NationStates Jolt Archive

Corra Ceilidh Sawney stood over the body of yet one more opponent. Corra was the toughest and strongest of all Sawenys. And she wasn't even twenty yet. She considered what to do here. The man who lay before was glistening with sweat and blood. Of the newer Hazara clans he tried to stand. She casually snapped his ankles and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"You have a choice here. Acknowledge that a woman is better than you. You will live. Disfigured but alive," her ebony skin barely bristled with sweat as she said these words. Her voice crisp, sharp, and obscenely intelligent, "or you can die a warrior's death."

She hadn't truly heard the Hazara's words. She just knew that tonight she would hang a new head on her rampart and feast on flesh well earned. She was eager to test herself though. Really quite eager in fact. She thought for many hours on what to do. The obvious answer would be to have a tournament. That would be the obvious answer. But Corra was never about the obvious. She smirked. She would go with the obvious answer. Yes she would. But she'd have a bit of a twist. The grandest prize of all. She wrote a brief and to the point document.

Good and kind folk of the world. Need yae not enter here. All ruffians, honorable fighters, leather necks, warriors of some unforgotten kingdom and cause or freedom fighters of a new regime. I invite thee here.

Come to Twa Corbies. Enjoy our food and drink and beds. And then you shall fight. You will not face a true Sawney until you face me. Instead regular clan warriors will be put forth to take my place. If you defeat each one. Then in the truest and most powerful spirit of Uberstock. Yae shall fight me. Defee me and yae shall have a grandest prize.........

my bed and the 500 Sawneys that come with me. Aye, any man who can defeat me may wed me. Gra and g'day.

Corra Ceilidh Sawney

And so it was sent.....

OOC: Also...........I'm going to say up front. Pretty much everyone will die in a short fight. They'd have to be really smart, really fast, or really strong to take Sawneys down in hand to hand. Better if they were all three.

whozawat? This what we talked about?

As usual camel eaters, i have no idea what you are talking about, :headbang:

As usual camel eaters, i have no idea what you are talking about, :headbang:
Good. HEHEHEHEHEH! *pees on Willink's face*

And no Bor this ain't what we talked about. A seperate wee thing.

OOC-Hmm...willing to accept aliens? As in...is this strictly MT?

OOC: Aliens iz cool........no lasers or anything doe. Hehe. Providing they want to mate with a human female go ahead and try.

Aljek Alberic stumbled through the mouth of the cave, his unkempt red beard nearly white with ice and snow, the rest of his clothing torn, soaked, and filthy. The wind screamed and moaned, and looking back, Aljek found that it was impossible to see more than a few inches out into the white of the storm. He shivered and stumbled a bit more into his den, falling down to his knees beside the fire, the small warmth welcome to a man braving the ferocity of the great Alberian Steppe.

He removed his heavy, ancient bearskin overcoat and lay it out beside the fire, doing the same with the rest of his clothing, and took a moment to allow the feeling to return to his extremities before moving towards the rear of the cave where a piece of maroon meat lay thawing on a rock. He picked it up and lay it on a steel cooking grill which he placed over the fire. He sat back on the floor and watched as the meat began to warm. Bear. The richest and most delicious of all meat according to the rough Alberian. All the more tasty when the animal was killed by one’s own hand.

He listened to the howling gale and thought of how similar it seemed to the storms on the north seas he had weathered in his days pirating along the coast of the steppe. He rarely tasted bear back in those times, and now appreciated the situation the allowed a man to choose his favorite meat whenever it suited him. Still, he decided, there was something to be said for the life of a rogue on the high seas. As vast as the Alberian Steppe was, it was a rare occasion indeed when one was able to venture from shelter in any season, least of all in the fierce dead of winter. But then again, Aljek figured he had seen all that he wanted to in the decade he had spent plundering, and the years following when he had fallen in with the Steppe nomads had been a welcome return to steady, dry land.

