#xyeul

Ordered from highest priorty to lowest (or rather longest waiting to shortest). Tell me if you need to be added, deleted, moved, etc.

I owe you bro —

e4g1e

r3b3ccacrane

fantasmaldystopia

arielshepard

costruttore

rei-fue

ultimarrow

sanctusbelli

alsoomse-the-independent

Ya'll too (short interactions / ~1 paragraph or less) --

timberangel

afinalhazard

auditoreeagle

impmun-the-impmon

defier-of-fate

I somehow finished yours —

croftlegacy

nov0

warriormohawk

askrachelshepard

youopposetyranny

savingyourxass

the-devoutassassin & this

yeu-l

invenirus

asknoblesix

WIP threads --

yeu-l ultimarrow croftlegacy trinityflux fatesresignation

& essentially any follower/go list peeps who'd like to rp yeAH.

Leaving is never enough. The act of departure is a superimposed paradox with the promise of return hanging off the last vowel, an arid and mangled thing that never ties up just right, knots up somewhere between good-bye and see you soon. Desmond's never been the sentimental type, so he dissipates -- dissolves from The Farm without notice, leaves no heartfelt message to tack over the dresser, no final expletive to vibrate in the air as backlash. Painless. To stay gone was always the key; he hitches an escape through a series of relic transit buses with his entire life tucked underneath one arm. All he's got left is a trundled duffel bag and a potpourri history fashioned out of half-guessed assumptions and stunted adolescent years under communal hippie conspirators attempting to stick it to the man out in the middle of nowhere.

He's only got a dim awareness of Assassins and Templars, but at this point in his life he's avoiding both with the same levelheaded cynicism that consumes jaded liars or thieves whole. Desmond hasn't disappeared just yet though, so under the circumstances, there's considerable grounds to consider his way out a success. And now, now he's here, in a city pinned under another name and identity, measuring out the rest of his life in dolled-out portions of liquor. Living the dream in some winded-down pub, serving to minors with fake ID cards and inebriated carousers who never knew the meaning of quitting while they were still ahead. On some brooding Tuesday evening, the bartender is stacking up the rest of the pilsner glassware and tumblers behind the counter when the door swishes open to let in a visitor out of the maelstrom of hailing rain outside.

I shall use the tag 

xyeul