Dio

Real life has been kind of crazy lately, but rest assured I still plan on following through.

This is just a friendly reminder that there is no hard word limit and that the suggested word count has been removed to avoid confusion. You are all encouraged to write something substantial, but it does not have to be a novel. Remember to be creative!

The Tragedy of Great Power Politics - John Mearscheimer. Sort of anyways. My attempt to finish it instead of skimming the chapters I needed for class has fallen by the wayside since this semester was more about political economy than realist political theory.

Stalliongrad’s first snowfall of the year had graced the city with a dusting of powder, which even now was coming floating down in glittering curtains, illuminated by golden rays of sun streaming from intermittent holes in the cloud cover. Far above the onion-domed spires of the city, even above the iron-banded aerial piers, traffic was bustling. Weather pegasi buzzed about, clearing ship-sized holes in the cloud cover for freighters running along the Aquellia-Stalliongrad trade spine and directing smaller aerial cart traffic below. But even above the din of roaring props and high altitude winds a single voice rang out among the clouds. “What have you to say for yourself, mal’chik?” Gruff, masculine, and well-weathered, the voice was a perfect match for its owner, a ruddy red Pegasus stallion, powerful in build, and sinewy in disposition. His body bore the marks of a life of hard labor; a subdued coat worn soft by use, muscular legs strong as stone and steady as mountains on the rolling pitching deck of an airship, a trimmed but free flowing tail now drifting in the wind. His stark white mane peeked out from below a thick, knitted wool cap emblazoned with the crest of the Stallian merchant marine. The cap was complimented by the customary airman’s telnyashka, its stripes light blue, a reflection of the sky that its wearers worked daily. On his canvas working jacket, the polished brass of an airship captain’s emblem shone in the afternoon sun. This was a stallion in charge, and he was not pleased. The mashing of consonants from the native tongue danced across his lips as he glared menacingly at the pale goldenrod Pegasus opposite him. “Was not my fault, captain!” the crewman blustered. “Chepukha! Horse apples!” Though they were equal in stature, the yellow stallion shrank at the captain’s rebuke. “You did not secure cargo lines during descent! Now I pay for KOG to replace office windows in Ostrov towers!” “I am sorry...” “As am I. Now get off my ship.” “Sir?” “GET OFF MY SHIP! You are fired!” The Captain growled, pointing to the starboard side dock with a hoof, all the while keeping his fiery gaze fixed upon the delinquent crewman. His ears drooped and his head hung low, the yellow stallion dejectedly lifted off the deck and fluttered to the pier, trudging slowly away until he was lost in the haze of falling snow. The captain snorted in contempt, the blasts of condensation quickly fading as he paced the deck again. “Perhaps you were a bit hard on him, mate.” Captain Sturmovik wheeled around to face the new voice, this one coming from a mottled griffon kitted out in similar cold weather gear. Sturmovik did not smile, though his change in inflection and the ever so slight softening of his otherwise stony disposition reflected familiarity not accorded the rest of his crew. The Pegasus paced, ambling to the railing on the starboard deck, but not yet crossing the gap to the docks. “I trusted mal’chik with this responsibility,” he began, switching back to Common. Despite his firm command of the language, the Stallian accent was still thick on his tongue. “Instead he cost me half cargo in damages and loss of product! Of course I fire him!” “Everyone bucks up at one point or another, sir.” “Is true. But not all of us can afford this, Alastair.” Sturmovik replied flatly. “I am going for quick walk. Get crew disembarked and I will meet you in terminal.” “Dose vidd Anya, captain,” the Griffon said with a smile. The captain rolled his eyes at the butchering of his native tongue before taking wing, alighting on the docks in a swirling cloud of glittering, icy shards. Though Sturmovik had weathered many a winter both at home and abroad, there was still a magical quality to the snow that he found extraordinarily calming, be it the gentle guttering of standards and sailframes on the frigid wind of a flurry, the pinpricks of snowflakes nipping his nose, or the hypnotic glint of icy prisms floating in the sunlight like a million tiny diamonds. Clink. Clank. Sturmovik’s hoofsteps reverberated across the aerial pier, seeming to hang in the air amid the falling flakes. CLANG. The captain paused. Swiveling his head, Sturmovik took note of the strikingly white unicorn sitting next to him. Disguised by the falling flakes, the unicorn mare could easily have been mistaken for accumulated snow. His eyes fell upon her pressed sheet-metal lunchbox, the obvious culprit for the loud noise that had drawn his attention in the first place. Curious, but in possession of enough common courtesy not to interrupt, Sturmovik quietly found his own place to sit at the end of the pier. From his flight jacket, he removed a small steel flask, carefully popping the top and gingerly sniffing at its contents. Sturmovik glanced at the unicorn out of the corner of his eye. If she wanted to socialize, she would make her intentions known. After all, it was more than likely her break as well. She was entitled to do as she pleased. The captain took a swig from his flask. Unlabeled as it was, its strength was sufficient to warm his belly in spite of the high altitude chill. “Nadezhnyi,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “At least Stallianoya is always reliable.”

