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Posts posted by Cu Chulainn Caster
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IC: Long Hyan-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness
She sits with her brows drawn together and her hands folded in her lap, not moving beyond the occasional nod of acknowledgement as Kura tells her story. Her companion seems strangely jumpy, yet at the same time relieved to unshoulder this burden. For Hyan-Fei's part, the story tugs at her heartstrings enough to chase away some, but not all, of her previous frustration. Kura's goal is a noble one, not worth hiding, in her opinion.At Kura's sudden inquiry, Hyan-Fei follows her finger, gazes at the Mountain silhouetted in the fading light of day. Perhaps it is just the dark closing in, but she sees nothing in the air that would be cause for concern. "No, I don't," she says. "What are you talking about?"
Her own inquiry given, she allows another silence to stretch between them; in that time, she unpacks her smoking pipe, fills it with tobacco, lights it with a piece of kindling snatched from the campfire. The plume of smoke she exhales forms a wide halo over both of their heads. "And you thought I'd reject your motive... why?" she asks. "Did you think I'd consider it selfish? Well, I do, but I have no problem with that. It's okay to be selfish every now and then. You're searching for your mother because you want to ease your conscience; that's fine. But you're also searching for her because you care about her, and I don't think anyone would have a problem with helping you do that."
She turns to look at the Mountain again. "Well... maybe just one problem. You should have said that you wanted to head that way in the first place; now it'll take us longer to get there." She shakes her head playfully. Chand Kura truly is a silly girl.
OOC:
@Palm- 2
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IC: Long Hyan-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness
Her cheeks color once again at Kura's compliment; to hide her blush, she puffs her chest out and adopts a proud expression. "Hmph. Have the farmers and hunters grown so incompetent that even I could bring home more food than them?" she boasts. "For shame." Her pride dissolves almost immediately after and she shares a chuckle and a smile with Kura, but as she kneels down to begin the process of gathering her equipment (mentally, she kicks herself for forgetting that she had a frying pan earlier) and cleaning their dinner, another silence stretches between them. Not an amicable one like before, but a tense one, heavy with things unsaid and revelations begging to be shared.Kura turns out to be the braver of them; she breaks the silence first, confessing to a hidden motive. At this, Hyan-Fei frowns deeply. Her good-natured annoyance with her companion evaporates, replaced by genuine frustration. "That's no excuse," she says, pointing an accusing finger. "If things really are as bad as you say they are, then there's more than enough fear about already. You don't need to go adding to it by so obviously keeping things to yourself and then springing them on others like this. You should have been honest from the start." She pauses, letting her face soften slightly, before continuing. "But I suppose... it's good that you're doing this sooner, rather than later. What is it you want to tell me?"
OOC:
@Palm well that took... much longer than it probably should have lol- 1
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You have reached the review topic for
journey to the center of the mindAsk, and you shall be answered. Speak, and you shall be spoken to. Say nothing, and nothing shall be said to you.
May you reach concordance.
- 1
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canto i. rifiuto
They said that in the time when the outer heavens were still open, the First Maker came down and crafted Ormenskake from the severed head of a sea dragon a hundred and eight mio long. It was easy to see why they said that if one looked at the island from the right angle. Indeed, the huge salt stalagmites that ringed the flat eastern coast resembled great teeth jutting from some enormous jaw, and the lopsided mountain that dominated the western half looked for all the world like a towering, skyward-pointed snout. Even the caverns on each seaward side of the mountain’s base looked like they had once held eyes.It was to one of these caverns that the ship now headed. The Marka’s Pride cut a clean line though the waters, riding each swell with little resistance and a steady sway. She was a fat-bellied cog with a hull painted bright red and a collection of flags and pennants that danced merrily along the gunwale. She was built primarily for Matoran occupants, which meant that, for the past two weeks, her sole Toa passenger had had to deal with less-than-ideal elbow room.
Halima stood at the forecastle of the ship, shadowing her brow against the glow of the setting sun. A stray wave slapped the hull and sent up a spray that soaked her face and chest, but her enthusiasm refused to dull. Her head and heart sent a buzz of energy though her body that kept her from standing still; she rocked on her heels in time with the ship’s rises and falls and danced between one side of the bowsprit and the other. She was ready to end her journey across the sea, not because she disliked sailing- although the cramped living spaces and early bouts of seasickness she could do without- but because what awaited her at her destination was much more exciting.
For in the caverns of Ormenskake, in the port town of Yan Cun, lived Mother Nephthys, the greatest still-living practitioner of the Psionic Art. Halima had traveled here to hopefully become her apprentice and continue her training as a new Ce-Toa, at the insistence of her previous mentor Chamak. She found the Av-Toa’s words drift through her mind again. “Empty Palms Style or the seven forms of staff fighting I can teach you, child, but the Psionic Art I cannot hope to understand. Someone who does must guide you now.”
Even half-submerged, the too-round and too-smooth mouth of the cavern loomed twice as high as the tallest mast. It drew closer every moment until, finally, it swallowed the Marka’s Pride whole. Past that point, the wind diminished, the waters grew eerily still, and the air became dark and musty. At the angle the sun was setting, little light followed them in; the only color to be seen ahead was a dullish orange glow that could only be the lanterns of Yan Cun.
Despite the warmth, Halima felt a small chill, and her previously high spirits lowered a bit. She had expected her first sight of Yan Cun to be less foreboding.
Her short rumination was broken by a shrill whistle for her attention. The captain, a Fe-Matoran with an enormous belt buckle, tossed a lightstone lantern at her, which she managed to catch just before it hit the deck. “Hang that on the bowsprit while ye’re standin’ there, will ye?” he asked as he put his cigar back in his mouth.
“Oh! Of course! Um, aye aye, sir!” Halima replied, offering a smile and a jaunty salute.
Her response drew a frown from the captain, who likely thought it was highly cliché.
With the lantern’s ring secured in the notch on the bowsprit, Halima resumed her watch. In the orange glow ahead, two bright pinpricks of yellow light appeared and began marshalling the Marka’s Pride toward what was hopefully the town harbor; the helmsman steered whichever direction they signaled with ease. More details- structures, stalls, ships, and eventually, citizens- emerged from the glow as, bio by bio, minute by minute, Yan Cun drew nearer.
They finally arrived after fifteen minutes. As the marshaller gave his final signals with his lightstone batons, as the ship bumped against the wharf with a wooden knock, as the dockmaster set his men to tie it down, Halima took in her new surroundings with no small amount of wonder.
Yan Cun proper sat a small way back and up, on and along the short cliffs that jutted out from the wall of the cavern. The harbor was situated on an artificial outcropping below them all; a string of lightstone lanterns, held up by a line of poles close to the water, illuminated it. The docks were made of a thick, light-colored wood, the street of once-rough cobbles worn smooth by centuries of boots and feet. Two-story warehouses hugged the face of the lowest cliff, tall enough for the walkers above to easily step onto their roofs. Smaller wooden structures, likely administration offices or supply warehouses for the docks themselves, huddled in front of them. In between them, lifts and ramps carried beings and cargo up to and down from the town above.
