This troper was picked on a lot in high school for being 'weird' and 'smelly' and 'fat', but really I was just super smart and super creative and waaaaay ahead of the fashion trend curve (I was wearing big sunglasses in, like, '02, seriously) and people just could not handle how in-your-face and full of life-energy I was. Anyway, this one time I was eating some Ding-Dongs on a bench by the cafeteria and this one blonde bimbo chick came up to me and said I I should wash my hair more often (excuse me, the eczema shampoo made my hair oily, so what? At least I didn't have a fake tan) and then said she wasn't trying to be rude but I had chocolate all over my chin.
So, I called a storm. Yep, tropers, you read that right. I concentrated really hard and I drew on the energies of the sky and pulled some clouds down right over the school. Swear to God, two minutes later and it was raining puppies and kittens (squee! see? I can't help my adorable nature!) And the blonde got totally soaking wet and her jock boyfriend had to run over with an umbrella and I just sorta looked all innocent. Hahaha. She never picked on me again that month.
A sea of faces down there in the darkness, staring up at her. Men and women, all crowded together at the bottom of the pit, their eyes upturned, their expressions blank.
The jumble of ranks – they had known her by many different titles. Thousands of them. Bluish, ephemeral, looking at her.
She stood on the edge of the cliff face, peering down at them. Wind whipped at her. It felt like a storm coming, but high above. Far up. The air was damp, clammy.
She knew who these soldiers were. They had all been under her command, at one time or another. She had sent every single one of them to their deaths.
“It was war,” she said, simply.
We don’t care, they all said, and so many of them speaking made the rock vibrate with volume. Not anymore. We understand now what a waste it was. We should not have had to die.
“You knew what the risk was. You signed up.”
So did you. Expression blank. Ghosts with corpse-like faces. Why didn’t you die? Why aren't you down here with us?
“I almost did; many, many times. But I was a commanding officer and I wasn’t meant for the front lines.”
You killed us all.
It was true. She’d never shirked from that reality. It may have been enemy bullets, enemy fire, enemy bombs, but these were the ones she sent out into the battle. These were the ones she told to go out there, knowing few if any would come back.
She nodded, once. “Yes. I killed you all.”
Tell us you regret it.
She closed her eyes. “No. It would be a lie. I don’t regret it. I’m sorry you died – I’m sorry humanity still has a need for me, for my talents. I wish we were more evolved. But I don’t regret what I did. If I regretted that sort of thing, I would never have been able to become a Captain, an Admiral. But I was either gifted or cursed with the ability to stand here and look at you and not regret. I’m proud of you. Proud of what you sacrificed. But I don’t regret it.”
There was a stir. A chill. Biting cold as the dead became restless, agitated.
Tell ussss…you…regret it…
It wasn’t a request, or a command. It was a warning. Their faces contorted into masks of anger. They tensed – she could feel the tension, like a coiled spring.
She looked at them and now it was her face that was without expression.
They flew at her.
And the thousands she’d sent to die visited their own fate on their commanding officer.
Five months, and no thought to a name, no bets on gender or inviting John to lay a hand on her stomach, no thought really at all to the child growing inside her. Not growing – gestating. She could try to convince herself it was the chaos of life around her; she could say, over and over, that it was because there were more important things to worry about than a fetus. She could even offer the excuse that she was just a bad mother and didn’t have a maternal instinct at all.
They would all be lies.
She was afraid.
It was a lesson all farm-girls learned early with the livestock – don’t love something, don’t name something that’s only going to be taken away from you in the end. And that was, she was convinced, exactly what was going to happen to her. Just like in the hospital, they’d come and they’d take it away. And if she could stay distant, that’s all it would be when the time came – an ‘it’.
She grieved because it was a terrible thing to do to Ben. His ghost whispered in her ear to love this child, let John love it, to love it for Ben because Ben was dead and couldn’t be there to love it himself.
But Ben was dead. She’d loved Ben, too, as much as if he were her brother, her blood kin. And he’d been taken from her as well.
