knees on a chair when she was looking out the window, but her eyes diverted to her ogre parents, automatically lifting herself up. The princess ogre seemed to be begging for the prince ogre to stop, as the smell of alcohol reeked from his pits and his hideous mouth. With the little strength of the fat ogre's arm, he slapped and pushed his princess.

Crack.

This act seemingly crushed the princesses neck, throwing the weight of what was a thousand elephants trampling her as she crashed into the hardwood floors, covered in a dusty, dirty, diminishing filth. A red liquid seemed to creek from the face. A disfigurement of the senses flushed both left present.

And for the first time, the princess didnt seem like an ogre anymore.

The fat ogre turned his attention to Mayo. Craze and lust seemingly fulfilling his forsaken needs in Mayos mind. His feet rushed to Mayo like a bull to a red carpet. Mayo looked in utter shock and disgust. Under all culminating existence, her mind filled with tears and rage, and she ran from her room, much faster than the whale that followed her. The ogre bumped and warbled across the room. Mayo slammed the door shut behind her, and the bungalow house shook rapidly while the drunken ogre proceeded to slam against her door. Mayo ran into the kitchen, and grabbed what little food and possessions she had in leather bags. The ogre found his way to the doorknob. Mayo quickened her pace. It rattled. Her breath quickened as she stuffed the last bit she could grab. And then the door creaked, and he roared, crying Mayos name with an outstretched hand. Tears seemed to swell in both their eyes, but neither were conscious of it. She dodged his advances twice, and ran towards the front door. Locked. She bolted into the bathroom, slamming it once more behind her. The ogre thudded behind it, screaming her name, crying fault to his transgressions, begging for something. In a quick motion, she climbed onto the sink, and jumped out a singular window.

She ran and ran, running across what was now a freshly smelled dew that sat underneath the grass. Men on the street wrangled their dogs as a fresh target seemed to emerge. Only a soft cry could be heard behind her now, and whatever patches of dead grass then crunched underneath her bare feet. The smell of fruit sought passage into Mayo's nostrils, as well as the smell of freshly rotted meat and the addictive smell of sewers smog. With a small leap of faith, she ran across the graveled dirt, past mailboxes, and other huts that she was too familiar with. Her feet bleed as the thumping heat of the sun bore weight on her forehead. Her once fair brown eyes turned bloodshot with the wind pounding at its lens.

With little hope and a tiredness beginning to grow on her, she looked by the road to see a carriage at her side. Stopped and amazingly afraid of what was inside, she looked around the threshold that showcased the driver, sitting in the front with two horses harnessed to the carriage. The man sat with a gravely beard and a straw hat. He wore a red tee and a pair of wool trousers that ran down to his leather boots.

“ Can you help me, sir?” An afraid Mayo spoke.

“Yes madame, what's seems to be the problem?” he spoke in a grizzly yet soft tone.

“ Take me far away … from here.”

The man strikes a frown and furrows his brow, concerned by the young girl's words. He opened the side door and said, “Hop in, we’re goin’ to the city.”

As the carriage began to make its way down the road, Mayo sat, afraid and alone, with only one man to show its kindness. It was the last time Mayo was ever close to home.



3

The carriage approached a large highway that stretched for miles. The cobblestone road seemed symmetrically perfect, and the overhead bridges streamed across the sky. Smog was thick, and the smoke was unbearable. Mayo remained in the back seat, shy from the imagery ahead that the driver faced. As minutes passed into hours, the faint sounds of horses neighing and men walking in the thousands grew louder and louder, banging against the thin shell of the carriage. Mayo kept her eyes shut.

The man eventually stopped at a warehouse, deep inside the city walls. The driver hopped out from the front and opened the back, gesturing for her to leave. She remained obedient to the man, and went out of the warehouse through a small door.

