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Character Count: 101
Ml: 48 - Fml: 51 - Oth: 2
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Season: Autumn

With the cooling season of Autumn, Ice-types are starting to re-emerge from their hibernation as Ghost-, Normal-, and Flying-types swarm in the largest numbers they will all year. In comparison, wild Fire- and Bug-type populations are falling in number. The migration of Flying-types to the south in search of warmer weather has also started, as Istin City starts to re-freeze and Autumn marks the beginning of Cypwater Point's rainy season. Handlers and Rogues alike should be wary: Ghost-type powers are boosted during this season, at the cost of being more prone to their triggers.

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 The Harper's Eye, Issue 1: 08/2017
Rosalie
 Posted: Aug 21 2017, 08:35 PM
| Quote |


It's a box of spiders.
*******
Admin
Total Posts: 2321
Member No. 1
Joined on 19-March 10.


Characters:
Branson Faust, Rohesia Clements

Awards: 1




The Harper's Eye
Introducing The Harper's Eye

Welcome! The Eye is our new quarterly publication here on Harper, designed to showcase and expand on regional legends and lore, as well as to highlight a few folks each round who we think deserve a little extra attention -- one newbie, one established member, and one staffer!

The Eye will also include upcoming site update and expansion/revision notices. Each issue, a different theme will be used to anchor the lengthier pieces published, either decided ahead of time or based on submissions -- and submissions will be considered! But there will be very limited slots for this, and since each will be immediately considered canon, submissions will be under careful scrutiny both for writing quality and for setting. http://files.jcink.net/uploads/harperregion/sprites/emoticons/30.png

If you'd like to submit, there are a few things to know! First, that the pieces should never be about a payer character but rather some aspect of the canonical region. Legends are well loved, but so are expansions on the more mundane, from pieces on the nature of smithing in Fough to the different weaves of Navdia Crater. We encourage you to take inspiration from life -- real life legends and stories inspiring or being retold as Harperian ones, considerations on trades and people's lives, etc.

These stories and legends should not exceed 5,000 words -- limited space and all! If you have something you've polished up and want to submit, PM it to Rosalie or Flight!

***

About the Pieces

This issue, we turn our attention to one of our favourite and most festive cities in honor of the Grand Festival: Cypwater Point. Both tales are written by Rosalie, one entirely original and exposing some of the mystery surrounding one of our best-loved Trick Lords and the other a retelling of one of the most classic tales -- The Pied Piper, or as he is better known as in some renditions, The Ratcatcher. You're invited to read along and enjoy these stories and take a closer look at this part of the region!

***

Grand Festival Drabbles Contest 2017

Thank you so much to everyone for participating in the Drabbles contest! Your judges the admins had a hard time deciding which pieces would place, as they were all interesting and wonderful! In the end, awards came down to the microfiction fit the spirit of the contest: short stories about the Harper Region that we all know and love.

We loved the entires so much that we included an extra category at judging: Honorable Mentions! Congratulations to everyone who achieved this award! All the entries that won plus the Honorable Mentions will be added to a thread in the Region/Setting Specific informational forum with our other lore!

If you won a prize with choices involved, please PM your choices to Flight! Thanks to everyone who participated!

***

Site Updates

In the coming weeks and months, the big headliner things you can look forward to around the site include:

  • Key NPC Profile Overhauls to include more about each of them and their specialties, since we've grown much since they were first created somewhere between six and nine years ago
  • A comprehensive rules and mechanics topic that boils down all our information to a more easily reference-able form that includes only the mechanics and procedures without any flavor text or elaboration
  • Greater emphasis on Freeform threads and a gradual restructuring of both Travels and Freeforms to streamline the site and to not only reduce the load on staff but also to reflect the changing landscape of the pokemon roleplaying community
  • A new, modern custom skin projected to be ready for the winter holiday season that updates our look while retaining the classic Harper feel

Keep a weather eye on the horizon for these and more! And just as reminder, our staff applications are currently OPEN if you are interested in joining the team and doing updates! The mod quota is currently 4 "slots" a week, two-to-three of which are updates. http://files.jcink.net/uploads/harperregion/sprites/emoticons/1.png

The Soul of a City
Rosalie

Once there was a boy, so young and long at sea that he could not remember his home -- or perhaps he did not wish to. He stepped barefooted from the plank of the smugglers’ ship and onto the boards of Cypwater’s darkest dock, rough and bare as his experience and as innocent as his soul.

