Blueblood

You're pretty much meant to, he's from a humorous series. As for knowing what Umineko is... [colour=#ff0000]I recognized the name.[/colour]

Thank you, thank you. You wouldn't happen to be familiar with the series Skeeve is from, MYTH-Adventures, by Robert Asprin? Really good books, those; the original author died a couple of years ago, but they're still continued by another.

Hm, perhaps I shall throw my hat into the ring... Name: Skeeve Appearance: Not Particularly impressive: Personality: Skeeve is an inter-dimensional magician and con man; rather more competent at the former than the latter. He eventually ended up founding, along with other inter-dimensional beings he'd befriended, M.Y.T.H Inc., the highest paid company of magical contractors operating in the cross-dimensional market. He's grown up quite a bit since his early days, into a friendly guy, who on most occasions does really try to do the right thing. He prefers negotiation to fighting, but hurt those close to him, and he can be quite ruthless. Motivation: Skeeve is on contract; the existence of Equestria has just been discovered by the inter-dimensional smuggler's Guild, and M.Y.T.H. Inc has been hired to scout it out. It's almost impossible to enter it from the outside, so in addition to getting the lay of the land, Skeeve is using his piece to open some kind of gateway, which M.Y.T.H. Inc can take exclusive control over, as a lucrative trade route. Powers: Skeeve isn't wholly incompetent as a magician; he can cast illusions, though they have to act as disguises upon organic matter, not just appear in thin air. He can levitate quite hefty objects, to use as projectiles or defenses, and minor forms of elemental control. Name: [colour=#008080]The Great and Powerful Trixie![/colour] Appearance: Personality: She resembles what Skeeve might have been in his early career, if he hadn't found a good business partner. Trixie is a stage magician, who uses big talk and flashy magic to come off as a hot-shot in her shows, though lately things hadn't been going so well with her. After one of her shows, some over-eager fans wanted her to show off how she beat an Ursa Major (she hadn't, and she didn't). Thankfully for the town, their resident magician, Twilight Sparkle, put the beast to bed! After fleeing the town in disgrace, Trixie attempted to get back on her hooves again, but it was tough going. Without most of her supplies, she'd had to start from scratch again, and knowing she would likely never be as skilled as that purple unicorn, definitely grated. When she could spare the time, she would look through libraries at the towns she'd visit (always keeping a look out for that other magician, she'd been a librarian, right?), for some kind of way to augment her magic. This kind of desperation often leaves one open to outside influences... Powers: Trixie is first and foremost a showmare, she can grab attention and keep it spellbound on sheer force of personality alone... at least until the watchers get bored with her. Her magic mostly reflects this, being mostly based on illusions, but she has an adeptness with the tools of a stage magician's trade, the hat and cape, rope, mirrors, smoke, and fireworks.

I don't think we have any characters in the legal profession; I'd been knocking about an idea or two for a lawyer OC...

*Bump* Just to let everypony know, we're still open to admissions! Any student/teacher char you want to bring in is welcome. Also, it mightn't be a bad idea to brainstorm incidents to liven up subsequent events; having established characters, we can thicken the plot.

"[colour=#996699]You have gotten into the spirit, comrade Beats; I shall enjoy being your neighbor.[/colour]" Psmith smiled warmly at the filly. She may not have been the most sparkling of wits, but she was a game pony, and would bring her best to the table when called for. Prospects indeed pleased. Wordplay's next comment also had the effect of visibly brightening the colt's countenance. "[colour=#996699]I believe I have remarked before, comrade Wordplay, on your wisdom in matters of social policy. If I have not, consider it said. Your recommendation, we take to heart.[/colour]" A subtly playful smile sauntered languidly over his muzzle. "[colour=#996699]We place ourselves in your guidance. Lead on, dear hostile native, lead on, to our place of abode.[/colour]" Three city blocks need not take the strenuous walker long to cover, but the group was in no hurry. Psmith would often pause to inquire or comment upon objects of interest, from time to time replacing his eyeglass for a closer inspection. At last, however, the object of their journeyings came into view. Back in the days before urban expansion had incorporated the villages along the strand into one conglomerate metropolis, stately houses had been constructed in little enclaves to form neighborhoods all to themselves. As the encroaching city surrounded and besieged them, the original genteel owners had fled, leaving the real estate to whoever bid for it. In this case, St. Mareson's school had come into possession. Clopham and Coltsfoot houses had gotten their surname "Commons" from the road which they faced, which had in turn probably been named for a stretch of heath now built over. They were stately townhouses, recently connected by a newly-constructed side corridor which contrived, not altogether successfully, to blend in with the original construction. Clopham house felt empty as they entered; apparently most of the boarders came down by the last train possible. Their luggage had been sent ahead of them, however; Psmith located his box and sat upon the edge of it. "[colour=#996699]I wonder if the house-master has not arrived yet. Do they assign rooms, or does one sign up upon arrival?"[/colour]

