NationStates Jolt Archive

For being distinctly Welsh, Ciwdod Cymraeg ('Welsh Nation') draws a lot from Scotland.

And so we announce the Games - an annual celebration of heritage. Events will include the tossing of the caber, shot-put, the preparation of haggis and various other forms of culinary art, and displays and sales of crafts from across the nation.

----

Danny MacAllister, son of the President, prepared, dressing in kilt and hauberk as was tradition in his more Scottish family. "Ah, this will be a good day for Ciwdod Cymraeg!" He was 23 and well-made, though nowhere near bulky enough for the sport his father had championed, the caber toss.

bump.

for freedom.

((And now that I feel better, time to gets me some opening on!))

Danny tapped the microphone, which, typically, screeched.

Someone in the back made a wisecrack about it sounding like Wee Johnny on the bagpipes. Wee Johnny knuckled Someone in the back of the head.

"Good day, my friends and fellow Cymro! Today we open the week-long Games."

He was Master of Ceremonies for this event. It was said he had the best speaking voice in the nation. He, of course, doubted this.

"Opening the Games is Wee Johnny Harper, playing Mabsantau Cimru Anthem, on the bagpipes my dear pa brought from Berth Cimru herself."

The bulky man's tune was soft on the ears of those natives present, while many of the invited diplomats from other countries found the melody unsettling.

And with that, the Games were open.

(*Bump*)

Alistair McAlistair was wearing the McAlistair kilt and the full Scottish regalia including the required dirk or two or three. He was here for the caber toss, the scottish hammer throw, and to watch some of the lassies dancing the highland fling.

He brought several bottles of fine single malt whiskey to provide lubrication prior to the competition. Alistair had the typical build of a Scottish highlander. He was about 5' 8" and almost as broad, he tipped the scales at 14 stone. He had short muscular arms and legs, and bright red hair.

He was waiting for the pipe band competition, something he always enjoyed. He of course prefered the Scottish pipes, but the Welsh and Irish would do in a pinch.

While listening to the opening speeches and tunes he downed a couple pints of heavy.

Spot reserved for a latter post

With a thunderous drumbeat, the caber toss opened. "John Harper!"

Wee Johnny, definitely not a small man, threw the caber in beautiful form - it turned over once and landed on-end.

"James MacAllister!"

Unfortunately, President Jim was not in good condition anymore. The caber didn't go anywhere. Such was the consequence of his alcoholism...

"Alistair McAlistair!"

----

Off in the pewtersmith's tent, John Harper Younger cast mugs, hands protected with scarred leather gauntlets. He whistled Mabsant Cymraeg as he worked.

I'm scaaaaared

((Post In Character. This is an RP. And if you're frightened of Welsh/Scotsmen...

TOO BAD.))

Hoot moved silently among the crowd. He was dressed in black. Black shirt, tight fitting to his muscular form, black pants, black boots. His eyes were no longer there light brown, but a crimson red, and his black hair was pulled up into a very low mohawk, no more than half an inch at the highest.

He looked around, ignoring the caber toss.

He wasn't as much looking to throw stuff. He could easily out throw everyone here. No, he was looking for soemthing, or someone, else. He couldn't resist a redhead.

He listend to the bag pipes as he moved through the fair, looking at crafted goods and the like. He looked at a bag pipe player, and snuffed. Hoot was Irish in family, and he could trace his line back to the blood of Cu Chullain. He continued to walk, and eyed several girls up.

The girls could tell, of course, and they weren't exactly happy that there was an Irishman there.

Especially not one so creepily unnatural.

----

Wee Johnny wiped the sweat off his brow and belched, having downed his third plate of Mother Ness' world (well, county)-famous haggis.

This eating contest was going nowhere.

----
((Dammit I-tor. Is Hoot the only character you could think of to put in here? XD))

Alistair McAlistair heard his name being called for the caber toss. He stepped out into the arena. The crowd gave a mixture of cheers, hoots, cat-calls and actual boo's. Alistair figured it was a partisan group and they wanted a Welshman to win. He was humming The mist covered mountains of home as he walked to the caber.

