RaindropsKeepFalling

“We all have a burden we must carry.” A friend had once told young Theo. She never was around Halstaig much, these days; there was too much to avoid. Too many memories. What had once been the home she longed to return to was now a place she dreaded to see in the eve, for she knew something was imminent. And so, Theodosia arrived. She was right. Somehow, the walls felt more imposing. The air was cold. She crossed her arms upon her entry through those wooden gates, minding her limp. She passed by Calahan, paying him no mind. Soon, she found herself burgeoning inside; her lower lip quivered. Where was her mother? Where was her papej? Where were they to comfort her? And with every wayward step further into the estate, it grew apparent that she was alone. That is, 'till someone or another, perhaps a maid, passed through the halls- somber. Something was foreboding, and Theo knew it. She'd known it since she was a little girl. There was always time to wait for something better, though. There had to be time. She wondered if it was really true. That individual passed Theodosia the note with a simple bow of their head, and then they were gone; a passerby like the wind. It seemed like a common occurrence, these days. It wasn't fair, but neither was life. She had to be strong, for Eloise, for Alexander... for everyone. She set that familiar cane of her's aside, taking a seat in the sitting area as she prepared for the very worst. As she scanned each line of the missive of her brother's death, her hands grew o so tense, crumpling the page. It was the very worst. She let out a sharp breath, reeling forward with an anguished whine. The world spun around her, a blur of viridescent hues. Yet, her expression was blank. She'd never known him well, after all. Naught had really changed. He was always an introspective boy, seldom leaving his room. He took after his uncle. What did his absence possibly change? Theodosia couldn't quite answer that question; but surely, there was a difference. There was some awful lack thereof in the atmosphere. He was dead. Only thirteen, and he was dead. Why hadn't she sought to know him? She'd done everything despite her resentment, and he was dead! Soon, the young heiress closed her glossy eyes in prayer, wishing for a better place in the Skies for her poor brother. She would never forget the wails of her mother in the confines of her room.

Somewhere, Reece wondered why her name appeared upon the list of those eligible ladies, and misspelled at that! Curious, as she had not signed herself up, surely. Perhaps it wasn't so bad. "Odd," she murmured under her breath, promptly deviating her attention elsewhere. She couldn't get too worked up about it. Nevertheless, the young woman began scribing a short letter off to one particular Tuvyic sister...

How are you so good at writing? (reticent-posting included) This is similar to Johann's question, but where (anywhere) do you draw inspiration from for characters, be it movies, books, etc? If anything, that is. when are we rping. And lastly, "thoughts on me?" haha...

