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night-market-if · 2 years ago

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Paper Moons - Part 1

Welcome to Paper Moons, a community built game and a prequel to the Night Market. Join Gabriel Caine and the Graceling, on a journey through the market and the outlands. Help keep Gabriel from the madness that possesses the Fallen and discover the world outside the market proper and all that it entails.

Paper Moons will be updated weekly here on Tumblr. To participate in current updates, join my Patreon at the Courtesan tier. To play the alpha build with all choices included, join the Baron tier.

Enjoy!

The streets were dark. Wet with a black rain that scattered across it in obsidian gems. The sound of the ocean roared at my back along with the rattle of cages. Soft moans of the dying were a cacophony against the night sky as the forgotten breathed their final goodbyes. My leather boots were wet with dirt and grime, stained with a dark sludge I would have to spend the evening scrubbing out. Glancing down at the parchment in my hand, I frowned.

The letter had been pinned to my door this morning. An old nail, like the ones they used to repair the docks, held it in place. It had been vague and the handwriting barely legible, but there was a promise attached to the end. A promise of money. The promise of a better place to hole up instead of the small hovel that I was huddled within. My roof was thatched and leaking, and the rain had been nearly incessant these last few days. As if the heavens were crying.

Stepping over the small foot bridge, I glanced at the stone house ahead. A waterwheel slowly churned the meandering river that bordered the house, while smoke puffed from a broken chimney. Tugging my hood up and over my head, I chewed at my lip, feeling it split open once more. It was a habit I desperately needed to break.

The door was four rough-hewn planks, fitted together with flat bands of steel. I knocked, my fists coming down on it with three thick thuds. It barely made a sound. But I could hear the shuffling inside and when the door swung open, I was faced with a tall, dark skinned man. His hair was pulled sharply away from his face, his sleeveless shirt tight over a well muscled chest.

“Are you the Graceling?” His voice was rough and shot through with whiskey.

“I am, sir.” I dipped my head in respect, knowing full well I should not be entering into this unknown house, but my stomach was empty and had been for days.

“Come in.” The man stepped aside, and my eyes skittered towards the confines of the stone cottage. It was dark within, a single kerosene candle the only illumination upon a driftwood table. Stepping inside, I clutched the parchment close to my chest, feeling my heart flutter in fear. When the door shut behind me, I jumped, turning rapidly to stare at the man with wide eyes. “You scared or something?” he asked.

“No, sir. Just… cautious.”

He nodded, not arguing. Walking past me, he disappeared around a half wall into a living quarters. I looked around, not sure if I should follow. When he didn’t appear again, I stepped lightly after him. The man stood in a living room. A place that was soft and cozy, strewn with pillows and throw blankets and a few scattered weapons. The man was hovering around a half closed door, soft blue light coming from the cracks in the wood.

“Name’s Reese,” he said. “Probably should have told you that from the get go. Been a little stressed.”

Again, I nodded, my hands wringing together. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Reese.”

“Yeah. Doubt that. You look skinny as a waif and I know you’re only here because you’re about two days from dying of starvation. Seen that look on others. You got that hunger in your eyes. You able to do what you do without food in your belly?”

“With due respect, sir, I’m not sure what it is you want me to do?”

A soft moan came from the bedroom, the sound wet and broken with pain. Someone else was speaking softly, hushing whoever was hurt. My eyes couldn’t help but lock onto the door.

“It’s my boy,” Reese said. “He’s hurt. You know anything about celestials?”

I snapped my eyes back to him. “I do. They are a species that belong in the cosmos. Guiding forces that help in mysterious ways, answering only to the Knowing.”

“And what about fallen.”

I bowed my head. “They are the ones cast from the Knowing for their sins. It is rare to find a fallen, however. Without the grace of the Knowing flowing through them, they struggle to manage in a world that is not their own. Most succumb to madness.”

“Yeah,” Reese said, voice tight. “So you’re gonna stop that.”

I nodded. “I will try my best. I- It’s really going to depend on how far gone they truly are. Grace is important to celestials. Their own grace. Grace from another doesn’t always take. Especially if the individual is not willing.”

“He’s willing.”

I felt sadness rock my heart. A parent watching their child die. It was never easy to see. I hoped that I would be able to help whoever was on the other side, but the likelihood was, that sickness had already riddled their mind.

“I will do whatever I can,” I told him. It was the only promise I could make.

When Reese opened the door, a dull light pulsed from within. A man sat on the bed, his white blond hair falling into his eyes, face coated in tears. He looked up at me as I stepped into the room, his lavender eyes glinting. He looked startled, his eyes flicking over towards Reese.

“You found one?”

Reese stepped forward, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. “They are a graceling. You don’t have to do anything more, Elias. She is here to help.”

Elias looked back towards the bed, reaching out with a shaking hand. A soft glow emanated from him, falling across the prone body upon the bed.

A man with dark skin laid upon silver sheets. His skin was beaded with sweat, his body lashed across with cracks across a stretch of paper fine skin. Face contorted with pain, he laid on the bed, whimpering, eyes screwed shut.

Quietly, I stepped in. Without a word, Elias and Reese moved from the bed and slowly, I lowered myself next to the man. Black hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty tendrils and the feathered wings I knew had once been attached to his back lay in a bloody mess in the corner.

“How long has he been like this?” I asked. I reached out, running my fingers across his face, gathering the stench of his skin across my gloved palms.

“A few weeks,” Elias said. “He was okay after the fall. We thought he would survive. Then… his feathers started falling out, and he went downhill from there. I- I tried to help him. I did but…” Turning, he buried himself into Reese’s chest. I could hear the guilt within his cries.

Turning back to the man, I sighed. He was far gone, the madness etched across his features in hollow veins. It was doubtful I would be able to do anything, but I had to at least try.

Pulling my gloves off, I let the light of the grace fill the room. It sang, a high-pitched bell echoing across the walls. With the tips of my fingers, I rested them across his brow, slowly drawing lines across his skin. He whimpered, head thrashing back and forth.

“Shh…” I tried to soothe. “Let me help.”

He twisted upon the bed, his face contorting into agony and his body shaking in barely contained pain. Pressing my palm to his cheek, I pushed against him, feeling the grace embedded in my skin leech forward. The cracks and lines of his body began to fill, a slow roll of mercury running down the fissures of his skin. His eyes snapped open, coal-black and filled with the void. Arching off the bed, he reached for me, trying to strike out. Reese was there instantly, holding him down.

“What’s his name?” I asked, trying to keep my hand steady.

“Gabriel.”

I tried to smile. “Gabriel. It’s okay. I’m here to help you. Just listen to the sound of my voice. Listen to my words. You are loved, Gabriel. You are well. Everything is going to be okay. We will take care of you.” I felt a tear slip from my eye, tracking silver down my cheek. The chime of bells became louder and louder, echoing through the room in a blast of piercing song. But the light, oh the light was filling him, mending each crack and crevice across his parched skin. He only needed to accept it. He only needed to believe that he deserved to be saved.