The caber was typical in length and diameter, it was a little rough for Alistair's liking but it would do. Alistair worked in the shipyards and his hands were like leather, there was no need of leather gloves for this lad.

He walked up to the caber and put the end on his shoulder and began the process of hoisting the log up. When the caber was almost vertical he bent at the knees and grabbed the butt end. He wobbled a bit as he lifted the load and the crowd naturally erupted with oohs.

Alistair took a short run up and as the caber began to fall forward he gave it a great heave. The end slammed into the ground and the top end rose to the vertical, it hung there for a second as the crowd willed it over. With a mighty crash it landed forward. It was an acceptable toss and Alistair decided to celebrate with a long pull of whiskey.

OOC: No, but Hoot is most definately the stronget guy I got, even if he dont look it.

IC:

Hoot continued his stroll. After finding a decent beer tent, he ordered a pint, and pulled hard on it, sucking the entire glass down before placing it back on the table. "Keep 'em coming," he said, still looking around, as if trying to find someone.

The last few tossers threw the post, and the judges went off for a pint and pie.

The winner will be announced in not too long, meanwhile...

----

The bartender looks askance at Hoot. "Boyo, what's up with yer eyes?"

Michael Thompson felt more than just a tad out of place here. He walked slowly about carrying a great pile of papers and looking for anybody who might chance to be in charge. Thompson frankly wondered why Inswick even wanted to start a mission to this tiny country, but that might have just been part of his desire to be anywhere else.

And these games! He’d never seen anything like them on the Shield. Men leaping about, devouring various body parts and hurling random projectiles- it was all like some great madhouse.

A slight breeze made him remember another unfamiliar custom of this place - and one which he had tried vehemently to get out of participating in. Not only did the kilt feel unnatural, but a lifetime in both trousers and the dreary environment of the Southern Shield had rendered his legs a pasty white. Not at all like those men who got sent off to Gallaga and returned bronzed, more muscular, and with fantastic stories about hunting tigers from elephant back and other such manly activities.

His thoughts filled with whimsical ideas of the subcontinent, he didn’t notice he was just getting ready for a collision until his papers were flying in the air.

“Oh, heavens!” Thompson cried, his voice tinged with deep mortification. “I’m so terribly sorry! I wasn’t at all looking where I was going - it’s entirely my fault. Please - you’re not hurt, are you?”

The bartender looks askance at Hoot. "Boyo, what's up with yer eyes?"

"What about them?" he asked, putting down his second pint.

Alistair McAlistair was admiring the skill and beauty of the dancers when a little man crashed into him knocking a sheaf of papers onto the ground saying "I'm so terribly sorry! I wasn't at all looking where I was going - it's entirely my fault. Please - you're not hurt, are you?"

Alistair said "That's alright laddie, yae didnae hurt me at all. Mind you ye might want to bend at the knees to pick up them papers. 'Tis your first time in a kilt isn't it?" Alistair helped the man pick up his papers and noted the glaring white spindly legs sticking out of the ill fitting kilt.

"Where ye being headed, lad" he asked. "You don't look like someone to toss a caber nor a hammer at that. Darts maybe?"

((darned double post! :?))

Michael had already started to bend over when the wisdom of Alistair’s words came home. “Oh - thanks much. This is so terribly embarrassing.” At last, he and Alistair finished gathering up the stray documents and they stood.

“I - I’m not sure where I’m headed, precisely. I was told that this was an important event, and...well.” Michael decided to stop rambling before he’d poured his entire heart out. The offer of darts sounded intriguing; at least he had some experience with them, if no skill.

“Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “How rude of me! I’m Michael Thompson; it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out a hand for Alistair to shake.

How rude of me! I'm Michael Thompson; it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Alistair's shipyard experience exposed him to only three types of "Paper Pushers" the paymaster, a bookkeeper and the boss. Not knowing which type Michael was Alister tried not to crush his hand when shaking it. "May name is Alistair McAlistair from Clydebank Shipyards, I build ships for a living." Alistair replied.

