#not thread

   She commanded him to check for clues but really just wanted him to be the mine sweeper. It was fine if he died, that eventual fate was as clear as the mark on his forehead.

So I’m sure you’ve all noticed, but I did fall into a bit of a rut over here.

A lot of that had to do with getting a lot of messages from people asking about their thread. Thus, the new rule on my page from a month or so ago.

To reiterate it here:  I use a thread tracker.  Please do not send me messages reminding me that you replied unless you’ve gone to the threadtracker and it doesn’t list you as the last poster. I check it daily, and do up my drafts as time allows. Feel free to use this to your own advantage too, if you can’t remember whose turn it is.

I hate to be that person, but it cut my motivation right in half and it’s been a challenge getting it back.

In an attempt to do so,  below are the threads that I am archiving due to lack of activity, or due to dried up muse, or because we have another thread that is more interesting. 

Also note, if I’m not playing my mains: Geoffrey, Renning, and Bertram, then those threads take more time. I’m sorry, but they do. Please don’t get upset, or passive aggressively guilt me, into jumping on those threads more quickly.

“No, see? You’ve got me all wrong. Said you would.” Not that there’s much Connor can really do about that. 

Of the many brands of idiocy that seem to congregate around him, some are more difficult to parse than others. More often than not he could explain himself hoarse, but at the end of the day his boot will still need to be shoved up someone’s ass. 

Is that the fool’s fault? Or Connor’s fault? Course not, but life is life, and some things are just meant to be.

Which isn’t a sentiment this particular bastard seems likely to take to heart. “I’m making this real easy,” Connor tries again, in the mood to dither. “So easy. You ought to be prostrating yourself and begging to lick my new boots for how easy I’m making this for you.” Not that the bastard’d be allowed to. No telling where that tongue has been, when the rest of him looks more scraggly than the backside of a boar. “Just set the little guy down, and then head back to your drunken and very questionable revelry. Quite reasonable of me, I like to think, right?”

Bloodshot eyes glance down vaguely, the edges of the man’s obnoxiously oblong and blonde mustache still damp and spiked from Naga knows how many ales. He does something, tightening his grip or shifting some amount, but whatever foolish maneuver he tries makes a little squeak of distress rise up from the ball of fur in the crux of his elbow, clearly a plea for removal from the current environment of body odor and dried tobacco drippings.

Oh man! Thank you! That’s so super nice! I love plot so much, and I’m so glad you think I can progress it at all decently.

Thank you so much! That really is my biggest hurdle, is trying to keep them distinct, and I’m really glad you think I’m pulling it off well! 

“I-, well, I-.” He can’t. He won’t. This-, this is madness. Nothing more, nothing that he needs to release, nothing that can’t just exist in his mind, in his heart, nothing that-.

Morgan sighs, such a sharp annoyance to his bearing as looks up from his reading, “Don’t have all day.”

Gods, why does that incense him so? How can such disdain tighten his chest and quicken his blood? As if those impatient words translate to anything but dominion and the most self-serving of intents?

But still he steps near, incapable of denying himself, of ever turning from Morgan’s beckon.

Geoffrey halts beside the chair, lifting a hand to grip in the thick cushion of the arm, leaning forward. He needs the support, something firm to ground him when the world falls away beneath his feet.

“I think I love you.” He can’t do anything but whisper it, everything so tight inside, a frigid fear spearing through his blood, acid churning in his chest. “I…I love you, and it terrifies me.”