As his body began to settle, the light sinking into his skin, his lips parted in sweet relief. Slowly, I took my own hand away.

“He should sleep,” I whispered.

Reese, who was still holding him, stared at me with wide and terrified eyes. “Did it work?”

“It’s too soon to tell. Filling a celestial with grace is a long process. It does not just happen within the course of an evening.”

“Then do it again,” Reese said.

“Reese,” Elias said from the corner. “She is telling the truth. It’s not like that.” Reese looked upset but didn’t protest. From behind me, I felt the other man approach. “Please, you have done so much for us already. Come into the kitchen. Let me get you something to eat.”

My stomach growled in response. “Yes. Yes, I would appreciate that.”

Settling in the kitchen, I kept my eyes on the door. Gabriel. He was asleep now. The house itself felt more at peace. Reese sat at the kitchen table with me, while Elias began rummaging through the cabinets.

“So what is our next move?” Reese asked. “We’re willing to pay you whatever you need.”

Part 2

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#paper moons #gabriel caine #the graceling #community if #if wip #prequel

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ndylaurent · 4 months ago

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Today as I walked past the escalator which takes you down to the metro station of Tomberg, I caught an ever so familiar whiff of the smell inside the metro station. I can't exactly put my finger on whether it is the tiles inside that produce this specific smell, the ventilation system or the industrial metallic elements present in the escalator itself. I was reminded of the perfumery of Kerosene fragrances. Unknown pleasures and Summer of '84 to be exact and the few reviews of them that I read. "Smells exactly like London in the 80s... When you could smoke inside cafés, the leather seating.." Obviously I could not relate to such observations or judge their legitimacy, since I never lived in the 80s, or even smelled any environment that smelled like these two aforementioned fragrances. They seemed like two imaginative fragrance experimentations of their own. Conceptually considered, the reimagination of a 'scent profile' into a fragrance; a material chemical composition which you can carry around, spray and experience at will is a form of cultural preservation, much like photography and videography. But it surely fulfills an alternative narrative function, one much more intimate and perhaps "insignificant" on a grander scale. I.e. there is not much historical "evidence" to be extracted from how a specific environment smelled for it to be a relevant field of preservation such as visual media analysis. In this way, can fragrances cross over to the field of media? Fragrances certainly do awake an alternative and obscure avenue of memories. Having sampled Jo Malone's Blackberry & Bay a few years ago, I was reminded of a classmate's house that I slept over at when I was 6. My parents' house still has Ralph Lauren and Gucci bottles bought from airport tax frees during my upper secondary years. Just sniffing at the cap of these bottles instantly makes me remember something; the season it was when I wore it, the music that I was listening to at the time... This is made even more so significant by the fact that I barely have any photographs of myself from my upper secondary and high school years. Fragrances absolutely help you not only to read and recount memories in a more abstract and sensual way than the over-praised two-dimensional evidence provided by visual mediums, but they've made me remember things that photographs or videos couldn't.

#perfume #fragrances #kerosene #memories #smell #scent #prose #blog

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jovoy · 2 years ago

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good morning btw i havent done one of these posts in so long! im wearing kerosene unknown pleasures today

this smells so good i know i posted about it yesterday. but im wearing it today because i am a little bit obsessed with it. its such a realistic lemon cake scent its so crazy..smells like you are a starbucks lemon loaf and theres something a little bit warm and toasty in the dry down that makes it so comforting and cozy. it smells like being in a cloud of citrus and pastries honestly. and the lemon itself is so realistic its like making a fresh batch of homemade lemon curd and eating it by the spoonful its absolutely delicious. i actually semi-blind bought this because i sampled it last year and absolutely hated it it smelled like lemon pledge to me? but i couldnt get it out of my head and so i was like..i need a bottle just for closure. and now i have it and i love it so much its just such a wonderful gourmand. its very hyperrealistic theres really not much to say about this one from an artistic perspective imo but at the same time its so beautifully blended and composed. i recommend this 1000 times over lira which i think smells a bit artificial and cloying but obviously everyones opinions are different🙂 but this is definitely worth a try and its an incredible gourmand for all you people who love smelling like a dessert

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houseofcrimerp-blog · 8 years ago

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« THE ALBATROSS » ❝ SOME JUST WANT TO WATCH THE WORLD BURN... I WANT TO POUR THE KEROSENE ❞

LAST NAME, FIRST NAME: Alyona Petrova AGE: 27 HOUSE OF CHOICE/INDIVIDUAL ACTIVITY/N/A: Death OCCUPATION AND/OR LEVEL: Level 1, Assassin (moonlights as a bartender) FACE CLAIM: Alicia Vikander NATIONALITY: Russian ETHNICITY: Scandinavian

CONNECTIONS:

HALF BROTHER - Erik Nilsen, her half-brother who she lost contact with but she feels responsible for his well being. even though she knows nothing about him anymore. She tried to keep tabs on him for a while, but then he started to look too much like her step-father/uncle and she couldn’t deal with that.

THE SUPERIOR - the one who witnessed Alyona at work (and the one responsible for original the idea to hire her as one of Death’s assassins). Interaction between them has been carried out by strictly covert and untraceable means. She’s never seen their face or heard their real voice; their exchange has always been nothing but subtle; an exchange done via easily manipulated messengers, bearing envelopes with names and location and little else. At first, the regular intake of funds in exchange for her efforts had been satisfying for both her ego and curiosity. She felt no reason to pry… then she got restless. The longer she blindly obeyed killer cues, the more she began resenting the situation she’d been reeled into. Nowadays, she’s no longer able to go on spontaneous killing sprees without a trace - there’s always someone observing her every move and reporting her successes to that unknown higher power calling the shots. She can’t stand feeling like she’s being kept as a pet of sorts; tethered to a leash of a handler that serves to direct her to the next target, sending her off at the word ‘go’ before reeling her back in until needed again. They refuse to kill her so long as she continues to be useful, but the closer she gets to trying to identify the mastermind pulling the strings at the top, who says she’ll dare return the favor? Her ruthlessness made her an attractive recruit in the beginning, but now resentment threatens to cloud her clarity. And it’s no secret that her blatant disrespect of rules and loyalty isn’t already on the house’s radar…

THE LEXICON - if there’s one person Alyona is frustrated by more than the unknown name of her employer it’s the record keeper of all her unsavoury pursuits. Until the term ‘assassin’ was attached to her, she’d been invisible. Written records risked giving her a reputation, and it’s a vulnerability she hates having around. After growing up constantly on the move purely to avoid having her actions reliably logged, to have even the vaguest form of documentation that acknowledges her existence is too incriminating for her liking. She knows killing them would solve nothing, not when another keeper would simply take their place. The lexicon forces Alyona to think more creatively on her feet. She pursues them with calculating and critical moves, ever-changing approaches between empty threats, lucrative bribery, secretive trade offs, and manipulation tactics to guarantee the erasure of her bloodstained tracks. Are her tireless efforts making an impact? That remains to be seen.