It seemed like years since he had given up the wandering life and found refuge in the static nature of his cavernous home, but his musings on this were interrupted as he realized the meat was nearly done. He removed the grill and lay his meal out on a rock, grabbing an old knife from beside the fire. He cut into the meat and was satisfied to see the red juices squirt out over the rocks. Taking a large hunk in his hand, he began to gnaw contentedly on it, his strong jaw working over the tough tendon. He was so absorbed in his meal as to not even notice the new figure who darkened his doorstep, and it was with great start that he whirled around after glancing the shadow creeping over his fire.

“Aljek…”

Aljek leapt backward, knife in hand, brandishing it at the stranger. Aljek continued to back away as the stranger advanced, coming to the rear wall of the cave.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

The man stepped into the light. Aljek scanned his features, and his eyes shot open in recognition. He lowered the knife and stepped forward. He spoke, his voice gravelly and low.

“Ivan, my old friend. Welcome.”

The stranger, whose name was Ivan, smiled and moved to embrace his old compatriot.

“It has been too long, cousin.”

“How did you find me?”

“It was not easy.”

Aljek realized he was barely decent and grabbed the damp overcoat which he threw around his shoulders. He took a seat on one of the rocks around the fire, and his new guest joined him.

“One of the herders in a village twenty miles from here mentioned he had seen you hunting on the steppe last September. I was going to wait for the weather to ease, but I hadn’t time.”

“The Steppe is treacherous. What could have been so urgent?”

“This.”

Ivan produced a small folded piece of paper, perfectly white and neat save for the single crease along the center. Aljek grabbed it and opened it, scanning the roughly translated sentences. He looked up, perplexed.

“Why have you brought this to me?”

“I want you to go, to compete.”

Aljek was still confused.

“There are others. Why waste your time looking for me?”

“No one is as skilled a warrior as you were. All of Alberia, all of Generia even trembled before your skill.”

Aljek’s brow narrowed in contemplation, and then his eyes were taken by fire. He cast the letter into the fire.

“Why does it matter? Those days are gone.”

Ivan’s hand dashed into the flames, and he pulled the letter out, beating the flames out with the back of his gloved hand. He got to his feet and looked at the scraggly barbarian who shared the same bloodline as he, a degree of pity, even contempt in his eyes.

“Then I suppose I wasted my time.”

He turned and walked out of the cave, back into the storm. Aljek sat silent for many moments, staring at the letter. He slowly got to his feet and put on the rest of his clothes, now somewhat dry from the fire. HE walked again to the rear of the cave. There he opened a long wooden box, and from it removed from a saber, once beautiful, now covered by years’ worth of rust. He took a plain scabbard attached to an old leather belt and strung them around his waist. From a corner of the cave he picked up an old black bone staff, weather worn but sturdy as the day it was first crafted. He moved slowly towards the mouth of the cave, and took one last glance at the raw accoutrements of his ‘home’. The fire was waning, and as the last flames licked the last of the wood, he stepped out into the depths of the white. Ivan had remained, and now he looked at his cousin, and the two embraced, before beginning the twenty mile trek to the nearest village. It would be a long journey to the land of the Camel Eaters and the Sawney temptress who challenged the world.

Boats.........boats............and more boats. All of them heading from the Caribbean bases into deep Alabama. They were mostly old steamers. The best that anyone could grab on a last minute basis. Crewed by Redshanks, Alberian rejects, Mudrat clans, Chinese immigrants, and privateers who were to old to still plunder. The food aboard the ship reflected the crews. Haggises sat with rice, chicken, and Kerguelen Cabbages, Shark meat was served with Dead Man's Punch (think alcoholic apple cider except with pineapples, rum, oranges, and bananas) toast with eggs was usually served with all of these. A carving of sugar was available to those who'd pay enough. The ships were well stocked with all manner of alcohol and even a bit of debautery if one was sneaky enough.

The ships weren't leaving yet though. Not enough contestants. Oh shut up lads you'll get overtime. Horace touch that Islay and you'll be scrubbing latrines with your teeth. What the hell did I say boy? That Islay was for the contestants not your Mudrat hands. I'mma gonna fucking scrap and then kill the next man who disobeys me! I'm glad to see you know that fucking, Captain MacAlexei means business. Grand now keeps these bastards floating and damned well clean!

