Post by Jas on Mar 15, 2010 9:51:20 GMT -5
Wa'hey 
Hweeh, I felt like it had been a while and I wanted to write something again X3 Also because it helps to enhance my English a bit (or so I keep telling myself)
It's about Raro and his feelings, do ho ho. I like writing for him, I cannot help it X3 I hope you find it somewhat interesting, you don't have to read it if you don't want to XD It was fun to X3
I'm suffering from mild-migraine at the moment, so I apologize if things are off here and there. Somehow watching a computer screen helps to lessen it, I don't have a clue why. I hope the story works somehow *nervous* DX;
And hope you'll enjoy it of course X3
I'll quit mah yappin'
And don't mind the title, they're always lame.
The pen hit the wooden surface of the table repeatedly, its beat very quick and measured, and also a little agitated. Furry eyebrows knitted together in a thoughtful -and a little frustrated- fashion, green, narrowed irises staring down at the slightly crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, atop the table. One arm was slung across the back of his chair, while the other rested on the wooden desk, its hand twirling with the pen between his fingers, making it hit the table still. Overall, the fuzzy boy’s position in the chair was rather slumped and lazy, which was quite an uncommon sight for the guard who usually stood tall and rigid. Perhaps it was because he had bound himself to the safe confines of his room, a place of which he knew only a few people would enter it by surprise, that he sat here like this, slouched. One could say he was reclining here, were it not that his long tail flicked about from side to side, signaling the wolfboy’s not so relaxed state.
His unblinking eyes continued to stare down at the paper in front of him, one eyebrow aloft in a manner that suggested the sheet had said something offensive. It could have been, for the crinkled, beige paper was covered in blotches of ink, shapeless scratches and a few words of which a lot had been feverishly crossed out, making them completely illegible. There were even a few distinguishable fingerprints on it, making the sheet look a little violated overall.
The pen continued to rap on the table, small droplets of ink spraying from its end and splattering across the desktop. But the guard took no notice of it.
Why was he even doing this? Why had he even listened in the first place? He had known immediately that the idea made no sense in the least, that it was bound to be fruitless and, maybe this most of all, would leave everyone pretty weirded out at the end of it. Himself mainly.
But no, no, Niji had assured him that girls liked these things, that it was utterly and positively romantic if a boy did this. It had not been very convincing.
But, as ever, the colourful girl had her ways of pressing the matter, refusing to hear his contradictions and shaking her head at each counterargument he gave and sending him one right back. Also, the fact remained that she was the princess and he practicaly couldn’t contradict her, in spite of all the logic reasons he could come up with.
And so he had ended up straying in his room, partly because he had been practically ordered to and partly because he didn’t mind being on his own for a minute without all of the girl-advice. Which he hadn’t asked for in the first place, but had somehow received anyway, which, truth be told, left him more bewildered rather than enlightened and ended him up with a dire feeling of wanting to leave.
But, of course, he knew Niji was only trying to help him out. Aside from being his protectee, she was also his friend and tried to help when she could. Even when he didn’t ask for any, she seemed to make it necessary to help him out in certain areas, mainly in those about emotions, which usually left him very uncomfortable and, not in the least, embarrassed.
He appreciated her efforts, certainly. He was smart enough to know what a complex character he appeared to be to almost everyone, so he appreciated pretty much anyone who offered their help. But, however, he was pretty certain that Niji was wrong about this matter. The idea was nothing like him and he was quite certain that it was nothing like Tala either, for whom this idea had been set out in the first place. He was quite convinced that she’d be confused and a little weirded out, rather than swooned. Masurao lifted another eyebrow at the thought. It wasn’t his intention to make her swoon. No, that wasn’t it.
He looked down at the paper again and scribbled a word on it, only to scratch it again that very second. She’d said it plenty of times, that she knew that he cared, even if he didn’t display it so openly. And it was true. Of course he cared. And he didn’t mind showing it, only the way how to seemed to cause him difficulty. Certainly, he hugged, stroked affectionately and even purred on private occasions, but still.
She, for instance, could paint. She could assemble various brushes and pigments and solely needed talent to create something out of nothing. And then she would present the painted canvas to those she cared about, conjuring wide smiles on their faces and assuring them of her affections for them through her work, which was unique each time.
