esotericas

Manon Yvaine peered proudly down at her completed artwork, before handing it off to Mischa to be affixed to the flyers. She was looking forward to this. . .

THE OPENING OF THE WAYSTONE INN 21st of Tog Ag Yermey, 430 E.S. The Waystone Inn. Whatever the season That I'm on the road I look for a reason Loden or laystone To lay down my load The road to Karosgrad is long, cold, and fraught with danger. With little evidence of civilization as you travel, it’s no surprise that many folks stumble into the grand city of crows with mind and body numbed from the cold. No longer! With the official opening of the Waystone Inn, travelers to Haense - and to any neighboring nations - may secure themself a drink and a hot fire, even before entering the city. As a family-owned-and-run business, the Waystone is almost always tended by someone, with none of the painful waits that may be found in more urban bars. After testing out our signature cocktail, the Petrov Penny, settle down by the fire with a hot meal, crafted from ingredients straight from our gardens. Standing stone by old road is the way To lead you ever deeper into fae Laystone as you lay in hill or dell Waystone leads to Faeriniel If the allure of a hot drink isn’t enough, perhaps the Stone itself will tempt a wanderer to visit. Myths across the continent and across time tell of massive stones which act as gateways to other worlds. Where to is up to interpretation - or to who tells the story, but the waystone which gives the Inn its name holds an air of majesty nonetheless. Some have even said that in the middle of the night, when all is silent in the snow-covered forests, the stone can be felt to shake. "Why do we stop for the waystones?" "Tradition, my boy," he said grandly, throwing his arms wide. "And superstition. They are one and the same, anyway." Whether it be for drink, discovery, or simply a spot by the fire, consider stopping by the Waystone next time you’re out on the Northern roads. Find us just north of Karosgrad, on the road out of the city!

A MOTHER’S PEACE Adelaide von Audrick takes some well-deserved rest. A recent portrait of Adelaide von Audrick. Adelaide von Audrick was not a real person. It had once been a comforting thought, an ever-present hum in the back of her mind. Nothing mattered when you were pretending to be a woman who did not exist. But after twenty years of dyed hair, secrets kept, and fake names, what was once a pleasant weight now started to ache. I. ELYSIUM “Mama?” young Anya asked, tugging on the locked handle of a clinic workroom door. “Are you in there?” “Yes, sweetheart. Mama’s busy. Wait outside, will you?” “Mkay.” The plush cushions of the waiting room seats were welcoming, and Anya absently swung her legs, looking around the room. The walls were shiny and newly-plastered, like everything in the fledgling city. A large grandfather clock in the corner tick-tocked so slowly that Anya couldn’t help but wonder if it needed to be rewound. All was still, save for the tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock of the great grandfather clock, and for the pat-pat pat-pat pat-pat of Anya’s shoes on the edge of her seat. tick-tock. pat-pat. II. KAROSGRAD “Next up, princess Anya de Astrea of Elysium.” Anya swallowed her nerves, forcing herself into the composure she had learned years before, and gave a curtsy to Koenas Emma. Too deep, she chided herself, before straightening back up. “It’s an honor, your majesty.” tick-tock tick-tock There was a great