Near one end of the street stood a four-story inn, its windows glowing merrily and its painted sign swinging above its door. Near the other end stood a guardhouse that looked as if it had been abandoned for many years. That way also lay more docks, a handful of which were occupied. Besides some Matoran-sized fishing boats, Halima saw two Vortixx trading galleys made of jet-black wood and bristling with oars, and a Steltian junk with three strangely shaped sails made of red cloth.
At the dockmaster’s all clear, a boarding plank went up. Halima was the first to cross it, but two weeks on a rolling deck had made her land legs slow to return. What should have been an eager first step into her new life became a wobbly mess as she shuffled down onto the dock and up against a nearby pole for support. Her cheeks colored; whatever confidence had been there moments ago was now almost gone.
“There’s somethin’ else ye’ll say ye could do without, I’ll bet,” the captain said with a half-mocking laugh as he crossed the boarding plank soon after with a much steadier stride.
“I told you, I’m new at long-distance sailing,” Halima said, pouting. “I never thought the land wobbles could get this bad.” At least her stomach was sitting still.
“Most first timers get ‘em worse than ye, so be grateful. Give it ten minutes and a few deep breaths and ye’ll be fine.” With a parting clap on the arm, the captain left to begin haggling with the dockmaster.
Halima frowned at his back, but she dutifully drew long, deep breaths as she waited for the rocking beneath her feet to stop. The air tasted slightly of salt, smelled mostly of fish, tar, and wet wood.
Looking back into the street after a short interval, she found many of the beings there eyeing her, some with amusement at her unsteadiness, most with curiosity; the gold and navy-blue Ce-Toa like her wore were a rare sight at the best of times. Chamak had promised that an escort named Jenko would be waiting for her at the docks, but none of the observers made themselves known as such. Perhaps Jenko was late, or shy. She mustered a smile and what she hoped was an endearing wave to try to draw him out of the crowd. When all she received in return was a few scoffs from the observers and a return to personal business, she reasoned that they found it ill-becoming of her to simply keep standing around listlessly. Her legs felt much better now; she decided to use them to go to Jenko instead of making him come to her.
The crowd, consisting mostly of Matoran workers and civilians, was dotted with the occasional Turaga priest or Vortixx trader; regardless of race, all were clad in rich clothing and well-kept armor that made Halima feel woefully underdressed. She covered herself with her hands as, one by one, she approached anyone vaguely non-threatening and asked a single question. “Excuse me, but do you know where I could find someone named Jenko?”
“No, why?” a Ta-Matoran asked. “Does he owe you money or something?”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard that name before,” the sole other Toa she found said.
“Alas, child, names and faces leave my head as quickly as they come in,” a Turaga priest said. “Had I ever met the Jenko you seek, I’ve long since forgotten him.”
Most of the rest simply said no or shook their heads, either genuinely not knowing or wishing to get back to their business. With every negative reply, Halima grew more discouraged. She was on the verge of leaving the docks and taking her inquiry further down the street when an odd noise met her ears- running footsteps accompanied by what could be jangling bells. Her curiosity stayed her feet for a few moments longer.
The footsteps came from a Le-Matoran in a gray robe rapidly approaching her; the jangling came from the sheer number of knickknacks hanging from his belt. He came to a stop in front of her and leaned forward, hands on knees, to catch his breath.
“Um, hello,” Halima greeted uncertainly. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Through his puffing, the Le-Matoran managed to get out a proper salutation. “Glory to the First Maker’s ashes,” he said as he pressed his palms together. “You’re Halima, correct? The one Chamak sent?”
At this, Halima visibly brightened. “And to the life that springs from them,” she replied, finishing the salutation. “Yes, I’m Halima. And you must be Jenko! I’ve been looking all over the docks for you; I got worried when you weren’t there.”
Jenko straightened, allowing Halima to take a proper look at him. He was thin, with orange eyes and a lime-green Noble Huna. His loose robe, patterned with small orange flowers, was cinched at his waist with a leather belt loaded with religious tokens- a crucifix, a horseshoe, a string of prayer beads, an innumerable amount of paper talismans. A piece of straw was clamped between his teeth.
“My sincerest apologies, that was not my intention,” he said, making a placating gesture. “I would have been here much sooner, but somebody started a dispute with the Navigators’ Guild that ended up overtaking three major streets.”
Halima frowned. “Does that sort of thing happen often?”
“More often than I’d call necessary. Anyway, Mother Nephthys expects us back soon, and the way is long enough on a peaceful day. Let’s be off.”
“Of course! Lead the way.”
Jenko was right- the way was long. Built to account for the numerous irregularities in the stone, Yan Cun’s clifftop streets were a complex network, seemingly without pattern. Ramps ended at walls with ladders that led to upper levels, sidewalks forked around deep cracks and rejoined on the other side, and staircases cut through the middles of roads. At every corner was a lightstone lamppost that housed signs pointing to at least five different destinations in as many directions. Navigation seemed a dizzying task, but Jenko did it with ease.
“How do you know Chamak?” Halima asked as they began their ascent.
“Chamak visited Toa mentors around the world before he became one himself,” Jenko replied. “Out of all of them, he sought Mother Nephthys’ insights on mentorship the most. I cooked for him, tended to his cargo, and listened to him bicker with her every month for three years.”
“I take it the two of them didn’t get along very well, then.”
“If they didn’t, would she have let him keep coming back? They were fond of each other; they just had a roundabout way of showing it.”
Where the surface was narrow, wooden bridges widened it; where it was spacious, plazas were built. Jenko led them through a particularly large plaza, and it was here that Halima allowed her eyes to wander again. Another staircase, flanked by two huge stone statues of a single-eyed being, connected it to another upper level. Lining the cliff face and the opposite precipice were vendor’s stalls, from which hung colorful flags and signs written in the standard glyph-script; their owners took advantage of Halima’s slowing pace and rare status to hawk their wares at her, at unreasonably discounted prices.
A pair of Bo-Matoran stumbled over themselves to offer her bowls of noodles and vegetables; she politely declined, even though the pot smelled delicious. A Steltian ruler claimed that one whiff of his incenses would produce an unparalleled mental clarity; she took a sample, then discarded it without trying it when he turned away. A fat teal Skakdi bared tobacco-stained teeth as he silently held out a whole dried mudshark to her; she suspected that it was not offered with wholesome intent.