Masurao threw a quick glance at the wall on his right, where one of those canvasses adorned, displaying a picture of himself, leaning serenely against a wall. He felt a gush of warmth wash over him as he beheld it, resulting in a gentle twitch of his mane and a bright shimmer in his eyes.
His green gaze shifted back to the paper in front of him and he stared at it. Stared, as if he somehow believed words would appear on the sheet if only he kept staring at it long enough. There were others who could sing, some who could craft things, others that could play an instrument. What could he do? He could not paint, was not able to play any kind of instrument, the mere thought of singing left him rather horrified and obviously he was no good at writing either. What was his talent?
Okay, so he could land a punch on someone and make them fall over, or scare people away by staring at them. He did his part on sharing this knowledge with her, but he somehow believed there were other ways of showing his appreciation than hurling someone into a wall or kicking them in the gut. Perhaps it was a way, if the person in question had been Divad or Mercedes, but even he didn’t assault people if they didn’t assault him first or didn’t give him any immediate reason to (although Masurao doubted if Tala would’ve minded if there wasn’t a reason).
He scribbled another word on the paper, hardly even aware of what he was writing. He huffed softly and cast his gaze towards the ceiling. Yes, he cared. He cared a lot and she knew he cared. But he wanted to provide her with some kind of tangible reassurance of his fondness. Like how others would hum the tune their loved one sang or played for them, or how others would look upon the item that had been presented to them, or how he would glance up at the painting if she wasn’t there. Something to touch if the other one wasn’t around, something to look at during a slight pinch of loneliness. Something that made you know. Made things lift from your shoulders without a physical presence.
But he could not write, and he was not a poet. And he didn’t particularly aspire to be one either, even though such talent might come in handy at the given moment. Despite the Egriadanian tradition of telling a story that rhymed, he could not come up with anything himself that was not a native legend he had relayed to her once before. Just the fact that he was sitting here and pondering this, and actually having taken out pen and paper made him feel rather out of character. But as he bit his lip for a second and continued to stare up at the wooden ceiling of his room, he realized that this was alright for once. He had never doubted that he cared. He hadn’t even doubted it when those strange, funny feelings had first started to appear and had started to form a different kind of caring than caring for just a friend. And the fact that he sat here, attempting this, made him even more sure that he cared, even though he didn’t need that certainty. Because he was already convinced of it.
But that still didn’t take away the fact of his inability to write something meaningful on the sheet. A soft grunt escaped the back of his throat and, sitting even more slouchy than before, he glanced down at the paper, hardly even registering its existence.
But that was when he saw it.
One eyebrow went aloft and the sternness that had occupied his face previously had now vanished, having been replaced with one of mild surprise, almost curious. The pen ceased its continuous tapping and the blue wolf sat up, his tail curling out behind him in its regular S-shape and his snout hovering over the paper.
Even though most of the words he had written down had been mercilessly crossed out, only a few remained. And one of them had seemed to capture his attention. He stared at the paper for a while, as if he hadn’t even realized the word had been there. It was just a single word, it wasn’t a poem, or a story or a song. But that was okay. As he looked at it, he found this word to be much more meaningful than any sort of sonnet anyone could come up with. And somehow he thought she would understand it. That she would just get it.
Masurao looked down at the sheet for another moment and then, hardly averting his gaze from the paper, reached for the pen he had dropped atop the desk and added a few more words to the word that had already been written there. Beneath it, he wrote the same words again, only this time they manifested themselves through alien runes, of which some would recognize them as Egriadanian writing.
This done, the canine operative opened a drawer on his left and from it he withdrew another few sheets of paper, these a little cleaner than the one he was writing on. These papers displayed other alien markings, which were not Egriadanian.
Considerate, and with a look of concentration on his face, Masurao browsed through the small file, until he found what he needed and started to copy the D'thlanyian symbols on his own sheet, phrasing the words on it for a third time. This took him considerably longer than the other two sentences, but he wasn’t less driven. He made sure to double-check when the runes had been written down. He wasn’t entirely sure if his D'thlanyian grammar was flawless, it might have looked as if a small child learning the language had written it down, but he hoped it was relatively understandable.