Hearing Moody talk about the Omega Group terrified her. She was powerless against them if they wanted to take this baby from her. If the CIA and the FBI en masse couldn’t even learn who they were, she certainly had no hope of standing against them.
Keep it at a distance, then. And close your eyes when it’s time to say good-bye.
It was a very simple, rather clean Hell. The same scenario, over and over. Over and Over.
A corridor that split off in two directions. They asked her which way. She thought, chose, and said ‘right’. They went right. She watched them walk down the hall, standing there at the crossroads. The corridor exploded. She saw them blown into pieces.
They were there with her again. They asked her which way. She thought, chose, and said ‘left’ this time. They went left. She watched them walk down the hall, standing there at the crossroad. The corridor exploded. She saw them blown into pieces.
This was her Hell. Always making the wrong decision. Always sending her crew to their deaths. No matter what she chose. No matter what.
How can I sleep, now? When he tells me Tom might not have been dead. That I may have knocked him unconscious and put him in that coffin and let him be buried. I may have buried my husband alive.
Or, if not, then the other possibility is that my husband returned from the dead and tried to murder me.
Either way, the thought keeps me rather distracted from commenting on the weather at Longchamps when Emilia asks me.
How do I tell her my concern with the climate lies solely in wondering if it will rain the night we go to dig up my spouse?
If he wants to do it the night of Countess de Rothes’ recital, how will I make excuse?
Wee mini-rant (no, I’m not upset or anything). Stop trying to pretend OOC doesn’t affect IC. It does. You aren’t gonna want to make ties with, or play extensively with, folks you don’t like. That means IC will be affected. The people you like OOC you’re inevitably gonna like IC, UNLESS you specifically set a tie up where your PCs are enemies.
And that okay. It’s OKAY. You are not a bad person because you allow your OOC feelings for someone into IC, as long as you don’t LIE about it. If you hate someone OOC and try to PvP them in every Venue and make up lame excuses to justify it ICly, yes, you suck. But you should never have to apologize for not wanting to RP with someone.
I am excited about what I’m hearing from the new member handbook ideas. It would be a BIG step to cutting down on using IC actions to express OOC upset if we had more OOC recourses when it comes to dealing with problem players. I think it’s crap that the only way a game can keep a problem player from attending is by killing/banishing/blocking their PC in-character. THAT is irresponsible IC/OOC crossover, and it sends a very mixed message.
“How many are there?” Michael asked as he pressed his back against the cement wall of the building, his words marred by panting.
Celie was sliding the safety off the Glock, leaning to peer around the side of the wall. “At least fifteen,” she replied tensely. “Seven identified hostages.”
“Who’s running the negotiations?” Michael asked, taking his turn to steal a glance at the plaza around the corner before drawing back out of sight again quickly.
“Sherman,” she answered – the word was a sigh.
“Great,” he grunted.
“Can’t you just, you know, shoot glitter out of your butthole and make them drop their weapons?” she wondered.
He slapped her.
“How old are you, Amaiyah?” Nona asked solicitously.
“I’m -…” Amiyah began, but Nona cut her off.
“Never mind; probably best for me if I plead ignorance later,” she reasoned. “Now, come sit on my lap. Let’s play a game.”
“A game?” Amiyah echoed, both dubious and curious. “What sort of a game?”
“Oh, you’ll like it, darling,” Nona cooed silkily. “There’s tickling, and hugging and, if you’re a very good girl, you’ll get a special prize at the very end.”
Amiyah’s curiosity was edging out the dubiousness. “What sort of prize?”
“It’s called an ‘orgasm’, princess,” was Nona’s sugary answer.
For the next three hours, they simply sat in silence. Occasionally there would be glances exchanged, but it was clear the older Winter didn’t want the younger to be there, and the younger didn’t want to be there, either. Still, there was nothing to be done about the circumstances and neither was one to complain needlessly.
The officer found them like that, side by side, still as statues on the metal bench.
“All right, ladies,” he declared, trying to cover his unease. Whatever reason, the pair unnerved the shit out of him, “You’re free to go. Someone’s posted your bail.”
