Lady_Cyrsei
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Posts
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Joined
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Quote:((could be either or, whatever strikes your fancy really.))Originally Posted by Mind Phobia
Sorry, I love these RP prompts, I really do. But, I am having trouble wrapping my head around this one.
Are these actual paths? Or metaphorical ones?
I will try and get something added, but work has been busy, so it might be in a day or two.
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Quote:However you are not accounting for 2 just as common problems;Originally Posted by Pinny
I think what's happening here is that people are expecting things of a SG that just can't happen. Now before you run up and beat on me about how activity and such is possible, hear me out.
I've looked over all these "what do you look for in a SG" and "SG looking for new members!" threads, and one thing ALWAYS pops up: Activity. I want a SG that's active! We want members who are active! Obviously this won't work for everyone, as SGs are commonly filled with people from different timezones (I know the one I'm in has western, eastern, central, european, etc etc) so some people will find it less "active" than others.
I guess the moral of my story is that you can't just expect SGs to be active just as a force. Step back a second and think: What are SGs made out of? People. People with different schedules, different playtimes, etc. You can't just walk in, say "I want a SG that is active!" and walk out expecting it to be so. If you join a SG, YOU are part of what makes it active. Want more people to log in? Start coming up with scheduled playtimes, RP events, etc, but make sure to PLAN THEM IN ADVANCE and talk to other people in the group so that you can find a time that can accomodate as many people as possible.
Complaining that your RP events or playtimes don't get anyone to join because it happens to be 9PM for you but 12AM for some, and 5 in the morning for others in the group? That's a lack of communication, not a lack of group activity or a sign that the group is "bad."
Make a concious effort to improve the group you're in; don't expect the group to revolve around what you want.
1: Alt padding
2: Antisocial behavior such as shyness -
I was kind of hoping that current guildies and those looking would also post what they have found to be wrong with SG's in their experience.
I totally agree that not everyone can get along, hell I dont get along with most people as I tend to expect to much from them and refuse to molly coddle ego's and have a tendancy to say what I think and truly feel at the moment instead of curbing my tongue.
A major problem I've found with SG's once I join is a lack of delivering on promises made during the interview / recruitment process. To much ******** in the higher ranks when it comes to favoritism and cliquishness. Last but not least simple apathy toward doing or running anything.
These are the reasons first and foremost why I dont join guilds, that is if I even get to the interview process in the first place. I do alot of research on my intended SG's. I read their forums thuroughly, mission statement ask members about the guild, not officers, I team and rp with the people who are in the guild to see how well they Jive with me and lastly I give it time. I sit back and wait before joining because if they can keep my interest and show they are putting effort into the guild then its a better chance this is the natural state of affairs, not just two weeks when the guild leader decided to show up. -
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Serena;
She had arrived at the gate in the late evening; she had stopped her car and gotten out looking up at the grand house as it loomed at the top of the winding road. The sun was just starting to go down and the gold and pink streamers of light melted into one another over the tree tops behind her casting a dark shadow over the gate and the house above. The house had been built in 1875 at the very beginning of Americas Victorian era, the once fine gables and turrets, now fallen and obscure, the bright colors now faded gray and weather beaten from time and the elements. The stained glass she remembered so well as a child where now filled with holes and the shingles hung helter skelter upon their frames banging loud enough to hear even from where she stood on the road below.
She stood there blanketed in darkness looking up at the seven storied house for what seemed like hours, with its gabled roof, its old watchmans nest at the top surrounded with its old hand blown glass, the circling porches and the sweet veranda, now fallen to dissipation and ruin. Her eyes followed the long rickety wooden hand rail which followed the stairs once white it was chipped and broken now like everything else, but the stairs which where cut out of the rock itself though covered in leave and moss where still in good condition and as they led her eye down to the small boat house and dock off to her right, coach house and stables to her left she noted that although the building where worn down most where far from broken.
Her gaze followed the rocky shore of the beach to the stone wall on the edge of the old orchard which lined the road in the southerly pasture as she drove to this place. The orchard had still born Empire, McIntosh, Red Delicious and Granny Smith apples when she had traveled here as a kid. Though she and her grandparents had never stayed in the house where her grandfather had been born she had enjoyed coming to pick apples in the orchard in the fall and watching Mr. Mason press the apples into pulp and then into fresh apple cider as a girl. She remembered riding in the hay wagon and feeding carrots to the little Shetland ponies he used to keep for the little girls and tourists just like her.
