Post by The Mad Hatter on Mar 25, 2014 1:23:07 GMT -5
Character Image:
Image/Face claim:Sebastian Stan
Name: Jefferson [x] The Mad Hatter
Gender: Male
Age: 38
Occupation: Jefferson has an eclectic résumé, including but not limited to time spent as a Portal-Hopper (most often gathering items of value to trade/sell between worlds), a Merchant of Mushrooms (no, not that kind…well, maybe that kind, but never while Gracie was alive), and a brief stint in Storybrooke as the Town Loon/Friendly Neighborhood Serial-Kidnapper.
Family: A deceased wife (open to anyone that might want to plot on this) and their daughter, Gracie/Paige, presently 11-years-old.
Friends: Open to plotting. I imagine he’s got some ties with the Wonderland gang. Being a portal-hopper, he would have friends in a variety of places.
Enemies: He’s still holding a grudge against Regina and Cora. Also pretty bitter towards the family that was housing Paige in Storybrooke during the first curse.
Strengths: Creativity, diligence, cunning and street-smarts. Jefferson is a relatively cultured man, having traveled as much as he has, with a pretty accurate ability when it comes to judging character.
Weaknesses: Volatile, demanding, stubborn, at times emotionally unstable. He is eternally kind and gentle with his child, but lift a hand against her or double-cross him and you’ll spend the next decade looking over your shoulder, swearing each time you pass a dark corner that you saw the ghost of a man grinning wickedly beneath a hat.
Quote: “Some (worlds) have magic; some don’t. And some need magic.”
Personality:
Jefferson is, at best, a slightly volatile man with his daughter’s best intentions at heart and, at worst, downright psychopathic. Regina’s first curse did a number on his stability and sanity. More than anything, the solitude was unbearable. He suffers a nasty phobia of being alone now, though he’d never divulge as much openly and is crafty enough to hide it from most everyone save for, perhaps, Grace.
Witty with an intellect on very unique planes of existence, Jefferson enjoys a good debate. He’s well-read, well-travelled and still curious about the world, though far more cautious and cynical since his thirty years in Storybrooke. Careful though—don’t flare that temper. It can be difficult to calm him down and, when in a tantrum, Jefferson is not always a clear-thinker.
Since the coming of the Second Curse, there’s an underlying skittishness to much of his behavior that’s seeded in a paranoia about the missing year of his life. (See below for further details.) He is not expressly social but once his trust is earned, he will go to great lengths to protect those close to him. Everyone else, he’s pretty apathetic about. Don’t expect him to play hero. On a similar note, he’s liable to be violent and aggressive towards those who stand between him and the things he marks as important. He’s perfectly capable of civil behavior and a model example of etiquette on many occasions. But they don’t call him The Mad Hatter for nothing. He’s learned by now that there are moments in life that require a certain ruthless perseverance. Jefferson does not frequently seek those situations out, but neither will he shy from them.
History:
Once upon a time (hah), there was a man that loved a woman so softly, so wildly, with every last color in-between, he thought he could have burst. Oddly enough, he was not the one that got bigger. It was the girl that swelled, like air blown into a balloon, her stomach pushing out to be a little closer to the sun each day. Finally the sun cried Come! Let me see you! and Grace was born. And probably, thought her father, the sun was a little jealous of just how bright she was.
Her mother radiated, too. So hot and so fast, with such beautiful abandon, that one day she burned out. Jefferson tried not to think about that day. It had been a bit like watching a star implode, some grand piece of nature dying. He thought if he stared too long, he would go blind so he looked forward and not back as much as he could, for his sake and for Gracie’s. Together, they went out into the world. It was a smaller world than he was used to before her birth, and it was just this one world (Jefferson had been to many, you see), but he liked it just fine when she wrapped her arms around his middle and clung to him like a little bug on a leaf.
There were things inbetween, like mushroom-picking, going to the market, lots of nights tucked away in a meager cottage and worn clothes. Later he would try to recreate every vivid detail—how many threads had been on her dress, if she’d worn her hair more in braids or pigtails, which eye on her little stuffed rabbit had broken off first. A Queen would come and ask a favor. Jefferson would learn the price of charity. Or maybe it was a punishment from those years prior, when he had lied to her about a wizard resurrecting the man she loved. When something you loved was dead, it was dead. Just dead.