As Mayo took a step into the unknown streets of stone and footsteps, a stream of a familiar smell oozed around her. The smoke of cigars and the plentiful smell of alcohol ran into her nostrils. All the while, alien sewer gases and other foul stenches that worked their way through the cities streets, and a circus-like spectacle erupted in Mayos image: Men in tall black uniforms brushed past the poorly dressed in silent and damp alleyways, bar the occasional screams that were heard in the distance; A stampede of men trampled younger folk in their way; The wealthy men took from the weak poor men in daylight; A lady dressed in lavish clothing by the side of the road was robbed by the weak poor men; A carriage was slammed into the side of a building and everyone took what they could.

And yet the flow of the city progressed with no law or order. A courthouse was not even a concept for the average man. No justice was given to a lowly murderer, massacre, or mischievous malevolent. Ironically, in a state of anarchy resigned a perfectly lawed system in the eyes of the people. It was normal to see the local herald report robberies daily and heists at a bakery, or even a trader get bested by an elder. Mayo walked, terror in her step, as a green tint to the smog rested faintly in the air that slowly began to creep thicker the further she went.

After much unrest and careful placement of feet to avoid herself from being trampled, a sign rested above an underground building which contrasted her eyes - 'Gamblers Folly Beds'. The foolish Mayo proceeded into the building.

As she entered the palace of thieves and crooks, a large selection of eyes diverted to the young blond-haired Mayo. Their eyes were crusty and mean; their attire so distorted and foul; their bloodshot eyes peering into a deep and evil sleep. There was a smokey buzz that was in this room, as she continued to find herself more fond of it quicker by the second.

A figure emerged from the crowd - tall, with little clothing on besides a short skirt and a small tee from the waist up, and a jacket. She wore blood-red high heels that tapped the floors with an oaky clink. Her hair was white blonde and her eyes were covered in eyeliner, and her eyes diverted closer to Mayo as she approached. The hostess was above Mayo, having a devious and mysterious grin as she leaned down to her level.

“ .. Hey, girl, this look like a playground to ya?” she cackled. Mayo remained silent to her question. The lady gave a small scowl and looked around the room, gesturing for her to follow her. She pulled a cigar from her person and lit it, giving it to Mayo. Mayo was regularly familiar with it, and decided to smoke it. Things began to relax quietly and quickly; the room filled with a wary silence.

The lady gave out a large puff of smoke from her cigar, idly looking toward Mayo as they walked towards an empty table. "What's your name, honey?"

"Mayo", she replied.

"Mayo? As in, mayonnaise?", the lady gave a playful laugh. "Why, thats gotta be the funniest name I've heard in awhile. Say little missy, where ya' from?"

"I - ", she would begin.

Then, with no announcement, suggestion, or phase, a large door crashed open across the room. Two bulldog men rushed out of the doorway, holding small daggers. A few other men poured out from the room beneath the feet of an approaching man with scowled looks, storming off the premise. The tall figure stood proudly with a hearty laugh, as all eyes ran to his most obvious attire: he wore a white suit and pants with a gold tie, along with a decorative pair of eyewear and a silver hat. His face was covered in a scruff and a monopoly-like mustache. His teeth were gold and silver, and his body was covered in other pairs of accessories: necklaces, rings, bracelets, tattoos … you name it, he's wearing it.

“Welcome! One and all, to our humble establishment. The names Mr. Lombardo, devote of Jax, humble owner of Lombardo Enterprises." He gave a toothy grin and a graveyard stare across the room. He eyed Mayo, the child being out of place amongst the regulars. But he retreated his stare, looking towards the room he came from. With a whistle, out came two men, dragging along another man with a bloodied mouth and scared face. Mayo recognized him as the man from the carriage.

Mr. Lombardo then pulled out a long dagger, pointing its tip towards the crowd, yelling out to all in shouting range. "And this, folks, is what happens when a man cheats Mr. Lombardo in gambling!”

As Lombardo would begin to approach the bloodied driver, a sudden crash of glass and a burst of flames came through the window. Smoke began to rise as quickly as the flames came. Lombardo cursed, ordering his men some muffled command. The smoke became akin to Mayo too quickly. Mayos heart raced as she looked for an exit, but a hail of projectiles suddenly came like a robin's cry. She ducked beneath a table. Chaos ran through the room as shifting bodies and corpses flung like slings. An attempt to flee presented itself in the form of another exit. While Mayo ran, she glimpsed at the driver that offered her a ride. The man only caught her eyes once, before he skittered off, away from the fire.

