We're glad you've stopped by - whether it's to advertise or peek around! We've got a really great group of friendly writers, eager to plot with you! Along with the OUAT canons we have available, we accept characters from major Disney animated films, fairy tales, and folk tales.
sexual orientation: Heterosexual powers: She has a voice like silver and gold, like apple blossoms and honeysuckle and green leaves bright with dew, which she uses to sing folk songs and love songs and, every now and again, a silly song, chorused on all sides by the name of a prince and their daughter, as the princess who once was a nightingale chimes the beating of her heart.
height/weight/body: Noticeably small in stature, this woman could easily be mistaken for a young teenager in a crowd. She's very slim -- almost skin and bones, really.
hair: Compared to that of the sun's golden brilliance, Abby feels as if her hair might be one of her best features. It's bright, it's shiny, and it's a lovely mass of waves that she typically wears in a braid.
eyes: While she's never seen her grey eyes as anything but terribly dull, her prince has likened them to a striking silver -- like a bolt of lightning.
distinguishing features: She has a light dusting of freckles upon her nose and in the Enchanted Forest, every now and then she'll randomly pull a feather out of her hair. So maybe that witch was right -- sometimes changing into a bird, and then returning back to human form had a few lasting side effects.
style: In the Enchanted Forest, she typically wore gowns sewn of feathers. In Storybrooke, Abby dresses fairly normal -- a simple tank-top or v-neck paired with a nice pair of skinny jeans usually will suffice. When going out, she might try to dress up a little more with a nice skirt and the heels she keeps at the back of the closet.
"She has a voice like silver and gold, like apple blossoms and honeysuckle and green leaves bright with dew, which she uses to sing folk songs and love songs and, every now and again, a silly song, chorused on all sides by the name of a prince and their daughter, as the princess who once was a nightingale chimes the beating of her heart."
The young woman typically has the best intentions, though it may not always appear in such a manner. After all, the prince loved birds so much, and she became one for him. She loves fully and deeply, and tries to spread happiness to those she comes across, in any way of which she can.
loyal to the end:
Through thick and thin, Abby will no doubt be by your side. If you manage to get close enough, she'll go into war for you. I mean, seriously, she became a bird for her true love. This girl will find a way to help 'ya out, no matter what you need.
afraid of small spaces:
While she's always been a bit claustrophobic, this fear only heightened after she was transformed back into a human. Closets, elevators -- all of those are totally out of the question because she'll start freaking out and like beating on the walls. She doesn't like confinement, and when she's in a small space, she automatically feels as if she's in a cage.
Abby is, without a doubt, typically walked all over like a door-mat. She just really doesn't know how to say 'no'. And while she might not want to go through with something, you can usually just play the guilt card and she'll play right into your hands.
She thinks of herself as plain and boring -- nothing entirely special except for a supposedly legendary singing voice. Because of this and her surprisingly small stature, she can typically be over-looked.
Both as human and bird, she has always enjoyed singing -- even when she didn't realize that she was such a good singer. She's always singing, or at least humming, no matter what she's really doing. Sometimes it's a conscious activity, while sometimes it appears as if it's become such a habitual thing that she doesn't realize she's doing it.
She was one. Enough said.
She's always enjoyed wandering through the wildwood, marveling over the faint birdsongs and flowers, mushrooms and wildlife. She grew up there, and quite simply, it's her home.
She doesn't like feeling like she's trapped or confined within a cage. She likes being able to stretch out her wings, to fly, to be able to move freely and do as she chooses.
Living within a royal court for some time, she has, without a doubt, happened across quite a number of arrogant individuals. Such a thing has always grated on her nerves, and remains as one of the few things that can really provoke this usually calm woman.
Perhaps because she was once a bird and typically, cats could be seen as an enemy of such creatures, but she really does not like cats at all.
icing on the cake .
worst fear: Losing everything. deepest secret: She still sometimes longs to be a nightingale again, just because it provided so much freedom. deepest desire: To have things go back to the way they were in the Enchanted Forest -- with her, her daughter, and her prince living their happy ending in their cottage. special skills: She can sing like no other, she's a fairly decent cook, she's pretty good at navigating through the woods, and she's a decent shot with a bow and arrow.
overall personality .
