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Goon

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About Goon

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    goon#8136
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    Motherchild

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    Farfolk

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  1. "And just where does Dante stand on all of this?" A question asked more frequently these days, but it was not as if there was any surprise. A disappointment that guised any worry. "He will return." It did not matter how often the bickering came, he always returned. What had changed? Or perhaps he won't. He has been all but pushed. Straight into the arms of temptation. Straight into the burning hand of ill-company. That woman's. "Perhaps he won't.." The thought simmered like sauce in a pan, seasoned in disbelief and denial. But you know what the boy involved himself in. It was only a matter of who and when, there does not need a why with them. So, he is likely dead. No, surely. He was ill-fitted. "And it is not as if I did not warn him."
  2. T H E F A L C O N E O P E N R E G I S T R A T I O N S THE FIRST RACE IN THE FORUMS The First Official Race in Florenza will be OPEN REGISTRATION, meaning any participant of drinking age is eligible to compete, granted they have signed up in advance. Registration begins this HOREN’S CALLING, and lasts until Race Day. Registration for racers can be done in person or by mail, and costs 20 MINA standardly, or 30 MINA for same-day registrations. If registering by mail, include your name, the name of your stead, and the company you represent. Payment must be made in full before the race begins. Winner shall take more than glory and the Champion’s title; a 300 MINA reward, as well as their detailed portrait hung in the Forum Halls. Spectators may expect to pay 5 MINA for entry, special accommodations available upon early request. 4TH OF SUN’S SMILE, 1888 REGISTRATION ENDS AN HOUR BEFORE THE RACE RACE BEGINS AT HIGH NOON [ | | | ] V I T A F L O R E N Z A, E S T. 1 8 8 0
  3. gm florentine

