Jump to content


Bedrock VIP
  • Posts

  • Joined

  • Last visited


98 Fantastic

About oliviaaaahr

Contact Methods

  • Discord
  • Minecraft Username

Character Profile

  • Character Name
    some idiot

Recent Profile Visitors

867 profile views
  1. Marion admires her pseudo-niece's writing whilst propping her feet 'pon a significant bust of an insignificant man!
  2. people are comparing a minecraft server ban to a genocidal event in history i dont think i can do this anymore
  3. A woman remembered that the other CHILD present was in fact named Mischa, not Magda, after all!
  4. [!] Around churches and other places most Holy were these articles passed about. "beady eyes he watches gather 'round & be gathered as his flock his cattle his heard submit to the higher lower middle power fall into his hooved grasp & be led"
  5. A certain dame of onyx tresses and a piercing gaze glanced the missive; something in her expression faltered at the sight, and she couldn't help but approach, fingers tracing those profound etchings. "..Ah," she'd whisper, breath catching and hitching in her throat. "Seems it all caught up to you, didn't it?" Before any other sorrow could be expressed in front of such a crowd, that bustling street- she swept away and ducked throughout each cloaked figure, each powdered dame, and stalked off towards her humble abode.
  6. She lazily pans aside to her fallen compatriot and barely stifles the snort that escapes her. "The reason this happened, my sweet- my Ysidora," she began to chide, piercing eyes returning to her own reflection which shone in the aforementioned dame's mirror, "...is because of pacifists like you. Mrm. A lovely characteristic- but it's one that shall get you nowhere, in this world." With a clatter, Marion rummaged about for her cigar box- and hissed through grit teeth, ".. something- something must be done."
  7. An exhausted mother glances the issue and releases a drawn-out sigh. "She's doing so well. . ." Then, a little bell is lofted - rung - and she barks out a demand for a specific brigand-to-be to fetch a gin and tonic.
  8. A raven-haired dame's gaze is locked beyond the panes of her window. Her fingers drum 'gainst a half-written letter, unsent - as she ponders recent news. [reserved]
  9. why do you look like that (little pink thing on the computer)
  10. "I'm scared, Huberta. There is so much blood. . ." The scene she approaches is one that sends her stomach lurching; a friend, so dear to her. . . hunched over. Heavily pregnant. Bleeding. Blood- so much blood. Without any thought, any hesitation, Huberta rushes forth and envelops the woman keenly- ensuring she didn't collapse, as the two men by her side did nothing to help. Fools. They could've helped. Couldn't they? ". . . and the pain-. . ." These whispered words only fueled the worry that seeped into the raconteur; pregnancy, labor... it was all hard enough. Healthy women and healthy babies died from small mishaps. Serious complications- such as this... the chances of survival were slim. To top it off. . . she was panicking. Kindrel had never been one to panic. So openly, at least- she hid her woes behind witty remarks, snark, and anger. She was always so angry, never-. . . never scared. It had never been like this. ". . . it has never been like this. . ." She held the pregnant elf tightly, arms looped under Kindrel's pits. "It'll-. . . you'll be fine," was what she murmured, to comfort. Not much comfort was given. Nasty glares were spared towards both male 'fenn, and she snapped some demand- for them to carry this poor woman somewhere else. No clinic - they settled on an isolated room in the tavern, a room full of hay with a bed made of the same material. Not comfortable. . . no comfort. The best that Huberta could do was her cape, laid under the pained woman. ". . . not with either of my children." The next seven hours went by slowly. Agonizingly slow- and Huberta watched it all; she held Kindrel's hand, whispered praise, and boosted her through moments where they both believed she lacked the willpower to finish the job - the job of motherhood. "Easy- breathe, breathe. . . breathe," she'd chant, Huberta, voice cracking with a slight whine. This was a plea - she knew what these sort of complications meant, what ensued. . . - - - And doesn't she know, too? The blood, the pain, the distortion of her body stretched beyond its limits. And the speed of it all. . . she knows. She knows, and in Kindrel's eyes reflect an echo of that fear Huberta shudders with - but too, there is hope. "Ryunthur," she asks, hoarse and weak. And so Huberta fetches him - with a shout, as she juggles the wailing baby boy in both arms. Eventually, he comes, and his countenance breaks into a proud, overjoyed smile- he spares a proud, overjoyed glance to Kindrel- and is proud. He, a father, a soon-to-be-husband, is overjoyed - as is she. To the trio - to the quartet, a tired smile, and she summons the strength to speak hoarsely; "Ibram." Its name. Huberta leaves the couple - paces only a few steps away, and sits on another sack of hay, her makeshift seat for the hours to come. More people enter, more people leave- that tiny room. They're all smiling - but they know. They know, they know, she knows, they all know- why must they pretend? Why are they all pretending? A line of dust does the trick. Draws her thoughts elsewhere, far away- she can't stand all of this pretending. This acting. It's only seconds to her, that pass, and so suddenly- Ludo exits. ". . . She ain't with us anymore." And like that, the bard is sobered. She rises- jolts to her feet- with a gasp. A sharp inhale, and exhale, all at once. It sends her into a fit. She wasn't surprised, no. . . no shock ran over her visage, no shock morphed her features. It was shock, though, really - or. . . was it? Now, she was still unsure. Without thinking, her feet drew her out of the room and down the stairs- into Dobrov's meek square, down the path, and to the main road. Huberta walked. This was expected, was it not? This was going to happen. She knew- Kindrel. . . they all knew. Even then, it hurt- she couldn't believe. She had... hope. That her friend would live longer - long enough to hear her child's first laugh, see those first steps. . . but it was taken. Why? Where is this GOD, the one everybody loses their minds over? Where? Not here, surely, for if He was. . . He wouldn't allow such a thing. Would He? Why? How could He? It was pointless. The same thought ran over her mind, days, months, and years later. Why? Why? Why, why- why?
  • Create New...