From quinn@fazigu.org Thu Sep 08 14:52:20 2005 Return-path: Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org Delivery-date: Thu, 08 Sep 2005 14:52:20 -0400 Received: from yami.57thstreet.com ([216.110.12.54]) by work.fazigu.org with esmtp (Exim 4.50) id 1EDRVT-0008JR-NH for quinn@fazigu.org; Thu, 08 Sep 2005 14:52:20 -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 j88IwfbB029927 for ; Thu, 8 Sep 2005 18:58:41 GMT (envelope-from quinn@fazigu.org) Message-Id: <200509081858.j88IwfbB029927@yami.57thstreet.com> Date: Thu, 8 Sep 2005 13:58:41 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 278 - 287 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=-0.9 required=5.0 tests=AWL,BAYES_50,DRUGS_MUSCLE autolearn=no version=3.0.2 Status: RO Content-Length: 19523 Lines: 377 Message 278 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Mon Jul 11 18:01:42 2005 EDT From: Laurent (#14050) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: The Great Invasion Laurent Huissier sat sprawled and casual in the dragonthrone of Uruken, a glass of bourbon in one hand and an empty longsword sheath in the other. "Well that was fun." Maeghauis turned its great bone skull to look at him, the floating red pinpoints of light that serve as its eyes flaring briefly. "You have unusual notions of fun. But I have said as much before." It began to pace up and down the length of the Thantum chamber, displaying what in a living creature might be restlessness or agitation. A grin and Laurent tossed the sheath aside, sending it skittering across the stone floor. "Admit it, you all enjoyed yourselves. There hasn't been a good clean fight up here in years." "That was hardly good or clean. And only barely a fight. A half-dozen fools with a warp tube and replicated weapons, we might as well have let Ag'hakku deal with them alone." It always baffled Laurent how the dry and fleshless voice of a wyrm could contain so much expression. Contempt, this time. Laurent shrugged. "I don't really think they expected it to work. If they did, they would have brought their pretty toys." The wyrm rocked its head from side to side in a considering way, a gesture more snakelike than birdlike. "Do you think it was a serious move from the militia?" For a moment, Laurent considered that. "No. The Sagittarian is many kinds of a fool, but he wouldn't have staged that little debacle. Even had he been uncreative enough to play the trick with the bird and the warp tube, he would have been smart enough to wait longer than a few hours before trying to invade. I think we can chalk this one up to youthful enthusiasm." >From some unimaginable place within the wyrm, a rumble of bitter laughter. "You are always excusing idiotic behavior on the basis that the idiot is young." Those carmine lights flared again, watching Laurent keenly. Taking a swallow of bourbon to stall, Laurent finally said, "I was a fool when I was young, the new generation is the same. It's the way of life." Maeghauis nodded and commented, apparently without feeling that it was switching conversational tracks, "She's back, then." Another swallow of liquor and this time Laurent looked away to say, "She is. In flesh, at least. Not yet in power." The wyrm let out a long, low hiss of disapproval. "Our alliance is with you, Huissier. Not the swan. Remember that, and do not promise that which you cannot deliver." Laurent drained the last of the amber liquid from his glass and then waved the empty tumbler about airily. "I never forget the state of things between us, lovely Maeghauis. Not for a moment." With that he stood up and started toward the living quarters. As he walked, he either did not notice or pretended not to notice way the wyrm watched his every move with the patient hunger of the predator. Even once the Cajun had disappeared into his luxurious cavern, the wyrm watched the spot where he had disappeared, its pinpoint eyes flat and vicious with plans. -------------------------- Message 279 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Tue Jul 12 23:05:32 2005 EDT From: Mirg (#11887) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Rites of Passage Moving in ritual unison, the priestesses washed the body with cloths soaked in palm wine. They rinsed it with fresh water from the river in Dixie, Nile water not being readily available. Six thousand years after the first of their number had wielded a skolios sideros, these four performed with perfect focused attention every step of the ritual, however minute. Every organ cut reverently from its anchoring, wrapped in pristine linen and packed with natron before being placed in the canopic jars. The gods would protect the drying flesh in all the centuries to come. Imsety would guard the liver, Hapy the lungs, jackal-headed Duamutef the stomach. A final rinsing and anointing in oil, and they began wrapping the body in sacred white linen strips. Placing the Plummet and Isis knot amulets in the cloth, murmuring spells and prayers as they worked. Whatever mistakes the man had made in life, in death he would have every possible opportunity. Somewhere, the soul of Lucious McLaine had already been weighed against Maat's feather. Whether it had then gone to Ammut or Osiris might be debatable, but his body would be preserved forever in the temple of Bast, a monument to the respect Bast's followers show to their foes. -------------------------- Message 280 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Jul 13 03:51:06 2005 EDT From: Einar (#37205) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: The change of tides.. Darkness embraced the room, and the only light being brought forth was that of candles placed lined on the dresser. In perfect alignment a mirror hung above the dresser. It's lining that of a deep red wood carved with symbols beyond that of most knowledge. In silence Einar stood before the dresser locking her emerald gaze to the mirror only to look back onto her self. The tresses of obsidian drenched with water no longer held the spark of colour onto them. Within the tender grasp of the right hand laid the letter and envelope that was delivered to her just merely days ago. Her chest rose as a deep breath was inhaled and moments passed before it was released. The hand rose to set down the blood stained letter and envelope, and with careful maneuvering she placed them aligned against one another. Her finger tips brushed the letter as the words were read once again, focusing upon the last that Lucious would forever be her's. Within the grasp of her left hand was a single red rose that soon was pulled to her lips. A brief kiss was delivered upon the petals as eyelids rolled shut, though through would emerge tears running across her cheeks. A tone merely above a whisper would drift past the crimson lips, "As I to you, Lucious.." Her arm stretched out placing the rose onto the goodbye letter. Her hand instantly came to touch upon her face to brush away the tears before dropping to her side. "Let the unjust turn the tides and let just come full stride." She reached for each cuff of the shirt, pulling them straighter to make herself look presentable before taking one last look into the mirror. "Please remember that even though I never spoke how I felt towards you, that you will remember even in death. Everything will be alright, and so will I in time but your memory will never fade from my mind nor my heart. I shall cherish each scarce precious moment we had together and smile upon the fact that I did at least know you." Her knees quaked beneath her, as if wishing to give out as a hand reaches down for the leather book bag to draw it over her shoulder and walk out the door. -------------------------- Message 281 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Jul 14 14:29:51 2005 EDT From: SnowHawk (#24690) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: emotions Snowhawk brings the last red-hot stone into sweat lodge, a pinch of cedar sizzles and smokes from its surface as an offering, and closes the flap to bring darkness. She breathes deeply, her eyes seeing nothing but the red glow of the stones, the heat bringing her body to a feverish sweat. A drum beat, and a song as the ceremony begins... a ceremony of purification and prayer. The feeling of spirits, blue sparks within the lodge. She pours water upon the stones, sending dense steam to add to the heat, her voice now in prayer... "Oh Great Mystery, those of Your creation that guide us, Father Sky, Mother Earth, and the Four Winds. It is I, Your granddaughter, humbled before You, begging Your help and guidance." SnowHawk lowers her head, feeling her eyes fill with tears... "I have much to be thankful, such great gifts You have given me. My hands and heart are Yours, to do Your will. To be fair and just, to see beyond the facade, these things I always seek." a pause, another pouring of water, steam hisses... "You have given me the courage to try to center myself, to try to take in the emotions thrown at me.. Oh, how I try. They overwhelm me! So many strong emotions from some beings, it is difficult! To learn and know the truths, this gift can help. But it can also hinder, and draw me to do what may not be right. Oh, Great Spirit, Earth Mother... I beg You, please. Help me to be able to sift the emotion thrown at me, to let it help guide instead of overwhelm." SnowHawk pauses, letting the steam and heat do their job. To Purify. The spirits about her linger, the drum beat continues, her voice almost a whisper, "Earth Mother, allow me to help heal this earth, these beings that need healing. Let me continue to be able to heal minds, but also bodies. To be able to cleanse that which has been defiled." She feels herself lay upon the ground, the earth cooler against her bare skin. The visions begin, mixed with the actions of the last few days. A fluttering of white wings, the graceful curve of long swan neck. Glowing red eyes and blackness following the crash of bony tail. A sense of great unsettling power with pale gray eyes. ... then the worms. She remembers the worms with a smile. The chance meeting of Raze on Jizo, confusing mumblings, but a story that burned into her. Three worms... come upon an apple. The first worm says, 'It is red.' The second worm says, 'It is green.' The third worm says, 'Ah! It is half red and half green!'. All three worms told the truth, but only one, the third worm, was accurate. Snow mumbles, "Let me strive to be the Third Worm." -------------------------- Message 283 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Tue Jul 19 18:42:59 2005 EDT From: Mynerva (#37283) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: dragon mage I got an eye for da dead. Aint no trick, just live and work wit dem too long. To much to long, now i got dem spirits coming at me so loud I cant ignore dem anymore. I was born wit dem dead magicks. Da kind make you wish you was born under some rainbow instead, but you aint. So I come out one day, getting me a little peice of mind against da sick dat some of dem dead carry around, and way up high I see dat man who ride da bones come down from da top of his mountain. He swoop dis way and dat, all flashy like he got sumptin to prove. Next ting I know I got dat man and his big ole bones right in front of me. He got a job for me he says. He say he got an eye on soma my dead magicks. He tells me he hear all about dem from somebody, and dey say I got da dark juju. I aint ever thought of it dat way, but next ting you know, I get me a job way up high on dat mountain he always come down from. Got me a hole in dat rock where da dead got manners and know how ta whisper. And I got a dark VeVe for anybody who gonn try and take it from me. -------------------------- Message 284 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Jul 23 16:55:37 2005 EDT From: Ruby (#12541) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Today And Every Day. Already sunburned from the early spring heat that seemed to grasp the wastelands, she walked the fading painted lines upon the broken highway. Stripped down to her panties, the white cotton glared under the sun, ruffles dancing about her small bottom as she followed the men on her tiptoes as if not to burn the heels of her small feet. The canteen that hung from a leather strap off her left shoulder produced tears of sweat to slide in dusty lines over her fragile breasts. The men chattered in a language she did not understand, their large Mechs taking fore and aft as they moved down the buckled highway. Ruby was not granted the comfort of one of the large machines even though her back ached under the weight of her pack. No longer a slave to one, she was now a slave to the harshness of life. Suddenly her thoughts turned to the other night where she had almost, just inches, made her way back home. Home where she would be cared for, home where she would be pretty in silk and loved again. Home where Laurent would protect her. So hard she tried not to picture the face of Dera, her hate that glared down at Ruby from eyes that the child loved. Ruby reached up, a touch to the hilt of her katana, this simple act brought a deep sadness to the child as she trudged slowly in the sun, but with the sadness came strength, for she would prevail, she would never give up, and maybe one day she would fight side by side with the woman she loved. -------------------------- Message 285 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Jul 24 02:30:07 2005 EDT From: Owen (#15637) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: OOC: About a White Lady There seems to be a huge amount of misinformation, misunderstanding, upset and furor about the White Lady plot. I'm not quite sure where things got so tangled, but it seems to be time (and past) to clear some things up about it in an OOC way. So here's the straight scoop on the White Lady. When originally conceived, this wasn't an 'open' plot or a 'closed' plot. It was just a plot. An idea of some cool stuff that hopefully would spark some RP and give people stuff to talk about. There were a few goals for it, a broad idea of certain events that might happen (a party, a large confrontation in a public area that might or might not turn into a brawl, etc.), a few vaguer ideas of OOC stuff that it might accomplish (using it as an IC venue for releasing some of the spells Heretic has been developing, for example) and that's it. No great mystery and no ulterior motive except that it was supposed to allow me to find an IC way to figure out what to do with Owen. I love the character of Owen, but the controversy about his stats, his relationship to Moonheart, his sword, and whatever else people have found to point at and shout 'unfair!' had gotten old. Plus, let's be honest, playing the world's biggest and most powerful Boy Scout gets kind of boring after a while. So I came up with the idea for this White Lady thing that was eventually going to go one of three ways: Owen would leave the Realm forever, Owen would turn evil, or Owen would continue in this benevolent semi-retirement I've had him in for the past months. I liked the idea of letting that choice come out of the roleplay and not deciding ahead of time what the character's fate