But it was no being that succeeded in finally making her stop. In between a stonecutter’s stall and a winemaker’s wagon stood a torii gate, the marker of a shrine. Its well-kept red paint stood out against the gray of the cliff face; its upper lintel, curved up at the ends, towered over most of the plaza’s other structures. A Turaga priestess sat at its foot with a basket of candles in her lap.
Halima became suddenly aware of the excitement and increasing uncertainty of her situation twisting her stomach into a knot and felt a need to ask for divine relief. She drew closer to the torii gate before she was stopped again.
“There you are,” Jenko said as he doubled back. “Come on. It’d do no good to delay when we’re almost there.”
“I’ll come, I’ll come,” Halima said. “Just… do you mind if I stop in the shrine for a moment?” She pointed. “I want to pray.”
“Mother Nephthys expects us back soon, and soon was five minutes ago.”
“Just one prayer, and then no more stops the whole rest of the way, I promise. Please?”
Jenko frowned in consideration for a few moments and released a sigh. “Alright. One prayer. And we go right after.”
Halima smiled. “Thanks! You’re welcome to join me if you like.” When Jenko shook his head no, she accepted a candle from the Turaga priestess’ basket and stepped beneath the torii gate alone.
The shrine was little more than a shallow recess in the cliff face. Inside was a waist-high plinth draped in a red banner, upon which sat small idols of the Three Brothers, the sons of the First Maker and the embodiments of his Virtues and aspects. The Builder, carved from jade, sat cross-legged, his forge hammer in his lap. The Judge, hewn from rough gray stone, knelt, his arms bound behind him with flaming chains. The Scribe, cast from gold, also sat cross-legged, his head encircled by a halo of ancient rune-signs. Each idol had three faces, looking forward and to each side, and a red star-shaped gem upon its forward brow. The candles that burned at their feet were the shrine’s only source of illumination.
Kneeling on the cushion under the plinth, Halima lit her candle with another and set it at the Scribe’s feet. She pressed her palms together, bowed her head… and hesitated, unsure of what to say; she settled for a simple prayer she had learned in her youth. “Hail, O Scribe, who reads the stars and records their portents. The path I must walk down has been written in your book since the time of my creation. Give me ease in this moment, that I may continue to walk without wavering. And may the way I walk please you as it pleases me.”
The idol, being an inanimate object, did not reply, but she felt the knot loosen a bit. She kissed the idol’s face with a smile and stepped back into the plaza, where Jenko rocked on his heels impatiently. “All done,” she said, and they were off again.
Three more staircases and a ladder later, their journey ended at a smallish wooden cube of a house, topped with a pointed roof. Over the curtain door hung a wide awning made of red cloth, and next to it stood a full-length mirror; aside from that, the house had no ornamentation.
“Is this it?” Halima asked, frowning.
“This is it,” Jenko replied, already halfway inside. “Why? Is something the matter?”
“No, I don’t think so. Only it’s a bit… humble, isn’t it? I guess I thought someone of Mother Nephthys’ status would live in something a bit more… extravagant.”
Jenko shrugged. “It’s as extravagant as she wants it to be. You might like the look of the interior better. Now, please accept my apologies again, but I’m long overdue to start dinner for the two of you. I suggest you follow soon; she has been waiting to meet you, after all.” He slipped fully behind the curtain and left Halima alone outside.
The knot tightened again as it finally set in just how real this was. This was not a dream or an idle aspiration any longer. She was going to meet with and speak to Mother Nephthys, and unlike her dreams and idle aspirations, there was every possibility that something would go wrong. She stepped in front of the mirror to gather herself and smarten up one last time before she went in.
She was perhaps overly critical of her reflection, inflating minor flaws into major ones. Her navy-blue Great Kakama had a chipped left cheek fin, a souvenir from a misplaced staff strike. Her blue hooded jacket, with golden letters on it, ended at her ribs, her black shorts well before her knees. The wrappings on her hands and shins were discolored from long exposure to sun and seawater.
Overall, she looked better dressed for a night out in a rowdy city, but there was little she could do now besides smooth out some wrinkles and tug her jacket the slightest bit lower. If not with her dress, she could perhaps endear herself to Mother Nephthys with her winning personality.
With a deep breath, she pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the house.
The interior, illuminated with a lightstone lantern, was a bit more in line with what Halima had expected. Judging by the sounds, the kitchen lay behind the curtain door in the furthest wall. A bookshelf loaded with scrolls and stone tablets stood against the left wall, and a low bed stood against the right. In the center of the room, a small table sat atop a tasseled red rug, surrounded by cushions for seats.
And seated at the table was Mother Nephthys herself.
The years had been kind to her. The round, dark sockets of her navy-blue Great Calix made her magenta eyes appear sunken, but they still held a youthful glint. Her white robe, trimmed with golden thread, was open to her waist, revealing the broad gold collar around her neck. In one hand, she held an ornate smoking pipe. She had an air of royalty about her, albeit royalty on the verge of abdicating the throne.
So caught up was Halima in basking in her hero’s presence that she quite forgot her manners; it took a raised eyebrow from said hero to remind her of them. She bowed at the waist and pressed her palms together over her head. “May the three faces of God smile upon you, and may the light of the outer heavens illuminate your house forever,” she said in the traditional greeting for royalty.
The other eyebrow went up in surprise, but the greeting was not rejected. Mother Nephthys raised her vacant palm toward Halima and replied in kind. “May the Builder craft you a house, the Judge deem you worthy to live in it, and the Scribe record your doings in it.” Her rough voice had an unfamiliar accent. “So, you are Chamak’s ward.”
“And you’re the greatest still-living practitioner of the Psionic Art. They say that during the Cataclysm War, you cut off Gaius Quintus’ arm without using a blade.” In her enthusiasm, Halima gave little thought to the praises tumbling from her mouth.
“The first is debatable; the second is false. I cut off his head. But you did not come here to tell me what others say of me, did you?” She gestured to the cushion opposite her in an invitation to sit.
Halima sat; the cushion was plump and comfortable. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I came at the behest of my old mentor Chamak- who sent his greetings with me, by the way. It’s his hope and mine that I can learn the Psionic Art from you now that I’m a proper Ce-Toa.”
“A question lies there somewhere,” Mother Nephthys said; something that could have been a smile played around her lips. “Here is my first lesson. Make your intentions clear. Are you here because you truly want to petition me, or merely because Chamak told you to petition me?”
The mention of a first lesson made Halima’s heart lift. Wanting to do the thing properly, she straightened her back, smiled, and recited, “Esteemed Mother Nephthys, I humbly ask this of you. If it be your will, please accept me as your apprentice, that I may learn more deeply of your power.”
Mother Nephthys’ face suddenly darkened. “Here is my second lesson, girl,” she said, and her sternness caused Halima’s smile to also vanish. “Do not ask to learn of my power, for it is mine alone, just as your power is yours alone. That is what you must seek; to do otherwise is the height of selfishness. Ask me again.”
