Post by Delphine on Dec 24, 2015 10:00:05 GMT -5
Are any of you fine folk in search of an opportunity for collaborative storytelling/roleplaying with your Sitting Room persona? I am searching for a few co-conspirators. I thought it could start with the following, which is my persona's introduction from another thread.
The heavy wooden door swings wide to reveal a flustered-looking young woman. It is difficult to determine her age, which might be anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. She rushes up to the bar, as much as anyone in full skirts can rush.
She is neither tall nor short, the bodice of her gown accentuating her generous curves. She is slightly winded, her bosom heaving as she vigorously fans herself with a lovely black lace fan.
“Gowns are terribly lovely, but not the most practical mode of dress,” she states to the barman, her eyes twinkling mischievously. Though her eyes are light, their precise colour is not easily identified. They might be blue, they might be green; they appear to be somewhere in between. A tiny top hat sits atop her coiffure at quite a jaunty angle, warning others of her sassy disposition. Her light brown hair is mostly pinned up, a few loose curls falling to playfully caress her ears and shoulders.
“My good man,” she says. She addresses the bartender as though they are old acquaintances, though she is quite obviously new to this place. “A gin and tonic, if you please.” She grasps a small chain hanging at her waist, and follows it to a watch hidden in a pocket, eyeing it almost suspiciously.
“Bollocks, I’m late again!” she exclaims at it, as though blaming the timepiece for her tardiness. Her hand reaches into another pocket in skirt - of which there appear to be several - pulling out a lumpy, mysterious little bundle. It is wrapped carefully in bright purple silk, a crisp white ribbon tying it closed. She tucks it safely back into the pocket from whence it came, patting it protectively as though assuring herself it is still there.
“Here you are, miss,” says the barkeep, sliding a glass toward her over the bar’s polished surface. She hands him some coins and retrieves her drink.
Turning away from the man, she lets her gaze skip across the other patrons, searching for her contact. Should have know he’d be late too. She shrugs to herself and makes her way to the most shadowy corner she can find, which is impressively shadowy indeed. She makes herself as comfortable as her wardrobe permits, teetering precariously on the edge of her seat. And she waits.
The heavy wooden door swings wide to reveal a flustered-looking young woman. It is difficult to determine her age, which might be anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. She rushes up to the bar, as much as anyone in full skirts can rush.
She is neither tall nor short, the bodice of her gown accentuating her generous curves. She is slightly winded, her bosom heaving as she vigorously fans herself with a lovely black lace fan.
“Gowns are terribly lovely, but not the most practical mode of dress,” she states to the barman, her eyes twinkling mischievously. Though her eyes are light, their precise colour is not easily identified. They might be blue, they might be green; they appear to be somewhere in between. A tiny top hat sits atop her coiffure at quite a jaunty angle, warning others of her sassy disposition. Her light brown hair is mostly pinned up, a few loose curls falling to playfully caress her ears and shoulders.
“My good man,” she says. She addresses the bartender as though they are old acquaintances, though she is quite obviously new to this place. “A gin and tonic, if you please.” She grasps a small chain hanging at her waist, and follows it to a watch hidden in a pocket, eyeing it almost suspiciously.
“Bollocks, I’m late again!” she exclaims at it, as though blaming the timepiece for her tardiness. Her hand reaches into another pocket in skirt - of which there appear to be several - pulling out a lumpy, mysterious little bundle. It is wrapped carefully in bright purple silk, a crisp white ribbon tying it closed. She tucks it safely back into the pocket from whence it came, patting it protectively as though assuring herself it is still there.
“Here you are, miss,” says the barkeep, sliding a glass toward her over the bar’s polished surface. She hands him some coins and retrieves her drink.
Turning away from the man, she lets her gaze skip across the other patrons, searching for her contact. Should have know he’d be late too. She shrugs to herself and makes her way to the most shadowy corner she can find, which is impressively shadowy indeed. She makes herself as comfortable as her wardrobe permits, teetering precariously on the edge of her seat. And she waits.