The Pirates have spoken¸ Public’s Ṭạṣḳ⸺Make your top favorites; where 1 is the answer you relate to the most, and 4 is the answer you relate to the least. —E.g.: First place-answer four, second place-answer three... and so on!
⒈ I leaned against the side of the Jeep, arms crossed, watching Hollis Grayson with my best unimpressed face. The guy practically reeked of Kook entitlement—the tailored clothes, the expensive watch, and that smug little smirk like he already owned us. Seventy-five percent of the treasure or The Meridian Compass? Was he serious? I let out a low whistle.
“Wow, Hollis,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s a super generous offer. You’re really making it hard for us to say no. I mean, who doesn’t want to do all the work and hand over three-quarters of the reward? And if that wasn’t enough, you’d like the Compass, too? Just in case we forgot what it felt like to be completely robbed.” I looked at the group, raising an eyebrow. “Are we actually entertaining this, or am I the only one who sees how ridiculous this is?”
Hollis gave me one of his patented smug chuckles, but I ignored him and turned back to the group. “Look, I get it. The guy says he’s got inside knowledge of The Shadow’s Veil, and sure, that’s tempting. But do you really think he’s giving us the full story? This dude’s not here to help us out of the goodness of his heart. He’s here to get what he wants, and the second we’re not useful anymore, he’s gonna cut us loose —if not worse.”
I paced a little, my brain running in overdrive. “Now, if we negotiate, maybe we can get him to drop to something less insane, like, I don’t know, twenty-five percent? Maybe. But even then, we’re still putting a lot of faith in a guy who clearly doesn’t think twice about screwing people over. That doesn’t sit right with me. If he’s got ‘inside knowledge,’ then he needs us just as much as we need him. So why are we letting him call all the shots?”
I stopped and pointed at Hollis. “If it were up to me, I’d reject the deal entirely. We’ve come this far without him, and honestly? I think we’re better off figuring out the rest ourselves than selling our souls to Mr. Trust Fund over here.” I shrug and look at the group. “What do you guys think? Personally, I’d rather eat sand than hand him the Compass, but I’m open to being outvoted—assuming we don’t mind signing up for the world’s worst partnership.”
⒉ Hearing what Hollis has to say to us, we gather around to discuss. It may be a trap, but I suggest to the others to accept him only if we can negotiate a lower procent for him, not more than 50% because we also have our own clues and interests. Grayson seems like a person that cannot be trusted so we need to be united against him in case he will betray us, we must be prepared for anything. (And who knows, maybe we will be the ones that will play him to help us)
⒊ I sat at the edge of the pier, the folded letter from Hollis Grayson weighing heavier in my pocket than it should. My jaw clenched as I stared out over the water, thoughts churning like the restless tide beneath us.
“Let me tell you something about people like Hollis,” I said, voice low but steady. “He’s cut from the same cloth as them. Kooks who think their power can buy anyone or anything they want. People like him don’t offer deals—they set traps. And if you’re stupid enough to take the bait, you’re as good as sunk.”
I pulled the letter from my pocket and unfolded it, running my fingers over the elegant, almost taunting script. “‘Seventy-five percent of the treasure,’” I read aloud, my tone dripping with disdain. “That’s not a deal; that’s highway robbery with a smile. And The Meridian Compass? If it’s as important as they say, he’d bury it in some vault so deep no one would ever see it again.”
I leaned back, exhaling sharply through my nose. “You know what this is, though? Proof that we’re onto something real. Guys like Hollis don’t care about fairy tales; they only show up when there’s something worth taking. If he’s sniffing around, then Lorelai’s treasure is closer than we thought.”
I paused, looking around at the others. “So here’s what I say: we tell Hollis to shove it. He’s not getting a piece of this, not from me. And if he tries to come after us? Well… I’ve been playing the Kook game my whole life. I know how to deal with people like him.”
My gaze hardened as I folded the letter and shoved it back into my pocket. “We don’t need his resources. We’ve gotten this far on our own, and we can go the rest of the way without selling our souls. If anyone else wants to take the deal, that’s your choice. But if you’re riding with me, we’re doing this the hard way —because it’s the only way we come out of this with our heads held high.”
⒋ I leaned back in my chair, watching Hollis Grayson. His tailored suit didn’t belong in this rundown corner of the Outer Banks, and yet he looked as comfortable as if he owned the place. Which, for all I knew, he probably did. “I’ll make it simple,” he said, his voice smooth but heavy with authority. “Seventy- five percent of the treasure, or the Meridian Compass—if it’s real. In exchange, I give you the resources to end this wild goose chase and point you in the right direction.” He smiled, sharp and practiced. “Fair, isn’t it?”
The group shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke. I crossed my arms, letting the silence drag long enough to make him squirm. When he didn’t flinch, I finally leaned forward. “You’ve got resources,” I said, tilting my head. “You’ve got knowledge. So why exactly do you need us?”
His smile didn’t falter, but I caught the flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe. “Let’s just say I prefer to have… partners in ventures like these. It keeps things clean.”
I turned to the group, Hollis had dangled the one thing we all wanted most: a shortcut. But shortcuts with men like him were never free. “No deal,” I said, leaning back again. The words hit the room like a gunshot.
“You’re kidding,” one of them hissed. “This guy might actually know where The Shadow’s Veil is.”
“And if he does,” I shot back, “then why isn’t he already standing on top of it?” I turned to Hollis. “Let me guess. You’ve got a lead, but not enough to get your hands dirty. You need us to do the hard work, but the second we get close, you’re cutting us out—or worse.”
Grayson’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes sharpened. “You’re out of your league. Without me, you’ll die chasing shadows.”
“Better to die free than hand you the leash. You think throwing around money and cryptic hints makes you untouchable? Newsflash, Grayson—we’re not your errand runners, and we’re not for sale.”
He lingered for a moment, eyes scanning the room, gauging who might turn. Then, without another word, he turned and left. The group erupted, voices overlapping in a storm of panic and anger. “You just threw away our shot!” one of them shouted. “No,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “I threw away his shot at owning us. We’re better off finding this on our own than crawling to him for scraps.”
③ A Devil’s Bargain⸺Loyalty vs. Betrayal¸ P̣ṛọṃp̣ṭ: A wealthy and powerful Kook, Hollis Grayson, catches wind of the group’s search and offers resources in exchange for a deal. However, there are some steep terms—he demands 75% of the treasure or possession of The Meridian Compass (if found). He also hints that he has inside knowledge of The Shadow’s Veil’s location. Ṭạṣḳ: Decide whether you are accepting Hollis’ deal, reject it, or negotiate. What is the reason that drives your decision? How do you react to the group’s choices? Rẹṃịṇḍẹṛ: All answers must be shared in a private message!
