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Pasion Pasiva

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  1. Pasion Pasiva

    The Twisted Twig

    “I am Asha-Kwame Imani, a dignitary from the Hunjabo Tribe of the Dorado Plains. It is a pleasure to meet you both, Traitor and Bree,” she said happily, her lips spreading into a rich and inviting smile as she switched her gaze between the siblings. “And like you both, I too am relatively new to the city. I was sent here to ensure good relations between my tribe and the Black Queen who rules the islands. She put me straight to work, just as soon as I arrived, here in the solarium.” At this she paused, and regarded Bree, who was still slipping into fits of giggles. Asha had a very warm expression on her face. The odd-ball creature reminded her so very much of her own younger sisters -- 8 in total. But nearly all of her characteristics rang true in some form or the other, to one such trait in her own beloved siblings. Her heart went out to Traitor, who still looked bashful and quite put off by Bree’s little joke at his expense. But he seemed to recover quickly, and he very smoothly transitioned from introductions to the heart of their visit -- they were looking for work. “You have come at a very right and proper time,” she replied to Traitor, although her body had turned and one of her long, slender arms had reached out to fetch the book that Bree was trying to grasp. She handed it over -- an old, dusty volume titled “Fabled Flowers of Genesaris”. She tapped the book cover before releasing it into Bree’s greedy hand. “The city is going through renovations. There is lots of work to be found for lots of types of people. But if adventure is more to your liking, then La’Ruta has shown its favor for you by leading you here. About a month ago the Queen’s solarium was infiltrated and infested by a very aggressive invasive plant. It killed many of the specimens housed in this building, including some of the Queen’s most beloved blooms. I am attempting to rebuild the collection and am in desperate need of people who are willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of education. You see the solarium is open to everyone, and we teach much and all that we can to those who come seeking knowledge.” At this, she left Bree, and plucked up a small pamphlet from her desk on her way to Traitor’s side. She walked slowly, her round hips swaying under a very thin dress, which appeared to be more of a simple tunic in design. It fell open on both her sides, revealing more of her beautiful, dark skin, and a healthy helping of the heavy swell of her breasts, at least, from the side. The dress was bound around her waist by a golden chain, from which a collection of small pouches hung, dangling over her left thigh. When she reached Traitor, she was smiling wide again. “Look through this, tell me if any of these quests interest you…”
  2. Pasion Pasiva

    The Twisted Twig

    Asha was readily amused by the man’s flustered appearance. His pose was strained and tense, and while she spied the gleam of appreciation in his gaze, she also noted how badly he seemed intent on ignoring the sentiment. It didn’t matter to her either way. Many people looked at her with curiosity, with open and unperturbed attraction, and even with fear and distrust. Her appearance, along with her manner of speaking, and the culture of her people were not the things that most were used to encountering. If she expected to be accepted and respected, she had to recognize the fact that she was different, and that different was difficult for some people. So she didn’t mind. She only kept smiling, her lips curled with mischief as she began to roll up her sleeves, revealing even more of that rich, dark skin of hers, all the way up to her elbows. She had slender wrists, long bones, and dexterous fingers that were busy pouring waters and measuring powders into the small soaking tub she was preparing for Bree. When Bree lifted her hand to reveal her rash, Asha glanced up curiously and then clicked her tongue and nodded. “Tsk, that looks painful.” When the girl removed her hood and revealed her masked face, Asha remained unphased. One of her hands dipped into the bath she had made, and stirred slowly, sloshing sweet-smelling water back and forth within the bowl. “Oh yes, yes indeed. My fault. I touched the wretched plant… my blood attacked my own skin as a reaction. Not uncommon. Traitor isn’t allergic, but it’s still common… Oily residue… ivy, oak, sumac…” “Traitor?” Asha echoed, glancing up from Bree who had settled down upon a stool that had been designated for her. Rich, brown-gold eyes, regarded the man who was still standing nearby, watching curiously and looking all the more embarrassed. “Not an apothecary…? No, obviously. You’re educated… botany. That’s my guess.” “That’s a good guess -- a correct guess,” Asha said with a grin, her white teeth making a dazzling contrast against her plum-purple lips. She had taken Bree’s hand and was now gently submerging it into the bowl she had prepared. “Now you sit still, let it soak for a moment.” “Pretty skin… Her skin is pretty, Traitor!” “I agree, Kitten.” Asha watched the man shuffle his feet, and glanced at Bree -- she smiled at the bright eyes hiding behind the mask. She was amused by the endearingly awkward pair. “You have pretty skin. I like your markings,” she said while tapping Bree’s tattoo. “Someday, soon I hope, I will have my skin marked as well. My people cover their whole bodies in markings. There you go,” she reiterated as she ensured that the rash was fully submerged under water. “You stay like that for a minute or two.” She got up and walked behind the long counter that took up a significant portion of her office. She was digging around for something, but every now and then, she glanced up at Traitor and then Bree. “Are you two new to Versilla? There’s quite a few apothecaries in town. Funny you should end up in the Black Queen’s solarium. What are you up to? Are you looking for work…” The gears in her mind were turning.
  3. Pasion Pasiva

