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.

"I miss you so much it hurts." commonly mistaken for metaphor. often, not. There is a place in the brain, small, indifferent, precise, that does not care whether the pain comes from a blade or from absence. It lights the same. The same signals fire, the same dull ache spreads through the chest, through the ribs, through the quiet spaces you once filled without trying. Your body remembers you in ways I cannot control. Not as thoughts, thoughts I could manage, could push aside, could reshape into something easier. No, as reaction. As instinct. As something deeper than language. My hands reach for you before I remember you’re gone. My chest tightens before my mind can correct it. There is a moment, brief, cruel, automatic, where my body still believes you exist just out of reach. And then, it learns again. This is what missing you is. Not poetry, not longing dressed in soft words, but misfiring signals, confused pathways, a system built for connection searching for something that no longer responds. Dopamine remembers you. Serotonin notices your absence. Oxytocin, God, oxytocin refuses to let go. It lingers in the bloodstream like a promise unfulfilled, like a touch that never finished happening. They say time rewires the brain. That the pathways weaken, that the response dulls, that eventually the body forgets what it was expecting. But they don’t say how long that takes. They don’t say how many times your body will ache for something it can no longer have. Because this is not just memory. This is chemistry. This is the body trying to return to a state that required you. And when it fails, it hurts. Not figuratively. Not beautifully. Not in a way that can be admired from a distance. But here, in the chest, in the throat, in the quiet, involuntary clench of muscles that remember holding you. So when I say "I miss you so much it hurts," understand, I mean my body is grieving you in a language older than words, and it does not yet know how to stop.

Into Your Hands, My Son Never was it intended for me to hold the family upon my own shoulders. It was both a blessing and a curse to be passed the title as it stood then, knowing the potential trials and tests I was about to face. With the loss of my brother came loss, after loss. The continent we loved, gone. The home we grew up in, gone. When Lotharia fell and Perduran emerged, a choice was made, albeit a difficult one. I did what I believed was best for the survival of the house that I very much loved. But leading a house was never my destiny. I was there to preserve, to ensure that Temesch et Martiel saw the next generation come to flourish and, while there have been trials a plenty, I believe it will persevere furthermore through my son, Marcel Godfrey Temesch, a name plucked from the memory of not only the nation he was born within, but from the legacy of Temesch et Martiel as a family. And so to my son, my first born. I pass this to you with the belief that you will do exactly what is needed, exactly what is right- in your eyes. Signed, Sybille Maddelena Temesch et Martiel Emerita Head of house Temesch. New Head of Temesch.

Solace, A noun. A quiet kind of comfort. Not loud, not bright, not urgent, but something that settles softly where pain has made its home. The act of easing sorrow without asking it to leave. Solace is the moment after the crying stops, when your chest still aches but the air no longer cuts on the way in. It is not relief. Relief is sudden, a door flung open, a weight lifted clean. Solace is slower. It is the window cracked at midnight, letting in just enough cool air to remind you you can still breathe. It is found in small places. In the warmth of a cup held too long between tired hands. In the hum of a room where nothing is demanded of you. In the quiet presence of someone who does not try to fix you, only sits, and stays. Solace does not erase. It does not rewrite what was lost, does not return voices to the silence or faces to memory. Instead, it changes the way the loss sits inside you. What was once sharp becomes something duller, not gone, but no longer cutting with every movement. Example: You say their name, and for a moment, your throat tightens. But you do not break. You remember, and though it hurts, it does not hollow you out completely. That is solace. It is the feeling of standing in the same place where you once collapsed, and realizing you can remain upright. Not strong, not healed, but steady. Solace asks for nothing. It does not rush you forward, does not measure your progress, does not care how long you stay. It simply exists where the pain has learned to sit beside you instead of inside you. Solace, not the absence of grief, but the quiet agreement that you and your sorrow can live in the same body without destroying it.

I brought two cups of coffee. The cheap kind you always liked, too sweet, too much milk, the way you said real life was bitter enough. You were already there when I arrived, sitting on the grass beside the stone. “Late again,” you said, glancing up. “You never could wake up early.” I gave a small laugh as I sat beside you. “Some things never change.” The wind moved gently through the trees above us, and for a moment it almost felt like before, like we were children again, skipping stones by the river, arguing about nothing, promising we’d never drift apart. You nudged my shoulder. “So,” you said, tilting your head, “you dragged me all the way out here. What’s so important?” I stared down at the grass between my hands. “You remember when we were twelve?” I asked. “When we swore we'd leave this place together?” You laughed softly. “Yeah. You said we'd see the whole world.” I swallowed. “There was something else I meant to say back then.” You leaned back on your hands, watching me with those same familiar eyes. “You’re being weird today,” you said. “Just say it.” The words had lived in my chest for years, growing heavier with every day I never spoke them. “I loved you,” I said quietly. “Not just as a friend. I… I always did.” The wind slowed. The world seemed to hold its breath. You didn’t laugh. Instead, you looked at me the way you used to, soft, knowing, almost amused. “Idiot,” you murmured. My heart stopped. “You think I didn’t know?” I blinked at you. “You… knew?” You smiled then. That same crooked smile I’d known since childhood. “Took you long enough,” you said gently. “I loved you too.” The words shattered something inside me. Years of silence, of missed chances, of almosts and maybes, all of it suddenly felt unbearably small. “I wish I had told you sooner,” I whispered. You didn’t answer right away. Instead you reached out, resting your shoulder against mine like you had a thousand times before. The warmth felt real. “I know,” you said softly. We sat there together for a long time. The breeze rolled across the hill, the grass whispering beneath it. I told you everything I never had the courage to say, about the way you laughed, about how every road I walked somehow reminded me of you. You listened. Just like always. But when the wind came again, stronger this time, I felt the weight beside me grow lighter. I turned my head. You were still sitting there, but the edges of you had begun to blur, like smoke caught in sunlight. “Hey,” I said quickly, reaching out. “Don’t go yet.” You smiled at me again. But this time it was sad. “I have to,” you said quietly. My hand passed through your arm like mist. “No,” I whispered. “Stay. Please… just a little longer.” The breeze carried through the trees. Petals scattered across the grass. And slowly, so slowly it felt cruel, you began to fade. “I didn’t get enough time,” I choked. Your voice came softer now, like it was being carried somewhere far away. “You had all the time in the world,” you said. “I just… ran out.” The wind lifted again. And suddenly I was alone. No warmth at my side. No quiet breathing beside me. Only the cold stone in front of me with your name carved into it. Two cups of coffee sat in the grass. One untouched. My chest folded in on itself as the truth settled back in, heavy and merciless. You were never really there. Just my grief desperate enough to pretend you were. I sat there long after the wind died. Still talking to you. Still waiting for the breeze to bring you back.

