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London–the city of dashed hopes and lost dreams. Never sleeping for fear of not waking up. Lurking in the shadows of eighteenth century England, London is the biggest city under the reign of his majesty–and the worst.

welcome to pfop, a lit+ roleplaying site caught up in 1700s london. we are currently accepting canons and originals.


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August, 1728.
With summer coming to an end things are cooling down. It’s cloudy, with a chance of showers.


arabella rosalie croftt

samuel harry smith

next finished app - staff name here, and so on. (:





BOY OF THE MOMENT
samuel harry smith .


GIRL OF THE MOMENT
tba .


COUPLE OF THE MOMENT
alexandra and oliver montague .


QUOTE OF THE MOMENT
“i can so see oli being like "right. i have to kill you now. but." -pauseshuffle- "fancy a shag, first?"” – LOULOU.


pocket full of posies ,

APPLY.
redcarpet&&rebellion. HOMETOWN GLORY !


 
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 ' ' OH, SWEET SOLITUDE., [ tag - for samuel ]
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oliver richard montague
Posted: Aug 27 2008, 04:17 PM


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Group: noble ,
Posts: 23
Member No.: 17
Joined: 26-August 08
    The great outdoors had always provided him with solace, the fresh air always somehow calming him to a much more relaxed state of being. Since Henry’s death, however, Oliver had been spending less and less time in the grounds of the mansion in Chelmsford, preferring instead to stay locked from sight and mind in his office, plotting whatever revenge he could hope to gain as he tried desperately to locate the girl who had murdered his younger brother in such cold blood. There was no doubt in Oliver’s mind that the girl was pure evil – not fit to inhabit the same planet as the people who went about their daily business, hurting no one. In Oliver’s mind, Henry had been one of those people – innocent, simple perhaps, but not deserving of any punishment so severe. Perhaps, in his biased opinion, he overlooked his brother’s drinking, but Oliver could never comprehend the argument that Arabella had put forward in her defence – that he was abusive, and cruel, towards her. That didn’t sound like the boy he had grown up with, the poor child who had tried so desperately to please everyone around him. It was hard to believe, and why should he take the word of a villainous murdered above the memory of his dead brother? That wasn’t going to happen all the time Montague blood ran in his veins, although he was being consumed by his need to see her blood spilt. Today, for the first time in weeks, Oliver left the house with the intention of riding Horatio through the parkland, up to the forest, where he could while away a good three or four hours away from the intense but desperate presence of his wife, who had been the one to rouse him from his study in the first place, braving his dark mood to suggest that he make the most of the remaining summer weather and go and find peace in the woods. He had obeyed, as a good husband would, and now that he was out of there, away, he could really concentrate on his thoughts and plans in secret.

    Oliver was dressed only in shirtsleeves and slacks, his boots pristine and free from mud as he crossed over the courtyard into the stables which housed not only his wife’s beloved horses, and his own hunting stock, but the beautiful stallion Horatio – the apple of Oliver Montague’s eye. Throughout his depression and the grim solitude which he had found after Henry’s murder, Horatio’s relationship had remained constant, unchanged by the mood swings and grumpy behaviour that had captured his master. In fact, if anything, it had brought them closer – Horatio had always been moody and unpredictable himself, and if anything they seemed more alike nowadays then they ever had previously. Oliver had shooed the groom away from the stable block, dismissing the young boy in favour of saddling the horse himself. Horatio was a sight for sore eyes – gleaming white in the dull light of the stable block, knee deep in sweet smelling straw, and Oliver’s heart broke as the noble horse turned his head and whickered softly in recognition of his master’s approach. It had just taken a moment, as Oliver stood with his hand on the proud arch of the animal’s neck, Horatio’s muzzle searching his pockets for tokens of favour, and instantly Oliver felt refreshed and ready for the world. He saddled the horse with the expertise of one who has practised something to the point where he could do it comfortably and competently even in his sleep, and led him out beneath the late summer sunshine which set the estate into a dazzling new lease of life. Everything seemed fresher, for some reason – the flowers were more beautiful, the birdsong in the trees more potent, as Oli swung his foot into the stirrup and touched the saddle with a dancer’s grace. As soon as the horse felt his master’s weight settle upon his saddle, he set off, walking steadily toward the open parkland with that regal step which Oliver adored and knew so well.

    Underneath the smattering of shade and light in the forest, Oliver tried not to allow his thoughts to stray back to Henry, but it was a nearly impossible task to restrain his wandering mind. He paid no attention to his horse as the animal picked his way along the familiar track, weaving in and out of trees, finding his own way along the path they both knew so well. Oliver had been riding these trails all of his life – thirty years, man and boy. He knew them like the back of his hand, and there had been a time when he had used them to visit the farms on his estate, to check progress and share a cup with the farmer’s who were always grateful for the presence of their young employer. But since Henry had died, his visits had become less and less, and eventually had petered out altogether. The farmers did not resent him, though – they sympathised, and longed to see the young Montague if only to offer their condolence and hope that Henry’s killer would be found. To occupy his mind elsewhere, Oliver began to recite the lines of French his wife had been trying in vain to teach him that morning – simple things, but his heart wasn’t in it, and they seemed oddly impossible for him to get a grasp of, although his mind was usually so agile and ready to learn. Perhaps thinking and musing over his brother constantly was leaving little room for anything else, and if that was the case, well, Oliver would just have to learn to live with it.

    He was broken from his reverie as Horatio stopped in a clearing, his head thrown high, the eyes wild beneath the cluster of hair cascading between his small, upright ears. Oliver glanced up, too, trusting the animal beyond reason and he smiled as his eyes befell the sight which Horatio, the brave hunter, had found – two fallow deer, small and immature, weaving their way through the long grass and wildflowers that lined the clearing in the trees. There had never been a sight more beautiful, and instantly Oliver regretted not inviting Alexandra to ride with him – she adored seeing the deer in the parkland, although she would often berate him for hunting them so lustfully. But then, the two deer stopped, trembling and alert in the breeze which stirred the leaves on the trees into throaty whispers and the silver hair on Horatio’s neck. When the deer took to their feet and ran, and Horatio flinched dramatically, Oliver’s suspicions became aroused as he cursed and took up his reins, bringing the horse under control once again with a few soothing, mumbled words and a hand of stoic confidence on his muscular neck which was damp with sweat from their long journey. Squinting amongst the trees, Oliver fancied he saw a figure between the pale trunks – Henry, perhaps, could it be? But then he warned himself not to be so fanciful, and spurred the reluctant horse forward to face the opposing treeline, his voice brave and without quaver as he spoke to the empty darkness before him.

    “You are trespassing on my land, stranger, whoever you are. Show yourself, or be gone. We seek no trouble here.”
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