Quote: “I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.” -- Groucho Marx
((OCC)) Ona again. It was suggested that I change from posting the results to having a messenger sent to Gemma when the results where known so that is now what Mr. Goldstein said in my last entry.
Gemma sat in her tree and let the wind blow her hair back of her face. The feel of the wind on her face and tugging at her hair was soothing, it calmed her nerves. It really was her tree too; she had planted it there when she was two years old, with the help of her older brother, Ben. One of the most useful things about her tree was that it now reached high enough that when she climbed to the top she could see the road leading to the house where she and her family lived.
She had climbed up with a book as soon as she finished her morning chores, only climbing down to prepare lunch and only come down to help prepare lunch before climbing back up with her own lunch and her book. She wanted to known about the messenger as soon as possible.
A few hours after the afternoon meal a man came walking down the road. Gemma rushed to climb down from her perch and scrambled around to the front of the house. There she sat on the porch to wait for the messenger.
The man who came into view didn’t look much like the kind of man who would work as Mr. Goldstein’s messenger, he carried a sword, was covered in scars and had an eye patch over one eye. He did not look very reputable, but Gemma knew that looks could be deceiving; her nanny had been a Gypsy who wore colors that where far to bright for any proper woman to be caught dead in. However, that same woman had discovered that Gemma had a natural talent for music and convinced her parents that she must be trained.
Never the less bright clothes where an entirely different thing form a man who carried arms and looked as though he had used them, though apparently not very successfully. The man however had no such fears about her and walked right up the driveway until he stood at the bottom of the stairs to the porch.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Hide-and-Seek
"Actually I ran away from school when I was 13. No one could find me, and the police were called. I was just hiding in a little thicket of grass at my school, and went to sleep." Zhang Ziyi
((OOC: It's Ishack again, I'm not sure what this post will be about. We'll see, hopefully the writing will go somewhere interesting.))
"The big burly guy" at the bar was Kyrus, after being refused a room (supposedly there were none remaining, although the innkeeper had welcomed two women directly after he arrived), he had paid several coppers for a meal, promising the innkeeper that afterwards he would leave. He was feeling very irritated that he was being thrown out merely because he appeared intimidating. Still, there was nothing he could do, unless he wanted to cause a rucus, and that would only attract attention, something he could not afford.
Kyrus downed another pint of ale. Kyrus considered himself a good drinker. He could drink more than three pints and still be able to win a fight, a theory well tested to be sure. Now, he ordered a second one, to go with his quail. It was a hearty meal, but he felt miserable. He was tired of this game, the hide-and-seek he had played for more than three months. He was tired of being cold and hungry. He was tired of all the bounty hunters that were after him, that he had to tediously dispose of.
They were tiresome and he had begun to loose all hope of a new, free life. He peered around the dark inn, in part scanning the crowds as was his custom, looking for anyone suspicious, also because he was restless for a brawl. Nah, no one worth fighting.
He finished the meal and wandered outside, maybe he could slip into an empty room through the window. He could a good nights rest without anyones knowing. He began to walk around the inn, peering through the windows, looking for an empty room he could use. He came to the stable, it would have to do for the night. He'd tip the stable boy, or just scare him into servitude and silence. He hurried and began setting up a bed in the hay.
That's when he saw the goat. He approached it slowly, briefly checking his surroundings to be sure he was alone.
"I know you..." he muttered. Where had he seen that goat before? It reminded him of something very important, what was it?
"Oh, shit. The Sisters." Instinctively his hand went to his eye patch.
((OOC: It's Ishack again, I'm not sure what this post will be about. We'll see, hopefully the writing will go somewhere interesting.))
"The big burly guy" at the bar was Kyrus, after being refused a room (supposedly there were none remaining, although the innkeeper had welcomed two women directly after he arrived), he had paid several coppers for a meal, promising the innkeeper that afterwards he would leave. He was feeling very irritated that he was being thrown out merely because he appeared intimidating. Still, there was nothing he could do, unless he wanted to cause a rucus, and that would only attract attention, something he could not afford.
Kyrus downed another pint of ale. Kyrus considered himself a good drinker. He could drink more than three pints and still be able to win a fight, a theory well tested to be sure. Now, he ordered a second one, to go with his quail. It was a hearty meal, but he felt miserable. He was tired of this game, the hide-and-seek he had played for more than three months. He was tired of being cold and hungry. He was tired of all the bounty hunters that were after him, that he had to tediously dispose of.