With a playful slap on the back Alistair guided Michael into one of the ubiquitous beer tents, one that served a particularly nice ale. Once inside Alistair noticed a pretty, buxom serving girl and ordered "Two pints of ale, lassie" Then added "When does a pretty girl like you finish up here?"

When the serving girl brought back the ale, Alistair paid and noticed she gave him a nice view while scooping up the change. Turning to Michael, Alistair said "We'll be sure to come back here closing time. Now, lets find a darts board and you can tell me what is so important about this little get together."

((ah, a perfect example. Stupid server!))

“Indeed?” asked Michael. It was hard to tell if he was genuinely interested or simply feigning it to humor Alistair. He had rather hoped to be talking to someone either in charge or with connections to the man in charge. “I’m from Iansisle myself; in the foreign service actually.”

He hoped the Iansisle reference might stir something in Alistair; after all, the shipyards of the Shield were world-renowned. That is, if one took ‘world’ to mean the few countries surrounding Iansisle and ‘renowned’ to mean large and famous but not particularly well thought of.

The beer tent Alistair led him into didn’t seem very promising. Michael spent most of his time trying to avoid staring at what to his sensibilities was an excessively large amount of bare skin. A couple of times, his cheeks even took on a slightly rosy color.

“Well, Mr McAlistair,” he started, it being traditional not to use Christian names before asked on the Shield, “I wanted to try and gauge the local climate..” Right scandalous, if you ask me he thought as another serving girl walked across their path “...so I can report to Lord Inswick and he can properly prepare for a mission later. That one looks promising.” That last bit was said with a finger pointing at a vacant dart board.

((if you don't mind a friendly word of advice, CS, don't delete your double posts in the future. It leads to 'phantom pages' which say they contain posts but actually are just 'the topic you requested doesn't exist' error messages. It's better to just edit your dps to complain about the server. Thanks ;)))

OOC: Aye, I have learned my lesson well from other threads, other countries. So it weren't me so to say. :D

IC:"So it's Mr McAlistair now" Alistair has a hearty laugh and gives Michael a playful thump on the back. "Lets have a go at it then." Alistair grabs the mangled up darts stuck in the board and hands them to Michael. "You go first, Mr. Thompson." he says with a chuckle.

"If ye be looking for them politician types you should have been at the opening ceremony. They were at least a dozen of them giving boring speeches. After our game of darts we can wander up to the grandstand, those politicians will still be there shaking hands, gathering votes, drinking free beer. We might be able to get some of that free beer, you being an important official of Iansisle and all."

Michael listened to the Alistair’s laughs and wondered if he had said something wrong. “Thank you, sir,” he said, accepting the darts and lining up his first throw.

“I’d be much in debt to you, Mr - ” Swish - just off the triple twenty! Maybe he did remember how to play this game! “- McAlistair, if you did show me to them.” Swish - another twenty. “I don’t know that I’m all that important a diplomat, but I’d be more than willing to buy you a beer for helping me.” Swish - off into the black. “Er, forty,” said Michael, much embarrassed by the last throw.

((ah, good deal! When I do find who it was...*shakes fist*

What was/were your old nation(s)?))

Just at that point, Danny, fresh from the shot-put, rambled into the darts tent. "Ah, just the man I wanted to see. Mr. Thompson, is it not? Good day, I'm the PM, Daniel MacAllister. Join you at the board?"

----

"Nothing, they're just a bit odd. Dyed, are they?" queried the bartender as he pulled and set a third pint. "Never seen dye that brilliant."

"Oh, Mr MacAllister!" exclaimed Michael, quickly handing the darts over to Alistair to free his right hand for shaking. "Thompson, yes; you're just the man I wanted to see - just the man indeed! Please; I'd be honored if you'd join us." He didn't bother to ask Alistair if he minded.

MacAllister drew a case marked with his family seal from his pocket and withdrew three Donald-tartan'd darts.