In Storybrooke, Abigail Knight is a delicate creature. She only tends to flap her wings when really provoked -- but that's just it. She's hardly one to do anything except make a show to scare you off. But there's not many people who would want to purposely bring harm to someone such as this.
She's kind and gracious with anyone she comes across, usually humming throughout whatever task she's taken on -- preparing someone's tea, feeding bread to the birds at the park, walking down main street hand-in-hand with her daughter. She's simply a lively young woman who seems to exude positivity, but if anyone knew about the unhappiness inside, they'd see otherwise.
Because Abby Knight feels like a bird trapped in a cage, and every day is a monotonous routine she can't shake. She may smile and laugh and sing, but she's just a little more broken than most people realize. She's never told anyone who Robin's father is, but the truth of the matter is -- she doesn't know. Despite how much she's tried to narrow it down, there's still more than one possibility, as much as she hates to admit. And so she just sucks it up and smiles, telling people that she's strong enough to support a little girl all on her own. Because she has to be. Because she will be.
family ties .
residence: Cottage deep within the wildwood of Cendrillion (Enchanted Forest) Small house near the outskirts of town on the edge of the forest (Storybrooke)
children: Wren Blackmoore / Robin Knight (daughter, 4)
partner: 'The Prince' (husband, whereabouts in Storybrooke unknown)
mother: Kaliya Blackmoore (deceased)
father: Eris Blackmoore (deceased)
other important relatives: --
At the heart of a vast and glorious wildwood lied a small kingdom ruled by a good and just King with three fine sons, each of them strong, handsome, and as golden as the dawn.
And the youngest, though he was smaller and less striking than his brothers, had something in him -- a deep inherent goodness -- that somehow surpassed their superior strength and beauty. All three princes were admired and beloved, but the youngest was the favorite of the people and of his father.
Apart from the noble pastimes required of one in his station, the youngest prince had one passion: birds. His chambers contained a quiet collection of his favorites -- doves, finches, wrens, sparrows, even a pretty kestrel -- and he himself had painted his walls to simulate the wildwood for he enjoyed the outdoors more than anything, and he often rode out with his brothers for solitude or scenery or the merry pursuit of game.
And one spring day, when they were caught in a bitterly cold rain, they crossed paths with a young maiden of the wildwood on her way to the palace.
Her good father, a woodsman, had died some weeks before, and she had done all she could to maintain their cottage, but there was a great hole in their roof that required thatch and timber, and a crack in their oven, and so many wretched despairs of which she had neither coin nor supplies to repair. And so, palace work sounded all the more intriguing for she knew that a small income might help her repair the home of which she loved so dearly.
But during her travels, the rain had come swift and cold and, wearing only a much-patched dress of green linen and her father’s ragged cloak, she was forced to take shelter beneath an apple tree.
In due course, the princes rode past the place where the maiden was hidden. But the youngest prince was, as said before, passionately fond of birds -- most especially those gentle species who are drabbest in color, and therefore he was also accustomed to lagging behind his brothers in the wood, ever watching for a bright black eye or the subtle shifting of patterned feathers against bark. And as they drew near the apple tree, he glimpsed the maiden beneath its branches, for her gray eyes shone like silver in the rain.
She was a small creature, soaking and shivering, with skin dusted with freckles and hair that rivaled the golden brilliance of the setting sun. At once the young prince slipped from the saddle and went to her. Then, having ascertained that she was journeying to the palace, he lifted her onto his mare and mounted behind her, wrapping them both in his heavy cloak.
Unlike his brothers, the youngest prince had not yet sought for a sweetheart among the maidens of the court, nor showed an interest in doing so, and thus the elder princes were greatly surprised when they turned upon entering the courtyard to see their brother with a maiden in his arms.
After parting ways, the maiden went to find work. The cook found the maiden to be unexpectedly suited for kitchen work, for she had hunted alongside her father for many years and plucked and cleaned much game, and could simmer a fine soup besides. She was comely enough to serve at table, and so the young prince saw her next at luncheon-time, her silver eyes glinting at him over a plate of venison, and he smiled.
He called for more bread and cakes and cider than any prince could consume, simply in the hope of seeing her again. But far too soon this became insufficient, and the prince decided to make a pest of himself in the kitchen, rising even before his birds and beseeching the cook to teach him to bake, so he might have more glimpses of silver eyes and a dancing braid.
