Goblin
Serf
- Local time
- Today 7:28 AM
- Messages
- 5
- Age
- 35
There probably aren't that many characters that have survived the years, but I'll add them when I dig up the information.
For now just:
Leonardo Ionescu
Somewhere, sometime, a boy was born into an upper class family. With every advantage given to him, and in one of the most powerful countries in the world, he promptly squandered his bloodline, his talent, and his upbringing to play music.
Because occasionally, a person loves something they're just not that good at. Not awful, but he'd never be remembered.
He followed a path his well-bred parents were concerned he might, pursuing transgression after transgression. From lower class music to lower class friends, from lower class friends to lower class indulgences, from lower class indulgence to lower class crime. It was either wrongheaded rebellion or simple novelty. He's long forgotten, or maybe ceased to care.
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"That strange mortal", "horse fucker", "what the hell are you doing here?", "kinda like that, yeah", or "no, not that one"- Just a few of the names he's been known to go by during his life. Long lifespan and limited memory means he doesn't quite remember his given name. Especially after he started eating opium... It's written down somewhere, it's certainly on all the important documents, but most everyone calls him Loki anyway (No, seriously. Not that one...).
People asked questions, early on. Stupid questions like how he got to Eden (past the Nephilim, of course), where he came from, or what exactly he was doing in Ayenee (art, entertainment. What else?). He discovered people ask fewer questions when information is volunteered up front. No matter how untrue it might be. So he was from the Ottoman Empire, or V/2011 Caldwell Station, or Scandinavia, or Detroit, or Extropia. Whatever suited his current batch of stories.
By and large, the life of a florist should be quiet. Utterly uneventful. And it usually is. He's left alone to tend to his favorite roses, or finally get to work on restoring that old Flint touring car -- because today will really be the day. Left blissfully unaware of a string of bastards, he runs his business efficiently enough not to experience the hard luck of his past. And no questions into his predilection for growing opium poppies.
Occasionally though, the past collides with his peaceful present. The Purple Gang gets annoyed with the few... several dozen casks carried across the border. An old friend needs something packed into the seed crates. Another favor called in.
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The Goblin
It squatted there, dissonant and glittering, windows like beetled eyes and door always agape. There was something about the cul-de-sac shop which made it seem menacing. It could not have been the wares; they were not at all out of the ordinary for the New Age shop it claimed to be -- Obsidian Dragon's Herbal Supplies. Save the few shelves of practical joke kits and magic tricks. It should not have been the vines of climbing flowers; they lent an air of cheerful color to an otherwise dark looking corner. The building? In the right shift of light, perhaps. The intense purple hue was rarely evident. More so around the shopkeeper and his owl, for some odd reason.
But he was genial, if quick tempered, and the owl was friendly. No matter that the one who ran the shop was a hobgoblin. All the hair on the tiny, hunched man seemed to have migrated from his head to his chest, his arms, his neck, even his pointed ears and hooked nose!
Disarming as the short-tempered, little humanoid may have meant to be, there was nothing that could change that aura of malice and deep terror...
For now just:
Leonardo Ionescu
Somewhere, sometime, a boy was born into an upper class family. With every advantage given to him, and in one of the most powerful countries in the world, he promptly squandered his bloodline, his talent, and his upbringing to play music.
Because occasionally, a person loves something they're just not that good at. Not awful, but he'd never be remembered.
He followed a path his well-bred parents were concerned he might, pursuing transgression after transgression. From lower class music to lower class friends, from lower class friends to lower class indulgences, from lower class indulgence to lower class crime. It was either wrongheaded rebellion or simple novelty. He's long forgotten, or maybe ceased to care.
"That strange mortal", "horse fucker", "what the hell are you doing here?", "kinda like that, yeah", or "no, not that one"- Just a few of the names he's been known to go by during his life. Long lifespan and limited memory means he doesn't quite remember his given name. Especially after he started eating opium... It's written down somewhere, it's certainly on all the important documents, but most everyone calls him Loki anyway (No, seriously. Not that one...).
People asked questions, early on. Stupid questions like how he got to Eden (past the Nephilim, of course), where he came from, or what exactly he was doing in Ayenee (art, entertainment. What else?). He discovered people ask fewer questions when information is volunteered up front. No matter how untrue it might be. So he was from the Ottoman Empire, or V/2011 Caldwell Station, or Scandinavia, or Detroit, or Extropia. Whatever suited his current batch of stories.
By and large, the life of a florist should be quiet. Utterly uneventful. And it usually is. He's left alone to tend to his favorite roses, or finally get to work on restoring that old Flint touring car -- because today will really be the day. Left blissfully unaware of a string of bastards, he runs his business efficiently enough not to experience the hard luck of his past. And no questions into his predilection for growing opium poppies.
Occasionally though, the past collides with his peaceful present. The Purple Gang gets annoyed with the few... several dozen casks carried across the border. An old friend needs something packed into the seed crates. Another favor called in.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Goblin
I mean, The Dragon?
It squatted there, dissonant and glittering, windows like beetled eyes and door always agape. There was something about the cul-de-sac shop which made it seem menacing. It could not have been the wares; they were not at all out of the ordinary for the New Age shop it claimed to be -- Obsidian Dragon's Herbal Supplies. Save the few shelves of practical joke kits and magic tricks. It should not have been the vines of climbing flowers; they lent an air of cheerful color to an otherwise dark looking corner. The building? In the right shift of light, perhaps. The intense purple hue was rarely evident. More so around the shopkeeper and his owl, for some odd reason.
But he was genial, if quick tempered, and the owl was friendly. No matter that the one who ran the shop was a hobgoblin. All the hair on the tiny, hunched man seemed to have migrated from his head to his chest, his arms, his neck, even his pointed ears and hooked nose!
Disarming as the short-tempered, little humanoid may have meant to be, there was nothing that could change that aura of malice and deep terror...
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