Azuran

I like it! For some reason I didn't picture it being snowy/icy until the end though, so I had to readjust my mental image. Blame it on being down in Florida right now where it's in the upper 70s today...

Man, the first half of this really resonated with me. Especially the bit with the claws puncturing, bleeding perspective, falling back into old habits that fit like old jeans--made sense and flowed well. By the second half I really felt like I was covered with all sorts of badness and I really wanted to just cleanse it all away. Filing in/over the holes just wasn't enough for me. Also, now I feel like there are still wasps all over me...

I'll be coming up with a character as well

Haha! I kinda figured being mostly absent would end up coming back to bite me--no pun intended. I almost survived through the paper deadline...almost

Conversation still never quite felt right to Paqs. Too forced or awkward maybe. On the streets he could go days without speaking sometimes and more often than not, a lack of talking was usually a good thing. Staying out of trouble you know. But listening--listening was key. You might overhear a baker talking about having to throw out a burned batch of bread. But when he overheard what had happened down in the hold and then the death of the captain? Well, it had always been survival first and Paqs was used to the mistrust of people who didn't know him...and that was pretty much everybody. In his experience there was no such thing as magic or voodoo, just the cold, hard cruelty of real people. And he had witnessed even the cheeriest shopkeeper turn malicious, yelling at the young boy that had just walked in that he was just a filthy urchin who would only scare off the other customers. Paqs honestly didn't mind most of the crew here though. Carey...Adam...Davey...they were all tolerable, if occasionally annoying with banter. Tiney seemed almost as comfortable as Paqs when it came to keeping to himself, a mentality that Paqs could always understand. There was always something strange with Equiano though--like he was always judging you with those eyes--but surely he'd be even more careful than most not to break any rules here, wouldn't he? Rumors and accusations were already starting to spread and Paqs made sure he grit his teeth and stopped by Lieutenant Swanson, both to affirm his position among the crew and to let slip that he thought Michael might have had something to do with this all. Paqs had no idea, really, but if it wasn't going to be him, it had to be someone else. Survival always comes first, right? OOC: Voting for Gyrfalcon - Michael Walters

Paqs is a younger boy, he'd guess around 13 or 14 although he isn't sure. Never knew his parents and grew up on the streets until he was 11 or so when he decided to stow away on a ship in order to avoid some angry townsfolk. The captain, Roland, had been both gracious and harsh, letting Paqs scrub decks and coil ropes until his hands blistered and finally calloused rather than turn him over at the next port. A year later Roland died in a bad storm at sea and when the ship was finally anchored in a safe harbor, Paqs, not trusting the first mate, slipped away into the night. He kept everything he'd learned about sailing though, and for the first time in his life found legitimate work, this time on a new vessel: The Fat Slug. Paqs isn't the brightest, but that's mostly because he'd never had the opportunity to learn much. He still doesn't always understand the normal civility of what's accepted in society, but if there's one thing Roland taught him well, it was the necessity of respecting authority.

I'd like to participate again! I'm dead tired right now, but I'll try to get a character up tomorrow, I promise!

Lord Bartholomew had not visited any of the fresh graves yet, preferring to instead publically offer Augustine a very large looking purse, heavy with coin that Augustine might use for aiding the families of those who had died--no, who had been murdered, one way or another. Bartholomew knew the priest would roll his eyes when he discovered that the bulk of the weight was just small iron pennies, but he also knew that the man wouldn’t complain--any aid was still better than none and while Bartholomew didn’t like to admit it, he suspected the cleric had some understanding that his wealth was not all he publically flouted it to be. Besides, what good is wealth when you or everyone around you is dead? Bartholomew was a little surprised to learn that most of the other villagers' chamber pots had been attended to, despite the absence of Abercrombe. Apparently Graham had stepped in--a little surprising, but the work did seem fitting for one of his...mind. A noble having to deal with his own piss pot, however, was shameful to say the least, and it was becoming difficult to ignore Graham’s repeated accusations. The man was clearly crazy and had always been difficult to understand, but perhaps there was a deeper madness lurking inside him now as well? OOC: Voting for Graham/Venefyxatu

