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Everything posted by Cyrain

  1. While i have not finished the WoT series (i still have not even cracked Memory of Light, might be time to reread and finish), I absolutely love them, and even have a tattoo from WoT on my calf (Daes Dae'mar). My friend and I spent many hours trying to cast a WoT show or movie, and with the overwhelming success of LotR, we were hopeful that WoT might get the same treatment... and then GoT launched and we were once again excited that a fantasy series was doing so well, and once again had a vague hope that it might mean WoT would finally become a series. With the launch of The Shanara Chronicles, I realized that it would likely NEVER be done to satisfaction on any broadcast or cable station, and so would require the budget and depth of a Game of Thrones type show on premium cable like HBO or Showtime. And then, i realized... there's a very good chance that no matter who creates and produces it, I'll probably hate it. I've never watched GoT or read the books. And after the Fellowship, i never picked up LotR again (And likely never will, flare up with my best friend, who is a die hard LotR fanatic, caused me to vow never to pick them up or finish them ever again), and I think that was the saving grace for both series (if i manage to sit and watch more GoT after the first episode). I don't know the stories, or in the case of Harry Potter, I'm not as invested in them, so I'm able to sit back and enjoy what they are able to do with the material and enjoy it for what it is. I'm terrified that I would simply hate any big (or small) screen adaptation of WoT. Of course, if they make it, if it exists... of course I'll watch it. P.S. Though he's a bit too old, and wrong color eyes, I always liked Cillian Murphy for Mat.
  2. Slice

    I can’t bring myself to send it to the one I want, so I’ll just leave it here. I broke in two to ease the longing To stop the gnawing Of hope into my soul. In two a thousand brittle shards My shattered heart bled And none can bear it. Three empty wholes rest here Where eyes and heart once dwell And now drip tears of hollow hope Into the void of silent doubt. What kind of worth can you have When the white line shackles tie you to the bed? What dreams resurrect, when buried in the crimson comfort, A cold steel kiss to send you to sleep and wake the sighing darkness. Goodnight mama... a breath against the heart, there and gone Each step heavier toward the rising dawn And again to bed, where white line shackles whisper sweet promises to call you home.
  3. Yada yada yada

    I don't generally debate people because, well, generally people are awful. You lot are lovely, so while I'd be exceedingly nervous due to self-conditioning, I could possibly post in here every now and then. BUT (butt? hmmm) I just need one small moment to say ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! This is a general, blanket statement for most of the 'hot button' topics. (In the world/US at large, not necessarily here on this forum specifically) I understand that some of the hot topics being debated in the world are extremely important and hit very close to home for a lot of people, and I don't mean to be insensitive to what people are dealing with or going through, or what their personal struggles have been. I just look at everything that is going on in the world, all the things that are monumentally more important, and can't help but think "REALLY?? are we REALLY this concerned about THIS right now??" Anyway... that's my small rant for the day. If you need me, I'll be in the corner, hiding from and denying any such post in a 'debate' thread.
  4. Yada yada yada

    That's very true, and makes me feel like a bigger dick than I already was, but sometimes... I don't know, just have to wonder if people realize what they're getting up in arms about.
  5. logging out issue is back

    did it again just now, 10:18am EST, Chrome browser
  6. Soda- Nothing but Thieves
  7. logging out issue is back

    Just happened to me, 7:40am EST, using Chrome. Seems just forum page this time. edit: Seems to happen once or twice, then is fine. weird.
  8. Beginning