grandfather clock in the corner of the ballroom, and Anya felt hundreds of foreign eyes digging into her. “Why are you here?” tick-tock tick-tock Anya swallowed, and then spoke, feeding out the response she had prepared while waiting in line. “After my mother’s untimely death last year, and my father’s subsequent retreat from society, I thought it would be wise to get some space from Elysium, and reconnect with my father’s culture. That of Haense.” It was a nice, pretty lie. The sort that she would tell many, many more of. III. OTISTADT “Do you, Anya de Astrea, take this man to be your husband? To have and to hold from this day forward...” Anya’s hands were clammy in Johann’s, the chill nervous sweat beginning to soak through the satin of her gloves. This was all wrong. Johann fed her an encouraging smile, the sort that had gone from endearing and comforting to nausea inducing. Guilt. It was an emotion she wasn’t familiar with, not until recently. Guilt and anxiety and fear and shame. Margot’s scornful smile. Marie’s scowls. The great grandfather clock that never seemed to leave her side continued to hum, counting the seconds. tick-tock tick-tick She was supposed to say something. “I do.” Another lie. IV. THE NIKIRALA PRIKAZ Anya had not shared a bed with Johann Ludovar in quite some time. Her old ward’s chambers in the palace lent more comfort than any man’s arms did these days. An Elysium fox - a wedding gift, the poor thing - curled in her lap as she contemplated her reflection. Her hair would be easy to change. It was always what people mentioned first: “So blonde!” “How did you get it that color?” “That one’s got foreign parents.” “Is she a Barclay?” It felt like freedom to see another woman in the mirror. Anya could properly inspect her own appearance, since, truly, it was no longer her own. Snub nose. Long lashes. Round cheeks. Still, her time was running out. Adelaide had no reason to be in palace apartments. V. YONG PING The anonymity was a blessed and surprising gift. Nobody knew who she was. She was Adelaide, just Adelaide. A young woman in search of work and a place to call home. VI. SEDAN Too many children in too few rooms. Whispered arguments. Muddy boots. VII. MAYS ALLEY I, KAROSGRAD, HAENSE. 1876. Adelaide von Audrick did not make another batch of dye. Johann Ludovar was dead. Dead for years now. She hadn’t attended his funeral, although she had thought about it. She could walk the streets of Karosgrad - of home - without checking over her shoulder. Without covering her face. Without worry. And yet still, every second that passed weighed heavier on her heart. The grandfather clock in the living room of the von Audrick home never stopped ticking. tick-tock tick-tock You’re getting old, Adelaide. You’re a grandmother, you know. Adrian is getting married. You can rest. tick-tock tick-tock Heavier, and heavier still. pat-pat pat-pat Aurelian’s boot-clad feet announced his presence, and before Adelaide knew it, her youngest son had plopped himself on her lap. “Du are so quiet, mutter.” He said, reaching small hands out to squish her cheeks. “Just thinking, sweetness.” “About vhat?” tick-tock tick-tock “Mama needs to rest, my love.” “For how long?” tick-tock tick-tock “A while.” VIII. PEACE AT LAST The von Audrick home was quiet. Adrian was moving out, Dijana by his side. A new generation. Adelaide sat in her bed, a precious childhood book in her lap. Collected Fairytales. When she grew tired of reading, there was no sound to break the silence. OOC:

THE WANDERER A Young Woman’s Discovery Of ‘Self’ Cecilya, aged 16, dons mens’ clothing for her journey into the unknown. All that Cecilya Angelika left for her family was a note, placed carefully on Adele’s desk, where hopefully her cousin wouldn’t find it until she was long gone... [OOC:] This information is not publicly known except to those who participated in the events in RP. Don’t metagame! The wide, yawning expanse of the southern desert was unlike anything Cecilya had ever seen. Sweat dripped down her back, the thick wool of her father’s coat weighing heavily in the dry heat. Beneath her, the thudding of her horse’s hooves stirred up dust and sand, blowing into her eyes and obscuring her vision as she rode through the endless sands. It was only when her horse refused to move any further, slowing to a stop in protest of its dehydration, that Cecilya finally acknowledged she was lost. When she hopped off her horse to properly get her bearings, her vision swam, and she sunk onto her knees in the sand. -☖- When Cecilya came to, she was slipping off the back of a hairy camel, the sandstone gates of an unfamiliar city in her view. The sun-warmed cobblestone of the streets seeped through the soles of her boots immediately, and Cecilya didn’t stop to thank whoever had rescued her, instead running through the gates of the city. There, she was met by a horde of foreign tribesmen, and a young boy - perhaps eleven or twelve. Before she had time to ask what was happening (or where she was), the tribesmen were already filtering off into a large sandstone building across the street. "What.. am going on, here?" The boy gave her a bright smile, and reached out to offer her his hand. "Want to come watch?" He answered Cecilya’s question with one of his own, and ran off after the departing dignitaries before Cecilya could answer. She doggedly followed after, and the boy led her into a meeting room, and then into what looked to be a guardhouse. "When I give the signal, pull this lever, alright? - Also, I’m August!" "Ea.. uh. Okay.." His forwardness startled her, and Cecilya crept over to the door, watching the tribesmen filter into the room. -☖- "Now! Now! Do it now!" August shook Cecilya’s shoulder, and pushed her towards the lever. She could barely reach it, but with a measured jump she managed to grip onto it and pull the thing down. An ominous clank ensued, and Cecilya turned a questioning gaze on August, her brow furrowed towards her newfound friend. "Why.. what does it do?" "Closes the gate! The Duke told me to lock them in. It’s going to be a bloodbath." The first clash of swords rang out through the stone halls, and Cecilya’s vision swam once more. I: WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR WORST MISTAKE? "I’m a Lord of Oren. I can help you." Cecilya clings to the stone wall of the Vienne Undercity, her sweat-dampened hands struggling to maintain a grip. The murky water sloshed only a few feet below her, and across the way, her gaze found the face of the so-called Lord, pale in the barely-present light of the Undercity. "Ea do niet know who vy am. How can ea trust vy? How-" A splash broke her focus, and Cecilya scrambled away from the water, sodden boots and dampened hands slipping on the tractionless ground. She was stumbling up the cracked stone steps before even receiving a response, her heart pounding in her chest. -☖- Without warning, Cecilya was fourteen again, still shuddering from her first encounter with bandits - her pockets empty and her feet bare against Vienne’s cobblestone streets. She stumbled into the city, searching for any signs of life. A shop caught her eye - its doors thrown open, and friendly voices chattering inside. Cecilya trod over, cautiously sticking her head inside. "Do either of vy know where ea might find an inn?" She asked, and then froze, her gaze catching upon a familiar face. Elizaveta of Alban, perhaps the strangest of the Barbanov family. Elizaveta turned, and cocked her head at Cecilya. Under her breath, Cecilya muttered prayers to whatever god felt like listening - Please don’t let her recognize me. Please don’t let her recognize me. "Aren’t you Adele’s little girl?" The Princess asked, and Cecilya’s stomach sunk to the floor. "Nie.." She wasn’t, of course. Her cousin, not her daughter. Adele wasn’t even married, everyone knew that. "Yes you are! I’ve seen you two together." "Please do niet make eam go back to Haense." Cecilya’s voice came out far more pitiful than she wished, and she scrambled out of the shop before Elizaveta could speak again. -☖- "Just wait here a moment, I’ve got an errand I need to run." The familiar brick walls of the housing for the Koenas’s wards slowly crept in closer, weighing onto Cecilya as if they wanted to crush her. The wooden doors closed behind Elizaveta before Cecilya could respond, and she was alone. Her first attempt at running away had been thwarted. She was right back in Haense, with nothing to show for her efforts but a muddy hem on her dress and a sea of shame in her heart. Next time she would do it properly. WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR WORST MISTAKE? Poor planning. Listening to people who think they