Mr. Mason who used to act as caretaker for the place until he died a few years ago, shortly after Serenas own grandfather, the family Mason had lived in the old farm house which she had passed on the way here with its blazing lights had been the only sign of life there had been for miles around. She had wondered at the warm glow of the house lights as she had passed, she had not known when she had decided to come to Brook Haven that she would have such a near neighbor, but she hoped they at least kept to themselves.
Somewhere in the back there lay an old family graveyard in these deep woods, this she knew according to the property plans she had been given upon bequeath of her Grandfather Ryans estate. She knew that the cemetery lay along the border between the Farm house and her own property and one day she hoped to explore it with out risking a distraught and land greedy neighbor.
Vines clung to the stones of the high walls and tall dark trees jutted tight against the wall which ran around the property. The forest loomed close here, and it seemed the trees spoke to her, whispering their wisdom letting their words be carried upon the breeze. She looked down the broken stone wall to see the forest was reclaiming the land one fallen soldier at a time. A tree had crashed through the wall very close to the gate making the gate essentially useless with the tangle of broken limbs and opening a space to any brave pedestrian. Somewhere close by a bird called out in a coughing caw and a snake moved lazily out of a crack in the wall slithering its way out of sight again, its slick muscled body gliding between the jutting rocks where before the quiet rustling could be heard once more.
Fishing out the large old key from her purse she pushed aside some of the rambling vines which where nearly choking the old wrought Iron Gate. She lifted the large old fashioned key once more examining it before she slid it home, fitting it snuggly into the creaking rusted old lock and after a few tries she tenderly got it to turn. Standing to one side she began clearing away the vines from the rusted out hinges. It had been years since anyone had been to the old house and the vines had covered most of the gate. It looked however like some kid or other had cleared a small spot on the opposite side so they could view the house above and it was at this point she started.
Tossing her purse back in the car she then attempted to clear the debris from in front of the gate. She easily tossed the fallen branches of the tree which had taken down the wall close to the gate into the woods and out of sight. Similarly without effort she tossed aside the boulders which bared the way to motorists soon after the branches. She hummed an old Herbie Hancock tune while she worked and made a mental checklist of the materials she would need to repair the stone wall and restore the gate herself. Easily she pulled down the tangle of vines, ripping them away and freeing the gate from its wild prison with one mighty pull. The gate flew back and shuddered all over raining rusty flakes from the impact screaming with every movement it made. At least she knew it was working still, she reflected, it could only want for some oil in its hinges and some TLC to get it working properly again.
Hoping back into her firebird she drove through the gate, stopping to get out and secure the newly cleared gate with the old skeleton key once more. She drove on up the winding dark road to the house on the hill as night fell around her, where answers and ghosts awaited her asking for her to discover them and so many more. -
Serena;
She had arrived at the gate in the late evening; she had stopped her car and gotten out looking up at the grand house as it loomed at the top of the winding road. The sun was just starting to go down and the gold and pink streamers of light melted into one another over the tree tops behind her casting a dark shadow over the gate and the house above. The house had been built in 1875 at the very beginning of Americas Victorian era, the once fine gables and turrets, now fallen and obscure, the bright colors now faded gray and weather beaten from time and the elements. The stained glass she remembered so well as a child where now filled with holes and the shingles hung helter skelter upon their frames banging loud enough to hear even from where she stood on the road below.
She stood there blanketed in darkness looking up at the seven storied house for what seemed like hours, with its gabled roof, its old watchmans nest at the top surrounded with its old hand blown glass, the circling porches and the sweet veranda, now fallen to dissipation and ruin. Her eyes followed the long rickety wooden hand rail which followed the stairs once white it was chipped and broken now like everything else, but the stairs which where cut out of the rock itself though covered in leave and moss where still in good condition and as they led her eye down to the small boat house and dock off to her right, coach house and stables to her left she noted that although the building where worn down most where far from broken.