He would lose his body—or maybe his head? And then there would be those dreadful years in Wonderland, making hat after hat after hat to get free. But he only ever really escaped from one hell to land in another.
--
Tick-tock, tick-tock. For thirty years, Jefferson sat and stared at the clock.
And the laws of the universe itself seemed to unravel. Seconds turned to hours turned to years and time gaped on and on like the child, his sweet child, yawning in the back of some wretched off-white classroom, unable to so much as recall his face. In a world where time did not have to obey the law, The Hatter thought fine, neither do I. Neither do I. And it rooted itself, this terrible little black flower that found shelter in the pit of his stomach and grew and grew like the tall daisy-stalks of Wonderland, sometimes pressing up so high it nearly choked him. There had been a time that he had understood: right—wrong; black—white; up—down. Now he thought much of it looked the same, just endless fields of gray for him to slice through, jaw clenched and teeth bared. He was angry. He was livid.
He was mad.
Mad as a Hatter.
Anger like that festers and it eats away at the soul, always hungry no matter how ravenously it feeds. And here it found a deal: two-for-one. There was agony still from Jefferson’s first life, hidden away beneath muscles and cartilage and white, brittle bone. And there was pain now too in this second life. Two men, living in one head, two worlds that had wronged him and a stretch of time that seemed never to end, an almost-eternity that he spent alone in a house that was too big, a bed that was too big, listening to the melancholy melodies of silence.
If patience was a virtue, Jefferson might well have been born of all saints, because he waited that thirty years and when their Savior came rolling into town in her little yellow bug, he grabbed her by the golden hair of her pretty head and pulled. If he had ripped her scalp clean off, he wouldn’t have cared, just so long as she made him his damn hat. Some worlds had magic, some did not. Jefferson thought any place that Paige…no, Gracie, sat was blessed and enchanted but that was not enough in this dreary world.
--
He wanted to be a good role model. He wanted to say things like never give up and be strong and do what’s right but then he would also be a hypocrite, which was not something a child should understand or ever aspire to be. It was just that he was tired now and his head hurt and even if everyone around him really was mad after all, even if he was the one beaming beacon of sanity in this town, they looked happy and he was not. So he got down on his knees and he asked the woman he hated to make him forget, to let him descend into madness like the rest and she said okay, but she was lying like people of power often do.
Not that it mattered. Jefferson had had enough of being mad by then, so instead he just got even and he went down into the horrifying place with the white walls (God above, God above, don’t ever let me see this place again) and he set a beautiful butterfly free and he said something like go find Mr. Gold and tell him it was Regina that put you here, as if it were for justice, for her freedom and safety, Belle’s peace of mind.
What he really meant was tear that bitch apart and burn her to the ground.
--
But it wasn’t long thereafter that he was standing in the sun again, the same sun that had kissed Gracie as soon as her head poked out into the world like hello, I know I’m small but I’m a force of wonder and you aren’t ready for me and he was kissing Grace too, on her forehead—Grace, not Paige. And Grace-not-Paige looked up at him and called him daddy and thirty years of tick-tock and thirty years of madness and almost-scalping-a-savior and bending-a-knee-to-that-bitch was made alright by that sound.
--
Sometimes at night, though, he could still feel that awful black flower blooming in the pit of his stomach. He woke in cold sweats. He paced. He tugged at his hair. He thought he heard voices like stardust in his ears. Louder still was the rhythm of that clock, back and forth, as though it could go on for eternity. If Grace woke when he was in a fit, he put her back to sleep and read to her and promised he was alright and he never once told her how often he saw red when he closed his eyes to sleep and how metallic it always smelled and tasted, like blood.
Certain nights, the clock would get stuck, no tick-tock, just tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick..
--
Note from Nicole: Following the break of Regina’s first curse, Jefferson is seen reunited with Grace but they are not heard from thereafter. My theory is that they manage to make it back into the Enchanted Forest by means of one of his portals. I’m open to plotting here as well—maybe a portal-hopping friend comes through and retrieves them in silence?
Jefferson has made his return to Storybrooke with the coming of the Second Curse. But, like the others, this time he’s missing a year of his life. As time is passing, he’s piecing together bits of what happened and what he finds continually scares him. Clothes he doesn’t recognize soaked with blood, scars he can’t remember getting. The First Curse cracked him and I think he’s still psychologically dealing with the aftermath of trying to reconcile two lives in one head with a solid three decades of heavy isolation from society.
