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
Post by Edgar Anapello on Aug 21, 2016 4:33:47 GMT
Those words were supposed to entrance her, maybe even make her swoon. Yet, the opposite effect was had. She grew sad as her eyes moved away, smile was gone, and hands were back in her lap. And then she spoke. It was a short verse, but the meaning was clear. She still held pain, but for who and for what? He wouldn’t ask, at least not yet. Instead he moved her to sit next to her, slowly wrapping an arm around her shoulders and coax her into leaning on his. He took a few moments to compose the verse, for he only remembered sparse lines from a poem heard so very long ago. And while be spoke, his hand moved gently up and down her back, rubbing it lightly to try and comfort her, for he knew doing anything but addressing the issue would only cause her more pain than was needed. “Love is…many things. Laughter, a hug A blanket, so snug The giving of time And taking it too Special things just for you And also The kissing, The touching The wanting, the missing The feeling, the craving All the things worth saving
Most people know this; it’s not new But most miss a part, so true Love is also sadness and pain That feeling of going insane It’s the teardrops falling It’s the heart aching It’s someone calling It hurts It’s sad, but also true Yet it doesn’t stop me From falling for you. Someone might still be there, Causing you pain But when you have nothing There’s only room to gain.”
It was a longer poem, and he was making up parts as he went, but it flowed. It worked. And maybe it would be able to help her in some way too.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
Consolation. He was trying to console her, with sweet words and a pattern on her back, followed, over and over as if just his touch could wipe away the weight from heavy shoulders. Maybe he didn’t realize that such a thing was not possible. At least, Aida didn’t want it to be. After all, what was the point of all this pain, if it could be so easily wiped away? Yet, the older feline gave into the touch, the heavy shoulders, relaxing somewhat as she leaned her head against his shoulder, listening to the soft words, his breath, tickling her cheek as the vibration of the verse echoed through his body to hers.
Laughter, a hug Constantly Given where time neither mattered nor cared and special was reserved not for one but all
What was the point of saving feelings that only she felt? What was the point of wanting to caress, of being caressed, when the feeling was far from mutual, but expected? Love is not an also, but is— is sadness, is pain. Insanity, lost to requited, but still, not. Of not only tears, but blood, of aching bones, not lost to time, but to this feeling called love. It may not stop the feeling, the pain, for it exists, it persists. And although it may not stop you, it stops me, and so, I must resist—
Ruby lips had remained closed long after Edgar’s poem, Aida’s mind, racing with her own thoughts, her own poem. But, the silence could not last forever. No, she had to play it off. Had to do something, had to escape what she had created, what >he< the fox that still haunted, that still tormented, had created.
Laying her hand against Edgar’s chest, the blonde tried to make herself more comfortable, attempting to relay words felt, yet perhaps, not meant. “Dearie, love is neither old nor young, and pain means nothing, but none.” Swallowing, Aida leaned away, hand, coming up to caress Edgar’s cheek, eyes, softening, but still hurt, still so aware— “Ah, um, that probably doesn’t make sense. I, um.” Turning away, Aida tried to find her words amongst the candles and dust. “I-I appreciate what you are saying but, well. I…” Clenching her fists tightly, the older woman looked once more to Edgar, her hand, coming to rest against his. “I… don’t want poems. I don’t want love, or pain, or rooms with more space. I just want…. you, or….is that too much to …place?” The dancer didn’t mean to be forward, to be so unkempt with her words. Talking to the other was a wits game, one she was obviously losing as hers had faded, had frayed, with not only his words, but another’s.
“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 Aug 21, 2016 5:30:44 GMT
He didn’t expect her to feel better just because he had spoken a poem, but he was hoping it would offer some solace at least. Yet, her reaction wasn’t one he quite knew how to take. So his mouth was unmoving, yet his eyes were still on her. He could see her pain, her confusion, as it was so vividly painted on her features.
He flipped his hand over and took hers into his, offering a small, but gentle, smile. Yes, he was starting to understand what she was struggling to say. The silence remained for a few moments as his thumb moved to stroke the back of her hand. And then a small chuckle sounded from his throat. “If it is I that you want, then it is me that you have. At least it’s something easier to provide than diamonds and gold.” He smiled a little wider and hugged her a little tighter as he spoke. “Perhaps I’m too eager, as I’ve been told before. Yet I can’t help how quickly I came to your call.”