Her gaze followed the rocky shore of the beach to the stone wall on the edge of the old orchard which lined the road in the southerly pasture as she drove to this place. The orchard had still born Empire, McIntosh, Red Delicious and Granny Smith apples when she had traveled here as a kid. Though she and her grandparents had never stayed in the house where her grandfather had been born she had enjoyed coming to pick apples in the orchard in the fall and watching Mr. Mason press the apples into pulp and then into fresh apple cider as a girl. She remembered riding in the hay wagon and feeding carrots to the little Shetland ponies he used to keep for the little girls and tourists just like her.
Mr. Mason who used to act as caretaker for the place until he died a few years ago, shortly after Serenas own grandfather, the family Mason had lived in the old farm house which she had passed on the way here with its blazing lights had been the only sign of life there had been for miles around. She had wondered at the warm glow of the house lights as she had passed, she had not known when she had decided to come to Brook Haven that she would have such a near neighbor, but she hoped they at least kept to themselves.
Somewhere in the back there lay an old family graveyard in these deep woods, this she knew according to the property plans she had been given upon bequeath of her Grandfather Ryans estate. She knew that the cemetery lay along the border between the Farm house and her own property and one day she hoped to explore it with out risking a distraught and land greedy neighbor.
Vines clung to the stones of the high walls and tall dark trees jutted tight against the wall which ran around the property. The forest loomed close here, and it seemed the trees spoke to her, whispering their wisdom letting their words be carried upon the breeze. She looked down the broken stone wall to see the forest was reclaiming the land one fallen soldier at a time. A tree had crashed through the wall very close to the gate making the gate essentially useless with the tangle of broken limbs and opening a space to any brave pedestrian. Somewhere close by a bird called out in a coughing caw and a snake moved lazily out of a crack in the wall slithering its way out of sight again, its slick muscled body gliding between the jutting rocks where before the quiet rustling could be heard once more.
Fishing out the large old key from her purse she pushed aside some of the rambling vines which where nearly choking the old wrought Iron Gate. She lifted the large old fashioned key once more examining it before she slid it home, fitting it snuggly into the creaking rusted old lock and after a few tries she tenderly got it to turn. Standing to one side she began clearing away the vines from the rusted out hinges. It had been years since anyone had been to the old house and the vines had covered most of the gate. It looked however like some kid or other had cleared a small spot on the opposite side so they could view the house above and it was at this point she started.
Tossing her purse back in the car she then attempted to clear the debris from in front of the gate. She easily tossed the fallen branches of the tree which had taken down the wall close to the gate into the woods and out of sight. Similarly without effort she tossed aside the boulders which bared the way to motorists soon after the branches. She hummed an old Herbie Hancock tune while she worked and made a mental checklist of the materials she would need to repair the stone wall and restore the gate herself. Easily she pulled down the tangle of vines, ripping them away and freeing the gate from its wild prison with one mighty pull. The gate flew back and shuddered all over raining rusty flakes from the impact screaming with every movement it made. At least she knew it was working still, she reflected, it could only want for some oil in its hinges and some TLC to get it working properly again.
Hoping back into her firebird she drove through the gate, stopping to get out and secure the newly cleared gate with the old skeleton key once more. She drove on up the winding dark road to the house on the hill as night fell around her, where answers and ghosts awaited her asking for her to discover them and so many more. -
I love you but you can be a real rules-lawyer baby
But no seriously I was just trying to get people to move their discussion from the other thread to this one since its gotten my "looking for SG suggestions" thread totally off topic. I dont really see other peoples responses and being all flamey as being my fault but rather I wanted to give them a space to share their opinions about not just what they look for in SG's but problems they've run into concerning SG's from the outside as well as in. If that's to "samey" then whatever /end caring.
And besides that last link is a link to this thread smartars! The other thread was a 5 bullet points question about good qualities in SG's and the other was me asking for help finding a good one. Since that one has gotten so off topic I asked that it be closed so I could start this. -
This is a weekly article, delivered to you every Wednesday. These articles are intended to be a fun exercise as well as a good resource for role-players to explore Character Development so please feel free to post your own characters reaction to the weekly prompt. So be sure to stay tuned to this blog for future installments!
Your character comes to a fork in the road, one road shows a tree lined sunny trail, the other a dark and gloomy solitary expanse of gravel. Which one would your character take, and what does he or she find there?
