Other My Little Corner in RPN - Journal, Chatter, and Plotting

[Belle_Sorciere]

Hi Everyone!​

Welcome to my journal-ish thread!
Once again, I have tidied things up around here! (1/29/22) It’s still a work in progress, but so am I as a person. =D
Check out the thread-marks, as I’m adding new content in a way that will be easier for you to find and preview before scrolling down. (Unless you’re curious of what’s going on in my headspace these days.) I’ve also got a post schedule up and I’m really working to keep it updated this time. (Famous last words)
Aside from personal ramblings, this journal has samples on how I write for both original and canon characters, and even some advice. (On writing at least.)
I’m still figuring out what else I can write here…besides, ya know, talking about what kind of day I survived or what the weather is like. (At the moment, effing cold by the way).
Maybe I watched ‘You’ve Got Mail’ one time too many, but I want this thread to be chock full of writing that will mean something to someone else…even if to most the blurbs I write look like a lot of nothings.

And one of my ramblings even summoned a moderator — Daisie! (Please read their entry - it’s quite good advice!)

Ciao for now!
~ Belle

Belle’s Post Schedule (1/29/22)​

Role-Play Title	Description	Characters I’m Playing	Reply Status
Dark Tides Rising — Harry Potter	A Marauders Era epic tale where several new characters step into their final year as the threat of war grows ever closer. (Doubling)	Sirius Black & an OC Slytherin	Phase IV - Reply Sent
Winter Wonderland — Obey Me	A vacation to a snowy, resort town for the cast of the Devildom leads shenanigans (Doubling)	Levi & an OC Chateau Maid	Phase III - The demon princes are being introduced to ice-skating, what could go wrong?
New and Improved — FNAF	A new night guard has been mistaken for a child and the animatronics have quickly adopted him, while giving the new mechanic side-eye extreme (Found Family)	Freddy Fazbear, Chica, Fredbear/Goldie, several child souls & an OC Mechanic	Phase IV - Reply Sent
Role-Play Title	Description	Characters I’m Playing	Reply Status

Pending Role-Plays (Updated: 1/24/22)​

• None​
• None​
• None​

Limbo (Updated: 1/29/22)​

• From the Ashes — Harry Potter (Doubling) — Draco Malfoy & an OC — Hiatus (Will wait as long as necessary - partner is incredible and a hella nice person.)​
• To Love a Death Eater — Harry Potter (Doubling) — Draco Malfoy & an OC — Unknown​
• Unknown​

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

August has become the hardest month for me to deal with - physically and emotionally.

The 24th marks the second year since my Dad passed away, but the stitch in my chest always gets started at the end of July - when we all knew his health was going downhill - and lasts into September. It’s a strange kind of pain because each day it ratchets up in intensity, but also hits at a different angle. Something will remind me of a lost opportunity where I could have done something better. A time when I should (or shouldn’t in some cases) have spoken what was on my mind. A moment where I wish I could go back and do things a little differently. (Or a lot differently in some cases.)

No matter how many times I’m told or by whom that there was nothing else I could do, I feel like I didn’t do enough back then. Rationally, I know that they are right. There is no amount of time I could have spent in that hospital with him that would have changed the final outcome. And given the delirium that took over and how frightening those episodes were, I know that I would have walked away with more trauma than this guilt I have right now. We had done all that we could and it was simply...his time.

But the feeling that I failed him in his last month persists. It still feels like I let him down when he needed someone the most. And trying to solve an emotionally problem with rational reasoning is about as effective as trying to baptize a cat in hopes of curing its tapeworms. It does not end well for any of the involved parties.

I’m trying to work my way through those feelings - this being one of the steps I needed to take. I’ve talked about this inner crisis before to my friends and even to the people I write with. (I apologize again to those well meaning individuals that have asked if I’m okay and whose eyes have gone crossed after I tell them what’s troubling me. ) I’ve made some great steps towards moving forward, but every August...I continue to find myself in this ‘what if’ quicksand.

Even two years later, I have a hard time doing things that remind me of that last month with Dad.

If a song on my playlist comes up that I listened to while on the road to visit him in the hospital, I have to change it. I don’t want to watch any shows that he and I enjoyed together. I can’t watch the last movie we saw together the whole way through. If I wind up on that one road that leads to the hospital, I cringe in my seat and try to focus on...literally anything else besides the fact I’m on that particular road. And sometimes, a character in a role play will say or do something that makes me remember a story about my Dad...and I have to put the iPad down and take time to get my head screwed back on to pick up things again.

Hell, writing in general is all around harder if I’m honest. My brain and my heart swap roles and go to war - where my brain is telling my heart to get into the one thing that makes me almost stupidly happy and the heart is obstinate about remaining in a reality...that cannot be changed.

It leads to a conflicted, anxiety ridden mess of a human being that doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

So if I write with you and you’ve recently gotten a message from me that resembles the rambling of a lunatic more than it does an actual in character post...well...you’re half right at the moment. (Just tell me to try again and I’ll gladly do it.)

 

[Zyrelle]

August has become the hardest month for me to deal with - physically and emotionally.

The 24th marks the second year since my Dad passed away, but the stitch in my chest always gets started at the end of July - when we all knew his health was going downhill - and lasts into September. It’s a strange kind of pain because each day it ratchets up in intensity, but also hits at a different angle. Something will remind me of a lost opportunity where I could have done something better. A time when I should (or shouldn’t in some cases) have spoken what was on my mind. A moment where I wish I could go back and do things a little differently. (Or a lot differently in some cases.)

No matter how many times I’m told or by whom that there was nothing else I could do, I feel like I didn’t do enough back then. Rationally, I know that they are right. There is no amount of time I could have spent in that hospital with him that would have changed the final outcome. And given the delirium that took over and how frightening those episodes were, I know that I would have walked away with more trauma than this guilt I have right now. We had done all that we could and it was simply...his time.

But the feeling that I failed him in his last month persists. It still feels like I let him down when he needed someone the most. And trying to solve an emotionally problem with rational reasoning is about as effective as trying to baptize a cat in hopes of curing its tapeworms. It does not end well for any of the involved parties.