THE PROBLEM - the brother of Death’s murdered second commander’s secret plans to vengefully go after Eris would be too tempting a plot to ignore, should Alyona ever catch wind of it. She would 10/10 be willing to team up on any venture that entertained the possibility of taking the House of Death down from the inside out.

THE SACRIFICE - the heart donor who refused to surrender and die. It didn’t matter where they originally came from, they were in Bucharest territory now. Their take down was fair game. The catch? They were not to be harmed. The maintenance of their health was crucial, no poison was to cross their lips. A clean death was required. Enter the next best option - how else better to lure a runner out of hiding than to target their family? Alyona’s services are called upon to lace the relatives of the sacrifice’s foods with toxins, intermittently increasing the dose as requested. Weakening them, with well documented pictured evidence provided to show for it, should be enough to bring the runner to a stop. The longer they delay, the frailer their family members become.

THE FIRST CUT - technically, there’s a witness alive to confirm the one time Alyona miscalculated the amount of poison needed to kill a 6′7. It happened at least a decade ago, when she was still in the amateur stages of her current serial killer status. It was a project that required more supply than she was prepared with, but she’d been too determined to deny the chance at stretching the talent of her skill. It was easy to tamper with the wine, destine to poison a couple in an event that was supposed to go down suicide pact-style. No questions would be asked if both bodies were found together in the later phase of their honeymoon, right? In traditional post-poisoning tradition, she fled the scene as soon as the bottle was delivered. All evidence of her presence erased, by the next morning, she was in a different country planning her next murderous venture. She always assumed it had gone to plan. She was young and flawed with over-confidence, believing looking back over her shoulder raised unnecessary suspicions in comparison to keeping her eyes set ahead. Plot twist - the groom survived. Physically, he possessed a level of strength that rivalled a military man’s. Had she realized this beforehand, she wouldn’t have dared been so careless. Alas, the loved-up couple had seemed an harmless target; blinded into vulnerability by love. His wife was unable to recover, and died on site the way Alyona had intended them both to go. Though he didn’t escape the situation entirely unscathed - his system was negatively impacted by the toxins and he needed several months before his body was able to repair from the nerve damage inflicted. Forced to live on without the love of his life, sadness consumed him, then regret, then rage. There was only one remedy to this level of agony: to track down the person responsible. He couldn’t forget the face of his attempted murderer. Even if she had.

PERSONALITY: ENTJ She has all the makings of a natural-born leader. Charismatic and confident; she loves a good challenge, big or small, and they firmly believe that given enough time and resources, they can achieve any goal. This determined drive is often a self-fulfilling prophecy. She has the ability of pushing her goals through with sheer cutthroat willpower, especially where others might give up and move on. She considers emotional displays to be a sign of weakness. She’s content operating as a lone wolf, but often chooses to mingle in social situations because she enjoys receiving validation and feedback from others. Enneagram 7 - pleasure seekers and planners in search of distraction Sevens are practical people who have multiple skills. She knows how to network and promote herself and her interests. The stagnation that comes with a monotonous routine is the bane of her energy’s existence. Her pursuit of pleasure is compulsive. She constantly seeks to avoid boredom by finding distractions in her external environment and engaging in stimulation seeking of all kinds. She’s prone to obsessive behaviours/addictions of substances to keep her ‘upped’ in order to remain focus on her talents whilst downplaying her flaws. The extent of the her flight from her own darker emotions a prime example of her questionable mental health status. The more that she flees from her past, the more the strength of those memories grow and the more likely they are to erupt into consciousness in the form of a self destructive or a severe depressive episode. Chaotic Evil Alignment Does whatever her greed, hatred, and lust for destruction drives her to do. She’s hot-tempered, vicious, arbitrarily violent, unpredictable, ruthless and brutal glory. Any plans she composes are haphazard, and any groups she’s responsible for forming are impulsively organized. Force is the only language she complies to. ‘Business’ agreements last as long as they can until an attempt to thwart or assassinate each other arises and inevitably dissolves the bond. A symbiotic blend of self-interest and pure freedom. Willing to destroy beauty, life, and the order on which beauty and life depend.

THREE WEAKNESSES:

#1 - Body: based on physical strength alone, Alyona is highly disadvantaged compared to most. The level of fitness she possesses translates only to fast reflexes and footwork. Her muscles have never exceeded beyond a lean accentuation meant for supporting herself in climbing, not combat. Her hands are made for delicately handling tinctures, not for throwing punches. Overtime, her petite stature has been both a blessing and a curse. She uses her beauty and sexuality to fly under the radar which usually allows her to get out of being fought with physically. It’s the only reason she doesn’t throw caution to the damn wind cross every boundary she uncovers. She knows if she was ever to be cornered by someone she would lose, and (deep deep down) it scares her. She heavily relies on the fact that because she looks like an easy target, no one would bother wasting their time because the fight would be too boring… but evan that is a highly nuanced issue because the lack of her appeal fight-wise also somewhat offends her, because she lowkey longs to not rely on poison to do her dirty work for her, all the while she knowing how unrealistic such a goal is because she’s too tiny to do/handle anything significant. It’s mindfuckery level complicated. Basically, she’s a great dane mind in a pomeranian body. Of course she does her best to armour herself with words, sweet charm, and always dressing in heels that raise her height by at least 5 inches. But at the end of the day she’s keenly aware that wit isn’t a fair match against brawn. Should she ever get involved in a serious physical brawl she would only be able to rely on her spry mobility and quick reflexes.

#2 - Competition: your girl’s got serious impulse control issues. The idea of ‘no’ is practically impossible for her to grasp. Whether it’s a challenging dare or casual invitation, she’ll bite. Especially if the odds seemed stacked against her. Proving herself as the best at things is really important to her, though (on the surface) she’d be pokerfaced as hell as if she couldn’t care less. Whether it’s a egotistical or hedonistic urge is uncertain, but it’s definitely one of her biggest downfalls. She sees backing down as act of weakness and, as weakness #1 suggests, she feels she has a lot to compensate for in the physique department so is willing to put herself in demi to severely dangerous situations so long as it means earning praise and recognition (put simply, she’s literally the definition of ‘hoe don’t do it… oh my god’)

#3 - Pride: for years, she’s defined her self worth based on what she’s good at. The one thing she’s always been good at? Murder. And is murder a socially acceptable career to brag and discuss? No. Forced to silently celebrate her achievements with nothing more than untraceable tally marks and adrenaline, she’s always had to be private about how passionate she is about playing with poison. It’s the main reason she’s been successful at it - because she’s been forced to treat it as secretive. To talk about it to the wrong person would mean having to stop, permanently. To stop dealing in poisons would be like cutting out a piece of her heart. Her practically flawless success at serial killing without any repercussions is her longest running and proudest achievement. To insult her craft to her face would wound her more than a punch. Murder is as part of her DNA as what determines her eyes being brown. She’s deeply (unreasonably and dramatically) affected by critiques and criticism toward her technique mainly because it’s always been something that could only be talked about so little, thereby making the ultra rare moments when she can express herself about it all the more valuable. If it’s talked about negatively during those rare windows, she takes it very personally and will be launched into identity crisis mode. If she’s not this, she’s nothing.

