Blueblood

"[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.

Couple of things:

1. Proper Formatting for an application includes the labels that each item answers, it really save confusion. I think this might be a technical error, maybe it was garbled in transmission.

2. If you're not finished with an app, label it a [WiP] in the subject title (you can change it by using the "Full Edit" Option.

3. I'd like to see his history and personality expanded upon! We have surprisingly few couriers here.

Earth Writer, a newly engaged columnist for one of the Canterlot Daily papers, found himself devoid of ideas again. Before this job, his work had never been seen by anyone but his teachers and classmates, and now there were potentially thousands seeing his work. *And judging it.* This worrying wasn't helping anything; and so the young unicorn stallion was taking a brisk walk around the city of Canterlot to work it off.

He saw the poster in passing, and stopped to read. He turned away when he finished, walking again, his thoughts jolted into a new path. *What would I ask them? It'd be crass to just ask them for a chance to get in the Equestrian Royal Geographic Society. No, I've got to earn than how I can. Still... what could they tell me, that no pony else could?* Then, he stopped. At any point in a walk around the city, a pony might suddenly catch glimpse of the view from the mountain ledge the city was perched upon, and it never fails to stun the receptive.

Earth Writer wandered back to his flat in a daze, and to his little table where he wrote when at home. After staring at a piece of paper for a little while, he levitated a pen and began to write.

Dear Princess Celestia,

My name is Earth Writer, I'm a geographer living here in Canterlot. I wanted to ask you, do you remember when this city was founded, and why it was founded here? Most of the principal architecture is of Marble, and it is some distance to the nearest vein, both vertically and horizontally. I had a kind of notion, half formed, that you, or maybe your sister saw the view from a mountain ledge, and wanted to share it with all of us.

At least, I like to think so, when I catch a glimpse of it.

Sincerely,

Earth Writer

He posted the letter straight thereafter. He wasn't sure how fast Princess Celestia would reply to the letter, but if it was swift enough, it would settle the issue of a subject for his column.

Added his cutie mark story; hopefully soon I'll have the material for the rest of his bio and current character.

The stallion's stomach lurched in the few seconds his introduction went unacknowledged. Indeed, can there be a more awkward a position than to wait beside two mares after introducing oneself, not knowing if they were even going to acknowledge one's existence?

*Easy, you're losing your head, they're just busy right now.* His rationality had caught on to the obvious, but could do nothing to settle the rest of him until one of them bumped his proffered hoof.

"Pleased to meet you both!" Earth Writer gave a polite nod to Rose and Blaze before sitting down on the other side of the table, an air of relief hanging about him. Once the first difficult hurdles of introduction were over, he felt equal to whatever the conversation would throw at him. After all, this was a bookstore, these were authors; they shouldn't falter for want of subjects, at least.

"I hope you don't mind my interruptions, I know it's rather annoying to have a stranger walk into the middle of a moment of inspiration." He smiled at Blaze as he saw her pen scamper across the sheaves of her notebook, and felt an inclination just to sit back and watch. After all, there was a book beginning right in front of him! Not many are privileged to see such a thing.

He relaxed a little as Blaze addressed him as well. His eyebrows rose a fraction at her denial of authoring the book with her name on the front, but he let it pass as he moved on to her questions. "Oh, I'm quite alright. I wouldn't know about divine purpose, I just came in here looking for a book to read. Speaking of..." He levitated a copy of One Pony from the stand Rose indicated, turning it over. The Publisher had seen fit to dedicate more space on the back cover to quotes from literary critics than any kind of plot synopsis.

"So..." He asked Rose, after waiting for a moment where she wasn't talking with her new co-author. "What's this about?"

Yes, yes, I had planned to base him off of the works of PG Wodehouse, and was doing a little more research. I'll be putting up his bio over the next few days; it'll probably be rather long.

*Edit* Well, I lost my first few paragraphs my a mis-stroke, so it might take a little longer

Well, that settled one thing. He was definitely looking for an excuse to cozy up to her. "Oy, bird, you are lucky I am taking pity on you for injuries!" The laugh Flying Brick gave at the end, however, probably indicated she wasn't going to add to them anytime soon.

