(You REALLY shouldn't have brought this to my attention right now xP)
You sit back in a chair, your feet up on the desk, black high heels kicked off to the side of the door, fiddling with a Rubik's cube. Suddenly, an out of breath man bursts into your office and declares "We picked up the target in Budapest!" You instantly slam the Rubik's cube on the desk and race off behind him to some sort of command center, complete with satellite images from around the world.
HC my love life (this should be good...)
Myself, as told by a Hawk;
Spoiler
For our next friend, we travel to a world within a world where the mists grow thick.
Pale blades of tall grass blow wistfully in the moonlight upon the sacred clearing where our next member resides. It is but a whisper of the wind, or the ripple upon the stillness of a pond that gives away the movement of our old friend, SliceandDice. Subtlety and Combat are his preferences, choosing to strike from the shadows when his aversary least expects it. Using swords, daggers, poisons and Shakespearean prose as his weapons of choice. Donning a hood that hides the golden color of his eyes, a dark scar upon his cheek tells tales of conflicts past, of triumphs and tribulations. With a scowl over a stubbled chin, he goes about his devout work feverishly, insuring that no impurities stray to which they don't belong. Taking from those who have far too much, and giving to those who have far too little, the overwatch he now is to the scoundrels of society has become a feared whisper among those corrupt. With their last sight being a flash of metal that lays their windpipe open to the nighttime sky. He goes about his work for us by dabbling the tip of a fountain pen in fine ink and a sip of Rum, fervently guiding his instrument across the paper in haphazard yet concise lines, he spins for us the visions he sees. ~By Trouble
Thunder rumbles from a distant storm while you wait. Thankfully, the thinning sheets of rain drowned the acrid scent of smoke wafting from a Jazz bar, but it did little to mute the sound of music within. Sitting upon a stool with your elbows resting against the polished wood stained in cherry accents; you wait, patience was always a virtue you have possessed as long as you have known. Yet as the tapping of droplets against the window pane cause your gaze to longingly stare past them, you are left at unease.
An owner of an old soul, you wait for love to fall into your lap, or an epiphany to make itself known to your conscience. So you wait. Having known the weakness to such a strategy for so long; you oddly still persist, waiting for the Princess for whom you could be a Knight. A moment happens however, as the mournful call of a Tenor Sax echoes solemnly through the air. The door chimes, and in walks a dream. A flurry of perfume, angelic blonde hair, and a shapely back dress, perhaps at long last your Princess has finally arrived.
The only test that remains is the test of your courage to speak to her.
HC my drinking preferences.
Edited by The Hawk's Eye, 10 March 2015 - 06:46 AM.
Me, according to a Hero:
Spoiler
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.
You like to wind down with the boys after work at a nearby pub filled with locals and eathy wooden bartops.
You order a schooner of beer on tap and talk casually with the guys. When you're at home, sometimes you like to spoil yourself with a nice glass of wine while cosying up in your favourite chair, reading a book you've had on hold.
You don't drink often. It's either a casual affair or a special moment.
HC meeting with an old friend
Spoiler
HC me swimming
I was just gonna say doggy stroke. but yeah. you can do the butterfly too lol.
You spill hot water on your hand and drop the cup on yourself. Which sucks a lot.
You take sugar and milk with your tea, and even more of it with your coffee.
you raise your right foot first to ride it? random guess
hc on my studying habits
You spill hot water on your hand and drop the cup on yourself. Which sucks a lot.
You take sugar and milk with your tea, and even more of it with your coffee.
HC me riding a bike
you think i am some clumsy idiot who enjoys torturing herself :/
Cursive is a waste of time. Fancy punctuation is a waste of time. Fancy words are a waste of time. It doesn't matter as long as other people can understand it, right?
the image of a slim guy came to my mind when i imagined you. maybe you don't eat much, you skip meals or you forget to eat sometimes? food isn't something you bother with much.
hc me on driving habits
Cursive is a waste of time. Fancy punctuation is a waste of time. Fancy words are a waste of time. It doesn't matter as long as other people can understand it, right?
You're a pretty average driver. You don't speed, you aren't reckless, that's not to say you're the safest either. You've sped past a yellow, and slipped in at a roundabout.
Most of the time road rage isn't in your mind, but there are some days when everything is going badly and that one sedan who cut you off gets an earful, even if they don't hear you going off at them in your car.