BIOGRAPHY: DEATH TW

No one knows less about where Aлёна Aleksandrova Petrova came from than Aлёна Aleksandrova Petrova. An orphan, a daughter, a sibling, a killer.

Origins are complicated to retain when self erasure was imperative for the Petrova family. Supposedly born somewhere in western Russia — when she went on to live in ten different households before she could even walk — who could know for certain? Early on, nomadic living patterns set the tone for the years ahead and engrained into her mind throughout the early stage of infantry that to stay put was to be trapped. Aleksander was her father figure’s name, the brother of her biological father. Her birth biological mother’s identity was not shared. It remained undisclosed, undetermined, whether she died during child birth or abandoned the country shortly after all cords were cut. Considering Alyona was never taught beyond an elementary understanding of Russian, perhaps she wouldn’t have understood if it had been explained to her either way. [ тили тили бом ]

Alyona’s earliest memories all revolved around being with her twin sister, Диана (Diana). They were as inseparable as they were identical. Solitary was not made of one, but two. She was never on her own, so too was her sister. Where one moved, so did the other. It was the summer time. A few days shy of experiencing 4 years of life and they were already in the midst of a celebration. Something had gone well for Aleksander at work, and he returned home with a briefcase filled to the brim with wads of cash. They didn’t notice the swollen bruises or cuts on his knuckles, because that’s how he always looked when he returned home. Sometimes he would disappear for weeks at a time, though the time would feel considerably longer to the twins, they found ample entertainment in exploring the home-of-the-month they had moved into, under the watchful guidance of a Norwegian woman named Vilde Nilsen who’d been hired as their governess. The rooms were never properly furnished asides from the three mattresses gathered around the wood stove fire. Neither owned more than a book and stuffed animal each. They didn’t know what they were missing or abundant in; this was life. It was bearable. It was what it was. [ Close your eyes soon, ] Within 5 years, the twins had grown co-dependant on each other and never spent more than a minute separated. Their father and governess played crucial supporting roles, but their value lay in caregiving parental duties. Whereas the interconnected support Alyona and Diana experienced was a far deeper directly blood-related bond of inexplicable explanation. No one understood them like they understood each other. Then, with his briefcase of money, Aleksander showed them the power money had to drastically change a circumstance. A month later, for the very first time, they lived in a home they owned. A home with furniture in every room; a place of warmth; a place of safety. The twins adored the newfound freedom. Many lazy afternoons were spent roaming the acreage surrounding the Petrova household, wrapped up in their own little world, completely oblivious to a new development between their guardians. [ someone’s walking by the window ] A year and a half on, and Vilde Nilsen gives birth to a son, a boy named Erik that the twins were to refer to as their brother and treat like a sibling. Two years pass, spent in the same house. It’s the longest they’ve ever lived anywhere. It began to seem as though notions that their surroundings would constantly be in need of changing for safety to be achieved had been nothing but an illusion. A dream. Within those familiar walls, the twins’ foundations were built - it’s where they were taught to read, write, cook, and sew for the first time. Their highly spirited nature exhausts their governess easily, and each day lesson time is cut in half so that she may have time to tend to Erik and herself. Then it’s wintertime. Aleksander’s been off grid for three months. Alyona’s nursing a broken arm after slipping on the ice outside. Erik is asleep upstairs, his mother half-slumped over in the chair beside his crib after being kept awake all night dealing with the teething toddler. Alyona and Diana has grown used to a lessening in supervision. Erik had been fussy child since birth, and earned most of the adult attention nowadays. Suffice it to say, him sleeping peacefully was a novelty; and it meant the twins had at least 3 hours to do as they pleased before he’d stir and home school lessons would resume. [ And knocking at the door, ] Tea time was always the first thing to accomplish on their agenda of fun. So, after gathering every toy into a near circle around the miniature dining table set, 7 year old Alyona balances on a crouched Diana’s back, giggling as she awkwardly climbs onto the kitchen counter to reach the top shelf and get biscuits for them both. Diana was always the more adventurous of the two, but ever since Alyona broke her arm she’d let her lead. Sympathy weakened softened her. While perched on the counter, Alyona finds an open bottle of something sweet smelling. It’s bright green and looks particularly pretty when poured into the porcelain cups of Diana’s tea set, unlike the usual boring monotone swirl of hot chocolate. With a cupful each, they cheerfully clink glasses. Diana drinks. Alyona spills hers on the floor before she has the chance, too giddy with the giggles to keep her non-broken hand steady enough. Upon first sip, Diana makes a face and spits and splutters. It didn’t taste at all how it smelled. The reaction only caused naive little Alyona to laugh even harder, believing it was her sister’s intent to make her laugh. Diana, seeking to make her sister happy, continues to drink until the very last drop drains from her lips… along with the color from her face.

[ тили тили бом ]

Alyona learned that day that the telekinetic link between twins wasn’t a real thing. If it was, Alyona’s brain, liver, and kidneys would have been poisoned that day. Instead, her throat felt sore from screaming and all the water inside of her felt as if it had escaped of her eyes. For several hours, Erik and the governess try to soothe her in between trying to get answers to questions. Alyona is silent, unable to pry herself away from her sister, refusing to let her governess approach to cover the sickening sight with a bed sheet. Aleksander returns home within the hour, as if summoned. He turns up at the twins’ room and waits at the doorway, gruffly calling on Alyona to get up. She blubbers something, shocked and confused and vaguely profane. He strictly warns her that Diana is gone and it is wrong to hold onto someone who has already let go. These words finally click something inside Alyona’s head and persuades her to get up. It’s the first time she understands the significance between the living and the dead. Immediately embracing his surviving daughter, behind him, Russian-speaking men in suits appear and tend to the body of her identical. They move in an almost rehearsed precision. Despite being present for it all, Alyona can only understand bits and pieces of the aggressive conversation they have with her father. In her governess’ preference to teaching the children her native Norwegian tongue along with English supplements, her Russian fluency had declined. One word was repeated more than the others — antifreeze. [ Can you hear the birds through the night? ]