I’m trying to work my way through those feelings - this being one of the steps I needed to take. I’ve talked about this inner crisis before to my friends and even to the people I write with. (I apologize again to those well meaning individuals that have asked if I’m okay and whose eyes have gone crossed after I tell them what’s troubling me. ) I’ve made some great steps towards moving forward, but every August...I continue to find myself in this ‘what if’ quicksand.

Even two years later, I have a hard time doing things that remind me of that last month with Dad.

If a song on my playlist comes up that I listened to while on the road to visit him in the hospital, I have to change it. I don’t want to watch any shows that he and I enjoyed together. I can’t watch the last movie we saw together the whole way through. If I wind up on that one road that leads to the hospital, I cringe in my seat and try to focus on...literally anything else besides the fact I’m on that particular road. And sometimes, a character in a role play will say or do something that makes me remember a story about my Dad...and I have to put the iPad down and take time to get my head screwed back on to pick up things again.

Hell, writing in general is all around harder if I’m honest. My brain and my heart swap roles and go to war - where my brain is telling my heart to get into the one thing that makes me almost stupidly happy and the heart is obstinate about remaining in a reality...that cannot be changed.

It leads to a conflicted, anxiety ridden mess of a human being that doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

So if I write with you and you’ve recently gotten a message from me that resembles the rambling of a lunatic more than it does an actual in character post...well...you’re half right at the moment. (Just tell me to try again and I’ll gladly do it.)

Hi. I don’t mean to intrude or anything, and if you don’t wish to have this here, you can delete it. I just want to say as someone who’s lost a few close people to me over the last few years - you’ll be okay. I know it gets harder coming up to the anniversary of their deaths, and I’m not going to lie - you’ll be in that mindset for a while.

You did all that you could, and in the end, your father would be so proud of you, he wouldn’t blame you, or hold you against anything. You may feel like you failed him, but you didn’t. And i know hearing that from somebody, or saying that to yourself, won’t get you anywhere or any closer to realising it, but you shouldn’t beat yourself up over something that never was.

I’m a strong believer in the saying ‘everything happens for a reason.’ And i can promise you, this did. He is very proud of you, and I’m very proud of you for being able to get through it and for having the strength to still be here. (Though i don’t know how much of an affect me being proud of you would have - I am a stranger after all.)

Again, I’m sorry if this was something personal you didn’t want people commenting on, but just know that I’m here if you ever need somebody. Or if you ever just want to go on a rant about all your memories, or even just need somebody to distract you.

You’re gonna get through this month - and through September. I can promise you that. You’ll be okay.

 

[Vitarri]

August is a difficult month for me as well. For similar reasons it seems. I have spent most of my adult life disappointing my parents and being an indirect financial burden to them. There would be times I would dread to see their name on my caller ID. I would try to keep up with all my obligations but lots of times I just couldn't. A repair needed to be done, kids needed something, something would come up but it never was a good excuse.

A week before the 20th (my Birthday) my older brother called me and told me news I was dreading. "Dad's not doing well. You are gonna want to get up here to see him." It was a month after starting my current position. Finding time off was difficult but I drove up and he died moments after seeing me. He died right there. I write about death often, I watch it all the time on television. But seeing it happen right in front of you.

Words aren't enough. Its as if I died, and we constantly fought. We never got along. I would hate to feel what it would be like if we were close. Every year I used to look forward to August. Hey, my birthday, a day special to me, you know? But now... I dunno. Its just hard when it rolls around. Its just a day two days before the day I lost my father.

On the 22nd it will be 2 years since he passed away. I haven't grown much. I haven't matured much. I really haven't done anything with my life. Here I am in this rut doing the same thing over and over again. Writing helps to distract me, and its a hobby I definitely dived more into this year. So perhaps that will help me cope? Perhaps it's just escapism. Either case, I am dreading three weeks from tomorrow. Because even though my mother has continued the tradition of not talking to me, I still have a bright image burned into my mind of my father that day in the hospital. And every time I think of it, it brings me down just a little bit. I don't think I will ever get over it.

Thank you for sharing your story. I never gone into such detail about mine. I am truly sorry for your loss and the grief you are feeling. I hope you recover, but I will be honest it sounds like you had a much better relationship with your father than I did with mine. I'm still not over it, so I don't know how much hope there is for you.

What is it they say? One step in front of the other? Just keep going, even if it sucks.

Good luck.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Hi. I don’t mean to intrude or anything, and if you don’t wish to have this here, you can delete it. I just want to say as someone who’s lost a few close people to me over the last few years - you’ll be okay. I know it gets harder coming up to the anniversary of their deaths, and I’m not going to lie - you’ll be in that mindset for a while.

You did all that you could, and in the end, your father would be so proud of you, he wouldn’t blame you, or hold you against anything. You may feel like you failed him, but you didn’t. And i know hearing that from somebody, or saying that to yourself, won’t get you anywhere or any closer to realising it, but you shouldn’t beat yourself up over something that never was.

I’m a strong believer in the saying ‘everything happens for a reason.’ And i can promise you, this did. He is very proud of you, and I’m very proud of you for being able to get through it and for having the strength to still be here. (Though i don’t know how much of an affect me being proud of you would have - I am a stranger after all.)

Again, I’m sorry if this was something personal you didn’t want people commenting on, but just know that I’m here if you ever need somebody. Or if you ever just want to go on a rant about all your memories, or even just need somebody to distract you.

You’re gonna get through this month - and through September. I can promise you that. You’ll be okay.

You are not intruding at all. I welcome the company. =)

I’m sorry that you’ve also experienced this kind of loss. It isn’t easy...and as my Great Aunt often says, “Growing older isn’t for the faint of heart.” She wasn’t talking about the physical ailments as much as she meant having to say so many good byes over the years. And you’re right about it all happening for a reason. We may or may not understand that reason, but there is one. In my Dad’s case...I do understand. That makes it a little bit easier.