Once there was a ralts, egg lost and forgotten where it had fallen beneath the Walks of the city’s heart. She had drifted, submerged beneath high tides and baked in the hot caked muck through seasons, in tune with all the world above. She was a pokemon bonded to the place and its people before she had ever set her eyes on the city beyond her shell. The same day that the boy stepped off his ship from foreign shores, she broke through that barrier and into the mire of swamps and emotions. Her single horn warmed well to the life all around her, the city and its people in her heart.

The boy grew, and the ralts watched him -- as she watched everyone in her city. She hid herself away cautiously, and thrived on the feast of human minds’ thoughts and emotions all around her. She drank it all in like a summer cypress in sudden rain. He learned the hardness of a life lived alone; he learned to beg and to steal. He learned the knife. He was the friend of an illustrious and confident roselia, and the partner of a quiet and cunning pawniard who was but a void to the young psychic’s eye and hid the boy, sometimes, from her touch. She was curious, fascinated by the urchin with the flowers in the city of mud and salt. But she grew worried, frustrated: he did not belong.

The foreign boy played along the hot tin-and-reed-roofs each and every night, heedless of weather and peculiar looks and inhabitants’ shouts as he passed above their heads. He clambered over rushes and tin and tiles and days, coming to call the city his home. The place and the people resonated with him despite his otherness and his initial intentions to do nothing more than wait for the next ship out to farther distant lands. He learned its darkness through alleys and shadows, its reek in the summer and in the dark words and doings of men. He learned its beauty in exotic gardens and in seasons of drowning rains, its intoxicating liveliness in pools of lantern light on the water, and among the raucous men of the docks. He learned the love of life that would take him far through his own, and the passion to do more than merely survive.

***

He felt her following him everywhere he went, the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck or a touch on his mind like a distant calling of his name. She grew jealous that the urchin from some unknown shore had begun to love her city and win her people, for he did not know it and did not respect it. Not as she did. Her fury grew when he had tamed the thorns, quelled the fierce poisons of a legend that now walked moonlit roofs at his side and knew her not. She might have killed him to free that flower, if not for the pawniard whose void and cloudy darkness kept her unknowingly at bay, standing firmly between them. She might have killed him for his presumptions alone, for the way he claimed territory he was not born to and pieces of a heritage that was not his own to foster and grow. She might have killed him for many reasons, and left him just another small set of thin children’s bones settling quietly into the mud beneath, the mud where she had been born.

But she did not. Even with her anger and the wildness of her young jealousy, she found herself grudgingly curious about this boy. His veins ran with the blood of strange lands, and in his eyes kindness and quickly-sparking fire of pride and temper danced as one. Reluctantly, he forced her to watch as he learned and lived and claimed her city for his own. She could feel it nestle within him as it had within her, see it in his walk and hear it in the cant of his chatter with her people. It burned in his chest with the beating of his heart, the pride and affection and the way he strove to take it under his protection.

Over time, with the lengthening of her legs the spreading of her skirts and the flowering of her mind, she felt the fiery heat of her own anger cool. Instead, it was replaced by a kind of comfort she found in the ripple of his passing above or below her like a bird on the wing or a fish in the current. Her jealousy faded as the buds of maturity swelled ripe in her mind until only the psychic’s curiosity remained. Instead, she craved to understand the boy who shared her city. The brightness of life in him called to her above all others whom she touched and reached through her bond; he was one of her kind, in spite or because of his humanity.