    What dreams may come...

    “Secrets? What truth are you referring to?” Marigold was a brilliant man, this was a simple fact that she could not afford to forget. She found herself annoyed with her foolishness as she had nearly revealed that she was no figment of his subconscious. She could not say or do anything that he had not seen her say or do, or that he could not imagine her saying or doing. Her actions were bound by the reality that he understood, and not by the reality beyond that -- like the afterlife that she had found. Turning away from him, and the sight of his suffering features, she regarded the vastness of space, and regarded the many millions of stars that glittered and twinkled like the tiniest shards of broken glass. “You already know,” she said softly, trying to save face and to undo the damage that she may have already caused. Marigold would be suspicious, when had she ever spoken to him in riddles? She struggled in that moment, uncertain of how she could make herself appear more dreamlike. A brief moment of doubt allowed her to feel some remnants of sorrow. This had all started from a place of resentment. She wanted him to come to Orisia so that, like her, he too could lose his life and end up trading his soul to the devil for a chance to escape the utter horror that came from the nothingness beyond death. But now she felt compelled by another desire that was somehow, equally as powerful as her hate. Her love. Their son had lost his mother, but he might still gain a father. “You’ve buried me here,” she spoke up, just as gentle and just as soft as before. Both her hands came up, they gathered together as if in prayer between her breasts. Suddenly her pretty blouse and her neat skirt were gone. She was dressed in the billowing white fabric of the gown she had been buried in. It was a lovely dress with an empire waist, a curved but modest neckline that showed off her long, pale throat, but did not show much more than the shape of her chest. It was sleeveless, save for the delicate bead-work that hung across her shoulders, in pretty patterns of decoration. It was a dress for the living, but he had chosen it for her when she was dead. Now she wore it for him, standing before him with all of the markings of a living woman. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes misted with tears -- she was looking at him with such feeling. “This isn’t my home...I would like to go home…” She approached him slowly, amidst a champagne supernova. Stars bubbled up around them, bursting and forming again, sparkling in a display of sheer beauty. Her small hands touched his chest, and she leaned into him, looking up and searching his violet eyes with her own pale, powder blue ones. “Take my bones to Orisia…”
  4. Don't worry my love, I am poking and prodding Roen to post. How have you been? 

  5. Pasion Pasiva

    The Twisted Twig

    “Poison Ivy?” Asha-Kwame echoed as she finally looked up from her book. She had a quill in hand and was busy sketching out the likeness of a very odd little plant that sat before her in an adorably small terra-cotta planter. It had a straight stem with curling purple leaves. It was crowned by a striped, black and white, orchid-like flower, which seemed to slowly be swaying back and forth. Asha gave one of the flower’s petals a little stroke, and it moved a little faster, almost as if moving to some unheard music. “We are no apothecary shop, but if it is Poison Ivy…” Thoughtfully she brushed the soft quill across her chin, the white feather making a beautiful contrast against her purble-black skin. “Let me see…” She got up from her seat, a backless, leather and wood stool that creaked comfortably when her weight came off. The woman stretched her long, slender limbs, and glanced at Traitor and his companion, a creature draped in a heavy cloak, who was busy murmuring to herself while dancing her fingers across the spine of dusty books on a shelf that was out on display for the public. Asha smiled slow and wide, her face though dark was bright and glad. “Curious one,” she said with shift of her chin toward Bree, “that’s good.” Asha’s voice was velvety rich, and slow -- the exotic accent made it sound like she might not known how to speak english with the mastery of a native tongue, but there was a charming way she put words together. Something that belonged to those of foreign blood. But she wasn’t foreign to Orisia, just the Black Queen’s court. “Let’s soak it in tea, the rash -- where is it?” she was rummaging behind her desk now, and came back up with two containers, one was glass and would fit a hand or a foot, the other she didn’t bother pulling all the way out. It was large enough for a person to sit in. “Chamomile tea helps and soothes, and then an oatmeal lotion, and then time. These things, they take time.” Her dark eyes glanced at Bree, and without directing herself at Traitor again, she spoke directly to the woman. “Come here, child, and let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”
  6. Pasion Pasiva