I know; I just have to remind myself of that more during August. I’ve done a few things that I know Dad would be proud of, but I’m equally assured I’ve also done somethings that have made him facepalm and shake his head.

Thank you for your kindness and for taking the time to speak to me...especially on something that you’ve also faced. I’ll keep on trying to go forward without tormenting myself with the ‘what if’s’. (And not go into turtle mode).

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

August is a difficult month for me as well. For similar reasons it seems. I have spent most of my adult life disappointing my parents and being an indirect financial burden to them. There would be times I would dread to see their name on my caller ID. I would try to keep up with all my obligations but lots of times I just couldn't. A repair needed to be done, kids needed something, something would come up but it never was a good excuse.

A week before the 20th (my Birthday) my older brother called me and told me news I was dreading. "Dad's not doing well. You are gonna want to get up here to see him." It was a month after starting my current position. Finding time off was difficult but I drove up and he died moments after seeing me. He died right there. I write about death often, I watch it all the time on television. But seeing it happen right in front of you.

Words aren't enough. Its as if I died, and we constantly fought. We never got along. I would hate to feel what it would be like if we were close. Every year I used to look forward to August. Hey, my birthday, a day special to me, you know? But now... I dunno. Its just hard when it rolls around. Its just a day two days before the day I lost my father.

On the 22nd it will be 2 years since he passed away. I haven't grown much. I haven't matured much. I really haven't done anything with my life. Here I am in this rut doing the same thing over and over again. Writing helps to distract me, and its a hobby I definitely dived more into this year. So perhaps that will help me cope? Perhaps it's just escapism. Either case, I am dreading three weeks from tomorrow. Because even though my mother has continued the tradition of not talking to me, I still have a bright image burned into my mind of my father that day in the hospital. And every time I think of it, it brings me down just a little bit. I don't think I will ever get over it.

Thank you for sharing your story. I never gone into such detail about mine. I am truly sorry for your loss and the grief you are feeling. I hope you recover, but I will be honest it sounds like you had a much better relationship with your father than I did with mine. I'm still not over it, so I don't know how much hope there is for you.

What is it they say? One step in front of the other? Just keep going, even if it sucks.

Good luck.

I’m very sorry to hear that you have also been faced with this loss. Losing a parent or parent figure is hard...even if you weren’t particularly close.

I can relate to the story you’ve shared in many ways. My health has never been fantastic and when my Dad needed help, I was rarely strong (or tall) enough to be of much use. That said, I helped out where I could - somedays were better than others. The only things I was really good at that he needed was listening to his stories and making him laugh to keep his spirits up. In the hospital, I couldn’t really do either. He was so out of his gourd from the medicines and the trauma of heart failure that he wasn’t lucid. At times he was, but at others he was pulling on the equipment and angrily yelling at everyone about wanting to get back in the station wagon. (Which has been gone for 30+ years)

And...that is the hardest. I wasn’t there when my Dad passed away, but I went with Mom to the hospital to see him and pick up his things. He was still in his room and it’s like you said. It’s a memory that is burned into my mind. My Dad was always a jokester, so even though I knew he was gone, there was that...childish expectation for him to open an eye, wink, and then go back to ‘playing dead’. It really didn’t hit me until I was working on a memorial video for his service that it really sank in that he was truly gone.

My Great Aunt told me about a year ago that you never really get over the loss of someone close to you. Instead, you just learn how to carry on living with those memories. She told me that somedays it feels like she lost her husband a lifetime ago and somedays it feels like it just happened yesterday. From how I’ve felt since his death, I think she’s completely right.

I think you’ve grown more than you give yourself credit for. It’s hard for you to see the subtle changes because change happens gradually, but I think you’d surprise yourself. (That’s just my opinion though).

Thank you for sharing your story too and for talking to me. Yes, that’s how it goes. One foot in front of the other and take one day at a time.

And good luck to you as well.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Starter Graveyard
Episode One: The Girl with a Monster Problem
((I decided to collect the starters and posts from stories I adored that died before they took flight.))

Spoiler

‘3:37 am...’ A ginger haired girl glanced up at her digital clock and sighed. It wasn’t unusual for Cheyenne Quinton to stay up this late. In fact, the twenty year-old frequently slept only every other night...when she simply couldn’t stay awake any longer.

For as long as she remembered, Cheyenne endured the worst nightmares - night terrors - about a monster that emerged from her closet. Every night as a little girl, her father would tuck her in and turn off the lights. Every night, she would drift off to sleep and begin to have dreams of a world too wonderful to exist. And every night, without fail, a ‘man-buzzard’ would emerge from her closet - talon hands extending to snatch her out of her bed. Its black feathers had a putrid scent, its beady black eyes would always glow red upon spotting her in the room.

But each time that foul beast-man would try to grab her, something else would come and save her. She never got a good look at her rescuer. After the first time he saved her, Cheyenne henceforth clung to him whenever the ‘man-buzzard’ was trying to grab her. He always beat the monster - no matter how hard the bird-man fought. Then, when he threw the creature back into the closet, he would carry her back to bed and try to shush her terrified whimpers. Being a small child, his job was easier, but the older she grew and the more she remembered the events...the longer it took to soothe her.

Especially within the last year when the buzzard-man started to grow even more violent in trying to get to her.

Even with fifteen years worth of remembering her nightmares and her maturing into a young woman, the freckle-faced redhead never once saw the face of her protector. Everything else about him, however, was ingrained in her brain. His scent, his gentle reassurances, the way he held her to soothe her back to sleep, the beat of his heart against her cheek...everything, but nothing about his appearance.

The words on her laptop screen were too blurred for her to make anymore progress with her online English course tonight. Sighing, she pushed her ever tired body from her desk chair. She grabbed her teal nightgown and headed down the hall to get a shower. It was always the same routine - an attempt to coax herself to sleep. French milled lavender soap, herbal shampoo, a calming blend for her reed incense holder next to her bed...heck, she even had a dream catcher hanging off her bedpost in a vain hope that it would ward off the nightmares for just one night of restful sleep...