After some thought, I'm removing the suggested word count. This isn't a contest, it's just an excuse for you to write and be creative! Feel free to write as little or as much as you need to to tell your story!

Please state your OS, Browser version, and describe how to replicate the problem step by step. Screenshots would also be helpful.

As we wish to keep the forum Mane RP in the spirit of the show, we are going to leave the Elements of Harmony as they are unless show canon dictates otherwise. I'm going to go ahead and move this to Brony Chatter, as this is more speculation and story ideas than worldbuilding. Just remember that you are free to speculate on what other elements you'd like there to be and even integrate that into your own RPs in the Free-for-All and Crossover sections!

One more thing. Since we don't actually know how long the creatures and ponies in Equestria live, we like to avoid hard numeric values for ages. Please see the note in the OC Creation Guide on age. Since that's the only thing I see and it's easily adjusted, I'm going to go ahead and stamp this.

Meadowhawk You’re just mad ‘cuz you got beaten by a girl! Name: Meadowhawk. Also answers to “Birdy” and “Hawk.” Sex: Female Age: Young mare Species: Pegasus Coat Color: Tyrian (#66023C). Pinion feathers are rose (#FF007F). Mane/Tail Color & Style: The same rose color as her pinions with a single streak of alabaster white in her forelock and tail. Mane and tail are trimmed to Wonderbolt regulation, but only just. Meadowhawk feels that neatening up is pointless, as most performances and training exercises destroy any semblance of styling in minutes. Eye Color: Olive Cutie Mark: Dragonfly silhouette in rose, representing her agility on wing. Physique: Thin and limber, trained for agility and speed. Origin: Grew up in Fillydelphia. Currently in Cloudsdale training with the Wonderbolts. Occupation: Wonderbolt trainee, on the “B” squad. Motivation: Make it into the “A” squad for the next generation of Wonderbolts! Likes: Flying fast, aerobatics tricks, learning by doing, figuring things out, getting her hooves dirty, Stallianoya vodka, contact sports Dislikes: Formal events and attire, being indoors for too long, being smothered or controlled, book-learning, hangovers, being called dumb or stupid, traditional authority, snooty and entitled ponies. Character History Tomboy. Misfit. Prodigy. Meadowhawk has been called many things, but she rarely applies the labels herself. Born of a unicorn cart wright and a pegasus school teacher, Meadowhawk was always getting into things. Despite her mother’s profession, Hawk very much preferred doing things her father’s way: with sweat, grease, and old-fashioned hoof-work. Even as a filly, she was never afraid to get her hooves dirty and never shied away from a challenge, whether it was a test of wits or a test of strength and agility. In fact, her cutie mark was earned through a rather childish dare of an aerial slalom through a local ravine infested with quarry eels. Though the specifics of the tale become more muddled with each telling, Hawk still laughs fondly at it and is proud of her agility and self-proclaimed fortitude. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, however, she never cared for books, schooling, or memorization of what she saw as useless facts and figures. Few childhoods come to pass without troubles and Meadowhawk’s was no exception. As capable as she was at practical things and as tough as she was physically, her marks in school were comparatively poor, owing more to a lack of motivation than an inability to grasp the material. As such, the snootier students in the class took to teasing her about it. Arguments and fights broke out and as a result, Hawk did not have a good reputation with her local school’s administration. Despite her less than stellar academic standing and her rocky relationship with the staff, Meadowhawk still excelled in anything that required hooves on work or prowess on wing. Against all odds, Hawk made herself known to both physical education teachers AND a Wonderbolts recruiter. Though the recruiter did not anticipate fast-tracking her to the first-string team, he did outright say he could not let talent like hers go to waste. Thus, Meadowhawk was accepted into the Wonderbolts, with the caveat that she would remain on the reserve squad until such time that she had proven herself capable of being a first-string performer. Character Personality Meadowhawk is very much still a tomboy, never having lost her attitude from school. Above all, she is preeminently practical, rarely concerning herself with the higher ideals and any “fancy mathematics” of a snobby elite. That is not to say that she is willfully ignorant. Hawk loves figuring out what makes things tick, though lately her wrench wench sensibilities have taken a back seat to her physical conditioning and flight training. Instructors often found Hawk’s aerialist style to be... sloppy. She almost never passed the flight tests the first time through. However, with some practice, she always came through, blazing through the courses flawlessly and occasionally adding flair of her own. Hawk was never one for extensive studying, preferring to trust her instincts, even if it involved making mistakes the first time around. She’s not afraid to mess up and remains optimistic in spite of her many first-time errors. When it comes to flight, Hawk is confident that she will eventually manage the maneuvers. In spite of her headstrong nonchalance and her brazen confidence, being called stupid is still a sore spot for Hawk. She still does not get along with traditional authority and is not terribly fond of formal occasions with anypony she assumes to be snooty and entitled. Outside of that scenario however, Hawk is very easy to get along with and is more than willing to share a coffee or head out for a quick flight. Art courtesy of the talented Brian Blackberry!

