Kayla
New member
What’s your IGN?:
My in game name is sinarei
What's your Discord Tag?:
My discord tag is @sinarei !
Do you have any alternative accounts?:
Yes, I have retate as my alternative account. I will get more accounts in the future.
Do you have a functioning microphone?:
Yes, I have a completely functioning microphone.
How old are you?:
I am of the age of 16!
Have you worked in teams like this before?:
I have been a gang leader in another discord server, where I had to get into groups with my higher-Ups to write lore for the gang from time to time.
Do you have any previous experience?:
I have experience in writing yes! I had to learn proper grammar and phrasal structure because of countless school essays but because I am also a Writer in multiple tailoring servers that I am in because of another roleplay server. I am also the HEAD of the Writing Department in on of the five biggest tailoring discord servers for that minecraft server.
Being a Writer has shown me that people commission me to write descriptions for their characters, character biographies, countless applications for the Professor Faction of that server, Shop Faction, Business Owner, Town Hall and much more. I have also written lore for my previous two gangs, other gangs that I have either been in or just been allied with. In addition I have written more lore for families, describing their past and backstories.
What do you believe is your writing strong suit?:
Yes, I entirely believe that writing is my strong suit. I believe that because I am really good at it because many people find it in them to actually commission me. I have to admit, i'm not quite cheap, but this doesn't stop people from ordering from me. The owner of one of the five biggest tailoring discord server's reached out to me and had asked me to become the head of the Writer department. This shows that i'm actually really good at writing.
Why are you interested in joining the Lore Team?:
I absolutely love writing. As mentioned previously, I like writing so much that I am in 8 tailoring discord server's and being commissioned ten to twenty times per month to write for others. I honestly love writing and developing character story lines. This is why I think I will be a good pick for the Lore team, because I love writing and i'm dedicated to it.
How did you learn about the server?:
Some of my friends have been telling me about it for awhile. Then I asked my friend to show me some writing pieces that he had been working on, and I stumbled upon this forum. This led me to actually taking the initiative and discovering this server more and more.
What unique contributions can you bring to the server?:
I feel like I can bring a new perspective to it. I think differently because I have triple nationality. I am french, english and russian, which often leads me to think differently, think outside the box. I am also very dedicated to writing and
Write a short story of a Self-Made Yokai you can find roaming throughout the island:
The Bell of Ashen Steps;
The shrine in the mountains was an always silent place, too high for the farmers to get there and too small to be noticed by the noble pilgrims. Every morning when the slopes were completely cleaned from the fog, one sound was blown down the valley, soft yet powerful enough to reach the most distant fields: the deep toll of the temple bell. The villagers thought that this sound was the one that made the sun more awake each day, light coming back to the world after the night had its rest. The person who rang it was a woman named Karin, who was known to people only by her sweet voice and the white robes she wore during her climb. She had been discovered as a baby at the foot of the mountain in a burnt cloth that had a slight smell of smoke. The monks brought her up with their chants and scriptures teaching her the rhythm of prayer, the patience of silence, and the meaning of devotion. She was a quiet, elegant, and unflagging person, passing the shrine like a gust of incense. Every dawn, she would ascend the long, bumpy stairs that went up the mountain, three hundred and thirty-three steps of stone that were slippery from the moss. After reaching the peak, she would first bow twice to the bell, then clap her hands and pull the thick rope that let the world sing.
One winter, the monks set off to the capital in order to get alms. The winter, however, was a nasty one. Snow came down earlier than usual and piled up to the points where paths could no longer be seen, and ice had a spell on the roofs where it was like a monster's grip. The shrine was kept by Karin who was all alone with the wailing of the wind against the wood and the slow fire of the candles that changed into wax pools. At first, she had good food supplies, then they dwindled down to nothing. Yet she kept on staying. The bell must be ringing all the time, she reasoned, and it was her responsibility to keep the light burning. Who knows, maybe if she quit, even the dawn would forget to come. So every morning, with shaking hands and a stomach that was empty because of hunger, she would go up the steps that were frozen over, her breath visible in the cold air as she pulled the rope and heard the sound disappear in the fog.