Returning to her room, she continued to towel dry her hair while she closed her laptop and turned on her white noise device. Her eyes warily traveled to her closet. As a child, she tried to use her furniture to block off the door, but that had done little good. Whatever that creature was, it was smart enough to get by any obstacles she put in its path. As she neared the end of her first semester of online courses, however, she was desperate to get some sleep...so she had come up with some new ideas to try and ward off the ‘buzzard-man’.

The first and most direct step was taking a trip to the hardware store and installing a lock on her closet. Now an adult with a job, she was allowed to do whatever she wanted to her room - including the seemingly insane step of trying to literally ‘lock out’ her nightmares. Her next trap was those plastic spikes one would put in a garden to ward off cats and dogs from the flowerbeds. ‘A nice welcome mat of those ought to do it.’ It was a desperate hope. Finally, her last measure was a metallic green softball bat tucked against the side of her nightstand.

‘Even if I wake up beating my pillow to cotton balls...it’s got to be better than being afraid of something that doesn’t really exist.’ Cheyenne reasoned to herself before she draped the damp towel over the back of her chair and turned out the light on her nightstand. Her reddened, tired eyes closed and it didn’t take long for her to fall into a gently slumber. Visions of an otherworldly place floated through her mind and a warmth seemed to envelop her as she dreamed.

This was always how it started...

“Shrieeeeekkk!”

Cheyenne knew where that hellish sound came from. What she didn’t remember was hearing it so absolutely angry. Exhausted, bleary eyes opened and she could see the door of her closet being clawed to pieces as the monster tried to break through. Her lock was holding fast, but that wouldn’t matter if there was no door left!

“Aiyeee! Go away you creep!” Cheyenne screamed right back at the beaky bastard. Normally she was left in a state of paralysis, but apparently the buzzard-man didn’t wait long enough for her to go into a deep enough sleep before he began his attack. This fact seemed to take the monster by as much surprise as it did her, but he recovered fast. To be honest, seeing her awake and alert in his presence seemed to make him all the more desperate.

The red haired woman threw the covers off of her and tried to run for the door, but found it was locked. “What!? You can’t lock that door from the outside!”

What the girl failed to realize was that magic was at play - and that it always had been at play. Her father never heard her screams of terror at night or the sounds of her furniture being destroyed or the shrieks from the feathered freak that was trying its damndest to steal his only child. All her father saw was a girl that was terrified of sleep. He had taken her to so many psychiatrists, doctors, and even psychics to try to ‘fix her’, but none of them had an answer for him.

The man that lost his precious wife so young was left with a ‘broken’ child. Cheyenne knew this sentiment was true - she’d heard so many conversations with her grandparents to know how they all felt. It was why she was saving up and taking cheaper, online courses, so that she could move out and show him she was fine, albeit tormented and perpetually tired.

Tonight was different.

The door finished breaking and the foul smelling avian man stepped through...right onto the spikes. It caused it to stumble and shriek again, but it kept its eyes fixed on the girl. Cheyenne tried the door again before she finally gave up and jumped back to her bed. At least with her standing on the mattress, she was...almost as tall as the monster.

Her knees were shaking from fear, but twenty years of anger helped her remain standing. “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me!? Go away!”

The mattress suddenly came up and Cheyenne lost her footing, tumbling backwards and smacking the back of her head on the headboard. It was a hard enough blow that she was left dazed and barely conscious. Lights, motion...she heard her protector’s voice and then a howl from him, a howl of pain. ‘What? He’s...he’s being hurt!’ From what she could see, it appeared that the buzzard-man had the upper hand. ‘No...not gonna happen.’

Cheyenne’s hand found the softball bat beside her bed and despite her vision swimming, she pulled herself off the bed. Her head was pounding with every step that she took, but she shook them anyway, silently. Raising the bat up and taking a stance, she howled, “You get your filthy claws off him!” The feathery fiend turned just in time for her to slam the bat into his shoulder. Bones breaking could be heard over the beast’s cries as it flung the now damaged arm out to knock her away.

The ginger girl was spun across the ground, but her efforts were not in vain. From the floor, she could see the outline of her protector being able to throw the mass of black feathers off. That was the last thing she remembered of the fight...

When her blue eyes opened the next time, she was back in her bed...but she didn’t feel like she was alone in her room. Sitting up and wincing as she felt a lump on the back of her head, her eyes noticed that the damage done to her room was still there. Claw marks were gouged into the walls, feathers were everywhere, blood spatters...it was terrible.

And it was real.

Cheyenne heard a huff from the corner of the room and her eyes darted to the sound. What she saw was not the buzzard, however...

“Yaaaah! Who are you?! How’d you get in here?!”

“Please stop screaming.” Cheyenne immediately recognized the voice of the one that had protected her. From what she could tell in the darkness...he also appeared injured. “I know I’m the monster under your bed, but I’ve been protecting you for years from the monster in your closet.”

“Wha...you’re...but...” Realization was dawning on the tired human girl. “This...isn’t a dream? Every time it came...you’re...real?” She asked him as she drew closer. “You’re really, real?” Cheyenne asked again as her eyes welled up. All of this...it was too much for her tired mind.

Dragging her bedsheet over to him, she pulled on a tear in the fabric in order to make a strip for a bandage. Dream or not, the being that had always protected her was hurt.
[/color]

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Starter Graveyard
Episode Two: The Dark Lord’s Mercy

Spoiler

Follow the street. Find the house. Unlock the door. Kill the husband. Spare the mudblood if at all possible. Kill the boy. End the prophecy in his favor. Win the war.

That was how things were supposed to have played out on that fateful All Hallow’s Eve night.

Lord Voldemort had followed through on every plan and promise he made that evening. Every detail? Agonized over. Even the muggle that he encountered along the way to the Potters’ house had been accounted for in his plans. Be nice to the child and carry on - do not make a scene, zero delays.

So down the street he went. Find the house - check - all thanks to Wormy. Unlock the door - check ...honestly, just a simple ‘alohamora’ charm sufficed? He thought James was more capable than that...or was he just that trusting?

