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Jul. 13th, 2010 @ 02:13 am For Bill...










About this Entry
Jan. 28th, 2010 @ 05:59 pm (no subject)

You ask me if there'll come a time
When I grow tired of you
Never my love
Never my love

You wonder if this heart of mine
Will lose its desire for you
Never my love
Never my love
About this Entry
Oct. 31st, 2008 @ 03:58 pm hee hee!
I Am A: Chaotic Good Human Fighter/Bard (3rd/3rd Level)


Ability Scores:

Strength-11

Dexterity-15

Constitution-11

Intelligence-14

Wisdom-8

Charisma-10


Alignment:
Chaotic Good A chaotic good character acts as his conscience directs him with little regard for what others expect of him. He makes his own way, but he's kind and benevolent. He believes in goodness and right but has little use for laws and regulations. He hates it when people try to intimidate others and tell them what to do. He follows his own moral compass, which, although good, may not agree with that of society. Chaotic good is the best alignment you can be because it combines a good heart with a free spirit. However, chaotic good can be a dangerous alignment because it disrupts the order of society and punishes those who do well for themselves.


Race:
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.


Primary Class:
Fighters can be many things, from soldiers to criminal enforcers. Some see adventure as a way to get rich, while others use their skills to protect the innocent. Fighters have the best all-around fighting capabilities of the PC classes, and they are trained to use all standard weapons and armor. A fighter's rigorous martial training grants him many bonus feats as he progresses, and high-level fighters have access to special melee maneuvers and exotic weapons not available to any other character.


Secondary Class:
Bards often serve as negotiators, messengers, scouts, and spies. They love to accompany heroes (and villains) to witness heroic (or villainous) deeds firsthand, since a bard who can tell a story from personal experience earns renown among his fellows. A bard casts arcane spells without any advance preparation, much like a sorcerer. Bards also share some specialized skills with rogues, and their knowledge of item lore is nearly unmatched. A high Charisma score allows a bard to cast high-level spells.


Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)





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Detailed Results:

Alignment:
Lawful Good ----- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (18)
Neutral Good ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (22)
Chaotic Good ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (31)
Lawful Neutral -- XXXXXXXXXXX (11)
True Neutral ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (15)
Chaotic Neutral - XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (24)
Lawful Evil ----- XXXXXXXXXXX (11)
Neutral Evil ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (15)
Chaotic Evil ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (24)

Law & Chaos:
Law ----- XXXX (4)
Neutral - XXXXXXXX (8)
Chaos --- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (17)

Good & Evil:
Good ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXX (14)
Neutral - XXXXXXX (7)
Evil ---- XXXXXXX (7)

Race:
Human ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXX (13)
Dwarf ---- XXXXXXXX (8)
Elf ------ XXXXXX (6)
Gnome ---- XXXXXXXX (8)
Halfling - XXXX (4)
Half-Elf - XXXX (4)
Half-Orc - XXXXXXXX (8)

Class:
Barbarian - XX (2)
Bard ------ XX (2)
Cleric ---- (-4)
Druid ----- (-21)
Fighter --- XX (2)
Monk ------ (-25)
Paladin --- (-15)
Ranger ---- (-2)
Rogue ----- (0)
Sorcerer -- (0)
Wizard ---- (-2)
About this Entry
Sep. 8th, 2008 @ 11:08 pm It's been too long...
“This Love”


My brother and I are a castle,
And this castle stands in a field,
And the field, it is green as an emerald,
And on every side it’s our shield
That stands strong against the war
That can’t abuse us anymore
And we are healed…

My husband and I are a castle
And this castle stands on a hill,
And the hill, it is tall as a mountain,
And the air all around us is still
But we sing into the sleep
Of the starry dark so deep
And it is filled…

My daughter and I are a castle,
And this castle stands in a sea,
And the sea, it is green as an emerald,
And it ripples out from the lee
Where we’re safe from any storm,
Where we keep us safe and warm
And we are free…

And this is love
That mends the deepest of our scars,
And this is joy
And sorrow, all of this is ours,
This is our pain,
And this is everything we’ve grown
From all the seeds we’ve ever sewn
And in the stars
This love is ours.

My family and I are a castle,
And the castle stands on a stone,
And this stone, it is strong as a comet,
And inside it, we’re never alone
Whether blood or soul our bond,
However far we fly beyond,
This is our home…

And this is love
That mends the deepest of our scars,
And this is joy
And sorrow, all of this is ours,
This is our pain,
And this is everything we’ve grown
From all the seeds we’ve ever sewn
And in the stars
This love is ours.
About this Entry
Jul. 8th, 2008 @ 01:37 am (Pre-UTR Skwisgaar)
[Set two weeks or so after this...]