    [A.N.T] Main Thread 1: The Arrivals

    In the short weeks following the coup, and the subsequent command that Roen appeared to give her in public only to hoard it viciously in private, she had learned something about stillness. She became stone-like in moments like these, when his curious fingers brushed across her cheeks, or traveled down the length of her nose, or even crossed her lips, pulling them apart for a glimpse of her white teeth. During these moments, he was childlike in his curiosity, or so she reasoned later when she was alone and left to reflect. It wasn’t love or affection that drew him in so close, but rather a need for satisfaction that was only achieved through tactile methods. And sometimes, like at this very moment, her eyes would shift and she would examine him -- for he was so very lost in his own examination of her -- that she could comfortable see how taken he seemed to be with what he touched. He appeared like a blind man, committing something precious to memory in the only way he knew how. Much to her surprise, he was not lost in a haze of sensory input. He spoke up and it caused her to quickly avert her gaze from his face, back out the window and beyond the distant line of trees that was steadily growing darker and darker. “We all wear masks, Irene. I sometimes pretend to be a gentleman and a king, and you sometimes act like a colically little girl. But these are masks all the same…” The weight of his gaze rolled down from the swell of her lips, over the curve of her chin, down, and down, her narrow throat and into the neatly tucked fabric of her white blouse into her fitted jacket. There was an urge to swallow, but she resisted, knowing his eyes were keenly set on detecting the slightest of movements she might make. Sometimes she felt afraid to move around him. There was something extraordinary predator-like about the devil, and she like any creature that was interested in self preservation had learned to adapt. She became still to avoid stirring too much of his interest or his ire, for it did often feel that even the motion of taking a breath would offend him. “...Self-awareness is a beautiful thing, and there are very few things as beautiful as a thing true to itself.” She didn’t reply. The statement was loaded, and she didn’t know where he meant to take the conversation. He wasn’t often in the mood to converse. He barked orders, issued commands, held her close or pushed her aside, but talking? That didn’t often happen between them these days. And it wasn’t so much that she savored his words, but there was a touch of something in her -- hope, perhaps. He, in turn, took her silence as an invitation and wove his hand through her arm, linking her securly in his hold and leading her away from the sunroom. She had had the absolute pleasure of giving the manor a small tour before Roen ushered her away into the private space they used to talk, but she was quite content to be moving toward the sound of lively chit-chatting. Under Raphael's protective rule, she had been hoarded away in locked chambers for her own safety. Her days as a figurehead for the country that she held near and dear to her heart were over, according to him. She had runaway too many times, she had proven herself an unreliable leader -- regardless of his own hand in the matter. He took great pleasure in ‘releasing her from the ugly bondage of a man’s world and giving her the freedom of her rightful and true place as a mother to their son.’ He thought very little of her abilities as a politician, less so of her abilities as a queen. But this, this moment just before re-entering into that world of intrigue, of negotiations, of purpose for the sake of others, it felt oddly exciting and she couldn’t resist the razor sharp edge she began to feel cutting her ego to a sharp, fine point. She had to do well. Not for Reon’s sake, but for her own, and for her son -- and the world she hoped to leave behind for him. “It has ever been my desire to rule the world,” he said calmly and thus, effectively threw a heavy wrench into the gears of her turning mind. She nearly scoffed at him, and in attempting to keep from openly ridiculing him she missed a single step that lead down and out from the doorway of the sun-room and nearly fell. He caught her, of course, and steadied her with a strange look on his face -- as if he found her lack of grace to be disturbing. She did too. But he went on, “I put that ambition on hold to pursue you.” He looked at her with sanguine eyes, and she looked at him, her expression somewhat taken aback by the confession. She would have never assumed to be the reason Roen had stopped being Roen. She remembered that man, the ambitious Crimson King and his wicked plots of conquest. For some time now, she had figured that man dead and buried. She supposed, with a little frown, that it would make sense for him to make a reappearance now that everything was set in order within Roen’s world. It was a short walk