She was able to smell the smoke when she woke up one night. The air was thick, and there was an orange light all around. A bit further down, a single flame had started to burn the edge of a prayer scroll, and it was getting bigger because the temple's old wood was feeding it. The fire reached out faster than she could take a breath. She attempted to gather the scriptures and take them out but found the smoke too much, the heat too intense. She was coughing, and her robes were burned, and her eyes were making tears, when she staggered towards the steps, sparks falling around her. The night was completely quiet, except for the big noise of the flames. The bell tower was above her, and its shadow was moving with the fire. She turned her face to it, her body trembling, and uttered her last prayer: If the sun will not rise for me, let the bell ring once more.
By the time the morning dawned, only ash remained. The mountain's snow had turned black due to the soot, and the bell rope was hanging in pieces. The villagers went up the path, but there was no corpse found. Only one footprint was left imprinted in the frost at the first step, which was perfectly shaped, as if someone had come right out of the fire.
A few years passed, and the temple was re-erected. The monks, however, who came back, only took the day shift. They mentioned such noises as the winds carrying sounds through the valley at sunset, and also of a bell that rang softly when no one was around. The villagers started to talk about the ghost of the nun and gave her the name of Karin-no-Suzu, the Bell of Ashen Steps. They said she haunted the mountain in the mist, her feet naked and leaving marks of gray dust, her robe charred and ragged at the edges. A piece of bronze clapper, which used to hit the temple bell, was hanging around her neck. People who were listening to its faint and irregular sound found the air to be heavy and dry, as if the smoke from her last night had been resurrected and was filling their lungs.
By the time daylight arrived, only a pile of ash remained. The snow that had covered the mountain was now a dark mass of ash, and the bell rope was in shreds. The villagers followed the way up, but there was not a corpse. The only thing they found was one footprint which was at the very first place, burned into the frost, perfectly shaped as though someone was stepping out of the fire.
One night, a monk who was wandering came to the town. He was a great scholar of lost spirits, a man who firmly believed that no soul stayed behind without good reason. The villagers warned him not to go up the mountain when it was dark but he just smiled and bowed, saying that he wanted to offer a prayer for the restless souls. So, he started the climb at dusk, with his lantern shaking in the wind. The mist came and wrapped him until the steps were lost under his feet. Then he caught a faint sound, the sound of a bell ringing, dull, and cracked as if coming from very deep inside the earth.
He went on climbing, saying the sutras quietly to himself when he heard the sound again. He raised his lantern and saw her. She was just a few paces above him, her shape obscured by the moving ash. Her face was luminous like the moon, her eyes were lifeless and infinite, her hair was dripping with ash. The broken clapper hanging loosely around her neck was glowing a bit more brightly with her movement. When she started to talk, her voice was gentle but it also had a long distance echo, like a very old memory that couldn't be erased.
“You ought not to scale,” she said.
“I am looking for the person who goes by the name of the Bell,” the monk answered. “I desire to liberate you.”
“Liberate?” she murmured. “You cannot liberate that which was never under shackles.
”The wind changed direction, carrying with it the aroma of smoking wood and burning incense. The monk advanced and prayed, yet his voice was so weak that it sounded more like a dull tolling of a bell than anything else. He had been following her with his eyes when she suddenly waved her hand as if she was brushing away a fly. The part of her that was human was blackened just like the coal. She put her hand on his heart and he felt a flood of heat coming from deep inside his body and going outwards. When she took her hand away, there was a dark stain formed like a bell over his heart.
“Now, my sound is within you,” she remarked. “May it serve as a reminder to you to listen.”
The monk ran down the mountain, his lamp having been put out a long time ago. The villagers, at daybreak, discovered the monk alive, but mute. Henceforth, a weak chime would be heard every time the temple bell rang, as if it were its echo, but nobody could detect from where it came.
To this day, the local people claim that on foggy nights when the smoke aroma is barely perceptible, a specter ascends the mountain steps to the shrine. She is not in haste; she is very much there and you can just about watch her as she walks leaving behind ghostly ashes that the wind will soon sweep away. Some folks think that she rings her imaginary bell to alert the living, mourning those that suffer in silence. Others say in hush-hush tones that she is still looking for the sound that will fill her; a prayer, a word, or a voice that will finally guide her back to her dwelling.
