SK Wynter

[i]A pearl on the Adriatic....[/i] "[i]At the crossroads fair I'll be surely there, and I'll dress in my Sunday clothes[/i]," Annan sang to herself as the events of Carnivale blared away on the small, hanging telly. "It seems now that Italy has its own star of the County Down." She flicked through the factbook provided by the ship's owners, smiling to herself at how things changed so quickly. The factbook's revision dated stated itself as done a month earlier; in but four weeks, Standard Non-Country time, its information was incorrect. Outdated. Disproved. "And to think," Annan said to herself as she ran her eyes over those outdated words, "they were highwaymen. They came riding, riding...the highwaymen came riding, up to Bess's old inn door...." From behind her, a couple of passengers looked at her strangely. What did a poem by Alfred Noyes have to do with the world's latest declaration of independence?

"Excuse me, madam?" A pert White Cross worker walked over to where the albino lass sat. A pale finger ran across a line of text, the name of Isaac Kintober pointed out amidst the many words. "Who is this man?" "Emperor Isaac Kintober of the Eggman Empire," the worker replied. Her nose wrinkled at the mention of his name, and she was close enough for the Scot to see her disgust. "He's got a particularly grim country up north. The human rights record for that place is...smudged, to say the least. This anti-Communist sentiment could be considered a small part of it." "Why?" asked Annan Rusby, pink-red eyes confused. In her head, the little pea under the mattress shifted, if only for a moment glancing and quick. "Because his father was a madman," said the worker. "He was held on trial for crimes against humanity — kidnapping and smuggling citizens across the borders of several countries, using them for medical experiments." The pea in her head gave a terrible jolt. Annan's stomach sank into a cold pit, although she could not say why. For this and something else she couldn't put a finger on, it distressed her. "Why though?" "Nobody knows," said the woman, shrugging. "He's dead now, and that's all that matters. Look, I'm sorry, but I need to go attend to the other passengers. Call me if you need anything, all right?" "Of course. Thank you, madam," said Annan, going back to the one of many newspapers she had piled beside her. The journey to the Athenian Federation had been delayed by a storm, so Annan felt it right to pass the time by educating herself on current events. The article from the Empire had been particularly enlightening; Annan's instincts were screaming "do not enter" like a klaxon for a natural disaster. She also couldn't deny the reaction of the worker and the words spoken about the Eggmen's leaders....

While fury enveloped the sad soul of the Garou, ripping away the hispo flesh and mutating her into her hated war-form, a small pack plodded across the snow. In a mix of crinos and lupus forms, they followed the scent of Wyrm on the wind, as well as the blood of a fallen human. They found his carcass torn to ribbons at the edge of the territory, and there was the smell of a female upon his bite wounds. One of those in crinos form stepped forward, sniffing hard into the wind. <[i]A single Garou,[/i]> he growled. His ears swivelled, straining, the scream of the storm barely covering the sounds of anguish. He growled a wolfish chuckle. <[i]It sounds as if she is having a tantrum.[/i]> <[i]The entire territory stinks of Wyrm,[/i]> growled one in lupus, glancing suspiciously at the loner's stomping grounds. <[i]There shouldn't be a caern here. It feels wrong.[/i]> <[i]Sees-Strange-Things wouldn't lead us to the wrong spot,[/i]> growled the crinos, stepping around the body. <[i]His visions aren't an excuse to forgo exploring. He had his reasons for not coming; you have no need to be suspicious, Wild-Claw.[/i]> <[i]He was constantly making excuses,[/i]> growled the lupus-formed one, known as Wild-Claw in Garou. <[i]We barely escaped Antarctica because of him. You know how many we lost to the Great Balefire. He's responsible for the death of an entire system of packs![/i]> <[i]An unfortunate incident, but not preventable,[/i]> said the crinos calmly. <[i]The caern was already corrupted by the time we got to it. It is better that it died in the nuking than becoming a full-blown Wyrm hive. He said, after all, that he saw green fire in his dreams; we as a pack made a decision to try and beat the apes' antics to where the caern sat. Now stop arguing with me, Wild-Claw, and put that nose of yours to good use.[/i]>