If you’d like to take part in Jefferson’s Missing Year, hit me up! Let’s talk about what happened. :3
Likes: Hats, warm afternoons, tea, cookies, Grace, art, literature. Classical music calms him.
Dislikes: Monotony, stagnancy. Clocks. Repetitive sounds flare his temper. He’s scratched off the face of The Queen of Hearts in every box of cards he owns.
Roleplay Example: Can be an old roleplay.
Lastly... Where did you hear about us? RPG-Directory! ;D
Image/Face claim:Sebastian Stan
Name: Jefferson [x] The Mad Hatter
Gender: Male
Age: 38
Occupation: Jefferson has an eclectic résumé, including but not limited to time spent as a Portal-Hopper (most often gathering items of value to trade/sell between worlds), a Merchant of Mushrooms (no, not that kind…well, maybe that kind, but never while Gracie was alive), and a brief stint in Storybrooke as the Town Loon/Friendly Neighborhood Serial-Kidnapper.
Family: A deceased wife (open to anyone that might want to plot on this) and their daughter, Gracie/Paige, presently 11-years-old.
Friends: Open to plotting. I imagine he’s got some ties with the Wonderland gang. Being a portal-hopper, he would have friends in a variety of places.
Enemies: He’s still holding a grudge against Regina and Cora. Also pretty bitter towards the family that was housing Paige in Storybrooke during the first curse.
Strengths: Creativity, diligence, cunning and street-smarts. Jefferson is a relatively cultured man, having traveled as much as he has, with a pretty accurate ability when it comes to judging character.
Weaknesses: Volatile, demanding, stubborn, at times emotionally unstable. He is eternally kind and gentle with his child, but lift a hand against her or double-cross him and you’ll spend the next decade looking over your shoulder, swearing each time you pass a dark corner that you saw the ghost of a man grinning wickedly beneath a hat.
Quote: “Some (worlds) have magic; some don’t. And some need magic.”
Personality:
Jefferson is, at best, a slightly volatile man with his daughter’s best intentions at heart and, at worst, downright psychopathic. Regina’s first curse did a number on his stability and sanity. More than anything, the solitude was unbearable. He suffers a nasty phobia of being alone now, though he’d never divulge as much openly and is crafty enough to hide it from most everyone save for, perhaps, Grace.
Witty with an intellect on very unique planes of existence, Jefferson enjoys a good debate. He’s well-read, well-travelled and still curious about the world, though far more cautious and cynical since his thirty years in Storybrooke. Careful though—don’t flare that temper. It can be difficult to calm him down and, when in a tantrum, Jefferson is not always a clear-thinker.
Since the coming of the Second Curse, there’s an underlying skittishness to much of his behavior that’s seeded in a paranoia about the missing year of his life. (See below for further details.) He is not expressly social but once his trust is earned, he will go to great lengths to protect those close to him. Everyone else, he’s pretty apathetic about. Don’t expect him to play hero. On a similar note, he’s liable to be violent and aggressive towards those who stand between him and the things he marks as important. He’s perfectly capable of civil behavior and a model example of etiquette on many occasions. But they don’t call him The Mad Hatter for nothing. He’s learned by now that there are moments in life that require a certain ruthless perseverance. Jefferson does not frequently seek those situations out, but neither will he shy from them.
History:
Once upon a time (hah), there was a man that loved a woman so softly, so wildly, with every last color in-between, he thought he could have burst. Oddly enough, he was not the one that got bigger. It was the girl that swelled, like air blown into a balloon, her stomach pushing out to be a little closer to the sun each day. Finally the sun cried Come! Let me see you! and Grace was born. And probably, thought her father, the sun was a little jealous of just how bright she was.
Her mother radiated, too. So hot and so fast, with such beautiful abandon, that one day she burned out. Jefferson tried not to think about that day. It had been a bit like watching a star implode, some grand piece of nature dying. He thought if he stared too long, he would go blind so he looked forward and not back as much as he could, for his sake and for Gracie’s. Together, they went out into the world. It was a smaller world than he was used to before her birth, and it was just this one world (Jefferson had been to many, you see), but he liked it just fine when she wrapped her arms around his middle and clung to him like a little bug on a leaf.
