Month: May 2018

Hi Guys!

Hey there 🙂 This is actually Legasimmer speaking, not Azalea. First of all, next post is delayed until this weekend or so, because I’m working on a pose I really would like to incorporate into the storytelling, and I didn’t get around to finishing it on time. Sorry ❤ On the bright side, I’ll 100% be sharing it here, so look at me, becoming a CC creator *cough cough*

Which brings me to my next point:

Everything you’ve been reading up until now, happened in my game literally months ago. Like, back in 2017. I sometimes fill out some holes when I forgot to take screenshots (I wasn’t sure I wanted to start a simblr back then), or when I want to make something clearer, but really, this part of the story is set in stone. But a lot happened, and my goal at the moment is to catch up with my current gameplay. I haven’t played in two months as a result, because the delay is much too big at the moment. In my game, Azalea’s heir has just turned into a young adult…

Why tell you this now?

THE NEW DLC HYPE. It smells like Seasons, doesn’t it? Sooooo, whatever happens, I need to catch up before it is released, which I am assuming should be… September? November? Anyways, I’ll try to pick up the posting pace. I’m not kidding when I say my next 30 posts or so are already planned. Just gotta pick and edit the pictures. And this brings us to, like… Azalea’s young adulthood? *cry*

I’ll basically be aiming for two posts a day soon.

While I’m at it

If you want quick heads up about the simblr and just read me rambling, I have an Instagram and a Twitter under the same username! Instagram will also show you some of my drawings and other things I’m working on. Follow me! 🙂

And finally, my questions are open if you wanna. I prefer to hide behind my characters, but am always happy to chat!

Have a great day ❤

A Break In Boredom

Monday Afternoon. 8AM.

It’s not that I find Geography boring as a subject. It’s just — early morning and an obnoxious teacher was never a great combo.

When we step into the heavily decorated classroom, we’re all practically zombies. And to think this is extra credit. We chose to come and get bored for two hours in a row. Oh, we were interested the first few days. Actually tried paying attention. And then, as we started to understand that we would barely ever hear anything from Mr. WhatsHisName but the tall tales of his own exploits, our attention drifted, faster than logs of wood on omiscan rapids.

At first, we focused on the relics in their glass cases, against the further wall of the classroom. We had had the full tour on day one — probably to lure us into thinking this was going to be a subject we wouldn’t want to drop. Old dolls taken from tombs; vases and rare gems, and traditional woven baskets.

That’s all well and good, but from our seats, there was only so much we could see. So we focused on the plastic branch hanging from the ceiling. The various diplomas, awards, and certifications Mr. WhatsHisName had hung around the classroom to flatter his own ego.

I understand him in a way. He still wore clothes for the jungle, but he didn’t look like he had seen an adventure in my whole lifetime.

I guess I would also spend my days talking about greater times for me.

This one day, though, Hugo apparently decides he’s had enough. And suddenly the boring, boring morning class turns into not-so-muffled laughter. Fun, and shared jokes, and anecdotes. Hugo coming to the rescue of my comatose brain, and ensuring my day started great. I mean, it was still a Monday. But far from the worst Monday I’ve known.

I guess that was one time we were glad Mr. WhatsHisName was so self-absorbed.

A small class of very bored volunteers. Hugo, Charlotte, Charlotte’s jock neighbor and I lost first rank lottery that morning.

Watched over by an indifferent sugar skull, My and Hugo’s eyes are closed and our minds far, far from the tall tales of the oblivious middle-aged man in front of us.s

I gotta give Hugo credit for coming up with a joke in a creative wasteland.

And a good one at that.

Hugo: making my days better since primary school.

Evening Whispers

When we leave the café, at half past eleven, we are all completely sober. High on an unhealthy dose of coffee, high on being young, and powerful, and daring, but otherwise sober.

Which is to say, perhaps not sober at all after all.

With a cleverly programmed smartphone, we take photos in front of the café, smiling, shouting, singing. Young, and wild, and free. Perhaps too free.

While we take these photos, I make mistakes. I slip. I behave in a way that I regret. Not because it didn’t mirror how I felt, not because I was wrong; but because I shouldn’t have gone about these feelings that way. Because I was in the wrong. It’s a knowledge that’s a shadow on my memories, even twenty years later.

But at that moment, it doesn’t seem to matter. It will, later, no doubt, but not tonight.

Tonight, we’re insouciant, and everything is merry as merry goes.

SCREAMING into the night —not pointlessly, but as always, with someone to take a picture.

A triangle of friends, talking about who remembers what, in front of a deserted, space-themed kids park. All very usual.

Laughter under the cherry blossoms.