As the sun breaks, the bell rings, and its sound spreads over the valley, the monks bow in the direction of the mountain and say a short prayer: “Today, Karin, let your footsteps be lighter. Let your echo find peace.” However, even while they are uttering these words, the very light and faint sound is still there in the background, broken, far away, andfull of sadness. The Bell of Ashen Steps rises above the fog and goes on forever after a sunrise that will never arrive.
Write a quick event based on Japanese pop-up cafes/restaurants/stores (Promotional cafes based on media such as anime, gaming, spirits, etc.):
Otaku Eats;
Hidden in the energetic side streets of Akihabara, a soft neon light oscillates above a slim entryway. The sign declares Otaku Eats, a short-term pop-up café dedicated to the vivid imaginations of anime and gaming. As you cross the threshold, the mixed scent of roasted coffee, sweet sakura syrup, and freshly prepared taiyaki welcomes you. The gentle J-pop music is in the background and has merged with the quiet voices of the ecstatic guests.
Café has made it big with mainstream Japanese media across its entire section. One side is lighting up with glowing panels that keep showing scenes from a central character in a fantasy series, while nearby a range of plush mascots and art prints from a game are in the spotlight. The tables are embellished with delicate pastel lighting, and each one is in a different mood.
A maid dressed smartly in a white outfit greets you with a big friendly smile. “Welcome to Otaku Eats! Would you prefer Hero’s Corner or Dream Realm today?” she inquires in a bright and warm manner. You go for Dream Realm, where heart-shaped paper lanterns hover above the tables and their light is like the twinkling of stars.
A menu appears on a softly lit tablet exposing a range of dishes with a certain theme. Among the items presented on the display are a dragon-shaped curry plate, a soda with the universe's swirling colors, and parfaits with tiny edible characters as toppings. You opt for the “Spirit Set,” a unique collaboration meal derived from an anime that has gained great popularity. The characters even put on a short performance to entertain everyone while you wait for the food, and the audience bursts into laughter and then applauds.
When your food is presented, every aspect is done with meticulous attention to detail. The rice has the show’s logo on it, and a tiny hologram displays the protagonist saying thank you for coming. The people at the next tables are taking pictures, swapping collectible cards, and making friends with smiles that perfectly express the happiness of being a part of a community.
Event:
For one weekend only, Otaku Eats will be the exclusive collaboration café that merges anime and gaming cultures through themed cuisine, live performances, and unique merchandise. The visitors can experience the world where imagination, flavor, and mingling are perfectly harmonized.
How would you write the atmosphere of the image provided below? (Byakuyakoku Shinto Monastery):
The Byakuyakoku Shinto Monastery stood silhouetted against the snowfall on the slopes, like a giant altar of remembrance to the bygone faith. The atmosphere was very pleasant and wasn't cold nor warm; it was actually strange to feel that time here was of a different kind. Fluffy white masses, very uneven, draped the roofs and the stony paths, as if the goddess of Nature herself was laying them down but at the same time, respecting some invisible boundaries. The lanterns were hardly visible, flickering their little lives out with a strange light that came from a distant sun, which was arguably forever stuck between the two times of day. Dawn and dusk.
Everything from the very first nail that linked the beams together to the very last carving that was done on them, silently told the story of the old rituals and whispering prayers of the past. The spirits burned incense; only a trace was left but it was so distinct that no one would be able to say that they had not experienced it at all. The monastery was exquisite, but not in such a way that it would be a relief to the visitor; rather, it was the kind of beauty that put one on guard rather than inviting. The shadows also, by their presence, were telling that they were not just the shadows but also animating the whole scene as if they were them, the spirits, waiting for their turn to share the truth with the mortals, who were still so unaware of their existence, that they needed to be forced to believe it.
When a spiritual person walked through the deserted courtyards, he would feel a presence that would be hardly visible but still very powerful and very closely following his movement. The spot appeared to be remarkably both holy and ghost-ridden at the same time; such a contradiction was so much part of its essence. The silence was not the kind of silence where one would imagine God was silent; it was the kind of silence where one would imagine God was silently watching with great patience what was going on. The buildings were remarkable in that they mixed the traditional Shinto beauty with almost otherworldly quality so that it became clear that the Byakuyakoku was possibly not wholly present in our world.