There were things inbetween, like mushroom-picking, going to the market, lots of nights tucked away in a meager cottage and worn clothes. Later he would try to recreate every vivid detail—how many threads had been on her dress, if she’d worn her hair more in braids or pigtails, which eye on her little stuffed rabbit had broken off first. A Queen would come and ask a favor. Jefferson would learn the price of charity. Or maybe it was a punishment from those years prior, when he had lied to her about a wizard resurrecting the man she loved. When something you loved was dead, it was dead. Just dead.
He would lose his body—or maybe his head? And then there would be those dreadful years in Wonderland, making hat after hat after hat to get free. But he only ever really escaped from one hell to land in another.
--
Tick-tock, tick-tock. For thirty years, Jefferson sat and stared at the clock.
And the laws of the universe itself seemed to unravel. Seconds turned to hours turned to years and time gaped on and on like the child, his sweet child, yawning in the back of some wretched off-white classroom, unable to so much as recall his face. In a world where time did not have to obey the law, The Hatter thought fine, neither do I. Neither do I. And it rooted itself, this terrible little black flower that found shelter in the pit of his stomach and grew and grew like the tall daisy-stalks of Wonderland, sometimes pressing up so high it nearly choked him. There had been a time that he had understood: right—wrong; black—white; up—down. Now he thought much of it looked the same, just endless fields of gray for him to slice through, jaw clenched and teeth bared. He was angry. He was livid.
He was mad.
Mad as a Hatter.
Anger like that festers and it eats away at the soul, always hungry no matter how ravenously it feeds. And here it found a deal: two-for-one. There was agony still from Jefferson’s first life, hidden away beneath muscles and cartilage and white, brittle bone. And there was pain now too in this second life. Two men, living in one head, two worlds that had wronged him and a stretch of time that seemed never to end, an almost-eternity that he spent alone in a house that was too big, a bed that was too big, listening to the melancholy melodies of silence.
If patience was a virtue, Jefferson might well have been born of all saints, because he waited that thirty years and when their Savior came rolling into town in her little yellow bug, he grabbed her by the golden hair of her pretty head and pulled. If he had ripped her scalp clean off, he wouldn’t have cared, just so long as she made him his damn hat. Some worlds had magic, some did not. Jefferson thought any place that Paige…no, Gracie, sat was blessed and enchanted but that was not enough in this dreary world.
--
He wanted to be a good role model. He wanted to say things like never give up and be strong and do what’s right but then he would also be a hypocrite, which was not something a child should understand or ever aspire to be. It was just that he was tired now and his head hurt and even if everyone around him really was mad after all, even if he was the one beaming beacon of sanity in this town, they looked happy and he was not. So he got down on his knees and he asked the woman he hated to make him forget, to let him descend into madness like the rest and she said okay, but she was lying like people of power often do.
Not that it mattered. Jefferson had had enough of being mad by then, so instead he just got even and he went down into the horrifying place with the white walls (God above, God above, don’t ever let me see this place again) and he set a beautiful butterfly free and he said something like go find Mr. Gold and tell him it was Regina that put you here, as if it were for justice, for her freedom and safety, Belle’s peace of mind.
What he really meant was tear that bitch apart and burn her to the ground.
--
But it wasn’t long thereafter that he was standing in the sun again, the same sun that had kissed Gracie as soon as her head poked out into the world like hello, I know I’m small but I’m a force of wonder and you aren’t ready for me and he was kissing Grace too, on her forehead—Grace, not Paige. And Grace-not-Paige looked up at him and called him daddy and thirty years of tick-tock and thirty years of madness and almost-scalping-a-savior and bending-a-knee-to-that-bitch was made alright by that sound.
--
Sometimes at night, though, he could still feel that awful black flower blooming in the pit of his stomach. He woke in cold sweats. He paced. He tugged at his hair. He thought he heard voices like stardust in his ears. Louder still was the rhythm of that clock, back and forth, as though it could go on for eternity. If Grace woke when he was in a fit, he put her back to sleep and read to her and promised he was alright and he never once told her how often he saw red when he closed his eyes to sleep and how metallic it always smelled and tasted, like blood.
Certain nights, the clock would get stuck, no tick-tock, just tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick..
