RaindropsKeepFalling

"WITH MY MAKUAHINE" Time: how awful it was. She grew tense when there was too much, and a panicked escapist otherwise. Like a child, but the estranged Baelius was not one rather, delving into her thirties. Steadfast tears streaked the aging woman's face. She recalled her makuahine well; she recalled her idealist demeanor she'd passed on; she recalled her steadfast support. Mostly, she recalled the times of yore, before the schism by her selfish, selfish dreams of flight. 'Till the quiet twilight, at a quiet shore, apart from the rolling waves of life and death, the home and the hunt, cyclical and balanced, nevertheless melancholy. There was no closure, but endlessly unanswered ponderings. Cajsa, or Kaia, lay beside a pale man she loved, within a place she did not know, a place she did not love; all she could yearn for was home. All she could do was befall to a restless slumber, as grief and anxiety tore her very being wide open as she slammed the door shut from the trees bristle, and the bright sun. »»————-　*　————-«« It had been years. "Ah, Cajsa, you look very nice in yellow!" She hadn't said much. She was young. If only, if only, coulda-woulda-shoulda. She'd scream out: I'm sorry, I love you! She'd embrace her, tossing the pretenses out into the fields she scarcely cared for, and could not see. She'd reminisce. She'd smile. She'd laugh. "Thank you," she said. »»————-　*　————-«« She had naught to say, only a "goodnight" in the deep hours of a starry sky, and "morning," in the early morn. Never closure, but a counterfeit so-called emulation, never contentment. It was time to change, overdue. It was time for peace, much like her dear mother's rest. (@Jake!)

hanrahan and draeris sent the 50 usd

ahaha this is a joke guys, staff wouldn't actually do this to us guys, it's april fools guys, right hahaha? r-right?

hey, P.S. if you don't like classical Italian film score music (which i do) here's the alternative music i almost used! :)

