SK Wynter

Being stuck in that bunker made "Ranna" quite isolated from current events. After the radio shorted, she spent five hours rewiring it, and even then, it only picked up a few channels. With the weather report the only thing to break the heavy bunker silence, Annan puttered away with repairing technological scraps. The Big Book of Tech's rough draft was attacked and scribbled on, addenda made and previous changes scratched out, and the heater decided it would need some changing to. It was only when Annan was running her finger under water, burnt from a hot element, that she heard her name announced.... [i]"...Our new representative and legislator, Ranna Aunsby!"[/i] Annan stood up stiffly from the basin that caught the mostly-standard water. Staring at her wreck of a radio, her mouth hung open a little for a moment. Then, deadpan, she asked herself, "[i]...What[/i]?"

What kind of RP?

Meanwhile, a young and upcoming voice tries to speak out for the Techocratic Party, considering posing as one of them is the only thing keeping her from being deported. One Annan Rusby, roughly sixteen or seventeen (she's lost count at this point, having been stuck in an underground bunker with nothing but borderline dieselpunk tech), finally gets a radio working from her HQ. The connection is grainy, littered with static, but she's managed to get through with a broadcast. [u][b])*Public*([/b][/u] "Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Oh, good, it is -- ahem. "Coming to you live from the Operation BBoT (Big Book of Tech) HQ, this is Professor Ranna Aunsby, Head Researcher and supporter of the Technocratic Progress Party." (Due to the shoddy state of Procinctian records, Annan had managed to fake her own death, create an imaginary twin she never knew existed as a replacement, and have that twin inherit the entire project. It was laughably easy, yet she was still paranoid of being found out.) "Why should you support the Technocrats? Because it is SCIENCE that shall rebuild us. It was SCIENCE that helped countless Procinctians survive the nukes. It was SCIENCE that cleaned up the radiation left behind. It was SCIENCE who jerry-rigged a number of steampunk-ish vehicles and weapons for us to use in defence of glorious Procinctia while she rebuilds. It was SCIENCE that drove Generalissimo's vision forward, that made him such a savvy survivalist. Generalissimo himself knew much of SCIENCE, and he used it to create survival methods to benefit us all! "So do the country a favour: vote Technocratic Progress for your leader. Do it for the take of [b]SCIENCE[/b]!" There was promptly a yowl over the radio, and it cut out. Annan had crossed wires at the last minute, the albino girl accidentally zapping herself.

Nation: Isles of Hiortkilda Ruler: Sk Wynter Link: http://www.cybernations.net/nation_drill_display.asp?Nation_ID=480304 Own Resources: [Spices] [Wine] Required Resources: [Cattle] [Fish] [Gems] [Pigs] [Silver] [Sugar] [Water] [Wheat] On blue team, blue traders preferred, but will accept any team colour as a trade partner.

"...Is the furry tail really necessary?" "Shut up, COP! I don't need no reason to question you, COP!" The officer sighed. He really, [i]really[/i] hated the crazy drunks, even more so than noisy women at traffic stops, or a call interrupting his lunch after missing breakfast. The eighteen-year old in front of him was crazy in his books, what with eyeblack smeared across her eyes like a mask, black nails to match black gloves, a headband with fake raccoon ears and a fluffy tail attached to her backside. [i]Oh wait, that's her belt.[/i] What was this woman, a furry? "'EY! WATCH THE TAIL! I maaaaaaaade it mehself!" argued the woman. She reeked of booze, and they had found her with a half-guzzled bottle of absinthe in one hand; her blood alcohol levels were off the charts. Worse, she had tried to get into a small car reported as stolen, succeeded, and had crashed that car against a telephone pole. The insurance company for the car's owner was probably going to have a fit. "Lean against the cruiser and keep your hands behind your back," the officer rattled off. "You have the right to remain silent ▬ " The cop wsa promptly cut off by being kicked in the ping-pongs by the drunk. She then turned her head with alarming speed, her wickedly green eyes narrowing, even if they were coloured contacts. The drunkard grinned alarmingly, and she still stank of absinthe ▬ hadn't she just nearly peed on him a minute before? "I love me some acting," was all she said, and then, the cop felt himself swung around and slammed into his own cruiser. Before he could regain his senses, she smashed her head into his nose repeatedly, and he suddenly released her and she drew back. From underneath her shirt, she whipped out something thin and silvery that glinted in the nearby headlights. Instinctively, the cop reached for his piece. "HEY!" bellowed the officer, pointing his gun. "DROP YOUR ▬ " He was cut off when the raccoon-inspired woman embedded the knife in his head with a throw. Grinning, she hummed a little diddy to herself, kneeling down and searched the cop. She took his gun, his wallet, his holster and the Tic-Tacs in his pocket, then stood up with a long, low whistle. "Aw man!" she said to herself. "!@#$% didn't have it! I [i]thought[/i] it would be here!" she gave an irritated sigh, then kicked at the ground. "Oh well. At least he fell for the absinthe trick. Now I know it works!" And with that, our amoral (or immoral) adventurer ran towards a nearby fence, hopped it, and jogged off into the distance as another car slowed towards the dead ocp. At least she had remembered to take her knife back. [hr] [quote]OOC: This is in no set country, just an English-speaking one; whomever gets here first can say it takes place in theirs.[/quote]

