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When in doubt, turn evil!
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These are the days, yes!
28 years old
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A happy place you've never heard of
Born May-23-1992
Fire Emblem, drawing, graphic design, roleplaying, Pokemon, anime, daydreaming, music, mugshot-creation, FEP :3
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Former Identities: Lalivero, Shia
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Current Mood: It hasn't all been champagne and caviar
FETO Profile

RP Data
My Content
11 Aug 2012
..but I guess it was going to come sooner or later. As most of you already have noticed, my activity here took a hard hit this past month. I've been extremely busy with my job, planning my sister's wedding, and even balancing a boyfriend throughout all of it, if that other crap didn't sound like enough work already. Now things are mostly cooling down, but it has left me with a dire need to re-evaluate my life. I'm going to start my Bachelor's degree next year, and heaven knows what other harrowing trials I will face between now and then at this rate, so in an attempt to simplify and cut some stress out of my life, I'm going to have to, for the most part, say goodbye to this place.

These past four years have had their ups and downs, but I have genuinely enjoyed spending them with you guys. I have made a lot of friends here, and have more fond memories of this place than not. But the way things are heading in my life these days, I'm just not finding the energy nor the motivation to keep checking and posting here, especially in RoE. It's becoming a part of my everyday stresses, thinking about the need to post in threads for characters that I just can't seem to get inspired for. I understand this puts Echo and Aviv in a difficult place, and for that I'm so sorry; I never wanted to be one to just up and leave while I have characters in threads, but I figured this is more fair to you two than simply leaving without a word and never coming back. You can write me out of your threads however you see fit.

You guys have been awesome, though. I had a lot of really fun times roleplaying here in the past, and I wish I could make time for it. But four years is a long time, as worth it as they were. I guess what I'm saying is it's time for me to move on. Little Shia is growing up. :P Don't think that this was anyone's fault, this is something that was a long time coming and, rather than fizzle out like some, I wanted to do the fair thing and at least let you all know where I am.

I will still try to get on AIM as often as I can and check up on you guys if you want to chat sometime, and those who have me as a friend on Facebook can find me there every so often, too. I'm going to be dropping my RoE characters.

I love you all, and you are the best! I will miss all the good times we had together. I hope you guys have fun here, however long you stay, cuz this is a great site. I may or may not come back full-force someday, but until then, I wish you all the best in your roleplaying and in your lives outside of this magical, Fire Emblem-based wonderland.

With love and deepest, everlasting respect,

June 24, 2008 - August 11, 2012

(@Darth: I still want to continue what we've been doing in RL with the sidestories, that's the one thing I do still have motivation for, but I ask you to be patient with my pace.)
28 Jan 2012
A Church in Worde, Lycia

I've never done this before. There was never a more crippling phrase to Hadrian Ravache. Yet he'd insisted on making the pilgrimage to Etruria without any attendants, and was determined to at least try to make it. It was only natural that he would have to put himself out there eventually if he ever was in dire need of help, but organizing a caravan? The idea still terrified him. Several times he wanted to go back through the rounds and take down all the papers he put up, the ones his friend Serov wrote for him. The ones asking volunteer soldiers to escort them to Ostia. What if no one comes? What if they are gold-craving bandits who will only take me so far and then kill me once they have their reward? Hadrian's leg bounced like it was having a spasm, and he anchored it to the ground with his hand. He was getting too paranoid, he decided. People in Worde tended to be of good repute; besides, he would be able to tell for the most part who intended to take advantage of him from the minute they walked into the church. Unless they were really good liars.

Reading was a talent he sorely missed now. The little stone church was probably full of books to read to pass the time while waiting for volunteers to arrive, which made things all the more tragic. However, the house of worship was surprisingly empty of people. The only true color-shapes belonged to a preacher keeping busy with something in the back, and the merchant Serov. Hadrian didn't quite know how he managed to befriend Serov, but it happened, and now they were seeking an escort to Ostia together.

"Serov," Hadrian said quietly. "Do you really think someone will read our notice and help us? You took care to make it legible?" A part of him hoped he hadn't. Serov gave him an upbeat laugh that rang off of the vaulted ceiling.

"Of course I did! What, you think being a merchant I don't know how to write, Hadrian? Don't worry about it, it'll work. Worde is full of people looking for work, just wait."