They were tiresome and he had begun to loose all hope of a new, free life. He peered around the dark inn, in part scanning the crowds as was his custom, looking for anyone suspicious, also because he was restless for a brawl. Nah, no one worth fighting.
He finished the meal and wandered outside, maybe he could slip into an empty room through the window. He could a good nights rest without anyones knowing. He began to walk around the inn, peering through the windows, looking for an empty room he could use. He came to the stable, it would have to do for the night. He'd tip the stable boy, or just scare him into servitude and silence. He hurried and began setting up a bed in the hay.
That's when he saw the goat. He approached it slowly, briefly checking his surroundings to be sure he was alone.
"I know you..." he muttered. Where had he seen that goat before? It reminded him of something very important, what was it?
"Oh, shit. The Sisters." Instinctively his hand went to his eye patch.
Concerning Goats and Termites
"Some primal termite knocked on wood,
And tasted it, and found it good,
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today."
--"The Termite", from Parents Keep Out, by Ogden Nash
((OCC: Ruby wrote this. Tanngnjostr was inspired by her sheep Woolfgang, who did not grind his teeth, and now lives in someone's freezer.))
Myrtle was even more miserable than ever. Vera had gotten a head ache and decided to go to bed early, so Myrtle sat all alone in the tavern part of the inn, wallowing in her misfortune. The owner of the Sowburry Inn, which she and her sister were now residing, had made Myrtle leave her goat, Tanngnjóstr, outside with the horses. Without her goat, Myrtle felt lost and unhappy.
Myrtle named her goat Tanngnjostr because Tanngnjostr was a mythological goat that ground its teeth a lot. Tanngnjostr did grind his teeth a lot, and it drove Vera crazy. To tell the truth, that was why Vera had a head ache had gone to bed early. Myrtle didn't care if Tanngnjostr ground his teeth into pale yellow powder, she loved him anyway. Myrtle and Tanngnjostr were made for each other. True, most sixteen year old girls didn't have goats following them around, but Myrtle wasn't afraid to be a little odd. Most sixteen year old girls weren't witches either. If anyone had a problem with her goat, she would just give them the plague.
Myrtle looked around the dark tavern. She spied a ratlike man with a ferret hanging off his shoulder. "How come he gets to bring his pet inside?" Myrtle wondered jealously. She averted her eyes from this slimy rodent injustice. The room was filled with happy laughing people who were drinking ale and singing stupid songs about alcohol. The hearth was burning merrily, which provided only enough light to make the wood that made up the tables, walls and floor looked damp, dark, and perfect for termites--not that Myrtle knew what sort of wood termites liked to eat. She just liked the thought of the whole building being eaten hollow from the inside out and collapsing on rat-man and his ferret.
Myrtle continued her people watching. Besides rat-man, there was a little man with six fingers, a man who was missing an ear, a dark looking man with a dark hood covering his face, and long greasy dread locks hanging out of his cloak, a hunchback that was missing an arm, and a big burly guy sitting at the bar next to her who looked even more unfortunate than even Myrtle herself. There were also plenty of pock marked people. Too bad, Myrtle couldn't give them the plague a second time.
And tasted it, and found it good,
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today."
--"The Termite", from Parents Keep Out, by Ogden Nash
((OCC: Ruby wrote this. Tanngnjostr was inspired by her sheep Woolfgang, who did not grind his teeth, and now lives in someone's freezer.))
Myrtle was even more miserable than ever. Vera had gotten a head ache and decided to go to bed early, so Myrtle sat all alone in the tavern part of the inn, wallowing in her misfortune. The owner of the Sowburry Inn, which she and her sister were now residing, had made Myrtle leave her goat, Tanngnjóstr, outside with the horses. Without her goat, Myrtle felt lost and unhappy.
Myrtle named her goat Tanngnjostr because Tanngnjostr was a mythological goat that ground its teeth a lot. Tanngnjostr did grind his teeth a lot, and it drove Vera crazy. To tell the truth, that was why Vera had a head ache had gone to bed early. Myrtle didn't care if Tanngnjostr ground his teeth into pale yellow powder, she loved him anyway. Myrtle and Tanngnjostr were made for each other. True, most sixteen year old girls didn't have goats following them around, but Myrtle wasn't afraid to be a little odd. Most sixteen year old girls weren't witches either. If anyone had a problem with her goat, she would just give them the plague.