  4. alicjo is definitely the type of old man to keep ice cream sandwiches in the freezer cosimo would probably like something gay like cherry gelato
  5. [!] Scattered about Florentine and the surrounding lands, a flier was posted and mailed around. A MESSAGE FROM THE MINISTRY OF COIN VITA FLORENZA, EST. 1880 The first Taxation Day approaches, have you got the mina to pay for your property? Reminder that the First Period’s taxes begin due this 12th of HOREN'S CALLING. All denizens should make an appearance, if possible, even if they have paid amounts in advance. To serve as an official declaration to the present ledgerkeepers, lest you are marked late on paid amounts. If you cannot make it on this Saint’s Day, plan to visit the FIORELLA ASSEMBLY HALL at your earliest convenience within the Saint’s Week. Better safe than short, it is a fineable offense to have unpaid debts. Happy Taxation Day! MINISTRY OF COIN Serving Minister of Coin in Florenza, Cosimo Antony Falcone
  6. yeah @oren if you sell the tile we live on without rp, i'm reporting you as it directly affects me and i want you not to do that
  7. [The events described in this post are not meant to be metagamed nor are they public knowledge in any way; only to be discovered through proper roleplay. SINS OF THE SON “... same as his father, and his before that.” - ANASTASIA O’ROURKE, 1805 A RECOUNT OF HIS EARLY LIFE, COSIMO ANTONY FALCONE 7th of Snow Maiden, 1805 THE IMPERIAL PROVIDENCE An unsettling, unfitting silence filled the FALCONE household, that which drove a young man to a worried boredom. Sprawled lackly against a sofa with a forearm stuck against his forehead, he plan to lay watching until the flame of a hearth smoldered out to ash. And the longer he sat to stew in the silence, and the further the fire was weakened, the less he had to distract his trotting mind- leg beginning to bounce anxiously. Indiscernible from hours or minutes, they all felt the same. CLICK! The mechanisms of the door’s locks began to twist, prompting the lad to soar up from his thought-induced stupor, looking toward the source. The crack of the door allowed in these dim rays of light from the lanterns of the PROVIDENCE streets– silhouetting whomever was entering. The creak of hinges were long drawn out, only heightening the tension of expectancy. Even to an unknowing onlooker, it was glaringly apparent that he was awaiting someone. But the figure only revealed to be his sister, prompting the young man to suck defeatedly against his teeth as he returned his hues unto the dwindling flames. A hand flung itself in exasperation, uttering an almost inaudible and begrudging, “Salve, Lauretta.” “Ciao, Cosimo..” The young woman echoed in a rather solemn tone of her own, turning to secure the door behind her. Against the sounds of the mechanisms locking once more, seemingly unprompted, his sister continued her utterance, “I haven’ seen him.” “I didn’ ask.” He chided in retort, as if he wanted to sound uninterested. His swatting hand laid atop the other, resting both against his chest as feet continued to jitter. “Si. An’ you weren’t going to. I know, Cosimo, I know..” The girl dropped her keys to a clatter against the credenza, loud steps then clapping as she moved about the foyer. “An’ we probably won’t. You know how he is.” The boy maintained his facade of uninterest, fiddling with the front tails of his shirt, offering nothing in response. Lauretta brought herself closer, leaning down to wrap her arms around him from above and behind. “Rest, Cosi. Maybe tomorrow.” A gentler utterance, offering a careful set of slaps against his olive cheek before retreating up the stairs- leaving the boy to sulk in the once-more quiet of their still home. 8th of Sun’s Smile, 1795 THE IMPERIAL HELENA SLAM– announced the entrance of two young children into a humble homestead. A young boy and his sister, no older than seven years, the both of them. What awaited them atop the island of the kitchenette was a plate of cheeses and salted crackers, lighting a true joy from the younglings. “Cosimo? Lauretta?” A woman’s voice called down to the rambunctious duo. “Si!” They called in tandem, scrambling to crowd around the charcuterie. The boy piped up further, “Uh, mama?” “A second, Cosimo.” Their mother returned from afar. Though he did not grant her that second, following up, “Can we have’a this cheese?” But there was no response. His mother would have her second. A child’s impatience wheedled a frown. He would have to wait. Indiscernible from minutes or seconds, they all felt the same. And sounds of descending steps stiffened the now-pouty child in anticipation. Down came his mother, gaudy colors of loose fabrics that were visible from a distance. “What were you doing up there, mama?” The boy asked scrutinously, as if a soldier interrogating a thief. “I was busy.” She returned in avoidance of his question, puttering about the kitchenette to prepare slices of meat for the board of finger foods. “Y’always busy..” He muttered in defiance, a pout to accompany. “Si, I am–” Chided the mother, finger jutting firm in his direction to quiet him with just a gesture. And once her fire had dwindled, she cooed in conclusion, “and one day, you will be, too. Too busy to call for your mother.” This excited the young boy, his features churning to reflect. He was ambitious, much like her. Much like his father. He did not know what he would become, nor did he really care. To be “busy, too”. That was all he sought. His mother knifed away at the cold cut, tossing each slice to a wet slap atop of one another– this preparation to fill the silence that fell among the pondering. “Do I have to be a doctor like you?” He asked, innocence still intact. “Do I have to work with papa?” “As long as you’re happy, mi amore.” Carefree, his mother seemed, cutting perfect portions of the meats that the boy had already begun to dig into. She had her worries, but seldom did they show. “As long as you do something.” 19th of The First Seed, 1805 THE IMPERIAL PROVIDENCE The walls in which the boy had now found himself were made of stone and steel, colored in a fitting shade of gray. A putrid stench of the stagnated waste stifled the already-stuffy airs of those underground chambers, coming from an overfilled bowl– a clear disregard shown for those who inhabited the cage. Leg propped up on a hard wooden bench that was meant to be his bed, the other hung loosely from the side, and the boy restlessly moved his appendages– his only means of entertainment. It was that, or to count the bricks, and he never much cared for mathematics. For warmth, he curled himself beneath his burned tailcoat, the gaping hole letting through an irritating draft, coaxing him to shift restlessly to maintain his body’s heat. His arm was wrapped in stained gauss, fresh marks of leaking blood; eyes hung low, shown that he had not slept proper for an innumerable amount of time. The silence of his newfound quarters would have quickly driven him to insanity had he not so much to occupy his mind– endlessly recounting what had landed him beneath the Bastille, a wounded dog. Indiscernible from hours or minutes, they all felt the same. CLICK, broke the silence. The sound of a heavy iron door was brought open and slammed shut, but the young man did not spring up to see who had come for him. He did not care, least, his facade would say that. Unhurried steps echoed toward the boy inside of the