Ranking of the F̣ịṛṣṭ Ṭạṣḳ¸ ‘A Cryptic Discovery⸺Secrets and Strategy’ had our pirates’ approach ranked as it follows¸ ⒈ Noah Sawkins–Answer 7, ⒉ Maxwell St. Clair–Answer 5, ⒊ Saskia Locke–Answer 6, ⒋ Kallie Vance–Answer 2, ⒌ Nathan Forbes–Answer 1, ⒍ Márcia Da Luz–Answer 4, ⒎ Joran Rutger–Answer 3.
Meanwhile¸ Joran had followed the compass to an old, abandoned boathouse, the kind of place the Pogues might’ve called home. Inside, he found a journal—water-dagamed, the ink smeared in places, but the handwriting unmistakable. His father’s. The pages were filled with notes, sketches, and frantic calculations about Lorelai Ward’s treasure. But there was something else, something Joran hadn’t expected: entries detailing underhanded deals, betrayals, and outright theft. His father had been here before, chasing the same legend, and he hadn’t cared about who he stepped on to get ahead.
Back on the boat, the others were buzzing with excitement about the next step of their treasure hunt, but Joran felt the weight of the journal in his bag like an anchor. The compass clue wasn’t just about finding Lorelai’s treasure—it was forcing him to confront the truth about himself.
Max noticed his silence and smirked. “What’s the matter, Rutger? Afraid you might find out you’re not the golden boy after all?”
Joran clenched his jaw but didn’t rise to the bait. He couldn’t shake the feeling that continuing the hunt would pull him down the same path his father had taken—a path paved with lies and ruin.
“I’m out,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended. Kallie spun around, confused. “What do you mean, ‘out’? You’re the one with all the resources.” “I mean I’m done,” Joran snapped. He stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “You don’t need me. This hunt—it’s not worth it.” “Not worth it, or not worth risking your reputation?” Maxwell shot back.
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The journal, the compass, his father’s shadow—they all told him the same thing. If he kept going, he wouldn’t just lose the treasure. He’d lose himself. So, without another word, he stepped off the boat, leaving the hunt and the group behind.
The Pirates have spoken¸ Public’s Ṭạṣḳ⸺Make your top favorites; where 1 is the answer you relate to the most, and 7 is the answer you relate to the least. —E.g.: First place-answer seven, second place-answer three... and so on!
⒈ After Deirdre decided to leave our group and we found in the lighthouse many clues, I looked at the others, they were occupied checking what they found. I sat down on an old chair, trying to read the clue I got, not loud out of course.
“Where the crowd gathers, a mask conceals; a truth disguised, a face reveals. Look beyond what’s in plain sight; the answer lies in shadowed light.”
It seemed like a riddle. I think Lorelai Ward was trying to suggest that, most of the time, when you are in public, you wear a “mask” that hides your true identity, showing them a fake version of yourself. Likewise, the japanese people say we as people have three faces: - the first one, you show to the world. - the second one, you show to your close friends and family. - the third one, you never show it to anyone, it is the reflection of who you are.
Regarding the second part of this riddle, it could be a location, a place where something could be burried, the treasure or even more clues… Shadowed light? It may be about the oldest and biggest tree in the city, it always blocks the sunlight at sunset, and even during the dat. Underneath it was my family’s favorite location for picnics. And it is in plain sight…
I decide to share my clue and my thoughts on it with the others, we need to stick together in order to find the treasure. After we find it, we’ll see what we’ll do further…
⸺ The clue: “Where the crowd gathers, a mask conceals; a truth disguised, a face reveals. Look beyond what’s in plain sight; the answer lies in shadowed light.”
⒉ I sat down on an old log, the clue in my hand, and read it out loud for the hundredth time: “Beneath the stone where dreams once lay, a piece of the puzzle waits today. Follow the trail where legends tread; the truth is hidden where heroes bled.” I slapped the paper against my knee. “Who writes this stuff? Seriously. Are they getting paid per dramatic metaphor? Because if so, they’re killing it.” I leaned back, staring at the trees above me. “Alright, let’s break it down. ‘Beneath the stone where dreams once lay.’ Stone could mean anything—a grave, a marker, maybe even a rock someone thought looked important. But ‘dreams once lay’? That screams graveyard to me. You know, because nothing says ‘dreams’ like dead people. Super uplifting.” I stood and started pacing, waving the clue around like it was a map. “Then there’s ‘follow the trail where legends tread.’ Legends tread? Okay, cool. That narrows it down to, oh, I don’t know, the entire island. Blackbeard, shipwrecks, spooky ghost stories—literally every trail here has some ‘legend’ attached to it. But fine, I’m guessing it means one of the older paths. Probably the one near the marsh where everyone says you can hear ghosts of the pirates. Spooky.” “And then, the cherry on top: ‘where heroes bled.’ Because of course, we couldn’t leave out the drama. Heroes? Bleeding? Sure, let me just whip out my local history book and find out which hero left their spleen behind.” I snorted. “But honestly, it’s gotta be that forgotten war monument near the old graveyard. You know the one—nobody remembers it’s there because it’s covered in moss and bad vibes. Stone? Check. Legends? Check. Heroes bleeding? I mean, it’s literally dedicated to people who died in some battle, so, yeah. Triple check.” I crossed my arms and grinned. “Look, I know it sounds crazy. I’m the one connecting pirate ghosts to mossy rocks and heroes bleeding, after all. But you’ve got to admit, it all adds up. And if it doesn’t? Well, I’ll eat my words. Or at least the paper this clue’s written on. So, are we going, or should I start ordering a pizza?”
⸺ The clue: “Beneath the stone where dreams once lay, a piece of the puzzle waits today. Follow the trail where legends tread; the truth is hidden where heroes bled.”
⒊ In the veins of manor, where silence hums low, A secret lies buried where the heartbeats once grow. Is the ‘heart’ but a hollow, a void carved in grey stone, Or the echoes of power that whisper all alone?
Beneath the proud crest where shadows entwine, A lock guards a truth both distant and mine. No metal nor key, but a riddle instead— A gate to the unseen, where blue secrets are fed.
Does ‘power’ reside in the walls or the will? Is the house merely quiet, or lurking on me still? The hollow, it calls, with a pulse faint yet clear, A question unspoken: ...Will you draw near?
If the gates are unsealed, what truths will they bare? Will the house turn to ruin, or bonds into pale air? This is no mere riddle, no treasure of an old, But the weight of a choice, more precious than white gold.
Do I hold what I’ve found in the clutch of my bare hand, Or scatter the truth like grains of fine sand? For some locks are crafted to keep, not to betray, And some secrets breathe best in the shadows they stay.