Halima obeyed, chastened. “Please accept me as your apprentice, that I may learn more deeply of my own power.”
“Better,” Mother Nephthys said, her expression clearing just as suddenly. “If you wish for me to accept you, you must first receive a taste of what I teach and how I teach it, and you must still have the will to go forward after. Be warned- many potential apprentices before you lost their appetite after receiving their taste. They found it… particularly unsavory.”
“I want to go forward,” Halima said with renewed determination. “I won’t lose my will. I’m not afraid.”
Mother Nephthys nodded. “We will see. But before we do, hospitality dictates that you be fed. We will speak no more of testing for now. Come, tell me of your journey while we wait for dinner.”
Halima spent the next several minutes telling of her final days in Chamak’s house, the preparations they had made for her to come to Yan Cun, and the sights she had seen during her time on the Marka’s Pride. She tried to keep her usual amicable tone, but she chose her words carefully, lest she say something to sour Mother Nephthys again. A raised eyebrow here and there told her that her hesitations were noticed.
Jenko finally emerged from the kitchen with pots in his hands and more apologies on his lips. He joined the two of them at the table, and they feasted on creamy fish-and-pepper stew, rice, coconut cake, and cold-brewed coffee.
When they had finished eating, and Jenko had left to clean up, Mother Nephthys folded her hands in her lap and became stern again. “What do you know of the hundred and eight precepts of the Toa Code?” she asked.
Halima, expecting another outburst, simply frowned at the question. “Not as much as I should, I’m afraid,” she replied. “The first time I heard them was when Chamak guided me through my pledges at the Suva. I thought it was odd that he kept them from me for so long, but I guess I justified it by thinking that only Toa were privy to the Code, not Matoran.”
“Chamak was wise to keep them from you. The hundred and eight precepts are meaningless, and those who keep to them from youth have poisoned themselves beyond healing. A true Toa lives by one principle alone- violence.”
“Violence?” The claim took Halima aback. “But Mother, we’re meant to be keepers of peace. We’re meant to uphold the Virtues and protect the Matoran from the great enemy.”
“And how do you think we do that? Peace cannot exist without violence, but neither can violence exist without peace. In peace, we must continuously use violence to cut away that which seeks to threaten it, both within and without. And in violence, we must have within us peace enough to perfectly measure our actions, lest we fail by reaching too far or not far enough. Our fates, and the fates of those who depend on us, all hinge on this balance.”
Halima said nothing, merely ruminated on Mother Nephthys’ words. Though it was a peculiar philosophy, it made sense in its own way, and she found nothing immediately objectionable about it. The unease she felt mostly stemmed from it being such a radical departure from what Chamak had taught her, but it was not enough to dissuade her. She lifted her eyes back up.
“You have said that we are meant to stand against the great enemy,” Mother Nephthys continued. “Do you know this enemy’s name?”
“Of course. Its name is the Makuta.”
“No. There is an enemy far greater and far more difficult to face. It craves nothing less than to destroy the Virtues and everyone who seeks to uphold them. It conquered the Makuta long ago and used them to do this, and if you are not careful, it will do the same with you.” The glint in her eyes became predatory and fearful to behold. “Mark me well, girl. This great enemy is called ‘I.’ And it is not enough that I teach you to merely stand against it.
“I must teach you to destroy it.”
“Then please teach me!” Halima said, all thought of another polite petition gone. “I want to protect those I must in the best way I can. I want to do my duty properly. If destroying this great enemy will help me do that- if it will make me a great Ce-Toa like you- then I’ll gladly do it! Only please teach me how, Mother.”
“Do not think that you can beat it into submission once and be done with it. The great enemy must be destroyed continuously, not only with your hands, but with your head and your heart. We Ce-Toa are uniquely equipped for this task.”
“Please, help me learn more deeply of my own power.”
Mother Nephthys took up her pipe again and exhaled a stream of smoke that formed a halo around her head. “I will teach you the Psionic Art in accordance with the Virtues and the principle of violence, that you may destroy the great enemy called ‘I,’” she said. “But I will only do this if your will to go forward remains. Are you ready for your taste?” When Halima nodded, she reached out her hand. “Close your eyes.”
Halima obeyed, and she felt the touch of fingertips on her face- one on her forehead, one on each eyelid and cheek. Her heart began beating faster in her chest.
There was a great flash of light and a sensation of being rapidly pulled downward.
And Halima fell deep into her own mind.
* * *
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IC: Long Hyan-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness, heading south
A long stretch of silence passes between them then, each too absorbed in their thoughts to break from their tasks until they are completed. Hyan-Fei's hunger keeps her rooted to the riverbank, her eyes peeled for another big catch. The current makes it slightly more difficult; it is wilder at this point of the river, and it churns the water into cloudy white foam around her feet. The sight causes her mind to drift, reminds her of an exercise she repeatedly failed at during her time in the Long monastery...~
The greatest Long Menti have honed their Dragon's Scales refinement to such a degree that they may sit beneath a raging waterfall and not only remain still, but not get wet. It is the temple sisters' desire for their fledglings to emulate this discipline, but as there are no waterfalls on Koshiki, they have to make do with the River that Runs Down the Mountain. Every sunrise, the temple sisters bring the monks-in-training to where the River's rapids kick up the largest splashes and wear down the stones the quickest. A large stone juts from the waters there. The exercise is simple- sit on that stone, empty your mind, and endure the River's battering as long as you can.
Hyan-Fei never stays on the stone for more than a few seconds. She finds it impossible to empty her mind when the chill of the waters and the risk of being swept away command her constant attention. When she inevitably does get pulled into the depths, she fights it. She does not wait to drift down to the calm where the temple sisters can fish her out. Reorienting herself with the help of her mask power, she swims against the rapids with all her might and emerges, sodden, only a short distance from where she started, where she can see everyone frown at her.
Hyan-Fei chooses to twist her "failure" into a new kind of exercise. She shortens her time in the water. She closes the distance between her and the assembly on the bank. Her body grows stronger, allowing her to put more power into her Soulfire techniques unaided by her Menti power. Her eyesight improves, allowing her to pick out important details in a sea of clutter. Her bond to her mask power increases, allowing her to complete her exercise quicker each time. She no longer feels affected by the scorn the temple sisters show her; in fact, she comes to almost relish in it.
This continues for months.
A temple sister takes Hyan-Fei out to the River alone one day. She instructs her to repeat the sunrise exercise, except she must return to the stone when she gets swept away, instead of to the riverbank. Hyan-Fei attempts to obey. She feels confident as she approaches the stone and breaches the surface to reach out to it. But the rapids have worn the stone's edges impossibly slick and smooth; she cannot get a hold on it to pull herself back up. The waters pull her under again, and again she swims against them. Again, and again, and again she is knocked away, until her strength finally runs out and she has no choice but to let the current sweep her down the River and into the calm.