He navigated the maze of streets and of politics in the belly of the city-beast, and he gathered around him not just a gang but true allies of all ages. There were old boat captains whose nets yielded mostly fish, but also sometimes unusual goods or incredible secrets. There were boys and girls well beneath his tender score of years who hungered and cried -- and stole for him the bounty of the older children who plucked purses, teased the pockets of passing coats, and listened to anyone whose information they might be able to sell. There were the merchants who so quickly learned that they could pay him for protection from other street gangs, or for goods to arrive safely from their shops to their clients around the city, or to simply be invisible to his crews so that they might prosper well. There were even drunks and bravos who badly underestimated the skill of a small, lean-muscled boy already well on his way to quietly mastering his knife, and then they found themselves taught respect for how quick and sharp he kept both his steel and charming wits.

Carefully, the boy built around himself a beginning. He hoarded his gold like a mother dragon, just as fierce and greedy. Even then, he cared and watched out for his people -- their people. With the passing years, his voice deepened and danced down from the cheerful child’s shout to the mellow of warm summer wines in old oaken barrels on an autumn eve. The bright-eyed child who had been cute as a button and mischeivous as an imp became a daring youth with well-tousled hair and a wildness in his eye that promised he was well on his way to a handsomeness that bordered on danger. And still, his ever-bare feet pattered across the rooftops like the city’s rains.

She slipped through the minds of her bonded, the citizens of her city, making changes as she went. She set him challenges, built him obstacles, and moved his world around him to throw him into ever-increasing dangers. Hers was a subtle touch, as pervasive and intangible as summer heat or the smell of the wet earth so that none but she could hope to discern their thoughts from her suggestions with so long and latent a bond. She wanted to see and needed to know exactly what he could do when given the chance. Would he rise like fine cream or be dragged beneath her waves to drown in the undertow like a rat beyond his depth?

But no, he rose, and he rose, like the sun over the eastern sea or a wave that built until it towered over the treetops. He became his own kind of natural force and the equal or the better of any trickery she could devise. He knew something was there, behind it all and familiar as a childhood friend, but said not a word. She knew it by his smiles full of guile and far too many teeth, his quick and wary ear, and by the hair-splitting edges kept with care on his many hard-earned knives scattered along his belt and hidden over his person. And every now and then when the spirit moved him, he would leave a berry on his windowsill. Sitrus. Her favorite.

***

Then it came that one rainy day, as like to all others as drops in a storm, he saw her. His steps were as light and quiet as the susurrus of leaves and the pit-pat-tack of rain on the roofs beneath their feet to her ears. Her attention was blanketed elsewhere in the city, her mind absorbed in the living of many lives beyond her own. He came over and around a gable on the rooftop she had chosen to rest upon with his petals and his steely shadow and dropped down beside her, where he waited as still and steady as stone.

Eyes like shadowed amber drops met eyes like rubies and heart’s blood. At a small and quiet gesture, the pawniard dropped his cloud of darkness; they each knew who and what they faced. There was no anger on the boy’s face, no sadness, only fascination. The teen and the kirlia reached out for one another in that sudden clarity of focus and linked, as inky darkness links to blinding light along the edges of shadow. Each of them felt for an instant as though they had come home, coming together to be a single whole before they swirled and returned to themselves, thrown apart by the force with which their personalities collided. For a long moment, they felt as if they each looked out from the other’s eyes. They settled back into their skins, at peace and more than each alone had begun.

Each night hence, they met on that rooftop and walked their city together, mingling their love for it and their views of its life. They grew together, shaping each other as river and tree shape their beds, and never did he insult her with the suggestion of a pokeball. She was a wild kirlia, and would retain her freedom for all of her days. Never did she insult him by suggesting or considering for a moment the idea that the devotion of their bond had gone beyond propriety in heart and soul.