Psmith gave a slightly relieved smile at the reprieve granted to him by Heart Song. "[colour=#996699]Thank you, I would like to explore the options available. Who knows what interests may yet develop over the year? A passion for collecting butterflies? An infatuation with school journalism? Perhaps open-air theatrics? Philosophy, Philatery, and of course, Music. I cannot say that I see myself as a musician, anymore than comrade wordplay sees a cricketer. But then, I didn't see myself as one. As one of my erstwhile former teammates was wont to remark, 'You don't know 'till you go for it.' I always admired his wisdom; that experimentalism gave his batting a good leg-up.[/colour]" He raised an eyebrow at Wordplay's comment about St. Mareson's being similar to Canterbridge, but surprisingly, declined to comment. Truth be told, his focus was elsewhere, on the filly who would be sharing his classes. "[colour=#996699]Indeed, comrade Ria? You advance your schooling beyond your years, but it is only to be expected. At first glance, I said to myself, 'Psmith, here is a filly with a topping portion of the grey matter; academically, she is most undoubtedly The Goods.' What you do not absorb shall not be worth absorbing, and what you can impart to, say, Comrade Wordplay, shall suffice as well as any class.[/colour]" Having paid this long-winded but not insincere compliment, he bowed once more, pocketing his monocle. "[colour=#996699]Anon, we have talked enough, my comrades all. Action! That's the ticket. As a boarder, I've been assigned,[/colour]" He pulled out a sheet of paper from an inside pocket on his blazer, "[colour=#996699]To Clopham Common House. The first order of business is to confirm that such a place as Clopham Common exists. That done, I shall stake a claim upon a portion thereof, pausing for a moment at the tea and biscuits to restore the tissues, and then to tour the grounds, and locate the classrooms I shall visit in an official capacity tomorrow.[/colour]"

"[colour=#996699]We aim to please.[/colour]" If Psmith was wearing a hat, he'd doff it. He listened with interest and attention to the exposition of social tendencies at St. Mareson's, this being, more or less, his first real orientation to the social terrain of the place. "[colour=#996699]It is interesting; you mentioned ignorance, Comrade Wordplay, of my alma mater. It was, in fact, an all colt's school. It is not so much that it had no cliques, as that it had but one, which had long ago supplanted the others. It's psychological makeup is produced, in equal parts, by sport, tuck, a valiant attempt by the masters to give us a classical education, and a spirited resistance by the pupils to the same. It is called, in the ancient texts, 'The Public School Spirit,' I cannot now recall the etymology. It was very much a preparatory school for the aristocracy, stamping out stallions in a uniform mold, save for one or two eccentrics. I pride myself[/colour]," Psmith bowed modestly, "[colour=#996699]On being one of the eccentrics. However, the spirit is insidious. It is a solemn fact that, by the end of my second year, I had developed, entirely against my will, into solid-caliber slow cricket bowler! Such things chill the blood, when considered philosophically.[/colour]" For all his amiable garrulity, Psmith was a little chilled, not only be reminisces, but future prospects. His thoughts, in fact, were running along similar lines to Wordplay's, speculating upon how incipient friendships and present camaraderie could be broken, simply because they wished to develop their talents or enjoy their hobbies. For a colt used to being able to get on tolerably well with anypony he met, this was really quite saddening. On the surface, of course, you could never let such things show. It Wasn't Done. He prattled on, as apparently unperturbed as ever, "[colour=#996699]Oh, I'm still doing the rounds of the classics. Civics, World History, Algebra, and Astronomy. As for extracurriculars...[/colour]" He trailed off, with a slightly rueful smile, "[colour=#996699]Ah, but it seems I should not be incautious in selection. I should not like, for instance, to join the archaeological society, and then commit a dreadful faux pas by engaging a member of the fire brigade in light banter. This is quite unexplored territory for me! Forgive me,[/colour]" He bowed here to Heart, "[colour=#996699]That I cannot now commit to what I'm sure shall be a lovely choir. More preliminary research is apparently prerequisite.[/colour]"

