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Heroic Knight
 
Group: Basic Members
Last Login: Monday, December 29, 2008 12:20 PM
Posts: 122,
Visits: 974
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She sat down under the tree and rested her both her back and head against it. The claw still felt odd and would do for some time she suspected - at least until she had learned to control it properly. Resting it carefully on the ground beside her, she closed her eyes though it was not for sleep.
There had been something in the air and though she didn't know what it was for sure, every bit of her knew that it was not something good. Heck, even the reports had said that... but she knew that she hadn't just been hearing things. Maybe she WOULD get her hearing extended after all - that'd show them the next time they said that she was just hearing things. She wondered then how the others would do in Com Trow..
She relaxed back into the tree carefully, almost unwilling to let it take her full weight. There had been something she'd enjoyed and no doubt about it - the pure power of the cybernetic enhancements that had recently been added had left her feeling somewhat easier about a lot of things. That said though, she had still felt the pain behind Shenk's words about the war.
Swallowing hard she tried not to think about it but desperately wished she'd left at least some of the brandy she'd chugged the night before whilst playing the 'unphaseable big lug'. As it had when she sat outside yesterday, the wind blew across her face and there was something relaxing about it... as it had been then. Too much fresh air and it wasn't Bridge but.. it held a certain something about it. Picking at the grass, she thought about the workshop, about Marlowe, about Crowe and Lyria and about Kale's offer of assistance.
First time out for Marlowe and though she'd tried to warn him, she wasn't sure how he'd taken it all. He wasn't prone to talking much and she didn't want to ask him any more questions. She had tried that before and it was just like hitting a brick wall... before the enhancements.
Her mind went back to Kale's unwittingly painful questions and she swallowed again, fighting the bittersweet memories that flooded back along with Shenk's words. Whispering to herself she vowed not to cry about it. Not again. She picked up the mantra in her head that was becoming more common these days and replaced her thoughts with it.
"Plug it in... plug it in.. forget the pain and plug it in.. connect with the metal, don't connect with the people.."
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"Whadda ya mean you killed him, cha cha cha?"Serenity: Broken armed Ann / Pvt. Cooper / Reavers #7, #12, etc.. {Crew}
Riftworld: Jen Carver, Cyberate Medic
Maelstrom: Dia, Wahotep Freedom Fighters 
LT: Countess Anya Von Trugelhof-McTaff, half-fiend and collector of all things blue, including Jackal ritualists
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Wag
Group: System Moderators
Last Login: Thursday, August 21, 2008 11:39 PM
Posts: 1,141,
Visits: 3,626
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| Another mad dash to Com Trow, this time to save many not just the one. This time with a chance to sleep and rest on the way. Not that Neven can sleep at all, too many things to think about, but at least he doesn't have to worry about psi burn due to overstretching his abilities or crashing Lyria's bike into a tree because he has fallen asleep. Lyria's bike... That's when the pain hits and it is really that which is keeping him awake. Focus on the goal, do the job. One step at a time. Don't look back. Keep going. More lives than yours are at stake here. You can't do anything for them if you are distracted. The mantra almost lulls him into a peaceful sleep. For an instant, he can smell the comforting smell of Lyria all around him. The rough soil of the West Litside permeating everything, a feminine musky scent, gun oil and metal. There is even the subtle tang of cigar smoke to add that extra level of veracity. For a moment he can almost beleive that it is Lyria riding this bike over the rough ground towards Com Trow and him riding pillion, grabbing on for dear life as she takes absolutely no precautions while speeding over the rough ground. Just like the old days with Klaus riding Bess alongside. Even later memories are sweeter and tempting to dwell on - Klaus without Bess riding a borrowed Skuk, Crowe on the bike instead of him and he 'porting to the destination in short jumps but aware of their closeness and camaraderie. His pack... no. Not a pack... never a pack. By all the hells of the warp never a pack... And then the truth becomes unescapable. It is not Lyria's comforting smell but that of Gin. Similar in so many ways, especially when wearing Crowe's bandana - that torn and much abused remnant of a Twisted banner taken in battle. Even the mental signature is similar - that carefree cynicism which even Lyria's phenomenal powers of resistance could not block out from Neven's sensitive mind. So similar that Neven cannot help but wonder if she is who Lyria would have been had circumstances been different. What if Rackman had chosen to visit a different village to chose his bride? But of course, circumstances are not all that difference. Certainly not now that she carries the tainted seed of Thunderclaw in her mind. Another potential member of the Pack. And yet again Neven realises he has failed his responsibility as a Defender. This is the third Wester to be tainted by Thunderclaw and one of far too many friends to be lost to the darkness. First Klaus, then Crowe, finally Lyria. Not to mention Tira, Jerrico Fox, Avatar 66, Coffat, Hawke... even the unknown members of the 5th who died at Read Me sit heavy on his concsious. Too many have died or turned and it is largely his fault for failing as a Defender. Gin is not going to be lost if he can help it. No point thinking of the past, may as well ask what if Defender Brown had not done whatever it was he had done 50 years ago which led to him being transported with no memory far into the future. Time to salvage the future. First priority - get some sleep. Then get to Com Trow to try to organise some form of civil pacification to keep things together until the Spined Wolf temple can be found and neutralised.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Whispering God is your friend... trust the Whispering God... Ruins of Empire 1st - 3rd Feb, 2008, Gladstone scout centre, Chester
