Date:	2008-06-15 20:39
Subject:	Hopeful application for oldwest_rpg
Security:	Public

( The application. )

What: Madame Spinster's home baked cookies.
Who: Breacan and Eothian.
Where: 'Hell'.
When: Now.
Rating: G.
Word Count: 913.
Note: Un’beta as usual.

(Meta knowledge. Unless your muse knows.)


Madame Spinster sent us home-baked something cookies?!


Breacan was thirty. Eothian twenty two. In Immortal years, both men were over nine hundred years old. Right at this particular moment, if any one else was watching them, they would swear both men were under the age of eleven.

( Eothian pursed his lips. Tussled with Breacan, the cookie tin, and won as the tin was put back into Breacan’s hands. )

Madame Spinster sent us home-baked something cookies?!

What: Death.
Where: 'Hell'.
When: Now.
Rating: PGR.
Word Count: 306.
Note: Un’beta as usual.

Standing still too long brings death.


Thinking about a bath, alcohol, bed.


(Meta knowledge. Unless your muse knows.)

Burnu was 193 centimeters tall, a brave sort, with a mad look in his eyes and tough appearance. He, like the rest of us took to the place that made no sense at all to anyone. Half the time none of us knew where we were, the maps failed to show the quirks of the area. Steep hills lead to sheer drops. Trails lead to razorbacks. Walls appeared out of nowhere. And no one knew where the enemy lurked in this mad terrain.

‘Hell’ is without doubt madness.

Burnu’s toughness was suited to the madness. I placed him in charge of a section Eothian is in. The section has eight to ten men at any time, and, Burnu managed to do quite well with the small group. Anyone who could bring Eothian’s lack of regard for authority into line was doing very well.

He, Burnu, liked to write and he did so with style. He was scribbling notes when he died.

Eothian and I, were standing right there beside him when they took him. It occured so fast, none of us really quite understood what happened until it was over. Certainly, we heard them coming, however, by the time I managed to grab Burnu away all I had in my grasp was a severed hand, holding a note book. There was blood everywhere and for the first time since arriving in ‘Hell’ it was blood of a friend, not the enemy. Eothian---how I do not know--- managed physically to keep me from charging after them to retrieve the rest of the body.

There was nothing we could do but return to camp. The retreat back to camp was quiet, for once Eothian kept his mouth shut. The funeral was somber and memorable. I do not believe there is anything which will ever make me forget burying a man, who was six foot four, in what amounts to the size of a shoe box.

*pale, gaunt, weary and very Meta.*

Staying there is making me ill.

Thinking about a bath, alcohol, bed.

What: Poseidon's dirty little secret.
Where: 'Hell'.
When: Now.
Rating: PGR.
Word Count: 792.
Note: Un'beta.

(Meta knowledge. Unless your muse has a way of knowning.)

( Welcome to ‘Hell’. Please, bring your own hand basket. )

There are some things worth remembering.

Fandom: Original Character/mythology/fairy lore.
Author: Lee (or Tosh).
Theme(s): Table Flowers 10. Forget-me-not.
Rating: G.
Disclaimer: Character belongs to me and history.
Critiques: Sure.
Word Count: 241.

(timeline late 1800s)

The captain lay in a bed reluctant to leave the warmth of the quilts, and to brave the frigidity, cold winter air. It was one of those rare moments where he felt the desire to be lazy. He snuggled deep down in the bedding, ignoring the calls from Edyth for him to get out of the bed.

He lay there, enveloped in delicious warmth, until he found himself stealthily under attacked by his wife. She had pounced on the bed, removing the quilts and tackling him in a tickling frenzy. He laughed and squirmed from her seeking hands, which seemed to find all his tender, sensitive spots. As she tickled, she asked him if he was awake to tend to the baying cows, the barking dogs, the other farm animals before the farm went to pieces.

Edyth showed no mercy in searching for ways to make him laugh; it was rare to hear him laugh out loud. When she heard him do so, saw the happiness in his usually unreadable eyes, she held no regrets in marrying this enigma of a man; or attacking him so sneakily.

It was not long before Breacan evened the score. Twenty minutes later, he had found a way to make Edyth forget the reason why he retaliated in the first place, and, he had found more time to spend in the warmth of the bed.

The friendship, loyalty and the way in which Breacan sees how it works.

( Little bit of foul language under cut... )

Who: Poseidon, Breacan and Eothian.
What: Heigh, ho, heigh, ho, it's off to hell we go.
When: Now.
Rating: Maybe R.
Word Count: 930.
Note: Un'beta as usual.

Meta knowledge unless your muse knows otherwise.

( See you in hell... )

Old photographs.

Same as ghosts haunting.

Captain Breacan Sanchez.
Fandom: Original Character/mythology/fairy lore.
Author: Lee (or Tosh).
Theme(s): Table Angst-# 13. mermaid.
Rating: Maybe pgr.
Disclaimer: Character belongs to me and history.
Critiques: Sure.
Word Count: 814.


( Breacan was seconds away, from pitching an hysterical hissy-fit of grand proportions... )

Dear Mun,

No.

No.

No.

NO.

AND NO.

Regards,

Captain Breacan.

Oddly, Keukenhof Gardens, dominates my thoughts.

There are very few who know him, who really know him.

( Mun knowledge. Unless your muse knows... )

This?

Says Madame Spinsters' courting me.

...!

Owning nothing means nothing to lose.

Ratings:PGR
Warnings: Un'beta. None.

Eleanor: I even made poor Louis take me on Crusade. How's that for blasphemy. I dressed my maids as Amazons and rode bare-breasted halfway to Damascus. Louis had a seizure and I damn near died of windburn... but the troops were dazzled.

The Lion in Winter.
----------------------------------------

(Meta knowledge. Unless your character knows otherwise)

It was the twelfth century. The year was 1100. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Duchess of Aquitaine, was one of the most wealthiest and powerful women in all of Europe. The Crusades had gripped the Christian world. Feudalism had given way to chivalry, the noble and clergy grew fat and rich, while the serf laboured and starved to death. My life remained unchanged by the gods.The Corryvreckan had not yet acquired my name and I continue to be a brash, young prince following the sword-path.

( The Disir took home six warriors, brothers in blood and in sworn oath, to the halls of Valhalla to become one of the Einherjar... )

Poseidon’s Captain-of-the-guard: What a laughable joke.