Kill the husband - check. Done with ease since the arrogant fool did not even have his wand with him. And for a moment, he thought the mudblood would take his offer of fleeing without the boy. Very few times would he offer a mudblood a chance to flee, but he had made a promise to Severus. Severus’ loyalty in his dark army was worth far more than this tiny-minded woman’s life. Voldemort would grant him this wish - he could afford to once Harry was dead. Then at the very last moment, the blasted woman put herself in the path of the killing curse. Threw her life away for nothing! Because her sacrifice would not stay the Dark Lord’s hand. It would not change the outcome of that night.

And yet...it had.

Lily’s spontaneous final act and Voldemort’s already mutilated soul tearing even further threw a spanner into the Dark Lord’s plans. He could still remember falling to the ground as images foreign to his mind flashed before his eyes. They were not Lily Potter’s memories...they...were his mother’s. How the death of a mudblood could stoke the primordial embers of life’s first memories, he would never know...but they had done just that. And as he clutched his head, he could somehow recall how she held him even as she lay dying, refusing to let him go, until she drew her last breath.

Rising from the ground, the Dark Lord’s red gaze narrowed on the baby that sat next to his mother’s still warm corpse. ‘Kill the boy.’ That was the final step in his plan, but...each time he lifted his wand to cast the curse, all he saw was his own mother’s body and in baby Harry, himself.

Leaning down to the child, Voldemort met the child’s green-glass gaze. “I will kill you, Harry Potter.” Voldemort promised the boy icily. “But today is not that day. I will return for you in a few years when you remind me less of myself and are still too young to be a threat.” Raising his wand, he marked the boy with a scar of lightning on his brow. A painless promise that he would return for him one day.

And just like that, the Dark Lord abandoned all of the meticulous plans he had crafted to murder the prophesied child...on what most would call a whim...and he all but vanished overnight, without a trace.

The reaction to his choice was most interesting for him to watch from his most secret of hiding places. People began to assume that he was dead. Parties were being thrown left and right. Harry was being hailed the “Boy Who Lived”, the Ministry had declared a victory, and his followers? They were throwing one another under every Knight Bus that rolled down the street. All except his most faithful, of course. They went to Azkaban - willingly -, still singing his praises. They would be rewarded for their loyalty, richly rewarded when the time came. The cowards...well, they would eventually discover that there are, in fact, worse things that a dementor’s kiss.

While everyone was busy celebrating his supposed demise, Voldemort slipped into deep seclusion out in Albania in order to think. Even before the prophecy, his cause was not going as well as he had originally planned. Dumbledore and his Order of Fools was giving him more trouble than the whole bloody Ministry. That one fact alone led to many questions. The inability to overcome them had been a foreboding omen to his long term plans…so perhaps time to observe and review his past decisions in order to deal with those setbacks had been in order.

Five years passed by like this. Only a handful of Voldemort’s most loyal, trusted Death Eaters knew that he was even alive. By now, the Dark Lord had started to make some interesting breakthroughs in his latest research projects. His plans and methods to achieve his goals had also been strengthened in his seclusion. There was just one nagging, loose end that he really felt that he needed to tie up.

Harry Potter.

“I’m sure Severus knows where I might start my search for the boy.” Double agents always had the best of information - even if it did mean having to watch out for a double-cross.

The Dark Lord had no idea how right he was. After soundlessly apparating into Spinner’s End, Voldemort was greeted by a sight he had never expected to see. A badly beaten, malnourished, broken body of a child was lying in repose on Severus’ couch. Meanwhile, the Potions Master had three cauldrons brewing simultaneously in an attempt to brew enough potion to save the boy’s life.

Red eyes narrowed on the child’s near lifeless form as a slender, gaunt hand reached out and touched the boy’s scar. His mark, the lightning shaped scar. There could be no mistake. The boy beaten and broken beyond recognition was Harry Potter. His prophesied nemesis.

“He’s dying.” The Dark Lord relayed to Severus, who quickly resumed working while the darkest wizard in history conjured an armchair and settled down to watch his trusted servant work. Watching Severus concocting potions was usually a treat - the man was a genius at his craft, an artist even. This was a rare exception. Voldemort wanted him to work faster, smarter, harder. He wanted the “Boy Who Lived” to continue living. That feeling only intensified as Severus shared the fate that had befallen the boy that had “bested” Voldemort.

Apparently, the abuse had begun the moment the boy was dropped on their door-step. No one knew the full extent of the boy’s torment as he was kept locked away in closet beneath the stairs. Severus explained that they had treated Harry like a house-elf as he grew older, forcing him to do chores unfit for a boy his age. Voldemort begged to differ - even house elves were afforded better treatment.

The starvation was obvious. The lashing, the beatings, the broken bones, the swollen lumps of discolored skin...nothing escaped Voldemort’s red gaze. Severus continued on that the mistreatment had only escalated as the boy grew. It had reached a head the day Arabella Figg contacted Severus out of sheer desperation. A witch in the area, who had witnessed Vernon Dursley strike the boy, jumped the hedge and saved little Harry from the muggle. She snatched the battered child up into her arms and ran to Mrs. Figg’s. That was when the squib contacted Severus, only proving her desperation to save the child.

Voldemort almost didn’t believe Severus when the older man was told that Albus knew of the abuse. It made no sense that he, the Champion of Mudbloods and Muggles would stand idly by if he knew. Arabella Figg, however, had contacted him on many occasions over the years about the boy’s treatment...only to be ignored. It was hard to imagine. The Dark Lord’s primary critic, the great wizard that stood in his way had been turned his back on the child that had supposedly brought an era of peace back to the Wizarding World.

If this was how they treated their heroes, perhaps being a villain wasn’t so bad after all. Dumbledore could keep his ‘Greater Good’ and sod off.

It was close to midnight when Severus had the boy stable. Only then did Voldemort rise and speak to him again. “Severus.” His voice was like the finest of silk cloth, albeit bone-chilling to the ear. “From this moment on, I order you to raise him as if he were your own flesh and blood.” It was rare to see Severus gawk, but the man was doing so now. “The prophecy is dead.” Voldemort added flatly before going on to reveal that he would begin making preparations for Harry and would assist Severus as needed.

