From quinn@fazigu.org Thu Feb 10 13:58:08 2005 Return-path: Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org Delivery-date: Thu, 10 Feb 2005 13:58:08 -0500 Received: from yami.57thstreet.com ([216.110.12.54]) by work.fazigu.org with esmtp (Exim 4.44) id 1CzJVw-0001cF-5S for quinn@fazigu.org; Thu, 10 Feb 2005 13:58:08 -0500 Received: from moo.ghostmoo.org (yami.57thstreet.com [216.110.12.54]) by yami.57thstreet.com (8.13.1/8.13.1) with SMTP id j1AIwN8D049597 for ; Thu, 10 Feb 2005 18:58:23 GMT (envelope-from quinn@fazigu.org) Message-Id: <200502101858.j1AIwN8D049597@yami.57thstreet.com> Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2005 12:58:23 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 228 - 232 from *storylines (#5236) X-Mail-Agent: Ghostwheel (moo.ghostmoo.org 6969) X-Spam-Checker-Version: SpamAssassin 3.0.2 (2004-11-16) on work.fazigu.org X-Spam-Level: X-Spam-Status: No, score=-1.5 required=5.0 tests=AWL,BAYES_40 autolearn=ham version=3.0.2 Status: RO Content-Length: 7031 Lines: 146 Message 228 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Dec 12 23:15:19 2004 EST From: Leviathan (#37188) To: *storylines (#5236) Sitting back in his tent Leviathan recooperated from the merciless beating he received. His reptile genetics sped up his overall regeneration but the events still made no sense. Or maybe he just stopped looking for sense and had accepted things as they were. "Bullsshit," he said aloud with a low rage in his normal hiss. "Iss it not enough that I offer my prize freely to them? What'ss the point in attacking me on top of it?" He paced, his wounds slowly closing in unseen increments, his mind slowly clearing. "Greed, I might undersstand... but there wass nothing extra gained in humilating me. No matter how long I deal with thiss fucking ssorry excusse for a sspecciess they alwayss manage to sslip under my lowesst sstandardss.." He pauses and considers. "Well... let go or reciporicate?" His slitted-eyes take on a concentrated look, his pause ends, and he returns to his pacing... -------------------------- Message 229 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Dec 17 05:52:38 2004 EST From: Laurent (#14050) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: You are cordially... All throughout the R/T Building, posted on bulletin boards, scattered on tables, placed in tidy stacks on the bar in the Lounge are small squares of elegant ivory cardstock, engraved with text in a flowing calligraphy: You are cordially invited to attend A Masquerade Ball 23 June, 2661 8 o' clock in the evening Maison Huissier New Orleans Costumes Required Please arrive unarmed, weapons will be provided to guests at the door Throughout the revels, gifts and prizes will be awarded == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == OOC == The Masquerade Ball is being held on Tuesday December 28, starting at 8 PM Eastern Standard and running until nobody's having fun any more. Maison Hussier is in N'Orleans, west of the garden (from the ship requester, northwest twice and west once). The ballroom and parts of the house will be made public for the night. Anyone who is visibly (!) armed on arriving at the party will be asked politely to leave. Replicated weapons and a few specialty items will be made available. In addition, there will be door prizes for the guests culled from the Huissier vaults. Ammunition, special weapons, possibly some other surprises as well. -------------------------- Message 230 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Dec 19 20:06:19 2004 EST From: SnowHawk (#24690) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: SnowHawk SnowHawk went off to mindlessly train, stopping to vomit up the bitterness in her stomach. The headaches were back. Too many people, too many emotions. 'You can't help everyone, pick your fights.' Her senses were getting too confused. She knew better then to try to become a part of something, to try to make friends oh how she yearned to have something to belong to. Now she had caused grief to someone she hoped to befriend. She curls up into a ball under a cherry tree and cries it out. Better to put effort into building up her body, getting funds to pay the gods. She wonders if anyone of her tribe is left alive by now how to find the raiders weaknesses how to find the raiders. Maybe she should just stop trying to help others stop trying to save the world, instead just focus on the main goal. With a hardened resolve she goes back to planning and back to being lonely. -------------------------- Message 231 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Dec 30 13:28:44 2004 EST From: Rhianna (#37042) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Restless nights Rhianna awoke from another nightmare, sweating and nauseous. She had been weeping in her sleep. The only thing that could be said for these terrible dreams was that that's all they were simple, garden-variety dreams born of too much bad knowledge, too much sorrow. Too much anger. Strangely enough, she was almost glad of them. The anger that raced through her now was clean and hot, and she welcomed it. After so many weeks of feeling next to nothing, this rage and confusion reminded her that she was alive. That she had a purpose. She got up, moving her sword aside from its place on her bed, and went to open the window further. Humid night air rolled in, smelling faintly of the sea. Nothing like the air on the Mount, or the air in the wastes. There was something good, too, about the solitude on this island and for the first time since she'd returned to the realm, she was genuinely glad to be alone. What Chaaya had told her of the events of the 'party' after Owen had commanded Rhianna to leave had left her hurting for both Chaaya and for her own blind foolishness but she could not honestly say that the tale surprised her, and it was the lack of surprise that felt the worst. She sat down at her table, staring out the open window. She took a few breaths of fresh air, knowing that she would return to bed, return to sleep, return to the parade of awful dream imagery. A messy swarm of images hideous trees, Laurent, Gary, Chaaya... the Forest of Thorns. Her mother in a torn, green velvet gown. Some deep sense that this is what happens. This is what always happens. That there is no escaping this cycle of violence and suffering. She told herself, again, that she would go find her mother. Bring her back. That she would find a way to help Chaaya, whether Chaaya wanted that help or not. That she would, at last, make Owen and Scorch proud of her. That she would stop letting herself and everyone else down. And, as she had done so often these past few days, she shoved away the thought that perhaps her mother would not want to be brought back; that perhaps she had found a way to escape that no one else had the luxury of finding. She rose, crossed back to the bed, resigned herself to more troubled sleep. More ordinary nightmares. -------------------------- Message 232 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Mon Jan 10 21:10:29 2005 EST From: Leviathan (#37188) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: lost panther He walked through the corridor unnoticed, as he was trained to be. He slipped into the garage and saw an unconsious panther in Alux's arms... He knew at once it was a creature whose soul was bonded. Alux, not knowing what else to do with the creature, turned it over to him freely. He knew Leviathan's compassion for predators like himself but not his motivations. He gently carried the panther as though it were merely a large cat, into the dark recesses of his keep. He considered the soul bonding to a creature of prey a perversion... let the bonded seek him out and expect to be evaluated... but not empty-handed. Leviathan gently woke the sleeping cat and stroked its head absently. --------------------------