"The caber toss is my father's... the darts are mine."

Whap! A dart shivered in the bullseye. "Getting to the point... I invited you here because Ciwdod Cymraeg is fairly small and weak. My war advisor, one James Waugh, tells me the Iansislean Commonwealth is friendly to other nations. So I'd like to propose a treaty."

OOC: Old nations is a relative term they are all about the same age. I just don't RP with this one. I doubt if you have heard of MadderMike my first nation. Mostly RPs with region members.

IC: Alistair was truly impressed, the Prime Minister, here playing darts with a lowly welder from Clydebank Shipyards. Of course, the Prime Minister would have his own darts. He thought. "Well you two seem to have common interests I'll go have a chat with that barmaid over there. Since all you government types came in the business has been weak and she looks lonely." He said, "I'll be back when you are ready to finish the darts game.

Alistair puts the darts down and wanders off to the end of the bar to converse with the beautifully buxom blond barmaid.

Hoot shook his head. "Natural red. Been like this for a while now, bout two years."

OOC Note: When I say he has crimmson eyes, its just the colord part of the eye, not the whole eye itself.

“I’m sure that His Majesty would be honored to receive such noble praise,” said Michael vaguely while admiring Daniel’s skill with darts.

“As a matter of fact, I have specific instructions from His Lordship the Earl of Inswick to propose a non-aggression pact and an exchange of diplomatic missions, if you’re so inclined. We’re very much interested in establishing an embassy in your fine country, and would consider it an honor if you were to set one up in Ianapalis as well.”

He hardly even noticed Alistair leave.

((ah, good deal. Well, welcome to the wacky world of the forums! :)))

"Ah, wonderful!" Another dart shivered next to the last. "Of course we'd be willing to set up an embassy in Ianapalis, and I've a plot in mind for a Commonwealth embassy in City Cornwell." Danny smiled brightly. "As to a non-aggression pact, we'd be perfectly happy - and I've a young diplomat in mind to send as an ambassador to your fine country."

----

The barmaid winked and wiggled at Alistair as he sat down, and served him a beer on the house. "Hello sir, I'm Allison, but me friends do call me Alli. Will you be havin' anything to eat here?"

----

The bartender nodded. "I see. Int'resting. Then you'll have been one of those... how d'yesay... rebuilds? I'd heard rumah about folk brought back ta life, but I daresay I take no truck in it."

"Not really," Hoot replied, looking up. He pushed the brew aside, looking into the other man's eyes for the first time. They bordered on evil. "Let me ask you somethign," he said, pushing the convorsation towards a new direction. "Have you ever met the Devil?"

"Well, I like to think there's a little of the Devil in every bottle... or perhaps he's hidin' in a spoiled haggis, eh? But, truly, I don't think I've met the Big Dark Man, not in actuality."

"Not really," Hoot replied, looking up. He pushed the brew aside, looking into the other man's eyes for the first time. They bordered on evil. "Let me ask you somethign," he said, pushing the convorsation towards a new direction. "Have you ever met the Devil? Do you believe that everyone has a mortal soul?"

He noticed the bartender's confused look, then continued. "What if I told you that there is a missing piece to the Trinity? Sure, you have the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost. The First, The Savior, and The Present. But what about The End? Where is The End? What if I told you that Satan himself is God, as part of the Trinity. The Begining, The Saviour, The Present, and The End."

"Sure. Sure and enough, why, that's what I've allus thought. Why, why'd a pure-good god let shit get mixed in with the fudge, eh? Because ain't quite pure-good, is 'e? 'Is dominion's all about, I say... and Good and Evil ain't so far apart as y'd think."

"You almost got it, but not quite. Here, let me explain it this way." He looked around, and leand in close. This wasn't something just anyone could hear?