The air reeked of Wyrm-taint as vile as a city's smog. The Fury's paws were raking, shaking, her whole body a-quiver with fear, anger and anticipation. She needed to get back to the caern, the moon ceasing its shine through the snow-white. The Gauntlet had thickened again now that the darkness had passed, and so, before the holy place was a thing of the past, she had to run. Duck. Swerve. The trees and bushes seemed to be in her way as she navigated the thickness of the forest around the caern. Her entire self, spirit and flesh, felt sick. How, how, [i]how could she[/i]? How could she let down her guard? Banes could be stupid, but the Wyrm could end up picking up a clever one along the way. The Filly could care for herself, yes, but the caern was weak. It was dying, as no lone Ahroun could perform the moots needed to appreciate it, recharge its sacred shields and speak to its spirit in times of its need. Yet, the Black Fury had tried, as it was just not any old caern. It was a caern of Honour, symbolizing all that the Garou had fought for, were fighting for, and would fight for. It was the Fury's reason to live, and she would die with her innards and bones scattered before it was violated. But it was too late. The clearing's middle was of a great, tall conifer, a stacking of stones beneath its large and fluffy branches. The needles had withered, and the snow was torn up, sludgy and thick with stench in some places. The stones of the caern had darkened, and that airy feeling, that peaceful feeling that surrounded the place, was gone. A battle had raged in another world, its scars tearing deep into the fabric of the one below. The Fury looked on, horrified, her entire body going rigid and cold as ice. Something within the hispo-Garou snapped. Her eyes widened, everything in her mind burned, and she let out a horrible, terrible, agonizing howl. Her muscles bulged with the fury that gave her tribe its name, and she snarled wickedly, angrily, whirling about with a snap as jolts went through her body. The air shrieked with as much a storm as there was in her soul. <[i]COME OUT YOU [s]~~~~~~~[/s] FREAK!![/i]> the Garou roared. That dire wolfish shape she held shifted and popped, a body of four legs regressing to one bipedal. The creature was being pulled towards a form better suited for war, and perhaps not coincidentally, fitting of the Full Moon Auspice. <[i]I'LL KILL YOU! [b]I'LL KILL YOU!![/b][/i]>

In fact, such a broadcast was rolling on the small telly now, situated just above Annan's head and constantly tuned in to the ever-changing news of Bob. She paused in her reading, tilting her head back to watch the blurs of colour and people upon that telly's screen. Books were far better than far-off, moving pictures; she could bring them close, hold them tight, [i]feel[/i] the information in her hands and in the covers. The newswoman rattled off the station's catch of the day, but without a way to peer close, the near-sighted albino had to rely on her ears to get the message. Conflict. Why did it always have to be conflict? Conflict with her African Annan, conflict with the seals of the island, conflict with memories and the pea beneath the mattress. In backwards order, she cut, she hunted and she had argued; attack, attack, attack. Never defend. Never defend herself. The pea gave a roll, and she thought about the storm. The sparks. The gunshot, from a gun attached to a military man's hand. All of it was conflicting, all of it was fighting, and the newswoman wouldn't stop yammering on about Northern Italy and its politics. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Annan could go for a drink. No, she was too [i]young[/i] to drink, in many jurisdictions. Something non-alcoholic, then. Tea. Iced tea. Sweetened ice tea, so sweet that it hurt. When in God's name since her mother, the sea, had birthed her on the shore, had she thought about getting drunk? It had to be the giant. Civilization. She wanted to go back to her island.

