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About Varied / Professional C. NortonFemale/United States Recent Activity
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"Finn, dahling," Quinn purred while smiling sweetly and dusting off the former T.V. star's shoulder, "I need to chat with you about something. Officially." Hooking her arm thru his, the Queen; for she refused to be called prince, let alone princess; walked off with him to a private aria that insure they wouldn't be overheard. Turning towards him with a fiery calm, she began.

"Did I, or did I not say that using medical pull on the blood issue was to be limited to the setting up of a blood drive and not to go ​UPSETTING THE LOCALS​?! Yes, I ​DID​. " A deep, focusing breath was followed by a baring of teeth.

"Finn, daaaahling..." her smile dropped. "I put you in charge of this because of your M***********G ​fame​ and ability to sway people to our side, not so that others could disregard my wisdom to be BLATANTLY RETARDED!"

Quinn took a deep breath and gently cleared her throat in order to assist her words in comeing out pleasantly. "Ava is as friendly as a hunter can be right now and has rather sweetly covered this blunder. I love... love, love, love," she simpered as she flicked dust off his sleeve, "the way you gave her insensitive to do just that. With this golden hunter on the loose, I don't doubt he's got his nose in everything, just sniffing for a reason to bring us down... ​if​ he can find us."

Suddenly the Queen's demeanor changed to something more poised and relaxed. "Now," Qinn batted her eyes and curled her lips into a pleasing shape, "it's not that a health inspection was entirely mental... yes it was. It was entirely mental.  The thing is, Finn... The media got hold of this focus group and not a single member of your team thought to make it look like Ava gives her shelters extra care and attention then the average government run place. That would have been ​mavahlous​!" Quinn beamed and then went on with flat seriousness. "I will not have this city brought low because people want to throw their weight around and impress. You're a Ventrue, Finn! ​The​ Ventrue. Lead your team, before they destroy you."

Quinn's smile slid back into place. "Someone is out to make you look incompetent and I can't have that. You're my second in command. That's not good for me ​or​ the city. Time to ​​suit up​​," she quiped in reference to Scorpion Man, the TV show that made him a household name. "Suit up and fix it Finn."  A wink was tossed his way as she fussed with his hair then turned to head back to the rest of the things she had to do.  "I know you can."
Quin was born poor. Like... my house is made of poop and wishful thinking poor back in the days when Noble people could come and be like, "Oh you're a hawt peasant. I'mma rape you." or "Hey! I feel like cutting a bitch. I think I'll kill your main source of income," and such and all you could do was be all "Uh... thank you?" because that's how you do.

Quinn was born to these circumstances and eventually her family died because plague or some other preventable nonsense. She was maybe 5. Here's the thing though. She was always able to talk to ghosts and so people were all like, "Freak! Burn da witch! Devils and such!" Luckily there was this monk coming through town who was all like "Gotta let the kid repent, and such," like you do. So Quinn's like, "I dun wanna die,"  because she's five and what the hell does she have for moral turpitude. So the monk is all, "Yo! People! Not devils. Angels and goodness and sparkles and shit!" and the people were like, "Really? Niiiiice." And Quinn didn't die.

Unbeknownst to Quinn, not all her family was live-in-a-hole poor. Some time ago there was a schism between the family and  clearly her branch got the crap kicked out of them. Now the rich side heard about this 'holy kid' and was all like, "Dude! Political Church money!" like you do, and they took Quinn in.

Quinn was maybe 6 by the time they got her and frankly, good food, good clothes and a roof were a pretty sweet deal. The family pretty much treated her like a second class citizen, and that was okay because seriously, being poor sucks. They would dress her nice and show her off when important people came and were all, "Oh! What do the angles tell you about my upcoming marriage or war or left big toe," or what ever, and the family would rake in that sweet, sweet status and gold.

But eventually boobs happened and the family was like, "Dude, 13 is a totally marriageable age, lets hook this kid up for political power, use that 'holy connection' to bring down enemies and take over the world," like you do. Now, the monk who apparently made it his life's work to be 'passing by' heard of this and was all, "Piff. HaHaHa! No." Then straight up tells the church higher ups what's going on. The church was all, "That's an awesome idea. We're gonna do it!" and took Quinn away from the family because politics and social standing and stuff mattered like that back in the day. Excommunication basically meant being royally screwed.

