Information
Jemmi
Legacy Name: Jemmi
The
Blacklight KerubiOwner: Faune
Age: 11 years, 2 months, 1 week
Born: January 25th, 2015
Adopted: 7 months ago
Adopted: September 6th, 2025
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 4
- Books Read: 4
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Inspired by stained glass windows, makes suncatchers.
Has a small market stand at the weekend farmers market where she sells them.
Believes in the power of a suncatcher to hold the sun's warmth and bless a house with goodness.
Has a small market stand at the weekend farmers market where she sells them.
Believes in the power of a suncatcher to hold the sun's warmth and bless a house with goodness.
For Chrysariel
Her laughter tinkled – yes, truly tinkled – across the coffee shop. She was just that kind of person, her laugh just that kind of laugh. Warm, musical, welcoming, infectious – you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who didn’t feel an uplift of joy in her presence.
She had bumped into another customer, spilling her freshly brewed chai latte on herself and him. “I am SO sorry!” she chirped in a somehow unbothered for herself yet genuine for their troubles tone.
It was near impossible for someone to be upset with her – she had that “vibe” – the kind that made you want to like her even before you had reason, that made you assume the best of anything she did or said.
“It’s okay!” the gentleman comforted “There’s barely any on me, but your sweater!” Yes, she was the kind of person who people were automatically invested in and concerned about when things went array, and her fuzzy pull-over sweater (adorned with an adorable knit forest animal) was near-soaked with a rather large portion of her beverage.
“Oh no, don’t worry about me!” She said with a smile, “Just another excuse for us to hit the shops next!” She winked at her friends who stood to the side with napkins ready to help her dab the large splotch, hoping to hold off the staining while she found something else to wear so she could clean the sweater off properly.
The barista was already re-making her drink, ready to offer it at no cost. Certainly it was just good customer service, but also certainly they would have done it for her even if it was against company policy. Her warmth and joy made people want to give something back to her, a thank you for the feelings she brought forth in them through even a small interaction.
“Thank you so much!” She gave them a small bow of gratitude and tucked a significant tip into the pun-labeled tip jar on the counter before locking arms with her friend, waving goodbye with a latte-holding paw to the gentleman who she had bumped into, and headed for the door.
----------------------
“Ahh!” She leapt out from the clothing rack, sending her friend Eloise leaping backwards in surprise and giggling wildly. After a moment of shock and a playful bat at Salem’s arm with the skirt she was holding, El joined in the laughing.
“You’re ridiculous!” Their third friend Margo chuckled as she came around the aisle, she always had a special enjoyment for Salem’s silly antics. In fact, that was her favorite thing about her friend – Salem never took herself too seriously. “Now, what do you two think about this dress?” She held a shimmering, floor-length, forest green dress before her body and swayed slightly to show off its movement.
“That is YOUR color! Oh my gosh” Salem cheered “YES, an automatic buy!” That was one of the other great things about Salem, she was opinionated and honest, but kind. If something wasn’t going to look good, she would be upfront with her friends about it. The trust they all had in her opinions was firm and earned.
“Well that’s my goals met then!” Margo smiled. “Did you find a new sweater?” She asked with soft concern, thinking that the stain from the latte may very well set permanently.
Salem held out a long, velvety mauve cardigan. “What do you think of this?” She asked her friends with genuine curiosity. She may have strong opinions, but she always cared about what her close friends thought as well and wanted them to know their opinions were valued.
Two sets of thumbs up sent Salem grinning ear to ear and heading towards the cashier.
--------------
Sitting in their PJs on Salem’s plush sofa as the evening set in, latte-stained sweater in the wash and Hex Salem’s folicat curled contentedly in her lap, the trio of friends chatted happily about their eventful day.
Sure, from the outside it hadn’t been anything unique – coffee and shopping about town – but to Salem it was exceptionally special. For her, there was nothing like a day of laughter and joy shared with friends. It was something she could never take for granted. That was just the kind of person she was.
She had bumped into another customer, spilling her freshly brewed chai latte on herself and him. “I am SO sorry!” she chirped in a somehow unbothered for herself yet genuine for their troubles tone.
It was near impossible for someone to be upset with her – she had that “vibe” – the kind that made you want to like her even before you had reason, that made you assume the best of anything she did or said.
“It’s okay!” the gentleman comforted “There’s barely any on me, but your sweater!” Yes, she was the kind of person who people were automatically invested in and concerned about when things went array, and her fuzzy pull-over sweater (adorned with an adorable knit forest animal) was near-soaked with a rather large portion of her beverage.
“Oh no, don’t worry about me!” She said with a smile, “Just another excuse for us to hit the shops next!” She winked at her friends who stood to the side with napkins ready to help her dab the large splotch, hoping to hold off the staining while she found something else to wear so she could clean the sweater off properly.
The barista was already re-making her drink, ready to offer it at no cost. Certainly it was just good customer service, but also certainly they would have done it for her even if it was against company policy. Her warmth and joy made people want to give something back to her, a thank you for the feelings she brought forth in them through even a small interaction.
“Thank you so much!” She gave them a small bow of gratitude and tucked a significant tip into the pun-labeled tip jar on the counter before locking arms with her friend, waving goodbye with a latte-holding paw to the gentleman who she had bumped into, and headed for the door.
----------------------
“Ahh!” She leapt out from the clothing rack, sending her friend Eloise leaping backwards in surprise and giggling wildly. After a moment of shock and a playful bat at Salem’s arm with the skirt she was holding, El joined in the laughing.
