BITTERSWEET | OPEN

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    He wasn't really hiding, though if he later thought on his actions he would have to change them for the future, considering his preference toward privacy; he wanted to be alone, enjoyed the tranquility of it. Tucked away in some corner of the camp, the auburn youth sat in quiet lonesomeness, hunched almost unnaturally over the leather bound parchment sitting in front of him. The journal he possessed was one that he'd found in his relentless searching, and he wasted no space on the pages. Scribbling down to his hearts content, the messy writing which he scrawled on the worn-down page was all in French, a collection of personal poems amongst simple rewrites of other literature, annotated and rearranged. It looked like a jumbled mess painted on a piece of paper (or maybe tens of hundreds), but it matched his thought process, and Aristotle himself was content.

    tags; updated 12/27

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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=none; bordercolor=transparent; borderwidth=0px; width: 370px;font-size:8pt;line-height: 130%;][justify]Cherviltea had managed to stumble across Aristotle, whilst they had been observing their journey. He'd pause, canary-hued orbs blinking in a faintly curious manner, as his attention shifted towards the other. "What's that?" The collie inquired - though the question was drawn immediately from his throat, with little thought. Once he realised that it couldn't possibly be just another book, and instead consisted of Aristotle's illustrated contemplation, he'd apologise. "Oh, uh, sorry - I didn't mean to impose." Aristotle didn't seem like the type to get all up in arms about such, but he would still feel rather guilty if he had staggered across something that wasn't to be read.


    TAGS 07/12/2016

    [fancypost borderwidth=0px; color: #adb9c6; font-family:arial; font-size:14pt; line-height: 100%; text-transform: lowercase]ALL MY FRIENDS ARE HEATHENS, TAKE IT SLOW.
    WAIT FOR THEM TO ASK YOU WHO YOU KNOW.    [/fancypost]
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    Harley skipped over and took her seat. Eyes on the duo and head tilted slightly. What was this now?


    thinking - speaking


    tags

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    If he hadn't been so lost in the act of writing down his thoughts, the poems which covered the pages of his journal, perhaps he would have noticed Cherviltea more quickly. The collie presented him with a thoughtless inquiry, followed by a sheepish apology, but the islander in question seemed all but too caught up in his scribbling to even react. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a twinge of recognition, however, a glimmering light of common sense that had him snapping his head up by the time that Harley skipped over, pale eyes wide. "Oh!" Aristotle exclaimed, the word falling from in between his teeth before he could stop himself. Cognitive function returning to him through the force of surprise, he quickly straightened out his posture. "Oh, no -- no. Don't," he harrumphed nervously, a shaky smile tainting the edges of his mouth. "Don't worry about it, sir. I'm just scribbling down some old poems of mine, passages from Shakespeare, ah - nothing of importance." he released a chuckle of anxious energy, though his relaxed posture told that his words were plenty true. "I apologize; I get lost in thought rather easily. You aren't imposing by any means."

    tags; updated 12/27

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    Oliver Queen-Stark
    "The Arrow"



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    Oliver had never kept a journal, nor was he very good at writing poems. So when Aristotle mentioned the fact that he was writing poems, Oliver was rather interested.


    "[color=green]Wow, really? Do you mind reading some to us?" he asked as he padded over. He thought that the great poets wrote things that were capable of making the reader feel something.


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    [align=center][color=white]- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
    [size=8]When you feel my heat
    Look into my eyes
    It’s where my demons hide
    It’s where my demons hide
    {Demons by Imagine Dragons}
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    [fancypost bgcolor=#000000; bordercolor=; borderwidth=0px; a: hover; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 20px; width: 470px; height; 10px]R E N[/fancypost][fancypost bgcolor=#090909; width: 470px; height; 10px; borderwidth=0px;]it's like a bit of light in a touch of dark[/fancypost]


    [fancypost bgcolor=#0f0f0f; borderwidth=0px; width: 470px; max-height:; text-align: justify][size=11pt]The wiry kitsune sat nearby, her ears pricked forward attentively, thick fluffy tails curled over her thin paws. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you learn?" Ren queried after Oliver, genuinely curious. "To read, that is." In her earlier life she'd been a wanderer, and there hadn't been much in the way of recreation such as reading, let alone writing. She simply hadn't had the time to learn, as much as it interested her. Perhaps now it would be something to pursue - although not poetry; she didn't think she was quite the type to provoke rhapsody, and most certainly not through rhyme. Reading however was a different story. The volume of knowledge trapped between the pages of books must be immense, and surely there would be something out there to explain her certain... issues.