Miniver's been more or less desperately avoidant of the world since he and Skwisgaar... did... that thing he's still not sure how to describe. For almost a week afterwards, he'd done very little other than sleep, which was due partly to his own depression, and partly to the pain pills he was on. Even when he HAD graduated to a state of being able to remain awake and coherent for longer than an hour at a time, he'd gone as hermetic as a guy can get cohabiting with a spouse, and spent whatever time he wasn't sleeping delving into any book lying around with driven but unfocused escapism.

Pickles had been extraordinarily patient with him, as he always was, but when it seemed as if Miniver's withdrawn solitude had shifted from being something that couldn't be helped to something he was purposefully cultivating, Pickles decided it was high time his poet be encouraged as forcefully as necessary to get the hell out of the room and learn to interact with people again -- even if those people were roadies and not really people.

So after the drummer had managed to drag his husband out of his corner-cave and get him cleaned up, Miniver finds himself shoved into the hallway with instructions to go find something to do and not to come back until he's been to the library and found some good ghost stories or a DVD or something. Miniver, still quietly wallowing in woe and looking rather pathetic with his arm all encased in plaster in a sling but no longer so doped up on pain meds he can't form coherent sentences, reluctantly shuffles off, totally failing to notice the couple of roadies instructed to trail him at a distance and make sure he doesn't get himself MORE hurt.

He does start off vaguely towards the library, but Skwisgaar's room is half way there. Miniver finds himself rooted to the floor in front of the Swede's door, unable to either walk past it, or go through it, not knowing what he'd do if he DID find Skwisgaar in there...
About this Entry
May. 25th, 2008 @ 08:43 pm (Pickles)
It's misty-raining in London. It's the 1940's -- Miniver's not sure exactly when, and doesn't especially care.

Except for his hair and piercings, he looks like he belongs here. His father's coat is its old self again. The rest of his clothing is almost his own.

He shows up on the doorstep of mini-Mordhaus dragging his feet, no luggage, just the mist glittering in his hair and his cheeks in the evening.

He knocks.
About this Entry
May. 24th, 2008 @ 11:07 pm (Anne Bonny)
So now their boat is a spaceship. Okay. That's cool and all, but it's kind of a cold and sterile place, which the poet just finds depressing. Also, he keeps getting lost in it.

And so once again, he is lost. Which is actually not a bad thing to be when you're looking for someone whose location you don't know anyway. Walking through whatever door will open to him has, however, resulted in him seeing more accidental breasts than he personally cares for...
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May. 14th, 2008 @ 12:22 am (Keller)
After a great deal of flailing over Brenda and the infant, and not spotting the apparent other half-brother he'd only heard about for the first time a few weeks ago, Miniver is out back on Teague's very pretty porch smoking a cigarette and admiring the view pensively.

He's wearing, as usual, the slightly-too-large tattered trenchcoat that once belonged to his father, and straddling the porch railing balanced like a bird with one foot propped up on it.
About this Entry
May. 11th, 2008 @ 02:52 am (Glyn)
The poet comes off rather like a hyperactive teacup poodle next to his sister-in-law's towering height right now -- if there were walls, he would be bouncing off them.

"Glyn. Glyn... dude, should we like, bring them something? Or whatever? If Bren's awake can I hug her? Or is she like... like, fragile, or whatever? How about babies? If they cry when someone holds them is it bad?" And on and on and on.
About this Entry
May. 4th, 2008 @ 01:02 am (old-guy Skwisgaar)
Miniver's first week onboard with Anne Bonney's crew felt like a month or more for all the work there was to do learning and teaching and getting into the groove of sailing with a largely inexperienced crew. As such, the temptation is to simply curl up in the arms of his loved ones and just Be with them until he has to go back to sea. But there are things to be done here too -- and so, after catching up and spending some much-needed quality time with his husband and brother, Miniver has a third place to visit: an address in Stockholm.

It takes him about an hour to find the right portkeys and then find the place Skwisgaar lives now. Once he does, landing on the doorstep with his guitar and trenchcoat and salt in his hair and not much else, he doesn't hesitate before knocking -- though his expression is reserved and only distantly curious.
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Apr. 21st, 2008 @ 03:35 am (Milliways) - Meeting Teague
Just over 24 hours after Miniver's call to Teague, after he's been to the Bar and taken time to think about things, after coming home and spending a long night in the arms of his lover doing almost anything but sleeping, he's finally come to a decision he can act on. And when he decides to act, he does so quickly and efficiently. It's not quite noon by the time Miniver gets himself and Pickles packed into the car with arrangements to have the "kids" taken care of. Miniver takes the driver's seat -- he finds driving to be very calming -- and they make good time towards San Fransisco. He only stops about 45 minutes outside the city at a rest stop where he finds a payphone and calls his brother.