The temple sister is waiting for her when she flops onto land. Her lesson that day is clear. You must have the discipline to remain on your life's foundation, because returning to it once you are swept away from it is an exercise in futility.
Hyan-Fei decides that day that she cannot be swept away from her life's foundation if her life does not have one.
~
And so Hyan-Fei has wandered over Odaiba, aimless, with few people to lean on and few ideals to pursue aside from vague impressions of what she thinks Taajar freedom is like. And she has almost nothing to show for it. Here, now, on an island thrown into the Dragons' den, with a new companion by her side and something of a goal to pursue, she will need more than a sloppy martial art and a broken quarterstaff to stay afloat. She will need to fight with all her strength to not get swept away by the current of chaos.
...
After what seems like hours, Hyan-Fei decides that her hunt is done for the evening. Three decently meaty fish sit on the riverbank next to her; she and Kura will not go to bed hungry. Packing up her pole again, she returns to where Kura has begun assembling their campfire. She tries to rid herself of her "thinking expression," but a trace remains for her companion to see. And it looks like she has not been alone in thinking.
OOC:
@Palm yooooo -
On 5/16/2022 at 1:05 AM, ARROW404 said:
Lemme phrase this differently- what are the current ongoing stories on the Archipelago?
couple'a wanderer girls are looking for survivors of the dragons' awakening and trying to get them to safety. been a minute since anything happened there, a new face might be a good shakeup
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IC: NPC's [Tohmarr, Hadeel] - The Eyries - Jabbar Peak
"Mind your tongue, prey," Hadeel snarls. His voice is harshly accented, his dialect archaic, yet he speaks with enough clarity to cut through the din around him. "The Hunt does not venerate the profane."It would seem as though the Lesterin expects the same treatment as her Skakdi partner- an up-close-and-personal type of confrontation. She will be sorely disappointed; inebriated prey does not deserve such a privilege. Hadeel releases the arrow at her leg, then leaps back and releases more at her shoulder- the same shoulder she foolishly tore the arrow from a moment ago- aiming to pierce it further and wear it down quickly. His volley loosed, he whistles, and his mount comes running. In an easy motion he reseats himself and begins to circle, another arrow at the ready, enough distance between them for him to be reasonably safe from whatever drunken stumbling she intends to do.
True to the Skakdi's intent, the burst of flame does frighten the mount, if only for a moment, but it is a moment that Tohmarr could spend fighting. At his mount's falter, he rolls off to the ground, managing to avoid the worst of the burst of flames. The headless end of the splintered spear catches alight; Tohmarr aims it low, knowing full well that burned legs and feet are agony to stand on. The steel head of the intact spear remains aimed at stomach and chest, occasionally slipping through the parrying to meet flesh.
Tohmarr is a fervent warrior, but he is not stupid; he has not survived his Hunt this long on bloodlust alone. One of the weapons the Skakdi holds is unfamiliar, and unfamiliarity means danger. Capturing it or disabling it will be a priority. He swiftly closes the gap and increases the pressure himself, jabbing and sweeping, weaving in and out of the bursts of flame (though some do singe his skin), keeping all hands occupied and the Skakdi's attention on him alone...
At a crucial moment, he gives a shrill whistle, and his abandoned mount leaps at the Skakdi from behind, aiming to snap and tear at the arm that ends in the unfamiliar weapon.
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IC: NPC's [Tohmarr, Hadeel] - The Eyries - Jabbar Peak
Hadeel's hunch turns out to be correct- no competent Skakdi warrior would go down with a single arrow. (He draws some amusement, however, from the place where the arrow has struck.)The Lesterin being thrown is, admittedly, surprising. Hadeel barely has time to register what is happening before he is hit and knocked off his mount; he hits the snow, the wind knocked out of him temporarily. The mount yelps at the sensation of being separated from its rider, and circles around warily to observe where the Lesterin has landed, ready to strike if she should make another hostile move. Hadeel himself rises soon after and prepares another arrow, aiming for the Lesterin's leg.
Tohmarr, however, holds no reservations. At the sight of his companion being unseated so suddenly, he lets out a mighty bellow to answer the Skakdi's and makes his charge. He surely seems a frightening sight- bare-chested and oblivious to the bitter cold, still covered in fresh blood, astride a ferocious lizard- but he expects the warrior constitution of his spiky neighbor to remain firm. It will make the first blow a savory prize. Once near, amid his mount's snapping and snarling, the spearman makes several hard thrusts at the Skakdi's stomach and chest, both with his intact spear and with the splintered pole of a previous one.
- 1
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IC: NPC's [Tohmarr, Hadeel] - The Eyries - Jabbar Peak
The main village lies down the slopes, in the valley that marks the border between Jabbar Peak and the territory of another clan. It will be a challenging ride, but with speed and care, the outriders should make it back before the sun rises again.Tohmarr and Hadeel near the spot where they have made camp; today's Hunt necessitated that they spend much time away from it. As they draw closer, the mounts pause to sniff the air, then snap at it and yip uneasily. The scent that worries them reaches the riders as well- a faint scent, but distinct, belonging to neither beast nor fellow Kaiakan. They share a concerned look between them.
Strangers.
This is not good. Pausing their ride to administer the proper punishment will delay the ceremony, which must be done while the death is still fresh. Yet leaving the strangers to wander means that they might uncover things they were never meant to find, things that belong to the Okhotnik alone. And unlike beasts who may stumble across secrets and leave without understanding, strangers have minds that can think and tongues that can speak, which may tempt others to trespass after them. The clan is not welcoming to those who come to lay claim to the peak without Hunting for it.
Hadeel makes the first move, edging his mount toward where the strangers sit. It would be wise to at least see who dares to intrude, he reasons. Perhaps they may be so weak that a proper punishment will not be needed, only a well-placed arrow or spear. This is optimistic thinking, however- whoever made it here is likely strong in will and body, and something more will have to be done. He motions for Tohmarr to stay put, which he does reluctantly.
The archer sees the strangers, on the verge of descending to the outrider campsite, marked with clan banners. He draws his bow and fires four arrows, two for each of them.
- 1
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CALLING ALL SONS OF OKHOTNIK.
YOUR FATHER IS DEAD.
IT IS TIME TO COME HOME.this was due a long time ago holy cow- 2
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IC: NPC's [Tohmarr, Hadeel] - The Eyries - Jabbar Peak
The stench of hot blood is strong in the air.Tohmarr and Hadeel, two outriders of the Okhotnik clan, pursue their prey eagerly. Their prey- an enormous cat beast with a long tail and a thick black pelt- flees from them desperately. Blood pours from the wounds made by arrows and spears bristling from its hide; where blood falls, the snow goes up in steam. Tohmarr- a spearman, strong in the arms, missing an eye- bellows in excitement. Hadeel- an archer, lithe, missing three toes on his foot- licks his lips at the intoxicating metallic smell. Their mounts- bipedal, hairy lizards with fanged maws- near the point of frenzy. All relish this Hunt, for it is a good one.