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Prodigal
Group: Basic Members
Last Login: 2 days ago @ 8:37 AM
Posts: 809,
Visits: 1,077
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| Morgan eases back into the relative comfort of the camp bed, desperately trying to blank out the headache she has had all day but was unable to admit to the Wester medics, triggered as it obviously was by the unaccustomed sunlight. In the confusion she had left her shades off some of the time, and now she is paying. Fortunately it hadnt been a bright day. She briefly contemplates investing in implants, but the shades might be a useful pose. Her mind is spinning with the data she has accumulated. She is satisfied that her verbal report to Lady Doosh covers the essential points with reference to immediate events, but she will have to take care over the written report. It has been personally interesting as well as politically interesting to finally meet Litsiders, especially such a wildly mixed group. It is also heartening to see the Clan Sceptre representative accepted by the Litsiders as one of their own. It bodes well for future co-operation. She smiles as she recalls the snippet Jenna had played her from her recording of a meeting "basically we're all watching each other's arses", but sobers when she remembers what she had been told about the owner of that voice. No wonder these people were so wary, especially considering City's recent isolationism. It is also heartening to have such constructive discussions with the Eldriss. Yes, caution must be employed, but caution must always be employed. At least they are not the Imperial murdering bastards, even if they share some of the imperious attitude. She makes a mental note to speak to Ms Neread further. It is interesting to see the people behind the stereotypes. She smiles slightly about the Citier stereotypes she has encountered. This business of footwear for example is hilarious. Surely it is obvious that the foot wear appropriate for wilderness is entirely different to that appropriate for paved streets? That applies as much to Litsiders as Citiers. Just a small amount of thought needs to be applied. Morgans's pit boots had been the most appropriate, but she owns more than one style of shoe and would not wear those boots for a formal reception any more than she would play a club mix at one! Still, it can be valuable for a diplomat to play up to harmless stereotype like that one, just as it is worth doing menial tasks like making tea for the exhausted and the distressed. Her education has not included technical skills and she cannot afford to be dismissed as a rich and priveleged member of the City upper classes so she must find a way to be useful and being a good shot with an good gun is not enough. It is true that she had planned badly around pockets but she has not harmed herself by doing so. Next time, and she is convinced there must be a next time, she will wear a coat with secure pockets, and in one of those pockets there will be a portable charger. No, its no good. She needs to get something for this headache before she can properly assimilate everything. If all can she consider is trivial detail then she is clearly unfit for proper thinking.
_____________________________________________________ It is not a competition. It is a web forum.
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Heroic Knight
Group: Basic Members
Last Login: Thursday, January 01, 2009 11:47 PM
Posts: 173,
Visits: 539
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| Dr. Mortimer shifted the bags containing his equipment across his shoulders. They were burdensome and awkward, but there was nothing inside them that could be left behind. At least, not without making a mockery of having brought them thus far. A flash of irritation. Isn’t this what research assistants are supposed to be for? Isn’t this part of what Melyssa and Gin were employed to do? To ensure the transport of the equipment and specimens? Instead, Melyssa was teleporting back to civilization (and danger) – and Gin was getting a free ride off an honest-to-goodness working vehicle. Of course, there was Al... but what’s the point of asking a Xadacian to act as a bodyguard if her hands are full of glass jars and plastic containers instead of weapons? At least Al is actually here... Dr. Mortimer shook his head as if to dislodge stray thought with the action. Calm and clear. Rational and analytical. There was still many miles to Com-Trow and Dr. Mortimer vowed to be master of his emotions by the time he arrived. If I am not, how much harder will it be for me to handle what we must encounter there? Involuntarily, Dr. Mortimer looked around him at the others making the long march back to Com-Trow. Will everyone here be able to stay strong? Which of us will be affected when we arrive, and how severely? Dr. Mortimer’s eyes rested on Usta. The discipline of the Skirmishers would depend upon their Commander. There was little doubt that Commander Usta would be equal to the task; her unit, and others outside it, believed in her strongly. It was obvious, even to a neophyte to expeditions whose interests lay with numbers and samples. The eyes narrowed. Could Galen and Shenk not see it? Clearly, the mishandling of the inquiry suggested that either they did not – or... Another shake of the head. A long march with nothing to do but think. This level of introspection could drive a man mad... Once again, there came the short, annoyed, burst of regret at the loss of Lyria. Not that Dr. Mortimer missed the abrasive and vitriolic ba’itman for a moment from such a brief acquaintance – but to think of all the things she might have known but might not recorded that were now lost to the Defenders and the Westlitside forever. A step. And then another step. The long march to Com-Trow continued. The dull ache in arms and legs becoming as much as traveling companion as those coming from the Pre-Fall site. Increased aggression... Raised heart-rate and levels of adrenalin… Do I prescribe tranquilisers and sedatives to limit the influence on us? Can we afford the impairment of reflexes and alertness, especially after such a long march? Do we have enough to help calm those we encounter? What state is my lab going to be in? Dr. Mortimer said very little – but his mind would not keep quiet.