She couldn't think. She could only bolt with whatever gamblers or other criminals bolted with her. The red shoed lady was nowhere in sight.

The men attacking the building cleared out the remnants of the room - armed with weapons and other sects of disposal. Mayo hid. Her bones trembled with fear, wondering how she ended up here, as footsteps crept rapidly around corners with screams at every other interval. By some untimely event, a man walked by the corner where Mayo kept herself. Realizing she was just a child, he began to move closer without fear, before another figure came behind him and stabbed him with a knife. The man who was stabbed fell against her body.

Crack.

The man fell with an immense ferocity, damaging the fabric by which she lived on. His eyes were red and his mouth full of warm blood, now marinating out and down her back. Her throat choked rapidly; she was crouched in disbelief for several seconds before she slumped over. Slowly, she began to slip from the world she dreaded. The red shoed lady was dimly seen through a veil of black. She had a sad look in her eyes, crying her name in futility as she pushed the dead man aside. Mayos eyes seemed to melt from her face, as she rested peacefully in the chaos unfolding around her, only disturbed by the woman shaking her corpse. Her body looked almost tranquil as I came to find her soul.

It felt torn, as I picked it up. Like a chew toy of a dog. Abused, neglected, ultimately thrown aside.

But as I grasped it harder in anger, a softer feeling graced my touch. A core of something, untainted. Innocent, warm. It shined in my eyes. So much grief. Lost potential. Now, away from the nightmare that haunted the decaying age of men.




Nothing.

I am guided by this child,
No more than a man with his sword.
Yet when I choose to go for more
I will have angsts for their lord

Its timely, sure, to forget all that was
And maybe I’m simply surely;
I forgot the time I spent at home
When the world was blissfully holy.

The ink that drips from mind and vein
Is quickly holding their grasp.
The light I see is little more
Than a burning paper mask.

Forget what was, or what will!
I care naught for its harkened thrill

I wisp away; paper wasted, day by day;
And I feel nothing,
Still nothing,
Know nothing.

Nothing.


Regard me lost and sometimes frail,
Despise my look, and haunt my trail;
Remove me from this path of shale,
Shake me down until I'm pale.

Love is true but for its strings.
Oh.. I wish I had untethered wings;
To take me from a wistful place
Kill my soul, take my face;
This burning tear that I always trace.​



This isnt a poem,
A song or a verse.
This is a plea to those who can see
The words on the page and listen to me.

What a cage we hold on this plane,
What time we take with dangerous feelings of passion;
Powerful lusts, dangerous pleas,
Saddened wars, disease.

Such colors that rest on our eyes
That have such a sweet taste;
The look of power at my palm,
something I only need to grasp.

Try to swear at the top of your lungs
While being stuffed with a sword;
I cannot shake that feeling of being
Layed in dewed grass. Blood dewed grassed.
Horribly stained blood dewed grass.
A presence that stands over me.
Why must I see this?

A pale vision of life as I rest there.
Shadowed by a veil of feigned niceties.
Stop being nice to me.
Life is frail;
Live your life;
Be yourself.
So I'm told.

Then why am criminal for my manipulation?
Why does my mind see it as so?
It isn't!
I wish to see life for what it is,
But to trample on and on and on
Until I must give up what I love?
So I must control that which I seek;
What choice is there?

There is no choice.
The colors that I wish to see,
The blood that is inside of me,
The magic that I try to spare,
The feeling that I cannot bare,
This turning point I wish to break,
The feelings that I cannot shake.
Truth of wishes that I can hold;
The horrible feeling that I'm told
To bring down upon with an unfeeling cold
That I cannot shake, cannot shake, cannot shake, cannot shake!

A waltz would be played
In a dark hall and shell;
A place that we know
Not to speak or to spell.

A spider of red, a spider of white;
Both dance in the night,
Atop platoon web spun light.
The spider of red, so carefree he seems,
Wisdom of places he has not so gleaned
From places that seem to shine without streams;
The spider of white, how daintily she dreams,
A tale of lost love and sickening schemes
From places where light is rarely to beam.