    Cause I told the Goddess that i would Cyra couldn't breathe. She could feel the heavy intake of air, feel the gasping pull of breath into her lungs, but there was no relief. Could you suffocate from heartbreak? Her mind struggled valiantly against something her heart already knew. NO! They LOVED me! They did! I'm their daughter, they can't just stop caring! There's some kind of mistake, they must have thought she was someone else! They can't have meant her. Her father loved her, he would not have disowned her! They couldn't... The thoughts slowed as she clutched at her chest, wondering if tearing it open would help her lungs get the air they so desperately desired. She made it to the far back field, where the wilderness had reclaimed part of the stone fence and an old drainage ditch created a protective alcove, before the wracking sobs shuddered through her. When you don't open your eyes, time can't catch you, right? The next morning dawned grey, and with an encouraging prod from one of the shepherds, she stood, feeling hollow, empty, but not yet shattered. When her conscious thoughts stuttered to a halt, her body took over, taking the steps necessary for survival while she struggled with an identity she could no longer claim. The body required food, water, and protection from the elements to survive. The coins she had left could be stretched for sustenance in the days ahead, and water was always plentiful, but the winter would be cold and the winds bitter, and it was with that thought that her feet turned south, toward warmer climes and easier days. The first few weeks passed without incident, skin darkening, toughening against the sun, wind and rain in equal measures. Without the drive to strengthen herself, she became ever more lean, subsisting on what little she needed to put one foot in front of the other, making the few coins she had last well past when they should have run out. When even they, too, ran dry, she took to stealing, an apple or two from the orchards she passed, a few eggs from some unsupervised chickens, only ever enough to get her by. By the start of the fourth week, like coming out of a fog, she started to recognize the looks of mingled disgust and pity in the faces of the farmers and villagers she passed on the road. With the intrusion of distant memory, dripping like hot vitriol on the cold stone of her numb heart, she now knew what, in her childhood, she hadn't grasped: shame. She had not taken back her life, her freedom, to become a beggar on the streets, scrambling for scraps of food. Enough. I am who I've always been, and I will be what I choose. With a little twinge of regret at the need, she went to the far end of the village where the laundry was done and let her sticky fingers gather a sliver of soap and a fresh towel, hesitating a moment before also risking the theft of fresh, if careworn clothes. With the utmost care, she trims her shaggy, disheveled locks, letting the river carry them away as she works to scrub the old from her skin, along with the grime from weeks on the road. Making herself as presentable as possible, she slips into the first pub she finds, the thick scent of stale alcohol, leather, unwashed bodies and the strong spice of a midday meal marking the building as clear as the bright orange sign above the door. The room was raucous, a little surprising for the middle of the day, with a large group of men in one corner talking and laughing loudly as they downed a substantial meal, along with equally substantial amounts of ale. Turning her back on the group, she addresses herself to the woman behind the counter “Excuse me, ma'am, I'm in a bit of a tight spot, and I was hoping you might know of anyone in the area needing another pair of hands, or a strong back? A couple days of food and lodging is all I'm really looking for...” The place, and the smell, made Cyra twitchy. After months without being confined in any way, being indoors, with only one visible exit and more men than she knew she could defend against, she was a bit jumpy. Flinching a little at a particularly loud bellow from the man in the corner, her fingertips brush over the handle of her knife as she made a concerted effort to ignore the rest of the room. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Oy! Lad! We need refills over here!” Logan, with his sable hair and piercing grey eyes, was not a man much used to being ignored. When Cyra continued her conversation, and consequently ignored him completely, he finally stood and made his way over to what he took to be the serving boy. Listing a little from the two strong drinks he had already consumed, he was nonetheless steady enough when he reached her to stand straight. “Hey! I'm talking to you boy! Are you really going to treat a loyal, payin-,” As he was speaking, he finally reached out and gripped her upper arm tightly, his large hand easily wrapping around the painfully thin arm, turning the 'serving boy' around to force an acknowledgment. He only got so far in his tirade before wide green eyes met his stormy grey, and like a punch in the gut, realized his error. In fact, it was so much like a punch in the gut, it took a moment for him to understand that he was actually wheezing from a jab just under his ribs, and another moment too long to realize that her hand was now somewhere a bit more intimate, and holding a blade where an ill-timed sneeze might give him a bit too much extra room in his pants. “Do not touch me,” she said in a low growl, the usual cadence of her voice marred by a hoarseness that spoke more to long disuse than the hollowness her eyes might suggest. His hand springing free of her arm, she slowly straightened, still holding his gaze with her crystal eyes, he caught but a glimpse of black between her fingers, there and gone so fast, he wasn't sure it had truly been there. Taking a step back, giving him a short nod and a brief, assessing look, she turned and practically fled the pub, leaving him slack-jawed, a half-formed apology on his lips. When Kesney finally stepped up and clapped a hand to his shoulder, Logan could do little but give a bemused grin, a small shake of the head, and a lingering glance to the closed door before returning to his comrades, with drinks in hand. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Outside the pub, Cyra leaned against the wall, her face had gone a sickly pale beneath the tan, breathing hard as the magnitude of what she had done came over her. Not only had she threatened an armed man almost twice her size, she had run away from a potential source of income and food. If he wasn't angry enough to come after her, she still couldn't show her face there again, after embarrassing herself. Besides, the thought of running into him again made her cheeks flare red, and sent her looking for a different pub where she might manage to go unnoticed.
  9. Snapshot Stories