She waved her hand quickly to clear the smoke and glared at him. “That was unnecessary!” Her declaration was pointed and clipped.
He pumped the shotgun again and aimed once more. “I ain’t asking again.”
She examined the gaping wound in her right shoulder with delicately probing fingers. “Ouch,” she opined.
“One,” he growled.
“I hardly think it’s fair that -…”
Her expression contorted in pain and displeasure. “Really, you’re being completely unreasonable.”
“She gave them to me!” The statement was cried with gorgeous indignation. It was punctuated by the shotgun firing. She staggered back, swayed and collapsed. He grunted. She even took a shotgun to the chest sexily. Liches.
Stepping over to her fallen form he reached down, buried his hand between her breasts, and fished out Gypsy’s underwear…then pivoted and walked away, sighing softly.
The corpse hit her desk with a squelching THUD, and she startled, jumping in her seat with a small cry. Her eyes snapped from the mutilated body up to the the thing that stood in front of her grinning.
“You did it again?!” she cried, shocked and horror-stricken. “You…you can’t DO this! You can’t just go around killing whoever you want and ripping their vital organs out of their body, or putting them on spikes or raping their lifeless husks!”
“Oh, Miss Leigh,” Sullyvin sighed metallically, “Why do you hate fun?”
“Look, it’s a herd of cows. Who cares about a herd of cows? And you need to eat, right? Think about it from a Big Picture standpoint. What do you owe these townsfolk, anyhow? They’ve never been exactly nice to you.”
“Don’t do it. They aren’t your cows. They’re someone’s livelihood. You’re never going to make things better between you and the village if you do it. This isn’t the way. You’re better than this.”
The giant was thoroughly confused.
He slid his eyes to the right, looking at his shoulder and the redhead who was curled up indolently on it, her tiny hands holding onto his earlobe as she murmured into his ear. Then he shifted focus over to his left shoulder and the other redhead standing firmly and speaking earnestly into his other ear. Then he looked down at the herd of cows that were grazing, and his tummy rumbled.
“That’s a sign,” the one redhead noted saucily.
“Shut up,” called the other from across his back. ‘It is not.”
The giant blinked and sighed. These two never made things easy or simple.
Seven of them went flying back. Another three followed, hitting the pile and not moving. The hail of gunfire was accented beautifully by the thudding of battle axe hitting spine.
“Reloading!” Avery said, and seamlessly Gwyn pirouetted to cover the Captain, decapitating a charging brute. Avery slapped the cartridge into Winona, pulled back the slide, aimed, and dropped another one coming from the right of Gywn. The two made their way down the corridor, leaving a bloody swath of enemies behind them.
Avery kicked one of the men in the chest, sending him stumbling back. Before he even hit the ground, Gwyn’s axe had executed a stunning piledrive into his sternum, splitting the Captain’s bootprint in twain.
Avery looked delightedly over at the little blonde thing. “Are you sure I can’t adopt you?” she asked.
Masq is really wearing on me on an OOC level. I’ve never seen a venue create so much OOC hurt and hostility. I’ve heard complaints from all sides and genuine upset. I am removed from it because of the type of PC I play, so the game itself is fine for me, personally, but I know things are not going well for some people and I keep hearing people talk about being OOCly upset.
I think it boils down to the basic paradigm. In Masq, what it comes down to is this – no matter what gen you are, no matter what your MC is, no matter what Clan you are, if you want to play at the heart of the system with the core venue paradigms: politics and power, it means having people you consider your friends OOC treating you like shit IC and fucking you over so they can get what they want out of the game.
That’s the whole point! Underhanded dealings, backstabbing, maneuvering, rumors, blackballing, bribing, bias, it’s all not only fair game but encouraged. And it all permits nasty, unkind, unfair behavior from PCs. Which means nobody playing that core paradigm gives a shit about making the RP good/enjoyable for other people. They’re supposed to dick you over. That’s the idea. They’re supposed to step on your back to get to their next level.
