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Victorians could hire 'professional mourners' to attend their loved one's funeral. These people would partake in the procession and were not allowed to speak, just look awfully sad! — Rune


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"The Prodigal Sister" for Ophelia Devine. Faked deaths, scandal, and schemes!
Kristoffer was going to be great at this, because he was great at everything. Also his memory was greater than everyone else's, because he bet no one else had ever lost their virginity somewhere exotic like Morocco. Hell, he bet no one else had even lost their virginity. Inexperienced losers.

Kristoffer Lestrange in Shining, Shimmering Splendour


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7 Deadly Sins

Complete seven threads, one where your character displays each of the Seven Deadly Sins — Pride, Lust, Sloth, Envy, Weath, Gluttony, and Greed. Each thread should be at least ten posts, with at least three being your own. Character accounts can be combined.

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Saturday Sun
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16 May, 1888 — The Voyager, abroad
The long drive, the coastline
Lookin' out at first light
Am I still on her mind?
I've been undone

They had not found Avalon yet. Alfred wasn't terribly disappointed by that. Truth be told, the daily life of a naval officer was taking up most of his time, and while he had experience with some degree of leadership at sea, he had never before been Captain — not really, anyway. He barely had time to focus on the exploration aspect of it, and was mostly just approving charts and waypoints his navigator presented as they went, while doing his best to keep the ship and the crew functioning in the meantime. He almost felt as though they didn't even need to find Avalon, because he was so enjoying being out to sea again — or he would be, if he didn't keep finding himself so... distracted.

He hadn't gotten through a single day since the nineteenth of last month without his mind drifting back to that night. He hadn't heard from Zelda Fisk since their rather stiff and awkward exchange of letters the next day, and he didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. Perhaps no news was good news, at least where the potential for a lady getting into trouble was concerned... but on the other hand, the silence was doing nothing to keep him from worrying about the possibility of it.

There was something else, though, besides the obvious worry for the future. His mind was drifting back to her, more and more. Did she hate him? They seemed to have parted amicably enough after the event in question, and she hadn't said anything scathing in her letters, but he kept feeling as though she should hate him, and maybe she did, even if she'd given him no indication. Even if she didn't outright hate him, there was a wide spectrum of feelings between hating him and wanting to continue to be in contact with him, and she hadn't given him any indication that she was more towards the latter end of the scale than not. He probably shouldn't write her; she almost certainly didn't want him to. He'd been telling himself that for weeks, every time the urge struck him, and yet here he was, on another weakly sunny morning, staring at a piece of parchment and trying to figure out what to say.

He'd gotten out of his cabin and found a quiet place on the deck to sit, facing the sea. He couldn't think in that room — at least, not about her. His eyes inevitably strayed to the space on the floor where they'd laid together, and then his thoughts went back to that night and he would end up loitering in memories until something else interrupted him. Out in the sunlight, with the wind in his hair and the waves rolling past, he could actually make his brain work. At least, that had been the idea. He hadn't gotten a single word down, however, in the ten minutes since he'd settled in to write.

Should he call her Miss Zelda or Miss Fisk? The former was too personal, and he knew it, but the latter just seemed so wrong. Miss Fisk was someone he'd gone to school with, not the girl he'd somehow managed to accidentally seduce two nights before the expedition set sail. It seemed as though calling her Miss Fisk now, when he had never done so before, would be almost hostile, and he didn't want to start this letter out on the wrong tone. Her whole name, however, was far too formal, and he had the feeling that if he wrote that at the top of his letter this would turn out to be the same awkward, overly stiff missive that his letter the morning afterwards had been, which wasn't what he wanted.

What did he want, though? What was the point of writing to her at all? They'd already said everything that could be said. She had a crush on him, but it didn't matter whether it was requited or not when he had this voyage to take him so firmly out of reach. Nothing was different now, was it? Or had the night they'd spent together changed everything in ways that he hadn't yet been able to articulate? Maybe if he could just focus enough to figure out what he wanted to say (and find a way to say it), he could send off a letter and stop thinking about her all the time.

Even if he could find a way to write this down, however (whatever this was), there was no guarantee that she would read it. He'd taken advantage of her naivete and stolen her virtue, and then he'd packed up and left two days later with nothing but a thin apology conveyed by an owl. She had every right to hate him. Why bother trying to write?

Dear Miss Zelda, he scrawled out hastily on the top of the paper, in a sudden bout of melancholy. I'd rather prefer you didn't hate me. He frowned down at the words, then added sarcastically, Hoping, too, you're not knocked up — would be rather inconvenient if we're not on speaking terms. It felt good just to be able to write it down, to exorcise some of the dread that had been lurking in the back of his stomach, but he regretted it almost immediately. He couldn't just have something like that written down, even if he never sent it anywhere — someone might see, and there was no telling what they might infer. Tearing that piece of the parchment off, Alfred balled it up and threw it overboard — only to have the wind catch the rather light ball of paper and blow to back onto the deck, directly at the feet of someone walking by.




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