    Just throwing this in a new thread so it doesn't clog up others. Calling it snapshot stories, because they're just little, blink of the eye, moments in time, shared between two characters... no real 'beginning, middle, end', and generally not long enough to show much of, or any, plot. It's just a moment, a conversation, a shared look. Anyway, as promised, this one doesn't really need much in the way of explanation. The character Cyra was created for a tabletop RPG that my friend created and ran. Logan and Jonathan are, were, important people to Cyra, Logan as her lover and Jonathan as their best friend. Hope you enjoy ^.^
  10. Snapshot Stories

    another with Cyra and Logan first meeting.... cause the Goddess wanted it. :3
  11. Research project help?

    So, looking at the societal expectations of women after loss of an infant? Specifically what... like, if there was amount of time that was acceptable to grieve, expected to get back on the horse so to say, expectations of dress and decorum. Or possibly what the loss said about woman and how the community viewed the individual. Or possibly what the religious implications were. I'd imagine focusing on that time frame would look more at miscarriage and stillbirth, or maybe compare those to the grief or views should the child survive birth, but pass away after some time had passed. Or what the overall impact of infant mortality meant for woman expected to bear children to their husbands, and what the stress such knowledge would have on woman, and whether how they handle that stress and the societal pressure would have an effect on time spent grieving a loss (ok, this would probably be rather difficult, searching for correlations in a not-modern time period). I don't really know, i'm just throwing things out in the void at this point lol
  12. Doubts