So, unlike the other venues, you don’t have ANY sincere, friendly cooperation. If it happens, it’s a ‘I’ll scratch your back’ scenario – which is false and self-serving anyhow. People are all looking out for Number One. And that sucks to deal with OOCly. It sucks to see people you consider friends trying to hurt or ruin or control you PC. And when you don’t have the stats or the generation to meet that head on, on a level playing-field, it can suck even more. You can feel bullied. You can feel cheated.
And I am seeing more and more IC shit bleed OOC. People using OOC feelings to fuck with people IC because Masq allows and encourages that kind of behavior. You can’t get away with that in another venue (save Req, and even Req isn’t this cutthroat). That’s not cool. That’s not good gaming.
Basically, the venue champions douchebaggery. That makes me sad. And I think it’s really starting to hurt things. Again, I deliberately made a PC that wouldn’t ever have to worry about this kinda thing, ‘cause she has no ambitions. So I am personally loving the game. But I’m tired of the hurt feelings and lack of cooperative gaming I’ve become so spoiled with in Space and other games.
HOW MUCH: $10.00 (This will pay for your cover AND for your time-slot in the IceBar itself)
PLEASE R.S.V.P By Commenting Below!!! The Club Can Serve Us Better Knowing Our Party Size!
WHAT IS ICEBAR?
IceBar Orlando is a nightclub on International Drive that consists of two contrasting lounges – the Fire Lounge and the actual Ice Bar. The Fire Lounge is a large area with a full bar, amazingly cool lighting effects and crystal curtains and chandeliers. The Ice Bar itself opens at various time-slots, and they provide warm cloaks and gloves to wear while inside. Your drinks are served in ice glasses, and all the seating is fur-draped ice benches and chairs.
Let’s Talk OOC
IceBar Orlando has very excitedly opened its doors to us for this event. They are offering us a VIP section of the club and our own, private session in the actual IceBar. WE are offering some awesome raffles and a great evening of low-plot RP.
We know that Sunday is a little tricky for folks, which is why the game is beginning and ending early, and why we’re giving people plenty of advance notice.
You are not only welcome, but ENCOURAGED to costume! IceBar’s manager, Patz, is looking forward to seeing us all gussied up, and is perfectly aware that we’ll be roleplaying in her club. So go all out!
We know it’s Sunday, a Cam event, and some folks will have a far piece to drive, so we understand if your alcohol consumption to be low. But as this IS a business and they do need to make a living, they have agreed to have plenty of mocktails on hand to order. Show them some love, folks.
Let’s Talk IC!
The Orlando Children’s Health Advocacy Group is hosting its first annual charity ‘Fire & Ice’ gala event. All proceeds will go directly to Orlando Regional Medical Center, to assist with funding for the Arnold Palmer Hospital for Children. Several local and national celebrities will be attending. Tickets are $100.
Those wishing to cross-venue from Requiem or Lost must submit an app (mid-approval) with justification and reasoning as well agreeing to a statement of responsibility. No mechanical benefit can be derived for cross-venue PCs from this event, and the event cannot be used as justification for Occult Specialties. Consideration for cross-venue will be given to those with legitimate reasons - you MUST meet one of the four following requirements:
1) Resources 4+
2) Luxury 2+
3) Fame 1+
4) A Status (the actual bought merit) 4+, 5) Allies or Contacts dealing appropriately with the event.
Approval for CV play will be based solely on the discretion of the DST and will be limited.
Really swanky NPCs are available for those who are interested.
If you want to play a celebrity PC for this event, please contact Haley Ortega ( email@example.com ) and specify your PC’s KNOWN name, and what they’re famous for.
Let’s Talk Goodies
There will be several things being raffled off at this event – all proceeds to benefit our upcoming Featured Game of the Month! Check back here regularly, as more items may be added. All tickets are $1.00 each, or 6 tickets for $5.00
Item #1 – Comped Ticket to Orlando GotM
Item #2 – Comped Crash Space for GotM On-Site
Item #3 – Domain Shirt of Your Choice from Spreadshirt.com
“I am not letting some crazy spider-woman thing keep me from getting into an Ivy League school.”