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
Edgar read not only poetry, but her features, and Aida realized this, no, expected this. The shame that filtered on her face was subdued only by the instance of touch, of Edgar receiving and taking her hand in his, his soft hands, following the ridges of her own. Then, laughter. It wasn’t something she was expecting, and it took her back. Was he laughing at her? Her frown and confusion deepened, and she nearly took her hand away, but his grasp, it held it still, and even more so as he pulled her into a hug. A joke. Was this…. A joke to him? Perhaps. After all, he was young. Younger than her. Maybe, closer to >his< age in fact. Maybe that was an omen in itself. Lowering her eyes, she did not return the hug— at least, not right away, and when she did, it was not full, was not whole hearted. After all, the barber had said it himself. He was too eager. As had Lasair — as she, had been. “I see.” The dancer's words were sharp, were subtle. Perhaps she had been too eager as well. “Then please, take the time now.” Pulling away, she did so gently, yet, the strength that was used in her actions was different, was stronger then prior as her eyes were narrowed, contemplative, distrusting. “You offer yourself without knowing what you are committing to— and that is always dangerous dearie. For not only you, but for me as well.” Taking his face into her hands, Aida held him gently as she got on her knees, looking down upon him— almost as if, need be, the dancer could run, could flee, yet still be able to gaze into his eyes as she did. “I do not need diamonds. But, a person is much more fragile than any stone can be.” Tracing her palm against his cheek, the older woman sighed, lowering somewhat as she looked to the side. “Words mean little when it comes to truth, my poet. And although I want to trust you, the room may have space, but it is barricaded, and afraid.”
“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 Aug 21, 2016 7:37:59 GMT
The pain shot through his chest when her words reached him. It was two words, and two words only, yet it showed him that he had, indeed, done something wrong. It seemed he was always doing something wrong with the women. Yet from those two words, more stemmed forth. She retracted herself from him, forcing a distance between them. It may have been small, but the weight of it was heavy.
When she took his face in her hands, he pulled his face away. The way she spoke, she made it sound as though there was a reason to distrust her, to be wary. And so, he became. His eyes turned away, his motions became stiff, and his mouth ran dry as he could only listen further. The gentle touch of his cheek was interrupted as he pulled her hand away, releasing it as his own hands retracted, staying at his side. When it was, at last, his turn to again trade words, he found himself at a loss. And then, without thinking, his mouth spoke on its own. “I must thank you for the reality check, as I realize I was walking with my heart and not my feet. Until now, you have given me no reason to distrust you, for you were exactly as I called you; a goddess of my dreams come to walk in real life. And because you don’t know me, I’ll share something with you; I shouldn’t be a poet. Causes nothing but problems.”
He was upset, but not angry. She had just told him not to trust her, not to commit to her, and not to feel the way he did. But he couldn’t deny his feelings, not when he felt them so rarely. And as that thought crossed his mind, his expression shifted to show a little sadness behind his features. He wished she wouldn’t turn into another lady of his past, yet it seemed unavoidable at this point.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
He was slipping through her fingers. Features, stiffened, disgusted, as he pulled away, and then, at last, pushed her away. And that, she realized, was her own fault. She had done it again. No, no, she hadn’t. This couldn’t be her, couldn’t be Aida. The goddess, the confident person, couldn’t do this. This had to be Sayvahn. And Sayvahn, he was ruining everything for her. Always, always ruining everything. And the coldness in her heart, it faded, yet the pain, it welled. Looking down, she let the words hit her. Let them drum across her, each dent, fracturing the image she had created of herself. But wasn’t that the clincher? Created, not made, all just a lie? He was right to distrust her, but to say that now— now it was too late. Things were just falling apart. Flinching, she straightened, holding onto her arms for support as she swayed, unsure of whether to leave, or stay, as the anger in Edgar’s voice, although not lingering for him, sounded true to her. “I-I’m sorry. I just, I became uncertain.” Stepping toward the balcony, she peered down, into the world she had weaved, into the sanctuary she had created. Those theater seats that filled with people that would not only see her but would catch glimpses of who she actually was— who she wanted to be: a woman, a goddess. Yet, that too, was a lie. Swallowing, the older woman spoke, voice, shaking. “I was thinking not with my heart. If I was, I would not be making you look so torn. My isrfail, my poet, I care for you for being you. Your poems that are so sweet not only to my ears but my soul, your eyes that make darkness seem not lonely but warm. I did not need to know you. And I do not need to know you. Yet what I do know is what you share is a lie. You should be a poet. The problem alone is this goddess who is nothing but a mere dancer.” Rubbing at her eyes, Aida tried to keep her composure, trying to laugh, but it came out as a strangled breath, and like her makeup, it was fading, ever so slightly as tears dotted her eyes. “A dancer who shouldn’t have fallen in love with a poet.”