The prince had not the nerve to address his kitchen maid outright, but from time to time he plucked apple blossoms in the wildwood and laid them where she might find them. All of the household chuckled and tittered behind their hands and said the gentle prince had at last found himself a sweetheart.
The kitchen maid knew not of the prince’s admiration, nor would have believed it if she did. She spoke very little and nary a word to him, but she admired a prince who rose before dawn to knead and lighten the hearts of the lowliest in his palace; a prince who worked among his servants, and a prince who baked.
The kitchen maid was surpassing lovely -- if one were to ask the youngest prince -- but her greatest beauty was a secret that she had not known she kept. Like her mother, the kitchen maid had a voice as clear as crystal, sweet as honey, and warm as the afternoon sun; a voice to rival any in the King’s court – indeed, any bird in the wildwood – but she knew it not. She knew only that she enjoyed singing, and on her walks to and from the cottage, she sang till her very heart danced in her breast.
And as she sang, she thought of the youngest prince, the gentle boy who loved birds so much that he filled his rooms with them and went about always with one on his shoulder. Even his name, she had learned, was a bird call. She whispered it to herself sometimes as she sat in her father’s chair, and thought of strong arms and floured hands. And she found herself singing the sort of silly songs that very young children are taught, but replaced the chorus with his name.
She passed many pleasant evenings in this fashion, singing of apple trees in flower, of newborn fawns and robin’s eggs and all the beauties of the wildwood in spring, and always she wove through her song the golden thread of the prince’s name.
Now it came to pass one fine morning that the prince came to the kitchen uncommonly weary and subdued in manner. The kitchen maid was not bold, but the prince’s grief tore at her heart, and she awaited a moment when all were occupied, then drew near the quiet prince to ask what pained him.
“I was in the wildwood yesterday with my kestrel,” he said. “And we had not strayed far beyond the apple tree when I heard a song, more beautiful than any I have ever heard before. It was a bird that sang with a maiden’s voice; a voice like silver and gold, it was, like apple blossoms and honeysuckle and green leaves, bright with dew. And more startling than this,” he told her in a hushed voice, “the bird sang my name, over and over again, as though it chimed the beating of its heart. I could not sleep last night for the thought of it.”
“There is no such bird,” she told him gently. “There are nightingales in the wood, as your highness knows, who sing more lovelier than others. Perhaps that is what you heard: a nightingale echoing a maiden’s song.”
“And does a nightingale sing words?” the prince asked her, his voice growing passionate. “For this one sang many. I must find this bird,” he said, “for I would cherish it above all others, even the favorites of my own. I shall pay a vast sum of gold to the one who brings it to me.”
At luncheon-time his father the King announced to all that his son sought a new bird, the rarest of all, who dwelt in the depths of the wildwood and sang with a maiden’s voice. A bushel of gold, he said, would be the reward for the one who could bring this bird before the court.
Soon, the prince could neither eat nor sleep, so enraptured was he by the elusive voice. He ceased to spar with his brothers, and though he came still to the kitchens, his mind was elsewhere, and deeply troubled.
How odd, she thought, that the bird the prince longed for should live so near her old home. For she went nightly to the wood, and to the cottage, and sang beneath the hole in the thatch, and never had she heard a bird with a maiden’s voice who sang the prince’s name.
There is only me, the kitchen maid thought, who gives voice to his name in song.
And then the truth came upon her all at once.
The prince heard a song in this place, a maiden’s voice singing his name in the night wood, and thought it a rare bird. And he was mistaken, as she had known he must be, for what he heard was a lowly kitchen maid in the ruins of her father’s cottage, singing silly folk songs to pass the time.
But, with a bright flame of resolve, she made her way swiftly to the very heart of the wildwood, where there dwelt a hedgewitch.
“The young prince needs a bird,” the maiden explained quickly. “A bird that sings with my voice.”
“The prince seeks the voice,” the witch corrected her. “He expects a bird, but perhaps a maiden would be a pleasant surprise.”
“Not I,” the kitchen maid told her, “He has no wish for a maiden’s company, but longs for a bird to carry upon his shoulder. I seek a spell, that I might become that bird, and bring cheer to the prince’s heart once more.”