((OOC: This is an open topic.)) [hr] For her protection, she had taken a route up the African coast, staying on board whenever in port. She was dressed conservatively, and in her opinion, rather elegantly. Decked out in a layered white dress, a lacy shawl and a fake pearl choker, she felt she looked rather inconspicuous despite her white hair and pink-red eyes. A lacy, black-and-white headscarf kept the sun off her fair head, and bought just in case was a highly protective sun lotion. It was the perfect wear and look for a homecoming — or at least, what Annan had told the giant of a saviour. She knew the countries as names on paper. The exotic Athenian Federation, the peaceful Hanseatic Republic, the war-loving land of Nod, and many others. Yet, not one of them rung a bell. They were places, coloured to make distinct, with people, places and families that could or could not be her own. Annan stated again and again that home was the island, and her mother was the sea. No other fact was known, even with the pea rolling around in her head like a ball. Adjusting her sunglasses, the albino Scot continued to flip idly through the massive factbook on Bob. With her fingers running over the pages to help her keep track, she thought of her destination. After having transport arranged and saying farewell to her giant, Adnan Hiley, Annan had left alone. She was planning to apply as a refugee somewhere, as she did not feel confident in revealing too much about herself. According to Adnan's people, albinos were [i]skinned alive[/i], like the common leather cattle were. For money and magic, they had said. Annan was fleeing for her life, in her opinion, and surely the immigration offices could understand. Her final destination, she planned, was Ireland. Her accent was Scottish, so she could start there. She highly doubted anything of use would be found, but it was worth a try. [i]Anything[/i] other than the wretched of fate of being made into a charm was better in her eyes. However, she needed to become a citizen somewhere, and get herself a proper passport. Her fingers flicked through the pages until settling on the hundred-and-eighth. [i]The Athenian Federation would do very nicely.[/i]

((OOC: Just a small nudge to get it to the top again, in case anyone else wanted to join in. I know there was discussion among some of wanting to join and make things happen.)) [hr] The cavern was small and pretty. The walls glistened with wetness's gleam, and the waves lapped gently there. A lullaby's gurgle heard, it was peacefully quiet, with young Annan resting sleepily. The water had had a rough man's pull, and she had had to swim not so gently. Upon the shelf, she lay safely. As patterns of light decorated the walls and ceiling of the cavern proper, a light shining in from above, Annan waited patiently. Dizzily came her thoughts, shifting was the pea, Annan's fingers brushing the top of the waters gently. Her sanctum smelt of salt and fish, comforting as a child's blanket. Leaving the island was her wish, but she wasn't ready to leave, not yet. Who knew such emotions would writhe within her? Who knew her own kind could frighten her, mystify her? A year and a half had stripped much from the little lady. The bull seals in the breeding season looked less belligerent to her, even if she was comparing lover's clashes to a lone man's charity. She would wait a while more, then swim out and walk upon her lonely shore. Perhaps she had lost the chance to flee, but even if she did flee, what chance was there to be free? Foul and vile men and women were common among humankind. Annan did not want to find herself in the company of that ilk.

Sorry about that, Sargun. I apologize for adding to the spam. Can somebody link me to the current threads connected to the Alaska War? I need to read them for something I'm planning with Annan.

The caern guardian could have easily bested him had there been a better caern for her to inhabit. Instead, out of desperation to save that sacred place of Gaia's, she had been forced to give her own life. Her essence now ripped through him, merciless. Her spitfire and strength was evident in the veins of Wyld-energy that spider-webbed across his sickened scales. Then, as a Garou ran across a snowy plane, as the moon's phase shifted, as the filly's last thoughts drifted out over the universe, something happened. Desecrated, the caern was to fall, but then the dragon was slowly dragged towards it. As if he were being pulled by rope, the lines of light stretched out and looped around the caern, pulling him with them. Where the pile of stones that marked the caern stood, a hole in the Umbral floor would open, the dragon dragged down into the dark. The floor then covered him up, as if burying a grave, burying a monster.

This was her chance as the balefire consumed her, its roiling, creeping essence threatening to throw her into the thrall of the Wyrm. What remained of her uncorrupted body glowed brightest, a shriek filling the air and trailing off into the wind. Her hooves came down, bathed in what seemed to be concentrated light, aimed for the body of the dragon. [hr] From beyond the Umbra and into the mortal realm, a great cry came whistling over the storm. The Garou perked her head up, suddenly unnerved; it sounded like the scream of a pained equine. Then, in her head, it was like something had slammed into her brain, and the Ahroun nearly toppled over onto her face. Around her, the winds picked up, and the light of the moon was almost covered by clouds and whiteout. A migraine beginning to form, the hispo-Garou charged forward, headed in the direction of her caern. Judging by how the scream sounded, it seemed to have originated from there. A growl was already rising in the Fury's throat at whatever might be there. [hr] Light would emanate from the filly's hooves. Surging and lighting up that part of the Umbra, it would consume all Wyrm-taint, infusing it with only the purest and strongest energies of the Wyld the pegasus could summon. The filly looked on sadly, fading away into wisps of dying balefire and rising smoke. She collapsed and disappeared as the last dregs of herself drained away, concentrated into the consuming, binding forces that surrounded and clamped down on the Bane.