to the lounge, which it seemed Roen intended to cross in order to bring them into the grand room. She saw his eyes shift toward a tray of sweets that was being carried about by a pretty servant. Anyone who didn’t know Roen might think him guilty of wandering eyes, but she knew better. He had made quite the impression before the Orisian court during her first masquerade when he stuffed himself silly with sweets and then threw them all up in some lonesome corner of the ballroom like a diseased-sick dog. Her lips had pursed into a pout. “...You will make them love me.” “You have to actually be loveable for that to happen -- or try to be, or pretend to be -- whatever is actually plausible for you” she snapped, still put off by the memory of Roen spewing whipped cream and candied fruit. She hadn’t witnessed the incident, but she could very well imagine it. Rather than being angry, Roen seemed oddly amused by her words. That’s not to say that he brightened any, but she could tell -- he shifted his head just a little bit toward the light and cast off some of the heavy shadows that drowned his crimson eyes. She heard his tail swing from side to side, the merry jinggling of metal dancing in their wake, a fond memory of better times as well as a dark reminder of awful, terrible times. “A war to end all wars. A long night to lead into a new day. We are here to convince them of this, and as for those who we cannot…” She stopped, and in turn caused him to stop as well. It brought his gaze back her way, which is exactly what she wanted. Her brows were scrunched up in that tortured sort of way she had perfected, and her lips were pressing together hard. Her long hair had been done up into a loose braid, her favorite styling with pearls of different sizes strewn about the woven mass. The end of her braid was bound with black ribbon, set with crimson jewels that glittered when they caught the light as her hair swayed with her inertia of her sudden turn. “You’ve brought me here to be a warmonger?” she posed the question quietly, intent that only he hear it. Her arm had unraveled from his and now her hands hung by her sides. “Not only is your plan ridiculous, it’s ridiculous to think I would or even could advocate for war, more so ridiculous, is the notion that you think anyone might take me seriously! I am the twice deposed queen of Orisia, the smallest country in Valucre. I will not inspire people into bloody mayhem for a multitude of reasons, not least of them because I literally have no skin in the game.” She was shaking her head, her arms had crossed just below her breasts, which were neatly hidden behind the thick, fabric of her coat. She looked concerned, but not upset -- she looked like she was having a very important conversation with the King of Patia, and she was. No one here could have begun to imagine the horrors that Roen was planning, and no one would ever know the effort she was about to expand to change his mind before he actually convinced anyone to follow him. “You’re not saying that you expect a war to come. No, you’re saying you will bring war -- a needless war -- because you believe the world needs to be cleansed. That’s utter madness. Does the suffering of common people mean nothing to you? The famine, the chaos of anarchy, the horror of military occupation... You speak of war as if you haven’t even thought of these things.” She turned from him, she began to walk, but she wasn’t leaving -- she was pacing. People turned, some looked, she cut a fine figure in her black breeches, in her coat, in her stance. She walked with perfect posture, with her braid swaying like his tail swung. When she caught someone’s eyes, she smiled, but quickly her face fell flat again, until she turned and returned to Roen. “Thinking that you conquered Orisia has given you a very false impression of the world and your abilities within it, Roen. You didn’t have to fight. I lost the support of my friends, they abandoned me and left me to you, imagining -- more than likely -- that you would end my life. They were false friends, but had they remained true and loyal, I don’t believe you would be alive today. That being said, you have won Orisia. You have done so in the days following your coup. You’ve done so in how you manipulate the law, the media, and the bureaucracy. If you come to these people with a promise of war, I promise you that they will all unite -- but not for your favor.” She let that hang in the air, before looking away. Her arms were still crossed, her profile was serene. “I am going to get a drink. You think about what you want, Roen and then tell me what you really want me to do here.” Gabriela smoothed her jacket, and fixed her cuffs, and then walked away from the devil, pursuing a servant she had seen walk by with flutes of champagne. She desperately hoped she might bump into someone and that it would give Roen enough cause to leave her alone to work for a while.
  7. Pasion Pasiva

    Greetings, from apple world!

