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Badenhop

๐™Ž๐™–๐™ก๐™ช๐™ฉ๐™–๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ค๐™ฃ๐™จ!

๐™ˆ๐™ฎ ๐™ฃ๐™–๐™ข๐™š ๐™ž๐™จ ๐˜ฝ๐™–๐™™๐™š๐™ฃ๐™๐™ค๐™ฅ. ๐™„๐™ฉ'๐™จ ๐™– ๐™ฅ๐™ก๐™š๐™–๐™จ๐™ช๐™ง๐™š ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™ข๐™–๐™ ๐™š ๐™ฎ๐™ค๐™ช๐™ง ๐™–๐™˜๐™ฆ๐™ช๐™–๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™ฉ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™š.

๐™„ ๐™ฌ๐™ง๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™š ๐™ข๐™–๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™ก๐™ฎ ๐™ข๐™–๐™ก๐™š ๐™˜๐™๐™–๐™ง๐™–๐™˜๐™ฉ๐™š๐™ง๐™จ ๐™—๐™ช๐™ฉ ๐™–๐™ข ๐™ก๐™ค๐™ค๐™ ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™—๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™˜๐™ ๐™ค๐™ช๐™ฉ ๐™ฉ๐™ค๐™ค. ๐™Š๐™ฃ ๐™–๐™ซ๐™š๐™ง๐™–๐™œ๐™š ๐™ข๐™ฎ ๐™ง๐™š๐™ฅ๐™ก๐™ž๐™š๐™จ ๐™ง๐™–๐™ฃ๐™œ๐™š ๐™›๐™ง๐™ค๐™ข ๐™– ๐™ฌ๐™ค๐™ง๐™™ ๐™˜๐™ค๐™ช๐™ฃ๐™ฉ ๐™ค๐™› 500 ๐™ฉ๐™ค 2000 ( ๐™– ๐™˜๐™ค๐™ช๐™ฅ๐™ก๐™š ๐™ฅ๐™–๐™ง๐™–๐™œ๐™ง๐™–๐™ฅ๐™๐™จ ) . ๐™„ ๐™–๐™ข ๐™–๐™ฃ ๐™€๐™‰๐™๐™‹ ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™™ ๐™– ๐™‹๐™ž๐™จ๐™˜๐™š๐™จ. ๐™„'๐™ข ๐™๐™ค๐™ฅ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™ฉ๐™ค ๐™ข๐™–๐™ ๐™š ๐™จ๐™ค๐™ข๐™š ๐™ฃ๐™š๐™ฌ ๐™›๐™ง๐™ž๐™š๐™ฃ๐™™๐™จ : ๐˜ฟ

๐™’๐™ง๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™€๐™ญ๐™–๐™ข๐™ฅ๐™ก๐™š 1: ๐˜ฟ๐™š๐™ฉ๐™–๐™ž๐™ก๐™š๐™™


It's been a week since the destruction of Aramoreโ€ฆ

A crackle of flame, the creak and groan of timbers contracting, a cry for help follows a loud bang along trapped doors, the shouting diminishing as roofs cave in and floors groan, clay monuments begin melting and dripping into hissing puddles. Erratic citizens running through rubble underfoot, cutting bare feet on shattered glass and misplaced wood. The intense heat becomes searing burns, palms blistering, skin bubbling and hissing. Soon the use of linen to breathe becomes futile, a gummy, acrid ash coating Aramores tongue. Smoke billows in a sooty black.

And then, then there is quiet.

Flames rise into the night as if they challenge the heavens to stop their consumption of what was our home and place of sanctuary. Yet fire is impatient and the heavens breathe eons and moments as if they were one.

At least, that's what Noah imagines. The messenger wasn't there during the downfall of Aramore. Perhaps my perception is too gruesome, I must see it myself. That was his original task, travel to Aramore, seek out survivors to tell their tale- actually see the destruction with his own hopeful eyes. It couldn't be that bad, no, Aramore stood tall not even days ago. It's hard to believe something he had just seen could be gone so fast.

The blond had never quite favored Aramore, it was a small town with little outreach to the rest of Sanctuary, sometimes it would send things to Seylath, or a few citizens would come down into Enesia to party- but that was all. The swamp after all is putrid, and many steeds have found themselves stuck in the mud, suffocating to a slow and painful death. Depressed by the loss of their horses, many travelers have been found in the swamps too.

Aramore took care of you. You need to go back.

"Come on girl, let's get goingโ€ฆ," with a heave, muddy hand pushes into the damp grass of Dercia and a tall, strong frame rises. Heavily booted feet support long lithe legs encased in a tight leather, the light casting a sheen on his thigh here and there. A loose, off white shirt hangs around his waist which flares into a wide chest, long billowing sleeves hiding strong arms. Noah is no giant of a man, nor is he the strongest either. No, he is simply of a nice slender build, toned only from his countless hours on horseback. Large, protruding knuckles turn white as he grabs his steeds saddle, hoisting himself up with a heave. "I know, I know, heavier load today isn't itโ€ฆ," he laughs as the blond turns to peer at his guest, wrapped tightly in cloth and bound to the back of the horse.