    "No, he doesn't have particular regard for you," the voice behind her made Cyra jump, only relaxing and sheathing her knife when Jonathan stepped up and rested his arm on her head. While normally dismissive of Jonathan using her as something of a mobile piece of furniture, today she watched as the juicy fruit he held came dangerously close to dripping on her forehead before he caught the drip with another loud, slurping bite. Shaking her head, as much to dislodge him as to deny any of the thoughts he hinted at. "I don't know what you're talking about." Going back to her task, she loaded a few more goods into crates, giving an occasional glance out into square, where he stood. Jonathan looked as well, though his observations were somewhat juxtaposed to hers. Completely out in the open, dressed modestly in dark shirt and heavy cloth trousers, and even during the busiest time of day, tucked against the opening of a wide alley, she was nevertheless invisible to the general population. Even knowing her, looking directly at her, his eyes and mind wanted to skip over her, to disregard her existence. He had never understood how she managed that. Get into town, and five minutes later they had lost her as she disappeared into the crowd. After a year and a half of this, they simply shrugged and trusted she would reappear on the way back to camp. It was some measure of her agitation now, that he could not only find her, but sneak up on Cyra. The reason for her distraction was evident enough, as Logan stood in the doorway across the square, talking and laughing with a pretty young girl, long blonde hair glinting in the sun. Her eyes sparkled as she talked to him, flirting outrageously as she flaunts curves to make any man drool. Well, almost any man, Jonathan amended, his boi still teasing the edges of his thoughts. When the girl took Logan's hand and led him inside, he could see her tremble the moment the door closed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jonathan, as usual, seemed to know right where to dig the knife in to create maximum effect. "Sometimes, I wonder if we're just, useful," he gives a small shrug, takes another bite of fruit before tossing the rest behind him. "Don't worry about that. Ultimately, he always comes back to you, right?" Giving Jonathan a distracted smile, she goes back to loading the crates and the wagon, taking his silent offer of assistance to finish, managing just moments before the groans and screams began, seeping through the walls, and pouring from the open second story window. Blushing a little, she leaves the wagon and its contents to Jonathan to handle as she takes the chance to bolt, feet swiftly taking her away from the center of town, only slowing when the only screams she heard were the seagulls, and the steady thunk thunk thunk were her own boots on the planks of a little used dock. She knew the difference, of course. Between romance, love or relationship, and sex. But then, she had never before felt so irrefutably that she was nothing more than another whore, rutting and humping her way to food, protection, safety. While true that he always came back to her to sate his need, there was nothing acknowledged between them, and who was she to be anything beyond another open pair of legs. Her thoughts turned darker, as the sun began its slow descent, taking the warmth of the afternoon with it. She wasn't beautiful. She knew that. Any kind of feminine vanity had burned away in the forge of slavery. Every now and then he still slipped and called her "lad". Trying to grow her hair out gave her panic attacks, her hands shaking so bad, Jonathan had to trim it back again. She had never doubted his desire, or questioned his satisfaction. Since the night she had taken her pleasure in his bed, she had believed it made her something more. She had never doubted her value before. Should she now? Thinking of the way he brushed back her hair, the way his lips found hers in the dark. The way her heart pounded, struggling against her bonds, trapped by her pleasure. He had been insufferable for days after that, nearly bursting with satisfaction whenever he saw her color. The ghost of a smile teased across her face at the memory, noticing for the first time how late it was. Drawing a deep breath of the cool, river air, she smiles a little as she can feel the heavy footsteps vibrate through the wood as they found her. Turning, she saw Logan waiting, face impassive as he considers her. Behind him, Jonathan stood, his face a mask of bored annoyance, his eyes watching her with the barest hint of pity. "Ready to go, baby girl?" Logan's face broke into its easy half-smile, seeing her safe and unharmed. Her lips twitching into an answering smile, she nods, following as he turns away, leaping to land lightly on his back, vaguely pleased when the move doesn't even draw a surprised grunt, merely a shifting to hold her legs as they head to camp. Watching Jonathan's back as he leads the way, tightening her hold, she sighs as the sound of the river fades. Maybe Jonathan was wrong.
  13. Please [NSFW]

