Prepare for the #LodanRespawn2024 Existing characters may choose to be displace from/have memories of different timelines, thereby allowing returning members the option to retcon their whole character. These changes are the result of the "Unnatural Fog" plot device that is running between now and the Respawn. The plot is simple: no matter where your character is, that place is shrouded in a thick fog that suspends time, but not thoughts or memories, so even if they're repeating the same day over and over again, they continue to remember, so each time feels like a new day. For those retconning OCs; this is where new versions of themselves have the opportunity to replace the old versions. Official lore and tree updates will be announced asap
At Edgar’s cold response, Sayvahn laughed. “I don’t flatter you for a discount. I flatter you because it’s true.” Getting up, Sayvahn reached into his pocket, taking out the few coins that he had left— something that was going to have to change. But luckily, he had plenty of wigs leftover that he could sell, that he could bargain, and he figured that maybe he could go to friends for any loose chores— anything for some extra spare cash.
“Indeed.” Sayvahn hummed in response to Edgar’s distant reply. The feline noticed the other’s glance, at how distant, at how seemingly entranced they were in something so far away. It made a smile tug at Sayvahn’s lips, especially when the taller man’s gaze returned to him, expecting for him to approach. “Perhaps instead of smiling, you should read poetry.” Sayvahn offered, placing the coins onto the counter. “Because some things are beautiful no matter the language— and that includes you.” Sayvahn smiled, only to chuckly lightly as he waved gently toward the other. “Well, Edgar, I hope we meet each other again.” The ex-barber stated, the smile, unwavering as the blonde reached for his coat. "As it seems like you would prefer me to leaver sooner rather than later." The older man laughed.
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 10, 2016 5:23:16 GMT
He shook his head, a smile on his face despite the motion. “You’re an odd one, Sayvahn. Be careful, or you’ll be locked up for flirting with too many men.” Edgar didn’t exactly approve of men sleeping with other men, but business was business no matter where it came from. He wouldn’t judge this man based on what he did behind the scenes.
“Bis wir weider sehen,” he spoke as the other left. It wasn’t too loud, but he might hear it. But even if he did, he probably wouldn’t understand it. Especially with Edgar’s choppy pronunciation.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
With Edgar’s warning, Sayvahn laughed, yet it was a saddened one.
“Dearie, that would be one of the last things I would be locked up for.” Maybe one of them, yes. But, with all the other sins he carried, Sayvahn doubted that would be the worst one. Lowering his eyes, the older man sighed before giving a slight wave, body, already out the door before the feline could hear what the other ander had muttered. Still, even so, the man’s voice echoed in his mind. It was nice, having something so beautiful, something so innocent, chime through his head. It almost seemed to quiet Damien, but that silence— it couldn’t last forever.
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 10, 2016 6:12:53 GMT
Skip to present day. Sometime later, Edgar journeyed over to the Theater District to attend a show. As per usual, he only showed his face in the area to see a performance of an Epic. Tonight it was going to be a few stories from the vast collection held in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. He wasn’t sure what the performance would exactly entail, but whatever it was, it had to be something interesting. Edgar was dressed well for the occasion and strode into the theater with confidence. After finding a seat near the front, he settled in and waited for the show to begin.
Wooden beams held together the stomach of the theater, carved and reinforced as the arched ceiling climbed over the audience and toward the stage. The apron extended out, creating a little alcove where the orchestra pit dreamingly sang, violins plucked in practice and oncoming suspense as a piano lulled the audience from the aisles and into the house. A curtain was drawn, red velvet providing a barrier between the people and actors until at last the house darkened, and the curtains, pulled back. The hush of fabric silenced the auditorium as the narrator began their journey, the curtains, drawing back further until at last, the stage was revealed. Stairs, a chandelier, and at last, a pool, drawn in the center, reflecting the lights, the actors, as the stories unfolded. Various stories were told. Of love, of loss, the Greek mythos, coming alive in the turmoil and tragedy that befell the actors. Numerous stories bloomed, from Midas, to Orpheus and Eurydice, Narcisuss, Myrrha, Eros and Psyche, and at last, Baucis and Philemon.
Aida listened to the tales, body, being, transformed from extra to extra. A dancer, in the opening prelude, as the Woman of the Water sings life into existence, and then, a larger role, as the actress, destined to play Psyche had injured her ankle the day before during rehearsal. “I can learn her part.” Aida stated, when the incident had occurred. “There are no spoken lines, correct? I just have to dance.” Few believed that she could do it, but by the second hour, she had gotten the dance down somewhat, and by nights end and morning rise, she believed she had branded the dance into her body. Not as beautiful or elegant as the original actress was, but enough that another dancer would not have to be called. “Aida. Did you stay here the whole night?” Eros breathed as Aida danced into his arms, their hands, colliding only to be drawn apart. “Part of it, yes. Do I look that bad?” The feline asked, still not breaking formation as they rehearsed. “No. Just. Your movements are cleaner.” And they would become cleaner as they practiced more, until at last, their vignette began. Cast in a red dress, thin, but flowing, Aida stepped barefoot into the pool, dark and illuminated by floor lights all around, the candelabra illuminated in her hands as she approached Eros, blind, with his wings, folded down as Q and A spoke, their words, enthralling, captivating, as the two guided them through their journey, their dance, of love, of torment, and at last, closure, their bodies, following a ballet and waltz until their vignette ended, and next followed, Baucis and Philemon. Yet the tingling sensation lingered in Aida’s body. Lingered even as Eros and her were “married” bodies, entwined, as they left the stage, and the hands, unfamiliar, so drawn, had to be pulled apart. Eros was hesitant, and Aida smiled, pulling away first.