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Insurrection:"Of course, if I used some extra resources I could raise my chances of success to very poor...."
Riftworld: "This? This is not a problem, its a challenge. Now can someone help me open this jar?"
LT: [Not allowed a speaking (or writing) part.]
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Knight
Group: Basic Members
Last Login: Tuesday, September 09, 2008 2:52 PM
Posts: 99,
Visits: 645
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Usta led the way, being far too conscious of the noise created by those who followed. Tired as she was, painful as her recent injuries were, she was still alert. Everything seemed sharply in focus, every sound crisp and clear, the smell of the rain settling into the soil bringing a measure of calm.
The calm never lasted long. Beneath the tough exterior was a straightforward Baitman lass, terrified and fighting for survival. Her fear wouldn’t leave her helpless though, not like the quivering Citier, not like the traumatised Xadacian. No. She was far...too...angry. The rage crashed about inside her head, twisting around recent memories. She had told Lyria many times that she was holding onto an illusion of Crowe, not in so many words and with more swearing, but still. Stupid girl. Usta was angry with herself at not having the cold hard guts to take Lyria before They could. Then again, what would that have made her if she’d taken away Lyria’s choice? Rage mixed with disgust at her own helplessness in the face of the thing that took Crowe’s name and Rackman and the golden-faced entity, all there fighting with words. She was never one for too many fancy words, especially when they were used as poisoned weapons.
She was just doing the best she could, the way she knew how. She’d said as much to Galen. That drast meeting. It had been hard not to stand up and start shouting sense at the man, the way she usually brought such meetings to a swift close. Still, her guests had got the idea but it had been an embarrasing and unecessary waste of time. A couple of comments had lodged in her saturated brain: ‘personality cult’. That was worrying. She’d heard stories of youngs lads and lasses meeting untimely ends due to following ‘personalities’. She made a note to be more careful about new recruits’ reasons for joining.
Someone had also carefully suggested that Usta may have been over-promoted. She hadn’t quite known how to react to that. Possibly because part of her thought they might have had a point. She had been moved swiftly up the ranks, that was true but the rank of Commander came to her when the last one was killed in action. There was always a swift turnover of personnel in this way of life but at the time, there hadn’t been anyone else the Defenders thought capable. That it had also been suggested at the meeting that she may be too good at her job and therefore seen as irreplaceable also caused a problem. And all this had been said indelicately in public. Usta was not one to be delicate but she could usually tell when tact was the smoother option, not that she always chose it .
Neeking (or was it Neekeng?) had asked her if she had a deathwish. All she could reply with was laughter. Laughter was a trusty shield. She had used it many times in many different ways over the past few days. It always hid her vulnerabilities from view. No, she didn’t have a deathwish or she wouldn’t be fighting so hard. Usta wasn’t so sure about Lyria, though, after seeing those marks on her arms. No creature leaves scars like those.
Usta’s thoughts jumped from an image of Lyria, Crowe’s bandana around her neck, to Gin, the same cloth on her head. Maybe that drast rag was cursed. The rage flared up yet again as she remembered her very own words, that if anyone was taken into the warp she’d cut them down if they came back. But she couldn’t do it. Was she weak? Was it because she had felt the power of the Hunter when she had been tainted with those arms? The lure of the Spined Wolf had been powerful and ...tempting. There was so much she could have done, so many of her pa...her people she could have protected with that power, that edge. No, not in good conscience could she kill Gin now as she’d have to kill herself and put too many lives in danger in doing so.