On the night of his twenty-first birthday he came to her, battered to pulp and cut to ribbons, and he wore his triumph proudly on his sleeve and a smile that spilled smugness across his face as much as his own blood. He presented to her with a twirl the bright bit of sharpened steel that had done the deed, and she took it with light mental fingers and a silence that did not tarnish his moment with worry or fear. Instead, she felt the energy in her rising, and she allowed it. White light enveloped her slowly like the growing dawn, until she was hidden from him, all but those bottomless ruby eyes. When it cleared, the first thing he saw was her extended hand, stretching out of the fading glow to offer him the knife that had become a key. Then, the light faded away to leave his love at last resplendent as a gardevoir.

She gave him that key to turn all locks and none, and with the brush of his hand on hers she pulled him from his mind and into their bond more completely than ever they had before. They lost the divide between human and pokemon so valued by Harperians who stood wary of her kind. Pieces of the city she had bonded spilled and swirled and pulled into their mingling, each losing something of themselves to form something singular and new. When again they returned to themselves, it was not as two but as one, so fully did they live in one another and in their city -- intertwined beyond even the force of his bisharp’s darkness.

He kept her secret, away from the turmoils of his new standing and his new life, and she kept him safe from prying ears and eyes and fed him information from all around the city. His name was Aaron; hers, Tyche. Between them, they held a bond that surpassed that definition, tying together not merely the two of them, but one that also linked them intimately to the whole of the city. Its people, its very substance, lived in them and around them as much as they lived in it. Together, they became the very soul of the city called Cypwater Point, married to it and to each other. Lord Aaron Murray, for all his pleasures of flesh and cheerful flirtations, will never truly take another.

The Ratcatcher
Rosalie

There is no port town that does not know the nuisance of rattata, from the smallest fishing village to the largest island capital, and Cypwater Point is no different now than any. However, stories passed from mother and father to daughter and son tell us that this was not always so.

Hundreds of years ago, there came a time where a darkness descended on the prosperous city, smaller then than it is today. As if overnight, the population of rattata boomed. They swarmed, strange and black, and ran thick and bold and sleek through the streets no matter whether daylight or darkness. The climbed the walls of houses, ran across roofs, swam in wells and nested in cupboards and cooking pots. Not a soul could rest while they reigned, not even an hour in the night for all of the scratching and clawing and chewing all around them -- in the walls and the floors and the ceilings and even in their bedclothes.

Famine raced through the city as fire never had, with rattata devouring all that there was good to eat. Useless were their cat and dog and hawk pokemon, useless were their poison and traps, on deaf ears fell their every prayer and all came up as empty as the fishermen's nets were full of wet, furry bodies that slipped the knots and chewed the nets to tattered shreds. For months, the people suffered, unable to leave for they had no food to travel and feared to share the plague. For months they wasted down to skin and bones and hollow, haunted eyes. For months they begged for salvation.

And indeed, at last it seemed to have come. One day, a tall and lanky man of Carsen descent strolled down the plank from his great and sleek vessel, one such as had not been seen daring to dock in the swamp city for many a week. He wore a vest of the brightest green, and leggings as red as fresh-welling blood, and his broad felt hat boasted a long and nodding feather such as has never been seen before or since, adorned with a bright blue eye. With him, he carried a set of pipes so ornate that had he announced them as the crown jewels of his country and he their king, none would have thought to question him. As he came, his rat-tail-moustache twitched and bounced above the pipes as he played and sang lustily so that the whole of the city could hear:

“Qui vivra verra: Le voila! Le preneur des rats!

Who lives shall see: This is he! The Ratcatcher!”

And his boots so fine tapped out the beat, a strong and steady counterpoint to his unhurried melody. To the City Lord he took himself, a-singing and a-piping as he went and those who had such life remaining in their exhausted bodies to be curious did mark him as he passed from window and door and rat-covered market stall alike. To the Lord he made his offer with a flourish and a bow -- that he could rid the town of its plague vermin before the sun went down and rose again so that never should they return... If the price were right.