The teen got up from his chair, holding the brownish paper in his hand, and looked down at it. The paper was still covered in ink stains and multiple scratches and fingerprints, but that was just fine. He even believed Tala would prefer this messy sheet to a spotlessly white one. If anything, the paper he held in his hand displayed obvious signs of effort, if not mild frustration. It said everything.
He arrived in front of her door not too long after. He knew she wasn’t there. She had mentioned going on a picnic with Etoile when he got out of work, something she had planned for ages. And that worked just fine for Masurao. Handing it out to her in person would surely make him feel rather embarrassed and maybe even a little lost, whereas she might’ve found it ‘cute’. Even still, he liked the idea better if she found the note by herself. Somehow, he felt, it would have deeper meaning if she did.
Just to make sure, the blue boy raised his hand and knocked on the door a few times. While he waited, his intense green gaze shifted from left to right, scanning the corridor in his professional manner to make sure no one was around and no one would come ask questions about what he was doing.
When no one came and an answer refrained from coming from the room, Masurao bent over and gently slid the sheet beneath the door, until it had vanished from sight. He straightened up again, eyes fixed on the spot where the paper had disappeared to, a faint blush hidden beneath his furry cheeks. He cleared his throat for a second, even though no one was there to hear him, and then turned on his heel. His hands found a way casually into his pockets as his bare feet patted softly on the shiny floors as he made his way out, leaving behind only five words, in three different languages.
And there we goooooo. I hope I managed to bring the point, or rather his point, across X3; It's like he always tries hard to be a good boyfriend and he is aware of his limitations in the area of the display of emotion. But he tries X3 Masurao is definitely not someone who writes poems or anything of the sort, it's not in his personality. But he does get quite keen on an idea if he has one, so he really does want to do something to show his appreciation. I kinda wanted to bring across how he's al "Man, I hate this poem stuff DX" but still wants to do something significant.
And he didn't end up writing a poem, which, I think, it a blessing to us all. The day that boy writes a poem... the Apocalypse will be near D8
BUT I'LL STOP BLABBING NOW AND GET SOME SLEEP X);;
Niji © Renee
Tala © Sadie
Masurao & story © Jas
Hweeh, I felt like it had been a while and I wanted to write something again X3 Also because it helps to enhance my English a bit (or so I keep telling myself
)It's about Raro and his feelings, do ho ho. I like writing for him, I cannot help it X3 I hope you find it somewhat interesting, you don't have to read it if you don't want to XD It was fun to X3
I'm suffering from mild-migraine at the moment, so I apologize if things are off here and there. Somehow watching a computer screen helps to lessen it, I don't have a clue why. I hope the story works somehow *nervous* DX;
And hope you'll enjoy it of course X3
I'll quit mah yappin'
And don't mind the title, they're always lame.
Ways of Appreciation
The pen hit the wooden surface of the table repeatedly, its beat very quick and measured, and also a little agitated. Furry eyebrows knitted together in a thoughtful -and a little frustrated- fashion, green, narrowed irises staring down at the slightly crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, atop the table. One arm was slung across the back of his chair, while the other rested on the wooden desk, its hand twirling with the pen between his fingers, making it hit the table still. Overall, the fuzzy boy’s position in the chair was rather slumped and lazy, which was quite an uncommon sight for the guard who usually stood tall and rigid. Perhaps it was because he had bound himself to the safe confines of his room, a place of which he knew only a few people would enter it by surprise, that he sat here like this, slouched. One could say he was reclining here, were it not that his long tail flicked about from side to side, signaling the wolfboy’s not so relaxed state.
His unblinking eyes continued to stare down at the paper in front of him, one eyebrow aloft in a manner that suggested the sheet had said something offensive. It could have been, for the crinkled, beige paper was covered in blotches of ink, shapeless scratches and a few words of which a lot had been feverishly crossed out, making them completely illegible. There were even a few distinguishable fingerprints on it, making the sheet look a little violated overall.
The pen continued to rap on the table, small droplets of ink spraying from its end and splattering across the desktop. But the guard took no notice of it.
Why was he even doing this? Why had he even listened in the first place? He had known immediately that the idea made no sense in the least, that it was bound to be fruitless and, maybe this most of all, would leave everyone pretty weirded out at the end of it. Himself mainly.