One could easily visualise the monks, the guardians of this paradise, the ones who used to chant and make the mountain a little less distant by merging their voices with the wind. However, in the present, there were only the faintest sounds of love and the unappealing calmness of a deserted place. Very slowly, the monastery
You have been tasked to write an in-lore influential character in the history of Norowarejima. Who and what would you create? Provide some insight on the character!:
As a grand black ship, hugging the fog, docked along the old pier, the evening fog covered Norowarejima’s harbor. A tall woman wrapped in sable fur descended from the ship; her hair was pale winter wheat, and her eyes were sharp like frost on glass. Countess Yelena Morozova, a Russian steel tycoon’s widow, had come to the island in 1892, causing gossip to travel like wildfire in both the nobility and the common folks of Norowarejima.
The Countess wanted to go to a noise-free place after the death of her husband, but she was a woman who would never let silence prevail around her anyway. With her riches, she took the north cliff of the island and in a year, built Morozov Manor, a mansion made of white stone with black iron that gazed at the raging sea. It was said that her foreign staff told tales of mysterious late-night parties and candlelit parlors resonant with violins and different languages.
Yelena’s power was very closely linked with her beauty. She not only brought the elegance and sophistication of the Russian elite to the island but also the future in forms of art, architecture, and food. The island’s nobles started to adopt her traits, her style, and her preferences in furnishings. She not only remained an outsider but also became the unnoticeable center around which Norowarejima’s high society rotated.
The most remarkable thing she did was to found the Morozov Cultural Society in 1897 which was a charitable society aimed at the acquisition of knowledge and refinement on the part of the island’s children. Under her wing, artists, musicians, and poets were lured to Norowarejima to teach. Her parties, no matter how presented, were always behind-the-scenes political salons where business and power mingled under a cover of art and elegance.
Some people regarded her as benign, a foreign investor who elevated the island into modernity. However, others implied that she was the one responsible for the killings of noble families, ensuring her power in the shadows. There was even talk that her vessels were not only delivering goods but also transporting whispers and power to the other side of the ocean.
In 1914, Yelena Morozova’s death saw her funeral receiving all sorts of people, including nobility, clergy, and commoners. The manor where she lived was closed up, and her money was distributed to the charities which she herself had set up. And still, the locals say that on nights when the fog is thick, the barely audible music of a violin can be heard coming from the cliffs above the harbor, and an outline of a tall person is seen in the highest window of the manor, the island she once ruled over.
Now and for the future, the direct heir, Katerina Morozova, lives in the reconstructed manor that overlooks the northern cliffs. Katerina, although much more modern in attitude, has inherited her forebearer’s ambition and the desire for a major power played quietly. The Morozov Foundation, the private society for which she is the head, funds art, restoration, and education projects in Norowarejima, and the amount of money is not limited. People reckon that Katerina’s influence is more widespread than the one that her grandmother ever had; however, she only gives a soft smile in response, her light eyes mirroring the same unflappable calmness that once made Countess Yelena both hated and loved.
Character Insight:
Countess Yelena Morozova continues to be one of Norowarejima's most powerful and pivotal historical characters, a foreign matriarch, who by her wealth and aspiration, changed the island's culture and power structure. Through the line of Katerina, her heritage is passed on, linking the two eras under the silent watch of Morozov Manor.
The Bell of Ashen Steps;
The shrine in the mountains was an always silent place, too high for the farmers to get there and too small to be noticed by the noble pilgrims. Every morning when the slopes were completely cleaned from the fog, one sound was blown down the valley, soft yet powerful enough to reach the most distant fields: the deep toll of the temple bell. The villagers thought that this sound was the one that made the sun more awake each day, light coming back to the world after the night had its rest. The person who rang it was a woman named Karin, who was known to people only by her sweet voice and the white robes she wore during her climb. She had been discovered as a baby at the foot of the mountain in a burnt cloth that had a slight smell of smoke. The monks brought her up with their chants and scriptures teaching her the rhythm of prayer, the patience of silence, and the meaning of devotion. She was a quiet, elegant, and unflagging person, passing the shrine like a gust of incense. Every dawn, she would ascend the long, bumpy stairs that went up the mountain, three hundred and thirty-three steps of stone that were slippery from the moss. After reaching the peak, she would first bow twice to the bell, then clap her hands and pull the thick rope that let the world sing.