No naught that the other has poison they share for the other,
Yet, each dance and dance like they have not a care;
Their love goes beyond the veils that they wear.

And so step by step, they dance between dangling web,
And share in sad tales with half harkened stares.

The white spider then leaned closer to red spiders hip,
And round, and round, they both made their way time and again,
Both giving each a pull and a sway
Above a grave so high with the sins she still weighs;
Silence of prayer in her trying days
Made light by the freedom of red spiders' gaze.

Then lifted the red spider did to the white,
Its fangs so close to ending her life;
Yet held out of reach and care that he did,
And spun her in air, a freedom forbid.

White spider then curled her legs around red,
A soft gaze and vision to him she did spread;
Now only in moment could she have him bled
But her dance did not fade; evolved it instead.

In harmonious notes, they revolve in this tether;
Their arms locked together harking calm terror.
For each step they take, a wake that they make,
Sweetly waiting for the daybreak.

Blissfully, happily, the two they did dance
Until the music did end at a glance;
And moving silently they threaded, together
To lay in the platoon of the web, forever.


Jimicky Rattling atop mushroom floors:
I am one of those sickly moars
Who prances among the dancing shores
Of love and remembrance in flowery spores.

Jimicky Rattling atop ballroom prances:
I am not a fancy who fancies
Those who make egg shell chances
On whimsical placed advances

Jimicky Rattling atop danceroom balls:
He stares in my eyes, stakes my will,
Forgot the time we spent in thrill.
I am not a god or a being with a reason to kill,
But gods, I love this chill
That I raise whenever I write with a quill.

You stare at my eyes like no other;
Softly, caressingly.
Evolve that passion through my own,
How extraordinary. How beautiful.

We are one, but separately apart;
Your world takes my own and makes it bright,
While still I harbor without its delight
And make it hard for that which is spite.

I forget that the love of prose lingers near me.

I see now, that without you..
My world is black grass in green meadows,
And all that I fear is true on this world
Would take it away from me,
And make me a shallow human.

Though I ask, am I not already?
That pale reflection you see in me,
Something I do not even see in myself;
What is it that you find special of me?

Do you say the words do keep my warmth?
Is my body tool to your whim?
I do not know.

I find it curious, this affection I'm given.
And shallowly I repeat this back to you,
Grasping on something that I thought I had
Yet was warped by… love,
I cannot repeat these feelings.

Yes, the love that you have between me and
That other you call your loves.

Why can it not be only mine?

It hurts my soul,
Though it is touchable by my own power
I find a lack of understanding of this growing feeling.
This passion.

"Are you lonely? "
Forgive the question.
"Are you willing to be lonely?"
"No, I'm not.", you say.

You forgot what it means to be lonely.
We're surrounded by an incredibly sad piece of paper
That we call a story.

It weaves like a trail of smoke
And fills the lungs with black entrails.
Eroding the soft and making us sick;
It twists our spine and makes his hiss.

With so much darkness filling in,
How could you ever win?
When nothing ever seems the same,
It makes me think we are in pain

Truely, if life was stable, in some position,
Would the hardness of our souls
Really make us better, and whole?

And yet, that hardness lets you not die,
For even I am entranced by the things
Still woven in the world.

I love the sky that dews the air.
I love the softness in my hair.
I love the embrace of one who cares.
But they stare, they stare, they stare.

No one, then, is truly free
You cannot see, it's blinding me.
Your spine hurts, and my skin is cold.
Trampled by a kind of mold
That places you in an intangible hold.

They stare and it hurts.

When you grasp at a cup,
Perhaps you think you will drink something new from it;
The water or liquid that you poured
Will lessen a soured morn.

But what I see is nothing inside.
A voidless look returns to us, calling to hide
Back inside; what we realize:
Nothing mattered, though we tried.

You set it down and look around.
And think of all the cups you downed.
In how many places did you drink?
In how many places did it not sink?

Gurgling the liquid is your last choice.
To be drowned again by a soured, familiar taste;
That by some hope and drastic chance
This one will be different.

