Justric

The Orphan's Wedding

The figure struggled closer, and Victor was filled with worry for her. Was it some camp follower out looking for her man, to see if he had fallen injured behind the advancing line? Or worse, was it a looter? There were those that followed armies in one role or another but whose true purpose was to rob from the dead, their deeds hidden by the fog of war. And should they find an injured man, he would be dead soon enough and riper for the picking. Fearing the latter, Victor scrambled up against the cart as his hand sought out his rifle. Where was it, where was it, where was it?! The only thing his hands could find was stout cane.

Her voice came again, much nearer than he expected, and whirling about he found himself almost face to face with-

"Miss Kijani?!" he cried in confusion. Victor whipped his head around, scanning the orchard rows about them and seeing no sign of the shell pocked landscape or dying men that had been there moments ago. He could still smell the smoldering smoke, his nose telling him that it was simply wood and not the lung choking stench of gunpowder and cordite. The explosions were in the heavens, not falling around them. He felt shamed, embarrassed by his lapse. Looking back at her, Victor grimaced. He was angry, angry at her for bothering to come after him and angry at himself for putting her in danger by dragging her out into what had to be one of the worst storms he'd ever seen. "What the hell are you doing out here?! You're going to-"

The horse whinnied again and floundered. So close were they to the horse the Victor quite clearly heard the snap of the best's one rear leg as it stumbled in the mud and slipped once more. Victor forced back a groan. With a broken leg, the cart horse was useless to him now. The beast was of no use to anyone save as glue and meat, for being a gelding he couldn't even put it out to pasture. What he could do, however, was put it out of its misery. The storm still raged overhead. The lightning and thunder began to slowly die off and fade, yes, but the rains came down all the harder and began to bring hail. Small white balls of ice bounded off of them.

Ignoring the pelting, Victor grimly drew his knife and dragged himself around Kijani. "Stay here!" he shouted, trying to push her into the lea of the wagon. There was no way of knowing if she had ever endured weather like this, and so Victor wanted to make sure his guest was as protected as she could be while he tended to a last mercy. Some sensibility also told him that she would not want to see what he was about to do. Crawling through the mud, he made his way safely to the horse's head from behind. There was no preamble, no warning. Victor murmured an apology to the normally obliging beast before reaching over and expertly slitting its throat. The blood fountained up to spray across the mud of the track. It soaked Victor's one arm, only to be washed away again by the heavy rains. He'd had to put horses down before, and it was never an easy thing for him; it was funny how he'd learn to kill men in battle so efficiently and yet felt such sorrow at the death of a simple beast. Closing his eyes, he murmured a small prayer for the creature before wiping off his knife and sheathing it again.

For several moments, he simply sat there, exposed to the wind, rain, and hail as he leaned against the now deceased horse as tried to regain his senses.

World of Darkness (Boston)

Well, seeing as how there has been no Hunter activity in "3 weeks" and no Sabbat activity in "4 weeks", and both of those were mine, I think I shall unsubscribe now. Best of luck to the Camarilla and the Garou!

The Orphan's Wedding

I'm just about to run off on a night time errand, but I should be back in about 40 minutes (a little after 11pm). I plan on being a bad boy and staying up until midnight tonight.

The Orphan's Wedding

Have to say, it looks like you might have found your muse again, at least for the moment! And, boy, she is beautiful!

The Bonny Black Hare

He deftly followed her instructions, albeit with a few errors as to which cupboard or drawer she meant at any given time, and soon the table was set before them with a feast that was simple but mouth watering. James, once the drinks were poured, sat down as well across from Brenna with a sheepish grin. “Not used to doing the serving,” he admitted sheepishly, “Rather enjoyed it actually.”

