Details
- Last Login
- 10/06/2010 8:23 pm
- Total Posts
- 3886
- Posts Per Day
- 0.55
- Member Since
- 04/23/2005
- Location
- E. Peoria, IL
- Gender
- Female
- Website
- Personal Website
Interests
- Hobbies/Interests
- Writing horribly confusing walls of text. Haha!
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About
I am the resident storyteller, the verbose writer, the raving lunatic, the storm before the calm, the mad child. Of course I know what I'm doing!Thanks to Black Eon for giving me 1k! Random trivia does come in handy.
Thanks to Keren for the January Birthstone Crown.
I'm always interested in joining roleplay, as long as it's semi-lit to advanced lit and I'm not having to run the show practically by myself. I do tabletop rpgs (DnD, oWoD and nWoD, and anything else that I can get my hands on), so ask me if you're interested in having me join. I'm always willing to at least check it out. Also, if you know of anyone willing to play an oWoD game whatever it is, please let me know.
Also, please check out my E-zine, Heretic Magazine. I am a writer and currently am going for my certificate in desktop publishing/digital prepress.
Want a sample post? Keep reading.
Example post:
Chelsea shantytown, England 1888
Just within the shelter of the trees, a large camp of people had gathered, seemingly within only an hour, arriving in a chain of horses and run-down coaches, carts, etc. Already, they had set up their cooking fires and had set to their nightly activities. They made themselves merry by giving up to the night sky their strange song.
The music carried even into the outskirts of Chelsea, and caused many of the citizens to shudder. Dispite their urge to act, the guard did nothing.... for what was going on outside of the town was none of their business.
A lonesome, pale child approached this company, this band of people, but they did not at first welcome her. She was a stranger to them, as they were to her. And yet she endured the comedic taunts, lighthearted jests, and sometimes-cruel glances. They made sport of this, as the youth remembered a similar sport many years ago.
In one tent, an old crone stirred, flung her eyes open and wrapped her shawl about her. Her arthritic hands grabbed the sleeve of a boy, one of her own blood, and she sent him out with strange and quiet words out of the lean-to and to where the older men were smoking hand-wrapped cigarettes and leering at the pale child-stranger that had approached them.
The boy was dark, as the rest of his people were, with softly-browned skin, bright, earthy eyes, and toussled, chestnut hair. He wore a homespun navy sweater and muddy trousers. They were held up by suspenders, which brushed against his long-johns, wore beneath the outfit. He wore a well crafted silver earring and an amulet beneath his sweater, encasing his birth caul in a small case of blown glass.
The boy spoke up, chiming in with his uncles' booming voices. They ignored him, but he protested.
An uncle laughed more at this,
Quiet this whole time, in spite of being jeered and laughed at, the pale child approached the boy and smiled warmly, spoke in their own language.
This, in their own language, was a way of saying "I adore you", or "You are precious", or even "I love you", but still, at the sound of their own language coming from a mouth of a pale young chej who had clearly not been birthed by their own kind, was a shock.
The boy ran back to his grandmother while the older men looked at her as if she were a demon. They asked if she was one of the mulo, or ghosts. She seemed sad at first, and said yes. One of the senior uncles yelled across the camp for the crone, and slowly, she came.
The woman was bent over, perhaps by osteoporosis, and her joints were gnarled by arthritis and years of abuse and hard, honest work. Her eyes were hazy, and it was clear she was blind, but she did not need anyone to tell her the way, even though her grandchild accompanied her, shyly glancing at the pale child who spoke his family's language.
"Devlesa avilan, chej." (Girl, you have been brought by God.)
The crone shooed him away with a gnarled hand,
To this, the men grumbled and backed away, or shifted their weight and crossed their arms over their chests. Since the woman was old, the only man who was allowed to talk over her was her husband, who wisely said nothing.
Journal
What?
I can't possibly know what I'm going to write about.
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