This time, you say, will be different.
But again, the same taste.

Free bird free bird lives on me.
Free bird free bird came with me.
Free bird free bird laughs at me.
Free bird free bird cries on me.
Free bird free bird lives off me.
Free bird free bird came to me.
Free bird free bird dies in me.
Free bird free bird free with me.

Forty five different kinds of mice are living in your ear,
Screaming at the top of their lungs and making you sneer.

Their tiny feet patter and scuttle,
As they gnaw and nibble within your aural tunnel,
A bustling, frantic metropolis that's hard to unravel.
Each mouse is a tiny being with its own story to tell,
A life that's lived in this strange and wondrous hell,
Where sound is king and noise is the currency they sell.

Some mice are quiet, shy, and small,
Content to hide in the shadows of your ear canal,
While others are bold, brash, and tall.
They shriek and squeal, and never relent,
A chaotic chorus that never seems to end,
A constant noise that's hard to amend.

You wish for silence, for a moment of peace,
For a chance to escape this auditory disease,
But the mice keep screaming, and they never cease.
You bury your ears in hot, burning sand,
But facetious filter yet remains in your hand;
So you try to drown them in your own sound,
A playlist of music to drown out their hound;
But the mice keep squealing, they cannot be drowned.
And so they remain mischevously wound.

One day you'll accept their presence, you'll find your own joys.
You'll learn to live with their noise;
And the forty five mice that live in your ear,
Scream at the top of their lungs and will make you fear
That with each mouse's scream, a new noise you'll hear.



-[X]-
 
Last edited:

Snowymaximus

Lord of Altera
Legend
Snowymaximus
Snowymaximus
Legend


Relationships
+ [Relation progressing]
- [Relation static]
~ [Relation ?]
(if wanting a relation send message here :3)​

Family Members ⇁
- Jacob Emmerson - My father. We didnt speak much.​
- Silvia Emmerson - My mother. She was nice to me.​
- Jacob Emmerson II - Brother.​

Romantic Interests ⇁
+ ???​

Friendly With ⇁
~ Hellm̴ann - A jȏ̵̡y to be around. Ins̷p̴ires me. { Adam/Byrne } [X]​
+ James / Braes- Partner of Laisa. Supports me. { TheDeester }​
Acquaintanced ⇁
- Loriss - Distinctively interesting and kind. { Laruza }​
- Laisa - Animancer. Teacher. I would like to learn more about her, and what she knows. { Samiwashere }​
Neutral ⇁
- Marcelline/Freia - Cheesecake inventor; first feeding; has a magic interest { Goldbeean }​
- Storm Arcturus - Animancer. Azarin. Has a long history and is good to talk with { Catalyst }​
- Maebh - Seer of Storms, Ghost of this Tip, Whalesbane and Protege of the Witch of the North. She told me a story in a sewer, it was fun. A bit strange. { Magic Intern }​
~ Patron - { Retro } [X]​

Wary Of ⇁
- Four? // Fronslin // Frost - I got sick and they made me feel better. We talked about magic briefly. Their name is a number. I dont think they like me, particularly. { Fronslin }​
+ Dayton - Threw a cat at me { Pandora12Q }​
Disliked ⇁
-​