⸺ The clue: “In the heart of the house where power resides, a hollow holds the secret it hides. Beneath the crest, a lock awaits; the question is, can you find the gates?”
⒋ As the final whispers of daylight receded outside the lighthouse, the old walls seemed to lean in, eager to hear the secrets of the past. I studied the brittle journal page once more, Lorelai’s cryptic message dancing before my eyes. I could almost hear her voice in the curves of her script: “Where echoes of the past are carved in stone, a name forgotten, a truth unknown. Follow the trail to the whispering oak; its roots hold the answer, but only if awoke.”
I felt a thrill of recognition, a secret smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. The answer lay clear in my mind, a puzzle piece snapping into place with satisfying certainty. I knew of an old oak, ancient and gnarled, standing guard over a forgotten plot of land where the locals whispered about the shadows of the past. They said it was a place where gravestones bore no names, only weathered carvings of bygone days—perhaps even the carvings of a young Lorelai. The tree itself, known as the Whispering Oak among those who dared speak of it, had long been rumored to house secrets in its vast, sprawling roots.
Yet, as I glanced around at the eager, hungry faces of the other treasure hunters, I felt the weight of discretion. “It’s quite the poetic puzzle, isn’t it?” I remarked nonchalantly, carefully folding the page and sliding it into my jacket. “Could be metaphorical, could be literal. Hard to say with all these fanciful tales.”
Their eyes lingered on me, curiosity piqued but unsatisfied. I knew they were desperate for a piece of the truth I held, but sharing this could mean losing my edge—losing my chance to uncover Lorelai’s secrets on my own terms. No, this clue was mine to follow, a whispered invitation from the past that only I seemed to truly understand.
“Guess we’ll just have to keep digging,” I added with a shrug, turning to face the dimming light by the window. Outside, the land stretched, dark and inviting, whispering of hidden truths and buried legacies. I knew where I would be at dawn: standing before the Whispering Oak, ready to awaken whatever secrets it guarded, ready to claim the answers that Lorelai had left for someone who could truly decipher her legacy.
And as for the others? Let them chase their tails with fragments and fantasies. I had a rendezvous with history, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
⸺ The clue: “Where echoes of the past are carved in stone, a name forgotten, a truth unknown. Follow the trail to the whispering oak; its roots hold the answer, but only if awoke.”
⒌ The riddle was rolling around in my head: “Beneath where the tide whispers secrets untold, lies the shadow of a key, weathered and old. Seek where the water meets the shore, the past and present will open the door.”
I hated riddles. Always felt like a way for people to make simple things sound complicated. But this one —it spoke to me. The tide whispered secrets every day if you knew how to listen, and I had spent enough time by the water to know its rhythms better than my own heartbeat.
I knelt where the waves lazily kissed the sand, scanning the edge of the shoreline. Driftwood, seaweed, shells—the usual cast-offs of the sea. But something about a patch of damp sand caught my eye. The tide had retreated, leaving a shallow impression behind.
Digging with my hands, I felt the grit of sand and the sharp edge of something solid beneath it. My fingers closed around a rusted key, its surface rough and worn, like it had been waiting here for years.
I straightened, turning the key over in my hand. “Weathered and old,” just like the riddle said. But what stood out wasn’t just the age—it was the crest etched faintly into the metal. A mark I’d seen before, engraved on a lock my father kept hidden in his office.
My grip tightened around the key. I wasn’t sure if this was part of it all or some cosmic joke, but one thing was clear: this key didn’t just belong to the treasure hunt. It belonged to me.
“The past and present often collide, huh?” I muttered, shoving the key into my pocket. “Let’s see if this time, the past loses.”
⸺ The clue: “Beneath where the tide whispers secrets untold, lies the shadow of a key, weathered and old. Seek where the water meets the shore, the past and present will open the door.”
⒍ The page felt damp and heavy in my hands, its ink bleeding into the fibers like it was trying to hide its meaning. Yet the words burned sharp and clear: “In pages worn and words long past, a secret buried will surface at last. Translate the tale, follow its line; the hidden path is where you’ll shine.”
This wasn’t just a clue—it was a warning. The air inside the lighthouse pressed against my chest, thick and wrong. Around me, the others argued over their fragments of maps, their cryptic sketches, their precious scraps of Lorelai’s story. They were chasing gold, glory, anything that glittered in the light. But this? This wasn’t gold. This was something else.
I slipped away, descending the spiraling stairs to the lighthouse’s base. The air grew colder with every step, heavy with the weight of something watching. At the bottom, faint light glinted off a tarnished metal plaque, its symbols matching the faint impressions on my page. Holding my breath, I pressed the paper against the metal. The ink began to shimmer, the air vibrating with a low hum that rattled my bones.
And then, I heard it. A voice. Soft, hollow, barely more than a whisper. “Do you know why you were chosen?” I froze, my blood turning cold. It wasn’t coming from the room nor from the plague. It was coming from the page. My hands shook, but I couldn’t bring myself to drop the page. The voice came again, closer now, like it was speaking directly into my ear. “Lorelai left more than treasure, didn’t she?”
This wasn’t just a clue—it was her. Lorelai Ward wasn’t guiding us to gold. She had left pieces of herself behind, buried in riddles and traps, daring anyone reckless enough to follow her. The others wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t. They were too distracted by the promise of fortune to see what Lorelai had truly left behind. This wasn’t a hunt. It was a test. And I wasn’t sure if I was solving her puzzle—or if I’d already fallen into her trap.
⸺ The clue: “In pages worn and words long past, a secret buried will surface at last. Translate the tale, follow its line; the hidden path is where you’ll shine.”
⒎ The relentless winds whipped his hair across his face, and the sound of the crashing waves below seemed to merge with the howling gusts, creating an eerie symphony of nature. He had been following Lorelai Ward’s trail for weeks now, each clue leading him deeper into a puzzle that seemed to stretch beyond time and reason. He stood on the rocky shore, staring up at the cliff where the winds howled. He held the cryptic journal page, reading the clue again: “High above where the daring soar, a clue is etched by the wind’s roar. Seek the ledge where few will go; the answer waits where the wild winds blow.”
He had seen the narrow ledge earlier, high up the cliffs, a place only the brave—or reckless—would dare to climb. Lorelai Ward had always been a woman of defiance, someone who lived on the edge of danger, and he knew that if he was going to find the treasure—or answers—he would have to embrace that same recklessness. Lorelai Ward, whose crew had once betrayed her, had hidden something here, and he was determined to find it.
With a rope tied to a boulder, he began the treacherous climb. The wind whipped at him, and the rocks were slick, but he pressed on. As he reached the ledge, he searched the stone and found a small, weathered carving: a twisted knot, like two ropes entwined. It was a symbol Lorelai’s crew would recognize—something important. Lorelai had hidden her treasure in plain sight, but the key had always been in the wind.