The Black Fury backed up as more fluids began to leak out of the corpse. Wriggling, squealing lines of silverish-green, looking like a mass of writhing maggots, hissed and died as their bodies became green smoke. Nearly gagging, the Ahroun turned herself around, shaking her head to try and clear the smell out of her nose. Until she was several metres away, the Garou would turn her head, eyeing the corpse of the stag warily. Seeing and smelling nothing other than Wyrm-taint leaving the world, the Black Fury began to lope at a fast trot. With the appearance of the Wyrm-beast, not checking on the caern would be stupid. The Gauntlet was thin already around that sacred place; on this eclipsing night, the barrier would be almost as thin as the caerns of legend's were. [hr] The filly writhed and screamed, further consumed by the radioactive sludge-fire that spewed from the Bane's mouth. However, despite her pain, despite the fact she was close to withering away into nothingness, she held fast. Standing on shaky legs, her body burning, glowing eyes fading, she charged. With all her might, she glowed as full Luna would, slamming with her shoulder into the side of the dragon. She tried to rise up, aiming another strike at his head.

The Fury moved deftly to the side, attempting to dodge the oncoming stag. Unfortunately, the stag tipped in that direction at the last moment, and the Fury had to roll over to avoid its crashing head. One of its prongs caught her along the scratched side of her face, leaving another mark that made her wince. The stag kicked out futilely, bellowing in pain, crying out for the death it had been yanked back from. She locked her eyes with its pained own. <[i]Sorry your afterlife's gonna suck, pally....[/i]> Trying her best to avoid its swinging horns, the hispo-Garou ran over to its side. Her paws slammed down on its neck, trying to hold the writhing part in place. Grabbing it by one antler, she gave a great pull back, wrenching its neck back and forth in an attempt to make it snap. [hr] The filly tried to dodge, but the putrid, radioactive breath of the long-dead Bane curled around one wing. She screamed an ungodly scream, something between a woman's and a horse's, rolling furiously on the ground as balefire devoured the pristine, translucent feathers. The sludge in his breath, the Wyrm-infested opposite of water, sunk into her spiritual veins and crawled upwards. She foamed at the mouth, stricken with something beyond a mere Wyrm-curse. It felt like the dragon was tearing into her himself, trying to fit his massive bulk inside of her wing and wear her skin while she still moved.

With ease of practice the Fury wove, the stag's legs nothing more than weave poles to her. Her massive hispo from was put to good use, body-slamming the stag with all its might as its owner snarled angrily. As the shadow over the moon slowly drew back, the winds of the oncoming snow storm continuing to pick up, the Garou was bold enough to give bloodless nips. She would hold on and back away, hold on and back away, disorienting the stag further. But that didn't mean she didn't take hits; as time wore on, she grew sloppy. A graze went across one eye, not damaging it, but leaving a stinging scratch. A few more hits left painful bruises beneath the Garou's coat. With a growl of annoyance, the Garou lunged, grabbing on to one leg in another bloodless bite. Her body whammed into the stag as she did, enough so that the Wyrm-slave was thrown onto its side. Seeing her chance, she jerked hard at an angle, and the spindly leg broke with a snap. Jumping back, getting a kick in the jaw as she did, the Garou snarled and waited for the stag's next move. [hr] The scream of the wind mingled with the scream of Pegasus's filly. With a dodge of the Bane's great swipe, she circled around in a flap of her wings, grabbing in a bite at the wispy membrane of one of the corrupted spirit's wings. To him, it would burn as she wrenched and pulled back, taking a small piece of wing with her if she succeeded. Where the wound was, wisps of light crawled up in a vein-like pattern, the very essence of the pure spirit sizzling away at the corrupted wing. Leaving the stinging wound to distract him, the filly would charge with a great bellow, rearing up and aiming her hooves for his neck.