For all his vanity and long-windbaggery, Psmith had one great redeeming merit, that being a genuine pleasure in the company of other ponies, any other ponies. He was no snob in the company he'd pass the time with. "[colour=#996699]You think I have a future in impromptu verse, comrade Wordplay? Well, never let it be said that a Psmith failed in hospitality when serving the musical repast. We often have, but we don't like it spread about[/colour][colour=#9966cc].[/colour]" Momentarily releasing his attention from the rapper, he focused now upon the twin fillies, now apparently recovered from their nervousness. The colt bowed in reception of their introductions. "[colour=#996699]Comrade Beats and Ria, of Baltimare? A sisterly pair, taking arms to win academic glory for their home city upon the turf of Saint Mareson's! Quite right, of course. I,[/colour]" he paused reverentially, "[colour=#996699]Am the representative of Canterbridge.[/colour]" He gave a listen to the exchanges between Beats, Ria, and Wordplay, greeting the arriving teacher with a genteel gesture of initiation, silently assenting to Wordplay's invitation. He rejoined the conversation with a prefatory sigh, "[colour=#996699]How often we find, that our own hobbies consume us so, that we can hardly spare the attention to anyone else's? I have fancied, sometimes, that the class divisions in our society chiefly arose from the fact that the players of cricket and baseball could not come to speaking terms, and would never consider associating with the track and field crowd, who altogether shunned the band.[/colour]" He brightened a bit, as if a firefly had buzzed into an ear and illuminated the back of his retinas. "[colour=#996699]Ah, but there may yet be possibilities to remedy this. I had thought my chief attentions would be dedicated to the Social question, but I find that it may be worth my time to dabble in lyricism. And behold! A teacher of music comes, already known to the metrical master who deftly extracts the goods from other's minds and her own. And to supplement, a dancer, and a wielder of words? Such coincidences are not insignificant in the history of the world, comrades.[/colour]"

"[colour=#9966cc]Bah?[/colour]" Well, if anything could spike Psmith's guns, it was that. Fortunately, Wordplay's backpedaling gave him time to muster reinforcements for the artillery, and he quickly recovered his poise and monocle. "[colour=#9966cc]For everything, there is a first time, and that was it. I have publicly rhymed in recitation, but to date my composition has all been in prose. The cry goes 'round- but Hark, comrade Wordplay! We have gathered an audience[/colour]." Psmith, cutting himself off in the middle of his catchphrase, turned to gaze benevolently at the two younger fillies through his eyeglass. "[colour=#9966cc]Ah, fellow students?[/colour]" He inquired. "[colour=#9966cc]I am Wordsworth Psmith, of the Canterlot Psmiths. The prefectory P is silent, as in Ptarmigan.[/colour]" He gave a bow. "[colour=#9966cc]Comrade Wordplay and I were just having a stimulating discussion on poetry and political economy, and I must say, if she is a fair sample of the hostile natives, we shall have a perfectly enjoyable exile.[/colour]" And it was true. While his loyalties may still have tied him to his old Alma mater, the colt was now truly looking forward to what the next year might bring.

(Thank you! Psmith is most fun to write of any character I've ever had.) Psmith's pleasure in the conversation, by contrast, was entirely sybaritic. Both he and Wordplay were producing at full capacity, a perfect sea of words in which the colt mentally wallowed, happy as a pig in mud. At the sound of the filly's sarcastic political philosophy, his eyes lit up. "[colour=#9966cc]Why, comrade Wordplay, you are yourself a socialist! You have grasped one of our main tenants, that the state shall control the means of production. Why should the Princesses not make the umbrellas we put into the public umbrella stands? I must confess, I had not given that matter thought. The cry goes 'round the coffee shops, Psmith has not thought this through! We integrate our wisdom, and the system is complete. But it must take both halves, Comrade Wordplay, the graciously bestowed umbrellas should be public. After all, he who would keep his umbrella, the same shall lose it. But he who gives his umbrella to the public, the same shall find it, when it is raining.[/colour]" True to his word though, he remained respectfully silent as Wordplay freestyled, nodding his head along to the beat. When she had finished, the unicorn clopped his hooves in enthusiastic, and to judge from his eyes, sincere applause. "[colour=#9966cc]A poet who rhymes extempore![/colour] [colour=#9966cc]You have great skills, Comrade Wordplay.[/colour] [colour=#9966cc]To have a rival such as you,[/colour] [colour=#9966cc]Is more than I deserve, quite true.[/colour] [colour=#9966cc]The best you pull right out of me,[/colour] [colour=#9966cc]Like a dentist with a costly fee.[/colour] [colour=#9966cc]You're only defect, lack of class.[/colour] [colour=#9966cc]Did you really have to be so crass?[/colour]" There was nothing the matter with Psmith's delivery, he flowed like a brook. He gave a bow to rival once he had finished his own lines, remarking, "[colour=#9966cc]In matters of metrical dexterity, however, I must acknowledge you superior. I am as conservative as a mud soaked stick, in that aspect.[/colour]"