Myrtle looked around the dark tavern. She spied a ratlike man with a ferret hanging off his shoulder. "How come he gets to bring his pet inside?" Myrtle wondered jealously. She averted her eyes from this slimy rodent injustice. The room was filled with happy laughing people who were drinking ale and singing stupid songs about alcohol. The hearth was burning merrily, which provided only enough light to make the wood that made up the tables, walls and floor looked damp, dark, and perfect for termites--not that Myrtle knew what sort of wood termites liked to eat. She just liked the thought of the whole building being eaten hollow from the inside out and collapsing on rat-man and his ferret.
Myrtle continued her people watching. Besides rat-man, there was a little man with six fingers, a man who was missing an ear, a dark looking man with a dark hood covering his face, and long greasy dread locks hanging out of his cloak, a hunchback that was missing an arm, and a big burly guy sitting at the bar next to her who looked even more unfortunate than even Myrtle herself. There were also plenty of pock marked people. Too bad, Myrtle couldn't give them the plague a second time.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Music
"Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here" -- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
((OOC: This is Ona again. This entry is much longer and introduces you to my character quite well if I do say so myself. Her name is not very creative and it may be rather obvious too some where it comes from. Hope you enjoy it anyway))
"You must be here for the audition," Gemma turned around looking for the source of the voice. A friendly looking old man sat in the first row of seats in the theater.
"Yes sir," Gemma answered nervously. "My name is Gemma Blythe."
"Pleased to meet you Gemma Blythe," said the old man. "My name is John Goldstein, I'm the conductor of the Dunlin national orchestra."
Gemma curtsied and muttered a polite 'how do you do'.
“Why don’t you warm up a bit and then we will see what you can do,” said Mr. Goldstein, with an encouraging smile.
Gemma nodded and sat down on the chair set in the middle of the stage, she felt very much on the spot, up on the big stage all by herself. In the small village she came from she rarely performed for more than one of two people, and anyway not many people in Sand Point knew enough about music to tell if she was playing well or not.
She opened that black case that held her precious flute with care. Then she carefully removed each piece from where it was nestled in the red velvet lining of the case. The flute was old, the same one she’d had since she started playing when she was a child, and the silver was tarnished, but it still played beautifully.
She put the instrument too her lips, closed her eyes and played a simple but pretty little tune. As she did she could feel the emotion behind it, the happiness and joy it evoked in any one who listened, she felt tenfold when she played.
“Very good, Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. Gemma was startled, she had forgotten where she was for a moment. “Now look at the music on the stand. Have you seen it before.” Gemma shook her head. “You may have a few minutes to look at it and then you will play it for me.”
The piece in front of her had three parts. The first two she knew she would have no problem with, the first was slow and beautiful, it would require lots of expression and breath control, not something she had ever had a problem with. The second section was a march, relatively simple the kind of thing she loved to play because it always made her think of heroes and adventures. The third part was the kind of thing that she had forced herself to master, the kind she hated to play because it was always more difficult to master, it was a fast paced section, full of sixteenth note runs and no room to breath. It would sound like a fairy dance if played right but she still hated sight reading this kind of music.
Finally she looked up at Mr. Goldstein and, when he nodded, began to play. She glided through the first section, proudly marched through the second and then came to the third. She did her best and her best was quite good, she only messed up two of the runs.
“Thank you Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. “The results of the audition will be posted in the lobby tomorrow.” Gemma curtsied again, put her flute away and left the room quietly.
Mr. Goldstein smiled and nodded to himself. “Yes she’ll do quite nicely.”
((OOC: This is Ona again. This entry is much longer and introduces you to my character quite well if I do say so myself. Her name is not very creative and it may be rather obvious too some where it comes from. Hope you enjoy it anyway))
"You must be here for the audition," Gemma turned around looking for the source of the voice. A friendly looking old man sat in the first row of seats in the theater.
"Yes sir," Gemma answered nervously. "My name is Gemma Blythe."
"Pleased to meet you Gemma Blythe," said the old man. "My name is John Goldstein, I'm the conductor of the Dunlin national orchestra."
Gemma curtsied and muttered a polite 'how do you do'.
“Why don’t you warm up a bit and then we will see what you can do,” said Mr. Goldstein, with an encouraging smile.