One winter, the monks set off to the capital in order to get alms. The winter, however, was a nasty one. Snow came down earlier than usual and piled up to the points where paths could no longer be seen, and ice had a spell on the roofs where it was like a monster's grip. The shrine was kept by Karin who was all alone with the wailing of the wind against the wood and the slow fire of the candles that changed into wax pools. At first, she had good food supplies, then they dwindled down to nothing. Yet she kept on staying. The bell must be ringing all the time, she reasoned, and it was her responsibility to keep the light burning. Who knows, maybe if she quit, even the dawn would forget to come. So every morning, with shaking hands and a stomach that was empty because of hunger, she would go up the steps that were frozen over, her breath visible in the cold air as she pulled the rope and heard the sound disappear in the fog.
She was able to smell the smoke when she woke up one night. The air was thick, and there was an orange light all around. A bit further down, a single flame had started to burn the edge of a prayer scroll, and it was getting bigger because the temple's old wood was feeding it. The fire reached out faster than she could take a breath. She attempted to gather the scriptures and take them out but found the smoke too much, the heat too intense. She was coughing, and her robes were burned, and her eyes were making tears, when she staggered towards the steps, sparks falling around her. The night was completely quiet, except for the big noise of the flames. The bell tower was above her, and its shadow was moving with the fire. She turned her face to it, her body trembling, and uttered her last prayer: If the sun will not rise for me, let the bell ring once more.
By the time the morning dawned, only ash remained. The mountain's snow had turned black due to the soot, and the bell rope was hanging in pieces. The villagers went up the path, but there was no corpse found. Only one footprint was left imprinted in the frost at the first step, which was perfectly shaped, as if someone had come right out of the fire.
A few years passed, and the temple was re-erected. The monks, however, who came back, only took the day shift. They mentioned such noises as the winds carrying sounds through the valley at sunset, and also of a bell that rang softly when no one was around. The villagers started to talk about the ghost of the nun and gave her the name of Karin-no-Suzu, the Bell of Ashen Steps. They said she haunted the mountain in the mist, her feet naked and leaving marks of gray dust, her robe charred and ragged at the edges. A piece of bronze clapper, which used to hit the temple bell, was hanging around her neck. People who were listening to its faint and irregular sound found the air to be heavy and dry, as if the smoke from her last night had been resurrected and was filling their lungs.
By the time daylight arrived, only a pile of ash remained. The snow that had covered the mountain was now a dark mass of ash, and the bell rope was in shreds. The villagers followed the way up, but there was not a corpse. The only thing they found was one footprint which was at the very first place, burned into the frost, perfectly shaped as though someone was stepping out of the fire.
One night, a monk who was wandering came to the town. He was a great scholar of lost spirits, a man who firmly believed that no soul stayed behind without good reason. The villagers warned him not to go up the mountain when it was dark but he just smiled and bowed, saying that he wanted to offer a prayer for the restless souls. So, he started the climb at dusk, with his lantern shaking in the wind. The mist came and wrapped him until the steps were lost under his feet. Then he caught a faint sound, the sound of a bell ringing, dull, and cracked as if coming from very deep inside the earth.
He went on climbing, saying the sutras quietly to himself when he heard the sound again. He raised his lantern and saw her. She was just a few paces above him, her shape obscured by the moving ash. Her face was luminous like the moon, her eyes were lifeless and infinite, her hair was dripping with ash. The broken clapper hanging loosely around her neck was glowing a bit more brightly with her movement. When she started to talk, her voice was gentle but it also had a long distance echo, like a very old memory that couldn't be erased.
“You ought not to scale,” she said.
“I am looking for the person who goes by the name of the Bell,” the monk answered. “I desire to liberate you.”
“Liberate?” she murmured. “You cannot liberate that which was never under shackles.
”The wind changed direction, carrying with it the aroma of smoking wood and burning incense. The monk advanced and prayed, yet his voice was so weak that it sounded more like a dull tolling of a bell than anything else. He had been following her with his eyes when she suddenly waved her hand as if she was brushing away a fly. The part of her that was human was blackened just like the coal. She put her hand on his heart and he felt a flood of heat coming from deep inside his body and going outwards. When she took her hand away, there was a dark stain formed like a bell over his heart.
