PM to join Mine enemy is growing old

Minnie retrieves her books from Emily Hurston

(This is a thread from Mizahar's fantasy roleplay forums. Why don't you register today? This message is not shown when you are logged in. Come roleplay with us, it's fun!)

Center of scholarly knowledge and shipwrighting, Zeltiva is a port city unlike any other in Mizahar. [Lore]

Mine enemy is growing old

Postby Philomena on February 27th, 2015, 5:14 pm

Image

10th of Winter
Hurston Hall
————————

The clock ran a tarnished brass hand across its dust-grimed face with exceptional slowness. It was running at least - Emily had remembered the winding of it. She craved these small tasks with a simple sense of completion at their close, those last few days, for it kept her mind at a task still attached to a sense of hope and read, however meaningless the hope, and worthless the reward. A running clock - but it ran because she recalled the winding of it, and this gave her a haven to hide her mind in.

Her mourning was in silk. She couldn’t afford it of course but at one level, it hardly mattered, now. She had watched others fall into the distasteful slide to penury, and had slid some herself - she had, after all, insufficient servants now to do things like wind her clock. Her husband had sold the more valuable furniture a season ago, and even now, in her final extravagance, she did not have lace or crepe or jet beads. Simple silk that flowed like the spring melt of soot-blackened snow, a silver brooch with the mark of the University. But she would slide no further than that. She would have things done as they should have been, as they always had been, now, to the last. Preservation became an act instead of a plan - Hurston Hall would fall anyway, for she had produced no heir, not even the last years, when she grew desperate and took a lover to try to cheat her way to that place. She was the last flame of the place, and so she would burn, instead of smothering.

She wondered if the lenders would hold until her mourning ended. A full year? It was unlikely. But perhaps.

She embroidered quietly, a single rook, the Hurston’s mark, onto a veil of white for her husband’s grave. It was the last task to prepare him for his burial, for she had not only tidied up his robes of office, but even taken the time to tailor them to the most flattering shape. It was hard for her to say just why. She had never loved him, of course. She had even stopped loving his position, stopped loving the name he had given her, this last year. But, even as that last love died, a ghost sprang into its place, an emotion much harder and surer, and unflinching. He had been a professor of the University, a fellow of full tenure and rank, at one time, before the Corpse had taken hold of the city, even a departmental chair. He had been wealthy, philanthropic (through her, at any rate, for he had found the subject dull), a pillar of the greatest city in the world. His name stretched to the very first days of the Valerian. She was an extension of that and the gods damn her if she did not live it out.

And a martyr in the end, too! Dead in the streets of the University, dead by the hands of the explosion that had rocked the city to its heart. Damn the magicians for their cheek! The Black Wing, she had called their side, truly enough. The joy and beauty of Zeltiva was not in hand-waving and flash and bang. If anything, magic, as far as she could see, was the city’s curse. What had it brought them, after all? Death, destruction, rivalries. The Valerian itself, if she had her guess. And, of course, the Corpse, and his meddling hand.

She was too tense, her stitch slipped and she pricked her finger with the needle. She hissed and pulled it her mouth instinctually, sucking on the wound, testing the rust-salt flavor of her own blood on her tongue. And of a sudden, she could stand the work no more. It was not performing its role, for her mind was back in the dark things, the unchangeable things. She threw the embroidery from and it struck the wall by the clock. The clock stared back, still clawing tiredly at the dust.

She stood, and her foot knocked into a brandy bottle at her heel - empty. And again, she thirsted the stuff. IT was time she should be abed, now, and how would she sleep without it? She pushed hard against the shame at the sordidly of it - was she a drunk, now? A real drunk? And instead she took a candle up - greasy, yellow tallow which irked her further - and held it to the fire a moment to light it, feeling the way the fire heated and curled the minuscule hairs of the back of her hand. Flame slithered onto the wick, and she lifted it again, a drop of hot wax flying from it in the movement to land on her neck.

It sent a sharp cry of animal alarm up her spine, and she drank the alarm in. So this, she thought bitterly, This is how Lefting feels, with that nasty business in her books, the nails in her palm, the blood in her lips.