Athalina Demetria Greye stood within the woods beyond Ildon, clad in her house’s armor as she sparred with a guard. The clash of steel faded as a messenger approached, offering her a letter. She removed her helm, dark curls falling down her back as she tucked it beneath one arm. Her emerald eyes scanned the script, a faint scoff leaving her. Social gatherings were hardly to her liking: too many voices, too many empty pleasantries. Still, she paused. Her sister would want her there. Her adoptive father would expect it. With a small, resigned nod, Athalina folded the letter. She would attend. Only out of obligation.

"Anyway" Smoking kills, yet I drown my lungs with it like the quiet inside me needs something louder. Drinking ruins you, yet I pour another glass because for a moment the world loosens its grip. Sleep deprivation breaks the body, yet I stay awake staring at ceilings that know too many of my thoughts. Caffeine wrecks the heart, yet I chase it down like exhaustion is something I can outrun. Love destroys people, yet I open the door again even after learning how sharp goodbye can be. Trust gets betrayed, yet I hand pieces of myself to strangers hoping one of them won’t drop them. We are all told what slowly kills us. The smoke. The drink. The sleepless nights. The loving too deeply. But the truth no one says out loud is that living sometimes feels like drowning quietly. So we do these things anyway. Not because we don’t know the damage. But because sometimes the things that hurt us are the only things that make the silence feel survivable.

11th day of Sun's Smile, Year 275 In the midst of all the recent happenings that affect descendants around the continent, the House Salazar has not had the chance to make any announcements; of which, there are many. Unfortunately, the first two announcements are not of a happy nature. It is our responsibility to sadly report the deaths of two beloved members of the House. Mauricio Salazar, and Aled Salazar, have passed away. The House asks for the time and peace needed to grieve these two individuals. Mauricio, a cousin, a father, and a friend. And Aled, a husband, and a father. In addition, the House wishes to address a controversy that has spread, the rumors that the House is led by Vampyres. These rumors are demonstrably false and have led to much pain for those in the house; especially with the passing of Mauricio, who can no longer defend himself from these accusations. As no proper evidence has been presented to the house, at this time, of Mauricio ever being involved with Vampyres, it is requested that his memory and death be respected. That he may be mourned for the man he was, and no longer subjected to this controversy. The rest of the House is willing to submit to darkspawn testing at the earliest convenience to put this investigation to rest. An announcement will be sent to family and friends at a later date, containing details for a funeral, for both of these fine men. It is requested that mourning colors be worn. The third and final announcement is one that was a long time coming, and is indeed overdue. One that we are overjoyed to make. The House is proud to announce the new Head of the Household, Lord Alfonso Tomas Salazar. A man who has grown to be compassionate, brave, and strong as a bull. A man who has the skills, leadership, and loyalty needed to lead this family. For it is in the wake of tragedy, that one’s true colors show. And Lord Alfonso has shown to be ready. Thus concludes the announcements the House has to make. Ave Salazar, Ave Virú! You mess with the Bull, you get the Horns Signed, Lady Evangeline Mara Salazar, Legisladora. Lord Alfonso Tomas Salazar, Head of the House Salazar, Lord to The Lordship of Solara.

Dw ik im your actual favorite twin <33

Who are your FAVORITE people on LOTC?

HEYYYYYYYY I need some sob stories, cute stories, awkward stories, sweet moments, anything and everything that might inspire a few poems, because writer’s block is kind of a thing right now and I need a little help getting unstuck. So if you have a memory that still kind of lingers, a small moment that meant more to you than it probably should have, a funny almost-romance, a bittersweet goodbye, or just something random and interesting, throw it in the comments. It doesn’t have to be super deep or super well-written, just real and memorable. I’d love to use them to inspire a few poems. I can also try to do some personal requests! Just wanted to see some of the communities fun and personal experiences aswell! (Persona Focused but can also be personal <333)