He traced the symbol with his fingers, remembering another clue: “Where the ropes are tied, the journey begins.” This was no accident. The map was clearer now; the treasure was closer than ever. But the climb had already cost him, and he knew the real challenge had just begun. With a final glance at the cliff face, he hoisted himself up, higher than he had ever dared. The answer waited, but so did the unknown.
⸺ The clue: “High above where the daring soar, a clue is etched by the wind’s roar. Seek the ledge where few will go; the answer waits where the wild winds blow.”
② A Cryptic Discovery⸺Secrets and Strategy¸ P̣ṛọṃp̣ṭ: A hidden compartment in an abadoned lighthouse reveals fragments of a map and a cryptic journal page written by Lorelai Ward. The group receives each a piece of the puzzle, but no one holds all the answers. The clues don’t just point to a location—they hint at personal co- nnections to Lorelai’s past. ⸺example: One clue might suggest Lorelai hid a piece of the map near her childhood ho- me. Another might imply betrayal... so did her crew turn on her? Etc. Ṭạṣḳ: Describe how your character interprets their clue. What do you think the map fragment or journal entry means? Do you share your findings with the group, keep them secret, or use them as leverage? (Your interpretation could be descriptive or even in role–play form, be as creative as possible!) Rẹṃịṇḍẹṛ: All answers must be shared in a private message!
Ranking of the F̣ịṛṣṭ Ṭạṣḳ¸ ‘Anchoring the Legend⸺The Call to Adventure’ had our pirates’ approach ranked as it follows¸ ⒈ Maxwell St. Clair–Answer 3, ⒉ Márcia Da Luz–Answer 1, ⒊ Kallie Vance–Answer 4, ⒋ Saskia Locke–Answer 5, ⒌ Joran Rutger–Answer 7, ⒍ Noah Sawkins–Answer 6, ⒎ Nathan Forbes–Answer 2.
Meanwhile¸ Deirdre stood at the edge of the marina, her arms crossed as she watched the others board the boat. Their chatter carried on the breeze—plans, excitement, bold claims about Lorelai Ward’s treasure. It should’ve sparked something in her, but instead, it only deepened the weight pressing on her chest.
She had gotten involved in the hunt on a whim. Lorelai Ward’s name had come up during her investi -gation into illegal development in the marshlands. At first, she thought the treasure might be a bar- gaining chip, something she could leverage to protect the island’s fragile ecosystems. But the more she listened to the group’s plans, the more it felt like a distraction from what really mattered.
The girl pulled out her phone and scrolled through the photos she’d taken: dredging equipment near protected waterways, oil slicks on the surface of a marsh. It wasn’t just greed driving the Kooks any- more—it was destruction. If she didn’t focus on stopping it, who would?
Deirdre turned back to the group, catching Max’s eye for a moment before looking away. She felt a pang of regret, knowing that whatever bond they’d started to form wouldn’t have the chance to grow. But the island came first.
“I’m out,” she called, her voice cutting through the noise. “What?” Kallie turned, frowning. “You’re not even going to try?” She shook her head. “This hunt isn’t my fight. I’ve got a different one, and it can’t wait.”
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her boots crunching on the gravel. The others would probably think she was scared or stubborn, but Deirdre didn’t care. She wasn’t chasing gold —she was chasing something more important: a future for the island she loved.
The Pirates have spoken¸ Public’s Ṭạṣḳ⸺Make your top favorites; where 1 is the answer you relate to the most, and 7 is the answer you relate to the least. —E.g.: First place-answer seven, second place-answer three... and so on!
⒈ I can still feel the heat of those afternoons, the porch shimmering in sunlight, the wooden boards creaking under the weight of stories. I was a child then, perched on my pop’s knees, his voice a raspy hymn of tobacco smoke and weary conviction. Even as he spoke, the pipe never left his hand—its ember glowing faintly, as though feeding off the fire of his words. Those tales weren’t just stories; they were an inheritance. He wove a world where history blurred with fable, and legends were stitched into the fabric of our family like patches on a worn quilt. It stirred something in me even then—a hunger I couldn’t name. A yearning for the thrill of the unknown, for the sharp edge of a mystery begging to be unraveled. Some might call it obsession, but I know it better as a craving, like an itch under the skin. It wasn’t just the answers I sought; it was the chase itself. The pulse-quickening rush of failure nipping at my heels, daring me to leap higher, push further. My pop ignited that spark in me, though he probably never intended to. He was an angry man, my pop. Angry in a quiet, smoldering way that never scorched his family but left ashes everywhere else. He’d say we were a family in exile, refugees of our own name. And at the center of it all was her—Lorelai Ward. A name he spat with both reverence and venom. The woman who’d stolen from us, not just wealth but something intangible. Something sacred. The artifact she took, Pop would say, wasn’t merely a possession. It was the soul of our bloodline, a relic carried across the seas by our ancestor—a symbol of survival, of legacy. Pop spent his life chasing it, dragging Granny and Momma across the country on trails gone cold long before we arrived. He chased it with a desperation that bordered on madness, as if finding it might fill the hollow places carved into him by time and regret. When he lay dying, his hand trembling in mine, he made me promise to pick up where he left off. “Find it,” he rasped, his voice a threadbare echo of the man he once was. “Find what she stole. Set it right.” I swore I would, though even then I wasn’t sure what I believed. Was the artifact real? Was Lorelai anything more than a phantom stitched together by generations of longing and failure? Five years have passed, and still, I chase her shadow. Not for the gold, not for the fabled treasure. Let others drown themselves in the weight of her fortune. What I seek is simpler—and more elusive. Proof. Redemption. Peace. For my family. For myself. For a man who burned his life away chasing a ghost. I’ve learned everything there is to know about her. Lorelai Ward: a woman as ruthless as the sea she sailed, a myth that refuses to stay buried. She was real—of that much, I’m certain. But whether her story intertwines with mine, I can’t yet say. I’ve followed her legend to the edges of reason, traced every rumor to its fraying end. But the artifact remains a cipher, a whisper on the wind. Sometimes I wonder if the truth even matters. Maybe it’s the chase itself that defines us—the endless pursuit of something we can never truly hold. But then I think of Pop, and the way his eyes would light with hope and fury whenever he spoke her name. And I know I can’t stop. Not yet. If Lorelai Ward's fortune is real, I will find it. If the artifact exists, I will hold it in my hands. And if it doesn’t? Then I will lay this ghost to rest once and for all, and in doing so, lay myself to rest beside it. Until that day, I run—not just toward her shadow, but away from the emptiness that stretches behind me.