“You were marvelous.” The dancer purred, and Eros, removing his blindfold, nodded, whispering a “So were you.” There hands reunited when the last curtain call was made. Coming to stage, bowing along with the other actors, Aida at last looked out onto the people, so many she couldn’t recognize, but one, one she did. A figure, a tall one, with a stoic face. A barber she had long forgotten but his voice, trapped in poetry and song, still lingered in her mind. Play Inspired by Mary Zimmerman's Metamorphose
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 10, 2016 18:25:06 GMT
Edgar sat captivated from the moment the play began till the moment the round of applause rocked the building that had seem so large upon entry, yet now seemed to small. The dances, the stories, the actors. All were beautiful and all were marvelous. The poetry was recited wonderfully and throughout the play, everything was so very vivid and alive. The appreciation reflected in the barber’s features, as a smile was there, resting on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, already reliving the moments in his mind.
Usually the actors all had faces that meant nothing to Edgar, which made it easier for him to assign the persona of their characters to the faces. Yet there was one face that struck a cord of familiarity to him, the face of the dancer Psyche. It reminded him of a man who had come to his shop not long ago, and yet, it was different than his. This one was more feminine, perhaps belonging to his sister? His black eyes were glued to the other all throughout the dance and then found her again as she stepped on stage to receive the applause.
As the echoes of the applause died down, Edgar stood up and felt a need to walk towards the side of the stage. So that, perhaps, he could catch a moment with the wonderful dancer and be able to, at the very least, ask her of her name.
All those months ago (or was it but a single month?) Aida remembered the cold smile, yet the feature seemed to glow against the other’s pale skin. It was captivating, and the feline, she couldn’t help but smile as well, amused, as Eros helped to guide her behind the stage. After all, it wasn’t customary for actors to linger too long on the wooden arena that no longer called them forth. But, the man, Edgar, approached, and Aida, she laughed, ushering for Eros to stop, to go on without her. “A friend came to see me.” She explained, and hesitantly, the scantly clad angel nodded, waiting for a moment as Aida crossed the stage toward Edgar, a sway, locked in her rhythmic hips. “Hello there. What’s a handsome man like yourself waiting by the stage like this? After all, the lead is on the other side, dearie.” The older woman chuckled, her golden curls, flowing along her shoulders as she leaned forward to get a better look at the other. It seemed that the months since she had seen him had not done him harm— he was just as beautiful as she remembered him to be—however, perhaps not as stoic. The smile, it still tugged on the poetic man’s features— a nice change to his business one.
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 11, 2016 3:04:21 GMT
Perhaps one of the Greek Gods decided to smile upon Edgar. The woman dressed as Psyche was on the verge of disappearing back behind the curtains, but her green eyes met his own and her path changed. She looked to be a Goddess in her own right, however she was one that appeared stronger that most. Perhaps she related to the tribe of Amazonian woman.
And the way she moved, it was as if she were dancing even while walking. He couldn’t take his ebony eyes off of her. When she spoke, again the voice held a familiar cord, and again it reminded him of the man who had visited his shop once before, but it were also different in its own way. “Your dancing captivated me,” he said honestly. “And it seems I have been lucky enough to catch a moment of your precious time. There is but one question I would like to ask, so that I do not keep you away from your friends much longer.” As he said that he realized he was rambling. He tried to fix that, yet seemed to only talk himself into more circles. “I’m sorry,” he said as his eyes moved to the side. “But please, what is your name, besides that of the Goddess Psyche?”
The man before Aida was different, the barrier that had enveloped him, seeming to melt with her every movement, with her every word. Oh, how easily the cold that had entangled him dissipated, heat, pooling at his cheeks, dripping down his neck, where sweat and hair collided. He was nervous— and was more than just captivated. The taller man’s ramblings, words, pooled together in an attempt to relay the emotion that normally remained hidden. The thought made Aida smile, and, bending down ever so slightly, she caressed Edgar’s cheek with the back of her hand.
“Oh stranger, with stern eyes as black as the raven’s heart, your words flatter me—and if you wish to know, who is this Psyche? Then meet her in the alley, that lies in the back, and then, she will give her name and ask for yours in return.” The woman hummed before leaning upward, turning, ever so slowly to walk behind the velveteen curtain that separated her world, from his.
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 11, 2016 3:39:53 GMT
The touch of her hand, so kind, as it passed against his cheek. He relished in the touch, and had to remind himself that he shouldn’t crave for more. No, that was a dangerous feeling to have. He had already stumbled down the slope; it would be better to catch himself now before he reached the bottom.
