From quinn@fazigu.org Mon Apr 11 14:58:34 2005 Return-path: Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org Delivery-date: Mon, 11 Apr 2005 14:58:34 -0400 Received: from yami.57thstreet.com ([216.110.12.54]:4001) by work.fazigu.org with esmtp (Exim 4.50) id 1DL47F-0004VA-Ni for quinn@fazigu.org; Mon, 11 Apr 2005 14:58:34 -0400 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 j3BIwUEf043221 for ; Mon, 11 Apr 2005 18:58:30 GMT (envelope-from quinn@fazigu.org) Message-Id: <200504111858.j3BIwUEf043221@yami.57thstreet.com> Date: Mon, 11 Apr 2005 13:58:30 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 243 - 249 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=-0.2 required=5.0 tests=AWL,BAYES_05,HAIR_LOSS autolearn=no version=3.0.2 Status: RO Content-Length: 10672 Lines: 218 Message 243 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Feb 11 01:14:19 2005 EST From: Roscoe (#37209) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Here for a while The high pitched stacatto of alarms jolts Roscoe from dreamland, the acrid stench of frying electronics sends him running to the control room of The Seeker, a stream of expletives in his wake. He cuts the power to the console and injects halon, anger banging in his skull along with the hangover. He opens the gangway to let in air and heads to the aft lounge, punching buttons as he drops into a chair. "Seeker to Base... Damn!... Someone's getting gutted when I get back there. I TOLD them to rewire the main console! It's FRIED! This thing's nuthin more than a fancy schmancy living cube now.. Yeah, yeah, don't give me that crap... Damn straight I earn my pay. Listen, I'll do my job, but you better damn well get me out of this hole when I'm done." Roscoe groans and holds his head before slowly rising to fix a little hair-of-the-dog. Tomorrow he'll explore. -------------------------- Message 244 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Feb 12 21:47:25 2005 EST From: Ruby (#12541) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Searching Sixteen, returned to the world she had left ten years ago, the child is lost..nothing but fear shadows her green eyes. Hiding, her slender form takes with the skirting of the underbrush, small weapon in hand, she has no clue where to turn, what to do. (ooc) So, looking for a play partner. A Master of sorts to train her in the art of survival. If this is an interest to you, page me and lets play a game. -------------------------- Message 245 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Feb 17 15:54:21 2005 EST From: Yak (#20718) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Disease Yak ashed his marijuana cigarette behind the couch in the R/T Lounge. As Osbornn started yelling incoherently and ushering him out the door Yak came to a sudden understanding of things and they way they are... 'This place is ripe with disease and that disease is spreading... Something has infected the masses with a self-stuttering coma problem that doctors have called spooftus interuptus. We will call it spoofting for short. It is a danger and it must be cleansed before Osbornn himself stops serving drinks because he's infected', he said to no one in particular He stopped with the needless monologue and continued to stroll homeward. As he walked he decided to learn everything he could about this new 'spoofting' problem and would seek out those who are infected, and save them from themselves with a dose of doctor perscribed boomshell injection to the upper groin area. Yes, it was truly for the children... 'Such anti-social diseases are the worth things that can happen to my beloved Fake/Time. If the disease's spread can be halted then perhaps people will begin to seek each other out and communicate directly rather than sit in their tents spoofting with themselves and going blind while they grow hair on their palms.' he said as the monologue started up again for some reason. As he reached the Fake/Time Round Room and kicked back in the imitation security desk, Yak made a final promise to himself that the zombie spoofters would be destroyed and the submariner medics wouldn't have to work day and night perscribing boomshell injections for those who have been infected with Ghostwheel's new bane: Spooftus Interuptus. -------------------------- Message 246 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Feb 18 17:21:25 2005 EST From: Rhianna (#37042) To: *storylines (#5236) Rhianna sank into the Dreaming. For a long space, there was nothing. Only darkness. Only sinking. Down and down and under until she seemed to hit bottom. Felt herself stop. She drifted, and it seemed she heard the sound of drumming, from a very long ways off. Gradually, it seemed that she was sitting, clutching a scrap of fabric. She opened her eyes and saw nothing. It felt peaceful. Warm. She sat this way, in the darkness, thinking of nothing, for a long time. She might've been content to stay here, in the perfect warmth and silence. She could not remember why she came. What she was seeking. The turned the scrap over in her hands, all sense of time lost. What was this? And why? And then, she began the struggle to remember. A lute. A sheaf of writing. This scrap of fabric. Something terribly, dreadfully important. She began to swim. Moving through warm air like moving through water. Her brother's name, a word without sound. She moved, pressing forward into the sticky heat. She began to remember, to want, and to seek. As the heat grew, within her, around her, she pressed forward. Came to the door, a great arch of stone covered with carvings, and light beyond. She stepped through the door, into the sunlight of a summer day. A wide expanse of green, dotted with clumps of heather. The heat was astounding. And there he was. He smiled. Touched her face. Words passed between them that she sensed, but could not hear. It was nothing like it had been, before. Nothing like what she'd expected. She gave him the lute, the shirt, she'd lost the parchments along the way somewhere, and he forgave her that. He gave her a bundle, blue wool, wrapped around a clatter of objects. He left her. She had never been so warm in all her life; she began to feel as if she were made of fire. She schooled her patience, struggled to string together the things she was supposed to remember as she opened the bundle. Once the last tie was free, there was a heavy stillness followed by a riotous explosion in her mind. Too much. Too many images. She sank, again, into darkness. A long time passed before she saw the woman. A woman made of fire, whose touch on her face burned. A woman who smiled with an endless kindness, and whose touch made Rhianna feel as if she would die, consumed as she was by the fire. These images, these objects, these things to carry back to someone, somewhere. Someone loved, if only she could remember the name. The face. She sank again. In the end, it was the memory of touch that broke the bonds. The memory of flight that pulled her free and upward, while she strove, endlessly it seemed, for the surface, carrying her things with her. -------------------------- Message 247 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Feb 26 19:51:21 2005 EST From: Chaaya (#37181) To: *storylines (#5236) and *DragonRiders (#5915) Subject: Assessments A basso rumble, a bone-jarring shudder underfoot, a harsh crackle followed immediately by a plosive thump and all of a sudden shooting an unarmed man didn't seem quite so important any more. Quite a number of priorities shifted rapidly as Chaaya and the other residents stumbled through the dust-choked hallways of the Mount, trying to get a sense of what the quake had wrought. For example, when confronted with hip-high drifts of shattered rock and scree blocking the entrance to the Hatchery, the burning question of what colors of hatchlings Myr would clutch was all at once far less heated than the new question of whether she would be safe and healthy enough to clutch at all. And as she knelt to bind a bad makeshift splint around the forearm of a heavy-jawed man who she'd seen around the dining hall but never paid much attention, Chaaya found that her single greatest concern at that moment was trying to remember the man's name. It started with an M, she was sure of that much. Morry? Mortis? Something with an M. Even once the damage had been assessed and Yjezra, Ylaerin and Chaaya stood on the Ledge reassuring one another that it could have been worse, much worse, still there were more proofs that the importance of things had changed. All of a sudden protecting Rhianna's pride and privacy had to take a back seat to finding out whatever she had learned. Feelings were suddenly a far less vital commodity than knowledge, a sure sign that more had shifted on the Mount than a few cubic yards of stone. The time for wait-and-see was over. The time for go-and-find-out had begun. The time for Morlith was over. The time for some new place had come. A rumble, a shudder, a crackle, a thump; one age ended and another began. -------------------------- Message 248 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Mar 2 07:47:37 2005 EST From: Rhianna (#37042) To: *storylines (#5236) On the transport back to Jizo, Rhianna sat with her forehead pressing against the glass of the window, watching the blur of motion outside and trying not to think about anything at all. It wasn't working. There was too much to think about -- Laurent, Owen, Rill's words and warnings. Her own Seeings. Her mother's safety. Finding the place she'd dreamed so that the Aeyrie could move. Her relationship with Trae -- how desperately she wanted it to work, and how she knew it would be tested in the coming months. Stepping off the transport and into the sandy soil she made up her mind to stop off at one of her favorite spots before heading back to the Hacienda. She made her way down the beach, through the campgrounds, down into the ravine. She glanced up before slipping behind the curtain of water to see her sparrowhawk gliding above her, keeping watch. Once inside the sandy little cavern, she felt safe. As if no one could find her. The noise of the water crashing down over most of the entrance made a roaring in her head that wiped out everything but what she was feeling. And she surrendered herself to exhaustion, to worry, to fear -- she surrendered herself to thinking about what was, what would be, what might have been. She wept, which she did not do often, and since she was alone, she felt no shame in doing it. After a time, she slipped out of the cavern, washed her face in the waterfall, headed for what passed for home these days. Geir plummeted down, hovered a moment, and then set himself lightly on her shoulder. She could hope that Trae wouldn't notice that she'd been crying, but she knew he would. She would explain what she could, and leave the rest for some other time. Some time after sleeping. Some time when she once again might have the illusion of peace. -------------------------- Message 249 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Mar 2 16:59:32 2005 EST From: Augustus (#18463) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Buffalo Stink Owners of the infamous Buffalo robes and headdress will find that their garments are rotten and infested with fleas and other critters. They fairly quickly turn into a pile of moldy goo and fade into nevermore. --------------------------