Gino, circa 1785 "Family comes first, sí?" "Don't let 'em know what ye' thinkin'." -Gino He was not a good man. It was only through the hazed phrasings and doublespeak that he covertly tricked the bystanders of his twisted old life. His charm, per se. Only a few unlucky souls could confidently say they knew Gino Falcone. They saw through his counterfeit virtue. Most of them were under the sod. Dead, by his hand or otherwise. Even through all his endeavors, he was exposed to each and everyone. In his rare moments of frankness, he widely opened the door to his sin without usual fear. Perhaps tired, or simply naive to the consequences he fully saw. Lies, cheating, theft, murder, perjury, threats, extortion: you name it, he was guilty or a firsthand witness, and he wasn’t testifying beside the plaintiff. It was his matter, him, yet. What was it that mattered? The riposte was orthodox, by his character, at least. “Depends who you ask.” He’d say. He’d reassure, that as long as the wider apparatus was cracked and broken, he was simply ascending beyond it’s trickery; he was no worse. Nevertheless, he’d long for a connection, an empathy he did not know, to his kin, and to another: a yearning. It was true. In all his lies, the sham that was his livelihood: that was a veracious account. Though, few knew it. He didn’t. He was the blindest of the bunch, simply adamant enough to holler the utmost stridently. Where had it begun? The sand was initially entrenched within his eyes in 1778, summertime in Thyra: the jewel of Seyam. Twenty one summer's lived, a young man without much more experience than moving boxes and preaching God. He was of a quaint upbringing with a father, stepmother and wittier brother. In a sudden whirlwind, dislodging everything the man knew as “home,” every constant, arose a plain war. War meant evacuation. And thus, the sandstorms raged. Wreckage and havoc, leaving the trade-state halfway to hell. The brothers had migrated from the forsaken region with wholly two cents, a set of clothes and a utopian ambition to their name. They’d escaped by the skin of their crooked teeth. So easy to sled down the hill that trailed under, little did they know, the consequences in their terrible, terrible domino effect. Helena, 1779: it was the paradigm immigrant tale, and they would find a better life. She was a bustling city, and her light never seemed to fade. As the sun would set, the city lights substitute it with an equal glow. Confined in her intricate walls, she embodied the promise of wild love and adventure. Intoxicating, without exception, could make somebody or nobody forget. Gino and Vittorio were just two chaps. There was one unequivocal factor of the dreadful apparatus. It was a town of connections, and how many names you knew. You’d never catch her eye, otherwise. Two nights in the rat race to win her heart, staying in a small-fry tavern, and they loved it. Gino slept neither, but he neither found himself tired. He ambled through the alive pavements, coming to know each corner, each street like a native. However, sanguine hope, naive certainty and boyish flirting were not enough. The duo needed Marks. Yet, even that would not satisfy him: with an innermost lust for a mark, a spot on that holy block, an importance. They enlist in the navy, an old family pen pal of Vittorio’s leading it by the name of Oisin O’Rourke. They came to never know him well; he was merely too important, and they (though they would not admit it) were pawns. They made a modest wage, by domestic tasks. After all, there was trifle benefit of the sailors in a war of that horrible fire. Seconds molded into minutes, molded into hours, molded into days, weeks, months: it all elapsed in haste. The inherent fascination the capital exuded never faded. It endured. In ‘81, Gino found himself sojourn in a bland room, in a bland apartment, settled in the viridescent countryside. Vittorio had found a lover, starry eyed, and the brothers had split into their separate lives apart from fleeting scenes at a bar or a time to smoke, hazing the air. In the suburban scenery he’d so ambitiously hoped to escape, he met her. It was love at first sight, and Gino did not believe in cliches. She was beautiful, but not in the Imperial sense of pale faces and rouge with delicate, toy noses and pale eyes. She was the woman a man would come to yearn for, a donna. There was a sparkle in her olive eyes and lure in her laugh. She had antics. She had notions, and she was a keen soul, kindred. She was unafraid; her name was Florenza. They’d sprouted as friends. He was infatuated with her, an angle he couldn’t elucidate, a perplexing puzzle. She was an adventure, sprinting into the moonlight without a care to the uncharted, drunken with mania. He was a man. “Gino,” She’d spoken softly with a distinct idea. He’d turned, inquisitive. “Let’s go!” Her voice lifted up and she lit up at her hypothetical. He paused. Where? He wondered. He could not jump in, lest he knew. “Where?” He asked. “I don’t know!” She replied matter-a-factly. He wasn’t a bore, nor was he a voyager. Nevertheless, they went. They burrowed through the raw snow, against the flurries in summer clothing. The North was bleak and coarse, jarring. The frost pierced his every sensibility, and he flinched with every arduous step through the snow. Regret: the sun had set into a dim overcast, why’d he tag along? That, he did neither know. What time, what hour, what day had he transformed into a reflective sort? Was it a destiny? That too, was a pensive notion. There were countless doubts and questions, all without answer, only circumvention. It was a cool autumn day, lodged in the midst of the month. The tinted buildings were rampant with guileless kin. The brother’s were meandering down the paved roads, leaving a trail of smoke wherever they led on. It was election season; Gino had struck intrigue in the field, captivated. It was unforeseen that day, when they were plucked up by their collars, hastily awaking in an office with their step uncle sitting across. The man had a harsh gaze, coldly stoic in his cunning. He was nimble, but aged, be it years or a certain stress. He was terribly pale, and flourished a blonde, well groomed mustache. The appearance implied his identity being a blooded Imperial, he was not. They knew him as an Adunian, as a distant family. He wasn’t their blood. “Ahh,” the man began, Padraig O’Rourke was the name. In minutes, the dirty deal was settled. They were workers of the O’Rourke company, and once you were in, there was no out. Yet, anything to feed the family, he supposed: anything at all. The two were to be provided more apt adornments, and the meeting concluded. They talked much of the future, but little of what it portended. He was caught up. A dog chasing its tail, never satisfied. He soon withdrew from the Navy. He made handsome earnings from his superiors. The epoch was a renaissance; he was graced with little to worry over. The principal, the morality, of the work was dubious, but he did not think. Nay did he reckon, did he feel, did he judge, did he debate. His eyes were shut, and he unaffectedly was. He’d come to be an apathetic man, in that way. The brother recruits had been familiarized with those among them, and those not. Their organization was loyal to the Josephites, and opposing the wig wearing Nationalists. When Padraig was preoccupied as a politician, they came to be acquainted with a Raev: Dimitri Orlov. He was a steadfast, bearded man with steadfast soliloquies of life’s cost. Gino didn’t care for philosophy. There were others to be known: George Galbraith, an opportunist, an idealist, an eccentric and a politician, a friend. Ostromir Carrion, a soul of noble birth and mannerisms, gothic and pale, with the darkest theses. Santiana O’Rourke, a cousin with an inherent naivete akin to the Falcone’s, a companion. And Giada, a dear Illatian, and the dearest friend birthed as an enemy and cousin to Florenza, loyalties with a low-life cartel, recruited to the flipside by her wit. But as all reveries do, the short era ended with a snap. Unrest advanced against the Josephite muscle, occultist pagans permeated through the ISA, and Florenza grew suspicious of his “union duties.” At all the alleys there was a secret, and with mystery, there was paranoia; and with reticence, there was worry. Fear, it filled him to the brim, he did not spill. It was not him, he’d instilled. The line smudged, of who Gino Falcone was, and who he was not. He