That had been two weeks ago and the Dark Lord remained true to his word. Through the grapevine traveled word that there was a governess of excellent repute, from a noble lineage too. That made her all the more promising in his eyes. Owls were exchanged and then a meeting was set up at the castle owned by the young woman’s dear uncle…

That was where the Dark Lord found himself waiting. More exactly, he was waiting for the governess in a sitting room with the most exquisite fireplace mantles he had ever laid his eyes on. Few ever realized that how much he appreciated the craftsmanship in the magical world. There were even pieces and places in the muggle world that he admired...but that was his little secret.

The snake-like man did not have to wait long to have an audience with the woman. He rarely did. His ‘family’ knew that he did not like to be kept waiting for too long. Or at all, if it could be helped. There were some he would show more lenience towards, but they were often exceptional in talent or in loyalty. Fortunately for the potential governess, she was punctual and professional. Her uncle apologized for any delay, but Voldemort waved his hand almost carelessly to bring silence back to the room.

“You arrived perfectly on time.” Voldemort replied in a smooth tone before Uncle Selwyn formerly introduced his niece to him. She even had the grace to curtsey. A very promising start.

“The honor is mine, Miss Selwyn.” Politeness begets politeness, usually. It was also a wonderful way to get people to let down their guards, so that he could pry into their minds without them suspicion. Especially useful when the target was a woman due to their natural gift towards occlumency. He did not predict he would need to use such tactics against her, not unless she suddenly started to grow...antsy with his line of questioning.

Uncle Selwyn dismissed himself after getting a mere glance from the Dark Lord, leaving Miss Selwyn all on her own. Voldemort gestured to a small table where the two could discuss the matter face to face. Pulling out the chair for her to be seated, the man began, “I apologize for the unusual nature of this meeting,“ Lord Voldemort moved around the table to his seat as his red eyes honed in on hers. “But as you will soon understand, unusual is an apt descriptor for what I am about to share with you.” The serpentine man looked at her from across the table before he folded his thin hands before him.

“I would like you to become a private governess to a young boy. He is of age six.” The Dark Lord watched her face, reading her subtle reactions as if she were a copy of the Daily Prophet. “Now...for the difficult part. He was recently rescued by one of my Death Eaters from a very abusive situation. His muggle family members really didn’t like him having magic and tried to beat, starve, and belittle it out of him. Had it not been for my Death Eater’s intervention, we would not be having this conversation at all. So he will need an exceptional amount of patience and skill in rehabilitating.” Again, Voldemort allowed the words to sink into the woman before he told her the boy’s name. “His name...is Harry Potter.”

And along with that shocking name, he lifted his wand. From its black stem spouted the ghostly memory of what Harry looked like when Voldemort found him in Spinner’s End.

After she witnessed the horrid image he conjured, the snake like man studied her again. “I am sure that you have questions. Now...is the time for you to ask them. Regardless of if you decide to take this assignment, however, you will take the Vow of Silence before you leave this room. Naturally, there are those attempting to find him and if that is the best they can treat him, it is best for him to remain missing.”

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Starter Graveyard
Episode Three: The Badger That Lived

Spoiler

June 24th. The day he should have died.

Cedric Diggory’s eyes glanced down at the astronomy assignment stretched out before him. He was nearly done with the damned thing, but had stalled out mid-sentence. Seeing his and Harry’s face on the latest copy of the Daily Prophet and the sensational headline...it frayed his already severely compromised nerves.

When that blasted Triwizard Tournament got started, even he thought that Harry had cheated to get his name in - to gain even more glory to his name. That thought stayed with him through all the Trials...until he grabbed onto that cursed Triwizard Cup at the center of the maze. Then...as they stood in the middle of a mist filled graveyard...he knew that he was wrong.

Cedric could still feel the green jet of light breezing by his ear as he barely dodged out of the way. “Kill the spare!” The hair on his neck rose at the mere memory of that terrifying moment, the moment when You-Know-Who ordered his Death Eater to kill him. Not Harry. Him. When the portly follower of the Dark Lord missed his mark initially, Cedric was too shocked to fight back. How does one even fight the darkest wizard in modern history? It didn’t matter though...because the second spell, a hex that paralyzed its victims, did hit him as it did Harry.

“Shall I kill him now, m’lord?” The man that he would come to know as Peter Pettigrew simpered to...a shriveled mass of wrinkled skin and blood red eyes within a set of black robes. Cedric would never be able to unsee what Lord Voldemort had been reduced to - even without the body of a man, he was still as frightening, as ghastly, as...evil as the teen always envisioned the Dark Lord to be.

“No...I have a better idea.” Voldemort replied from his chair. “Let him live, so he may tell all of Hogwarts, all of the Magical World...that I have returned and that the Boy Who Lives no longer does.”

Though the devil incarnate spared his life, he did not spare the boy from being tortured. After some instruction, Wormtail cast a curse on him. From the pain he felt, it must have been the Cruciatus curse, but that was only a taste of what was to come. While the ritual took place, a second curse was placed upon him, one that set his skin ablaze up his left arm and down through the rest of his body.

The teen clutched his arm as the pain from the still unhealed wound ached him again. He knew a third curse was cast upon him, but only because Harry told him that was what happened. Cedric himself had blacked out just after it had been cast. The blood loss had been extensive.

For all that he had endured, Harry Potter, a boy two years his junior, had endured worse. Not only that, but he managed to escape and save his life too. It...was a blow to his pride to be rescued when he should have been the one doing the rescuing.

Now, after a summer of stewing on everything that occurred that day...Cedric came back to school that thought he and Harry were lying about what happened. People shunned them, bad mouthed them...called them mental, among other things. His own father doubted what had happened that day and just thought the two boys had dueled over the cup and that Cedric had lost. Even his Cho thought that he cooked up this lie with Potter...

Only a handful of people believed him...and one of those handful had decided to make her presence known.

Cedric turned his sandy haired head towards the girl with beauty that could rival Fleur Delacour’s - Amari Fairchild. Unlike Fleur though, Amari was as Slytherin as they came.