Gemma nodded and sat down on the chair set in the middle of the stage, she felt very much on the spot, up on the big stage all by herself. In the small village she came from she rarely performed for more than one of two people, and anyway not many people in Sand Point knew enough about music to tell if she was playing well or not.
She opened that black case that held her precious flute with care. Then she carefully removed each piece from where it was nestled in the red velvet lining of the case. The flute was old, the same one she’d had since she started playing when she was a child, and the silver was tarnished, but it still played beautifully.
She put the instrument too her lips, closed her eyes and played a simple but pretty little tune. As she did she could feel the emotion behind it, the happiness and joy it evoked in any one who listened, she felt tenfold when she played.
“Very good, Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. Gemma was startled, she had forgotten where she was for a moment. “Now look at the music on the stand. Have you seen it before.” Gemma shook her head. “You may have a few minutes to look at it and then you will play it for me.”
The piece in front of her had three parts. The first two she knew she would have no problem with, the first was slow and beautiful, it would require lots of expression and breath control, not something she had ever had a problem with. The second section was a march, relatively simple the kind of thing she loved to play because it always made her think of heroes and adventures. The third part was the kind of thing that she had forced herself to master, the kind she hated to play because it was always more difficult to master, it was a fast paced section, full of sixteenth note runs and no room to breath. It would sound like a fairy dance if played right but she still hated sight reading this kind of music.
Finally she looked up at Mr. Goldstein and, when he nodded, began to play. She glided through the first section, proudly marched through the second and then came to the third. She did her best and her best was quite good, she only messed up two of the runs.
“Thank you Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. “The results of the audition will be posted in the lobby tomorrow.” Gemma curtsied again, put her flute away and left the room quietly.
Mr. Goldstein smiled and nodded to himself. “Yes she’ll do quite nicely.”
Friday, April 20, 2007
Must've been some godawful wallpaper
"Either that wallpaper goes, or I do."
-dying words of Oscar Wilde
((OOC: I'm Flo. I am the "nice" one of the group. I know that's a bland word, but it's basically true. I think I'm kind of boring sometimes, but what can ya do? I have my ditzy moments, but generally I am able to keep my blondenss in check. I like humor, and it tends to leak into my writing entries, no matter how I try to stop it. I guess I just can't take myself that seriously. I love laughing, and dancing, and music, and writing, and my little brother and sister, and my family, and my friends, and words, and a whole bunch of other things. But if I talk too much longer, I'd bore your pants off, so on with the story!))
Dear Diary,
It rained again today, and Myrtle was whiney as ever. Did you know she's given herself a new name? Myrtle the Unfortunate. No joke. Not only is she not old enough for an official title, but could she have come up with a more absurd name? I've told her it's just for now, and that she'll have to be re-christened when she comes of age, and do you know what she said? "All right, Vera. Would you like a daisy?" A daisy?! A DAISY! She's unbelievable, I tell you. Always complaining, she is, about how the broom is ill, and how tired she is, and how dirty her cloak is getting, and every little thing you can think of. I have to keep reminding myself of why I have to bear her as a burden: I promised Mother I'd train her in the art of witchcraft, and by gods, I'll do it if it kills me.
Today marks the first day of the fourth week of searching, and I'm beginning to lose hope. It seems as if we're always right on his tail, and then when we've about caught him, the accursed prince escapes! Last time, we even got so close as to be in the same inn as him, and right when we were about to ambush him in his room, he escaped out the window. There were no knotted bedsheets to speak of, so it at least gives me satisfaction to think that he took with him a few bruises, and perhaps even a broken limb or two. I must go, for the light grows dim, and Myrtle's goat ((OOC: Ruby, can I pleeeeaaase give you a goat?)) has eaten the last of the candles. Hopefully we will have made some headway tomorrow, and if not, well...we'll see what happens. We're on our way into a town called Sowburry. Perhaps they raise pigs there? Until tomorrow,
Vera the Vicious ((OOC: Vehement? Vicarious? Virile? Naw, jk, but what about the first two? I can't decide.))
-dying words of Oscar Wilde
((OOC: I'm Flo. I am the "nice" one of the group. I know that's a bland word, but it's basically true. I think I'm kind of boring sometimes, but what can ya do? I have my ditzy moments, but generally I am able to keep my blondenss in check. I like humor, and it tends to leak into my writing entries, no matter how I try to stop it. I guess I just can't take myself that seriously. I love laughing, and dancing, and music, and writing, and my little brother and sister, and my family, and my friends, and words, and a whole bunch of other things. But if I talk too much longer, I'd bore your pants off, so on with the story!))