was restless, paranoid. With each stride, his palms were tightened in underlying burden. Not his work, but it’s fallout. The danger that glared at him so bitterly: dread. Echoes haunted the evening streets as he paced throughout the alleyways as he had since he’d arrived: a peculiar habit, walking, or following. He proposed little acknowledgement to any architecture, wandering within his own psyche. It was, and always had been,a yearning to clear a clouded mind. Yet, it only imparted further eludings: ironic. He followed, focusing on the sound of a duet’s footsteps in quarter time. The night was of routine in every rationale and facet. It was of a pleasant, cool temperature. The heat was entirely expelled through the words Gino met. Even her living room, he figured, exhibited such a homely portrait, calming, as she screamed. “Tell me the truth!” She’d yelled with such conviction of a sure judge. His love - Florenza had brought light to his tenebrous work. He’d frozen, as an effigy, faltering with zero words to the reminder that he was a single sinful man. He resented the fact that dormantly he knew. Inadvertently, she did too. They yelled, as he retorted tepid lies he had no belief in. Neither did she. He left, zealously removed. That was it, the end, without a proper goodbye. “I said get out!” She’d shrieked. “Ti odio!” was her word. I hate you, it meant. She’d pressed him out of the interior in fervor. Though, before he could voice anything at all, the door was slammed shut. He could not muster a thought. In and out, in and out, with his own breaths. A left, a right, a first, a second. The repetition led him home to a drafty room; exhausted, he could not sleep. Notes were penned to no reply and hollers screeched without echo. Naught, and in ultimatum: it all ceased, delving into a pool devoid of voices, wishes, pleas but darkness. It was a cold day when they met again, magnetized begrudgingly it. It wasn’t the type of day you would expect to see an old soul roaming, only to have fate shove them into your peripheral focus, and life once more. Fate or luck, or plain coincidence: Gino thought not of it. Only rushing into her, begging as a child. “Flor, Flor, Flor, please.” He pleaded. “Eugh! Fine.” They sat, and spoke. He told her of the truth, of his work, and of him. She’d paused, silent. “I think I’m going to have a heart attack.” She uttered, facing his eyes. They were not cold, but tense, scared. Scared at what she may have said next, what she did not ponder aloud. He’d lost control; he’d inadvertently transformed from the player, to the spectator. He twiddled his thumbs. “Gino,” she frankly remarked. “I don’t want to be a mob wife.” “You don't have to be.” He said, detracting his gaze. “I’m sorry.” “I don’t think you are. I think you’re sorry you’re caught.” “Maybe, maybe not.” He pondered. “I’d do it all for you, I would.” Would he? Maybe, maybe not. “I know you would.” She said, judging, frowning, but genuine. “I shouldn’t have spoken with Morgryn.” He said, a sigh escaping him. “It doesn’t change the scene, but I’d hope the words make it prettier.” It was her turn to pause. “It doesn’t, but at least you tried to fix it.” She offered, flashing a bittersweet smile. He returned the favor, shifting in the booth where they sat across. “Ti amo.” He said. I love you. Therein, he knew. There was no doubt, and no lie. She looked away. “Ti amo anch’io.” Vice versa, I love you too. They’d come together by frosted truth in glorious colors of the hopes and wishes of what they sought to see. What was that smile, like the sunrise ensued after a starless night? It was a fire, one that burnt your edges soon enough, sparing only ash from the bygone portrait of a pleasant picnic. 1787. “Do you often look up to the stars, Mr. Falcone?” A sage and a mystic of mysterious origin of yesteryear or tomorrow stood tall, forth. The stars would, in the twinkling of an eye, show their face. That evening glimpsed into nighttime. “What?” The implicit rationale escaped him. Then, too, perhaps, he sought answers. Nay, rather, justification, an excuse for the half-truths. The sage led backward to the depths of a starless night within a dark interior akin to cavern. He led afar, into Gino’s precise consciousness, to another realm. When the duo awoke from the trance and dream, discombobulated, a single remark struck him, and prevailed. “What is your creed?” “Canonism,” he’d imagined. “I’m in business - dirty business. I’m not a lunatic.” His faith, and his service, a naturally conflicting duet. Yet, he knew, deep down; it was his definition. “You allow for your business to decide upon who you are, what a fascinating feat.” They’d long drifted from the vibrant districts, left traversing the dim pavement once more. That experience, that transient stupor, why did it so avidly sit? In younger years, craving escape, a walk miles from who he was, a distraction. Dope had perpetually been a bad business; he was a hypocrite, per usual. “Where do we head?” He suddenly queried to a turned head, in partial presence. “Esbec.” The leader led on. What a distance, he thought - but not aloud. Alas, it was the manner of any pursuit, any business at that. With fortuity and unpredicted exterior force, Gino and Florenza were married. The wedding was a merry day, absent of discord, of dispute or routine bickering. It was broad, surrounded by the families and the work in thoughtlessness. They settled at a pleasant street, as a pleasant family with twin infants, and the lights of a so-called family man’s world: Cosimo Antony, and Lauretta Ivanna. For moments, the world appeared simple. None the wiser were they to the quarrel swathed behind the curtain. They’d fight over his varying deceit, his betrayal, and split, only to fall into connection once, in longing of fantastical woulds and shoulds. Even when he slapped her, and she screamed, and he swivelled offset from the world: cold as ice. In that twisted way, it was love. Time slowed. The Josephites dominated opposition, days were repetitive with equally repetitive feuds that therapy rarely succored. In the flash of a second, yet, Gino had lived such a life for a decade, in 1790. As time sped on lacking an instant to catch its breath, fate itself never wavered, nor did he: stuck in his ways, his “tradition.” Naturally, restlessness expanded, as did that destined dread. He found solace in a platonic adjacency with Giada. She understood, as she was. He knew naught but that vague, wondrous relation as sympathy to oneself, and incidentally another. They shared a mutual respect to the other. A break from the lonesome night, from a roaring fight; the next day, it would begin again, in sunlight anew. Deception, deceit and duplicity, was that all he was? It couldn’t be, it was an impossibility. So profoundly, he’d devastated his humanity. Had it ever been present, at all? Another ponderance unanswered, another thing lost for forsaken greed. He was devout. “This is not who I am.” Silently, he fell into a repetition, as an anthem to oneself in his native tongue. Alas, it was. Albeit, something he dashed from ‘till he could walk no longer. He was a steadfast man, an odd man, a crook and killer to some, a friend to some, a husband, a father, a brother. Yet, when they’d all retired, one appellation remained. In that precise evening, he was a father: distant, at that. He’d sought to be loyal, for connection, for a link that could not be true if he was not. He'd failed. His brother vanished from sight in 1793, leaving a blow to the being, a gaping stoic absence. The first of dominoes to fall, the first of the purge into an isolation. A disappearance was an optimistic designation, as in the last of days alongside Vittorio, he was supposedly dying. Gino had no room to think else from his disappearance as a loss, a death: a disappearance from life. The parting words were half-hearted, a reminiscence upon the before, seeming common with any dying man. A man had hoped to hang upon a crucifix, if it entailed awaking in the Skies above. Torture - for something you could not see, and witless retribution. He’d held the present world in a clasped palm, to cease. And to know, discerning yourself in the flipside, a reflection. He too had partaken in the offenses, the sin. Save, Vittorio seemingly knew such. Knowing not where his confidante had gone, spiritually, nor plainly, he was simply alone. How whimsy that concern was. He’d never meant to be a sentimentalist. The images flickered across his