"I-I know that... I'm just nervous, I suppose. We've waited an awful long time..." Some red pulsed into Serov's swirling palette of energy, and things fell awkwardly silent.

"Hadrian." He sounded exasperated. "We put the papers up ten minutes ago." The priest fidgeted.

"...Oh. R-right." Then why did it feel like they had waited for hours for volunteers? Hadrian wrung his hands around his staff and cast a sheepish gaze to the black floor. Calm down, it's going to be just fine, he told himself. Just wait, and they'll come. They'll come...

OOC: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
This is a standard meet-and-greet period; just have your character arrive at the church, and we'll have some social time, and then set out for Ostia.
23 Jan 2012
A Simple Escort Mission

To Whom It May Concern:

I am in need of strong individuals who wield weapons with great skill to escort me to Ostia. I will pay well any volunteers for their troubles and supply provisions as they are needed. All who are willing to help me, please look for me in the church near the center of town.



SUMMARY: As described in the note above, posted along the walls of buildings in Worde, Lycia, Hadrian Ravache needs an escort to Ostia. But the journey may be perilous and full of unknown dangers. Bandits, thieves, and wild animals roam the open plains between Worde, the starting point, and the destination. Are you brave enough to undertake this mission?

OBJECTIVE: Get Hadrian and his merchant companion to Ostia in one piece. If you can.

NOTES ON RP CONDUCT: This CRP takes place in northwestern Lycia. It's going to be a fairly straightforward bandit-type story with a very loose plot, so if you want to throw in a few twists by all means do. This RP is meant for lower-leveled characters; those under level 15 are preferred. I will be selecting characters who balance the group out class-wise, so if I don't choose yours, know that I still think you are wonderful, it's just that I will only be accepting four other players and it won't necessarily be first-come first-serve.

We all have busy schedules since this is right in the middle of a term, so I only expect a once-a-week posting speed. If you can manage posting faster, that would be wonderful, but if you can't don't worry about it! (Though if you do take longer than two weeks to post I reserve the right to move on without you. If it's because of an extenuating circumstance, please let me know)

For those of you who haven't roleplayed with me before, my only firm rules of RP conduct are to respect other RPers, keep violence within reason, and please do not swear.

NPC: Serov - Merchant w/ wagon (Shia)
1: Hadrian Ravache - Priest level 5 (Shia)
2: Klara Winter - Archer level 10 (Gunoy)
3: Nerine de Florenthia - Pegasus Knight level 5 (Vice)
4: Lawrence - Mage level 5 (TheNoun)
5: Magda Ganelon - Brigand level 15 (Shangela)
14 Jan 2012

Name: Crowley Ceravis (Crow-lee SEHR-uh-vis)
Title: The Crimson Rook
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Bern
Nation/Group of Allegiance: (Neo Black Fang)

Class: Mercenary
Level: 10
Weapon Levels: Sword C
Weapons: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
Fireshield (Steel)
Flamberge, Armorslayer
A sword taken from his father's forge. Fireshield has a wavy blade that pierces through armor like it was paper, but it is a little unwieldy compared to other swords. It sends vibrations into blades that it strikes, paralyzing the dominant arm of the foe long enough for a second attack. Since it's rather large, it is what Crowley calls his 'desperate measures' blade.

Redwing (Steel)
Folded, Perfect Balance
His primary weapon of choice, Redwing's folded blade is fast and accurate and strikes its opponents hard. Redwing is used for things like assassinations and quick kills, and it has a slight curve in the blade, making it more aerodynamic and a quicker draw than normal swords.

Height: 6'2'' (188 cm)
Build: Average (Athletic)
Affinity: Fire



Crowley is a fit and handsome man with a head of short, windswept grey hair. His skin is lightly tanned, but moreso on his square face which sees the sun sixteen hours a day. His eyes are ice blue and piercing like a wolf's, which amounts to his only truly memorable feature. His mouth is thin and usually frowning, and his dark eyebrows knit in mild frustration. He has an earring made of pure gold in his left ear.