((This will be a multipart entry for me as I am still in the middle of writing this out. Here is the first portion of the story from Jake's perspective home alone in his farm house in Brook Haven New York.I will be proofreading and ammending and adding to this as I go along but I hope you enjoy it.))
It had been a long bad night, he had been up all hours and It had been another hot at that. His windows had been thrown open to let in the night air, the gentle breeze from off the near by lake fluttered the old careworn curtain which had been left by the previous occupants of his old farmhouse. Gauzy white things which danced like ghosts upon the sudden breeze painted a picture of repose and deep contemplation that was marred only by his indomitable presence in the large front room where he had made up his study.
After a day full of chores and physical exertion he had been blissfully tired, and after a quick shower and a hungry man dinner he finally sat down to his computer hoping that inspiration would strike his brain and make the move to this quiet and retired town of Brook Haven worth all the effort. However hours had passed and still nothing came to him, he stood up and sat back down again. He poured himself too many drinks and now nearly seven hours later there he was pacing and swearing at his laptop still.
His sock covered feet thudded dully on the rough wooden floorboards of his study, the tenth board always letting out one long creak when his weight was released. Dirty thick bottomed glasses littered the room only one still holding its precious amber liquid, the ashtray next to his laptop overflowing with cigarette buts, the tall free standing lamp in the corner casting a dull yellow glow through out the long sparsely furnished apartment.
Jake was miserable.
It had been like this for weeks now, he had come up to Brook Haven to find peace and quiet of a country town, where characters would abound and the charm of small town life could work its magic upon him. Instead he found distrust and thinly veiled hostile manners, the locals where not welcoming, nor did any seem even curious in their new neighbor. No one had come to visit him and none had even gone so far as to welcome him into town.
There where plenty of oddball characters about the place however, the two old men who sat in front of the grocery store playing checkers most of the day a Mr. Sneed and a Mr. Gruber respectfully. Who said nothing more than monosyllables and yet seemed to watch everything that went on around them. Doctor Harris, the old family practitioner who’s office seemed like a time warp back to the good old days of electroshock therapy and cigars in the waiting lounge. Harris’ Nurse Amelda Kirkwild or “Please call me Melly for short” who wobbled and warbled when she talked like an over weight bird who’s breath always smelled strongly of mouth rinse and Dr. McGillicuddy, and buck toothed Mrs. Pringle who answered phones and who never seemed far from her glass candy dish.
There where the twin sisters Jane and Mary Coats who where never seen apart and owned the local bed and breakfast. Both where always sitting in their rockers on the front porch rocking back and forth incessantly writing in their journals tapping their old ink pens repeatedly to their bloated pink tongues so now many years later there was an ever present blue stain to their lips, tongues and teeth.
Then there was Father Goodman, a large cheerful fellow in his late fifties who’s red face bespoke a liking for the ceremonial wine and who’s lecherous eye told a tale of a preference for young boys whom served as his alter boys, than the good word. Last but certainly not least was Nigel Stone, the reigning capitalist and man about town. An upright man, whom Jake was told sat at the head of most of the town organizations including the Historical Society (which almost all of the most influential people of the town belonged to). He was a tall strong figure of a man in his late sixties with a head full of silvery black hair, a thin beard and mustache with an eye for other men’s wives.
Yet with all of these bright and colorful characters, none of them had come forward to wish him welcome or had been very kind to him at all. He had met those mentioned above whilst taking his evening walks into town, and the one doctor’s visit he had had when he had first arrived when he had cut himself while sharpening his axe. It was then he had narrowly observed the circa 1932 Doctors office, with its strange old contraptions and leather belted Dental chair painted the sterile lime green. The old glass fronted cabinets still filled with Jars labeled “Cotton” “Gauze” and “Alcohol”, trays set out with scalpels and saws with devilish teeth that where a collectors item somewhere but where put to common daily use here in this world that time seemed to have forgot.
Yet even with this one visit, despite Nurse Melly’s supposed cheerfulness there seemed a reserved unfriendly air in the short visit, he was not asked to come back to have the stitches removed and Doctor Harris barely spoke three words to him the entire time he was there. In short, Jake was bored.
