HisTimeOrphan's profile picture. My name is Robyn Guinevere Lawson. I was an orphan. But I've been adopted by a man with a bow tie, and live inside a big blue box. #ADaughterOfTime #RPAccount

Robyn Lawson

@HisTimeOrphan

My name is Robyn Guinevere Lawson. I was an orphan. But I've been adopted by a man with a bow tie, and live inside a big blue box. #ADaughterOfTime #RPAccount

((Yers. XD One less @ taking up space. *le shrug*))


((Yeah, course I can.))


((*le prance* Now, if only I could remember whose go it was. XD))


((@OldestCompanion *le poke* Iz here at last. About to convert an account to Van Gogh. <3))


I bounded into the console room, filled with energy and excitement. It had been a few weeks since (cont) tl.gd/h383oi


((I haven't emailed anything to you yet, hon.))


Well, /this/ gonna be interesting. Whatever /this/ is. -looks around-


((There's a round of Murder In The Dark being organised right now! Tweet @MurderInThDark if you want in!))


-- real world, the Doctor's come to help me and when he knows how to help me you're going to go away forever." (@TheOtherLord)


-- could. "You're not real," I say again. "The man in the bow-tie says you're real, but I know he lies, because somewhere out in the --


-- where I'm not an orphan and I still have her mother and father... I pull away sharply, stepping away from my not-mother as far as I --


-- I know it's wrong, but the man in the bow-tie wants me to think that it's right, and if I listen to him, if she accept this world --


-- I stiffen in my mother's arms. As much as I want it to be real, standing there with my mother trying to comfort me is wrong, and --


-- Phillipa moved to my side and gathered me into a big hug. "Have you been having bad dreams again?" she asked, stroking my hair. --


-- "This isn't real, I know it isn't, and the man in the bow-tie is going to send his things after me at any moment, and... and..." --


-- "You're not real!" I exclaim. "You, and Dad, you're both dead, and I'm supposed to be in an orphanage, and..." I start to cry. --


-- "Hey Robbie!" said Phillipa Lawson, my mother, as I come skidding into the kitchen. "What's the rush?" --


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