psyche’s forefront, rushing like fish down the river, incidentally sentimental in their cursory essence. They did not lie; they did not bend. His legitimacy, his newspaper: even that journalism. What was it but another falsehood - another fictitious ideal? Life slapped him in the face. In a moment, all seemed without guile. Yet, perhaps that too was a rosy memory - another half truth. Had that foreboding shadow always towered over him? Had he forgotten the face of the sun withstanding in its luminosity? His work, his side of town: it’d always acted as a nocturnal entity, amid the night’s. They traversed throughout the unpaved plains in the hours past five ‘o clock, till his gait grew heavy and his footsteps slowed. The towering city and it’s light was but a silhouette, far away. He grew cold, though spoke of naught; there was not a soul he trusted to listen. There was a deja vu, and a peculiar nostalgia with their endless trail to an uncertain destination. Storming rainy weather poured down upon them, speckling his coat with droplets like memories. It was his life: a chase and yearning to something, perhaps nothing, a child’s game of tag as every businessman, every crook, every politician sought to escape an unequivocal conviction of their very actions, and their very consequences. What did they wish for? An idealist’s heroism? What folly egoism, he thought. Gino had lived his life in a way to be a puppeteer as opposed to the marionette. He did so in excess, in greed for further control unto the strings. Only to learn that the people were not puppets to be tossed or contorted, and reminded. Stringed along, till the thread broke into thin strands and he knew not where to follow. Till there was no road, but a solemn darkness of the privy. He knew of his circus masks, where he’d act as two men: twofaced. He knew of the sin too countless to possibly count. He knew of the worldly wishes that had come to fruition, for what? For a lonely superiority, for a power over the dead man that could not shake his hand? For a corruption that rivalled what he’d arrived to overcome? For seclusion from the kin he'd sworn himself to, therein crashing down? Wonder, want - it was a dangerous thing. It brought hope to the young, and fools from the older. It led a false tale to the could, an attraction, a magnet. It led boats into the sea, and innovation to scrape the skies. It brought the pious to their sermons, and the heretical to a deeper crevice. It brought wanting, in the unknown “more,” of a brighter room. It was a siren, a summoning melody far from the candid: the real importance. The man halted at an edge, wherein the grass transformed into cobblestones, a shoreline of the wilderness to the rural at the riverside where a road led. Sometimes the traveller would pass by, as an immigrant, a salesman, a thief, a revolutionary, a wisher… He was not solus. Before him, there was a man: someone he knew from the earliest day onward, a son. He knew him as a boy, but at twenty five, there was scant boyish about the man that had come to adopt distinctions from his father, his pa. Where was his other family? The priority he’d promised as his first, and so sorely severed? His wife Florenza, driven to death by his inadvertent endeavor. His eldest daughter Lauretta, distant, offset from the world proceeding his wife’s death. Giada, dead by reckless behavior and reckless influence. Augustina, young and misguided with arduous fury at a lot she’d not chosen, and a subpar father, too, too absent. And Gustavo, a man he’d seen less as a son, but kindred in a being that Gino knew well, an immigrant and of ignorance. Where was he now? At a town for what meaning, what longing? He’d no purpose, nothing but old memories and hope for God’s mercy on his ashen soul. “Here,” the voice broke the looming gloom of a long lasting silence. A rural brick build, perhaps a bar or inn, hung as an escape from the incessant pouring. Young men conspired within, of politics and parties and all that he’d witnessed before. The Josephites, the Nationalists, like teams in simple sport, of the goals being fatalities, and votes as their points. It didn’t matter, as another false pretense, another lie. Soon, the open door was closed, and fate seemed to seal an unsent letter of the unsaid. He smiled, in nothing akin to happiness, but a melancholy bittersweetness in what had not. Who was he, truly, if his motive was to hide the very identity of what had brought him beyond struggle within the navy? That was not him - not his, or the whole, he’d convinced. Yet, with each passing day it seemed the opposite was true. A great agony had filled his chest, by figurative impressions, and physically. His breathing had come to knot in his throat, laden with unease and tobacco’s residue. He kneeled, catatonic, fixated to the movement of the figure he’d figured a son. He’d drawn breaths so prolonged without lament. In the end, when all had fallen down, and he’d outlived the festive chaperones, nil prevailed but the regrets he’d sworn untrue. Loss - mortality: it brought realization to a senseless soul. That question echoed throughout each thought, each meditative reminiscence, again. A cosa serviva tutto? What was it all for, then? His horrid pride, powerless to admit - to change, even vowing, in sickness and in health, believing in the assertion. He sought to be righteous to his ménage, but with everything in his recollection, he’d only fought. He’d only pulled in an endless tug of war. He’d only done what he must, in values he’d not like to know he was less than. "La famiglia non combatte la famiglia." He uttered. Family doesn't fight family. Oh, the irony. Envied, are those fortunate to die young -- preceding the isolation and betrayal of age, and the time for mistakes. He was a man of fifty six. To the dignity of a crook, and the bliss of asinity. He’d done what he must. And so, he reeled back in breaths he could not catch, and the shuffling of feet that could not stand. The torment, as if he’d been transfixed; he had. And so, he groaned into the fray of the leaden turning eve, in a profound notion: a faithlessness he’d sworn to walk away from, only to tread right forth into it, beguiled, as he’d never guess it’d be from those one did not envisage… In such an instance, his cunning had abandoned him long before, surrounded, yet so very alone in a shock. In that moment, he could swear that naught was of any importance at all: only the pained, shallowing breaths. Cliche, for one’s life’s recollections to flicker before it would all end… Yet, heavy is the heart of the impoverished spirit, thumping with each stride - each step forth into the darkness and night. ‘Till it may drum no longer and the soul musn’t continue, and the rich man must halt. Tranquil, is the deafening silence one lies amidst, so very still. Naught would dare interrupt the reverie’s eternity, until the morn where he’d have vanished beneath- Ahead, a river dashed, stopping for no soul in it’s bustle. What wonder, a cycle forward forevermore without the hesitation of a memory’s flickering pang within his psyche. And he did not think of the unanswered questions, for it mattered not. Where would that doubtful stream lead him? Irrefutably, elsewhere from petrichor above and the loveliness of the day. It was 1779, a Helena alley scented with smoke and innocence. “So this is Helena, eh?” It was Vittorio, or Victor, perhaps too early for the latter. “Bustling town.” Gino reaffirmed, a young, cocky, strapping man of twenty two. “Nothin’ like the Old Country, I’ll tell you that much.” “Louder, the bells, the vibrancy - intoxicating, si?” He riffed, flourishing a smirk. “Far better than that old place, now: halfway to Hell under tons of sand.” “We got out the nick of time. They trust their people to protect them, their fate in the hands of selfish bastards.” He halted in a pause, contemplative. “Then, they suffocate in a dune.” “And- see? That is how we are different; we thought ahead.” He remarked, gesturing with his hands. “Just think.. Hadn't we left there, we'd be stuck in a sand pit, in a coffin of our own making.” “Makes you sure glad to have been wise to what was happening, like you said.” He remarked, an underlying bother, as an unbothered man. “...Fools.” He concluded. How the Denier or sinner themselves would reject what he’d not yet grown to be. Perhaps it would be all okay, the next day would tell. ‘Till they’d walk alone, wayward, with each following day, through the bell's toll.