"It's only bruises and scrapes, if you want to go beyond the rank boards, my hooves are fine for it!" She threw her head back with unconcern as they exited the tent, remarking as if in passing. "I just wanted to see how I did, you know?"

She snorted a laugh quite loudly as she caught Loki checking out another mare. "An incorrigible griffon, you are! Ma warned me about the ones like you..." She shook her head playfully before settling on a more serious expression. They'd arrived at the ranking boards, and the brick-colored mare couldn't conceal a certain anxiety about how well her efforts went over-

"Oh, not bad!" Well, there was a pleasant surprise! Second place for the tug-of-war event, and third for the obstacle course and cloud diving! The last was perhaps most impressive, as she had been the highest-placing non-pegasus on the diving board.

Flying Brick did have to snort at the idea of being a Royal Guard. "Stalliongrad is not part of Equestria; I couldn't join if I wanted to. The city guard is not so..." She snickered. "Pretty. Still, I prefer steel to gold any day. If nothing else works out..." She shrugged. She probably wouldn't in any case, not being one to stand discipline.

The mare looked at Loki sideways after his suggestion that they lean together as they walked, not sure if we was really dizzy or just looking for an excuse to cozy up to her. He did seem genuine enough, and it would probably be mean to call him out on it.

"Just as far as the ranking postings, if it's as bad as all that." She said decisively, as she ducked under his wing. "You start, I should not want to drag you by the wing."

Roleplay Type: Main (World of Equestria)

Name: Wordsworth "Word" Psmith

Sex: Stallion

Age: Older Schoolcolt

Species: Unicorn

Eye colour: Teal

Coat colour: A dark Purple, with a touch of grey.

Mane/Tail/Markings colour & Style: His mane and tail are a fairly ordinary brown; his mane is brushed mostly to the right of his face, and trimmed short enough not to obscure it.

Physique: On the thin side, but not too tall for his weight; he gives the impression of having a growth spurt or two left in him.

Cutie Mark: A word bubble

Origin/Residence: His family residence is in Canterlot, though he's currently finishing his last term at a boarding school in the country

Occupation: Student

Motivation: For the most part, to stave off ennui. He also tends to look out for clever ponies to match wits against, or those he feels in a need for "a little friendly advice and assistance."

Likes: Talking at length, intellectual stimulation, clothes that are well cut and comfortable, luxurious rest after strenuous activity, "spreading sweetness and light among the populace,"

Dislikes: Boredom, ponies who insist upon him shutting up, unsporting adversaries, anything actually cruel or mean, ruining his clothes

Character Summary

Early Life: Wordsworth Bolingbroke Psmith was born to a prosperous Canterlot couple, whose first act was to give him an unnecessarily long name. "Word Smith" or even "Wordy" would have certainly been a more lucid and accurate moniker. From a precociously early foalhood, he was babbling words, and the years never stemmed the tide, only enforced a kind of grammatical regularity about it.

The excessive length we may attribute, as we say, to excessive poshness, but the silent 'P' before the surname relates to a not-irrelevant bit of family history. The erstwhile ancestor of W.B. Psmith was a metalworker, living somewhere about the neighborhood of Trottingham, who happened to make a fortune at it. With this, his descendents descended upon the High Society of Canterlot, who would have nothing to do with those of the 'vulgar' trades. Thus, to blend in, every 'Smith' in their names became 'Psmith,' and so they made their place in the world, fulfilling mostly the functions of the silent letter, and not the spoken word.

His parents were a study in contrasts, and each had their influence over his character. His mother was a regular fixture in the social scene, playing hostess and guest alternately, and lost no time in inoculating the young colt with a desire and love for sociability. As the family's social position was rather on the lower end of the Higher Society, acquiring invitations to events rather depended on making oneself out to be good company and getting along with the hosts and the guests. Conversely, as a host one had to get on particularly well with the ponies below stairs, if one's own affairs were to be made worth attending. With his mother as the constant ideal of Sociability, the young Wordsworth would model his lifelong values after her.

His father, like most fathers of his class, wished for his son to make the family proud, in the occupation he saw as best fit for a Canterlot colt of a good family. However, Psmith senior was a stallion of hobbies, never having more than one at a time, and never one for more than six months altogether. Hence, the young colt was bounced from school to school, and from tutor to tutor, depending upon the idee fixee du mois, which could range from the gentlecolt farmer, to the higher finance, to the diplomatic services, to the military, to the stallion-about-town.

From an early age, therefore, the junior Psmith had a deep uncertainty about what his future would hold. As a defense mechanism against the onset of bewildered despair, he would grow to cultivate a philosophic attitude about life and its vagaries, treating the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as entertainments brought forth for his amusement. The fact that he was not allowed to dedicate his energies towards any ambition for an extended length of time also encouraged the attitude of the spectator, as opposed to the participant.

Cutie Mark Story: The erstwhile Wordsworth had for some time been unsure of where his talents truly lay, only knowing that they were not in any of the things his father introduced and deserted in rapid succession, but he'd had a kind of hazy idea that one of the future trials might prove fruitful. His tutelage under his mother he viewed as a rest from that exhausting search, and one which he valued most highly.

It was during one period of this holiday of sorts, a garden party given by his mother, that Psmith junior was being shown around to the adult members of the party. His precocious language skills gave him a kind of popularity, though more as a performer than any kind of fellow attendee. Consequently, he found the exercise tiresome, and retreated at the first opportunity to observe the proceedings, which he did with a fascinated stare. It was during this time that the Psmith household was graced by its highest-ranked guest yet: a frightful dowager wielding a lorgnette, whose very gaze could wither those upon whom it fell with displeasure.

This eminent noblepony had arrived fashionably late, causing a stir comparable to the upsetting of a genteel anthill. She had a reputation for being very critical of every society function which she attended, which added much to the nervousness of the hostess and the staff, contributing to a stiltedness in the first and a nervousness in the second that helped the situation not at all.

Wordsworth had no conscious awareness of this, at the time. All he knew was that this mare's presence was proving distressing to a serving girl of whom he and his mother were quite fond, so he moved in to intercept the dowager. He walked right up to her, introducing himself in the manner of a stallion of the smart set, and paying her the best compliments he'd heard that evening. His youthful impudence served as an armor against her initial ocular artillery, giving him the opportunity to rise into a height of perfect piffle, which actually induced the dowager to laugh!

The tension had broken, the maid had recovered her poise, and the social graces were upheld. Psmith was quite proud of his acuity, no less so when he discovered that this action had earned his cutie mark, which marked him for another round of exhibition, to which he proved himself equal.

School Days: It was shortly after young Psmith had ascertained his special talent that his father, acting upon the latest bee which had buzzed it's merry way under his bonnet, promptly shot him off to one of the more prestigious boarding schools for colts of the upper classes. The old fellow felt that Wordsworth needed more company with his peers, and that young colt packed off with little complaint.

The school effected further developments upon his personality. Wordsworth was rather inclined to shun physical activity, but the schoolmasters corralled him into field for what they considered the minimum necessary school sports. This put him into some kind of physical shape, and gave him some creditable skill in cricket, but when he was off the field, indolence reigned once more. He was more inclined to hang back, and give commentary.

It would be untrue to say that he was completely inactive off the field, of course. Academically, he did nothing to distinguish himself, except perhaps in the matter of composition, which earned marks in proportion to how ready a teacher was to read through eight pages when he'd asked for an essay of four. However, he was as quite ready to rag the schoolmasters and live it up as any colt, an influence of his peers.

His attitude towards his fellow students at this time, and general attitude towards life, might be fairly represented by his middle name, Bolingbroke. This is an aristocratic corruption of another good sound pony name, Boiling Brook. Normally, he is content to burble along to any who might happen to stop by, but he is quite able to make his surroundings pretty hot, and whether he gives you the refreshing spa bath or merely drops you in the soup depends rather on how he feels towards you. Like the brook, he is not particularly strong in body or forceful in character, but in his own small way, he is almost impossible to stop. Even small streams are forces of nature.

At the point where our protagonist takes the stage, bee number one in the bonnet of elder Psmith, the idea of a boarding school, has been joined but not supplanted by a secondary insect, an idea that it would be no bad thing for the classes of society to mix in their mix of their formative years. Just as promptly as this idea came, he bounced Psmith the younger from his beloved academic home-away-from-home, into another institution, a publicly-run institution founded on the same lines as Wordsworth's father's latest fad.

The student bears this as best he can, but the disruption had disturbed his calm. He's a little more apt these days to rag, and take active steps in matters he objects to. But, he is not resentful, no! He is quite willing to liberally distribute his reflections upon life to the inmates of the mixed school as well, and he is quite able to make himself socially at home pretty much anywhere. He feels, perhaps, that philosopher may make a tolerable thing out of any situation, even exile, with a friend or two by his side...

Personality: In summation, Wordsworth Bolingbroke Psmith is an affable and loquacious colt of the upper class on the cusp of launching forth from schooling. He's at his best among company, and isn't snobbish to what kind he gets, as long as they're good listeners, and intellectually stimulating when they speak; and Psmith is the sort of philosopher who could extract all kinds of meanings from the words of the supremest blitherers upon whom Celestia ever permitted the sun to shine. He tends to be something of a dandy in his dress. He's rather more indolent than most colts his age, though he's always ready to help a pal out.

Flaws: He talks too much. Ever since he was a young foal, he's chattered on. When he has nothing of sense to say, he's quite content to talk perfect nonsense, without the slightest loss of solemnity or onset of embarrassment. For all his garrulity, however, in certain respects Psmith is rather shy. The upper class ideal and the Public School Spirit have both given him the habit of keeping his deeper emotions hidden. Whenever he's wracked with profound anger, sorrow, or joy, he's struck dumb. Silence is about the only way he can express anything in that line.

Huh, Flying Brick seems to have done fairly respectably, overall. I can't say I expected that, but, well, thanks!

Just copy the youtube link. If that doesn't work you can add in the tags [media ] link here [/media ] (without spaces)

Thanks!

OK, how do you embed videos here? I can't seem to get it to work.

There are few happier creatures in Equestria than a pony with their first week's pay in their pocket, and among these was Earth Writer, who walked along the streets of Canterlot feeling the coins jingle in the pocket of his old windbreaker. This morning, he'd sold his first bit of copy to a daily periodical, and had decided to treat himself. As the lanky unicorn strolled by the rows of little shops, he felt like a king looking over a choice selection of artists to extend his patronage. Here there was a chocolate shop, there a clothier, and a little further on a watchmaker. He paused to look at them all, taking note of all the window displays, but not entering any of the shops until he reached the end of the street, where there stood a little bookstore and cafe.

Window shopping never does justice to such a place; you can't judge a book by its cover, after all. The best thing to do is to go in and peruse the merchandise yourself, and this Earth Writer did. Coming into view, he presented the figure of a tan stallion with a black mane and muzzle, with a dark green jacket hanging loosely on his frame. He only briefly looked over the new releases, he didn't have enough bits to spare on a hardcover. So, he had gone over to the paperbacks, loosing himself for a while in the cover synopses and prologues, and also in the inimitable smell of books, a mixture of ink, paper and binding glue. He could spend hours in this fashion before he bought anything, and had often done so without making a purchase back he hadn't any bits to spare, much to the annoyance of the various proprietors.

*Ponies are hardly ever themselves, except in a bookstore.* He remembered the quote from somewhere, but he couldn't place it. As for what he was... well, he divided his attention pretty near equally to the cheap reprints of old literature, and the cheap first prints of the newest fiction with no pretense to literature. While dividing his attention between these two camps, he found himself beside a table where two mares- well, a mare and a filly, were talking. Perking up his ear, he managed to pick up that they were two authors, "talking shop," as it were, in a bookstore.

*Not something you see every day, worth looking into, maybe?* Well, perhaps for a short journalistic sketch, he reflected as he levitated his own little notebook from his pocket. As he did so, he heard the offer of co-authorship. "Eh, what's that?" Startling a bit at the realization that he'd spoken this aloud, he walked up to the pair a little sheepishly. "Sorry, couldn't help overhearing, and, well, one doesn't often get a chance to meet authors, and, er..." He trailed off in a little confusion, then shrugged with an apologetic smile and extended a hoof. "My name's Earth Writer. And you?"

Thanks!