But no, no, Niji had assured him that girls liked these things, that it was utterly and positively romantic if a boy did this. It had not been very convincing.
But, as ever, the colourful girl had her ways of pressing the matter, refusing to hear his contradictions and shaking her head at each counterargument he gave and sending him one right back. Also, the fact remained that she was the princess and he practicaly couldn’t contradict her, in spite of all the logic reasons he could come up with.
And so he had ended up straying in his room, partly because he had been practically ordered to and partly because he didn’t mind being on his own for a minute without all of the girl-advice. Which he hadn’t asked for in the first place, but had somehow received anyway, which, truth be told, left him more bewildered rather than enlightened and ended him up with a dire feeling of wanting to leave.
But, of course, he knew Niji was only trying to help him out. Aside from being his protectee, she was also his friend and tried to help when she could. Even when he didn’t ask for any, she seemed to make it necessary to help him out in certain areas, mainly in those about emotions, which usually left him very uncomfortable and, not in the least, embarrassed.
He appreciated her efforts, certainly. He was smart enough to know what a complex character he appeared to be to almost everyone, so he appreciated pretty much anyone who offered their help. But, however, he was pretty certain that Niji was wrong about this matter. The idea was nothing like him and he was quite certain that it was nothing like Tala either, for whom this idea had been set out in the first place. He was quite convinced that she’d be confused and a little weirded out, rather than swooned. Masurao lifted another eyebrow at the thought. It wasn’t his intention to make her swoon. No, that wasn’t it.
He looked down at the paper again and scribbled a word on it, only to scratch it again that very second. She’d said it plenty of times, that she knew that he cared, even if he didn’t display it so openly. And it was true. Of course he cared. And he didn’t mind showing it, only the way how to seemed to cause him difficulty. Certainly, he hugged, stroked affectionately and even purred on private occasions, but still.
She, for instance, could paint. She could assemble various brushes and pigments and solely needed talent to create something out of nothing. And then she would present the painted canvas to those she cared about, conjuring wide smiles on their faces and assuring them of her affections for them through her work, which was unique each time.
Masurao threw a quick glance at the wall on his right, where one of those canvasses adorned, displaying a picture of himself, leaning serenely against a wall. He felt a gush of warmth wash over him as he beheld it, resulting in a gentle twitch of his mane and a bright shimmer in his eyes.
His green gaze shifted back to the paper in front of him and he stared at it. Stared, as if he somehow believed words would appear on the sheet if only he kept staring at it long enough. There were others who could sing, some who could craft things, others that could play an instrument. What could he do? He could not paint, was not able to play any kind of instrument, the mere thought of singing left him rather horrified and obviously he was no good at writing either. What was his talent?
Okay, so he could land a punch on someone and make them fall over, or scare people away by staring at them. He did his part on sharing this knowledge with her, but he somehow believed there were other ways of showing his appreciation than hurling someone into a wall or kicking them in the gut. Perhaps it was a way, if the person in question had been Divad or Mercedes, but even he didn’t assault people if they didn’t assault him first or didn’t give him any immediate reason to (although Masurao doubted if Tala would’ve minded if there wasn’t a reason).
He scribbled another word on the paper, hardly even aware of what he was writing. He huffed softly and cast his gaze towards the ceiling. Yes, he cared. He cared a lot and she knew he cared. But he wanted to provide her with some kind of tangible reassurance of his fondness. Like how others would hum the tune their loved one sang or played for them, or how others would look upon the item that had been presented to them, or how he would glance up at the painting if she wasn’t there. Something to touch if the other one wasn’t around, something to look at during a slight pinch of loneliness. Something that made you know. Made things lift from your shoulders without a physical presence.
But he could not write, and he was not a poet. And he didn’t particularly aspire to be one either, even though such talent might come in handy at the given moment. Despite the Egriadanian tradition of telling a story that rhymed, he could not come up with anything himself that was not a native legend he had relayed to her once before. Just the fact that he was sitting here and pondering this, and actually having taken out pen and paper made him feel rather out of character. But as he bit his lip for a second and continued to stare up at the wooden ceiling of his room, he realized that this was alright for once. He had never doubted that he cared. He hadn’t even doubted it when those strange, funny feelings had first started to appear and had started to form a different kind of caring than caring for just a friend. And the fact that he sat here, attempting this, made him even more sure that he cared, even though he didn’t need that certainty. Because he was already convinced of it.