So Quinn is sent to a nunnery to await whatever fate was being decided for her. About 3 months latter shit went down in the holy battle for who gets to be the next dude-in-a-ridiculous-hat and Quinn was forgotten. What ya gonna do? Thing about a nunnery is, you're allowed to think there. You're not really under threat and your place is secure. You get peace is what I'm saying. Quinn was taught to analyze the scriptures and how to write, to read, to listen to the undercurrent of what's goin' on. I mean, dude, you totally want a heads up about who's plotting what with your life, know what I mean? Eventually Quinn began to analyze the politics of the near by town. Then politics on the grander scale. Every passing dignitary, every wandering mistral and person looking for a place to rest for the night had a story to tell. Quinn began to write them down. Her work could draw blood if seen by the right eyes. The mother superior was having a good laugh at them and kept them in a book she stuck on a shelf. She didn't want no trouble.

Then the mother superior died because age and stuff. A new mother superior was sent to the nunnery and she found the writings. Now, this new mother had connections and started sending choice tidbits to her cronies to be used in some of the best lambasting the old world had ever seen. That got the eye of a few people. Religious magical peoples who heard about this Quinn and were all like, "So you say she talks to angels, eh" because apparently they were pre Canadians and the ventrue who were like, "Oh, I can use a ghoul with this sort of political blade to demolish my enemies," and the Toreador who were all like, "SASS CANNON AHOY!"

Mommy got there first because apparently she had a better horse. Anyway, the point is Quinn was sent to live with her and ghouling happened. So mommy was all like, "Do the thing," and Quinn did. Sadly, Quinn's eyesight began to go and back in the day there was nothing doing to fix that. The truth is she spent so much time trying to see who she was talking to in the umbra that she blew out her retinas. It's not like they had the science to figure that crazy out,  so mommy wrote it off as some sort of genetic aging thing and assigned a ghoul to write what Quinn had to say down. That's how Quinn learned to work as a team. Eventually glasses were a thing, the ghoul got reassigned and Quinn did her own writing again. Mommy eventually decided Quinn was actually quite useful, but not best kept on a short string because ambition, spying, political power, what not and got permission to embrace Quinn.

Woot! Wampire time!

But the thing is... By this time Quinn had been using coffee to stay away well beyond her normal sleep cycle to do more than she should. To excess. Nothing, not even a little thing like needing sunglasses at night, was going to keep her from working that fast speed braining sort of life. Coffee is the edge and she's got a deadly balance on the blade.

She'd learned through Torry knowledge of auspex that the voices she was hearing were not in fact angles and  had to deal with those umbra walking souls being the only real friends she had. Some times. Appearances are hard to keep up and by her third decade as the undead-ish-thing she is, she basically through up her hands and said, "Fuck it. I'm weird. Deal with it." That opened ♫♪ a whole new world ♪♫ to her. Seeking out people who could see them too gave her the first insight into the occult. Over time she built those contacts in the sparkles-are-magic world of the occult and keeps a sharp focus on it. It's shinny.

Now, at this time Rivington was lawyering it up in his I-wear-a-suit way, and apparently his Mother with a capital M and mommy were friends. Who knows what crazy ideas they had going on. Probably something like, "Hey, wanna see which one hits the other first?" but it was more likely, "Your kid's fucking nuts." "Yeah, well your kid's got a stick up his ass." Light bulb! And then Rivington and Quinn were stuck in situation after situation where they began to rub off on each other. Rivington curbs Quinn's nuts and having to deal with that loosens Rivington up. I.E. She focuses and he sees the bigger picture.

Ah, the magic of friendship.

Then stuff happened that involved ghouls and chinchillas, rabbits and law. Eventually they wound up being told by the Moms that Kenosha was open and go gets them some of that sweet, sweet land control action. It's kinda messed up, but you gotta kick your kids out of the house eventually.

The masters level game of chess begins and She swears someone's out to get her.

Time to Torrie up.
There are a million and two rules in war. The first hundred or so are about survival. The rest are about how to kill.

She could hear the faint clicker-clack of sharpened nails as they sliced their way past thick padding and plush weave of costly carpet into the solid oak below. A pause. Quinn's mind filled in the image of a chinchilla as it stopped to groom its pink frosted fur. A shuffle. The animal's prey was in sight. It was on the move. She calculated the outcome based on noises alone. The break between key strokes that bespoke of a sudden caution in the air, the slide of a chair as weight shifted out of it, the scratching swish of movement and the inevitable grind of metal as filing cabinets opened and then clicked shut again. Any moment now the inevitable cry of dismay would come followed by a groaning sneer of disgust.