"Hmm, so I get a good fight, and possibly a good woman. Interesting."

Drake Hunt had his feet kicked up on the small table in the small room he called his own. Footsteps outside caused him to look up. A tall man with long black hair and a vicious smile stood there. Dominic Wrathe.

"Yo Drake, what's interesting?" Damn vampires could hear everything.

"Oh, not much. Tell Elli I'm going out for a few weeks. If I don't come back, tell her that I ran away or something. I'll probably be dead then."

Dominic's eyebrows arched in interest. "Dead you say? That is interesting...can I come too?"

Drake shook his head. "Nah, if you don't die, you get tied down with a wife. Not your style my friend. Especially since you are harder to kill than a bad rumor."

Dominic laughed. "Okay, have fun. Can I be best man?"

"If it comes to it, yeah."




Drake finally made it to the boats, his trip from his temporary home in Automagfreek long and boring. He looked like a ragged traveler, his five o'clock shadow very pronounced after not having shaved for a bit. He wore a brown leather trench coat with strips of kevlar sewn into it. His travelling headwrap was around his neck, him having no real use for it. As he approached the boats, he was hoping he'd do well. His SOET gene therapy and combat training should come in handy. A master in Akumu-kai and Jeet Kun Do, he was more than a match for most fighters.

He straightened his gloves, his favorite pair. They had steel plates on the backs backs and the fabric could take a knife blade and not be cut. They'd saved his life many times before, and he was hoping for a few more times.

Even if I die, I go out fighting. Just how I wanted.

(edit: Didn't forsee people using weapons. Though this would be a fist fight. The gloves are added in.)

Captain of the Imperial Guard Leon Angelus was undoubtedly the greatest warrior in Kreynoria. Raised from birth is the supreme warrior of Kreynoria. Before birth he was genetically engineered for strength, intelligence, and skill. From early childhood he was trained in a variety of martial arts and was a master marksman at age four. At age fourteen he was appointed commander of the Imperial Guard. When he heard of the challenge he immediately asked leave of Emperor Constantinius. When he was granted permission, he immediately gathered his belongings and got on a flight to Camel Eaters. Perhaps he would finally meet a truly worthy opponent.

OOC: Are Weapons allowed (like melee weapons)

OOC: Aight. Few basic ground rules. I want only clean, low down dirty spit in your face and knife in your boot RPing here. Think of it as cocaine cut with baking powder. So............to let everyone know. So far we're all good. I'm letting everyone in but with a slight critique. Trans.........expand your character some and use SpellCheck. Sorry if that sounds horrible. Krey or whatever yae where. You'll be fine. Tone this guy down though. Aight? Gra good grand fuck yeah. All I require is that from now on in RPs you have a character that isn't Superman. It's common for newer nations to favor their heroes over their people. It's okay. So aye.

So.........everyone got it? Good. If you don't then you can cut yourself out now. Hehe. Just try.

Its not like a 3 meter tall superman its just his genes are modified so that all the stupid weak genes are replaced by good genes.

The weapon I'm thinking of entering is an electro-pike

It looks like a double bladed 16-foot pike with electrified blades.

I am pretty good at doing these kinds of RPs.

Also, is armor of any sort allowed?

OOC:
Okay.........Kreynoria.......meh. No electro-pike. Use something cooler and more manly.

Trans.........hmm. Maybe what I was referring to was the flow. Not SpellCheck nor grammar. I have no problem with anything really. Just the flow. I like the character though.........he's camera shy ain't he? Hehe. *dances*

OOC: I meant twas was good thing he was shy. And thank you for editing. WHOO!

OOC: I get the feeling that some people aren't going to let their characters die. The character's here will live or die based on RPing skill, right? No "When the match starts, he leaps forward and snaps his opponents neck." Right?

I'm full prepared to let Drake die. I've only used him in one other story, so I've got no attachment.

