[geotalon]

Very pretty! I may try out if I have time, but he's glorious. Good luck all!

[peppermintleo]

reserving!
With the name Cirta (The original name of the city, Constantine.)

[ElementStar]

mark e v e

[Destiny]

le markkkk
;0

[Offended Cockatiel]

I'm very much an egoist, I just can't explain what the other preludes of me are

Username: Byteme
Name: A high esteemed, well known name in his homeland, with good meaning-- August

The August month is strong, silent yet ushering in new waves of interest and hierarchy.

Gender: Male
Personality:

--Spoilt, yes... "The only boy should be ever so spoilt,"-- Yet with many responsibility, people to please, appearances to hold, becoming just a blanched out personality as the crowd pleaser prince that he must be. Studied off campus-- away from home or rather abroad for most of his youth, and came back only recently, big up end news, seven years younger than sister 1, four years younger than sister 2-- Jelouse of [commoner] people and their freedom, always has responsibility and must be steady and choose the path with the smoothest course, wile he'd rather dream.-- Silent, always thinking, always trying to understand things--

Extra 1:

August 1

Little baby cries and lullabies from people he barely knew sang to him in hushed loved voices. After one year it was time for his christening. The first day of August, presented them with a light evening to play and celebrate the youth that would have a kingdoms responsibility. He was innocent back then, a year ago he had newly been born, on the wistful day of August he had felt the fresh and yet stuffy air of the outside world. But now, as that water touched his skin he was innocent no more.

It stood as a metaphor... Well, for something or another. Once that water touched at him, everything that once was was no more. That gently wavering liquid was the contamination of adulthood duty, and after August first, after one year he was not a boy but a man, somehow. Or rather, on a whole new level, a royal.

September 2

"The aristocrats stare at him as if he is some sort of beast." Silence flittered in for just a moment. Yet, the conversation wasn't anywhere near over. Mother and father spoke loudly and he on one end of the royal building could not help trying to understand them, and their serious clamour. They kept face so well, outside at their royal garden parties, and when attending all of those populace celebrations that never made sense to him, they had never had a word misspoken, at least in the five years he had known them. Never a voice raised oh so high. But now, now fathers words were strong and brazen, scary. It was as if the light gardens he stared at, as far as they may have been, had shifted into storming seas. Ah, and how he wondered what those looked like... "Of course as they should, a bastard son of the Queens youngest brother and a foreign women."

More pausing air caught in the room, meant to ease emotions it did not. "Doesn't he see all of the rules he has set on him?" Had he noticed that he was never allowed to the right side of the manour, had he realized the maids took care of him more than they ever did, did he truly see the way some of the higher ups with their gossiping lips looked at him? Or the elder girl he saw, only once, with her pale antlers and blue eyes on a book, and a jem on her shoulder just like him? The maids always turned him away from her as fast as they could.

His lips curved inward just barely, he could not understand a thing. Those lovely little eyes of his stared up as eyelids drooped, he was a tired little prince and yet not done retaining information he just couldn't see through. Five years and already so curious, he'd be trouble, just you wait and see. As mother and father kept on conversing he trailed up the large, left-hall, staircase and loitered there for a minute.

October 3

It was a fine day for conversations, the queen and king held an event in the evening, one they had been preparing for months and he was to stay in his large left wing room until it was all over. It was a lovely room, airplane models hung high from the ceiling, all rebuilt tiny models of real planes from their own kingdom, a striped blue border went around the four walls, placed in a spot just above his ears. a large wight, teal and black bed sat neatly in the corner, barely taking up a quarter of the area. He sat there, leaning over a small assortment of miniature trains, all tiny versions of trains found within their own kingdom just as the planes, trains that looked even more minuscule when the walls towered overhead so high, as they did there.

The maids had left the place only moments ago, creating such a nice, clean air as they did so. He did not know why he wasn't allowed to leave that evening just as he didn't with many of the other affairs, it all depended on what mother and father felt was right. He did not disagree with their word. The authentic whistle of one blocky green train was cut out by the noise of the crowd outside, hammering and buzzing with socialite status. With his hands rubbing back and forth against the soft, fuzzy blue carpet he listened though barely made out one word in all of the hullabaloo.

It was all wight noise, and he still didn't know how to feel about that. He was quick to open up the hickory brown chest beside him, so much like a treasure chest that even pirates would become confused, and to pull out, through an assortment of many other things, a small flute. He was young but not lackluster when it came to talents or skills, eyes closing as he sat up in his bed and began to play a small and eerily gentle melody.

November 4

He met somebody new today. A boy he'd seen come in for two years and yet never approached, in fear of upsetting mother and father. He had his reasons to be nervous. The new boy came more and more as the years gained up and he talked to the pale girl on the right wing almost each time. He was still a stranger the young boy realized as he hid behind a podium to his sides stair-case, so large it could hide eight years of child-like, small handed, age. He didn't act like the people August knew. A commoner?