Monks?

can you answer this question like a cameronpost? And, how are you so based?

An Archipelago of Animals A Zoological Study 12 SA - 1808 FA By Kaia Faust Over my course of living atop the tropical cluster of islands in the South, I’ve come to observe countless animals. Here, I will recount them in my study of their behavior, habitat, and description. Zoology is the study of the habitat and distribution of this wildlife. I also composed this book from exterior citations and research into previous observations of the illustrated critters. Many of these birds, bugs, mammals and fish may be discernible, even salient to those exploring through the woods and shorelines of the tropics. They are found in a paradise, thriving widely and multifariously. Their shapes and sizes range, but most have adapted to be more agile, or bright to blend and hunt or scavenge. TABLE OF CONTENTS: I: THE BIRDS II: THE BUGS III: THE SEALIFE IV: THE LAND THE BIRDS The Nene Goose An illustrated Nene. The most common bird that is native to the Grove. A subspecies of the common goose, this is the rarest type of Goose found. It lives exclusively atop the archipelago. It is also significantly smaller than the common Goose. HABITAT * The nene, like the common Goose, creates a nest as a mound in the ground, or shrubbery. Oftentimes they will be found near marshes, or ponds. The water serves as a better precaution for safety. They also may leave their nest in grasslands, plains, in the open sun. APPEARANCE * The Nene is approximately two feet long, or 24 inches from tail feather to beak. It’s wingspan is long at roughly 45 inches. It’s tail feathers are a dark brown, and underbelly white. It’s coloration is a more brown hue of the common goose. BEHAVIOR * Although they may fly, they are ground dwelling geese. The nene’s are very social, and are rarely not found in gaggles. They will forage for food around the plains, and are herbivorous creatures. They graze grasses, berries, seeds, shrubs, and fruits. REPRODUCTION * Nene’s seem to mate for life, and will lay their eggs into their nest. The eggs range between 1 and 5 in my studies, and they are large, about the size of a man’s hand. They are incubated for a month,thereafter hatching into fletchlings. The Jungle-fowl Chicken A rendition of the Jungle-fowl - a wild relative of the chicken Following its namesake, the Jungle-fowl dwells in dense vegetation. It appears as a relative to the chicken, however smaller and more agile than those of a farm. It is also more vibrant in its feathers tint. HABITAT * The Jungle-fowl is found in deep foliage and tall grasses. Their nests are scattered over low branches of small trees like the acacia, or palms. They may also camouflage their nests in the grass and bushes. APPEARANCE * Thinner and more feral than their common counterparts, the Jungle-fowl is a brighter, smaller genus of the chicken. The plumage ranges in vibrant, red colors: from golds to metallic greens. It’s tail feathers have a high arch, and it’s hindneck is speckled with rusty feathers. It’s wingspan extends 15 inches, and it can grow up to 27 inches long; males are larger than females. BEHAVIOR * The Jungle-fowl’s shape is not ideally aerodynamic, so it may narrowly glide short distances. Flight is confined, seemingly, to reaching their nests or away from predators. Jungle-fowls are dominant, protective birds. They remain in flocks, and exhibit defense from rowdy, or outside pheasants and other birds. They consume berries, grain and bugs as most of their diet. The fowls are aggressive birds. REPRODUCTION * Eggs are typically laid in the dry portions of the seasons, such as winter and the late springs. Eggs take a month to incubate, and the mother’s sit atop their nest for that time. Jungle-fowls do not mate. The ‘Amakihi A rendition of a small 'Amakihi upon a branch. The ‘amakihi is a small bird, native to the Grove. It is a songbird, and a relative to the Honeycreeper. It’s plumage is universally a yellow hue. It trills in the morning, and is often spotted on the forest’s edges. HABITAT * It prefers humid territory, also found at sea level. It is an adaptable bird, versatile in its chosen spot. Nests are often in canopies of small leaves in a cup-like shape. This is not uncommon among songbirds. APPEARANCE * The ‘amakihi, in all observations, is yellow. It, alongside the Honeycreeper, is bijou. It’s length extends only 5 to 7 inches long, wingspan equal. It’s bill is short, curved and charcoal colored for the purpose of consuming nectar. BEHAVIOR * ‘Amakihi birds feed on insects, and hunt together in small flocks. Their song is a trill in the morning, mainly. They also search underneath leaves, and grass about the ground to search for stray seeds, and nectar. REPRODUCTION * They seem to lay their eggs all year round. They lay 2 to 3 eggs, incubating them for 2 weeks, usually. In that time, the mothers sit still atop their nest. Young ‘amakihi become independent of their nest in approximately 3 months after hatching. The Tropical Honeycreeper A renderance of a Honeycreeper on a branch. A small songbird, similar to a finch in its appearance. It is a miniscule bird, with a wide beak ideal for feeding upon nectar. The Honeycreeper is exclusive to the tropical Grove, and flourishes in several colors amid the forests. HABITAT * Most Honeycreepers are found atop palms and forest trees. Their nests are small and made up of small sticks, alike their goldfinch and songbird counterparts. APPEARANCE * They have wide, curved bills, creating the reverberance for a whistling song. The shape of their beaks, however, slightly seem to vary. On each short wing, they have 9 primary feathers. Their hue ranges in tints from more common crimsons, to yellows and greens. The genders of the birds are seemingly indifferential. They extend between 6 and 10 inches, compact songbirds. BEHAVIOR * Honeycreepers are active in the daylight, diurnal. Similar to most songbirds, they sing and chirp, calls often akin to a canary’s for a mate. Subspecies of the Honeycreeper, however, vary. The birds mate for life in monogamous relationships, though are usually found foraging alone. Their diet is broad, consuming most edible, natural material. Nectar is a core, alongside insects, seeds, slugs, and carrion. REPRODUCTION * The season in which two eggs, at most, are laid, ranges from the early springtime to summer. Incubation lasts between two to three weeks, and Honeycreepers are born blind. While the female sits atop her nest, the male mate will feed her and nurture the young. The Tern A rendition of a majestic flying tern. Terns are seabirds distributed over the entirety of Arcas, but are especially common on the Grove. They are slender, nimble hunters, white and grey in coloration. HABITAT * Most terns are found over the rugged shorelines, nesting over rocks and salt marshes. They nest in marshes alongside the coast, beneath bushes. APPEARANCE * Terns have angular bodies for hunting over the sea in the sunlight. Although they appear similar to a common seagull, their bills are like a knife: straight, and sharp. Their legs are short, and wings pointed, aerodynamic. Their wingspan extends 31 inches, I observed. They are rather short, still: 12 inches long, or 1 foot. Their heads are covered similarly to a raccoons, with a dark mask over their eyes. Otherwise, their plumage varies from a blinding white to grey. Their beaks are vibrant, like a duck, in a harsh, saturated orange. BEHAVIOR * Terns fly over the sea’s surface, flapping over it’s waves to hunt. They diet upon saltwater, and marine fish, also including shrimp. Whatever they may retrieve from the shallow, aquatic life. Terns are flocking birds, but pursue and gather alone. They are not afraid to announce their presence, very loud. They call