⒉ As a child, I found out about the treasure and the Legend of Lorelai Ward from my grandmother. She was making it sound like some kind of a bed time story that was passed from each generation, until I found out before she passed away that it was not just a story, that it was real. She gave me before she died the key of the chest she kept in the attic. My grandma had there some diaries from her ancestors, proving that she was, therefore I was too, related to Lorelai Ward. In order to honor the memory of my grandmother, I will do whatever it takes to find the treasure, after all, we need to keep it in the family, right?
⒊ Growing up, my dad had this way of turning even the simplest things into a competition. He’d tell us stories about Lorelai Ward, how she was ‘the greatest pirate that never existed.’ Said her treasure wasn’t real, just a bedtime story to keep kids dreaming of adventures they’d never have. But I remember the way his tone would change, just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe his own words. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Then a few years back, I was doing a dive off Cape Hatteras. I wasn’t looking for anything – just trying to keep my head above water. That’s when I found it. A piece of history buried in the sand: one of Lorelai’s letters. It was old, waterlogged, but her signature was clear as day. It was proof. Proof that she wasn’t just a story, that her treasure wasn’t just a myth. And the way the letter was written, it sounded like a warning. Like she knew people were coming after her fortune, and she didn’t care. It was hers to lose. That’s when it hit me. My dad’s been chasing this treasure too. The same man who called it a bedtime story has probably spent his entire life secretly trying to find it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that whatever my dad’s after, it’s never just about the money. It’s about power, control, making sure no one else ever has the upper hand. Finding this treasure is not just about gold for me. It’s about proving I can beat him at his own game. I don’t know what I’ll do if I find it. Maybe I’ll keep it, maybe I’ll sink it to the bottom of the ocean just to watch him squirm. But one thing’s for sure — I’m not letting him get there first. Lorelai didn’t play by anyone’s rules, and neither will I.
⒋ I wasn’t supposed to hear the stories. As a child, I’d press my ear against the old pantry door while my grandmother whispered to my father about her. Lorelai Ward, the “devil in silk.” Our family always spoke her name like a curse—like the very idea of her could crawl out of the walls and consume us. They blamed her for everything. The ruin of our family shipping business. The disgrace of my great-great -grandfather, Captain Elias Callahan, who’d sailed for her until the night he betrayed her and came home with his ship gutted, his men dead, and his mind lost to the sea. No one ever said what happened to Elias after that. Just that our family was cursed. But me? I always wondered if Lorelai was the real curse—or the answer. The stories said her treasure could redeem a life, or destroy it. And maybe it’s foolish, but I have to believe the Meridian Compass, the gold, the truth hidden in her Captain’s Log—all of it—is more than a bedtime tale for restless sailors. People have been hiding from her shadow for centuries. Me? I’m walking straight into it.
⒌ The first time I heard her name, it was carved into the edge of a table in the back of an old coastal bar. Lorelai Ward. The letters were sharp, angry, like someone had scratched them in out of desperation or fear. Below them, faint but unmistakable, was a sketch of a ship: The Shadow’s Veil. I didn’t know the name then, but the bartender did. “Everyone here does,” he said, his voice low, like the words might summon something. “Lorelai’s treasure. Gold, jewels, enough to make you rich for ten lifetimes. And every fool who’s gone looking for it never came back whole. If they came back at all.”
It wasn’t the promise of treasure that hooked me—it was the warnings. The way people spoke about her, half in awe, half in fear, as if Lorelai herself was still out there, guarding what was hers. I started digging, chasing whispers, piecing together fragments of her story: a ruthless smuggler who vanished with a fortune stolen from empires, her ship supposedly lost in a storm off the Outer Banks. But the deeper I went, the stranger it became. Mentions of riddles, traps, and something more—an artifact called the Meridian Compass, said to lead its bearer to whatever they desired most.
When I finally found the compass, it wasn’t in some dusty antique shop or buried in the sand—it was sitting in plain sight, displayed like it was nothing. Its tarnished surface gleamed faintly under the glass, its needle trembling like it was alive.
Now I’m here, standing where the sea meets the dunes, in the heart of where her legend ends. The locals call this place cursed, and maybe they’re right. The wind carries whispers, the sand shifts like it’s hiding something, and every step feels like stepping into her trap.
The compass hasn’t stopped trembling since I arrived, its needle pointing forward, urging me on. At night, I dream of her—Lorelai, her voice low and mocking, like she’s daring me to come closer. It’s not about the treasure anymore. It’s about her, the mystery she left behind, and the question that won’t leave me alone: why does it feel like she’s still watching?
⒍ Spending so much time at the docks, the Legend of Lorelai couldn’t help but reach my ears. Everybody was talking about the treasure, about the gold and rare jewels that Lorelai was hiding. Although, something wasn’t right. I could’ve swear I’ve seen this name before, somewhere… Days passed by and on a cloudless afternoon, my dad insisted I should take a look at Magnolia’s heart …I mean engine. Don’t know who Magnolia is? Yeah, not surprised. This is how my dad likes to call his boat. Anyways, while snooping through his things, I found some sketchy stuff. Some old reports of a newsletter, dated about 25 years ago…more specific, 1999. Ran my fingers over the columns and one second later, I couldn’t believe my eyes ⸺A picture with my great-great-grandad and a so called woman, Lorelai Ward. An entire article about their relationship, titled: ‘The most loved couple of the 1800s’ Almost dropped the papers when a voice woke me up: ⸺ What’s taking so long? Did you find the toolbox?
I knew Lorelai Ward was a familiar name to me, but something in the back of my mind was telling me that wasn’t all of it. Did my great-great-grandad had a relationship with her? Did he knew about the treasure? What about her dissappearance? Who killed Lorelai?
⒎ Is the Tide Stained in Gold? A shimmering haze lingers over the Outer Banks, poised delicately between the edge of glory and the precipice of failure. Whispers of salt and lore drift through the air, coiling around a name that only the attentive dare to hear—a presence that burns warm, yet intangible, more idea than man. It is the name of ambition itself, sharp as shattered glass and twice as dangerous.
The lost fortune of Lorelai Ward stirs restless waters, igniting a fervent hunt laced with obsession and desire. A poison courses through the veins of the island, but no one bears its weight more heavily than he. His footsteps resonate like the first ferry at midnight, unmistakable to any who seek success. His enigmatic shadow bleeds crimson across the gaze of those long since robbed of innocence. For him, the treasure is not merely wealth but the fulfillment of something far older, far deeper—a destiny veiled in riddles and steeped in shadow.
Long before the sands began slipping through the hourglass, the search burned in his hands like a restless flame. For what purpose? Perhaps even he does not entirely know. Though in his depths, he surely feels it—a purpose, calculated and unrelenting. Is it simply the thrill? The challenge? Or the need to claim the laurels of triumph, to carve his initials into a silent pedestal? Could it be a connection to some forgotten legacy? Born to power and prestige, the gilded cage of inheritance was never enough for him. The world, as it stood, felt impossibly small.