"The Bible was first written in Aramiac. Then Latin, then finally English. Do you know how many mistranslations there are inbetween the Aramaic and Latin version alone? Millions. What I'm saying is this. God, yes, is perfect. And so was Jesus, and so is Satan. Think about it this way. There is no war between God and Satan. No battle to see who can get the most souls, who can corrupt the most people. The real was is among us. No where in the Bible is Satan refered to as the anti-Christ. He is simply the keeper of the Evil souls. And God simply keeps the good ones. True and totall free will."

"Well. That's a good way of looking a' it, Mr... mm, I didn't get your name, sir. I'm Arthur, Arthur Sullivan, and you?" Noting that Hoot's glass was again full, Arthur drew and set another pint.

God, he almost said, but didn't. "Hoot works fine. So tell me Mr. Sullivan, where can I guy get a good girl around here?"

"Got to charm 'em first. See, look over there at that Alistair fellow - my daughter's got her eye on him. We don't take truck with prostitution here - and our girls can tell an honest man from a snake-charmer any day." Arthur rested his arms on the counter. "Honestly, don' bother lookin' and they'll come to ya."

Hoot nodded slowly, and looked back at the man. "Well, where can I go to get a good fight," he asked, leaning back slightly.

"Ah, wonderful!" Another dart shivered next to the last. "Of course we'd be willing to set up an embassy in Ianapalis, and I've a plot in mind for a Commonwealth embassy in City Cornwell." Danny smiled brightly. "As to a non-aggression pact, we'd be perfectly happy - and I've a young diplomat in mind to send as an ambassador to your fine country."

"Splendid, simply splendid!" Michael had a huge grin plastered on his face; this sort of smashing success wouldn't fail to get him noticed by the powers that be. He had also quite forgotten about the dart game.

"Mr MacAllister, I can tell that our two great countries will have a close working relationship for years to come," he affirmed, since it seemed the proper thing to say.

"Good, good. This marks a good day for Ciwdod Cymraeg, and for, perhaps, the Commonwealth! I presume, of course, that concluding such a deal so quickly will earn you great respect among your seniors?"

"Not to brag, of course, but I should expect so," said Michael. "I know Lord Inswick himself was interested in this mission; perhaps I'll even be posted as ambassador somewhere." That prospect seemed to fill him with glee.

"Er, shall we have a drink to seal the deal?" he asked, gesturing towards the bar and temporarily forgetting that his constitution hadn't ever handled anything heavier than a glass or two of fine Foothills wine.

OOC: Quick hijack->One, is CC in Celtic Sea, and two, I-Man, Christin is about to wake up, and break the news to James. Will the King duel if challenged?

"Of course. 'Ere, Art! Two shots of Jameson's, finger to each glass, straight!" The bartender brought over two tiny glasses. "Well, Mr. Thompson, drink up! Nectar of the Gods, you know."

((Actually, no, it's in what was Waughslind, conveniently))

OOC: Gotcha. If it was in teh Celtic Sea area, I was gonna send you a nice emissary talking about why teh hell Imitoran ships are blowing away the Royal Navy, and not to worry about the massive number of troops landing in Ireland, its not Colonial at all.

OOC: ... two, I-Man, Christin is about to wake up, and break the news to James. Will the King duel if challenged?

((Duel? Er, I suppose so. Just let me get Tri there - he's full of good advice about that sort of thing :).

A question of my own - I had Christin pregnant in the last episode of TPTB. Was that just a booboo on my part?))

"Of course. 'Ere, Art! Two shots of Jameson's, finger to each glass, straight!" The bartender brought over two tiny glasses. "Well, Mr. Thompson, drink up! Nectar of the Gods, you know."

"Er, right," said Michael, glancing at the hard liquor. Leave it to him and his big mouth. "Here's to the future," he offered, lifting the shot glass and doing his best to slam it back.

Some amount of sputtering and coughing later...

((Considering that CC was sent packing by the Royal Navy and your troops should know this...

Emissary away :D))

OOC: Dman, I'll get to that tommorow. Iansisle, I would prefere if she was'nt, but if she is, then I cna work around it or something...

"Hoy, sir, you all right? I daresay it seems like you haven't drunk before in your life! Ah well, not a problem. Shall I show you around the crafts and trade of this, our great country?"

((Dude, she's your character. What you say goes. ;)))

"No, really *cough* I- I'm fine," gasped Michael, stumbling a step or two back from the bar. "M-maybe some crafts ....arts would be good."

"Good! We'll go see my old friend Johnny Harper. 'E's a pewtersmith, 'e can make anything out of the stuff. Amazing to watch 'im work, really - the molten metal, all that. Art, don't spill too much of that fabulous liquor and don't let Wee Johnny start up in here again."

The bartender nodded assent.

Michael was slowly starting to recover.

"Yes, that does sound..." he had to think for a moment to come up with the proper word "...very interesting." Never worth the wait.

He followed David about, 'ooh' and 'aah'ing at the appropriate (and some rather inappropriate) places.

"Yes, yes, the girls are quite pretty, but why are you oohing and aahing at them?"

"Er..the girls? Oh, no, sir, I was just admiring the, ah, craftsmanship on that tent. Now, how many different things can you make out of pewter?"

"Oh, hundreds. And if you want a girl, wait 'till one makes eyes at you and snag her. You've to be aggressive, or they'll ignore you. Like so." Danny grabbed a blushing, wiggly girl by the waist, kissed her, and handed her his card. "Ah, she'll call me tonight to be sure. See, that'n there likes you, you try it."

The elaborate courting rituals of the Shield didn’t exactly inspire confidence in impetuous situations. “Ah, hello,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose and trying to cover his pale legs. “I couldn’t help, er, noticing how pretty your eyes are.”

Ellie MacEllis giggled and blushed. "Well, aren't you a cute one!" She kissed Michael lightly on the cheek and tucked a slip of paper into his pocket. "I'm Ellie. Call me, cutie..."

bump, b-bump, bump bump, bump, bump, bump BUMP IT UP.

i can't beleive I'm bumping again.

Alistair was thinking what a fine looking lass Alli was and said "What kind of fare would a lovely lass like you be serving up?" He continues, "I hope to be counted as one of your friends Alli" He was wondering when the results of the caber toss were going to be announced. He noticed Mr Thompson seemed to be a bit flustered around the bevy of buxom beauties.

He decides to move things along and says to Alli, "Maybe you and your friend could join me and my friend Michael after you close up shop. I hear the taverns are open all night during the games. What do you say?" He has moved closer to Michael and says to him "Find a place for all those papers, finish the darts game and join us for the hammer throw.

((Actually, Michael's moved on, and that's not quite how you court a Cymra, buuuut, whatever))

"Oh, my, sir, I don't go to taverns."

OOC: He is but a simple welder from the Clyde :)

Alistair sees the look on her face and says "I'm sorry if I've offended ye lassie. I'll just be getting back to my game of darts." He looks around and everyone has left. "Well what do you make of that." He finishes the last of his ale and steps outside the tent.

He goes over to the standings board and finds out the Scottish hammer throw competition is soon to begin. A skinny wee lassie asks him "What is the Scottish hammer ?" Alistair looks down at one of the prettiest girls he has ever seen. She is about 20 and has bright red hair, green eyes and freckles everywhere. He explains "It is like a shot put but with a hole all the way through it and someone has put a stick through the hole. You swing it around your head and give it a throw." He continues "I'm a fair hammerman myself, come watch for yourself. Mind you, don't get hit with one of those hammers, t'would put a mighty dent in that pretty head of yours."

Ellie MacEllis giggled and blushed. "Well, aren't you a cute one!" She kissed Michael lightly on the cheek and tucked a slip of paper into his pocket. "I'm Ellie. Call me, cutie..."

"Ellie..?" Michael said, as though in a dream. "Tho...I mean, my friends call me Michael."

He wasn't sure if he was more confused, frightened, or what, but in one brief second, Michael's entire conception of the courting process had changed.

i can't beleive I'm bumping again.

((I know...I can't believe you had to either. Sorry I've been so reclusive; rather busy IRL.))