    As, @Ataraxy thank you so much for the mention! Orisia is definitely high fantasy, with a bit more political intrigue mixed into the fray. I just opened a new Quest Hub with a pretty interesting storyline that has thr potential to send an adventurer all over Valucre in search of precious specimens. https://www.valucre.com/topic/40519-the-twisted-twig/
  8. Pasion Pasiva

    The Genius of Evil

    “His was the first life I discovered, but not the last. There are others like him, men and women who were taken from their homes, abducted in the streets, pulled from their jobs, all to dance on a gibbet. Because you indulged a mad man and a murderer. Because you were weak. Take this sword, keep it close, or by God I’ll…” He pulled away, he released her hand and left her to hold the unsteady weight of the blade as he gestured with magical intent and unwound the very fabric from which the blade had been woven, until it was changed, until it was something completely different. A black ribbon, lustrous and luxurious, laying across the pretty, white flesh of her open palm. It made an exquisite contrast, one she could not help but study as she suddenly found not only the courage to speak up, but the will to do it in the first place. For some time now, she had lacked that pivotal piece of the puzzle, the sheer desire to fight or defend herself. At some point, things just became easier when she accepted the many faults that were thrown at her feet. But for some reason, everything and all that he said settled poorly against her heart, and she could not keep her peace. Maybe it was because she finally had him to speak to, and maybe because it was he and he alone that carried the weight for any and all of these tragedies. “His blood is on my hands, because of a regime I allowed to flourish…” She blinked, her eyes had grown dry and distant from staring at the suddenly listless piece of ribbon thrown across her hand. But now that she settled her gaze on Roen, they not only came into focus, but they appeared to brighten. “Nearly a year go, almost exactly to the day -- I abdicated my throne because of what my cousin confessed to me during Vivian and Alazar’s wedding. He told me you came and visited him, and he told me all about the deal you posed. You didn’t ask for his help, only that he not intervene when you came and attacked. You asked him to allow you to bring me to heel, and in return, you’d lend my womb to him so that he could, at long last, father the child that would inherit his empire. You bartered over my body like I was some common whore. You even convinced my Warlord to support you in this endeavor. I left, because I thought that was the only way to shift your sights from the Summer Isles, and I wasn’t wrong.” None of this was new information. She had already confronted him with her knowledge of the events that lead to not only her downfall but that of Orisia as country. But had he ever been made to take responsibility for what any of that meant? Having him stand there, throwing the blame of innocent blood upon her name was perhaps too much to withstand. She was trembling as she spoke, clenching the ribbon he had given her -- and warned her not to let go of -- in a small fist. “It was not my weakness that allowed Raphael’s rule to root itself in Orisia, it was your shameless selfishness that brought my home to its knees. You made me leave. You all but chased me away. You ensured that Orisia was vulnerable and abandoned, and then you couldn’t even come and protect it. You lost interest and left it to fend for itself, and somehow the outcome was unexpected?” She shook her head, she was backing away from him. “I refuse to accept the blame for Gregor, or for Douglass. It wasn’t my obsession that drove us onto this tragic road.” Even in her dress, Gabriela managed to crouch down low to the ground in a sweepingly magestic way. Her knees bent prettily under the layers of material that made up her black and gold skirt, and her midsection remained nearly motionless, in great part due to her tightly bound bodice, as she reached with a long arm to gather some of the sticky, drying blood off the ground and onto her fingers. She climbed back up to her feet without a struggle, and then, taking the devil’s hand, she smeared three lines of red-brown blood across his palm. “The blood is quite literally on your hands, Roen.” There was silence between them, ugly and profound. He stared at her, his crimson gaze growing hotter and hotter, and she knew that tragedy was about to befall her. And yet, he did not rip his hand out of her grasp, which she had yet to relinquish. She held onto him, insisting that he keep his hand open so that his bloody flesh was exposed and between them, even if neither of them looked down at it. After what felt like a terribly long time, Roen finally pulled his hand from hers, causing her to release a breath she had been holding back. The sound of her exhalation caused Philippe to stirr, and it made Gabriela turned to glance over her shoulder at their child. “That’s enough of that,” he would say, giving little away with the tone of his voice. He plucked her wrist with his bloodied hand, and pulled her along behind him, like an errant child. She followed along and kept pace in order to avoid being dragged behind him. It was a difficult task, being that Roen’s legs were longer than her own, and her dress was tedious to move in. By the time they reached the outer doors of her throne room, she was slightly out of breath. Her breathlessness had less to do with the physical demands he placed on her and more to do with his presence. Roen was a walking oven, his heat thawed her blood and caused her heart to work faster. It made her feel all the more, and that paired with the many emotions that were coursing through her now quicker moving blood created a concoction of anxiety that caused her tightly bound chest to expand and press into the fabric of her corset, her white skin bit into by the gold-black neckline of the gown. Outside the doors she spoke up quietly, urging him to give her a moment to catch her breath. “Please, just give me a minute…” and although he seemed hard set on pressing forward, she insisted by finally pulling back on the harsh tugs he gave her wrist to make her move forward. Although he could have easily overpowered