Dear Diary,
It rained again today, and Myrtle was whiney as ever. Did you know she's given herself a new name? Myrtle the Unfortunate. No joke. Not only is she not old enough for an official title, but could she have come up with a more absurd name? I've told her it's just for now, and that she'll have to be re-christened when she comes of age, and do you know what she said? "All right, Vera. Would you like a daisy?" A daisy?! A DAISY! She's unbelievable, I tell you. Always complaining, she is, about how the broom is ill, and how tired she is, and how dirty her cloak is getting, and every little thing you can think of. I have to keep reminding myself of why I have to bear her as a burden: I promised Mother I'd train her in the art of witchcraft, and by gods, I'll do it if it kills me.
Today marks the first day of the fourth week of searching, and I'm beginning to lose hope. It seems as if we're always right on his tail, and then when we've about caught him, the accursed prince escapes! Last time, we even got so close as to be in the same inn as him, and right when we were about to ambush him in his room, he escaped out the window. There were no knotted bedsheets to speak of, so it at least gives me satisfaction to think that he took with him a few bruises, and perhaps even a broken limb or two. I must go, for the light grows dim, and Myrtle's goat ((OOC: Ruby, can I pleeeeaaase give you a goat?)) has eaten the last of the candles. Hopefully we will have made some headway tomorrow, and if not, well...we'll see what happens. We're on our way into a town called Sowburry. Perhaps they raise pigs there? Until tomorrow,
Vera the Vicious ((OOC: Vehement? Vicarious? Virile? Naw, jk, but what about the first two? I can't decide.))
Man or Beast?
“There are two methods of fighting, the one by law, the other by force: the first method is that of men, the second of beasts.”-Machiavelli (The Prince)
((OOC-What makes a good man good and a bad man bad? Is it, as it often is with history, point of view and therefore the winner and recorder of history that names themself as 'good'? Just bringing it up because this story is from the point of view of four very different character and, from each of their minds, their own actions or justified--although one of the character's you'll meet may just be confused--from their point of view.Interesting pondering, that's all. Now to the good part, the entry))
Erik and the stranger entered the village. It was a busy place. Women bustled at a nearby stream, fervently washing the last load of laundry in time to prepare supper. Men split wood for the evening fire. Young boys parried with wooden sticks. Erik waved to another young man of his age.
“Who is that by your side, Erik?”
“Foreigner. Just arrived, I think.”
“My name is Jacob? Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur.”
“I am Kyrus of Rochefou.”
“Welcome to Sowburry, Kyrus of Rochefou. Will you be staying at Erik’s?”
“No,” replied Erik, “He merely asked me to show him to the village. I fear I must now take my leave. As I said before, Monsieur, my parents will be expecting me.”
“Thank you for all your help,” growled Kyrus.
Erik swiftly hurried away, and after turning the block, ran all the way home.
Kyrus glared at Jacob, “Tell me boy, are there any inns in this here village?”
Jacob, now alone with the burly traveler, became greatly aware that all he wanted to do was be away. Something about the man discouraged badinage. “Yes, Monsieur, we have an inn two streets down. I would take you there but…my folks are expecting me as well.”
Kyrus frowned at him, unconvinced.
“You know, folks these days, do not want us young ones staying out too late, missing supper.”
“Go then.”
“Farewell, if I do not chance to meet you again, I hope you enjoy your stay in Sowburry.”
“I am sure I shall.”
Kyrus watched the boy go. Shaking his head, he laughed. It was an unnerving laugh, which raised the hairs on several villagers nearby. Smiling a crooked grin, he strode down the street toward the inn.
Myrtle the Unfortunate
Quite #4: "Be virtuous and you will be eccentric." --Mark Twain.
((OCC: My name is Ruby. I have a scary cat with fangs and I used to have an attack sheep. I like plants and fish and playing piano and camping and vegetables and cats and sheep.))