Now on top of it all he had writers block, no matter what thoughts plagued his mind or the occasional remembrance of Elise’s caresses touched his heart nothing was worse than not being able to write. He had for so very long been at the command of the next interview or story from the Persian gulf that now with all of this self imposed silence around him he had a hard time making a good start.
At first he had shrugged it off as lack of sleep or perhaps the lucidity of his mind when he at first tried leading this healthy new life style. He bought organic free range meat and poultry and even became a regular to the Henson’s Farm stand and orchard before he realized he couldn’t cook his way out of a paper bag. He gave up smoking for all of a week and didn’t drink at all for a while longer, but as the days went on and his writers block went from bad to worse he said to hell with it all and gave into his favorite vices once again. Besides he figured if he was going to be a miserable writer he might as well live up to the stereotype after all.
Still here he was, two weeks later, pacing the floor with the dry eyes of a raving insomniac. His head was cloudy, a melting pot of too many half formed ideas that would drift away before they would come close enough to the fore front of his mind for written realization. He needed fresh air and liberty, it hadn’t been very long since his last drink so a drive was out of the question and he was to restless to even attempt any sleep, but a walk he thought would do him a world of good.
Taking several strides to the open southerly window he peered out across the rolling green fields and the edge of the dense woods where atop a cliff alone stood the old Ryan Mansion. He commanded a view of the magnificent sight as well as the Bay with its long stretch of rocky beach which ran along the backside of the wild southern pasture and the old orchard which stood as a dark and wild tangle across the road in front of his house.
His house was the last one on the old dirt road before it went on for many, many miles lost in the gloom of the woods which bordered the old stage road on both sides. So dense where the old evergreens, sugar maples and oaks on one side and the twisted gnarled old apple tree’s on the other that he had found on his solitary rambles down the cold and lonely road that even a bright afternoon sun did little more than cast a few shafts of golden light through the canopy above.
He could walk into town, where the morning sun could shine in his face, he could walk under the flurry of the falling autumn leaves into town. He could treat himself to breakfast at the main street dinner of hash browns, maple link sausage and dollar pancakes with a side of steaming hot joe, but he wasn’t in the mood for the light and lively. He was a night person, he liked the gritty and gloominess of the old stage road and he could feel the tug of the old house today as if someone deep inside was calling to him to come and see her beauty once more.
He made up his mind, he would walk to the old wrought iron gate which sat at the end of the country road and locked him out of the expanse of the private Ryan estate. He liked to walk to the old gate peering through the bars up at the long curving road which ended with the jutting white bluffs and the old Victorian house which acted as look out over Kings Bay below. His imagination running wild with the idea of former times when the old house served as a prominent Hotel for the rich and famous whom came here to Brook Haven to get away from it all like he was doing now.
Taking up his old leather jacket and shoving his feet into his sneakers he left the house heading toward the gloomy road while the bright morning sun shine rose behind him. -
This is a weekly article, delivered to you every Wednesday. These articles are intended to be a fun exercise as well as a good resource for role-players to explore Character Development so please feel free to post your own characters reaction to the weekly prompt. So be sure to stay tuned to this blog for future installments!
Your character comes to a fork in the road, one road shows a tree lined sunny trail, the other a dark and gloomy solitary expanse of gravel. Which one would your character take, and what does he or she find there?
((This will be a multipart entry for me as I am still in the middle of writing this out. Here is the first portion of the story from Jake's perspective home alone in his farm house in Brook Haven New York.I will be proofreading and ammending and adding to this as I go along but I hope you enjoy it.))
It had been a long bad night, he had been up all hours and It had been another hot at that. His windows had been thrown open to let in the night air, the gentle breeze from off the near by lake fluttered the old careworn curtain which had been left by the previous occupants of his old farmhouse. Gauzy white things which danced like ghosts upon the sudden breeze painted a picture of repose and deep contemplation that was marred only by his indomitable presence in the large front room where he had made up his study.
After a day full of chores and physical exertion he had been blissfully tired, and after a quick shower and a hungry man dinner he finally sat down to his computer hoping that inspiration would strike his brain and make the move to this quiet and retired town of Brook Haven worth all the effort. However hours had passed and still nothing came to him, he stood up and sat back down again. He poured himself too many drinks and now nearly seven hours later there he was pacing and swearing at his laptop still.