her, he seemed willing to respect her decision, being that she seemed ready to defend it. So they stopped, and he looked at her with that same angry, nearly hateful gaze, as she turned slightly away and breathed in deeply and calmly through her nose. And when she was at long last ready to enter the throne room, she turned her golden gaze upon his face once again. “Don’t touch me. If you really intend to sell this facade, then don’t touch me.” He seemed reluctant, in fact, it appeared he was ready to tell her to shove off, but again she resisted his pull when he tried to find her wrist and grip at it. She shook her head and brought her hands close to her chest. When he didn’t insist on catching her hands, she breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. She only took another minute or so, taking deep and cleansing breaths, before finally regarding the devil. “Alright, I am ready.” The doors opened almost immediately, and together, Gabriela and Roen faced the throne room with all of its meany unwilling courtiers and the distant seat of power that Gabriela would soon be taking up again. Before Roen could change his mind about touching her, she took the plunge and walked in, making sure to keep a step ahead of the devil. Even if he tried to overtake her so that they could walk side by side, she made sure he was unsuccessful. She straightened her back and walked without swaying her long, slender arms. She didn’t even turn to properly regard the many men and women who had been forced to collect here, some upon their knees, and others standing uncertainty. For their sake, she had to be strong now. Pushing down into the pit of her stomach the atrocities she had seen tonight and the sheer horror and panic that they threatened in her, she focused all of her attention on making it to the throne. And although she had done a very impressive job of walking along the carpeted path, when she got to the dais, she was reluctantly grateful to have the devil’s offered hand to take to ensure she wouldn’t topple over the steps leading her higher and higher into a seat that few people here thought she deserved and into a seat that she didn’t even want. With all the care of a temple guardian, he set her down upon her throne and then went through all the pomp and ceremony to leave her side without ever turning her back to her. It was an older tradition, one that she certainly had never been made to perform. But Roen was an old soul, a gentleman sage, and there was a deep and affectionate love for all that was proper, traditional, and right in his opinion. It wasn’t until he had bowed to her and left her to sit alone upon her throne that he turned to address the collection of beloved guests. “I know you are all tired, so I will be brief. The Island of Eternal Summer knows only one ruler, and her name is Irene Gabriela Du’Grace. This is not an opinion, it is a fact. Raphael Bartolome and the Warlord Malice have fled from these shores than dare dispute it, and if there are any here that share their sentiments, I advice you to join them. You will be given safe passage off the island to whatever birth you choose.” For their sake, Gabriela hoped that no one would dare reveal their true feelings on the matter. She tried to imagine if Roen intended to keep his word, and if safe passage really would be given to those who expressed a disinterest in remaining citizens of Orisia now that the Black Queen was at its helm. However, there were enough dead bodies this evening to make her question his word. What was to stop Roen from slaughtering any individual who supported Raphael or Malice? “Consider where your loyalties lay. Search your souls. Until the Island of Summer is secure, I, Roen, have assumed stewardship of the state. Oaths of fealty will be demanded from each and everyone one of you in the coming weeks, but for now, I ask that you all return to your rooms and remain in the castle. Pray the days of violence are over.” This was not the plan that he had shared with her in the privacy of her chambers when he was securing her position within his power. It caught her off guard to hear that she was not to be named the queen at this particular moment, but rather a sovereign under his stewardship. How was this any different than the position she had occupied with Raphael? And not that she cared, she knew exactly what this was -- Roen had been perfectly clear -- she knew that most if not all would be able to see through this pretense. She was his prisoner and his puppet, not his queen. But even with her surprise, she managed to keep her face generally blank and composed. She didn’t want to give away to any of the people she cared about that she was not fully in control. From her peripheral, she could see Kalicty and Zenahriel standing near to each other, but not engaged together in any sort of conversation. Instead, it appeared that her reluctant mother was talking to a giant, one of the very creatures that had been personally summoned here by Roen. She had to fight the urge to warn Kalicity to stay away from the monster. In fact, she had to resist the urge to tell every living soul here to runaway, to make an escape before Roen became more severe in his limitations of people’s movements. But everyone was dismissed before she could work up the nerve, and instead, when the devil turned to look at her -- as if testing her loyalty -- she smiled a small and pretty smile. Anyone observing would think it sweet. She did her best to keep her features natural, especially as she broke her gaze with him and looked over to the small group of people who had been allowed to stay. Marie, Zenahriel, and Kalicity stood among them. Gabriela stood, but Roen was quick to move to her side, to stick close to her, to keep her well controlled by the mere weight of his presence thrown over her. The thought of any one of their dead bodies being lifted into the air and twisted and wrung out of recognition, made her her nervous. It was quite a sight, the Black Queen of Orisia, standing before her black throne with the devil at her side -- quite a sight indeed. "Quite some developments," she said, to ease the mood. "I hope no one was badly handled by our guests," she glanced at the man besides her mother, the giant who had been talking her up just moments before.
  9. Pasion Pasiva