Myrtle the unfortunate trudged unhappily behind her sister. For such a long trip, Myrtle would have preferred to have taken the broomsticks, but the kitchen broom had the flu, and the mop was always grumpy and unpleasant, making for a very bumpy ride. She tried in vain to keep her ragged black dress from dragging in the mud and horse droppings, but to no avail on such an rough road. She and her sister had left in a hurry. Annoyingly, like so many times before, their quarry had disappeared into thin air. Well, not literally. But thats what it seemed like. Of course, Myrtle could herself disappear into thin air, but that was irrelevant, because she had no way of knowing unto whither her target gone. Some people thought witches could do anything. Those people were sorely mistaken.
The ragged sisters had passed through many small towns and villages throughout the last three weeks of searching. The two had disguised themselves as old hags, a simple, quick spell, good for people in a hurry. It took much longer to disguise one's self as say, a princess, or a dashing young knight; essence of old hag was much easier to come by than essence of royalty. Unfortunately, pretty people were often treated much better in inns and restaurants than the more homely crowd. Indeed, Myrtle predicted a plague outbreak to appear in the kingdom of Dunlin presently.
((OCC: My name is Ruby. I have a scary cat with fangs and I used to have an attack sheep. I like plants and fish and playing piano and camping and vegetables and cats and sheep.))
Myrtle the unfortunate trudged unhappily behind her sister. For such a long trip, Myrtle would have preferred to have taken the broomsticks, but the kitchen broom had the flu, and the mop was always grumpy and unpleasant, making for a very bumpy ride. She tried in vain to keep her ragged black dress from dragging in the mud and horse droppings, but to no avail on such an rough road. She and her sister had left in a hurry. Annoyingly, like so many times before, their quarry had disappeared into thin air. Well, not literally. But thats what it seemed like. Of course, Myrtle could herself disappear into thin air, but that was irrelevant, because she had no way of knowing unto whither her target gone. Some people thought witches could do anything. Those people were sorely mistaken.
The ragged sisters had passed through many small towns and villages throughout the last three weeks of searching. The two had disguised themselves as old hags, a simple, quick spell, good for people in a hurry. It took much longer to disguise one's self as say, a princess, or a dashing young knight; essence of old hag was much easier to come by than essence of royalty. Unfortunately, pretty people were often treated much better in inns and restaurants than the more homely crowd. Indeed, Myrtle predicted a plague outbreak to appear in the kingdom of Dunlin presently.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A Kindred Spitit...
Quote #2: "You're both queer enough if that's what you mean by kindred spirits" -Marilla Cuthbert, L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables
OOC: Hello all allow me to introduce myself; I'm Ona (pronounced like Anna with a short a). I'm the one who is described as a 'drama queen' and 'obsessive' (at least most of the time I get called all kinds of things). My entry will be short because I have to go to my flute lesson. Sorry about that.
Meanwhile in Sowburry a woman stood out side a theater, nervously biting her lip. She held a flute case in one hand.
"It's all right," she said to herself. "It’ll be just like in books, when the protagonist is dreading whatever they have to do and it turns out just fine. Nothing to worry about."
Then she took a deep breath and opened the door to face her greatest fear, the only thing that stood between her and her dreams: the dreaded audition.
OOC: Hello all allow me to introduce myself; I'm Ona (pronounced like Anna with a short a). I'm the one who is described as a 'drama queen' and 'obsessive' (at least most of the time I get called all kinds of things). My entry will be short because I have to go to my flute lesson. Sorry about that.
Meanwhile in Sowburry a woman stood out side a theater, nervously biting her lip. She held a flute case in one hand.
"It's all right," she said to herself. "It’ll be just like in books, when the protagonist is dreading whatever they have to do and it turns out just fine. Nothing to worry about."
Then she took a deep breath and opened the door to face her greatest fear, the only thing that stood between her and her dreams: the dreaded audition.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
A Dreamer...
Quote #1: “There is no man more fearful in action than a dreamer.”-Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)
((OOC- Okay, first off: OOC means Out Of Character. Second off: This is not the typical blog, this is a role play. My friends and I will be alternating as authors of each entry and in that manner will create a story. Each of us will be assuming a character, of our own unique choice. Before I begin, let me introduce myself a bit better—I’ll let my ‘colleagues’ introduce themselves in their own entries— My name is Ishack, of the group I have been described as the “cynical pessimist”, in truth I just have a very dry (desert dry) sense of humor. I am interested in political theories (all things ending in ism—collectivism, communism, individualism, fascism, socialism…you get the point). That’s all I can think to say about myself, now to the fun part, the writing!))