((Welcome to courting the Ciwdod Cymraeg way. Wink at a girl and she may follow you home. Or slap you with a hammer. It depends on her mood, and it's why there's little marriage between Cymra and others - they just don't understand.))

Danny smiled and nodded. "See? Easy. Tha' girl happens to be my sister's daughter, so I know her worth - good girl, that."

YOU ARE FULL OF BUMPS AND/OR KEYS

Danny smiled and nodded. "See? Easy. Tha' girl happens to be my sister's daughter, so I know her worth - good girl, that."

"Well!" exclaimed Michael. "That certainly is different than the way we do it back at home. There, a couple might be courting for three months before even using the other's Christian name!"

OOC: Well these kind of games are Hubarian kinds of games...so there'd likely be a few wealthy Hubarians about the place.

IC: From around one end of the tent a group of five youths appeared. They had been apparently watching the caber toss and enjoying themselves. A boy and girl of about 19-20 years held on to each other, laughing in the odd way people who are enjoying the lightheadedness of new blossomed love often do. On the far left was a human wall, six-two and looking like he had been born to do the caber himself. His black hair framed a soft face peirced by two blue eyes. Unlike the others he wore a kilt of some blue red tartan. The middle figure was a thin, gangly youth who seemed to be a bit bookish with a pair of glasses on his long nose. His green eyes seemed to digest the whole scean.

Behind his long strides a young woman of eighteen years strode behind. Unlike the Hubarians in their polo shirts and slacks she wore a black pair of pants and a long sleeved shirt with a high military collar in blue. She was 5' 11" with long red hair and green eyes. On her hip was a shethed hand and a-half sword. Her eyes seemed to be looking at each person as though a possible threat. She appeared more to be the tag along of the group...

A large, red-faced man bumped into the group. "Achk, sorry there, didn' watch where I wa' goin', were I? Wee Johnny, I am, and all a ye?"

The young brunette being the eldest freeman looked at the rest of the group. "Oh, were just a few freinds from University on break checking out your games. I'm cadet Amy Peterson, the large fellow is cadet Paul Jones..." The large man gave a short bow..."The fellow behind me is cadet Lars Van Demer, and the gentlemen in the glasses is Lord Matz and his swordsman Marks." The young man in glasses gave a short nod as did the youth with his arm around Amy attempted to give a short bow. The red head only gave the red faced man a glance and turned slightly to watch others in the crowd.

"Oh, you'll be friends o' me son! Johnny! Hoy, Johnno!" The pewtersmith looked up. "Wot, Pa?"

((Shall we assume they have some knowledge of John Harper the younger?))

((Obviously they were being generic with the term University...but the mistake is natural))

"I'm sorry sir, we're from Torrhall University in the United Duchies of Alcona and Hubris...not the local University..." The blond girl tried to explain.

"Ah, well, do let young Johnno show you around, he's got an eye for these things. Beside, it's his partner's shift, and I'm sure his hands are scorched by now and need a rest. Hoy! Johnno, get off the crucible and show these kids around." He turned back to them. "He's a good boy, but a bit too easily focused on things..."

John the younger ambled over. "You rang, dear padre?"

You spoony bump!

The group just looked at each other...they hadn't really thought they needed a tour guide around here...

John strapped his gloves to his leg and introduced himself as his father walked away. "I'm John... sorry about me da, he's a bit overenthusiastic..."

Bad command or file bump

Aaack! Bumps?! Why did it have to be bumps!?

sorry, sorry for making your life a living BUMP.

OOC: Ciwdod Cymraeg A word to the wise, the Mods consider lots of bumps to be spam, they will take a dim view of it.

OOC: I know this. I bump when it reaches page 3, no earlier, not my fault the other participants aren't posting.

Blast 'em.

OOC: Maybe they're not posting because they're not online right now? Just a thought...

OOC: I'm joking, and I bump when I see 'em. Besides, what's your deal? Why am I gettin' grilled, eh?

OOC: Cuz hes an ass? Oh, and Bump.

Ahbump.