The night air is soft and sweet with the smell of petals. Some distance away, the crashing of waves, not as loud or powerful as Brindleton Bay’s, but they bring the same breeze, the same cool weather. It’s a beautiful night.

The Café

In the early afternoon or late evening, once Hugo has recovered from his hangover, we head to a café in central Windenburg. We spend a lot of time in that city now. It’s a bit far from the Air Complex, but it’s without a doubt the best place for a club to hang around. I guess it’s inscribed in the place’s code DNA.

Hugo is right at home here. He sways to the rhythm of the communal speakers, oblivious to whatever is happening around him. It doesn’t matter. What’s happening isn’t anything more thrilling than ordering croissants and chatting with the easy-going, friendly staff.

We have partied enough for now, so this is a pretty relaxed evening. We take pictures. We talk. We drink coffee after coffee. We probably stay for far longer than most owners would let us. But we’re not obnoxious teens, and we pay for the caffeine overdose that we’re brewing, and we’re members of the Stewarts family. I am, in fact, the heiress’s daughter.

They’ll let us stay all night long if we ask.

One of many conversations where many things happen. In this case, very few involved actually listening to Charlotte’s rant. Well, maybe Shanna was listening. It’s actually probable. But you can possibly guess — can possibly see — that some of us have other matters in mind.

Matters that require some clarification. What can’t two good friends discuss freely after all?

And once we’re perfectly clear, nothing stands in the way of friendship.

Right?

The Bluffs



Once the sun has risen, we head straight to the Windenburg Bluffs. My mothers never let me go to Windenburg Island when I lived at home. This is my first time there. I love it. Hugo, who had one drink too many, has gone home. Romain has all my attention again.

I get the feeling it displeases Marie. Well, tough. Romain is with me, wether she likes it or not. Shanna and Charlotte could not care less about that dynamic between the three of us, that equilibrium that shifts slightly in the other boy’s absence. But this change is palpable; it’s all around us, it penetrates the atmosphere.

Romain and I are not touchy-feely. But we are not subtle either. And, as every 16-year-old, we are being eaten alive by hormones; so there’s that.

The Windenburg Island natural springs are a very inviting place to swim in, if you get past the algae and overgrowth, and the graffiti on the thousand-year-old ruins.

Preparing to stop some nonsense show off my mad athletic skills.

Geronimo.

It failed.

Night Out

The nights out continued.

The dancing continued.

Sometimes I ran into Miranda at some night club. My antics left her confused most of the time.

Everything was different at night.

Was it drinks or the DJ making us more flirty than usual?

Possibly a mix of both.

Possibly…

Shared Interests

Straight after practice, I whip out my laptop and set to work on a personal project of mine, a journaling mobile app. It only makes sense, considering the time I spend writing in diaries. Yet none of the apps out there do the trick for me, so I’m doing it myself.

For ten minutes I can clearly see Hugo looking over my shoulder. Then he can’t contain himself anymore, and he says it. The words every girl wants to hear.

“Why on Earth are you using that IDE? Switch to IntelliJ!”

I tell him I’m well aware of the superiority of pretty much anything above the software I was using. So we talk about just how much said software sucks. Then we joke about coding in Notepad. We compare notes about programming languages. I tell him I’m a Python kinda gal.

Romain pops by with his homework. He’s not a Python kinda guy. He’s not a coding kinda guy. He’s an artsy dude, which is probably why he got along with my family. But Hugo and I are not fascinated by the Philosophy he’s literally brought to the table. So he works on his essay, and I comment my code with a snickering Hugo by my side to point out my mistake.

Cheering

It started inside the walls of the Air Complex.    

Our high school had many things. High end computers; a library to kill and die for, and teachers that were both competent, and good-looking.

But since my great-aunt Millicent and her squad left, no one had picked up the cheering team. We did have a dingy old basketball team, but it had no victories to show for its existence at all. Convincing the principal that they might only need… cheering up.

So the girls and I left the school that day with a detour by the gymnasium, where we picked up cheer outfits. Two girls, Cecilia Ryan and Juliette Al Fassi saw us, and asked if there was room in the squad. Seeing as Hugo and Romain noped right the hell out of the whole idea, there was.

And just like that, we were a team on more than one aspect.

At first, understandably, we kind of sucked. With the amazing repertoire of two songs we knew how to dance to and dance moves to match a hectic ten-year-old’s, we decided we probably should practice before doing any kind of stupid thing in public.
The wooden-floored rooms in the Air Complex were a godsend. From there, we could practice and fail safely. In the room with the DJ Booth, Marie spent hours fine-tuning the songs and mashups we would dance to. It turned out, the skills the DJ displayed on our bowling night had fascinated as much, if not more, than the dancing itself.

We met three times a week, and we were great at this.