He wears a brown tunic-length jacket clasped down the middle with mahogany trim. He has a dark brown belt around his waist, attached to which are the belts that hold his left-shoulder pauldron, red with silver lining, and right-shoulder sling made of the same armor in place. He has dark brown gauntlets under the sleeves of his jacket, and his beige pants are tucked into dark boots. Attached to his belt are the scabbard for his sword Redwing, and a pale leather pouch for holding all of his supplies and as many artifacts as he can fit. He wears golden bands around various parts of his arms and legs as his go-to haggling chips if it's a slow work month. Around his neck and under his clothes, Crowley wears a very old brass key on a leather cord that has been in the family for generations. No one knows what door or chest it unlocks, but Crowley has made it a personal mission to find out.

Overview: Crowley is brash, critical and opinionated, but it's relatively easy to earn his respect so long as you aren't "an idiot." His greatest passion in life is ancestry: he has studied every traceable ancestor in his line all the way back to the time of the Scouring, and is incredibly proud of his heritage of elite soldiers, knights of Bern, and even a few renowned pirates. He is especially proud of the fact that his grandparents were members of the Black Fang before it was disbanded. Crowley will often ask others about their genealogy, and gauges their personality based on ancestry. If you don't know your heritage, you are "an idiot."

As such, Crowley is fascinated with artifacts, and has an entire trove of them dating back to the time of King Desmond and beyond. When times are financially difficult, and when he can bear to part with them, Crowley sells some of the artifacts he finds for far higher than he paid for them to see him through a season. It's impossible to get him through a marketplace without checking the curiosities on each and every shelf for something antique. Aside from that, he is generally impatient and always in a rush to get to places. Since it's his profession to have a hidden agenda, he suspects the same of others and is especially leery of friendly people, but once he deems you worth his time, Crowley is pleasant if not a little sarcastic.

His dedication to the Black Fang stems from his bitterness toward his parents and grandparents for taking an immensely honorable heritage, the Black Fang, and wasting it through inactivity and laziness. He is very driven and ambitious, and does not waste an ounce of his time if it can be avoided. He is social when he has to be, but will be fairly direct with people and is not inclined to sugar-coat things. Crowley has little respect for women. He is convinced that all women are weak and incapable of living for anything other than to be pushed around by the men in their lives.

Biography: Crowley was an only child born to Karina, a mousy young woman, and Christopher Ceravis, a silversmith who ran a forge in southern Bern, but otherwise was not a particularly accomplished man. In his prime he was a soldier for Bern's army, but retired early when he suffered a wound in battle that left him with a limp. Karina was a traditional housewife, and spent most of her time cooking and cleaning the rooms upstairs and occasionally researching their family's history while Christopher ran the smithy below. Her husband, a very bull-headed and unreasonable man, didn't like her to spend so much time with that research as he felt it gave her too much power in their relationship. But Karina loved the history of their families so dearly that she kept researching, generations and generations through their lines, in secret. The more time went on, the more her passion for genealogy waned with the deathly fear that her husband would discovered that she was lying to him. Eventually, she abandoned the research altogether and put the cherished contents in a box that would never be opened by her again. When Karina discovered she was with child, Christopher boasted of how his son—clearly it would be a boy—would take over his trade and make them a proud and well-established family. It made sense, she told herself. If it was a boy, he would certainly be suitable to carry on his father's trade, and if it was a girl, she would learn to be an excellent housewife.

And it was a baby boy, after all. The first thing that took them was his thick tuft of hair, grey like the wings of a crow. So they named him Crowley, and Christopher was bound and determined that his son would grow up to be a swordsman and a silversmith like his father and take over the forge.

As a young boy, Crowley thirsted for knowledge and history like no other child in his town. By the time he was eight, he knew the history of Bern, its relations with the other nations, and all of the world events of the past 70 years by heart. He was a proficient reader and incredibly bright, and for this reason several sages tried to apprentice him and teach him magic. But Crowley spent so much time reading the words of the spells it never occurred to him to cast magic with the words, so he made a terrible spellcaster. His father was so proud the day his son came up to him and asked to learn swordplay, but even then, Crowley had far from natural skill with weapons. Still he trained with a sword every day from the time he was eleven years old, using the newly forged weapons in his father's smithy while helping him with the work.