The mosaic of the labyrinth lies just beneath his intense and storm-dark gaze, weighed down by the burdens of the hunt yet lit by a quiet hope. A fragment of a map stitched from threads of starlight. A letter, frayed and devoured by time. A medallion that hums with the whispers of playful phantoms under the moon's shadow. Each artifact holds its own gravity, its own promise of undiscovered truths. Yet, in his hands, they feel achingly human—fragile and finite.
His movements are tidal—silent and relentless. Rivals catch his scent like hyenas circling prey in a tropical savanna. Yet even the sharpest edge can fracture, and the weight of gold pales next to the unbearable mass of unspoken truths. Lorelai Ward’s legend is no gentle muse; it is a tempest, a specter that haunts and devours. Is it a treasure? A curse? Should it remain a mystery to preserve the spirit of those who chase it? Those who seek her riches do not return the same—if they return at all.
He knows he could be undone, lost to the tides, trapped in a temporal loop of divine abyss. Yet still, the treasure calls—not in a whisper, but in a roar. The Meridian Compass. The Captain’s Log. The Veil itself. If only he can grasp them before the tide pulls him under.
In the end, it is not clear whether he pursues the fortune, or if the fortune hunts him. But one truth remains: the treasure will not be unearthed without sacrifice, and there are some who will pay whatever price it demands.
The Lost Fortune of Lorelai Ward¸ In the 1800s, Lorelai Ward, a wealthy and enigmatic shipowner, vanished after smuggling a vast fortune out of the Americas. In the Outer Banks, the line between myth and reality is razor-thin, and the hunt for Lorelai Ward’s treasure blurs it further. Each local comes to the hunt with a different agenda, but they all share a common goal: unearth the legendary riches of The Shadow’s Veil.
The treasure includes: – gold and rare jewels stolen from the East India Company, – The Meridian Compass, an ancient artifact believed to guide its wielder to hidden wealth, – Lorelai’s Captain’s Log, said to contain the truth about her mysterious disappearance.
But the hunt won’t be easy. Lorelai was clever, ruthless, and deeply paranoid. The treasure is protected by riddles, traps, and secrets, some more dangerous than others.
① Anchoring the Legend⸺The Call to Adventure¸ P̣ṛọṃp̣ṭ: The hunt begins with rumors of The Shadow’s Veil resurfacing. Lorelai Ward’s legend has captivated treasure hunters for centuries, but no one has come close to finding her fortune. Ṭạṣḳ: Write a short story about your character’s connection to the treasure hunt/Lorelai Ward’s legend. This gives you a chance to position yourselves as allies or rivals. ⸺example: Did your family have a link to Lorelai (e.g., a passed-down artifact, a rumor)? How did you learn about the legend of Lorelai Ward? Are you chasing the gold for personal wealth, family honor, or revenge? Etc. Rẹṃịṇḍẹṛ: All answers must be shared in a private message!
Welcome to Ọụṭẹṛ Ḅạṇḳṣ¸ Paradise on Earth A string of sun-soaked islands, where sparkling waters hide dark secrets, and the line between survival and betrayal is as sharp as a knife. On the surface, it’s a paradise split between the elite Kooks and the scrappy Pogues. But beneath the waves lies a preasure trove of legends, mysteries, and rivalries that have simmered for generations.
In the Outer Banks, alliances are fragile, loyalties are tested, and every decision could lead to fortune —or ruin. Whether you’re chasing buried gold or trying to carve out a place for yourself, one thing is certain: no one escapes the Outer Banks untouched. Will you uncover the secrets hidden in the sand? Or will you become just another story swallowed by the tide?
ᴬᴾᴾᴸᴵᑦᴬᵀᴵᴼᴺ˯ ₁ Select your face-claim (options are limited) ₂ Re-name your new character (be creative!) ₃ Choose your role & dive right into the story
Ṛọḷẹṣ: The Disillusioned Ex-Kook ⁽m⁾ | The Rogue Activist ⁽f⁾ | The Risk-Taking Adrenaline Junkie ⁽m⁾ The Ambitious Kook Heir ⁽m⁾ | The Chameleon Opportunist ⁽m⁾ | The Outspoken Underdog ⁽f⁾ The Elusive Treasure Hunter ⁽f⁾ | The Enigmatic Researcher ⁽f⁾
Ṭḥẹ Ḍẹạḍ P̣ọẹṭṣ C̣ḷụḅ¸ Legacy⸺What We Leave Behind
Mara Talbot has always been the quiet anchor, the one who asked questions that made others reflect. As the club progressed, it made her believe that she was in fact a thinker, not a feeler. She had spent so much time analyzing life and helping others navigate their struggles that she had never fully confronted her own.
During the final meeting, Mara quietly announced her departure. She thanked the group for their honesty, but she confessed that she wasn’t ready to give as deeply into herself. ‘I think I need to answer my own questions first,’ her faint apologetic smile spoke for herself.
Charles Wellington’s journey in the club was unexpected. What endeared him to the group wasn’t his eloquence of vulnerability, but his unassuming ability to make others feel understood. He has a way of listening that made you feel like your words mattered.
After Mara left the group leaned on Charles more than they expected. He became the one who kept the meetings lively, who reminded everyone that it’s okay to laugh even while life is serious. Charles had become the soul of the group—a reminder that rebellion doesn’t always have to be loud, and that the most meaningful connections often come from the people who once seemed the least likely to care.
The Poets have spoken¸ Public’s Ṭạṣḳ⸺Choose your favorite answer.
⒈ “Dacă ar fi să plec diseară pe ‘Tărâmul de tăcere’ Aş lăsa vântul de vară să-ţi mai dea o mângâiere. Să o facă cu tandreţea şi surâsul unui Zeu, Să-ţi alunge el tristeţea cum aş fi făcut-o eu.
Dacă ar fi să plec diseară într-un zbor spre curcubeu, Ţi-aş lăsa pe cer afară, steaua sufletului meu, Şi aş ruga-o să-ţi sărute părul plin de strălucire, Fruntea ta cu gânduri multe… Şi albastra ta privire.”
A dear soul dedicated to me this poem, before passing away almost a decade ago. It was the last thing he said to me and it made me realize one thing—that we are dust and ashes; but we are dust and ashes that can think, that can love, that can cry, that can smile, we are dust and ashes that can express any emotion. And this is wonderful. We are not meant to be born here and to love for 70 years, only for 70 years, for example; because love is EVERLASTING. It’s a feeling that never dies. I’m talking about every kind of love. The love you have for your grandmother, perhaps. When she dies, she dies, of course; but you can never forget—her donuts, her pancakes, her strawberry jam, you can never forget her smell, her sore eyes, her soft voice when she welcomes you home. This is what we leave behind. The love…and it’s precious than any other luxury item. I cannot believe a love will ever end, even if death take us or our beloved ones. Something will remain. So, dust to dust, ashes to ashes and love to love. …And if I’m wrong, God will prove me wrong, won’t He?