    Orisia | Ask Me Anything

    Very happy to announce a new Quest Hub in the capital city of Versilla! Come and visit Asha-Kwame at The Twisted Twig.
  10. Pasion Pasiva

    The Twisted Twig

    Twisted Twig Deep in the interior of the Solarium de las Ciencias Flora, inside a comfortably furnished office, Asha-Kwame sits behind her desk flipping through the pages of a massive, leatherbound book. The pages look brittle, and by the measure of her handling of the book, it’s easy to tell that it’s as old as it looks. There’s a frown creasing her perfect, smooth, ebony features, and then, after a moment a click of her pink tongue against her nearly purple-brown lips. The office looks like a hybrid between a study and a shop, with half of the ample space allocated to rows of shelves, upon which hundreds of glass containers house a vast multitude of seeds, seedlings, and fully grown plants, most of which are flowers. It’s not hard to find the Solarium’s director, especially after asking any one of the guards on duty where the Twisted Twig is located. Shortly after coming into the service of the Black Queen, Asha-Kwame was tasked with rebuilding the queen’s collection of rare blooms. This decision, in large part, is due to the woman’s vested interest in flora, and so she readily accepted the responsibility as well as the title of director. However, finding competent and willing adventurers to undertake some of the quests she has written up is proving harder than she imagined. Frustrated, she waits -- hoping today will bring the right adventurer through her office doors. Current Quests
  11. Pasion Pasiva

    Attention Board Leaders of All Levels!