OOC:
Yes......many characters will perish. And they live and die based off of RPing skill. I trust many will die.

The message was clear, a contest was to be held and the hive realised this was a perfect time to harvest some prime genetic material, if those that attended this "gathering" believed they were good then they could be perfect to absorb into the hive's now massive gene pool to filter it down and further create what the hive was constantly striving towards... Perfection.

The hive dispatched a swarm pod towards the backwater planet containing all that would be needed to test those who could be considerd great enough to join the collective.

- On board the small woumb like pod lay a slumbering Avatar* she would be the one to collect all that was needed from these meat bags as they strove towards their insignificant goals for no target was greater than the hive's need, its thirst, for perfection.

*Avatar Of The Hive:
Sex: N/A
Height: Reflexive perfection based upon the planets gravitaional field.
Weight: Reflexive perfection based upon the planets gravitaional field.
Eye colour: Reflexive perfection based upon the planets proximity to nearby star's.
Skin Tone: Reflexive perfection based upon the planets proximity to nearby star's.
Hair Colour: Reflexive perfection based upon the planets proximity to nearby star's and its primary Vegetaion.
IQ: Not applicable, the avatar contains the knowlege of all those who are part of the hive collective and as such no such measure can be determined on such a scale as to be understood. The reaction times of the nurone pathways alow the avatar to watch almost in slomotion the movement of a bullet aimed directly at it and allow it to make the correct judge ment of potential hosts in its surrounding to assign up to 4,578 different orders to any hive members in the area specifying exact commands depending upon the situation within the time taken for said bullet to travel 10 meters. Suffice to say there is not yet a test suitable for measuring an avatar's responce time at least among mortals.
Fat / Muscle Ratio: Reflexive perfection based upon all specifications orientated to optimal survival on intended planet of contact.
Weapons: The Avatar contains within it a spore nodule that is unleshed upon its demise releasing a swarm of synaptic harvesters, each of which will immedialy home in on an indipendant target within 50 miles of the avatar. A select 5 will specifically target a host as designated by the Avatar and will pursue this target untill the harvesters energy source is depleted.

Synaptic Harvester: Bullet sized spore that propells itself at an intended host at speeds of upto 300mph. Upon contact with the target it will burrow into its flesh in a matter of nanoseconds before heading directly for the hosts brain or other primary neuron collection in an attempt to take over the hosts pathways, upon reaching its target the harvester proceeds to grow and become an empathetic and perminent link to the hive mind forever uniting the host with the hive mind and making it part of the collective.
Upon entry into an organism the harvester releases a paralising syrum that renders the target unconcious in as little as 3 seconds for a small rodent to a maximum of 280 seconds for a star sized organism.

OOC: Hive Fleet guy........now I have no problem with FT or even different species joining. All I ask of you is this. Use the spellcheck and make your character a little bit weaker. I like the whole star and vegetation and gravity thing you got going there. It shows you put thought into it. I like that in an RPer. You can join so long as you tone it down some. Gra?

Fine. Will dual monofilament blades work than?

Bring It (I swear to God if you don't join then God hates you)

Then God hates me.

This post brought to you by your friendly, neighborhood Tiburon.

ooc: Crikey didn't notice my spelling, it was about 5am tho must have been tired. Sorry about that.

the avatar isnt all that hard the things she unleashes if she dies are tho... I'm not really expecting her to die here to be honnest its just more of a self defence system for the hive.

Then God hates me.

This post brought to you by your friendly, neighborhood Tiburon.
You remind of myself back when I was a new guy. Gotta tell yae. Good to see the old jackass flair in full style. I'm not even flame baiting. I'm being completely serious. I like you.

bump 0-o

OOC: Is it too late to join?

No.
Join if you want.
SODOMY!
Where the buffaloes roam.......home home on the range. Where the deer and
TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES!

It's not to late to join.

We've got...what, 3-4 entries? We need more.

Taggy McTagtag

Yes.

We need more entries. If you don't enter I rape you.

*giggles*

Bump.