an alarm akin to a hawk’s. REPRODUCTION * Terns mate for life in a matter of what appears as a uniform ritual. The male protects his territory that he has taken alongside the flock. He may attract a female tern, and establish a relationship. They will fly together, and then nest together. Terns lay exclusively one brown, splotched egg, blending in within the beach. They incubate for 3 to 4 weeks, and the mate hunts in this period. THE BUGS The Grove Butterfly An illustration of the Grove Butterfly. The Grove butterfly is a common butterfly native to the Grove, signified by it’s crimson and black pattern, and particularly fast flying. Unlike the common butterfly, their wings are shaped uniquely. They also have white splotches on them. HABITAT * Butterflies are distributed all over the archipelago, but these are predominantly discovered in upper woodlands and the coast. Some fly into created ecosystems, or birdhouses for their shelter. Others are distributed through flora. APPEARANCE * Grove butterflies are a rarity to spot, but are common in uninhabited forestry, it seems. They are larger than most, wingspan a lengthy 3 inches. The edges of each flapping wing are black, with the edges spotted with white dots on the margins. The wing, however, is mainly an orange-red. It appears similar to a Monarch, but there are key facets to differentiate the two. BEHAVIOR * Like most butterflies, Grove butterflies go into a chrysalis for 14 days and emerge as butterflies. Grove butterflies feed almost exclusively on tree sap, and will often be found swarming around areas wherein they may find it. The Sphinx Moth An intricately illustrated Sphinx Moth. Sphinx moths are typical moths which roam, and are found at dusk, mainly. They are native to the deserts around the Trade State, as well as the Grove. HABITAT * They are primarily found in bushes, and small nooks, on flowers and tree branches. They are nocturnal, though will awaken if they sense a predator in nearby radius. They are distributed in forests and meadows, ideal for their diet. APPEARANCE * Unlike many moths, the sphinx moth is lacking in a feathery texture. They have an angled body, with a pointed abdomen. Their wings are sharp and sometimes lacking in pattern. Their color ranges from metallic greys, to olive browns. Streaks line their body, for blending in amid the night. Their wings extend an outstanding 6.5 inches. BEHAVIOR * Sphinx moths are common in the dusk, and nocturnal insects. They blend in with the vegetation, but are very observable during their foraging among vibrant flowers. Different from common moths, Sphinx moths do not consume upon silk. Their diet is composed of nectar, and grape leaves. The Golden Tortoise Beetle An illustrated, millimeter sized beetle The Golden Tortoise Beetle is a miniscule beetle, endemic to the Grove. It resembles a small nugget of gold, reflective, hence its namesake. HABITAT * Golden beetles do not nest, but rather rest on leaves and nearby foliage. They can be discovered in dispersed flowers, and gardens. APPEARANCE * Golden Tortoise Beetles resemble a nugget of gold, while their shell is akin to a miniature tortoise. Golden Beetles are miniscule, only extending 1 centimeter long and wide. BEHAVIOR * Golden Tortoise Beetles waddle over leaves and play dead as a defense mechanism when they may sense a predator. They may turn on their back when approached, thus. Their diet is of foliage and weeds, and will also eat garden plants. The Yellow Faced Bee A drawing of the bee. A rare, fleeting species of bee indigenous to the Grove. The yellow faced bee is distinct from an elongated head and coal black wings. HABITAT * Yellow faced bees, among the common bee, live in hives. These are usually at high elevations, in coastal areas of forests. The bees belong in damp areas, and dwell there. APPEARANCE * Yellow faced bees appear closer related to wasps than a common bee. The majority of their bodies are black, as well as their wings. They are the size of a common bee, about 7 millimeters. They possess, upon the thorax, and their face, white markings. BEHAVIOR * These bees feed on nectar, and pollinate the flowers that surround them. They are not differential from their typical counterparts, in that facet. However, they are more withdrawn and solitary than the average bee, or wasp. They will stay out of range of birds, or people. They will also die, when stinging, as do normal bees. The Grove Garden Spider The Grove Garden Spider is a harmless orb spinner, extending 2.5 inches with yellow striped legs. It is indigenous to the grove, explaining it’s name. HABITAT * The garden spider is found in a range of insect-tolerable places. It may create its web in forests, or upon the coasts and shorelines. It dwells in sunlit places, to attract other bugs and attach its web to healthy flora. Its web is traditional of an orb spinner, circular and woven intricately. APPEARANCE * The garden spider is a medium sized spider, extending 2.5 inches. It has 8 legs in an X like formation, with yellow stripes curling around each. It’s abdomen is a green tint, and head black with it’s legs. It has fangs, but is utterly harmless to Descendents, and not poisonous. BEHAVIOR * Garden spiders are solitary insects, and stay in far proximity even of their own species, I’ve observed. They attract mosquitoes and flies primarily, but do not chase their prey. THE SEALIFE The Monk Seal A sketch of the seal. Monk seals are a tropical tribe of seals. They are the only earless seals found in the climate in which they dwell. They are agile predators with flat snouts and nostrils. They are aloof toward Descendents, when observed upon the beach, often delving back into the sea from the perceived threat. HABITAT * Monk seals remain in the coast’s subtropical water. They dwell beside reefs and show signs of foraging nearby the coral. To rest, they retire to seaside caves, also sunbathing in the daylight on uninhabited shores. APPEARANCE * Monk seals have a thick darkened fur coat. In the sun, this fades into a lighter dark gray. Their bellies are lacking in fur. Evidently, their skin is a whiter hue. Monk seals are large aquatic mammals, 2 meters long. BEHAVIOR * Monk seals primarily diet on bony fish that live amid the shore’s reefs and eels, sometimes including mollusks too. They seek meat, as carnivorous mammals. They are diurnal and I’ve found them to hold no presence in the moonlight. The Green Sea Turtle A sketch of the green sea turtle from top down. Green sea turtles are the sole species of turtle that swim, and are found upon the Grove’s beaches. Turtles, themselves, are a dwindling species. They are distinguished from the more common turtle by their scale pattern upon their face. It is differentiated from the shared frontal scales of an Imperial Turtle, for example. HABITAT * Like all turtles, green sea turtles migrate from the spot in which they were possibly born into the ocean to travel far distances to forage and settle. Many migrate to other shores and remain near those bays, finding themselves safe from predators. They live atop seaweed beds waved to the land. These creatures do not stay in a singular place long, except to seemingly nest their eggs. APPEARANCE * The green sea turtle’s body is an oval, with a more flattened, less arched shell. While the adults are a cyan leaning green, the hatchlings remain a yellowish brown. Their flippers are light, and have a minute claw below their scales. They extend 4 feet, and are very leisurely upon land. BEHAVIOR * They are herbivorous creatures, but firstly eat algae and seaweed. They prefer to be lonesome, hunting, always returning to the shore alone with their meal. In their early life, they traverse, and eat worms and crabs, later in life coming to be more herbivorous. Their most serious