Felt, she reminded herself. For she must be dead now. And in that thought, as she threaded through the parlor into kitchens - empty - and toward the cellar stairs, she realized she felt a kind of sour pity for the woman, and that shocked her enough that she stopped. For Minnie Lefting? The gutterslut doctor? And yet, for all the mockery she called up, the pity stayed in place, even grew a little.

“Well, I wonder if she’d like my poems now,” she said, and she noticed the slur in her speech. she was, she realized uncomfortably, already a little drunk, and this made her illogically, powerfully angry. She fumbled won the steps into the cellars, and reaching to brush a cobweb from her hair, she realized, too, that she was crying a little bit. And then, with that, she couldn’t hie form it anymore, and her awareness of herself flooded in. She was a 35 year old widow, deep in debt, with a house that leeched money, standing on the bottom of her own cellular steps in an unwashed dress, in search of a liquor bottle. Crying.

And she stood outside of her, and with the freedom of her displacement, she understood the woman there at the bottom of the stairs, and the pity she felt for that woman overwhelmed her. She started to sob, more freely and completely and honestly than she had cried since she was a child.

x
User avatar
Philomena
Player
 
Posts: 724
Words: 718931
Joined roleplay: December 29th, 2012, 3:40 am
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Medals: 1
Featured Thread (1)

Mine enemy is growing old

Postby Philomena on March 27th, 2015, 4:04 am

Image

Minnie had walked in the door.

She’d seen thieves, real, talented thieves, and of course had heard the sort of clumsy advice the girls gave each other in the Kennel in her youth. But, her experience of sneakery was limited. To be honest, she was too clumsy and not nearly bold enough, a fact she would have quite readily admitted had she been cross-examined on the subject.

Thus, she’d spent some time after climbing into the yard by squeezing through an unkempt gap in a hedge, simply sitting, staring, watching. It made her feel competent, professional. “Patience” sounded like the sort of thing a cool-handed expert with a cigarette on her lip might say, as she scoped a house. But patience was hard, because after a moment, she realized that the back door into the kitchen was, well, open. Not WIDE open, but enough that the light of lamps inside leaked through onto the porch. Enough to see, too, that there were no shadows passing across that light.

It had not been her first stop of the night. She’d gone, first, to her old home, to the Mrs Shears tailor-shop, not so terribly far down the hill, where she’d found none home, the doors locked, and not a soul paying her any heed - what few souls were on the streets on a cold winter night. And it had thus ended with a kind of anticlimax.She’d simply scurried across the street, closed her eyes and carved into the wood.

What is it that the Evalin asked of me? Have I missed her already? In truth, it struck her that there were a thousand reasons that this particular plan was a damned unlikely one to work. Either she’d carve too shallow, and the marks would not show after a winter’s week of wet and wind, or she’d carve too deep, and dear, tidy, reputation-conscious Mrs Shears would have it sanded down, thinking it was graffiti.

But, she’d promised. She slid a hand inside her shift, and touched the bare spot below her breast where the name, once, would have been painted in india ink: “The Evalin”. It was blank now - of course. There had been no ink in the asylum, and it was years now since she’d had access to any. Her stomach, nervous at the ease with which she’d come to the doorway, had made her wish she’d ASKED for ink. But then, it was not the sort of activity one relished explaining to the great Jocylinda Wright, and so her body bore no prayers.

She took the knife out, then, and started to gouge - better too deep than too shallow, and hope the shadows would hide it. She wrote on the side of he jamb, the outside of the far board, facing away from the street. The angle was awkward but it seemed the least likely place to be seen or touched.

“P.L., 514”

She thought this not a terribly helpful note - it after all gave no real lead as to how to find her. But then again, she didn’t really know where she would be. Wright Manor, more than likely, hiding away? Or back in the Asylum. Or prison, for defacing a doorframe.

Don’t be stupid, gutterslut, they don’t put people in prison for carving their initials. They put them in prison for busting out of the madhouse.

But then, they CATCH people who have made such an escape, by catching them at stupid, likely useless acts, like carving one’s initials into a doorframe, she considered, and so she brushed the chip and dust away, and closed the little hasp knife.

IT had been… easy in a way. The worst she’d come away with was a bit of a scratch on her knuckle from the odd angle she had to hold it against the wall to carve sideways in a corner. So it was that now, tucked beneath the hedge, she began to be dubious of the need for caution, while at the same time feeling the whole business was a bit too much like a joke awaiting its punchline.