Bump!

I Rape You Unless You Join!

Bump!

OOC: I'll join, although if Tranny pulls that Godmod shit you pulled the last two times I RP'ed with you I'm out of here. Yes I'm also referring to when you were still wolf america. As a matter of fact, if it weren't CE hosting this I wouldn't even consider joining if Tranny was in it.

IC:
The barracks were restless tonight, Silas Mercier was drinking, and all the Nofian regulars knew what that meant. A slow steady thunk could be heard across the building, as Silas' knife hit the gaps inbetween his fingers. Scars could be seen on his hands from where he had fucked this bit up before.

Thunk, Thunk, Thunk.

His muscles tightened as he picked the pace up, muscles from years of physical training in this hell of a country.

Thunk, Thunk, Thunk.

Several of the younger soldiers watched in amazement as Silas continued his drunken stabbing fest.

Thunk, Thunk, Schloorch.

Blood spurted across the table as the knife planted itself firmly in the middle of his hand.

"Ah shit," came Silas' voice across the room, his tone had no indication he had just stabbed his hand.

He pulled the knife out with relative ease, and threw it to the deck. He then grabbed his shirt and ripped a shred off of it to bandage his wound. After bandaging up his hand he looked at the palm of his hand.

"Hey Silas," came a voice from across the room, "Lookit what I found here." The soldier tossed him a picture of Corra Ceilidh Sawney. "I bet she would just love a hunk a meat like you, apparently this flyer says all you gotta do is beat her in hand to hand."

"He'd kill her in hand to hand," came a sharp whisper from the soldier sitting next to him.

"At least it would get him out of here," came the short and sharp reply

"I'll fucking do it," came the voice of the toasted Silas. Clearly he wasn't thinking on all cylinders. He was strong, and pretty fast, although it would be an outright lie to say he was smart.

Silas' bald head wavered for a second, then righted itself. He headed over to his rack and started pulling out the stuff he would need for his escapades in Camel Eaters. He stuck his knife in his boot, wiping the blood off on the nearest rack. Next he stuck several sets of clothes in a sea bag. He then realized he wasn't going anywhere until tommorow when they would let him of base. Coming to this conclusion he took his shirt off and threw it in the corner, knocking over two empty bottles of whisky, and resting on a half full bottle of moonshine. Falling on the nearest rack, asleep already from the mass amount of alcohol he had taken in. His back had a tattoo across his shoulders. It read in a bold font:

"I love hand to hand
Stab 'em in the face with a KA-BAR baby!"

The rest of the soldiers made it to their respective racks with the knowledge that he wasn't going to do anything really stupid tonight.

OOC: I'm not going to debate this in CE's lovely thread. So I will make this one post and no more on the subject, if you want to argue we can take it up somewhere else. I wasn't the only who said you were godmoding. A 100 something year old man would never be able to freaking jump on the back of two warthogs and keep them both alive and in sync with each other. Your wolfman only died because after I was threatening to leave cause I was fed up with your GM'ing crap. Shrin Kali left becasue of that too. And you also pissed alot of people off back when you were still WA, hell I knowing what you had done decided to RP with you because I was nice and thougth I'd cive you a chance, but after you pulled that shit I did my research and saw just how bad you were puppet wanking and flaming amongst other things which caused you to go crying that everyone was against you. Even the mods deleted several of your threads because you were doing nothing other than flaming myself and others. I was nice enough to keep your previous identity secret, but you left blatent tips out for the world to see. Draconis Nightcrawlis even tells me that when he let you RP in one of his threads you degraded down to godmodding, this was long after the RP I dropped out of becasue you were GM'ing. Like I said, if Camel Eaters wasnt' hosting this, I wouldn't touch an RP with you.

That is all I have to say about that.

OOC:

Alright children. Let it be known that if any Godmodding taketh place here said personage shall find his or her self on the receiving end of all of my raping appendages. So after having said that. Let this too be known! The past is past. Right now all y'all need to be worrying about in this thread is making it to Corra. Yes making it to her. I will throw every obstacle I can against yae. I'm not shitting yae either. So once again......Godmodders get raped, squabblers get raped, bap RPers die early and easy.