know better. Trusting strangers. Walking barefoot. Carrying too much money. Speaking too quietly. Letting people see my weakness. II: WHAT MOTIVATES YOU IN LIFE? Once again, Cecilya was lost. This time it was on purpose. Taking only unmarked paths, not bothering to read signs as she walked. A warm summer breeze teased through her braided hair, and she could feel the cobblestones of the street through the holes in her worn boots. She was seventeen now, another year closer to being a proper adult. The world around her grew ever larger, the more places she visited. The Undercity of Vienne. Caves of murals in Norland. Empty homes and silent streets in Elvenesse. Marble columns and draping greenery in Celia’nor. Homes with grass for floors in the Vale. Deserts and mountains and oceans. Today, however, she was underground. Initially, Cecilya had followed a path towards the water, fancying a dip to cool herself off, but instead she had found herself in what seemed like a village. Tiny houses on either side of a bubbling creek, weaving in and out within the hill. It was charming, yes, but nothing as enchanting as the things she had found in other places. Bloody altars, shrines to unknown gods, books with voices and souls. Her attention was caught, however, when she spotted a singular house with an open door. Hopping across the stones of the river, Cecilya crept inside. "What do we have here?" She muttered to herself, peering at the ransacked home. Belongings were strewn everywhere - a scarred sword, leather notebooks, rotting food, and ragged clothing. She paused, glancing back out of the house and around at the little neighborhood. What were the chances that anyone would notice if she took something? Probably pretty slim. And besides, she likely wouldn’t be back here for a long time. "Do niet mind if ea do..." Cecilya slept under the stars that night, her new weapon resting soundly by her side. -☖- "Nobles like you shouldn’t have to sleep in places like this." Cecilya couldn’t help but laugh at the young Lord Sarkozy, giving him a gentle cuff on the head. "Ea do it because ea want to." Franz gave her an incredulous look, swatting her hand away. "But why?" Cecilya pursed her lips, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. She looked around at the Undercity, with its crumbling stone walls, rushing river, and creeping vines. "Ea like the way it feels down here. Like there am secrets to uncover." You can’t find secrets aboveground. WHAT MOTIVATES YOU IN LIFE? Breaking rules, even those that exist for good reason. Finding things that nobody has found before. An unwillingness to stay still. Curiosity. Exploration. The unknown. III: WHO DO YOU WANT TO BE? Cecilya sat atop the fountain in the main square of Vienne, tuning her newfound lute. Found was the right word, as she had pilfered the instrument from the burning wreckage of some old manor in the north, little left of the place other than smoldering embers. It was remarkably intact, save for the scuffs and stains that come from years of use. "You’re going to get hurt up there, miss!" A voice called from below, and she turned to look. A blonde man looked up at her from a table by the tavern. "Ea sit up here all the time." Cecilya called back, leaning against one of the columns, her legs dangling off the roof. "Then play something!" -☖- "What did ea do to deserve vy?" Charles paused, his gaze drifting over the ocean as he thought. "Hm.." "Hm?" "I don't know. I'm thinking." "Should ea be worried?" It was a weak jest, and Cecilya squeezed her hand, clasped in his. She leaned softly against his side, watching Charles’s face with an easy smile. The ominous beating of the dragon’s wings had long since faded away, and yet still the pair remained on the beach they had escaped to. "I like every part of you.. Because every part of you exists. I've never had too many answers for a question before." "And yet that one was an answer to a different question, ea think." "… Ah, that wasn't the answer. We would be here longer. To me, you are deserving of anything and everything." A pause, and Charles spoke again. "I don't want you to think that my unfettered truths are made up. It's difficult to describe you without slight discomfort you might perceive it the wrong way... I've never encountered anyone that's stolen this much of my affection." Cecilya rolled her eyes, resting her head on Charles’s shoulder. "Am that such a bad thing? Ea did niet grow up around much love, ea will admit, but.. Ea always got the feeling it was supposed to be that way." "I lost faith in love long ago." "Then what do vy call this?" The waves lapped at the gravel beach only a few feet in front of them, stars just beginning to shine in the deep blue sky. Cecilya wrapped her arm around Charles, watching the ocean. "Those feelings have since changed." She couldn’t help but smile, gently knocking her bent knee against his. "That was the right answer." For once, everything was perfect. WHO DO YOU WANT TO BE? Calloused fingers on the strings of a stolen instrument. Juniper’s warm smile after signed conversations. Holes in leather boots, handmade trousers, papej’s coat. I want to be the woman I have already become.