Ponies who'd known Psmith for any amount of time could place him at once as one of the great aristocratic pifflers. Almost everything he said he said for the sake of having something to say. To extemporize was his greatest joy, as might be seen symbolized by his cutie mark, a word bubble. From a word, he could develop a theme into a puff pastry paragraph. So it was with Wordplay's question of communism. "[colour=#9966cc]And if I were, an aristocrat leading the proletariat in the clashes of the class war? A picturesque suggestion, comrade Wordpla, but it lacks reality. The political communist I am not, but the economic socialist, perhaps. I might say Psocialist, which would be silly, but not inaccurate. Father, you see, never does things by halves; he wishes to be egalitarian, to make his social relations equitable, in both the distribution of politeness and property. For example,[/colour]" Here the unicorn reached underneath the bench, magically bringing to hoof an umbrella, evidently left there some time ago. "[colour=#9966cc]Observe the umbrella. It is lost, unclaimed, and yet taken up by nopony, though it is a fact that so many are soaked and catch colds for the lack of one. And why is this? Because nopony wishes to be a thief, and so risk their health, and yet, that same sodden soul has lost umbrellas himself, and would probably not mind a poor tramp using them if he found them! Thus we, the Socialists say, shall amend this by declaring all umbrellas public property. You see an umbrella, you pick it up, walk dryly and gaily to your destination, and drop it into the public umbrella stand, where the next pedestrian has it to hoof! It requires no revolution, lost umbrellas can be collected by park cleaners and garbage ponies, and given to the mailponies to distribute. They already visit each building, and can check the umbrella stand as easily as the mailbox, to see that each has their fair share of envelopes and umbrellas! Ripping scheme, socialism.[/colour]" During this speech, he'd been punctuating his points by waving the umbrella, which had rained dust in a surrounding cloud, mostly upon the speaker. Having discovered this fact with a jolt of self-consciousness, he set about ruefully flicking the dust off his clothes. It was at this point that the filly's declaration of hostility met him. "[colour=#9966cc]Ah, a conservative, I see. Natives usually are[/colour]." He spoke softly, conscious of a rebuke. "[colour=#9966cc]It is rather a pity my elocution offends you, I find yours to be piquantly poetic. But I monopolize the conversation! Do give me your story, in what style and meter you think best; I shall listen.[/colour]" Having done the best he could for his clothes, he stopped talking, and relaxed, indicating with a hoof that the floor was ceded to Comrade Wordplay.

Yes, do. We are trying to populate a school, after all.

"[colour=#9966ff]Your Majesty.[/colour]" Psmith bowed again, intoning his reply with the utmost solemnity. In his entire attitude there was, surprisingly, no sarcasm; for all the world he'd taken Wordplay entirely seriously. He gazed at the filly with pleased interest as she spoke. "[colour=#9966ff]All right then, Comrade WordplA. You don't mind the honorific, do you? By parental fiat, I am to become an egalitarian. The prospect intrigues, I must confess. The cry goes 'round the castle walls: 'Psmith is to shed his snobbery!' The old Pater was rather keen on that, you see.[/colour]" His speech was free and easy, like a rich uncle pouring bits upon his nieces and nephews, assuring his siblings with a chortle that 'There's more where that came from!' When asked what he was doing, he gave a somewhat theatrical sigh. "[colour=#9966ff]Ah, with that comes the bitter pill. Shall I tell you my sob story? We begin at birth. My older cousin was to be paid 10 bits a week for keeping watch over the cradle and seeing that I kept out of trouble; on the first day she struck for 20 a week and got it. On to early colthood. Mother was a titleless lady of the social graces, while Father planned my future. Now, the old Pater had a hobby, and his hobby was hobbies. Never more than one at a time, and not one for more than six months altogether. He took a great and guiding interest in my future, but declined to narrow the scope; out went one scheme, and in another, swarming along with all the bees that make their hives in bonnets, or top hats, rather; father's fads did not extend to his headgear. Well, in a fit of temporary sanity, he sent me off to boarding school for the good of my character. Once I'd found I liked the place, he bounced me out to here, to mix and mingle with all sorts; the blending of the classes being his latest enthusiasm[/colour]." His speech was rather of the effervescent sort, a sort of breezy refusal to let external troubles trouble him, or internal troubles trouble anyone else; a sort of lighthearted and chatty stoicism. "[colour=#9966ff]Soliloquy ended, we resume dialog. Now then, Comrade WordplA, what are you labeled, under dramatis personae? In what relation do you stand towards the exile? I had rather hoped the friendly native, but we shall not presume.[/colour]"