“I can change you easy enough, but changing you back is another matter.”
“I need never change back,” the kitchen maid declared. “Indeed, what shall I lose by it? A kitchen maid’s life, full of long days, chapped hands, and an aching back. I have no lover, nor will ever birth babies for one.”
“There is one, I think,” mused the old woman, for as I have said, she was wise to all that took place in her wood, “who very much wishes to take you to wife. Who longs to share his bed with you and kiss your little hands and dance with you underneath the shining sun, if you but had the courage to acknowledge it.”
“You speak nonsense,” the kitchen maid chided. “Give me the spell, and in return you may deliver me to the palace and receive the King’s bushel of gold.”
“I have no need of gold,” the witch said. “But I will give you the spell for free, for you are my favorite nephew’s daughter, and I confess myself keen to see how this plays out.”
Within moments, the charm was complete, and where before had been a young maiden, there now rose up a small bird, feathered in glossy brown, with the underside of its wings all downy white. The kitchen maid had become a nightingale.
The nightingale, for so she was now, flew to the palace with all haste. She had, of course, never been to the young prince’s chambers, but she had previously discovered the location of his balcony, owing to the constant soft bird-sounds from within.
The prince sat at his drawing-table, and the nightingale flew to the desk and alighted upon it, and began to tell the prince that she was the bird he sought, but her speaking voice was now a bird’s, and she could only chitter earnestly to him.
The prince, who loved all birds, and no less new acquaintances, smiled sadly at her, and stroked her glossy breast with one finger, and sighed. “I confess I am too much consumed with this rare bird, who in all likelihood does not exist. I have neglected my duties and my own birds in pursuit of it, and perhaps I should acknowledge that I was wrong, and a great fool besides, and give up the search.”
At this the nightingale opened her beak and sang her song, the first in which she had ever dared to sing the prince’s name.
The prince stared at her in awe, and tears sprang in his bright eyes. “It’s you,” he breathed. “My darling nightingale.”
He opened his arms to her. “Stay with me, sweet bird,” he begged. “I will give you anything you desire, and more besides. You shall be my confidante and constant companion, for already you are precious to my heart, above all others.”
From the first, the prince and his nightingale were inseparable. There would be no cage or perch for this one: she lived on the young prince’s shoulder, behind his right ear. She was with him at every meal, and took food from his gentle hands. At night the nightingale sang best, and the prince lay on his back and bid her perch upon his chest, and she sang his name to the night air. And spring stretched gloriously into summer, and the prince and the nightingale were unmatched in their bliss.
The prince had desired her for a companion, not a concert bird, and thus did not command her to sing, neither for him nor for others. The nightingale sang when it pleased her -- which was whenever she thought he wished it -- and the prince never grew bored, for her voice shimmered like a treasury of diamonds; moreover, she knew a thousand and one songs and could mix them together to make even more.
The elder princes teased their brother good-naturedly for his devotion to the nightingale and bade him get a hound instead, but he shrugged away their gentle mockery. “She is all the company I require,” he told them, but the nightingale noted a sadness in his bright eyes at these words.
When next they were alone, he unburdened his heart. “A maiden went among the company that sought you, and she has not returned,” he said. “A slim young girl, surpassing beautiful, with silver eyes and a braid of gold -- Ellessandra, she was called. I met her beneath an apple tree in the coldest rain of spring, and since then, she has never been far from my thoughts. She found a place in the kitchens, and I followed there and busied my hands at baking to be near her, even leaving her tokens of apple blossoms now and again, though I foolishly never dared to speak my heart. She told me that you could not exist, and she was wise in the ways of the wildwood, and I cannot help but think that she is in some way responsible for your appearance, for I have not seen her since your arrival. I would you could speak as you sing, little bird and tell me where my love has flown.”
The nightingale could scarce believe these things, but the young prince was as honest as he was kind, and he had no cause to invent such a tale. He spoke of the kitchen maid as his “love” so easily, as though that was how he thought of her; moreover, he knew her name. And she had never thought twice about the apple blossoms but tucked them into her braid as she found them, for they reminded her of the wildwood, and her father’s cottage, and -- were she truly honest -- the day she met the prince in the rain.