Karina Valerya makes baby noises.

Snow On Snow On Snow Cecilya Ludovar Takes Her Leave A portrait of Cecilya, aged fifteen. Cecilya Angelika stood over her uncle's body while her cousins wept. She watched him with the same trepidation she always had - ever-fearful of a man who had done nothing to harm her. Still, the young Ludovar watched, as she always did. No sound exited her drawn lips, save for a whispered, "Aedypapej..." When Cecilya had taken her first steps outside Otistadt after years of self-imposed imprisonment, she had vowed never to return to her family's keep. Now, there she stood, over the dead body of the man she blamed for her struggles, although he had only been trying to help her. ---- As the heavy wooden doors of Otistadt Keep closed behind her, Cecilya vowed that this time would be the last. "Yam leaving," She said to the snow-filled air, standing on the rocks at the edge of the road. There was nobody there to hear her speak, but she continued on regardless. "Yam leaving forever, ea think. It am time to go." "Ea do niet know where," She mumbled to herself as she saddled her horse, climbing atop the beast and casting one final glance towards her family's keep. It had once been home. "But yam niet coming back." All that Cecilya left for her family was a note, placed carefully on Adele’s desk, where hopefully her cousin wouldn’t find it until Cecilya was long gone.

Adelaide von Audrick inspected the notice of Johann's death with some trepidation, the conflict of her emotions apparent on the woman's face. Was she finally free? Would Adele and Amicia be alright? What would Ludwig say? And most of all, what next? She had answers to none of these questions, and she crumpled the missive before she could reflect on them further. Anya Ludovar was, after all, dead. The woman she had become had no reason to worry over such a death.

Little Lion Man The end of a life. [!] One of Friedrich Henrysson’s few finished paintings. Titled ‘youth.’ Date unknown. The battle is short, bloody, and hopeless from the start. Even as he’s mumbling prayers to a God that has long forgotten him, Friedrich can feel the world slipping away. In the seasick swirl of bloodloss, shouting, and thudding feet, the only thing anchoring him down is his armored hand in Ragnvald’s. His prayers are answered. The first, and, indeed, the last time they will ever be so. The medics that swarm the battlefield crowd around Ragnvald, administering herbs, applying tinctures, stitching wounds, and wrapping bandages. The last thing he remembers - if it can indeed be called remembering, is Ragnvald’s hand slipping from his own as both men are pulled onto horses and hurried back to Alisgrad. By the time they arrive, Friedrich has taken his first steps into the afterlife. A Letter: 'On the distribution of my possessions on account of my death.’ Penned 74 S.A. I, Friedrich Henrysson Bishop, can not be bothered to write a will. I do not have enough belongings to justify one, and so I will not write one. Instead, I leave these requests: I would like all of my personal artworks to be left in the possession of my fiance, King Ragnvald Eiriksson Ruric. If he refuses them or is dead himself, I would like them given to his son, Prince Torstein Eiriksson Ruric. If he does not wish to take them, burn them all. I would like my plush lamb to be given to Princess Astrid Eiriksson-Black Ruric, and my plush turtle to be given to Prince Torstein Eiriksson Ruric. They were gifts from my father to me, and I wish to pass them on to my own children. I would like my funeral to be performed according to the traditions of the Red Faith. I want to leave this world with mine and my brother’s friendship bracelets. I want all of my journals, sketchbooks, notebooks, etc. to be burned. If anything has been mistakenly left out from this letter, I leave it up to the best judgment of my fiance to decide what will be done with the rest of my belongings. I hereby verify that I am of sound mind, etc. etc. Don’t forget about me. Friedrich Henrysson. [!] Letters would be sent to the house of Bishop, notifying them of the death of Erwin’s brother. @Lomiei When Friedrich finds himself on the other side he is not in the Seven Skies. Instead, he’s greeted with the roaring fires of the Father’s Hall. OOC:

Adelaide von Audrick thinks her husband is a simp. Adelaide von Audrick does, however, also love her husband dearly. Soon the walls of the Von Audrick home fill with her husband's art, each piece carefully framed. Adelaide keeps the dearest sketches to herself, tucked into pages of books or pockets of dresses, so that she might come upon them once again at some later date.

Ille Filius Beatus Et Felicissimus The birth of Aurelian Septimus von Audrick 9th of The Amber Cold, 1868. Adelaide von Audrick admires her newborn son The von Audrick house was deeply, profoundly silent. This was a rare occurrence, with the townhouse playing host to six children, all unusually rowdy, but as Adelaide sat on the sofa, warming herself by the fire, she found that everything was, for once, calm. It didn’t last long, as Adelaide let out a gasp of pain as the first strikes of labor shook her frame. “Ludwig-” She called out, hoping to Godan that her husband was home. “Ludwig, it’s time.” Propping herself up on the arm of the sofa, Adelaide hobbled over to the door. Heavy footsteps thudded their way up from Ludwig’s office, and her husband was by her side in an instant, sweeping her up into his arms. Adelaide let out a sigh of relief, and the pair made their way to the Karosgrad clinic - hopefully for the last time. This happy and most lucky son-! Adelaide cradled the child in her arms, clutching her newborn baby to her chest, and wept sweet tears of relief. The residual aching pain in her hips faded into insignificance as she looked into the pale green eyes of her son, perfect matches to her own. Aurelian, Ludwig had named him. Golden. Other than his eyes, little Aurelian could be his father’s twin, with his soft dark hair and the proud tilt to his face. Their seventh child - a holy number on a blessed day. Truly a gift from Godan.