One day, fifteen-year-old Crowley was helping his mother clean the attic when he stumbled upon a wooden box. Inside were mounds of papers, filled with names, family trees, stories, and dates. It had their entire family's history, dating back to the time of the Scouring. Every day after finishing work with his father, Crowley would sneak into the room, take the box and rush outside to a secret place (which was just a hilltop outside of his town) and pore over the contents of the box for hours and hours. He learned that his mother's father was a pirate that fell in love with a maiden on shore during a raid and later married her, and he had been in the crew of the ship that gave passage to Lord Eliwood to the Dread Isle. His grandfather got to meet Lord Eliwood of Pherae! And his parents were Bern soldiers captured by pirates who decided that a life of pirating was far more rewarding than the dreadful conditions of Bern barracks at the time. But most importantly, Crowley discovered that his grandparents on his father's side, the ones living in southern Bern who his parents rarely took him to visit anymore, met as members of the Black Fang. The Black Fang, the band of honorable assassins that did away with and brought justice to selfish nobles who abused their power.

It suddenly occurred to him that his grandparents never spoke of their Fang membership to him before, and they were living as middle-class merchants doing absolutely nothing with their time outside of gathering curios and selling them away. They had such a powerful legacy—his own parents carried the same inheritance, the might of the Black Fang. And yet there they were, just sitting around and wasting time with trivial trades. The Black Fang had dissolved, yes, but it was their responsibility as the collective final remnants of the once great group to keep it alive, to breathe life back into it. Crowley immediately set out to see his grandparents, accompanied by his parents. He asked them about the Black Fang and they had many fascinating stories to tell about it. Crowley listened, and at last brought up that the pride of the Black Fang was languishing in their retirement. He told them they should take up their swords and lances and be heroes again. But his grandparents deflected his words and insisted that they had served their time and the Black Fang was destined to fade. Christopher Ceravis was furious, and accused his son's desire to revive the Black Fang of being borderline treasonous. In a moment of passion Crowley called them all cowards and told them exactly what sort of heritage they were wasting. Christopher became angry with Karina for secretly keeping the genealogy around this whole time to pollute his son's mind, even when he explicitly told her not to continue it. Crowley's grandparents simply stood by and watched their son's rage get the better of him, at his wife and child's expense. Crowley was almost disowned that day, and would have an ugly scar on his shoulder to prove it. Karina never fully recovered from the experience. The very next day, she took the box of her family research, carried it to the fireplace and dropped it in.

Crowley was too late to stop her, and as the fire disintegrated the papers he cried for the first time in his smith-hardened teenage years. Generations of history, stories, a rich legacy... all of it was gone. He knew he could not stay and suffer the same fate as his mother; one of repression, fear, silence and, worst of all, cowardice. He took a few swords from his father's shop, some supplies, and some empty writing books and severed ties with his family. To him they were lazy, ungrateful, wasteful idiots for what they had done, what they hadn't done. He began to write down all of the destroyed stories and accounts from memory, carefully recreating his family tree piece by piece. He went to libraries to learn more about his ancestors, and took record of them there. Fortunately, he had taken out most of the trinkets from the box and saved them on his person, and he began to collect any and every artifact he could find. Living on his own was difficult, but he refused to seek work at a smithy because he was convinced that it would turn him into his father. Crowley became a mercenary to grow accustomed to the rituals and missions the Fang must have performed. He built up a shack in the steep mountains of Bern and made it into a trove where he could store his antique treasures. When times were especially hard and there was no work to be found, he picked ones he could part with and sold them for gold.

He vowed that one day, when his training with the sword was complete, he would revive the Black Fang or die trying.

Approved by Darth
11 Jan 2012
Name: Hadrian Ravache (Hay-dree-un Ruh-VAH-sh)
Title: The Blind Priest
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Lycia (Ryerde)
Nation/Group of Allegiance: Lycia/St. Elimine Church

Class: Priest
Level: 5
Weapon Levels: Staff {D}
Weapons: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
Healing Staff (Intermediate)
Shade, Heal

Restore Staff (Simple)
Charged, Restore

Height: 5'8'' (173 cm)
Affinity: Heaven
Build: Lean



Hadrian is fairly thin, with a rounded face and scars all over his torso, arms and legs, resulting in webs of very tough skin in some areas. His head of forest green hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his bangs clumsily swept to the side. His eyebrows are dark green and constantly drawn into an uncertain furrow. His eyes are the color of iron, dull and milky and staring sightlessly into space.