It was a rare moment to find Virtue completely idle. The Pegasus stallion was always doing something, be it training, stretching, or cleaning. Even his quiet moments were occupied with either meditation or the awareness exercises he had been taught to constantly perform in order to keep his senses honed to a fine point. There was never time for doing nothing. And yet here he was, lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his head seemingly in a fog. But even in his idle listlessness was the awareness of his surroundings sharp and in focus. A gentle thump upon the door instantly brought Virtue to his hooves. Images flashed through his head of the outside of the building, where the trees were located, if there were any mailboxes or well-traveled routes where someone could routinely bump against the door or its frame. There were none. Someone was here very deliberately. The rational part of Virtue told him to reach for his sword first. But a nagging thought in the back of his head kept him from doing so. Perhaps Cherry had merely gone for a quick flight and thought it more proper to reenter through the door rather than the window? Virtue gently hoofed the door open, expecting to see a tired pair of sanguine eyes. Instead, Rich Tea’s grey orbs met his gaze, though the smaller stallion quickly averted his eyes, seeming to shrink in the Destrier’s presence. The pastry-colored Pegasus cleared his throat and opened his mouth, motioning with a hoof as if about to say something, but no words came out. Virtue stopped and stared for a moment, at first confused. But suddenly, the shock of recognition struck him like a hammer blow. Virtue took a large step backwards, away from the door. This was the stallion from the night before, the one who had been in the window as Virtue had fought the bodyguards. This… this… piece of underworld filth… Virtue could no longer refer to him as a stallion. His right to be called that had been stripped of him with Cherry’s revelation of the night before. Rich Tea had unfortunately misinterpreted Virtue’s step backwards as an invitation to enter. As he obliviously trotted inside, he made the second mistake of even bothering to speak. “Is she... is she all right?” That question was Rich Tea’s third and final mistake. Virtue snapped. Using his well-muscled legs and powerful wings, the white stallion moved impossibly fast, flashing through the space between. The impact seemed to shake the entire apartment as Virtue slammed Rich Tea into the nearest wall with the force of a thousand falling hammers. In the space of a heartbeat, Rich Tea found himself covered in splinters from the wood paneling; his wings and limbs dangling limp and helpless as a massive fetlock suspended him above the ground. His head ached from whiplash and his breaths came labored as Virtue’s hoof simultaneously pinned him against the wall and applied choking pressure to his throat. Virtue’s baleful glare fell upon Rich Tea as the smaller stallion struggled in vain to free himself. The pale Pegasus was terrified; every last bit of his body language gave it away, from his feeble attempts to beat down Virtue’s hoof to his uncoordinated flailing and flapping to the way his eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a savior that would surely never come. Rich Tea honestly thought he was going to die. Stony-faced, Virtue continued to bore holes in Rich Tea’s soul with his emerald-eyed gaze. He wasn’t going to kill him. It was messy, unnecessary… immoral. Certainly he was a cad, but who was Virtue to decide who lived or died in Equestria? Finally deciding that the pale stallion had had enough, Virtue released him, leaving him to slump to the floor in a tattered heap, alive, if barely. The Destrier took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. If he had retrieved his sword earlier, Rich Tea’s blood would surely be staining the walls right now. Again, the doubts nagged at Virtue, clawing at his resolve, but again he suppressed them with careful thought. Killing Rich Tea solved nothing. Killing him in anger would create even more problems. Whatever problems he was now involved in, endless bloodshed was not the solution. “You have the gall to come here calling for her after what you did to her?” Virtue spat, his upper-class accent doing little to conceal the venom in his voice. The Destrier stepped closer, lowering his head so his eyes were level with Rich Tea’s. “SPEAK! Explain yourself!”

