Post by Bryna on Mar 30, 2008 16:01:59 GMT -5
Name: Bryna. Well, Sylvia, actually, but Bryna's way better.
Age: 15
Experience: Two years on Neopets, which may be crap, but at least used to have decent roleplayers =/ I've played just about every genre out there, at least, except the real-life type, which strike me as supremely pointless. I'm midway through about six different 1X1s.
I'm also an author (mostly short stories, but I've got three novels in the uber-slow pipeline), a mythology and history nerd, and a grammar nazi.
How you found us: Poe invited me over Neo yesterday
Role play Sample: Rain, rain, rain. That was all it ever did in England.
About the only thing Ivan could remember about his homeland, to be honest. But it was a memory that the leaden skies and pelting greyness did nothing to disprove. He sighed, settling back into the plush seats of the carriage, and closed his eyes, disappearing into the colourful brightness behind their lids.
He was in India, the cushioned litter around him lurching and rustling as the elephant stepped through the forest and thick, luxuriant boughs swept between bright embroidered curtains.
He was in Damascus, the crowds in the markets parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses, the sounds of a thousand hagglers and a million shopkeepers ringing in his ears as the mass of people closed seamlessly behind him, jostling his companions.
He was in Africa, rifle pointed unwaveringly at a charging rhinocerous, hearing the crack of bullets, feeling the gun's retort as he fired, watching the rhino wheel and hearing it scream as scarlet stained the uniformly crinkled steel-grey hide.
He was in Russia, the lights of Moscow grey and smeared through a haze of snow that fell like uncountable slices of moonlight, his feet numb with cold and a smile on his face as the wind caught his thick, fur-lined cloak and struggled to bite into his flesh.
He was in England, and the rain was still drenching the grimy windows as the carriage jolted and leapt on a potholed Northumberland road. The colours of the world faded into the uniform grey and green of an English autumn, and the brightness of recollection faded with them.
Ivan looks like he'll be here a while, so let's take a look at the scene from further away.
For a dull October day, it's actually not that bad. True, the rain is pelting down, as it so often does, but the wind isn't high, and the newsprint sky above extends only a mile or so, to the point where watery sunlight forces through the gauzy grey remainder. But the day is nonetheless precisely the sort of relentless, dripping wet-charcoal morning that embodies all the worst preconceptions about England, and the crimson and gold coach rumbling along a poorly-paved country lane is about the only spot of colour around.
Let your mind's eye move in closer, until the carriage and its six bay horses come into focus. There are the hundreds of packages on the roof, containing everything from intricately-tooled ebony statuettes for his sisters to carved tusks of elephant ivory to hides and furs from every animal between the Pole and the equator. There is the coachman, stopping in his steering every five minutes to wipe away the thick droplets of quicksilver that hang on his eyebrows, his lashes, his moustache. There is Ivan Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, youngest son of the rulers of half the world, looking fantastically bored as he stares out of the rain-frosted window.
Take a good look at him, because you'll be seeing a lot more of him from now on.
He has his father's dark chestnut hair, slightly overlong and dropping to just past his ears. His eyes, though, are the vivid, dancing green-grey of his mother's. Green and grey. Like England in autumn.
He is tall, when he makes the effort to stand up straight, and would be rather more handsome were it not for the slight droop of his left eyebrow and the look of extreme boredom on his high-cheekbonedly Germanic face. But five years travelling to the farthest-flung corners of the Empire have left him, if nothing else, with a physique a bodybuilder would envy and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.
He was never one for books. But there was something in travelling all those places, seeing all those things, that brought out the scholar in him.
And now you've finished scrutinising him so carefully, you'd better move your mind's eye pretty damn sharpish, because the servants outside Alnwick Castle are already wet, tired and fed up, and they won't be happy with invisible onlookers to their misery.
They aren't happy with visible ones, either, but that's beside the point.
And Ivan wasn't happy, either. At least they were used to it.
Rain, rain, rain. That was all it ever bloody did in England.