Keep your eyes on the future. Keep your goals in sight. Thinking about what’s ahead, and plan. Ducks in a row. Work hard, looking to the horizon. Tomorrow’s coming. Tomorrow’s bringing all the opportunities. Tomorrow has the stuff that’ll make you a success.
Today, meanwhile, has the stuff that your nightmares are made of.
How can I reach tomorrow, when today’s trying to kill me? That English paper that’s due tomorrow, the one that’s another step toward good grades that’ll get me into a good school…how can I write that English paper in the middle of fighting some monster?
I wanted to be a doctor, like my dad. Now, suddenly, I can heal someone with a touch. Why doesn’t that make me happy? Why? Because I wanted to be a doctor? Because all my life I’ve planned and worked to go to med school, not to have some bizarre power?
And now my life’s changed course without anyone asking me. Now I have to go out there and fight. I don’t want to fight. I want to go to prom. I want to volunteer at church. I want to go to the mall and be student-body treasurer and captain of the dance team. This is senior year. I had it all planned.
I had it…all planned.
“I only hope we never lose sight of one thing – that it was all started by a mouse.”
The mornings are so cool this time of year. Misty and cool, over the lake. The broad blue water whose opposite shores I can never see, and the white buildings with their red roofs are so beautiful and crisp and shining. If only it were as perfect as it looked. If only the sickness wasn’t here with us.
My father remembers the time before Jums, but I don’t. I was born a few years after its arrival. He said things were so much better. No one ever worried, no one ever grieved. Thank goodness for the Clinic. Even with such a high mortality rate, we’re fortunate someone’s taking care of the people we love. And even though the ones who come home aren’t ever really the same, even if they’re confused or touched, they’re well. They live.
And we go about our lives, grateful for what we have and forgiving of what we don’t. And it isn’t that I’m not grateful. It’s just…sometimes I feel that there’s more to be had than this. Sometimes I feel as though I’m missing something. That there’s one door in my house I’ve never opened, or one drawer in my dresser I’ve never peeked into. I know it seems silly. I know how fortunate I am to be well and strong and safe. But, even so…sometimes I wonder where that opposite shore is.
“Oh. It’s you. Margie said you’d be comin’ this way. Sit down. Buy me a drink. Buy yourself one, too – you’re gonna be here awhile, kid.
“I guess she told you that you’d be my death warrant, huh? Sounds grim, but it’s the truth. I know as soon as I get done tellin’ you what I need to tell you, I’ve got twenty-four hours to live. Maybe less. It don’t take much for them to wipe out a squeaker. Just a wave of the wand and bibbity-bobbity-boo. You’re dead.
“Squeaker. That’s what they call squealers. Sorry. Shoulda explained that. Don’t worry, though, you won’t get bumped. You got no proof. You go around yellin’ about what I’m gonna tell you, they’ll just put you away. No-one’d believe you. Go ahead. Go tell someone ol’ Walt ran his empire on biomagic siphoned offa other dimensions. That’ll fly. Sure.
“See, back in the fifties, Walt got his hands on something big. No-one knows how or why. Some say he sold his soul to the Devil. Other people say it was just part of his family line. I’ve heard he found some weird machine, that there was some sorta crazy ritual, even that he wasn’t human to begin with and came here from another world to spice things up. Believe what you want; there’s a hundred theories out there and not one of ‘em’s got any more evidence than another.
“The point is, Disney unlocked doorways. Temporal, spatial, dimensional, whatever. Doorways. And through those doorways were canvases. Big, blank expanses of completely free space. I mean that in the most literal of senses, kid. Where we are, there ain’t no blank space. Even space is taken up by space. Know what I’m sayin’? But these places…they were untouched. Pristine. Open. And Walt made use of them.