“Hello Amari.” Cedric greeted her, but didn’t look up from his work. He wasn’t entirely sure why...but he was running into her a lot more frequently this year than last year. Her taunting voice did earn him a glance, his gray-blue eyes watching her cautiously. Constant vigilance indeed.

“Studying...it’s what you do if you want to leave this school and find a decent job.” He replied as he rolled up his Astronomy parchment. He wouldn’t be getting anything productive done with her hanging over him like a dark cloud.

“Some of us can’t rely on good looks to get by out there, you know.” He added with a slight shrug. He was hoping that by feeding her a compliment it might get her to go away sooner, but alack. It seemed that this was not the case. Soon, she was leaning into his line of sight and declaring her desire to talk to him. ‘Well, there will be no escaping her now.’ Cedric thought to himself as he quirked an eyebrow at her.

“I see...well, what is it that you want to talk about then?” Cedric asked before he shoved the obnoxious Daily Prophet copy into the nearest shelf. Not the nicest thing to do to the Librarian...but he was sick and tired of seeing his moving face on the front.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

I survived another holiday season and the start of another new year - and without any incidents worthy of a National Lampoon Christmas movie. (Though I came close twice.) Christmas was quiet as usual, but more depressing than last year. New Years was a bust as well. I’ll need to find things to do on my own that makes the season special...and to put some space between me and the ’Good Cheer vampires’.

It hasn’t been an especially great start to 2020, but since this is only one month into the new year, there’s still time for things to turn around. On my part, I’m sticking to my yearly resolution of being a little bit of a better person than I was last year. I’m also finally taking my best friend’s advice to heart and doing more to address my situation, so that I can find real solutions to my problems. Last year, I found many solutions, but they were more like tracing stencils and didn’t really fit my needs. It helped to a degree, but not enough to help me find the deeper changes I needed to make or help make many changes stick.

Last year, I tried out a support side called 7-cups, but found it to be pretty disappointing. When I reached out for a mentor/counselor, I never received any response and the group forums/chat area was...well, there’s a saying for it. “The squeakiest wheel gets the grease.” Only those that spoke out very loud and very often and using certain ‘hot button’ words seemed to rule the roost. It was very difficult for others to get a word in edgewise when those folks were around. And despite needing to talk, it felt wrong to speak up more frequently because I wasn’t the only one getting lost in the background.

Yesterday evening during an anxious episode, I stumbled on an app called Youper. It uses AI technology to help you through tough times like I was having and helps you track your emotions over time. I was pretty dubious about talking to a robot, but so far, I’m being pleasantly surprised by this app. I’ll try to update this thread next month to let anyone reading this know how that’s going. I’m using the free version which doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but is still proving to be interesting and useful.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Almost six months later and a litany of ‘free, self-help’ apps later and I can honestly say...that I am in the exact same place as I was in January. Not great, not terrible, but certainly not a headspace I wanted to stay in for this long period of time.

Then again, who would order the ‘anxious and consistently down’ spicy sandwich combo with a side of paranoia rings and waffle-cut self loathing? At least the ‘I want to be a good person’ milkshake is there to take the edge off, but I tend to take really big sips, give myself dreaded brain freeze, and then suffer in the painful, numbness that follows. (Writing while having a craving for fast food leads to some weird allusions...)

As it has for the past thirteen years (where did that time go?) , writing/role playing can either be a bane or a boon to my struggles. It can be really helpful in beating my inner demons into submission...or it can provide those same demons with torches, pitchforks, and an ‘angry mob song’. What is my current situation? ...I’m suspicious of those approaching lights in the distance. Let’s leave it at that.

So, with no idea...what to really do with myself right now, I’m going to answer questions I get asked (or have been asked), reveal some inner dialogue going on right now, give some whacky advice, and maybe share some more writing stuff. I don’t know if this will help me or anyone else, but it’s got to be better than what I’m currently doing...maybe? I don’t know.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

For the role play search thread authors out there... Canon = characters, locations, events, universal laws, or other assorted information that is native to a book/movie/comic/etc. and created by the original author/creator of said fictional creation. Cannon = long things that go ‘bang’ and make certain pirates shout, “Stop blowing holes in my ship!” (+10 points if you get the first reference, +5 if you get the second for a total of 15 possible points.)

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Why do you capitalize the next word after a set of quotations? Unless it’s a proper noun, it should be left lower-case. Eg: “Words, words, more words.”, this is how it should look versus “Words, words, more words.” And this is not right, but you do this all the time.

Yep, I’m aware it’s ‘mechanically incorrect’. I’ve got my reasons though - namely my vision is lousy and I find things easier to read when speech and description is given more visible division. It also looks tidier, in my opinion anyway. (Not unlike how some folks use lower case for aesthetic reasons.) Extra: I used to use bbcode/built in tools to ‘bold’ speech and ‘italicize’ thoughts, just so I’d be able to see what I was writing and where I was in a document better. (But now I have a new pair of glasses, so I haven’t had to do that for awhile.) That said, extra fancy and/or small font is still a problem for me.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

It’s Sunday and I’m surprised to find myself...oddly on top of things. All ooc messages were replied to in a timely manner (within two days of initially receiving them), I kept partners in the loop of what was delaying me, and still managed to hammer out replies within three days of getting a response. This is...utterly phenomenal given my track record of falling off the face of the Earth when my mood plummets.

However...I get the feeling that this calm might be because I’ve made worse mistakes. Writing mistakes. The place where I want to be as on-point as possible.

Here, I’m going to list the writing crimes I know I committed this week. A kind of...writer’s confessional, if you will.

Spoiler: Roleplay Sins of the Week

5. I got in a hurry and didn’t edit a post before sending it. (The horror when I saw two cliff-hanging sentences at the end of paragraphs, their message unfinished.) It being at...early o’clock when I wrote the replies is no excuse. (At least the errors were in my OC post and not the canon post I wrote just above it.)