Hadeel lets fly three arrows, one of which pierces the prey's eye. It yowls in pain and turns to snap at its attacker; while it does, Tohmarr urges his mount to the prey's unprotected side, then dismounts it to roll into the snow. The mount, eager to taste the blood it has smelled, lunges forward and clamps its jaws onto the prey's neck. The two beasts claw and snap at each other, but the mount has been trained for this, and it inflicts more wounds on the prey than it receives. It eventually forces the prey onto its back, exposing its soft underbelly; arrows and spear shafts snap off and lay abandoned.
With his last spear in hand, Tohmarr reaches the prey and drives his weapon into its great heart. A fountain of blood pours forth, splashing onto this arms and chest, and a great cry is torn from the beast- a cry that is silenced by Hadeel firing more arrows into its throat. The prey twitches madly, then is still.
The Hunt is over. And it was a good one.
The outriders, now both dismounted, reach for their carving knives and make to strip the prey for meat and pelt and bone to make weapons... and trophies, of course. Such a good Hunt demands a trophy of equal value that they may show to the clan and receive veneration for. They set to their work with a howl, a salute to death, who claimed the greatest trophy from the prey before they began their work.
A sound from over the horizon cuts through their howl, a sound that sobers them up almost instantly and drives whatever pride they had in their conquest away- three loud blasts from a hunting horn.
The three blasts mean that the Ohkotnik's chingghis eh-chingghis- the chief of chiefs, the greatest of the living clan fathers- has died.
According to clan legend, Belet the Blessed, father of the Okhotnik, was the greatest Hunter to ever travel the peaks. In his hubris, he sought to Hunt the Bull of Tur, a beast with a hide so thick and a disposition so fierce that no Hunter who pursued it had successfully put their spear in it. Belet's Hunt led him across the peaks for many years, and he slew many beasts and carved trophies from them, but he did not reach the Bull until he was old and gray. In Gulgalla, which would come to be called Jabbar Peak, he found that the Bull was also old and gray, and tired of its existence as merely a prize to be Hunted. It asked Belet to put it out of its misery, and Belet accepted. Their battle shook the ice from the Highest Eyrie and carved a canyon that reached the lands below the mountain. In their battle, the Bull gored Belet through the stomach with one of its horns. With a burst of strength, Belet tore the other horn from the Bull's head and drove it into the beast's neck, finally killing it. Belet took the horn as his final trophy, and with the last of his power he hollowed it out and blew three great notes upon it, summoning his sons. By the time they arrived, death had claimed Belet as its greatest trophy.
Since then, it has been clan tradition to blow Belet's horn thrice to mark the chingghis eh-chingghis' death and to summon all back to the village to partake in the ceremony of honor and succession. Hunts, prayer ceremonies, scouting- all is suspended when the chingghis eh-chingghis dies; his final honors take the utmost priority.
Tohmarr and Hadeel bury their kill deep in the snow to preserve it, sit astride their mounts once again, and wheel themselves around to face the clan village.
It is time to go home.
- 2
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IC: Chiaki - Ta-Wahi - The Charred Forest > Ta-Koro
It would seem that the time has come for the parting of ways. A shame, really; even if it was a bit too eventful for my liking (as my leg can attest), the time we spent together was enjoyable. I find that I'd rather like to continue traveling with this lot, perhaps help the Lesterin or the gray one uncover more of their missing memories. But the gray one's duties, and the Lesterin's troupe's destinies, lie on a path that isn't my own. Far be it from me to keep them from them."A pleasure while it lasted, friend," I say to the gray one as I shake his hand. "Let's run into each other again sometime." I turn to give similar, proper farewells to the other three, but they're already far down the road to Ga-Wahi. All the questions I had for the tree man about his nature go with them. I linger a few awkward moments more before I finally make my own way down the road, nothing more new on me than a hole in my hat and whatever scant goodies I picked up during the fight with the Skakdi. (Thoughts of a mentioned reward for that fight flit through my brain for a second. Whatever happened to that offer, I wonder?)
My time on the road proper is about as uneventful as my time wandering through the forest. At least here, I don't have to keep climbing trees to check if I'm going the right way. True to the gray one's words, it leads me straight to the Koro. A wave of heat and a smell of burning stone greet me as I reach the borders. Both things I could do without, but my pleasure at reaching proper civilization overrides my discomfort. The thought of a proper meal and an actual bed to lay down in as I prepare for my next move fills my head-
Wait. What next move?
I find that I've quite forgotten what it was I decided I was going to do once I got here. I guess the goal of "just going forward" I've had over the past however long it's been superseded my grander goal a while ago. I hope I can remember what it was before the time to leave comes again; as much as I've grown to like wandering, I don't think I can do it aimlessly for much longer.
OOC:
see ya guys. open for interaction- 1
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IC: Long Hayn-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness, heading south
Hyan-Fei does hear the waver in Kura's voice, sees her turn away just a little too quickly, feels the aura of doubt radiating off her. She can tell that her companion is thinking that roping her into this expedition, or maybe even the expedition itself, was a bad idea. The reiteration once again of her, Hyan-Fei's, intact status sounds even more like she is trying to convince herself that it is a good sign, when in reality, it is almost certainly not a sign at all.Perhaps lingering and looking for survivors is a bad idea. But an even worse idea is lingering and looking for survivors by yourself. After all, in times of danger, the only way to guarantee that someone comes out alive is to have that someone be you. And that is much easier to do with someone watching your back. For this reason, Hyan-Fei does not regret coming along. (Plus, bad idea or no, she finds that she enjoys Kura's company more than she thought she would.)
She sees that Kura needs some comforting words; alas, her brusqueness will likely mangle any she could offer. She settles for giving a small smile and an encouraging, if somewhat rough, pat on the shoulder, hoping that that will be enough. Leaving her companion to her task, she retrieves her fishing pole and begins trying to catch their dinner- seated on the bank, feet dipped in the water, in exactly the same pose she was in when their paths first crossed.
OOC:
@Palm- 1
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ayyy welcome back bro
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IC: Long Hyan-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness, heading south
"If you try tossing me back on there without permission, I'll toss you in the river," Hyan-Fei replies with just enough bluster to indicate that she is likewise teasing. Her serious expression lasts for all of a few seconds more before she starts to laugh along with Kura. But her laugh is interrupted by a small groan of pain as her muscles remind her that they need some relief; she answers their call by doing some lower-body stretches.As she stretches, she looks a question at Kura. Wanting to know what her companion thinks of their first day of journeying so far, she makes her question verbal. "So. Do you still have a good feeling about this?"