"Against the first..." came the muttered baritone used only in the privacy of empty rooms.

It was like an old fashioned marquee flashed a thousand watts in her head, arrows scrolling towards the door. A grin malicious as sugar is sweet crawled across her lips.

"The first what?" came the exasperated gruffness of a gear switching mind.

Ding, ding, ding! Quinn burst thru the closet door, refusing to shield her eyes from the unaccustomed brightness of the stately law office. An entrance should never suffer from the glare of the stage lights.

"Tradition, Rivington. Tradition. Try to keep up."

His blue eyes narrowed in heartless reproach. "You cannot make a legal missive that vague. Poor form."

Quinn yanked her mind away from images of the ventrue dressed as cartoon pirate. "Why? If they can't uphold the first they should suffer for it."

"It allows too much wiggle room," he explained.

"Oh." The lawyer regained his seat as a flicker of bemusement caught in Quinn's expression. She desperately reached for some clever verbal parry. "Well..." she struggled, fingers wiggling as if winding invisible threads until they stopped at the touch of a solid object. Sadly, the realization that no amount of spin would give her a defense against his hammer's blow of logic crumpled Quinn into the chair opposite the golden haired lawyer. "But it seemed so ruthless..."

The glimmer of triumph in Rivington's eyes was at once wicked and triumphant. Out maneuvering Quinn was a pass time that could wreak havoc with a weaker mind. "Are you talking suspected breach of the first or just proven breach?"

"Well proven of course," she scoffed. "Suspected is to have the scourge tail that fool and bring me proof so I can make an example of this idiot. You know your legal sensibilities won't let me do anything less."

Rivington chuckled. "You know me so well." Drawing close parchment of a ghastly yellow, he began to scribble out notes, the glide of his silver nibbed pen a hypnotic specter across the page.

"So, this is what I think you should send out," he drawled while looking over several sheets of paper that Quinn could have sworn were blank just a moment ago."Any proven breach of the first Tradition will be punishable by starvation or death.  Length of starvation and/or sentence of death is determined based on size of breach, and number of previous offenses." Lowering the document Rivington rested his steady gaze on Quinn and waited.

The light in the room was different. When had Rivington took off his jacket? "Isn't that what I said?" she asked, unable to keep her confusion hidden. A quick glance about the room showed time had shifted. Again. Damn him and that pen! He knew better than to show such a lovely piece of elegance to her and expect to hold any binding conversation. The traditions were important!

Rivington dismissed the outrage in her eyes. "Yes," answering her question and suspicion at the same time, "but this is more specific, and less rambling. Also, it doesn't mention shoes." Then he grinned his charismatic smile. It was a smile that never failed to sway the most despondent juror to his side. Quinn's glair didn't falter so he dropped the facade. "Trust me, it's a lawyer thing."

Determined to respond just as eloquently, Quinn stood with dignity and poise before hissing out a guttural "BAH!" and shoving everything in reach off the mahogany desk. Show of force achieved, she turned to storm from the room only to trip over the gawd awful tennis shoes she was trying to get used to. Heals rarely had traction. Laying there with her dignity in shambles, muttering something that sounded like 'flamboyant cheese' but was in actuality a tinny tirade about how unpoetic legalese is, Quinn let the anger flow out of her. This is what she got for needing immediate results. Even she was not immune to her impatience.

Rivington took a moment to hide the laughter in his voice. "Flamboyant cheese?"

Planting her toes and using her core mussels to shift the bulk of her form into a graceful if slowly rising image that called to mind old caskets and horror flicks, Quinn sniffed. "Do you know why I don't like legal things? There's no passion in it. No story." Dusting herself off, she guggled, "Passion causes law. Law is a reaction to it. Murder? Well what now? Guess we make a law. Cold. Clinical. And what's wrong with shoes?!" she outraged, a twitching at the corner of her eye.

Rivington knew there was no talking to her when the insanity took hold. Reaching serendipitously into a small drawer to retrieve a set of quality earplugs and rising as he fixed them into place, he threw open the closet and walked into the darkness on the other side.