--
Note from Nicole: Following the break of Regina’s first curse, Jefferson is seen reunited with Grace but they are not heard from thereafter. My theory is that they manage to make it back into the Enchanted Forest by means of one of his portals. I’m open to plotting here as well—maybe a portal-hopping friend comes through and retrieves them in silence?
Jefferson has made his return to Storybrooke with the coming of the Second Curse. But, like the others, this time he’s missing a year of his life. As time is passing, he’s piecing together bits of what happened and what he finds continually scares him. Clothes he doesn’t recognize soaked with blood, scars he can’t remember getting. The First Curse cracked him and I think he’s still psychologically dealing with the aftermath of trying to reconcile two lives in one head with a solid three decades of heavy isolation from society.
If you’d like to take part in Jefferson’s Missing Year, hit me up! Let’s talk about what happened. :3
Likes: Hats, warm afternoons, tea, cookies, Grace, art, literature. Classical music calms him.
Dislikes: Monotony, stagnancy. Clocks. Repetitive sounds flare his temper. He’s scratched off the face of The Queen of Hearts in every box of cards he owns.
Roleplay Example: Can be an old roleplay.
“—Wot?!” Addison’s head whipped backwards towards the king at his proclamation.
Lucian smiled caustically, though still the edges of his lips pulled in such a way that suggested he was caught, conflicted, confused. “Oh, how cute. A deathbed confession.”
Addy glanced between him and the king again. “Ye’ feckin’ idiot! Ye’ drop that question now?!” Wot the hell is wrong with ye’?!” But there was a kind of quiet joy in her eyes that Lucian recognized from a long time ago. He wanted at once to both admire and destroy it.
His hand closed around Erben’s wrist, tugging the child back and into him. The little boy’s back was rigid but he didn’t make a peep. Definitely one of Addy’s, he thought. Children fostered beneath her hand tended to have that admirable fighting spirit. She didn’t look proud though, only horrified as she stepped closer to them. Lucian stepped back. Addison stepped forward. “Don’t come any closer,” he warned. “Or I’ll kill him.”
He’d never noticed just how old she looked, but it showed in that moment. Sad. Beaten down. But also there was warmth in her gaze. She did not move with caution towards him, but with abandon, as though he were not something to be feared at all but only a child, lost and angry. I am darkness. I am destruction, he thought but it felt a little desperate. “Let ‘im go, Lukey. C’mon. Ye’ said it’s me ye’ want. N’ I’m here. No need fer them. Wot do ye’ want? Ye’ want me t’ stay with ye’? I will. Ye don’t have t’ make threats, ye’ just have t’ ask.”
“I’m here to kill you,” warned Lucian. His voice wavered slightly.
She stopped a moment but then she only swallowed and nodded. “Okay. Alright. Yer gonna’ do wotever ye’ have t’ do. That’s alright. ‘s my fault. I helped raise ye’ that way. T’ do wot needs t’ be done.” His abdomen constricted. His grip on Erben loosened. What needs to be done. The little elven boy shivered against the cold of Lucian’s body and he released him finally, Erben running quickly to bury his face in Alaric’s leg.
“Alaric, go,” said Addison, never so much as turning her eyes from Lucian. “Take Erben n’ go. I’ve gotta’ stay here. –N’ if the world doesn’t end, if we all make it through this—yes, ye’ stupid feckin’ lug. I’ll marry ye’. Gods know why ye’ want me naggin’ ye’ all the time, but I do like doin’ it.” Lucian made no move to stop them from leaving. More insistent, Addy repeated, “Go. No heroics. Ye’ get that little shit somewhere safe.” She waited until the door closed. She didn’t even look back at them then. It struck Lucian that this might have been the last she ever saw of them, that she’d had the chance to say goodbye, teary or affectionate, weak and human, but she had only stayed standing a few feet from him, her eyes never leaving his face.
She’s a good woman. Better than all of us.
“Okay, Lukey,” she murmured and she offered a small, slightly sad smile. “ ‘s just ye’ n’ me now. Is that wot ye’ wanted?” She took another step in. He took another step back and felt the cold wall pressing against his spine. She reached up, her fingers grazing his cheek. “Like old times. Jus’ ye’ n’ me.” He was certain that his cheek was freezing but she didn’t flinch or pull back. He wondered if he would feel warm again if he just drained the heat and essence of her. He remembered once hearing a mother never stops giving.