She looked about her now with her keen bird’s eyes and saw what she had not noticed before: her own name, woven about the painted trees and mosses and flowers that covered the prince’s walls. Elessandra, Elessandra, everywhere Elessandra. He had even carved it into the wood of his drawing-table, twined with his own name.
And though a bird has no tears, the nightingale wept inwardly, for she realized now what she had lost. The prince had cared for her as a maiden; surely he would not have been disappointed to learn that hers was the voice he had heard and loved in the wood. In the telling he would have learned that she sang his name in the woods; that she -- for she could deny it to herself no longer -- loved him in turn, and had kept it as secret as he did his own affections.
And she sang, for the first time, a sad song: of a lady and her lover, separated by thornwoods and mountains and an ocean, for good measure. Of the kisses and handclasps they should never share; the love letters they might write by the dozen but could never exchange. Her jeweled voice broke with emotion as she sang.
That summer was endless and golden, and the nightingale took to leading her prince into the wildwood, nearer and nearer, till they reached the place she loved best: her father’s tumble-down cottage. “I think there was once much happiness here,” the prince observed softly, caressing the hand-hewn furniture with his strong fingers, and it brought joy to the nightingale to see her love so at home in her father’s house.
“But this is quite near where I first heard your song!” he cried suddenly. “Can it be: this was the home of my love? Or, perhaps, still is?”
To this, as to all his questions, the nightingale could give no reply, and the prince continued eagerly, “Perhaps she was a fairy, and she returns to this place at night. Come! we shall set the house in order for her, and await her return.”
The prince repaired the hole in the roof, both timber and thatch, and cleared the stout chimney, and he had done all – and more besides – without a single coin in return.
But on a summer night when she went to return to her prince's rooms, the Queen met her half-way, and barred her from entering the palace. "My son will no longer continue with this childish nonsense," she'd declared, and later told her son that the bird had simply flown away out of her own will.
“He needs his nightingale!” the people cried upon finding out, and so the King commissioned the royal clockmaker to craft a bird, something like the nightingale, made all of gold and precious stones, with a voice something like the prince’s beloved. But when the clockwork bird was presented to the prince, it had scarce chimed a few notes when he seized it in a burst of feverish might and threw it from his presence. “Where is my love?” he wept. “Why does she not come to me?”
And while the nightingale heard his cries and beat her wings against the walls, she could not gain entrance. So, in despair, she flew around all of Cendrillion, hoping that in time, he would forget about the singing bird and the kitchen maid, for life was short and birds lived even shorter. She met many new faces -- a young daughter who they called Cinderella, a great number of funny little mice, and even another prince who looked quite like her own.
Until one summer night, when she'd finally returned to see how her love had faired, she finally sang a new song, the truest one of all: of a kitchen maid with a blonde braid and chapped hands, and a love so great that she gave up her human form, so her prince might have the bird he longed for. As she sang this song, her feathers began to fall, and all about her rose the odors of spring: long-decayed leaves and damp earth, rustic spices and apple blossoms by the bushel.
I am dying, thought the nightingale, but in my death my love shall live. And the thought made her heart burn with mingled grief and joy
And then the prince found her at last, having returned to the cottage with a heart full of grief and loss. “My love,” he whispered. “My nightingale and maiden in one.”
The nightingale’s eyes followed his, and she saw to her astonishment a woman’s body beneath her. Neither a bird nor a girl was she any longer, for in the prince’s care her lean body had blossomed beneath its feathers, and now was enhanced here and there with small yet becoming curves, of the sort that cry out for admiration and the caress of a lover’s hand.
And the kitchen maid, for so she was once more, gave a little cry as he stretched out an arm to her, as he had so often when she was a bird, and she twined her fingers with his and kissed them lightly.
“I should much like to kiss you,” the prince said just as the kitchen maid raised her head then and silenced him with a kiss, their first as prince and maiden – indeed, the first either had ever exchanged – and though it was an unfamiliar thing, and impulsively done, their uncertain mouths contoured swiftly to one another. Another kiss followed, and many more after that.
And when the kingdom eventually set their eyes upon the returned kitchen maid, who wore gowns woven of feathers and a willow crown at her brow, were taken aback.