(As I said, I'm a history nerd. Normally I steer well clear of 'Victorian royal family' roleplays, especially when the last thing the boardmaster seems to know about Victorian England is that it was ruled by, well, Victoria. But I played Ivan once, and I think he's canny awesome... ^.0 )
Age: 15
Experience: Two years on Neopets, which may be crap, but at least used to have decent roleplayers =/ I've played just about every genre out there, at least, except the real-life type, which strike me as supremely pointless. I'm midway through about six different 1X1s.
I'm also an author (mostly short stories, but I've got three novels in the uber-slow pipeline), a mythology and history nerd, and a grammar nazi.
How you found us: Poe invited me over Neo yesterday
Role play Sample: Rain, rain, rain. That was all it ever did in England.
About the only thing Ivan could remember about his homeland, to be honest. But it was a memory that the leaden skies and pelting greyness did nothing to disprove. He sighed, settling back into the plush seats of the carriage, and closed his eyes, disappearing into the colourful brightness behind their lids.
He was in India, the cushioned litter around him lurching and rustling as the elephant stepped through the forest and thick, luxuriant boughs swept between bright embroidered curtains.
He was in Damascus, the crowds in the markets parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses, the sounds of a thousand hagglers and a million shopkeepers ringing in his ears as the mass of people closed seamlessly behind him, jostling his companions.
He was in Africa, rifle pointed unwaveringly at a charging rhinocerous, hearing the crack of bullets, feeling the gun's retort as he fired, watching the rhino wheel and hearing it scream as scarlet stained the uniformly crinkled steel-grey hide.
He was in Russia, the lights of Moscow grey and smeared through a haze of snow that fell like uncountable slices of moonlight, his feet numb with cold and a smile on his face as the wind caught his thick, fur-lined cloak and struggled to bite into his flesh.
He was in England, and the rain was still drenching the grimy windows as the carriage jolted and leapt on a potholed Northumberland road. The colours of the world faded into the uniform grey and green of an English autumn, and the brightness of recollection faded with them.
Ivan looks like he'll be here a while, so let's take a look at the scene from further away.
For a dull October day, it's actually not that bad. True, the rain is pelting down, as it so often does, but the wind isn't high, and the newsprint sky above extends only a mile or so, to the point where watery sunlight forces through the gauzy grey remainder. But the day is nonetheless precisely the sort of relentless, dripping wet-charcoal morning that embodies all the worst preconceptions about England, and the crimson and gold coach rumbling along a poorly-paved country lane is about the only spot of colour around.
Let your mind's eye move in closer, until the carriage and its six bay horses come into focus. There are the hundreds of packages on the roof, containing everything from intricately-tooled ebony statuettes for his sisters to carved tusks of elephant ivory to hides and furs from every animal between the Pole and the equator. There is the coachman, stopping in his steering every five minutes to wipe away the thick droplets of quicksilver that hang on his eyebrows, his lashes, his moustache. There is Ivan Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, youngest son of the rulers of half the world, looking fantastically bored as he stares out of the rain-frosted window.
Take a good look at him, because you'll be seeing a lot more of him from now on.
He has his father's dark chestnut hair, slightly overlong and dropping to just past his ears. His eyes, though, are the vivid, dancing green-grey of his mother's. Green and grey. Like England in autumn.
He is tall, when he makes the effort to stand up straight, and would be rather more handsome were it not for the slight droop of his left eyebrow and the look of extreme boredom on his high-cheekbonedly Germanic face. But five years travelling to the farthest-flung corners of the Empire have left him, if nothing else, with a physique a bodybuilder would envy and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.
He was never one for books. But there was something in travelling all those places, seeing all those things, that brought out the scholar in him.
And now you've finished scrutinising him so carefully, you'd better move your mind's eye pretty damn sharpish, because the servants outside Alnwick Castle are already wet, tired and fed up, and they won't be happy with invisible onlookers to their misery.
They aren't happy with visible ones, either, but that's beside the point.
And Ivan wasn't happy, either. At least they were used to it.
Rain, rain, rain. That was all it ever bloody did in England.
(As I said, I'm a history nerd. Normally I steer well clear of 'Victorian royal family' roleplays, especially when the last thing the boardmaster seems to know about Victorian England is that it was ruled by, well, Victoria. But I played Ivan once, and I think he's canny awesome... ^.0 )