Adelaide von Audrick is a GRANDMA.

thank u! there will be more auctions, + i sometimes do comms so u can always slide me a ref and see if ill do it ;)

Agnieszka Petrova read the missive with a frown, surprised that the Mistress of the Wardrobe managed to make fun of her for wearing nice clothes and for wearing plain clothes in the same paragraph. If she wasn't too busy being insulted, she would be impressed...

It was a night to be remembered, that enough was sure. - “Ea found many friends among unfamiliar faces. More, indeed, than ea might usually have found.” The Dragon Queen’s own voice rung in her ears as the clamor and chaos of the masquerade swelled around her. The weight of her mask against her face laid as both a heavy burden, and as the greatest freedom she had known. She had received no orders. No distasteful glares, no requests for tea. For one singular night, she had been a queen. Drifting across the candlelit ballroom, her silken wings trailing behind her, the Dragon Queen had for the first time in her life been free. “Vy do niet have many friends? One of the perks of wearing another's face for the evening, ea suppose.” “Ah, niet unmasked, nie.” The Dragon Queen briefly removes her mask, giving only the woman before her a glimpse at the face hidden behind. “It am quite a gift to become.. One with a group ea previously viewed from afar, da?” The Dragon Queen replaced her mask before her partner in conversation could draw too much attention to her face, and swallowed back the lump in her throat. She knew that she would never be able to scrub the mud of the Karosgrad streets off her boots. It could be hidden, yes, behind gowns and scarves and gilded masks, but the mud remained. A pauper in the clothing of first a servant, then a governess. A lady’s maid, a palace handmaiden, then the assistant to a Duke. And, for one golden evening, a queen in her own right. “Ea hardly recognised vy.” “Yam well-trained, mea lady. Ea simply do niet often have access to ve world ea walk in tonight.” - It was strange, the Dragon Queen thought, to be in the light. To have men ask for her dances, not for another glass of whiskey. For just a moment, she allowed herself to wonder if perhaps she could return someday. “A shame.” Her tone softened. “For vy look terribly pretty.” But no. Her muddy boots would never be clean. She could cover them and cover them, but in the end, the golden mask was just a mask, and The Dragon Queen was a bedtime story she had heard as a child. “Well.. Nie matter how wealthy, how educated, how prim ag proper ea am, ea will never be one of them.” Agnieszka wondered what her dance partners would think. Would Aelia, the flower, still look on their dance with fondness? The Red Wolf, who had matched her golden tongue with a silver one of his own? And even the Fool, with whom she had so pleasantly joked? Would they still see her as a queen? Elegant, poised, with a quick wit and a knack for dancing? She knew the answer. - “Ea am similar, in some respects. Tasting a different sort of life, this evening.” Agnieszka did not know wether to cry or laugh. “Mea lady.. Vyr attempts at sampling ve life of those below vy will never compare to ve struggles we face. Yam one of ve lucky ones, who am niet forced into… night work.. to feed meinself ag mea family.” “It am honorable of vy to try.” “Ea suppose vy are right, ea… ea am very fortunate. Ea know.” “Vy am fortunate, da. Ea simply wish everyone was afforded ve same fortunes as vy.” The queen - the real one, for it was Emma Karenina under the mask, fluttered away to rest, and Agnieszka was left standing in the middle of the ballroom, her bones filled with lead, while the rest of the room continued to swirl with music and dancing and laughter. The night, she realized, was over. She had her night. She was beautiful, for just a moment. Something more than a girl to run errands or to do the washing. Something to be desired. For one, beautiful, golden evening, Agnieszka had shone. - The late-night air was cold on the half-dry tears still streaking Agnieszka’s cheeks as she strode out of the palace, her mask now at her side. For, truly, a mask removed could never be replaced.