I'm going to agree with Lynneth here. Paisleys are ridiculously complicated and it can be hard to read text on them. To make the map easy to read, especially for those who find it hard to read a patterned surface, block colours are the best, as is bold text.

Anything for a story. Anything to find truthiness as defined by Colbert. Anything to unmask evil, brew morale in the hearts of the downtrodden and discover truth. Anything for a job. Anything to get off the [s]~~~~[/s], swerving ship. Anything to stop one Huiqing Cassandra Drosselmeyer from falling on her behind for the umpteenth time, the little laptop atop of a crate falling with her. The interior of the small room sang with Huiqing's well-practised potty mouth, the English-Chinese secondary-school graduate climbing back onto her bed. Broke, curious and in dire need of a good Internet connection, Huiqing was on the first of many planned voyages to travel the vast expanse of Bob. Armed with no post-secondary training, a passport and a dream, the nineteen-year old's mind buzzed with the words she was to write. For you see, because she felt nobody in their right mind would hire a reporter without credentials, she decided to whip up a newspaper of her own. Or rather, more accurately, a newsblog. [u][i]F. Nematodes On Bob, War and Peace[/i][/u] she had called it, created on the free build-it-yourself blogging website, Printsqueeze-dot-Bob. Settling herself back onto the bed, Huiqing opened up Internet Explorer again, as she had clicked out of it by accident when she fell. [i]Web Address: www.printsqueeze.bob Loading.... Loading.... Loading.... WELCOME TO PRINTSQUEEZE! The world's largest online blog and journaling site.... Username: Iheartnematodes Password: **************** Loading.... Loading.... Loading....[/i] (Was it just her, or had the connection become faster? Maybe all her wireless needed was some good ol' percussive maintenance.) [hr] [font="Trebuchet MS"] [i][u]THE FIRST OF NEMATODES'S BLOGGINGS[/u] Posted At: December 27th, 20XX[/i] [/font] [font="Trebuchet MS"]Well, this is it. A site dedicated to the bloggery of win and fail on Bob. I'm currently coming to you live from the Indian Ocean, approaching Cochinese territory for my first self-assigned assignment. As you can see, Christmas has passed, and I hope you enjoyed getting hammered on eggnog and fat on fruitcake. Mine was spent bailing out a flooded room after a wave slammed my porthole. Fun. Not much to chew out about at the moment. I was going to cover the nuclear accident in Mongolia, but thanks to the Generalissimo Effect (is that what it's called?), times don't sync up on Bob. It wouldn't make much sense for me to blog from the past, now would it? Or the future. No, I'm not going to recite a cheesy [i]Back to the Future[/i] line, thank ye very much. This is an intro post, all things considered. My name is F. Nematodes (as in, go eff yourself, nematodes), and I'll be your hopefully-snarky commentary throughout the blog. Signing off for now, just wanted to say hello. If you have a story I want to cover, I'm available at nematodes86285@wawoo.bob.[/font] [hr] ((OOC: You are more than welcome to request Huiqing blogging about an event in your country. If you request here in the thread, however, an IC request would be much appreciated. Sending an e-mail to Huiqing on a current event is a valid IC reply.))

I'm tempted to put that in my siggy.

This conversation vaguely reminds me of an RvB PSA.... What's my title, then?

I agree with Lavo here. It's only a year of advancement; I would push for maybe a 2025-2030 cap, but I'm not sure if this would create a balancing problem.