Gwa?

Silas rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. He grumbled for a second and sat up, fighting the inevitabel hangover he knew he had. He looked at his hand and was not suprised to see that he stabbed a knife through it, but was much more surprised to find a crumpled up piece of paper in it. He uncrumpled the paper, read the letter, and looked at the picture. He then looked up to see his seabag half packed. He stuffed the last of his gear in it and headed out, anything was better than his superiors finding out he had been drinking again. Once outside he grumbled as the sunlight shined in his eyes. He stumbled off to find a ride somewhere close to the tournement. He'd let everyone know after he was already there and had a chance to get over his hangover.

Bump!

A piece of gravel hit Silas in the back of the head as his ride left him behind near the docks. A sadistic grin came across his mug as he headed through the crowds towards the boats. The cheers from the crowd, and the flashes from the camera made his head hurt, but that didn't matter now. All that mattered was the fight he was going to be in. Every second he spent in those barracks made him long for a fight, with every passing second he came closer and closer to crushing a fellow soldiers head, all for the lust of a fight. His mind may not work the fastest in most areas, but in a hand to hand battle he could wage for hours against a skilled opponet. His lack of speed was made up for by his strength and stamina.

His mind flashed back to his first fight twenty years ago in the Nofian School system. It had lasted for three hours, he came out on top with three broken ribs, a broken nose, and a knife blade broken in his leg. His vision was filled with the images of his punching the kids head into a bloody pulp. He no longer heard the cheers of the crowd and the inquiring questions of reporters, only the wet packing sounds of his twelve year old fists hitting the bloody mass of flesh, skull, blood, and brain.

His mind snapped back to the crowds and reporters. His six foot seven inch tall body pushed it's way past the cameras. His muscular body showed through his shirt as he tossed his seabag aboard the boat. He turned and faced the crowd.

"All you hear this!" said the previously silent giant, "Death is the only constant in this pitiful excuse for a world. Those who are weak will fall before the might of myself and many other skilled fighters. If you wish to fight I will have no mercy on your weak souls, and in return I expect no mercy."

He pulled his shirt off and threw it towards his seabag. His bare chest revealed many round scars across his belly and deep scars on his chest and arms, each and every one only highlighted by his muscles. He turned and started towards the boat, his back was riddled with scars similar to the ones on the front. His tattoo danced across his back as he made his way up on the boat, taunting everyone with the words:

"I love hand to hand
Stab 'em in the face with a KA-BAR baby!"

"I love hand to hand
Stab 'em in the face with a KA-BAR baby!"

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Nice.

Injidara ux-Rihad, Royal Armourer of the Imperial Palace of the Iluvauromeni Commonality of Everlasting Light... absolutely hated having to write letters. This was mostly because they were inevitably exceedingly long; his titles, more numerous than the one above that had just passed through his mind, were both meaningless to most and utterly boring to write. Nor, really, could he quite manage to justify hiring someone to simply write his letters. That was rather extravagant, and imperialistic even, some would say. And even if it was the Imperial Palace, the Commonality was no longer an empire, but more like a federation. A deeply centralised federation, but nonetheless...

One had to be democratic.

In this case, then, he decided that a letter would simply be over the top.

Instead, he simply hopped into his personal aeroplane. Well, it wasn't really an aeroplane. More like...

But that really isn't relevant. And so we jump to the point of arrival in the pertinent area. Except, of course, things are never easy. Injidara was mildly miffed when his conveyance quite suddenly ceased working - and cursed his idiocy for not making certain that that wasn't liable to happen.

Hurriedly, he ejected over the country below. Fortunately, he hadn't been flying as fast as he could have been. Else he'd be quite dead already.

Peering down, Injidara greets this new land with curses and anger... while his M# incinerates itself near-instantly with a core overload to prevent curious foreigners from stealing it's technology.