"Hey... Teague? It's.. yeah, me. Um, hey, short notice I know but um... Pickles and I're about an hour outside the city. Yeah, your city. Um, we might be here a while so not like there's pressure or whatever to uh... to meet, or something, but um... d'you know the name of a hotel we could bunk at? We got cash and everything, just gotta know where it is."
About this Entry
Apr. 8th, 2008 @ 01:27 am (Bill Turner)
Since spending the night at the castle with Teague, Miniver hasn't stayed in one place longer than an hour or two. He'd gone home to check on his husband, but then was off again, wandering restlessly, his mind a thousand miles away and his feet taking him where they would. He'd taken a walking tour of Any Pub Or Tea Place He Passed By before eventually, hours and hours later, determining that it might be advisable to decide on a direction and go to it. If only for a change of pace.

There's someone he hasn't spoken to in a while, and feels he'd like to. And so, at some point late at night, the bundle of windswept curls and trenchcoat tries the door to Bill and Jack's place.

He never has gotten the hang of calling ahead here. He only hopes someone's around...
About this Entry
Apr. 2nd, 2008 @ 10:34 pm (Pickles)
So, NuvoMordhaus is great and all, but it really is AWFULLY crowded. Normally, this is a good thing -- it feels like home. But every so often, it's nice to have a little space. Hence, Miniver's whisked his husband off to the house his other-self owned, and Miniver himself still owns. It's small and cozy, a townhouse but with either remarkably good soundproofing or remarkably quiet neighbors who don't mind the racket Miniver can occasionally make when he comes here to write music.

Now, with all the innate romance of foreign travel, Miniver is standing in the doorway into the livingroom/library with a handful of delivery menus and is slowly rifling through them with all the focus of a professional poker player inspecting his hand.
About this Entry
Mar. 23rd, 2008 @ 04:01 am (Pickles)
(left taped to their bedroom door, sealed with wax, written in calligraphy.)

I have seen lovers pass into the mists
Of silence beyond worlds' ends, beyond thought,
And part before young lips had ever kissed,
And be remembered by what love was not.

I have seen shadows dancing on the wall,
A village building wings from shattered light.
I hear the nameless laughing as they fall,
And whisper no regrets for taking flight.

I give you who I am, and make of us
A bridge up to the sun and a new home.
Embrace today; forget the night it was.
Now when we fall, we will not fall alone.


<3 M
About this Entry
Mar. 21st, 2008 @ 11:58 pm (no subject)
The house is open. Even in this state, Miniver's a match for whoever might happen in uninvited; he's never worried overly much about locks when not on the road.

The house exists in pockets of brightness, every room either pitch dark or with every light turned on, and anywhere a TV or radio can be on, it is. Miniver is a normally tidy person, but things are unusually out of place at the moment, primarily manifesting in bottles and bottles once filled with alcohol lying about everywhere.

It'd take some hunting, but the logical (and correct) place to look is in the bedroom. That's a dark room, and presently filled with smoke. The furniture is a bit hauled about, like he was trying to redecorate. There are piles of books and a stranger's knick-knacks lying about, and a pile of laundry on a chair...

...a pile of laundry with a poofy mane of black curls...
About this Entry
Mar. 17th, 2008 @ 02:29 am (no subject)
The night is late -- not that he's noticed. He's been ignoring the clock for hours now. He'd earlier deposited his brother in a spare bedroom, but he himself felt wide awake, so rather than trying to coop himself up in his room, he was pacing the sittingroom with Gilby and a book, a cigarette in his mouth.

He had a lot to think about, and one person in particular who needs to hear it.
About this Entry
Mar. 9th, 2008 @ 07:10 pm (Pickles)
Most men, when being told their wives are in labor, do not rush as fast as Miniver does to the address Pickles gave him. He brushes in past anyone at the front door like the tiny Irish hurricane he can be sometimes.

"PICKLES!" Because yelling is probably more effective than playing hide-and-seek.
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Mar. 9th, 2008 @ 05:05 am (no subject)
For all that's just happened, it's pretty late when Miniver gets back to Bill and Jack's place, carrying a small glass terrarium with a petshop bag inside it. He takes it straight to the sitting room, where there's a good free spot for it behind the sofa. He sets about scuttling and scampering and sorting to get it set up. Busybusybusy!!
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Feb. 27th, 2008 @ 04:19 pm (no subject)
Log with Alexi, unfinished )
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