Well, dudes, it was great while it lasted. Trust me when I say this place opened me up to so many new ideas and ways to write that I just. Wow. It set a huge standard for me and I don’t know how I can repay you guys:3 Keep in touch, please!
(I’m keeping this blog up because it holds soooo much writing, so I’ll still kinda be here lurking lol.)
We’re going to close. I’m sorry to anyone that this upsets and it does suck and I’ll miss you all, but I think it’s best. There’s been far too much inactivity and too few members and while the plot was amazing in the beginning, it’s becoming repetitive and illogical.
… Who is this?
"Fine; I’ll just have George kill himself lol make a good exit."
I’m really sorry, Dee.
Mainly because while it’s a good idea, it’s one of those ideas that would do better in one para. It’s not a good plot for an entire RP.
Also, we’d like to wait a little and get more ideas before jumping into that. So, for now? Sorry. No.
Lee scanned the floor. He’d made such a mess. He pulled out his wand. He attempted to make the feathers zoom back into the pillow. A few feathers stirred in a circular motion towards the pillow, but they were all off the mark. His hand was still shaking. He curled his fingers tighter around his wand to stop it, but didn’t try again. He’d have to fix it later. Why did he keep winding up on the damn floor? Why did interacting with Skeeter trigger this? Why had he let it get to him?
“…I hate the bitch as much as you do, but that’s the thing about, uh. War.”
George said it out loud. Three letters. One syllable. One word. War. They had fought in a war. Was the war raging on in their heads something separate? Another war? Or the last battle they had to fight before they could truly win? He was tired of the hate. It was there. Always there—even on the good days when he was mostly happy. Its claws sunk deep into him. It wouldn’t let go. It wouldn’t let him go. Lee closed his eyes, trying to breathe in deeply, but he was listening. Exert control? Over him? Lee softly growled in displeasure, but stopped himself from making any further vocalizations. George was still speaking.
“…Maybe she’s sinking, too.”
Lee hadn’t thought of that. Which was worse? Rita Skeeter unaffected and unchanged or Rita Skeeter desperately clinging to the only thing she knew how to do well? He didn’t have any idea of what her other abilities might be-whatever they were she wasn’t using them for anything positive. She had drive and talent and a way with words and all were wasted on empty, shallow, and twisted sensationalism and… destruction. ‘There’s something about that old boy I don’t like about me.’
Lee couldn’t remember who had said it. He took in the gutted pillows and the feathers and strips of fabric and bed linens strewn about the floor. He thought back to the split beater bat and the flying shards of glass and splintering wood. Wasted energy. I can do so much more.
“You don’t know what goes on in peoples’ heads…”
Did he want to know? Would it help anyone? A literal meeting of minds? Insights could be gained, a better understanding, maybe even a way to— STOP. The potential for screwing up such a thing was too great. Any magic involving emotions and memory had the potential to afflict serious damage. Lee had dodged a bullet with Cynthia. Ron had been saved from Lockhart’s prowess at Memory Charms by a malfunctioning wand. The effort required for what Lee had briefly contemplated was draining mentally and physically. Healthy and whole and foolish witches and wizards who had tried without the proper guidance in the past had been driven insane, unable to distinguish their own self from the other’s, unable to cope, entangled, and lost. Or dead. Lee didn’t have the skill, the focus, or the strength to attempt such a thing. And he wasn’t mental or reckless enough to risk mucking up someone else’s mind.
“Don’t take this as me defending her, though. Just making a point,” said George. Lee slowly nodded to indicate he understood. “Did she really get that close to you? What’s she trying to dig up on McG?”
Questions that required a response. He met George’s gaze briefly before thinking about what he wanted to say.
“Too close. I could sense her behind me in line peering over my shoulder before she spoke and pretended she didn’t know I was picking up something for the school. I said, ‘Excuse me?’ I didn’t like her and I didn’t know who she was yet. She gasped and went on about how she recognized my voice. Not bloody likely,” Lee exhaled again. No need to work himself up about it again. “I don’t know. She was talking about McGonagall doing double duty, but there’s no story there. McGonagall’s sent letters out. She’s been looking.”
George wrinkled his nose, imagining all too clearly the smell of whatever sickly sweet perfume the wench must have been wearing. It’d have to be something mighty strong to cover the stench of troll that looked as if it should be wafting off her like visible green fumes like the trash cans in old muggle cartoons. To be that close to her must have been torture for Lee, judging by his reaction.
The entire conversation must have been a nightmare, actually judging by his reaction. Throwing a fit like this wasn’t in Lee’s nature, unless something truly awful happened, like whatever had led him to go to the Room of Requirement and destroy mirrors and beaters’ bats…
Oh, right. That had been George’s fault.
"All due respect, River, but your voice is pretty recognizable. She could have been listening, too. You know how she got her “better” stories. She went insect and listened in. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t have done that to someone who was listening in on Potterwatch.”
George shrugged, not trying to argue with Lee but possibly calm him down a little with reason. If he couldn’t offer a mutual sense of anger, or much of anything else, he figured all he could really do was stay calm and talk him down. Mostly because he was still exhausted, and exerting any sort of effort to do anything but fall asleep again seemed tedious. He’d slouched a little against the headboard and tipped his head back, blinking slowly.
Lee had been there for him when he was upset; he should return the favor. And he would, but he would do so with the faint wish for sleep still crawling beneath his skin, buzzing along and pulling at him to rejoin it. It was beckoning him, actually, and quite convincingly so, but he blinked rather hard and willed it away for a few more minutes at a time.
"Who gives a rip if McGonagall does double duty? She’s doing a hell of a job keeping this train wreck in order, the woman deserves a god damned medal. Rita Skeeter won’t find anything because McGonagall’s done nothing but be a freaking saint. I wouldn’t worry."
I’ve been thinking about killing this RP for a while. The plot is getting old, people are dropping like flies, I mean—we only have 10 members and not much room for different characters. The paras are getting repetitive and there’s not much room for growth.
So here’s the deal.
Either I kill it, or we need to make it a lot better so that we have more members and less room for repetition.
If I keep it, we need a new plot. Of course we can keep our respective characters, but we need a GOOD plot that has a lot of room for new characters and story lines.
If you have any suggestions, please message Liz or myself. Otherwise we’re just going to have to end it.