OOC:
@Palm -
IC: Chiaki - Ta-Wahi - The Charred Forest
The Lesterin's and the gray one's comments are enough to finally break the dam holding my questions back. From the way they phrase it, it sounds like they both started from somewhere else, somewhere they forgot in their journey from there to here, somewhere that they've only remembered since being here. "What could possibly be out there to make you forget something so important?" I ask, mostly to the Lesterin, but also to the gray one and whoever else in the group might also share the experience. "And if you're remembering again here, is whatever made you forget not here?" The idea puts a slight damper on my potential desire to sail off at some point- as bad as I've had it here sometimes, I don't want to forget where I came from.I fumble around in my bag and pull out my notebook of odd magical snippets. The comments, and whatever answers come with them, are too interesting to not jot down.
OOC:
@Razgriz @Geardirector @Harvali @Snelly @ARROW404 sorry about fallin off the wagon lads- 3
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IC: Long Hyan-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness, heading south
Is it nearly sunset already? Time must fly when lost in thought or having fun, and Hyan-Fei is not sure which of those applies more to her. Regardless, the time to stop for the day has apparently come, if a little earlier than she would like. But she supposes it would do no good to wander about in the dark when there are dragons and spined things to look out for, and it would do the same to drag her new companion into her bad habit of staying up too late.At the pointed boulder, which looks remarkably like an ancient sundial, Kuar offers her hand and warns about the dismount. Hyan-Fei gives a smile and a small "Hmph" in return, as if to say, "I've got this." She does not, however, have this. As she begins moving to dismount, the muscles of her hips and lower back tweak and seize from the pain of being worked more than usual over the bumps and bounces of Naiana's gait. She begins losing her balance so badly that her still-activated mask power cannot compensate for it, and it is only the last-second grabbing of Kura's hand that keeps her from landing sprawled on her back in the dirt.
Back on her feet, trousers dusted off, and mask power deactivated, Hyan-Fei crosses her arms and pouts, fully expecting Kura to giggle at her... less than graceful dismount.
OOC:
@Palm no worries mate. i think a hearty "welcome back" is in order- 2
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bzpower forums stop crashing every month challenge (impossible) (100% fail)
- 4
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all of the problems i have with the contests can be traced back to the people at the TTV running them. between their almost total lack of transparency, their introduction of arbitrary new rules in the middle of the contests being run, and their inability to take genuine criticism or playful ribbing, they've made the whole thing a disaster for everyone involved. but their biggest offense, in my opinion, has got to be the culture they've cultivated surrounding bionicle lore and canon, which can be summed up as "greg's word is law, we must only operate off of greg's word, therefore we must harass him at every turn for his insights on (insert inane thing here)." why does it matter what the yesterday quest gang's weapons are, which direction the barbs on tuyet's broadsword face, what lariska's cup size is, or whatever other obscure and pointless piece of trivia they're obsessed with now? are these questions really so monumentally important that they have to force greg to take time away from his real life to answer the questions of a handful of frothing neckbeards about a children's toyline twelve years dead?
i've said it before and i'll say it again- "don't mess with us bionicle fans, we're devoted to making sure absolutely no intrigue, mystery, or room for creative interpretation exists in our hobby." screw the TTV, screw the canon contests, and screw bionicle canon. just make your own stuff if you're so interested in it, and don't let daddy greg saying it is or isn't allowed stop you.
On 1/27/2022 at 6:04 PM, Lenny7092 said:Now, I am concerned about the contests because of how often they happen. 2021 was slower than 2020. Better speed things up.
okay, this made me seethe.
do you have any earthly idea how entitled and selfish you sound here? there's this thing called "real life" that everyone has- even your precious greg- which is currently being affected by a thing called "a global pandemic." those two things deserve much higher priority and much more devoted time than a toy photography contest where the only prizes are bragging rights and your jpeg on a website. not everyone wants to be, or can afford to be, as single-mindedly devoted to bionicle as you.
you make it out as if you are owed more of these trainwrecks. you are not. you are owed nothing.
- 4
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Hear! Belet’s horn heralds the coming of a new dawn. It praises those still left to Hunt in the day, and it mourns those who have been Hunted in the night. It instructs the weak to become mighty, and it instructs the mighty to reach greater heights. It calls us all to Hunt- for game, for glory, for godhood.
To live is to Hunt. To Hunt is to kill. To kill is to live.
The Hunt gives, and the Hunt takes away.
Praise be to the name of the Hunt!
for your consideration:
KAIAKAN CLAN- OKHOTNIKEYRIE
Jabbar Peak, east of the High Eyrie, is generally regarded as the Okhotnik clan’s territory. A frequent victim of blizzards and avalanches, it nevertheless houses a great many resources for those with the tenacity to Hunt for them.The clan’s decently sized main village consists of many dome-shaped huts made of bone, hide, and fur, able to be collapsed for relocation. Hunters’ huts form a protective ring around the yard, which houses the cookfires, stables, and leaders’ huts. Offshoot “villages”- little more than outriders’ campsites- can be found close by, or far away from, the village, and follow it wherever it goes.
The clan frequently travels up and down Jabbar Peak, going where the resources are, never lingering in a spent spot for too long. Their emblem- the skull of a great cat beast, thrust through with a spear- marks every resting place, new and old. Okhotnik was here.
CULTURE
The Okhotnik clan and its responsibilities are divided into three groups- Hunters, priests, and administrators. Each group is overseen by a chingghis (Kaiakan word roughly translated as “chief”), who are themselves overseen by a chingghis eh-chingghis (“chief of chiefs”).While everyone is expected to know how to Hunt, Hunters Hunt as their primary job. They seek out resources in the region they have settled down in- primarily beasts, to use as food and construction material, but also lumber, valuables, and sometimes other sapient beings- conquer what they can each day, and bring it back to the village. Some Hunters take on the role of outriders, surveying as-yet untouched territory to see if the village will be able to survive there.
Priests are charged with conducting religious ceremonies and overseeing other traditional rituals.
Administrators are the closest thing the clan has to royalty. They oversee the allocation of resources and manpower, uphold clan law, and in general makes sure that the clan survives another day. Administrators also tend to be the greatest of the clan’s Hunters, and are always at the head of the caravan when the village relocates, ready to act as the first line of defense.
