SK Wynter

Why can't we just drop the subject and enjoy Christmas? I mean, Santa's flying, the trees are sparkling with lights and decor, and we're on our way to a new yearly cycle. [b]To better days and peaceful years![/b] *takes a swig*

Merry [i]Insert-Winter/Summer-Holiday-of-Choice[/i] everyone!

Her feet flew fast, swift across the cliff. What fool would choose staying? The albino ran, ran and ran and ran, down to the shore where the seals lay fat. She swung around a treacherous bend, went across a narrow sliver of land, nearly falling into a tide pool where a stingray did lay quietly. Her breaths were tired, the run uphill had been harsh, but now she had gathered speed downhill. She answered to no one that was there, no matter how much they called out. The seals did bark, grunting at her; she barely acknowledged where they stayed. The beach's stones were loose under hill, smaller on this side of her home; they hurt more underfoot, and running was uncomfortable. Yet the cave was near, she would have no fear, as she swam and hid in her cavernous abode. When she came to where she would dive in, she looked around, slightly weary. Warily, hurriedly, always thinking quickly, she took a fair, deep breath. With boldness born of survival harsh, she leapt into the lapping high tide, drifting down before breaking out into a bout of swimming. The small shelf she had stepped off of would mean an unpleasant soaking to those who did not see.

((OOC: Unless you are familiar with the Old World of Darkness and, more specifically, [i]Werewolf: The Apocalypse[/i], this tale may not make sense to you. Invite-only topic; PM to arrange stepping in. OOC commentary welcome.)) [hr][b] It tore upon the unwary traveller[/b] with a fury ne'er seen in a natural wolf. The clumsy, bulky build of a dire wolf moved with expert grace, massive maw snapping. Trains of blood swung, stuck to both bottom and upper jaw as blood mingled. Holding the shoulders with bear-like paws, the unnaturally bulky beast tore at the screaming hunter's neck. His screams went higher, swimming across the white ocean of a plain, dancing on the winds in lazy curls. Then came the wolf's snarl, harsh and on high, the bestial roar a warning to the hunter's kin. All went silent as sufficient flesh was butchered, the killer of things dead, struck down by a higher peg. Panting and porky, the bulky wolf backed away from the corpse, shaking a great and claret-stained head. With a huff that made plumes rise from its nose, the creature let its fury calm, the tempestuous hate of man in its blood soothed by the death of one. A woman-trapper might have had less of a fate; to the monster, it was the male, the he, the boy that was responsible. In the hunter-gatherer society of humanity, man-human killed the game. Eliminating that role was as simple as tearing out a wayward man's neck. With his blood staining the pure white snow, the Garou turned and went. Her dark fur made a shadow on the plain, lost in a blowing of flurries as a blizzard came to settle in. The man's body would freeze, his flesh hardened like rock, and the scavengers and worms would not dig into his body until spring. A bear, perhaps, but nothing of lesser strength. Man's flesh was not worth eating; it would taint her soul with the influence of the Wyrm, with a primitive savagery that, for the hispo-formed wolf, would be beneath even a beast such as her. Only the tainted that had danced the Spiral would think of such an unnatural, ungodly thing. If his kind were smart, they'd take notice of his disappearance. Those of the Black Fury tribe were not kind to the constant hunters of XY inheritance stomping all over their hunting grounds. He was merely the fourth in a string of justices served; brutal, but necessary business. With places such as Antarctica deprived of the Wyld, Gaia needed as much deep, untouched wilderness as she could get.

And I'm just trying to figure out how to get a character from Point A to Point B with as little handwaving as possible.

Doesn't matter, dotCom; people don't have to be involved to find something offensive.

Couldn't it be possible there was a mix of both? That is, there were people who gave dotCom their blessing on his humour, and others that found it vile. People [i]can[/i] lurk in chats, and after going AFK, come back to a line they find offensive. Then it's just a matter of a report being sent, and the rock goes downhill from there. I can't say anything definite unless somebody gives me a log to analyse.

[quote]I just recognize that the trend in CNRP is might makes right. Either through ingame numbers or swaying the community to favor you. *shrug* It's pretty much how any community works.[/quote] A perfect example of diplomacy outside of the political circle: proving oneself as a capable and trustworthy pillar. Flaws are understandable, but showing you are reasonable is the might that makes right. At least, that's my opinion.