"At first he just created. Made all sorts of kingdoms and cities and realms. All different flavors, all different styles. All of them happy. He wasn’t an evil guy, ol’ Walt, no matter what other folks say. The realms inspired him to create everything he did. You don’t think one guy coulda come up with everything he did without help, huh? Those spaces, those kingdoms and cities and realms, were his drawing board.
“Now, that’d be all well and good, and we could thank Disney for bringing us Mickey and the Princesses and everything else…except one Sunday in the late 1940’s, Walt got a hair up his ass. He wanted to make a place for people to come with their families and have fun and learn together. Now, historians say he sat on the idea for years. That’s a load of crap. He was planning and he was building the Dustworks.
“That biomagic I mentioned before? You’d know it by a different name, probably – pixie dust. It’s a substance that does all kinds of crazy shit. It enhances imagination, pleasure and faith. It keys up belief in possibility and dreams. It’s the rose-color; it’s the cake’s icing; it’s the sugar-coat. And Disney built a machine that could filter it out of the atmosphere, refine it, and pump it back out. Walt made a whole biomagic refinery plant and called it the Dustworks.
“You ever been to Disneyland? Any of the Parks? You ever notice they’ve got somethin’ other theme parks just ain’t got? Six Flags ain’t got it; Universal Studios ain’t got it. It’s somethin’ in the way the employees act, or how detailed the queues are…maybe a million other different nuances. Well, I got news for you – it ain’t any of those things. It’s the biomagic. They pump the Parks full of the stuff. It coats the buildings, makes ‘em look more magical. It gets into your lungs and you start havin’ a Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah Day. It’s in the food, the water, the costumes, everything. And it’s how Disney was able to permeate the entire world with his name, products, films and creations.
“Now, you might already be puttin’ two and two together, but I’ll keep the train runnin’. How does he get all that biomagic that he sends to the Dustworks? Well, remember those canvases I mentioned? Remember ol’ Walt’s realms he created once upon a dream? Bingo. He sucks it out of those places, sends it through the refinery and dumps it into the Parks.
“Yeah, people live in those places. They’re whole cities. Kingdoms. Realms. They live and work and play and their magical lands are full of the dust. They have no idea they’re being mined for it, of course. They don’t even know any other realms exist, save for the ones they live in themselves.
“And that wouldn’t be so bad, really, if it were just goin’ along smoothly. It ain’t, though. Because when Walt died, his successors got greedy. They were told about the Dustworks and they started ramping up production. Soon, the realms weren’t makin’ enough to keep up with all the parks. When it was just Magic Kingdom and Disneyland, it was no problem. But then came Epcot and MGM, California Adventure and Animal Kingdom. Paris and Tokyo. More and more Parks. That meant more and more biomagic. And things went downhill.
“It wasn’t enough to just take it from the atmosphere. They decided to take it from the people themselves. But to keep the secret, they created a fake disease, called Jums. Really, they don’t know it, but it’s actually J.U.M.S. – Jafar, Ursula, Maleficent, Scar. Villains. You know ‘em. Anyway, they make up this disease, which is detectable but conveniently asymptomatic. Then they get the ‘patients’ send to Pixie Clinic…which is really just the Dustworks. And there, they hook ‘em up to the machines and suck ‘em dry, slowly and painfully.
“Now, these realms are monitored by Disney employees, ‘Cast Members’ sent to these realms to make sure the blinders stay on and that the ‘sick’ folks get sent via monorail to the Dustworks. Walt built a lot of connecting monorail systems – for his Parks and for the realms. The Pixie Clinic Express is just one of them. Actually, legend has it that all the realms are reachable either by monorail or mousekart (they’re sorta like cars), but there’s a cloaking device that keeps ‘em hidden so the locals never realizes theirs is not the only realm out there.
“Which brings me…to me. I was a Cast Member. I got fed up. Saw them take a little girl from Saratoga Springs away one day, and saw her mom and dad standin' there, so hopeful, so grateful that the Clinic was gonna to cure their baby. That did it for me. Death-warrant or no, I ran. Escaped. Came here, decided to tell my story. I’m hopin’ you believe enough to maybe try and do something. We’ll see.