Hated ⇁
- ???​

Remembered // Heard Of ⇁
- Milah Sicarus - We used to talk I suppose. Distant warmth, fading now. { Jazzper }​
- Esplin - Strange doctor, wore a mask. Wanted me to put on leeches { Wyvern740 }​
- Avalyn - A red haired lady, went to hospital together. Friendly. { Juvix_ }​
- Ronak - Talked to me in a rainstorm, and gave me a drink. { Mongoose }​
- Marian - Met in a chruch with Mourin. { mageaegis }​
- Sanigban - Works with Ignites. Seems principled. { Blorbis83 }​
- Nuvan - Hellmanns brother { Fredolator }​
- Valtae - Wife of Fronslin. Seems nice { The_VALKYRIE }​
- Ev'ren - Reminds me of Oliver { Somnastra }​
- Kharn - A guard pirate looking man { Warwolf }​
- Luna - Daughter of Laisa and and Braes. A faint memory from Frostwarts { Opal }​
- Lorabella - Adopted daughter of Hellmann and Loriss.​
- Rose - Family friend { Map }​
- Hyoga - Friendly neighborhood Makani. Gave me water, and offered frogs. { PRECURS0R }​
- Lana Wake - I read her books. I attend her lectures. Spoke once, outside of those. A writer I aspire to be. { I am Wake }​
- Anwar - Met at a bathhouse, seems nice { adam_unavailable }​
- Maple - She has nice hair. We talked briefly. Spritely. { Opal }​
- Gold Man - Preachy. He wears gold. { Crusader_Of_Man }​
- Branko - Big guy with an eye patch. Distinctively interesting. { Kostadim }​
- Hysope - Hellmanns sister​
- Arachne - Little girl. She pinched me​
~ Foxbells - Once a friend? She taught me things. Things I'm not sure I want. I get confused when I talk to her, but I listened, and wanted to learn. { Chiarophinx }​
- Mourin - He is like me. I would've liked to have known him better. { TidalTerror }​
- Reinhard - { LuxTop }​
Forgotten
- Ayda - Said hello { The Cinnaroll }​
- Aislin - A woman I met at a festival. She had candy but left. { Galaxy }​
- Banana Bread Man - He gave me some banana bread once in the rain. I don't know his name. { Fry }​
- Etrius - He has nice eyes. Has a thing for Thryss I think. { Serenade }​
- Jocasta - We met once at a tavern briefly. Had a social warmth. { Blorbis83 }​
- Hostile Blonde - He wanted to know about my eyes. He called me mad and strange. I don't know his name. { Joseph12Q }​
- Big Mean Guy- He called me a dirty, aimless child. I don't know his name. { General }​
- Erwin - A guy, talked briefly { Scroll120 }​
- Cerelia - Mute woman. I hope she gets her voice back. { Lizardd_ }​
- Calico - Little man. Wears a mask. Has an interesting view on the world { Tyinyk }​
- Ghiory - Scary looking Caparii. Not so scary person. { Bones }​
- Elwin - A man I met at the Compendium. Seems nice enough. { Rang3r0wns94 }​
- Peter - He has ears that are very soft and fuzy. { Galaxy }​
- Lamia - Child killer. Architect. { Kata }​
- Thryss - Once friend. She taught me things. A strength that I once needed. She was very kind. { Lenore }​
- Candice Kane - From the Kaltstaat. Nice in conversation { Galaxy }​
- Aleksandr - An accidental inspiration. Approachable, despite appearances { joshun }​
- Victor - Nice enough. Looks like my brother. { JennyBean }​
- Malark - Family friend. Loves alcohol. { MercurySteve }​
 
Last edited:

Snowymaximus

Lord of Altera
Legend
Snowymaximus
Snowymaximus
Legend
~Art~

forsnowy.jpg
By Samiwashere

I forget how many years ago I made this, but this was my first drawing of Rae when I initially thought her up


dont mind the hands :eek:
 
Last edited:

Blorbis83

Lord of Altera
Legend
Pronouns
He/Him
Blorbis83
Blorbis83
Legend
*Sits* I’m eager to see how this character turns out in RP :p
 

Snowymaximus

Lord of Altera
Legend
Snowymaximus
Snowymaximus
Legend
Kind of sad I haven't been playing on Rae all that often, being my first char. So I'm going to try and play her more, write more stories, and touch up her profile.
Stay tuned~
 

Citrine

Lord of Altera
Very Sweet
Legend
Big Voter
Pronouns
He/Him, They/Them
Zitrine
Zitrine
Sweetheart
I'd love to rp with her sometime, I think it'll be interesting :oops: also *sit*
 

Snowymaximus

Lord of Altera
Legend
Snowymaximus
Snowymaximus
Legend
Major profile changes, updated relationships, physiology, personality, inventory; updated story 7; added history, added new goals, added a pet card for Oliver, added statistics, and added three new stories.

Added art from Samiwashere :heart:
 
Last edited:
Top