Concepts of the law were above Alyona’s 7-year old comprehension, but she felt it in her bones that there couldn’t possible be anything right about what she had done. Accident or not - she had killed her sister and hadn’t been allowed to follow. She was alone now as punishment. When she was was eventually pulled aside by one of the strange men, the last thing she expects is for them to hold out their hand, congratulate her, and then introduce themselves as her new headmaster. [ He’s already made his way into the house, ] The winds of change had returned with new ferocity, this time introduced under the guise of a boarding school center intended for youth protection and prevention. It’s purpose for her confused her at first, but she’s a fast learner. She sees the way they all turn to look at her when she’s found in the kitchen - glassy eyed and standing next to the an open cupboard of cleaning supplies. She’d never forget how peculiar fear looked on a grown man’s face, towards a child. It all seemed so bizarrely set askew. How could they be afraid? What she had done? Or was is what she could do that was so daunting? The moment Aleksander enters the room, all other eyes are averted. Since Alyona’s birth, she had rarely spent time with her father, but she knew he was powerful by the reactions he silently commanded. Though what he specialized in specifically remained a mystery, Alyona also had never thought to directly ask - for part of her feared what she would find. She never believed he’d lied to her about anything, even if omission of information was a form of lying. To be fair, he’d always alluded that he worked ‘with people, for people’. And the involvement of him + ‘people’ was undoubtedly true. When each return visit home came with a new ‘people-produced’ scar or bloodstain, it was clear he certainly was ‘dealing’ with ‘people’. She’d never read into it further. Never had time to fill in the blanks when she was so preoccupied running after Diana and Erik, swathed in the blissful ignorance of childhood. Now, in the wake of Diana’s death, it was as if her whole life she’d been under hypnosis, and witnessing death up close was the snap of the magician’s fingers designed to bring her to her senses. [ for those who cannot sleep, ] She’d never thought anything about her adopted father was odd. She’d never thought it was odd to be raised by someone he’d hired instead of managing the role himself. She’d never thought it odd that he wore an ear piece at all times. She’d never thought it odd when she’d once awoken in the middle of the night to see him adjusting a surveillance camera, planted behind the wall painting in the hall opposite the twins’ room. She didn’t think it odd that he correctly knew it was Diana who’d passed, not Alyona, despite them being identical and him never being around to notice their little differences. Nor did she think it odd that, as her father approached her after finding her standing in front of a cocktail of potentially toxic chemicals, in his eyes she saw nothing but pride. [ Hear his steps, he’s already close, ] In the days that followed, all dormant suspicions were stirred up and answered simultaneously. The reason Aleksander had deliberately stepped away from taking up too noticeable a fatherly role was to avoid bonding with the twins and becoming privy to one over the other. It was a bloodline issue; twins were a genetic mutation that created a problem in creating killers. Families were permitted one son and one daughter. Any extras were to be terminated, or adopted out. The twins’ biological father had been murdered by Aleksander, his own twin during their teen years. It happened at a different age for everyone, but once done, activated dormant genes into full expression. It was impossible to be the same after committing a deathly act. Upon discovering the Petrova twins trait had recurred with Diana and Alyona, since their first breaths it’s been a countdown as to who would knock off who first. Outside intervention wasn’t permitted, but there was a loophole when it came to subliminal indirect prompting. Around the house, objects and substances had been planted throughout their lives until one of them tuned into it. Until curiosity killed the cat. Their DNA represented the strongest generations of agency; bred for power, skill, and strength. It was their birthright to be inherit a profession of killer calculative skill. Alyona insisted it was an accident… but, all things considered, was there a genuine chance it hadn’t been?

[ тили тили бом, ] And so her official training begun. Still shaken by recent events, her participation kept to the bare minimum until she reached a more developed emotional maturity. The prescribed boarding school was intended for providing her with a ‘safe haven’ from the outside world until she reached legal age, and the ‘prevention’ part was the strict surveillance program that prevented her from causing herself harm. Absorbing so much in such a short time often had a whiplash affect, to say the least. The loss of her sister over a petty case of bloodline purity was nothing but revolting to her. It took her just over a year to shake though every stage - resistance, anger, denial, bargaining, acceptance. With blood, sweat, and tears to show for it, there was no way the traumatic memory could be permanently shaken from her system. So when they offered her a non invasive release from some of the wight of it through hypnotherapy - she gave in. [ can you hear someone next to you? ] Able to shoulder her circumstances beneath a layer of numbness, her thoughts were allowed a little bit of clarity. So long as running away wasn’t an option, she did the next best thing - equipping herself with the education needed to mobilize her emotions into something useful. If her sister had to die in order for her to be alive, she would fight to make it a worthy cause. The boarding school was traditional in the foundational courses that it offers - covering the basics of academics and physical conditioning. The exception was the highly illicit extra curriculum, where it would be decided if one’s skill lay in combat waging, combat strategy, or commanding. Alyona fared average in all subjects, and soon became an easy target for bullying. She shut herself off to it, kept her head down, introverted, and coped with it. As far as she was concerned, being there was a means to an end. As soon as she turned 16 she’d be released, even if that meant going rogue and crossing her own so-called family’s blood. Every time there’s a punching bag in front of her, it’s Aleksander she sees.

[ Huddled in a corner, ] At 12 years old she’s introduced to chemistry, and her bitter indifference at last gives way to a spike of interest. At first, she’s merely interested to learning as much as she can about antifreeze and it’s properties and dosages affect the body. It was strangely cathartic to know exactly how her sister’s system shut down; how little or severely she may have suffered, what system shut down first, etc. It was purely self-interested curiosity that led her deeper into from there. She began to explore and research different toxins to compare it’s effectiveness to, then wanted to know the most deadly, then what could be created at home versus what could be found in nature etc. Not only does the subject fascinate her, but it keeps her distracted from interacting with the heart sinking newest edition to the school: Erik. Less startling to the fact that her little half-brother is officially old enough to be a participating part of the system is that he doesn’t recognize her when he sees her. She forgets that she’s a Petrova and he’s a Nilsen. He was too young to remember her. It was better that way.