BIDDING IS NOW CLOSED! Thank you all + happy Lifstala!

omg! another auction! yay! i’ve given up on writing good titles folks. i’m back at it again. you know the drill. skins! enjoy <3 starting bids are included in the skin’s title. if an item hasn’t yet been bid on, you’re free to bid the amount listed there. bids must increase by $1 (or 25 mina) and you must be able to pay for the bid when the auction closes (paypal or ingame) (ex. a 225 mina bid is equivalent to a $9 bid. you would need to bid $10 to outbid this) if you don’t respond to my dm within 24 hours of the auction closing, the skin will be passed on to the previous bidder. if a bid switches to or starts with irl currency, it cannot switch back to mina. don't edit your bid, just make a new comment if you are out-bid and tag the previous bidder no non-bid comments auction closes: wednesday, march 23, 5pm EST bidding format skin: bid: discord: STEVE cozy cloak - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd ruskan reds - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd yarr! - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd ALEX peachy drapes - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd vibrance - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd turquoise and rouge - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd delicate golds - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd ragged adventurer - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd dotty - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd plaid and playful - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd ARMOR gerald (steve) - starts at 225 mina / 9 usd jessie (alex) - starts at 225 mina / 9 usd references are available for every skin, just slide me a dm! (@cap'n#4985)

Agnieszka wonders why her signature was removed from the latest Moda.

Cecilya Angelika Ludovar cries about being too young for most of the events.

BIDDING IS NOW CLOSED - thank you all!

Agneiszka Petrova proudly admires her handiwork, and then gets back to work on the next Moda i ve Kort publication.

wowsirs's third skin auction! (i can't think of a better name) i closed commissions, and here's what i made instead! folks, i'm back at it again with my monthly drop of overpriced skins. yay! i closed comms for like two weeks and immediately regretted it, because now i have nineteen skins available for YOU lovely people to purchase! i know this is happening right after sarah's auction post, however i'm going to simply ignore that fact, and pretend that you people still have money. since these skins are of various amounts of pixels and detail, the starting bid will be included in the skin's name. enjoy! ((as usual, credits to the lovely shaydelicious <3)) bids must increase by $1 (or 25 mina) and you must be able to pay for the bid when the auction closes (paypal or ingame) (ex. a 225 mina bid is equivalent to a $9 bid. you would need to bid $10 to outbid this) if a bid switches to or starts with irl currency, it cannot switch back to mina. don't edit your bid, just make a new comment if you are out-bid and tag the previous bidder no non-bid comments auction closes: saturday, february 12, 5pm EST bidding format skin: bid: discord: ACCESSORIES golden sparklies - starts at 50 mina / 2 usd the 'romanesque' - starts at 50 mina / 2 usd sheer kokoshnik* - starts at 50 mina / 2 usd cozy capelet - starts at 50 mina / 2 usd ALEX SKINS armenian dream - starts at 175 mina / 7 usd plum tudor - starts at 175 mina / 7 usd victorian greenhouse - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd ruskan elegance - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd lavender honey - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd extra cozy - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd shoulders aplenty - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd flushed florals - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd brighten up, buttercup* - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd scruffy combinations - starts at 100 mina / 4 usd STEVE SKINS (+ ARMOR) use protection - starts at 200 mina / 8 usd fuzzy shoulders - starts at 150 mina / 6 usd not a vampire™ - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd grellow cloak - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd fuzzy shoulders 2, electric boogaloo - starts at 125 mina / 5 usd references are available for every skin, just slide me a dm! (@cap'n#4985) * - these skins have sheer elements which may not display right on the black base. dm me for screenshots without it!

The prisoner stood alone in the tent, head bowed. If it weren't for the steady drip of blood dripping from his scattered wounds, he could have been a statue.