“Now, my sound is within you,” she remarked. “May it serve as a reminder to you to listen.”
The monk ran down the mountain, his lamp having been put out a long time ago. The villagers, at daybreak, discovered the monk alive, but mute. Henceforth, a weak chime would be heard every time the temple bell rang, as if it were its echo, but nobody could detect from where it came.
To this day, the local people claim that on foggy nights when the smoke aroma is barely perceptible, a specter ascends the mountain steps to the shrine. She is not in haste; she is very much there and you can just about watch her as she walks leaving behind ghostly ashes that the wind will soon sweep away. Some folks think that she rings her imaginary bell to alert the living, mourning those that suffer in silence. Others say in hush-hush tones that she is still looking for the sound that will fill her; a prayer, a word, or a voice that will finally guide her back to her dwelling.
As the sun breaks, the bell rings, and its sound spreads over the valley, the monks bow in the direction of the mountain and say a short prayer: “Today, Karin, let your footsteps be lighter. Let your echo find peace.” However, even while they are uttering these words, the very light and faint sound is still there in the background, broken, far away, andfull of sadness. The Bell of Ashen Steps rises above the fog and goes on forever after a sunrise that will never arrive.
Write a quick event based on Japanese pop-up cafes/restaurants/stores (Promotional cafes based on media such as anime, gaming, spirits, etc.):
Otaku Eats;
Hidden in the energetic side streets of Akihabara, a soft neon light oscillates above a slim entryway. The sign declares Otaku Eats, a short-term pop-up café dedicated to the vivid imaginations of anime and gaming. As you cross the threshold, the mixed scent of roasted coffee, sweet sakura syrup, and freshly prepared taiyaki welcomes you. The gentle J-pop music is in the background and has merged with the quiet voices of the ecstatic guests.
Café has made it big with mainstream Japanese media across its entire section. One side is lighting up with glowing panels that keep showing scenes from a central character in a fantasy series, while nearby a range of plush mascots and art prints from a game are in the spotlight. The tables are embellished with delicate pastel lighting, and each one is in a different mood.
A maid dressed smartly in a white outfit greets you with a big friendly smile. “Welcome to Otaku Eats! Would you prefer Hero’s Corner or Dream Realm today?” she inquires in a bright and warm manner. You go for Dream Realm, where heart-shaped paper lanterns hover above the tables and their light is like the twinkling of stars.
A menu appears on a softly lit tablet exposing a range of dishes with a certain theme. Among the items presented on the display are a dragon-shaped curry plate, a soda with the universe's swirling colors, and parfaits with tiny edible characters as toppings. You opt for the “Spirit Set,” a unique collaboration meal derived from an anime that has gained great popularity. The characters even put on a short performance to entertain everyone while you wait for the food, and the audience bursts into laughter and then applauds.
When your food is presented, every aspect is done with meticulous attention to detail. The rice has the show’s logo on it, and a tiny hologram displays the protagonist saying thank you for coming. The people at the next tables are taking pictures, swapping collectible cards, and making friends with smiles that perfectly express the happiness of being a part of a community.
Event:
For one weekend only, Otaku Eats will be the exclusive collaboration café that merges anime and gaming cultures through themed cuisine, live performances, and unique merchandise. The visitors can experience the world where imagination, flavor, and mingling are perfectly harmonized.
How would you write the atmosphere of the image provided below? (Byakuyakoku Shinto Monastery):
The Byakuyakoku Shinto Monastery stood silhouetted against the snowfall on the slopes, like a giant altar of remembrance to the bygone faith. The atmosphere was very pleasant and wasn't cold nor warm; it was actually strange to feel that time here was of a different kind. Fluffy white masses, very uneven, draped the roofs and the stony paths, as if the goddess of Nature herself was laying them down but at the same time, respecting some invisible boundaries. The lanterns were hardly visible, flickering their little lives out with a strange light that came from a distant sun, which was arguably forever stuck between the two times of day. Dawn and dusk.
Everything from the very first nail that linked the beams together to the very last carving that was done on them, silently told the story of the old rituals and whispering prayers of the past. The spirits burned incense; only a trace was left but it was so distinct that no one would be able to say that they had not experienced it at all. The monastery was exquisite, but not in such a way that it would be a relief to the visitor; rather, it was the kind of beauty that put one on guard rather than inviting. The shadows also, by their presence, were telling that they were not just the shadows but also animating the whole scene as if they were them, the spirits, waiting for their turn to share the truth with the mortals, who were still so unaware of their existence, that they needed to be forced to believe it.
