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About Conway

Year 08
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    OTC Writer of the Month

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    ...I really need to get around to actually writing this.

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  1. IC: Irna wasn't quite sure what she had intended to say when she first opened her mouth -- What does one say in this situation? Is there a protocol for dealing with the undead among maskbearers? -- but the sound of her fellow soldiers boarding the airship put a stop to any such thoughts. Instead, leaning on her spear for support, she pushed herself up to her feet and nodded towards the transport. "Of course I'm concerned for my comrade's health," she said. "I pray that we all remain healthy on this mission, after all." -Void
  2. IC: Irna glanced over at the newcome-- gah! What was wrong with his skin?! "Excuse me, sir," she said quietly, "but do you require medical assistance?" -Void
  3. IC: Irna sat on a rock by the shore, looking out at the tide of silver that crept close to her toes, and listening to Skorm and ... Varxii, was it? She didn't speak -- Irna knew nothing of the Nynrah of which the two discussed -- but she cocked her head slightly, hoping to learn more from them. -Void
  4. Name: [ Irna, Sixth-Born of Perror of the Northern Continent ] Species: [ Zyglak ] Faction: [ League of Six Kingdoms ] Description: [ An average-enough looking Zyglak, standing about half a head above most Toa, with a long reptilian face, a powerful frame, and a tail. She wears a battered half-cape over one shoulder trimmed with Muaka fur, as well as a well-worn metal pendant around her neck depicting a broken hammer which has been welded back together — the Zyglaki symbol for Karzahni, patron of the unwanted. ] Background: [ Irna, the sixth-born child of the great warrior, Perror, grew up in a small Zyglak village deep in the Northern Continent. They were a generally peaceful folk, but the nearby Matoran settlements, fearing the strange beings, regularly attacked, pushing Irna’s people deeper into the mountains. As she grew, Irna cut her teeth in such skirmishes, learning the art of combat — but she forever dreamed of a day when the Matoran would no longer view her as a monster. When the League of Six Kingdoms came to her village looking for soldiers, Irna volunteered. In her heart, she holds out hope that she will be able to win some sort of medal or trophy, to show as proof of her and her people’s valour to the Matoran and end the hostilities between the two groups. ] Flaws: [ Coming from a small village in the middle of nowhere, Irna is unfamiliar with the technology and customs of Metru Nui and the surrounding isles. While not foolhardy, her desire for recognition of valour and skill can sometimes push her to act rashly. She also tends to favour close-quarters combat, leaving her at a disadvantage against those who know how to keep their distance. ] Powers: [ As a Zyglak, Irna is naturally stronger than even a Toa, topping out just below the capacities of a Pakari, as well as amphibious. She is also able to secrete an oil from her skin which can dissolve organic matter upon contact — she is, however, able to control when this oil is secreted, and the effects of the dissolution depend on the duration of contact, wearing off gradually once contact has ended. This dissolution can also be halted by the application of Irna’s saliva to the affected area. She carries with her a spear topped with a flint head, as well as a well-worn metal knife. Both of these weapons are treated with the same dissolving oil. ] -Void
  5. "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." - Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina -Void
  6. IC: Before the Storm, Before the Island.... They passed the bottle back and forth, one to the other, into the small hours of the morning, waiting for the call to come. They had both known it was coming — it wasn’t unusual, a call to escort a Turaga from across the waters — and they had known that it would come for both of them. It would be their initiation. It would prove them as worthy of the name Simul. “Bet we don’t even run into a pirate ship,” Plagia said, knocking back the bottle of whiskey as easy as if it had been water before passing it back to her brother. It had been Rynekk who had brought the bottle up to the roof of the family home, filched from their father’s liquor cabinet — for all his talk of piety, their father was man accustomed to a stiff drink at the end of the day. Sometimes more than one. “Hey, no complaints here,” Rynekk said, leaning back on the rough tile roof, fingers laced behind his head, watching the sky. It was turning purple in the east, the first rays of sunlight catching on the clouds, refracting into pink and yellow through them. But even in all that light, the stars…. “I’m just saying,” Plag said, leaning forward, chin tucked behind her knee, “might as well be a bit of a challenge, you know? Just so….” Ry chuckled. “So everyone knows,” he said. “For sure.” His sister didn’t say anything for a moment — a long moment — and Ry turned to see her looking away from him, away from the rising sun, and off to where the sky was dark. “Nothing wrong with wanting a little praise, kid,” he said. “Kid? You’re still not older than me.” “S’what Mom told me.” “Bull.” “Ask her yourself,” Ry said, grinning a pearly grin, propping himself back up onto one elbow as he raised the bottle to his mouth. “Maybe I just will,” Plag said, snatching the bottle out of his hand before he could even get a sip off. “It’d be nice to see you eat ###### for a change.” “Big talk for someone who still hasn’t chosen her Toa Tool.” “Shut up,” Plag said, taking another swig of whiskey. “You took the spear. That was the one heirloom that might’ve been worth taking.” “Just ask Mom to make you something,” Ry said. Fe as she was, their mother had the requisite gift for iron — but she was a woman to take anything she did one step beyond where most would have. Most mornings, one of Simul kids would find her out in the backyard, one ear to the hardscrabble dirt, listening for the veins of iron that ran through the land. Most days, she would spend her time extracting ores, forging new weapons, fine-tuning the old ones. It was always best not to bother her during her work, Dad would tell them, sitting in his study. He’d sit there often, drink in one hand, sword in the other. He would stare out the window, to where the shore met the sea. For hours on end. It was always best not to bother him, too. “Nothing really feels right,” Plag said. “Swords and axes and spears. They all feel like extra weight.” “So what?” Ry said. “You’re just gonna punch whatever comes your way?” “Maybe I will.” He chuckled. The sun was clearing the horizon. The call was bound to come soon enough. Who else was it going to go to? The Simuls were the only Toa in town — had been the only Toa in town for generation upon generation. Who else were people to go to for protection? Matoran? The words rumbled in Ry’s head, in the gravelly baritone of his father. They were Toa, they were Simuls. That’s what they always said. They were the strongest there were. He closed his eyes against the sun, and imagined his mother — when he imagined her, it was usually with a sword laid across her lap, sliding a whetstone down its length. Evil will not submit to weakness, she would say. It won’t be felled by a blunt blade or a brittle axe. Ry could feel the sun hit his body. “I think I see someone coming,” Plag said. “Hm?” “I think this is the call,” she said. Ry kept his eyes closed. “You’re probably right,” she said. “Probably best that nothing comes our way on this. We escort the Turaga, we come back. No muss, no fuss. No fights or nothing.” Ry let one eye flutter open. “Just that…?” “Nothing.” “Aw, c’mon,” Ry needled. But, when Plag didn’t respond, he added, “You gonna finish that bottle?” “‘Course I am.” “Just wondering,” he said. For a long moment, then, neither one of them said anything. There was nothing but the sound of the trees swaying in the early morning breeze, the soft cries of the mourning doves, low and melancholic, the crunch of footsteps on gravel coming closer, closer, closer. “What do you think they’re gonna do?” Plag said. “What are who gonna do?” “Mom and Dad,” she said. “Once we’re heroes — really heroes. The new defenders of the town. What do they do?” “They’ll probably work with us for a while,” Ry said, shrugging. “Y’know, just in case we need help or something, and then….” “And then?” The sound of footsteps got louder, closer — so close that Rynekk could hear the laboured breath of the messenger. “There are some teams that have six members,” he said. “Four of us — that wouldn’t be so weird.” “I know,” Plag said. “Just that … I dunno. Have you ever seen Mom and Dad do anything that wasn’t, like … work?” “######,” Ry said. “‘Course I have.” But the more he thought about it, the less he could think up. With his eyes closed, he imagined his mother, sweating over the a half-sharpened sword in the heart of her forge. He imagined his father in his darkened study, staring out at nothing with a drink in his hand. Dad had been drinking more than usual, lately. Mom had been spending more time in her forge, too. “I just…,” Plag said. “What does a Toa do when they’re not needed anymore?” “They become a Turaga.” “But what do they do when they’re a Turaga?” “They lead towns, villages — they offer, I dunno, advice or some ######!” “Can you really imagine Mom and Dad offering advice?” “I don’t know, Plag,” he said, eyes open, pushing himself up to his feet. “What’s with all the questions? I’m pretty sure that Mom and Dad know what they’re ###### doing, don’t you?!” The morning breeze whistled through the branches of the trees. Rynekk watched his sister look at him, and then look away. Her eyes, sharp green, were wide, and then narrowed as she leaned back and finished the last of the whiskey. “I guess so,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her forearm. “Yeah, I ###### guess so.” “Plag, I didn’t mean—” “The messenger’s almost here,” Plagia said, getting to her feet and walking to the edge of the roof. “Grab your spear. I’ll just grab a couple of swords from the forge. Better than just punching things, right?” And she dropped down from the roof. Rynekk didn’t need to see her to know that she had landed. But he stayed where he was for another moment, watching the sun creep higher and higher into the sky, throwing light across the town, across all the houses, across himself. He looked away, shielding his eyes from the light. This would be a good trip, he thought. We’ll prove that we’re worthy. Of being heroes. Of being Simuls. It’ll be an easy trip — so easy that we’ll forget all about it. Another half-remembered anecdote to bring up over another half-finished bottle of whiskey. This would be good, he thought. Surely, this would be the beginning of something good. -Void
  7. IC: I watched Reo Saporta walk in, sheathe his axe, and I realized how much I had been kidding myself. The time I’d wasted trying to figure out how to be Sulov Maru, Sulov Uhunga, Sulov Koskium — balancing what the island needed against what I was, what I needed against what the island might always be. I watched Reo Saporta walk in, and that all turned to dust in my chest. This had been his home. And now…. “Did … did she just say that Stannis summoned a blizzard from legend?” I heard one of Reo’s comrades whisper — a short, scarred woman with a sword strapped to her hip. “What the ###### does that even mean?” -Void
  8. IC: I shrugged my shoulders. The tunnel closed behind us. “He told me about it over drinks a while back,” I said, cocking my head to one side as I met Leah’s gaze. I knelt, laying a hand down on the cold floor, feeling for where the earth shook. “A secret tunnel in the barracks, for when the guards wanted to get away for a while. Figured this was the exit Echelon would know the least about—” (Do you feel that, Sulov?) I felt the way the earth shook. “Leah,” I said, nodding towards the far end of the room. I tensed. Someone — no, someones. Approaching. -Void
  9. IC: In the distance: a sound like a boulder being cleaved apart. (They're coming.) "Thanks, Leah," I say, and I kneel down. I place my hand on the cold flagstones, dig my saperka into the cracks between them, into the damp earth below. I shouldn't feel the loam against the blade: there’s no flesh there, no nerves, no nothing. Just cold ceramic against wet earth. And yet I feel it like I would feel the cold mud of autumns back home, back in a childhood that no longer feels like it was part of another life, but a moment that I'm holding right now, in my grasp. I hear the sound of feet landing on stone floors — Echelon's soldiers are coming for us. (They're coming, Sulov.) I don’t understand how this all works — essence stones and elemental powers. Destiny, the strings that Mata Nui tugs to send us on our way, nor where that way will lead. Toa come up to me -- freshly-minted warriors of the Great Spirit -- and they ask me what they're supposed to do now, how all this is supposed to function. Rahk-slayer, Chosen One, Makuta-killer, Onua's heir -- shouldn't I know? Shouldn't Sulov Maru be wiser by now? (They're coming, Sulov.) Yeah. Probably. But Maru's just the name they gave me. Sulov Koskium doesn't have answers. Doesn't know the secrets of the universe. All he’s got is a shovel and some earth, a fellow soldier at his side. That’s all he’s ever needed, really. I open my eyes, but I don't need to. I can feel the way the earth has pulled itself up into the air, floating in little orbs -- while in the ground just in front of me, there’s a hole. Three metres wide, ten metres down. Growing by the second. "I think we've got company coming, Leah," I say. "Cover me." -Void
  10. IC: "That's the sappiest thing I've ever heard in my life," Gwen said. But as she slowly let go of Hassan and stepped away from him, he would have been able to see her smile, just a little. "C'mon," she said, cocking her head over to the rest of the hangar. "Gotta lot more work ahead of us." -Void
  11. IC: The sound of silence and slow breathing. Arms pulled tight around the warmth of another human being. For too long. For not long enough. "God, can't-- can't believe I'm-- I'm crying," she mumbled into his shirt, forcing a snort of laughter out. "Gonna rust the Walkers, like this." -Void
  12. OOC: No worries! And you're doing absolutely amazing! IC: For a long moment, it seemed like all sound had vanished from the hangar. When it finally returned, it seemed to return one noise at a time: the hiss of an arc welder, the clanking of a trolley of spare parts, the smooth baseline thrum of an electric wrench as it turned another bolt into place. All the old, comforting sounds returned, one by one. "Thanks, Hassan," Gwen said. And then, not quite looking her new friend in the eye, she held out both arms wide, like she was waiting for a hug. -Void
  13. IC: "Lunefeld, my friend," Sylus said, drawing his sword from its sheath, "I like the way you think." And, walking like a man who was just taking a stroll through the park, instead of heading into battle between two superpowers, he began making his way towards the warehouse. -Void
  14. IC: Sylus stumbled back, but didn't fall. From the dark mouth of the warehouse, he could see steam start to stream forth. He could feel heat start to seep back into his bones for the first time in what felt like forever. He began to worry, of course, just a little -- but he also felt a thrill race along his spine, as though he was just now about to dance with the most beautiful guest in the room. Or in this case, he thought, the most famous heroes on the island. "I don't know," he said, his right hand wandering up to the hilt of his sword. "Cats like us tend to land on our feet." -Void
  15. IC: "It's dumb, okay?" Gwen said, scraping the steel wool along the scorched barrel of the cannon. "Maybe I'll die out there against the Union. Maybe I'll never see my family again. Maybe I only get nineteen, twenty, twenty-one years alive before...." The scraping was rhythmic. "It shouldn't matter, should it?" she said. "If I die, it shouldn't matter. I'll have saved people. Protected people. Done my duty and made a difference. It shouldn't ... it shouldn't matter if I die or not." The scraping ... slowed. "It shouldn't matter." -Void
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