[Do not metagame any of this information. None of this is public knowledge. However, notable to those scouts seeking him - and those close to him, would be his abrupt disappearance.] “I’ll die here one day. I’m sure of it. I think you should go.” -Anton d’Amato-Orlov (1800 - 1834) ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ “I’d like to be a good man.” There was something profoundly wrong, something rotten within a world constructed of good, and bad, but no one seemed to have ever noticed. They went on with their happy lives: playgrounds, and no one seemed to care. No one, save for a few: renegades against phony naysayers, perhaps all immature. If only things were so simple anywhere, a wanderer mused. His name was Anton, a seldom smiling, cynical misanthropist, persisting in the moonlit hours, and dozing amid the day. He was a phantom that way; merely ambling around the world- a ghost of a bygone epoch of the hearth, beside his late mother’s effigy. Even his surname, a constant, awful reminder of his dead, and hated heritage. d’Amato: his late mother, and Orlov: an absent father he resembled, and the man he loathed most. He was left with contrived reminders- around Providence, that city that paused for nobody: even one’s beloved. He was left alone: far, far away. Days were like hours, and minutes were like seconds: in the span of his fluttering eyes, five years passed and he approached thirty five as he’d similarly approached the apprehensive thirty: equally harrowing, always mundane. He didn’t know what he was doing, existing simply for the sake of it. He’d been a hero, a figurehead, a nobody and someone, yet it held no weight, nevertheless: not now. For, who was he really; the question troubled him. A veteran. A wanted fugitive. A daft man- a dratted lickspittle. An alcoholic. A fool. A man. Everything was circumstantial in that terrible way. Never an objectivity, but another warped view of things from within. Never an answer of any kind. Only a fool would figure there would be, and the idealists dreamed. One day, the lonesome soul wandered throughout those dreams- perhaps better hailed as restless terrors, for he dared not sleep then. The circles beneath his eyes were darker with each passing eve, as his gait grew to stagger. Each step further into the starlit unknown was more meager, surely. And the man surely grew tired. “If it's any consolation, I mistook you, Anton.” ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ He was persistent in his journey over the lush hills, with a branch within his grip as a makeshift walking stick, and a determination for something he knew not. He aimlessly trailed, as a searcher not so different from those scouts seeking him. They sought to render him dead, he figured. A single soul against the wider world in its whole; that’s the way it had always been. To those who knew him hitherto in the days before, his ever growing dread was evident around his very atmosphere. That nihilism tugged at his heart and he was left alone to ache and merely wonder why. Alas, a reply never came. He didn’t know, nor did anyone else he came across. He was offered contradictory quips, once in a while, indecisive always. It didn’t matter then, and it didn’t now. A maddened, charlatan apathy had encompassed him after a while. What was the point, after all? Death crept after him and plucked off those nearest in his vicinity, ‘till no one was left but him. A dead man walking, or so he supposed; that’s the way it had always been. “You know there's something wrong with you, but you don’t want to acknowledge it to anyone, least of all yourself.” ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ He clambered past a hefty hill to arise over the zenith as he’d conquered it from below. There was little satisfaction, as he witnessed only another, similar, equally steep rise from the flat sod he found himself so far from: that revered city, that god damned place. For the first time, he ached to meander over its cigarette scented, bustling streets. Long hitherto had the man tossed that useless stick aside, both palms tucked within his pockets, searching for what he so hankered for: nicotine. He relied upon it for some modicum of sanity- some shallow control. Alas, no avail came. His belongings were all elsewhere, even he couldn’t quite pinpoint where. Symbolic, surely, as he neither knew why he began this odyssey. Just as he’d trounced the previous mount, he arose up the next to a brighter view. Flickering lights and wooden posts which didn’t resemble anything Imperial. He hoped it was his salvation, and feared that he was diving into his own demise. He couldn’t care less as he descended, hiking down that peak. He was pensive, as his psyche wandered, thoughts far from his hike halfway to nowhere. What drove him to this attitude? This zenith of his misgivings. And, had he always been this way, this complacent fool claiming to differ? One could blame the world, the shams of each day, assert it was all requisite. He knew he was insincere, and that wasn’t right. He knew nothing of what he said. So much work, as he climbed and climbed, only to face another obstacle. The metaphor didn’t escape him for his wider life. Anton longed to remember a different time, to squint to see a different future. He had a whole life, but how whole was he? Anton always had something to prove. “Hello,” he rasped as he made his way to the cobblestone road separating the wider hamlet in half, approaching a figure enveloped in shade. “Oh, evening, mister,” replied the elder man man docked just beside a carriage as he coerced his steed to munch on an apple. He couldn’t have been seventy, nor a second younger than sixty two. Wrinkles creased his features as a kindhearted smile met him. “You’re a coach, right?” He inquired at that, eyes flicking over the man, his steed, and the carriage attached. “That’s right! Need a lift, sir?” “...I suppose so.” “Just give me a moment to feed my girl here, and we’ll be on our way.” “Of course.” He reassured, raising a dismissive palm aloft. Surely he didn’t recognize him. If he had, he would’ve shouted, surely he would’ve betrayed him by now. He sought to lay his paranoia to rest, but only grew more anxious as he tapped his foot against the stones: clack, clack, clack. The unnamed man’s eyes inadvertently drifted to him with the incessant sound, turning narrowed. It was short lived, and he returned his attention to the steed thereafter. Anton climbed within the carriage as the coach settled himself in the front. “So, where to?” He told him, thus they departed. Not backstabbed yet. “What’s your name, eh, sir?” He hesitated, weary with the inquiry. “Dimitri… Fiore,” he spontaneously lied, stiffening, seemingly sheepish by his own self-preservation, or so he excused. “Raevir, hm? Me too. Y’know, you dress and sound like one of those Providence city kids, wouldn’t have guessed…” He trailed off. “Guessed what?” He snapped, a palm shifting to the handle of the carriage door. “I dunno, Dimitri just isn’t what I would’ve thought, and your surname doesn’t match one of those Imperial Raev’s, you know? Just figure more people shouldn’t drive themselves too far from who they are.” A pause encompassed the two, as only the hooves of that horse and the bobbing up and down down the thin roads broke a certainly deafening silence. “...It’s my father's name, too.” He spoke up. “I wouldn’t wish to be like him.” “Eh?” No response came forth from the quiet man. “Eh, just trying to make small talk… it's a long ride.” Muttered the coach, downtrodden. Anton swallowed down his doubts and lingered there, extending his gaze to the window as the world outside rushed past. Where the hell was he, and where was he headed at that? It was for the best. For once, it would work out. It couldn’t swivel south. It wouldn’t. He was too careful, this time, too weary. “What gives you the right? To just…- to just be you?” ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ “What would you recommend I do?” He asked abruptly. “Hm, well, that depends.” He began. “Go from the stream. You don’t have to follow the river, or the roads. There are better routes. I know that much.” A stifled chuckle resounded through, to no reply. Anton was unamused: platitudes. “That’s a cliche.” He observed, taking on an apathetic air. “Maybe, but it's worked out pretty damn well for me. I mean, by my own standards. I suppose if you’re some ambitious Providence kid, well… my life looks pretty mundane as you’d call it.” “If you’re content.” “No one’s really content, Dimitri.” His shoulders tensed as the name pierced him like a knife. “My names not Dimitri.” He blurted under his breath. “Oh, I know.” His eyes shot wide. “...You hesitated for a good moment before you said it, and you didn’t sound sure either. Seemed odd.” The elder coach spoke through a yawn with a nonchalant shrug. “What’s your name, then? Your real name.” Despite Anton’s countless screams panging around his psyche, he did not move. He opened his mouth agape, at a loss for any words at all. “Anton,” he quietly replied. “Nice to meet you, Anton.- We’re here.” He announced. He was right, as the horse whinnied with an abrupt halt and Anton was thrown forth against the front with a wince. He climbed into the exterior, brushing off the dirt and leaves hanging from his disheveled frame. Idly, he remained still, staring across to the opposite man. He’d have done something by now. Wouldn’t he? “What’s your name?” He asked. A faint grin settled into the elder’s visage. “Alek, pleasure there, Anton, like I said.” He extended a palm for a handshake, and such commenced. Anton retracted his palm to tuck within his right hand pocket, tossing a small pouch across with a monotonous clink, most of the money he held onto, still. “Thank you.” He offered a sole dip of his head, turning on his heel as he made his way to evanesce off from that road, delving deep into the forestry once more without so much as a farewell. Shade encompassed the direction he wandered; it felt as though it was endless. Past the trees, and the ground, only to stand before an identical scene hither. He continued. It was too late to turn back. His fate was settled, and he embraced it with crossed arms and a bittersweet smile; for surely he’d be forgotten soon enough, as the fleeting few were. “Nothing in this life revolves around luck or divine will. It revolves around choice. We choose to do things; it is not predestination.” ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ Who was he? The coach had been a good man; he mistook him, and he hadn’t been sprung upon with swords erect. “Halt, fugitive!” He was simply himself, to that man. As much of himself, as he could, or would be. That man without ulterior motive, that man that had carried him through the forestry in a rough ride to a clearing, finally. If he was an optimist, it would have justified everything. It would have made sense. He was too cynical- staunch in the belief of the inherent evil of all the arrant knaves. It was expected of someone beaten and stabbed and bruised, time after time. One began to anticipate the worst, whether it be the disillusionment of entanglement, left abandoned, or betrayal; it had always been that way. One good man wouldn’t rationalize hundred’s wrongs, he figured. Then, he contemplated. He thought of the times of those forgotten, unknown passerbys, much like himself. The good few, similar to the unlucky few, in the streets, in the stores. Short greetings exchanged, if one was lucky: Hello. There was this girl… this brunette girl he knew as an adolescent. Anton couldn’t summon her name. Most of these musings of bad memory were merely repressed to the crevices of his psyche’s labyrinth, twisted into knots. Whether it were the depths of alcohol percolating through the wavering sod beneath his feat, where he’d dare drown, or the everlasting business he seemed to have tomorrow. Endlessly preoccupied with what wasn’t so worrisome, endlessly pensive with the irrelevant reflections; distractions, like the rhythmic noise of his footsteps against autumn leaves, gravel and dirt. He arrived unto familiar ground as the bitter silhouette of Redenford stood upright on the horizon. It would be so easy to run, to voyage forth to shelter for once. It would similarly be easier to remain within the thicket, to disappear then and there. The latter made him melancholy, and he sprinted forth from where he was hidden, over the final stretch to hover beyond a familiar grouping in this wake. An Illatian girl’s eyes grew wide with surprise, and another, older man’s reticent attention flicked over to the disheveled man who’d just turned up. “ANTON,” exclaimed the fuming intonation of Ludovica, turning on her heel with wide eyes. Her palm shot to her flank where a waist belt lay, as she drew out a shortblade. “Woah…” He mustered under his breath as incredulous surprise struck him to his very core, once more. His dear, youngest sister had just unsheathed weaponry upon him. What was he doing here? What was he doing? Why had it come to this? He frowned. Words rushed past like a waterfall. He only caught half, or less, attention elsewhere. “-Like a careless child!” Ludovica yelled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea how much sh*t this will bring on the family?!” It was the hindmost time he saw her, little did he know. So much that longing man knew not, and so much he yearned to learn. The world was unkind, as was he. Could he blame himself? Maybe- he hadn’t protested, nor arose upright. He had allowed this; he had allowed it to come to this. It was of his own action, his own fallacies, his own mistakes. If only he could do nothing at all- to be idle, to sleep. “I thought I hated her, once. Then I realized, she’s just unlucky like the rest of us.” ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ Three weeks had since passed. Three weeks of lurking in the crevices of Redenford under the police’s nose. Three weeks, wherein he found himself swathed in pensive contemplation. For, when he looked into himself in the mirror, he discovered an unfamiliar man with unfamiliar eyes. There was no hope for that regretful man. He could twist and turn and swivel and struggle, but he was still stuck with himself. The sins of the father laid weight unto his shoulders, whence his unease was everlasting. He sought to scream, to demand an answer from a callous God. He wondered whether he deserved his deserted fate. Deserted by his wavering faith, his peers, his country, his judgement, and himself. In the span of a moment, he could turn from a martyr to a villain. And though he claimed he cared not for what the outside said, it was the biggest lie he could tell. In the morning, each day, panic overtook his mind with what they would say. Even as he said himself, what was it worth? That brutish world was steadfast with cruelty. He could run- to run with all his might, all his energy, briskly as he could. He could outrun his responsibility, his family, his own thoughts as he drank himself halfway to death. Never, could the man escape his own skin- his own fate without rhyme or reason. And, he continued on nevertheless. Perhaps there was no meaning as he’d always hoped to justify- no answer to every question. Perhaps there was no permanence, no people to truly trust, and perhaps it had always been that way. Though, it strained him to swallow the half-truth, with a heavy heart. For, everything he’d believed in, and anything he’d felt toward the future flew out the window. How much easier it would be, surely- to care not. His grief had passed, and he was left only with the residue of nostalgia for a rose-tinted time which differed. What to do, what to do. He lingered within a cramped room, his lodgings for the time. Cosimo would recommend some rash action, claiming “necessity,” and Ludovica would raise hell with judgement. Neither of them understood; neither of them knew him. No one did. Slivers of truth, of his “true self” flourished from time to time, not wholly, however. He feared the latter, for if they did, surely they would turn the other way, leaving him. He was right to avoid them. They were better off, and he was a horrid caretaker: most of all for his own family. It was supposedly so important, and he was afraid. He locked himself within closed chambers and hid since he was a boy. Obsessions overcame him: they were always short lived. He flooded his world with work, and it was an easy distraction from that underlying distress and mortality, that sweet disillusionment of formidable youth. He was a manic, indecisive man, shrouded in ambivalence always. He reclined against the chair he slumped within, withdrawing a palm within his right coat pocket. He beheld a single, shining brass coin. He threw it up aloft in the air. It fell and rolled onto the desk before him: heads. Once more, he flipped the coin: heads. This went on for a while, as the landing side began to vary. It was foolish to figure that a coin flip would be any more definitive than his own unsound judgement. How could he do such a thing? How could he prove himself a righteous human being, when all the papers dubbed him otherwise? It didn’t matter, no… of course not. What else, however, was left to fixate upon? He was trapped within this inescapable cage, as a dangerous burden to those bystanders beside the horror. Deep down, he wished to lie and sleep and lie that he’d dreamt; a wonderful trance, to be like a guileless child, perchance to find naught irking, and to worry not. A wondrous spot, he’d muse. But in that fortunus fantasy of something more, he couldn’t help but figure that it was a mere sham, not so different from the shining city he’d survived within. It was that uncertainty, one of those endlessly unsettled questions Man wondered, in the pursuit of some significance to their fleeting lives. And with the unsettled, came apprehensive fright; Anton was no exception, constantly reminded of his own mortality, and only just eluding it. What came next? “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet. I’ll see you soon.” ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ When the morning came and the sun arose behind an overcast sky, Anton was gone with few traces he’d been there at all. He had existed, then had no longer. It contrasted him to his very crux as something so… simple. Ironic, he’d always dithered over the right action, yet he’d just gone. Nothing was left, no notes, no long goodbyes and apologies already expressed. Only pages very written in, brimming with thoughts preliminary to the end. The soul found himself within that thick forestry a second, or third time, trailing deeper into the depths with darker intentions. He would repeat his various anthems silently to himself: They’re better off. He would wonder about the past: If only things differed. If only, if only, and it surely wasn’t fair. This pain was undeserved, though the world would go on, despite his protest. The surroundings were unsympathetic to his struggle, as they bristled in the idle wind. The past was unchanging, and the future was to be seen. Into the undetermined, he trailed, bidding the storm clouds to strike upon him. “Do you hear that mother clock tick?” “I see her now.” “I am a man, just like you.” Into the undetermined, he stalked, awaiting for what crazed dreams may come, shuffling away from the mortal coil in some blind persistence. He wavered with the winds, and followed in tow, without roads. He recalled the rapping upon his door, and the simple words exchanged. Anton was finished fighting. He was a traitor to his determination, caring not for that useless sentimentalism. He was unsure of what he had wanted when the war began, but knew no longer. He couldn’t take it anymore. He’d stayed long past the closing hour, and it was time to go. “Life, life is death. It happens. It isn’t fair.” Life without hope, that is. As the clouds parted to his absence, a sunny sky showed its face, as children danced within the billowing, viridescent grasses and happy newlyweds shared a kiss, perhaps. It was a benign spring day, and Anton was alone. The dominion was without guile, absentminded with bliss. Surely no one would tell the forgotten man’s unsung tale; it didn’t matter. The point would be left for the philosophers to speculate upon, or those who remembered. Though that d’Amato-Orlov was borne away, self-isolated in a state he’d built brick by brick. He faced the void with a weariness, but knew nothing else, burgeoning forward. And to those unlucky few, those few that were privy and tactless against the majority, rattling with the incessant winds, empathetic to themselves... They weren’t destined for happy ends, as they needn’t sleep, and they needn’t daydream in the wake of disappointment once more. Only in the longed for resolution, when all their stifled tears had been wept, then could the leaden spirits plead perdonami. Behind, a child collected seashells at the shoreside, none the wiser to what had occurred, or what would. The child went on happily, indulging in bittersweet youth. How did that old slogan of a new face go? For a better tomorrow.

