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Before you begin to scream and flail your arms in sheer terror, it's only for a few days.
So yeah, hopefully it won't disrupt any RP.
-Lorailis is out securing transport for his precious cargo with a Goblin in Orgrimmar
-Jelme is doing what he does best: Whatever he wants, wherever he can get his grubby mitts on.
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
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Have fun!
Frogspawned: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
Frogspawned: Frogspawned flips a table.
Frogspawned: (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻
FROG, STOP FLIPPING TABLES. YOU'RE MAKING A MESS.
Frogspawned: ┬─┬ ノ( ゜-゜ノ)
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OMGWTFBBQWE'REALLGONNADIENOOOOOOOOOO--
I mean, hope you have fun on your trip!
"I am more afraid of one hundred sheep led by a lion than one hundred lions led by a sheep."
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Hah, the few next days will be dark for CotH! Sui--
Haha, have fun, as I said before, and be prepared for evil Aidas! :twisted:
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Going away for a TRAP!
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ஜ۩۞۩ஜ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
DAMN THIS COMMENT IS FANCY
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ஜ۩۞۩ஜ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
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He returns!
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
Posts: 2,536
Threads: 108
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Joined: Apr 2009
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Yay, the trap didn't work!
Posts: 2,606
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Joined: Apr 2009
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300th post.
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?