    The marten that always accompanied her slipped stealthily up beside her, its dark eyes glittering. The kitsune shot it a stern look. Behave, she told it silently through their link. With his nervous disposition, she had to hope it wouldn't consider making Aristotle a target of its mischievous antics.[/size][/fancypost]
    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=#000000; width: 468px; height; 10px][sub][align=center][size=7pt]Red fox kitsune -- WindClanner -- 25 months
    Companion is a Japanese marten (telepathically bonded)    [/size]
    [sub][size=5pt][c] #GrimmTemplate #Ren #Warped[/size]

    The post was edited 1 time, last by Ren ~ ().

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    Stormkit had been wondering the exact same thing as Ren, as a matter of fact. Since she joined WindClan, the black smoke she-kit had found that quite a big number of Clan members had the ability to read. One of the buildings on the WindClan territory was in fact a temple containing numerous collections of scripture, all in various twoleg languages.


    It was quite a skill, actually, to be able to decipher the incomprehensible scribblings in human language. Even growing up on the outskirts of twoleg suburbia and being exposed to signs and posters, Stormkit had never managed to learn it. As everyone said what she had on her mind, the five moon old silently took a seat beside Ren. The martin that slunk up on the other side of the kitsune startled the she-kit, but Storm watched Aristotle on with mild curiosity awaiting his answer.
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    The surprised inquiry uttered toward him left the youth near shellshocked, the words rattling in his ears in an echo as his eyes widened, shoulders pushing back in equal amounts of shock. Oliver himself was intrigued by the poems which Aristotle wrote, but the islander in question was all the more baffled by such a notion. Feeling like he had just been plunged into a bath of icy water, Aristotle's posture grew rigid, his head swimming. Someone wanted to hear one of his poems? Finding his mouth to be rather dry, it took a moment for his lethargic heart to get to work, his blood warming as comprehension flooded back into his system. Hastily, he blinked furiously, ducking his head to flip through a few of the pages in his messy journal, eager to comply. "Bah, ah, why-- why of course. Mmh, here!" the tabby exclaimed, fumbling excitedly over his words. Ecstatic, he finally settled on a page, placing an ink-stained paw down on it as his pale gaze flickered back up toward Oliver. His eyes were alight with joy, stark in difference to the blank stare he'd given the archer just moments before. Shifting his weight in what only could be described as nervous energy, he looked down at the words painted on the page, and with a harrumph of prep he began verbal translation.


    "Ah! whither, whither, am I flown,
    A wandering guest in worlds unknown?
    What is that I see and hear?
    What heav’nly music fills mine ear?
    Etherial glories shine around;
    More than Arabias sweets abound.


    "Hark! hark! a voice from yonder sky,
    Methinks I hear my Saviour cry,
    Come gentle spirit come away,
    Come to thy Lord without delay;
    For thee the gates of bliss unbar’d
    Thy constant virtue to reward.


    "I come oh Lord! I mount, I fly,
    On rapid wings I cleave the sky;
    Stretch out thine arm and aid my flight;
    For oh! I long to gain that height,
    Where all celestial beings sing
    Eternal praises to their Kings.


    "O Lamb of Gods! thrice gracious Lord
    Now, now I feel how true thy word;
    Translated to this happy place,
    This blessed vision of thy face;
    My soul shall all thy steps attend
    In songs of triumph without end."


    His poem came to a resounding end, and Aristotle grew quiet, a silent plea for feedback. He had written the poem weeks ago, when he'd still been aboard the sea vessel which carried him to the mainland. Such was a testimony to his hardships, the struggle he faced and how he believed the mainland would provide him safety, a better future. The poem was full of hope, it left a melancholy feeling in his chest when he'd spoken it, and standing there at that moment he figured that his hopes for the mainland were quite true.