Sargun has a point. Someone breaking a rule and not addressing for X amount of time is no excuse to let them off the hook. Personally, I would send a PM outlining why the ban might have been sudden, but different strokes for different folks. I'm still waiting on any logs before I can say, without doubt, that someone is guilty. Better to take matters with a grain of salt and watch where fingers are pointed than jumping the shark and making accusations. That there is just libel at that point.

My interest in various things flickers on and off. I'm one of those types who reads encyclopedias in their spare time.

As mentioned before, dotCom and Sargun, logs please. As the saying goes, "Pics or it didn't happen." Saying for myself and myself only, I'm not going to believe a lick of what either of you say, or at most take it with a grain of salt, if there are no logs from the incident to back up what you two are arguing about. Edit: I apologize, dotCom; my post came just a smidgen after yours. Still, my words stand firm — pics or it didn't happen.

Personally, I would see logs first before I gave my opinion on any of this. IRC (sp?) does not work on my CP.

Up the hill climbed the lass, freedom now given a pass. Up she went, hell-bent on escape, swinging and clawing to and fro as the seals barked down below. Her eyes, though blurred, could see the summit and from there she would scout around. Seeking a shelter, a well-known shelter, known only to her and those many seals. As she reached the crest, she looked back once — the Asian men were approaching the giant. Annan took that chance to put on a burst of speed, running parallel to the cliff in greater heed. Her little skin-lined nest, her place to hide, was somewhere beyond with the higher tides. No one could get there without having to swim; it flooded at high and drained at low. The seals liked to use for privacy, but to the albino it was called home. She stumbled and ran, fumbled and ran, the steep downward slope leading to the other side. The rocks were slippery, loose and rough; wind's weathering wasn't enough to keep them smooth. Her hands and arm flailed, she gave a grunt, nearly at the bottom when she suddenly froze. Looking ahead Annan did see, in fear, more men mulling about the island's other long shore. She backed up, looking left and right — A voice rang out over the rocks. Someone had spotted her, and he called out! Annan stared in his direction, and then made no waste in time to flee.

The remorse of the caffeine lover: ungodly tiredness when the cup o' Joe doesn't cut it.

A classic of the office. I've heard that commercial iced coffees have a truckload of sugar and preservatives in them — I wonder how hard it would be to create a homemade recipe. Speaking of iced coffee: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Eiskaffee_mit_Sahne.jpg SON OF A — A caffeine lover's dream!

Noted and fixed. Thank you Cochin.

Thank you for your generosity, King of Cochin. :-) Pulling back the topic to beverages for a moment, which is better for tea and/or coffee? Iced or hot? Black or with sugar and/or cream/milk?

[i]Don't you dare say the sea,[/i] said Annan's eyes, her mouth cemented shut by a frown. The look she gave him questioned what he was saying. [i]Don't you [b]dare[/b] call me a liar. My mother was the sea and I came from her.[/i] [i]Crunch crunch.[/i] Footsteps. More people. With a pivot as sudden as a flick of the wrist, the child of the sea turned to meet the eyes of Oriental men. They clothed themselves blandly and uniformly — members of some sort of organization. The first thing Annan's memory-sifting mind came up with was that they were part of some armed force. Her hand tensed as it held the edge of the pelt. A storm and a gun. A storm and a fear. A storm and a gun, and a military man's hand. [i]Keer-RACK![/i] went the mental lightning, the pea shifting, a jolt of adrenaline ripping through her body in a surge. Her eyes showed discomfort as the not-so-redly-coated troop came marching, marching, marching. Stones crackled in a shift of her foot. White hair flashed in a tangled curtain. She had not seen the giant reach for his pistol, as her eyes had been locked with those of the Asians. She ran right away from their vision, a moving, survival-seeking flash of a sixteen-year old. The shore gave way and kicked up beneath her feet, pebbles tumbling and clicking, the girl headed for higher elevation. In the direction she moved, a sharp, sheer cliff rose above the sea, a horde of fur seals bellowing and barking. Judging by how she was scaling the hill, Annan had done this before. [hr]