“A wildwood princess!” cried a commoner.
“A fairy!” breathed another.
But the kitchen maid shook her head to all of this and looked with a small smile to her prince, for now had begun the happiest union ever seen in the small kingdom, before or since.
And by midwinter a daughter had been born to them. She seemed to chirp rather than cry, and the prince and his wife called her Wren. A tiny thing she was, with her mother’s freckles and blonde hair, though her eyes swiftly brightened to the celestial blue of her father’s. With the passing of time, she grew older -- they all did -- but yet nothing changed.
If ever you wander a wildwood thick with apple trees and heavy with birdsong, in due time you will come upon a cottage, ancient and yet lively, the home of a prince who loves birds and the woman who became one for his sake.
And if you are very, very lucky, you may even catch an echo of the rarest prize in a thousand woods: a voice like silver and gold, like apple blossoms and honeysuckle and green leaves bright with dew, singing folk songs and love songs and, every now and again, a silly song, chorused on all sides by the name of a prince and their daughter, as the princess who once was a nightingale chimes the beating of her heart.
Sorry I disappeared for a while! Anastasia is officially done and I am back, had some IRL mishaps but hope to write with all of you guys soon <3.
Aug 20, 2016 21:00:20 GMT
Apologies to all members, for once again going off the grid. The admins here are still very much invested in keeping this site alive, but sometimes our real lives serve as speed bumps on the road toward that goal. Thank you all for being patient with us.
Jul 26, 2016 15:52:20 GMT
...is this even happening?
Jul 2, 2016 19:56:24 GMT
I'm so excited to see this alive! Hoping my app will be reviewed and, fingers crossed, accepted now! ( Though it has been archived. )
Jun 18, 2016 16:15:05 GMT
Hey guys Ariel here, Thursday night a bad storm knocked my power out and as I Saturday, today, I still don't have any!! I'm not ignoring the site, I just don't have a computer to use yet. As soon as I get power, I will be back!
Jun 17, 2016 19:39:26 GMT
Apologies to all for being so MIA, had a lot going on work wise and with real life this month, the biggest being having my wisdom teeth removed earlier this week. BUT I AM BACK <3
Jun 14, 2016 18:03:21 GMT
All done with my app Lovelies <3
Jun 7, 2016 1:46:17 GMT
hey guys! we're slowly but surely still working on updates. thanks for your patience! we love you!
Jun 2, 2016 1:36:18 GMT
Open thread to anyone that would show up at the snow's residence here
May 19, 2016 20:14:35 GMT
Just a note to all members: Snow will be out of town from Tomorrow morning until Monday afternoon. If anyone has any questions, or needs any help during that time, please direct your concerns to myself and the other staff members! Thank you <3
May 16, 2016 23:23:41 GMT
If you are ready and want to begin writing - the RP boards are open!
May 16, 2016 20:05:07 GMT
Today is Monday guys!!! Please remember it is the last day to reclaim any characters that you are planning on keeping!! Thank you all <3
May 13, 2016 14:35:07 GMT
as you guys are retooling your apps - know that we are canon seasons 1-3, and everything after that can be up to you. you can stick to canon, or go off script - but remember to work with the folks who have connections to your characters! <3
May 13, 2016 13:45:26 GMT
all apps have been archived. please repost the apps of characters you are keeping. pm me with any questions. <3
May 13, 2016 13:16:38 GMT
I just wanna say how very excited I am to see so many of you guys staying and sticking with us <3
May 13, 2016 12:39:46 GMT
don't worry - your plot pages are not deleted, they have been archived, and you will be able to access them once the RP boards are opened back up. I promise nothing has been removed completely - you will have access to all of your posts and plot pages. <3
May 12, 2016 20:37:28 GMT
Hey everybody, I am the admin formerly known as Belle, just so you all know <3
May 12, 2016 20:08:51 GMT
you guys can reply at this link, to let us know which characters & accounts you're keeping! <3
May 12, 2016 18:26:29 GMT
Is there a place to say "yes, I want to keep my character?
May 8, 2016 3:42:44 GMT
don't panic - the rp boards are hidden to staff only for now, as we move everything to the archives and work to restart the game. you will not loose any old work, but we will be wiping the slate clean.