Well, she considered, Its not likely I’ll do well on my own devices. If Yshul’s setting me up, I may as well not irritate him by ruining the joke. This, she considered, might sound brave when she recollected it later, and so she consciously focused on how absolutely frigid her hands and feet were. Had she been asked to flit into Hurston Manor in, say, August, her courage might not have been so quick to come.

But, nonetheless, she found herself in the bleak, empty kitchen, and for the first time, actively noticed that something was amiss.

First, the kitchen smelled dirty. Not Kennel-dirty, no, but embarrassing dirty, for a wealthy woman. The river-stone table in the center had a half chopped onion left on it, and its surface was stained in a way that Minnie found strange. She had, once, met Goody Leary, the cook at the house, and she was a great, florid, draconically tidy woman, or had been. It made Minnie feel unsettled.

But then,the choice of course was where to go now. It struck Minnie that the most likely place for Emily to keep something she wanted secret (and it seemed evident enough she’d want it secret) was in her room. Minnie had, of course, NEVER been to the private chambers of the Grande Doyenne, but she assumed they would be on the upper stories, and likely towards the front. Servants generally got shifted towards the back, in her experience. But, then, to get there, she would have to go down the corridor towards the dining room, and that… well, that felt just a bit dangerous, and for the moment, Minnie reflected realistically, she had likely expended her gumption to a dangerously low level, and it would do her little good to slip into the dining room, happen on some footman or maid, and burst into tears.

Thus, she took the stairs down into the cellar, not because, in her true heart, she thought it would in any way get her closer to her goal, but simply because it seemed quiet and out of the way andfull of corners to cower in and regain her composure. Halfway down, she tripped on her numb foot, making a tumbling thumping symphony of wooden noises, and landing with a barking pain on the shin she had injured in her escape. Thus when she made it to the bottom, she could do little more than berate herself and pull herself behind a high rack of glass bottles, half-empty. It smelled, here, strongly, of nitre and tartar and last season’s apple-crop, and good, clean limestone. She breathed the homey, cool smells and shivered, wrapping her arms around her knees.

And, promptly, she dozed. She, later, couldn’t quite understand just why. She had certainly not intended to. Perhaps the stress of the night-work had just overwhelmed her and her brain, in some deep hollow of the subconscious had simply said, “Enough, rest.”

So she had. And when she awoke, it was to some clumsy, steps and a smear of light from the kitchen door being opened. A form stumbled to the bottom, and it took Minnie a moment to recognize it in the dim light: Emily Hurston.

But… different. Drunk, first off, not just a little drunk, but pink-nosedly, rheumy-eyed, flush-cheeked, slack lipped drunk. And beyond that… older. Miserable. Partly it was the dress which showed wear around its corners, but Minnie was never an expert on such things. Mostly it was the lack of something, something she could not quite place her hand on. The bearing, the high-nosed, self-assured arrogance of the powerful. She looked broken, in the way that a doll missing half her stuffing looked broken.

This was deeply intensified when, quite abruptly, she started to sob uncontrollably. IT was an overwhelming intensity, in fact, a disparity between her own terror, her own pity and her own shame, a shame half born simply off seeing what Emily clearly would not have wanted her to see, and half because she had been such an enemy of her.

The sight of the woman sobbing, against Minnie’s will, made her think of when she was younger, and of meeting the girl before she had wed, before she had grown cynical. The girl Emily, who had brought poems to Minnie to read. And Minnie had not quite understood, and had been much, much too honest about them.

And then, in her heart, she heard Lanie’s voice, soft and sure and sad, saying what her mind had been forming the whole time:

She’s hurting, go to her.

And in spite of the fact that this was, manifestly, a tremendously stupid idea, in spit e of the fact that logically it would do more harm than good, that logically, it would quite possibly get Minnie sent to prison, or at the very least scare the daylights out of Emily Hurston, in spit of all this, Minnie shuffled very timidly forward, climbing two steps higher than where Emily had stopped, so that they were at least eye-to-eye, and very slowly, wrapped her tiny arms around the woman.