The folk of the town, listening to these words from the bottom of the Lord's front stair, grew hopeful and joyous, for surely there was no price he could ask which they would not cheerfully pay to be free again! The Ratcatcher twirled the tips of his moustache, and showed his bright even teeth in a grin as broad as the mouth of the river then as the Lord asked his price. The man declared without a moment's pause that he would be paid a Crest per head -- and the Lord agreed, declaring it a bargain, no less, while the people murmured in horror and in fear of future taxes, for surely such a sum would add to millions of clips that would drain every coffer in the town as dry as the summer Nav.

The Ratcatcher shook the hand of the Lord to seal their bargain, and bid the people then to remain in their homes that evening, beginning one hour before the setting of the sun over the seas and to watch from windows but to fasten their doors, for the spectacle would be grand from the safety of their homes. He strolled away toward the market, humming and puffing on his pipes as he went as though without a care in the world. The people begged the Lord after he passed, desperate and worried for their money that already stretched desperately thin in the effort of but feeding their children amidst the rats. The Lord, being a wise man, said only that they should trust him for he knew what they should do. And so the people did, whispering to one another to wait and to see what was to come.

That afternoon as the sun shone molten gold on the water and as warm and sweet as honey through the city, the Ratcatcher strode into the nightmarket, empty but for the sunlight as ever during the day. Here he stood, erect and proud, and turned his back to the Arcean church as he began to play on his pipes. This time, the music issues out gently, twining and grasping like supple threads of ivy running through the city and curling, curling, into every nook and cranny. It bloomed, strengthening into a song of wild abandon, a calling forth of the rats that nevertheless made the people's hearts yearn to follow.

And the rattata came. They poured from the city in the hundreds upon thousands, through windows and from chimneys and from under floorboards, and the people cried out in shock. Like a great black wave they flowed, chittering and snapping at the feet of humans and pokemon alike, and filled and filled again the marketplace so that their furry bodies stacked atop each other, sometimes two or three or four tall or even higher, and all stared at the Ratcatcher with the greatest attention. He paused in his song, and with a great sweep of his arm, he bid the vast swarm of black bodied rattata to follow him, follow him to the sea.

They flowed like a flood, out and out and out over the edges of every dock and every quay, pouring into the salt water in such numbers and speed that the spray traveled even to the other side of the city. For hours, the mad racing went on, until late into the night and on until the witching hour too had passed. At last, the final vermin heaved his old and greying bulk to the docks to stand before the Ratcatcher, the heavy raticate who stood with the bearing of their king.

The piping Carsen asked of the Rat King, “Has every tooth and whisker been accounted, friend Jaques?”

“Yes, each and every one.”

“How many flown the city this day?”

“Nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine black rattata.”

“Ah. Then go and join them, old sire, and au revoir.”

The old black raticate tipped the man with his pipes a short notice and followed his fellows into the brine and beneath the waves. Again the Ratcatcher grinned his broad white grin, and piped his tune quietly as he strode back through the newly quiet streets to take his rest at his chosen inn while the people of the city slept the whole night through for the first time in as many months as fingers on the hand.

In the morning the Ratcatcher went to the City Lord to claim his pay, for he had done as he said and rid the city of its vermin before the night was out. The Lord met the Carsen on the doorstep, and asked, “How many heads have departed my city this past night?”

The Ratcatcher spoke him fair and true when he replied, “One million together!”

“Ah, that is a wondrous thing, and we thank you!” The Lord then said nothing more.

After an expectant pause, the Ratcatcher cleared his throat to remind the noble of his word, but when the foreigner asked for his pay, the Lord feigned surprise and refused absolutely. The Ratcatcher grew first puzzled, and then furious.

The City Lord had replied to the Carsen piper’s treachery in kind. “A Crest for each head is a head for each Crest -- we cannot know that they shall not return unless their heads to me you present! But we shall not let you go without recompense --”

But the Piper shouted him down, interrupting the Lord, “Find you the heads yourself in the belly of the deep blue seas! I have kept my word as you have not. Keep your recompense! If you do not pay me in coin, you shall pay with your heirs!”