[ With a penetrating gaze, ] Slowly but surely, she goes on to learn everything she can about any poisonous compound, element, gas, and plant she could get her hands on. She was fast learner and incredibly apt at understanding each component of the chemistry, as if her brain was hardwired for it. Independent study soon began intermingling with private tutoring and class assignments. Putting her newfound knowledge to use required guinea pigs - and along with that realization, all of a sudden her reasons for being there all finally clicked into place and filled her with inspiration. No longer did she loathe the destiny she was being forced to live, not when she had the ability to send it up in flames from within. She kept it morally reasonable at first and targeted those who actually deserved the side effects of prolonged arsenic low exposure; the group that had been bullying her several weeks. Though she couldn’t remember exactly who was to blame, so she laced all the girls’ in her dorm’s water bottles until the end of term. Her moral ambiguity kicks in when she’s 14 years old catches the eye of a boy in the year above her. It’s not love by any means; merely a practice project in the effectiveness of infatuated persuasion. He’s done nothing wrong to her, never bullied her, or ever looked at her the wrong way… but he’s there, unfortunately for him. And simply by breathing within the walls of this boarding school meant he was affiliated to their twisted arrangement between highjacking the children of murderous families. As one of the system’s pawns - so how good could he really be? During the same term she has him on her radar, she’s studying latin to learn the official name for the plant derivative she drops into his drink (conium maculatum). She watches him the entire time, testing herself. It’s the second time she sees someone die in front of her, but it’s the first time she can’t that she enjoys it. There’s an addictive sense power to hurting someone without needing to touch them. It was elevating to her otherwise depressed default state. In the subsequent days, she feels nothing except the desire to do it again. Poison hemlock becomes her weapon of choice. When his body is discovered, his death is written off as foul play between him and a student of his same year he’d supposedly been in a rivalry with. She feels no remorse or regret that the fall is being taken by someone else. He is gone and it is wrong to hold onto someone who has already let go. To celebrate her 16th birthday and release from the facility, she uses the school’s lab to process ricin. Definitely without and clearance and permission, and in total abuse of school policy and resource, in true Alonya “Fuck You Guys I’m Out” Petrova style. She carries a sealed vial of it with her for several months before she encounters Aleksander. So blinded by his pride for his victorious daughter, she’s able to slip the power into his coffee before she leaves. She hasn’t heard from him since, and assumes it succeeded. No new is good news. Ten years of habit forming bad decisions later, and she’s become the informed, self-centered and self-entitled assassin she is today. Without regular installment of hypnotherapy she turned to cigarettes and other occasional recreational drugs on the days it gets too much. Embraced in full swing once again are her nomadic origins - though this time it’s an act of self preservation that keeps her on the go. In every countryside town she visits, a body usually turns up a day later. She tries to discern between those who deserve it versus the innocent, but sometimes all that can lift her spirits on a bad day is a little game of ‘watch the locals play murder mystery’ with each other and chill. Other than the occasional paid hit job, she keeps a very low profile. She travels from country to country without using the same name or piece of ID more than twice. It’s a game of chase that she never gets caught in. A venture which once began rooted in vengeance actually became fun. And if anyone asks, like Aleksander said, she had no choice. Her life was predetermined to go this way, the blood of tradition is woven around her DNA - can she really be held accountable?

[ тили тили бом, ] Always interested in anything mixology related, during her travels she took a bar tending course in order to have a steady side day job (purely for amusement and irony more than anything else). Highly suspicious of others, considering she doesn’t even trust her damn self, she never drinks in public personally unless she’s serving herself from a sealed bottle that originated from a trusted source. She quickly learned not all bars are created equal, and began spiking the drinks wherever she worked depending on her mood. The seedier the bar, the higher the body count. She’s made a lot of fucked up, reckless, impulsive, ruthless, downright horrible decisions in the past. Bucharest was intended to be another random place to pass through, but in the midst of serving up something lethal, she was convinced to linger by the House of Death when the right set of words and length of numbers was sent her way. Her life is a tragic mess of revenge, hate, self loathing, and nihilism. The one things that has been consistent in her life that she feels what she imagines love is like toward is her bundle of handcrafted killer pills and potions. She keeps all of them neatly organized and accessible within sight/reach at all times… but she never keeps track of a poison’s remedies. Some just want to watch the world burn.

#rp #oc rp #crime rp #new rp #roleplay #town rp #b

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vintage-story-time · 4 years ago

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MANHATTAN MADNESS by Chili Peeler

Chapter 17

Her mouth was full of musky cock, her tongue working the bottom of the hard shaft as it moved back and forth....strong hands held her head in place as her unknown partner pumped his dong between her pursed lips.........her knees hurt from the cold floor on which she kneeled....her eyes were open but she saw only blackness...she could feel the blindfold tied tightly behind her head....she could feel a similar cloth tied around her wrists behind her back....the heavy head of the cock banged against the back of her throat and she whimpered. 'It's Jim.....it has to be Jim.'

Suddenly she felt the blindfold pulled away and she looked up into her brother's face. His eyes burned with a nasty lust as he slid his fleshy erection deep into her upturned mouth. "AAAAaaaahhh, God, Sis! Jesus, what a mouth...man, I love to fuck it!" he exclaimed as he began humping faster into her mouth, his cockhead beating against the opening to her throat. "AAAHH, yeahhh, use that tongue...suck it, yessssss!" Elizabeth realized she was working on his pistoning prick, her tongue was swirling on the bottom of his flashing shaft, her cheeks concave as she sucked him. "I told you, Lizzie." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Julie walk around behind her brother. It had been her hands that had removed the blindfold; his had never released her head. "Wait, Jim, wait," she heard her roommate say and his cock drew itself out of her mouth, leaving her panting in front of him. Elizabeth recognized the mirrored wall of the Whipping Post room behind her brother's looming form. Julie's head appeared over his shoulder and she saw her right hand slide around onto her brother's chest and her left reach around his hip to grasp the base of his glistening member. "Come on, Lizzie," Julie said as she wagged her brother's stiff peter at her, "Show me that I was right....I'll hold your little brother and you come take him.....come on, you know you want to." Elizabeth moved forward on her knees, her mouth coming tantalizingly close to Jim's crimson cockknob. She craned her face forward and her brother's proffered prick filled her lips again. She began sucking him, willingly going down on her young brother and she didn't regret it. She loved it. Almost immediately, his dick began to jerk between her lips and she felt his discharge slam against the roof of her mouth. It felt like he was spewing molten lava.......... With a start, Elizabeth sat up in her bed, clutching her throat. The realization that it had all been a nightmare washed over her. "Oh, God," she croaked as she swung her legs off the bed. The bedside clock read 12:42 AM. She sat there for a moment, her body tingling with the false emotions of her nightmare. Her nipples were stiff under her T- shirt and her body felt flushed. 'That was no nightmare...it was a dream,' she conceded to herself. She'd read a book on dream interpretations but the meaning of this one had been obvious. It meant Julie was right - she had the secret lust for her own flesh and blood. Unlike other dreams which would fade after a few seconds, the intense erotic dream she just experienced stayed fresh in her mind. If she was going to act on her desires, she knew she had to now while she was excited and her will was strong. Jim awoke to feel someone crawling under the sheets with him. "Wha?!" "Sssssssshhhhhhh," his sister shushed him. He felt a leg swing over his and her arm slide across his chest as she molded her body against his. Reflexively, he hugged her, not sure why she had come to his bed. 'Is she just looking for comfort? Or something else?' His body began to react to her pressure, to her smell, to the possibility that she had changed her mind about the cards Julie had dealt them. He couldn't stop the blood coursing into his underwear-imprisoned manhood and he wasn't going to be able to hide it from his sister. She was sure to feel that he was getting aroused. Then, he knew she was there for more than comfort as she buried her face in the side of his neck and he felt her lips start kissing him there. She shifted her body further over his, bringing her hips over his, pressing her crotch against his at an angle. Jim let his hands start roaming over her back as he turned his body more toward her. Through her T-shirt, he could feel her soft tits squashing against his ribs, his hands could feel the bumpy outline of her spine as they swept down her back, then his hands road onto the silky feeling of her panties. He grabbed handfuls of her ass and she shifted over his body completely, her knees