threat to survival is theft of eggs from predators and hunting. The Spinner Dolphin An illustration of a performing spinner dolphin The spinner dolphin is a slim dolphin found in tropical waters and the Grove. It prefers to perform for any hypothetical passerby, in acrobatic displays and jumping above the water’s surface. HABITAT * Spinner dolphins stick to warm, shallow water, though may also scour deeper into the ocean, seeking prey. All return to the bay to rest in the late night, in a routine, instinctual trip. APPEARANCE * Spinner dolphins are thinner and more aerodynamic than the common dolphin, with a triangular dorsal (back) fin. They are primarily grey, but their belly is found to be darker. The largest dolphins are 7 feet, small sizes 4 feet. Some spinner dolphins have humps upon their backs. BEHAVIOR * These dolphins are lighthearted jesters who care to perform and “spin” for anyone who may observe. In the morn, they play with the “schools” they travel alongside. They have an intriguing whistle, a high pitched click. At dusk, they hunt for their diet. It consists of squid and tropical fish. The Butterflyfish A unique, flattened fish, widespread over tropical waters everywhere. They resemble angelfish, though, their features are notably softer. HABITAT * Butterflyfish live inside coral and are hunted by monk seals, sometimes. They live in very shallow territories, less than 60 feet from the surface. APPEARANCE * Butterflyfishes are 5 inches long at the very largest, and 3 as a minimum. Their fins are small and silky, a common trait of most tropical fish. Their namesake was received from vibrant colors in which stripe their body. They have a dorsal fin, a long extended antenna from their eyes to past their body, acting as a spine. BEHAVIOR * Butterflyfish travel in schools until they find a lifetime mate, wherein they stick beside them in a duo. They live inside reefs and stay nearby them. They do not travel far, and feed on plankton. They scout throughout the daylight, but return to the reefs in the dusk. THE LAND The Chital An artist's rendition of a male Chital in the wild. Chital, or the spotted deer, is a deer species native to the Grove. It is moderately sized, in the average range of the extended weight and size of the animal, extending 3 feet from the shoulder to the tail. They are common on the Grove, and are scattered over forests and grasslands. HABITAT * Chitals inhabit grass plains, mountains and forests among the Grove. They gather together in large herds, and rest in shaded areas, underneath trees. APPEARANCE * Chital are medium sized deer, back spotted with white dots and a golden coat. They distinctively have a black stripe down their spine. Males have antlers, three pronged. Mature male deer can weigh up to 200 lb, while females reach 100 at most. BEHAVIOR * Chital are diurnal, and active primarily in the morning. They are jittery when they spot an individual nearby, and may naturally run. Chital are herbivorous, like all deer, and their diet is made up primarily of grass, flowers and fruits. They stay in large numbers together to avoid predators and hunters. The Mongoose A wild mongoose sketched. The mongoose is a small, carnivorous mammal, closely related to the meerkat. They are not exclusive to the Grove in their inhabitance. Their territory ranges from deserts, to plains, to forests. HABITAT * Mongooses dwell in clearings and forests in the Grove. They dwell inside tunnel systems, burrows. An analogy could be made between them and rabbits, in that courtesy. Some mongooses stay near rivers, in convenience with water. Mongooses stay together in packs, as predators. APPEARANCE * Mongooses vary in size. Though, most native to the grove extend 1 foot long. They have a straightforward body, with slick brown coats and shortened legs. They normally flourish grizzly hairs, and occasional ringtails. They have sharp fangs, as carnivores, and long snouts. BEHAVIOR * Mongooses are unfriendly creatures, and predators. They are solitary, though most remain in colonies nevertheless, or “packs.” They hunt in the day, primarily on rodents and birds. They do not attack, lest provoked, but are territorial of locations near their burrows. The Grove Cattle An illustrated male cow, a bull. Unlike most cows, the Grove’s cattle are undomesticated and mostly feral. They can range from black and white, to brown in color and are generally peaceful creatures (lest elicited otherwise.) HABITAT * Wild cattle live in pastures, like their normal counterpart, and forests. At night, they often come together in herds and rest under palm trees shade and camouflage. Despite popular belief, they do not sleep standing up. They may fall into a reverie, but it is a daydream. APPEARANCE * The cattle are indifferential from domesticated, or Imperial cattle. Their coats may range in color, and the males may have horns, as bulls. They are stocky, with rectangular bodies, but are more muscular than farm animals. Cattle, from their tail to their shoulder, are up to 5 feet long. BEHAVIOR * Cattle are distant from people, and may feel threatened. They move steadily in herds, and feed upon grass in pastures and forests. They feed their young with milk, and are very communal creatures. The Hoary Bat A sketch of a flying hoary bat. Hoary bats are an endemic species to the Grove. They are nocturnal, and have bad eyesight but navigate in some matter with echoing calls and squeaks through the nighttime. HABITAT * Hoary bats live abundantly in the caves below the Grove. They hang upon the ceilings, amid the darkness and are hostile if disturbed. APPEARANCE * Hoary bats are dark, blending in creatures, with a white underbelly and dark grey bodies and wings. Their wingspan extends 15 inches, and they are a miniscule 3 inches long. They’re agile, and light to fly through the night sky. BEHAVIOR * The bats are nocturnal, and hunt in the nighttime. They flutter out of caves in the dusk, and forage through forests. They halt at rivers and drink there, and feed upon large moths, grasshoppers, mosquitoes, and even wasps. Hoary bats are solitary, and do not live in packs, or any group. The Circle Chameleon A circle chameleon atop a branch, sketched. Chameleons are fascinating terrestrial reptiles that hide among trees and deep forestry. They have a unique trait of being able to change the color of their skin. It may adjust to what they are standing upon. HABITAT * Chameleons prefer damp, even wet forests. They live on tree branches, sheltered from the sun and the rain. They sit alone on the trees, never found in groups. APPEARANCE * Chameleons are small lizards with pointed scales from their head to their tail’s tip. Adults are 6 inches long. Chameleons change coloration, from a natural viridescence, to a bright yellow, to a brown to blend in. They may hide in their surroundings, and blend in. They can observe all, with eyes on the sides of their cranium. BEHAVIOR * Chameleons are very territorial and weary to anyone who approaches. They will change color on sight of a person; they presumably hope to hide. They do not care for others of their species, and may even attack. They rarely forage, but meander and will catch insects with an extended tongue as the main resource of their diet. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This was a study written over the course of months, and researched over the course of years. I hope it may have a helpful influence on anyone meaning to traverse the cluster of islands. It may also serve as an encyclopedia to the animals found over the Mother Circle Grove. Without animals, we would be alone. We would have little to feed on, or accompany. Now, we may observe them in the modern day. I'd like to thank Sonna Vuln'miruel, for approving this grand task and supporting it.