And so he left with nary a word and many a black gaze, silence sweeping in his wake just as his sweet music had chased him before. The people, rested, had at that time only rejoiced and laughed at the cleverness of their Lord and made mock of the Carsen’s dire threat and went about their day, rising to work and repair all the damage that had been done and begin to build anew their savings and storehouses and to resume their trades.

Hard they worked, and harder still, every hand and back old and strong enough to be about their tasks, so that in that night they slept so deeply as to be nearly dead. When they awoke on that following day, however, all of their joys had become as ashes in their mouths. Not a single home, from the grandest manor to the smallest shanty shack held children any longer.

This caused great panic in the town, and every family from every home set to searching the city. In the end, only three children were found: one with a club foot, one who could not stand unaided, and one who had simply been far too slow. From them, the people learned the tale of what had passed in the night.

The Piper had gone again to the market, and there again he began to play. Again his music wafted through the city, curling under unlatched doors and through unshuttered windows, down chimneys and up through floorboards, summoning the children to him just as the rattata had come. They followed him, while he piped all the while, out of the city and somewhere deep, deep into the swamps.

The people were horrified, and each day of each year for a score of years they sent searchers to the darkest places they knew beneath the great trees where only witch lights led, but no trace of the children or the Piper could they see. Some believed that the Carsen had taken them back to his homeland, for his ship had vanished too from their port with nary a soul who could say they had seen it or how it was done. Searchers were sent then, out and across the endless blue seas to foreign lands to seek the lost heirs at any expense. They too, found no children of Cypwater, but returned with tall tales and rich goods for trade. Many years turned and turned again, so that at long last the people of the city were forced to concede. The edges of their pains grew soft with time and the deep wound healed, but a scar is never the same as the whole flesh.

So did the far flung trading of Cypwater begin, and so began the swamp city’s mistrust of those whose tongues were flavored with the language of the Ratcatcher's land despite how much they traded and came to share many a word or voice.

Two hundred years later, when no mother nor brother nor babe who knew the lost children yet lived, a great sleek ship came in to the Cypwater harbor with sails as white as the Piper's teeth. Many were the watchers of the lighthouses that night who were cursed for their drink, for each swore the same: that this vast ship had sailed from the close and tangled depths of their very own swamplands in the midst of the night. It was true that the crew was, to a man, remarkably young, and it was true that they each played music more skillfully than any minstrel they had known. It was true that they spoke Carsen with wooden tongues, and that many folk of the city told stories of enchantments that the young sailors had worked, but no one quite ever managed to ask from whence their vessel came. It's said that this selfsame vessel and its eternal crew can be seen sailing 'round the Point in the distance on the clearest nights beneath the path of the moon, and it's said that the ship is where all witch lights lead, but who is there left to know what is true?

And if a great and sleek ship with sails as white as polished teeth and a crew as fresh and young as you like finds its berth in the Cypwater docks once, perhaps twice, in a span of fifty years, folk are careful to strike no deals with either its passengers or its crew.

Winner: Zealous
Entry #2

To travelers visiting Cape Augustine:

First, there’s interesting weather. You owe it to yourself to witness Murkrow Night, where flocks leave the sky so thoroughly moonless, the Dorani could point up without concern.

Second, you'll connect with locals through a mutual fear of Mismagius.

Last, charity abounds. If you’re wanting for money—or even look the part—law enforcement will happily escort you down Rathbone Road all the way to Cypwater. If you ask nicely, they’ll even send you by ship instead of encouraging you to swim.

I’ve never felt more invited to see any other part of the region!

***

Second Place: Desoto
Entry #2

Take heed when he appears. Long have his kind been viewed as doom-bringers. The truth is that his kin come to warn innocents of danger. This is true enough of him. Take caution when he allows himself to be sighted. Disaster is almost upon you when this pale omen makes himself known. Those who flee are wise. Those who view him as a saviour are sorely mistaken. He is a deceiver of the greatest sort. The more perceptive may feel it in the air, tingling their skin. He’ll lead you faithfully, there is no doubt. Into the arms of doom.