The supposed fugitive drummed his digits against a desk in the lodgings in which he hid. Though he opened his maw agape, he found few words, and few thoughts within his rushing psyche. "Perdonami," he decisively muttered under his breath in a foreign tongue. One could only long that the ends justified the means, as he dithered there, sleep deprived. "Lies, it's all lies." Decided the man of a maddened mien, to the publics view atleast.

RP Name: Anton d'Amato-OrlovMC Name: RainedropFVoted: Yes :)

SURNAME: d'Amato-Orlov FIRST NAME: Anton ADDRESS OF RESIDENCE: Halstaig 1 - Halstaig YEAR OF BIRTH: 1800 Are you registered and eligible to vote in the Alpine District? Yes Do you have any other title, peerage or military service that may conflict with becoming a Member of the House of Commons, as per the Edict of Reform (1763)? No If yes, do you understand that you will be required to resign or abdicate from this position should you be elected to the House of Commons, and if this does not occur your seat shall be considered to be vacant?: Yes ((MC NAME)): RainedropF

Anton, finding himself within familiar lodgings far from the city, frowned. [reserved]

reserved

this is how ct monks should wake up new players in all seriousness elder scrolls is based despite the memed on graphics it would be a toss up between gino falcone, or james landes. gino was my first real main following my hiatus, and he'd started as a meme. surprisingly, he's my most fleshed out character i've roleplayed on the server and i wouldn't trade some of the dynamics i got on that dumbass italian for anything. he had a well rounded story, and the falcone family is a community i love. As for james landes, he was my old curonian noble, and had an angsty story rivalling some novels and hollywood flicks. there was a romeo and juliet plotline, and his relationship with the rest of his family, and the world amid W2E was very interesting. however, that was kind of it, 'till he got indefinitely shelved and i left the server. but, that one plotline from ages 5 to 21, approximately: that was epic. depending on the day, you'll get a different answer between those two. i think its a decision between the character, or the situations they have the opportunity to partake in. buttermilk, i'm that boring. and, no. IRP, or of what I can think of, in fact? Probably druidic attunement, or PKing Gino. Both were such satisfying narrative beginnings and ends, and unabashedly fun. As for OOC, countless times of shitposting in vc with my lotc friends. African, or European? its gonna sound awful, but as we didn't RP much... probably his death? i'm so sorry, lmao. that, or the disposal of Artem Carrion's body within the headquarters, when Anton and George were both like "......." browsing planetminecraft servers and youtube, this cool fantasy server came up and i was like "huh." the rest is history. I joined LotC because I lost my D&D group after irl circumstances. I stayed for the friends I made, and never finding a good enough excuse to leave. then, i grew trapped. now i can't leave. Hmmmmmmmm, tough one. For your first question, id probably have to go with what we did with Seus' old cartel. Or, the Rema incident amid the Owyn riots. Both of which were crazy, and hilarious. maybe not the entirety of my being on lotc, but definitely my time in oren. option (c): malyism i think i'd get a warning if i put the gif up on the forums, desired. i abstain from answering this questions, your honor; i plead the fifth. Joining LotC. i've got a lot of gripes with lotc and i complain about hating it (which i dont, in all honesty,) but i think a lot of it boils down to the dynamic between OOC and RP. i've done my fair share of villainy and conflict and all that jazz. i feel as though a lot of people cannot accept the difference of the two, and drama is brought forth from this. i'm not the type to believe that i always must win in a situation, but i would love for more cooperation from each party, and if we could separate OOC and RP. i think things might be objectively nicer, then.

am i shilling for rep? yes been stuck with this curse for 3 years, and i am forsaken by the Lord of the craft im stuck and they wont let me out. AMA

In lodgings far from that revered city, a statesman began to scribe something off to the Director. He exhaled a soft sigh; he was tired and perturbed...