“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 Aug 23, 2016 1:55:51 GMT
At first he stayed sitting, watching as she moved away from him to peer over the edge. Her words drifted over to him, the bite in them suddenly gone. It wasn’t often that his words could scare the anger out of a woman; it took him by surprise to hear her speaking so defeated all of a sudden. But, that wasn’t right. No, she has a right to be upset. Even if it wasn’t a reason he quite understood. He stood up, joining her on the balcony. He leaned on it and glanced over to her, admiring the way her eyes were glowing, ever so faintly. Now, now she was being honest with him. And he appreciated that. And he realized that, perhaps, he was wrong to hold her to such high standards as the label of goddess held. “If I am to be your Israfel, then you are to be my Helen. A maiden so beautiful that the Greeks and Spartans fight the war of the century over you.” He reached out to hold her hand again, rubbing it as he had before his mood took over him.
“While I am honest in saying I shouldn’t be a poet, I won’t deny my status as one. And regardless as to these shoulds or shouldn’ts with falling in love, the feelings are there. And, perhaps, we both just need to be a little more cautious about where we go from here.” He pulled her hand forward, ever so gently, and kissed the back of it. And then he pulled it a little closer, kissing her wrist, and then the base of her arm, the middle of her arm, next to her elbow, and then up her arm as he reached her neck, kissing it gently and longer than the rest of her. Lastly, he placed a peck on her cheek and then leaned back a little, looking into her eyes as he smiled at her kindly.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
Dust danced in the fading light of the chandelier, his body, so close yet not close enough to her as they peered over the balcony to a world so distant from their own. She wanted to get closer, to wrap her arm around his and feel his warmth once more, but, what was he thinking? Her, to be Helen? If that be so, then what did that make him? Paris, or Menelaus? One, that seduces and takes away, or the love that is to come back, and take her once more? The comparison was flawed from the start though. After all, the blonde’s Menelaus would not come back to her, and maybe, it would be better that way. Yet, it was better not to linger on such a thought, not as the barber took her hand— an action that caused tense shoulders to slip, her body, to ache, wanting to be held by his strong arms that seemed too perfect, too sound, for her. Tender words, so fragile, escaped from his lips. She wanted to comply, to answer, but fear tugged at the woman’s own lips. After all, those had betrayed her thus far. Why would she go back to them, in a time too precious, too feeble? Soft kisses laced across her skin, from hand, to shoulder, to at last her neck, and she breathed in, taking in his scent— his hair, as he nuzzled against her neck, and then, at last, she took in his gaze, his smile so treacherous as it made her weak, her heart fluttering, trying to keep her a float. “I-It’s hard to keep caution when all I want to do is throw it to the wind.” Aida admitted, a hand wrapping around the base of Edgar’s neck. Although sensual, her movements were shy, reserved, as if unsure, eyes half lidded as her gaze flickered between lips and obsidian pools, her eyes, filled with desire for another kiss. “After all. No one told me that a man could make me feel this way.” Again, actions were withheld, yet, she tried to near him, lips lingering close, brushing, ever so softly against Edgar’s but unwilling until he approved, until he wanted to take hers as well. “Tell me, my poet, what should I do with this feelings, so true?”