“Shhh…. Shhh….”
x
User avatar
Philomena
Player
 
Posts: 724
Words: 718931
Joined roleplay: December 29th, 2012, 3:40 am
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Medals: 1
Featured Thread (1)

Mine enemy is growing old

Postby Philomena on March 31st, 2015, 3:26 am

Image

Emily felt the arms go around her, and her brandy-soaked mind filtered the voice muddily through the flesh of her arms close against her ear, and for a moment, just a moment, she thought it was her husband. Just a fraction of a moment. And for that instance, she felt a real and pressing desire for him. She wanted him: not for sex, or at least not PARTICULARLY for sex, just... just to hold, just to be held, just to have him there, and it was so unlike him, he who slunk away like a dog so often when her moods hit, now, who looked at her like a monster, but at last, at LAST he understood, and he wanted to find a way through together, and it would be hard, but she would NOT be alone! And she turned, with a jerk of her shoulders in the dim half-light, and kissed him hard, with a sob.

Only... those lips were too small, and not muscular enough, and they were chapped and rough. She gasped and pulled back. stumbling and falling rather unattractively on the landing at the bottom of the stairs. The interloper stumbled after, but Emily spoke before they could.

"Who are you? Who's there? By Laviku's Hair, I'll scream! I'll call the g---"

She stopped abruptly, her mind clearing a little, and she blinked. She had raised the brandy bottle threateningly, but the threat before her drained her dry: the tiny, wasted body of Doctor Philomena Lefting, cringing against the bannister.

"I'm... I'm s-sorry, I just... you were crying... I..."

"You! You... you're a ghost?"

"N-no... no, I'm alive, I'm... I'm sorry, I should have... written first... or... but..."

Emily felt cold and sick, and backed up against the half-empty rack behind her, standing a little unsteadily, "You're in my house, you're in my house!"

It was a stupid thing to say, no more than stating the obvious, but Emily felt too many things at once: guilt, terror, disgust, self-loathing.

Letting's mouth moved, trying to find words, but then quite abruptly, she burst into tears, "I'm, I just... I just thaw'ye, that, that, I dunno know where my papers are gone, I... I, and... and I heard, the... that you tried to, to, to make the play, and..."

Emily snarled, terror making her fierce, "You're not going to blackmail me, you sniping gutterslut! Do you think anyone will believe you? You're a madwoman! And none will... will miss you if I call the house-guard down!" This was a bluff, the last, as the house guard would almost certainly not here her in the cellar, and as he hadn't been paid in three weeks, he had little incentive to pay too much attention if he did.

Minnie sobbed, "No, no, no, I dunny know the springlin' 'tall, I'm not a burglar, just a stupid creature, I'm not... I just want my books, please, please, I just want my books. You can keep the plays, I won't say a t'ing, jus, please..."

Emily was silent a moment. The fierceness did not depart, but it doubted itself a moment. "You're a bitch and gutterslut, Lefting, why would I trust you?"

Minnie was silent a moment, trying to stop crying, and mostly just bringing enough control to transform her voice into a watery soup, "You... you read them, yes? Emily--"

"Don't you petching call me Emily!"

Minnie's eyes went wide, and Emily enjoyed the horror in them, and she shouted in a slur of soggy drunken tears back, her tongue no longer entirely connected to her good sense.

"Don't you ever petching call me Emily again, do you hear me? You decided that, years ago, you snivelling, snobby, know-it-all street whore! I came to you, do you know that? I cam to YOU! Ready to be kind, ready to live with all your little.. quirks," she spit the word from your lips, and her tears started to well up with an angry snarl, "I was a girl! Do you understand that? Were you ever a child, you dried up, sexless bag of horse-flesh? Don't you know what it means to be young?"

Minnie was shocked still, now, but she managed very softly, "Your poems."

"You don't even remember them now, I'm sure. Too 'amateur'. Too 'colorless'. You don't remember, but I remember, I remember every petching word you said to me."

Minnie half-whimpered, "I didn't know... I... I didn't... I wanted to help, I thought you needed..."

Emily spit, hard, disgusted by the other woman's sniveling, "Oh, don't flatter yourself. I knew I was not artist long before you didn't know how to keep your mouth shut. Just a... just petching socialite, 'another brainless rich missy, looking for the right position to marry.' Isn't that what you said? Don't you worry," and she was crying in earnest, now, and this just made her more angry, and it felt so indescribably good to be angry, like another drug on top of the brandy, "I had that ground into me every day, that nothing I did mattered except for... knowing how to dress, and knowing how look nice, and being ready to open my legs and take a man and spit out babies. You were no original, in that regard Doctor Petchabook Lefting, I knew that."