The young royal child hadn't really met the stranger, he also realized. Maybe they had made eye contact and tried to smile, manors were to be followed without regard to standards, without much success at individual living contact. Maybe the boy had winked at the little child in greeting or maybe he was imagining things... He always went up the secret sides path, the right side had libraries and a great deal of the staff, but it didn't have him and that one fact didn't make him feel any better. His fingers fidgeted softly as he drifted in and out of thought, soon his hazy eyes blinked and found the path once more.

That morning greetings, with the stranger boy, courteous smiles, had been days ago and he was still on them... He was still thinking about the past few days, the last week entirely, so much that his dreams drifted back into the past. Those were just memories. His memories said he'd be leaving for school soon and he flickered in and out of the present and the past, trying to understand what had happened before to make him think so much about it, as the vehicle he was in bounced.

He was already staring out the window of the large black and grey bus, watching the scenery pass by, remembering the last millennia of minutes. "It is a royal enhancement school. Just for young boys to learn to be the best proper gentlemen they can be."

December 5

The slender boy turned fast, waving his tail to stay in balance. A long, thin beam was held six feet high, creaking under the pressure he presented it with. A more simplistic balence beam, per se, one that made his ankles ache with each agile movement. He edged closer to the opposit side, head tilted up, leaned down and jumped right off, landing with a painful thump upon his feet, arms out.

No one told him that in enhancement school he'd be learning things like balancing and, what they liked to call, Chramataphoring. Picking up a towel from the bench set there to lazily watch the exercised acts, his bright eyes and dark hands all turned towards a tall man in a dark blue suit.

"Letters for some of you boys,"

They hadn't sent a letter since months ago and he wasn't expecting them to now. Their responces were spotty, mother and father... They had a lot to do. The mailman, mister Marlouw passed by him with a small smile and nod. With three years in this school he had learned a few things, along with the fact that royalty and nobility did not falter in face, he smiled right back at mister Marlouw. He was eaten at quickly by unimpressed emotions, seeing right through his stoic facade, as soon as boys with letters in their hands, like some assortment of neato lottery cards, began staring at them with a rise in stress filling the air. He fumbled absently with the towel in his hands, it was neither good to get or not get a letter.

January 6

Chromataphoring, it was an art, a talent, a mastery, a performance to single out all performances as his teacher liked to say. A class to understanding your born Ceiral abilities.



mistake or not the boy had to be taken care of.
Staring up at the big people, trying to grab at their, also big, hands, sarounded by all of those respectable blue bloods and coronation flowers




Extra 2:

He was there, staring at the man behind the glass wall, sitting before his desk so mounted with technology that you couldn't see what held it up. The lights blinked softly, up on a small monitor on the desk in question... Once red, then red again, then a dulled green.

"Apsinthion, vague weapons specialist. Highly coveted in war strategies." The only one that works for us yet doesn't, the words rolled through his mind. The man infront of him, who so carelessly ignored his greatly esteemed presence like a bug or the air in his own surroundings, was independent. From he, from the royal line, from their rules and regulations, give or take a few, and from anything that did not call his fancy he was free from.

August found himself sighing, those thoughts tumbling through his head. Tumbling slowly, like blue building blocks with just enough wind to keep them turning. Oh... how cliche, how invalidating. His back arched up, almost as if on command, though no commander stood at ready. No prince must sigh. A prince must keep posture. The voices of his parents never left him for long. Always whispering 'Stand taller' and 'Do not stare'.

This was just another 'important part' of his life, just like proper etiquette and avoiding the sister he only now really knew he had, oh and breathing... Though that could take secound fiddle to good stance.

Ah, something moved, something caught the peripheral corners of his eyes, something more along the lines of someone. A body behind the glass holding the name Apsinthion stood from his ever valiant seat, that should be miracle enough... And, dear lord, came towards the door, the only thing separating him and the outside world; that could possibly stop the separation.

He mite just flitter into tiny peices of dust if he were to step onto the other side. August felt himself moving closer, it was like seeing animals from far away in patches of nature when one just amidly began to toddle over carelessly.

The door handle lowered and out stepped the weapon specialist, with the handle popping right back up into place, in a non-dust form. "Hello."

"Hello," He whispered back with composer that was off playing on a teeter-totter by now. The other male, around his age, nodded to his prince in a way that seamed more mocking and lack-luster than with respect for sparkling hierarchy. "I see you're finishing up the safety mechanisms, is everything going alright?" Ahh, the boring talk of noble responsibility. "Just fine." No matter what the other male said he sounded intelligent beyond belief, maybe it was the way he held his words, it was appealing somehow.