“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 Sept 13, 2016 6:12:46 GMT
It was a precious thing to see her act so shy, so reserved. It made him smile even more as she neared him, stopping when they were only a breath a part. Throwing caution into the wind, while nice indeed, was something to only be done sparingly. But surely this time could be one of those rare times, couldn’t it? He believed it could be. He took a small breath and then spoke in a whisper, “Tonight, you should do what feels right and follow your desires. For is there no better time, but now, and no better place, but here?” A brief moment passed and then he closed the distance between them, kissing her gently but with passion. He was aching for her, there was no question in that fact. And while waiting was hard, it was not impossible. But he was getting ahead of himself. They were sharing a moment now, and he needed to know where she wanted to go with it before he acted any further.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
His permission was all that the dancer needed. Her desire was to kiss him, to bask in his warmth and grace, bodies, entwined. Yet, caution still had to linger, as truth so often does. But the touch of his skin against hers, his lips, locked with her own, enabled caution to burn ever so slightly with that inner desire, hands, coming up to gently hold the barber’s face, guiding him to her own, the kisses, soft while his was passionate. “Please.” She gasped the word, pulling him away from the balcony and to the opposite wall, the single phrase being left alone, as another kiss lingered.
“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 Sept 20, 2016 21:49:21 GMT
That simple please was all the prompting Edgar needed to strive forward. All the fun could be had in the dark, now couldn't it? And they were alone. It could be their little secret, together, hiding away from the world. Like last time, only time time felt even more concealed; contained. “I would say I’m sorry, but I have a feeling you don’t mind any of it, or maybe even enjoyed some of it.” He smiled at her affectionately, leaning back now to take a few breaths. Could it really be over already? Hadn't they just started?
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
“Hmmm? What gave you that idea?” She hummed, winking at him as she slid down some to get more comfortable. “After all, as they say. No pain, no gain.” The older woman chuckled, pulling back her hair to show off the mark, her eyes shimmering in the faint light of the candles and chandelier as her smile turned into a playful grin. “I suppose this makes me yours now, hmmm? Now, tell me, my poet, what will you do now that you have me marked and ready?”
“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 Oct 22, 2016 7:50:06 GMT
“Hm, maybe it was the way that you sounded, or the way you moved. I’m merely glad you were enjoying that as much as I was,” he spoke as she moved around, gazing down at her form before joining her in a more comfortable way to sit. Her shoulders were a bit broader than those of most woman. It gave Aida a more masculine look; a stronger one. And in turn, Edgar was stronger still for being the one to dominate her, to claim her as his own. Reaching out, he ran a hand along her bruised neck, trailing along the skin lightly. It was quite the mark, yet she seemed proud and eager to wear it. “I’d like to take you home and have you spend the night,” he spoke, pulling her to her feet and wrapping her into a hug. “I’d like to keep you as my own so long as you’ll allow me; so long as you’ll wear the mark.” He leaned in and kissed the bruise gently, lips doing nothing more than gloss the surface. “But tell me, sweet Helen, what do you wish to do with me?”
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
Aida's teeth grazed her lips as she bit them, trying to prevent herself from releasing a slight “Oh” as hands caressed her neck. Warmth trailed along her as Edgar pressed his body against the blonde, wishing for her to spend the night with him, and lord, did she want to. The elder feline wanted to do so many things with the man, and in turn, wanted him to do so many things to her— but the kiss on her bruise made a gasp filter through reddened lips, and wrapping her arms around him, she hummed as she leaned her head into his shoulder. “I wish to do many things, my dear poet.” The older woman smiled, leaning forward and kissing his shoulder. “And being yours, is only one of them.” Yet, tonight would not be the night to do so. After all, she had to return to the training studio before the doors locked, otherwise, the feline would be left outside to search for a place to stay, and the elder woman doubted that her barkeeper would let her sleep another night in his establishment dressed as she was. The downside of doing what she loved (no pun intended) it seemed. “But alas, I must go, my poet. The night is growing late, and I must hurry home.” The older woman spoke, drawing away.
“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 Nov 18, 2016 7:51:22 GMT
He grinned as she reacted to his actions, holding onto her as she held him, the gasp becoming music to his ears. But, when she drew away, his smile faltered. He still held her tightly, not quite letting her go. “If you must leave, then please, a least tell me where you live, so I can visit you at home,” he pressed, looking into her eyes. He truly didn’t want to let her go, not yet, not when it felt as though so little time has passed. Reaching out, he cupped her face, stroking her face with his thumb a few moments. The other arm was still wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly, preventing her from leaving him just yet. He needed to hang onto her for as long as possible, preserving every moment. Who knows when he’d have this opportunity again given how much time was between their last couple meetings.
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." -Paul Tournier
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