“I will wait for you,” he said gently and his eyes, again, watched as her figure receded, disappearing behind the curtains now.
Turning, he walked out of the theater then, ignoring the eyes that landed on him. Were they curious? Jealous perhaps? That he had gotten to speak with the woman so beautiful. No matter the reason, he didn’t bother with giving them his attention. Instead, he exited the building and turned to walk behind it, leaning against the wall when he thought he had found the right place.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
Smirking, Aida tried not to laugh, her hand, tingling with the remains of soft skin, and those black orbs, peering into her. They were just as mesmerizing as the dancer remembered— obsidian jewels that matched raven hair, slicked back, formulated, every hair, in place—to see the taller man so weak before her— it was exhilarating. Perhaps that is why, when she returned to the curtain, Eros clung to her so tightly.
“Aida— who is that?” He inquired, taking her arm, ever so gently, almost as if they were starting their dance once more, their bodies, wishing to collide in mock joining, only to be torn apart by the hands of fate like they had practiced for so long, all for one night. “Hush, dear.” Aida spoke, caressing the other’s face just as she had Edgar. “All is well.” Planting a kiss on his forehead, the older woman parted ways with the young dancer, retreating to the changing room where she striped from her gown, still wet from being immersed in the pool to a lighter garb— a lighter color or red, yet not yet pink, with lace that trickled down the sides and around the bodice, one that layered to cover Aida’s true gender but gave shape to the one she wanted. Looking into the mirror, the feline stared at herself. At the makeup, ever so lightly reapplied, and to the wig that would remain on her forehead, pined to her scalp. She was beautiful. She was a goddess. She was Psyche.
By the time she grabbed her things, fifteen minutes had passed, the theater, still buzzing with life as people shuffled to and fro. However, it wasn’t hard for the dancer to slip out the back, to retreat into the alley where, just as she had asked, Edgar remained, waiting for her. Stepping ever so gently forward, Aida adjusted her white shawl, ruby lips, curling into a smile. “My Cupid waits for me, hmm?” The older woman chuckled. “I am honored.”
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 11, 2016 4:36:22 GMT
Edgar chuckled lightly, joy mixing with the sound. “I wouldn’t call myself a cupid, no. More so an admirer, a man wishing to learn more. For starters, your name. I crave to hear it fall upon my ears.” He smiled softly, stepping forward to gain a better view of the woman, despite her being slightly shorter than himself. That was okay, he preferred dealing with people who were eye level or lower.
“But where are my manners? If I’m going to ask for your name, I should provide my own. Anapello, Edgar Anapello. It is a pleasure to meet you offstage, miss…?” He looked to her, his eyes kinder than they usually were. Behind his dark eyes, he was reciting various measures and verses, trying to find the one that would sound the best.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
The barber was a smooth talker, when he wanted to be. A fairly descent one at that. Tucking a strand behind her ear, Aida tilted her head up toward him, the smile on her lips, never waning. “Edgar, hmmm?” The feline rolled the name along her tongue, stepping closer to minimalize the difference between them. Holding up her hand, Aida traced the curve of the boy’s jaw before, fingers, caressing bone. “Aida. My name is Aida. And the pleasure is all mine. After all, it isn’t often that someone like you calls upon a simple dancer like myself.” The woman hummed, eyes flickering, between those obsidian eyes and the jaw, the neck, that lay in front of her, barely exposed— hidden by a tight knit collar. What, she wondered, would cause such a collar to unravel, hmmm? "The honor is all mine."
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Post by Edgar Anapello on Jun 11, 2016 5:14:06 GMT
His jaw tensed as her fingers met his skin, but he did not move away. No, it would be rude to deny a woman. Edgar wasn’t the one making the advances, so there was nothing wrongly done in his book. Her voice was soft and he adored the way it spoke his name. He had to fight, reminding himself not to tumble down the slope of desire.
But was there anything wrong with willingly traveling down?
Reaching out with his own hand, he took the one resting on his face and brought it to his lips, gently kissing the smooth back. The hand was as soft as her voice, and he faintly wondered if it would match her lips. “An alley isn’t exactly an ideal location for getting to know one another. Could I, perhaps, recommend traveling to a more suitable location? Name a place and I’d be more than willing to take you there.” The hand, held in his own for the duration of speaking, was now released, allowing it to fall if it did not hang on of its own accord.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
Although Edgar was fighting the slope of desire, Aida was basking in it. The way that the barber kissed her hand, each caress, promising something else in their mark. The dance, the adrenaline of emotion and contact still throbbed within her being, the desire to touch, reciprocated as hands lingered in midair. “You can recommend— and I can propose.” Aida chimed, not removing her hand, but instead, drawing theirs closer, entwining their arms so that they walked arm and arm, and hand in hand. “There is a little bar not too far from here— it is generally quiet aside from regulars. It’s a nice little place where we can have some privacy and get to know each other. Would that be alright?”
“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught." ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
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