They both presented mild, unappraising expressions, going right back to what they had been doing. Both fiddling just a little harder at their hands and the buttons on desks, that one should be touching and one shouldn't be, to become devoid of socialization once more.

---
His stare blanked and began to cool. "I don't need to be sick to be troubled, or to feel pain, it is a part of being a living creature with a developed enough brain."

Extra 3:


Up, on the stage of lights and moxie, his lips quivered beneath each breath. It was the usual thing, he was supposed to be good at this, or at least used to this, being in front of some sort of spotlight.


"Constantine," His tiny hand slipped out of hers and the memory faded from his mind.

[Valute]

Username: Valute
Name: WIP
Gender: Male
Personality: WIP
Art: unlimited
Extra 1:
Extra 2:
Extra 3:

[Rexodus]

RESERVE SO BADLY HNNNG ;-;

[-TheBigBlueBear-]

Possible reserve uwu

[The Lost soul]

I gotta atleast try. He's just so handsome... Pine you're pulling my heart strings...

Username: The Lost soul
Name: Mahkiell
Gender:Male
Personality
-Pejorative
-Fastidious
-Scrupulous
-Virtuous
-Valiant
-Pious
-Conciliatory
-Taciturn

The Prince's Fault:

Mahkiell was born with certain faults. He would never be King. Mahkiell is only meant as a poster child, a background character, never will he ever attain the throne and for something he was born with that could never change. Mahkiell is labeled as schizophrenic and suffers from 'delusions'. They tried therapy, medication, exorcisms, blessings, charms, anything that showed hope, but Mahkiell continues to sustain delusions. You can't have a crazy king, now, can you? He was kept on the side, never to take the role his blood calls for, and held behind the walls of the castle.

Even if it were real, nobody wants it to be, not even Mahkiel. He'd rather be called crazy.

The Prince's Dilemma:

It was the same every day. Get up, eat, bathe, take a round in the yard, sit down to tea with his sister. Chess with the palace staff, sparring with the guards, wash up, lunch, take time in the study, read in the library, waste time, wash up, dinner, then a full 2-hour grooming and finally to bed.

After years sitting obediently in the background, smiling, sitting pretty, he was faced with the harsh reality. This would never change for as long as he lived here in the palace. Forever trapped, hidden away, forced into limbo for all his life. At first he hoped that switching things around, trying new things, talking more with his sister, just about anything to avoid the dull repeated cycle, but it all felt the same, and he was left hopeless...

So what did he do? Nothing. Well, he intended to do nothing, but... he couldn't kill the jealousy, the angst, the frustration building inside of him. It wasn't against anyone but himself, and as the days dragged on in perpetual motion, Mahkiel's fuse waned, shortening down to a mere nub. Brooding almost all day. He stopped talking with his sister, his parents were frequently avoided, and Mahkiel cooped himself up in his rooms most days. He was a liability, an unwanted nuisance. If he'd been born right, been born without these hallucinations.... he'd be something important. He'd be king, and he could help the kingdom, spread prosperity and joy among his people. He would've invited the whole kingdom to a feast, a big feast with delicious little pastries and cups of the finest tea. He'd be friends with everybody! Mahkiel's dreams of what it would be like to be King, what he would do, what he wanted to be... it only bothered him more. As the depression consumed him, Mahkiel found himself lashing out at others without thinking, or even realizing it. His bitterness was bleeding through, and he had to be pulled from his training because he had hurt his instructor. It was...shocking. When he looked in the mirror, he didn't see that 'King' he was raised to be. He wasn't mean, he wasn't hurtful... he was a good man! A....a good man...

What choices were there? Stay? and do what exactly? Mahkiel was being driven to be hateful and bitter, and he knew he had to change or it would consume him. He knew he was rather susceptible to certain energies, making him easier to snap, to lash out, or turn hateful and malicious. That could not be changed... after all, the dark arts were in his blood. Or... they weren't really 'dark', more like... Vile. They are referenced to being 'dark', but the true name would more or less be 'Yeella'. The meaning was lost in time, but the name stuck around a bit longer. It is a natural gift.... and it comes with side effect.

Every single day, he fought a silent war with himself...
Neither choice he had was very desirable... but a choice had to be made... and he chose.
He died.

The 'Delusion':

Mahkiell, as said above, experiences delusions. Now, these delusions are not entirely...well... You could say they're terrifying.

Mahkiell sees the 'dead'. They're simply walking corpses, brutally torn open, or simply paled from their passing. He never talks to them, they never listen anyways, and they don't really like to talk to him, more at him. Imagine just laying in your bed and watching forms move about in the dark, or feel some unreal being scoot closer to you, it's breath on the back of your neck, it's dead, empty eyes focused on nothing and the reek in the air... rotting....rotting....always rotting.

Mahkiell just deals with it. He was brought up to ignore them, the hallucinations, but sometimes it becomes unbearable. Sometimes the dead have fits of screaming, attack him, watch him constantly, many things that just get in the way. When he was a child, he'd go crying to his parents because one bit him, or was under his bed. Sometimes they even steal his stuff.

If you wish to talk to the dead, do so on your own, he'd not a bridge between life and death one can use as a telephone. Mahkiel is 'delusional', not a medium.... the dead don't like talking anyways.

One more thing to add: Mahkiell is always cold. No matter what, he is always cold. It's not a matter of his surroundings, or his body temperature, he simply always feels cold.

To be Content:

With as much as Mahkiel has going on, he is quite happy with his placement in life. You'll never catch him depressed or sad. He takes whatever happens and braves it with a calm, indifferent smile. Not once will he complain, not once will he voice his pains. He was raised to be like a King, and that means to take care of his people and kingdom above all else, and to think of himself last. With that, he rarely even cares about himself and is always bothered by everyone else's problems, pains, their stress and anxiety, their loss, their grief, and anything that might rub him the wrong way.

Mahkiel spends his happy time studying black magic. He is naturally gifted in the area, though he doesn't use it often, or at all really. Blacl magic flows in his veins, but it's a twisted hobby. He can't just use it without a price, so he never really uses it. Though he loves to study it, and spends the majority of his time in exile searching out books on it, even people who use it themselves, anything to learn more about it. He's a scholar for the dark arts, though he's not evil... he just likes black magic.

What have you done?

It was simple enough. He used his natural gifts...
He took his blood, his hair, and a Alexandrite stone, and he made what one could call, a Golem.

It was in the spitting image of him. Not a single hair out of place. It couldn't talk, or think for itself, but it looked and felt like him. It bled and could die... but it felt no pain. It had no soul. It was just a carbon copy of his body.

The day was like any other. He'd planned it so well... there was not a thought from anyone of what would come.
He was cloaked in a veil of illusions, hidden far from the palace walls, seeing through the Golem's eyes. He had placed the poison for himself, even placed evidence to lead them to a dead end. The Golem wouldn't look any different then him... once it was dead, there'd be little to nothing telling it apart from the real Prince Mahkiel. He felt the poison pass his lips, and slowly it began coursing through him, the connection to the Golem starting to break. He let out a cry, panicked as the Golem retched, letting out pained cries. His hand reached out and the world rushed up to meet his eyes. A soft thud, and the lights went out. He was left with nothing but empty hands. The connection was severed... The Prince was dead. Long live Queen Constantine....

[rottenmutt]

Art: unlimited
Extra 1: poem
Extra 2:
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ＢＡＳＩＣ ＩＮＦＯＲＭＡＴＩＯＮXXX
full name Prince Draconia


nicknames: Draco.


Name meaning: "Dire" or "Very serious".


Age: Nineteen.


birth place: England.


gender: Male.


orientation: Straight.

ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡＬＩＴＹXXX

Prince Draconia is summed up as a monster, in most others eyes.
He "rules" his kingdom with a iron fist, and doesn't let anyone leave. Draco is very sick mentally, and doesn't realize it. He thinks he is a king, and has his own kingdom. Has his own lands, his own castle. But reality he really has nothing left going for him anymore. He's imagining it all, and it won't go away. It follows him, and it seems he will never be sane. His "kingdom" is a bone yard, full of bones and demons now. All his friends, and "people" had died off. Prince Draconia has never been seen sane in anybody's eyes, even his sister's now. She has grown distant from him.

Prince Draconia is a manipulative boy. He knows how to get his way, and sneak around other's backs to get his way. He picked this trait up from his father. He learned how to be a good liar as well, from his father. His father taught him that being nasty was the only way to get what you want, when you want it. And Draco always gets his way...

His mother of course taught him to show his manners. To be courteous, and outspoken. Respect others, and have manners.Even if they are rude to you. Outspoken like his mother, he speaks the truth. And nothing but the truth. If it hurts you, it hurts you. He doesn't care. He was taught that the truth and honest opinions are all that matter in the world.

His own traits he developed were his dark sense of humor. Finding darker, and crueler jokes more funny then playful, and funny jokes. Most Ceiral's dislike this about him. Due to the fact that it isn't the best kind of humor to find. Especially since he makes jokes about death, and other serious things. Without a care in the world.

Draco is pretty negative about his life. He often thinks negative, and realistically. Which often depresses this boy out. Most Ceiral's don't like to be around him. Due to his views on life itself, and how straight forward and comfortable he is with death and disease.

In the end, Draco is just a handful.