With the room arranged like when he was a child, he had intended to be making a mockery of their lives. But as he looked at the bed now, far too small for his present body, or the dresser with the chip at the corner from when Kia and he had played a little too roughly, nothing felt cruel or taunting about it. It made him feel little again, and soft and a little scared. Stop it, he scolded himself. I am death. I am destruction.
She took his hand in hers and placed it over her heart. Her fingers were weathered, callous, with a few age spots on them. But they were warm. “Not yer fault wot’s happenin’. Ye’ do wot ye’ gotta’ do, luv. ‘s alright.”
Lucian smiled caustically, though still the edges of his lips pulled in such a way that suggested he was caught, conflicted, confused. “Oh, how cute. A deathbed confession.”
Addy glanced between him and the king again. “Ye’ feckin’ idiot! Ye’ drop that question now?!” Wot the hell is wrong with ye’?!” But there was a kind of quiet joy in her eyes that Lucian recognized from a long time ago. He wanted at once to both admire and destroy it.
His hand closed around Erben’s wrist, tugging the child back and into him. The little boy’s back was rigid but he didn’t make a peep. Definitely one of Addy’s, he thought. Children fostered beneath her hand tended to have that admirable fighting spirit. She didn’t look proud though, only horrified as she stepped closer to them. Lucian stepped back. Addison stepped forward. “Don’t come any closer,” he warned. “Or I’ll kill him.”
He’d never noticed just how old she looked, but it showed in that moment. Sad. Beaten down. But also there was warmth in her gaze. She did not move with caution towards him, but with abandon, as though he were not something to be feared at all but only a child, lost and angry. I am darkness. I am destruction, he thought but it felt a little desperate. “Let ‘im go, Lukey. C’mon. Ye’ said it’s me ye’ want. N’ I’m here. No need fer them. Wot do ye’ want? Ye’ want me t’ stay with ye’? I will. Ye don’t have t’ make threats, ye’ just have t’ ask.”
“I’m here to kill you,” warned Lucian. His voice wavered slightly.
She stopped a moment but then she only swallowed and nodded. “Okay. Alright. Yer gonna’ do wotever ye’ have t’ do. That’s alright. ‘s my fault. I helped raise ye’ that way. T’ do wot needs t’ be done.” His abdomen constricted. His grip on Erben loosened. What needs to be done. The little elven boy shivered against the cold of Lucian’s body and he released him finally, Erben running quickly to bury his face in Alaric’s leg.
“Alaric, go,” said Addison, never so much as turning her eyes from Lucian. “Take Erben n’ go. I’ve gotta’ stay here. –N’ if the world doesn’t end, if we all make it through this—yes, ye’ stupid feckin’ lug. I’ll marry ye’. Gods know why ye’ want me naggin’ ye’ all the time, but I do like doin’ it.” Lucian made no move to stop them from leaving. More insistent, Addy repeated, “Go. No heroics. Ye’ get that little shit somewhere safe.” She waited until the door closed. She didn’t even look back at them then. It struck Lucian that this might have been the last she ever saw of them, that she’d had the chance to say goodbye, teary or affectionate, weak and human, but she had only stayed standing a few feet from him, her eyes never leaving his face.
She’s a good woman. Better than all of us.
“Okay, Lukey,” she murmured and she offered a small, slightly sad smile. “ ‘s just ye’ n’ me now. Is that wot ye’ wanted?” She took another step in. He took another step back and felt the cold wall pressing against his spine. She reached up, her fingers grazing his cheek. “Like old times. Jus’ ye’ n’ me.” He was certain that his cheek was freezing but she didn’t flinch or pull back. He wondered if he would feel warm again if he just drained the heat and essence of her. He remembered once hearing a mother never stops giving.
With the room arranged like when he was a child, he had intended to be making a mockery of their lives. But as he looked at the bed now, far too small for his present body, or the dresser with the chip at the corner from when Kia and he had played a little too roughly, nothing felt cruel or taunting about it. It made him feel little again, and soft and a little scared. Stop it, he scolded himself. I am death. I am destruction.
She took his hand in hers and placed it over her heart. Her fingers were weathered, callous, with a few age spots on them. But they were warm. “Not yer fault wot’s happenin’. Ye’ do wot ye’ gotta’ do, luv. ‘s alright.”
Lastly... Where did you hear about us? RPG-Directory! ;D