straddling his thighs. She raised up and Jim could see the outline of her body in the overhead skylight, the moonlight filtered through her wavy hair, giving her head a halo. The impression was blown away by the hand she slipped down the front of his underwear. His sister's hot palm slipped around his half-hard erection and Jim grunted in pleasure as she went to work. 'Yeah, Beth! Get me nice and hard and I'll fuck you!' Jim wanted to shout but he held his tongue to keep the mood as it was. His sister wanted him to keep quiet was all he knew; maybe she was trying to think of him as someone else. In less than a minute, he was totally stiff. Elizabeth's breath shuddered as she felt her brother's right hand slid around and palmed her pussy through her panties. His fingers pressed the material up into her labia as he began frigging her. She gave his fat prick one last stroke and then crossed both hands at the bottom of her T-shirt and whipped it up and off, tossing it away with a flourish. She was going to pull down her brother's underwear but he sat up quickly. He kissed her sternum as his left arm looped around her waist. She grabbed his head as his lips moved right, across the flesh of her tit as he searched for her nipple. She steered his mouth to her hard stalk and he took it into his mouth and sucked strongly. It was like throwing kerosene on a fire. Both of them moaned at the sinful act and his fingers began kneading her crotch harder. God, he was getting her so excited..... "Ooooooh, Jimmm! MMMmmmmmmMMMM!" she rasped. His hand left her sodden crotch and he twisted her over on her back, using his left arm and right hand on the mattress to push him up and over her. His mouth kissed across her collarbone and moved onto her neck as he now ground his half-covered cock directly on her pantied pussy. Wantonly, she slid her hands down his sides and tried unsuccessfully to pull his underpants down as she jackknifed her legs toward her head, raising her knees to grip his torso. "Let me do it," he panted down at her and she felt his right hand sliding past both of her thighs as he yanked his underwear down. Elizabeth's right hand found his freed member and she took control of it. Her hand full of her brother's weighty wand, she curled her left fingers into the opposite front of her panties and pulled them aside, not even wanting to delay things removing them. She moved his cockhead down to the opening of her sex. "Here..right here!" she gasp. "UUUUMMMMMMMMMMM!" Her brother shoved forward and his cock thrust through the elastic mouth of her cunt like a living arrow, right into her juicy pink bulls-eye. Snorting loudly above her, he worked his prick deep in her belly in one long slow thrust. Jim incredulously found himself balls-deep in his stripper sister for the second time in under twelve hours. But this time, he knew it was her and it was the greatest. It was so wrong and he knew it...she knew it.....and that made it damn exciting. Julie was right; there probably were tens of thousands of people screwing family members in the country. But there were millions more that would if they had a chance - a chance that had been dumped in his lap. He came out of his exalted state as he felt her hands sliding up his chest. He opened his eyes and looked down on his sister's face as her hands slid around his neck and she pulled him down on her sexy body. Her mouth brushed briefly on his and then slid around to his ear. "Give it to me," she whispered. He began moving in her, slowly at first. He wanted to satisfy her and prolong the whole thing if he could. For all he knew, she might go schizo and regret the whole thing in the morning....there was no chance that he would! Her pussy felt luxuriously tight and hot around his sliding erection. The buttery grip all along his shaft was great, almost like being beaten off by a creamy fist, but he'd lose it unless the pressure eased. He rotated his hips in a circular motion as he fucked her, hoping her pussy would loosen as they went

along. Elizabeth liked that very much. "Mmmmmmm, oh, do it like that, aaaahhhh," she cooed in his ear as her hands slid down to hold his wiggling asscheeks and her heels moved down the back of his thighs as she stretched her legs down to wrap his like a python. This motion spread her thighs wider and he took advantage of the extra room to pivot his hips in larger circles. "Uuuuhhhhhmm...uuuuuhhhhhmmmmMMMM," Elizabeth vocalized erotically each time he shoved into her. Jim took his face out of her fanned hair and raised himself up on his arms. He wanted to watch his sister's face as they fucked. By the moonlight, he could see her closed eyes and her slack, parted lips from which little moans welled up from deep in her chest. He gave a hard thrust in his sister's cooze and watched it translate onto her face. Her jaw dropped further open and then her eyes opened. "Dig that, Beth?" he asked knowingly. "Ooooh, yeah," she encouraged him, "You can do it harder...if you want." Her fingers dug into his butt and she helped him on the next thrust, pulling him into her as she raised her crotch to receive him. "AAhhh, that's it, Jim, that's it....don't hold back.....come on, give it to me!" "Here, Sis!" he grunted as he jerked his dick out several inches and pounded it back into down into her silky slot. It felt so good, he kept it up, dispensing with the hip circles, just going straight in his sister's expanded pussy. The bed began to squeak as he screwed his slutty sister nice and hard. 'If our folks could see us now!' he thought wickedly. Elizabeth was in heaven. Jim was giving it too her just the way she liked it. His young crotch was mashing on her bald slit in just the right manner to stimulate her clit. "Beth...I love it!" his silhouette said. "Move your ass....oh, fuck....fuck it at me!" Her brother's unexpected profanity elevated her lust; there was that added thrill of having her young brother giving her orders like a paying customer. She tried to comply, to roll her hips up at him to meet his thrusts but he shifted into a higher gear. The headboard began knocking against the wall above her head. "MMMMMMM.....AAAH....AAAAHHH....AAAAAAH!" she hissed as his manly fuckstick plowed her leaking pussy. She never would have imagined it was him earlier at the Whipping Post; for a seventeen year old, he was as substantial as many of the grown men she'd bedded over the years. With the added taboo element of incest, she was ready to melt away under his animalistic banging. "UUHHNHHHG.....OH, shit....UUHHNHHHG!" Jim panted. Elizabeth knew he couldn't hold out much longer. She knew he was going to come in her again. She wanted to come as well and she was sooo close. She slid her right hand down to the illicit junction of their bodies and began teasing her clitty between Jim's lunges. This sparked electric jolts in her loins and she was sure she would reach release in a matter of moments. "GGGGGGGGAAA...FFFUUCCCCCCKKKK!" Jim cried suddenly and she knew he had reached his limit. His body stiffened over her, his throbbing cock stopped halfway into a thrust and she felt the warm torrent of his cum in her well-fucked cunt. The wicked feeling of Jim's jizz shooting inside her and her flying fingers sent her off as well. "MMMMMMM...OOOOOOOOOOOOO...UHHH...UHHHHHH!" she wailed as she hunched her spasming sex sheath up at her brother's twitching shaft. The pleasure was so sweet she thought she was going to pass out. Jim, groaning like a madman, pushed the rest of his pulsating prick into her rippling interior and his full weight came down on her body. The two eventually became still, except for their heavy breathing. "God, that was something else," Jim whispered as they clung together, his dick beginning to deflate in her. "It was the best," she agreed and she wasn't lying. He'd gotten her off better than even Julie had in quite a while. She'd think about Julie in the morning. That was a long way away and she was sure that her brother wouldn't want to

waste it sleeping.....she didn't either.

