Ophi

I like spicy food but the spiciest ill go is the carbonara pack of buldak noodles, anything spicier than that is just ruined for me Bro asked this as if i have had other people play my dad other than you, which ig yeah theres only two other person. But to answer it I liked the character Aled the most, even though he was absent af i was more interested in his story line, rather than Adrians, this is of your characters. Favorite irp dad is Franz though, hes a really good dad.

When me and my Kids went roof jumping in alba back in Aevos For my own safety, i wont be answering this

Fav place to rp? Id have to say Alduun, but generally i just go where theres rp. Fav Dinosaur? Spinosaurus ofc, the best one. Fav game? I have no idea, probably "Gambling with Friends" IM NOT BRAZILIAN SO I DONT HAVE ONE (I also in general just dont watch sports)

I dont think i have a full 100% favourite, but this is the best way i can rank it i think, genuinely there has been a lot of people i enjoyed rping with a lot 1. Ullisses de Alencar 2. Solaris Salazar 3. Diolinda de Alencar 4. Mauricio Salazar 5. Franz di Spinasacre 6. Hrani von Byrde 7. Giorgia 8. Uncle Hick (used to be top 5 till he died) 9. Hymnal 10. Adrian Greye/Aurus Greye (i like both these Greyes) Honourable mentions to: Aera de Senna, Adelmar and WIlfred (the two first people i met on LOTC) and Evangeline Salazar, and of course, my 100 kids on Alfonso. Favourite personal Personas (only top 6) 1. Alaric von Seraphiel/Holsord 2. Alfonso Tomas Salazar 3. Tobias Duncan Vuiller/de Alencar 4.Raymi Harlaus Bishop 5. Lichi 6. Daichia Jacques Laroche-Vincrute My favourite irp brother? Mattias Carlos Salazar, Alfonso's twin brother. I guess Angelo is one aswell. In my first ish week of LOTC I took part in ordering the execution of a Vampyre, and since i was still relatively new, i took some of the vampyre's blood, purely because i didnt know if it was usefull or not. Another fun thing that happened, and this is honestly one of my most memorable moments, is when my persona Tobias Duncan Vuiller, was fighting a weird buffalo crocodile mixed creature in a ST event, i decided to Yolo it and i jumped off of horse-back onto the back of the creature and drove my longsword into the neck of the beast. One of my funnest CRP moments.

The 29th of May one year ago i found and joined LOTC. To be honest i thought it was gonna just be a few weeks type of thing before i get bored of it, but here i am! One year later, still addicted. Throughout this year ive made a lot of friends, met a lot of nice people, met some not so nice people, went through a lot, enjoyed a lot, truly a roller coaster. I admittably did not socialize much so i dont expect much to be asked on this AMA, but i will do it regardless! thank you LOTC for existing, even though its taken years off of my life, i have enjoyed it a lot :) Ask me anything and ill try to respond to the best of my ability!

There is a question I want you to answer before this poem can finish. Not aloud. Not to me. Just somewhere honest. Tell me: Have you ever been loved beautifully by someone who never stayed? Or stayed by someone who never knew how to love you gently? Love the feeling arrives first. It is lightning in the bloodstream, a name becoming sacred in your mouth, the unbearable softness of being chosen. It is the glance across crowded rooms, the trembling hand, the finally. You know this love. Everyone does. It teaches your ribs how to sing. But now answer me this: What happens when the music stops? When illness replaces poetry. When silence outlives desire. When the body is tired, when grief makes monsters of people, when loving someone feels less like flying and more like carrying water uphill with bleeding hands? Does the feeling remain? Be honest. You already know it flickers. That is the cruelty of feeling: it is weather. It comes holy. It leaves hungry. And yet, Love the action wakes up anyway. It folds laundry in quiet resentment and still folds it neatly. It learns your mother's birthday after the butterflies die. It says “I am angry with you,” without turning cruelty into a weapon. It stays during the uncinematic parts. The hospital chairs. The repeated stories. The nights where neither of you are beautiful. Tell me: Which sounds more like love to you? The heartbeat? Or the hand holding pressure against the wound? Perhaps the feeling is what opens the door. But action is what keeps anyone inside the house. And still, action alone can become hollow too. A ritual without warmth. A marriage of obligations. A cold hand performing tenderness from memory. You have seen this kind of love as well. People who stay faithful while emotionally disappearing for years. So then, which is enough on its own? The feeling without action burns bright and dies starving. The action without feeling survives, but forgets how to live. Maybe love was never meant to survive divided. Maybe real love is not choosing one over the other, but learning the terrifying discipline of turning feeling into action again and again and again... even after the feeling changes shape. Because it will. Because one day someone will ask you for love when you no longer feel poetic. And one day you will ask the same of someone else. So before this poem ends, answer the question most have been avoiding: If your heart stopped racing tomorrow, would you still know how to love?

Reserved

Alfonso Tomas Salazar looked over the invitation, pondering whether he should participate or not. He looked over his pile of unfinished poems and nodded to himself "Seems I now have a reason to continue writing." he said as he took a seat at his desk, starting to prepare a poem that would hopefully be worthy of winning.

