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Lacernella Rubra

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About Lacernella Rubra

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  • Birthday 02/12/1989

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  • Interests
    I am the Raptor.
  • Occupation
    Happy Meal.

Recent Profile Visitors

2,211 profile views
  1. What is your favorite starship?

    Jedi starship from SWTOR.
  2. What is your favorite starship?

    You already linked the Normandy. D:
  3. What is your favorite starship?

    Jefferson. If you don't get this reference you're too young. _ On a more serious note, The Normandy will always have a special place in my heart of hearts.
  4. Custom user title raffle 2

    Sure, why not. Count me in.
  5. [Quest] To BECOME DEATH...

    “Sit.” It is a gentle, firm command – it should be of some comfort as it is one he has heard often. Priscilla says nothing else for a long moment, before she carefully reaches back to tie up the hair that falls to her ankles. Once it is sufficiently bound, she joins Brigette to carefully chop carrots and onions. Though it would seem strange – this woman with coverings over her eyes, capable of wielding a knife and performing what might seem to be dangerous tasks – it is not. It is rare that Priscilla would sully her own hands to prepare a meal but from time to time she chose to do so in the care of her son. For better or worse. “I had thought you would give up this foolish thing and provide me grandchildren, but I suppose that was…foolish of me.” Her lips curl into a small, pained smile even as she turns to oil a pan, pulling out a chicken quarter from a nearby fridge box. Seasoning it quietly, she rummages through the spices for a moment before dropping it into the pan. It instantly sizzles and the delightful aroma fills the air as she drops the vegetables in the pan as well, covering it after pouring a wine into the pan. Turning, the bottle is left uncorked as she pours herself a glass. A very generous glass. Over it, Priscilla contemplates something – or perhaps she listens if Bull has anything to say. “I have one condition. You must name a successor before you leave.” Though neither want to admit the potential of failure, it looms in the air – in every pause and every breath – only now does it dare to pass lips. “I will not be left holding the reigns of your kingdom every time you want to go off and play.” Perhaps her tone is softer than Bull would expect, given the harshness of her words, but Priscilla is tired. Age has wearied her – and the lines of her face are indication of a lifetime of struggle and worry. “I cannot.” It is an admission of vulnerability, and likely the only one that Bull hasn't heard from his mother in the entirety of his life.
  6. Wonderland Resort

    Windows were obliterated in peoples haste to escape the growing pool of lava that was threatening to overwhelm the bar. Shanna, the one to blame, stood near the middle of the room as her glossy gaze stared at Neph and Shivers. The lava pooled around her feet, though it seemed to offer the woman no harm, as she did not immediately become aflame, nor showed any sign of discomfort outside of whatever alcohol Neph had fed her. “Jorge…” A hiccup accompanied his name, “Whashu give me ta drink?” Shanna’s nose wrinkled, even as Brutus gave a small yelp as he pranced away from the flames that danced along the floor and walls. Luckily, the resort was on a snow covered mountain, and it was unlikely the lava would extend beyond this small portion if it was handled quickly and correctly. Swaying with each movement, the witch shuffled towards her friend and familiar. “Ah, Misher Shishers, I…think I’m gon—“ Yeap, she wretches onto the floor once more, spilling more of the volatile orange goo. Fortunately for them, Shanna finds herself incapable of staying conscious shortly thereafter, and slumps to the floor in a rather dramatic way, limbs flopping all about. Brutus hops over, though not in true concern of the witch, but instead to grasp the back of her clothing in his mouth and proceed to drag her out into the snow covered hills. It seems as though most of the patrons have managed to escape, or trample each other in their attempt to – but they remain relatively safely even though the chill of the winter air probably nips at their nose. The hellhound does not cease his movements once outside. He knows that is likely that someone will call for the witches’ head, and in turn, his own. [Exit attempt.] __ Meanwhile, at the comedy venture the smell of smoke and the shrieks of the other patrons were starting to blossom into their senses. Holly's head cants, the shepherds crook in her hands following the tilt as a brow is raised. "Huh. Apparently your jokes are so bad, they're burning the place to the ground." A cheshire like grin creeps along her visage as she turns to Mr. Lexip. "It's been an absolute pleasure, but I think the show is over now. Go on, dear, take a bow." Her outfit seems to melt into something less costumey, though the crook remains in her hands. Her skirt and top are now more fitting of the environment, and the hat on her head becomes a furred cap. "On that note." Holly offers a little wave. "Toodles!" And she prances off the stage and out of the room. Where she's going is anyones guess.
  7. Pictures of Us

    How the hell does she get even cuter every time I see her? Witchcraft.
  8. Pictures of Us

    You forgot the jam.
  9. Memorable Quotes

    Fear is a strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground. - Small Gods
  10. General Chatter [18+] Violence always permitted!

    Yas. Raptors are best.
  11. Of Magic and Might

    When both parties arrive, golden hues set upon both – though they linger perhaps a second longer on the vermillion haired man before a small smile graces her lips. “You are both welcome to entertain your powers. Be careful.” The last is spoken to Ashton, as the dryad, who is curiously not green skinned or haired today. Perhaps in an effort to match the wasteland, autumn like colors adorn her person. Hair of crimson and skin of a hue more fitting a human. The give away of her heritage lay in the multitude of little flowers, leaves, and vines that crept along both skin and hair. Beneath her feet a flowering of barren soil. “I leave you to it, then.” As Ashton prepares his first move, her figure turning to step out of harms way.
  12. Of Magic and Might

    Invitations have been sent, the gathering should begin shortly. So thus a willowy figure waits, hands tangled carefully in front as emerald eyes scan the bleak and desolate horizon. The Dryad is eternally patient, content to remain in stoic nature until all have arrived. Soon, they shall arrive. Soon, their work will begin. @THE_BULL