A gaunt Illatian stalked to and fro, his wooden soled boots clicking a steady rhythm atop the smooth pecan wood floors of his temporary lodgings, across the visage of the young man was a look of torment as his once slicked back mousy hair was awry as his alabaster hands pulled at his long locks desperately desiring a haircut. Anton finally came to a halt before a mirror as a whimper of anguish came from his lips as he sank to his knees. The figure he saw before he was not the proper and trim Anton d’Amato-Orlov who held court in the House of Commons, nor was it the bold, carefree bachelor that was the target of the tabloids. Instead, it was a dirty, unkempt, phony widower with a look of horror etched across his sharp features. His dark clothes were cut and torn in a dozen places; across his body were hastily applied bandages that his cousins had held him down to apply. His thin face was stained with the trails of angels where he had wept until his eyes were dry, but it was his hands that shook him the most. His clenched palms, normally pristine and manicured, were stained red, sanguine with the ichor of life, a life that could have been and a life that would never be fulfilled. His hands shook as his pale eyes fell upon a simple wedding band. For a moment, he could close his eyes and picture that scene: the smiling face of his bride as she slipped it onto his digit. But like all things, it came shattering down and raw pain replaced the anguish for a fleeting second as his eyes flashed up to the cracking cry of the glass as his right fist struck it harshly. He stood looking at the cracked mirror seemingly without regard for his bleeding hands before he began to laugh. The laughing rose to a soft, downtrodden cry as the unjust symbolism was not lost on the young man. Just as his own life was a broken shell, so too was this mirror. He pushed himself to his feet, upright, and made his way off, pacing across to the desk in the corner of the room. Even as he had failed his newlywed wife, he would honor her in death and with wavering, shaky hands he began to write... An Open Letter on Family to the d’Azors By Anton Fiore d’Amato-Orlov TO THE D’AZOR FAMILY AND ANYONE IT MAY CONCERN, In days hitherto of Pertinaxi rule, of feudal lords and ladies, of acres of mere farmland, of simpler architecture and simpler lives, some things decidedly do not shift: the family. The home and the hearth we may return to after a day of steadfast battle against any aggressor. It is the brothers, and sisters, and fathers and sons that we wouldn’t anticipate as the denizens to do such harm. ... I believe I should indicate the context of what led to Adeline Lucie d’Azors disappearance and eventual, presumed death, as you have all been influenced by the view that she is the wrongdoer, and you are right. Truth is never so unambiguous as you could hope and pray. Three months ago, I joined an engagement with “Lucie Smith,” an alias of the late Adeline d’Azor. After being shunned, hailed as a “wh**e,” and a “danger,” she had reasonably left your so-called care. As the tabloids would report, we were in fact courting; yet our estrangement amid the masquerade was involuntary. I am aware that you flourish a disdain for me, even despising me. It is not an excuse for the unjust slander of your own, simply expecting everyone to “go on their merry way.” It is not an excuse to disregard a part you may play, finding a scapegoat to uphold your honor. Some would state our relationship as star crossed. The sort of thing poets demonstrate in tableau. I don’t believe it should have been, however it indubitably was. After Adeline fled from Providence with a written farewell, shifting her identity to that of “Lucie.” I provided her a room in Redenford. We weren’t dishonorable, nor did we disgrace anything, or anyone. Soon, we were engaged, and no word was heard from you, the d’Azors, that I was told sought to render me dead. I saw you when you scowled, and when you stared, when you searched for weakness within me to arise with advantage. Why shan’t we be friends? I would have said. Yet, your mind had already been made up; you wanted the commoner six feet under. When that day arrived, and we wed, it wasn’t without a hitch. My own family neither found remorse for Lucie d’Amato, and neither approved. Petty bickering ensued, and such, but I would expect and know that by tomorrow, we’d be reunited. We wouldn’t turn away and sever ties. ‘Till you arrived, all armoured. With five witnesses remaining, you returned to a spot you’d scouted for: the Redenford chapel. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what brutality was occurring, when you flourished your weaponry. It’s particularly taboo: a commoner statesman to marry the very Archchancellor’s noble daughter. We live and pass through an apparently progressive time, and many, as one would expect, protest. I ask the question, why an individual shouldn’t marry the man she loves. Even if she does indeed, why the lives of the groom and bride grow endangered. It is “the way of things,” you’d say. Howbeit, “the way of things,” is a fluctuating phenomenon. For, as long as anyone may recall, men may inherit their titles of peerage, and women may standby. ‘Till this topical Rosemoor Act arrives, which you supposedly support. ‘Till our revered leader is crowned: Empress Anne, as opposed to an Emperor. You spoke to her as an object, as “Adeline.” A mere few would know that name. You ordered me to come forward, and everyone would be left unscathed. I asked, “Why?” You repeated the same thing. We went around and around, heralding the ultimatum when my newlywed wife spoke, “Anton, go, I will hold them.” And so I went, as I knew by an aged maxim of my own family: “La famiglia non combatte la famiglia.” - “Family does not fight family.” I ran for the hills in another direction from Woodes O’Rourke, another attendee. I’d almost applaud: an immaculate crashing of a whipped up wedding. You may well say, “It was not us.” And, I may well ask, “Then, who else would take such care and formidable heed to Lucie Smith’s marriage?” I write this letter herein to put into what I know not how to say. I’ve more words than I know to count, or I know how to express., and more thoughts and ideas to possibly ordain and act from. More importantly, perhaps I write to leave understanding within the written and the permanent, or as permanent as life, or death can be. I write for knowledge. To have a palpable “why,” in the nonsensical reasoning of your odd principals, and to provoke a priviness to some. Many things are left to speculation. However, something I can confidently remark is that the brisk Redenford wedding you formidably crashed is the last I ever saw of my short lived spouse. It is the last the public would witness her face. Similarly, it is the last anyone has seen me. I am tired of this tangle you’ve wound up. I am tired of this ploy, your people. Adeline is absent, and I am a dead man walking. You have killed her, clearly, and why? For what reason would a family slay its own? I am a son, like you, a brother, like you. I have sisters like all of you. I have a father, like you. I swear to God, if He listens, I wouldn’t dare scathe someone on my side. I wouldn’t discard her like a doll if she even deserted me. You stand upright with your devoted integrity. Thereafter, you swivel, and claim I have “ruined” Adeline d’Azor. It is I who allegedly “ruined,” her, when you shunned her initially, and you wound her, with your incessant hatred of a woman, of your kin. I am not flawless, but your action is an atrocious sin. I recognized you, then, and I distinguish you now. Each passing day, files are assigned to the MOJ. Murder: a shameful crime, investigated as a felony. I’ve solved your puzzle, and condemn it as Woodes or any other witness may attest. How may a respected family such as d’Azor make such shame? How may you reassure us of your stalwart pride, still? Adeline was a woman; she lived and existed, then she did no longer. I shall blame you, lest you may offer a rational reply- a just excuse. I wonder why, when it is my life you wanted, you decidedly took hers, undeserved. Did it bring you such fear, Adeline's independence? Her happiness, despite your truancy, as a girl grows into a woman, debuting, and needs your disparaging no longer. She sobbed when you turned her away, I recall. After all, if she was such a burden, I wonder why you fervorously protested against her evanescence. Then again, I am unsure, as I dither. It is not right. Though, I hope this letter reaches you well wherever you all may lodge. I pray in death, veracious honor may flourish it's guilty face. Rather, I don’t mean to create a narrative, nor a villain. I wish for an answer to her passing, and the context brings me suspicion of a culprit. Let us aspire that the dark overcast will soon drift from a cleared sky, and the fog of misunderstanding will clear: a distant tomorrow of impartial truth and morale for my late beloved. We vow to honor her, to love her, to comfort her in sickness and in health, keep thee only unto her… in life and in death, as you should have, alongside any good samaritan. Yours, in pursuit of peace and righteousness, -A.F.

