Now at last we come full circle, back to the hand whose graceful motions first began these tales. Our travels have taken us through town and tower, past glade and garden, through the mists of time and to all manner of locale, but we come to their end in the modern era. Specifically, we come to a loft apartment overlooking the Champs d'Elysees in Paris, France, wherein resides Trouble herself. Some would call her temptress, others know her as charming minx, but nobody dares deny that the lady is possessed of great beauty. As she sits at her writing desk with a fine tipped pen and ink well at hand, a city breeze enters through the nearby open window. The wind causes her raven-colored hair to stir briefly in it before resuming its cascades down to her shoulders, where it briefly touches the angled straps of the midnight blue dress that adorns her well-defined form. With a gentle sip from the thin-mouthed glass of champagne that accompanies her forays onto the pages, she turns her brilliant emerald eyes back to the swirling words she has already put into place. Before she continues on, she checks over her work to ensure that no detail is left unknown, no letter out of its place. For in her passages, as in the mystic runes with which she channels the primordial forces of the world, each stroke is vital and no variance is tolerated. Content with what she has written, the sorceress lays down her writing instrument and makes her way to the balcony. With a breath of the evening air and a wave of her hand, the only decision that remains is what spells she shall weave this night.
Within the middle of the great city, within the loft of a tall tower, we come to one of the younger souls of our little corner, Kiddeadpool. Or as so many know him to be as KDP. Brash, impulsive, and brazen, the normally mild-mannered denizens of the corner quickly came to know him as a person who wasn't afraid at all to get into the face of others. Yet he did not do this simply for the sake of intimidation, but rather he does so in the defiance of what he believes is right. Reckless in some points, and reserved in others, I can imagine that he sits quite comfortably in the corner of his home to write. Accompanied by the tall back of a stiff, but comfortable chair draped in intricate wooden ingrains and blackened leather, some could say that he looks akin to a diabolical supervillain when he writes. With a debonair smirk, he writes his descriptive passages with a distinguishable confidence. His writing tool of choice is that of a paintbrush draped in black upon papyrus or canvas. To which every single letter is written with the same kind of passion one would find when wielding a sword.
Words from Mischeif/Trouble/Fiesty-Pants/The Hawk's Eye
Sign In
Create Account
Back to top