[i]Her head was pounding Nerves were sounding[/i] Oh, her [i]head[/i]. Her freaking, aching head. Bloodshot eyes slowly opened, full of grit and natural crust. Her arms and legs were sore from running for hours, and her mouth was as dry as a bone in an oven. The late morning sun beat down in its ultraviolet rhythm, and her delicate skin had already burned. Slowly, she stood up, having faceplanted into the sand some time before. Had she been there all night? Annan couldn't remember anything. [i]The vultures count the bodies Count the bodies (Count the bodies)[/i] She looked around, nothing in sight but sand. She looked upwards, where there was only sky and sun. She turned around, and lo and behold, there was a grainy road snaking through the sands. What a sight for sore eyes! (Justifiably so, from all the smoke that was in that damned club.) Seeing no other ultimatum but to wither away and die of dehydration, she walked towards it, and continued to walk along it. [i]And here begins another long and winding road.[/i] [hr] Well, she ended up walking for four hours, and by the time she reached a tiny rest stop, she was as red as a cherry. It was all she could do to stand up, get to the petite gas station, and croak for water. Then the world blurred and she rushed backwards, her eyes rolling up into the back of her head. Heat stroke, dehydration and no breakfast ▬ smashing. Like how she smashed the back of her head against the concrete step in front of the station! The next time she had woke up, she was in a hospital, diagnosed with severe sunburn and dehydration. She told the doctors she was poor and homeless, seeing no reason to lie, and that she had got lost from her refugee boat. They were a bit incredulous, asking how she could have come from the coast to somewhere hours from Marrakesh. Her answer? "I walked until I couldn't anymore." It was good enough for her, and good enough that the hospital had called the authorities to ship her out. In the meantime, she was left to read some old magazines, with someone in the bed across the room. She didn't know who, though, only that the curtain surrounded that person, and that said person was awfully quiet.

[i]She was running She was gunning She had been dancing She had been prancing[/i] The Marrakesh club and all its illicit beauty was somewhere far behind her. Old Grandfather was drunk, high, with women, she didn't know ▬ one of those God-forsaken states he was in. He was a hedonist, after all. [i]Cheap thrills Popping pills No such glory In indecent ills[/i] She should have never asked that woman about that passport. Annan's head felt swollen and she felt like she was flying; she had to be high from the smoke caused by burning substances. Why else would she stretch her arms like wings, and run for the nearby desert? [i]Sick puppy Cheap guppies Run away from All that madness that is done[/i] Was that foul man still behind her? Would she again risk being turned into a victim, something found in a back alley and turned into a police report? Never. That was not the way; Annan was above the disgusting habits of the club-goers and Old Grandfather. She'd even forgot Khris. [i]Run thief run Run like the wind Run thief run All the madness is done[/i] The night was bitterly cold, as it was always in the desert. By morning, she'd be a pale, burnt, baked potato in the desert. She hadn't even written up that "Big Book of Tech" she was supposed to for Procinctia; why now, of all places, had she just remembered that? [i]Spew and spite Like a snake's bite Full of fright Run thief run[/i] She was done. She'd find her own place, Pict or no Pict, Khris or no Khris. All she knew that, while she was intoxicated, she would be nowhere that people were at. She was running, unwanting of the cheap thrills; she wasn't going to end up like some sick puppy. [i]Run, thief, run![/i] her instincts and mind screamed, and she felt like she'd spew, and she was full of spite.

Florescent lights and partying nights, noxious smoke and inducing fumes ▬ Annan it did consume. As soon as she walked into the pounding place, sensory overload began to kick in. Colour, smell, sound, lights, all enough to send her into a seizure. She blinked, stunned like a deer in headlights, looking around as every pulse of sound seemed to ripple through her like a puddle. Old Grandfather merely bellowed a laugh, at home amongst the drugs, booze and taboos smashed and broken. "My kind of place, Annie!" the old Pict cried, throwing up his hands and running off to get lost in the music. Annan simply stared at him, then gazed at her surroundings with continued shock and awe. In her head, the pea rattled around uncomfortably, and Annan's mind began to drift. Boat, sparks, rain, a storm ▬ [i]blink[/i]. Blurred vision, disorientation, lost in the raving nation. She staggered, her hair and skin glowing like Khris's blond locks, and with both hands did Annan rub her temples. Then, without warning, a hand grabbed her roughly, and she was dragged off to the dance floor.

The small things in life that people do usually end up the most rewarding. Sometimes, it is rewarding; other times, it helps one dig their own grave. Annan wasn't sure which one would be correct to classify her circumstances under, and she could feel her face turn red. "What?" The flat, nearly horrified answer came from a jaw that threatened to drop. However, Annan quickly pulled herself together, clearing her throat and looking as dignified as possible. "Thank you for this honour, Mr. Speaker," said Annan. "I should start immediately. Better yet, I should go and start researching now. Thank you for your time, gentlemen and ladies, it was most worth it!" With that, Annan quickly left the conference, putting on a smile for good measure. After getting outside, she ran for her freaking life.

Now Anna's interest is perked. Her feelings of discomfort and horror suddenly turns to wondering. The woman said they could find anything ▬ [i]Anything?[/i] Even if Old Grandfather sleeps and doesn't respond, his granddaughter is certainly awake and thinking. She looks up, focusing only on the influenced woman's tired face, the cheeks puckered in and her expression woozy. Annan might be tired, but she is nothing compared to the trashed, giddy and gaudy expression of mankind that is the Mogatopian. Annan then speaks. "Could you get us all passports to the USI? And maybe a warm blanket for my grandfather?" She looks over at Khris, face alight with the expression of, "I have an idea." She says nothing to Khris, but the impish look in Annan's eyes, the concentration that stirs beyond the pink and black, is as strong as neon lights at night. Perhaps this is a bad thing, considering the company there are in, but what about [i]carpe diem[/i]? Wasn't that one of the ways to live to one-hundred years old?

"Perhaps we of Procinctia should lead the way with the Big Book of Tech by offering our own technological plans?" asked Annan. Looking at Doctor Hugo, she said, "Doctor, correct me if I'm wrong, but couldn't we start with the emergency vehicles and home-made tanks produced during Generalissimo's post-apocalyptic prevention spree not long after the nuclear devistation of Procinctia? Or was that after he was found in the Arctic? I believe he made twice a go at creating 'homemade tech', did he not?"

Annan is to reply to Khris's comment, but she is interrupted by a man and woman, smelling of something illegal. Their eyes are bloodshot, and the woman ▬ Annan's eyes dart away, and a piece of old gum on the floor is suddenly [i]very[/i] interesting. It seems as if the Mogatopian magazines have some basis in reality, and Annan's stomach cannot help but backflip and wind itself into a knot. [i]Oh boy.[/i] "Thank you very much for your compliments," says Annan, still not making eye contact with the barely decent woman. She doesn't want to seem rude, but no matter where she looks, she'll probably lose that battle. "I'm glad to hear vampires aren't a regular occurence, a-and I th-think a tan is sun-damaged skin, anyways. I burn and turn brick red, though, it's very embarassing." She's so close to stammering, that's how awkward Annan feels ▬ her eyes dart over to Khris with a youthful, "Help me," expression. For a moment, it's like a child asking their mother to navigate them through a rather confusing social situation...which this is. Annan wouldn't be caught dead wearing such things, and even when she was reduced to rags from being stranded on that foreign island, she killed a seal with her own hands to replace her clothing with its pelt.

Empress Therese ▬ the name strikes with familiarity. "I remember reading about her death," says Annan, "though I can't remember what it said about the funeral or whether or not they found the body. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think she died in battle, didn't she? There's this myth going around she lives again as a vampire. I saw it in one of those cheap paranormal magazines that claims the Marscurian Siberian royalty is descended from lizard people and a yeti. They even published a copy of a genetics test proving so." She appreciates that Khris isn't so sullen, but Annan does not laugh. Instead, her pink eyes stare at the Captain with a stronger curiosity. "Bonaparte is the name of the British Empress, isn't it?" asks Annan. "Did the Bonaparte line ever rule France? And I heard France is a warzone again. I can't remember if the operation had a name, just that there are travel restrictions. I also know there were a few French refugees back on the boat." Old Grandfather snorts in his sleep, then turns and mutters something about buttery pancakes. Annan leans back so that she is laying across her seat, staring at the dusty ceiling. A small bump in the road makes her bump her head a little, and she frowns and rubs the back of her skull. It is no serious hurt, however, and she continues talking. "I had a couple of people think I was a vampire," says Annan. "It was the eyes. My eyes are pink, but when I'm tired or sick, they get bloodshot and grow red. I also never really got off the boat in Africa ▬ someone told me some people there skin albinos alive."

Annan goes silent for another few minutes. If she and Khris were using a chat application, there would be a long trail of dots, an overexaggerated ellipsis, from Annan's chat handle. Eye contact is broken and she is deep in thought, mulling over Khris's words. "I don't ever remember living up there," says Annan. "I only remember my mother, and living at sea. Then Grandfather found me and I've been with him ever since. He says he wants to go to St. Kilda, but he doesn't have the papers to go there and he doesn't know how to get them." She is curious. France was taken from Khris? It sounds as if Khris was some sort of political ruler. But, she is probably more like Annan and Old Grandfather, and borders shifted and she was thrown out. Who is this woman of white hair and eyes green? Annan senses kinship, but cannot put her finger on whether that is true or not. There needs to be more talking, more exchanging, more information learned and given. It is time, once again, to listen; first, however, she must ask. "How was France stolen from you? Were you a politician? And why are you saying you'll live through me ▬ you don't look very old, or if you are, you look very good for your age. I just assumed you had white-blond hair."

"It seems you have a lot on your mind. Everything okay?" "Not really," says Annan. "Can't sleep. I think the sea made me so sore from all the waves that I fell asleep because I was half knocked out. I think too much in this quiet; it was nice at first, but now it's annoying. It's like a bee made a nest in my brain." Yes, this is the saner, less panicked Annan that Khris has picked up on. She had been hidden beneath that quirky brain, that brain with the pea rolling about. But now, there is only her and Khris, and the real Annan who isn't always confused. A blessing, it is, that she can communicate without blurting out strange, cryptic riddles without even trying. It makes her live up to the "mysterious and pale waif" stereotype she is trying to shake. "Is Khris short for Khristina or Khristiana?" asks Annan. "Annan means 'water'. The Annan Waters are a Celtic river. That's really all I can remember, that and it's a word from a dead language. Grandfather's into that sort of thing; the Pictish language is relatively unknown, and he's a Pict. He's bitter about that, I think." She looks at the gibbous moon again for a minute. Then, she looks back at Khris. "What is [i]up[/i] with these magazines they have for reading?"

"Eh, I don't really buy that you're some sort of crack military trooper, lass," Old Grandfather says with a laugh. "But what's life without a little embellishment?" [hr] The bus is mostly silent, save for a few yawns and coughs. The gentle rumble of wheels across the sandy road seems gentle and soft compared to the harsh rocking of a meagre little boat. Old Grandfather snores nearby, arm slung over his face, and somebody smokes in the back. Dimly lit is the vehicle, a humble scattering of light provided by lanterns and cigarette fire. She toys with strands of her own white-blond hair, staring out the window as the gibbous moon shines down. Annan Rusby's thought patterns are not always strange. They are not always threading, confused, twisting; when she has time to herself, and all is quiet and still, she can think. She merely needs to hear herself think, to surround herself in a veil of unheard, mental sound, so that she can focus. One plus one can equal two again, and she's not wondering about why the universe makes it so. Annan can think, and think, and think some more, and the gibbous moon glows, and it lights up her face and fringe. So, while her brain is settled, she thinks of earlier times. She thinks of the African giant Adnan, and she thinks of that night she met a certain comedian in a ghostly pub. She thinks of wars and she thinks of movement, and she thinks of how out of the loop she's been as Old Grandfather and her have been thieving. It's true, they really don't know what the political borders are anymore ▬ so much change, so many days, so many hours. It's almost tiring, thinking of so much at once. Trains of thought chugging away, rumbling along tracks of what she knew, blowing their whistles when filled with a flash of brilliance. Perhaps it was time to cool the engines of those trains. [i]"You have one hour," he said.[/i] She turns her head towards the white-haired woman with those venomously green eyes.

The entire conference suddenly held an air of off-centredness. Realizing that the conversation was beginning to drift, Annan spoke yet again. "Medical arguments are best left to the medical conferences and contexts of medical technology," said the girl. "We are men and women of science, and a scientific mind needs a focused mind, does it not? So lets go back to lost technology, if only for a moment."

At the mention of "pointless metaphysical nonsense", Annan could not help but blurt out. "Metaphysics should be taken into consideration," said Annan. "If I recall correctly, there have been articles on whether or not the worldly time flow, which does not fall under the Greenwich model documented in much, much older texts, has a metaphysical link. Some scholars have argued that the wild advancement and flow of time in different countries is a result of the sheer human belief that it can be done. Would you not say, Mr. Speakers, that you have visited various countries around the world, and what might be one year in one country is seven in the next?"

At first, Annan thought the jig might be up. that her turkey was about to croak. But then, the wild-haired scientist who was speaking invited her down, addressing her as "Doctor Hugo". Hugo was usually a boy's name, but she could roll with it, just like a Michael Jackson impersonator could roll their ankles to the beat. She blushed, putting a hand delicately on her face. "Oh pardon me, Mr. Speaker," she said. "I guess I was feeling a tad adventurous, as all Procinctians may feel." She hurried down as the Rebel Army representative talked, explaining something about "Rods from God". The speaker then mentioned something about "combat mecha", and Annan felt they had to be talking about technologies far before her time. She had heard stories of giant, robotic beasts being used in warfare before several countries decided they were too much of a bother to run. Annan had to agree, what with how the laws of physics bogged down those massive and mighty machines. "Perhaps, Mr. Speaker," said Annan as she sat down, "that if the other countries are willing to declassify that the blueprints could be archived for purely historical research. We already know 'combat mecha' is a nightmare with Earthly physics, but downsizing into something more manoeuvrable shouldn't be a problem, yes? We already know what doesn't work, but it would be good to have plans for backup. The backup, that is, being that in case a great breakthrough happened that made wielding mech easier, or maybe even some sort of mech-hybrid, that the knowledge would not be lost and/or restricted. Only if Rebel Army and fellow countries feel like giving up their plans, though; no pressure."

Old Grandfather chuckles at her enthusiasm. "Well, Annan just knows me as Grandfather. I'd tell you my name, but there are several fathers and husbands who want me manly pelt to compensate for something. This little lady is the aforementioned ▬ " "Annan Rusby," Annan answers simply. "And there you have it," says Old Grandfather. "Well, we're refugees. I don't have anywhere else to go, and neither does she. Shifting borders and all the mess associated with that ▬ I don't even know how to get a proper passport for most places anymore. Neither does Annan, so she stays with me." Annan doesn't add to that. Instead, she begins squeezing water out of her white-blond hair. Old Grandfather continues. "So we were on a boat, then in the market, and !@#$ went down hard. I swear, it's like half of the coppers around here have PMS they're itching to vent, lass. So me and Annan were just trying to stay out of trouble, since it doesn't seem like people want to make sense anymore." "Like me?" Annan jokes. Her brain definitely feels back to normal now, or as normal as what could be considered normal for Annan Rusby. Old Grandfather ignores her again. "I'm glad you at least have some money, lass. I'm not going much of anywhere, so perhaps we should try your idea of 'wandering' for an 'objective'." His voice drips with sarcasm around the finger-quoted words; he's feeling a bit punchy from the adrenaline rush and the pain in his lungs wearing off. "Anything in mind?"

It is then that Annan realizes where she is. [i]Boat? Boat? How am I on a boat? And why is it night?[/i] They had been running all day. She thought she had just been remembering the boat during Old Grandfather's pneumonia spell. But no, they had been running all day, and she had been remembering things. [i]This is when reality breaks down.[/i] Both her and Old Grandfather allow themselves to be pulled into the water. They both can swim, and quite well ▬ Old Grandfather mentions he learned it as a trick to get away from boyfriends and fathers. He moves gracefully as he follows the woman, with Annan's gentle paddling not too far behind him. He grins roguishly at the woman when she points to the beach. "A woman after my own heart." Annan, however, does not answer her question. Instead, as flashlights beam across the water, she stares out at the far horizon. Mother Mare reaches far, and she's tempted to approach the horizon, for no other reason than to see how far she could swim out. Then, the pea rolls around in her pretty little brain. [i]You tried to swim. You gave up and let the waves take you home.[/i] But the water is mostly calm and clear that Moroccan night. (She still can't even believe it's night!) She sighs in defeat, and before Old Grandfather can call out to her, she swims towards where Khris is pointing faster than the two of them have. Annan doesn't really believe Khris fought in the Franco-German war, but she does believe Khris van Donop is Khris's name. [i]It suits you. I like it.[/i] She also feels glad that, walking with the dark-haired, heavily-tanned Pict that is Old Grandfather, people will look at the taller woman first. Her hair is chalk-white, so striking with those green eyes. The water seems to have an effect on Annan's psyche. As she approaches the shore, she thinks less about rambling and more about how they will avoid the police. She cares less about making nonsense and remembering strange things. Instead, all she wants to find is food ▬ the lost pomegranate was her lunch.

Old Grandfather steadies himself. He's getting to far up in his years, the old Pict is, and he doesn't need so much confusion in his life anymore. Then again, why take care of Annan when he has thousands more things to be doing? Adventuring, exploring, boozing, doing a number of other things that do not involve the law.... "Annan, shut up," the Pict barks, and his charge falls silent. Looking at the woman, he says, "Yeah, she's not too sane sometimes, lass, and then she's smart again. Look, we just had a few troubles back there, but if you want to offer something, say it. I'm too old to be battered around like this." "The snake-eyed girl rolls her dice ▬ twinsy twos, or twelves all around? That is the question Hamlet envies." Old Grandfather stares at Annan like she's grown a second head. "What on [i]Earth[/i] are you talking about?" Annan shrugs. She doesn't need to make sense. "I don't need to make sense." "Uh-huh, you keep telling yourself that, lassie," Old Grandfather replies. He looks at the snake-eyed girl, as Annan calls her, and shrugs in defeat. "She doesn't always make sense. Half the time she's happy with that." "I just said that." He ignores her before he starts rambling himself. "So what you want, lass? Excitement? This is a tourist destination. Surely you could find enough to do here; there are round trips to Marrakesh. Ever see the market?" "I want to." "I'm talking to the lady, Annan."

Trouble comes around like a boomerang. It flies and turns away, then comes back in a swift curve with a lot of bite. Before Old Grandfather and Annan could take another step, the two of them were grabbed, thrown hard against something metallic. Eyes, hard and green, reminded Annan of a snake's ▬ she thought she was being stared down by some serpent. Old Grandfather only wheezed from the impact against the hard surface. "Just curious: you two causing trouble? Or is trouble following you?" Annan stares and stares into those eyes. Old Grandfather glares as he tries to catch his breath. Then, the young albino speaks, even if it's just rambling. "My mother is the sea." "An-annan!" Old Grandfather scolds. The girl's pink eyes become hard with focus. "My mother is the sea, and I've always been in trouble. You're in trouble too, aren't you? Where are you from? You sound German, you sound French, you sound European all over. You're in trouble too, what are you doing here?" "Annan!" Old Grandfather manages to say after he gets his second wind. What is his charge doing? Is she insane? She is. "My mother was the sea and I am of her," Annan stated firmly. Her stare was quite intense at his point. "I know a lot of things. You don't want to know them." [i]A bluff is only as good as the bluffee....[/i]