His sock covered feet thudded dully on the rough wooden floorboards of his study, the tenth board always letting out one long creak when his weight was released. Dirty thick bottomed glasses littered the room only one still holding its precious amber liquid, the ashtray next to his laptop overflowing with cigarette buts, the tall free standing lamp in the corner casting a dull yellow glow through out the long sparsely furnished apartment.
Jake was miserable.
It had been like this for weeks now, he had come up to Brook Haven to find peace and quiet of a country town, where characters would abound and the charm of small town life could work its magic upon him. Instead he found distrust and thinly veiled hostile manners, the locals where not welcoming, nor did any seem even curious in their new neighbor. No one had come to visit him and none had even gone so far as to welcome him into town.
There where plenty of oddball characters about the place however, the two old men who sat in front of the grocery store playing checkers most of the day a Mr. Sneed and a Mr. Gruber respectfully. Who said nothing more than monosyllables and yet seemed to watch everything that went on around them. Doctor Harris, the old family practitioner who’s office seemed like a time warp back to the good old days of electroshock therapy and cigars in the waiting lounge. Harris’ Nurse Amelda Kirkwild or “Please call me Melly for short” who wobbled and warbled when she talked like an over weight bird who’s breath always smelled strongly of mouth rinse and Dr. McGillicuddy, and buck toothed Mrs. Pringle who answered phones and who never seemed far from her glass candy dish.
There where the twin sisters Jane and Mary Coats who where never seen apart and owned the local bed and breakfast. Both where always sitting in their rockers on the front porch rocking back and forth incessantly writing in their journals tapping their old ink pens repeatedly to their bloated pink tongues so now many years later there was an ever present blue stain to their lips, tongues and teeth.
Then there was Father Goodman, a large cheerful fellow in his late fifties who’s red face bespoke a liking for the ceremonial wine and who’s lecherous eye told a tale of a preference for young boys whom served as his alter boys, than the good word. Last but certainly not least was Nigel Stone, the reigning capitalist and man about town. An upright man, whom Jake was told sat at the head of most of the town organizations including the Historical Society (which almost all of the most influential people of the town belonged to). He was a tall strong figure of a man in his late sixties with a head full of silvery black hair, a thin beard and mustache with an eye for other men’s wives.
Yet with all of these bright and colorful characters, none of them had come forward to wish him welcome or had been very kind to him at all. He had met those mentioned above whilst taking his evening walks into town, and the one doctor’s visit he had had when he had first arrived when he had cut himself while sharpening his axe. It was then he had narrowly observed the circa 1932 Doctors office, with its strange old contraptions and leather belted Dental chair painted the sterile lime green. The old glass fronted cabinets still filled with Jars labeled “Cotton” “Gauze” and “Alcohol”, trays set out with scalpels and saws with devilish teeth that where a collectors item somewhere but where put to common daily use here in this world that time seemed to have forgot.
Yet even with this one visit, despite Nurse Melly’s supposed cheerfulness there seemed a reserved unfriendly air in the short visit, he was not asked to come back to have the stitches removed and Doctor Harris barely spoke three words to him the entire time he was there. In short, Jake was bored.
Now on top of it all he had writers block, no matter what thoughts plagued his mind or the occasional remembrance of Elise’s caresses touched his heart nothing was worse than not being able to write. He had for so very long been at the command of the next interview or story from the Persian gulf that now with all of this self imposed silence around him he had a hard time making a good start.
At first he had shrugged it off as lack of sleep or perhaps the lucidity of his mind when he at first tried leading this healthy new life style. He bought organic free range meat and poultry and even became a regular to the Henson’s Farm stand and orchard before he realized he couldn’t cook his way out of a paper bag. He gave up smoking for all of a week and didn’t drink at all for a while longer, but as the days went on and his writers block went from bad to worse he said to hell with it all and gave into his favorite vices once again. Besides he figured if he was going to be a miserable writer he might as well live up to the stereotype after all.
Still here he was, two weeks later, pacing the floor with the dry eyes of a raving insomniac. His head was cloudy, a melting pot of too many half formed ideas that would drift away before they would come close enough to the fore front of his mind for written realization. He needed fresh air and liberty, it hadn’t been very long since his last drink so a drive was out of the question and he was to restless to even attempt any sleep, but a walk he thought would do him a world of good.