“You’re ridiculous!” Their third friend Margo chuckled as she came around the aisle, she always had a special enjoyment for Salem’s silly antics. In fact, that was her favorite thing about her friend – Salem never took herself too seriously. “Now, what do you two think about this dress?” She held a shimmering, floor-length, forest green dress before her body and swayed slightly to show off its movement.
“That is YOUR color! Oh my gosh” Salem cheered “YES, an automatic buy!” That was one of the other great things about Salem, she was opinionated and honest, but kind. If something wasn’t going to look good, she would be upfront with her friends about it. The trust they all had in her opinions was firm and earned.
“Well that’s my goals met then!” Margo smiled. “Did you find a new sweater?” She asked with soft concern, thinking that the stain from the latte may very well set permanently.
Salem held out a long, velvety mauve cardigan. “What do you think of this?” She asked her friends with genuine curiosity. She may have strong opinions, but she always cared about what her close friends thought as well and wanted them to know their opinions were valued.
Two sets of thumbs up sent Salem grinning ear to ear and heading towards the cashier.
--------------
Sitting in their PJs on Salem’s plush sofa as the evening set in, latte-stained sweater in the wash and Hex Salem’s folicat curled contentedly in her lap, the trio of friends chatted happily about their eventful day.
Sure, from the outside it hadn’t been anything unique – coffee and shopping about town – but to Salem it was exceptionally special. For her, there was nothing like a day of laughter and joy shared with friends. It was something she could never take for granted. That was just the kind of person she was.
Thunderbird for Chrysariel
It was dry.
But not just dry.
It was dust of the bone dry.
Brittle yellow-brown grass dry.
Crushed stone and crackling wood dry.
The kind of dry that leaves the person parched and burnt.
It was the nearly unlivable, yet necessary dry that was hated by many but accepted in measure by those who believe.
For it was the level of dry the world must reach to awaken him.
The world must first turn nearly to fire, only then can the wings of the sky’s sea come.
Yes, this was the dry that reaches into his ancient, cool cave and burns his feathers with its touch.
That disturbs his season-long slumber with its brazen harshness.
His eye opened first, sudden and blazing like an ember in the dark.
He blinked several times, remoisturizing his eyes against the oppressive dryness.
Then, he stood. His great size, even with wings tucked in, dominated the deep cave.
There was a slow, steady stretching required after such long, deep slumber. To awaken the muscles, ease the joints, prepare for what was to come.
Up the dark pathway that reached towards bright, clear light he padded, his long nails clicking softly against the dirt-brushed stone.
Up, up, until he stood in open air and could extend his great wings, showing his full glory.
The breeze ruffled his fur pleasurably.
A deep rumble in his chest, he purred at what he saw before him.
Yes, his time had come indeed.
The world was parched.
He was needed.
He flapped his great, storm-grey wings. Each snap sending a rumble of thunder across the plains, a promise of what was to come.
Electricity – the atoms between his feathers as they rubbed together – snapped and crackled, eager to spring forth in display of his might.
He closed his eyes, then dove internally into the deep well.
Down, down he blazed his trail, into the core of his magic.
Down until he had grasped the very heart of his wild storms and endless rains.
Until he clasped it tightly in his legendary claws and pulled it up with him in a sudden dash for the surface.
With a mighty kick, he leapt from his mountain home.
The heavy, cold droplets poured from him.
The winds from his wings carrying them down and across the vast homelands of those who believed.
It was wet.
But not just wet.
Puddling and streaming wet.
Soaked to your bones wet
The kind of wet that runs the rivers to their banks and breathes into the plants new life.
The lightning, it was a dance.
The thunder, it was a song.
And those who believed gave praise.
For their Thunderbird had come again.
But not just dry.
It was dust of the bone dry.
Brittle yellow-brown grass dry.
Crushed stone and crackling wood dry.
The kind of dry that leaves the person parched and burnt.
It was the nearly unlivable, yet necessary dry that was hated by many but accepted in measure by those who believe.
For it was the level of dry the world must reach to awaken him.
The world must first turn nearly to fire, only then can the wings of the sky’s sea come.
Yes, this was the dry that reaches into his ancient, cool cave and burns his feathers with its touch.
That disturbs his season-long slumber with its brazen harshness.
His eye opened first, sudden and blazing like an ember in the dark.
He blinked several times, remoisturizing his eyes against the oppressive dryness.
Then, he stood. His great size, even with wings tucked in, dominated the deep cave.
There was a slow, steady stretching required after such long, deep slumber. To awaken the muscles, ease the joints, prepare for what was to come.
Up the dark pathway that reached towards bright, clear light he padded, his long nails clicking softly against the dirt-brushed stone.
Up, up, until he stood in open air and could extend his great wings, showing his full glory.
The breeze ruffled his fur pleasurably.
A deep rumble in his chest, he purred at what he saw before him.
Yes, his time had come indeed.
The world was parched.
He was needed.
He flapped his great, storm-grey wings. Each snap sending a rumble of thunder across the plains, a promise of what was to come.
Electricity – the atoms between his feathers as they rubbed together – snapped and crackled, eager to spring forth in display of his might.
He closed his eyes, then dove internally into the deep well.
Down, down he blazed his trail, into the core of his magic.
Down until he had grasped the very heart of his wild storms and endless rains.
Until he clasped it tightly in his legendary claws and pulled it up with him in a sudden dash for the surface.
With a mighty kick, he leapt from his mountain home.
The heavy, cold droplets poured from him.
The winds from his wings carrying them down and across the vast homelands of those who believed.
It was wet.
But not just wet.
Puddling and streaming wet.
Soaked to your bones wet
The kind of wet that runs the rivers to their banks and breathes into the plants new life.
The lightning, it was a dance.
The thunder, it was a song.
And those who believed gave praise.
For their Thunderbird had come again.