Quinn's tirade about the stagnation of  law on the imagination and the inevitable  question of 'what would have happened to Shakespeare if he'd been dogged down by the legal system' lasted twenty minutes. As she ranted he'd brewed a fresh pot of coffee, completed three dispositions and waited until she began to wind down. Slipping a hot cuppa into her icy hands he watched the haunted, fanatical look fade into an unspoken apology.

"Law is supposed to be black and white, as it is blind. Passion has no place in it or else we couldn't render fair judgment."

Quinn's claws threatened to shatter the sturdy ceramic couched in her grip as her eyes began to blaze with renewed fever. This time Rivington was ready. With two fingers he guided the cup to her lips while his free hand pressed down on her quivering shoulders. The cup was refilled twice before she spoke again.

"Fine," she groused before gulping down more of the potent brew. Then more calmly, "Fine. I am a benevolent tyrant. It is the goal of all sociopaths."

Rivington could not keep the incredulity off his face as he returned the empty pot to its resting place. Mouthing 'benevolent tyrant' with a shake of his head, he acquiesced. "If you say so my dear. Now," he said as he regained his seat, "did you have any punishments for the other Traditions or just the first?" The click of a ball point pen ricochet off Quinn's hearing like the shot of a gun. "Also, would you like for me to make the announcement, or would you like to do it yourself?"

"No announcements. Make the document and hang it in Elysium where only the kindred can access it. They need to learn to pay attention. Our threats are real and clever, not always given to announce themselves or play fair." Sipping her coffee, Quinn seemed to settle into an intelligent madness as she eyed her foot wear. "I was considering the other Traditions. Domain violations should be brought to light formally and the violated should be allowed to weigh in on punishment." Glancing up to catch the half disgusted, half outraged look on the lawyers face she blinked. "Too much?"

"I wouldn't allow them to weigh in. However..." Rivington began to write.

Ink flowed over the pages in a strong, masculine hand that, though Quinn tried, she could find little fault in. His script was clear and his verbiage immaculate. He made the whimsy of her prattling seem so solid, indisputable. There was magic in this. Blade sharp his voice cut across her thoughts as he pronounced himself satisfied with this latest draft.

"The severity of the  damage and suffering of the victim that is brought to light will determine the severity of the punishment inflicted."

"So like... they come bitching and I decide if they bitched enough to kill people?"

"If you wish to oversimplify. But, they must have proof."

Quinn pondered that long enough to down a few more swallows of the dark brew."So basically the golden rule; don't get caught."

Rivington jabbed a pen towards her with vitality; delighted that she understood, and could put voice to, the subtle undercurrent of  the edict. "Exactly!"  Clearly the coffee had kicked in. "Go ahead and give me the punishments that you have for the rest of them and I'll convert them to, as you call it, legalese. I'll strip the poetry right out of it."

"Progeny.  No. None. I'll fucking kill you and your bastard off spring. You come to me first and I better be impressed. Frankly," Quinn sighed as she eyed the empty cup, "this city can only hold so many. I can't have fool children running around mucking up what is already a delicate situation. The right has to be earned. Honestly, if they get out of hand with this, I'll limit ghouls too."

With barely a flicker of mental taxation, Rivington began to translate. "Due to the current situation and size of our domain, there will be no rights given to create new progeny unless the intended progeny has traits that the Prince feels are necessary for the advancement of the Domain."

"Maybe there is some poetry in your law."

"Well," Rivington puffed up his chest with a roguish wink tossed Quinn's way, "I have been told I have a silver tongue."

A ridiculously adorable giggle escaped from behind cupped hands as Quinn sat back. "Okay, okay. Silver is your thing. Next," her smile more easy and her tone congenial, "Accounting. Well that's straight forward isn't it? Learning mistakes happen, but we can't afford them now, so any mistake will be dealt with severely. This is why we can't have childer. It always takes a decade or more for the glamour of being what we are to wear off.  Someone always goes for flashy and we all pay for it."

"Additionally," Rivington reworded, "if you are granted the right of progeny, and your childer violates any of the traditions, your childer is forfeit and your punishment shall be twice as severe as normal."

That gave Quinn pause. "What is normal? I mean... if the violation is severe enough don't we just kill the sire to for being a dumb ass?"

"Yes," Rivington agreed with an elegant nod. "Normally, we do. The punishment as indicated in the section of the individual Tradition violated."