While an oil lamp's flame flickers in the midst of a chilling wintry night, the palpable silence is broken by the scratching of a quill upon paper. With distinct, fine lines created by the smooth texture of India Ink, each letter is carefully structured and given their beautiful calligraphic shape. Dashes across the vertices of the "T", and a mere precise dot for the "i" further create the letter's definition as the passages are meticulously written down. Each sentence of this prose serves a subtle purpose, further building towards the end which in a few simple words, the world of the letter's recipient will come crashing down about them.
HC me going on vacation.
Me, according to a Hero:
Spoiler
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.
each letter is carefully structured and given their beautiful calligraphic shape.
I'm not quite as awesome as you described, but I do try.
You've planned this for months, and now you finally get to unwind. Your usually unruly hair is tied back into a sleek ponytail, and a pair of tinted Ray Bans sit comfortably on your sharp nose bridge as you clutch the backpack strap hanging off your right shoulder. A week isn't the longest time, but you're not about to complain and miss those precious moments of daylight, and mystical star-filled nights when you're facing the awe-inspiring range that is the Pyrénées. You take your first step on the rugged road, the pebbles grinding beneath your leather boot-clad feet, and you don't look back.
I don't feel the need to glorify your violence it just is and happens.
But sparring isn't brawling ;-; it's done in a controlled environment between you and a partner in order to improve your skills and discipline.
You're seen as the quiet one, but in front of close friends and some family members, you're as rowdy as the come. You prefer smaller, more intimate gatherings and though you don't go out often for meet ups, you soak in all the social interaction you need in those few moments.
You're the one that makes sure people don't go overboard, but you're not a spoilsport and like to have your own fun as well.
But sparring isn't brawling ;-; it's done in a controlled environment between you and a partner in order to improve your skills and discipline.
I know what it is I am a practitioner too...
At any rate I think you are the person that makes up new designs etc. new day new creativity, any thing and everything spawns from your imagination, of course while staying within the limits of your job.
(I'm going to Ireland for a few weeks after I'm done with where I'm at, Yan. You've no idea how close that is to how I'm going to dress. XD)
Melodic and harmonious, you possess a voice that if sung upon a street corner, even the most oblivious would stop to appreciate its beauty. Yet for some odd reason your voice passes more as an alluring siren rather than an actual artist; sadly, only those who walk the streets with you get to hear it. Perhaps a blessing in a way, for fame can be someone's undoing.
HC me writing headcanon posts.
Me, according to a Hero:
Spoiler
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.
You sit with your eyes closed as you drift away from where you are and imagine another world. The poster above draws you into their life. The tinkling of a bell, the booming of thunder, or perhaps the allure of a siren. Inspiration strikes and you immediately snap out of your midday rêverie. With resolve you type yours ideas in black on a stark white screen.
You smile to yourself as you read over your work and you sit back in satisfaction.
You look both ways and slink across, bending physics to hide behind objects that you should not be able to a la Looney Tunes.
HC me on an afternoon off.
Edited by Hero of Ishval, 12 March 2015 - 10:53 AM.
Myself, as told by a Hawk;
Spoiler
For our next friend, we travel to a world within a world where the mists grow thick.
Pale blades of tall grass blow wistfully in the moonlight upon the sacred clearing where our next member resides. It is but a whisper of the wind, or the ripple upon the stillness of a pond that gives away the movement of our old friend, SliceandDice. Subtlety and Combat are his preferences, choosing to strike from the shadows when his aversary least expects it. Using swords, daggers, poisons and Shakespearean prose as his weapons of choice. Donning a hood that hides the golden color of his eyes, a dark scar upon his cheek tells tales of conflicts past, of triumphs and tribulations. With a scowl over a stubbled chin, he goes about his devout work feverishly, insuring that no impurities stray to which they don't belong. Taking from those who have far too much, and giving to those who have far too little, the overwatch he now is to the scoundrels of society has become a feared whisper among those corrupt. With their last sight being a flash of metal that lays their windpipe open to the nighttime sky. He goes about his work for us by dabbling the tip of a fountain pen in fine ink and a sip of Rum, fervently guiding his instrument across the paper in haphazard yet concise lines, he spins for us the visions he sees. ~By Trouble
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