Welcome to No Books of Men! We are a modern alternate history board set in a magical school nestled in the Columbiana Valley of the Rocky Mountains. Students of the Collegium Illustrata Columbiana (commonly called simply The Academy) are free to explore their wildest imaginations in learning the mystic arts, so long as it does not jeopardize the ongoing Shadow War with the Exarchs. How will you live up to the legacies of Merlin?

darkkenchild is the Head Admin here at No Books. He enjoys long walks on the beach and debating the metaphysical underpinnings of reality, so any questions about your character , the plot of No Books, and/or how magic works on the site, please do not hesitate to ask him.

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Weekend Warrior
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Application: http://nobooksofmen.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showtopic=54
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Age: 41
Alias: Weekend Warrior
Great House: Garou
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Joined: 11-August 14
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Lawrence Cassady


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Aug 19 2014, 10:11 PM
School was starting soon. Any day now really, but Lawrence didn't feel ready. He never felt ready. He couldn't help but chuckle slightly at the thought. He was only now starting to feel ready for last year's fall term, and here it was only a week from this year's start. Not that it mattered, “One is never ready for anything. To think yourself prepared is to be a fool...” The large man shook his head and looked around the grounds and wondered exactly who he thought he was talking to.

With a shrug, Lawrence leaned in against the manual mower he was using, throwing his back into his work once again with renewed vigor. Two-thirds of the Green was already cleared and ready for the start of term, but this last bit wouldn't mow itself. “Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs within him.” His voice started at barely more than a murmur, reciting to himself.

“and he becomes immortal with her immortality. From time to time she claims kindredship with us, and some globule from her veins steals up into our own.” With each word, Lawrence's voice grew in volume and timbre. Within moments, Lawrence was practically singing out the words of his poem and a deeply passionate serenade to the earth he tended it was... “I am the autumnal sun, With autumn gales my race is run; When will the hazel put forth its flowers, Or the grape ripen under my bowers? When...” Then he stopped suddenly when he saw that he was not longer alone. Suddenly standing still, his mower screeching to a halt, he stood and blinked at the newcomer. “Erm. Hello. Begging your pardon...”
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