    Could you link me to the alligator quest and specify the location a little more? Where is Mezthaluen?
  12. Pasion Pasiva

    Solarium de las Ciencias Flora

    Solarium Director: Asha-Kwame Imani Name: Solarium de las Ciencias Flora Structure/Building: An elaborate solarium modeled after antique victorian stylings fitted with extensive panels of glass to better admit sunlight. There is a central dome that rises nearly 200 feet high and arch shaped wings that extend from either side for an overall length of 720 feet. Layout: A structure made of glass, stone, and metal -- the solarium proper is a beautiful structure that appears to borrow heavily from victorian architecture, as well as Gothic and Moorish stylings. It consists of three above ground levels and three subterranean levels. The solarium is sometimes referred to as the Crystal Palace. Purpose: The purpose of the Solarium de las Ciencias Flora is multifaceted. Principally, the solarium is the place where the Black Queen’s extensive and ever-growing collection of rare flora is stored. Because this collection includes many dangerous and deadly blooms, a small portion of the plants are housed in safe areas that are not open to the public. Secondly, the solarium is a living and breathing museum that is open to the public. This botanical garden is a place of learning and is the location where a number of students gather to study. It’s not uncommon to see groups of children as young as toddlers and as old as grandparents being walked through the extensive grounds. Thirdly, the solarium serves as a seed bank, where seeds, pods, and roots of all species of plants, flowers, fruits, and vegetables are stored and protected in subterranean levels. History: The solarium has been around for as long as the Black Queen has ruled the Summer Isles. This building was her brainchild and it’s day-to-day operation is one of the only bureaucratic responsibilities that Gabriela has kept herself involved with directly. Recently, however, due to her ever growing number of duties, Gabriela has named a new director of operations for the solarium -- a distinguished diplomat from the Hunjabo Tribe, Asha-Kwame Imani. Apart from running the place, Asha-Kwame is also in charge of rebuilding the Black Queen’s collection of rare blooms after the infiltration and subsequent destruction of the already established collection by an invasive plant that took root seemingly overnight. Those in search of adventure are urged to seek out Asha-Kwame for information on easy and difficult quests, all of which are handsomely rewarded. Security: A company of twenty armed guards constantly patrol the grounds of the solarium. Canon: A Rare Bloom
  13. Pasion Pasiva

    What dreams may come...

    The normal reaction would have been to close her eyes as her husband, the man turned stranger within the scope of this dream, tilted her chin and pressed his lips to hers. Gone was the shy, the bashful, the curt and proper man she had married. He was replaced by a person who had suffered loss, who had perhaps, even learned from it. But she didn’t have the heart to feel the emotions that these actions should have stirred up. All she felt was a devastating emptiness, a void so large and so cold that it reminded her exactly where she would have ended up going if The Great Devourer hadn’t plucked her soul from the endless path into eternity. And yet there was an urge for more, especially as she studied his face -- frozen in the repose and joy of savoring one last kiss with the woman that he loved. Would that she could kiss him back and feel even a fraction of what so openly and beautifully played across his face. Love. Pure, and simple, and wonderful. “I always pondered the vastness of space…” His eyes opened, and she looked into them -- watching from the glassy surface of his ireses as stars were born and died away into nothing in a brilliant display that was nearly as impressive as their births. He was being thoughtful, and it made her quiet and observant. She yearned to hear what he had to say. His every word had become poetry. “I’m… I’m sorry I let you down. I...centered all my grief and fractured my chances at a real life. I’m sorry I used your memory… to justify my selfish hope that in all my madness… I’d feel retribution.” Lily looked away. Her powder-blue eyes shifted to take in the expanses of the universe above her head. She remembered this place fondly, and had to smile as a comet flew across the inky sky leaving behind a trail of shattered ice that sparkled like diamonds. “If beauty was water then you’d be the ocean. Remember this? I took you to the planetarium and practically talked your ear off.” “I loved everything you had to say. I hung off every single one of your words. I craved your mind as much as I craved your soul. We simply did not have enough time.” She was quiet, and serene, and standing besides him with all of her ill intentions suddenly put on the back burner. There hardly seemed to be any room for resentment in this happy little moment in time. It was a sweet memory, and it would be blasphemous to ruin it. “You know, I am sorry I got sick...I am sorry it ended the way it did. I was coming back to get you. I kept a secret from you. I wanted to tell you the truth. I wonder, can I tell you now?”
  14. Thank you for liking my post, even if it was very lackluster! 

    1. Red the Ambivalent

      Red the Ambivalent

      If that was lackluster, mine are absolute dirt. It was a very good post. 

  15. Pasion Pasiva

    Allied Nations of Terrenus (A.N.T.)

    Yeah! Why not!