She could clothe herself in hides and feathers, just as Karana, the woman of the Blue Dolphin, had. She could take a rock and sharpen it, hiding in wait for an unwary seal and pursuing it with all the vengeance Ahab had after his whale. She could drink from pools of rainfall and purify saltwater, even resorting to purifying her own urine like the Mariner had in [i]Waterworld[/i]. And as for a map? She needed none. The geography of her isle was too insignificant to place on a map — a speck in the world, like her. The island was home, as depressing as it could be. Her Scottish accent indicated ethnicity, not a place of residence. "...A girl alone on an island attracts unwanted visitors. Let me help you." "A man alone with a girl attracts her hesitation. What do you want?" There was distrust in her voice, her head swimming with it. There was the gun and there was the [i]bang[/i]; he came from a place not safe for one like her. She looked at the ground, pink eyes the same — neutral as the stirring water, her mind crackling like wood in a bonfire. Why was she feeling this way? Annan wanted to flee, not to stay; yet, it didn't feel right. A normal feeling for those attached to such a place, having been stuck so long, growing on them in lieu of their race. The storm and the ship. The sparks. The gun. Something else, something about him. "I don't have a home," said Annan. "My mother put me here and I live here, with the seals. My mother is the sea and I came from her." Again, those strange words that, to Annan, felt and sounded right. [hr]

((OOC: It's a rock in the middle of the sea. It's the size of Central Park, and the elevation goes up on the middle of the island, separating the two sides. It's more hill than cliff, though.)) [hr] "Thank you. My name is Adnan." Her pink eyes widened just a little. She barely heard the soft dee of the first syllable; he, too, sounded as if he had been named after the river. "Adnan...Hiley." Annan Rusby. Adnan Hiley. So similar were the names and the sounds contained within. Annan felt strange, as if her mind was going distant; he had come on a boat, he had also come from the sea. "Kinship" was the word to describe it properly — she saw kin in this giant of the sea. "Do you know why you are here? Do you...do you want to leave?" Why had she come here? Wanted what did she? A chance to leave the island of the child of the sea. Her home and prison, an outpost manned by one, where the seals grew fat and their pups did run. She held her pelt close like a selkie maiden cornered; apprehension struck the heart of the child of the sea. He seemed kindly enough, kin she did see.... A seagull's crying broke her thoughts free. "...I don't know why I'm here," said the girl, who was not really a girl at all. She was sixteen years old, had just turned a few weeks ago; she never knew this, as she had lost all track of time. Visions of the storm and the sparks came to her. "I was lost."

"Do you have a name, then?" Her name was Annan; it was the name of a river. A river whose name meant "water" in a dead, Celtic tongue. Her full name was Annan Rusby, and she could barely remember a thing; the gunshot and the storm and how the sparking did sing. She dressed in tatters, she spoke in raspy tones, and there was a man standing right across from her. Her mother was the sea and she came from her. Was that not enough? No, it never would be. Such was the turn of logic from the child from the sea. "I do. If you will tell me yours, I will tell you mine," the giant said. Annan bit her lip at the question, wary of attack; if he knew her name, would be his weapon? Would he use it somehow, in ways perverse and unseemly? There were stories of names, names sacred and true, that gave power and sway over the person they knew. The water-named girl was afraid of such a thing, even if common sense dictated it was an impossible thing. The pea then shifted. The mattress had changed. Annan felt her heart flutter; a name and a gun. Her name and a gun, the storm and the sea; her mother did lap, continuing quietly. Sing-song gulls flew overhead — throaty was their screech over fish that lay dead. Barking and bellowing were the seals of the sea, worn by Annan out of common need. The silence was broken, hesitant was she; yet Annan wished to escape her mother, the mother that was the sea. "Annan Rusby."

T-shirts or it didn't happen.

You have an Albino Scot regiment?

There came the buzz of an engine, a motor — a boat was coming towards where she stood. Her weak eyes did strain more, trying to see from the shore; something large and orange came her way. Her heart skipped a beat, breath hitching in her throat; was Annan to be saved? Was this what she had been waiting for? The boat drew ever closer, and she bit her lip. Rocking back and forth to the sway of the sea, she stood stock-still as someone came to the shore. He rode an inflatable like a horse beneath a knight; his skin was nut brown, and he had the figure of a giant. The waif did bend like a willow in the wind, stepping back from a presence she found overwhelming and strange. It was a man, his human company suddenly making her wary; she wasn't expecting a [i]man[/i] to be coming ashore. "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." [hr]

But dotCom, I fully intend to! Annan's the character I can imagine walking Bob, not really understanding or knowing if she belongs anywhere. Edit: King of Cochin, that is an excellent idea.