"Oh... oh Emily... I--"

Emily pounced at that and hit her across the face with an open palm, so hard it knocked the tiny woman over, "I told you not to call me that! You wanted me to be your Emily? You had your petching chance, and you didn't want it! I'll be Lady Hurston to you, and don't you forget it! I may be drunk, and falling apart, and maybe I can't even petching pop a child out, but I've got that much, I'm Lady Hurston, the last Lady Hurston there will be, and you aren't going to take that away, do you hear me?"

And with that, her fury ran out, and she fell to the ground, back against the rack again, sobbing. She had her face buried in her hands, now. She felt the doctor's tentative hound touch her knee, and she kicked at her , meeting with flesh, but she did not even bother to look. The touch did not return. But after a moment, something else did: Dr. Lefitng's voice, and is poke in a slow, hollow, sing-song chant, wavering and resonant at once.

My love is red as apple skins,
When mother peels them for a dish,
And leaves them for the rubbish bin.
My love is like a birthday wish,
I made when I was just a child,
Not old enough to know its aim --


She stopped, her voice choking, and her eyes stricken. Emily looked up at her, and the fury was entirely gone now, she was a college debutante, again, and she was sitting in the doctor's office, waiting for her verdict.

Minnie raised her eyes, and her lip shook, "You meant them... for..."

Emily cleared her throat, but her voice still came out hoarse, "I thought... if I tried, even if I was... was no good at it... I was a child, still, you know..." She meant it so sound like an accusation, but she heard her own voice, and it sounded like pleading.
x
User avatar
Philomena
Player
 
Posts: 724
Words: 718931
Joined roleplay: December 29th, 2012, 3:40 am
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Medals: 1
Featured Thread (1)

Mine enemy is growing old

Postby Philomena on April 1st, 2015, 2:44 pm

Image

Minnie ached, desperately, to return to a state in which she did not feel blameworthy.

It was not an attractive desire, and she tried, half-heartedly, in her thoughts to gussy it up as waning to be kind. And she DID want to be kind, she wanted, very much, to be able to un-cruel the entire, messy situation, to be less stupid and blind the many years ago. She wanted to, for a moment, just a moment, be the sort of person who knew a thing to say. But she didn't, she did not know a thing to say, that would really matter.

And this made her feel her own fault more keenly. Where the ache to give comfort was a kindly, beautiful ache, the sense of her own wrongness was not: It simply left her feeling, as she put it to herself, spiritually nauseous. The words caught in her mind - that evening, when the sequence of events was over, she would sit with her book and her pen, and write those words, and spend a full page (and with her cramped handwriting, that was a considerable amount) writing about what that meant.

For now, she did not want to understand it. She simply wanted to vomit the blame out - but her gorge would not rise.

Yet, Emily -- no matter what she said, Emily was Emily again, now, would never be Ms Hurston again, in Minnie's mind - Emily had slid to the floor again now, and her eyes did not close, they stayed on Minnie, like a rebuke, pouring pain like Laviku's pitcher. Minnie could not simply stand frozen forever.

So she closed her eyes, and forgot herself, and walked forward, for once leaving over her own fears, and simply letting the little voice, the Lanie-voice that came to her sometimes, do what it would with the body, while she sat and watched, holding back the tiny, terrified, angry voice that told her she was just what Emily said: a snipe, a gutterslut, a bitch, a cruel thing.

The body, left without that inhibiting voice, was calm and placid, however. It stepped cautiously across the floor, and crouched, the way a child crouches who knows no better, knees spread up around her ears, as if she were drawing in the earth with a stick. And she closed her eyes, and very gently, leaned towards Emily eyes. Instinctually, the bleary eyes shut as Minnie approached them, and Minnie kissed them, one at a time, and shyly, tasting salt tear, and smelling unwashed skin and brandy-bile, the right... and then the left.

"I'm sorry."