TRADITIONS
The Okhotnik clan has taken the Kaiakan mantra of survival to its logical extreme and turned it into a religion. Eschewing the idea of cosmic beings that embody good and evil, they instead worship the Hunt- a metaphor for the daily chance to prove that one can weather the constant hardships of life and make themselves worthy of seeing another sunrise. As famous clan scripture says, “To live is to Hunt. To Hunt is to kill. To kill is to live.” Every aspect of clan life is tied in some way or another to the Hunt. The closest thing they have to gods are their folk heroes, whom they exalt as prized trophies claimed by death itself.The chingghis eh-chingghis is expected to be knowledgeable in matters Hunt-related, religious, and administrative. When he dies, his first male heir is tentatively named his successor. The clan is then assembled to witness a ritual of challenge, where the heir and the eligible chingghis fight bare-handed in a ring of stones. The result of the ritual can only be determined by bloodshed. If a chingghis spills the heir’s blood, they become the chingghis eh-chingghis. But if no drop of the heir’s blood is spilled, he remains the successor.
There can be- and have been- female chingghis, but the chingghis eh-chingghis is always male. Holders of the former title are addressed with the honorific gol (“sir/ma’am”), and holders of the latter with the honorific tem-gol (“great sir”).
ATTITUDES
The Okhotnik clan believes that outsiders should remain outside unless specifically allowed in. They see an uninvited guest as a challenge to prove that they are still the dominant force on Jabbar Peak. It is not uncommon to see strange and foreign weapons scattered among their more traditional arsenal, trophies taken from defeated outsiders.When everyone is in their place, however, clan opinions soften somewhat. They at best tolerate the other Kaiakan clans, begrudgingly respect the Skakdi- especially those who have gone the way of the warlord- and view non-combatant types like the Lesterin as pushovers who did not earn their lives through triumph in the Hunt.
good evening bzprpg, it's ya boy capMARVELOUS. are things on seprilli happening just a little too slowly for your tastes? do you feel as if your profiles post is missing a certain rustic flair? do you want to take advantage of a currently unexploited niche like the filthy capitalist you are? do you like snow? if you answered yes to any or all of these questions, then congratulations! the okhotnik clan, the first(?) player-created kaiakan clan, is for you! the tl;dr on these guys is that they've basically spent the last however-long-it's-been mucking about in the eyries of seprilli and doing their best to survive- the usual kaiakan shtick. but with all the weird goings-on going on lately, and with a massive clan shake-up on the horizon, just surviving may end up becoming much harder than it already is.
if you're interested in making important clan figures, or clan figures in general, graduate from mere npc's to full-fledged characters (and by extension, helping lighten the load of running this entire thing), then don't hesitate! apply now!
- 7
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IC: Long Hyan-Fei - Odaiba - Western Wilderness, heading south
Hyan-Fei knows she should probably say something to comfort Kura, tell her that the people of the Long temple are going to be okay, but it would be a lie coming from her. Even if they are her clan, she feels little goodwill for them beyond the standard vague desire that they somehow survive. Her much stronger desire for them is that they change.Flashbacks of her time with the temple mothers dance across her brain- always chastising her for never sitting still, never having detrimental levels of discipline, never staying "rooted." The people of the Long temple dedicated themselves to sitting in one place all their lives, and where did it get them? A front-row seat for the apocalypse. She cannot help but feel a sort of condescending pity for them. Can their rigid discipline hope to stand against Zataka's chaos- if it is truly Zataka? Maybe this will be the wake-up call she feels they desperately need. Maybe this will open their eyes to the need to fight chaos with chaos, and leave the refined behind.
Of course, these thoughts are wisely left unsaid. Hyan-Fei settles for a vague, "Like I said, you shouldn't worry. I have a feeling that everything's going to turn out fine, in some way or another."
OOC:
@Palm- 1
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reach dragon through violence
- 6
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aw sweet time to challenge for leadership in traditional hunter's combat
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IC: Chiaki - Ta-Wahi - The Charred Forest
I nod in greeting to each newcomer as the Lesterin introduces them, though with my luck I'll end up forgetting their names soon and resorting to calling them by descriptors. Sure enough, all thought of names flies from my head as the Lesterin goes on to mention a wildfire in Le-Wahi- my home turf. I frown. Where in Le-Wahi, I think? Did it get to my old village? I suddenly feel a pang of guilt over leaving. Even though they mistreated me for being friends with a witch, the Matoran there are still my fellows; as a Toa, isn't it my job to help my fellows and leave old misdeeds behind me?The merry jangle of a pouch of widgets jolts me back to the present. It would seem that preparations have begun for the parting of ways, if the gray one offering to play guide back to Ta-Koro is anything to go by. I move to stand beside the newcomers and nod assent, remembering that I, too, wanted to go to the Koro before I got sidetracked by the little scuffle.
(I can't help but notice that my eyes keep drifting back to the tree man. What was his name? Something with an L? I've already forgotten, perhaps due to my fascination with him overriding the common courtesy of remembering. Again, maybe it's my sheltered upbringing, but I've never seen such a being before. How much of him is actually tree- is it just his armor, or is it his body too? Was he always a tree, or did he used to be a regular being? If so, how did he become that way? All these questions and more I want to ask him, but fortunately I retain enough common courtesy to know that asking this early into our acquaintanceship would likely be a gross invasion of privacy.)
- 4
Citizens of Bara Magna
in Bionicle RPG
Posted
C A B A L L O S I N N O M B R E
Name: Bacchus
Species/Tribe: Agori, of the Rock Tribe
Gender: Male
Appearance: Bacchus appears much like any run-of-the-mill Rock Tribe Agori, with big hands and feet, craggy black and gray armor, and a black helmet with a backward-sweeping crest. His helmet lacks the customary tusked faceplate, leaving his heavy brow, jutting chin, and shaggy beard exposed. He wears a well-loved blue scarf around his neck, a blue cloth pauldron on his right shoulder, and a comically large backpack on his back.
Weapons/Equipment:
*Thornax Launcher- A standard but barely functional Thornax Launcher, accompanied by several overripe Thornax fruits.
*Backpack- Contains a bedroll, canteen, journals, maps, parchment rolls, pocket money, smoking pipe and tobacco, a week's rations, and writing charcoal.
Cybernetics: None
Vehicle: None
History: Bacchus was once a member of Roxtus' Agori reserve, until his general incompetence and incapability of conforming to the Rock Tribe archetype led to his expulsion. He contented himself with wandering Bara Magna after that, enjoying the mysterious beauty around him and trying to make friends to share it with.
Personality/Traits: A jovial, surprisingly perceptive, but easily distracted fellow, Bacchus is a self-professed "investigator of the strange," which is essentially his excuse to talk others' ears off about whatever is around that interests him, no matter how mundane it may actually be. On more than one occasion, however, his short attention span has helped him accidentally stumble upon something greater than what he first set out to find. He is fond of saying the word "Forsooth!"
Weaknesses: Bacchus' status as a member of the Rock Tribe and... rather annoying personality deny him much of the social goodwill afforded to other tribes. He is also woefully unsuited for combat, due to his lack of weapons training, natural physical weakness, and staunch refusal of cybernetic implants. ("It's a matter of pride, m'lad!")