***

Second Place: Yana

The Mahosi people know not to antagonise a typhlosion. The creature is fearless and obstinate, even the smallest of the species capable of killing a far larger opponent. Many a time has a typhlosion or even a quilava been seen chasing a terrified rapidash after the unfortunate horse trod too close to the burrow. The pyroar that makes the mistake of attempting to eat a quilava will soon find its prey twisting inside its own skin to fiercely attack, often leaving the lion with fatal wounds or cracked bones. This has led to the translated idiom ‘furious as a typhlosion’.

***

Runner Up: Gob

In a town west of Marchton, right at the break of dawn, a Linoone can sometimes be seen darting at full speed down the main road, hauling a parcel filled to the brim with the finest foodstuffs just stolen from the lord’s manor. Rumors abound about why he does it; some folks even claim he is secretly raising the lord’s bastard son. Whatever his true motives are, watching him elude the guard’s attempts to ambush him never fails to lift the spirits of the villagers, granting them a hearty laugh before the start of a new day of hard work.

***

Runner Up: Amakiir

Water was dripping through the seams.

The sound of paws clacked through the tunnel as they stalked, guarding the humans.

Flick to one side, Lope to the other, with Twitch trailing behind. They glanced about, sniffing at the air.

There were several prey about, some in sight and some hidden to all but keen ear. From schools of horned Goldeen to a single massive Tentacruel. Too many to count.

Fierce growls echoed when the tunnel shifted beneath their paws. The entrance was sealed, the ocean just outside.

A shadow passed overhead through the clear material, a hundred hungry eyes.

***

Honorable Mentions:
Zealous #1, Desoto #4 & #6, TheNamed #1, Shleby #1!

Featured Newbie: Zealous

It's always exciting when someone who is relatively new catches on and nestles into the setting as thoroughly as Zealous has, able to reflect the character of the Region in their posts no matter where they write. While Zealous can sometimes be a little quiet, they're engaged in events around the site and can sometimes be found chatting in the cbox of an afternoon! This is a shoutout to you, Zealous -- thanks for being a promising newbie and we hope you'll continue to enjoy us as much as we enjoy your writing!

Featured Member: Saladin

Saladin has become something of a fixture around the site over his tenure -- though we'll let you all decide whether he's the kitchen sink or the cable plug. http://files.jcink.net/uploads/harperregion/sprites/emoticons/30.png He's always easily found in the cbox when he isn't occupied by life and his work as a teacher, and his characters are some of the most regularly updated around. He's always happy to welcome a new member or answer questions if he can, and so: This is a shoutout to you, Saladin -- we appreciate you and hope you'll be around for a good long time to come!

Featured Staff: Chase

Chase may be relatively quiet around the site as staff go, but don't let that fool you -- the amount of background work he's done for the site is staggering. This is the man behind programming and setting up Harper-specific pokemon and item rollers and spawners taking into account rarity for every single route in the region and for every single generation, plus rollers for spawns by pokemon type, for the pokemon shop, and more. He has helped mediate many a difficulty in his tenure and while he is a humble fellow who is probably the last person you'll hear talking about all the things he does, his work has become truly integral to the site. This is a shoutout to you, Chase -- thank you for all your hard work over the years and for being a really awesome guy in general!

Template adapted from jazmine at shadowplay

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Rosalie
 Posted: Aug 21 2017, 09:23 PM
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It's a box of spiders.
*******
Admin
Total Posts: 2321
Member No. 1
Joined on 19-March 10.


Characters:
Branson Faust, Rohesia Clements

Awards: 1




Transcripts for Mobile:
Intro


piece 1

piece 2

drabbles winners

member spotlight

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user posted image-- user posted image --user posted image
Branson - - + - - Rohesia
« Pr & Tr » - - * * * - - « Pr & Tr »

(Sprites by Mackay)
Post Count Rewards
Old Characters: Tobias Middleton & Travels, Gineva Winstret & Travels

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Skin designed by Daniel of Outline. Gen 6 Pokemon sprites from Smogon. Gen 7 Pokemon sprites from smogon.