4. I had a medical issue and fired off a half-assed ooc message to a partner, but didn’t say I was having an issue on my end in my message. (So they just got this half-baked reply when they deserved something much more thoughtful and eloquent.)

3. During the aforementioned medical issue, I was nearing the end of a canon post for the partner I mentioned above and instead of waiting to finish the post the next day, I sent what I had then. (I didn’t know what would be the worse crime - delivering a promised post a day late or posting a less polished post, but it being given on time.)

2. I forgot a new partner’s taboo subjects while writing the starter and didn’t go back, find their thread, and make sure I wasn’t about to step on their toes. (I think I’ve done this more than once with different people, so I think beneath any character sheets exchanged, I just need to stamp any topics I need to avoid bringing up underneath those, so that I can avoid this particular issue in the future.) Side note: The issue in question is a dubious location, where shady things go down - but our characters are detached from the location’s shady happenings and are, in all likelihood, about to discuss worse things.

1. I didn’t check the actual length of my canon and original character posts (because I was rushing due to the issue mentioned in 4) until after I sent it and discovered a sizable gap in how much I wrote for one versus the other. (3.7 k words for the canon and 5.1 k words for the original character.) Yikes. I’m usually much better about this issue and I get nervous when there is a 300 word difference, so when I put the posts into the word counter, I was ready to bang my head into a wall. (True, my original character was off on her own and had...a lot of stuff to bring up to have the post make sense/be relevant, but I should never let that big of a difference happen. I could have gone into more detail of the canon’s thoughts and emotions to make it more impactful...)

TL & DR:
Mea culpa, y’all and I’m sorry. I’m an excitable girl with Dory’s memory, Doug’s desire to be good and not disappoint, and Kronk’s lack of...well, seeing problems like normal people ought to do. (I just want people to like my spinach puffs, erm, my writing. Q_Q )

I’ll have to try harder to not rush things and to take more time to edit and fine tune my writing before hitting send, so I don’t disappoint you guys again.

 

[Daisie]

1. I didn’t check the actual length of my canon and original character posts (because I was rushing due to the issue mentioned in 4) until after I sent it and discovered a sizable gap in how much I wrote for one versus the other. (3.7 k words for the canon and 5.1 k words for the original character.) Yikes. I’m usually much better about this issue and I get nervous when there is a 300 word difference, so when I put the posts into the word counter, I was ready to bang my head into a wall. (True, my original character was off on her own and had...a lot of stuff to bring up to have the post make sense/be relevant, but I should never let that big of a difference happen. I could have gone into more detail of the canon’s thoughts and emotions to make it more impactful...)

Ahh, the stress of meeting a post minimum... Whether it's self-imposed or not.

I used to do this a bit too, but I made a huge realization that completely changed my perspective on things.

It is normal for some posts to be shorter than others. In fact, trying to make all posts the same size is super restrictive... Like how TV networks restrict their shows to only 40 minutes + ad breaks, the writers of that show are then forced to work within the confines of that limit. A lot of the time, they end up either adding way too much unnecessary padding or making everyting WHIR by at speeds that can practically cause whiplash.
It's much easier for shows to host themselves on places like Netflix where they have the freedom to make their episodes varied in length. If they need an extra 10 minutes, they can get it. If they need to have a half-episode, go for it. Same with roleplay.

Think of it this way.
When you describe your irl day to someone... You leave out the unimportant bits, make small note of the necessary bits, and put special emphasis on the bits that are most important and impactful to you. That's normal... What isn't normal is insisting on telling a large amount of detail for even the mundane things. You don't NEED to pad your day with all the stray trains of thought that crossed your mind when you were eating oatmeal this morning. If you were telling someone about your ENTIRE day that way, that would be extremely odd and clunky.

The truth is that some things just... Call for smaller amounts of words. RPs, like real life, sometimes just... hit a lull. Not everything can (or SHOULD) be 100% intense all the time. Not everything needs that special emphasis, you should be saving that energy for where it counts. Save it for those delicious scenes and instances that require your full emotional attention. You'll have more energy for those times if you don't blow it all on everyday nothings.

It's okay for a post to be short. You aren't lazy, you aren't half-assing it, it's just what it is. It's what the situation calls for. As long as your partner has an action, event, or piece of dialogue that can be replied to, you've got what you need.

Now, if you're having trouble coming up with something they can reply to, you should communicate that to your partner. Maybe you need to plan an event that will restore direction to the RP. Maybe you need to look forward to something to restore hype, or honestly maybe a timeskip is needed. I find those help a lot... Don't be shy about using them. When a scene starts dragging out, don't be afraid to get straight to the next beat. Keep yourself active.

I hope this was somewhat helpful. c:

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

If any of my current writing partners see this, know that I am working on writing replies as we speak! This has been a horrible week on my end and though it shows no signs of improving, I am getting replies written. I’m trying my best to keep my writing from being affected by my ‘bad mood’, so it’s taking longer to make sure things don’t suck. Why has my week been so bad? To make a long story short - my mother and her cousin have been taking the “low-road” and have endeavored to be as mean-spirited to me as possible. Given the time of year and where I was at prior to all this getting started, the mind-screwing happening here is real and intense. And now, back to typing while I hide out with my birds.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

With a cup of coffee at one o’clock in the morning, here I sit - staring at a long list of things I need to do around the house and online...and no energy (or mental clarity) to do it. Though I’ve felt perpetually weak and tired for months now and a medical reason for it has been identified, a sense of dread has taken roost as well - and has intensified all evening. The only equivalent to this overwhelming mixture of feelings was when I experienced sleep paralysis for the first time...like I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack. It is August again. The Next Right Thing feels like it was written for my state of mind this time of the year. I just wish I could find something in me to help me get back on my feet.

 

[Belle_Sorciere]

Online (sort of) once again. Resisting the urge to delete everything in the journal above and starting over fresh for the new year… I’m not sure what I’ll do instead. Post more entries for the role play graveyard? Talk about my non-writing hobbies? Have a suggestion? I’d love to hear it. =) The emotion of the evening is frustration with a twist of anxiety and ineptitude.

 

[Daisie]

Ah! Welcome back