“My glass is empty, kid. I’m gonna get goin’. Good luck to you. An…tell Margie she’s a sport, huh? Tell her I appreciate her lettin’ me hole up here. It let me do what I had t’do."
Dasia blinked and turned to look at the source of the voice. When she saw who it was, she frowned slightly. “This is hardly fair,” she complained. “And highly irregular.”
“I don’t care,” Avery bit. “You’re being ridiculous. I have all the sympathy in the world for severe emotional distress, but you’ve got a job to do. If nothing else, they need their only Winter Courtier there for the crowning and to support Summer throughout the Season. When you’re free of responsibilities to the Freehold, then you can go huddle in a dark corner. Right now, you’ve duties to perform. Get on the plane.”
“I should not be much use to them,” Dasia said quietly.
“Look,” the Admiral sighed, “I…don’t fully grasp the idea of these emotions and seasons and whatnot, but I get that you’re Sorrow. Fine. So, in Winter it was hiding, in Spring is was longing for what you can’t have and in Summer let it be your grief fueling your rage to conquer your enemies.”
“I have never been one for much revenge,” the Snowskin noted.
“Then be one now!” ordered Avery. “Get mad! It’s Summer! Think of all the absolute horrific bullshit you’ve endured. You’re Winter, right? Think about all that suffering! You’ve banked some serious tears in these past nine months – cash them in for some good, old-fashioned righteous fury. This bastard took Gregory from you; he screwed with you and your friends; he’s made your life miserable over and over again. If you don’t want to take it personally, fine – but start being so cold that it burns.”
“Is that what you do?” Dasia’s question was without rancor or sarcasm.
Avery nodded. “Every time. Every time I hear someone telling me that we’ve no right to wage war against another race, I think about Macree’s throat slit open, or Nova sobbing from the games they play, or Parr beaten to Hell. I think about Tomlin, Bree, Amun, all the ones destroyed. I think of Emerald and her people lost and terrified as they’re systematically slaughtered for no other reason than pure cruelty. Your Gentry and our Crimson, Dasia, have a lot in common. And I am never going to stop fighting them. Never.”
Dasia was quiet for a moment, then simply nodded. “I’ll get on the plane.”
“Good,” Crane said with a short sigh. “I’m glad we had this little chat.” She eyed her datapad. “Apparently I have to go kick some sense into some vampire pop-star next.”
“Thank you.” Dasia kept her voice measured.
“You can thank me by naming the maneuver of lobbing any magnetized asteroids at the Warlord after me,” Avery replied, saluted crisply, and walked off.
Guys. As a general rule, even if I express strong opinions about stuff and even if I disagree or argue, emotionally I'm okay. I am not rattled or upset or freaking out or anything even remotely close to it. I'm not going to break down over Cam stuff. The day I feel the need to call a 24-hour on myself is the day I realize I need to leave the club completely, because no game of make-believe should have that terrible an effect on my emotional well-being.
The arguing is not a product of upset. I promise. I'm fine and I can go for days batting stuff back and forth.
Okay, so, this whole 'having to spend traits for OOC stuff' makes absolutely zero sense to me. Like, do we need to spend traits because we breathe and blink and our PCs don't do that? Or spend traits because we're twenty-or-thirtysomething dorks instead of ancient undead creatures?
There is no way under God we can possibly know how to accurately roleplay a creature that has lived for centuries. We have no basis of comparison, we have no evidence or performance to base it on - every iota of it is going to be conjecture at best. We're not even professional actors, for Criminy's sake.
Making Brady spend Etiquette because he kept saying 'Harpy Primogen' over and over instead of 'Primogen _____' and we all corrected him a couple times and he just couldn't get it out right is one thing. If you're going to make someone spend it for saying 'night last' instead of 'last night' because they had brain fart, it's a little silly. You shouldn't make folks pay for human stuff they can't control.
I mean, shit, you're asking a group of people who are social outcasts to begin with play a group of beings who have made society an art form and a way of life. Have a little perspective and some tolerance.