But that still didn’t take away the fact of his inability to write something meaningful on the sheet. A soft grunt escaped the back of his throat and, sitting even more slouchy than before, he glanced down at the paper, hardly even registering its existence.
But that was when he saw it.
One eyebrow went aloft and the sternness that had occupied his face previously had now vanished, having been replaced with one of mild surprise, almost curious. The pen ceased its continuous tapping and the blue wolf sat up, his tail curling out behind him in its regular S-shape and his snout hovering over the paper.
Even though most of the words he had written down had been mercilessly crossed out, only a few remained. And one of them had seemed to capture his attention. He stared at the paper for a while, as if he hadn’t even realized the word had been there. It was just a single word, it wasn’t a poem, or a story or a song. But that was okay. As he looked at it, he found this word to be much more meaningful than any sort of sonnet anyone could come up with. And somehow he thought she would understand it. That she would just get it.
Masurao looked down at the sheet for another moment and then, hardly averting his gaze from the paper, reached for the pen he had dropped atop the desk and added a few more words to the word that had already been written there. Beneath it, he wrote the same words again, only this time they manifested themselves through alien runes, of which some would recognize them as Egriadanian writing.
This done, the canine operative opened a drawer on his left and from it he withdrew another few sheets of paper, these a little cleaner than the one he was writing on. These papers displayed other alien markings, which were not Egriadanian.
Considerate, and with a look of concentration on his face, Masurao browsed through the small file, until he found what he needed and started to copy the D'thlanyian symbols on his own sheet, phrasing the words on it for a third time. This took him considerably longer than the other two sentences, but he wasn’t less driven. He made sure to double-check when the runes had been written down. He wasn’t entirely sure if his D'thlanyian grammar was flawless, it might have looked as if a small child learning the language had written it down, but he hoped it was relatively understandable.
The teen got up from his chair, holding the brownish paper in his hand, and looked down at it. The paper was still covered in ink stains and multiple scratches and fingerprints, but that was just fine. He even believed Tala would prefer this messy sheet to a spotlessly white one. If anything, the paper he held in his hand displayed obvious signs of effort, if not mild frustration. It said everything.
He arrived in front of her door not too long after. He knew she wasn’t there. She had mentioned going on a picnic with Etoile when he got out of work, something she had planned for ages. And that worked just fine for Masurao. Handing it out to her in person would surely make him feel rather embarrassed and maybe even a little lost, whereas she might’ve found it ‘cute’. Even still, he liked the idea better if she found the note by herself. Somehow, he felt, it would have deeper meaning if she did.
Just to make sure, the blue boy raised his hand and knocked on the door a few times. While he waited, his intense green gaze shifted from left to right, scanning the corridor in his professional manner to make sure no one was around and no one would come ask questions about what he was doing.
When no one came and an answer refrained from coming from the room, Masurao bent over and gently slid the sheet beneath the door, until it had vanished from sight. He straightened up again, eyes fixed on the spot where the paper had disappeared to, a faint blush hidden beneath his furry cheeks. He cleared his throat for a second, even though no one was there to hear him, and then turned on his heel. His hands found a way casually into his pockets as his bare feet patted softly on the shiny floors as he made his way out, leaving behind only five words, in three different languages.
You are important to me.
- - -
- - -
And there we goooooo. I hope I managed to bring the point, or rather his point, across X3; It's like he always tries hard to be a good boyfriend and he is aware of his limitations in the area of the display of emotion. But he tries X3 Masurao is definitely not someone who writes poems or anything of the sort, it's not in his personality. But he does get quite keen on an idea if he has one, so he really does want to do something to show his appreciation. I kinda wanted to bring across how he's al "Man, I hate this poem stuff DX" but still wants to do something significant.
And he didn't end up writing a poem, which, I think, it a blessing to us all. The day that boy writes a poem... the Apocalypse will be near D8
BUT I'LL STOP BLABBING NOW AND GET SOME SLEEP X);;
Niji © Renee
Tala © Sadie
Masurao & story © Jas