[OOC: Feel free to have him hit the land anywhere you like. He's not technically Human, but, in the interest of fairness, he's also not a Nenya either (see the NSwiki stuff on my nation if you have no idea what I'm talking about) - rather, he's a nice halfbreed lacking the ability to blur body movements or convince enemies that they cannot see him... unless you want a full-blown Nenya warrior hacking his way through the 'competition', that is.

The aforementioned abilities do require big chunks of energy, however, and so if you do allow/want a full-blooded Nenya in this, he won't be using said abilities particuarly often (and would be severely limited in his own particular ability level in that regard anyway, since I only use my limited number of Severely Pwning Warriors[tm] in my own threads).]

OOC: Okay. I have no problem with that. I often have more interesting characters in my threads as anyone who knows me and my thread can attest. I've had Sawneys, severely retarded psychics, zombie Punk rock shamans, and even myself from time to time. So come one come all. Give me something worth seeing and we'll start.

[OOC: Mmkay.]

IC:

Injidara did not quite hit the ground so much as come to a gentle stop several inches above it.

He sighed with gratitude for the inventor of the device which had aided his descent. Quite simple, in fact, since Nenya bones are definitively hollow - surprisingly simple, then, to gain aided flight.

Irritably, he shirked the piezoelectric birdsuit, giving it a swift kick for good measure. It had just saved his life, but the air vehicle which had put it in danger in the first place was not available for kicking.

And then he realised: it wasn't the aircraft. It was the ground. So he kicked a nearby rock, instead, and then yelped.

It actually rather hurt, but it was more the shock of being so stupid as to actually kick a rock that hurt the most; hence the yelp. Drawing in a deep breath, Injidara let it out in an aggravated sigh. "Well, now I wish I had a map," he let out, out loud.

A thought occurred. Tentatively, he reached out with that other sense. Animals, of course, could be found without effort, but oddly enough, his speciality wasn't people. So he did not find anyone at once, which was irksome; the trauma of being thrown out of a plane at sixty thousand feet was, frankly, a good enough excuse for lowly mental performance, however.

So he decided.

Instead, then, he sent out a Call. He was far better at projecting in that way than receiving in most others, anyway; and so hopefully, the Call would bring aid.

Belatedly he began to wonder if anything else could hear a Nenya telepathic Call...

...and even more belatedly he recalled that some higher-order predators could pick up empathic signals.

He sighed. "Perfect. Just... perfect."

Bumpola!

Bumpola!
no offense, but I'm kinda waiting on you. There isn't much else I can do until you do something

I was just waiting on new folks. Or possibly someone getting to the docks.

I was just waiting on new folks. Or possibly someone getting to the docks.
I thought both myself and Tranny were at the docks

OOC: is it to late to join in? and i saw something about being alowed to use aliens? if both are correct i'm in...and sorry for any spelling mistakes i'm in a hurry

I thought both myself and Tranny were at the docks

OOC: Last warning NoF, call me Trans or Transylvania. Nothing else. Calling me ‘Tranny’ (Which is another name for a group of people. Transsexual.) would be a flame bait.

OOC: Last warning NoF, call me Trans or Transylvania. Nothing else. Calling me ‘Tranny’ (Which is another name for a group of people. Transsexual.) would be a flame bait.
Hey man. Come on now. You and NoF get MSN my contact is yernish_get@yahoo.com We'll sort this out.

Yes we allow aliens.

I didna ken that NoF had gotten tae the docks.

Ah well.

Cookies taste good.

Also. Your name is The Trannsylvania. And you donna mind when I say it. But yes let us resolve this. Or at least use it for the RP and have the two men go at it hard. Aight?

OOC: Fine. That's it. Get the fuck out. You're trying to pick fights with people. No more. I don't care really. Just go away Transylvania. Go away.

OOC: Okay. Bye. You were the one who want me back in. I told you I don’t like NoF. Plus…would you like being call Tranny?

[OOC: Any chance of getting some sort of scene-setting post, CE? Perhaps? :) *grunts at having to post entirely OOC, but can't really post again until I have more info*]