His first robe layer is gold with rich swells and patterns on the skirt, worn partly for its sentimental value, partly to sell in the event of a financial emergency, and partly because he's always cold. The layer over that is a robe that denotes a certain level of authority in the church where he studied. It is beige with gold trimming on the sleeves and light cerulean along the middle edges. Over his shoulders he wears a cropped leather duster for added protection that laces up to his neck with twine, and a layer of very thin mail under that. Around his waist are a red cloth belt and a thin leather belt over that, on which to attach pouches. Hadrian wears sturdy, all-purpose boots that are brown and grey.

Overview: Hadrian is a man of few words and fewer friends. Not to say that he isn't a likable young man, but nervousness pervades so much of his speech and manner that people get impatient with him. He jumps at the slightest unexpected sound and movement. He seems constantly on edge and unsure of any word that comes out of his mouth, but remains polite and sympathetic in his interactions with others. For everything good in his life he thanks St. Elimine and no one else. What people think of him is more important to him than it ought to be, so on the off-chance that he offends someone, he apologizes profusely and starts backpedaling immediately. Other than all of that, he's quite normal, if not somewhat awkward around women.

Hadrian is almost completely blind due to a terrible accident years earlier, but St. Elimine saw fit to allow his eyes to cling to one vestige of the visible world: energy. He sees every human, tree and animal as a mass of color swirling chaotically in their respective shapes. He taught himself to recognize which colors corresponded with things like emotion and hostility, which is actually more annoying than convenient since he uses it to try to coax emotional confessions out of people like the bishop-in-training that he is.

Hadrian has embraced the natural chaos of the colors filling his world, but overlooks things that do not emit energy, like rocks, buildings, books, objects and weapons. As a result, he is very clumsy, and is usually running into doors and walls. Despite this, his senses are easily overwhelmed in the outside world and prefers to stay indoors as much as he can. He is a very skilled healer because of his condition and can spot any wound on a person with remarkable ease, even internal injuries and past injuries.

Biography: Hadrian was born to Sier Ravache, a powerful bishop and scientist under the employ of House Ryerde of Lycia, and his young wife Una. Sier was a master of poisons. That may sound dubious, especially for a man working for the Marquess, but Sier was a rare case who did not abuse his power and used it to invent incredibly strong antitoxins. Una, on the other hand, was an outspoken pegasus knight who retired from service in Etruria to marry Sier. They were an odd couple, but very happy together living at Sier's villa. Within months of their marriage they had their firstborn son, Hadrian. After a childhood illness nearly cost little Hadrian his life, the new parents kept him very heavily sheltered from the outside world. Hadrian was only ever allowed to leave the villa to attend church and go to school at the local monastery.

He spent a lot of time there, learning to read and write with clerics training to become bishops. Una stayed at the villa to raise newborn twin daughters Mary and Cerie, so Hadrian was in the constant company of his eccentric father, who did his research and performed experiments in the monastery rather than Castle Ryerde. Hadrian was well-liked in the monastery; a calm, polite boy who made friends very easily. He began to develop a passion for the art of magic instilled in him by his father and peers. From ages seven to sixteen, he practiced casting every day after his studies were finished. He didn't seem to have a knack for memorization, but he had a firm grip on the language of magic and cast brilliant spells. His father enthusiastically became his mentor, and insisted also on revealing to him the greatest mysteries of science and chemistry. Hadrian humored his father by learning the chemist's trade, but continued to excel in light magic.

Four days before seventeen-year-old Hadrian would be anointed as a true Templar in the monastery, Sier called in his son (his favorite assistant) to help him with a new antitoxin he was inventing. If all went right, he claimed, the potion would be able to not only destroy poison that slipped into the bloodstream in record time, but prevent the body from ever falling sick to that poison again. In the early stages of the process, something in the toxic mixture had corrupted. When Sier went to make the crucial adjustments the toxin exploded violently, throwing back everyone in the room. Sier and a cleric standing by were unharmed, but realized that the entire vial of the acidic formula was empty. Hadrian was on the floor, the sleeves of his robe burned away and his flesh scarred by the liquid. He was screaming and crying with his hands tearing at his eyes. Sier demanded the cleric see to him, and when the cleric pried Hadrian's twitching fingers away he gasped in horror. The eyelids were red and scaly, decaying under the fast-acting poison. In a moment of panic, the cleric set his staff near Hadrian's eyes first, and then fed him one of Sier's standard antitoxins. An hour of pure agony passed before Hadrian became stable. He didn't wake up until the next day, and his eyelids were nearly fused shut.