“So, who’s to say she’s not dead?” “She wouldn’t be. They wouldn't touch her.” He’d said, o so staunch in that sureness he proudly facetiously flourished. “It wouldn’t make sense.” ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ Anton journeyed from the Keep within Dobrov’s territory into the dimmed forest of a late, late evening. It was a tranquil night in the wintertime, dew dripping from the pines as he trekked through the soil enveloped in petrichor. He knew no better than any fool would, unbeknownst. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ “How are you here at this ball, then…?” She'd first asked when they met on a marble ballroom floor. “Terrible, frankly, and you?” She laughed, that nervous, endearing laugh of characteristic sheepishness. “Terrible.” Alas, they rotated once more, as time found itself rather fleeting. ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ Home: he sought to fall back to bed, at the hearth, at home. Yet, no matter what, it seemed to escape him where on Earth that was. A lonesome feeling overcame him, to his very core- his very, drunken crux. He traversed the Northern forestry, only the crunch of his leather shoes left to accompany him with every unsteady pace beckoning somewhere, heralding something. He sighed, as he always did, and perhaps clicked his tongue with a humdrum huff exhaled. It was all indicative and typical. Still, he couldn’t stand the miserable routine: right, left, right, left. He couldn’t shake the lingering, underlying belief that he was wrong. So, he steadfastly stalked down that thin road, ‘till it fringed into a fork, and Anton paused. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ “Marry me.” It was a thought- a request in the spur of a single second. An idea- a fragmentation of a hypothetical never fully formed. “...I will.” And suddenly, naught seemed to make much sense, as realization washed over his features, his psyche: thoughts all left unread. “I feel bad.” He admitted, merely a whisper amid an embrace. “I feel like this is my fault, y’know. But, I guess they can’t protest…” ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ Perhaps some things were always unexpressed. They always would be, as that was life. When that news finally made its way across the threshold from furtive surreptitiousness to common knowledge, when he was privy, Anton wouldn’t weep. He wouldn’t laugh. He wouldn’t shift from his still spot, somewhere. “She’s dead.” He’d audibly exclaim, under his breath. After all, he’d figured that gloom- that shadow one couldn’t shake of an impending doom, he’d surely surmise that it would take him before her. She didn’t deserve it. She was wronged, as was this forsaken life he lived halfway. It was his fault, after all. Like a deck of cards, mistakes stacked, tugging him deeper into the dark. ‘Till he grew resentful- enraged, even. At that, he’d dare shed a fleeting tear or two. It didn’t make sense. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ “How will we get married, Anton?” “Well…” He paused. “My sister had a whipped up wedding. We could have something here. Anywhere. Anytime.” He brought his shoulders up into a small shrug with insincere nonchalance concealing an underlying unease of regret. He should have been content. “I could call a priest or something.” ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ As she so wrongfully passed, cracked a noble heart, as all fell silent. If one yet listened intently, wings of bluebirds fluttered from autumn evergreens- flights of angels sang the world to its restless nightfall. Anton was abandoned to merely speculate could haves and should haves. He wondered, had he not run… It all precipitated an angered swear to an unjust end to a book unopened. Maybe that jaded statesman had something left to say prior to any bid adieu. He pressed the nib of a pen scented with fresh ink upon pleasant paper: an unsent note. “I was wrong.” It began. And hitherto ended a life, then began a saddened epoch anew- the livelihood of a mourning widower, gone from anyone’s line of sight, just as that pale eyed woman had. It had been the best of times and the worst of times, so very shortlived and rotating, though never just- never fair, or true.

mental magic but based and not cringe

"I was talking to her. Talking to her." A certain statesman rebut! Anton offered a simple scowl to the tabloid that had reached his cluttered desk, throwing his hands up in dramatic gesture. "God- they'll really gossip about anything, huh?" He thought aloud, speaking to no one particularly. He shook his head with a decisive huff.