    This is, if possible, even more lewd than the first one. You have been warned. >:3 She was free. Her effervescent joy was marred only by the sour tang of Logan's sad frustration. I upheld my end of the deal, so what if he isn't thrilled with the results? What did he expect, that I'd be thrilled to have my options ripped from me, forced to take his cock every night? At least it had stopped hurting. He had made some effort, but he was just too big and thick, his need too great to ease her into the coupling. She remembered with a twinge the first week under him, how raw and sore she had been, before her body adjusted to his demands. Approaching the first of the farms along the outskirts of the large town, she followed the stone fence until it met with the wider road. Dawn was still several hours away, her feet and legs burned with the effort of walking so many hours so quickly, and her stomach growled, reminding her that dinner was a distant memory. With few options left to her, she makes space beneath the wide branches of pine trees, and tried to sleep, the ground hard and cold, and her fear a living thing, chewing on her heart. The next morning dawned bright and clear, the soft blue and pink blush of sunlight peeking over the horizon, lifting her heart, though it did little to ease the ache in her belly, or the tight muscles of hard night. Entering the large town, her hope further eroded by the distrust and underlying tension from the residents as she kept her ears open, listening for the vague leads and hints of rumors that might lead to any kind of job that might sustain her for a time. It was a fruitless day of searching, checking all the pubs and a few of the shopkeepers in town, earning nothing for her efforts but sneering civility and curt dismissals. When she accidentally found herself talking to the Madam of a brothel in a seedier part of town, she made her excuses quickly and with the woman's cutting "all for the best, what man would want you anyway?"still ringing in the still air, she wanders. No where to go, no one to give her a chance, she didn't notice the three men that followed her from the brothel. A scuffed boot let her know they were there, and once she realized, the cat calls began. "What a pretty little hornless boy we got here boys!" "I've got a horn for 'em alright" "Nah guys, prissy little bitch, doesn't even know what she is. Cutting your hair won't show off what u don't have, stupid cunt." Fingers brush over the handle of her knife, still concealed in the band of her pants. In another moment she felt hands close around her wrist, crying out as her shoulder was wrenched back and up, the man behind her reeking of sweat and stale booze. Driving her into a wall, she could feel his 'horn' growing, his other hand groping over her modest curves, catching her other wrist as she tries to fight back. Flipping her around, he gathered both wrists in one big, rough, filthy hand and held them above her head, giving her a good look at his wide, mean, sour face, recognizing in him the same type of cruelty that drove the slave owners to whip the merchandise ruthlessly. Watching her eyes, she could feel his gleeful pleasure pressed against her as her fear mounted higher and higher. Drawing his knife, he made a slow show out of parting her shirt, the threads screaming as he slices down and between her breasts. "Maybe it just takes a real man to make you into a real woman, huh?" Grinning like he had made the best joke in the world, his knife hand going to his trousers as the other two men watched in sickening anticipation. Mind struggling with disbelief, "they are actually going to rape and kill me, just to prove they weren't attracted to a boy," she thought, taking advantage of his glance downward to wrench her left arm free, the same time she drives her knee into his groin. Her hand free, she draws her black knife, feeling it glide smoothly into his shoulder, the obsidian red as she pulled it free, holding it to his throat as she urges him and his companions back. Swallowing back bile as she saw the blood and pain she caused, she shook her head and making sure her exit was clear, she gave the wounded man a kick for good measure and took off toward the main street, trusting in the crowds to hide her until she could get-- She paused at the thought, that she would go back to the mercenaries, but taking a deep breath she continued on, treading the same path she'd taken 12 hours earlier. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Logan's temper, while usually a steady burn, held in check by an easy personality and the needs of those around him, was now sparking, sending flares that bit into the trust and morale of those around him. His own needs unfulfilled, he snarled and snapped his way through the day, trying not to think of the empty bed awaiting him that night. With the mood that was riding him, not even the seediest of brothels would let him in the front door, and risk the lives of girls and patrons alike. His member was dry tinder, just waiting for a spark to set him ablaze, aching for more than he could give. He stayed out far later than he normally would that night, trying not to consider the sadness he felt when thoughts of the empty room crept in, souring what already promised to be a miserable night. The rainclouds overhead matched his grim mood, and the fat drops that fell upon him as he entered the simple cabin were enough to tease thoughts of her to the forefront of his mind. Was she well? Was she out there now, getting soaked through? Did he let her go just to die? Shaking his head, he downed a glass of whiskey and stripped free of the confines of the day. With worry, exhaustion, frustration and sadness wearing on his heart, Logan fell into fitful sleep, plagued with teasing green eyes and a growing, guilt-tinged emptiness. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She slipped in amidst a crash of thunder. Clothes damp from the rain, she was grateful for the dying light of the fire and the gentle warmth that lapped over her skin, producing a wave of shivers. The owner of the humble quarters was asleep on the bed, dreaming in fitful starts. Sitting by the fire, she warmed herself, finding a moment of peace as she watches him twist and turn, unconscious mind wrestling an active body. In the short time she was with him, he had never treated her as less than she was. She was a prisoner, yes, but she was still a person, with all the dignity and respect that commanded. Brushing the bruises on her wrists, she watched as he turned onto his back, saw the bulge between his legs that had dominated her existence the past few weeks, flushing a little at the teasing tingle along her thighs. "Cyr-" the breathy sound of her name made her jump, heart pounding before she realized he was still asleep. She couldn't go into town, couldn't make it on her own. Adrift at sea. She could do worse. But something had to change. Standing, she slowly strips out of her clothes, quivering as her skin pebbles from the cool, damp air. Pulling the thin blanket back to expose him, she glimpses his passive face, confirming he slept on, though standing stiff and proud in the firelight. Indulging her curiosity, her fingertips slowly trail from base to tip, tracing over the hard ridge, stroking the smooth skin. Her teasing, light touches drawing a bead of wet to the tip. Biting a lip briefly, she leans forward, slowly, carefully drawing her tongue over the engorged head, almost distracted from the taste of him by the velvet-smooth feel of his skin against her tongue. Potent, almost earthy, the tang of man teased her tongue as she wraps her lips over the tip, coaxing more from him as her mouth flirts with his head. When next she looked, his eyes were open, watching her with a hungry curiosity. With a startled pop, she jumps up and makes to move to the other side of the room, stopping as he catches her arm. It wasn't a hard grip, only meant to make her pause. Looking at his face, she struggled with shock at seeing the vulnerability leaking around the desperate hunger in his eyes. "Please." Her own desire nibbling the edges of her self-control, she finally nods, putting a hand to his chest as he moves to grab her waist. Shaking her head, she turns the word back on him, asking for herself, for the moment to be hers, for his patience. "…please." Trailing her fingers slowly up his chiseled abdomen and up over his chest, she feels the hard muscle shift beneath the exquisite sheathe of smooth skin, straddling just in front of his stiffness. leaning down, she followed her fingertips path with her mouth and tongue, placing his hands along her hips as she nibbled at his collarbone, shivering as he stroked her spine, her lips finding his neck. The feel of his heartbeat against her lips was all the more sensual when it quickened as she pressed firmly against his member, feeling it nestled in the soft crease of her bottom, so close he could feel her heat against his shaft. Pulling herself up slightly, her mouth seeks his in a searing kiss, growing more demanding as their excitement grows. Her hands buried in his hair as his hands lightly tease over her ribs, thumbs brushing across the hard nubs as her hips start trying to grind against him. She finally breaks the kiss, and positions herself over him, desire etched across her face as he follows her body, tongue continuing what his thumbs had started, pulling and teasing at the sensitive nipples. Slowly sheathing him inside her, she could feel the quiver of pleasure shudder through him as she starts moving, the soft noises coming from her throat fraying his self-control as she rode him. Breath heavy as she takes her pleasure with him, he holds her close, the intimacy both terrifying and wonderful as he watches her face raptly, green eyes locked with grey as she quivered. With husky breath she leans in, body tense, primed, waiting, she nibbles his ear and begs with voice dripping with pleasure. "P-please." His blood searing away the last of his restraint, he drives into her, shuddering as she crests, toes curling as she comes with absolute pleasure, her moans and the feel of her surrounding him drove Logan over the edge, holding tight as he floated in ecstasy. She was everywhere, senses overloaded with her and it was all he could do to not be set adrift. As they slowly calmed, heartbeats slowing together, still entwined, he considers her, eyes tracing every line, as though he could capture the way her dark hair curled against her forehead, or the way her heartbeat felt against his tongue. It was the same. It was completely and irreversibly different. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When mid-morning rolled around and Logan was still no where to be found, it fell to Jonathan to approach the simple cabin. After yesterday's temper, it was impossible to know what frame of mind he might find their fearless leader. With a peremptory knock, Jonathan opens the door and steps in, eyes briefly scanning the room before lighting on the bed. Logan wasn't alone. One arm caught beneath the girls body, Logan gave him a bemused look as he slowly pulled his arm free, standing and stretching as the girl quickly filled the warm spot he vacated. Focusing on the girl, lest he get distracted by the nude, very masculine wolf still looking for his clothes, Jonathan blinks, slightly taken aback that it wasn't just a whore that looked like Cyra, but Cyra herself who was quickly taking over the large bed. Rolling his eyes, he shoves a pair of pants at the wolf, whose interest grew each time he glanced at the bed. Jonathan waited at the door while Logan got partially dressed, and walked out to the crisp bright morning. Closing the door with a quiet 'thud', Jonathan follows, shaking his head to clear the heavy scent of sex from his lungs, and the mental image of their busy night from his mind. "I thought you got rid of her," Jonathan said flatly, fighting a feeling he had no right to, watching his friend carefully. With a wide, satisfied grin, he looks at Jonathan, stretching in the gentle breeze. "She came back," the smug, pleased happiness the man was exuding was too much for Jonathan, who turned on his heel to head back to camp, his original message forgotten. "Just cause she keeps your cock happy, doesn't mean she's worth anything," Jonathan shakes his head, muttering to himself. "I think he'd disagree," grinning, Logan claps him on the back, giving a friendly push as he perks up, hearing faint noises from the cabin. Already stirring, he gives a small barking laugh and trots back to the cabin.
  14. logging out issue is back

