mmjinae
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"The flag of Oren is prelude to war," wrote Viviana in her super-private, totally-not-public diary entry. "I did not spend my childhood in bloodshed to see the signs of another in my city walls. Oren will not be forged out of pen and parchment, but from blood. I've grown tired of the sight of blood." Viviana finished writing her entry, put out her candle, and went to sleep. Dreams and nightmares of a dead empire haunted her slumbering mind.
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Viviana Ximena Vilac read over the letter in her hand one more time, before tying it to the foot of a pigeon and letting it fly to Ser Sterling. Another soul joins the Silver Crusade.
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Whenever I cast voidal magic on one of my character's, I like to emote that the aura and the air around her starts to smell like pungent ozone, or cloying salt, or something along those lines, depending on what she's casting specifically. Smell makes the magic seem all the more unnatural and cool!
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Viviana Ximena Vilac stood before the Vuiller manor, its silhouette heralded by the setting sun. Just a few weeks prior, Marjorie had been laughing here without a care in the world. She had friends, family, and dreams of her own - beautiful, resplendent dreams, like budding flowers at spring's first breath. The manor had seemed so full of life, then. Today, the manor was dead. The last rays of the setting sun died away, withering behind the steep shadow of the mountaintop. Marjorie - sweet, gentle Marjorie - was gone forever. No more would her laughter linger in the courtyard of Portoregne; it was taken away by the monster who robbed her of her future. No more would she greet Viviana with a smile on her face; that, too, was seized by the vermin who ended her life. The truth of the matter was that, despite all of Viviana's hopeless protestations, Marjorie was dead. She was dead and gone and all they had left of her was a single lock of hair to bury away. Eleven years of life and love, and all they had was a single ******* lock of hair. Marjorie's voice haunted the inside of Viviana's mind. Marjorie was dead. But the murderer was not. Not yet, at least. "One year, five years, ten years from now - it doesn't matter. You will be brought to justice. I will see you rot."
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A paper note, a lock of hair, and a splatter of blood; that was all that Viviana Ximena Vilac could find left of Marjorie. Who would hurt her cousin? Who would even dare? Marjorie was the sweetest girl that Viviana had ever known. She loved fashion, her fish, her family most of all - who would ever think to hurt her, let alone take her away? Viviana's memories flitted back to the party Marjorie had held just months prior; of the unforeseen guests, of the strangers she had never seen before that night. Her memories recalled the words and promises on the note left behind; of the people named therein who were her only clues to her cousin's disappearance. With these memories, with these clues, Viviana began to write a list. "I should have been there," hissed the scion of House Vilac. "I should have saved you. The least I can do is find the ones who took you away." She held up her list of suspects, and pinned it against the wall with a dagger. "All will be held to account, even the world. If I find it wanting, it too shall burn. I will bring you home, this I swear."
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A lone librarian stared at the missive in her hand, the words lit up by flickering candlelight. Old memories flickered through her mind's eye: the screaming citizenry of Portoregne, slaughtered by remorseless Ferrymen; horror stories of kidnappings and maiming committed against her friends, her people, her Royal Majesty; the air of terror that loomed over the Marchlands and beyond. The missive crinkled under her tightened fist. "You shall fight for pride," she murmured, "and you shall die for pride. So be it. So will I." Asya Carmesía got up from her chair, and set the crumpled paper down on her desk. She marched to her armoire and threw open the doors, revealing her armors, her sword, and her bow. "I will help see this war reach its end. I will put your brigands to the sword. I will see Winburgh burn."
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The Syndic Election Registration of 81 B.A.
mmjinae replied to xboxersz's topic in Laws & Government
Late at night, long since the sun had set and the stars blinked awake, a redheaded librarian sat at her desk before a missive, high above in her residence in the attic of La Biblioteca Cittadina. After a moment of deliberation, Asya Carmesìa lit a candle, fetched her ink and quill, and retrieved a sheet of parchment. In the flickering glow of a burning wick, and amidst the whispers of a sleepy city, she set her quill to paper, and began to write... REGISTRATION FORM Full name: Asya Casimirivna Carmesìa Age: 29 Address of Residence: Johannes' Lane 1, City of Portoregne, Kingdom of Balian (( IGN: mmjinae )) (( Discord: mmjinae )) -
The Imperialism of Anti-Imperialism
mmjinae replied to yopplwasupxxx's topic in Human Realms & Culture
A tired scholar peered over the article that had reached her library. "Oh, finally," Asya murmured, "some good ******* scholarship. I haven't even considered some of these points before. Oh, I've been such a fool...!" She pulled out a quill and an ink bottle, and began to annotate the work in great detail, mumbling to herself in the flickering candlelight... -
Asya stared at the notice in front of the palace gates, then exhaled slowly. "É così," she sighed. "It is what it is. Not like I was going to get it, anyways." She rubbed her palms into her eyes. "Eugh. I will congratulate John. He deserves it. I'm just... Nen. I will be satisfied with how things are." She lowered her hands slowly. "Best to put on a happy face for John when I see him next. That's the way." She turned around, then shuffled down the road, headed towards La Biblioteca Cittadina once more. Later in the day, Don John Augustus Galbraith (@TreeSmoothie) would find a letter in his mailbox, congratulating him for his new position!