Her question caught him by surprise, and James had to chuckle at himself again. “Oh, yes. The state of me when I appeared upon your doorstep. Chasing a legend, I’m told. I was hosting a hunt, you see, to be followed by a grand dinner afterwards. No doubt all and sundry are wondering where I am now, though I must say I prefer the current company. Ah, but one of my guests put a word on my ear as to a local myth, a fabulous hare that can outrun any hunter or hound, a cunny so black as to be night with fur so silken as have come from the Orient: The Bonny Black Hare. Some sort of local superstition, I gather. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Giving a shrug that indicated his own foolishness, James sighed as he admitted to folly. “No sooner had my guest told me this when out of the scrub comes just such a beast! Determined to prove that this was no ghost or witch to sour milk and scare babes, I was away and after it before I could think twice on the matter.” There came a genuine laugh. “I won’t say this hare was the fabled creature of local color, but God’s Breath! It could run!”

James paused for a moment, lost in the recent recollection of watching the hare seemingly fly across the forest’s ground and the memory of his admiration. His voice was full of awe. Staring into the flames of fireplace, he could almost imagine seeing it all over again in the dancing light. “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen such a thing, but this hare was… amazing. It ran as though not just for its life, but for the love of the run! It was as though this hare loved the hunt just as much as I did, that it was all a grand game for its own amusement! It… No, she, I’m positive now it was a she thought I couldn’t tell you why. She was… beautiful…”

He fell to silence, a faint smile of regret upon his lips that the chase was over and that he might never have such a hunt again in his life, successful or not. Then James glanced towards Brenna and chuckled. “No doubt you think me a foolish man. So did this hare! She led my poor Ninny right up to the ruins of an old well house, where my horse decided that I required bathing posthaste and then threw me into the pond there where I learned quite what it must be to live like a frog. Not finding it to my liking, and not knowing exactly where I was, I set out to find this place. My uncle’s solicitor had mentioned it to me, but assured me it was nothing more than a four walls with neither roof nor chimney.”

Raising his wooden mug in Brenna’s honor, he smirked. “As always, I was happy to find a man of the law to be completely and utterly wrong!”

The Orphan's Wedding

The buckles kept slipping in his hands, the freezing water making his fingers numb and the harness difficult to remove. All the while, Victor cursed and muttered under his breath as the cart horse neighed and screamed agains the flashing lightning and now ground quaking thunder. The beast was scared witless. In such a panic, it could easily lash out with a hoof to catch Victor in the thigh or chest to leave him in a heap upon the ground, only Victor did not want to see the animal further hurt itself as it rolled about between the wagon traces. “Damn you!” he shouted finally, “Be still while I-“

A sudden blinding flash and explosive din, and Victor was transported back to the battlefield. In his ears the screams of the horse became the cries of the dead and dying about him, the cart nothing more than a cannon’s carriage. Victor slipped in the mud, his bad leg giving out beneath him. The storm began to reach its peak, the thunder and lightning becoming mortar and artillery fire all about him. The old soldier’s fear rose in his breast. Eyes wide and wild, Victor cursed again as he dragged himself forward through the mud away from the wounded animal. Where was the reinforcing regiments?! Where was his battalion?! What addled generation had commanded an attack in the middle of storm?! Every bilesome vexation he could call down upon the heads of his commanders found rebirth in his mouth as he crawled through the rain.

Only the storm and memories became as one to him. A current set of strikes blazed down upon the orchard, setting fire to a nearby set of trees and adding the smell of ozone and smoke to the misery. Hastily, Victor scrambled back to the shelter of the artillery carriage as he glanced about in heart pounding terror. In the shadows between trees, he thought he could see men running forward, always forward. “Get back here, you idiots!” he screamed at them. “Reform! Reform, damn you!” The phantoms in his mind pushed forward though, ignoring him as he begged and pleaded and ranted at them not to through their lives away. Victor tried to rise only to slip once more as he knee buckled. Had he been shot on the leg or taken shrapnel? He couldn’t recall, he only knew he had been wounded and that it hurt like hell. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he watched troops in his mind charge off to their bloody, explosive demises… and he could do nothing to stop them because of his useless leg.

The last of the soldiers were gone, vanished among the orchard’s trees and the heavy smoke from the rapidly smoldering trees; they had flamed briefly, but the torrents had quickly extinguished the flames to leave a haze of smoke and fog between the raindrops. Leaning weakly against the cart as the horse gave once last whinny before collapsing, Victor cursed the skies and the men beneath it who thought that land and wealth was worth more than other men’s lives.

The his ears caught it. Someone was calling his name, calling out for him from the darkness. The sound brought confusion for it was a woman’s voice! How had she come out onto the field?! Didn’t the fool woman know the danger?! A sniper might well sight in on the spark of her lantern, his attention caught by the force of her voice over the roar of the battle in his head and in the heavens! An artillery shell could pick up and fling her against the landscape in bloody chunks across the landscape! Hell, their own side could order a charge and she would be run down by the hooves of the heavy cavalry before they ever saw her.

Fearing for her, Victor screamed out to her. “Over here! Over here, quick like!” Another burst of lightning and Victor shielded his face against the blaze. “God damn it, woman, get down before you’re shot!”

The Highwayman Came Riding

Reynard seemed glad enough of just the peck upon his cheek, thrilled even! Even in the moonlight within their private grotto, the flush upon his cheeks beneath the mask were clear for it was a blush of both embarrassment and thrill. They luncheoned in the dark, drank, and laughed. The wine began to go to their heads after a time, yet he remained the gentleman throughout! Caught up in the moment, the Lord Reynard found himself just as fully engaged by Lady Greensleeves spirit as her earthly charms. Perhaps more so! For as they talked and jested, he found in her a lively wit and wily intelligence that he expected most would never suspect of this country maid.

Their parting come the pre-dawn was reluctant, with Reynard escorting her on foot to the forest’s edge where upon he kissed the back of her hand as if Bess were some grand lady. Recklessly, he paused there and watched her go. His Greensleeves was long out of sight and the sun was starting to rise by the time he finally turned to go.

The Highwayman found his heart curiously light. Was it missing? Had she stolen fit away from the road agent? Reynard had only meant to grant Bess a thank you for granting him the liberty of her silence the other week, and now found himself thinking more and more of her. God’s Breath, why did the next full moon have to be so far away?! As he rode towards the crofter’s cottage where he lodged by the secret forest paths, Reynard cast his mind to what pleasure and sights he might grace Greensleeves with the next time and what wonders he might show her. Another midnight repast, certainly. Better still… a gift. Something she could wear openly, something she might appreciate that wouldn’t raise awkward questions or raised eyebrows as to her character. Reynard decided he would dedicate himself to the hunt, then, both for such a trinket…

…and for Greensleeves herself. After all, what did he have to lose?

***

Late that next afternoon, he set out again upon his quest for revenge and gold. The Season was near enough to its end, and there would be carriages galore upon the road as the wealthy made their ways from the city to the countryside. There would be balls, as well, dances and soirees and cotillions for the young to preen and prim before prospective mates like colorful birds. The old ones would natter and chatter and gossip. It would be all matchmaking and one-ups-manship as social lions and lionesses scrapped for their place in society. Reynard had always been amazed at how the smiles were truly bared teeth and how pity was nothing more than patronizing.

In many ways, he regarded his self-chosen career as a highwayman to be that of an equalizer. And the expensive carriage that made its way towards his chosen point of ambush certainly looked in need of lightening! Was it so poorly constructed that it sat so low upon its suspension springs?? Or did it have some great weight upon it to make it sag so? Reynard hoped for the latter, for great weight might mean great wealth!

He waited this time, allowing enough time for the carriage to just pass before he urged his black beast from out the wood and onto the road. The two men were looking ahead and to the sides, not towards their flank, and so Reynard made his assault from that direction. It also gave the highwayman the chance to see if any bodyguards might follow as they had the other night. Luck was with him, however, and the carriage was without escort. The grin beneath his mask was bright and savage as he road out immediately behind the conveyance.

His heart was beating fiercely in his chest as his mount galloped up close enough for him to grasp a luggage rail and swing himself atop and behind the drivers. Both driver and footman looked around, startled at the unexpected commotion, and right into the bore of horse pistols each. Behind those guns the Highwayman knelt and gave the feared cry that drivers and wagoneers alike feared: “Stand and deliver!”

The driver, well experienced and no fool, sighed in resignation and pulled back on the reigns to slow the horses to a stop before raising his hands high in the air. The footman was not so experienced, and was either strong in bravery or strong in ignorance; his hands he began to raise up as the carriage slowed, only to then dive beneath his cloak to fetch out a pistol of his own. Without regret, Reynard fired his pistol into the man’s skull. The corpse rolled up its eyes and slipped from the bench to tumble down upon the road with a sigh. Cocking an eye at the driver, Reynard looked back towards the driver whose only response was to shake his head in exasperation. Brave? Ignorant? It hardly mattered, for either quality meant death.

The driver then slipped from the bench as well, stepping towards the compartment door and giving three hard raps against it. He eyed the road agent up the roof as he called out, “Madam? There is a… gentleman who wished to speak with you.”

Reynard grinned all the wider at the driver’s wit, and what looked to be a promising prize with which he might woo his Greensleeves…

The Last Kings of Orion

Name: Robert S. Bach

Gender: Male

Age: 31

Eyes: Dark brown

Hair: Dark brown

Occupation/Position: Neuro-Computer Interface Technician

Background: Robert, known better as Hob to his friends, has done it all. He's been on the stage as actor and musician, worked behind the scenes in art galleries and guerrilla theatre, busked on street corners from LA to NY, chalked sidewalk scenes right out of Mary Poppins, wrote short stories from a wide variety of genres, and sculpted a wide variety of projects from countless mediums (specializing in "found art".) The only trouble is... he hasn't been particularly great at any of it. Not that he ever actually failed at any of his artistic endeavors, Hob just never reached that level of greatness where he would be recognized by anyone outside a select circle. His parents and younger siblings were encouraging but never outright proud of him; they remained living in the quiet suburbia of Portland, Oregon as he galavanted wherever he found his muse.

The onslaught of The Change brought all of that to an end. At first, people threw themselves in any entertainment they could find in an effort to distract themselves, and in a perverse twist of events Hob found himself actually making money! That rapidly changed, almost as fast as the Earth itself. As more and more of the globe was covered, panic set in. No one had time for the arts anymore, at least not ones they had to spend money on! Hob's livelihood dried up, and so did the careers of his friends and acquaintances. Down and out, he found himself sharing an apartment with six other artists in Chicago and barely making rent. Outside, the crime rates soared; society was rapidly breaking down in the law of "take what you want."

So it came as no real surprise when, one night while trudging back from an unsuccessful gig, he was abducted by a bunch of men in suits driving a black van. Hob was almost resigned to whatever might come next: murder, rape, enslavement... What he had not been expecting was a job offer.

Taken to a quiet office in the middle of nowhere, he was informed that his imagination was needed for a special project of the government's. The requirements called for someone of extreme artistic ability and imagination, someone who could look at the world differently than the average person on the street. If that wasn't Hob in a nutshell, no one was! Only... the job in question was for a computer technician. Hob protested in honesty, fully admitting he had no experience with computers outside of using the internet from time to time and had only a vague idea of how one was even put together. He still remembered the recruiting agent sitting behind his desk dressed all the world like Mr. Smith from those old Matrix movies; the man had smiled like a jackal and uttered one word: "Perfect." It was then that it became more and more 'an offer he couldn't refuse.' Hob was bundled off to someplace he only ever heard referred to as The Mountain and enrolled in a series of training programs that made no sense whatsoever at first. At least, they didn't make sense until they came for him in the middle of the night for the surgery. Hob was never sure exactly how long it took, but in an induced coma he was forced to undergo a number of cranial surgeries in which rudimentary implants were installed. By the time he recovered, small silver disks rested on both of his temples.