When a spiritual person walked through the deserted courtyards, he would feel a presence that would be hardly visible but still very powerful and very closely following his movement. The spot appeared to be remarkably both holy and ghost-ridden at the same time; such a contradiction was so much part of its essence. The silence was not the kind of silence where one would imagine God was silent; it was the kind of silence where one would imagine God was silently watching with great patience what was going on. The buildings were remarkable in that they mixed the traditional Shinto beauty with almost otherworldly quality so that it became clear that the Byakuyakoku was possibly not wholly present in our world.
One could easily visualise the monks, the guardians of this paradise, the ones who used to chant and make the mountain a little less distant by merging their voices with the wind. However, in the present, there were only the faintest sounds of love and the unappealing calmness of a deserted place. Very slowly, the monastery
You have been tasked to write an in-lore influential character in the history of Norowarejima. Who and what would you create? Provide some insight on the character!:
As a grand black ship, hugging the fog, docked along the old pier, the evening fog covered Norowarejima’s harbor. A tall woman wrapped in sable fur descended from the ship; her hair was pale winter wheat, and her eyes were sharp like frost on glass. Countess Yelena Morozova, a Russian steel tycoon’s widow, had come to the island in 1892, causing gossip to travel like wildfire in both the nobility and the common folks of Norowarejima.
The Countess wanted to go to a noise-free place after the death of her husband, but she was a woman who would never let silence prevail around her anyway. With her riches, she took the north cliff of the island and in a year, built Morozov Manor, a mansion made of white stone with black iron that gazed at the raging sea. It was said that her foreign staff told tales of mysterious late-night parties and candlelit parlors resonant with violins and different languages.
Yelena’s power was very closely linked with her beauty. She not only brought the elegance and sophistication of the Russian elite to the island but also the future in forms of art, architecture, and food. The island’s nobles started to adopt her traits, her style, and her preferences in furnishings. She not only remained an outsider but also became the unnoticeable center around which Norowarejima’s high society rotated.
The most remarkable thing she did was to found the Morozov Cultural Society in 1897 which was a charitable society aimed at the acquisition of knowledge and refinement on the part of the island’s children. Under her wing, artists, musicians, and poets were lured to Norowarejima to teach. Her parties, no matter how presented, were always behind-the-scenes political salons where business and power mingled under a cover of art and elegance.
Some people regarded her as benign, a foreign investor who elevated the island into modernity. However, others implied that she was the one responsible for the killings of noble families, ensuring her power in the shadows. There was even talk that her vessels were not only delivering goods but also transporting whispers and power to the other side of the ocean.
In 1914, Yelena Morozova’s death saw her funeral receiving all sorts of people, including nobility, clergy, and commoners. The manor where she lived was closed up, and her money was distributed to the charities which she herself had set up. And still, the locals say that on nights when the fog is thick, the barely audible music of a violin can be heard coming from the cliffs above the harbor, and an outline of a tall person is seen in the highest window of the manor, the island she once ruled over.
Now and for the future, the direct heir, Katerina Morozova, lives in the reconstructed manor that overlooks the northern cliffs. Katerina, although much more modern in attitude, has inherited her forebearer’s ambition and the desire for a major power played quietly. The Morozov Foundation, the private society for which she is the head, funds art, restoration, and education projects in Norowarejima, and the amount of money is not limited. People reckon that Katerina’s influence is more widespread than the one that her grandmother ever had; however, she only gives a soft smile in response, her light eyes mirroring the same unflappable calmness that once made Countess Yelena both hated and loved.
Character Insight:
Countess Yelena Morozova continues to be one of Norowarejima's most powerful and pivotal historical characters, a foreign matriarch, who by her wealth and aspiration, changed the island's culture and power structure. Through the line of Katerina, her heritage is passed on, linking the two eras under the silent watch of Morozov Manor.
Additional Notes:
This application was rly fun to fill out as I love writing. I think this is one of three applications that have ever pushed me to use all of my writing inspiration ever!