I can forget about my shoes, I can forget about my earrings, I can forget about my homework, but I cannot forget about the people I have loved. Can you?
⒉ Loss, I think, is the cruelest teacher. It strips us of what we thought we couldn’t live without, leaving us raw and exposed, and forces us to ask: what of us remains when all else is gone? Legacy, then, is the answer we try to give to that question – the mark we hope to leave so that some part of us survives the void. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that legacy is not about monuments or accolades. It’s in the quiet ways we shape the lives of others. It’s in the conversations we spark, the ideas we plant, the courage we inspire in someone else. Loss takes, yes, but legacy is what we give back – the proof that we were here, that we mattered, even in the smallest of ways. What I hope to leave behind isn’t something grand or written in stone. I hope to leave a ripple, an echo in the lives I’ve touched. Maybe it’s a question someone can’t stop thinking about, or a perspective they hadn’t considered before. Maybe it’s simply the memory of a moment when I made them feel understood. That, I think, is enough. — I’d want to write a letter to humanity, telling people to stop searching so desperately for meaning. I’d say, ‘Life isn’t a puzzle to solve, but a mystery to experience. Don’t let the fear of death steal the beauty of living.’ My legacy wouldn’t be an answer, but a reminder to ask questions, to wonder. My purpose would be to tell people that it’s okay to never know.
⑦ Legacy⸺What We Leave Behind Ṭḥẹṃẹ: Thinking about legacy, purpose and meaning. Ṭạṣḳ: You must write a letter or a poem as if it’s the last thing you leave behind, addressing either someone close or the world in general. You can share what you wish you’d accomplished, expressed, or understood. This final step allo -ws you to confront what you value most in life.
Rẹṃịṇḍẹṛ: All answers are shared in a private message!
Ranking of the Ṣịx̣ṭḥ Ṭạṣḳ¸ Keating’s theme ‘Boundaries & Freedom⸺Defining Independence’ had our poets’ approach ranked like¸ ⒈ Charles Wellington–Answer 2, ⒉ Mara Talbot–Answer 1, ⒊ Amélie Green–Answer 3.
Unfortunaley, we have some sad news¸ Amélie Green had begun to feel an ache she couldn’t ignore. Joining the Dead Poets Club had been a leap of faith for her, a chance to step out of the shadows where she’d always existed. For the first time, she wasn’t just the quiet girl in the corner; she was part of something, a place where her thoughts and talents could matter. Yet, as the tasks went on, that sense of belonging started to slip away. For years, Amélie had built her life around being unseen, blending into the background to avoid drawing attention or upsetting anyone. Now, the club was asking her to confront that, to consider what independence truly meant for someone who had never dared to claim it.
Before leaving, she sent a quiet message to the group, thanking them for the experience but saying she had to leave. She told herself it was because she didn’t fit in, that she wasn’t like them—but deep down, she knew it was because she wasn’t ready to let herself be truly seen.
The Poets have spoken¸ Public’s Ṭạṣḳ⸺Make your top favorites; where 1 is the answer you relate to the most, and 3 is the answer you relate to the least. —E.g.: First place-answer one, second place-answer three... and so on!
⒈ Freedom, for me, is a place of complete silence – a mountain at sunrise, untouched by human thought. But my greatest obstacle is my own mind. It’s like a relentless machine that won’t stop analyzing, questioning, overthinking. I envy those who can simply be, who can sit quietly and feel at peace. My freedom isn’t something physical to achieve; it’s an inner quiet I have yet to find. It builds walls as fast as it tears them down, and I’m caught in the middle—thinking—am I free, or have I just learned to decorate my cage? I’d realize that freedom doesn’t mean escaping the storm… it means standing in its center, unafraid to be carried wherever it might take me.
⒉ Is it a relief, when the leaf falls away from the tree? Is it sad to leave? Or is it finally free? … When I think about freedom, I think about childhood—when life was simple and mundane. When Iosing a tooth felt like a crime… As Elizabeth Lawrence said, there is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colours are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again—that place means freedom for me. Even if the journey seems endless, our feet and hearts, weary…we will never feel again as free as we felt when we were young.
What if we played in the leaves for just a few minutes? Can we jump in the puddles with our rain boots once more? I miss being carried inside after falling asleep in the car… What if I’ll be free again?
⒊ To me freedom is like getting an opportunity to know who I really am and discovering my strengths and weaknesses. By this would help me to be strong and face the world without any fears because then I’ll know myself in and out.
My favorite place, which gives me the feeling of freedom, is the attic of my small house in the mountains. I have been emotionally connected to this place since I was a child, since I received my first book. I remember reading it breathlessly, until the sound of raindrops on the roof woke me up from my trance, after two hours of non-stop reading. There, in the attic, I felt like I could inhale the air with big gulps and I used to admire the clouds that paraded in front of me with their capricious shapes. And of course I loved looking at the stars, watching them through the little window in the ceiling. I felt free, I had the impression that nothing bad could happen to me and I felt like the master of the world...There were no problems there and reading in that place was like a kind of therapy for me, for my soul.
„I feel free and strong. If I were not a reader of books I could not feel this way. Whatever may happen to me, thank God that I can read, that I have truly touched the minds of other men. —Walter Tevis, Mockingbird.
⑥ Boundaries & Freedom⸺Defining Independence Ṭḥẹṃẹ: Exploring independence and what freedom means. Ṭạṣḳ: Each one of you must share what freedom looks like for you and write about a place (real or imagined) that represents absolute freedom. You can discuss the biggest obstacle you face in achieving this freedom. This exercise reveals your innermost desires and greatest limitations.
Rẹṃịṇḍẹṛ: All answers are shared in a private message!
Ranking of the F̣ịf̣ṭḥ Ṭạṣḳ¸ Keating’s theme ‘Beyond the Self⸺Empathy & Connection’ had our poets’ approach ranked as this¸ ⒈ Amélie Green–Answer 1, ⒉ Mara Talbot–Answer 2, ⒊ Charles Wellington–Answer 3, ⒋ Lucien Earnshaw–Answer 4.
Unfortunaley, we have some sad news¸ Lucien Earnshaw was feeling the weight of his double life pressing down on him. As the heir to a vast family legacy, he’d always been taught to prioritize the family’s reputation above all else. Yet, being part of the Dead Poets Club had shown him a world where people were honest, vulnerable, even defiant. It was liberating – and terrifying. When the task came to explore empathy and see through another’s eyes, Luc felt his conscience flaring up. Writing from another’s perspective was uncomfortable, even painful.