Hey everypony! It's that special time of year again and I'm not talking about holiday shopping, holiday stress, and university exams! Remember that writefriend thing we did way back in September? Well we're bringing it back! After all the madness of the last round of contests and special RP events, we're giving you an opportunity to write for fun! Now remember what we did last time? You don't? Okay I'll give it to you again. Write up your entry based on the theme. Thought and heart is encouraged, but don't feel pressured to write a novel if you don't want to. Post your entry to your personal blog on Canterlot.com's blog system. Information on setting up a blog can be found under the "Blogs" tab under the Canterlot.com banner. Tag your entry Writefriend:December2011 Post a link in this thread to your blog entry! ??? PROFIT! Call it a shameless plug, but I can't get enough of Stalliongrad. It's got a unique cultural flare and I'd love to see everypony's personal take on it. Therefore, this month's writefriend theme will be: WINTER IN STALLIONGRAD. Remember, this topic will close just after midnight December 31st (GMT). Make sure you have your entries submitted by then! Be true to the theme, be creative, but most of all, don't forget to have FUN!

However much the equivalent currency is for spending time on Canterlot.com instead of paying attention in class.

Hello. Let me preface this by saying that character creation for "Mane" RP is an iterative process. There can be multiple rounds of two-way interaction between a player and the staff before a character is accepted. The staff at Canterlot.com pride ourselves on facilitating high-quality RP and would like the user base to take pride in making a great character to play. The major sticking point for Nevermore is his magical ability, which encroaches upon the realm of spellcasting. Magic in the form of spellcraft is reserved for unicorn characters and the princesses alone. Because of this, the color manipulation spell has to go, as does its products such as the magical sparkle effect on his coat and the metal texture of his plumage. Now that's not to say that his obsession with color is a bad thing. It is a defining trait of the character that can be expressed in other ways. Spells, while flashy, are not the be all end all of characters even in a world with magic. There are mundane ways for him to demonstrate his affinity for color. He can have an unusually keen eye for utilization of color when he paints his paintings and decorates his crafts and be great at matching colors to ponies or identifying particular hues and saturation levels. He could be adept at painting and dying himself and others' coats and plumage with the paints he makes. Also, what of his relationship with his family? He is gentle and friendly to other ponies, but what drove him to leave his family and kin behind? Was his obsession with color so great as to cause him to break all previous bonds? If not, does he hope to bring the "gift of color" back to his family some day? What is this "color of truth" that he searches for? These questions give insight into the psychology of the character and fleshing them out will improve your ability to consistently play him as well as giving the staff a good idea of what you intend to do with him. Consider these points and as we continue the evaluation process.