cage, before a woman’s voice hummed, “I thought Gino would have raised his children better.” “Eh?” The utterance of that name; a spark of a fleeting hope, sprung from his sprawl to look for the woman who spoke. Though he hadn’t recognized her, at least not in her uniform. “Oh... Probable. But 'es gone now.” “Gino’s gone?” She reticently called back, an unbelieving scowl turning over her features. She folded her clothed arms against her lightly-plated chest, idle steps closer toward the boy in his cell. By then, he had already averted his gaze toward his scuffed leather shoes that swayed akin to a hastened pendulum. “Si. I haven' seen 'em in months. Iss not like him.” “Maybe he's only gone off somewhere, you know. Never could stay in one place.” Her idle steps brought her within reach of the cage, though she’d not dare to place a hand, lest the caged creature were to aggress in yet another hasty decision. The youth shrugged, lazily, but he did, retorting a defeated response– desperately attempting to maintain his indifference, “Maybe.” And once more, the heavy doors from outside of the cage swung to open, bringing forth two more uniformed soldiers, both of whom took glance toward the lad– the lad meeting theirs with ashamed eyes, guised in displeasure. One of them, an aged, overweight man. The other, a very familiar face to the caged boy. A raven-haired lad of the same middleadolescence. These two met eyes for a long moment, just before the round man spoke to the woman, “Sergeant, all is well here?” “For now, Sergeant.” A simple retort from the watchful woman. Despite her assurances, the aged soldier kept a scrutinous gaze toward the boy in the cage, lingering for a moment too long before remarking, “Let me know if you need anything.” The woman made a nod, dismissing the men and awaiting their departure before turning back to the youth behind bars. “So what are you in here for, kid?” She asked, resting herself against the rails of his cage. “I thought you’d already know, by now.” The woman managed a smirk upon his response– or lack of. An idle nod and an amused snort as she pried herself from the bars, opting for the desk that was at the other end of the vault. It wasn’t until she took her seat, reclining back, that she began to speak, “Well, if you can believe it, talk of prisoners is not always our first priority as soldiers.” He didn’t believe it– at first, anyways. Perhaps it was his hubris that made it so difficult to believe. Nibbling against the innards of his bottom lip, the youth allowed them to fall into a momentary silence, seeking not to answer the woman’s queries, but instead to push his own, “My pa. Was he a good man?” She hesitated, clear the answer he sought was much more complex than a simple affirmative. As if she were debating which portion of the truth to tell the boy. “He did what he had to... Same as his father, and his before that.” Another silence befell the two, offering the boy time to idly nod over what he’d been told– making what he could from it. It was of no surprise, though. A truth he did not want to accept, all but confirmed. The silence didn’t last long, as he found some solace in his short conversation with the woman– the first comfort in a long while. The two carried on cordially, eventually prompting the youth to ask the woman for her honesty in something, a grave sounding nature to his request. His eyes turned to the shut iron doors before a beckoning hand summoned her closer. And obliged to his request, she brought herself from her desk and into his cell, folded arms and watchful eyes as she called, “What is it, kid?” For this one, the youth sat himself up proper, reaching his arms to grab against his leg, as if to tuck it closer to himself for subconscious comfort, “You think Ophelia was tellin' the truth about him?” 12th Grand Harvest, 1805 THE IMPERIAL PROVIDENCE Indiscernible from months or days, they all felt the same. Guards to make their wellness checks, though never enthusiastically. They brought food to the youth, but only what little nourishments one would need to stay alive. Seldom did they change the buckets for waste. Parched lips cracked and a roiling stomach pled, but no longer could he smell the stench of captivity. The boy had finally begun to accept the fate he chose for himself- and not an utterance to the GOD he so claimed to love. There was nothing GOD could have done, if it were not to free him from the cage he made home. No justified anger could be given to the deity, only a chilling acceptance for the way of men. For who he was did not resemble who he saw in a glass reflection. “Iss the way things are.” He recalled, his father’s voice telling him. “Iss the way things are.” He echoed quietly to himself. His voice was hoarse, as if to clear his throat of mucus that simply was not there. A tongue sought to wet his chapped lips, as effectively as bailing a ship with pronged silverware. He counted now. His breaths, the bricks, the soldiers, the cellmates– how many times he could ask for water before he was scolded, though never for the sake of keeping track. Only to pass the time. He couldn’t have expected this to be the last night he spent in that cell. He had become accustomed to the amount of times the heavy doors would swing open and shut, the amount of men he heard sentenced to ‘The Hole.’ But never him. He did not always look. He liked to guess, as if the next guard to come would be his executioner. As if the next cellmate was to be his combatant in ‘The Hole.’ As if this time the door had opened, it was the lawmen who would have him tried; to remain hostage in that stone prison. “What is it you’ve done, Cosimo? Speak directly.” A young voice asked, cutting through the quiet contemplation the caged boy had made for himself. This voice called for him by name– of course he was eager to see. Pried up from exhaustion, he was now eye-to-eye with the raven-haired boy in uniform from a month’s passing. An old friend from the outside. The second comfort in a long while. “Viktor…”
  8. COSIMO FALCONE contemplates the need for laborers and for bodyguards as the town of FLORENTINE begins to trickle in with it first few visitors. "If only there was an olog-size creation or creature to watch over our peoples, no one would dare act disorderly for long.."
  9. no group in human history has been more oppressed than an lotcer..

    1. Show previous comments  7 more
    2. doreebear

      doreebear

      I'm sick of being oppressed and tired of being ordered to touch the grass.

    3. doreebear

      doreebear

      Femboys should be able to express themselves.

    4. Werew0lf

      Werew0lf

      yeah but ur a sub breed of disgusting lotcers that should be oppressed 

       

      - dark empire 

  10. Though this declaration of war appeared as document that COSIMO FALCONE would typically overlook, the first of the signators caught his attentions.. “Margo…!” He shouted out to whomever may have been in the house with him. “Your daughter is preparing herself for a war? Have you heard anything about this?”
  11. "I do pray this missive attracts their attentions, Professor Archibald.." A young and eager conservationist pled, pacing himself frantically around the aging professor. "Your father's father, and his and his and his and his and his and his and his and his- their legacy! It cannot all be for naught, can it?"
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