Dark clouds hung over an empty forest. Rain fell from leaf to leaf. Thunder split the night. And yet, there it was, still just an empty forest. No one was there to see the howling wind. No horse sludged through the mud that foul night. No drenched cloak weighed heavily upon a traveler's back. Quite simply, the forest was empty. This is why our tale takes place elsewhere, on a different night, in a different forest. Our character now is no tired traveler, but a nimble lad of seventeen, with unkempt black hair and a bow in hand.
Erik wandered through the trees, towards home. He had had a good hunt, resulting in a rabbit for supper. His father would be proud. He began to whistle a tune from his boyhood.
CRASH.
“Darn tree!”
Erik quickly readied an arrow and, pivoting, looking for the speaker. It was quite apparent, a foreigner lay fallen on the ground, surrounded by broken tree branches and autumn leaves, rubbing his bottom ridiculously. Still, upon closer examination, Erik found that that was the only thing ridiculous about this man. He bore scars upon his arms and face, a patch covered one eye, and a two-inch wide broad sword was tied, in a hilt, to his back.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” Erik figured that, after comparing his lean size to this man’s broad shoulders and strong build, it was best not to anger or embarrass the man.
The man looked him over, “What is your name, boy?” He spoke in a heavy accent, hardening the “t” and growling the “r”.
“Erik, Monsieur, but if you don’t need help, I’ll be on my way. My parents are expecting me.”
“I wonder if you would show me the way to your village.” The man turned a light pink and Erik realized why he had been in the tree in the first place.
“Yes, Monsieur, just follow me.”
They began to walk, Erik leading the way, the traveler moving quietly behind him.
“What country is this lad?”
Erik stared at him, “Dunlin, of course.”
“Ah yes, and which village are you taking me to?”
“The Village of Sowburry. Have you been here before?”
“To Sowburry? Not even to Dunlin, not that I knew, that is.”
((OOC- Okay, first off: OOC means Out Of Character. Second off: This is not the typical blog, this is a role play. My friends and I will be alternating as authors of each entry and in that manner will create a story. Each of us will be assuming a character, of our own unique choice. Before I begin, let me introduce myself a bit better—I’ll let my ‘colleagues’ introduce themselves in their own entries— My name is Ishack, of the group I have been described as the “cynical pessimist”, in truth I just have a very dry (desert dry) sense of humor. I am interested in political theories (all things ending in ism—collectivism, communism, individualism, fascism, socialism…you get the point). That’s all I can think to say about myself, now to the fun part, the writing!))
Dark clouds hung over an empty forest. Rain fell from leaf to leaf. Thunder split the night. And yet, there it was, still just an empty forest. No one was there to see the howling wind. No horse sludged through the mud that foul night. No drenched cloak weighed heavily upon a traveler's back. Quite simply, the forest was empty. This is why our tale takes place elsewhere, on a different night, in a different forest. Our character now is no tired traveler, but a nimble lad of seventeen, with unkempt black hair and a bow in hand.
Erik wandered through the trees, towards home. He had had a good hunt, resulting in a rabbit for supper. His father would be proud. He began to whistle a tune from his boyhood.
CRASH.
“Darn tree!”
Erik quickly readied an arrow and, pivoting, looking for the speaker. It was quite apparent, a foreigner lay fallen on the ground, surrounded by broken tree branches and autumn leaves, rubbing his bottom ridiculously. Still, upon closer examination, Erik found that that was the only thing ridiculous about this man. He bore scars upon his arms and face, a patch covered one eye, and a two-inch wide broad sword was tied, in a hilt, to his back.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” Erik figured that, after comparing his lean size to this man’s broad shoulders and strong build, it was best not to anger or embarrass the man.
The man looked him over, “What is your name, boy?” He spoke in a heavy accent, hardening the “t” and growling the “r”.
“Erik, Monsieur, but if you don’t need help, I’ll be on my way. My parents are expecting me.”
“I wonder if you would show me the way to your village.” The man turned a light pink and Erik realized why he had been in the tree in the first place.
“Yes, Monsieur, just follow me.”
They began to walk, Erik leading the way, the traveler moving quietly behind him.
“What country is this lad?”
Erik stared at him, “Dunlin, of course.”
“Ah yes, and which village are you taking me to?”
“The Village of Sowburry. Have you been here before?”
“To Sowburry? Not even to Dunlin, not that I knew, that is.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