IGN: RainedropF SKIN/S: Scandinavian Elfess DISCORD: rainedropf#8659 BID: 90

IGN: RainedropF SKIN/S: Scandinavian Elfess DISCORD: rainedropf#8659 BID: 60

HOW A BIRD MUST FLY The roads were musty that day. The endless snow pelted at each roof where families huddled together in warm blankets. The mothers tended their children, comforting them. “Play tomorrow, darling,” they’d say as if they were a hen to their chick. “It’s cold.” Lost in little understanding, the children were bored. Only a single soul longed for the colder days. The times where it wasn’t enough to envelope yourself in scarves. Only to stay inside, pulling a dusty book from the shelf, curious for its contents. Her name was Cajsa, and she was barely a child. She delved into the poetry of the atomic-sized things. The little dewdrops sliding from the petal of a flower. The lost feathers that fell from the sky, clipped by a feline perhaps. Since she was a smaller girl, there was an unending pressure in the rat-race of the Imperial system. She’d glance into the sky, lit up by little spotlights, dots: the stars. Did they worry all the same? Did they hold a pang of underlying guilt? She wished to be a star, left as a concept, only a bright moment that dissipated as the sun rose. Thus, she disappeared. In the midday warmth, she crept from the wide concrete roads, into the past: the tropics. The tall palms, the sand left in the heel of her boots, the bright sun further tanning her freckled skin. Romance: a true love to find one day, packing your bags and taking a leap without a scarce look back. The idealistic sentiment had been instilled since she was but eight. She hadn’t met the boy; instead, she figured, it was the place. In 1801, Cajsa Serene Baelius vanished without a trace. It was not an abnormal night. The birds chirped amidst the leafless trees and the snowfall continued, pelting down on an unlucky passerby. Yet, the girl was gone. Two notes remained. One lay in her dusty desk. The second slipped under the crack of the Wick’s door in the aurora. The countless books she’d rant about had gone with her. She’d dare not leave them behind. The first note was in her scrawling cursive, edges ripped as it had been in a rush. All she had time for was to scrap the page from her beloved journal. To My Parents To Rahtol And as she could dearly hope: time went on and the overcast day elapsed. Perhaps different as to how it had begun, but all the same, majorly. When spring sprung up, migration would begin, but this fowl had already evanesced.

im memeing GINO FALCONE:

For the yearly anniversary will you finally shed your ears and reveal your Adunian identity?

It had been a week. The afternoons were darker, quieter. Each night Gino went to bed alone, and woke up in the morning, only having himself for accompaniment. The mortician had come around. She was gone without a trace, but her words echoed endlessly: I love you. Their fights, their screams: they couldn't be ignored. Each night, however, when he faced her in those darkened days and nights, he saw her. She was his and he was hers and they were each other's. A thousand thoughts raced each evening. He fell down the twisting, swivelling stories of his own cracked mind. When he went into a slumber he saw her eyes as he had when she lived. When she ran, lively, never a bore: however chaotic. It was his own fantastical hallucination. His children silently loathed him. It was a justified reply amidst his tyranny. His screams photographed her; it was a sad memory that hung true. He did not scream, but silently stood with a frigidly cold look, never blinking to dare see the vision, the deafening memories. Even so, his psyche rushed, chasing it's own tail in a loop. Lorenzo was right. It was his fault. The Falcone roamed down the streets. It was late. He'd left without a word to a soul. He walked, wishing to fall and sleep, into hibernation like a temporary death. Forty summers lived, and he was freezing, clueless as a child. Somewhere he knew, but dared not speak it out loud; it made it de jure. In a sudden urge of emotional adrenaline he raced to the house with the wind brushing up against his eyes and hair. He was too blind to stop. He made it to the house, stopping in his tracks, wheezing and out of breath. The wood creaked. The crickets squeaked. As he'd stepped in he'd forgotten all like waking from a dream. Life was but a dream in those days. Though, he knew not where the boat was leading him. He traced his palm down the plastered walls, only a single reminiscing thought in his head: a single memory. I love you too. All the confused contradictions were silenced, and for one moment, it would be okay. It was all forgotten now. The sun rose up, and it had been a week and a day.

It’s complicated. I want to first disclose that I do not condone real life and OOC homophobia, racism, bigotry, etc. However, I firmly believe it is an entirely different animal when it comes to roleplay. Malaise put it very well. You are not your character; you simply portray your character. I’m going to go off on a little tangent here, but it’ll make sense in the scheme of things: A long time ago, I played a bipolar jerk. He was unpredictable, and a wild card. One day, he does something really bad and has an affair. I strongly recall the player coming up to me and saying something along the lines of ”wth dude. whyyyd you do that? thats misogynist.” It sounds a little silly when it’s put that way. The point wasn’t to be a terrible person, or have a flat character for the sake of extending my inner bipolarity to the LotC world. It was fictional, and he was odd. That was part of what came with playing him, or another interacting with him. The point was, I was not him, and you are not your character. To claim that portraying any of these faulty issues makes you a believer of them is deeply flawed. You could say to write a fictional story of inequality makes you the person you are portraying. You could say Orwell’s 1984 taught us to be fascist. No, and no. I frankly think to blatantly turn our head up and close our eyes, ignoring these things is worse. It erases the fact that they exist. It plays pretend that a “perfect world” exists, when that is far from the truth. It revises our memories. The time when homophobia and racism becomes a problem is when it is used purely to push your own inner hatred. OOC harassment is a problem. That is the sort of thing we should not, and cannot condone. All of this, I feel, harkens back to a problem that’s been debated a lot on LotC: continuity. Elves get angry with the human community that they want a more modern setting with artillery and colonialism. LGBTQ+ character players want a safespace of no homophobia, racism, and such. There’s an answer to both: you don’t have to look for conflict. You don’t have to hurt your character. You don’t have to push yourself into being PKed by some sort of hate crime. What you do need is to acknowledge that you can’t always guarantee that you won’t be triggered very easily. Conflict exists, and every person can’t edit themselves IRPly, and their story to your needs. The same goes the other way, though. It isn’t biased. One place not accepting enough? Move. One place too accepting? Move. When it’s a novel: it’s easy. We have all the cards in the deck; we can fill out this world. It’s a little different with roleplay. The world isn’t yours, and the world isn’t theirs, and that’s okay. I’ll leave this with a bottom line, and the closest thing I can articulate to being an answer: Yes, all that can exist, respectfully. ((on a side note, don’t harass people and force them into uncomfortable situations: that’s an issue.))