His vocabulary was lost in lawyer land. Quinn tried again. "Normally we make the sire pay for the breach, and  that usually gets the sire to beat the ever loving bejebus out of the kid so," her mind began to wander. "I guess? I dunno. Seems a lot like a ... what's it called... um..." Fustration began to grab hold as it always did when answers were not forthcoming. "Oh it was in that magazine!" With a flick of her hand and a well placed treat, Grendel the chinchilla was summoned from his playful lolling about in the large bowl of dust tucked behind one curtain. "Fetch that thing I was reading," Quinn commands as if the animal would understand her imperious demands.  Without skipping a beat it skittered off in a flash of punk spikes and tinny backpack.

"So anyway," she continued, "Hospitality. That sounds like the domain thing should go here. But you can punch them. No killing. Only I may grant killing and Only I. I may revoke and..." pulling her rampage short, she smiled coyly. "Well that's the next one. Oh! My magazine," she cooed as Rivington's ghoul presented it then slipped away thru the closet. Maybe, the ghoul's expression read, she could get that paw print leaving fur ball back in its cage. Quinn paid it no mind. There were rules.

"I got this in a subscription bundle with my architectural digest. It sounded interesting. Well, at first it did. I thought it was all about making leather goods like hand bags and shoes but, well..." Sliding a copy of LEATHER, a bsdm magazine towards Rivington with a thoroughly perplexed expression, she asked "Why are things so misleading?"

Rivington couldn't stop the groan that escaped him. Pushing the publication aside with the edge of his pen, he  hissed, "What have I told you about trying new things without asking me first?"

"I didn't get it from the Gangrel!" she protested. "Tony, that Brujha back home with the leather jacket recommended it. He's always so nice."

It happened before he realized it had started. One moment he was eying the magazine in disapproval the next he'd smacked himself in the face so hard he was sure a red mark would remain. Some nights Quinn needed a babysitter. Most nights.

A small voice pierced the colorful haze before his eyes."He jerked my chain, didn't he?"

"Remember," Rivington returned with a half hidden growl of exasperation, "how I told you about phrasing?"

For a moment she sat there, her mind shifting thru layers of age and otherworldly countenance until an odd mix of expressions slid into place. The look was a terrifying mix between truculent child about to cry for being teased and the very reason Hell hath no fury. Quinn took the publication into her grip and began to shred it, paper cuts and snagged cuticles be damned. Glossy images and partial articles about  butt plugs, lubes, crops and the casually placed ad for home aid kits littered the office floor.

"Now, now," he chided, both amused and with a mind to vengeance against Tony. "There's no need to get upset." Letting the toreador smooth her ruffled feathers, Rivington measured matters.  Tony was not tonight's problem. He had other issues to press. "I think we should give Katla loyal." Quinn's sharp gaze swiveled towards him with predatory intent. Straitening up, Rivington clarified the point. "For giving up the Princedom to follow the orders from the Archon. I don't think very many Princes would do that instead of just having their Seneschal rule as proxy."

Still in a rage at the trick Tony had pulled on her, Quinn punched the wall hard enough for her body to resonate and immediately regretted it. Pouting  as she sucked on the wounded aria she dropped into the chair again. "Why? That's not loyal. That's not wanting to be seen as disloyal. It's also a promotion. What prince is fool enough to not want that? And on her first mission out she gets seen by the hunter and that hunter traces her number so as to call her in a Gather. That phone call could have been traced to that very location and... oh!" Her eyes bright with clarity, "Someone tell Door to eat hunters who come calling but are not Ava or her envoy." Reclining comfortablly, she shook her head. "No, I'll need a better reason that that, but it is a big step towards getting it."

Rivington raised a golden brow, "Would you rather strip some status for getting caught like that?"

"No. To be honest, I think it balances out. It was a huge blunder, but she did do what was best for the city. I call it a wash, but a knife's blade of a wash."

"As you wish." Gathering papers and straitening his desk, Rivington pressed in several places that would be unobserved by most. With a final click, he pulled from a secret drawer a neatly compiled list of  who's who and what's what. Running his fingers down the cover with a proprietary air, he spoke. "Now, are there any other status changes that you've heard of while out and about?"

Quinn thought carefully over every tidbit and horror she'd heard while doing her thing. Ponchos were making a come back. Mohair was still unfashionable, as it should be. No new super models or socialites to consider crossed her mind. "Only you have more status than me, which while I was lesser I didn't worry about, but as Queen... Well, I need to make sure it is me who stands tall. So tell me Harpy. Who do I need to look at?"