The rain had cleared, finally. A wet leaf reflected a bright light into Usta’s eyes. She smiled a half smile as the memory of Gin, half drunk on gin, leaned against Lucius next to her. The memory of sitting at a table with them as they chatted somewhat privately and asking if she was intruding only to be surprisedly told ‘no’ by both, simultaneously. The memory of picking up a glow of smugness as the three walked away from the pre-Fall site, Lucius having fallen behind Usta and Gin. Lucius had become a good friend recently and reminded Usta a little of Galen. The feeling of connection was very similar; easy and deeply trusting. Ginnever was nothing like Red had been except for the Baitman cynical streak, though she shared that with Lyria too. Gin was less emotionally scarred than Lyria. Well, she had been. Now she was travelling that slippery slope. Just need to keep her calm, keep certain predatory eyes off her. A feeling of protectiveness accompanied the thought swiftly followed by a dark forboding. Gin was on the trike with Neven. Stupid, Usta. Really stupid; though Lucius hadn’t stopped it. They had a backup plan, after all. Trust just a little until there’s no reason to at all. All that mattered now was getting back to Com-Trow, the pre-Fall site would have to wait. She suddenly remembered the replacement Defenders who were supposedly on their way . Well, they’d find the place empty. Hope they’d be better at defending themselves than the others. Couldn’t risk the Skirmishers nor the Leaping Clan staying behind. Toben seemed happy enough to leave. If everything went according to plan, there’d be one hell of a long meeting to attend.
Could she really have a deathwish?
AliensphereLRP Riftworld: Minion and Crew
Maelstrom: Last Cherry Blossom
Artificer: Crew
Waypoint: Yanei Rynn
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Knight
Group: Basic Members
Last Login: Thursday, December 18, 2008 9:13 PM
Posts: 71,
Visits: 484
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| Half asleep, half awake.... The thrum of the bike and the solidness of Neven had sent her into a half sleep, but every time she closed her eyes they were there again... The wolf pack, roiling over her, around her, through her, even, as nothing in the warp was tangible, touchable.... The hot breath rolled over her again and again until she couldn't stand it any more. She jolted away from the feel of the rough pelts and the blood dripping teeth, and back into wakefulness again. And again came the echoing in her mind. Nothing coherent, nothing tangible, except odd words. Suddenly Neven's voice "She's not Lyria!" "Of course I ain't, Neven. Never claimed to be." The muzzy words got through but it was only when she realised Neven hadn't actually said a word that she began to get worried. She began to panic. NO! Panicking was not an option. Because when she panicked she became angry and, according to Aela, anger was what had claimed Crowe and Klaus... She focussed on anything she could think of. And a face came into her mind, a face with a soft voice to go with it and calming words, and hypnotic blue eyes... Lucius. She'd never felt like that about anyone, But he confused her so much. She was sure he cared, but in the Baitman world of black and white or sudden gruesome death, her being sure was no use. He had to tell her before anything came out of it. Another face spiralled into view. Usta, her face split by a grin and a look of pride after she'd got the message to the Citiers and had run her hardest. Usta, who cared about her men and women. I'll get through this. I'm not turning into whatever Crowe was. Whatever Lyria is. I'll get through this. For you. But her brain couldn't pick out which You she was speaking to, Lucius or Usta. Yet it was Lucius' face that remained in her sleep-sodden mind, and with his eyes on her and his voice echoing in her head, she slept against Neven's back, hearing those precious words again and again. I'm not losing you, Gin. I'm not going to let that happen.
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PD: Elaia De Brynn, High Class Lady with more suitors than sense.
Riftworld: "Luscious Gin" Jones, holder of the "Most Athletic BaitGirl This Side of The Warp" title. Ascendancy: Anna Elizabeth Hoyght, Mostly a Pirate and Kisser of Foreheads RL: Kate, mostly confused, sometimes not....
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Squire
Group: Basic Members
Last Login: Monday, October 13, 2008 9:55 PM
Posts: 34,
Visits: 85
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| Left, right, left right. Keep on marching. One, two, one two, think of the count, march away the exhaustion and the pain. Al flexed her neck and glanced at Dr. Mortimer. He was carrying a hell of a lot - she'd offered to take some of the stuff but he'd said words to the effect that she was a bodyguard, not a pack horse, which was fair enough. Al knew how to compensate for her own bags when she fought. One, two, one, two, march the pain away, feel the ground beneath your feet pushing you up. You will never fall. Well, she was a bodyguard. Sgt. Julene would regard that as progress - if she could keep the job and keep herself and her charges alive and healthy then maybe she'd make Sergeant by next spring. It was an interesting thought - as an adoptive Meran everyone had expected her to spend the rest of her life as a Corporal unless she married. Promotion under her own efforts would feel good. Really good. But Dr. Mortimer's health was a priority for that, and the man was no soldier, that was for sure. Well, she'd left with plenty of Gen. Tessa's double-caffiene tea, so she could keep him semi-alert, at least. He'd said he slept for two hours a night - she hoped he was getting more than that. And if he wasn't, what the hell was keeping him going? Ambition? She'd found herself quite liking him in a 'fucking hell, you're weird' kind of way, but she couldn't help but wonder whether he was really human or some sort of robot. Very discreet cyberate, perhaps? One, two, left, right, march the pain away.
If you can't beat 'em, find a way to blow 'em up.
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