Emily's eyes flew wide again, and Minnie had hope for a moment. But only a moment. After that, she knew. It was too late. Emily's face looked stricken, fighting between tears and anger. But the woman said nothing, but rose, slowly, unsteadily, clutching onto the wine rack through steps that looked now equal parts intoxicated with brandy and exhaustion. Minnie stood again now, feeling stupid, and went to take Emily's arm. Emily pulled it away and made a queer hiss at Minnie, her eyes filled with fury and misery. Minnie stood back, unsure what to do. Emily lurched back, into the deeper parts of the cellar. There, the racks of good wine were almost entirely empty. Between two, an old bulwark stood. Emily pulled on a board, and a haphazard palette of wood pulled free with it, swivelling downward on a hinge.

Minnie could see, dimly, for her eyes were used to dim light. There was a series of stuffed animals, there, and a little lacquered blue casket, and a box of letters, and behind that... her own box. Neat and clean, and tightly latched. The other items were a mystery to her, one she could divine no answer for, and for which Emily offered none. She moved them with the same delicacy and reverence that Minnie spent on her prayer doll. Minnie started to leak tears again. When the items were moved, Emily yanked the box out awkwardly by a handle, a fine brass handle that she must had fixed to it, and it rolled out on a tight, compact pair of casters in the back corner, fitted by a carpenter who knew their business. She dragged the box, thus to Minnie, and set it down. Then she turned away, clutching the brandy-rack again, her face sick-pale.

"Take it and get out. Don't come back. Please." Her voice was rough and filled with a hate Minnie did not fully understand.

Minnie took the box, tentatively. It was as heavy as it had always been. She opened the lid, and ran her fingers across the spines, across the little parcels, cataloging subconsciously. Then, she slid a collection of several slender volumes out of one corner, and looked at them. They were labelled with her own, flowing hand:

The Gods' Doctor
The White Plague
The Captain and the Doctor
Circumnavigation
The Captain's Tomb

The touched each one, affectionately, her eyes burning, and her head spinning. She said nothing, walking silently to where Emily stood, and set the collection on two planks before her, in the space where a bottle had been.

Then she clasped the box tightly, and took the brass handle. It felt strange and rich in her hand. She pulled the box awkwardly up the stairs - it was not light. Emily did not turn. She reached the door at the top, and turned. She tried, weakly to speak, but the words came out ghostly and unrecognizable to herself, half-formed syllables warped and twisted through the channels of her throat.

But the words, were there, nonetheless, and she pushed through the sentence: "Good Bye Emily. I'm sorry... you were not my Emily."

And she opened the door, and left the house.

x
User avatar
Philomena
Player
 
Posts: 724
Words: 718931
Joined roleplay: December 29th, 2012, 3:40 am
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Medals: 1
Featured Thread (1)

Mine enemy is growing old

Postby Keene Ward on May 9th, 2015, 2:00 am

Image
Grades


“For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”
-Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

Philomena

Skills
    Subterfuge +1
    Persuasion +1
    Socialization +2
    Obersvation +2
    Rhetoric +1
    Negotiation +1
    Larceny +1
    Planning +1
    Philosophy +2
    Stealth +1
    Engraving +1
    Carving +1
    Tactics +2
    Cleaning +1
    Intelligence +1
    Endurance +1
    Singing +1

Lores
    Emily Hurston: Emily No More

Rewards/Consequences
+Hurston Hall now has engraved on its kitchen door jam "P.L. 514"
+Mrs. Shears Tailor-Shop now has engraved on a wooden, exterior surface "P.L. 514"
+A wooden box complete with handle and casters filled Philmena's books with the exception of: The Gods' Doctor, The White Plague, The Captain and the Doctor, Circumnavigation, The Captain's Tomb

Image
Notes
Your writing is just beautiful. It flows so wonderfully I have a hard time awarding things because I get lost in the pictures you're painting. The exchange between Emily and Minnie was phenomenal; the drunken aching rage battering against little Minnie who was so much in the wrong still... Lovely. Just lovely. If I've missed anything, please don't hesitate to point it out. Wonderful work, and I look forward to getting to read more of your work!

Image
User avatar
Keene Ward
Chilly Wizard
 
Posts: 902
Words: 1279864
Joined roleplay: October 16th, 2014, 2:16 am
Location: Kalea
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 6
Featured Character (1) Artist (1)
Overlored (1) One Million Words! (1)
2014 Mizahar NaNo Winner (1) 2014 Top NaNo Word Count (1)


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests