SK Wynter

It keeps things fair. Everyone has to start somewhere.

[i]Landsharks?[/i] In the Press Box, the Procinctian delegate stood, short amongst the crowd but striking in her pale hair and skin. A pair of aviator shades hid her pink eyes, as she couldn't help but feel self-conscious amongst so many people. Getting into the conference had garnered her enough stares, especially when her stick-on nametag kept threatening to fall off. In one hand, she held a notepad, and a black pen in the other that kept leaking and dotting her hands with black ink. It would be the last time that she bought the discount liquid ink pens at the nearest corner shop. As she wrote down various tidbits and notes, the press busy scrawling away beside her, a thought suddenly struck her. Not knowing much about the political process, she decided on a whim to "wing it". An arm sticking up, her Scottish-tinged voice said, "Mister Speaker, if technological loss is so great an issue, why not create a catalogue of inventions new, and if possible, old? A giant 'Book of Tech', as it were, much like how the [i]Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy[/i] exists."

If I may add, while it can be fun to play the villain or antagonistic country, it needs to be done with grace and class. The bad guys need to be eased into the plot, given a human element and motives that really draw us in, like something out of a good crime novel. Just look at Sarah Tintagyl's villains, such as Bridgette: well-written, thought-provoking, developed from the ground up with no rushing and plenty of thought. To put it in short, if you're going to be evil, do it with style. Now if I'm wrong on any of this, feel free to correct me; I'm just saying, though, that there IS a way to play the bad guy, and it's been done very well before. However, it can be a difficult concept to grasp.

She walks to the stand. She greets the shopkeeper with a little hello and smile. The shopkeeper responds back cheerily and keeps hawking things in her face, half-watching every move, half-watching the crowd. His voice carries over the chorus of excited chatter and local conversation, and Annan feels overwhelmed. Slowly, carefully, her lilly-white fingers creep over the table like spider's legs, and she tries to fancy herself with a dangling charm at eye-level ▬ "Think you might want a bracelet?" He's staring right at her hand. Annan, startled, blinks and pulls back a little, and lets out a shaky, "N-no, I'm just looking." Before the pressure begins to feel like it will squeeze her head into itself, she turns and walks away. Old Grandfather sees her coming back, looking disgruntled at how easily she balked at the heist. "You should have been more careful," he scolds gently as they cut down an alley, moving onto a quieter street. "You shouldn't be so easily intimidated by things!" Annan can only frown and nod, putting her hands into the empty pockets of her long skirt. [hr] "Kilda." He points out the tiny island on the map. An area of four miles, and a few other islands attached to it ▬ an archipelago. "This is where I want to go, but Customs won't let me." "Why?" asks Annan. "What about your passport?" "I don't have the right things to forge a USI passport," he says. "Don't have a copy, never got a hold of one. 'Sides, I'm not there to look at the scenery, or get a high off of anything more than abseiling cliffsides. No, me and some buddies have got some real ideas." "Like what?" asks Annan, intrigued. She has never heard of Old Grandfather talking in this manner ▬ when he speaks of going to places, it's to fulfil his needs as a sensation junkie. At her quizzical expression, the older man only grins. "It's not the Pict lands," he says. "We've already lost those to the bureaucracy. But did you know, Annan, that the people of St. Kilda lived for centuries without bowing to their 'king', hiding in caves when people came by? And now, it's barely inhabited, as far as I know." Annan only nods, unsure of what to say. What is Old Grandfather thinking?

She is nervous. Her quarry is in the middle of the street ▬ a vendor surrounded by people, hawking cheap plastic baubles. It isn't food, so she can't justify it by hunger, and Old Grandfather is insistent. It is a test, to separate needs and wants ▬ if she wants it, she might falter, but if she needs it, she'll follow through. That is what makes Grandfather a sensation junkie: need becoming want, the high as vital as nourishment. It has lost its bite in recent years, but that's not the point here. No, the point is to teach Annan the danger of impulse. "Come on, lass..." he whispers encouragingly. "Right over there, left-right, look distracted. Slip something right from the bigger piles, no one will notice." Annan nods, gulping. The sun is hot, her sensitive skin is sore, and she isn't sure if this is such a good idea anymore. Still, however, she must, as it is the only way to keep Old Grandfather's praise and acceptance. He is her teacher, and as such, will call the shots on what she can and cannot do. Silently, as inconspicuously as she can (with the help of aviator shades and a hat), she approaches. Old Grandfather's eyes dart left and right, carefully observing the surrounding street for the local forces of the tourist trap. [hr] "Why are you here?" he asked her that night, after they had talked much of origins and countries. "You're sixteen, you're not here with a boyfriend, and you have the look of a fellow bum. Cold?" "Not really," Annan replies. "You looked interesting. I decided to stop and rest." Old Grandfather quirks an eyebrow. "Is that all?" "Yes," Annan says without hesitation. "I have a very simple mind. I like listening to people. You have a lot of stories to listen to." The cockiness and self-assuredness in Old Grandfather's grin gains a hint of parental warmth. Perhaps this is why fate led to him calling Annan his granddaughter. "That's respectable. You sound very wholesome and sure of yourself." "I see no reason why I shouldn't be."

Old Grandfather really never did believe in limits. In his youth, he had multiple affairs ▬ his roguish grin breaks the frowning mold, and he speaks fondly of his trysts. Then he speaks of drinking binges and song and dance, barefoot and cheery runs across the beaches of places beyond and familiar. He can name all the stars and their constellations, and save for the darkest of caverns and woods, he does not need a lantern to find his way. He sleeps without a tent, except in the heaviest of rains, and he busks to feed himself at shoreline venues. Sure, the coppers may shoo him off if they think he's a nuisance, but according to Grandfather, "That's only when I'm publically intoxicated, lassie." Then he tosses in more food for the fire, sending up sparks sometimes, and continues with his tale. Other than indulging himself in the goodness of the Earth, he also indulges in feelings. He's tried more than a few illegal things to get the perfect high, and he's done some incredibly stupid things to get the rush of adrenaline he loves so badly. A scar, pointed out across his stomach, was from a wild stag in Ireland that he wrestled to the ground. When he finally got the beast to let him on its back, he rode it like the Sami ride their reindeer, swinging his cap around and hollering until it bucked him off and gored him. He snapped its neck in return, and feasted for a week on cured meat and offal. Annan's eyebrows rise at the wild act, but again, she says nothing. "And who are you, me honey?" he asks, leaning back on the log he has perched himself upon. "I've talked for an hour now, and you've barely said a word. Got a name for yourself, lassie?" "Annan," the girl answers simply. Old Grandfather nods, his expression thoughtful. "Annan..." he says. "That's an old word. They say it comes from a language we don't even know anymore. I thought it was a boy's name, though?" "Didn't the term 'girl' used to mean both a male and female child?" Annan asks. Old Grandfather grins at her reply. "Aye, that I believe they did, lass. It fits you ▬ you don't seem to be like the other folk who walk along the beach. You're not a teenager necking her partner with love-words, now are you?" "I don't care for such," she answers, her nose turning up a little. Old Grandfather laughs, and the fire crackles in the starlight ▬ there is no moon, as it is in the new phase. "Good girl! Men are more trouble than they are worth. That's never why I stayed around my girls for long." The statement, for some reason, strikes Annan the wrong way ▬ probably because of how much nonchalance is in Old Grandfather's voice as he speaks so fondly of flitting from woman to woman. She still, however, lets him continue talking.

I might put Annan there. However, I need to work on catching up with what my crazy little albino has been doing.

Old Grandfather believes he is a Pict. "It's in the blood and in the eyes, lassie," he said to her, that night by the firelight when she found him, forlorn on the beach and staring at Mother Sea. "They say we became part of the Gaels a long, long time ago. We don't even have our own name, lassie ▬ they named us instead. The closest thing we probably have is [i]Cruithini[/i] in the old tongue." "[i]Cruithini?[/i]" she asks, the word foreign yet familiar on her Gaelic tongue. She may not speak Scottish Gaelic, but the influences of the Scottish languages have tinged its variety of English for time unaccountable. Somewhere in Annan, she feels that the word is right as rain in her mouth. "They say it came from [i]Qritani[/i], which itself is descended from [i]Pritani[/i]," Old Grandfather continued. "The word that would give Britain its name. We're said to be of Britain, but are we really so vague? So undefined?" His eyes are distant, his frown set in a face used to frowning. He tosses a piece of kindling into the fire, and it crackles in approval as it feeds upon new fodder. "The world shakes, the earth quakes, and our boundaries change too much. How many countries have only lasted a few years? Ten years? Twenty? What of the money we make, of the places we used to call home?" His words strike a chord in her. She knows, from being told so and observation, that she is Scottish, but even Annan can't say where she's from. The ship, the storm, the gun - that's all she remembers. That, and the island, and her mysterious giant rescuer, and how wayward she ended up after being rescued. Her only companion was her mother, the sea, who birthed the little amnesiac onto that deserted island's far-flung shoreline. And even thought it was unclaimed, it is most likely now a marked territory on someone's map, owned and labelled. Old Grandfather coughs up a ball of phlegm. He's old and more suspect to colds ▬ he can't stand how tired they make him feel. Spitting, he continues his impromptu conversation with Annan. "Our language isn't supposed to be Gaelic," he continues. "Archaeology says our words we're related to the Brythonic languages. Welsh, Cornish, that way of speaking. We moved with our animals, and cattle and horses meant we had much. Fitting, considering how fluid the political boundaries of the world are today." She is fascinated. She knows of nomadic peoples ▬ the Roma, the Margrave, the Irish Travellers, the Scottish Travellers, and New Age Travellers. There may be more, but she can't put her finger on what those might be. Instead, she nods, her pink eyes full of curiosity, and she says, "And you do this?" Old Grandfather huffs. "I did, once," he said. "I never believed in boundaries. I had a passport and a few places to go. When they wouldn't let me do my business, I knew where to sneak through, the little holes in their borders. In North America, I remember slipping through the border of two different countries a number of times before Customs found me. And then, they took my sheep." She wants to question and poke holes in his story. North America has some of the toughest security forces in the world, she knows. However, she is too transfixed by what the Pict is saying, and continues to listen intently. However, she can't help but ask the obvious. "Can you tell me more?"

Thanks Yawoo.

[i]"Bushes and briars and dancing friars, Singing at Samhain, girls swinging to and fro...."[/i] The lockpick and the wrench slid into the lock with a click. The young woman smiled softly, satisfied, fingers working nimbly to open the lock. [i]"Singing at Samhain, winging at Samhain, Their poor feet bound in heels and in pain, And there isn't anywhere else to go...."[/i] The pins turned and the lock succumbed to practised skill. For something that was supposed to be valuable out as sea as fresh water, the crate holding such didn't have that complicated of a lock. What did they think, that a padlock or two would keep the water safe to even a novice picklock? The White Cross knockoffs should have been more careful. [i]"And all this time they are broken, For they are wives without a word spoken, And their husbands drink and their children bawl As the Samhain night slows to a crawl...."[/i] [i] Click, click.[/i] One padlock, then another, and the case opens, the chains drop. Her pale fingers reach in and touch firm plastic, her nails digging in and pulling back. Ripping, the young woman carefully manoeuvres the plastic back, moving as quietly as she can. A few bottles is all she needs, and she'll return to her seat and lock the locks back up. Somehow, she'll lock them up, maybe with that coin trick Old Grandfather taught her. The old Pict defies the saying of, "Can't teach an old dog new tricks," like a belligerent toddler ignores a frustrated mother. [i]"And they want to cage them in brambles, And they want to tear out their entrails, But instead they hold another baby in the belly, And clap to the Samhain song, Thinking of days too far gone."[/i] She remembers a time when there wasn't a need to picklock, but now, it's addicting. Thrilling. Dangerous. Old Grandfather tells her not to think like God, but she feels like she thinks like an artist. The lock is a puzzle, an object of music, and it makes sweet tunes as she undoes it. The pins are pieces so delicate and fickle, stubborn unless she can tease them out and lead them away, like trying to lead away a stallion away from the mare's pasture. There is rhyme and reason to her work, and it's a beautiful thing, even if it's criminal. She might be a novice, but one day, the young albino woman will be able to crack any code, any sort of lock. Simple cargo jobs are the first stone in a path towards something she can actually do. [i]"'We are things fully grown, Or young or old, battered and wind-blown.' The pretty village girls do not envy the song, The swan song sung In the light of the Samhain fire-song."[/i] She plucks her quarry from its hiding place. One, two, three - no one will ask questions. She switches cases of the water bottles around, putting a couple of unaltered ones on top of the torn package. It is heavy work, and somewhat awkward work with the rocking of the boat, but Annan Rusby does it. She then closes up with her prize in her arms, pulling out the coin of some defunct country and trying to use it as a key. No such luck ▬ it must only work on the locks of certain houses and doors. She pockets the coin and scurries away, looking left and right. The strange, awkwardly-worded poem-song she has muttered to herself is now mouthed as she heads back to the deck. [i]"It is too aisy to lie and flee, For they are not bound if they are thought dead. But if they flee that Samhain night, They imagine beatings, and are filled with dread."[/i] Old Grandfather is waiting for her on deck. When she approves, sheepishly smiling and looking a little terrified, he nods in approval at his little albino thief. He pats her delicately on the head, then takes a bottle for himself to drink from. The low-tech boat is unknowing of the incident as it pulls into the nearest port, where the two wayward "refugees" will hop off and find something else to picklock. [hr] [quote]OOC: Anyone can join.[/quote]

Quick question: who owns the USI? And I have returned, after real life swallowing me like a black hole.

"How come everyone is a shadow, then? I thought — " "You don't know the faces," said "Bill", frowning. "To you, they're just nobodies. You'd see their tombstone in a graveyard, but you wouldn't know the person behind the name. Hell, some of these people don't even have that much dignity. Some of them are just ash now, all 'cause some twerp with a trigger finger fired a nuke at their house." "That's terrible," said Annan, frowning. Looking at Mr. Dobbs, she then asked, "So, you can see Mr. Bill's real face, then? And...if all the people here are dead, why am I sitting here? I mean, I hope I'm not — " "You're not," said Bill. "If you were a spirit, you wouldn't look like yourself. Look over there." He pointed with an inky finger towards a group of the shadows. They sat, whispering undecipherable words, a language of breezes and hisses that no human could put a name to. Once in a while, they'd glance over in Annan's direction — or at least, the movement of their heads seemed to indicate that. Annan frowned. "That," Bill said, "is because you're whole. You look the same to everybody in the club as if you were lookin' at yourself in a mirror. We don't get many of those types here; usually they've got a pressing question to ask. Or, they come here by accident on the way to a dream. Either way, you've got an hour." A clock suddenly appeared on the bar, counting down sixty minutes. "Use it well, kid. I've got to go schedule the next act." Walking away into the back, the bartender left Annan to sit in quiet, still looking confused. She said not a word for five minutes of the sixty, then turned to Tom and said, "A lot of people miss you. The entire nation was mourning, the article said. They think you did the best you could. Why can't you pass on, then?"

For a moment, Annan wondered why she hadn't been thrown out yet. Didn't she have to be eighteen to be in an alcohol-serving club? Or was the bar partial to serving non-alcoholic drinks as well? In her hand, there was a glass of water, which she sipped at gingerly. A waitress's shadow glided over to her, holding a notepad in one black hand. "What will it be, luv?" the woman asked. Annan shrugged. "I'm not quite sure yet. I fancy I'm the mood for a bread basket. Is that okay?" "Anything for the guest," said the waitress, and suddenly, a smile appeared. She glided off into the darkness, becoming just another of the nobodies. A sax's smooth tunes sounded as the night's jazz number materialized onto the stage. Looking around, Annan glanced at the bar where the previous act had been waiting. "I can hold your order if you want, luv." The waitress had — quite literally — appeared behind Annan. The albino Scot turned around, surprised. She put on a friendly smile, said, "Thank you," before pushing out her chair and standing. With as little noise as possible as to not interrupt the sax, Annan strode over to the bar and sat down. It was the oddest bar she had ever been in; nobody batted an eye as a sixteen-year sat at a place of alcohol. Some of the shadows looked to be around her age, too. "You're Tom Dobbs," Annan said quietly. She had sat down beside the man, but only talked after a few minutes. Her lily-white fingers drummed against the bar's top, her red eyes maroon in the dim light. She stared ahead at the barkeep, also a shadow for whatever reason. "...Why is everyone a shadow?" Annan asked. The barkeep turned to her, and a mouth appeared on his face. "This is the [i]Last Stop[/i], sweetheart," said the keep. "We got a bus from Pravus Ingruo that arrived in last night, along with some other places. Terrible mess means that we've got lots of lost souls to sort out. No one stays here for long...'cept Mr. Dobbs, of course. He ain't too fond of pearly gates and streets of gold." Annan looked over at the man in question. "You're a regular, then?" she asked.

The worn dock felt good 'neath the wayfarer's travelling feet. She leaned against the metal, hot as it might be, only to be cooled by the seaside spray. The boat bounced lazily among small waves, always there if Annan needed to flee. Indeed, she might have to do such a thing sooner than later, as the sun had already begun to get to her pale skin. Her white hair would begin to attract unwanted attention. Annan and the sun had a strange love-hate relationship. She loved its warmth, its glow and its cheeriness, but hated its burn, its glare and its exposure of everything. The sun, in return, loved to cast her shadow, make her comfortable, and acknowledge her existence with the aforementioned shadow. But it also seemed to hate such pasty-white skin and red-coloured eyes, blinding her with its flashes, scorching delicate flesh. Such was the curse of the albino — mysticism was mysticism, and most albinos were not godly, succumbing to disorders of vision and the skin. It was a good thing the White Cross had strong sunscreen on board. So, to calm herself, readying for yet another stretch of seafaring, Annan just stood and watched the waves. Her mother was gentle today, lapping at the dock with not a hint of a bother. She was a far cry from the rage she expressed in the riptides around Annan's old stomping grounds.

((OOC: As stated, this is a [b]Private[/b] RP. You may give the odd bit of OOC commentary, but I'd appreciate a PM of any thoughts, or for it to be saved once the thread is over.)) [hr] Docked was the boat, barefoot was she, the seagulls and waterfowl crying merrily. She thumped her feet across the deck, her toes splayed and free and movements quick. The North African town a place for trade and to stock, Annan took the boat's stillness to play by the docks. Though she did not leave the safety of the boat, she still ran about near the glistening rail, a lily-white star that charged up and down. Like a greyhound she ran laps on the track, stretching stiffening legs that needed blood flow's grace. She was sixteen, but a child still despite a first coming-of-age. Had the pert colleen of Scotland's rugged green been of a different mind, she'd be shying away. But, despite any thoughts of her kind, to run like a horse along that scarcely-furnished deck was a star of an opportunity. The sea, the sky, her mother former and friend latter! She soared in a bird's run, white hair waving in the breeze. When at last she had reached a full pint of mirth, her gaiety and laughter dancing along the ocean breeze, she gave a spin and a grin. Rubbing her chin, she exhaled modestly, walking towards a few made marvellously. Little boats and their sails, some with propellers on their tails, sped along the coastline's way. They would make quick work in the sunny day, mostly calm waters giving way to little hindrance. It was such a shame the ocean had its storms; they were wild and fierce, never like land's with their fifty-foot waves.

((OOC: As stated, this is a [b]Private[/b] RP. You may give the odd bit of OOC commentary, but I'd appreciate a PM of any thoughts, or for it to be saved once the thread is over.)) [hr] The boat went helter-skelter, shepherded away from proper shelter. Whether invisible, green or bright blue in the eyes of man, radiation seethed and festered in many parts of the world. It was because of the rogue attacks of North America, and the recent chaos in the Middle East; paranoia sang of more to come. All plans had been undone, some better, some lesser, but all equally missed. The White Cross scraps who were trying to get to the Hansa had no inkling as to what do now as all peace in the world again faltered. It was a starry night that the boat lay beneath, the water a-shimmer with unearthly luminescence. A secret among sailors, proven by man, still beautiful; Annan Rusby admired it from her porthole. The time had grown late for the zone, and her pink-red eyes fluttered, wings of the fly named after butter. They threatened to sag down and bring forth sleep, but she still struggled to get comfortable in her single chair. Curling up like a kitten, her head rested against the seat, eyes glancing down at an open article. [i]The Late Tom Dobbs, Remembered[/i] — it was from a magazine so many years old. That is, depending on the country. The river of reality, space and time bent as new borders rose — or so mankind thought. Perhaps it was just a mass denial of Greenwich Time. Her chin began to drop lightly onto her chest. She blinked, images of Mr. Dobbs blurring, swirling in liquid moonlight. Her fingers ran across the breathtaking photography — pictures of life, death, politics, former careers and places.... He had been no saint, but loved still and all the same by some. Annan breathed out quietly. [i]We all end up dead, it is what we dread. And you, Mr. Dobbs, what was life like for you? Would they make a hullabaloo over me, too?[/i] She closed her eyes, and suddenly, she wasn't on the ship. She was in a dimly-lit café, waitresses flitting around in the dark, equally shadowy figures sipping at concoctions she couldn't see. Dressed only in white, her shawl neatly gracing her shoulders, she looked towards a lit stage with vibrant, red curtains. It was so low to the ground, it was merely a glorified platform. [i] "And now, your entertainment for tonight...."[/i]

Just to add, in the meantime while I gather everyone's thoughts on a mass PM, I'll do single PMs with everybody and we can invite into conversations/compile information so we can get the ball rolling. (If you'd rather wait for just a mass PM, that's fine too.) I'm very open to anything happening in the RP, ranging from a something as simple as someone taking great offence to my character or something as crazy as another rogue nuking. Speaking of which, I'd be very interested in working with some of the world's quirks, like how the world isn't irradiated yet and the different time flows per nation.

[quote name='Saarkin Cor' timestamp='1295470575' post='2584219'] A little /buzzkill here, but other than jerrey's multi-person character RPs I haven't seen that many work. Just a thought on how many people to be involved in just one RP. [/quote] I meant more like one-at-a-time or two-at-a-time RPs that could involve plot hooks for others to use for entirely different matters. Say, a quote someone said causing another to think about revolution, and start a new country because that one person inspired them. That kind of thing. Plus, I also meant it as a database of ideas us RPers could pull from so we wouldn't run out of muse. Edit: Plus, I don't want to forget any offers or promises to have a character visit a country. Would be kind of weird to say, "I have nothing to RP about..." and another to say, "Uh, dude? I gave you ideas like, [i]five times[/i] already."

Since I have so many offers, does everyone want a separate PM, or would you all like a joint PM in case anyone has plot ideas to involve everyone?

I am looking for RPers who are willing to engage in character RP instead of the usual political RPs that dominate the Fantasy RP forum. By character RP, I mean RP between characters living on Bob, rather than trade sanctions between nations, political meetings, etc. The best example of this I can think of are the RPs written by Miss Tintagyl, in which various members of her nations go about their daily lives (if not with a touch of adventure) and give us the "citizen side" of Bob.

((OOC: I can edit out this post if anyone asks. I've been waiting for something like this.)) [hr] Plans abandoned, routes thrown to the wayside, all because of a great and poisonous cloud swirling over the Mediterranean. The cries of war and those dying of radiation had reached the ears of the refugee ship; they went no further than the Straits of Gibraltar. The young pathfinder was stranded aboard that boat, no place to go and no memory of anyone who would shelter her. She leaned against the armrest of her seat, balled up like a sock as the telly went on its usual line of news-prattle. The news of the White Cross was a bit of a surprise to Annan. There were White Cross workers on board that boat, but Annan always thought they were a central organization. Now came this announcer, going on about how they needed to come together and reorganize. Annan wasn't complaining, however — only confused about this newest information. She listened with interest, and had she been a dog, her ears would have been perked to the nth degree. "Hansa..." Annan murmured, the word rolling around in the back of her mouth before sliding off her tongue. "It sounds like an interesting place." Perhaps she could see if the boat had any clearance to head northward. Though she was no member of government, perhaps even milling about in the same city the summit was held in would yield some answers. That, and the pea in her brain was beginning to wiggle around beneath the mattress again.

What Cochin said, I think. I feel this a great step forward, as I see people using old country names as geographical terms, and this is a great reference for people wanting just a certain portion of an country/want to shape their country like a RL country.

By now, the Fury's frenzy had run out, the once-sacred space gashed and torn apart save for the caern. It appeared there was a madness in the Black Fury's eyes, one held back by the restraints of the Filly. The Caern of Honour had held her back, given her purpose, made her existence all the more worthwhile. As a Metis, born from two Garou, the primal forces of the two beasts forever clashed in her soul and in her mother's womb. Born with a need to stay away from others, mocked and ignored for her breed, her Ahroun nature had seethed with jealousy. Hurt. Disgust. And now, those Wyrm-born emotions had reduced her to crinos, the war-form and her natural shape. As she panted, eyes wet with tears, she rose her head in time for a sickly glow to emanate from the caern. Before she could do anything, the smell of Wyrm's stink slammed into her nose, and she bared her teeth as she flinched. There, standing before her, was the Bane and his new territory. She snarled, down on all fours, the hybrid of wolf and man from a classic monster movie ready to rip and tear. "Lets see how you can save Gaia in a world where daily man reigns death upon her for its entertainment and greed...you have no hope child. No hope at all. Welcome ruin...it is inevitable." All the Fury did was lunge forward and snarl. The time of words was over, and now only action guided her path. In the hunting grounds beyond, the Get sensed the spiritual blast themselves, and were now tearing across the landscape towards the now-defiled caern.

I agree with what has been said about the war and flimsy evidence and such. Considering how politicians inside and outside of CNRP flare up at the smallest things, one must take into the consideration the flaws of humanity. It's far too easy to abuse any sort of power, great or small. And because it was mentioned and I'm late to the party: [quote name='Maelstrom Vortex' timestamp='1294374928' post='2566798']Not only enjoying, benefiting from. Remember, I'm playing a Bane in the WoD thread that parallels CNRP. I fully encourage the destruction of Gaia in all her forms.[/quote] For those confused, I'm running a World of Darkness/CNRP crossover. It's only one thread so far (and a thread I need to get cracking on). So yeah.

Weeks of political red tape blocking passage meant that Annan had plenty of free time. As the newscaster on the telly rattled off the day's events, Annan flipped through some of her newest reading material. The (in)famous Generalissimo had just published a pair of survival-based books — one on scavenging, the other on cooking. His seagull and clam roast was especially mouth-watering, and it looked to be no more expensive than a small piece of African fruit. Then there were the tomes written by a Vice Admiral and Generalissimo's advisor, which Annan had skimmed through but yet to enjoy properly. "Black bean and seagull..." the Scot murmured. "How very odd. I wonder if they would serve that at lunchtime...."