The experience had forced him to confront questions he wasn’t ready to answer, and he was afraid of where those questions would lead. Lucien told himself that he had duties to uphold, responsibilities that didn’t allow for self-indulgent soul-searching. And with that thought, he slipped back into the familiar role of heir, leaving the Dead Poets Club behind, though not without a lingering sense of regret.
The Poets have spoken¸ Public’s Ṭạṣḳ⸺Make your top favorites; where 1 is the answer you relate to the most, and 4 is the answer you relate to the least. —E.g.: First place-answer four, second place-answer three... and so on!
⒈ As a poet, my pen is a creator of worlds. In my real world we are inconsistent creatures. One minute, we might be overflowing with energetic feelings of vitality, meaning, and purpose; the next, we might suddenly feel sapped by a nagging sense that, actually, nothing we do really signifies anything grand or important. Ultimately, nothing we do matters at all.
Occasionally, we might be struck by a disturbing feeling: that life is absurd, and nothing we do matters. As Albert Camus says in his essay „The Myth of Sisyphus”, I also think that rather than deny life’s absurdity with comforting delusions, we can establish a more authentic happiness by perpetually scorning our absurd fate.
„Life is devoid of its intrinsic meaning. We give it a value from an illusion. Inventions and artificers are beauticians. The absurd hero takes no refuges In illusion, arts, crafts and religions, And despairs not to face absurdity, Which he escapes not but embrace. Absurdity is life that he is aware” — Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar. ⸺The Becoming of Mara Talbot.
⒉ — “The Quiet Burn” There was fire once, in the marrow of my bones, a blaze that laughed at caution, and scorched every chain.
But now, the embers sit, buried under ash, a quiet burn that whispers of battles I can no longer see.
If I were Charles, I think I’d feel betrayed — by fate, by my body, by all the expectations I had for myself. I’d wrestle with the question: Who am I if I’m not the person I once believed myself to be? I think I’d feel like a shadow of who I used to be, caught between longing for the thrill of rebellion and the weight of my own limits. Maybe Charles hides behind an air of detachment because it’s easier than admitting he feels like he’s lost himself.
Maybe he thinks he’s let himself down, or that he’s become a stranger to the person he wanted to be. But I don’t think Charles has truly lost that fire. I imagine it’s still there, buried under layers of self-doubt and resentment. If I were him, I’d want to scream at the world, or maybe at myself, for the ways I’ve changed and the ways I haven’t. I’d want to prove that I’m still here, still fighting, even if the battles are quieter now.
Yet somewhere, I swear, the spark remains – waiting for breath, for something to strike.
A life caught between, too fierce to forget, too weary to fight, smoldering silently, still. ⸺The Becoming of Charles Wellington.
⒊ THE PERFECTIONIST “I am a sinner with a halo of gold, an open book with secrets untold.
I am shy and I am outspoken with a heart of glass, easily broken.
I am awkward and well refined, lost, insightful and a little love-blind.
I am nocturnal, a creature of night, blissfully ignorant, typically right.
I am respected and I am addicted shamed by burdens, self inflicted.
I am cautious and I have no fear, a loser and quitter, still I persevere.
I am a perfectionist and I am a slob, unbiased and shallow, an inept snob.
If I could write my life as a poem for millions who'll read, understand, think I'd conjure an epic, a mystery— A tale on edge, a tragedy's brink. The art of hating yourself is not easily achieved. It takes motivation, words whispered across lunch rooms: “Ugly, fat, stupid, freak.” I’m person with a bad past or an uncertain future, A man who blames himself, A man who knows it’s his fault… If you are truly serious about embarking on this journey, This journey of unsatisfaction and secrecy, Pushing people away and always, always Craving, Striving, Searching, Starving, Needing, That promise of perfection.
Who am I?” ⸺The Becoming of Lucien Earnshaw.
⒋ I speak to pages, dark-ribboned words, Tangled lines that spill and curl— A language only silence knows.
To others, I am brushed in gray, Faded shadows on noisy streets, But in this ink, I spill in colors, In fires unseen, flickering deep.
I am notes struck softly, A silent sonnet, buried chords. Too strange, too sharp—I'm told— So, here I hide, In syllables that no one sees.
But sometimes, I wonder: What if these whispers found breath? If the dark and the tender, the wild and the raw, Unfurled from pages like feathers, Would they see the beauty I see?
⑤ Beyond the Self⸺Empathy & Connection Ṭḥẹṃẹ: Moving beyond one’s own perspective and connecting with others. Ṭạṣḳ: Each one of you is assigned another club member to ‘become’ for a day. You must write a short piece or poem from the per- spective of that person, focusing on the struggles you think this person is facing. This round fosters empathy and under- standing of your peers’ backgrounds.
Rẹṃịṇḍẹṛ: All answers are shared in a private message!
Ranking of the F̣ọụṛṭḥ Ṭạṣḳ¸ Keating’s theme ‘The Dark Side⸺Facing Inner Fears’ had our poets’ approach ranked as it follows¸ ⒈ Amélie Green–Answer 4, ⒉ Charles Wellington–Answer 5, ⒊ Lucien Earnshaw–Answer 3, ⒋ Mara Talbot–Answer 1, ⒌ Sebastian Thorne–Answer 2.
Unfortunaley, we have some sad news¸ Sebastian Thorne was starting to feel the cracks in his carefully constructed facade. As the son of a diplomat, he had spent his life mastering the art of charm, diplomacy, and emotional restraint. Vulnerability was something he saw as a weakness, a flaw he could never afford to show. By the time the fears were listed, he knew exactly what haunted him – the fear of never being more than a mirror of his father, a shadow following in someone else’s footsteps. But saying it aloud would make it real.
Sebastian could see that some of the members weren’t convinced by his words, but he brushed it off with a polite smile. After the meeting, he left abruptly, slipping away without telling anyone. The club had forced him too close to his own truth, and he couldn’t allow himself to be seen that way. He decided to leave the Dead Poets Club, convincing himself that they would never understand someone like him.
Trimite mesajÎnapoiNu poți trimite un mesaj fără conținut!Nu este permisă folosirea de cod HTML in mesaje.Mesajul nu a fost trimis din motive de securitate. Va rugam sa ne contactati prin email pe adresa office@sunphoto.roMesajul nu a fost trimis din motive de posibil spam. Va rugam sa ne contactati prin email pe adresa office@sunphoto.roMesajul nu a fost trimis din motive de posibil spam. Ati trimis prea multe mesaje in ultimul timp.A apărut o eroare în timpul trimiterii mesajului. Vă rog încercați din nou.Mesajul a fost trimis.