NOT SO DIFFERENT "Just... hold onto those bless-ed moments." I Perhaps many would concur that a man alike the Falcone had everything. Yet, to those whom knew him well, it was much ado of a mere lie. Perhaps a cliché, to hail the hypocrite with the world as unhappy. Or so, Anton figured. He blamed his steadfast, unspoken expressions upon the Falcone; he blamed his everlasting reticence, and the thousand pensive reveries of sleepless nights upon him, too. Easier, that way. Maybe he'd known naught of Cosimo, as each passing day seemed to suggest. It was hard to hate someone unknown: a faceless concept construed. But, the Falcone, despite his discernible sin, was a man. A good one? That would be left to the fortuned philosophers to say. The younger Illatian lay about a cluttered room reeking of brandy, perturbed with each involuntary profundity he happened to think. He recalled the last he'd met the man, and the sentiments left forever unexpressed. It was a remembrance of a scene ever etched within his shifting consciousness. There was so much left to say. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ "La famiglia è tutto." ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ II The family was to be valued; it was everything. In a bleak, callous sphere, in a revered city, perhaps the hearth and a child's innocuous laugh could make it worthwhile. Flickering instances of momentous joy made the fervorous fight worthwhile. They’d turned few and far in-between. The Falcone patriarch beheld this value as a priority: the first, at that. It was a humorous thing, placing it on such a pedestal, as his distance was everlasting. He was always away- gone, or sojourn in a deep crevice of "work" where there seemed to be none. When Anton was only eleven, he remembered his first drink: a sip of wine. It heralded a responsibility of a man, as opposed to a boy. Oh, where were those golden hours of childhoods guileless bliss through viridescent fields? Gone, just as Cosimo had vanished with any traces of priviness lingering in the man's mind. "You're going to be a man soon, Anton. What are you going to do?" -An incessant reminder of his inherent foolishness, echoing like an awful anthem. He knew not, less at twenty seven than he had as a boy. And even a family he'd sworn himself to in obliging servitude, he too found himself distant. A mirror of the elder Falcone: as a cycle tumbled into the next era, and as another fell, he continued to live and persist, o so lonesome. He'd briskly disregarded his babiest sister's rhetoric, after all, "Who's going to look after you?" He was afraid, after all. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ "All it would take is a few strokes of ink, and I would be reunited with my father in the Seven Skies. But- at least you know the truth." ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ III He meandered from the thin roads from Redenford, leading unto fields of grapevines before a brick country house he recognized as where the Falcones lived. He trekked inside, stumbling amidst his drunken stupor. A gaze traipsed across the familiar bottommost floor, as his lips pursed together. He crept forth, reminiscing of vague memories. Some stood out. A fight here, a wistful remark, a confession to great, untold misdeed. Anton wasn't one to ever judge him. Sometimes, he sought to be him. Little or large, everything spawned a ripple. Whether it were a misplaced word, or a misplaced murder, being was never so simple as he yearned for it to affably... be. He'd flickered from Providence to that house for years, unable to decisively settle. Neither felt akin to homes with any familiarity. They were alien places, in a phony world, he thought, characteristically cynical. He began to count steps to steady his breaths choked within his throat, laden with unease. Right, left, right left... It was a repetitive notion. Soon, he ascended the stairwell to a small hall, tracing his hand against the wall. He peered around the empty interior as a single soul roaming for something he didn't know: an answer. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ "Of course I care, Anton. But what would I do? Grovel?" ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ IV Deaths ceased to surprise him, certainly. From his mother's untimely doom, bearing a beautiful bastard, to a Carrington's vile murder. Cosimo differed from the rest, in life, and in his end. There was no obituary, naught but an existences lack thereof, missing. It went without closure; that was the answer Anton yearned for, closure. Who was he to decide the verdict balancing atop life and death, yet? He feared the flipside, for it was a cruel truth he'd come to disdain. Anton drifted to the downstairs, having discovered nothing of any use- only incessant inquiries panging across his psyche. Worn out with overworked grief, he staggered to the sofa at the fireplace, a hand flourished across the backrest. His eyes danced over the welcoming room, 'till they met the window in that dim night, like a mirror. He met his own pale eyes in that pale moonlight pouring in from aback, and paused. For who was he, but a reflection of the furtive, reticent Illatian he wondered about? A cousin like a brother- and family, but never a friend. He didn't recognize this shameful man haunted with loss. He didn't recognize this house; and, he didn't recognize Cosimo Antony Falcone at any time, anywhere. He understood... privy to the tacit truth ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ "I truly dread what may come." ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ V Mortality constantly tugged at his rear side. He'd swivel, simply to contemplate a why? There was no rationale, as a sinister entity loomed, forsaking the unlucky few. It made them human. It made him human to be so selfish to regard justice as an excuse to the unknown. Those steps, as he strut back to Providence, had shifted from "right, left," to "right" and, "wrong:" neither defined further. He reached Providence with aching feet, full of larger questions than when he'd depart. He glanced rightward to the Ministry of Justice headquarters, just down the street, and left, to the empty streets delving into the darker alleys leading home. He befell fate to another sleepless night, striding across to the Ministry building. For, what was a man? What was a family? What was a home, and what would be considered "sin," by such a cruel God? He could scream to the heavens, and no one would listen. Nothing would change. Anton read a note he'd read time after time, uttering a low remark to the anonymous author- the culprit to an awful crime. "Who are you?" Things only dimmed, as the grim world was left unsolved and ambiguous. A familiar sequence began a second time, riposte for anything Falcone. Words could not reach what he knew not- heartache settled in. Anton had no relief without a wink of slumber, suffering amidst vivid daydreams in the blind night. A silent mystery: twisted in knots. Just as his life, and his cousin's hitherto, overcome with charlatan apathy to thereafter. I