Hob went into a rage, trashing his spartan room to his utmost before a counselor was finally called in to talk with him. Surprised at Hob's ignorance of the situation, the counselor dedicated himself to explaining exactly what the hell had been going on and what was being done to him.

Neuro-computer interfacing, it was called. It was the final leap into melding the human consciousness into the digital world. One didn't need to know programming languages or structures or any of it, merely had to have the imagination and force of will to create what they wanted in their heads. By extension of the terminals that were now wired into his skull, Hob was one of the very few humans who would ever be able to do so. The computer network on the new ark, the Copernicus, needed every person the military could lay their hands on to interface with it. His abduction and forced training had been regrettable but necessary, he was assured. Out of the nearly seven thousand people who would be aboard the Copernicus, only seventeen had the mental capacity and the imagination to act as these human interfaces, and Hob would be the eighteenth and last. As foolish as it might seem to tie humanity's last hope into such new technology, the benefits were too hard too ignore for the ship's designers: the neuro system was faster and more reliable, it took up less space, energy, and resources. So long as there was at least three technicians "plugged" into the network at any given time, the ship should not have any computer issues on the software (now "wetware") end. The rest was up to the maintenance crews to deal with the hardware.

Having no real choice, Hob finally capitulated and accepted his fate. He left the Earth behind, never knowing the fate of his family or any of his friends across the States. The only personal items he had were those things he was carrying when he had been abducted, the prize of which was an accordion that no one wanted him to play. He threw himself into the training sequences then. Where he could not longer create art with his hands, he began to do so with his mind. When he was logged into the ship's neurocomputer, he was part of a pantheon of gods and goddess who bent virtual reality to their will.

Which was when he discovered the next blow. The system was not a perfect escape from reality. It could induce any number of psychosis, and team members had to subject themselves to regular counseling and psychiatric sessions in addition to monitoring each other. Worse were the ghosts. When a technician disconnected from the system, a mental imprint was left behind, an echo of that technician that the next guy or gal would have to deal with. The ghosts couldn't cause any damage, but they could be incredibly distracting! They were the residual copies of surface thoughts, emotions, and memories of the prior techs, and they floated through the system until they eventually faded away. The stronger the thought, the longer it would linger. Personality conflicts arose out of this until some technicians absolutely refused to use the same terminal as certain others. Hob and some of the other technicians also have reported to counselors the fear that these memories and impressions were somehow consolidating to form an artificial intelligence deep within the computer's core, a possibility that the designers, hardware engineers, and counselors all believe to be impossible.

Now Hob is beginning to wonder what it means if he and the others are right... and what it means if they are wrong.

World of Darkness (Boston)

You know, I can't think of any group RPs I've ever been involved with that have lasted more than two or three pages. I'm starting to think I'm jinxed when it comes to these things.

And people wonder why I mostly stick to 1X1s...

The Orphan's Wedding

I don't think it's too much, for several reasons.

Firstly, it's your character. If you feel she has an appreciation for the type of man that he seems to be, then her action are perfectly justified! Who can better say what your character would or would not do than you, after all? My impression is that she is a person of action. If she wasn't, she would never have left her family to begin with. Being a person of action, it makes far more sense for the character to actually do something instead of just sitting around and worrying to no one's benefit.

Secondly, the story needs some dramatic action now and then, to vary both the pace and the events. Events such as the sudden storm I dreamed up (we've been having on and off thunder showers the past two weeks up here and it stuck in my head), will not only allow Kijani and Victor to grow gradually closer in the immediate but will also allow for a sort of ripple effect that will continue throughout the story. Without giving too much away, Victor will be both upset and pleased that she came out to look for him...

I wouldn't say the characters are in love with one another or anything like that, not yet. Yes, Victor is going to notice her charms as a woman; a rough life such as the one he led, you really can't expect any less! What I think is that they are growing a respect for one another and eventually an understanding. And that there is what will turn this into a proper love story, I think.

Off to bed now! I should have a reply for you tomorrow!