was going to be. Only when the time came to actually kick the plot into gear, I started hearing complaints. Primarily what I was hearing was that people felt that the plot was being 'forced' on them. That their right of consent was being taken away and they felt that they were being compelled to play in a situation that wasn't comfortable for them. So I pulled the plot back. Common sense--if it's stepping on people's toes, remove it from play. Only it seemed a shame to scrap it entirely, so I talked it over with the other major characters and we decided to try to run it anyway, just keep it lower-key and smaller-scale. It seemed like a good solution. Instead of going out and enacting big scenes in public places to try to move things along, we started talking to folks OOCly ahead of time to make sure they wanted to play. Thus, no forcing the plot on anybody. It took some of the fun out of it since we lost some of the spontenaity that good MOO roleplay is all about, but at least we were (we thought) able to play out our plot without offending people. Except then all of a sudden I'm being scolded for 'elitism' and 'exclusivity' because I'm running a Closed Plot. The exact same people who complained because they were being 'forced' to deal with the White Lady were now upset because they were being denied the opportunity. Then all these rumors started flying around about how the White Lady was just an excuse for enacting some elaborate OOC revenge, or was a mage-only plot, or a thinly-veiled excuse for Heretic to give out a bunch of game-unbalancing toys to his friends, or the whole plot was just a personal game for me, Heretic, Scorch and our alts. Of all of these rumors, only the last has any truth and only in this: The White Lady is a family drama involving Owen, Moonheart and Scorch. It's not a great big story that we closed down to exclude everyone else, it's a little tiny story that we tried to open up to include other people. So just to be really clear here, guys. The White Lady plot is nothing grand, nothing mysterious, nothing malevolent. It's not meant to seperate the elite from the common folk, it's not an excuse to distribute riches to our friends, and it's definitely not some OOC vengeance being enacted through the medium of roleplay. It's just a plot. If you want to play in it, we will (and have been trying to) include anyone who wants to be included. If you don't want to play in it, you aren't missing a chance at riches, magic, or reward. All you're missing is some RP about fae and families. It's just a plot, guys. Chill out. Owen. -------------------------- Message 286 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Jul 27 02:17:54 2005 EDT From: Ydhana (#37181) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Safe Against the Time With movements so tightly controlled that her knuckles stood out white and her wrists trembled visibly, Ydhana pulled the sword out of her knapsack and set it in place in the weapons rack. A flick of the iron catches and the sword was locked into place, she stepped back to survey the results of her work. The mahogany case all but bristled with weaponry. Good strong blades, bows, the long heavy lances that were so awkward on the ground but were, once one learned the not-inconsiderable skill needed to wield them, so ferociously effective from dragonback. A trident, a few spears, even a pair of ugly guns with a box of ammunition resting beneath them. Everything she could gather, tens of thousands of crystals worth of the best weapons she could find. But it had all been trash without the sabre. Resting in the curved hooks at the top of the cabinet, Nightsong shone coldly. Its jewel-touched runes glittered despite the steadiness of the light, the long slender blade seeming more solid than the objects around it. The only sword in the Eagle's Realm forged specifically for the purpose of fighting the undead. The only blade that rumor or research could find that might be capable of killing a wyrm. And now it was here, locked into a weapons rack against the day it would be needed, as safe as she could make it. Looking at the array of weapons before her, a tension across Ydhana's shoulders and back suddenly released. The sword, the rack, the cavern. Her lover, her BondMate, her friends. Her home. All of them were at last as safe as she could make them. -------------------------- Message 287 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Jul 29 01:08:37 2005 EDT From: SnowHawk (#24690) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Dreams SnowHawk crawls out of the sweat lodge, her head aching. Slowly she dresses, her hands shaking. They are coming more often now... these dreams, or are they visions? Even when trying to gain a centering calm they interupt. Flashes of being pulled under into the stench of a rotting swamp, being held by horrid things... overwhelming panic and the welling up of unending screams. She gathers her things and heads for the RT. Perhaps a drink or two will allow her to sleep, for a little while at least. --------------------------