In spite of a hiatus from most things WoW over the last few months, I’ve still found a little time for RP here and there. Planning storylines for the upcoming Cataclysm has proven to be a pretty daunting task and implementing them can be even more difficult. Ambika is midway through a plot that will, for better or worse, attempt via indirect therapy to repair character flaws and put her on the path to becoming a more pleasant person to be around; Ysani is caught in an unenviable position between what she wants and what her conscience tells her she should do.
Other characters, because I am capable of visiting great evil upon the characters I create in the name of a good story, will have to endure great tragedy, or even pain.
Libby and Fenniel are a sweet, adorable couple, but a great part of the reason they are together is fear for the alternatives, the fear of being alone, of never finding anything else worth having or able to cope with their various neuroses. Because of this, they’ve made a choice to live together in a world that doesn’t accept what they are to each other, and it’s put them in a tough spot.
As cute as they are together, they are finding the world is a hard and unforgiving place, and there are very few happily-ever-afters to be had.
I expect this arc, a sad, sometimes funny, sometimes depressing collaboration between myself and Fenniel’s player, will play out most weekdays over the rest of the month. This segment follows their decision to move after they feel threatened by people who disapprove of their union.
Authors: Me & Hammy
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Libby tugged at one of her long braids. It was starting to come undone at the bottom and had frayed all the way up to her waist, but she was oblivious. They had a Problem.
There was entirely too much stuff in their apartment.
She had appropriated a half-dozen crates from various Dalaran businesses, scrounging behind storefronts in the early morning while the pot simmered. (Libby was a firm believer in soup, even for breakfast. This one was flavored with bacon, full of potatoes, swimming in cream, and she was pretty sure it would substantially boost Fenniel’s mood. Like, into the stratosphere, at least temporarily.)
The apartment was a large, open-ceiling room at the top of the Legerdemain, with an alcove to one side that held the kitchen, and a small bedroom opposite. Inside the bedroom, four crates were neatly lined up at the foot of the bed, each filled to the very top with color-coordinated, neatly-folded clothing, towels and linens, alphabetized books, toiletries (mostly homemade) in bottles, boxes and bags of every color, arranged carefully in precise rows by purpose and main ingredient.
She hadn’t even touched the alchemy supplies or the kitchen, and she was deliberately Not Thinking about Fenniel’s shop tools. Libby frowned and tugged on her braid some more, now clutching at it feverishly with both hands. A stack of folded fabric and clothing sat on the bed, mocking her.
So deep in anxious thought was she that when Fenniel burst loudly into the room she nearly fainted. Everything went gray, then Fenniel was chattering in her ear a mile a minute, nearly dancing with excitement. “It smells really good out there, Libby! What are you cooking? It smells like bacon. Is it time for breakfast? I finished my packing! Come see!”
Fenniel had supplemented the two remaining crates with four more of dubious quality and cleanliness. They sat on her pristine floors among smears of motor oil and drifts of dirt and sand. The contents were jammed in haphazardly, once-clean clothing next to bundles of shop rags and greasy half-repaired gyrochromatons.
“What’s that?” Libby heard her own voice speaking from a great distance and felt her arm extend, finger pointing at the object in question: a bright chrome tube, dotted with smeary fingerprints, that jutted out of a crate heaped with what was, for all appearances, garbage.
“That’s a muffler,” Fenniel said matter-of-factly.
“I see. Go get some soup, dear.”
“Woohoo!”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Earthmother, give me strength.
Rolling up her sleeves, Libby began the arduous task of re-packing the crates.
Other characters, because I am capable of visiting great evil upon the characters I create in the name of a good story, will have to endure great tragedy, or even pain.
Libby and Fenniel are a sweet, adorable couple, but a great part of the reason they are together is fear for the alternatives, the fear of being alone, of never finding anything else worth having or able to cope with their various neuroses. Because of this, they’ve made a choice to live together in a world that doesn’t accept what they are to each other, and it’s put them in a tough spot.
As cute as they are together, they are finding the world is a hard and unforgiving place, and there are very few happily-ever-afters to be had.
I expect this arc, a sad, sometimes funny, sometimes depressing collaboration between myself and Fenniel’s player, will play out most weekdays over the rest of the month. This segment follows their decision to move after they feel threatened by people who disapprove of their union.
Authors: Me & Hammy
_______________________________________________
Libby tugged at one of her long braids. It was starting to come undone at the bottom and had frayed all the way up to her waist, but she was oblivious. They had a Problem.
There was entirely too much stuff in their apartment.
She had appropriated a half-dozen crates from various Dalaran businesses, scrounging behind storefronts in the early morning while the pot simmered. (Libby was a firm believer in soup, even for breakfast. This one was flavored with bacon, full of potatoes, swimming in cream, and she was pretty sure it would substantially boost Fenniel’s mood. Like, into the stratosphere, at least temporarily.)
The apartment was a large, open-ceiling room at the top of the Legerdemain, with an alcove to one side that held the kitchen, and a small bedroom opposite. Inside the bedroom, four crates were neatly lined up at the foot of the bed, each filled to the very top with color-coordinated, neatly-folded clothing, towels and linens, alphabetized books, toiletries (mostly homemade) in bottles, boxes and bags of every color, arranged carefully in precise rows by purpose and main ingredient.
She hadn’t even touched the alchemy supplies or the kitchen, and she was deliberately Not Thinking about Fenniel’s shop tools. Libby frowned and tugged on her braid some more, now clutching at it feverishly with both hands. A stack of folded fabric and clothing sat on the bed, mocking her.
So deep in anxious thought was she that when Fenniel burst loudly into the room she nearly fainted. Everything went gray, then Fenniel was chattering in her ear a mile a minute, nearly dancing with excitement. “It smells really good out there, Libby! What are you cooking? It smells like bacon. Is it time for breakfast? I finished my packing! Come see!”
Fenniel had supplemented the two remaining crates with four more of dubious quality and cleanliness. They sat on her pristine floors among smears of motor oil and drifts of dirt and sand. The contents were jammed in haphazardly, once-clean clothing next to bundles of shop rags and greasy half-repaired gyrochromatons.
“What’s that?” Libby heard her own voice speaking from a great distance and felt her arm extend, finger pointing at the object in question: a bright chrome tube, dotted with smeary fingerprints, that jutted out of a crate heaped with what was, for all appearances, garbage.
“That’s a muffler,” Fenniel said matter-of-factly.
“I see. Go get some soup, dear.”
“Woohoo!”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Earthmother, give me strength.
Rolling up her sleeves, Libby began the arduous task of re-packing the crates.
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