It wasn't fair. She was right. It wasn't fair. Nothing was. Anton couldn't say he'd known her like Ludo; he couldn't say he'd even known her well. So, there at that somber spot, at that funeral, he hung his weary head: o so silent. He observed from afar as he always had, and wouldn't dare shed a tear. He wouldn't weep. He watched. She was a soul taken too soon. Since he was a mere boy, therein a man edging the threshold of age, approaching thirty, he'd flourished such a disdain for people alike her. Nobles: living their little lives with irrelevant reflections- distractions from the inherent truth, so easy to ignore. Some would hail him a hypocrite. Rhea was different. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━ In his younger, formidable years, perhaps he'd gazed across the girl as a friend of his family; nothing more, nothing less. However, he came to understand her, and even empathize since. Two opposites from the poles: the enthused optimist, and the cynic. Her death came o so suddenly, and it wasn't fair. Flickering, fleeting instances came and went with apparent joy as a passerby: shooting stars of youth. How he wished to hold on and linger with the immortal impulsiveness of youth and play, and whim. He couldn't shake his discernible dread. Privy people had fallen like dominos, death after death, and bless-ed moments bygone were mere, vague memories. The man paced across a room, up and down, back and forth, circling within his own psyche for a reason. Simplicity was so frustrating. And yet, throughout all his aimless musings, he had a job. The perpetrator of such a senseless end for such a sweet girl. If it was all for naught, if he knew naught- if life was a con artists construed sham... well, that must have been true. Malaise overtook him, and Anton lament. If only life were placed out so simply atop a checkerboard. Instead, he fixated unto the questions without answer, nor meaning. The man grew mad, and reminisced, soon to fall fate to a restless sleep: the first in a long time. He could lie he'd dreamt, when he only thought of that irking anthem of a why...

I joined LotC in 2018, a whole lot newer than a lot of the people that play to this day, and a whole lot newer than a lot of people you'll likely discover upon this wholesome(ish) thread. My first character was known as Walter Gray, and he wasn't a Breaking Bad parody either. Player retention has been a lingering theme on the server, or the lack thereof; but this isn't a place to be cynical right now. I remember Walter had a fairly standard "tragic backstory," having lost his sister at a young age, longing to get her back one or another (a folly task, utterly impossible, ignored by his steadfast, crazed determination.) I remember I had asked in OOC chat, What's the ST? I soon got a response, as I was just jumping around the Cloud Temple as I still do to this very day. I'll show you. An ET disguised as a villager came behind me with a small greeting, now more deserving of the CT guides which were less of a thing in the days of early Atlas. He organized a small event, coinciding with Walter's tragedy; that is when I knew that I had an interest for LotC's offered RP, and I thank that kind ET to a new player. I doubt I'd still be here, otherwise. Flash forward awhile. I still travel around cities as Walter, without a solidified community. I soon come to a duchy: Rïvia, as some may possibly recall. They opened their gates wide to this little pink-tag with 2x2 eyes that could barely emote, and they were affable. Hell, the duchess to-be (that never was, thanks to the lost Rivian War) allowed a marriage... with Walter Gray. I stayed within Rivia 'till I could no longer, but it instilled a sense of community with me. After all, we're s**tposting on a mineman server together, and that's what makes it fun, omitting the toxicity, at that. Those were some of the days where I found the most fun, and led me to heavily helping with a Curonian settlement thereafter; a domino effect leading me to the close, lovely community where I find myself today, in Oren. (Maybe that isn't a good thing.) LotC is a fractured community of people having fun. So, be open to that new player, let them in, and roleplay deeper scenarios with your buddies and bygones. For, if you don't step forward, then your retention might decrease too. That's my two cents. tldr; fRIeNDsHIp

RP Name:Anton d'Amato-OrlovMC Name: RainedropFVoted: Yes :)

SURNAME: d'Amato-Orlov FIRST NAME: Anton ADDRESS OF RESIDENCE: Bethencourt Ridge 2 YEAR OF BIRTH: 1800 Are you registered and eligible to vote in the Northern District? Yes. Do you have any other title, peerage or military service that may conflict with becoming a Member of the House of Commons, as per the Edict of Reform (1763)? No. If yes, do you understand that you will be required to resign or abdicate from this position should you be elected to the House of Commons, and if this does not occur your seat shall be considered to be vacant?: Yes. ((MC NAME)): RainedropF

Death: a horrid thing. Yet, it was scattered over a Anton's existence since that young man had lived as a mere boy. Like flowers scattered over a clearing, mourning amid the sun, therein they revelled. Once more, he met a death in the daylight hours of the morn. He hadn't met Valent in years. He mused whether he'd he ever known him at all... He found himself sojourn within a familiar kitchenette, reeking of brandy and deja vu. He had downed his third drink, drowning himself in a numb intoxication, and a melancholic bliss. No- not that. Anton weeped, stooping to slump over a counter, burying his face beneath the shadow of his flat palm. Tears welled from his crinkled eyes, for a man he'd not candidly known, a confrére. And yet, loss had washed over his aching figure, and aching psyche like an abrupt uprightness: wake up! Tears subsided and the mourning man pulled back, nibbling the innard of his pursed lips; his visage was stained with a wetness he despised. He lament. From the uppermost floor of that wooden house on Marshall Lane, crashed the muffled echo of a slammed fist. "GOD, NO!" He signed the Lorraine past his chest for the late Valent, and life went on. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A traumatized statesman turned soldier appeared bittersweet, twiddling his thumbs, all bandaged up. His gaze rose to the bright, blinding afternoon, yearning for a victory and an end to this bloody war.

RP Name: Anton d'Amato-Orlov MC Name: RainedropF Voted: Yes