“Bouquets for the Buried” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They bring flowers to the lifeless, Lay them gently on the stone, Speak the words they should have spoken Back when hearts still beat at home. Roses tied with silk and sorrow, Lilies pale as winter skies, Funny how love grows the strongest Only after someone dies. While the living sit in silence, Starving slowly for the sun, Watching others pass straight by them Like they’re shadows no one wants. No one sends bouquets at midnight To the soul that barely sleeps, No one praises quiet battles Or the grief a person keeps. People wait. They wait for caskets, For the guilt to settle in, For the sickening realization They could have loved: but never did. Because gratitude is gentle. Soft. Easy to delay. But regret arrives like thunder That refuses to fade away. And suddenly the dead are precious. Suddenly their names taste gold. Suddenly every memory matters Once there’s no hand left to hold. It is tragic, almost funny, How the heart works far too late, How we learn to water flowers Only at the foot of graves. So love the living while they’re living. Speak before the silence spreads. Because the cruelest thing about regret Is that it blooms among the dead. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In loving memory of A Mother, Wife, and Daughter. With solemn hearts and a shared sense of duty, Marcel Godfrey Temesch, Head of House Temesch et Martiel, extends this invitation to all friends, allies, and those who held her in esteem, to attend the funeral of Sybille Maddelena Temesch. Sybille Maddelena lived a life of quiet grace and steadfast devotion to her family. Her passing leaves a silence deeply felt within her household and beyond, yet her memory remains woven into the lives of her children, family, and close acquaintances. Those who held her in affection, respect, or closeness are invited to gather in mourning and remembrance. The service shall be conducted in dignity and reflection, followed by a time where words may be spoken, prayers offered, and memories shared in her honor. The funeral will be held in a chapel outside of Alduun. We will gather in Alduun thirty minutes prior to the ceremony. Personal Invitations The House of Greye, and their people. Countess Sloane Patchakutiq and her people. Alysanna Maya Rostova, and her family. Viscount Caspian Colborn, and the House of Colborn. Adriana Verbena, Mother of Sybille, and her Family. Franz, and The House of di Spinasacra. Anyone else wanting to pay respect to the deceased may make an appearance as well. We ask that all guests dress themselves appropriately for the occasion. Signed, Head of House Temesch et Martiel, First born son of Sybille Maddelena Temesch

Rimaykullayki everyone!! 🌷Pedroqa sutiymi Raymi Harlous Bishop, and with a little help from my Ama and papa, I want to invite you all to our Flower Festival! 🌷 We are going to fill the space with many, many flower, bright ones, soft ones, tall ones, and tiny ones too. Some are special to my family, and some are just really pretty, but all of them are meant to be shared and enjoyed together. You can walk through the gardens, look at all the colors, and even make little flower crowns or bouquets to take with you (but please be gentle with them!). There will be fun things to do like games, music, and small activities for everyone. We might have a little contest for the prettiest flower arrangement, and I really want to see what everyone makes! There will also be treats to share, and places to sit and talk and laugh with friends and family. My ama also says flowers are a way people celebrate life and remember what is important, and my papa says they remind us to take care of the world around us. I just think they’re really nice and make people smile. Everyone is welcome: friends, families, and anyone who wants to spend a happy day together. I hope you come and walk with us, share stories, and make something beautiful. Please remember to wear florals! 🌸 Please come to the Flower Festival, we would love to see you there! 🌸 Signed, and his Ama and Papa!

"My Act of Love" There is a poem that says: "And for my final act of love, I will let you go, I will leave you alone." as if love is proven in the moment it releases its grip, as if devotion is measured by how gently it learns to disappear. But mine was never built to end. There is nothing final in it, no quiet closing of hands, no soft retreat into absence to make the leaving look like grace. Love, to me, does not bow out when it becomes difficult to hold. It does not loosen at the first sign of resistance, does not dress itself in dignity and call surrender a kindness. It stays. Not blindly, not without seeing the fractures, the silences that stretch too long, the distance that tries to name itself permanent, but despite them. Because to leave is to admit the flame could be put out, that it was always meant to flicker, to falter, to fade into something forgettable. And mine refuses. Mine learns the shape of the dark and burns through it anyway. They call it foolish, this refusal to step away, this insistence on remaining when it would be easier to rewrite the ending as something clean, something finite. But there is nothing clean about love that was once real. Nothing noble in abandoning it the moment it demands endurance. So I stay. Not as a shadow or something clinging, but as something certain, a presence that does not waver simply because it is not met with equal fire. Because love is not a performance that ends when the audience leaves. It is not a transaction that dissolves when it is not returned in perfect measure. It is something chosen, again, and again, and again, even when it would be easier to choose otherwise. So let them have their final acts, their quiet exits dressed as mercy. Let them call it strength to walk away before the weight of it settles in their hands. But this, this is my act of love: to remain, to endure, to hold the line where others let go, to believe that something worth having is something worth staying for. Not because it is easy. But because it is not.