    Snapping out of his pondering, however, Aristotle turned toward the wondering forms of Ren and Stormkit. Whether he had to pause in recollection from his small performance, or simply he had to contemplate her question, was unclear, but pause he did. Tail tip curling, the youth responded with an absentminded shuffle of his front paw. "I believe it was my mother that taught me initially, long ago." he spoke after a moment, gaze drifting in thought. He rarely thought about his mother; he remembered so little about her. Nonetheless, he believed his words to be correct. "But, for the most part I am self-taught." he admitted, "I spent a great deal of my life reading and learning to become more literate. It took a great deal of work, in all honesty, and consumed most of my time as an individual. That is how I learned, regardless." with that a polite smile pressed on to his features, attention turning back toward the Kitsune.

    tags; updated 12/27

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    Oliver Queen-Stark
    "The Arrow"



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    Aristotle's first reaction made Oliver a little concerned that he'd pushed the tabby in a spot where he didn't want to be. But as he began his poem, the griffin listened eagerly. He clapped afterwards, and nodded as Aristotle finished the poem.


    "[color=green]That was wonderful, thank you," he said with a grin. As the conversation drifted into reading and writing, Oliver thought about his own education. His parents had seen to it that he could read and write, but his writing was barely legible and when he was younger, he found reading to be too boring. Now, as he read Robin Hood, however, he was regretting that decision not to practice too much.


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    [align=center][color=white]- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
    [size=8]When you feel my heat
    Look into my eyes
    It’s where my demons hide
    It’s where my demons hide
    {Demons by Imagine Dragons}
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    [fancypost bgcolor=#000000; bordercolor=; borderwidth=0px; a: hover; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 20px; width: 470px; height; 10px]R E N[/fancypost][fancypost bgcolor=#090909; width: 470px; height; 10px; borderwidth=0px;]it's like a bit of light in a touch of dark[/fancypost]


    [fancypost bgcolor=#0f0f0f; borderwidth=0px; width: 470px; max-height:; text-align: justify][size=11pt]Listening to the melodious rise and fall of Aristotle's poem, Ren's eyes traced the parchment from which he read from. Soon however she realised that letters and symbols that marked its pages were quite foreign to her, difficult to decipher even as he read them aloud, and her pale gaze shifted back to the tabby. "I've never heard anything quite like that before," she remarked, sharing Oliver's sentiments. "You have an unusual way with words." She stopped there. Being that she had intervened in the conversation only because she'd been eavesdropping, she was unsure how much further she should comment.


    Sleek body shifting so that he was settled in between the kitsune and the kit that had sat beside her, the marten chattered cheerfully at Stormkit. Ren frowned distractedly at the pale animal. "Well, I commend you. I imagine it took a lot of work," she said after a moment. Her own mother had been far too practical to ever teach her or her many siblings to dabble in literature. Instead she learned where the best pick of berries were, how to use her speed and size to her advantage, and how to hide. She imagined the young feline had a far different upbringing.
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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=#000000; width: 468px; height; 10px][sub][align=center][size=7pt]Red fox kitsune -- WindClanner -- 25 months
    Companion is a Japanese marten (telepathically bonded)    [/size]
    [sub][size=5pt][c] #GrimmTemplate #Ren #Warped[/size]

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    [fancypost bgcolor=; bordercolor=#212121 borderwidth=0px; width: 300px; font-family: georgia; font-style: italic; font-size: 26px; color: white; margin-top: -30px; letter-spacing: -2px; opacity: 0.80; text-shadow: 2px 2px 2px #000000;][align=center]S T O R M K I T[/fancypost]
    [fancypost bgcolor=; bordercolor=#212121 borderwidth=0px;width: 300px; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; margin-top: -5px; color: lightgrey; letter-spacing: 3px; opacity: 0.75;][align=center]windclan l kitten l 5 moons [/fancypost]
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    Being of only five moons old and uneducated, Stormkit actually understood very little of what Aristotle said - the actual vocabulary and words, the context, the meaning of the poem. The poetic nature of it was so unlike prose and yet, the black smoke she-kit found herself hanging onto his words.


    She didn't understand exactly why the flow of his poem was so pleasant. While she didn't know anything of the technical structure of writing poems, of rhyme and rhythm and syllables, she could sense the emotions and feelings that Aristotle intended to convey. It was what poems are meant to do, after all, and while Stormkit wished she understood the context and words better, she still appreciated the poem.


    It was evident on her face that she was impressed, although she did not offer any critique - she was not the best for that after all. "I like it," she said, honestly and simply. [/fancypost]


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