    Same, using Chrome, 4:30pm EST when i click on Forum in the top menu bar. Still takes me to Forum page, but looks like i'm logged out and nothing updated. Also happens when I click on Blogs from the top menu bar.
  15. Snapshot Stories

    I'll try to work on finishing up another little thing tonight, with couple of new characters. Have to see how it goes.
  16. Snapshot Stories

    I have a story that deals more with an incident of Jonathan's past, but would require a lot of explanation about the races in the world my friend created and would require explaining other things and would snowball into trying to explain everything about this universe my friend created. And i don't feel right sharing his work in that way.
  17. Gaming

    Of course you are Patch 4.1 was released for Final Fantasy XIV, which made me remember that I still haven't finished the main story for 4.0, so i've been trying to get through that. I also have Tales of Berseria to work on.
  18. Don't feel dumb Kitty, for all the times i've watched the series and have seen that episode, I've never made the connection. Joss Whedon is good about putting in those little moments that you go back years later and both blow your mind and make you feel incredibly dense. X.X But yes, i love Buffy. I'm so sad they took it off netflix.
  19. logging out issue is back

    Same issue but i'm almost used to it by now :3
  20. Snapshot Stories

    Not entirely sure which two you mean. I developed Cyra first, then over the course of crafting her further with the GM, we discovered Jonathan and Logan. Jonathan we did a lot of developing with. He started out as a Matrim Cauthon type, a dark past, but still mischevious... a kind of smarmy rogue. Logan didn't get as much development, was more basic about his personality, how he reacts to Cyra and Jonathan. I left the development of Logan to the GM, as far as his backstory and what happened. And mmmmm, it was juicy. Hard to give his story since it wasn't mine, i dont have anything written from what I was told.
  21. Age, if you want to share.

    I am sorry Songmistress, was not my intention to make anyone feel unwelcome or bad about whatever they choose to do, wear, or look. Whatever you choose, whether makeup or wearing a bowl of spaghetti on your head, if it makes you feel beautiful, brave and amazing, Do it. Own it. <3 oh, and @hirondelle , Eddie Izzard is far and away my favorite comedian.... just saying
  22. Do i become the sheep, or does the sheep become me?

    1. Timberwolf


      Are you saying you want to be called Baaaaarbra?  :roffles:

    2. Cyrain
  23. Age, if you want to share.

    I'm the same way Kethlia.. I don't wear makeup except rare special occasions (wedding to go to this weekend, so...maybe?). I've ranted about this in the past in an old blog post, no clue where it went but eh. Basically, there's always the joke about not letting your guy see you without makeup, or that 'humorous' idea that the girl with her makeup is beautiful and when she removes it she's a different person/not beautiful. So part of my not wearing makeup is sheer laziness, and part is the sense that i never want 'she looked so different without her makeup on' to be any kind of excuse.
  24. What are you reading at the moment?

    This is how i feel about Robin Hobb and the Farseer world. I have to space out my rereads because NOTHING good happens to the characters. NOTHING. As far as I've read in this world, there are no happy endings. So I'll look at it and think, "am i really ready for this again?"