His smile was wickeder than the Mohomb sun. "Currently, Finn and Katla have more personal status than you. You and Finn are tied in positional status, and you are correct I, as Harpy, have more status than anyone."

"Katla is fine," Quinn said with a dismissive flick of her fingers. "She's not an issue. Finn might be. Just keep a close watch on him. Mommy and Mother," referring to his own cutthroat sire, "are watching us closely. We'd be fools to think otherwise. We are all of fiveish years from finally being more than just children in their eyes."

This got a grimace from the ventrue. But business was business and so he pressed on. "We are tied in regards to personal status. You are the highest ranking member of the Toreador clan, in regards to rank and status. I am second highest in regards to clan Ventrue. When I get ambitious, Finn may be taken down a peg or two."

Quinn gave Rivington a knowing smile. "So... Tuesday then?"

His glair was tempered by the Cheshire grin that curled his lips.

"Now," Quinn's tone told him well that she could not tolerate any more business this night. Not unless something pressing changed. "That party for Christmas will be seen to by the torries and donated to by Finn, but it was my idea. Keep that in mind when they come sniffing about for status.  This Halloween thing.  I'll have guest so I suspect an ambush. Make sure you're prepared."

"Of course," he sniffed as the book was slipped away. "I'm always prepared. Just make sure that the ones who are allowed to enforce things are prepared."

"If they aren't  it won't matter. I'll rip out their lungs. Enforcers should always suspect the Spanish enQuazishion!"

At that flair for the dramatic, Rivington sighed as he rose to put away the files for Court in the safe. "Indeed. Also, I may have made it sound to the Gangrel that I was convincing you to make her Keeper, and implied that I was doing her a favor. Just so you're aware." That juror winning grin again.

"Did you?" as if this were a thing she'd expected. "Trying to make her warship your wingtips?"

"They should always be worshiped, but a little encouragement never hurt."

For a few moments Quinn just stared and then began to burble with laughter. "And you wanted to toss them in the 70s. Now then," she clapped her hands as enthusiasm returned, "this hunter. What cha got on 'em?"

"Not much," he admitted as he leaned against the wall with a sneer of disgust. "He is part of the Mossad & is pretty much untouchable. I can't get anything else without drawing attention."

Rivington's frustration was clear. Quinn rose to sooth his scales. "Then we use the media against him," she cooed as she tickled the hair at the nape of his neck. "Get video feed on him doing these illegal and shady things. Then publicly release them. The outcry will bring him low. NCIS says so."

Despite his great disappointment at the source of Quinn's most common legal adviser, he smiled. She would always need him to keep her from the deep end. "That's not how it works." He shrugged dismissively. "Besides, we don't have any more media influence available at this time."

"Dahling," Quinn purred. "I am the media." Then deciding that what Rivington needed was a dose of fun, she dragged him out to watch Hotel Transylvania 2 which caused her to spend the rest of the week going 'Blah-blah-Blah!' at random intervals for no apparent reason.

Rivington is probably going to kill this Adam Sandler fellow for this outrage invested upon his sanity.


Khthonia's Profile Picture
C. Norton
Artist | Professional | Varied
United States
1:15 AM.

Be still, my Love.
Forever in my heart, my Love.
My Love.

  • Listening to: Silence
  • Reading: the writing on the wall
  • Watching: angels and deamons
  • Playing: DDO, EQ2, WW
  • Eating: cerial
  • Drinking: tea

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Khthonia Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2014  Professional General Artist

Game On! Book 2 is about to end. Before Book 3 : 'With A Stick' starts, I am going to open the floor for Q&A. Ether I or the cast (including PCs and NPCs) will answer no less than 10 questions.

It's first come, first served, so send your queries to Khthonia on Deviantart or capsensislagamoprh on tumbler.
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sailormoonangel22 Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hi! I’m a contributor for #Sellers-Showcase. Thankyou for joining our group; we really appreciate it and we hope that you find it very beneficial. Please read the "Rules/Guidelines" section on our homepage before getting started, and remember that we will only accept submissions that have some indicate in the artist's comments of being for sale, or that have prints enabled. If you need any further help, feel free to note the group or leave a comment on the home page. Thanks!
xenlo1 Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2010
totally likeing the jewelry
lauzzle Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2010
haha why thanks for the :+fav: and i found this icon by searching up free icon in the DA search engine :nod:
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