“Not hungry really…” Bartholomew looked up and replied to Tennison’s question, quickly adding “but I will take another ale. Actually,” he paused for several long seconds while he loudly dug through his purse, glancing around to see if the other tables could in fact hear the clinking of many heavy coins, “I think maybe everyone could use another round!.” His gesture was greeted with a couple mugs raised in genuine thanks while a few merely acknowledged him with wan half smiles. Bartholomew looked from face to face around the room, as if he were a king trying to gauge the overall state of his vast empire of citizens. He noted Curtis sitting in the corner, already with a couple overturned empty mugs next to him, and wondered what the poor man was always trying to drink away… OOC: Voting for Curtis/Lord Panther Hopefully my formatting isn't an issue this time!

The cries from outside awoke Bartholomew earlier than he preferred, but he almost leapt out of bed despite his groggy state. There was no mistaking it--he had distinctly heard the word “werewolf”... His mind was racing and he quickly dressed himself in a long light green tunic, tied with a bright yellow silk sash. This would be bad for business for sure. While he did occasionally venture off to nearby larger towns to sell to wealthier folk and acquire more rare goods, he did rely on outside visitors to Derulian, infrequent though they were, to keep his purse heavy enough to maintain his lordly appearances. A pair of soft yellow deerskin boots and a long red and gold cloak completed the hurried outfit and he rushed downstairs, almost tripping over a pile of rich crimson sheets that had fallen off one of the display tables overnight. He walked towards the local inn where news and rumors always seemed to flow more freely. Forcing his expression into one of charming concern, Bartholomew did his best not to betray his inner feelings of unease and...suspicion...as he passed a few villagers on the way. He had heard plenty of stories of course, but only now did he truly understand the feeling of fear that grows deep inside, not knowing whether a terrible secret might lurk within one of the very townsfolk he glanced at as he passed. Hell, they might not even know it themselves! He suppressed a shiver at the thought and tried to put on a more heroic face as he pushed open the inn door and strode inside.

Bartholomew yawned sleepily, stretching his fists towards the ceiling and lifting the hem of his deep lavender nightgown up off the floor. He walked over towards the small balcony of the second floor of his shop, paused for a moment thinking, then turned to first grab the hat that was sitting on top of his wardrobe. Placing the incredibly large headpiece over his disheveled hair, and being careful not to tip over the peacock feather stuck proudly into the brim, he then turned back to balcony and, taking one final deep breath, threw wide the heavy gold curtains and stepped out into the mid-day sun. None of the people walking below seemed to take much notice, so Bartholomew gave another, much more exaggerated and unnecessarily loud yawn. Graham looked up towards the window curiously, squinted, and muttered something bright-sounding but incoherent and then continued on his way. “And a good day to you too! Maybe I’ll buy everyone a another round later this evening!” Bartholomew beamed and raised his hands as he spoke, not so much as a wave but as if the townfolk might begin to lavish too much praise is his direction. He stood on the narrow balcony for another minute or two, occasionally letting out a loud breath while gazing back and forth over the street to give ample opportunity for others to wish him a good morning. <edit: Sorry for intruding, Azuran - I removed the formatting because it was rendering as black on the dark skins, making this impossible to read! Still trying to understand why it happens sometimes... ~Tanny>

"Allow me to grace you with an introduction. I am...Lord Bartholomew M. Persius the Third." *brief pause in a regal pose for admiration* Lord Bartholomew isn't technically a Lord. But then he isn't very rich or particularly good looking either despite how he might act. He runs a large (ok, quaint) shop selling finely dyed bolts of cloth, with a small selection of extravagant clothing ("the largest collection of dashing capes within at least fifty leagues!"). He likes to think of himself as a beneficent noble in the village, and for the most part everybody's happy to smile knowingly behind his back and humor him.

Wow, such an impressive collection of familiar and talented faces; it's difficult to resist joining in. Is it too late to take part in this game of delicious drama, deception, and death?

I like it Can the name banner at the top have a transparent background?

A dollop of green, And a splotch of red. Blue splattered between, “Jusht slike thissh,” she said. A swig and a gulp, Too gone to keep track. Color dripping pulp, A blurrrry attack. Beer, saké, or wine? Inconsequential. The alcohol? Fine, Now that’s influential. ____________________________ alchemy, sensual, fractal