Apart from the crowd, near the back of the park where the more shaded benches were, stood one such new student. He was a unicorn colt, close to graduation, though he wasn't quite finished growing yet; there were signs of expansion in the legs. His coat was of a pale, purplish-grey colour, and his mane was brown and styled short. His half-lidded teal eyes observed the crowd benevolently, like a monarch watching his subject cavort on a bestowed holiday. He himself was impeccably dressed in school shirt, collar, and blazer. Not a crease was out of place, and yet he could carry the look without the slight stiffening that accompanied sartorial care in most colts. He remained still, but at at ease. The only discordant note in his outfit was the tie; it was not in the St. Mareson's school colors, but of another school altogether, Canterbridge. There was something jarring in the juxtaposition, and a pointed look at the dissenting necktie would have elicited something like an apologetic look from the unicorn. Still, bad form or not, one had to take a stand in these things. As Wordplay passed by, he fumbled in his pocket, and produced an eyeglass, through which he peered at the filly. "[colour=#9966ff]Ah, a friendly native! Tell me, are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, the Nerd who vows Revenge, or simply the Ordinary Student whose life is turned upside-down in Chapter 2?" [/colour]He had a nice voice, quite free of any adolescent awkwardness. Evidently, it had already finished changing into its adult form. "[colour=#9966ff]I," [/colour]He spoke again, giving a graceful if rather exaggerated bow before extending his hoof,[colour=#9966ff] "Am Psmith. P-S-M-I-T-H. The P is silent, as in Pterodactyl and Psionic. Do be sure to pronounce it right, I can tell when ponies leave out silent letter. You could call me Wordsworth, I suppose, though I wish you wouldn't." [/colour]He spoke lightly, like one prepared to go on all day. It wasn't so much that he liked the sound of his own voice, though he did; he also enjoyed the exercise of his tongue like a runner enjoys the exercise of his hooves.

Yep, she's the one who brought me onto this site! And that sounds fine to me.

I know, the tentative teacher is actually my sister's OC. Psmith would be coming in as an upper class student, in his last year of schooling, too. I'd like a few more students around. I might do something with that history; I hadn't worked out anything relating to setting, to be honest. I could work with anything you gave to me, honestly, I just want to give my characters some air at this point.

I think it'll be alright; doesn't seem overpowered compared to what I've seen around here. I can't say I've seen a Zebra/donkey hybrid before, so you're a first there. But yeah, looks like a good character to my amateur eye!

Just possibly, I should think. Suppose it were to suddenly come under new management, management with Ideas as to egalitarianism? I'd been thinking more in the country than right in the city, but it could turn out well either way.

Okay, here's what's going on. I want to take my new OC, Wordsworth Psmith out for a spin. He's an older schoolcolt (about high-school age), and has just been sent off to a boarding school. This institution (which I'm accepting name suggestions for) was set up for the purpose of mixing together fillies and colts from all the classes of Equestria, in the hopes that friendship and camaraderie can overcome social divisions. No real plot in mind for now, just a story of making friends in a strange place, and making an exile tolerably enjoyable. My character is a student, but if you want to RP a teacher, that's OK too.

Right-o! I'll get on planning his debut, then!

Why thank you, I shall try to do the archetype justice!

*D'oh!* Forgot a couple of sections, just added them.

Well, that's the thing finished at last! I would like a bit of feedback on this one; I tried in writing this to imitate the style of PG Wodehouse, how well do you think I did?

I hope to get some more work done tonight, I have just finished my perusal of the works which inspired him. Can you guess what they are, by the way? It may become more apparent later.