“They’re my father’s Colts.” She said at last, still not looking at the Pegasus across the table from her “My old bodyguards. Now they have come to collect me, to take me back to him. And he helped them.” Rage threatened to consume Virtue. This betrayal was total. Families always looked out for their own. Fathers guided sons. Sons guarded daughters. Daughters made their families healthy and strong. What family would treat one of their own like the enemy, to be trapped and dragged away like a criminal… no… a dog? The henchponies… that mewling, sorry excuse for a stallion… he should have killed them all when he’d had the chance. Cold logic and discipline tempered the Destrier’s anger. Wholesale slaughter would solve nothing. He certainly had the determination and sources to find and… eliminate… the boss, but what good would that do either him or Cherry? Virtue was no assassin; it went against everything he was taught and everything he strove to protect. And what of Cherry? Regardless of his moral deficit, the boss was still her father. Who was Virtue to decide whether he lived or died? “It’s all over,” whispered the colour-drained Pegasus, “Just like that. Over… gone…” Cherry’s words were barely audible, but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner did little to mask the hurt in them. The ticks ran together as seconds stretched into a minute, maybe more. What could he say to her? Here was a filly who sat before him had just lost the one thing most dear to her. “Cherry…” With barely a glance at Virtue, the filly stood from the table and started back towards the bedroom. “I-I need some space. Just to think.” The door closed with a dull click, shutting Virtue out entirely. For a moment, the Destrier merely sat at the table, dumbstruck. Virtue had missed his window. He had missed his opportunity to make a difference. All because he’d wanted to draw his sword to slay demons that could not be killed with steel rather than show the slightest bit of compassion for somepony who had just suffered the fate he had been dealing with for these past months. The rage from earlier returned with a vengeance, surging in his chest until he thought he would surely explode, taking the inn with him. In his anger, Virtue snarled furiously, sweeping the bowl of oats off the table and flinging it against the wall with such force that it shattered with a resounding crash, leaving broken ceramic fragments embedded in the tacky wood paneling. The stallion took a look at his handiwork and hung his head. Again, his hubris had gotten the better of him. Who was he to think that he could solve all Equestria’s problems with his sword and horseshoes? Virtue sighed. He needed to rectify the situation—immediately. The Destrier trotted to the door of the bedroom, gently rapping on the door with a hoof. No response. Perhaps she was asleep. “Cherry?” He asked, knocking again, louder this time. Again, no response. Virtue nosed the door open, finding it unlocked. A cool breeze flowed in from the open window, making the curtains billow out like ghostly wisps of aether. The mulberry filly was nowhere to be found. “Cherry!” Virtue’s gut turned over on itself. Had she been snatched? Had they come while he was caught in his own personal struggles? No. They couldn’t have. Virtue had been trained and drilled to be exceptionally aware, regardless of his mental state. It wasn’t just a conscious skill he exercised while awake, it was a part of who he was. There was no sign of struggle, no blood, no broken furniture, no feathers or fur about. Cherry had left of her own volition. Virtue sluggishly walked to the couch in the living area and slumped over, falling into the cushions with a dull thud. All his life, he had trained to make a difference in Equestria, fighting evil with the holy might of the knightly virtues. But in less than a day, Cherry had proven to Virtue that Equestria was defined by its inhabitants as well as its principles. If you preserved the Librum and yet damned every pony in the land, then what was the point? Virtue mulled over his revelation as he lay idle, staring blankly at the ceiling.

I like her! Rubbastamped. PS: I'm a he