She dove to the left, narrowing avoiding contact with the fluids about the stag's face, as well as its impressive rack of horns. Tail and ears raised in dominance, the Ahroun had no intent to flee her hunting grounds. The stag was the result of another Wyrm-beast sneaking in during a weak point in the Gauntlet, seeking world domination and yada-yada-yada. Unfortunately, with how much crap the thing's face was leaking, getting any bodily fluids on herself would be a bad idea. The poor creature had probably ingested Wyrm-tainted foliage without knowing. Like a cattle dog about its steers, the Garou tried to circle and snap at her attacker's heels. The best thing the Ahroun could do was lead it out of her territory, and hopefully, get it to hurt itself. Mind one, nothing short of impalement could stop a raging Wyrm-beast, but the stag looked to be of a particularly weak sort. Her great paws clawed at the ground, the hispo-Garou charging like a bull, snapping and snarling in a vicious dance. <[i]COME AND GET SOME, WYRMSUCKER!![/i]> [hr] It was obvious in the Umbra that the caern was weak. One Garou could not sustain a caern alone; try as she might, the Fury could not fill every role of a moot, nor always remember what was needed of the caern. The aura around it was weak, wavering, straddling the border of defilement and sacredness. Yet, even as the Wyrm's servant approached, it pulsed in revulsion, and a whinny could be heard across the Umbral landscape. A light shone from the cavern, the scream of an angered mare ringing out like a bell. Came then the thunder of hoofsteps, the snort of a racing horse, the flapping of great white wings. In a flash of mane, tail and feathers, the caern's guardian charged out — a translucent spirit in the form of a pegasus, a totem of respect. For the Bane would see — as the proud beast reared up in sense defence, shining with Helios's brightness — he was before a caern in the name of Honour. It was dedicated to giving the Garou a sense of purpose, Gaia's way of telling them that they had a role to remember and play in the world. And as such, the filly of Pegasus standing before the bane would not let him charge closer. With a squeal, she ran forward, rearing up again and aiming her hooves to lash out. [hr]

Hey, what about holiday breaks? More time for CN during the holiday break.

<[i]Pfft. Yeah, whatever.[/i]> As the Bane or whatever kind of Wyrmish beast it was faded away, the Fury eye-rolled. Again, a spirit taking a pot-shot at the living, and again, failing miserably. She was too hardened, too fierce, too proud to let a festering being like he/it get to her. The hispo-Garou plodded along, feeling quite proud of herself for telling of the bane. [i]::That'll show 'em,::[/i] she thought, again in Garou. Her mouth wet further at the thought of sinking her fangs into the rich, musky juices of dead stag. [hr] [i]:: Ah...dinner is served. ::[/i] The Ahroun licked her lips, grinning as wolves do as she plodded towards the carcass. Nothing was more satisfying then a free meal after kicking human and Wyrm tail, oh yes indeed. Even in the dark, she could see the grizzled pelt of an ancient beast, its purpose long done in the world, death giving it final use. Taking a whiff of her find, the Black Fury opened her jaws, baring massive fangs that would make a regular wolf quiver in terror. She paused, however, when she noticed the faint bubbles of saliva upon its slightly-opened lips. Peering closer, she took a step, giving a sniff of the deer's mouth. Something was off about the juices its maw was secreting. [i]:: What the.... ::[/i] She placed a faux-bear paw upon the animal's head. Pushing it gently into the increasing moonlight, stepping out of the way to see better, the spit looked yellowish. A quick sniff revealed what smelt like an abscess; funny she hadn't caught its scent before. A sick animal always revealed its presence on the wind. If it didn't, creatures such as the Fury would be without a way to find creatures stricken with ailments such as rabies. Peering closer, the Ahroun tilted her head to get a better angle of viewing. [i][b]KSSSSSSSSHHHHHTTTTTTTT!![/b][/i] [i][b]:: WHAT THE F — ::[/b][/i] The Fury leapt back as the stag rose to its feet, mouth foaming and body crackling with energy, swinging haphazardly to and fro. It snorted, giving sickly gurgles as its legs shook like pines in the wind. A horrible, greenish snot dripped from its nostrils, eyes running with some sort of translucent, lime-y fluid. It roared, pawing at the snow, the virgin white hissing angrily with Wyrm-juices as the Wyrm-tainted stag bellowed. Blinking, the Ahroun suddenly snarled, bristling and taking a jump back. [i]:: Well...[s]~~~~[/s]. ::[/i] [hr] ((OOC: Maelstrom Vortex, feel free to take control of the Wyrm-stag. I specifically put him there for your use.))