“Vonce upon ein time...” The memory hit Friedrich like a punch to the gut. “Vonce upon ein time vhat, vater?” Freddy asks. He’s nine again, in his little windmill bedroom. Pink sheets, muddy boots by the door. Plush lamb clutched against his chest. “Shh, mein boy. Let mich tell it.” “Sorry, sorry.” Lying in his bed, it startled Friedrich how well he could remember his father’s face, even then. Two decades after his death, every crease and smile-line was still etched into his mind. “Vonce upon ein time..” --- Every night, Patroclus watches as a wounded Achilles returns to their tent. Each time it’s the same. The golden prince, struck mortal by unknown enemies. Red, mortal blood. Red, mortal cuts, as unnatural on his perfection as a snowstorm in summer. Patroclus says nothing. He welcomes his lover back with all the softness he can muster, and keeps his private curses to himself, as he has always done. You see, Patroclus and Achilles have known each other since their earliest days. Since they were just two boys running on the beach. Two boys sneaking sips of ale when nobody was looking. Two boys sneaking furtive glances at each other across rooms. Two boys, hands laced tightly together out of sight. Two boys sleeping curled up in a bed with red sheets, red as blood. One day it’s different. Achilles stumbles back to the tent bandaged, his very life leaking from a near-fatal wound. This time Patroclus can’t swallow down his anger. --- Nine-year-old Freddy wonders if his father knows. He wonders if his father understands what he’s really asking when he says, “Vater, did Achilles und Patroclus love eachozer?” His father’s answer is a slow one, but Freddy is patient. Friedrich stared at the ceiling, throat tight with dry tears. It had been a long time since he’d thought of this day. He had no clue if it was his last moment with his father, no way of remembering anymore. It was long ago. “Zhey did, Freddy. Zhey did.” --- It is only when Achilles has fallen into a fitful sleep that Patroclus allows himself to be angry. It was wrong. Achilles, a great warrior. Son of a god and nearly a god unto himself. And yet there he lay, half-dead before Patroclus. Hot, wet rage spills down Patroclus’s cheeks, and he does what he has sworn to do every time that Achilles returns to him with red blood spilt. They look nothing alike, but Achilles’s armor fits when he puts it on. --- Achilles, no- Raggy slept soundly next to Friedrich, bandages peeking out from underneath his shirt. Friedrich watched him sleep, grateful that the ever-present furrow in Raggy’s brow was fainter than when he was awake. He couldn’t help himself when he reached out to lift his lover's hand, the iron ring still secure in its place. Friedrich wondered if it will ever be accompanied by another. He had heard promises of yes, of ‘someday’ from Raggy, but the promises had been coming for years. Freddy can’t sleep, his mind awhirl with questions. He tiptoes past Erwin’s bedroom, careful not to wake the only sibling he’s seen in years, and softly knocks on his father’s door. “Vhat ist it, mein boy?” Freddy looks up at his father, plush sheep clutched to his chest. “How did zhey love eachozer, vater? Zhe men at church alvays tell us it ist vrong.” It’s a long time before Freddy gets a response. --- When Achilles wakes too-early one morning, Patroclus knows that it’s time. He softly ushers his lover back into bed, calming him with a gentle palm on his cheek and promises to wake him before the battle. Inside, Patroclus sends prayers of apology up to the heavens. He never lies. Just this once, however. Just this once, it’s for something worthwhile. Patroclus is not a warrior, but with Achilles’s helmet obscuring his face, he finds it a bit easier to pretend. The generals don’t notice when Achilles doesn’t speak. They don’t notice that he never removes his helmet. They don’t notice that his grip on his spear is too tight, too far down. All they see is the angry red path he cuts through the enemy, a sea of bloody mortality swimming around his feet as Patroclus finally lets his anger free. --- It wasn’t until Friedrich was on the other side of the room that he realized he had gotten up at all. As he stood in front of his mirror, it wasn’t his own face that stared back at him. When he took off the helmet he hadn’t remembered putting on, the face that looked back at him was Freddy and Friedrich and Patroclus. All three of them stared through the glass, nine and thirty and centuries beyond death. The weight of the helmet was a comforting one when Friedrich put it back on. --- Patroclus is not a warrior. When he reaches his destination and turns back to look - just once - at the river of anger, he knows why. Achilles stands across the battlefield, visible even beyond the bloodied men. Patroclus turns to face him. A mortal red scar, neatly slicing them in half. He waits, and the gods themselves must know that this moment can not end yet, because the battlefield falls into a singular breath of silence. Patroclus removes Achilles’s helmet, holds it high. Achilles sees him, and even from this distance, Patroclus can see the betrayal in his eyes. The son of a god, a prince and a warrior and perfect steps down onto the battlefield, heedless of the blood spilling around his bare feet. Patroclus doesn’t have time to return the helmet to his head before the world goes dark. --- When Ragnvald ( @Javert ) woke, the other side of his bed had long gone cold. [OOC:] NOT a pk, Freddy sure is missing tho... alternate music:

Friedrich Henrysson sat anxiously at his fiance's bedside, rarely leaving for longer than it took him to get a drink of water. Although he trusted that Ragnvald would make a recovery, he couldn't help but worry anyway.