And Who Are You, Me Honey?

[SK Wynter]

((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]

Edited January 1, 2011 by SK Wynter

[Sarah Tintagyl]

Of course if the Scot Albino was heading through the Mediterranean and the exotic beauty of Greece, she would be forewarned surely to stay away from the magnificence that Northern Italy boasted. Up the Adriatic and across the Ligurian Coast, revolution was in the air and the Northern Italians had pushed their country into the violent throws of change, already Venice, Milan, Genoa, and Pisa had been violently rocked with dissent and chaos reigned. The news would report all of this, but if Annan was daring and she desired adventure, then the shores and countrysides of North Italy would offer perhaps the greatest adventure of her life. Like Byron had done in Greece centuries ago against the Turks, this young Scot Albino could very well forge history in the coming war of Italian Independence, if only she set her sails to the north.

[SK Wynter]

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.