<[i]Inevitable shminevitable,[/i]> growled the Fury. <[i]Your a Bane-thing who gave up and died in Wyrm juice. Gaia rots [b]slowly[/b], if you haven't noticed. You humans will kill yourselves off eventually, what with your nukes that shrivel up all the innards you need to multiply. I'm just waiting for that time. Nope, I've got my own slice of Gaia right here, right now, which proves you're just a sulphur-breathing [s]~~~~[/s]head with too much time on his-slash-its hands. You done yet?[/i]> The eclipse began to lighten as a bite of the moon glowed. The Fury looked up at the midnight expanse, a toothy grin on her maw. <[i]Well well well, it looks like the Gauntlet's thickening again,[/i]> she said smugly. <[i]I betcha you won't be around much longer. You sound weak and wheezy already, you old coot.[/i]> She continued down the hill after giving a sniff; somewhere not too far, a stag had laid down and drawn his final breath. She licked her lips; venison was the Ahroun's favourite. If she made good time, it would still be fresh. <[i]Git back to the Abyss. Go on, shoo! You have no power here, not anymore. You can laugh at me all you want, but in the end, you still suck, Wyrmsucker.[/i]>

The foul-smelling spirit still lingered, claiming Asia as his. The Ahroun snorted, growling amusedly in lieu of a human chuckle. With a snort as she ascended a hill, she said, <[i]I've often been told this. You know, if the Wyrm is running out of insults, he might want to try improving his minions instead. What are you going to throw at me next? "Your mother is a Black Spiral Dancer?" Please. You're [b]dead[/b]. You lost, Blight of Asia, and so did the Weaver and the Wyrm when you died. You can't even keep a cult running.[/i]> Her eyes surveyed the frigid landscape, amber and fierce, her dark pelt making her invisible against the sky. <[i]I've been in your backyard a loooong time. Pike off, you sonuva[s]~~~~[/s]. Go floss the Wyrm's teeth or something. As soon as this eclipse is over, you'll wink off Gaia and get stuck in the Umbra again. They always do.[/i]> Her large, bloody paws left deep indents in the snow, great trails made as she dragged her feet. Other than the hunter at the western end of her territory, all seemed peaceful in the hunting grounds. The spirit who harassed the Fury would disappear soon enough; he only communicated thanks to the lunar phenomena that night. It wasn't like she was some Silent Strider who had forgot to cut his ties with the Umbra after a bad trip.

The Fury had heard many things in her lifetime. Snarling things, snapping things, growling things and wriggling things, to name a few. Blessed with the gift of stepping sideways through her reflection, she was familiar with the voices of the spirits as well. No Theurge was she, but an Ahroun was supposed to know who her enemies were and where. In her wanderings, her self-imposed loneliness and Ronin-hood, she had picked up a few things on matters concerning the Umbra. When that hissing, rumbling voice echoed in her head, the hispo-Garou raised it high, locking eyes with the eclipsing moon. <[i]Get on with it, spirit,[/i]> snarled the Fury in Garou. Concentrating for a few minutes, her hackles rose as the air curdled with Wyrm-taint. <[i]I have places to watch and creatures to scout out. You're not the first thing of Wyrm-stink to try and pick my brain.[/i]> She shook her head, the winds picking up beneath the charged solstice moon. The air was rife with energy shifting; there had not been such an event in almost four hundred years. As the sole protector of that patch of deep wilderness, the small and weak caern within her ward by honour, the Ahroun was on high alert that night. The Umbra shifted and sang with the phasing moon, the gnosis of the land crackling beneath her paws and tingling in every taken breath. Spirits, deafening, were rising up and crying out, making themselves known from past, present and future. So far, there had only been the odd, dead animal crossing over, and a few weaker beings of the Wyld that had floated on over. The next chance she got, the Fury was going to step sideways again and see what was thundering about in her brain. The [i]last thing[/i] she needed was some stinking Bane fouling up her territory. [hr]

Christmas presents can be worth it, though. It's one of the few times of the year where begging for the latest, highly-reviewed game is justified, hehe. Why else would shopping malls be filled with people going, "Can I have can I have it pleaaaaaaase?"