[i]This is where reality breaks down.[/i] [hr] Old Grandfather writhes like a fish on the floor. He's gagging, he's spitting up blood and he's turning blue. Annan can only stare, never scream ▬ she has not screamed at such things since Mother Mare birthed her on the shoreline. His lungs ache with pneumonia from going in after her; he spent too long swimming on his own to try and get her back. The substances of his youth have made it so, and not just his God-given age. "An-ann..angh..." he chokes out, his hand clawing at the air. "H-hulp...gurt...hlk...." The pea wildly shifts back and forth. She knows those choking noises, those dying gulps and gasps, though they are in memories buried beneath thought and time. As they fight and struggle to reach the surface of her psyche. Annan is staring, always staring, pink eyes wide with disbelief. "Ann..an...! Ann...allllllllkgh...." The last, horrible gurgle is the final straw. She raises her voice, panicked, but never a yell, and flees for help. Medics on board the refugee ship rush to Old Grandfather's side, and their caring hands begin to work, to try and clear his throat and lungs of fluid and blood. [i]My mother was the sea, and she made you sick.[/i] [hr] He's got a smoker's wheeze as he runs through the dust. He should be out of the sun and the sand flying up, but he's not, and Annan feels guilty. It was her clumsiness and lack of awareness that brought the coppers onto their trail, not Grandfather's. He says nothing, too focused on flight and his breathing, but she knows he is angry. Or, perhaps, just irritated ▬ they are grandfather and grandchild, after all. He takes care of his young, for all the responsibilities he's shirked years before. "Grandfather?" "K-keep run...nin'!" he manages to say before coughing hoarsely. He slows a little, but realizes what is going on and pulls on his stores of stamina.

"ANNAN! GET DOWN FROM THERE!" She stood on the very tip of the ship's bow, strugging to stand upwards as the boat rocked back and forth. Rain fell and waves crashed, no lightning thankfully to strike her. Her arms swung as she tried to regain balance, the boat dipping down and up, down and up. She felt a tad seasick, but pushed aside the faint nausea to stare at the crashing horizon. [hr] [i]"Well...hello," was the giant's reaction. Annan blinked, trying to discern his facial features. Weather-worn was he, his voice distinctly foreign — African, perhaps? It would not be a surprise. The fur seals that lay dead, gave birth, lived on the rocks — they were beasts of the Southern Hemisphere, Africa firmly placed there. She looked warily at something being held out, her eyes making out something that looked to be round. "Who are you? Are you okay?" A question of identity after silence so long. Annan tried to think; what could she say? To talk to a man, a person from afar, after living so long as a hermit on that shore. She clutched her skin tight, the barest of rags there beneath, shakily straddling the line between decent and not. She felt so exposed, so unready for the encounter; from her mind came a silent, protective prayer. And then, from the blue, words came to her: "My mother was the sea and I came from her."[/i] [hr] "Mother...." "ANNAN RUSBY!" Her mother was the sea and she came from her. Beloved Mother Sea, Mother Mare, Gaia's watery sister. The pale girl raised her arms and stretched them high, taking a deep breath. Her white-blond hair clung to her face from the rain, and she realized that she was chilled from the storm. Her legs tensed, especially as bootsteps thumped and clanked across a wet deck. Then, she breathed, as there was only air, only the sea, only the salt and the rage of the sky. "Mother." "NO!" She leapt, graceful as a swan, fluidly into a dive. Seconds passed ▬ seconds, not minutes, as the fall was relatively short ▬ and she hit the water like a rock. The shock up her skull, neck and spine shocked her, the world muted and gurgling as she slipped beneath the rocky ways. She drifted, the ocean cold, until adrenaline and instinct burst from within. She kicked, clawing and struggling, and burst through the rocky surface, the ship mere feet from here. Above her, she could hear someone calling out that someone had fallen overboard. [i]Why?[/i] And that pea of memory, that pest beneath the mattress, threatened to shift. But it didn't, and the waves rolled over her. [hr] "STOP!" Sometimes, she wonders why the sea hadn't taken her. "THIEF! A THIEF!" Old Grandfather should have let her drift, swim back to the beloved Mother Mare's womb. "STOP! I SAID [i]STOP![/i]" But for now, she was not with the beloved sea, but land-bound and tired. She was running, it was hot as hell in summer, and she had just stolen a pomegranate. Her lilly-white fingers snuck across the table, grabbing the reddish fruit with a deft hand. She had been careful, walking away with a smaller-than-normal fruit, until she had tried to pocket the good. Then, a passerby who had not been paying attention, but who had saw what she had done out of his eye's corner, yelled. Now, people were pealing after her. Old Grandfather can only facepalm from his hiding place at the amateur mistake.