Taking several strides to the open southerly window he peered out across the rolling green fields and the edge of the dense woods where atop a cliff alone stood the old Ryan Mansion. He commanded a view of the magnificent sight as well as the Bay with its long stretch of rocky beach which ran along the backside of the wild southern pasture and the old orchard which stood as a dark and wild tangle across the road in front of his house.
His house was the last one on the old dirt road before it went on for many, many miles lost in the gloom of the woods which bordered the old stage road on both sides. So dense where the old evergreens, sugar maples and oaks on one side and the twisted gnarled old apple tree’s on the other that he had found on his solitary rambles down the cold and lonely road that even a bright afternoon sun did little more than cast a few shafts of golden light through the canopy above.
He could walk into town, where the morning sun could shine in his face, he could walk under the flurry of the falling autumn leaves into town. He could treat himself to breakfast at the main street dinner of hash browns, maple link sausage and dollar pancakes with a side of steaming hot joe, but he wasn’t in the mood for the light and lively. He was a night person, he liked the gritty and gloominess of the old stage road and he could feel the tug of the old house today as if someone deep inside was calling to him to come and see her beauty once more.
He made up his mind, he would walk to the old wrought iron gate which sat at the end of the country road and locked him out of the expanse of the private Ryan estate. He liked to walk to the old gate peering through the bars up at the long curving road which ended with the jutting white bluffs and the old Victorian house which acted as look out over Kings Bay below. His imagination running wild with the idea of former times when the old house served as a prominent Hotel for the rich and famous whom came here to Brook Haven to get away from it all like he was doing now.
Taking up his old leather jacket and shoving his feet into his sneakers he left the house heading toward the gloomy road while the bright morning sun shine rose behind him. -
Quote:Kind of, but it seems my other thread where its me pandering for SG suggestions has gotten completely off topic, so I thought that opening up a thread where people can talk about what they look for but also what they dont like about SG's or observances on SG's on Virtue as a whole would be a good place to start instead.Originally Posted by Kai
...isn't that the exact same question you asked here? At least I would think most people look for what they think makes a good SG....
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Ok No longer looking for an SG as I'm starting my own and since the original post was about me trying to find an SG and this thread has some really good discussions going on I started another thread outlining what y'all like and dont like about SG's here on virtue.
Cheers,
~K -
What bullet points would you rate as being important for an SG, either when you consider joining one, or leading one, and conversely what are your pet peeves concerning the observed state of SG's today on Virtue?
Discuss. -
This is so cute, well done! Wowzers on the uber short skirt too
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I did this for a friend of her awesome Demoness Master Mind Chicky;
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Born on the Rose of July;
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<3 Sid Meyers and Civ V is so pretty, totally understandable believe me I know the addiction.
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Had alot of fun tonight though it seemed like some didn't show and a few others where not having a good night
I hope everyone's ok and had a nice Saturday night despite it all. And note to the wise never play poker with Lizzy!
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Someone else also said that about the left foot, I think it would make more sense if colored. Looking for someone to actually color it, and the scan quality isn't the best.
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A Pic I drew of Nurse White today whilst bored at work, this is the first time I've drawn anything in 10 years so...
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Turns it up to eleven...Oh yeah!
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Quote:I've been running guilds for a good decade or so now, some a few thousand strong, I think I'll be quite alright. Thanks for the words of advice howeverOriginally Posted by Gorblimey
I like your spirit, Cy, ("I'll make one!"), but I have to say that *starting* a new SG/VG is hard work. Harder than it seems. You have to, to a certain extent, constantly check in with people, take the lead, recruit, build a base (at least a minimal one), find a way to motivate activity, and so on. It seems to me that once a SG/VG is rolling, with several *core members*, it's in a good position to last. But until then, it's a lot of diligence devoted solely to the SG/VG itself. One of the biggest problems you'll find is finding the core peeps... because of alting, your players will be on their more established characters.
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Leonard Nemoy as everyone...thats right even Miss Lib!
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Quote:Oh I know this one, she's shacking up with a six foot tall flea!Originally Posted by Baneful
That depends on whats Vibrating.
Where would you find a 30 foot praying Mantis?
who do you think set them up on their first date? -
What do you mean Blue and Orange doesn't mix?!