Sier and Una called on the Marquess's most trusted healers and the closest thing they had to a surgeon to save their son's vision. They worked fruitlessly for many days. Finally Hadrian's eyelids were opened. His eyes were glazed over and unresponsive, confirming everyone's worst fear: Hadrian had gone blind.

Suddenly Hadrian cried out, flung himself from his bed and backed up against the wall. He pointed frantically from person to person and covered his teary, bloodshot eyes when they made any move at all. He cried that he saw monsters, that there was no light but he could feel it burning in his eyes. At first the bishop of the monastery thought this was the work of demonic possession. His family later realized that their son had some of his vision restored to him, by the good grace of St. Elimine, but only that which gives off heat and energy. The rest was simply gone. Hadrian stayed in the medical wing of the monastery until his fits of hysteria evened out. His father, mother, and twin sisters finally got permission to bring Hadrian home for a while to get him acclimated to his condition.

It was a taxing process on everyone involved. Hadrian was a ghost of his old self: the slightest noise and movement sent him into panic, he kept running into walls, he became meek and shy and even self-deprecating. He mourned the loss of his sight. He could no longer read or write, and all the time he spent practicing magic was gone forever from his life. Everyone looked like a monstrous whirlwind of color pulsing and lurching toward him. His greatest love in life was now an impossible fantasy, and he couldn't even find solace in his family.

Months passed, and Hadrian grew accustomed to the darkness and the chaotic color-shapes that were now human beings. He even began to roam the courtyard of the villa accompanied by his sisters. That took much longer to get used to since there were streams of color flying around even in the atmosphere, but Hadrian coped with it. He began to see patterns in colors: when his little sisters were upset about something, there was more red swirling around in their little frames. When they were depressed, the colors grew darker and less varied, blues and greens. A man came to visit his father once, and Hadrian noticed his energy was an almost smoldering shade of crimson. He later found out that the man tried to sell some of his father's secrets and was executed for his crimes. Hadrian also discovered that no matter what his father was feeling, a part of his body—around the face, perhaps?—was deep violet. The image of his father's face came to Hadrian's mind, and he remembered that there was a prominent scar around the same area of the deep violet stripe.

Sier Ravache never forgave himself for what happened to his son. He almost gave up his trade altogether during his son's long healing process. Having Hadrian back home killed him inside. He could no longer look into those blank grey eyes, searching for him and never truly finding him. But Hadrian seemed to show an aptitude for noticing scars, even under clothing, and picking out injuries after Sier had come home with one after a mishap at the laboratory. Sier had his son return to the monastery and learn the art of healing to fill the void that light magic had left.

Hadrian picked up healing far more readily now than he would have with his sight. For five years, Hadrian learned to use a staff and become a proficient healer. Some of his old confidence returned over the course of his study. When the bishop of the monastery brought him in to speak with him, Hadrian expressed a desire to see the world he never got to see when he was normal. The bishop was hesitant and could not, by Sier's order, send out the heir to the Ravache fortune without good reason. Then he remembered the pilgrimage to the Tower of the Saint in Etruria. He told Hadrian that making the pilgrimage would complete his venture to become a bishop of the St. Elimine church. Hadrian was confident that he could do this without an escort, and though Sier protested, Hadrian's mind was made up. So with his ceremonial robe, his Heal staff, and the bare essentials packed, the young cleric set off for Etruria.

Approved by Darth
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Crimea River
Happy birthday~!
23 May 2010 - 18:52
A merry, merry birthday to you.
23 May 2010 - 10:33
A merry, merry birthday to you.
23 May 2010 - 10:31
Happy Birthday, Shia!
23 May 2010 - 9:51
Kilvy's ordered me to wish you a happy birthday. I shall proceed to do so. Happy Birthday, Shia.
23 May 2010 - 2:26


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