Noah isn't the type of man to pursue bounties. He is simply a messenger, travelling town to town, nation to nation. It's nice, being welcome everywhere yet, nowhere feels at home. He was raised in Dercia yet whenever he gazes upon it's rolling hills he feels an emptiness, the wind blows through him here, leaving him feeling more hollow than before. With a soft kick, he's off, trotting over the small bridge that connects Dercia and Enesia.

As for his captive, the man is a noble of the Dercian court. He knows he's sure to get in trouble for this, but it just makes sense to the blond. He'd met his captive at the tavern, and while they'd both had a few drinks, Noah surely was far more sober than the latter. A simple conversation and drinks turned sour when the mention of fire was made, and the more the man spoke, the more Noah began to itch with suspicion and so...he might have slipped something in the man's drink, and dragged him out the back of the tavern. "Leon Remaro, you sir, are going to bring me a pretty penny," the blond grins wide, rosy lips spreading into an infamous, beaming grin that the messenger is known for. The man with the smile that could outshine the sun.

It isn't long before Noah has ventured along the borders of Eristonia, and Baal. He's well known in both nations, and while Eristonia requires no face covering, Noah still finds himself covering his long, thin nose and wide smile with dimples mirroring either side of ruddy cheeks. A small, sheer black piece of cloth doesn't hide his appearance, but it masks it enough for those not to view him as disrespectful. The man even combs unruly golden locks back from his face before he begins to trot towards Eristonia.

When, well, he hears a snap and it seems his captive has awoken and broken his binding, tumbling to the ground below.

"damn-," for a moment he glimpses around for help before he hops of his steed. Noah is unarmed, not that he really needs a weapon. The real question is will this noble run, or will he fight. Either way, Noah is ready, hands clenched into fists.

I can't let you go now, I still need to get you to Requenesia. For Aramore.

๐™’๐™ง๐™ž๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐™€๐™ญ๐™–๐™ข๐™ฅ๐™ก๐™š 2: ๐™‡๐™š๐™จ๐™จ ๐˜ฟ๐™š๐™ฉ๐™–๐™ž๐™ก๐™š๐™™
"Will the Jury foreperson please stand? Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?"

"Yes we have your honor"

Sean swallows, his throat tight.

"We the jury find the defendant, Sean Lapin, guilty"ย 

damn

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Sean's plan had been meticulous. He's been planning this for months, months! The man was able to afford an outstanding lawyer yet he still finds himself stripping infront of this officer, ready to be taken away.ย 

In this universe, Sean doesn't have Elijah to fall back on, he doesn't even know Elijah. Their fates never entwined. Sean's father continued to raise the boy into adulthood- and that's why he's going to prison.ย 

He's never felt this way before, this deep dread, like his life was over- his dreams foiled. I can't go to prison. For what Sean did, he should be serving life but instead he was given ten years. He can't wait ten years. Not for this. He's already planning on breaking out before he even gets there.ย 

But the day of it all, he awakes to find police at his door. They must have known he would try to flee the country. And so after being stripped of his soft green sweater and black slacks and shoved in orange. He hates orange. His clothes don't even fit, the shirt too loose and the pants too tight, too short, his ankles hang out. Bastards

The bus ride is bumpy, so much so that Sean dry heaves in the back of the bus, enough to where the guard watching him smacks him along the back of the head to shut up. He does.ย 

There isn't much Sean will miss on the outside, he thinks. All he really has is his dad, not really having much for friends. He knows his dad will visit, the man has a hard time being away from his son. Even at twenty three, he still feels the need to coddle Sean away from the world. If only he knew how much it ruined the boy.ย 

"Move, inmate" he stumbles off the bus with a hiss, round hues narrowing into slices.

There's a few new people here with him as well, nobody he recognizes. The man is initiated through the prison quickly, not really shown around but he does meet his counselor, Laurent Dupont. He wants to stab the bastard in the throat, he decides.

But he doesn't.

The cuffs are finally removed as the brunette wanders into the cafeteria,having arrived shortly before breakfast. He meanders for a while, lost, not even knowing where the line ends. His eyes wide in confusion, blinking erratically. Despite the obvious confusion and concern, he still looks pissed. Thick brows taut into a scowl, makeup smudged along his waterline and lower lashes giving him a tired but exotic look. His ethnicity is hard to place with his strong features and curly hair, yet pale skin.

"Hey there long legsโ€ฆ" his ears ring as time seems to slow down and a hand clamps on the back of his ass. He immediately swings, grabbing the man's plate and shoving it up into his face.

A roar breaks out, and being in prison less than an hour, Sean has already started a riot.

Great.


๐˜ˆ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ'๐˜ต ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ' ๐˜จ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฏ๐˜ข ๐˜ฃ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ฌ ๐˜ฎ๐˜บ ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ณ๐˜ช๐˜ฅ๐˜ฆ~
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Rave Reviews

I haven't known Baden long; but that doesn't really seem to matter. We've instantly clicked! They're really funny and have fantastic ideas. (Awesome character profiles too, can't forget that.) We just started writing and I really love their characters and their way of writing! Badenhop has a strong, bubbly, refreshing energy about them that is hard to find anywhere else. The inside jokes are already legendary! Anyway, that's why I think you should write with them. (: Great sense of humor Wonderful writer - OwlGryphon

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