#MANHATTAN MADNESS by Chili Peeler #Chapter 17

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ashesofus · 5 years ago

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Financial Freedom Mindset

The more you understand about the unknown the more you really comprehend how little you understand. It makes you modest and brings you back to the domain of wonders, miracles and magic. A domain in which everything is conceivable.

Please study this article with a wide-open mind. You don't have to trust everything that's written here – simply explore as a scientist would do. When you hit a passage that's hard to grasp, take a break and ponder it awhile. Let your mind process this fresh information. Read this article a couple of times, take your time and produce your own experiences.

Those who truly want to attain a financially free mindset, have only to set their minds on it, and acquire the proper means, as they do in relation to any other aim which they want to achieve, and it can be easily done. But however simple it might be to make revenue, I have no doubt many will agree it's the hardest thing in the world to hold on to it.

It consists merely in spending less than we bring in; that appears to be a really simple issue. A lot of my readers might say, “we comprehend this: this is mindset, and we know mindset is wealth; we know we can’t eat our cake and have it as well.”

The Basics

True mindset is misconceived, and individuals go through life without properly grasping what that principle is. One says, “I've an income of so much, and here is my neighbor who has the same; yet yearly he flourishes and I fall short; why is it? I understand all about mindset.” He thinks he does, but he doesn't.

There are men who believe that mindset consists in scrimping, in cutting off two cents from the wash bill and doing all sorts of little, mean things. Mindset isn't meanness. The misfortune is, likewise, that this class of individuals let their mindset apply in only one direction. They fancy they're so wonderfully frugal in saving a penny where they should spend two cents that they think they can afford to waste in other directions.

Before kerosene oil was exposed, one might stop overnight at nearly any farmer’s house and get a really good supper, but after supper he may attempt to read in the living room, and would find it impossible with the ineffective light of one candle.

The hostess, seeing his quandary, would state: “it's rather hard to read here evenings; we never have an additional candle except on special occasions." These special occasions happen, perhaps, twice a year. In that way the woman saves 5, 6, or 10 dollars: but the information which may be gained from having the extra light would, naturally, far outweigh a ton of candles.

But the difficulty doesn't end here. Feeling that she is so frugal in candles, she believes she can afford to go often to spend 20 or 30 dollars for ribbons and frills, many of which are not essential. This false belief may frequently be seen in other instances.

You find great businessmen who save old envelopes and scraps of paper. This is all OK; they might in this way save 5 or 10 dollars a year, but being so frugal (only in paper), they believe they can afford to squander time; to have expensive parties, and to drive their fancy cars. This is an illustration of “penny wise and pound foolish.” I never knew a man to succeed by applying this sort of mindset.

True sound financial mindset consists in always making the profit exceed the expenditure. Wear the old clothes a bit longer if essential; give up the new pair of gloves; fix the old dress: exist on plainer food if need be; so that, under all conditions, unless some unexpected accident happens, there will be a allowance in favor of the profit.

A penny here and a dollar there saved, goes on accumulating, and in that way the desired result is accomplished. It requires some training, possibly, to achieve this mindset, but when once used to it, you'll discover there's more satisfaction in rational saving than in irrational spending.

Here is a formula which I advocate: I've found it to work a great cure for extravagance, and particularly for mistaken mindset. When you find that you've no surplus money at the end of the year, and yet have a great income, I advise you to take a couple of pieces of paper and mark down each item of expenditure.

Post it daily or weekly in 2 columns, one headed “essentials” or even “comforts”, and the other headed “luxuries,” and you'll discover that the latter column will be double, or more, larger than the former. The true comforts of life cost but a small portion of what most of us may earn.

Think of the keep up with the Jones' attitude: One may say; “there's a man who has an income of fifty thousand dollars annually, while I have but one thousand dollars; I knew that young man when he was poor like myself; now he's wealthy and thinks he's better than I am; I'll show him that I'm as good as he is; I will go and purchase a fancy car; no, I can't do that, but I'll go and rent one and ride this afternoon on the same road that he does, and therefore prove to him that I'm as good as he is.”

My friend, you don't have to do all that; you may easily prove that you are “as good as he is;” you've only to behave as well as he does; but you can't make anybody feel that you're rich as he is. Also, if you act like this, and waste your time and spend your income, you'll remain poor, in order that you might keep up “appearances,” and, after all, deceive nobody.

You’ll not advance in the world, if your envy forces you into debt. In this country, where we believe the majority ought to rule, we brush aside that principle in reference to style, and let a handful of individuals, calling themselves the aristocracy, run up a fake standard of perfection, and in striving to rise to that standard, we perpetually keep ourselves poor; all the time grinding away for the sake of outside appearances.

How much more sensible to say, “We’ll regulate our expenditures by our income, and save something for a rainy day.” Individuals should be as sensible on the issue of money as on any other subject. Like movements produce like effects. You can't accumulate a fortune by taking the road that leads to impoverishment. Those who live beyond their means, with no thought of a setback in this life, may never attain monetary independence.

Men and women used to satisfying every impulse, will find it difficult, initially, to cut back their various unnecessary expenses, and will feel it a great denial to live in a littler home than they've been accustomed to, with less expensive furniture, less pricy clothing, less entertainment, and additional extravagances; but, after all, if they'll try saving a “nest-egg,” or judiciously investing, they'll be surprised at the joy from perpetually adding to their little “bundle”.

The old suit, and the old hat, will work for another season; the water tastes better than champagne; a brisk walk will prove more stimulating than a ride in the finest auto; an evening spent playing a family game will be far more pleasant than a 50 dollar night out, when you begin to know the pleasures of saving.

Thousands of men are kept poor, and tens of thousands are made so after they've acquired riches, in result of living beyond their means. “Easy come, easy go,” is an old and true adage. A spirit of pridefullness and vanity, when allowed to have full sway, is the undying problem.

Many individuals, as they set out to prosper, instantly start spending for luxuries, till in a short time their expenses eat up their income, and they become ruined in their absurd attempts to maintain appearances.

source http://www.forcesalign.com/financial-freedom-mindset/

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