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ADELHEID'S ARCHIVES - THE PETRAN CIVIL WAR
mmjinae replied to cherrybud's topic in The Principality of Merryweather
Somewhere along the southern coastlines of the continent, surrounded by dusty bookshelves and the glow of candles, a lone librarian peered over a copy of these histories. "Remarkably well written," Asya hummed. "I will have to add this to my collection! I've not read a history nearly as enthralling as this. My compliments to the author!" -
Aww yeah, I love DISTRUGESTADT! Ain't nothing ever happened at DISTRUGESTADT! Do you like DISTRUGESTADT? I do too, but not on this DISTRUGESTADT any more, because I want you to accept it! I'm talking no felonies! Evil? In this DISTRUGESTADT? Never heard of it. What is it? No one has ever explained it to me. Please accept this DISTRUGESTADT! Ay, psst, you like this DISTRUGEBOT? Well guess what, THE BARON's got two of 'em! 'Cause of... circumstances! Just accept this DISTRUGESTADT!
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" Mierda! Why would I have done this?" Asya swore, reading through the missive. "I love sharks! I would never mutilate one for something as petty as this." She leaned back, sipping on the sugary sludge she called coffee. Who would do such a thing, she wondered. And with so little class!
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LA BIBLIOTECA CITTADINA ILLUMINARE LA PAROLA Morning sunlight shimmered through stained windows, casting the entire room aglow with ochre warmth. You could still hear the muffled, waking sounds of Portoregne from outside: Armada guards taking the morning shift, the hustle of bakers preparing their loaves, the splashes of the water well. But in here, in this room, the troubles of the city seemed far behind you. The musty smell of parchment and ink lingered in the air, leaving ephemeral touches upon the shelves, the tomes, the furniture -- even you. Hundreds of years of knowledge hugged the walls, snuggled cozily inside their rickety bookshelves. Something caught your eye; an old friend from long ago, bound in leather and tied with twine, whose literary contents still lingered in your mind. You approached it gingerly, carefully, and you found your fingers latching onto the book. Slowly, ever so slowly, you pulled it from the shelf. La Biblioteca Cittadina -- the Citizen's Library -- is now open as the first public library in the city of Portoregne. Nestled cozily in the center of the city at Johanne's Lane I, the library is the prime location for reading, studying, or general socialization. Its catalogue boasts a wide variety of subjects, ranging from voidal theory, medicine, poetry, natural sciences, and alchemy, the latter of which being Biblioteca Cittadina's specialty, as well as many more. Please drop by for a visit, whether to peruse its stacks, chat with old friends, or simply enjoy the cute, homey ambiance. You may also make a donation to our ever-growing collection; we are always looking for more books, tomes, and scrolls to add to our catalogue. It is our goal at La Biblioteca Cittadina to open the gateways of knowledge and learning to all, regardless of social or economic standing. We strive to help further the enlightenment of not only the citizenry of Portoregne, or just the Kingdom of Balian, but the entire world. Please join us on our journey to spread knowledge to the world. Illuminare la parola; help us illuminate the world. Graza, Head Librarian Asya
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You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?)) "Didn't know I was such a celebrity," Viktoriya snarked, plopping down on the cushion with lackadaisical panache. "Way to make a girl feel special, grandma." "You've got quite the sharp tongue, lass," the hag chittered. Gods above, her voice sounded like someone ran a cheese grater through gravel. "But if I'd prefer your real story over the jester act. I'm not getting any younger." "Clearly," Viktoriya muttered under her breath. The hag shot her a look that could spoil milk, and she recoiled. "Sorry. Uh. Trying to work on the snark, I promise. My master's trying to get me out of that habit." "Master?" the hag questioned, leaning forward with a creak in her joints. Just how old was she, anyways? "Just hush up and let me tell my story, babusya," said Viktoriya with a sigh. "Yeah. Master. I'm a squire to Ser Miklós, of House Korvacz. He found me when I was little, out on the streets, took me in as his page. Can you believe it? Taking in a little street rat and raising her to be your page? Guy's got a bleeding heart. It's gonna get him hurt one day." She paused, then shook her head with a smile. "Well, he's only going to get hurt if I'm not around to stop it. I owe him my life. He's good people. The whole house, they're good people. You get what I mean? So I've just been continuing my apprenticeship. Even been cutting down the snark - or, well, trying to, I suppose. You can tell I'm not really doing a good enough job on that." The hag continued to stare at Viktoriya. Viktoriya bristled. "Look, babusya, what more do you want me to tell, huh? Want me to tell you what I had for breakfast? It was porridge, by the way, got those oats nice and soggy. Real fascinating, huh? Look," Viktoriya said as she began to stand up. "Nice chat, good to meet you, try not to keel over and die in the next half hour. I'm sure your great-great-grandkids would miss you a lot. Unfortunately for us, I have to leave. I have training with Ser Miklós at noon, and I have to meet with him at the tavern." Viktoriya grabbed her rucksack and longsword, and ducked down to leave the tent, only to feel something tug the back of her capelet. She turned around to find the hag, holding on to her with gnarled, wrinkled hands and a stare that could pierce mithril. "Viktoriya Ivanivna Kiska," hissed the hag. "Watch your back. The winds of fate will not be kind to you." Something curdled deep in Viktoriya's gut. "Yeah," she said, tugging her capelet out of the hag's grasp. She swallowed, pushing down the words of warning, and nodded. "I know." With that, Viktoriya left the tent, leaving the hag -- and her words -- behind her. [ The physical description box above wouldn't let me type everything, so I'm including it here ]. Viktoriya looks like she was born to pick a fight. She's all lean muscle and wiry tension, and she holds herself like she's got some real gravel in her guts. She's not very comely, either. Her nose is a tad bit crooked from one too many fists to the face, her skin has a concerningly yellow undertone to it, and her dark brown hair has a straw-like consistency to it. It probably doesn't help that her clothes do nothing to help her sickly complexion; her olive-green capelet is plain, her chainmail a little baggy, her pants ill fitting. She looks and acts like a street kid, grown up to maturity.
